The Dangerous Lord (35 page)

Lord Jameson, who'd always treated her like a daughter,
said hesitantly, “Your husband doesn't disapprove of your writing?”

“Heavens, no. Why should he?”

The older man looked uncomfortable. “You must admit that you've been…rather critical of him in previous columns.”

“Oh,
that
. He's quite forgiven me for that. After all, if it hadn't been for my columns about him, we would never have met and fallen in love.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Lady Brumley came to her rescue. “These fools have some notion that love had nothing to do with it. That St. Clair blackmailed you into marrying him.”

She widened her eyes in bewilderment. “Blackmailed me?”

“Yes. I told them it was utter nonsense, but they'd heard that you found out all your husband's secrets and he married you to keep you silent about them. Some idiot claims that his lordship threatened to ruin you if you didn't marry him.”

Ian's uncle had certainly hit close to the truth, hadn't he? Well, she wouldn't let him succeed in this. She wouldn't! Felicity looked at Lord Jameson and the others, who avoided her gaze. Then she burst into deliberate laughter. “It's true, every word of it.”

She had their attention now. Shock was written on their faces. Lady Brumley, Emily, and Sara eyed her as if she'd gone mad.

She continued in a dramatic tone, though her knees were knocking beneath her gown. “Lord St. Clair found out I was Lord X, came to my house, and demanded that I stop writing about him. I refused, of course. So he gave me an ultimatum—either marry him or he would ruin me.” She paused for effect. “It was a very difficult decision. I mean, what woman wants to marry a rich viscount when she can be a poor nobody writing columns for the newspaper?”

When Sara smiled and Emily joined her, Felicity felt more confident. She tapped her finger against her chin. “I thought about it for…oh…nearly half a minute. And I decided that while being ruined by a man with such obvious assets could be enjoyable, I'd much prefer to be a wealthy viscountess. That way I could have
all
his assets, if you know what I mean.”

For a moment, when her audience continued to gaze at her as if she were mad, she thought she'd made a huge mistake.
Please, God
, she prayed,
let them have a sense of humor
.

Suddenly Lady Brumley chuckled, and a few others tittered as well.

Pressing her advantage, she sighed with great exaggeration. “So here I am, locked into marriage with an attractive and wealthy young man of rank. It's awful, don't you think? Now I can't marry an old lecher or penniless barrister! And I did so have my heart set on that.”

There were laughs now. Loud ones.

“He's such a troublesome husband, too,” she went on quickly while she had them on her side. “He insists that I buy things, and he
knows
I hate to shop. Who wants all that jewelry and silks and furs cluttering up one's bedchamber? It's really too vexing. And the way he treats my brothers—” She rolled her eyes. “I keep telling him not to spoil them, but he won't listen! He's sending my eldest brother off to a very expensive school, and he constantly buys presents for the other three. I swear, I won't be able to do a thing with them if he doesn't stop it!”

She'd gathered a crowd by now, most of whom were either laughing or asking their neighbors to recount what she was saying.

“What about in the bedroom?” one of the outrageously plainspoken March sisters called out. “Has your husband proven ‘troublesome' there as well?”

She didn't have to fake her blush. “Very much so. I
mean, would
you
want a man like that in your bed? So tall, virile, and well built? Here I was, hoping for a short bald man with a paunch, and instead I got
that!
” She added with a wink, “And I must complain that when he demands his husbandly rights, he makes me want to behave
most
improperly….”

There wasn't a soul left in the audience who wasn't smiling, and most were laughing. Lady Brumley guffawed so hard she actually had tears in her eyes. And Sara and Emily beamed at her approvingly.

Felicity could already hear a few whispers of, “I knew it all along” and “Don't they make an adorable couple?”

Suddenly all conversation stopped. A woman with a haughty bearing came toward Felicity, the crowd parting before her in awed interest.

The Duchess of Pelham herself.

She stopped before Felicity and swept her with the contemptuous glance Felicity remembered all too well. “This is all very entertaining, Lady St. Clair.” She spoke Felicity's title with a sneer. “But you don't fool me with this talk of your husband's good qualities. I've heard he has a history of forcing himself on helpless women. You mentioned one such woman in your column, as I recall. And his own uncle claims that the viscount fled England after abusing his aunt. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

A silence fell on the crowd at the duchess's deliberate cruelty. No woman with an ounce of feeling would mention such a terrible accusation about a man to his wife.

For a second, she was back in the Pelham library when the duchess had made those vile accusations to Papa and humiliated her.

But the thought of Ian stiffened her spine. The bitter old witch hated all the women her husband had ever lusted after, whether those women had returned his lust or not. And now she sought to use Ian to degrade Felicity publicly.

She fixed the duchess with a cool gaze. “Ian's uncle? You mean Mr. Lennard?”

“You know who I mean.”

Felicity pasted a sympathetic look on her face. “The poor man. Is he still repeating that tale after all these years? It's so sad. He never recovered after his wife's death, you know. I think he blames himself, although it was purely accidental. She fell and hit her head while in his bedchamber. They were arguing—or so his mistress told me.”

That took the duchess by surprise. “His mistress?”

“Why, yes.” She hoped Miss Greenaway would forgive her for this as long as all names were kept out of it. “That woman I mentioned in the paper, the one on Waltham Street? It turns out I was mistaken about her connection to my husband. He helped her because she'd been Mr. Lennard's mistress for a time and was in dire straits. She'd left Mr. Lennard because she couldn't endure his grief any longer. I talked to her about all of it myself.”

“Y-you talked to her?” the duchess stammered.

No woman ever talked to someone presumed to be her husband's mistress, which Felicity prayed would lend credence to her claims. “Yes. I wanted to find out if I could do anything to help dear Mr. Lennard through his grief. He
is
family, after all. Ian and I are both very concerned about him. The poor wretch's mind seems to have snapped.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if to impart a great secret. “He has some notion that he should have inherited Chesterley instead of my husband. Can you believe it, your grace?”

That started the whispers going, as she'd hoped it would. Such a “notion” offended firmly held beliefs in primogeniture. Besides, everyone assumed that the estate was entailed on Ian's heir. Thus Edgar Lennard's “notion” only proved his madness.

“That doesn't explain why your husband fled England,” the duchess persisted.

To Felicity's surprise, Lady Brumley answered that one. “He left to fight in the war, of course. Everyone knows that. His father—wise man that he was—refused to let his heir join the army, but boys will be boys, and Lord St. Clair wanted to serve his country.”

“Really, Lady Brumley,” the duchess retorted, “do you expect us to believe that a viscount's heir—”

“Just ask Wellington about it,” Sara put in. “Only the other day, he mentioned Lord St. Clair's service to my husband. He said England wouldn't have won the war without the Viscount St. Clair.”

Though she still looked skeptical, the Duchess of Pelham clearly realized when she was outnumbered. Casting them all a scathing look, she tipped up her chin and walked off.

Felicity nearly collapsed. Good Lord, she hoped she never had to deal with that woman again.

Lady Brumley took one look at her pale face and clasped her arm. “Do come tell me more about your troublesome husband,” she said as she dragged her away from the crowd. “I want to know all the details.”

With relief, Felicity allowed the woman to lead her along the edge of the dance floor and away from the others. As soon as they were out of earshot, she asked in a low voice, “Do you think they believed me?”

“The ones who don't will keep it to themselves.” She patted Felicity's hand. “You did very well, my dear. Now you must leave matters to the rumor mill. Coupled with your obvious affection for St. Clair, your story should gain more credence than Edgar's in time. So relax. You've won.”

She dearly hoped that was true. Ian had suffered enough. She cast a quick prayer to the Deity:
Let it work, God, please. I'll never complain again if You'll do this for me. And for him
.

“So tell me, how much of that Banbury tale is true?” Lady Brumley asked.

Felicity's eyes widened. “What? Didn't you believe me?”

Lady Brumley laughed. “Not a word. Well, except for the parts about your husband's qualities. I take it you're well pleased with your ‘troublesome husband'?”

A shy smile crept over Felicity's face. “Very pleased.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Some young women can't recognize a good man even when he lands in their laps.”

She thought of what Ian had told her about his uncle and Lady Brumley. “That's because men—both good
and
bad—hide their characters very well. For example, Edgar Lennard might seem like a good man to some young women. But any woman who escaped marriage to him should consider herself fortunate. From what I understand, he has a temper. A
violent
temper. And a tendency to loose it on women.”

Lady Brumley stared at her keenly, and Felicity didn't flinch from her gaze. In that moment, an understanding passed between them.

“I think I already knew that,” the marchioness finally said. “Though I sincerely hope his nephew doesn't take after him in that respect.”

“Not in the least. But then, you knew that, too, didn't you?” She squeezed Lady Brumley's hand. “Thank you.”

The marchioness looked uncomfortable. “For what?”

“For having faith in him when no one else did—not even me.”

Lady Brumley gave a little shrug that set the ship's bells on her new headdress tinkling. “You're welcome, Lord X. And if you should ever need someone to write your column for you—”

Felicity laughed. “Don't worry. You're the only person I'd consider.”

 

Heedless of the loud music and the sounds of dancing feet coming from the ballroom, Ian and Jordan stood silently in a deserted card room. Ian had just finished his
story, amazed by how much easier it had been to tell it the second time. Encouraged by Felicity's earlier reaction, he'd left nothing out. Besides, it was becoming evident that the truth might emerge shortly, given his uncle's determination to ruin him, and he wanted Jordan to hear it from him, not from Edgar Lennard.

Jordan stared at him a long time. He'd asked questions here and there, but hadn't made any commentary that might reveal what he thought, and that worried Ian.

Finally, his friend sighed. “My God, I wish I'd known about all this long ago. How you must have suffered!”

The reaction stunned him. He'd expected more shock, more revulsion. But apparently his wife was as wise in this as in everything else. His friends cared only about him. And they understood—as she had—that it had been an accident.

“If I'd known, I might have done something to help,” Jordan went on.

“There was nothing anyone could do, I'm afraid.”

“Still, you could have told me. I'm your oldest friend. Why didn't you say something?”

Ian shrugged. “Shame. Guilt. I hated myself. And I had no reason to believe my friends would feel any differently.”

“But something changed that, didn't it?”

A smile crept over his face. “Yes. My wife. She finally made me accept that we all make mistakes. That living with them doesn't have to mean torturing oneself with them. Or bearing them alone.”

Jordan gripped Ian's arm, squeezed it briefly in a show of sympathy, then released it. “Your wife is a remarkable woman. Almost as remarkable as mine.”

“Yes, I know.” To him, she was more remarkable, but he doubted Jordan would agree.

“As for your uncle…” Jordan's tone hardened. “You can't let him win this. Even if I'd never known the truth, I would have thought it an abomination for your uncle to
gain Chesterley. I wonder why your father ever considered it.”

Ian ignored the sudden jolt of pain in his gut. That particular torment wasn't likely to go away soon. “He thought me more unfit for the position than my uncle.”

“That's not true.” Jordan's eyes narrowed. “If he had, he would have disinherited you entirely, but he didn't. Is it possible he set up that will as a way to make you see your responsibilities? When he died, he had no idea where you were or if you would ever return. Perhaps your father feared you wouldn't return without good reason. And the threat of your uncle inheriting would certainly be a good reason.”

Ian had never considered that, but it made sense. It was the sort of test his father would have given him. And it might mean that his father had believed him, after all. It was comforting to think that.

“Perhaps you're right, my friend,” he told Jordan. “In any case, we'll never know. Right now, I'm more concerned with making sure Felicity doesn't suffer the same nasty rumors I've endured for the past few years. So I think it's long past time we returned to the ballroom.”