Chapter 21
For the next several days, Evangeline did her best to do as Richard asked, and wait for his explanation of whatever he’d done.
She finished embroidering the handkerchiefs she was making for her niece.
She read a whole novel and enjoyed it very much.
She discovered a nest of baby rabbits in her garden, and enjoyed watching the tiny bunnies hopping around, even though she had to shut up Louis in the house to keep him from chasing them, and her gardener muttered that they’d be eating her favorite flowers.
And she visited Mrs. Trumbull in Leicester Square and ordered a new corset, with a pair of new petticoats for good measure.
And after four whole days, she was about to lose her mind, wondering what on earth he’d done and when he would be home to tell her about it.
In the end, she learned that answer not from Richard, but from her sister-in-law.
“Marion,” she said warmly as Solly showed her in. “What a lovely surprise.”
Marion came to embrace her. She was petite and slim, with chestnut brown hair just beginning to show threads of gray.
Evangeline hadn’t known her well before Marion married George, because Cunningham had kept them at his Scottish estate all winter, and they’d only come to London that spring.
Then Cunningham had died and Evangeline had gone into mourning.
“How are you?” she asked as they settled on the sofa. “I was just working on some handkerchiefs for Joan.” She reached for the embroidery basket nearby.
“How lovely,” said Marion with a smile, inspecting the stitching. “She does so like lilies.”
Evangeline laughed. “Just like her aunt! One of my favorites.”
“She will be delighted.” Marion accepted a cup of tea. Solly had brought the tray just before Marion’s arrival, and had rushed to bring a second cup. “Evangeline . . . I hope this isn’t an intrusion . . . But I’ve come to ask you about Sir Richard Campion.”
Evangeline paused in the act of serving her guest a piece of cake. “Oh, my,” she said with a light laugh. “Whatever can you want to know about him?”
Marion took the cake but set it down, while Evangeline took a bite of hers. She had a feeling she was going to want it. “I understand you are acquainted with him.”
Evangeline took her time eating her cake, and then a long sip of tea. “I am.”
Marion stirred her tea, looking awkward, which was unlike her. “I—I don’t mean to pry,” she began haltingly. “I did not come to berate you. I only . . . I only wondered if you knew what is being said about you? And . . . about him?”
She took another bite of cake—her cook’s caraway seed cake, one of her favorites—even though it tasted like nothing in her mouth. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”
Marion flushed a becoming pink. She was a very attractive woman, and had been considered a minor beauty of the ton when George married her.
“I don’t know a gentle way to tell you, so I’ll just say it.
George reports to me that, several nights ago at White’s, Sir Richard threatened a man with a sword and challenged him to a duel over you. ”
Oh Lord. She had to sip more tea to wash down the dust-dry cake. “What on earth would cause him to do that?” she finally croaked. A sword, in White’s?
Marion fiddled with her cup. “Hasn’t he spoken to you about it?”
For the first time in four days, she was intensely glad he was gone, that she could disavow all knowledge of this.
“Not a word. I’ve not seen him in several days.
” She paused, then decided to spike at least one gun.
“He has taken the house beyond my garden and woods. We are neighbors, and as such I have seen him several times. But I believe he has gone away recently.”
Marion’s eyes widened. “He—He lives next door?”
“Some two miles away,” said Evangeline with a careless wave of her hand. “I understand his sister, Mrs. Murray, entreated him to take the house. He invited some of the neighbors to a dinner party, where Mrs. Murray was hostess.”
“Oh, my,” murmured Marion, her brow furrowed.
Evangeline longed to ask what was wrong with that, but had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer.
“Then perhaps it was more in chivalry than . . . something else,” murmured Marion. She looked up. “You say you are barely acquainted with him?”
Evangeline willed herself not to blush. “I did not say that, but may I ask what happened? If it is about me, I deserve to know what is being said, and by whom.”
Marion’s eyes darted sideways. “I’m not entirely certain. George wouldn’t tell me, and my friends haven’t heard every detail.”
But they had heard about the sword, and a near duel. Evangeline felt a surge of dislike for Marion’s friends. Whatever had been said, she was certain they would hear it eventually—or more likely, some exaggerated, corrupted version of the truth—and then they would pour bile into Marion’s ear.
“Sir Richard mentioned that he was to dine with Lord Allen,” she remarked, giving her sister-in-law a contemplative look. “He’s certainly no friend of mine.”
“No,” said Marion, cheeks pink. She did share Evangeline’s dislike of the Allens. “But a duel—! Especially after—”
She stopped, but Evangeline could fill it in. “After Ramsdale? Or Court? Perhaps Sir Elias—or do you mean Halesworth?”
Marion looked annoyed. “Any of them, Evangeline. It’s rather difficult to keep up with your scandals!” Her face blanked in horror, and she flushed a deeper red. “Forgive me,” she said swiftly. “I never should have said that!”
Evangeline waved one hand, though her other hand, hidden in her skirt, was balled into a fist. “But you were thinking it, so might as well have it out.”
“I know they were not entirely your fault,” said Marion, who appeared to be fighting both embarrassment and distress. “But you do seem to have a way of attracting the worst men.”
She reached for the teapot and refilled her cup, each action measured and deliberate. “And why is that my fault, rather than the fault of the men for being scoundrels and worse?”
“It’s not your fault,” said Marion at once. “But once you know, it’s best to discourage such men immediately!”
“I never gave Ramsdale the least encouragement,” she said evenly.
“Court, who was a very eligible man until his ignominious death, was forced upon me by my father. Sir Elias is still widely received, even though you know how abominably he behaved. Halesworth . . . was a mistake, but no greater a mistake than many a lady makes. I was taken completely by surprise, and broke with him the instant I discovered his true nature. You yourself told me you had no idea he was such a gambler.”
“That’s true, but . . .” Marion bit her lip. “It is a distressing pattern, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Marion, I do,” snapped Evangeline, her temper slipping a bit. “It is humiliating to be made a fool of, or worse, by men I believed to be gentlemen. I certainly don’t set out on a mission to find the worst men in London!”
Marion bowed her head. “I know,” she said stiffly. “And if you say there is nothing between you and Sir Richard, I will respect that. I could not blame you for a man’s actions.”
Evangeline sat back on the sofa, wishing she had Louis with her. Marion wasn’t fond of dogs, though, and Solly had taken him out into the garden when Marion arrived. She wished she could go into the garden and avoid this. She took another bite of cake instead.
She was fond of her sister-in-law, who was a loving wife and devoted mother. Marion had a good heart—but she was also prone to being influenced by gossip, and her very fashionable friends were some of the worst gossips in London.
“I never said that.” She knew it was her temper speaking, but she didn’t care. Richard wasn’t like the others, her mistakes, and she didn’t want to be accused of lying. If only she knew what exactly had been said at White’s, and by whom, and what exactly Richard had done and why.
Marion’s brows snapped together. “Then—then you are having an affair with him?”
Evangeline fought off the temptation to roll her eyes. “As if there is no space between acquaintance and lover! But since you ask so plainly . . . yes. I am.”
She hadn’t meant to do this. She’d meant to keep it to herself, her own lovely private affair of the heart. Or body. She hadn’t quite decided which it was, but something inside her rose up instinctively to Richard’s defense. Whomever he’d waved a sword at had probably deserved it.
The other woman grew agitated. “What? Oh, why?”
“Have you met him?” Evangeline returned. “He’s utterly charming, and quite popular in fashionable circles as well—among ladies and gentlemen.”
Marion flushed. Evangeline would have wagered good money that even ladies in Marion’s circles felt a flutter whenever Richard walked by. “But is he good for you?”
So far, she thought. So far he had been wonderful for her.
But as she had no idea what he’d done in this matter, perhaps she was fooling herself.
As Marion had pointed out, she’d been wrong before about a man.
“I expect he’ll explain himself when he returns,” she said.
“And if his explanation is not satisfactory, be assured I will turn him out at once.”
“May I suggest,” began Marion, with the air of someone choosing every word with care, “that you do so anyway? Not only is there bound to be talk, over this . . . whatever it is, but . . . My dear. You are neighbors. It’s unseemly.”
“That we can walk back and forth to visit each other without anyone spotting us? How is that worse than Lord Everton leaving his carriage outside Mrs. Armstrong’s house, in the heart of Berkeley Square, for hours every night?”
Marion flushed again, looking a trifle annoyed. Mrs. Armstrong was a member of her circle. “That’s also not well done, but—”
“It is far more brazen, and right in front of the ton, too.”
“Be that as it may.” Marion’s face was still pink but her expression was serious once more. “Campion’s a bit young for you, isn’t he?”
“Cunningham was far too old for me, and that didn’t stop anyone,” she said before she could stop herself. “Perhaps Fate is attempting to make amends for it.”
Marion blinked, then gave a shocked gasp of laughter. Evangeline grinned, but the moment didn’t last.
“You would certainly deserve it, but my dear . . . at our age . . .” Marion paused delicately. “What I mean is, a man of his age will, sooner or later, want to marry . . . and . . . have children . . .”
Evangeline rose, tired of the visit. She did not want to argue with her sister-in-law. She did not want to think of Richard with another, younger, woman. She did not want to be left amid the wreckage of another scandal while the man who caused it walked away untouched.
She burned to storm over to Richard’s house and see if he had returned, or perhaps to see Mr. Rieger if he were about and shake some answers out of him. Surely he would know. “Thank you so much for calling, Marion. Do give my best to George, and remember me fondly to Joan and Douglas.”
Marion stood, clutching her reticule. “I am worried for you. But also . . . for Joan’s and Douglas’s sake. I know you haven’t a mother’s sensibility on these things, but children are so impressionable . . . I would hate for them to draw the wrong conclusion.”
Evangeline raised her brows. Joan was about to turn eighteen, and Douglas was twenty-two or twenty-three. Hardly impressionable children. “I wouldn’t dream of speaking to either of them about my love affairs.”
She looked away, her chin working back and forth. “But they will hear, and when everyone learns he’s bought the house next to yours . . .” She bit her lip and fell silent.
“Yes, how devastating it will be if they learn Sir Richard has taken a house in the country.” Evangeline had no idea how Marion planned to protect her children from rumors and gossip, particularly since she herself enjoyed them immensely.
And really, there was nothing Evangeline could do to prevent people talking about her; she’d learned that well enough over the years.
If she’d ever had children, she liked to think she would have erred on the side of telling them everything, in her own way and time, rather than trying to shelter them from anything she disapproved of.
But again, perhaps she was wrong. She’d never had to test it.
“Come, let me walk you out.” Evangeline rang for Solly, who appeared at once, as if she’d been lurking nearby and heard the raised voices. “Bring Lady Bennet’s things, please, Solly.”
Marion gripped her arm when she would have led her out. “Break it off with him,” she said with sudden passion. “Please. At least until next year. Joan’s just made her debut. Please don’t let there be any unkind gossip to distract from that.”
Evangeline all but gaped at her. Next year? “Why would anyone hold Joan responsible for my actions?”
Marion set her chin. Evangeline knew the answer was that the gossips—even Marion’s own friends among them—included some vicious harpies who spared no one. “Not responsible, but associated. You know how these things spread.”
“They would say such things about your own daughter?”
Now Marion flushed. She knew they would. “Please, Evangeline. She is my only daughter. Perhaps I am being over cautious, but I—I could not bear it, if I were too lax and my daughter suffered the consequences.”
Would she feel this way, if Joan were her daughter? Perhaps. She sighed, trying to be sympathetic to a mother’s anxiety. “I understand. Really, I do. But surely that is extremely unlikely—”
“Break it off,” repeated her sister-in-law, her voice tight with anxiety. “Or I shall have to break with you.”
She blinked in alarm. “But why? I’m not in London, flaunting anything! And he’s a very respectable man, lauded in society! How can we possibly bring disrepute on Joan?”
Marion’s fingers dug into her arm. “Please, Evangeline.”
She stared at the other woman. They were about the same age, and though they hadn’t been friends as girls, Evangeline had always hoped for a sisterly relationship.
Her disastrous marriage to Court had derailed that—Court’s affairs being both widely known and thoroughly scandalous, and thus a horror to Marion—but this . . .
“I’m sorry, Marion,” she said quietly. “I can’t. I—I find Richard excellent company, and I care for him a great deal. We shall always be discreet—”
Her sister-in-law released her as if scalded. “Very well,” she said. “I understand. You do as you wish.” And she turned and walked out, leaving Evangeline staring after her, speechless.