“It’s not that I don’t like her, Wickham, but you could do so muchbetter.”
The dowager’s words pricked like needles upon Bea’s heart.
“Mama, we’ve been through this.” Wick’s reply was firm. “I’m going to marry Beatrice, and it would give me the greatest happiness if you did not interfere.”
“Your happiness is precisely why we must have this conversation. Is it because she is a duke’s sister that you consider her a worthy bride? While her family’s blood may be blue, Hadleigh has more than a touch of madness, they say. From what my friends tell me, he—and his duchess, who reeks of trade—are no longer considered goodtondue to their scandalous behavior.”
Bea ground her teeth together. She did not like the woman spreading gossip about her brother. Whether or not the gossip might have validity was irrelevant.
“I’m marrying Beatrice, not Hadleigh. And, as she told you, she is estranged from him.”
“Blood always tells, Wickham, you know that.”
“God, I hope not.” This last was muttered.
“What did you say, dearest?”
“Nothing, Mama. Now I hate to be rude but…”
“That is your problem, Wickham. I suppose it is my fault: I raised you to be a gentleman and, as a result, you are far too chivalrous for your own good. Given Lady Beatrice’s defect, I understand why you feel pity for her—”
“Pity is not what I feel for her, and I will not tolerate you speaking of defects she does not have.” The steel that entered Wick’s voice made Bea cling to her ever-dwindling hope. “I love her, Mama.”
“Oh, my dear boy, when did you become so bourgeois? I blame Carlisle. He and Violet practically live in each other’s pockets. The result of her upbringing, no doubt.”
“Richard is happy, thanks to Violet. Surely you can find no fault in that?”
The dowager sniffed. “Carlisle has always lacked refinement; he takes after your papa. But you, my boy, take after me, which means I understand your sensitive nature.”
“Is that where I inherited my sensitivity from?”
“Wickham, do not make light of the situation.” Frustration entered his mother’s voice. “The papers this morning say that a mob has congregated in front of your offices—amob. Afteryourblood for failing to negotiate the purchase of the land from some Beatrice Brown, who I presume is Beatrice Wodehouse. What sort of a disreputable creature has an alias?”
“She has a reason for wanting her privacy, Mama. None of this is her fault. If you must blame someone, blame me.”
“I most certainly will not blame you,” the dowager said hotly. “This morning’s papers are saying that she seduced you, that she’s using her feminine wiles to make a fool out of you—all so that she can get more money for her land.”
The papers are saying that…about me?Bea thought, stunned.
She didn’t know why she was surprised. In truth, she ought to have been prepared for the worst. But to be again brought into the public eye, to be again cast in a shameful light hurt more than she would have imagined.
“This beastly chit is about to ruin you. To destroy all that you’ve worked for and render you a spectacle of public failure. And still you will stand by her side?”
Agony splintered through Bea. While the dowager’s earlier comments had angered and humiliated her, she could disregard them for what they were: the petty concerns of a petty woman. She could not, however, ignore the veracity of the last statement, spoken with the desperation of a mother’s love.
Bea would end up ruining Wick. And he would still stand by her side.
But how will I live with myself?
As the dowager continued to rant, Bea’s temples throbbed. She wished she had a solution, a way out of this mess. She wished she could just abandon Camden Manor. At the same time, the very notion brought about visceral panic: her throat clenched, her palms dampened, every part of her bracing in denial.
Her estate was the one true refuge she’d ever had. The only thing that had kept her and those depending upon her safe. How could she knowingly give that up? She’d been in London for just a week, and already she was experiencing the hostility of the real world. Already she was feeling the intense urge to go home, where she belonged.
“Beg pardon, my lady.”
The butler’s voice startled her from her reverie. She stumbled back guiltily from the door.
“I was, um, just passing by…” Her cheeks burned. She was a terrible liar, and she wished she hadn’t felt compelled to fib, which only made her seem guiltier.
