Julia Justiss (7 page)

Probably Banker Harris, like most people awed by the great and terrible victory over the French, thought “Waterloo survivor” was synonymous with “courage.”

Tony knew he didn’t qualify. But he couldn’t afford to be too finicky about honor. An influential City banker would be of great help in finding him an heiress to marry.

And so, despite his discomfort, he made himself say, “If the opportunity should arise, I’d like to meet him.”

“I’d be happy to arrange it. Mayhap ‘Guinea’ Harris’s
papa can send some golden coins rolling in your direction!”

Tony murmured his gratitude. He ought to feel encouraged—and virtuous, that he’d made himself take this first step toward the solution everyone was recommending. A solution that was both logical and commonplace. Most men of his station married to secure alliances and fortunes.

Hadn’t he, once upon a time, urged Jenna to make just such a match—with him? Though, he recalled with a grin, the bargain had been rather one-sided: her fortune for his somewhat tarnished title. Ah, what a coxcomb he’d been!

But though he had certainly coveted her fortune, there had been something about Jenna, something beyond an undeniably strong physical attraction, that had drawn him and made the idea of marrying her compelling even to a man who scoffed at the notion of love and fidelity.

Her serenity, sense of honor and courage, perhaps, qualities that had resonated when tried by the adversities of war like the steel of the finest saber.

Qualities that drew him still.

Miss Sweet’s final legacy, he thought with a self-mocking smile. Somehow in his youth she’d managed to instill deep within him an ironic yearning for purity and valor, qualities he himself had never possessed. A yearning unlikely to be satisfied in the match between avarice and social advantage he was now contemplating.

Though he’d lately come to believe that courage, honor and fidelity were possible, he wasn’t sure he yet believed in lifelong, selfless love. Not for Anthony Nelthorpe.

So why did the notion of binding himself in a loveless marriage of convenience continue to seem so distasteful?

A
WEEK LATER
, J
ENNA REPOSED
in the sitting room adjoining her chamber while Cousin Lane settled a shawl about her shoulders. “Rest a while longer, Jenna. I’ve business this morning, but this afternoon, if the weather holds fair, I shall try to tempt you out for a carriage ride.” He stroked her cheek gently. “Promise me you’ll consider it, eh? That pretty face is far too pale.”

“Thank you, cousin. I will consider it,” she answered politely, then sighed with relief when he exited the room.

She turned her gaze to the window. It
was
fair today, she noted, though whether it was sun or rain mattered little to her. A book lay on the table beside her, a gift, Sancha told her, from Lord Nelthorpe—of all people! And though she found the author, one Jane Austen, quite clever, Jenna hadn’t read more than a page.

Her unfocused gaze caught on the play of dust motes as they rose and fell in a sunbeam. Drifting, like she was.

Sancha would push her to ride out with Cousin Lane. Probably better to go with him than be maneuvered into accompanying Lady Montclare, who was sure to press her once Aunt Hetty informed the sisters during their daily call that the doctor had pronounced her fully recovered.

“Fully recovered.” How little the doctor knew!

It seemed someone was always trying to bully her into doing this or that, when all she wished to do was sit in her chair or lie in her bed with her face to the wall and
remain in that blessed, blank place without thought or feeling in which she’d floated since her accident.

She remembered nothing between riding toward the park that morning and waking, like a swimmer submerged, to a flicker of shapes and a distant murmur of voices. Compelled by some urgency, despite the pain in her body, she’d made herself battle upward to the light, struggling to stay conscious and focus on the words the doctor was uttering to Sancha. A weeping Sancha, who wrung her hands and whispered “My poor lady.”

Blow. Head. Recover. Lost. Son.

With a supreme effort she moved one hand to her belly, suddenly aware of pain there that nearly equaled the pounding in her head.

Sorry. Nothing. I. Could. Do.

“Here’s tea,” Sancha’s voice startled her. The maid set the tray on the side table. Frowning, she plucked the shawl from Jenna’s shoulders and tossed it aside.

“No more sitting, lazy one! Today you go out into the sun.” The maid went to pull a pelisse from the wardrobe.

Jenna eyed the garment with distaste. “I don’t wish to go out.”

“You did not wish to stop medicine. Or see cousins, or
los señoras
with fancy gowns and scorpion tongues. Ah, much you have lost! But you must go on.” Sancha poured a cup of tea. “Drink now. You are colonel’s daughter, eh?”

I don’t know who I am,
Jenna thought. But after a moment, having neither strength nor interest enough for a battle of wills, as she had since Sancha had weaned her from the laudanum and forced her back to the world of consciousness, Jenna followed orders and took a sip.

“I bring this.” Sancha held up an envelope. “From the Handsome One with the rogue’s eyes who waits below.”

Nelthorpe? Jenna wondered with a faint stir of interest. But that brief emotion faded once she discovered the note Sancha presented came from Mr. Fitzwilliams.

Idly she scanned his standard expression of regret, about to put it aside when the last two lines snagged her attention. “Though I hesitate to intrude upon your grief, my aunt, Lady Charlotte, begs leave to visit. She has suffered as you suffer and earnestly desires to help.”

Could anyone help? Kind thoughts aside, Lady Charlotte Darnell was but a stranger, and Jenna was already surrounded by surfeit of well-meaning strangers.

How she longed for the strong, sympathetic shoulder of Harry or Alastair, the comforting arms of her dead mother! Only Sancha knew her intimately enough to appreciate the devastation of her loss—and she had never borne a child.

Suddenly a deep desire swept through her to meet this woman who, if Jenna were interpreting Fitzwilliams’s note aright, had lost a child, as she had.

“Is Mr. Fitzwilliams still below?”

“Aye, mistress. A beautiful lady waits with him.”

“Show them up, please. And fetch more tea.”

Sancha smiled and dipped a curtsy. “
Si,
mistress!”

The moment after Sancha left, Jenna regretted the impulse to allow their visit. Had she not already sustained a steady stream of visitors, patting her hand and expressing their deepest condolences?

First had been Cousin Bayard, who’d stiffly offered his regrets on her loss while delicately avoiding any mention of the viscount’s mantle which now rested securely about his own shoulders. Not that she cared for that.

Next had come a weeping Aunt Hetty. Indeed, the only blessing of this whole episode, Jenna thought, was that Hetty Thornwald, apparently having a horror of sickrooms, limited her visits to a few moments each morning.

Cousin Lane came by several times daily, seeking with kind but unwanted solicitude to cheer her, and the Two Sisters called far too often. She’d had to bite her tongue not to order Sancha to forcibly expel them the afternoon that Mrs. Anderson, in an example of insensitivity astounding even for that thickheaded individual, congratulated her on now being able to proceed directly to the important matter of settling her future.

At that moment she heard footsteps approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Too late to back down now. Seconds later, Sancha ushered in the visitors.

A “Handsome One with a rogue’s eyes” Mr. Fitzwilliams was in truth, Jenna thought with a trace of humor. Equally lovely was the fashionably dressed, blond lady on his arm.

After an exchange of greetings, Jenna said, “You will join us for tea, Mr. Fitzwilliams?”

He shook his head. “I can imagine nothing more useless at such a moment than a well-meaning but ignorant male. My sincere regards, Lady Fairchild. Aunt Charlotte, the carriage will be waiting when you are ready to return.”

After Mr. Fitzwilliams bowed himself out, Lady Charlotte looked at Jenna, her deep blue eyes earnest. “You must be thinking me perfectly boorish to force myself upon you like this! But when Teagan told me you had no mother or married friend to talk with, no one but your maid, I simply had to come. You will forgive me?”

Jenna could reply in polite generalities, but as Lady Charlotte had abandoned normal conventions with her personal appeal, Jenna decided to be equally forthcoming.

“You, too, have lost a child?”

“Three,” she said softly. “All before birth.”

Jenna felt her throat tighten and her eyes fill. “Then you do understand.”

Lady Charlotte nodded. Hesitantly she reached for Jenna’s hand. “I know how hard it is to bear.”

“It…it is hard,” Jenna said. Suddenly a sharp, pulverizing pain ripped apart the curtain of unreality behind which Jenna had hidden since awakening after the accident. From deep within her a floodtide of grief flowed up, smashing through the pitiful barriers behind which she’d tried to contain it. Before she could stammer apology or explanation, sobs she could neither prevent nor control erupted, overwhelming her ability to resist them.

After the storm of tears subsided, without knowing how she’d gotten there, Jenna found herself on the sofa beside Lady Charlotte, her head on that lady’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry! You will be thinking me the boor.”

Tears in her own eyes, Lady Charlotte shook her head. “
I’ve felt what you feel.
But when I lost my babes, I still had my mother, all her love and years of wisdom to console me.”

After rummaging in her reticule, Lady Charlotte handed Jenna a handkerchief. “My momma told me before you can gather what remains and go on, you must grieve.”

“I don’t know what is left to gather. With Papa and Garrett gone, I’ve lost my bearings. I had been girding myself to focus on—” she swallowed hard “—on raising Garrett’s child. What do I do now?”

“Don’t worry about tomorrow. Just get this next minute. This next hour.” Lady Charlotte squeezed her hand. “It
will
get easier, I promise. Even though I see you do not believe me,” she added with a smile.

Jenna managed a smile, too. “How can I thank you?”

“Don’t wall yourself away, no matter how little you desire to go out. Visit me, seek the company of friends whenever they happen to London. Indeed, ’twas partly for that reason that I called today.”

From her reticule, Lady Charlotte withdrew an engraved card. “I’m having a reception for the ton Friday in honor of Waterloo veterans. Among the guests will likely be some of your army friends. Please, do try to attend.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lady Charlotte rose. “Now, I’ve tired you enough. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I…I hope it helped more than distressed you.”

“It did help,” Jenna replied, surprised to find that was true. Though the great burden of grief still weighed upon her heart, it was in small degree lighter for having been shared with a kindred soul.

Just before Lady Charlotte walked out, Jenna found herself blurting, “Do—do you have any surviving children?”

Her visitor paused at the threshold. “No.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jenna whispered.

“Call on me,” Lady Charlotte said, and walked out.

T
WO NIGHTS LATER
,
Jenna sat alone in the carriage as it crawled toward Lady Charlotte Darnell’s townhouse on Mount Street. Warmed to confirm during her return call that the deep, immediate bond formed between them on Lady’s Charlotte’s first visit was genuine, she’d rashly promised her new friend she would attend her Waterloo Party. Mercifully she’d been spared Aunt Hetty’s company when that lady developed a head cold this afternoon and cried off, while Cousin Lane, who had a preceding engagement, had pledged to meet her at Lady Charlotte’s.

But after two hours with Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare this afternoon, despite the pleasure of seeing Lady Charlotte again, Jenna was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of coming tonight.

Though she’d managed to avoid being saddled with their company in her carriage, she’d had no success pre
venting them from extolling the long list of potential suitors she’d doubtless encounter. Her repeated insistence that she was attending only to see old army friends—not to make her debut into the Marriage Mart—they cheerfully ignored.

Until now, she’d overcome a distaste for entering Society by telling herself she must take her place there in order to secure a proper future for Garrett’s
babe.
Not until tonight, as she waited with increasing trepidation in her carriage, did Jenna begin to envision what she would face, stripped of the solace of her child, confronting Society alone as a widow whose wealth and lineage would draw to her the immediate attention of the ton—and, if the sisters could be believed, that of every gentleman whose fortunes or family propelled him to seek a wife.

As the carriage moved forward, agitation set her stomach churning. Behind Lady Charlotte’s doors would be a cacophony of voices, most of them false and flattering. A press of people, pressing her to call on them, dine with them. Elegantly dressed men who might mask their assessing glances and avarice behind a smile.

No, she simply couldn’t face it.

She rapped on the carriage wall. As the vehicle slowed, she jerked open the door, jumped down and darted into the night.

G
UIDING HIS SKITTISH HORSE
through the press of vehicles on Park Street, Tony contemplated once again the wisdom of accepting Lady Charlotte Darnell’s invitation.

On the one hand, Tony could count on partaking of a handsome dinner. On the other, he’d probably encounter a number of old codgers who would want him to regale them about Waterloo—an engagement he’d been trying his best for nearly six months to forget.

If he was truly honest, he had to admit the strongest
reason for attending was the hope of encountering Jenna Fairchild. He’d heard she was fully recovered from her fall, though after calling once again at Fairchild House, he’d still not managed to see her.

Her decision to avoid him was not unexpected. Still, he couldn’t seem to drive from his head the image of her lying motionless on the roadway. Once he saw with his own eyes that she was well, he’d be able to put her from his mind and concentrate on repairing his precarious fortunes.

The congestion increasing as he approached the corner of Mount Street, Tony decided to proceed on foot. But as he started to dismount, Pax whinnied and reared up, nearly throwing him out of the saddle.

“What ails you, old friend?” he chided as he regained his seat. “No cannon or muzzle flashes to spook you here.”

Even as he spoke, a shimmer of light passed between two carriages, sending a zing of alarm through him.

’Twas surely not a specter from Waterloo come to attend the festivities, he reassured himself. So what had it been? Dismounting, he paced toward the elusive glimmer.