Chapter Thirty

"Aren't you going to drink your tea, Eleanor?"

Eleanor glanced up. "I'm sorry?"

Her mother nodded toward the cup in Eleanor's hand. "Your tea. Either drink it or put the cup down. I can see that cup toppling over, and you don't want to spill tea on your gown again, do you?"

Eleanor placed her cup on the table.

"So you're not going to drink it."

"No, Mother."

"Then why did you take it?"

Because you would have hounded me until I did.

Eleanor's mother let out a sharp sigh and stirred her tea, rattling the spoon against the cup as it went around and around…

Around and around…

Clink-clink-clink…

Eleanor gritted her teeth. But though she longed to ask her mother to stop, or to excuse herself and return to her chamber, she was not in the mood to weather the inevitable outburst of indignation.

Not today, of all days.

She sighed and glanced out of the window. It was past ten. Montague would already have done the deed.

How long would the news take to spread?

At least she'd be spared her sister's taunts. Juliette had disappeared earlier that morning to take a walk. She'd looked a little out of sorts during breakfast—paler than usual, her eyes red-rimmed as if she'd been crying—but when Eleanor inquired after her health, she'd been sharply told to mind her own business.

The stirring continued—clink-clink-clink—the rhythm growing in intensity until it resembled footsteps…

Then the door burst open, and Juliette rushed in. Face flushed, eyes bright, at least she seemed to have regained some of her color. But what had distressed her?

No—not distressed. Her expression was one of excitement—and triumph.

Juliette glanced about the room. Then her gaze settled on Eleanor. The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile, before she smoothed her expression—but she couldn't disguise the satisfaction in her eyes.

She knows.

"What is it, Juliette?" their mother asked. "You look unwell."

"I'm all right, Mother," Juliette said. "But I fear for poor Eleanor." She let out a deep sigh. "Oh, Eleanor, I'm so sorry! It pains me to be the one to tell you—truly it does."

Since when did someone say truly it does or I swear it other than to convince someone to believe their lies?

"What's happened?" Mother asked.

"The Duke of Whitcombe was seen coming out of a woman's house."

"And? Perhaps he was visiting her husband—or he had some business there."

"He most certainly had business," Juliette continued. "It was Mrs. Delacroix's house."

"That harlot!" Mother scoffed.

"He was seen with her on his arm—everyone knows she was his mistress." Juliette's eyes widened, almost with relish. "There was another doxy on his other arm. Cerise, or so I was told."

"Who told you?" Mother asked.

"Mr. Moss told us."

"Us?" Eleanor asked, nausea curling in her stomach.

"Irma was with me when Mr. Moss told us. Everybody's talking about it." Juliette glanced at Eleanor. "My poor sister."

Mother rose to her feet. "This is outrageous! And so unjust—what a disgrace!"

A sense of loss curled in Eleanor's gut. Though she had anticipated the manner by which her engagement was to end, she hadn't expected the pain, the dark ache spreading through her body. Yet, despite the pain, she clung to a glimmer of hope—the indignation of Mother's voice as she defended her. Was it indignation born of a mother's love?

"Mother…" Eleanor began, but Lady Howard raised her hand.

"Enough!" she cried. "Say nothing, lest my disappointment in you increases. How could you?"

"How could I what, Mother?"

"I knew it was too good to be true. What could you have done to drive Whitcombe into the arms of harlots?"

"Two harlots," Juliette said.

"We must rise above this," Mother continued, "which means we don't indulge in gossip. Perhaps Mr. Moss was mistaken."

"I doubt it," Juliette said. "Everyone's talking about it! They were seen in Hyde Park—Whitcombe was parading his doxies along Rotten Row. Mr. Moss told us—and Lady Francis."

"We must act swiftly," Mother said. "Our family is innocent in all this. Yes—we can salvage our reputation if we make it known that we've been wronged. We must act as if none of this has happened. That means you too, Eleanor."

"M-me?"

"Yes, you." Mother's eyes narrowed. "You don't appear surprised—or discomposed. Did you expect this to happen?"

"I suppose I did."

"You suppose!" Mother scoffed. "Well, one thing we can be thankful for is your lack of concern. You must use it on Saturday."

"Saturday?"

"Our dinner party. It's our opportunity to salvage the family's reputation. Everybody will be there—the Fairchilds, Mr. Moss, Lady Francis, the Duke of Dunton…"

Sweet Lord, no!The very worst people in all Society—coming to dine and gloat at Eleanor's expense.

"M-Mother, I can't—"

"Yes you can, child. You owe it to the family. You owe it to your sister. You may not be able to hold on to a suitor, but you cannot be so selfish as to wish the same fate on Juliette. Dunton's shown a marked interest in her, hasn't he? If we cannot have two duchesses in the family, I'll be content with one."

"You really don't look that upset, Eleanor," Juliette said.

Eleanor rose, fisting her hands to control the tremors in her body. "What do you expect?" she cried. "Do you want me to scream? Or suffer a fainting fit and collapse at your feet to feed your gratification?"

"Eleanor, that's enough!" Mother cried. "Just because you've failed, it doesn't give you the right to upset the rest of us. I—"

The door burst open, and Eleanor's father appeared.

"What the devil's going on?" he said. "You can be heard in the street outside!" He glanced at Eleanor, and his eyes widened. "What's happened, daughter?"

"She's lost her fiancé, Leonard," Mother said.

"What do you mean, lost?"

"He's been seen with a harlot."

"Two harlots," Juliette added. "Her engagement is no more."

Papa's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Juliette said before Eleanor could respond. "Mr. Moss said—"

"I was speaking to your sister," Father said, his voice sharp. Then he let out a sigh. "Damned tiresome business." He held out his hand. "Eleanor—come with me."

"Leonard," Mother protested, "you can have nothing to say to Eleanor that I needn't be party to."

"Grace, for once, will you refrain from talking and let me have my way?"

"What do you mean, have your way?" she replied. "Surely I have the right—"

"That's enough!" he roared. "Haven't I enough to deal with, without you nipping at me like a terrier?"

Mother and Juliette's eyes widened simultaneously, as if they were marionettes being manipulated by the same puppeteer.

"Eleanor, stop dawdling and come with me."

Her cheeks flaming, Eleanor followed her father to his study, where he closed the door, took his seat behind the desk, and gestured to the chair opposite.

She sat, while he placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together, in the manner of a vicar about to deliver a sermon about fire, brimstone, and eternal damnation.

But the sermon never came. He observed her in silence, and the air filled with the gentle ticking of the clock over the fireplace, the steady sound of his breathing—and her own heartbeat pulsing faintly in her ears.

When she was a child, Father's study was a place to be revered. Rarely was she—or even Mother—permitted to enter. It was, to him, a sanctuary from female company. It was the essence of him, a strange mix of untidiness and order—books stacked on shelves according to color, the gold leaf on the spines forming a regular pattern, a sheaf of papers high enough to be in danger of toppling over…

It even smelled of him—brandy, cigar smoke, and cinnamon.

He reached for the squat-bellied decanter in front of him, removed the stopper, and splashed a quantity of brown liquid into two beveled glasses. Then he pushed one toward her and nodded.

She stared at it. Mother said brandy was a drink exclusive to men—that for a woman to indulge in the stuff was the first step to ruination.

He pushed the glass a little closer. "Go on. I won't tell your mother."

She leaned forward, tipped the glass up, and took a sip. The liquid burst on her tongue with an explosion of heat. Not unpleasant, but she caught her breath at the intensity.

"Different to wine, isn't it?" he said. "Good for nasty shocks—manly due to its effect on your senses detracting from your troubles. Though"—he leaned closer—"you don't look particularly troubled. Or perhaps your sister is mistaken and your engagement isn't over?"

She took another sip. "No, Papa, it's definitely over."

"If your sister speaks the truth, the duke was seen this morning with a woman on each arm. You parted on good terms when he joined us in the park yesterday—hardly the behavior of a couple breaking an engagement. Or did you meet afterward?"

"No—that was the last time I saw him."

He drained his glass, then Eleanor startled as he slammed it on the desk.

"Damn him!" he cried. "What the devil's he playing at? I should call him out."

"Papa, there's no need…"

"But he's acted like a cad!" He poured another brandy and took a gulp. "To think—he sat in the same chair you're in and spun me a tall tale to convince me to consent to your engagement. I knew of his reputation as a rake, of course—but I still fell for his lies."

He sighed, drained the glass, and poured a third.

"I can't recall a time when I was more disappointed—nay, disgusted."

Eleanor leaned forward. "Please, Papa, he's not as bad as you think."

"What nonsense! Surely you're not condoning your fiancé cavorting with harlots?"

She suppressed a shudder. "It's not like that, Papa. I-I know what it looks like—and I'm sorry if you're disappointed in me."

Of all the trials she might have faced—humiliation at Montague's hand, even if it were planned, her mother's ever-constant irritation, her sister's spiteful triumph—the one assault she could not weather was her father's disappointment.

She closed her eyes, willing the tears to subside. Then she felt a warm hand over hers.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he said. "I could never be disappointed in you. In truth, I'm not disappointed in him, either—for he's exactly what I first believed him to be." He shook his head and sighed, and Eleanor's heart gave a little jolt at the tiredness in his eyes. "No, I'm disappointed in myself, for having been taken in. He led me to believe he's an honorable man who would never break a promise."

Eleanor blinked, and a tear splashed onto his hand. She placed her other hand over his and wiped it away.

"Montague is an honorable man, Papa," she said. "He has not broken faith with me."

"Then what has he done?"

She sighed. The truth would emerge sooner or later. Better it come from her lips than any other's.

"It was all a pretense," she said. "We never intended to marry."

"You what?" he cried.

"W-we made an arrangement, to pretend to be engaged."

"Whatever for, child?"

"H-he said it would help me in Society," she said. "And he has helped me, Papa. I can more easily speak to strangers. It's down to his tutelage that I could speak to Colonel Reid during our walk and secure our invitation to the Academy Exhibition."

"And what was in it for Whitcombe?" he asked. "I doubt he did it out of kindness."

"I…" Though she longed to speak the truth, shame prevented her.

"Foolish girl," he muttered, as if to himself. "Let me hazard a guess. Hounded by young women hunting a title, he chose to deter them by entering into a false arrangement with another. Doubtless he chose you because he thought so little of you that he expected you to meekly comply with no thought for your own self-respect. The bastard! I've every right to—"

"No, Papa!" she interrupted, tears spilling onto her cheeks. "It wasn't like that! Perhaps at first—but we struck a bargain. I had as much to gain from it as he—don't you see that?"

"All I see is a foolish girl who was tricked into a masquerade by a cad who thought of nothing but his own self-gratification." He let out a bitter laugh. "He'll have done himself no favors. Society doesn't look kindly on a man—whatever his rank—who breaks off with his fiancée by making a public show of himself with harlots. And as to his being hunted—he's only bought himself a reprieve. Next Season, the scavengers will be out in greater force. Curse him! I was beginning to like the man."

He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

"I could sue him for breach of contract."

"No, Papa—I couldn't let you do that to him. And you have every reason to continue liking him. Despite what you may think, we're still friends."

"A man and a woman can never be friends," he replied. "Not when there's love involved."

She caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze, then she looked away. But it was too late—he'd already delved into her soul.

"You love him."

It was not a question.

Eleanor flicked her gaze up to find him still staring at her.

What was the point in denial? She reached for her glass and took another mouthful.

Papa was wrong. The effect of the brandy did nothing to detract her from her troubles.

"Sometimes love is not enough," she said quietly.

"Oh, child! Love is everything. I've learned over the years that it's titles—and fortunes—that are not enough when it comes to finding a partner in life." He set the papers aside. "I must do something. If you object to my shooting him at dawn, I could toss him into the Thames."

She fought to suppress a giggle at the notion of her diminutive parent throwing the large, powerful duke into the river.

"There's my girl," Papa said. "Stoic to the last. That's one thing I've never fathomed about you ever since you were old enough to talk—you often weathered adversities with little reaction, but, at other times, the slightest provocation sent you into a fit of temper."

"I shan't lose my temper today," Eleanor said. "But I'd rather not attend Mother's dinner party on Saturday."

"Because you believe everyone will be laughing at you?" Papa shook his head. "A respectable woman wronged will always garner sympathy. And, though I hate to admit it, your engagement to a duke will have given you a degree of respectability and admiration. Saturday's dinner may be awkward—the guests are bound to be curious. But if you weather it with aplomb, you'll emerge triumphant. I can make things easier for you by tampering with the guestlist—to give you an ally for the evening, at least. Is there anyone you would wish to see invited?"

"Only Lavinia, but she's in the country. I don't think her husband would take kindly to her traveling to London merely for a dinner."

Papa's mouth curled into a smile. "What about Colonel Reid? You seemed to be getting on well with him."

"I don't know…"

"You share an interest in art, so you'd have plenty to talk about—and you are attending the exhibition with him on Monday, so you must find his company agreeable."

"But Juliette—"

"Your sister's a fool for rejecting that respectable young man," he said. "If his presence makes her feel uncomfortable, then she only has herself to blame."

What reason did she have to object to Colonel Reid's invitation? Loyalty to Montague? He himself had spoken of her future—a future without him. And with Colonel Reid, at least she wouldn't be forced to trust her repertoire of vacuous Society phrases—they could have a real conversation rather than exchange meaningless remarks.

But if Papa was right, and a man and a woman could never be friends—did that mean sitting next to the colonel might give rise to an expectation?

What if I never want to marry?

"Then you say no each time a man asks, my dear, rather than cry out your acceptance before he's even finished his request."

She glanced up at her father, her cheeks flaming. Heavens! She'd spoken aloud.

"The colonel would do very well for you," Papa said. "He would, at least, be more amenable to your being a little…" He made a random gesture in the air.

"Odd?" she offered, and he colored.

"I was going to say different from other young women, which, at least, sounds more favorable than eccentric. And he'd be more willing than a titled man to grant you freedom to paint. A soldier, after all, understands the need for occupation, and I daresay he'd not object to a wife who wished for an occupation of her own. You were never suited to the life of idle luxury, my dear."

"I do like Colonel Reid," she replied. "But I hardly know him. He barely noticed me when he was courting Juliette."

"Don't punish him for that, Eleanor—men are often swayed by what they first see. It's only later that they understand the true nature of beauty. I daresay both you and Colonel Reid have learned a sharp lesson these past weeks."

"And if I cannot find a man to make me happy—or give me the freedom to do what I want, and be myself—what do I do then?"

"And what do you want, Eleanor?" he asked.

"To live in freedom, where I am not subject to the judgment of others. I-I could paint to earn my keep. I'm not like Juliette—I have no need for fine gowns or jewels—so I'm sure I could live within my means. My fortune could secure me an annuity."

"It wouldn't be an easy life, Eleanor. Could you bear living on your own?"

"How could I not, when I crave peace and quiet?" she replied. "If I never attended a dinner party or ball again, I'd be the happiest creature alive! And I'd have enough money to hire a maid to take care of me, so you needn't worry on that count."

"Is that what you want, child?"

"It's what I've always wanted—but nobody would listen!"

"And Whitcombe?"

"He was someone I grew attracted to," she said. "A dream—terrifying, yet beautiful. I'll always hold him in the highest regard. But if I cannot…" She hesitated as her chest tightened. "If I c-cannot find happiness in marriage, then I wish to find happiness in occupation."

She drained her glass and waited. Papa remained silent for a moment, then he leaned forward and covered his face with his hands.

"My poor child," he whispered. "Where did I go so wrong?"

Her heart tightened with sorrow. Was she such a failure in his eyes?

Then he lowered his hands and reached for her, taking both her hands in his.

"I've been such a fool," he said, "guided by the ambition of others. Your mother and I always wanted the best for you and your sister—a comfortable life so that you need not toil, and respectable marriages where you'd enjoy the trappings that wealth and a title can give you."

He stroked her hands, running the pad of his thumb across her skin. "But my unique little Eleanor was made for greater things. Fool that I was, I failed to champion your uniqueness—I was too weak to go against your mother's wishes. After all, your mother was the daughter of an earl—she understood Society far better than I ever could."

He lifted her hands to his lips. "Perhaps we can only reach true happiness through taking the more difficult path." He nodded, setting his mouth into a firm line. "If independence is what you crave, Eleanor, then I'll not stand in your way."

"You won't?"

"No, child. First thing Monday, I'll speak to Mr. Stockton and have him make the arrangements to give you control over your fortune. But on one condition. Give Colonel Reid a chance on Saturday. I believe you could be as happy with him—certainly more than—" He broke off and patted her hand. "I'll not speak of that particular gentleman anymore."

Then he released her hands and glanced at the clock. "Gracious! Is that the time? I've much to do—be off with you, tiresome child."

His words belied the affection in his voice, and she rose to her feet.

"Yes, Papa," she said. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me, dear one," he replied. "I'm only doing what I should have done years ago. Now—why don't you spend the rest of the day painting?"

"What about Mother and Juliette?"

"Leave them to me. You have my word that neither of them will dictate your life anymore."

He picked up the sheaf of papers—the marriage contract he'd agreed on with Montague—and for a moment, Eleanor's resolve wavered. Then she bowed her head and exited the study, her future looking a little brighter than it had yesterday—when she'd parted from Montague for the last time.