Beguiling the Beauty (25 page)

“Of course,” said Millie, sounding a little puzzled.

When she and Helena had vacated the room, Miss Redmayne indicated the bedcover. “May I?”

Without waiting for an answer, she peeled it back and pressed gently upon Venetia’s abdomen.

“Hmm,” she said. “Mrs. Easterbrook, when was the first day of your last menses?”

The question Venetia had been dreading. She bit her lower lip and named a date almost five weeks ago.

Miss Redmayne looked thoughtful.

“But that can’t be the case,” Venetia pleaded. “I can’t conceive.”

“The fault might very well lie with your late spouses, rather than yourself, Mrs. Easterbrook. Now if I may be so blunt, have you taken a lover since your last monthly?”

Venetia swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then, as much as the diagnosis might be unwelcome for you, I’m afraid you are with child.”

She’d known it, hadn’t she, since the first instance of morning sickness? She’d been around other married women enough to have heard of that particular symptom. But as long as she managed to stay away from an official confirmation of her condition, she could continue to ignore what her body was trying to tell her.

No more.

“Are you certain, Miss Redmayne, that I don’t have a tumor or something of the sort?”

“I’m quite sure,” said Miss Redmayne. She was very sympathetic, but the authority of her tone was unmistakable.

Venetia gripped the sheets between her fingers. “How long do I have before my condition becomes visible?”

“Some women manage to conceal their condition far into the gestation with the help of special corsets and such, which we do not recommend for the harm it does to both mother and child.”

A lady withdrew from Society when her pregnancy could no longer be concealed. Venetia had indeed heard of rumors of women keeping a growing belly secret until just weeks before confinement.

“But I assume that is not what you are asking,” continued Miss Redmayne. “Measured from the first day of your last menses, you are considered to be in the second month of gestation. In general, you will have until the fifth or the six month before the condition becomes obvious.”

At least she still had some time. “Thank you, Miss Redmayne. May I rely upon your discretion in this matter?”

Miss Redmayne inclined her head. “You may be assured of it, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

C
hristian remembered a time when the British Museum of Natural History shut its doors at four o’clock every afternoon. Would that it still did. For it was past five when he found himself before its terra-cotta facade. Had the museum already closed, he’d have come to his senses and taken flight with the speed of an antelope fleeing a lion. But the museum remained open to visitors and his feet moved of their own will past the bones of the blue whale into the east wing.

Several times he almost turned around. One time he
even came to a complete standstill, much to the annoyance of a professorial type whose path he blocked. But he could not halt the terrible momentum that eventually pushed him to move again, past the mammals, into the Reptilia gallery.

Without quite being able to articulate why, he headed directly for the
Cetiosaurus
, before which he and Mrs. Easterbrook had exchanged words—words flippant on her part and hostile on his.

When he hadn’t stared at her face, he’d stared at the reticule she’d set down at the edge of the display case, because her fingers had idly played with its drawstring. The reticule itself had been pale gray brocade, embroidered with doves holding olive branches.

And where it had rested, there was a plaque.

The fossils of the Cetiosaurus courtesy of Miss Fitzhugh of Hampton House, Oxfordshire, who unearthed the skeleton in Lyme Regis, Devon, 1883.

O
h good,” said Fitz, still scanning the letter. “Venetia is coming back to town.”

Millie spread more butter on her toast. “You don’t have to go, then.”

For the better part of a week, Venetia had been staying in the country, recuperating from the lingering illness that she’d caught during the crossing. Fitz, who had escorted her to Oxfordshire, had become increasingly concerned she’d chosen to shut herself off from the rest of the world. He’d informed Millie, as he sat down to breakfast, that he’d be headed to the rail station within the hour.

She sneaked a look at the small mountain of letters by his elbow. He’d looked through the pile, stopped at Venetia’s letter, and read it first. Now he sliced open another letter.

“Who’s that from?” she asked, plastering even more butter on her toast.

“Leo Marsden.”

Mr. Marsden had been in the same house as Fitz at Eton. He’d left England after the annulment of his marriage.

“Is he still in Berlin?”

“No, he’s been in America since autumn last, but says he might be headed to India next.”

The mere mention of India made Millie’s chest tighten.

“And is that butter on toast or toast on butter?” He smiled at her. “If you like, you can serve yourself butter by the block.”

So he’d noticed. She took a bite of her toast—and tasted nothing.

Fitz finished Mr. Marsden’s letter, set it aside to be replied to, and shuffled through the rest of the pile. As she thought would happen, he went still.

Slowly, he turned the envelope over. There he would see the sender’s name, in her bold hand,
Mrs. John Englewood, Northbrook Hotel, Delhi
. Millie kept her face down and blindly reached for something from her own heap of letters.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that he held only one sheaf of paper. The reverse side, facing her, was half blank—not a very long letter. But that Mrs. Englewood had written at all, when she’d not contacted Fitz since the day of his wedding, was a ground-shifting event.

“The Featherstones have invited us to dinner,” said Millie. It seemed as if she ought to say something, keep up the pretense of normalcy. “Mrs. Brightly has set the date of her wedding to Lord Geoffrey Neels and would like us to attend. And oh, Lady Lambert is canceling her garden party: Her father passed away and she is gone into mourning.”

How boring she sounded. How utterly and terrifyingly
tedious. But what could she do? Such were the things she and Fitz said to each other.

He did not even hear her. He’d reached the reverse side of the letter. And when he was done, he immediately turned it over and started from the beginning again.

She no longer bothered to be interested in anything else. He read with a fierce concentration, as if he’d gone through the letter too fast the first time and must now slowly take in every word.

And when he’d finished reading it the second time, he did not place it in the “to-reply” pile alongside Mr. Marsden’s letter, but carefully—envelope and all—slipped it into the inside pocket of his day coat.

She turned her head away, back to the invitations and announcements that mattered nothing at all.

“Mrs. Englewood is returning to England,” said Fitz, his tone remarkably even.

Millie glanced at him—to not give the news at least that much attention would be unnatural. “Captain Englewood has resigned his commission, then?”

Fitz reached for his coffee. “Captain Englewood is no more.”

“Oh,” said Millie. Mrs. Englewood was a widow. The thought clanged loudly in her head. “How did he die? He was your age, wasn’t he?”

“Tropical fever—and he was five years older than me.”

“I see. When did he pass away?”

“March of last year.”

Millie blinked. Mrs. Englewood was not only a widow, but a widow already out of her year-and-a-day deep mourning, free to move in Society. “That was thirteen months ago. How did we not learn sooner?”

“According to her, Captain Englewood’s mother had been in failing health. As she was not expected to last long, when he expired suddenly it was decided to keep the news quiet, as the death of her firstborn would cause her too much grief in her final days. But she lingered on for longer than everyone thought she would.”

Millie felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Captain Englewood’s mother, who no doubt hoped to see her son one last time. “They should have told her the truth. Or she’d have gone to her death thinking he couldn’t spare the time to come see her.”

“They did at last,” said Fitz quietly. “And she passed away ten days later.”

Tears stung the rim of Millie’s eyes. She remembered her own mother’s deathbed. Fitz had moved heaven and earth for her to return to England in time and for that she would always be grateful to him.

She took a deep breath. “When is Mrs. Englewood expected to be back?”

“In June.”

A month before their eight-year pact ran out in July. “In time to have a bit of fun in London, I see. I’m sure she must be looking forward to it.”

Fitz did not answer.

Millie took another bite of her toast, swallowed it with the help of a whole cup of tea, and rose. “Well, look at the time. I’d better get Helena ready. She has a fitting this morning that Venetia made me swear I would not forget.”

“You barely ate anything,” he pointed out.

Why must he also notice that? Why did he do these little things that gave her hope?

“I was already full when you came,” she said. “If you will excuse me.”

C
hristian worked.

He inspected half of his holdings in person, read innumerable accounts and reports, and even did his duty as a member of the House of Lords. His peers were astonished to see him: The Dukes of Lexington had always taken a seat in the Upper House, but this particular duke, famously indifferent to politics, rarely presented himself in Parliament.

Books and letters stuffed all the remaining minutes of his waking hours.

But he needn’t have been so meticulous. His mind, so long geared toward truth and rationality, now revealed itself to be quite capable of the sort of self-deception he had formerly scorned. For nearly a whole week, like a tiptoeing night burglar, he successfully skirted any and all memories and discernments that could raise the least alarm.

Then everything came crashing down. Logic was inexorable. Truth would not be denied. The evidence, having bided its time, waited for his mind to be lulled into a state of false security to mount an all-out assault on his slumbering defenses.

There was never a Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg. There was only ever Mrs. Easterbrook. And he’d confided everything to her.

Everything.

No wonder she’d been so eager to depart the
Rhodesia
. She’d extracted all knowledge of his inner turbulences; there was nothing else left to learn. And no wonder she’d
been so smug every time he’d encountered her since. Forevermore she’d be able to look at him and laugh, knowing just how well and truly she’d subjugated him.

Her scheme was sordid; its success, overwhelming. And he had participated wholeheartedly and loved her with everything good and worthwhile in him.

He threw the gold-embossed menus that had been printed for the dinner at the Savoy in the fire and blanketed the ashes with all the letters he’d written her, one for every day leading up to the dinner, and the last while he awaited the
Rhodesia
’s return from Hamburg. He could not quite believe it: He still wrote her after she’d reneged on her promise and given back his gift. He’d only stopped after he saw the plaque bearing her maiden name at the museum.

He prodded the burning letters with the fireplace poker. The poker was solid and heavy in his hand. He wanted to smash something with it, a great many somethings: the marble mantel, the gilt-framed mirror, the Sèvres vases. He wanted to destroy the room until nothing remained but rubble and wreckage.

But he was Christian de Montfort, the Duke of Lexington. He did not make a spectacle of his pain. He did not give in to childish rages. And he would maintain his dignity and composure, even when his heart had been dragged through a forest of knives.

A knock came at the door. Christian frowned. He’d made it clear to his staff that he was not to be disturbed. His staff was well trained and highly competent. He could only assume that there had been an emergency.

“Mrs. Easterbrook to see you, Your Grace,” said Owens, the head footman.

His heart pounded violently. Come to gloat, had she?

“Did I not specify that I am not at home this afternoon?”

“You did, sir,” said Owens apologetically. “But Mrs. Easterbrook, she said you’d wish to see her.”

Indeed, how could anyone believe, gazing upon her radiant, hypnotic beauty, that he did not want to see her?

To reprimand Owens would be counterproductive. And for her to call on him, to acknowledge this fraud of hers, was a kindness, whether she understood it or not. Let them end their affair today with a complete rupture, everything laid out in the open, all illusions and false hopes lined up and shot.