Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

L ottie may not have excelled at being a wife; her marriage had been a miserable failure, though the fault had not been hers alone. She may not have had her own children—to her everlasting regret, her miserable union with Grenfell had not even produced a single pregnancy. But she was quite excellent at being a good friend.

And that was why she was presently sitting opposite her dear bosom bow Hyacinth in her salon. When one’s friend suddenly became a hermit, one needed to pay her a call and discover the reason. Hyacinth must have fallen in love with Viscount Sidmouth, with whom she had been having a torrid affair that had recently come to an end. And Lottie strongly suspected it was a broken heart that kept her friend confined to her home.

Oh, Hyacinth had continued to plead illness, of course, sending notes round to Lottie at regular intervals. But Lottie had decided that she’d had enough of Hyacinth’s avoidance. The time had come to discover what was truly afoot.

Lottie waited until they were comfortably settled in Hyacinth’s salon, the servants dismissed for privacy’s sake.

“How much longer do you intend to hide from Sidmouth?” she asked her friend without preamble as soon as the door had closed.

Hyacinth frowned at her, looking lovely in a green afternoon gown, if a trifle pale, her golden hair plaited in a Grecian braid. “I am not hiding from Sidmouth. Nor am I hiding at all, in fact.”

Ha! Did she truly think Lottie would believe such a lie?

Lottie raised a brow. “You have not left your home in a fortnight. You cried off for the opera, Lady Siddon’s ball, Lord and Lady Maplethorpe’s masque. You told me you were too ill to go shopping, for heaven’s sake, which we both know is blasphemy.”

To say nothing of her lack of appearance at Brandon’s latest ball. Lottie knew Hyacinth had been invited, for invitations had gone out before Hyacinth and Sidmouth had ended their understanding. Sidmouth and Brandon were thick as thieves, and Hyacinth had no doubt skipped the ball to avoid her former lover.

“I have been ill,” Hyacinth claimed.

Lottie studied her friend more closely, thinking she’d never seen her looking so wan, plum bruises denoting her lack of sleep beneath her blue eyes. Now that Lottie looked more closely, there was a gauntness to Hyacinth’s form too.

“You do look pale,” she acknowledged. “Have you been eating properly?”

“I have scarcely been able to keep anything down, save tea and toast.”

That was rather worrying indeed. Perhaps Hyacinth had been unwell after all.

“You mean to say you are truly ill? Hyacinth, why did you not say so?”

“I did say so,” her friend pointed out wryly. “Several times over the last fortnight. And again just now.”

Lottie made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, but I thought you were lying.”

“The illness should subside in a few weeks’ time, according to Dr. Hayes,” Hyacinth told her. “But I shall have another problem forthwith. My gowns will all need to be altered.”

“You shall have to have them taken in, do you mean? You do look terribly thin, dearest. I did not want to say so, but there you have it. Honesty is best, or at least that is what my mother always said. Has your physician given you anything to ease this illness of yours?”

Her friend shook her head. “I am afraid there is no cure, save time.”

“Time?” Lottie repeated, mind whirling with possibilities, heart lurching at the thought of some mysterious, prolonged ailment.

What in heaven’s name could be wrong with her friend?

“Most ladies in a delicate condition are only ill initially,” Hyacinth said.

“Ladies in a delicate condition,” Lottie repeated, the words taking on a new meaning. “Hyacinth, what are you saying?”

“I am with child, Lottie.”

The bald announcement, without fanfare or preface, left Lottie stunned.

But only for a moment. In the next instant, she shrieked and rose from her chair. “ Enceinte ? Hyacinth! You cannot be. I cannot believe it. How? My God. Whose? Is it Sidmouth’s?”

Her friend winced. “Do cease shrieking, Lottie. And have a seat. You are making me seasick with all your carrying on. Of course it is Sidmouth’s. He is the only lover I have taken.”

Astounded by the revelation—and not just a bit jealous, if she were perfectly honest with herself—Lottie collapsed into her chair with a distinct lack of grace. “Have you told him?”

“No, nor shall I,” Hyacinth answered quickly and firmly. “Our affaire is over. He has not attempted to contact me once in the last fortnight, and I expect he has already quite moved on and is charming the next lady.”

That hardly made sense. Viscount Sidmouth was not a cunning rake. He had followed the Marchioness of Needham about like a lovelorn puppy for some time before that lady’s husband had returned from abroad and won back her favor. The viscount had been notoriously faithful to Lady Needham, despite her marriage.

“I do not know, Hyacinth. Do you truly believe him that inconstant? He doesn’t seem the sort.”

Tears sparkled in her friend’s eyes. “I scarcely know him. But I feel certain he would not have simply ignored me for the last fortnight if he cared.”

“You have ignored him as well,” Lottie pointed out, thinking of the way Hyacinth had withdrawn from society. “And you are the one who disappeared, are you not?”

Hyacinth’s shoulders stiffened. “I hardly disappeared.”

“That isn’t what you said,” she countered, thinking of the story Hyacinth had previously relayed to her.

Hyacinth had left Sidmouth in the midst of the night, sneaking away like a housebreaker.

Her friend glared at Lottie. “Whose side are you on? You are my friend, are you not?”

And it was the job of every good friend to harness common sense where it was lacking. To be the voice of reason.

“Of course I am on your side, and I am your friend. One of your best friends, I hope,” Lottie said gently. “Which is why I feel compelled to counsel you in your best interest. You have broken not one but two cardinal rules of taking a lover. You fell in love with him, and now you are carrying his child.”

The tears that had been welling in Hyacinth’s eyes rolled down her cheeks. “I hardly set out to do either of those things. I thought I was barren. I had believed there was no possible means for such an event to occur. And I certainly never meant to fall in love with him…”

A sob racked her friend, and Lottie felt it as surely as if it had been a blade. Because she knew those feelings, those feminine fears and beliefs, the disappointments and the hope, all too well. And because her friend was hurting and the knowledge broke Lottie’s heart.

“Oh, my dearest.” She rose once more and crossed the room, this time sinking to the settee at Hyacinth’s side and gathering a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Do not cry, if you please. I didn’t mean to cause you distress, and surely it is not good for your condition.”

“I don’t know why I am weeping.” Hyacinth hiccupped.

“You are weeping because you are pregnant, my dear,” Lottie said. “My elder sister Caro wept for a full month straight when she was carrying my nephew. And my cousin Elizabeth could not stop eating chocolate cake and pickled herrings.”

“I hate him.”

“Of course you do, darling.” She nodded and rubbed her friend’s back in soothing motions.

“But I also love him,” Hyacinth admitted on another sniff.

Just as Lottie had suspected. And she had seen the way the viscount looked at her friend, quite as if she were the only woman who had ever graced terra firma . She would wager Sidmouth was in love with Hyacinth as well. Now, there was a baby to consider too.

“You must tell Lord Sidmouth about the baby, dearest,” she said gently. “He is the child’s father. He has a right to know. Even if you have no wish to marry, he deserves to be told.”

“No.” Hyacinth shook her head vehemently.

“Hyacinth, I love you like a sister, but you must see reason,” Lottie pressed.

“Do not take me to task, I beg of you.” Hyacinth pressed a hand to her stomach, her pallor heightened, looking as if she were about to retch. “I have seen reason, Lottie. I am not meant to be the merry widow. I tried, but it is not in me. And now that I am carrying a child, I have been thinking about what I must do for the babe. Not just for myself. I am going to go away, to the countryside where no one knows me.”

Lottie was aghast at the notion. “You cannot mean it, Hyacinth. What of Town? You have scarcely been here but two months’ time. I refuse to believe you will leave me so suddenly. I need you.”

Hyacinth’s smile was wistful. “You are being silly, Lottie. You do not need me.”

“Of course I do.” Lottie bumped her elbow into her friend’s in a teasing fashion, attempting to lighten the mood. “Who shall accompany me on all my shopping excursions? And how shall I woo the Duke of Brandon without you?”

Never mind that she no longer intended to woo the man. Hyacinth didn’t need to know that just now.

“Most importantly,” Lottie continued, “who will have tea with me whenever the notion strikes me? Who shall tell me when I am wearing something garish? You know I favor bold colors, and no one else will tell me the truth, save you.”

“You may visit me in the country if you like,” Hyacinth said quietly.

Lottie shuddered, for the last place she wanted to go was the country—nothing but dreadful memories dwelled there. “More blasphemy.”

They were silent, seated together, nothing but the steady thrumming of a mantel clock to interrupt the quiet.

“It is what has to be, Lottie,” Hyacinth said at last. “It is for the best. You shall see.”

And Lottie’s heart sank to the soles of her handsome new silk-and-satin embroidered boots.

Blast.

She despised meddling of all forms. But one thing was painfully clear to her after her chat with Hyacinth. She was going to have to seek out Sidmouth on her friend’s behalf, before it was too late for Hyacinth to find the happiness she deserved.

“You look like a drowned puppy,” Brandon observed grimly as he took in the sight of his old chum, Viscount Sidmouth, dripping and bedraggled, in his entry hall.

“I went for a walk,” Sidmouth explained with a drunken half smile. “And it began to rain.”

Bloody hell. It was a damned good thing Brandon had left Pandy in the care of her nurse. He hadn’t expected a caller at all, let alone a soused one. And although his daughter had no doubt witnessed all manner of scenes she ought not to have in her young life, he had no wish to expose her to more.

“Towels, if you please,” he called to his servants, all of whom were remaining discreetly out of sight.

The quiet scurrying of footfalls told him they hastened to do his bidding. Thank Christ. Sidmouth was making puddles all over the polished marble. Apparently, the viscount had ventured on his walk without an umbrella or top hat to blunt the sting of the rains.

“Towels would be welcome,” his friend said, listing to the right. “And mayhap some whisky.”

Brandon sniffed the air, which was redolent with the scent of spirits, and raised a brow. “ More whisky, old chum?”

Sidmouth’s inebriated state was somewhat troubling. He had always been one of the most staid, dependable chaps Brandon had known, and he was certainly not given to excess, whether it be food, drink, or the pleasures of the flesh. Indeed, he had never joined in any of the festivities at Wingfield Hall.

“Shut up,” Sidmouth slurred, swaying to the left now.

He attempted to avoid falling and slipped on the marble.

“Bloody hell, man.” Brandon caught his friend in a staying grasp before he toppled to his arse or, worse, to his head. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Sidmouth said brightly.

That was a lie if Brandon had ever heard one. A maid scurried forward bearing towels, one of which a footman threw over Tom’s dripping shoulders.

He thanked the domestics before dismissing them, sensing his friend required privacy for the conversation that was about to ensue.

Sidmouth dried his sodden hair with the towel as footsteps faded away once again. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for giving me shelter from the storm.”

“And I owe you a sound trouncing for gadding about Town in the midst of a thunderstorm with nary an umbrella,” Brandon countered. “What the devil are you thinking, Sidmouth? And if you prattle on about that taking-a-walk nonsense, I will smite you.”

Sidmouth swayed again, unsteady on his feet. “I was going for a tidy little walk. It merely turned into a longer walk than I had supposed it would be. One involving lightning and profuse amounts of thunderclouds.”

Brandon shook his head. “To the study with you, sir. I despair. I cannot whip your arse in billiards when you are in such a state. Is this because of the lovely widow? Lady Southwick?”

Sidmouth and the widow had been lovers, but Brandon rather suspected his gentle giant of a friend—who had been brokenhearted after being thrown over by Lady Needham—was about to see that tender organ dashed once more to bits. Poor Sidmouth didn’t stand a chance, particularly since Lady Southwick ran in a fast set with Lady Grenfell. He firmly tamped down all thoughts of the flame-haired beauty—those luscious kisses they had shared, in particular.

Sidmouth was clenching his jaw, looking desperately forlorn. “Of course not. I found myself in need of diversion. That is all.”

Ah, Christ. Sidmouth had it worse than he’d realized.

“ Sid ,” Brandon said, using the voice he reserved for Pandy.

The fatherly one.

The one that was equal parts fond and firm.

Sidmouth finished drying his hair and glanced at the marble, which had been spread with now-dampened towels all about him, quite as if he were viewing his surroundings for the first time. “Am I that much of a ruin, old chum?”

How to answer that? Brandon didn’t know. Fortunately, the timely sound of footsteps yet again approaching in the cavernous marble entry hall saved him from having to respond. It was Shilling, his august butler, his countenance expressionless.

“Another carriage has arrived, Your Grace,” the butler announced.

More visitors? Damn it, he hoped it wasn’t Grandmother. All he needed was for her to pay him a call when he had a drunken, heartbroken friend dripping all over the marble. She’d take one sniff of the air and know Sidmouth had been imbibing.

“In this deluge?” He frowned, wondering at who would unceremoniously visit on such a day. “Is the carriage marked?”

“A footman ventured out,” Shilling intoned, “and it would appear Lady Grenfell is within. She wished to be assured of her welcome before she braved the storm. Her ladyship desired to impart that her visit is of the utmost importance.”

Lady Grenfell.

Damnation. He had hoped their paths might never cross again after the debacle of his proposal. It would seem he had been wrong. What would she be doing here, paying him a call? Surely it wasn’t that she had changed her mind, was it?

No. More than likely, her presence at his town house had something to do with the sodden Goliath before him.

He scowled. “Curse you, Sid. This has your mark upon it.”

“Do I know Lady Grenfell?” Sidmouth asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Brandon bit back a groan. Just how drunk was the viscount?

“Your Grace?” his butler prompted. “Shall I send the carriage on its way?”

“No.” Brandon heaved an irritated sigh—he couldn’t well refuse Lady Grenfell, even if that was precisely what he wanted to do. “See her inside, Shilling. The emerald salon, I suppose. To the devil with my study. And see that tea is brought round, if you please. This afternoon is turning into quite the unexpected social gathering.”

Sidmouth cleared his throat. “Have you another engagement this afternoon, Brandon? I admit, I was not thinking when I arrived at your door, other than that my boots were quite soggy and there was the slight possibility I would be struck by lightning.”

“Good God,” Brandon muttered. “Imagine this. The Duke of Goddamn Brandon, the soul of reason. The entire world is going to the dogs.”

“That is what my grandmère assures me,” Sidmouth offered.

He toweled off his shoulders next, wringing the excess water in the cotton onto the towels at his feet.

“Christ, Sid.” Brandon sighed, feeling responsible. Becoming a father had changed him irrevocably. “You are still soaked to the bone. You will catch your death.”

“Also something Grandmère would say.” Sidmouth grinned. “Why, Brandon. Your grandmotherly affection for me is quite comforting.”

Just how sotted was his friend?

Brandon scowled. “I am nothing like your dragon of a grandmother, you arse. I want what is best for you, and she wants what is best for herself.”

Which was entirely true—the Duchess of Arrington wanted her grandson to marry a woman of her choosing.

“I cannot argue the point,” Sidmouth said, his tone resigned.

“Come and get settled in the salon. We cannot very well greet Lady Grenfell in the entry hall,” he invited with great reluctance, thinking of the last time he had met the countess in his emerald salon and the ignominy with which it had ended. “Of course, I suppose we could. But it would be dreadfully de trop .”

But Sidmouth stood there like a dolt, still dripping into the towels, staring at him instead of moving.

“Why are you looking at me as if I have just announced you must take up embroidery?” Brandon glowered at his friend. “To the salon with you, old chap.”

Thankfully, Sidmouth obeyed. They had scarcely ensconced themselves in the room when more footfalls intruded.

Shilling had returned, bringing with him the woman who had all but laughed in his face at his proposal of marriage. Lovely. The day, begun before dawn when Pandy had awakened him, was only continuing to improve, he thought, darkly amused.

“Lady Grenfell, Your Grace, Lord Sidmouth,” Shilling intoned with icy formality.

The butler took his duties quite seriously, which was ironic because Brandon—and his household—was far from serious.

“Thank you, Shilling,” he said mildly. “Just the tea, if you please.”

The butler bowed his way out of the room, forcing Brandon to acknowledge the countess whose kisses had kept him awake at night. All these years of debauchery, and it would seem that rejection was his preferred aphrodisiac. Perhaps because it was so rare that he experienced it.

He smiled as politely as he might to a maiden aunt. “Please be seated, my lady.”

Her light-blue eyes lingered on him, and for a moment, he swore he saw reflected in her gaze the heated memory of those passionate kisses before his proposal had shattered an otherwise perfect interlude. The air between them hung heavy with all that was unspoken. But then she swept past him with the regal air of a lady who knew her true worth and seated herself.

He took note that it was not on the same settee as the last time.

He and Sidmouth followed suit. Silence descended.

“To what do I owe the honor of your call, Lady Grenfell?” he asked.

A slight flush crept over her cheeks. And damn, but he couldn’t help but to admire the way that rosy hue painted her ivory, copper-flecked skin. She was astoundingly lovely, but it was her innate sensuality that drew him more than her appearance. Her unapologetic attitude toward pleasure was refreshing; he had only encountered the like in the demimonde.

Her gaze remained steadfastly upon Sidmouth, however, her countenance stern. “I was searching for Lord Sidmouth. He was not at home when I called.”

“You were looking for me?” Sidmouth sounded perplexed before alarm had him straightening in his chair, some of the whisky fog apparently having been lifted. “Is it Hy—Lady Southwick? What is the matter?”

“It is indeed about Lady Southwick.” The countess cast a calculating glance in Brandon’s direction. “It is, however, a matter of a more personal nature. I must speak with you alone, Lord Sidmouth.”

The daring minx. If she thought she was going to toss him out of his own bloody salon, she was decidedly wrong.

He pinned her with a narrow-eyed stare. “Alone? Whatever news you have to impart may be spoken before me. We are like brothers, are we not, Sid?”

“Yes,” Sidmouth agreed, sounding far less inebriated now that he had something to fret over. “Tell us, my lady.”

Lady Grenfell fidgeted with her skirts, wearing a sudden air of uncertainty that was unlike her. “Very well, my lord. You are going to be a father.”

Brandon nearly swallowed his tongue. Perhaps fatherhood was catching.

Sidmouth blinked, looking as if the countess had just spoken a language he couldn’t comprehend. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

But Lady Grenfell’s chin tipped upward. “Lady Southwick is carrying your child.”

A light rap at the door denoted the arrival of their tea. The news Lady Grenfell had imparted had rendered Sidmouth incapable of speech for the moment. The tea service was left on a table, and the capable Lady Grenfell began to pour.

“None for me,” Sidmouth said suddenly, his voice hoarse with emotion.

The countess glanced up, surprise etched on her countenance. “I thought a bracing cup might be the thing.”

But the viscount shook his head. “No. I need to rectify this matter at once.”

Lady Grenfell frowned. “How will you do so?”

“By marrying her, of course.”

“Why do you wish to marry Hyacinth, my lord?” the countess pressed. “She was trapped in an unhappy marriage once, and as someone who suffered the same fate, I can assure you that the last thing I would want is for her to find herself similarly constrained again.”

Lady Grenfell hadn’t been contented in her marriage, then. It was news to Brandon, who had never particularly troubled himself with society gossip. Perhaps that explained her reticence. I doubt that God himself could persuade me to marry again , she had said, and not without corresponding bitterness.

“I love her,” Sidmouth announced. “No tea. I must go.”

His friend rose quite as if a fire had been lit under his arse.

“It’s still raining,” Brandon pointed out dryly, wondering if the viscount had forgotten he’d walked through the driving rain on his way here. He was still waterlogged. “My carriage is at your disposal. Take it, if you please, and avoid a lung infection. I’ll not have you meeting an untimely end when you’re about to become a father.”

Sidmouth nodded, lost in his thoughts. “Thank you, Brandon. I’m indebted. You’ll come to the wedding, of course?”

“Rather putting the cart before the horse, are you not, Sid?” he teased.

Another nod. “Of course. Yes. I’ll have to ask her first. She’ll have to say yes. God.” He shook his head. “Thank you for telling me the news, Lady Grenfell.”

The countess inclined her head regally, her expression solemn. “I hope I’ve done what is right.”

“You have, my lady.” A bow, and then Sidmouth all but raced from the room.

Brandon watched the door snap closed behind his friend, bemused by this unexpected turn of events. And by Lady Grenfell’s presence in his emerald salon once again. More silence ensued, punctuated only by Sidmouth’s diminishing footfalls and the sound of rain lashing the windowpane.

Lady Grenfell’s gaze slipped to her tea, avoiding him, he thought, the notion vexing. He intended to say something clever. To offer a quip that shook her from her lack of engagement, but then the door to the salon opened and a small creature raced across the Axminster, followed closely by a flurry of ringlets and colorful skirts.

The furred thing ran directly toward Lady Grenfell.

“Pandy,” he warned, rising from his chair as he realized what was about to unfold.

Lady Grenfell screamed. Tea flew everywhere. And the creature raced beneath the hem of her gown.

Bloody hell.