She shut her mouth. She shook her head.
“No?”
She shook her head again, and thought that his fleeting expression of disappointment must have been in her imagination.
“No matter. Even if you had broken every commandment, I would still wish very much to wed you.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. No.”
“Why not?”
She closed her eyes. “You’re a Durant.”
He chuckled. “You don’t care about the feud. You don’t even know what caused it.”
She opened her eyes again. “Then tell me.”
“It has nothing to do with us. You’re hiding. You’re stalling. And that doesn’t sound like the Mary I know.” He peered at her. “Is this the Guinevere you fear? For I can see that she is illogical.”
Mary looked up and saw Bubb and Lady Valéry watching the scene play out before them with open fascination. She glanced around the study and noted how firmly her grandfather’s presence remained entrenched. But neither Bubb nor Lady Valéry nor her grandfather had ever comprehended her, or even cared enough to try.
Sebastian had cared enough, and it was too mortifying to realize how well he succeeded.
Mary was firmly in control again, thinking clearly and doing what had to be done, and that, she supposed, included marriage. He didn’t ever have to know about the murder. She’d get the money and pay off that valet somehow. And she was ruined, and she would be a good wife to Sebastian.
Yet that other part of her, that Guinevere, was whining, I don’t want to, I don’t want to. Guinevere cast around desperately for rescue, and why? Why? Mary knew very well why, although she could scarcely bear to admit the truth.
Guinevere Mary Fairchild had been hanging on to the dream of giving herself to a man who loved and respected her.
And hadn’t she seen often enough that dreams were for simpletons?
Realizing that she had been such a simpleton made up Mary’s mind. She nodded once, firmly, in assent. “Lord Whitfield, I will marry you.”
Chapter 19
Ian lurched through the stable. “Hadd, my old friend, where are you?” Straw dust coated the fine polish of his boots. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. “Hadd…Oh, there you are.” He leaned into one of the stalls and spoke to a young, broad-shouldered blond man who curried one of the geldings. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
The stableboy stood up, and light from the afternoon sun struck his face.
“You’re not Hadd,” Ian said accusingly. “Stop pretending to be and tell me where he is.”
The stableboy pulled his forelock and, like all good English servants, didn’t protest Ian’s injustice. “ ’E’s workin’ with that stallion. Ye’ll find him behind in the pen.”
Ian groaned. He didn’t want to face the sunlight, but he badly wanted to speak to Hadd. He felt a kinship with the other Fairchild bastard, and they’d drunk with each other more than once in the past week. Hadd never made judgmental remarks about Ian’s background, and Ian, after a few delicate attempts, never tried to find out about Hadd’s.
They talked about horses, which they both revered. They talked about English society, which they decided neither of them could ever comprehend. Infrequently Ian answered Hadd’s questions about being half-Selkie, and what he remembered of his mother’s stories. Hadd’s interest in the old ways never faltered. Ian knew he wasn’t just a curiosity for Hadd, but a friend.
The blue glow around Hadd betrayed his regard. As Ian had said, he was a difficult man to lie to.
As he feared, the sunlight blinded him as he tramped out to the fenced enclosure, but he grinned when he saw Hadd coaxing Quick to accept a ride. Ian thought Hadd focused on the triumph of the moment, until he heard Hadd ask, “Isn’t he a beauty?”
“He is indeed,” Ian said.
One of the Fairchilds’ finest, a remnant of the days when the uncles had dreamed of making money by breeding horses. They could have, too. They’d had the stock. But breeding horses took concentration over a long period of time, and none of the uncles could sustain such interest. The chance to renew the Fairchild fortune had faded away.
Now Ian’s chance to grab the Fairchild fortune had faded away, too, and it was his own fault. His own damn fault.
Hadd rode toward the fence and made to dismount. “Help me,” he invited.
Ian hesitated not at all. He was foxed, true, but with animals he never made a wrong step. So he climbed through the rails and came to the stallion’s head. Gently he held out his hands and allowed Quick to sniff them. He took hold of the bridle while Hadd slid out of the saddle.
Hadd patted the stallion and praised him, then said to Ian, “It’s early to be drunk as a piper.”
Ian squinted up at the westering sun. “No, it’s not. It’s a good time to be drunk. Join me. I’m going to the tavern in the village. We can remain there all night.”
Hadd looked him over. “I have work to do.”
Reckless, determined to have company, Ian said, “I can get you out of it.” And immediately knew he’d made a mistake.
Hadd stiffened, and his lips thinned. Sarcastically he said, “No, I thank you, my lord. Most men have to work occasionally. Most men even enjoy it.”
Maybe it was the excessive amount of brandy Ian had consumed. Maybe it was his own self-disgust. But the wrong thing to say came out of him without his even thinking. “B’God, you’re a Fairchild! You have no need to work.”
Hadd swung toward Ian, his fist up, and Ian thought the only thing that saved him from a thrashing was Quick’s restless protest. Hadd glanced at the stallion, then turned back to Ian. “You didn’t hear me, then. I enjoy working, not chasing young women for their fortunes.”
Ian snorted. “That’s not my employment.” He flung out his arms, and the stallion stumbled back, snorting, too. “That part of my life is over.”
“You’re engaged?” Hadd made the word a mockery.
A mockery that meant nothing beside the mockery Ian had just suffered from Leslie. “Worse. I’m a failure. A failure, I tell you!”
“So the young lady decided to marry the man she loved.”
“Yes. Yes, damn it, she did. And it was my fault.”
Hadd seemed a little less piqued with Ian. “I can’t see you as a matchmaker.”
“An inadvertent one, I assure you.” Ian fell into step as Hadd led the stallion toward the stable. He didn’t know why he insisted on telling Hadd these things. It wasn’t making him feel any better. Nor was he finding sympathy in the bottom of his bottle, and he certainly wasn’t going to get it in the manor. “I tried to compromise her, but she got angry.”
“Angry?”
“She didn’t like my kisses.” That still stung. “She treated me as if I were her little brother who needed a good slap.”
“Oo.” Hadd seemed a little more sympathetic now. “I’m familiar with that feeling.”
“Then she went back to her bedchamber, and who should be waiting for her but Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield.”
Hadd stopped so abruptly, Ian had to shove him aside or Quick would have stepped on him.
“Careful, cousin.” Ian staggered and almost stumbled into Quick’s path in his turn. “Hurts when a horse crushes your foot, you know.”
“Viscount Whitfield?” Hadd said.
Ian grabbed a fence rail and steadied himself. Only a little farther to the barn, where at least he’d be out of this blasted sun. He was beginning to feel rather ill, as if all the bottles he’d consumed in the past week were taking this moment to make their stand.
“Answer me, damn you!”
“Wha…oh, yes. Viscount Whitfield.” Ian’s sense of ill usage took dominance again. “Yes, that cretin, that barbarian, decided to compromise her, too. And he did it where I couldn’t. He actually did the deed.” He kept saying it, hoping the repetition would bring the reality home. Unfortunately, it did, and he barely realized how ominous his companion’
s silence seemed. “They’ll be wed before the sun sets if Lady Valéry has anything to say about it.” He wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead. “And she does. She knows the archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Before the sun sets?” Hadd glanced at the clouds turning orange and red in the sun’s last rays.
“Or sooner. B’God, they’re probably already wed. Yesterday Lady Valéry sent a messenger to her friend the archbishop to request special permission to marry, and she received the license this morning.” He sneered as he thought of having such influence—a small defiance of the envy he felt. “How fortuitous that Canterbury is so near.”
Hadd took Quick’s reins and looped them around one of the fence rails. Then he reached over, grabbed Ian’s neckcloth, and dragged him forward. “Tell me the name of the woman who is going to marry Viscount Whitfield.”
“Old man, be careful.” Ian tried to shove Hadd away. “You’ll crumple my—”
“Tell me!”
Hadd directed his question in the manner of a man demanding his rights, and for the first time an inkling of the truth niggled at Ian’s mind. Slowly he said, “My cousin Mary Fairchild.” He watched Hadd’s face, and saw the flare of raw fury that lit the young man’s eyes.
Hadd tightened his grip on the cravat until Ian could scarcely breathe. “And she was who you tried to compromise?”
“You said you knew who your father was,” Ian whispered. “Who was he?”
Hadd showed his strong white teeth in a snarl. “Guess.”
“Could it be Charles Fairchild?” Ian gulped when Hadd nodded. “And Mary is…?”
“My sister.” Hadd pulled his big fist back. “You’re not the first man I’ve thrashed for trying to seduce my sister—and you won’t be the last.”
Cane in hand, Lady Valéry moved through the gloriously decorated ballroom, eavesdropping on the wedding guests with so much wicked delight, she thought she must go straight to hell when she died.
Stopping behind a column, she heard one of Bubb’s daughters wail, “But, Daddy, he was in my bedchamber.”
“Well, your cousin had him in her bedchamber with his breeches unbuttoned,” Bubb said tersely. “Now they’ve wed, and we’re happy. Happy, I tell you, so smile.”
Lady Valéry strolled past and turned to see which one of the girls had thought to trap Sebastian. That jade, Daisy, dabbed her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes while she smiled, as instructed—until she caught sight of Lady Valéry. Then she tossed her head and walked away.
Everyone was smiling, Lady Valéry noted, although some smiles were more genuine than others. Bubb’s daughters smiled dutifully. Mary’s suitors smiled with gritted teeth, especially Mr. Mouatt, who, rumor had it, needed a quick infusion of cash or he would find himself without a feather to fly with.
Mr. Everett Brindley smiled at the newlyweds with a sharp gleam in his eye. He might have been the matchmaker, rather than Lady Valéry, for all the pride he showed in their union, and Lady Valéry wondered if he wasn’t a bit dotty.
But there were a lot of dotty old men smiling here tonight.
Leslie smiled as if his rear hurt, which it certainly should. She had, after all, been wearing a particularly sharp set of heels when she’d kicked him. Calvin smiled at her, trying to look suave and alluring, and not succeeding. Oswald smiled with weepy-eyed infatuation—well, really, how was she to know he’d never been to the Orient? And Burgess…ah, Burgess was untried. Burgess showed potential. Burgess smiled hopefully, and Lady Valéry thought perhaps she would fulfill his dreams tonight.
Had he ever, she wondered, been to Italy?
Bubb smiled dutifully, and Nora…wasn’t there.
She hadn’t been there since Sebastian had been discovered in Mary’s bedchamber, and Lady Valéry would desperately like to know why. The Fairchild fortune had been removed forever from their jurisdiction today, and the woman who clearly directed the Fairchilds’ every move had disappeared. Inquiries as to her health produced smiles and shrugs from Bubb, and when he thought himself unseen, looks of consternation.
He was lost without his wife, and he hadn’t been able to do more than babble when Mary had stood up and announced her intention to wed Sebastian. Nora would at least have had something intelligent to say, but not even the wedding had flushed her out of hiding. Where would the Fairchild hostess be in the middle of an important house party?
Of course, Lady Valéry had admitted to a good deal of relief that Nora hadn’t appeared to lend her support to the beleaguered Mary. Better than anyone, she knew Mary’s strength of mind, and Lady Valéry applauded whatever Sebastian had said—or done—to convince her to wed him.
Now the newlyweds stood together, formally posed beneath an arch where they could be congratulated by the assemblage. No bride had ever looked lovelier than Mary in her light green gown with the wreath of broom in her hair. No groom had ever looked more handsome than Sebastian, dressed in his usual severe black, but wearing such a triumphant smile, Lady Valéry thought Mary must want to slap him.
Certainly his expression made Lady Valéry’s hand itch. Didn’t he know she had planned this? She had trapped him? He had no business looking so pleased, and she made up her mind to tell him so the first chance she had.
But Bubb was standing beside the musicians, calling for everyone’s attention, and the laughing guests quieted. “Once again,” he said in a hearty voice, “the Fairchilds have taken into the family a prize of a bridegroom. Lord Whitfield brings not only a title and a fortune—”
Lady Valéry winced.
“—our cousin’s marriage to him has also brought an end to a long-lasting and infamous feud. Speaking as the head of the Fairchild family, I sincerely welcome Lord Whitfield.”
A polite round of applause accompanied the speech, although Lady Valéry knew most of the guests preferred the entertainment of open rancor to artificial harmony. Sebastian bowed to Bubb. As Bubb bowed back, Mary looked happier than she had all evening.
Then Leslie spoke up. “Well said, nephew. Too much has been made of a youthful prank done many years ago.”
Sebastian’s smile disappeared.
“But my brothers and I wish to show we hold no grudge against the Whitfields—”
“Grudge!” Sebastian exclaimed.
“—and so we offer our wedding bequest to the newlywed couple.” Leslie smiled sweetly at the indignant Durant, and gestured to someone outside of the ballroom.
Lady Valéry was reminded of an evil elf presenting a gift to ruin the festive occasion.
Four men carried the large, heavy object concealed with a blanket. They set it on the floor and stepped away, and Leslie jerked off the covering.
A fine bronze of a rearing stallion stood almost waist-high. The workmanship was exquisite. Lady Valéry could see each muscle and vein on its body. The lifted hooves shone from polish, and rising from its belly was its organ, proudly rendered.
A moment of stunned silence gripped the ballroom.
Then someone tittered.
And Lady Valéry, whose hearing had not failed with age, heard Bubb whisper, “God help us.”
Sebastian might have been a statue himself, he stood so still, his face empty of any emotion. Mary, poor girl, understood nothing of what happened, nor did she seem to care. Instead, she stared at one of the accompanying servants with concentrated horror.
Lady Valéry looked, too.
It was that damned, slippery valet who had spoken to Mary in the corridor. Without knowing his name or who he served, Lady Valéry hadn’t been able to find him. Now as she would have nabbed that buffoon, Leslie turned his evil, false-toothed grin on Mary.
He waved at the bronze with expansive theatrics. “Let the statue remind you what a real stallion should be.”
Mary paid him no heed, but Sebastian stared at the old man as if he contemplated murder, and Leslie had the good sense to step behind the bronze for protection.
Then a commotion at the doorway turned heads. Voices trumpete
d in indignation or anger, loud in the unnatural quiet of the ruined celebration. A struggling group of footmen tumbled into the room. They looked like bees swarming around a queen, and the queen—or was it a king?—bore them inexorably onward.
Someone broke free, and Lady Valéry recognized him at once. Disaster, her mind buzzed. Danger. She had to do something, and do it immediately, or Sebastian would find himself sprawled on the floor with new bruises to nurse. She moved toward the young man who bore down on the newlyweds. She caught his arm, but he tried to knock her hand away. Then he realized who held him, and stopped—and glared. He knew her well enough to know who to hold accountable for these nuptials.
“Hadden!” Mary’s glad cry arrested his silent reproach, and she flung herself at her brother.
He wrapped her in his embrace. “Mary.” Holding her away from him, he searched her face. He seemed to find some kind of evidence there, for he said, “Then it’s true. You are wed.”
“Not an hour since. Did you come from Scotland?” She clung to him. “You could have been here!”
“He’s been here all along.” Sebastian’s heart still raced from the challenge Leslie had sent him, and now a new challenge presented itself. He saw the black eyes Hadden sported, and he knew he’d solved one puzzle. “I would say he is responsible for my second set of bruises.”
“And your third.” Bunching his fists, Hadden stepped around Mary toward Sebastian, but Mary caught his arm.
“Not here,” she begged. “Please don’t make a scene here. There have already been enough scenes to last me for the rest of my life.”
Hadden glanced around at the rapidly gathering crowd. Whispers of “Fairchild” and “ostler” and “bastard?” were racing through the ballroom. Sebastian heard them, and he knew Hadden must have, too, for he took his sister’s arm and marched her toward the door. She desperately glanced once behind her, not at Sebastian, as he expected, but at one of the men who had brought in the bronze.