Page 58 of Wedding the Widow

“Blackham could never be swayed by anything I said to him.” Mama returned to the sofa and proceeded to pour tea. “Else I could have persuaded him to allow Louisa to write to me. He despises me. I am the reason he forbids the marriage in the first place.” Mama plopped lump after lump of sugar in her tea. “At least, he cannot compel dear Lord Brack to marry her.”

“He can, however, keep Jemmy locked in the castle until it is too late,” Elizabeth sobbed. “Until everyone knows I am ruined.” The hatred in Lord Blackham’s heart must be deep indeed if he would revenge himself on an innocent woman and her unborn child, to get at the woman who had scorned him. Little wonder she did, if he always behaved in this manner.

“It will not come to that, Elizabeth.” Mama’s gaze dropped to her teacup. “Your Papa and I will let nothing ruin either your reputation or that of our other daughters.”

A pang of guilt struck Elizabeth’s heart. Bella’s betrothal could be broken off if Haxton got wind of this predicament. If one sister was tainted with scandal, all were suspect. Poor Dotty might never even have a Season if her eldest sister was brought to ruin. So what could be done other than try to reason with Blackham?

“What can any of us do if Lord Blackham won’t even let Jemmy out of the house? Stage a rescue?” A desperate measure, but really, what else could they do?

“You can marry someone else.” Mama’s lips were firm, her unflinching gaze now on Elizabeth.

The incomprehensible words sounded as if in a foreign language. Marry someone else? “No.” Elizabeth shook her head, tears flying. She’d rather for her life to be over if she and Jemmy could not wed. “How can you think of such a thing?”

“To save your reputation and your sisters’ prospects, you will do it. Your father has already spoken to one of his friends from Eton, Lord Robert Naylor, the youngest brother of the current Duke of Penburthy.”

“A friend of Papa’s?” How ghastly. “I cannot do that, Mama. I love Jemmy. I’m carrying his child. I simply can’t marry another man.” Would the nightmare never end?

“Women have always done what they must to preserve their family, their honor. If love is sacrificed for this, so be it. It will not be the first time.” Mama stirred her tea. Silent. Waiting.

What could she do? If she held out for a miracle, for Jemmy to come to her, she would jeopardize not only her happiness, but Isabella and Dorothea’s as well. Her hands clenched of their own accord, until she forced them to relax. “Can we not wait a little while, to see if Jemmy is able to escape?” She might be clutching at straws, but better that than an action she would regret every day for the rest of her life. “Circumstances will not be dire for another month at least.”

“All the more reason to marry now, before anyone has the barest hint you are increasing. Then you can pass the child off as Lord Robert’s more easily, and there will be no talk at all. These things happen all the time. The trick is to be married before anyone suspects a thing.”

“But Mama, I can’t—”

“Elizabeth, you will.” The command in Mama’s voice would brook no demur. “It is through your fault that the family is at risk. Therefore, you will do your duty and marry Lord Robert if he’ll have you.”

Her fault, her duty. When put that way, it was hard to argue otherwise. She had let her passions carry her away, and now she must pay for that whirlwind evening. Nothing to be done save make herself go through with the marriage, for all their sakes. Little matter that her heart was breaking. “Has Papa written to Lord Robert already?”

“Even better.” Her mother beamed and slid closer to her on the sofa. “Lord Robert is in Town for the funeral of one of his brothers. Not the duke, and anyway Lord Robert is far down the line of succession. Still, that does put him one step closer to the dukedom.” Mama shook her head. “Don’t worry. The old duke had twelve children. Only one died in infancy, and that one was a girl. So Lord Robert has eight older brothers, most with sons of their own. Barring some biblical disaster, your child will never stand to inherit the dukedom.”

Elizabeth cared not at all for such things. Jemmy’s child should be Jemmy’s heir, no matter what. Except that likely would not happen now, unless some type of miracle occurred. Tears had started again, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, the handkerchief being too sodden to be of much help. “When would you wish me to meet Lord Robert? I assume we will not intrude on his grief—”

“Your father has invited him to dinner this evening. Take him to meet the children, see how he gets along with them. See if you think you will suit.”

“That seems to matter not a jot,” Elizabeth mumbled.

“I hope you find you will suit tolerably well.” Mama pierced her with a keen glare. “Few men these days have the instincts to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“I must write to Jemmy. Tell him . . .” Elizabeth couldn’t control a sob. “I must tell him I am forced to release him from his promise.”

“Elizabeth, I am truly sorry, my dear. We must hope it all turns out for the best.” Mama hugged her briefly and straightened. “I will advise you to send your letter, as I did to Louisa, through the countess to your friend, Lady Georgina, if you wish it to reach Lord Brack. Blackham never found out about my and Louisa’s correspondence.” Mama’s smile held a hollow triumph. “You may take some slight comfort in thwarting the marquess at least once.”

* * *

Jemmy wound his way through the passage to Georgie’s room, batting at cobwebs that threatened to catch fire from the candle he carried. Just his luck he would set the house afire. Of course, if he did, they would have to let him out of his room. Rather drastic, but he filed away the notion in the event the bedsheets didn’t work.

He scratched on the back of Georgie’s panel, and it moved instantly. “That passageway is as cold as midwinter’s day,” he said, rubbing his hands busily in front of her crackling fire.

“That’s because it is midwinter’s day, silly.” Georgie rubbed her hands before the blaze as well.

“Did the letter get off yesterday to Lady Wrotham?” He hated to think what they would do if the letter had not been sent. But no matter what transpired, he would leave for London on the morrow even if had to turn horse thief of his own horse.

“As far as I know, it did. James, the footman, seemed rather relieved to take it after I talked his ear off about needing Lady Wrotham’s opinion about a dress for my wedding. I put that in the letter too, just in case Father read it. I think it best he believes that I am consenting to his plans as well.”

“But secretly you are not?” Jemmy strode to the window, once again trying to judge the distance to the ground. He itched to put their plan into action, but understood the necessity of waiting for Lady Wrotham’s reply—hopefully containing the bank notes that would not only bribe the groom but would see him swiftly to London.

“Well, if there is another way, I would certainly prefer it to life with Lord Travers.” Georgie shuddered. “I suspect he would be as faithful to me as Fanny’s husband was to her.” Wrinkling her nose, she turned around to face him. “I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but why shouldn’t you if the dead person wasn’t very nice in life? We speak ill of the living who do wrong. Why do the dead deserve less honest treatment?”