Lancelot wished he didn’t have to face Miss Barry. He hadn’t thought of much beyond rescuing her when he and Captain Forrester had rushed here from London.
As the blinding rage faded, all he felt was cold disdain and the most profound disappointment in the woman he’d given his heart to. He didn’t think he could ever erase the image of her pinned under St. Leger.
He wiped a hand over his eyes to dispel it.
“Miss Barry, come, we’ll take you home.” Captain Forrester’s soothing tone shook Lancelot from the stupor he seemed to be in.
He lifted his gaze until it met hers. She looked disheveled but still clothed. Captain Forrester was right. They had come just in time. Overwhelming relief filled him. If that swine had ruined her, Lancelot would have killed him. He still felt the anger hovering dangerously close to the surface of his reason.
He could only watch as Captain Forrester put a hand under her elbow to help her stand. “Good, you still have your shoes on. Now to find your cloak.”
She put a hand to her head. “How long have I been here?”
“You don’t know?” Captain Forrester’s gaze met his across Miss Barry’s head. “Do you mean you were unconscious?”
“I . . . think . . . so. I remember so little.”
“You can tell us in the coach. We need to get you back home before anyone suspects you were not at the ball.”
At the last word, she put a trembling hand to her lips, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. Lancelot felt more pain than any blows St. Leger had given him. He clenched his fists in an effort not to be softened by her tears.
“I can’t go home—I can’t go—”
“Shh,” Captain Forrester whispered. “We’re taking you to Mrs. Phillips. She’s waiting for you. No one knows anything and no one need know anything. It’s thanks to Mr. Marfleet here that we found you in the nick of time. The ball is still going on, no one need be the wiser that anything happened to you.”
Slowly she raised her head and met Lancelot’s gaze. There was a stunned, lost look in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, and she covered it quickly with her hand.
He felt frozen, unable to go to her and comfort her. Why had she gone with St. Leger? How could she?
Captain Forrester looked about him for her cloak, and seeing it at the end of the bed, he wrapped it around her. Then he led her to the door, his arm around her since she appeared unsteady on her feet.
At that hour, the inn was quiet and Captain Forrester was able to escort her out without anyone seeing her but the innkeeper, who eyed her as she passed him.
Lancelot walked behind them with a sharp nod to the man. The man quickly looked away and turned his attention back to wiping down the bar. They’d had to bribe him and threaten him before he’d divulged St. Leger’s presence.
Once in the carriage, Lancelot sat facing Miss Barry. The coach swayed along the bumpy road. Everything was dark save the small light cast by the outside lanterns.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Captain Forrester asked once they had gotten underway and he’d tucked a travel rug about her.
“I can . . . can hardly think . . . straight.” Her words were slow, as if she had a hard time forming them. Once again she brought a hand to her head. “I scarcely remember. My . . . my head feels . . . like lead.”
“Perhaps something was given you?”
She raised her head, frowning.
Captain Forrester enunciated each word, as if speaking to a child. “Someone may have put something in a drink, something to cause you to lose consciousness.”
She brought a hand to her mouth. “How . . . ?”
“Did you have anything to drink?”
She hunched over, her hands to her temples as if it hurt to think. Lancelot kneaded his knuckles, wishing he’d caused St. Leger more harm. If that man had drugged an innocent young lady . . . A wave of revulsion swept through him.
He’d seen much vile conduct among young gentlemen, both at college and among officers in India, but he’d never known a gentleman to take advantage of a young lady of gentle birth. Among women they considered beneath them socially, they exercised no scruples.
“I . . . seem . . . to recall . . . something—champagne.” She looked up as if having solved a puzzle. “He . . .” At the mention of St. Leger, she averted her gaze. “He brought me some,” she finished in a low tone, forcing Lancelot to lean forward to hear.
“I saw him,” Lancelot found himself saying.
They both looked at him. “I was looking for you,” he said with difficulty, “to—to ask you in to supper. I saw him bring you a glass of champagne.” The words sounded accusatory even to his ears.
Her gaze fell and she nodded. “I . . . I remember drinking it.” She gasped.
“What is it?” Captain Forrester asked, bending near her. Lancelot wished he were the one sitting beside her to put his arm around her. She looked so forlorn, so lost.
“I remember saying it . . . tasted differently.”
Captain Forrester met Lancelot’s gaze across the shadowy interior. “Was it bitter?”
“I don’t remember . . . only that it was not sweet.” Her words continued slowly, as if she were still having trouble remembering or stringing the words together. “But he said it was a . . . different kind of . . . champagne.”
“He must have put something in it to make you more . . . compliant,” Captain Forrester said in a grim voice.
“Do you remember anything more?” Lancelot asked, striving to make his tone more gentle.
She swallowed, looking toward the window. “I . . . remember walking into . . . supper. I think I began to feel—yes, yes, I began to feel dizzy.” She clutched a hand to her breast. “I thought the room was swaying. But he took me by the arm. I remember sitting down, and the food seemed to be moving on the plate. But I tried to eat—he said I may have danced too much, become overheated.”
She turned to Captain Forrester, her look imploring. “But I’ve danced as much before—I think I told him that—and never felt so. I remember very little more—I think he took me outside. I remember the night air, but I just wanted to sit down . . . and then I was in a coach . . . and then . . .” She fell silent, swallowed, and turned anguished eyes toward Lancelot.
He wanted to erase that haunted look. “It’s all right,” he managed softly even as his heart felt wrenched in pain. “We arrived in time.”
“Thanks to you,” Captain Forrester said. He smiled at Miss Barry. “Mr. Marfleet here was the one who noted you missing. He was quite concerned about you. I don’t think much time had elapsed since dinner when he asked Miss Phillips and me if we had seen you. He had seen you last with St. Leger and didn’t trust him.”
Miss Barry stared at Lancelot from the moment the captain mentioned his worry.
“None of us had seen you since supper,” the captain continued when Lancelot said nothing. “We immediately began to look for you. As soon as we realized you weren’t anywhere in the house, Marfleet here didn’t rest. He bribed or browbeat the servants until he found a groom who had seen a carriage leave from the mews.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “From the mews? That’s why . . . I seemed to be in a garden and it was dark.”
“You must have lost consciousness soon after. I don’t think you were at the inn too long. We wasted no time in coming after you once Marfleet found out from one of St. Leger’s cronies where he—er—takes . . . ahem . . .”
Her round eyes looked up at him. “Young ladies?”
Even Captain Forrester’s cheeks looked ruddy in the semidarkness.
“I’m sure he usually limits his pursuits to lowborn women who can’t defend themselves—servant girls, shopgirls, young chorus girls,” Lancelot finished for Captain Forrester, capturing Miss Barry’s shocked attention once more. He coughed. “That’s why it seems so incomprehensible that he should pursue his wicked intentions so far with a young lady.”
She brought her hands to her cheeks. “How horrible.” She shuddered. After a moment she lifted her gaze to him once more. “But why me?”
“Perhaps he just saw you as a defenseless young woman—your father is not here. You have only Lady Beasinger—a careless chaperon at best, with no real weight in society. I hate to disillusion you about the wiles of men, but he was probably bored and saw you as an easy mark.” Lancelot had kept his tone dispassionate, even hard, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her to realize how close she’d been to utter ruin.
Captain Forrester flicked a look at him. “What he didn’t count on is that you had a defender in Mr. Marfleet.” The captain pressed her hand. “He may not flaunt his credentials, but never fear, my dear Miss Barry, the Marfleet name is one to be reckoned with in society. St. Leger, whose fortune is indifferent, will keep his word, I am certain.”
As the words sank in, she dropped her head in her hands. “I am ruined! How shall I face Papa and Mama?” As if remembering their presence, she shook herself and sat up, looking away from them. “Forgive me—it’s not your concern. You have already done more for me than I merit. I deserve whatever comes to me. How could I have been so foolish?” she murmured as if to herself.
Captain Forrester patted her hand that rested in her lap.
Once again Lancelot longed to reach for her and offer her comfort, but something held him back. He could not forget her disdain of him and how she had encouraged St. Leger’s advances.
“We are confident there will be no scandal. Unfortunately, it means that we will not be able to do anything to St. Leger directly. If St. Leger has the audacity to show his face in a drawing room or ball, we can only use underhanded means to keep him out. We shall certainly inquire at the clubs and see if he owes money anywhere. If he does, we can use that as leverage to insure his silence.”
His words roused her. She clutched his arm. “Please don’t do anything, don’t say anything! I can never hold my head up again in public.”
“There, there, don’t fret. Mrs. Phillips and Miss Phillips will be able to comfort you more than we, but be assured, they will be of an opinion with us. We were very discreet this evening, and not too much time elapsed since St. Leger spirited you away. I am sure the ball is only now breaking up.” He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “It is going on three. They may not even have played Sir Roger de Coverley yet. Mrs. Phillips pled fatigue and made it clear she was leaving the ball early with both of you. Even if they didn’t see you, the guests will assume you all left together. When you appear in public again, no one will be the wiser.”
Miss Barry’s brief outburst seemed to have cost her all her energy. She lapsed into silence, her gaze fixed on the window for the rest of the ride.
Lancelot spent the time praying to overcome the anger and bitterness lodged in his chest. Show me what to do, Lord. You see the extent of the vileness, the villainy of that scoundrel. He mustn’t be permitted to escape scot-free—to do the same thing to countless other defenseless women.
By the time they arrived, Miss Barry’s head was slumped forward, either from exhaustion or the lingering effects of whatever drug St. Leger had laced her drink with.
Lancelot rose as soon as the coach came to a stop and opened the door and let down the step. There was no footman at the door, for which he was grateful. Surely, Mrs. Phillips had shown wisdom in not alerting the staff. The lamps were still burning. Captain Forrester roused Miss Barry and helped her down. As Lancelot approached the front door, it opened.
Miss Phillips peered round the edge, and when she saw them, she opened it wide. She was dressed in her nightgown and dressing gown, her dark hair braided down her back under a nightcap.
She drew Miss Barry in, hugging her. “Thank God you are all right.” She looked at the two of them with a question in her eyes.
Captain Forrester nodded in reassurance. “Apart from the aftereffects of whatever drug she was given, she is unharmed. The best thing is to get her to bed.”
Miss Phillips gasped at the word drug.
Before she could say anything, Lancelot said, “We will not keep you.”
She gave them both a heartfelt thank-you.
Captain Forrester said, “Get some rest, both of you. How is Mrs. Phillips?”
“She is fine. I insisted she go to bed, that I would watch for your return.”
“That was wise,” the captain said, reopening the door. “We shall be around tomorrow to see how everything is.”
He shut the door behind them, and they returned to the carriage.
When they were on their way, Lancelot having given instructions to the driver to drop Captain Forrester at his lodgings, Captain Forrester spoke in the dark interior. “What do you think—will any hint of scandal arise from this night?”
Lancelot drew in a breath, pondering. “It all depends upon how good St. Leger’s word is.” He motioned toward the front. “I shall pay the jarvey a generous sum, although I don’t think he saw Miss Barry, bundled up as she was. She doesn’t reside with Mrs. Phillips, so cannot be linked to this address.”
“I don’t think St. Leger’s friends will talk,” the captain said. “Why should they wish Miss Barry ill?” He shifted in his seat as if debating. “It’s hard to say if speaking to them will have a beneficial or adverse effect.”
“Yes.” Lancelot rubbed his jaw, feeling the fatigue. “That’s what’s so frustrating. We don’t want to make enemies of them. Yet, I find it hard to countenance allowing St. Leger to walk blameless. But anything we do will only bring attention back to Miss Barry, no matter how innocent she was in the matter.”
“You do realize that, don’t you?”
Lancelot stared at him in the predawn light. “Why do you say that?”
Captain Forrester shrugged. “At the inn you looked like someone had clobbered you—and that was before your tussle with St. Leger. I would hate to think you have put any of the blame upon Miss Barry for finding herself in this situation.”
Lancelot blew out a long breath, wishing the captain had not been so discerning.
“Men like St. Leger use any means, flattery, charm, sympathy, to win a woman’s trust,” he added. “Incapacitating her with a drug is beyond the pale.”
The captain said nothing more, allowing Lancelot to mull on his words. After a moment or two, Lancelot said, “What you say is true. My anger doesn’t originate with tonight, however. It has been growing since the evening I saw Miss Barry alone in St. Leger’s company—after drinking champagne. I warned her then about him.”
“She’s very young and innocent about men.”
“Yes.” The single word expressed his frustration at her dilemma. “But she has been courting disaster for some time now. She should have known better than to go outside alone with a gentleman.”
Captain Forrester took his time to respond. “I don’t know Miss Barry so I cannot judge her conduct. She and Miss Phillips both seem modest, chaste young ladies.”
“Miss Barry’s father is a vicar. She has been brought up in a small village vicarage her whole life.” Lancelot’s voice rose. “Since she arrived in London, she has behaved as if she had conveniently forgotten all she was taught.”
“Perhaps all the more reason she was fooled by someone like St. Leger.”
Lancelot made an impatient gesture. “Then why hasn’t Miss Phillips behaved in the same manner?” Without giving the captain a chance to respond, he shook his head in disgust. “Listen to me! I should be the one who speaks in a careful, reasoned way, not with anger and resentment. After all, I am the clergyman.”
Captain Forrester issued a low chuckle. “But my emotions are not involved. If it had been Miss Phillips . . .” He let the words hang in the air a second. “You would not have been able to pry my hands away from St. Leger’s neck before snuffing out his last breath.”
Megan hugged Jessamine tightly as soon as the door was shut behind them. Jessamine buried her head in Megan’s shoulder, the tears finally letting loose. She had had time to piece everything back together during the coach ride, and the horror of it all only grew.
She’d had to rein in her misery and desolation, too embarrassed and humiliated before Captain Forrester—a virtual stranger—and Mr. Marfleet, a man who had admired her to the point of being willing to offer for her. She shuddered, her sobs increasing at the thought of this godly man, whose honor and integrity reminded her of her father’s, having witnessed her degradation.
“There now,” Megan said in a soothing voice, her hand patting her back. “There now, you’re safe,” she continued murmuring as she nudged Jessamine away from the door.
Jessamine’s legs still felt rubbery, and without Megan’s help she didn’t think she would have made it up the stairs. Megan led her to her own room and shut the door.
“Come, let’s get you undressed and into bed. I brought up some milk which I’ve kept warm on the hob. It will help calm you.”
“D-does everyone know?” Her lips trembled so she could hardly speak.
“Only Céline. She went to bed because we didn’t . . .” Megan’s voice faltered. “We didn’t know when they would find you. Thank God they found you as quickly as they did. I have never been so thankful for anyone as I was for Mr. Marfleet this evening. If it hadn’t been for his concern . . .” She shuddered.
Jessamine sat on the edge of Megan’s bed, too lethargic to do anything, her heart sinking further at the words.
“I insisted Céline go to bed,” Megan continued, “because I knew Rees wouldn’t want her up so late, in her condition. But she wanted me to wake her the moment we heard anything.”
Jessamine shook her head. “Please don’t—”
Megan patted her hands, which lay limply on her lap. “No, I shan’t. Here, let’s get you out of your gown. Captain Forrester proved himself just as trustworthy and dependable, too, tonight, a true friend.”
As she spoke, she helped Jessamine off with her cloak. “Oh, good, you have everything . . . your shawl, your reticule. Let’s get your slippers off. Oh, you’re cold.” She rubbed her hands. “Come, stand by the fire. Your night rail is laid out on the chair here, nice and warm.”
Jessamine did as she was told like a child. A naughty one who knew how badly she’d behaved and now wished only for the earth to swallow her up so she’d never have to face anyone again. Why was Megan being so nice to her?
Finally, she was in bed, her face washed, her teeth cleaned. Megan climbed in on the other side and turned to her. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
At Megan’s sympathetic look and gentle tone, tears welled up in Jessamine’s eyes again. She bit her lip, looking away. She didn’t deserve such consideration.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything if you’d rather not.”
Jessamine shook her head. “It’s so awful.” Her voice came out a rough whisper.
Megan laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. We should have been more attentive, more watchful. We saw you having a good time, dancing. We never imagined anyone could behave so vilely—not a gentleman of the ton.” She shuddered. “Céline blames herself,” Megan added after a moment. “She said she should have been more vigilant of you, knowing St. Leger has a bit of a rakish reputation.”
Jessamine’s eyes widened in shock. “Why didn’t she say anything?”
“It was only a little gossip and no worse than what is said of most of the young blades about town. She never dreamed he’d behave that way with a young lady. She said those gentlemen mostly confine their . . . their philandering to women . . . you know . . . of a certain class.” Megan’s cheeks reddened and she looked down, plucking at a corner of her pillow. “That is why they are able to behave with decorum with the young ladies they are considering for marriage.”
“Mr. Marfleet said he was not trustworthy.” If she had only heeded him before it was too late.
Megan’s sad gaze met hers. “Yes. Céline doesn’t approve of such behavior among the gentlemen of the ton, but said that is the way it is for the most part in London society—and Parisian, as she was quick to add. That’s why she was happy—and I was too—when Mr. Marfleet seemed to like you. He is not like that. His older brother is considered a bit fast, but there is no hint of gossip about Mr. Marfleet. If anything, he is teased about being a proper parson.”
Jessamine reddened, remembering the way Mr. St. Leger’s friends mocked Mr. Marfleet. “That’s what makes it worse,” she whispered. “Why did it have to be he to see me in such a shameful way?”
Megan put an arm around her. “Shh, you mustn’t fret. Thank God it was Mr. Marfleet, that he was so concerned about you. It might have been awhile longer before we noticed that you weren’t on the dance floor. I was too taken up with Captain Forrester . . .” Her voice slowed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, please. It’s no one’s fault but my own. If I hadn’t been so flattered by Mr. St. Leger’s attention—if I had drunk lemonade instead of champagne, I would have tasted that something was wrong with my drink.”
Megan drew away and scanned her face. “How could someone do something so horrible?”
Jessamine shook her head. “As soon as I drank the champagne, I began to feel strange.”
She continued speaking, knowing she owed Megan an explanation, however little she wanted to recount the events. How she wished she could blot everything out. She still wasn’t feeling wholly normal.
Megan seemed to sense this because she didn’t ask any questions, and as soon as she told her how Mr. Marfleet had burst into the room, she patted her hand. “Thank God they came in time. Captain Forrester told me you appeared unharmed . . . and that nothing worse than . . . than inflicting his kisses . . .” She appeared too embarrassed to continue.
Jessamine nodded quickly and looked away. “Yes, that’s what they told me. I . . . I had only just come to.” She put a hand to her head. “Everything still seems strange. My head feels like a ball of wool.”
Megan moved away. “And here I am keeping you up. It’s best you sleep and don’t fret about anything tonight. Tomorrow we’ll sort things out with Céline. She’ll know what to do.”
“I wish she hadn’t been dragged into this,” Jessamine said with a moan.
“Don’t worry. Céline has been through so much herself, she will not judge you harshly.” She turned down the lamp, though dawn was already lightening the room.
Grogginess swallowed Jessamine up in sleep almost immediately, but sleep lasted only a few hours.
She awoke dreaming of dark, malignant creatures. St. Leger’s smiling face loomed over hers once again, and she clawed at the air, fending him off.
She opened her eyes with a start and stared at the light seeping in from the heavy curtains.
Megan’s even breathing beside her checked her movements, and she fell back on her pillows, relieved that it had only been a dream. But the next moment everything came back to her, and despair and shame overwhelmed her.
Dear God, what have I done? How could I? Why? Dear Lord, why?
Tears filled her eyes, and she stifled the sobs that threatened to erupt. Megan deserved to sleep. She’d been up most of the night because of Jessamine’s folly.
Turning carefully in the bed to face away from Megan, Jessamine burrowed under her covers and continued praying. She asked the Lord’s forgiveness but felt no solace. She’d courted disaster and now she had to live with the consequences. Her father was a kind, gentle man, but he had brought her up to understand that fact. A person reaped what she sowed.
She had wanted to prove that she was attractive to men as handsome and charming as Mr. St. Leger—and all she’d proved was how vain and shallow a creature she was, her head turned by a handsome face and a few crumbs of attention.
Mr. St. Leger had never had any honorable intentions. She buried her head in her pillow, overcome with humiliation. She couldn’t imagine marrying such a despicable, debauched man as that. A man who hid his true character behind a lazy smile and witticisms. She shuddered at how easily she had been duped.
How different from a man of honor and character . . . like Mr. Marfleet, a man she’d disdained from the moment she’d met him but who had been nothing but attentive and gentlemanly. She thought of his anger the night before, how he’d fought Mr. St. Leger.
But then she remembered the look of pain and reproach when he’d met her eyes. She didn’t think she could ever face him again.
He had warned her about Mr. St. Leger, and she had willfully scorned him. Well, he’d been vindicated last night. Her face heated. Nothing could punish her more than the fact that he’d witnessed her degradation.
But she would have to face him, no matter how little either of them wished it. For of course, he would never want to be in her company again. He must be thanking the Lord that she had repudiated his near proposal. She stifled a sob in her pillow. She who’d scorned to marry a vicar was now not even worthy of receiving a proposal from a deacon!
Captain Forrester had said something to Megan about coming around today to see how she fared.
Would Mr. Marfleet accompany him? Would his sense of duty, his good manners, compel him? She couldn’t face him.
She couldn’t bring further shame to Céline and her household, nor taint Megan’s season with any association with her. No matter what they said to convince her that scandal could be averted, Jessamine knew it was a false hope. St. Leger might not talk, but his friends all knew.
She remembered their laughing and joking over supper and on other occasions. What had seemed like high spirits and innocent fun now took on lewd and sinister implications. What a fool she’d been—a green girl from the country.
She must leave. Today.