Chapter 42
There are few moments in life so perfectly, exquisitely dreadful that one almost admires their symmetry, and the entrance of Lord Marchmont was, regrettably, one of them.
Lottie went quite pale, Lady Tolliver hiccupped loudly, and Lord Tolliver—for once entirely aware of impending catastrophe—promptly dropped his monocle into his tea. The only person unmoved by the calamity was its author, who found it a rather predictable turn of events.
“Lady Malverne!” Marchmont declared, striding into the room. “My compliments on your hospitality. How good of you to extend the invitation whilst I was still abroad! I scarcely expected to find myself welcomed back into such distinguished company so soon after my travels.”
Lady Malverne inclined her head with composure that surely deserved a medal. “England is ever generous to her prodigal sons, Lord Marchmont.”
Lottie could feel the blood draining from her face.
Across the table, the Duke of Morleigh had stirred.
Of course, he could say nothing—though the rigid set of his jaw betrayed precisely how much he longed to—for to acknowledge Lord Marchmont’s presence beyond the strict bounds of civility would be to breathe life into the whispers he had gone to such length to bury. And what a treacherous burial it was.
For though every lady in the room had declared last Season’s incident with Miss Charlotte Tolliver “a dreadful misunderstanding,” they had done so with the particular relish that ensures a story is never truly forgotten. To protest was to confirm it; to defend was to dignify it.
A confrontation now—however justified—would serve only to breathe colour into rumour, and to grant weight to what Society already believed but would never quite say: that Lottie Tolliver had indeed fled with the man, and had been retrieved with her virtue hanging by so fine a thread one could scarcely tell whether it was intact at all.
Surely the man could not be standing there. There must be some rule, some gentlemanly code, that permitted his immediate removal, preferably by force. Could one summon a footman for such an occasion? Or a firing squad?
Truly, who could say if Lady Malverne had even extended him an invitation?
It seemed far more likely that Lord Marchmont had extended it to himself; such men possessed a singular genius for appearing precisely where they were least wanted.
But what in heaven’s name was he doing back in England at all?
Had her brothers-in-law not beaten him half to death?
Had they not made it perfectly clear that if he ever dared show his face in the kingdom again, the remainder of his teeth would be the forfeit?
Whatever had brought him back, it did not bode well—for England, for Lady Tolliver’s nerves, and least of all for Miss Charlotte Tolliver.
Lady Tolliver’s hand trembled as she lifted her cup. “Well,” she said beneath her breath, her smile forced, “what a pleasant surprise. I had thought Lord Marchmont quite… gone.”
“Alas, Mama,” Lottie murmured, her voice deceptively mild. Her fingers were twisting a napkin into a state of strangulation, “some men are like bad pennies.”
“Or debts,” Lady Tolliver said faintly, staring into her cup as though hoping it might contain laudanum instead of tea. “They do have a way of returning.”
Lord Tolliver gave a startled laugh that died an instant later beneath his wife’s glare.
Marchmont offered an elegant bow to Lady Malverne before taking a vacant seat at a perfectly calculated distance opposite Lottie. A footman hurried to pour his coffee. Marchmont lifted the cup, and Lottie, against her better judgement, looked up. His eyes were colder than the porcelain he held.
“I trust you are well, Miss Tolliver. I had wondered, these past months, whether I might have left you… altered by our adventure.”
Lottie’s throat tightened. “Your lordship’s concern is unnecessary. I am precisely as I was—and, I assure you, quite as I intend to remain.”
Marchmont’s smile widened. “Ah. I see the spirit has not diminished. Excellent. I had feared your family’s enthusiasm for my absence might have subdued it.”
At that, the Duke of Morleigh’s knife paused midway through his ham.
“I hear you have lately returned from the Continent,” Lady Tolliver interjected, brittle with cheer. “Did you find the climate agreeable?”
“Exceedingly,” Marchmont replied, stirring sugar into his coffee with exquisite care. “Though England’s chill air is equally invigorating. There are matters here yet unfinished.” His gaze slid back to Lottie. “Promises to honour. One ought never to leave a thing incomplete.”
Lottie’s pulse thudded in her ears. She had never been more conscious of how little a woman might do when trapped within the polite confines of civility. The room was a cage gilded with silverware, and she was expected to smile through the bars.
At the far end of the table, Jasper set down his cup.
“Lord Marchmont,” he said easily, as though they were the best of friends, “you do remind me—did you not once boast of having the finest eye for sport in the county? Lady Malverne was only this morning lamenting the want of a proper shooting party. You must lead it, of course.”
A murmur of approval stirred amongst the gentlemen. Marchmont, momentarily disarmed, inclined his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Indeed, I—well, yes, I daresay I might be prevailed upon to—”
“Splendid.” Jasper rose. “Then it is settled. And Miss Tolliver, who has the soul of a sportswoman, shall no doubt wish to attend.”
Every eye turned upon her. What was Jasper about?
“I—certainly not—”
“She insists upon it,” Jasper said gravely, already moving to pull back her chair. “Miss Tolliver, might I escort you on a brief constitutional? Some air before the planning commences?”
Before Lottie could refuse, Jasper turned smoothly to the duke. “Your Grace, you would not object to joining us, I hope? I am certain Lady Malverne would rest easier knowing her guests are properly chaperoned.”
The Duke of Morleigh pushed back his chair at once. “Of course.”
He offered his arm to Lottie with impeccable composure, though his posture suggested his temper had not cooled in the least. She took it wordlessly, and Jasper fell into step beside them as they crossed to the terrace doors.
Only when the doors closed behind them, and they had descended the steps into the sunlight, did Lottie understand how artfully Jasper had contrived her escape.
The moment they reached the gravel, the duke exploded.
“How dare that man show his face here! It is an outrage. An insult to decency… Propriety! To breakfast itself. He dares to test the limits of my restraint. By God, I should have him dragged out by the collar and thrown into the stables. But no. I cannot. Not without parading the very scandal I sought to bury for your family’s sake. ”
Lottie said nothing. Her hands trembled despite her best efforts to still them, and the sunlight seemed far too bright.
“Good God,” Jasper muttered, looking back towards the house. “What the devil is that scoundrel about?”
The duke’s mouth flattened. “There are two reasons a man like Marchmont returns. To beg forgiveness, or to blackmail.”
Jasper swore under his breath. “Repentance seems unlikely. He’s neck-deep in gaming debts. I’d wager half the hells of St. James’s are still after him.”
“Then he will try to profit from whatever remains of Charlotte’s reputation,” the duke said grimly. “Or force our hand and entrap her into marriage under the pretence of honour. Thirty thousand pounds is enough to tempt fortune-hunters across half of England. Marchmont is no exception.”
“That,” Jasper said evenly, “will not be a problem. Nor, I think, will Miss Tolliver’s virtue. She is already engaged to be married. To me.”
The duke regarded him for a long moment. “Good. That settles one disaster before it can begin.”
Lottie opened her mouth.
“Be silent, Charlotte. I care nothing for your protestations at present. Only that the announcement reaches the proper ears before Marchmont decides to open his mouth. You are not to be alone, nor near that man without at least two chaperones present. Not for a moment. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace,” she said through her teeth.
“Good. I will not have you fancifully running off again, nor imagining yourself in love with any charming scoundrel who smiles at you.”
Now, dear readers, this is the moment at which you shall learn the truth of what befell Miss Charlotte Tolliver, and I must beg you, therefore, to be kind to her.
She had her reasons for silence. Besides, one can hardly blame a woman for waiting until the most dramatic possible moment to educate gentlemen on their collective idiocy.
“In love with him?” she repeated.
The duke stopped.
Lottie turned on him. “You imagine I fancied myself in love with that creature? Do you truly think so little of me?”
The duke scoffed. “Well, I hardly know what else to think, Charlotte. You vanished in the middle of the night. You caused a scandal that occupied half the ton for a month. Langley and I nearly broke our necks getting to you. What conclusion was I meant to draw, if not romantic idiocy?”
“Romantic idiocy?” Lottie’s voice trembled, not with tears, but with fury. “Not one of you—not one—ever thought to ask me what truly happened!”
“What truly…” The duke blinked, as though she had spoken a foreign tongue. “What truly happened?”
“Oh, you would like to know now, would you, Your Grace? Would you not rather reprise your gallant rescue, bursting into the chamber to drag me away? Oh yes, quite the conquering hero! And I, the hysterical girl pining for her captor. As though I had chosen to be locked in that house, behind bolted doors and shuttered windows, with a man who would not let me go!”
Jasper took a prudent half-step back. “Good Lord.”
The duke began, quite uncharacteristically, to splutter. “You mean to say…”
“That I was taken, Your Grace,” said Lottie. “Not in love.”
For the first time since Lottie had known him, the Duke of Morleigh looked entirely without command, before his colour began to rise.
“If that is true, then why in heaven’s name did you not tell us?
Why allow us to believe… why lock yourself away for three days and refuse to come home?
Had we known, we might have—good God, we could have summoned the magistrate.
The Bow Street Runners. We could have done what was proper—”
“No!” she cried, her voice breaking through his as cleanly as a whipcrack. “You will permit me to speak for once!”
She breathed deeply and steadied herself.
“You all decided what best suited your narrative. That I was a vain, foolish creature who ran off with him for the romance of it.” She swallowed, pushing down her fury and humiliation.
“And when he said no one would believe me, I knew he spoke the truth—for you never even thought to question it. You were all so eager to believe the worst.”
The duke flinched, a hand rising halfway before falling uselessly to his side. “Charlotte—”
“You never once inquired if I was safe or had been harmed. If I was frightened. And I was, Your Grace—I was frightened beyond reason. Imagine being taken by carriage in the night to some godforsaken house and kept there for days! The doors were locked, the servants bribed, and no one knew where I had gone.”
The words were pouring out of her now and she found she could not hold them in. “He was in that room with me, night and day. I did not eat, I did not sleep. I believed I should never leave. I thought—“
She drew a breath, her composure breaking at the edges. “And when you came, when you and Langley burst through that door, I was so relieved to be rescued. And you scolded me.” Her voice cracked. “As though I were his partner in some mischief, not his victim.”
“Charlotte, I had no notion—”
“You said it was a lesson I would not soon forget. And indeed, I learnt it well. I realised quite quickly that it was less shameful to be thought a fool than to confess the truth: that I was frightened, and used, and that I could no longer recognise the girl I had been before.”
She fell silent, and clasped her hands to still them, but the tremor would not quite cease. Jasper had sunk down onto the lowest terrace step, pale as she had ever seen him.
The duke, by contrast, stood red and towering before her. His jaw was set, but his eyes betrayed him; they burnt not with outrage now, but with shame. “Did Marchmont… did he force you?”
Lottie hesitated. “No. Not as you mean it. But fear can be a most persuasive gaoler.”
“Then it is much the same thing,” the duke said hoarsely. “By God, the man shall answer for it. He shall be made to stand trial for abduction, for coercion, for—”
“For what, Your Grace?” she interrupted, suddenly cold. “It is my word against a titled gentleman. You would have me sit before a row of solemn-faced men while they debate the extent of my disgrace? You would have them decide whether I was unwilling enough to deserve their pity?”
“Your word would be enough,” he said sharply. “Your father is a lord, and so am I. Marchmont would not escape unscathed.”
“Unscathed? Oh, no—he would be chastised. At most, a fine, and nothing more than he has already suffered at the mercy of your fist. The law does not trouble itself to wound a man of rank, Your Grace. Meanwhile, I should be the talk of every drawing room until the end of days. Every whisper will ask the same question: was she willing?”
Her eyes shone, but she would not cry. Not for any of them.
“I am so tired, Your Grace, of men deciding my fate. My future. My very worth. I will not have another lord, or magistrate, or father determine what should become of me.” She drew a breath.
“So yes, if the world insists upon seeing me as the foolish, ruined girl, then I shall play the part to perfection. At least then, for once, it shall be my choice.”