The Marriage Act (22 page)

Had Caro ever been as young and rash as Miss Fleetwood? She must have been, and what was more, he’d married her when she wasn’t even Miss Fleetwood’s age. How could he have considered a seventeen-year-old girl mature enough to make such a life-changing decision? But then, he’d been five years younger too, and apparently possessed of a good deal less insight and maturity himself.

He removed her hands from his shoulders and set her away from him. “You must put this from your head, as I have every intention of doing. If you’ll excuse me?” He took a sidestep and continued purposefully down the corridor to the bedroom he shared with Caro, while Miss Fleetwood stared after him with a look of frustrated longing.

He let himself in and discovered Caro seated before the mirror on the dressing table, repairing the damage that their walk and the encounter in the cloakroom had done to her hair. She glanced at him, smiling, but as she caught sight of his expression her look of cheerful greeting changed to one of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I just had an unsettling encounter with your cousin. She threw herself on me, then insisted she’s in love with me.”

Caro’s eyes went round with surprise. “Oh, my.”

* * *

John looked more than unsettled—he looked downright shaken. How could Sophia have done such a thing?

“Should I speak to her father about it,” John asked, “or would you prefer to go to her mother?”

Caro turned back to the mirror, her concern escalating to alarm. She couldn’t let that happen. What if Sophia retaliated by telling everyone that she and John had only been pretending they’d been together for the past five years? “Is it really necessary to tattle on her?”

John frowned. “Is that how it seems to you—that I’d be tattling?” He came to stand behind her, addressing her reflection in the mirror. “I’ve no wish to make trouble for the girl, Caro, only to see that her parents keep a more watchful eye on her. Don’t you think they deserve a warning before she tries such a trick again, and makes a truly ruinous mistake?”

Caro twisted in her chair, gazing up at him in appeal. “Surely it isn’t as serious as all that. Isn’t it enough if I talk to her?”

“I don’t think you understand. She physically threw herself on me, and when I reminded her I’m married, she insisted that didn’t matter.”

Caro rose. John was right to be shocked, and even right to want to alert her aunt and uncle, but...Well, Sophia was self-centered and headstrong, and everyone knew the saying
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea to go to her parents.”

“Why not?”

Caro hesitated. She’d meant to tell him about Sophia, but at first it had slipped her mind, and now—well, even she knew her bid to keep Sophia quiet had been a piece of rank cowardice. “Because there’s no telling how long my father has left, which means we may be here for some time. And Sophia is...thin-skinned. I don’t want to hurt her feelings or stir up trouble.”

“It’s your cousin who’s stirring up trouble,” John said, his forehead creasing in a worried frown. “What she did was wildly improper, to say nothing of indiscreet. I’ve no wish to hurt Miss Fleetwood’s feelings either, or to create strife when we’re guests in this house, but what if she should behave that way with a man who isn’t so nice in his distinctions?”

Caro worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d reached the end of her rope.

She was going to have to tell him about Sophia. He wasn’t going to like it, especially not after all their recent talk about keeping secrets, but everything John said was right, and she couldn’t very well ignore common sense just to remain in her cousin’s good graces. As much as she dreaded John’s disapproval, lying to avoid the consequences of her mistakes was exactly what had landed her in trouble in the first place.

“John,” she began hesitantly, “there’s another reason I’d rather you didn’t take the matter to my aunt and uncle, and it’s the same reason reminding Sophia that you’re married didn’t carry much weight with her—”

A rap on the bedroom door cut her off in midsentence.

“Yes?” John called.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Leitner’s voice came through the door, “but there is a problem on the stairs that requires your attention.”

“Not now, Leitner.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but it is Mr. Ronald, and I do not believe the matter will wait.”

“We’re not done with this discussion, Caro,” John said before hurrying out to see what was the matter.

Chapter Twenty-One

Simple and unmingled good is not in our power
,
but we may generally escape a greater evil by suffering a less;
and
,
therefore
,
those who undertake to initiate the young and ignorant in the knowledge of life should be careful to inculcate the possibility of virtue and happiness
,
and to encourage endeavours by prospects of success.

—Samuel Johnson

Caro followed after John and his valet. At the bottom of the staircase, her uncle Geoffrey, his butler Sanders, and one of the Priory footmen stood in a half circle around a crumpled figure on the next-to-last step. It was Ronnie, all right—coatless, with his head bowed and his long legs sprawling.

John gave a faint sigh—Caro wasn’t sure whether it indicated anger or disappointment—and started down the stairs. Caro stayed close behind, and the nearer she drew to her brother-in-law, the more pronounced the smell of alcohol and vomit became.

Her uncle looked up at John, and the distracted air he’d been wearing changed to a look of relief. “Ah, Lord Welford. I’m afraid your brother took a bit of a tumble. He doesn’t appear to be injured, but nevertheless he can’t stand up without assistance.”

Ronnie wore a foolish smile, and he went on smiling even when he spied John. “Hullo, John. Wha’ve you been doing with yourself?”

“I won’t ask the same of you, since it’s evident enough.” Addressing her uncle, he said, “I apologize for my brother, Sir Geoffrey. I had no idea he’d been drinking.”

She was impressed John was able to keep his voice so calm and level, for she’d seen the stiff set of shoulders often enough before to know he must be furious.

“I realize this is none of your doing,” her uncle told John, “but I’d appreciate it if you would take charge of him from here.”

“Of course.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting with my bailiff. Sanders here is at your disposal if you should require anything.”

“Thank you.” As her uncle withdrew, John gave instructions to the butler. “I’ll see my brother up to his room. We could use a pot of coffee and some food. Plain fare—toast will do.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Get up,” John said, taking his brother by the arm and hoisting him to his feet.

“You sound cross,” Ronnie slurred. “Don’ be cross.”

John did sound cross, but not because he’d raised his voice. No, it was rather what he
wasn’t
saying. When John was truly angry, he spoke in short, clipped sentences, if he spoke at all.
Get up
was his version of
I’d like to take you outside and smash my fist into your drunken face
,
you ass.

John set Ronnie’s right arm over his shoulders, supporting him with his left arm around Ronnie’s waist. “Let’s go. One step at a time.”

Boneless, Ronnie giggled and leaned all his weight on John. “Shot the cat earlier. Had to take my coat off, ’cause it was a bit worse for wear.”

John didn’t reply.

Leitner slipped to Ronnie’s other side, and together he and John hauled her brother-in-law up the stairs.

Caro trailed after them. “What can I do to help?”

“You can ring for a maid once we reach Ronnie’s room. It sounds as if it could use some attention. Leitner, I’m afraid you’ll have to see to the worse-for-wear coat.”

At least he wasn’t angry with her or his valet. He was still speaking to them in complete sentences. And Ronnie’s contretemps meant there was little immediate danger John would be going to her uncle to report Sophia’s misconduct, so Caro could save her confession about Sophia’s eavesdropping until John was in a more receptive mood.

She only wished she knew why Ronnie insisted on behaving so irresponsibly when John wanted nothing but the best for him.

* * *

After getting Ronnie back to his room, John stood over him until Ronnie downed the coffee Caro poured for him and ate a slice of toast to settle his stomach. Then he went over Ronnie’s room with a fine-tooth comb, determined to find and confiscate every ounce of alcohol his brother possessed.

He discovered two brandy bottles on the floor by the bed, one empty and the other still half-full. “Where did you get these?” he demanded, holding them up.

“In the village.” At John’s questioning look, Ronnie explained, “When you and Miss Fleetwood were in the confec’ner’s shop.”

So this spree had been two days in the planning. “Did you study your Logic at all last night?”

Ronnie’s jaw jutted forward stubbornly. “A little.”

“How much?”

Ronnie didn’t answer.

“What’s the difference between a simple substance and a compound substance?”

Ronnie merely stared at him.

John tossed up his hands in exasperation. “For God’s sake, that has to be covered in the first twenty pages!”

“Perhaps we’d better leave this until after dinner,” Caro urged from the corner of the room, where she’d been watching their conversation with her brows pinched together in an anxious expression. “He isn’t himself yet, John.”

John was forced to concede. He couldn’t expect Ronnie to think clearly when he was still badly muddled.

When John joined Caro and her family downstairs for dinner an hour later, Ronnie was conspicuously absent from the group filing into the dining room.

“A letter came for you while you were upstairs,” Lady Fleetwood said to John as he led her in. “It’s in the drawing room. I would’ve had Sanders bring it up to you, but since it came by regular post I didn’t think it was urgent, and you were occupied with your brother.”

“I can’t say how sorry I am about Ronnie,” John said. “He’s sobered up considerably since his tumble down the stairs, but he wasn’t ready yet to face either a lively conversation or a full meal.”

“I understand, Lord Welford. I grew up with two brothers myself. He’s at that difficult age, too old to be looked after but not old enough to look after himself. We know you can’t watch over him every second.”

“That’s very kind of you, Lady Fleetwood.” John didn’t know which was more embarrassing, having to apologize for his brother’s troublesome behavior or having Caro’s family shower him with assurances that no one blamed him.

He spent the meal having to pretend he wasn’t both discouraged and mortified. It was all the more humbling because he’d told Caro the story of his twenty-first birthday that very afternoon, and anything but patient forbearance on his part was bound to look like the grossest hypocrisy.

But the worst part had nothing to do with his own self-importance or embarrassment, and everything to do with his worry about his brother. He wanted Ronnie to succeed in life, to find happiness and make his mark on the world, and John had done his best to provide the kind of encouragement and advice he wished his father had given him when he was growing up. Instead Ronnie seemed bent on drinking himself into ruin.

And then there was the other problem weighing on his mind, the advance Miss Fleetwood had made to him that afternoon. He hadn’t decided yet whether to heed Caro’s objection or go to Sir Geoffrey, but no matter how he handled it in the end, Caro’s reaction troubled him. John had begun to hope she was coming to feel something for him, and that the ease and affection that had been steadily growing between them was genuine. But something about her response felt off. He hadn’t really expected her to be jealous of Miss Fleetwood, not when the girl was too young to pose any serious threat. Still, Caro had seemed strangely evasive, as if it made no difference to her whether other women made amorous advances toward him or not, but she knew better than to say so.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Caro seemed so unconcerned. No matter what he’d been telling himself for the past few days, as far as she was concerned, they were only pretending to be happily married. This closeness was all an act. Somehow he’d lost sight of that.

Now he had to distance himself from her cousin, though Miss Fleetwood seemed determined to flirt with him. John kept their interaction to a minimum, answering her questions as briefly as politeness allowed and refusing to encourage further conversation. When dinner ended and the ladies withdrew to leave the men to their port, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Cheer up, my boy,” Bishop Fleetwood said, studying him. “You’re looking awfully blue-deviled.”

Were his emotions really so easy to read? He hated to think what kind of impression he’d made in Vienna, moping about for years on end. “Forgive me. It’s just that I’m at a loss to explain why my brother would think this was the proper time and place to drink himself into insensibility. I’ve been his guardian since he was eleven years old, and I still don’t understand him. I wonder, would he have ended up so wild if I hadn’t spent the past five years trying to look after him from half a continent away?”

“He’s very young for you to despair of the way he’s ended up,” Bishop Fleetwood said with a tolerant smile. “For that matter, you’re scarcely old enough yourself to have cultivated the patience needed to deal with a temperamental nineteen-year-old. Would you mind if I were to talk with him—in your presence, of course?”

“Not at all,” John said. “I’d be grateful.”

“Ring the bell, then,” the bishop said, “and let’s bring him down.”

Sir Geoffrey made to rise. “I’ll leave you gentlemen alone.”

John held up a staying hand. “No, Sir Geoffrey, please. This is your home. As regrettable as this situation is, I’d regret it even more if I allowed my brother to drive you from your own table.”

“Yes, stay, Geoff,” the bishop urged. “You may have something constructive to offer.”

“Why, Matt, you make me sound almost useful,” his brother said with a laugh.

Within five minutes, Ronnie joined them in the dining room, entering with a sheepish expression. “Sanders said you wish to see me.”

“I do, but don’t look so uneasy, my boy,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “I’d simply like to talk with you. Have a seat.”

Ronnie took the vacant chair on the bishop’s left, Lady Fleetwood’s chair. “About what? Are you going to ring a peal over my head too?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the bishop assured him. “This is purely a friendly chat. To begin with, I’m curious to know what you see yourself doing ten years from now.”

“What I...” Ronnie’s forehead knit in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“What are your career ambitions?” the bishop asked. “Have you given any thought to what you wish to do with your life?”

John found it interesting that Caro’s father had opened with the very question Caro had urged him to ask Ronnie while the bishop was dozing in the same room. He
had
been asleep, hadn’t he?

Ronnie glanced uneasily across the table at John.

“It’s quite all right,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “Feel free to speak your mind. John isn’t going to lose his temper, are you, John?”

There seemed little he could do except agree. “No, sir.”

Ronnie picked at the edge of the table with one fingernail. “I don’t really know how to answer. The truth is, I don’t see myself doing much of anything.”

John frowned. “That’s not true, Ronnie. You and I have talked about this, and you’re going into the diplomatic service.”

Ronnie’s face took on a hunted expression. “I know you’ve been hoping for that, but it’s never going to happen.”

John bristled. “Why not?”

The bishop gave him a subtly admonishing look. “What makes you say that, Mr. Welford?” he asked in a kindly tone.

“I’m not clever enough.”

“What do you mean, you’re not clever enough?” John protested. “You may not have done well last year at university, but if you would only make an effort—”

The bishop held up a finger in a signal for calm, and John quickly broke off.

“But that’s just it. I
was
making an effort,” Ronnie answered, his face flushed. “I was making lots of efforts! But I’m not quick-witted, not the way you are. I tried—I studied and studied—but I kept falling further behind.”

“Do you mean to say you were doing your best?” Though he kept his voice calm and reasonable, John found the claim hard to believe when his stepmother had never passed up an opportunity to remind him how brilliant Ronnie was.

“Yes! I studied all the time. I don’t know why nothing stuck. Everyone else at Oxford seemed to catch on easily enough, but not me. And all the while I kept thinking how disappointed you were going to be when you found out.” He buried his face in his hands. “It got so bad I started having shaking fits whenever I had to hand in an exercise.”

The bishop set a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “It’s all right, my boy.”

Seeing his brother’s obvious distress, it dawned on John that his stepmother’s reports of Ronnie’s brilliance had been greatly exaggerated. Why the possibility had never occurred to him before he didn’t know, except that she’d seemed so supremely convinced of Ronnie’s intellectual superiority, while his own achievements at Winchester and Oxford had made no impression on her at all...

Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? His stepmother’s dislike had had little to do with anything John had done or not done, and the same went for her love for Ronnie. She’d simply adored Ronnie and his father, doggedly and extravagantly, and resented him in the same measure.

“Ronnie,” John said, “why didn’t you tell me? All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to make the most of your opportunities. If I seemed angry when you were rusticated, it wasn’t because I won’t be satisfied unless you become the next member of the Royal Society, it was because I thought you weren’t applying yourself.”

Ronnie lifted his head. “But I
was
applying myself. I stayed up late every night and made up tricks for memorizing my declensions and even paid a Scholar to read my verses before I handed them in, so he could tell me where I’d gone wrong. Nothing made a bit of difference.”

“I’m sorry, Ronnie. I didn’t know.”

Ronnie stared down glumly at the table. “I didn’t want you to know. I’d rather you thought I was being idle or that it was because of the drink, and not that I wasn’t clever enough to do as well at university as you did.”

John breathed a regretful sigh. So that was why Ronnie had been drinking so much—anything to escape the heavy burden of expectation John had placed on him. And to think he’d worried Ronnie was irresponsible and apathetic, perhaps even in league against him with Caro, when all along Caro had been right. The real problem had been his own unreasonable demands. He’d thought he was doing a good job as Ronnie’s guardian merely because he wasn’t neglectful in the way his own father had been, but Ronnie hadn’t needed another father to manage him and push him. He’d needed a brother, a friend. Someone soft-hearted and sympathetic, like Caro.