Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Six Months Later

“ T hey’re talking about Stephen in the gossip columns again,” Anna remarked, tossing a fresh newspaper on the breakfast table. “He arrived home from France last week, apparently, and has been carousing and making his presence known ever since.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, concentrating on her meal. She had a pounding headache, doubtless brought on by imbibing too much champagne the previous night. It was, after all, her birthday. She was entitled to enjoy herself a little.

Lately, she had been surprised to discover that there were other people in Society who enjoyed reading and studying, as well as drinking champagne.

One could enjoy a raucous party and a good book, as it turned out.

Breakfast was a simple affair, since she had given most of the servants the day off. It seemed only fair, considering what they’d had to put up with during the birthday party last night. It was amazing how small gestures and tokens of appreciation—gifts, a polite manner, and occasional days off—could improve the morale of one’s household.

Really, Beatrice was rather impressed by how easily she was learning to run the household, with the patient help of Mouse and Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. And, of course, as a married woman, her place in Society had changed overnight.

Marriage truly did change a woman’s life, regardless of her husband.

It seemed truly amazing that her new husband had not returned home once in six months. It was impossible to hide such a thing from Society, of course, and Beatrice did not doubt that her marriage was well-discussed amongst the ton.

If it could be even called a marriage, of course.

He probably couldn’t bear the idea of being married to a bluestocking and took himself off to pretend he was still a bachelor.

Why did he marry me at all? To keep away Society mamas and their daughters? That can’t be the reason.

He’s a wretch, but I can hardly complain. After all, he made it clear what our marriage was to be. That is to say, nothing.

And yet I’ve dreamt about that kiss every wretched night.

Beatrice was careful not to let any of this show on her face, since Anna was watching.

“Oh?” she said as disinterestedly as she could. “His mother will be glad to hear that he is back in the country. You know how Theodosia worries. What are you snickering at, Anna?”

Anna only chuckled, shaking her head. “Nothing, nothing. It’s quite remarkable how well you get on with the Dowager Duchess, you know. Most ladies dislike their mothers-in-law.”

“I am not most ladies, am I? She was so happy to see her son married, I didn’t have the heart to make it clear that Stephen and I are barely acquaintances.”

Because that was the way of it, wasn’t it? They were barely acquaintances. So far, it seemed as though they hadn’t even spent one night under the same roof. Stephen spent his days carousing and getting up to goodness only knew what, while Beatrice filled her time with friends, family, her charities and her studies, and finding a suitable college for John without her parents’ interference.

Speaking of which, she was aware that her parents would be visiting her later that day, to give their birthday wishes. Perhaps she ought to have invited them to the party, but it was so much simpler to keep the guest list to friends only.

And Theodosia, of course. That woman certainly knew how to have a good time, flirting with all the eligible older men and drinking entirely too much champagne. It was nice, having a mother figure around that was not drowning in her own melancholy.

That was not a kind thought, and Beatrice allowed herself a moment of guilt over it. Her mother had been a little better since the wedding, but Beatrice was sure that she worried constantly about her daughter getting with child and meeting the same fate as Jane’s.

Unlikely . My getting with child would have to be a miracle rivaling the Virgin Birth.

Despite herself, Beatrice’s gaze was drawn across the table to where Anna sat, round-cheeked and content, her hands resting on her rounded stomach. She was due any day now, and Beatrice lived in a state of perpetual anxiety.

“I scarcely slept last night,” Anna remarked. “My bladder seems to fill up with a sip of anything, and my back hurts all the time. And I had twinges this morning.”

Beatrice swallowed hard. “You should summon the doctor.”

“I’m fine, Beatty.”

“I am serious. Anna.”

“I’m fine,” Anna repeated quietly, leaning forward to take Beatrice’s hand. “After breakfast, Theo and I will go home and rest. Everything will be fine. I am not going to die, I promise.”

“You cannot possibly know that,” Beatrice murmured, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

“At the very least, I am more built for childbirth than Jane, aren’t I? I’m taller and stockier than she was. Look at my hips! Perfect child-bearing hips, are they not?”

It was meant to be a joke, but Beatrice could barely summon a smile.

“I wish you would be serious,” she muttered. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Anna’s smile faded. She squeezed her friend’s hand reassuringly. “I am not going anywhere, Beatrice. You’re going to have to be a godmother after all, I’m afraid. There’s no escaping it. Now, what plans do you have for the rest of the day?”

“Theodosia and I are going to the opera,” Beatrice responded, flashing a wry smile. “If she’s not too hungover, of course. But first, I shall go back to bed and sleep off my headache.”

Anna chuckled at that.

Stephen flicked through the pages of the gossip column, scowling. Almost every single scandal sheet mentioned the Duchess’s birthday party. One author had called it an orgy , for heaven’s sake, and not the first party of this caliber that his new wife had thrown. Last night, he recalled with a flash of guilt, had been her birthday.

It seemed that all of the carousers of London were there. Henry and George—who was tactfully referred to as ‘Lord Stanley’s companion, a painter’—had been in attendance, as well as Theo and Anna. That was made a good deal of, as Anna was heavy with child and ought to have been in confinement.

It was clear that the author did not agree with this but begrudgingly admitted that “the Duchess of Langdon did not imbibe any punch, wine, or champagne, sticking mostly to lemonade and plain water.”

There was a great deal more information, mostly about the excesses of the party. An unnamed debutante had been caught in a small closet with a gentleman, both in a state of undress, and Lord Rupert Orville had drunk too much wine and fallen from a balcony. He was unharmed, having had a patch of rose bushes break his fall, but still. Apparently, a priceless portrait had also been defaced.

Now, that did interest Stephen. He wondered which portrait and in what way it was defaced.

He hoped it was one of his father’s portraits.

The carriage suddenly ran over a pothole, nearly launching him out of his seat. Stephen pounded on the roof of the carriage.

“Have a care, man, have a care!” he shouted at the coachman, who grunted in response.

This was what came of hiring cabs instead of using one’s carriage. Unfortunately, since Stephen’s carriage was in need of repairs, he was obliged to either hire one or wait for a new carriage to make its way to him—and frankly, he simply wanted to get home.

The sudden motion had scattered his correspondence across the floor, and he bent to collect it. A neat little billet-doux fell out of the stack, wrapped with sugar-pink ribbon and scented so heavily that the smell of perfume filled the carriage even now. He tossed the letter aside with a sigh.

He knew who it was from, and what it would contain. Cornelia had sent him a score of those letters over the past weeks and months, increasingly desperate and even angry.

You say you have made it plain how our relationship is going to be, she wrote in one letter, but you give me no chance to defend myself. Let us meet, Stephen. Let us talk, face to face and heart to heart, as we once did. Forget that plump little wife of yours—heaven knows you mention her more than enough—and let us be ourselves.

He hadn’t responded to that letter, and that seemed to fill Cornelia with fury.

It wasn’t her fault, of course. Stephen had intended to pick up where he had left off with Cornelia, only to find himself… well, hindered .

Cornelia was beautiful, clever, and remarkably talented. Any man would give his right arm to share her bed or her company, and yet here Stephen was, finding himself disinterested.

He had not shared his bed with anyone since his wedding, and it was quite unintentional. Ladies who might have once caught his eye now seemed… well, drab . Unattractive. Dull.

The fault was not theirs, of course.

I shall get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

Stephen peered out the window. He was almost home, and he felt an imperceptible loosening in his shoulders and chest as the familiar lines of the house came into view.

The carriage lurched to an ungainly stop, and Stephen straightened himself, tugging on his gloves, and waited for the door to be opened.

It was not opened. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door himself and leaped down onto compact, unraked gravel. The coachman was throwing down the bags and boxes lashed to the roof of the carriage. There was nobody there to catch them. No footmen, or even Mouse, and the boxes bounced across the floor, unheeded.

Stephen stared at the mess in amazement. Even the coachman hesitated, glancing at him.

“Is somebody coming out to get these, Your Grace?”

Stephen composed himself. “Of course.”

Keeping his back straight, he stalked inside.

He was immediately greeted by chaos.

The floor was dirty and in great need of sweeping. Dirty glasses, cups, plates, and bottles were scattered everywhere, on just about every flat surface, it seemed. There was a stain of what looked like hot chocolate on the stair carpet. Several of the paintings hung askew.

There were, of course, piles of books everywhere, as if a book club had turned into a drunken farce.

Baffled, Stephen walked further into the house, and he nearly fainted when he entered the ballroom.

Ribbons and strips of fabric hung everywhere, some placed carefully, others clearly thrown by drunken revelers over lamps and wound around chandeliers. A rather expensive urn lay smashed in the fireplace. There was a small pile of broken glass in one corner, and large patches of sticky, dried-up champagne and punch on the floor.

In the center of it all stood a portrait, almost as tall as Stephen himself.

Defaced is the right word .

With no modicum of skill, somebody had drawn a grand set of whiskers on the portrait, along with a profusion of hair coming out of the nostrils and the ears. A lopsided set of spectacles had also been added, and what seemed to be wine had been spilled on one side.

The portrait was not, of course, one of Stephen’s father. It was of Stephen himself. Naturally.

He bit back a sigh and glanced around. With a party this destructive, the servants should have been out in force, cleaning and sweeping and scrubbing. Instead, the house seemed to be deserted.

“Is anyone here?” Stephen called, his voice echoing. He spread out his arms on either side. “Where is everybody? Why is nobody working? Is it impossible to find good help these days?”

With mounting irritation, he bellowed a single word that echoed through the wrecked house.

“ Beatrice!”