In the Garden of Disgrace (4 page)

The marquess continued to loom over Adrian,
hands clenched aggressively. From his prone position the earl’s
sight had begun to clear, and he watched the man with a wary
eye.

“Simon, please, can’t we do this without
making a scene?” a melodic female voice interrupted at that point.
“Invite the gentleman in so you can settle your difficulties in
private.”

Both men looked in the direction of the
front entrance to a striking woman with auburn hair, noticeably in
her last weeks of pregnancy. She spread her hands, indicating the
people who had begun to gather in the yard.

“I’d as soon invite in the devil,” the
marquess stated darkly. “Moreover, I’ll just crack his head in your
drawing room, Cassandra. Certain you wish to risk the
furniture?”

“Simon, please,” she said again.

Reluctant—but not irrational, Adrian noted
with relief—the marquess acquiesced, silently swinging around and
marching into the house. The woman must be Simon’s wife, the earl
thought. That gave him some hope for, unless he had misjudged the
situation, the beautiful lady was Simon’s one weakness and she
seemed to be encouraging restraint.

Adrian came to his feet and dusted off his
trousers, giving himself a second to think. He was undecided as to
whether he should follow the marquess inside or leave. He felt
something else as well. Offended. He hadn’t expected a warm
greeting, but this overt hostility from a man he considered an old
chum came as a shock.

The earl looked to the woman who still stood
in the doorway, waiting for him. “Lady Sutherfield?” he asked.

She nodded solemnly and moved aside so he
could enter.

He shrugged. Evidently the decision had been
made for him. Frankly, though, he was curious. What had caused a
rational man like Sutherfield to respond that way?

The earl stepped inside and waited for Lady
Sutherfield to lead him to the appropriate room. He trailed behind
her down a hall to a pair of richly carved doors that opened on the
library. Inside, the marquess stood in front of a large desk, hands
clasped behind his back. The expression in his black eyes was
daunting.

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to your
discussion,” Lady Sutherfield said, giving her husband a meaningful
glance as she exited the room and closed the doors behind her.

The sound of the latch clicking into place
preceded a tense silence.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a
drink,” the marquess said at last.

Adrian was stumped by this final insult.
“What is wrong with you, Simon? Were you friends with Findley? If
you were, I’m sorry, but I swear the man gave me no choice. It was
he or I. I chose me—hard to figure, but there it is.”

“Is that what you think this is about?”
Simon bellowed. “I don’t give a damn about Findley. He can rot in
Hell for all I care.” He paused then, eyeing the earl critically.
“Are you saying you don’t know why I’m angry?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You ruined my sister. Does that bring back
your memory?”

“Lydia?”

“Not Lydia, you bloody fool. It was
Jillian.”

Adrian stared at the marquess, convinced the
man had gone daft. “I don’t know any Jillian. You have another
sister?”

“Oh, come now,” the marquess barked. He was
knotting his hands again as though ready to reintroduce the
fisticuffs. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t recall hauling my
little sister to Dover in a hack on the night you fled the
country?”

“That wasn’t your sister. It was…” Adrian
trailed off all at once at a loss for words as memory assailed
him.

Could it be? Was the sultry young maid with
the dark eyes more than she had seemed? At the time he remembered
thinking there was something suspicious about the circumstances
surrounding her appearance in the carriage. But this—never would he
have guessed this. Then he thought of something else. She had said
her destination was the Sutherfield mansion in Berkeley Square.

“I tell you, Simon, there was a young girl
in the carriage with me. She said she was a maid, was dressed like
one, so I believed her—well, more or less. But I don’t recollect
your having a younger sister Jillian.”

“You don’t remember a skinny little
brown-eyed imp who followed you around like a puppy that summer you
were here? My father called her Jilly. We all did. Still do, for
that matter.”

Adrian’s gaze focused inward, again
searching his memory. All at once he felt sick. “Oh, my God!” he
whispered, his vision clearing. “Forgive me, Simon. I think I need
to sit down.”

The marquess nodded his dark head toward a
leather chair next to the desk. “You really didn’t know?”

“I swear. I would have returned to London
and faced the consequences if I had.”

“So you’ve gone on, blithely unaware of the
chaos you left behind you? Weren’t you in communication with
anyone?”

“Chaos?” the earl asked faintly. “What
happened? My man of business wrote to me about, well…business. He
passed along notes from my mother, but no one mentioned anything
unpleasant.”

“How nice for you.” The sarcasm in Simon’s
voice was unmistakable. “I wish I could say the same for Jillian.
Sad too, for she was a fetching thing. She had her pick of the
beaux that year and garnered I don’t know how many proposals. By
summer’s end she had decided on Edgeworth.”

Adrian snorted his contempt.

“Yes, well, I didn’t much care for him,
either. But Jilly was head over heels. Unfortunately, her little
escapade was discovered and that ended everything. Edgeworth cried
off and, with the vicious gossip that followed, my father had no
choice but to send her back here to Sutherfield.”

“How did the story come out?”

“Now there’s an interesting question. We’re
not certain. Jillian seemed to think James Endicott, the young man
who drove your carriage, might have recognized her. The only other
people who knew about that night were the two individuals with
her—one our cousin Phillip—and she’s convinced neither would have
exposed her.”

The earl shook his head. “That doesn’t make
sense. Don’t you think if James had known who she was he would have
told me? He’s a gentleman. James would never have ruined a young
girl’s reputation only to repeat a little gossip.”

“Doesn’t signify,” the marquess said
impatiently. “The harm is done, has been for a long time.” He gave
Adrian a piercing look. “What concerns me now is what we’re going
to do to mend the situation.”

Adrian felt the hair on the back of his neck
lift. “I suppose,” he ventured, “you’ve already given it some
thought.”

Simon chuckled, a humorless sound, as he
moved across the room to a small sideboard where the brandy
decanter resided. He poured two quick measures in crystal goblets,
splashing the amber liquid over the rims in his haste. He turned
back to the earl and handed him one.

“I think perhaps we need that drink now,”
the marquess said, sitting behind the desk. “Negotiations always go
better with spirits.” He leaned back in his chair, loosely gripping
his glass in both hands as he rested it on his stomach. He had the
look of one getting comfortable for however long it might take.

Adrian wondered if he appeared as dazed as
he felt. The marquess’ next words confirmed his suspicion.

“Feeling a bit green around the edges,
Wickham? You do want to negotiate, don’t you? I mean, we can’t undo
what’s been done, but with a little creative thinking we can
minimize the damage.”

The earl was cooked, not rare but through
and through. It didn’t take a prophet to understand where this
particular line of inquiry was headed. Creative thinking?
Hardly.
Simon was suggesting what was always suggested in
circumstances like this. Although suggesting was an understatement.
The pressure underlying the words, even though the discussion had
turned less hostile, was unmistakable. Adrian felt just belligerent
enough to pretend ignorance. Make the man say it, he thought.

“What did you have in mind, Simon?”

The marquess took a swig of his drink,
swishing the beverage over his tongue as though considering how
best to reply. His scrutiny roamed in seeming indifference over the
furnishings of the library, the leather-bound volumes, floor to
ceiling, on countless shelves. At once his gaze sharpened and he
turned his attention to his guest.

“There’s only one answer, and I think you
know it as well as I do. I want you to court Jillian in earnest and
when the time is right wed her.”

Adrian did not bother to protest, for he
could not claim the distinction of being a gentleman if he did.
Simon was right. His sister had been ruined, and it was the earl’s
responsibility as the despoiler—albeit unwittingly—to rectify her
situation. That did not keep his spirits from plummeting into his
boots.

“It is, of course, the only answer,” Adrian
said, trying to keep the dejection out of his voice. “I don’t wish
to be forward and invite myself to dinner, but I can meet her
tonight if you would like and begin my campaign immediately.”

“She’s not here.”

“Oh?”

Simon took another gulp of his drink,
pausing as if unsure how to respond. This time his hesitation did
not seem feigned.

“I think I should warn you, this may not be
as easy as we might hope,” he said. “Jillian is not the most
even-tempered gel I know. These last years have been hard on her,
and she’s developed some, ah…strange notions. I’m hoping marriage
to a good man will help her settle down.”

“And I qualify?” Adrian asked, smiling
grimly.

“If you are willing to right what is wrong
then yes.” The marquess leaned forward in his chair and placed his
arms on the desk, his expression heartfelt. “Look, Adrian, I know
you’ve been in a scrape or two, however, I never meant to imply
that you are an evil person. But Jilly is my sister.
Understand?”

Unfortunately, the earl did understand. He
sighed. “Where is Lady Jillian residing?”

“She’s living with our Aunt Prudence Milford
on a small estate about twenty miles south of here. When Jillian
reached her majority she came into an inheritance from Evangeline,
Prudence’s sister, who passed away some time ago. The two sisters
lived together, both never married, and when Evangeline died Pru
invited Jilly to come live with her. My sister was desperate to
have some autonomy in her life, and since she was financially
independent she leapt at the opportunity. She runs the place with
Pru’s complete approval.”

“How do you suggest I go about introducing
myself?”

“You and I can ride over tomorrow and break
the news. I see no reason why you can’t use my home during your
courtship,” the marquess said, magnanimous now that his demands
were being met. “You’re welcome to stay the summer—longer if need
be.”

“That would make things easier and lend an
air of respectability. You shouldn’t count on either myself or Lady
Jillian being accepted by those who matter, though. We both have a
lot to overcome in the eyes of society.”

Adrian stopped for a moment, anticipating a
question he knew the other man wanted to ask. He decided to broach
the sensitive subject himself.

Coughing uneasily, he said, “Not that your
sister did anything wrong, Simon, except perhaps use poor
judgment.”

Simon nodded slowly. “Jillian said as much.
I believed her, but I’m glad you can corroborate her claim.” He
leaned forward, holding his hand over his desk. “We have an
agreement?”

This time the two men shook hands. Adrian
settled back in his chair and took a mouthful of his drink,
reveling in the alcohol as it burned the back of his throat. The
pain helped dilute the intense disappointment. All the years he’d
been in exile, his greatest desire had been to return home. Now to
find this awaiting him—a wife not of his own choosing.

With his visit to Sutherfield, Adrian had
come to the one place where he could not escape the past.
Ironically, in doing so he also had come face to face with his
future.

*****

“Simon’s come?” Jillian cried. She jumped up
from the chair where she sat in the morning room, having removed a
pair of mud-encrusted work boots. “Where?” she asked the maid who
had delivered the news.

“In the parlor, miss,” Hannah replied.
Jillian headed for the door. “I wonder why he is here. I don’t
think it’s Cassandra’s time yet.”

“My lady?”

She turned back to the maid. “Yes?”

“Your gown is rather dirty. Do you think
perhaps…?”

“Simon doesn’t stand on ceremony,” Jillian
said, examining the mud that clung to her clothing and the bare
toes that peeked from beneath the hem of her skirt.

“But, my lady—”

“Oh, all right, Hannah, if you insist.”

Jillian moved to the mirror on the wall over
the sideboard and looked at herself. She dampened her pinky finger
with her tongue and ran it daintily over each eyebrow. She glanced
this way and that, pretending to study the effect as her dark hair,
carelessly tied at the nape of her neck, swung to and fro down her
back.

“There, that’s an improvement. I know Simon
will appreciate my efforts.”

“Yes, my lady,” Hannah said through lips so
tight with disapproval, Jillian was not certain she saw the maid’s
mouth move when she spoke.

“Good. Now I can get on with the business of
greeting my brother.”

Jillian left the morning room and dashed
down the hall. In the parlor Simon stood next to the fireplace, and
she danced across the carpet, throwing herself into his arms.

“Simon, it’s been weeks,” she said, hugging
him tightly. “What brings you here? It isn’t Cassandra’s time yet,
is it?”

“No, it’s not Cassandra’s time,” he said. He
pulled back and surveyed her with a critical eye.

Did she detect censure in his attitude? His
cool reception, along with the notion that Hannah might have been
right, caused her to bite back at him.