Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
“Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
Brendan stood in the street, his head reeling. He suspected that he might have handled the situation with Miss Abbott in a less than exemplary manner. Raising his hand, he rubbed his temple once again, attempting to alleviate the tension that had built and built over the past few days.
The cobblestones beneath his feet seemed unsteady, the familiar din of London—hoofbeats, hawkers, the creak of carriage wheels—fading beneath the weight of his own thoughts.
He had barely had time to be relieved that he was not being arrested before the next crisis had presented itself.
The earl was livid about Miss Abbott, presumably because his countess would be distraught at the news regarding her cousin.
The young lady’s act had been so generous, so unprecedented, he simply could not believe it had been altruistic.
Unfortunately, revealing his sentiments had brought her to tears, and Brendan was fighting off gut-wrenching shame for mishandling the discussion.
Even if she had plotted to trap him, she was just a child.
She barely looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom, and perhaps she had harbored grand ideas of marrying a baron.
His head pounded, a stray thought bouncing around his skull.
Miss Abbott must be older than she looked, for he seemed to recollect that he had been introduced to her the prior year.
In her lacy dress and girlish ringlets, he could have sworn she was not old enough to be having a Season.
But if his memory served correctly, the young lady would be on at least her second Season, which simply was not possible.
That would make her almost of an age with Lady Saunton, yet she barely came up to his chest. He could not even ascertain if she had curves beneath the flouncy gowns she seemed to favor wearing.
Perhaps Lady Moreland had brought Miss Abbott out early?
He squinted against the bright sunlight, vision blurred by the persistent pain behind his eyes.
A horse clopped somewhere behind him, and the scent of dust and hoof oil lingered in the air.
He had sent the carriage away, requesting it return after an hour, for he had expected to be negotiating a marriage contract with Lord Moreland.
Now, his options were to walk home or …
Or to visit Lady Slight until my carriage returns.
Brendan did not think it a wise idea, especially not within sight of the Abbotts’ townhouse, but his composure had grown ragged over the past few days, and the pull toward the widow proved difficult to resist.
Before he had formed a proper decision, his boots were already crossing the street and his hand was lifting the brass ring to knock. Matters felt incomplete with Harriet, and though he could not yet name the nature of what lay unresolved between them, he longed to bring it to a close.
The door opened, revealing the butler, whose eyes flared ever so slightly in surprise. Brendan knew it was improper to call on a widow in broad daylight, yet decorum felt like a fragile concept beneath the weight of his current unrest.
“Lady Slight,” he said, his voice low and resolute.
The butler hesitated but acquiesced, opening the door wider to allow him entry.
Likely the servant thought it wiser to admit a gentleman quickly than to have him loiter on the front step for all the neighborhood to observe.
Once inside, the older man led him toward the painted room.
The painted drawing room was Lady Slight’s favorite, most likely because it displayed her to full advantage, a striking woman positioned within a striking room.
That observation sparked an unwelcome prickle beneath his collar, reminding him that he had been contemplating ending their arrangement.
The viscountess was far too devoted to her own appearance, often arranging herself in postures so artful they seemed borrowed from a portrait.
One could easily imagine her practicing such gestures before the gilded mirror that adorned her dressing room wall.
The butler knocked, then entered the drawing room to announce Brendan’s arrival.
He followed, pausing just inside the threshold to absorb the scene.
Harriet sat poised in silk, a cascade of auburn hair spilling over one shoulder, her figure framed by the harmonious tones of the painted walls.
To her left, a large oil of Venus cavorted with cherubs in soft, flesh-toned opulence—a tableau of mythic indulgence that echoed, with unsubtle accuracy, the generous display of the painting’s mistress.
“Brendan! It is so lovely to see you. I was not sure I would again.”
He arched an eyebrow in question.
“I heard you might be arrested,” she added lightly.
Brendan frowned. “That little on-dit spread rather quickly?”
Harriet waved a graceful hand, her bracelet catching the light. “I heard about it from the oddest little chit who came to call on me. Can you believe she demanded I reveal your whereabouts? She even threatened me!”
His headache vanished in an instant. Brendan took an involuntary step forward.
“Whom do you mean?”
Harriet giggled, fluttering a hand toward the window.
“Lord Moreland’s daughter … or niece … or something or other.
From across the street. The little hoyden attempted to intimidate me, but she was scarcely larger than a squirrel.
I set her in her place, of course. As if anyone would take the word of a child over that of a well-established widow—of an important viscount, no less. ”
Miss Abbott had tried to convince Harriet to assist him?
What did that mean?
If the girl had been attempting to trap him into marriage, why would she have asked Lady Slight to step forward as a witness to his innocence?
The headache surged anew, sharp and immediate.
Brendan lifted a hand to rub at his temple, seeking relief.
It never paid for him to be ill-tempered, yet this wretched week had shredded his composure.
Now he had accused a selfless young woman of dishonorable motives, and the shame of it struck with stunning force, like a blow to the chest. Dragging in a ragged breath, he turned and sank into a spindly gilded chair, the carved legs creaking beneath his weight.
“Miss Abbott attempted to have you step forward as an alibi?”
“Miss Abbott! That was her name!” Harriet declared with a triumphant little clap. “Hardly a miss—more of a child, muslined up to her chin. I would not leave the house in such a peagoose concoction. So prim, it was nearly ecclesiastical!”
The widow’s laughing chatter struck like clashing cymbals against his already frayed nerves. Brendan raised his fingers to his temple again, the effort of restraint pressing down like a vice.
“How did you reply to her request?”
Harriet giggled again. “I put her in her place, I will have you know. I told her that if she made any such accusation, I would deny it entirely. She even had the gall to threaten me with your coachman as a witness, but I pointed out that the only thing he could attest to was that he had delivered you to the residence across the street. I did not need to say it aloud, but it was clear she would imperil her own reputation should she press the matter further.”
Brendan bit back a groan. The mystery of Miss Abbott’s decision was now resolved.
She had concluded that the only way to shield him from suspicion was to imply that he had spent the night in her company rather than in Lady Slight’s home.
Rather than think her bold, rather than be humbled by her courage, he had accused her of deliberate deceit.
He had not thought the week could descend further into disgrace, but the realization of his own failing struck deep. He had always prided himself on fairness, on weighing character and conduct evenly. And yet …
“Were you not concerned for me, Harriet? Would you have allowed me to hang?”
The widow, too occupied with her own performance to have noticed his rising dismay, suddenly started at the question.
She sprang to her feet and hurried toward him, taking both of his hands in hers.
“Of course not, Brendan! I knew you would find a solution. You are an intelligent man with powerful connections.”
So, yes. The widow would have continued her untroubled pursuits while he faced trial and execution.
He recalled how he had questioned his choices in the moment he had found the baron’s lifeless form. Since then, he had soothed himself with the illusion that Harriet had not known of his situation, that she had cared more deeply than she had ever expressed. But the truth now stood plain.
The one person who had risked her standing—her very future—to aid him had been a young lady who barely knew him at all.
Miss Abbott was no schemer. She was a warrior, wrapped in muslin and integrity, acting not for affection, but for what was right.
Lord Moreland’s willingness to let his daughter govern her own fate now appeared entirely reasonable.
And I am an idiot. A vain, shallow idiot. The sort of man who finds the soulless Harriet alluring.
He had wronged Miss Abbott grievously. And he must make amends.
But how?
Lily had been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling for several minutes.
Her prideful storming from the drawing room had sustained her only until she had crossed the threshold of her bedroom, at which point she had hoisted herself onto the coverlet and collapsed in a state of numbness to consider her future.
The ceiling’s plaster roses blurred above her as her eyes welled, but no tears came. Her mind felt like a sodden wool, heavy and slow.
A knock at the door barely registered. “Go away!”