The Earl's Marriage Bargain Read online

  Both men had been stern but avuncular with Daphne and Jane realised that they had found nothing strange in her behaviour—they expected gently reared females to go to pieces in a crisis and rush off to find male aid. The inquest had been adjourned until the next day, after which, they told Daphne, she could make arrangements for the funeral.

  ‘I will deal with that,’ Ivo said. ‘I will write to my family solicitor in London and he can make arrangements and sort out the will and so forth. You had best go back to your aunts while all that is going on, Daphne.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That will look best,’ Jane said and Daphne nodded meekly, to her relief.

  She watched Ivo covertly, wondering at the alchemy that made an intelligent man fall for someone so foolish and self-centred. But Daphne was fragile and frightened and Ivo was nothing if not naturally protective and gallant. He was probably still feeling guilty about her and there remained the depressing fact that she was exceedingly lovely and beauty appeared to turn the head of even the most rational man. The magistrate and coroner, despite their age and attempts at sternness, had visibly responded to the appeal in her wide eyes, her fluttering gestures and expertly wielded handkerchief.

  They ate a depressing meal, clearly scratched together from a depleted store cupboard. ‘I will speak to the staff,’ Jane said when Daphne showed no sign of noticing anything amiss.

  ‘We both will,’ Ivo said. ‘Daphne, I think you should go and lie down and rest. You must be exhausted. Have your maid look out mourning for you.’

  ‘Can you talk to the Cook and any kitchen staff?’ he asked when Daphne had drifted off upstairs, trailed by her maid. ‘I am going to make certain those footmen understand that their future prospects depend on their discretion.’

  ‘You will threaten them?’

  ‘I will point out that my solicitor will be writing their references. I think that will nip any daydreams about profitable blackmail in the bud.’

  ‘A good idea,’ Jane said, suddenly weary. Shock was beginning to set in and with it a very clear vision of a future without Ivo. And there was the worry about whether she was doing the right thing. Would Daphne, once she was safe and had what she wanted, become less selfish, more loving, or would it only make her worse?

  But what was the alternative? She could hardly say to Ivo, I love you and I think I would be better for you than the woman you have loved for years. Perhaps it was she who was being selfish, finding excuses to go back on her decision.

  All she was certain of was a strong desire to sit down and have a good weep. And that, she told herself sternly, would do none of them any good. But firm resolve did not seem to help. ‘I will go and see Cook, she said and fled before the tears escaped.

  * * *

  ‘They believed me,’ Daphne said, smiling and serene the next day.

  The inquest had found that Sir Clement had died as the result of an accidental fall while under the influence of alcohol. Daphne was apparently ignoring the fact that the jury had added that in their opinion the fact that he was having a loud argument with his wife at the time had doubtless distracted him, causing him to trip when he was in no condition to save himself.

  ‘Now all we have to do is get the funeral over and the will read and it will all be just as it was before the horrible man seduced me away.’ She clasped Ivo’s hand.

  ‘Come and sit down, Daphne,’ he said. ‘You are over-tired and still in shock.’

  She believes what she says, Jane thought with sudden realisation. She honestly believes that none of this is her fault.

  She sat in the far corner of the drawing room, as befitted a chaperon, while Daphne and Ivo talked on the sofa by the fireplace. The tears that had threatened all day yesterday had dried up, leaving only a sort of dull misery and a nagging worry that this was not the right thing to do.

  To distract herself she began to look through the sketchbook that was more than half-full now. There were the little cameos she had caught in the inquest room to distract herself—the coroner, stern and attentive, some of the jurors bored or excited, inattentive or hanging on every word. Daphne, pale and tragic in black, of course. ‘It hurts so much that my last words with him were angry ones,’ she had said, creating a ripple of sympathy around the court.

  Then, working back, she came to the sketches she had made on the journey—little snatches of rural life, figures glimpsed at the toll gates or passing inns. There was something in the cover where she tucked spare pages that bulged a little, making the pages sit unevenly. She flipped through to it and saw a dirty, creased piece of folded paper.

  What on earth is this?

  Then she remembered where it had come from. This was the paper that had fallen from Ivo’s coat when he had taken it off so the doctor could examine the stab wound. She had picked it up, meaning to give it to him, and had completely forgotten it because this was her travelling sketchbook and she had not used it once she had arrived in Batheaston.

  Jane glanced across the room. Ivo was listening to Daphne, neither of them paying any attention to her. She unfolded the paper.

  Now do you believe that I do not want you any more?

  I told them to make sure you understand. Leave me alone.

  I hate you.

  D.

  It took her a moment to realise what this was, then she recalled one of the grooms thrusting it into Ivo’s coat just before he hit him. Daphne had lied—it was not her husband who had set the four men on Ivo in a jealous rage, it was she who had tried to stop him interfering in her marriage, even if it meant he was badly hurt, or killed, as a result.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jane murmured. ‘I am going to rest.’

  She went upstairs without either of them appearing to notice that she had gone. In the safety of her room she struggled with her conscience. She could burn this or she could give it to Ivo, show him the woman he loved in her true colours, finally open his eyes to her true nature.

  But there was really no decision to make, she realised. There was all the difference in the world between giving up a man so he could marry the silly, pretty, love of his youth and hiding from him the proof that the woman he loved had ordered his beating and then lied about it.

  A cold finger seemed to touch her as she looked at the note in her hand. Had Daphne really been innocent of her husband’s death or had she pushed him down those stairs? Was she a cold-hearted murderess or simply someone who hit out when she was frightened and cornered?

  Whichever it was, she had no choice. She had to give him the note and then she had to go away, otherwise he could well conclude that she was waiting for him to propose again on the rebound from the shock.

  Jane wrote a note, folded it around Daphne’s message and sealed it, then packed the few things she had taken from her portmanteau, put on her pelisse and bonnet and went quietly downstairs. One of the footmen was in the hall. ‘Call me a cab, please.’

  When he came back she handed him the note and a coin. ‘Please give this to Lord Kendall in an hour’s time. Not before.’

  Then she gave the driver Cousin Violet’s sister’s address and sat and watched as the carriage passed the Civet Cat alehouse. How many days since she had seen Ivo there and her life had changed for ever? The cab lurched and moved on and she tried to recall what Violet had said in her last letter. Everyone was well and healthy now, but she would remain for the rest of the week and be back in Batheaston just before the wedding.

  Jane would not be imposing, she thought, and if she found that she was, then she would have to grit her teeth and move on to Aunt Hermione. Telling her that the wedding was cancelled would be...difficult. But not as difficult as learning to live with a broken heart, she supposed, bleakly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lady Harkness, Violet’s sister, was reclining on a sofa in her drawing room when Jane was admitted. Violet, who was sitting by her side, dropped
the book she had been reading aloud from and jumped to her feet.

  ‘Jane, what on earth is wrong? Althea, dear, this is Jane Newnham, our cousin.’

  ‘Lady Harkness. Cousin Althea, I mean.’ Jane dropped a small curtsy. ‘I do apologise for arriving unannounced like this, but I find myself stranded in London and I hoped Violet would assist me and that I might stay a few days. But if it is at all inconvenient I can go to Aunt Hermione.’

  Lady Harkness straightened up and put her feet on the Aubusson carpet. ‘Nonsense, of course you must stay. Goodness, it must be all of fifteen years since I last saw you. Ring the bell, dear, and then come and sit down and tell us all about it.’

  Jane did so, but she was still dubious. ‘Are you sure you are well enough for a visitor, Cousin?’ Neither were wearing black, so the baby must have survived, she realised with a surge of relief. ‘How is the little one?’

  ‘So much better, thank goodness. We were in the greatest anxiety, but after a few days little Caroline seemed to rally and the doctor is confident that she will thrive now. And I am ordered to lie around and rest, but I feel quite the impostor. Since Violet has been here I have felt able to cope with anything. And I would be delighted if you will stay.’

  She smiled, but Jane thought Althea looked pale. She would accept the invitation, but perhaps she could help by taking over some of Violet’s tasks. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘But why do you need a refuge?’ Violet demanded when her sister had rung for the housekeeper and ordered a room to be prepared for the unexpected guest. ‘And what on earth are you doing in London?’

  ‘The wedding is to be cancelled. The woman Ivo loves, the one he should have married, is now a widow. I... I released him from our engagement.’

  ‘He accepted that?’ Violet sounded incredulous. ‘He is marrying her?’

  ‘No. I do not think he will. But her arrival seeking his aid made me realise that I could not marry a man who still loved another woman. I believe that he may now have discovered things about her character that will change his mind about her, but...’ She swallowed and made herself smile. ‘It is too late. I have made it clear that I would prefer not to marry him.’

  The two sisters looked at each other, then Althea said, ‘Do be careful, Violet,’ as though they had been having a discussion.

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ Violet retorted as she turned back to Jane. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Yes. That is why.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that,’ Violet said, surprising her. ‘If you both were settling for a convenient marriage based on a mutual liking and tolerance, that is one thing, but an unequal match with one party in love with someone else—even if they have been disillusioned about that person—that would be intolerable, I imagine. You would constantly fear comparisons and recoil from showing your feelings in case he pitied you, which would destroy whatever friendship and ease there was between you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, exactly that,’ Jane said. ‘You understand. I was beginning to think I was overreacting because I dislike Lady Meredith so much, but Ivo is too important to me to settle for second best.’

  ‘And perhaps you find yourself thinking less of him because he has fallen for someone like her?’ Althea asked.

  Jane winced. ‘I suppose there is that thought niggling away at me. But she is so very lovely and men seem to be blinded by beauty.’

  And I am no match for that.

  ‘And she is in distress and Ivo has a very protective nature.’ Although just how protective he would be feeling after reading that note was moot.

  ‘What if he comes for you? Wants to marry you after all?’ Althea asked. She seemed determined to pose all the difficult questions.

  ‘He will not. I made it clear I did not want to marry him and that if he lent me the money to allow me to set myself up as a portraitist then he did not need to worry about me any further and I would have achieved my ambition.’

  Both sisters stared at her, comically alike with their mouths open. ‘You want to do what?’ Violet managed.

  ‘Be a portrait painter. But I realise that I do not, not really, not as a profession. I want the freedom to paint, yes. I want to be able to practise and improve and I thought I could only do that if I could support myself. But it would be a constant battle to keep a roof over my head and food on the table and how could I paint and learn if I am struggling all the time? I know I should be willing to suffer for my art, but I don’t think my art would be much good if I was suffering.’ She bit her lip. ‘Which is very feeble of me.’

  ‘It sounds clear-headed and practical in my opinion,’ Althea said briskly. ‘You know yourself, you understand your own strengths and weaknesses. You are not concerned with being famous for your painting, are you? No, I thought not. And—forgive me if I am prying—but I suspect you would wish to be a wife and mother as well as a painter?’

  Jane nodded again. ‘I have a friend whose ambition is to be a novelist and to right all the wrongs women labour under, and she has the passion and is single-minded enough to make all the sacrifices necessary for a life like that. And I believe they would be sacrifices, because I suspect that she wants a family and someone to love. She considers men are misguided, but she does not hate them.’

  ‘Mildred and Arthur would never be happy with a daughter who wanted to stay at home painting portraits in oils,’ Violet said to her sister. ‘They are ambitious for a fine marriage for her—they will be sorely disappointed that this one will not come about and life at home in Dorset will be difficult for Jane.’

  ‘Impossible to tolerate, I would have thought,’ Althea remarked.

  Jane winced. ‘I know. When I was explaining to him that I did not wish to marry him after all I asked Ivo to lend me money so I could establish myself somewhere like Brighton or Harrogate under an assumed name and pay him back as business developed and he agreed. I did not mean it, I knew very clearly that was not the right answer for me, but now, I wonder that he accepted it so easily. Not the idea of the loan, but my attempt to set up in business. He hardly seemed concerned about that at all.’

  Which, the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Perhaps he was so befuddled by Daphne’s return and her predicament that he was not thinking clearly, but Ivo had shown no sign of that.

  If one leaves aside his love for such an infuriating female in the first place, Jane thought with a burst of irritation.

  ‘He knows me, that is why he did not appear concerned,’ she said slowly, working it out. The thought gave her a fleeting glow of warmth.

  ‘Frankly, Lord Kendall’s emotions are the least of my concern at the moment,’ Violet said. ‘You will have a miserable time if you return home to your parents. Would you like to live with me? We get along well, I think, and I have found having a companion most congenial. And, naturally, I am more than happy for you to paint.’

  ‘Or you can come to me,’ Cousin Althea suggested. ‘Your mama might be calmed a little by the thought of you meeting eligible gentlemen in London.’

  ‘That is so kind.’ Jane looked from one to the other, at concerned, smiling faces, the warmth in their voices testimony to the genuineness of their offers.

  Violet smiled at her sister. ‘We must share Jane, you know, otherwise we will be squabbling over her.

  ‘If you think I could earn my keep, then that would make me very happy,’ Jane said. ‘I believe I can be of use, if you will allow me.’

  Whether she could achieve happiness seemed, just now, improbable, but she could be content, she thought. She would have her painting, her friends would not shun her and her cousins, she hoped, would allow her to make herself useful to them so she would not feel too much of a charity case. Mama and Papa might forgive her eventually and the life of a spinster companion was one that was the lot of many women.

  At which point something seemed to break inside, the tether that had kept he
r heartbreak under control, had allowed her to do what must be the right thing with some dignity, some grace. Now the misery had escaped, was choking her. ‘Excuse me. I must...’ Jane fled.

  Somehow she managed to be coherent as she asked a footman to direct her to her bedchamber, then she locked the door, fell on the bed and wept.

  * * *

  Jane had never been prone to crying. It had never seemed to make things better, whatever the cause of the unhappiness. But now she woke, rumpled, too hot and sticky-eyed to find a sort of strange calm had come over her. The misery was still there, but a settled thing now, not the internal storm that had threatened to tear her apart.

  She made herself tidy, washed her face in the cold water in the ewer, then rang for the maid who, as she hoped, came with hot water and a message from her cousins.

  ‘They say they hope you had a good rest, miss, and not to trouble yourself to stir before dinner.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘And that will be another two hours. I’ll unpack while you wash, shall I, Miss Newnham?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Jane blinked at the clock. Was that all the time was? Not yet half past five? She worked it out and realised that she had fled the Meredith house before luncheon and it had taken her only perhaps an hour to reach Cousin Althea’s home. In Kensington Ivo would still be coming to terms with the proof of Daphne’s betrayal and lies. What would he do? What would he be feeling? And he had no one to confide in, he was miles from home.

  Her love. Her friend. The man who had protected her and who understood her. And he needed a friend now. She had found her sanctuary and the help of friends, but Ivo was alone.

  ‘Please find me a fresh chemise and brush the skirts of my walking dress,’ she said to the maid as she jammed hairpins back into place. ‘I have to go out again.’

  Her cousins were remarkably calm when Jane erupted into their tranquil drawing room and announced that she must have a cab, now, immediately. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, all fingers and thumbs as she tried to tie her bonnet ribbons. ‘I will come back, although I do not know when. But I simply cannot run away—’