Chapter Eighteen
The whisper following her entrance had not died.
It moved through the company in low currents, gathering around the deep green of her gown and the ornate gold at her wrists.
Ophelia must have heard it, but she stood beside Lady Elise with her head raised, watching Adrian cross the room towards her, the crowd parting before him, fresh speculation springing up in his wake as they noted his purposeful direction.
Adrian stopped before her and bowed once again. “You came.”
“I said that I would.” Her smile was tight, not reaching her eyes.
His gaze fell briefly to the bangles, noting the unusual design. “Your mother’s?”
“Yes.” She flicked a quick glance at her father, who had approached but remained at a distance, allowing Adrian to speak with her first.
“They are beautiful.”
Something in her face eased, though the fear did not leave it entirely. “Thank you.”
He would have offered his arm, but the crowd shifted behind him and Markham appeared.
The viscount came smiling, as if their last encounter at the club had never occurred. His evening clothes were immaculate and his manner easy; only the hardness in his eyes betrayed his intentions.
“Miss James.” He bowed. “May I assume that calmer counsel has prevailed?”
Ophelia’s shoulders stiffened.
“It has, indeed,” she said. “I remain resolved not to marry you.”
Markham’s smile held, but the silence around them sharpened. Several nearby conversations faltered.
“You should take care,” he said softly. “Your wilfulness has already cost your father a great deal.”
Adrian stepped between them only far enough to draw Markham’s attention, not to obscure Ophelia from the room.
“Mr. Soane has prepared the releases,” he said. “You will withdraw every claim arising from the engagement, the articles, and the abandoned wedding. You will agree to make no further public accusation against Miss James or her father.”
Markham sneered. “And in return?”
“I hold one of your notes already, and the refusal of two more. I am prepared to take the rest and hold them upon terms you can meet.”
Markham studied him for a moment. Then the wariness left his face, replaced by something nearer amusement.
“You have been busy, Calder. But you do not yet hold enough to ruin me, and we both know it.”
“Not yet.”
“Then your threat is premature.”
“My offer is not.”
Markham gave a quiet laugh. “An offer made on behalf of whom? The lady? Her father? Or yourself?”
Adrian did not answer.
The viscount’s pale eyes moved between him and Ophelia, and understanding entered them.
“Oh,” Markham said. “So that is the way of it.”
“Take care,” Adrian warned.
“Why? It is the most believable part of the whole affair. Calder, who never denied himself anything, snowed into a lonely house with another man’s promised wife. What story do you suppose London will tell?”
Outrage dawned on Ophelia’s face.
Markham saw it and smiled.
“Your intervention will not save her name. It will make the filth stick more firmly to it, and to yours besides. The gallant duke and the runaway heiress. A month together in Wales while her poor betrothed waited in London. The caricaturists will scarcely need to invent.”
The old Adrian might have struck him. The impulse came cleanly and was gone, a fist unclenching before it had properly closed. A blow would turn the room towards the two men and leave Ophelia once more as the object over which they fought.
Adrian kept his voice even.
“You mistake vulgarity for strength, Crispin. You always have.”
“Do I? Ask the room which of us it believes.”
“I do not think we need ask them.” Ophelia’s voice was low but clear as she stepped forward, putting herself at Adrian’s side, facing up to Markham directly again. Adrian did not try to push her back.
Markham looked at her with open irritation. “This is not a matter you understand.”
“I understand it better than you hoped I would.”
A small space had formed around them. Guests pretended to speak while listening without disguise.
Across the ballroom, Adrian saw his mother turn towards them.
Lady Elise was already advancing, her expression furious.
Adrian hoped his aunt had not heard Markham’s insinuations; the mere suggestion of impropriety having occurred under Elise’s roof would have her incandescent with rage.
Ophelia did not look at the gathering crowd.
“You are correct that His Grace does not yet hold enough of your debts to break you,” she said. “I told him so myself. You have been dunned too often to be frightened by one more creditor, even a ducal one.”
Markham’s smile returned. “At least one of you has sense.”
“But the debts are not your difficulty.” Ophelia continued in the calm, dry voice Adrian had heard her use over the accounts at Plas Eira. The voice of a clerk detailing numbers, cold facts which could not be manipulated or altered.
“The final marriage articles placed my capital in trust. You would have received the agreed income and allowances after the marriage, but the principal would never have belonged to you. You knew that when you borrowed from Sir Hugh Fenwick in October.”
Sir Hugh stepped into the circle. “He did.”
Markham glanced at him. “Fenwick, this is a matter we had...”
He got no further.
“You showed Sir Hugh an earlier draft,” Ophelia continued, “one my father’s lawyers had rejected. You promised him first claim upon capital you knew you would never own. You later promised the same priority to Mr. Bellamy.”
The amusement had gone from Markham’s face. “You have no proof of what I knew,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
“The rejected draft bears your lawyer’s endorsement. The signed articles are dated nine days before Sir Hugh’s note. My father’s correspondence records your acceptance of the amended terms.”
Josiah came to stand on Ophelia’s other side.
“I have brought the letters,” he said. His voice was rough but audible. “And my books. If this matter goes before a court, I will produce all of them.”
Markham stared at him. “You would destroy your own credit to indulge her whims?”
“No.” Josiah looked at his daughter. “I nearly destroyed her to preserve it. I shall not make the mistake twice.”
A murmur ran through the listeners.
Ophelia took one measured breath. “You may bring your suit,” she told Markham.
“If you do, we will place the final articles, the rejected draft, Sir Hugh’s note, and Mr. Bellamy’s before counsel and the court.
Your creditors will learn that each was promised priority against money you knew would never be yours.
They may decide for themselves what your promises are worth.
A court may decide what name to give your representations. ”
“You would never endure the publicity.”
“I am enduring it already.”
Markham’s eyes went to the faces surrounding them.
Expressions had begun to change, and quite a number were now looking at him with condemnation in their eyes after hearing Ophelia’s dispassionate description of his actions.
He was doing the sum. Adrian could see the calculation on his face; could he still turn this to his advantage?
Ophelia did not permit him time to reconfigure events in his favour.
“You threatened my father’s credit because you believed your own conduct would remain hidden.
It will not. Sign the releases, and His Grace will arrange terms upon which you may continue to meet your debts.
Refuse, and Sir Hugh and Mr. Bellamy will call their notes.
Mr. Soane will inform the other creditors that you offered them security you never held, and we will defend whatever action you bring by producing evidence that you had sought to defraud others using our assets as surety. ”
She held Markham’s gaze steadily.
“You may still sue us, my lord. But you cannot do so safely.”
For several seconds Markham said nothing, clearly furiously trying to think of a way he could still lay claim to the James fortune.
Lady Daventry had joined the edge of the circle. She looked from the viscount she had once loved like a son to Ophelia standing before him, her chin raised defiantly.
“Crispin,” she said, “Mr. Soane is waiting in the library.”
Markham turned to her, expression pleading. “You cannot mean to take part in this farce.”
“I mean to prevent you from using my house to threaten a woman you have already wronged. You may sign the agreement or leave. If you leave without signing, you will not enter this house again.”
Adrian was proud of his mother. Lady Daventry clearly regretted the necessity, but her voice was calm and her expression firm as she made Markham’s position clear.
And Markham knew that if he was refused entry to Daventry House, many more doors in London would be closed to him.
Ophelia’s reputation might be ruined, but Markham’s would be too; and Adrian thought Markham feared social ruination far more than Ophelia did.
Markham looked around the circle. Sir Hugh stood grim and unyielding.
Josiah’s face was grey, but he remained steadfast beside his daughter.
Lady Elise looked as though she would happily summon the footmen herself to have him tossed from the building.
Behind them waited a roomful of people whose expressions clearly indicated they had already begun revising their understanding of Markham’s character.
Last of all, Markham looked at Adrian.
“This is what you choose?”
“No,” Adrian said. “Miss James chose. I am standing with her.”
Markham smoothed the front of his coat. By the time he turned towards the library, his composure had returned, though his face remained bloodless.
“Very well. Let us finish this absurdity.”
Soane read every clause aloud, his voice dry and unhurried, the nib of his pen scratching a small counterpoint whenever he paused to mark a page.
Markham released Ophelia and Josiah from all claims arising from the engagement, the articles, and the abandoned wedding.
He undertook to withdraw the threatened proceedings and to make no further public allegation concerning either of them.
In return, Adrian agreed that once the necessary assignments had been completed, Markham’s principal debts would be held upon terms that allowed payment without immediate ruin. The agreement offered no forgiveness and no money free of obligation. It offered only survival.
Markham signed before Soane, Fenwick, Josiah, and two witnesses.
When it was done, he laid down the pen and looked at Adrian, his eyes glittering meanly.
“I hope she is worth the cost.”
Adrian glanced at Ophelia, who stood beside her father, both of them wearing expressions of pure relief.
“You have never understood what anything is worth. Friendship, least of all.”
Markham left through a side door before the Twelfth Night cake was cut.
Adrian watched him go without triumph. Their years of friendship had not vanished cleanly, however rotten its foundation. It left behind shame and regret, and a lingering awareness of every occasion on which Adrian should have spoken sooner.
It was finished, all the same.
He turned towards Ophelia, the centre of attention in the ballroom now; several of the Ton’s senior matrons deigning to notice her. Lady Elise smiled triumphantly as she saw Adrian approaching.
Ophelia had freed herself from Markham. She had stood before the very society that had mocked her and exposed the deception with which he meant to control her. Adrian’s money had given the threat weight, but the choice to use it and the courage to speak had been hers.
He would not permit the room to remember the victory otherwise.
“Miss James,” he said.
Conversation quieted around them.
Ophelia looked at him. The ordeal had left her pale, but she did not lower her eyes.
Adrian crossed the space between them and bowed. Not the shallow acknowledgement of a duke to a wealthy merchant’s daughter, but a deep, formal bow he might have offered to a princess of the blood royal.
“You are free,” he said. “Whatever comes next belongs to you.”
Her lips parted.
“I cleared what road I could, but you freed yourself. I will not decide what follows.”
The room had gone still enough that he could hear the musicians shifting in their chairs. The weight of all eyes was on him.
Adrian looked only at Ophelia.
“I love you. Will you marry me?”
Then he stepped back, folded his hands behind him, and waited.