‘Damn.’ James gathered up his papers and two of the books and made for the door. ‘I’m off.’
He went out and Henry heard him say, ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace...sir, madam. Pray excuse me. Lord Henry is in the sitting room here.’
Thank you, James!
Henry could hardly pretend he had not heard that, so he opened the door, resisting the instinctive movement of his hand to straighten his neckcloth.
‘Sir. Won’t you come in? And your companions? I will ring for Mrs Logan to bring tea.’
‘No time for that. This is not a social visit.’ His father marched past him as he held the door, followed by a middle-aged lady in a slightly dated ensemble and a stony-faced gentleman with the air of a prosperous country squire about him.
‘Will you sit? This armchair here is the most comfortable, ma’am.’
She sat down without a word or a smile.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure—?’ Henry began asking, only to be cut off by an abrupt gesture from his father.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Taverner, from Dorset,’ the Duke said. ‘They came to me two days ago with a story that I would have found hard to credit if I had not already heard rumours. Rumours which, at the time, I dismissed as impossible to relate to any son of mine.’
‘But which you now find credible?’ Henry was not certain how he was holding on to his temper. ‘I would be interested to know what fault of character you have observed in me in the past to cause you to believe that I would debauch an innocent lady. That is, I assume, the crime of which I am accused?’
‘Miss Taverner is not your mistress?’
‘No, Your Grace. Not now, not ever. Miss Taverner is an acquaintance. A friend.’ As soon as he said it he knew it was a mistake.
‘Friend?’ Mr Taverner spluttered. ‘Young ladies do not make friends of men.’
‘Not normally, no, sir.’ That earned him a frustrated glower.
‘I met Miss Taverner in the company of her friends, among whom is the Duchess of Aylsham, the Countess of Kendall, the Marchioness of—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Taverner interrupted him. ‘All ladies who, while of the utmost respectability, naturally, are somewhat, that is to say, are inclined—’ He broke off, having worked himself into a tangle.
‘Are inclined to be somewhat independent in their thoughts and actions?’ Henry suggested.
‘Exactly.’ Melissa’s father did not seem best pleased at having to agree with him. ‘What is suitable for a married lady of high rank is not fit for a single girl of modest estate.’
‘Then I am surprised that you permit Miss Taverner to reside in London in her own household,’ Henry said coolly. ‘Oh, but of course—she is of age and in possession of independent means and is, therefore, her own...mistress. Is she not?’
Mrs Taverner gave a low moan and groped in her reticule. The sharp scent of sal volatile filled the room.
‘That does not mean she is without the protection of her family,’ his father snapped. ‘Mr Taverner is fully within his rights to exercise his parental prerogatives.’
‘As Miss Taverner and I are not, nor have ever been, involved in an unseemly relationship, I feel the point is irrelevant, sir.’
‘Your name has been linked with that of my daughter,’ Mr Taverner stated.
‘It has. Ill-natured gossips linked it, not our own actions.’ He was skidding on thin ice now and he knew it, but he was not going to allow her father to label Melissa as some kind of fallen woman, or even the victim of seduction. She was blameless and innocent of anything except wanting to help others and of generous affection to her friends.
‘So you deny that you and my daughter kissed in some squalid alehouse in Aylesbury where you had lured my innocent child?’
‘I deny ever luring anyone to a squalid alehouse anywhere. The establishment to which I believe you refer is a most respectable posting inn. I had been of some small service to Miss Taverner and she was so grateful that, in all innocence, she kissed my cheek. This took place not in some private chamber, but in the public inn yard which, I would have thought, demonstrates just how innocent it was.’
‘And what, pray, was she doing in a posting house in Aylesbury?’
‘Rendering assistance to a female acquaintance. That is not my story to tell and I must direct you to Miss Taverner for details of the matter.’
‘Are you denying intimacy with my daughter?’
‘I am, sir, upon my honour.’ His conscience felt entirely clear on that point. They had been intimate in that they had shared a bed, a few kisses, some deeply personal thoughts, but that was not what Mr Taverner meant. Have you taken my daughter’s virginity? was his meaning and the honest answer was, No, but I would like to.
‘Are you a Roman Catholic?’ Mrs Taverner asked suddenly.
‘No, ma’am, I am not.’
Hell, how did they find out about that?
‘So you deny taking Miss Taverner not only to a Roman Catholic church, but to an actual service?’ His father was an unpleasant shade of red. Henry assumed the man was a staunch Whig supporter who regarded the exiled Catholic Stuart pretenders to the throne with deep loathing and fully supported all the restrictions on Roman Catholics in the country.
‘No and no. I did both. Or, rather, Miss Taverner accompanied me to a service. This was to assist me in observing the activities of a man believed not to have the best interests of the country at heart. As a humble tradesman accompanied by his sister I was less conspicuous. I can assure you, our adherence to the Established Church of England has not been shaken in any way by the experience.’
‘Then you refuse to marry my daughter?’
‘I have not been asked my intentions, sir, although the answer is, yes. And besides, Miss Taverner is, I believe, resolute in wishing to remain unwed. As nothing has occurred to make it necessary for her to reconsider, I have no intention of asking her. Perhaps you did not hear my assertion just now, made upon my honour.’ He made no attempt to hide his anger. One could not call out a man old enough to be one’s father, but a refusal to take a gentleman’s word was a deep insult.
Mr Taverner’s complexion began to resemble the Duke’s and Mrs Taverner was fanning herself with her handkerchief.
‘I believe, Mr Taverner, that it would be prudent at this juncture to discuss the matter with your daughter, who, one hopes, can set your mind at rest.’ His father was looking grim, but at least had calmed down enough to speak in a conciliatory manner.
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so, Your Grace.’ Mr Taverner looked around the room as though half expecting to see some signs of Henry’s supposedly rakish lifestyle, then, as his gaze met Henry’s, he looked away, down at the table.
‘What is this?’ He snatched up a single, folded sheet of paper.
‘My private correspondence.’
‘My daughter’s handwriting!’ Before Henry could reach out for it Mr Taverner spread open the letter and read it. He thrust it at the Duke. ‘Look at this! Dalliance on the King’s highway—encounters in temples—adventures. My poor innocent child corrupted by this...this rakehell.’
‘Every word in that letter has a perfectly innocent explanation, if you were not so set and determined on believing the worst, sir. Or, perhaps, so set and determined on securing a title for your daughter, whether she wants one or not.’
The older man turned pale. ‘You have not heard the last of this.’ Taverner crushed the letter in his fist. ‘Come, Mrs Taverner, we will see what our daughter has to say on the matter.’ He almost hauled his wife to her feet and through the door.
Henry found no inclination to see them out. He turned to his father. ‘Is it necessary for me to repeat that Miss Taverner is a friend, that I have not seduced her, ravished her or otherwise deprived her of her virginity—or do you accept my word?’
The Duke narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Damn it, Henry, of course I do. You are my son and a Cary. You would not dishonour your word.’
‘How gratifying that you believe that when, after all, you hardly know me.’ He said it lightly, but heard the echo of bitterness in his voice and despised himself for the weakness of caring what his father thought of him.
The Duke showed his familiar ability to ignore anything he did not wish to hear. ‘Why not marry the girl and be done with all this fuss?’ He waved a hand as though to dismiss the minor irritations of furious country gentlemen and slurs on his son’s good name. ‘I had Nicholls check on them. The man’s a blustering idiot, but they are perfectly respectable, local squires for generations back. It is not as though you are the heir, is it?’
Or the spare, or even the spare to the spare.
‘As I reminded her father, Miss Taverner does not wish to marry anyone,’ he said, holding on to his temper. ‘She is an intelligent woman, in possession of an adequate income to support herself and a respectable chaperon in London.’
‘Pshaw. What’s the matter with her? Plain? Lame? Frigid? Some kind of religious fanatic?’
‘Sir, with the greatest respect, I cannot allow you to insult Miss Taverner. If you persist, I must ask you to leave.’
He expected an explosion of temper, but his father narrowed his eyes and, for the first time in many years, Henry had the feeling that the Duke was actually looking at him and seeing a person. ‘Quite right, my boy. Even so, you’d do better to bite the bullet and marry the chit, put a stop to all this fuss.’
‘What I had best do is go and make certain her father is not bullying her,’ Henry said grimly. It occurred to him suddenly that Mr Taverner owned the house in Half Moon Street. If her father refused her permission to live there, locked her out, then Melissa had nowhere to go. He could hardly believe that her funds would permit the rental of a house in such a respectable area and she would not wish to hang on her friends’ coat-tails for more than a brief stay.
If he offered marriage with no strings attached, simply his name, would Melissa accept? Then he recalled her angry tears that evening in the carriage when she had poured out her feelings about marriage. What sort of friend would he be if he added to the pressure on her to do the conventional thing?
Instinct told him to go to her now, common sense pointed out that his presence would probably only add to her father’s conviction that they were intimate. He would wait.
‘I am staying in town for the next few days,’ his father said. ‘Come and see me when you have resolved this. It should not take long.’ The slight softening had only lasted so long, it seemed.
Henry saw him out and sat down to watch the clock.
Melissa sank down on the sofa with knees that had suddenly become too weak to support her.
She heard Gertrude close the front door, then the maid looked around the door. ‘Can I get you anything, Miss Taverner?’
‘No. Thank you. Has my cousin come home?’
‘No, Miss Staines said she’d probably take dinner with friends this evening and not to expect her back until late. Are you all right, miss?’ Even in the basement, Gertrude could not have failed to hear the raised voices.
‘Yes. My father is always rather...forthright in an argument. Everything is perfectly...fine.’
Everything was a complete disaster, in fact, she thought as the maid closed the door. She had been shocked to see her parents, but pleased with the resolute way she had stood up to them. Even when her father had threatened to evict her from the house she had stayed calm and retorted that she would take lodgings somewhere much cheaper and if that was in a far less respectable area, then that was his fault.
Was Lord Henry’s word not good enough for him? she had demanded. He should be ashamed to doubt not only his daughter, but the son of a duke.
‘Very well,’ her father had said, suddenly ominously calm. ‘The rumours may be exaggerated, but there is no smoke without fire, young lady. Your reputation is damaged and that young man is going to make it good. I have his father’s support in this. The Duke was deeply shocked.’
She had shaken her head.
‘Then we will see what his employers think about that. Does the Diplomatic Service want members who cannot be trusted not to create a scandal? I do not think so.’ He had smiled and she had felt afraid for the first time. ‘Tomorrow I shall go and tell them just who they are employing. Presumably Lord Henry thinks himself above marriage to a mere gentlewoman. He will find that there are worse things that could befall him.’
As she sat and stared blankly at the closed door, she knew exactly why Henry had refused to marry her: he was being a true friend and honouring the feelings she had expressed so strongly to him. He was respecting her wishes, respecting her—and it was going to cost him his good name.
No wonder I love him.
But what could she do? She had no doubt her father would carry out exactly what he threatened and she could hardly arrive on his heels to plead with Henry’s superiors to ignore him—their attitude to all this would be even more rigid than her father’s. No doubt any number of discreet liaisons would be acceptable, but a diplomat who attracted scandal, fuss and attention would be of no use to them.
Could she appeal to her friends—or, probably more effectively, their husbands? No. That would cause even more upset and Henry would be lucky to escape with any employment whatsoever after that. And it was all because he was honourable enough to be a good friend to her.
The solution, when it came, surprised her so much that she gasped out loud. What would Henry have done if she had not told him how vehemently she did not want to get married? He would have offered for her, of course. His reputation would have been secure, Whitehall would have been unmoved. There might have been a few wry smiles at the expense of yet another man caught in the net of female wiles, but nobody would think the worse of him.
What if I ask him to marry me?
Henry did not want to marry yet, of course. He certainly had no idea of marrying her, but would he care so very much? They got on well together, they were friends. That was more than most married couples began with.
No, she could not do it and Henry would not agree.
It grew darker as she sat there, struggling with her conscience, her desires, her fears. As the clock struck six there was a knock at the front door.
Papa and Mama had come back. She did not know how she was going to find the strength to deal with them now.
‘Lord Henry, Miss Taverner.’
‘Henry! Oh, I am so sorry about all of this.’ She found she was in his arms where she must have hurled herself and, blushing, backed away. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, Melissa.’ He was smiling, but she knew him well enough to hear the weariness in his voice and also the iron. He was bracing himself for something.
‘Henry, I—’
‘Melissa, don’t—’
‘You first,’ she said, feeling a coward.
‘This is unpleasant at the moment, I know, but please do not worry, I have no intention of offering marriage.’
He was watching her and she knew he was concerned that he had guessed her wishes correctly.
‘Thank you.’ She bit her lip. Now what to say, to do? ‘You look exhausted.’
‘It has been a long day.’ He took a couple of paces across the room, then came back. ‘And it started out so well.’
‘Come and sit down and tell me. Some good news would be welcome.’
‘I went to see Mr Philps this morning and was told that I have a new posting.’
‘Where? Is it a good position?’
‘Far better than what I feared, which was Constantinople and having to learn Turkish, of which I speak not a word. And certainly very much better than going back to being an under-employed younger son with nothing to do but lounge around town.’
‘Henry, do not tease. Tell me.’
‘Second Secretary at the Paris Embassy.’
‘That is very good, isn’t it? I am so proud of you.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you. Yes, it is an excellent posting.’
‘And now your day has been ruined.’
There was no doubt in her mind now about what she must do. Paris was a prestigious post, which meant it must also be a sensitive one, with a newly restored king on the throne and all the undercurrents that Henry had mentioned when they had been on the heels of von Arten.
At least she did not have to pretend to be anxious and fearful, because she was. Melissa stood up, hesitated and then took the armchair opposite and regarded him from what suddenly felt a rather unsafe distance. How was he going to react?
‘Henry, I know what I said before and I meant it, but everything has changed and I feel so... Henry, I think we should get married.’
She had said it and now it could never be unsaid, although by the look on his face he appeared to believe that he was hearing things.