Chapter 31
Richard thought it a marvel of restraint that he didn’t break Burke’s nose.
The younger man had kissed Miss Bennet’s hand and then watched Evangeline pull her from the room without a word. If anything, he looked entirely too calm and pleased with himself. He even smiled a little as he folded his handkerchief back into his pocket.
Never in his life had Richard seen Evangeline as anxious as she’d been while they searched the house.
She, who could laugh in a thunderstorm and merely sigh over the tree that fell on her stable roof, had been terrified.
He knew she would blame herself for any scandal that accrued to her niece’s name .
. . from sneaking out of a ball to let a known scoundrel have his way with her.
He pitied his sister, with two sons to raise. How did parents manage not to run mad?
“I trust I need not remind you to say nothing at all to anyone about this,” Richard said acidly to Burke.
The man looked affronted. “How dare you. I’d never do that.”
“Then keep your bloody trousers buttoned, if you don’t wish to be shot,” he said, and stalked from the room.
He took deep, controlled breaths as he hurried down the stairs, trying to restore his calm.
Evangeline and her niece had vanished; he guessed they’d left, due to Miss Bennet’s disarray and Evangeline’s upset.
The memory of the woman on the stairs, though, watching them so avidly, lingered in his mind.
He didn’t want to be here, either. He longed to rush after Evangeline and make certain she reached home safely.
He would let her scold her niece, then send the girl to her room to contemplate her error, while they worked out what to do.
He could use a stiff whisky at the moment, and he imagined Evangeline could, as well.
But he was a guest of honor. People were watching him. They had seen him dancing with Evangeline and walking through the rooms arm in arm with her, and if he and she both disappeared from the ball, people would notice, and wonder.
He squared his shoulders and strode into the supper room. Perhaps he could stave off any rumors before they took root.
“Ah, Campion!” Sir Paul beckoned him. “There you are!”
He joined the man, smiling, bracing himself internally. “Good evening. What a marvelous party you’ve hosted.”
Lady Brentwood beamed and peered past him. “Where has Lady Courtenay gone? I was looking forward to speaking with her.”
“I believe her niece felt unwell,” he said vaguely. “She may take the young lady home, as any good chaperone would.”
Lady Brentwood’s lips pursed and her brows went up, but she accepted it.
Richard allowed himself to be towed around the room like a prized goat, introduced to stuffy lords and flirtatious ladies and even some young bucks, including the Brentwoods’ son, who clustered eagerly around him, demanding to know about rumors of diamonds and gold just lying on the ground in remote corners of India.
He answered every question, no matter how trivial or silly, as fulsomely as he could manage.
After a while, Gerhard joined him, and Richard cajoled him into singing some of the chants they’d learned in Mongolia.
Gerhard had a good voice and was a clever mimic, able to pick up the intonations much better than Richard.
His friend gave him a quizzical look, but he obliged.
By the end of the evening, they held the better part of the supper room in thrall.
“Goodness, Richard, I’ve never seen you make such a spectacle of yourself,” remarked Clemency when they finally left.
“It seemed appropriate,” he said lightly. Appropriate, and apt to distract anyone who might have noticed Evangeline’s hasty departure.
“If you wish me to sing again, you must also do so,” grumbled Gerhard.
“You have the better voice,” Richard told him.
“Oh, you do have a marvelous voice,” Clemency added warmly, and Gerhard went pink and closed his mouth.
But after depositing Clemency at her home, Richard slumped against the cushions and cursed, long and fluently in three different languages.
“What happened?” Gerhard leaned forward. “It must be serious, to require singing.”
Richard sighed. “Evangeline’s niece may have been a trifle indiscreet.” Not even to Gerhard would he say how indiscreet.
His friend tilted his head. “That is why you were searching for her.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. God, they had been too open about that. But the seriousness of the situation had crept up on them slowly, until it was too late. “Yes.”
Gerhard nodded philosophically. “I hope the young lady was unharmed?”
He thought of the young woman standing in Burke’s embrace, her face flushed with pleasure. “No violence was done to her.”
“That is good. Who has not been indiscreet once or twice?”
He closed his eyes. If only that were all it was. “One fears what her parents will say.”
“Parents often know very well what their child is capable of,” Gerhard pointed out. “They are rarely surprised.”
“But when they are, it doesn’t go well,” Richard retorted.
“Ah. That is so.”
Richard stared out the window into the dark night. “That is so.”
Evangeline knew it would be bad.
Marion, to no one’s surprise, had heard tittle-tattle from some friends in London about Joan and the scandalous Lord Burke.
Not about the events at the Brentwood ball, of course, but about Burke calling on Joan and dancing with her.
Evangeline did her best to put on a pleasant expression and calmly explain, and to her relief, Joan also piped up in her own defense.
Marion was still upset, but George sent them all out so he could speak to Joan alone.
Joan caught her eye as Evangeline left the room, and gave her a reassuring nod. Good, she thought with a burst of relief. It would be so much better if George and Marion listened to Joan about Burke.
She also hoped Smythe was right about George, but she went upstairs to her room and told Solly to pack her things.
Solly raised her brows. “So suddenly?”
Evangeline sighed. Whatever happened out of this, she was going home soon.
“Sir George and Lady Bennet are home. It’s been over a month.
” An endless month. She felt old and tired.
She missed her dog. She kept thinking of Richard’s words: I want to take you home with me at the end of every evening, without secrecy or sneaking.
She missed him, too, more than ever at this moment.
If he were here, he would listen to her angry raging against Lord Burke, he would pour her a tot of whisky, and then he would do that thing he did, running his fingertips in circles over her back until she relaxed and could think of how to ameliorate this.
But because Marion disapproved, he was not here. She wondered how long it would take the gossips to let Marion know that her wild and wicked sister-in-law had gone right back to her scandalous ways, dancing with that dangerous foreign explorer, as bold as brass at Catherine Brentwood’s ball . . .
She gave herself a shake. She was too old to worry about that. She went to help Solly, working out in her mind how to approach things in the morning.
In the end, she decided to fall on her sword. She asked Smythe early the next morning to let her know when Lady Bennet awoke, and as soon as he gave her the nod, she hurried to her sister-in-law’s sitting room.
“Please forgive me,” she said as soon as she entered the room.
Marion smiled wearily. She had always been petite and slim, but she’d lost weight, and in the bright morning sunlight she looked wan and almost gaunt.
“Come in, Evangeline. Will you breakfast with me?” The table was already set for two.
Evangeline had expected it would be for her brother, but now she realized he was gone.
Marion motioned to the seat across from her.
“I hoped to see you. I must also beg your pardon.”
She rushed to take Marion’s outstretched hand. “If there were anything to forgive, I would grant it at once. But of course you must have been very alarmed, to rush back to town—”
“That was my fault,” Marion said quietly. “I received a letter and urged George . . . No.” She shook her head, the light catching every line on her face. “I flew into a state and made him return with all possible speed.”
Evangeline bit her lip. “I should have written to you about Lord Burke.”
The other woman sighed. “If you had, I only would have railed at George to return sooner.” She looked down, plucking at the throw that covered her lap. “And that would not have been good for my health.”
Her heart lurched. “Are you—?”
Marion shook her head. “The doctor believes I am out of danger. A lung inflammation, he said, and urged me to remain in the country air longer. But I do feel far better than when we left London.” She squeezed Evangeline’s hand.
“And I have not thanked you for leaping into the breach and dropping everything to come care for my daughter.”
“Of course I would.”
Marion looked at her, her eyes clear. “I did not take it for granted. I know I have not always been . . . supportive of you in your times of need.”
She released Marion’s hand and forced a smile to conceal her surprise. “Water under the bridge.”
“Please let me apologize. I was wrong.”
Evangeline looked at her and nodded. “Thank you.”
Marion picked up her tea. “George spoke to Joan last night. I understand I may have been . . . hasty in my assessment of Viscount Burke.”
Evangeline took a deep breath and prayed she could find the right words.
“I did not entertain him lightly. He said Douglas entreated him to call upon Joan, and Marion, I wish you could have seen her face when he came. I—I think he may have vexed her at first, but she quickly came to delight in his visits. I would have told Smythe to throw him into the street if not.”
“And Smythe would have done it, for you,” murmured Marion with a knowing look.