Susan Johnson (24 page)

“But that doesn’t require planning.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t say you and Mother think I should be making
plans
—as you so delicately put it?”

“Your mother likes Annabelle a great deal, as do I.” Julius dipped his head. “As do you. And Cricket is quite the most adorable child I’ve seen—in addition to those in our family, of course.”

“I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, but even if I were so inclined, which I’m not, Annabelle has already told me she is not interested in marrying me.”

The duke looked surprised. “She did?”

“Quite emphatically.”

His father smiled. “Are you doing something wrong?”

“I’ve heard no complaints,” Duff drawled. “She is, however, concerned with the conventions—what people will say, that sort of thing.”

“What people say is of no consequence.”

“And so I told her, but she persists in her beliefs.”

“What if she were to leave you? She has a reputation for doing so. What then?”

Duff gazed out the window for a moment, not entirely sure of his answer. And then, reverting to form, he said with a smile, “I expect I’d find something to do.”

A
nd so it was left.

The duke knew better than to press the point. Whether he and his wife liked Annabelle was incidental; it was Duff’s life. But neither he nor Elspeth could forget that through Annabelle’s good graces, their son had been returned to them.

Dinner that night was
en famille
and lighthearted, the prospect of the Harrisons’ control over Cricket at an end, animating the conversation. Plans were made for a boat ride on the Thames, weather permitting, and for another day at the races as well. Several bottles of champagne only added to the gaiety, and a kind of snug pleasure enveloped the gathering.

“I will pay you back,” Annabelle said later that night as she lay in Duff’s arms. “Let me know what the Harrison settlement is.”

“We’ll know tomorrow. Plunkett is meeting with them in the morning.”

As it transpired, the sum the Harrisons received was considerably less than they’d anticipated. Plunkett informed the Harrisons and George Carleton that the duke was considering bringing manslaughter charges against them in relation to Chloe’s death. At that point, Jeremiah Harrison understood whatever leverage they might have had was gone. When Plunkett offered them a thousand pounds if they signed away their rights to Celia, alias Cricket, despite his wife’s protests, Jeremiah quickly signed.

As for the Walingame suit, Plunkett found dealing with McWilliams slightly more difficult.

“The earl is willing to go to any lengths to support his claim,” McWilliams began, immediately taking the offensive. “He has the funds to bring this to trial—and the motivation. Miss Foster will not find him amenable on any level.”

“I realize keeping this in court would be profitable to your firm,” Plunkett noted mildly, never having liked McWilliams’s lack of ethics. “And you may do so if you so choose. My client’s fortune is considerably more than Walingame’s, however. Furthermore, the duke is not concerned with the ultimate cost of this litigation.”

“Then we will see how Miss Foster does on the witness stand,” McWilliams returned boldly.

“I expect she will do exceedingly well. However, I doubt it will come to that.” Plunkett pulled a sheet of paper from a leather portfolio and handed it across the table to McWilliams. “Take note, if you please, of the fact that one Thomas Harrison is named as the father of the child. And here are the documents relating to the marriage between Miss Foster’s sister, Chloe, and Thomas Harrison.” The papers were duly handed over. “Furthermore, we have testimony from the midwife who attended at the birth of the child, Celia, and two corroborating witnesses to the lying-in and delivery. Let me know when you’ve seen enough,” Plunkett said with a small smile.

McWilliams frowned as he perused the papers, then tossed them aside. “These could all be forgeries and false testimony. My client contends that the child is Miss Annabelle Foster’s and he is the father.”

“In that case, I’ll wish you good day.” Plunkett came to his feet and straightened the papers into a neat pile before placing them into his portfolio. “We will be seeing you in court.” He walked to the door, then turned and said, “You might consider your reputation, however. My client has considerable influence. You are bound to lose this case—eventually. And furthermore, occasion the displeasure of my client, the duke. I caution you to weigh the liabilities, particularly with Walingame discredited at every turn. He will not be allowed back in England; the duke has so vowed. I wish you good day.” He turned to the door.

“Wait.”

Plunkett suppressed a smile and turned back.

“Perhaps we could reach a settlement,” McWilliams said, smooth-tongued and bland. “An amiable agreement, as it were.”

“Westerlands won’t give Walingame a penny.”

“I was thinking”—McWilliams let the sentence hang.

“My client would be willing to offer you a fee for services. In lieu of the time you’ve already spent on this case.” Plunkett put up a cautioning hand. “I don’t suggest you be greedy. The duke is quite out of humor on this issue.”

“Say, five hundred pounds?”

Plunkett had never heard such hesitancy in McWilliams. He was tempted to knock the sum down on principle. But the duke had already given him leave to go as high as five thousand pounds, so he restrained his personal antipathy toward a man like McWilliams with little scruple and less time for the truth. “Five hundred pounds it is,” he agreed. “And, may I say, you’ve made the right choice. Westerlands is in high dudgeon over this.”

In short order, McWilliams signed a few documents, relinquishing his interest in the case, and Plunkett left the law offices in Piccadilly to report back to Julius on his successful missions.

W
hen the news was delivered to Westerlands House, an immediate celebration took place. The duke had his reserve champagne brought up, a fact his family took note of. Only births and marriages had formerly called for the reserve champagne.

The party was replete with good cheer and laughter, toasts were raised to the Harrisons’ departure from London, to Plunkett’s expertise, to Cricket’s future. Annabelle was profuse in her heartfelt appreciation to the Westerlands family for all they’d done for her, particularly in terms of the Harrison settlement. As for Walingame’s case, she had thanked them privately, since her mother didn’t know of the earl’s attempt to claim Cricket.

Sometime later, when the merrymaking and jubilation had moderated and conversation had turned to other, more mundane, subjects like Lady Jersey’s upcoming rout, Annabelle made an announcement. “I think it’s time our family returns to Shoreham,” she said, having purposely chosen the public venue in order to lessen dissent. As shock registered on every face, she brightly added, “Cricket so adores being outside—she would prefer being in the country. As would my mother, I’m sure.” Her smile was luminous. “As would I, after the excitement and tumult of the last few weeks.”

There was no one at the table who dared to protest, although most would have liked to. The duke and duchess, her mother—even Duff’s sisters and brother—had come to cherish Annabelle.

As for Duff, his first reaction was anger.
Excitement and tumult
? Did those bland words refer to his shooting and various lawsuits? What the fuck was she doing? But at base, perhaps, he most resented her walking away. Women didn’t, as a rule, leave him. Never, actually, and his father’s words came unbidden to his mind.
She has a reputation for leaving men
. In the next flashing moment, he thought about asking her to stay. But as quickly, he discarded the notion. He had never begged for a woman’s favor. Nor would he now.

After a transient moment of silence, the duchess stepped into the breach and graciously said, “You and your family must come back and see us whenever you wish.”

“Please stop by to see us in Shoreham as well,” Annabelle replied politely.

“If you need any help at your cottage, don’t hesitate to ask,” the duke offered with a smile. “Our staff at Westerlands Park is at your disposal.”

“Thank you. Now, if you please, Mother and I will gather our things and set off without delay. The summer evenings are pleasant for travel.”

Everyone was well-mannered and urbane, helping with the arrangements, having a carriage brought up to convey the Fosters to Annabelle’s town house, making their farewells with polished cordiality.

Duff helped Mrs. Foster into the carriage, then Molly and the baby, before turning last to Annabelle and extending his hand. “I wish you a pleasant journey,” he murmured, steeling himself against the touch of her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, placing her fingertips lightly on his palm, but not quite meeting his angry gaze. “And thank you as well for—”

“Look at me,” he hissed, the taut words for her ears only.

Her gray gaze came up. “Be sensible, Duff.” Then slipping her fingers from his, she reached for the handhold alongside the door and stepped up into the carriage.

A footman moved forward to shut the carriage door.

The duke signaled his driver to set off.

And a moment later, Westerlands House was devoid of guests.

Duff turned to his family assembled on the pavement, temper glittering in his eyes. “I’m off to Brooks’s,” he said brusquely.

“I may see you there later,” Giles offered. “I’m going to Jackson’s first. Why don’t you come? You look as though you could use a little sparring exercise.”

“Not in the mood I’m in.”

No one in his family pressed him further, Duff’s black scowl being explanation enough. They didn’t wish anyone at Jackson’s boxing saloon to suffer Duff’s wrath; he was one of Gentleman Jackson’s better protégés.

A short time later, when the marquis walked into Brooks’s, he was greeted by one and all like the long-lost friend he was. Immediately plied with welcome-back drinks, he accepted them all, sat down with his compatriots, and proceeded to drown his bitterness in brandy.

After Annabelle and her family returned to her London house, a rushed business of packing took place, her carriage was brought out of the mews, and in extremely short order, the city was left behind.

With Molly and the babies dozing, Mrs. Foster took the first opportunity after the bustling fervor of their leave-taking to question her daughter. “I don’t suppose you care to tell me what this is all about. As you know, we were quite welcome to stay at Westerlands House for the rest of the season.”

Annabella’s gaze turned from the carriage window, where city streets had given way to the green of the country. “Stay to what purpose, Mother?”

“To enjoy ourselves in excellent company, I’d say.”

“They are not our kind, Mother. Nor will they ever be.”

“You put too much stock in the ways of the
Ton
. Our family, while not of the nobility, was once prosperous and respected. You were educated as well, if not better, than ladies of the nobility—and thank God. That education has given you the opportunity to earn a position of prominence in the world.”

“I know, Mama. And I thank you. But having lived”—she paused, her life unconventional by any standard—“in proximity to so many in the
Ton,
I am more aware than most of the conformist nature of society. Despite being taken up by the Westerlands, there are many in the fashionable world who look down on people like us.”

“You have a lovely home. You give us a good life. Why should anyone look down on you?”

“Perhaps a man could more easily make his way in the world. Money brings certain favors and titles their way.” She chose not to point out the opposite—that a woman, regardless of rank, had little control of her life.

“Don’t I know. Squire Hampton was knighted.”

“Exactly. But mostly, though, Mama,” Annabelle said, hoping she could explain her feelings in such a way that her mother would understand, “I have attained a great deal of independence.” She smiled. “And I like it.”

“Then you must keep it if it makes you happy.”
A shame you couldn’t keep it and the marquis, too,
Mrs. Foster thought. But she smiled back at her daughter and said, instead, “I must say I will have fond memories of my time in London with the Westerlands.”

“Indeed, Mama, they are very agreeable in every way.” Although their heir was singularly more than agreeable. She knew what was expected of her, however. She’d known from the beginning. The time had come finally to leave their little liaison, or infatuation, or whatever folly one wished to call it, behind and set her mind on other things. Without a doubt, Duff would do the same.

“I do admit, though,” her mother noted with a smile, “I am looking forward to seeing our snug little cottage again. Lovely as Westerlands House was, one couldn’t but feel less than cozy in its vastness.”

Annabelle chuckled. “Just so, Mama.
Cozy
is not the word to describe that splendid pile in Portman Square.”

After everyone had gone off in various directions, the duke and duchess sat down to tea and tried to unravel what had gone wrong with their eldest son’s liaison.

“It’s a shame. I like Annabelle immensely and Duff seemed serious about her,” Elspeth noted. “He’s obviously angry that she left.”

“But for how long, is always the question with Duff. If past behavior is any indication,” the duke pointed out, “he will soon find someone else.”

“No doubt you’re right,” the duchess said with a small frown. “He’s never spent more than a few days with any one woman. I still find it a shame, though,” the duchess murmured. “I found Annabelle most charming.” She made a small moue. “Unlike so many noble young ladies who are—well, frankly, annoyingly simple.”

“Annabelle’s intelligence did appeal to Duff, I expect—as well as her beauty, of course,” the duke noted. “There’s no doubt she can hold her own in any conversation.”

“Unlike so many ladies who pride themselves on never reading a book. Lydia and Georgina often lament on the dearth of ladies of their acquaintance who know anything beyond fashion. While our darling Annabelle writes the most delicious and scathingly funny plays.”

“Not to mention poetry.” The duke smiled. “And as a rule, I’m not overly fond of poetry. But hers is
au courant
and interesting.”

“Like our current notable, Lord Byron.”

“His poetry is engaging, I admit, but he’s rather too fond of his celebrity, if you ask me.”

“The poor boy has been, well…
poor
for so long—allow him his day in the sun, darling. You have never been poor. You don’t understand.” The duchess had been left penniless when her father died and her disastrous first marriage had been forced by those circumstances. “As for
our
poor boy,” she went on with a smile, “I shall remain optimistic about him coming to his senses. It’s time he stopped simply amusing himself with amour—don’t lift your brows, sweetheart—everyone doesn’t have to wait until they’re over thirty to marry.”

“I was just waiting for you,” the duke said with a smile.

“Well, that’s true,” the duchess said with an answering smile. “But I for one think Duff couldn’t do any better than Miss Foster. And he’s very stupid if he doesn’t see that for himself.”

“Would you like me to talk to him?”

“How sweet of you, darling,” the duchess said in a tone of voice one would use to flatter a child. “But I doubt Duff would want us to interest ourselves overmuch in his love affairs.”

“Even though you do,” the duke noted drolly.

“But never overtly, darling. Although I’m sorely tempted to arrange something with Miss Foster,” she said in a bemused tone.

“
Arrange something
?”

Elspeth laughed. “Does that frighten you?”

“Perhaps I’m more curious—about what you could concoct that would bring our Duff to heel.”

“There, you see? That’s how men look at marriage. For my part, I rather consider this, say,
inchoate
thought process as a means of making our dear boy happy.”

While the duchess was considering various ways she could patch up her son’s relationship with Annabelle, the marquis, ignorant of his mother’s machinations, was trying to drink himself into oblivion.

He wished to rid himself of the reoccurring and beguiling images of Annabelle that were assaulting—nay,
hammering
away at his senses. He was already on his second bottle, yet the incessant impressions were as potent as ever.

He decided to gamble, thinking to force himself to concentrate on other things. But he simply played by rote and instinct, unaware of his surroundings or conversations. Before long, his friends began to wonder if the stories about his problems after Waterloo were true. He didn’t answer when spoken to, nor care whether he won or lost, all the time drinking brandy like water.

The worried looks passing back and forth between his friends finally became too obvious to ignore; Duff set his glass down and said with a grimace, “It’s Annabelle Foster. We have been”—he paused—“seeing each other.” He shrugged. “She just left.”

Everyone said, “Ah…” and understood. Who didn’t know of the celebrated lady in question, of her pattern of disposing of lovers. Not to mention the recent gossip about a child that had the entire town buzzing.

Warr was blunt enough to bring up the subject. “Did she take your child with her?”

“Celia isn’t mine. She’s Annabelle’s sister’s child.” Even as he spoke, some part of him wished Cricket was his. The sensation was so startling, Duff immediately reached for the brandy bottle, refilled his glass, and tossed down the liquor.

“Walingame is claiming the child is his.”

“Not anymore.”

“Even with McWilliams handling the case?”

“He’s off the case.”

“So you are cleared of all gossip with regard to fathering a child on Miss Foster, and Walingame is as well.”

Duff looked up from refilling his glass. “True and true.”

“And darling Annabelle has left another blighted lover in her wake.”

“So it seems,” Duff muttered, lifting his glass to the table at large. “To future amours.”

“That’s the spirit, Darley,” Lord Avon pronounced, raising his glass. “Get right back in the saddle.”

After which, Duff received a great deal of advice on any number of ladies who could assuage his current black mood. He accepted everyone’s recommendations with good grace, and when he quit the game and left Brooks’s, he felt markedly improved, perhaps even half reconciled to Annabelle’s departure.

After all, he wasn’t the first man who had been discarded by the lovely Miss Foster. And no doubt, he wouldn’t be the last.

He even found such empty platitudes consoling for another hour or so as he sat in his study in St. James, emptying a bottle, his gaze on the Raeburn portrait over the mantel. Then, struck by an epiphany of sorts, he suddenly came to the conclusion that he didn’t actually set much store by platitudes. Putting his glass aside with the kind of slow deliberation typical of someone half in his cups, he called for Byrne. He needed Romulus saddled, he said, a change of clothes packed and a note delivered to Gray’s and one to his parents.

As he waited for the man from Gray’s to arrive, he surveyed the portrait with a faint smile. Annabelle couldn’t have traveled very far yet. It would have taken her some time to close her house, and a carriage couldn’t match the speed of prime horseflesh like Romulus.

In the midst of his reflections on his coming journey, he found the thought of seeing Cricket again was of keen interest to him as well.

Who would have thought?