Highest Stakes (59 page)

The continued troubles in government and heated debates over the war had given Lord Uxeter valid enough reason to return to Parliament after seeing his bride settled in Sussex, though he would have eagerly invented any excuse to rid himself of the insipid cow.

  Overall, however, his marriage had caused little inconvenience, and viewed in proper perspective, he was not completely displeased with how he had managed thus far. At Newmarket, he and Sir Garfield had come to an arrangement. In exchange for the dowry, he had taken Beatrix to wife and agreed to initiate Charles Wallace into his political circles.

  Edmund had paid court to Beatrix, sharing his knowledge of her condition and voicing tender compassion for her, followed by righteous condemnation of his vile brother for seducing and defiling such an innocent. He had convinced her that his rogue brother would never have honored his promises to her, and that he would have eventually abandoned her to raise his bastard child alone.

  Edmund had vowed to cherish Beatrix and raise the child as his own. He swore that by bearing him a son, she would be assured wealth, comfort, and status as mistress of a great ancestral estate. With his gentle compassion and earnestly spoken promises, Beatrix had acquiesced to a hasty private wedding.

  In dealing with his innate revulsion to couple with her in the marriage bed, Edmund had asserted solicitous concern for her delicate condition. In the most self-sacrificing manner, he had stroked her cheek, lovingly stating his willingness to abstain from conjugal relations to ensure the health and well-being of the bride and child, whom he swore were paramount to his happiness.

  Edmund was struck with the irony that his brother's by-blow would truly assure his inheritance and therefore his happiness.

  Edmund had then taken Beatrix to Sussex. She had lamented his leaving her at the estate with only the invalid and reclusive earl, but his tender words of solicitude had again prevailed. He persuaded her of the necessity of spending her finals months in the fresh country air. By remaining at his ancestral home, she could forgo the hazards and fatigue of travel when the time came to birth the child. He further placated her by suggesting she send for her mother and cousin to keep her company during her confinement, and promised to return to celebrate the birth.

  No, Beatrix had not proven excessively difficult to manipulate, but now word of his heir's imminent birth came amidst a looming political crisis and possible government collapse.

  He was acutely aware of the unprecedented opportunity a crisis of this magnitude would provide; nevertheless, Edmund could neither afford to displease his father at this juncture. He consoled himself that he might perform his duty in Sussex expeditiously and resume his normal life within the for'night.

  Hoping for diversion along the way, Edmund had sent word to Charles Wallace to accompany him. Directing his coach to the residence at Upper Brook Street, Lord Uxeter collected Charles, and the pair set off.

  The coach halted at a small inn in the village of Pembury, about halfway to their destination. The road conditions had been poor, and the hour was late. The gentlemen were excessively tired, hungry, and cramped after nine hours in the closed carriage.

  Lord Uxeter sent the coachman to inquire about accommodations. Returning, they spoke briefly. Edmund addressed Charles. "My apologies, dear boy, but there is only one room to be had, and the coachman says 'tis twenty miles to the next lodging. With the lateness of the hour, I fear we have little option but to break our journey here."

  Charles responded affably. "By all means, my lord, you take the chamber. I shall sleep in the carriage. 'Tis no trouble at all, I assure you." As he spoke, he stretched his cramped muscles with a slight wince.

  Perceiving his companion's discomfort, Lord Uxeter protested. "I should not countenance such a thing! The coachman shall make do with the coach. 'Twill be only minor inconvenience to share the chamber. For now, let us partake of supper, and let the innkeeper attend to the accommodations."

  The innkeeper stocked the fire in the taproom and provided two large tankards of strong ale, which he replenished at regular intervals while his wife brought forth a meal of cold chicken, bread, and cheese before departing to prepare the room.

  Charles broke the companionable silence as they ate. "Lord Uxeter," he began, "though we've been acquainted for some months, and by marriage you are my brother, it occurs to me that I know very little of your personal history. Were you raised in Sussex?"

  "Shall we forgo the formalities, Charles? As I am your brotherin-law, you should call me Edmund."

  "Indeed, my lo—"

  "Edmund," he corrected. "And to answer your question, I was born at Hastings Park, but one might well argue I was raised there."

  "You grew up in London, then? Though I have enjoyed the various diversions of the city, I would not trade my boyhood running wild in the countryside, galloping the heath, fishing, swimming, hunting the wood. Devington and I made all manner of mischief in our youth. 'Tis a pity about Devington. We were boyhood chums, you know… I fear growing maudlin if I dwell on it. My point is," he continued briskly, "there is great freedom for a lad in the country. Don't you agree?"

  "As much as I hate to gainsay you, I cannot agree. I never knew the boyhood freedom you describe. My first and most vivid memory of my boyhood was being packed off to Harrow on my fifth birthday. I scarce left its hallowed halls until my eleventh year, when the earl sent for me during my holiday. I arrived to find a stepmother, and the next holiday, a new brother.

  "Thenceforth, I developed a decided distaste for my holidays and seldom went home. After Harrow, I attended Cambridge, and moved to London upon taking my degree."

  "I daresay, I appreciate my boyhood tenfold after that tale," Charles replied.

  "Then I have become a bore! Suffice to say, I prefer the delights of town life. London offers its own kind of freedom. It is a place of many diversions. With proper discretion, one has the liberty to pursue any pleasure, whatever it might be."

  His intense regard left the younger man somehow discomfited. Charles yawned and stretched. "The hour grows late; I should like to retire."

  "Indeed," Edmund replied. "We've yet fifty miles to travel on the morrow; 'twould be wise to get an early start."

  The men quit the taproom for the single chamber, where the apologetic innkeeper's wife lamented that, while she had produced clean linens, there was no truckle to be had.

  "At least 'tis a bed of good size," she offered. "Many a night when they patrolled the coast, we had billeted soldiers in this very room. Four at a time didst share the same bed, though they was not of the quality of you fine gents. But there bein' none else, mayhap you might make do?" She gestured apologetically.

  "It appears we've little choice," Edmund remarked dryly with a covert glance at Charles, who was already removing his outer clothes.

  His fatigue compounded by ale, Charles heedlessly stripped down to his shirt almost before the innkeeper's wife had left the room. The young man forthwith collapsed onto the bed and into deep and easy slumber.

  Edmund, however, was far from relaxed in his current situation. He had carefully cultivated an easy familiarity with Charles. He had nurtured camaraderie and trust by taking the young man under his wing in every sense, but he had been leery to reveal too much of himself, choosing rather to maintain a safe distance.

  Having grown increasingly cynical, disillusioned, and jaded, Edmund was strongly attracted to the fresh, idealistic youth, but he had tread carefully. Never seeking to press an advantage, he had awaited the right moment to test the waters. Now, gazing longingly at the young man sprawled in careless repose, he was enticed to the point of distraction.

After imbibing too freely of the ale, Charles had fallen fast asleep but awoke to the most profanely disturbing situation. He now closed his eyes in a constrained effort to recall the chain of events but shuddered in revulsion at the images and sensations that evoked.

  First he had thought it a dream. What had actually happened? His recollection was vague, as if his brain were suppressing the episode from his consciousness. What little he did remember, he would much sooner forget.

  Charles Wallace fled the inn at Pembury on a stolen horse. Preferring to think of it as borrowed without prior notice, he vowed to return the nag as soon as possible, but circumstances had necessitated his actions. Utterly distracted, Charles rode blindly for miles, heedless of his direction, while he struggled to untangle his emotions.

  
Lord Uxeter! The man whom his father had chosen to wed Beatrix, the
man who had been his close companion and mentor for months, the man
whom he had trusted and respected, the man his father had chosen to groom
him for a position in Parliament. The place his father had arranged for him.
His father's choice. His father's desires. His father's ambitions.

  Charles's father had achieved much with modest beginnings, but over the years he had become ambitious beyond measure, willing to advance his cause regardless of the price others might pay.

  Now he wondered just how much his father had known about the nature and character of Lord Uxeter. Had he known of Uxeter's inclinations? Had he even suspected? Moreover, did he care what befell his son as long as it served his agenda? Charles had a myriad of questions with few answers.

  Dutiful and compliant, Charles had never resisted or defied his father's will, had never hesitated to follow his father's set course, even if it ran contrary to his own heart's desire. Even Beatrix, spoiled from birth, had never overtly challenged their father's will.

  Ironically, only quiet, demure little cousin Charlotte had ever dared flout him, but she had paid dearly for it. His father's machinations had not only destroyed Charlotte and Robert's lives but had led Beatrix to what he now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt would be a wretched union with Lord Uxeter. He was deeply sorry for both his sister and the child she would soon bear.

  Charlotte, however, had demonstrated more backbone and strength of character than any would have previously credited her. Although dealt a serious blow, she had determined to make a life for herself, God help Philip Drake! Charles chuckled briefly before refocusing on his quandary.

  To continue to Hastings after what had transpired was completely out of the question. To go back to London and carry on as if nothing had happened was equally beyond his ability to endure. He could head northward, back to his childhood home, but to what possible future?

  Or, he reflected, he could for once in his life risk his father's displeasure to follow his own course. He realized there was no longer any debate.

  Charles directed his borrowed horse northward to Westminster, the regimental headquarters of the First Foot Guards.