Chapter Twenty-Four
Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire, October 1817
“O h mio caro dolce amore… ”
Etty had forgotten the pure joy to be had from a love song. The soft music from the pianoforte filled the drawing room, stilling its occupants while they listened, enraptured, as Lady Arabella’s fingers caressed the keys, providing a gentle backdrop to Etty’s voice.
At first she’d shied away from Eleanor’s insistence that she sing for the company after dinner. But, encouraged by her sister’s gentle touch as she led Etty to the pianoforte where Arabella had already set aside the music, Etty finally relented.
“ Possa trovare l’amore .”
As she sang the final words, the music trailed away, followed by silence punctuated by the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf. Giving Arabella a quick, tight smile, Etty moved toward her seat, but Eleanor caught her arm.
“You sing well, sister. I trust you will sing for us every night while you’re here.”
“Oh, I-I did not think you’d want me to…”
“To what? Accept your sister’s hospitality?” Eleanor said. “You are welcome here for as long as you like. Having you here is a joy.”
“You flatter me,” Etty said, then regretted her words as Eleanor narrowed her eyes and looked away. She took her hand. “Forgive me, sister—I did not mean to imply that you were insincere. It’s just that I am unused to—” She broke off, her cheeks warming.
“Unused to praise that is genuine, as opposed to mere words from another who wishes to ingratiate themselves?”
Etty met her sister’s gaze, wincing at the intensity of Eleanor’s expression. “I always used to fear your insight,” she said. “Instead I should have welcomed it. I suppose the choice of song was yours?”
“Bella’s, actually,” Eleanor said, gesturing to Etty’s friend, who was rising from the pianoforte, a protective hand over her belly. Etty’s heart ached as Arabella’s husband leaped to his feet and gently guided his wife back to her seat.
“Lawrence, I’m perfectly capable of walking to a chair,” Arabella huffed.
“Yes, love, but I’m incapable of watching you struggle without feeling like an arse,” he replied. Arabella swatted him on the arm, and he winced and nodded toward Etty. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, for cursing. That song were lovely, though I’m afraid I couldn’t understand a word of it. What was it?”
“‘ è degna di amore, ’” Arabella said.
“It means, ‘She is worthy of love,’” Eleanor added, slipping her arm through Etty’s. “Bella and I thought it appropriate under the circumstances. Now, sister, I think you’ve earned a rest. I—” She broke off and tilted her head to one side, a smile curving her lips. “Is that…?”
Footsteps approached, and the doors were flung open to reveal two men. The first, tall and broad shouldered, strode into the room, and Etty caught her breath as she set eyes on him—on the savagely handsome face that had claimed the hearts of every eligible debutante—and their mothers. With thick, dark hair that curled rakishly at the ends and brilliant blue eyes, the Duke of Whitcombe was the handsomest man to have ever walked upon the earth. But he had eyes for none but his wife.
“Monty!” Eleanor let out a cry and ran toward him while he pulled her into an embrace, lifting her off her feet to spin her around, before claiming her mouth for a kiss.
“I didn’t hear the carriage,” she said, breathless. “We did not expect you before Saturday.”
“Ah, but, my love, when the opportunity presents itself to return to you early, I’d be a fool were I not to take it. And to return to such sweet music only convinces me that the duration of my absence has been too long.”
“Have you brought Olivia with you?”
“I believe my sister will enjoy the trappings of London more without her brother getting in the way,” he said. “But I’ve ensured Olivia’s virtue is safe by bringing this reprobate home with me.”
He gestured toward his companion, who limped toward Eleanor and dipped his head in a bow. Etty recognized the Duke of Sawbridge—a committed rake whose piratical good looks had secured his position as Whitcombe’s main rival for female attention, but who was renowned for spending his considerable fortune contributing to the profits of London’s most notorious gaming hells and bawdy houses.
But, judging by the splint bandaged to the lower half of his right leg, his profligate lifestyle must have caught up with him. Perhaps a cuckolded husband had met Sawbridge at dawn and he now sported a bullet hole in the leg.
I hope it gives you much pain.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Sawbridge glanced toward Etty. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried.
Whitcombe approached Etty and extended his hand. “The songstress, I presume,” he said. “For as much as I love my wife, I know that her talent lies in drawing, not singing. Forgive me, I don’t believe we’ve been…”
He froze, his voice trailing away. Then he glanced toward Eleanor before resuming his attention on Etty, his expression hardening.
“For what purpose are you here, madam?”
Etty flinched at the harshness in his tone.
“Monty, I invited my sister here,” Eleanor said. “Forgive me, I meant to—”
“ You’ve done nothing to forgive, my love,” he said, his gaze still fixed on Etty. “As to this creature”—he gestured toward her—“no reasonable man could ever forgive her for what she did. And to prey on your good nature by slithering her way into our lives once more… Madam, what right have you to disturb our peace? Were you not content with destroying your sister’s life the first time that you seek to ruin her again?”
“Your Grace, I—”
“No!” he barked, raising his hand. “You have no right to address me in my house, as if you are my guest when you are come to spread your poison. You are not welcome here.”
“Montague, please!” Eleanor cried. “My sister is here at my invitation.”
“Then why was I not told?”
“Must I ask your permission every time I wish to invite a guest here?”
“Eleanor, you know you may do as you please,” he replied, “but—”
“She’s my sister , Monty,” Eleanor said. “We have made our peace. Can you not therefore make your peace with her also?”
He shook his head. “I cannot forget what happened,” he said. “You fled London in disgrace, alone, and friendless, your life destroyed .”
Eleanor placed a hand on his cheek, and his expression softened. “Not destroyed, my love,” she whispered. “I suffered pain, yes…”
“Pain that she caused.”
“But that pain gave me understanding, Monty. I may have lost my reputation, but I gained so much more—the confidence to express myself, and to live on my own terms.”
She caressed his cheek, and Etty’s heart ached at the love in her sister’s eyes.
“That pain taught me that I could survive, no matter what trials were placed before me,” she said. “I learned to be strong, and to love myself for who, and what, I am, not for how the world perceived me. Can you not see what a gift that was? I have much to be thankful as a result of what happened. As do you , my love.”
Her eyes shining with moisture, Eleanor turned toward Etty and extended her hand. Etty took it, and gentle fingers interlocked with hers.
“That is the gift my sister gave me, at such a cost to herself. All I ask is a little generosity of heart from you, Montague—enough to forgive my sister.”
He placed a kiss on Eleanor’s lips. “You make me a better man, my love,” he said. “For your sake—and yours alone—I shall endeavor to forgive your sister.”
He pulled his wife into an embrace, then looked toward Etty. “I am, however, not the type of man to forget.”
“Your Grace—” Etty began.
“For my wife’s sake, I’ll forgive you, Miss Howard, though it would be hypocritical of me to welcome the prospect of your staying in my home. I take it you’re residing with Sir Leonard and this is merely a passing visit to convey the apology due to my wife?”
Etty’s gut twisted with shame. What a fool she’d been to think the duke would suffer her company in his home! A man with his reputation for harshness could never bring himself to forgive a woman—especially not the woman who had publicly tried to ruin his wife. His reputation would not weather it, despite Eleanor’s assurances to the contrary. The dear woman believed the world was as forgiving as her. But the harsh man she’d married had only the capacity to love one other without condition—Eleanor herself.
What might it be like to be loved so completely by one so fierce?
“Sawbridge, Your Grace,” Arabella said, rising to her feet and gesturing toward Whitcombe’s companion. “It seems you are somewhat indisposed. I take it the other fellow came off worse?”
Sawbridge colored. “I know not of what you speak, Lady Arabella.”
“Come now, sir,” she replied, “a man of your… experience of the world should understand me perfectly. May I be so bold as to suggest that your injury took place at dawn?”
He winced and shuffled toward a chair.
“Leave my friend be, Lady Arabella,” Whitcombe said. “He’s had a rather unfortunate time of it.”
“So has my friend,” Arabella retorted, glancing toward Etty, “but I’ll warrant you’ll cast less judgment on your friend than on mine. I wonder why that might be?”
“Bella, love,” Mr. Baxter warned.
“No, Lady Arabella is right,” Eleanor said. “Sawbridge, were you engaging in a duel?”
Etty winced at her sister’s directness, and Sawbridge’s color deepened.
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t,” he said. “Though I might as well have been, seeing as the outcome was the same.”
“You mean—a man was killed?” Eleanor asked.
Sawbridge winced. “How did you know? Surely the gossip hasn’t reached here yet.”
“I see it in your eyes, sir.”
“See what?”
“The shame.”
Sawbridge closed his eyes and sighed. Then he opened them and nodded slowly. “A man was killed, yes—and a woman. It was Viscount Radham.”
“ Radham! ” Lady Arabella cried, rolling her eyes. “May God preserve his soul, but he was the most prolific toper to disgrace London’s drawing rooms. And the lady?”
“Mrs. Delacroix.”
Eleanor glanced at her husband, who shifted position like a child fidgeting when brought before his nanny for admonishment.
Mrs. Delacroix, the renowned courtesan who had warmed the beds of most gentlemen of the ton —Whitcombe among them.
“I see,” Eleanor said, her tone sharp. “Mrs. Delacroix is well known to my husband, and yet he still believes that my poor sister is undeserving of our friendship.”
“I parted company with Mrs. Delacroix before I met you, Eleanor,” Whitcombe said.
“And I have long since forgiven you. All I ask is that you give my sister the same courtesy.”
Whitcombe nodded and sighed. “You are right, of course, my love.”
Eleanor turned her attention to Sawbridge, who’d taken a seat, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Your Grace, may I fetch your something?” she asked.
“No brandy for him,” Whitcombe said. “Coffee. Strong.”
“See to it, would you, Gillingham?” Eleanor said to the footman circulating around the room. “I fear His Grace will faint if he’s required to stand again.”
The footman issued a quiet bow, then poured a cup and offered it to the duke.
Sawbridge took it with a nod, then lifted his gaze to Etty. “Come sit beside me, Miss Howard,” he said. “I’ve heard much of you.”
“Sawbridge,” Whitcombe growled. “This is hardly the time nor the place.”
“Miss Howard and I have a friend in common,” Sawbridge said. “We saw him in Town—didn’t we, Whitcombe?”
Etty’s stomach churned.
“He’s not the man he was,” Sawbridge said, “but then, losing one’s fortune can do that to a fellow. Radham will soon find that out.”
“I thought you said Radham had died,” Eleanor said.
“I meant the new Viscount Radham. He’s almost as badly off as—”
Eleanor raised her hand. “I’d stop if I were you, Your Grace,” she said. “You may be my husband’s friend, but that doesn’t give you the right to—”
“—Dunton,” Sawbridge finished.
Etty’s stomach tightened, and she drew in a sharp breath, willing her body to move. Her legs crumpled beneath her and she pitched forward, closing her eyes in anticipation of the fall.
But it never came. A pair of thick, strong arms caught her.
“Steady on, love—I’ve got you.”
Etty opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of Lady Arabella’s husband. Arabella herself had risen and fixed Sawbridge with a hard stare, the kind of withering look that had seen off suitors who’d dared approach her—the look that was the precursor to a put-down.
“I think it’s time you and I retired to the library, Sawbridge,” Whitcombe said. “I didn’t bring you here to insult my wife’s guests. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered to bring you here at all. I should have left you in that ditch you fell in—or better still, thrown you in the Serpentine.”
Sawbridge opened his mouth to reply, but Whitcombe approached him, a flash of steel in his blue gaze, and the other man struggled to his feet. They approached the doors, and before they exited, Sawbridge glanced over his shoulder at Etty. He gave a wink, then let Whitcombe lead him outside.
Etty withdrew from Arabella’s husband’s grip.
“You all right, love?” he asked. “Don’t take no notice of that man.”
“I’m quite all right, Mr. Baxter,” Etty replied. “I just didn’t expect to hear…”
“I know,” Lady Arabella said. “And we need not mention his name again. There’s no need for him to touch our lives anymore. We have both suffered at—”
“Dunton,” Etty said, wincing. “I must speak his name, for if I am afraid to, then I’ll never be free of him.”
Arabella took her hand. “Dunton,” she said. “You and I have both suffered at his hands—but he cannot hurt us again.” She squeezed. “Why don’t you come and live with Lawrence and me?”
Etty glanced at Mr. Baxter, whose eyes had widened. “Bella, are you sure?” he asked. “What with the baby…”
“Of course I’m sure!” Arabella huffed. “Etty is my best friend. You know what Dunton did to her.”
He nodded. “Of course, love. That man has much to answer for. Miss Howard, our home is yours, if you wish it. The children will adore your Gabriel—and it’ll be good for him to have young ’uns to play with.”
“B-but, Frances…Loveday…” Etty said. “I cannot abandon them.”
“We wouldn’t expect you to,” Arabella said. “We have plenty of room at Longford Hall. You and your friends could have a new life—a fresh start.”
“But I’ve given my sister a new life here ,” Eleanor said. “Juliette, you’re welcome at Rosecombe as long as you wish. Monty will come around, eventually.”
Etty took her sister’s hand. “Dear Eleanor, you are too good,” she said. “Your one failing is that you assume everyone else to be as forgiving and openhearted as yourself. I cannot stay where I am a problem to be solved, or a burden to be shouldered.”
“You’re no burden.”
“Or a sinner to be forgiven.” A sob rose in Etty’s throat, and she wiped the moisture from her eyes. “I have faced my sins—and asked forgiveness from those whom I have sinned against. And now I wish to find peace. But how can I find peace if I am to be forever reminded of my sins? I will never look upon you, Eleanor, without knowing what I did. Your husband…”
“Monty will grow to love you as I do,” Eleanor said.
Etty shook her head. “Your husband will never be able to look upon me without remembering what I did to you. Perhaps he can forgive, but he’ll never forget. And neither will I. If I am to begin again, I must leave.”
Eleanor drew Etty into her arms. “Dearest sister!” she cried. “I only want you to be as happy as I.”
“The difference is that you deserve your happiness, Eleanor,” Etty replied. “But don’t judge your husband too harshly. He acts out of love for you. And until I can find another to love me as fiercely as he loves you, then I can never find your happiness.”
“You will find love,” Eleanor whispered. “But you must find a man to deserve you. Such a man is rare.”
“That he is,” Etty said. A tear splashed onto her cheek, and she wiped it away. “But I didn’t deserve him.”
She choked as her throat tightened, and Eleanor placed a hand on Etty’s cheek. “Sister?”
“You see—I know that I can never truly begin again with a clean conscience, with others who have borne the brunt of my sins. Not even those who professed to love me in spite of everything could truly forgive me for what I did to you.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You mean—you fell in love?”
Etty nodded.
“With whom?”
“Can you not guess?”
Eleanor shook her head, then understanding flowed into her eyes. “You stayed at Sandcombe,” she whispered. “So you met…”
Unable to speak, Etty nodded.
Andrew.
“And…?” Eleanor said.
“He rejected me when he discovered that I was your sister.”
“Oh, Juliette!” Eleanor held her close. “My poor, darling sister! How can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Etty said, shaking.
“There’s everything to forgive! I should not have told him what you’d done. I did so out of selfishness, seeking the sympathy of others. But I had thought better of him .”
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Eleanor,” Etty said. “He, like your husband, acted out of his love for you. And therefore he couldn’t have truly loved me.”
“Then he did not deserve you,” Eleanor said, her voice hardening. “Nor does any man who professes to do the good thing, yet lets himself be ruled by his own self-importance. ’Tis a wonder why the world does not turn to ruin, ruled by men as it is.”
Etty glanced at Mr. Baxter, who had chosen that moment to take a great deal of interest in a vase on a plinth by the window.
“Perhaps we should retire,” Lady Arabella said. “Etty, my dear, shall we seek out Frances and Loveday so they can be ready to leave in the morning?”
Etty glanced at her sister, then nodded. “Yes, I’m certain. I must begin a new life unencumbered by my sins.”
“Then I wish you well, sister,” Eleanor said. “And I pray that, one day, you will find the forgiveness you seek.”
“I don’t deserve his forgiveness.”
“I didn’t mean Andrew,” Eleanor said. “I meant the one person who judges you more harshly than any other. And before you can begin to accept the forgiveness of anyone else, you must seek forgiveness from them.”
“From whom?”
Eleanor brushed her lips against Etty’s forehead in a soft kiss.
“You, dearest Juliette. The time has come to look into your heart and forgive yourself.”