Surrender To A Scoundrel (19 page)

L
ater that afternoon, sitting in her room at the Royal Marine Hotel, Evelyn finally heard the sound of a key in the lock across the hall. The door creaked open and clicked shut, so she closed the book she’d been trying to read.

She’d been waiting hours to talk to Martin. She could not leave Cowes without speaking to him about the accident and assuring him that he had her utmost support, no matter what occurred between them on a personal level.

Quietly, she opened her door and peered out into the hall, then tiptoed across and knocked.

“I need to talk to you,” she said when he answered.

He stood motionless for a moment, looking not only exhausted, but lukewarm to the idea of her presence. He stepped back nevertheless and invited her in.

She noticed his trunk lying open in the middle of the room. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon, along with most everyone else. Cowes week is definitely finished.”

Martin moved to the chair and sat down. He set his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his jaw. Evelyn sat down on the bed.

“Are you recovered from yesterday?” she asked.

He made a shrugging gesture, as if to say no one could ever recover from an experience such as that.

“It was the second time you saved my life,” she mentioned.

It was actually the third, if she considered what the rest of her life might have been like if she’d not spent this week with him. She might have ended up married to a man who did not truly care for her, a man who only wanted her for her fortune.

He dropped both hands to his knees and just looked at her for a drawn-out moment.

“I wish you would say something, Martin.”

He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know what to say. It was an ordeal, and it ended tragically. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did.”

“But it could have been so much worse,” she
argued. “You were a hero yesterday. I hope you know that. I hope you’re not punishing yourself because of what Hatfield said. He is a spiteful worm, and most people know it—at least the people who matter.”

“Believe me, I know he’s a worm. I stopped putting any stock in what he said years ago.”

“But what about his accusation that you tampered with the mast? Does that concern you? It’s a very serious charge.”

He shook his head at the outrageousness of it all. “The
Endeavor
was built for speed and nothing else, certainly not for weather like that. The mast was hollow and made of fine steel, so it was light. Every yachtsman in Cowes knows it, so it should be obvious that I didn’t tamper with it, and I certainly didn’t call up the storm. Hatfield is turning this into a bloody circus.” He paused a moment, tapping his fingers irritably on his leg. “At any rate, even if the mast had been made of solid English oak, he wouldn’t have known how to handle the
Endeavor
in those winds. He lacked experience and didn’t know he should have released the tension in the sails.”

She let out a breath. “Have you told Sir Lyndon all this?”

“Of course.”

“Then everything should be all right.” She noted with a sinking feeling in her stomach, however, that he would not look at her. He would only
look at the clock on the wall. “But there is still something else bothering you,” she said, because she knew his heart. “What is it?”

She had to wait a long time for him to speak.

“What happened to the mast was not my fault,” he said. “I know that and I take no responsibility for it, but the fact that we lost Breckinridge…” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “I will always wonder if there was not something else I could have done.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” she quickly said. “We did our best. His death is not your fault.” She squeezed the edge of the mattress and felt her own disturbing twinge of guilt, however, when she recalled the events leading up to the catastrophe. Tipping her head back, she spoke in a low voice. “If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine.”

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “When the storm hit, I was below fixing my hair after I lost my hat, and that was why Breckinridge left Hatfield at the wheel—so that he could join me below. Perhaps if he had not done that…”

Martin regarded her with somber curiosity, and his eyes narrowed with concern. “What did he want, Evelyn?”

“He came down to apologize for the loss of my hat. Or so he claimed.”

An angry frown flashed across his features. “Tell me what happened.”

She drew a deep breath. “He surprised me when he appeared, as I had not invited him to join me, then, quite without warning, he kissed me.”

Martin’s hand flexed open and closed upon the armrest. “Did he do anything else? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she replied, dropping her gaze. “I pushed him away.”

“I’m glad.”

“But there’s more,” she said hesitantly. “He insinuated all kinds of things about you and me and what we’d done together this week, then said he would be willing to salvage what was left of my reputation by making me his wife.”

Martin smacked a fist on the arm of the chair and pushed himself to stand. “He said all this to you and tried to pressure you to accept him, while a storm was brewing outside, and he’d left a drunken fool at the wheel to be responsible for his boat and all the lives upon it?”

She nodded.

His voice deepened as he ground out words. “Damn him to hell and beyond, Evelyn. You could have died out there. We all could have.”

“I know.”

“It was not your fault,” he said firmly. “Do not for one minute of your life think otherwise.”

Evelyn sighed drearily. “It’s pointless, you know, the two of us asking these questions, confessing things, trying to accept or assign blame.
We will both simply have to accept that it happened, someone died, and nothing will ever change that. We cannot go through life questioning our roles in it. There would only be grief and torment if we did that.”

His voice simmered. “Sometimes grief and torment cannot be avoided.”

“What are you saying, Martin?” But she had a feeling she already knew where his thoughts had gone.

He exhaled harshly—as if frustrated by her questions—stood up, and walked to the window. “I am no stranger to guilt and blame,” he quietly said. “It has taken over my life, and after yesterday, I am beginning to wonder if I am destined to be tested with it until the day I die.”

“In what way?” she asked.

He kept his back to her. “There’s something I did not tell you, Evelyn, about the death of my wife and child, and I think it’s time you knew. Maybe then you would understand why I can’t give you what you want.”

Evelyn’s blood cooled in her veins. “You told me they died in a fire.”

“They did. But it was not so simple as that.” He paused briefly, and she feared he was going to change his mind about telling her.

“What happened, Martin?”

He turned to face her and leaned back against the windowsill. “The night that it happened, we
had sent the servants out because it was my birthday and we wished to be alone as a family. Unfortunately, we ate too much cake and Owen developed a bellyache, so Charlotte took him upstairs early to tend to him. I went out to the stables to pass the time, but I was careless…I did something I will never forgive myself for.”

“What? What did you do?”

“I left a candle burning in the parlor. It was too close to the curtains, and the window was open so the breeze was blowing in…”

She steepled her fingers together in front of her nose. “Oh, Martin.”

He looked around the room at the pictures on the wall, the carpet on the floor, the empty trunk at his feet. “What makes it worse is that I smelled smoke from the stables very early on but dismissed it. I assumed it was coming from the chimney over the stove in the kitchen or the fireplace in the bedchamber. But then, when I thought of the candle, it was too late. I ran back, but the house was already in flames. I tried to get in, but couldn’t get to the stairs. I tried everything, Evelyn,
everything,
but eventually all I could do was watch from the road as the house burned and collapsed to the ground in front of my eyes, with the bodies of my wife and child trapped inside.”

She was assailed by a grief so horrendous, she could barely speak. “I am so sorry, Martin.”

He met her gaze directly. “Sometimes I dream about my son in that fire, and I wake up sobbing.”

Evelyn rose and went to him. “But you can’t blame yourself forever,” she gently said. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” he replied, “and every day I try to convince myself of that. Spence tries to convince me, too, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I will always wish I could have gotten in to save them, or that I had done something differently, just as I will always wonder if I could have done something differently yesterday.”

Evelyn rested her chin on his shoulder. “We did everything anyone could possibly do yesterday. And if you had gone into that burning house, you would be dead, too.”

“Maybe that’s how it should have been.”

She laid a hand on his chest. “No, do not say that. You saved four people yesterday. We’d all be dead now if it weren’t for you.”

He nodded, but she knew it was a polite response, meant only to appease her, to make her feel as if she were helping, when it was clear that nothing could ever take away his pain. He would carry it with him to his grave.

He said nothing more, and she sensed he wanted to be alone and pack his things. But how could she bring herself to walk away from him
now and say good-bye to him? To leave him when he felt so low?

“Don’t go yet, Martin. Stay another day. Stay with
me
.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. The cloudy light shone through the glass, while he gazed for a long time out over the water. “Because the truth is Evelyn—yesterday when I watched you sail away on the
Endeavor
with Breckinridge, something happened to me, and I didn’t care about the race or the trophy or the wretched life I had been living for the past four years. All I wanted to do was catch up to you and force Breckinridge to give you up, because I wanted you for my own.”

Shock poured through her as she absorbed his reply. He
had
been coming after her. He had not wanted her to marry Breckinridge.

“But what about today?” she asked, glancing down at his open trunk. “Do you still feel that way?”

He glanced down at the trunk, too. “No. I feel very differently.”

She felt as if she’d been slapped. “Why?” But she already knew the answer to the question. It was why he had told her about his wife and child.

“Because when you fell off that boat I feared you were going to drown,” he explained, “it made
me remember why I have been alone all these years, and why I wish to continue to be alone.”

“But yesterday you—”

“I was feeling impulsive and romantic and Spence was encouraging me. But I had forgotten some things about my life and what I want and do not want. Fate, however, saw fit to remind me.”

God help her. He would never love her now, because he had relived a tragedy, which confirmed his greatest fear.

She had promised herself she would let him go when the time came. She had intended to hold on to her dignity. But oh, how it stung to think she had come so close to winning his heart only to lose everything the moment that wretched mast had snapped.

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I don’t want another family.”

She sank into the chair. “I almost wish you hadn’t told me the truth. I wish you had told me you were just trying to race with the
Endeavor,
and that’s why you were there. But now I have to accept that you did care for me, but you love your pain more, and you
want
to be unhappy, and there is nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Please understand, Evelyn,” he replied.

But she did
not
understand. How could she? She loved him.

She stood and went to him and laid her hands
on his chest and tried one more time to make him see. “I just had the best week of my life with you, Martin, and I know you enjoyed it, too. I love you, and I want a chance to try and make you happy, to help you let go of that pain.”

The color drained from his face. “I’ll never be able to let go of it, Evelyn. I had a son who died in front of me.”

She shook inwardly at the words. “But maybe someday you could learn to live with the loss, but find new joy at the same time—and not the kind of joy that just distracts you and makes you forget. You could start again, Martin. You could have another child.”

His eyes flashed with shock, then he shook his head and backed away. “No.”

An aching defeat centered in her chest. “So that’s it? All I can do is watch you leave?”

She held him in her gaze one final moment, then realized miserably what she was doing. She was pleading with him for his love. She was begging in the face of rejection.

Having decided years ago that she would never beg or plead with any man who did not want her, she steeled her heart and her emotions and finally just nodded at him.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. Then she turned around and walked out.

W
hen Evelyn returned to her London residence on St. James’s Square, she was more than grateful for the familiarity of her regular routine, for it distracted her from her heartache. She kept very busy, filling each day with activities and projects at home—such as changing the layout of the furniture in her drawing room and tending to the mountains of correspondence, which had piled to overflowing on her desk while she’d been away. There were invitations to accept or decline and a number of personal letters from various acquaintances, which took a significant amount of time to answer.

She did her best not to hope for a letter from
Martin—even if it was only to make contact and tell her again that he was sorry. It was a challenge, however, each time a footman approached her with a letter. She would freeze for a brief instant and stare at the envelope upon the silver salver, held by a white-gloved hand, and her heart would race.

There were never any letters from him, of course. Everything was as it had been that last day in Cowes. He had cut her loose without the slightest wavering—swiftly and decisively, the same way he sailed his yacht—and she was not surprised.

So she did the only thing she could do. She resolved to cut him loose from her heart and mind as well and set her gaze upon the future. She accepted invitations to balls and assemblies. She purchased new hats and gowns and dug out her mother’s jewels, which she’d never had the courage to wear before. She was determined not to retreat into her widow’s weeds and don her famous mask of cool detachment. She would embrace the woman she had discovered within herself in Cowes and join society eagerly and with a smile, while fighting relentlessly against the pain she felt inside.

The following week she let it be known she would be at home for callers every afternoon and received a number of visitors she’d never met before—the majority of them her social superiors
who had sons seeking to marry money. She received them all with great warmth and graciousness, poured tea for them, and learned about their homes and families. By the time their fifteen-minute calls were up, most of them left with smiles and adulation. The Countess of Aldersleigh even went so far as to say to Evelyn on her way out: “Mrs. Wheaton, you were not at all what I had expected.”

“I hope that is a compliment,” Evelyn replied with a flash of humor in her voice, which she struggled hard to portray.

The countess handed over her card. “Oh yes, my dear. Have no doubt. The gentlemen of London will be quite pleasantly surprised to meet you in the coming weeks, and I predict you’ll be the topic of many intriguing conversations.”

Evelyn accepted the card and said good-bye. As soon as the countess was gone, however, she returned to the sofa and studied the fine print, wishing she could feel more triumphant. She would soon have a ready supply of potential husbands to choose from, all waiting to make her acquaintance. She should be ecstatic and eager to meet them, but all she felt was a sinking dread.

Just then, the butler appeared at the drawing-room door and said, “Another visitor to see you, Mrs. Wheaton. The Duchess of Wentworth.”

Evelyn blinked with surprise and laid an open
hand upon her breast. “Good heavens. Please show her up.”

As soon as the butler turned, she set the countess’s card on a table with the others, then glanced around, hoping the room looked its best. She was hardly prepared for the famous American duchess. More importantly, Martin’s sister-in-law. What was she doing here? Did he know she was paying this call?

Smoothing her skirts and taking a deep breath to compose herself, she sat down and waited. At last, the door opened, and a woman entered. She wore a crimson gown of soft China silk piped with velvet, and a matching hat with a wide brim, turned up at the sides.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wheaton,” she said.

Evelyn was immediately spellbound by her shimmering blue eyes and charismatic smile. She was astonishingly beautiful, surely the most stunning woman Evelyn had ever met.

She rose and curtsied. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the duchess replied, still standing in the open doorway.

“Please.” Evelyn gestured to the chair opposite hers. “May I offer you some tea?”

“That would be very nice, thank you.” She crossed the room and took a seat. “You have a lovely home.”

Evelyn reached for the teapot. “You’re very kind
to say so. It was my father’s final purchase before he passed away.”

For the next few minutes they engaged in lighter chitchat, discussing the weather, the current opera at Her Majesty’s Theatre. Then the duchess set her teacup on the table in front of her.

“I confess, Mrs. Wheaton, I can only manage light conversation for so long, then I must speak what is on my mind. It’s one of those American traits I cannot seem to shed. I hope you do not mind.”

“Of course not,” Evelyn replied, setting her own cup down as well.

The duchess closed one black-gloved hand over the other. “I came to see you today because I wanted to speak to you about what happened at Cowes. I am concerned, you see, about my husband’s brother, Lord Martin.”

Evelyn maintained her straight posture. “In what regard?”

“We have heard there has been some talk.”

Not certain whether the duchess was referring to the tragedy on the
Endeavor
or Evelyn’s torrid affair with him, she sat forward slightly and pressed for clarification. “What kind of talk, Your Grace?”

“I understand that there are some who believe Martin had intended to eliminate Lord Breckinridge from the race because he feared he would
lose against him. More specifically, they say he tried to have Breckinridge disqualified in a near collision, and some are even suggesting that he tampered with the
Endeavor
’s mast and intentionally left the earl to drown. I am assuming, since you were on board the
Endeavor
when she went down, that you know about all this?”

“Yes,” Evelyn replied. “I am aware there has been talk, but I can assure you, Your Grace, that your brother-in-law acted honorably in every way. He came to our rescue when the boat overturned and risked his own life to save all of ours. He did not tamper with the
Endeavor
’s mast. It was flimsy to begin with, and any sailor who has seen her can attest to that. The
Endeavor
’s designer certainly could. His name is Joshua Benjamin, and he is here in London. And regarding the near collison, Martin was not at fault. It was Mr. Hatfield and Lord Breckinridge who disgraced themselves by breaking the laws of the sea and lying about it afterward. They were the ones who wished to eliminate their opponent—your brother-in-law, Lord Martin.”

The duchess sat very still, her expression serious. “Were you there when the near collision occurred?”

“No,” Evelyn replied.

“Then how do you know Martin was not at fault?”

“Because he told me, and I believe him.”

For a long moment, the duchess gazed thoughtfully at Evelyn, then she reached for her tea and held it on her lap again. “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Mrs. Wheaton. I was sure he would never do such a thing, of course, but I wanted to know what
you
thought.” She raised her cup to her lips and took a sip, then spoke with fervor. “Martin is a good man. He has already had far too much tragedy in his life. He does not deserve any of this.”

“Believe me, I know that,” Evelyn said.

They looked at each other contemplatively for a moment, then sipped their tea.

The duchess finished hers, then set her cup and saucer down on the table again. “May I impose upon you with one more question, Mrs Wheaton?”

“It is no imposition, Your Grace.”

The duchess lowered her voice. “Some are also saying that you had become secretly engaged to Lord Breckinridge while Martin, too, was vying for your hand. I would like very much to know—is there any truth to this?”

Evelyn carefully considered how she should reply, for she was not sure Martin would want his family to know all the details of his personal life. “I was not engaged to Lord Breckinridge, although he did propose just before the accident. I refused him. And your brother-in-law was never vying for my hand.”

“But you and he were…
acquainted
with one another?” she said, tilting her head to the side.

What exactly did she know? Evelyn wondered. “Yes. I admired him very much, and we were…” She paused. “We shared some special moments together during the week, Your Grace.”

“I see.”

But did she see? Was she presuming their affair had been sordid or superficial? Or did she know how deeply Evelyn cared for him?

The duchess rose from her chair to leave. “Well, I suppose I must leave you to your afternoon.”

“But wait…
Please
,” Evelyn quickly said, holding up a hand. “I must know, Your Grace…How is he?”

The duchess slowly sat back down and clasped her hands together on her lap again. “I’m afraid he has not been himself since Cowes.”

Evelyn heeded this news with both sorrow and concern. “It ended tragically, there is no doubt. I hope this additional, unfortunate hearsay has not caused him an undue amount of stress.”

“It has caused him a great deal, I regret to say. But he is not one to show his temper or complain. Instead, he has kept his solitude since his return to London, which is why my husband and I have become concerned. He has not been so reticent in a very long time.”

Evelyn’s chest rose and fell heavily as her breathing quickened. “Your Grace, I know of the guilt
your brother carries with him regarding his wife and child, which is why this terrible injustice
must
be resolved. I have made my opinions on the matter known to Sir Lyndon Wadsworth, the commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, and your husband should speak also to Lord Radley, who is Breckinridge’s uncle. He will defend Martin, I know he will, and I, too, will speak publicly if it will help. He has many supporters, and I believe all of this was started by Mr. Sheldon Hatfield, a spiteful, deceitful man. He is jealous of Martin and always has been. If your husband could perhaps also speak to Mr. Hatfield and inform him that no one believes his ridiculous accusations, then it might help to—”

“My husband is paying a call to Mr. Hatfield at this very moment,” the duchess explained. “So do not worry, Mrs. Wheaton. We are behind our brother in every possible way. His happiness means everything to us. I just wish it meant something to him. Sometimes I fear he is determined to punish himself for the rest of his life by depriving himself of joy.”

Evelyn sat back. She certainly understood what the duchess was saying. “Does he know you are here?” she asked.

“No,” Her Grace replied. Then she sat back, too, and smiled. “I must confess, this visit was more for me than anyone else—to satisfy my curiosity about you. Now, having met you, I can feel
good about the time he spent with you in Cowes. That despite all of this, the week wasn’t a complete waste of time, that he did allow himself some happiness.”

Recognizing the teasing humor in the duchess’s eyes, Evelyn relaxed slightly. “We enjoyed each other’s company very much.”

“I’m sure you did. And I thank you for defending him.”

They both rose, and on the way out, the duchess handed Evelyn her card. “I hope you will call on me sometime, Mrs. Wheaton. I am at home at Wentworth House on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and it would be a great pleasure to receive you. I would enjoy getting to know you better.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

After the duchess was gone, Evelyn gazed down at the card and tried to imagine herself calling upon her. Would Martin be there? Would he receive her, too?

With a disturbing tremor of anxiety, she slipped the card into her pocket and watched out the window as the duchess climbed into her shiny, black, crested coach and it slowly pulled away.

“What the devil did you think you were doing?” Martin demanded to know, bursting into his brother’s study later that evening. “You had no right to speak to Hatfield on my behalf.”

James Langdon, ninth Duke of Wentworth, was comfortably seated behind his large mahogany desk with an electric lamp shining brightly on his papers. He looked up, grinned wickedly, then set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He stretched and put his hands behind his head. “I thought that might get a rise out of you.”

“I can bloody well take care of my own business,” Martin said. “I don’t need you going behind my back as if I am guilty and require your mighty intervention.”

His brother eyed him shrewdly. “So you’re
not
guilty, then.”

“Of course I am not, and you damn well know it.”

His brother stood up and walked to the cabinet. He poured two glasses of brandy and offered one to Martin. “I never doubted it for a second. I only wondered why you were letting this nonsense go on for so long. It’s not like you.”

Martin accepted the glass and swirled the amber liquid around. “Hatfield’s an ass. Most people know that.”

“Perhaps they do, but it’s never wise to let the ass think he is in charge of the cart. He needed to be dealt with.”

Martin raised the glass to point at James. “By me. Not you.”

“Then why have you not done it?”

Martin stared at him for a moment, then strode
across the room to the fireplace. He watched the flames dance and listened to the snap of the sparks in the grate. “I don’t care what people are thinking or saying about me. I’m no stranger to gossip.”

“Idle chitchat about your bedroom antics is one thing,” James said. “Lies and false accusations about a man’s death are quite another.”

Martin sat down in front of the fire. “So what, dare I ask, did you say to him?”

“I asked him for proof that you tampered with the
Endeavor
’s mast, and he cowered like a baby and said he had none.”

Martin glanced up at his brother sardonically. “I doubt it was as polite as all that, James. Will he have a blackened eye the next time I see him? Or did you harmlessly aim a pistol at him from across the room?”