Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he next day, Oakley began his calls on Bruton Street, thinking he might as well maintain the pretence of interest in Lady Emma. I have neglected her , he mused, trying to recollect when it was that he had last seen her in society.

Lady Emma sat with her mother and another young lady named Miss Watson who appeared to be of like mind with regards to gossip. Her mother left when Oakley arrived, after which the two younger ladies fairly tumbled over one another in their eagerness to acquaint him with the latest on dit , most of which made him laugh: Mr Byng had gambled away his poodle, then won back his poodle plus another; Miss Everleigh had accepted an offer of marriage from a man from Massachusetts, believing Massachusetts was in England; and everyone who had gone to Lady Dartmore’s dinner party had fallen miserably sick.

“I believe it was the fish,” said Miss Watson. “If there is something to turn your stomach, it is bound to be the fish.”

Lady Emma was shaking her head firmly as her friend spoke, her curls bouncing about. “No, no, they all say it was the wine! It was spoilt!”

“Lady Dartmore is saying it is an outbreak of typhus,” Miss Watson said. “Seems she would rather think us all on the verge of a plague than admit she served her guests something bad!”

Oakley was still wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes when Miss Watson said, in a playful tone, “But my friend here has not told you the biggest news of all.”

“Oh, that!” Lady Emma giggled, then said, coquettishly, “Pray do not despise me, Oakley.”

“That sounds like a promising beginning indeed,” he said with a smile. “What have you done?”

Lady Emma paused and into the breach sailed her friend. “She has accepted an offer of marriage from Sir Angus Fitzherbert. He has Herbert Hall in Kent and eight thousand a year!”

“Congratulations, Lady Emma,” Oakley said warmly, realising he felt no disappointment. “I wish you both every happiness.”

“I thank you kindly,” she said with equal warmth. “My mother and father are very pleased with me, and I think Sir Angus and I shall shift along very well together.”

“He seems like a good man,” Oakley said, although in truth he did not know him. Sir Angus was thirty-five if he was a day, but he supposed it was not too dreadfully old.

At once the idea of remaining on the marriage market another decade assailed him. He imagined himself, aged thirty-five, proposing to some young lady who giggled and simpered with her friends, all of whom had only just left school. Nausea rose within him at the notion, and he was on his feet immediately. “I must take my leave of you,” he said, careful to keep a smile on his face. “But I again offer my congratulations, Lady Emma. Sir Angus is most fortunate.”

As he had done before, he dismissed Hobcaw and the carriage and made the journey between Bruton Street and Dover Street on foot. The sense of foreboding over his future did not leave him, borne out of the hopelessness that plagued him since the day he learnt Bess Leighton had become Bess Beamish. There had long been something within him that simply could not believe it. It was too false, too nonsensical to be accepted. Was it merely stubbornness? A refusal to own that she would never be his? A reluctance to deny himself something he really, really wanted? He could not believe it was true, but it seemed increasingly that it might be the case.

“It will certainly be easier to believe when I am counting my paces with Beamish,” he muttered, causing a passing lady to look at him strangely.

He was relieved when Bess said she would receive him, but less so when he found her with her brother in the drawing room.

“Oakley,” Leighton said by way of greeting. “You find me on my way out, my lord.”

“That is unfortunate,” Oakley said, taking care to disguise his relief. “Perhaps we will meet later, at White’s?”

He had not forgotten his promise to Leighton that he would tell him what he learnt, if he thought it might be of use to him. Is it too soon to say? he wondered. He did comprehend that his suspicions, based on ear size and the mysterious absence of a husband, were hardly enough to convict Beamish of a crime. Going about telling people he was a murderer might be premature, to say the least.

Then he glanced from Leighton to Bess, sitting on the sofa looking achingly vulnerable. She could be in danger , he thought. Who knows what Beamish is capable of? Telling Leighton in confidence surely was not out of order, and in any case, he would certainly desire to know about Mr Shaw and what he had related to Lord Tipton and himself.

“I shall see you there,” Leighton promised, then quit the room, careful to leave the door ajar. Oakley was abashed to see it, wondering whether it was Leighton’s sense of propriety or Bess’s newfound distrust of him that made him do so.

Her warm smile as she invited him to sit assuaged his fears. He selected a chair, and settled into it. “I am dreadfully sorry for distressing you yesterday.”

“Not at all. You must forgive me for running from you like a…a ninny,” she replied.

“I was a beast to-to… Well, you know. I have been filled with regret ever since.”

She looked down at her hands, her mouth twisting into a frown, but said nothing.

“I hope that you will forgive me, and that your husband will as well.”

“Beamish? Oh, it is nothing to him, I am sure.”

“I would not be so certain,” he said. “A man has his pride.”

“What he does not know cannot hurt him, can it? It can be our secret,” she replied airily. “I should not give him another thought.”

Oakley leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. “Bess, he must be told. I must go to him and admit what I did. You are a married woman, his in the eyes of the law?—”

She barked a short laugh.

“I cannot blame him if he wishes to call me out,” Oakley pressed. “Indeed, I expect it. Nevertheless, gentlemanly honour demands that I tell him and take whatever punishment he chooses to mete out.” For a moment, he wished to grab her hands, but good sense stopped him. “But never fear, I shall make it perfectly clear that it was I who did it, and you are innocent of anything. My hope is that my candour will be met with his forbearance.”

She rose and walked to the window, her back to him. “Much as I appreciate your wish to behave as a gentleman, I can assure you, telling him is not at all necessary. Wholly unwarranted, in fact.”

“It is both warranted and necessary,” he said with gentle insistence. “Bess, I cannot be a thief. Why, it is positively Biblical, to covet another man’s wife, and I?—”

Turning back to him, she said severely, “I forbid you from going to Beamish. Do I not have some say in this? I believe I must.”

“You do not understand?—”

“No, you do not understand,” she retorted with sudden ferocity and a jab of one finger towards him. “We kissed . Merely a kiss! It is not such a dreadful thing! People kiss! Just leave it be, sir, I beg you.”

“I cannot,” he said quietly. “Forgive me, but I cannot. I have injured both you and him, and I must?—”

“Are you not hearing me?” Her voice had grown shrill. “Just leave it all be! Beamish does not need to know anything!”

Oakley paused and took a breath. He had anticipated some reluctance but not this outright dismay. Certainly not that she would forbid it. “Will you please just tell me where I might find him? Hertfordshire, yes?”

“Yes. I mean, no. He is not there.” A blotchy flush had risen on her chest and cheeks. “I do not know.”

“You do not know where he is?”

She was silent, her colour high and her eyes trained on the carpet. At length she shook her head, the smallest shake. “You have not injured anyone, least of all Beamish, so pray let it lie. Believe me when I say it is of no consequence to him.”

Has he abandoned her? It happened in society; had not the Prince Regent sent away his own wife, seemingly never to return to English soil? There were rumours that he did not intend to permit her to attend the coronation, even!

All the time Bess had been in London without Beamish, there had been myriad tales told of his whereabouts: estate business, concerns in the country, something or another with a friend or relation in this place or that. Had all of it been lies meant to save appearances?

He rose, as he should have done when she stood, and walked slowly to join her at the window. “Has he abandoned you?”

In a very small voice, she said, “No, not…well, perhaps he has, in a manner of speaking.”

“At the risk of causing you further distress, I must tell you that…Hanson confirmed that Beamish was involved in this caper of Damian’s. He suggested that he might have been trying to betray Damian.”

Bess showed no surprise at this. Her eyes remained trained on the carpet, and she said nothing.

Very delicately, Oakley added, “He might have been present in the gaol the day that Damian was murdered. And now you tell me you do not know where he is and that perhaps he has abandoned you? Maybe he is in hiding? If involved in the scheme, there are certainly people he might want to hide from, and well do I understand a wife’s need to protect her husband. I assure you I mean him no harm, no matter what he has done for or against Damian. If he has gone into hiding?—”

“He is not at Beauvis, and has not been for some time. That I do know.”

“Has your husband gone into hiding?”

“My husband.” She sighed and raised her gaze from the carpet. Meeting his eyes squarely, she said, “Beamish is not my husband. We were never legally married.”