“Who’s to say that Pangloss isn’t correct, that this world—for all its capriciousness, violence, and volatility, a world in which we are utterly lost to the buffeting winds of fate—isn’t in fact the best?”
Amelia rolled her eyes. And with that, the London Ladies were back to debating Voltaire. Again.
“The best of all possible worlds,” one of the two dozen self-declared bluestockings crammed into the Countess of St James’s drawing room challenged, eliciting soft oohs of revelation from the rest of the group. And a long-suffering sigh from Amelia. “That was the phrase. Not the best world—the best of all possible worlds, and Candide’s world is clearly not the best possible.”
“Possible,” another repeated, defending the first woman’s position. “Not imaginable. I can imagine a world created from chocolate—and surely that would be the best of all worlds.” Her aside brought nods of agreement. “But imagining it does mean it’s possible. Therefore, the best of all possible worlds might very well be Candide’s.”
That set off a firestorm of voices, all interjecting at once. And a fierce pounding at the back of Amelia’s skull.
Enough! She couldn’t stand one moment more of this. But she also couldn’t bring herself to return home, either, where she’d be alone with reminders of all she’d lost by marrying Aaron. So she mumbled her apologies as she slid from the room, letting everyone believe she was visiting the retiring room.
Instead of turning left in the hall, however, she turned right and slipped into the music room, hoping to find a quiet moment to herself. The side garden was dark, not in use for tonight’s gathering, but she opened the French doors anyway to take a deep breath and let the cool night air clear her head and ease the pain throbbing behind her eyes.
But it did little to soothe the anguish lodged around her heart. How could the foolish thing keep beating, when all she’d ever dreamed of having was now dead?
“Pearce,” she breathed out as she leaned against the open door and somehow found the will to keep the gathering tears from spilling free. She could still feel the strength of his arms around her, the masculine scent of him filling up her senses, and the tender way his body had rocked into hers, bringing her such pleasures as she’d never known. She could still hear his voice… I love you.
Everything she’d ever wanted, all of it simply dropped in front of her like a present with a big bow, ready to be unwrapped.
But also nothing she could ever have.
“Amelia?” a voice called out from the hallway, just beyond the door. “Did you come this way?”
Amelia straightened and swiped a hand at her eyes to hide any traces of telltale tears.
“Ah yes! There you are.”
She had just enough time to force a smile before Lady Agnes Sinclair swept into the room.
In a gold-edged purple gown that could have rivaled any silks found in a Turkish bazaar, capped by an orange turban decorated with a large ruby pin, the woman was simply a force of nature. The unmarried sister of the late Earl of St James and aunt to the current earl, Agnes was well known for her eccentricities and her peculiar take on the latest fashions. Possessing an air of impropriety that society only tolerated because of her age, she was gregarious, flirtatious, and amusingly inappropriate. And as Amelia had come to learn since joining the London Ladies, she also possessed an intellect that was sharp as glass.
Lady Agnes held out one of the two cups and saucers she carried. “Tea.”
The woman’s thoughtfulness warmed Amelia. “You followed after just to bring me tea?”
“I followed you because if I have to sit through one more declaration by Lady Houston that Voltaire possessed the greatest mind since Aristotle, I might very well strangle her.” She insistently held out the tea, and Amelia had no choice but to accept, although she had no taste for the stuff. “Not the kind of catharsis Aristotle had in mind, I daresay, but I would surely enjoy it.”
Despite the heaviness that gripped her, Amelia smiled at the image that popped into her head of Lady Agnes doing just that.
“So when I saw you slip from the room, I decided that your idea of leaving was a grand one, snatched up two teas, and followed.” She took Amelia’s arm and steered her through the French doors and onto the narrow terrace beyond. “Let’s sit here and enjoy the fresh air.”
Amelia arched a brow. “And make it harder for anyone to find us if they come looking?”
“Why, I would never suggest such a thing!” She gestured toward a nearby bench in the shadows and sat, then smiled conspiratorially with a wink as she patted the seat next to her. “Which is why I’m so glad that you did.”
The woman laughed at her own joke, then raised the cup to her lips to take a long sip of tea. Not wanting to offend her, Amelia did the same—
She choked. Her cup clanked against the saucer as it dropped in surprise. Her fingers went to her lips at the unexpected burning that ran down her throat.
She stared down into the cup and rasped, “That’s—that’s—”
“The best tea in all of the British Empire, yes.”
“Whiskey!” she coughed out. With just a splash of tea to disguise it.
Beside her, Agnes smiled against the rim of her cup as she took another slow sip, like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. “As I said, the best tea in the British Empire.”
Amelia had always thought those stories of Lady Agnes lacing her tea with real drink were apocryphal. Until now. To think of all those long evenings of bluestocking arguments, while Agnes sat quietly in the rear of the room, sipping her tea and smiling… Amelia suddenly gained a whole new appreciation for the woman.
“Now that we’ve settled in with our tea,” Agnes prompted, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just needed a few minutes’ peace.” Amelia took another sip to cover the lie.
Agnes rested a ring-laden hand on her arm. “Pace yourself, my dear, or that tea will go straight to your head.”
Would that be so bad? Men numbed themselves in drink all the time. Why shouldn’t she?
Yet she cautiously returned the whiskey to its saucer.
“Tell me your troubles.” Agnes wagged a finger at her in warning. “And do not dissemble.”
Amelia dropped her gaze to her cup, carefully balanced on her knee. “What makes you think anything is troubling me?”
“And do not prevaricate with me either. I know something is amiss. While discussing Voltaire is never a joyful experience, it certainly doesn’t deserve the look of the gallows that’s been darkening your face all evening.” She slanted her a sideways glance, her expression softening. “A look that wretched must be the fault of love.”
“Pardon?” Amelia startled, the air rushing from her lungs. How had Agnes guessed?
“Only love can make a woman grieve that hard.” Lady Agnes’s voice lowered as she added into her tea, “Believe me, I know.”
“With all due respect, my lady.” That Agnes Sinclair, of all women, would be a kindred spirit— “Not this you don’t.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not. Every love is different.” Agnes thoughtfully traced a fingertip around the rim of her cup. “And mine was a very long time ago. I was only eighteen and incredibly foolish. Not so much younger than you.”
Amelia smiled at that compliment. “I haven’t been eighteen in a good while, my lady.”
“But have you been foolish recently?”
Her shoulders sagged. “A great deal, it seems.”
“Then we are not so different after all. Lost love and missed opportunities curse all women who lead with their hearts.” She paused. “Is that what happened to you?”
With a hollow ache blossoming in her chest, Amelia confided, “Yes, missed love…twice.”
“Then fate must be on your side.”
A half-hysterical laugh strangled in Amelia’s throat. “Fate delights in tormenting me!”
“Fate has given you a second chance, my dear. Why have you not taken it?”
Amelia lowered her gaze to her tea and whispered, “Because it’s impossible.”
Agnes patted Amelia’s arm reassuringly. “I understand impossible love.”
“Your bout of young foolishness, you mean?” Amelia changed the focus of the conversation away from herself. Gladly.
“A captain in the cavalry. The most handsome, most dashing man I’d ever seen in my life. And still is, despite over forty years of meeting all kinds of men since.” Even in the shadows, her eyes sparkled at the memory of him. “Oh, he was simply marvelous! A more true gentleman was never so lowborn.”
“But you didn’t marry him.” Amelia turned toward her on the stone bench. Perhaps Lady Agnes understood after all. “Why not?”
“Because he was utterly impossible for the daughter of an earl.” She took a sip of tea to fortify herself against old wounds. “I was meant to marry well, someone possessing wealth and status. My family would never have let me marry a poor army officer, no matter how much we loved each other, no matter how good a man he was.”
Emotions tightened Amelia’s throat. “You never considered defying them?”
“Heavens no!” she scoffed, as if Amelia had suggested that unicorns existed. “What would have been the good in that? My father refused to give permission for us to wed.”
“But you could have run away and married anyway.”
Lady Agnes shook her head. “Not in those days. There were no good roads to Scotland then, no money for us to book passage on a ship. And marriage in England was out of the question. I couldn’t marry here without my father’s consent. If we’d have attempted it, he would have demanded the marriage be annulled on grounds of incompetency because I was too young.”
“But an annulment would have scandalized you and your family.” In that, at least, she and Lady Agnes were different. Her father had made certain that Pearce could never have wed her in the first place. “Surely, that would have been worse for your family than letting you remain married to an army officer.”
“You don’t know what my father was like, my dear, and my brother after him.” A knowing, bitter smile pulled tightly across Lady Agnes’s face. “They would have seen an annulment—and my ruination—as punishment for defying them. One they would have believed I deserved.”
Amelia looked away, unable to bear seeing her own pain reflected in Lady Agnes’s eyes. How many times did her father remind her of what would happen to both her and Pearce if they ever tried to contact each other? How often had Frederick blamed her for Aaron’s deceit?
“You didn’t wait for him?” she whispered into the darkness.
“I did, at first. But by the time I was old enough not to need my father’s permission to marry, my captain had been killed in battle.” She set her tea aside and reached with both hands for Amelia’s. “I lost the love of my life. I wasn’t given a second chance. But you have been.” She rested her palm against Amelia’s cheek. “Do not waste this opportunity, or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
Not waste it? Laughable! She had no choice in the matter. Fate hadn’t given her a second chance. Fate was laughing at her for ever daring to love in the first place.
Lady Agnes placed a kiss to Amelia’s forehead, then collected her tea and stood.
“Stay here a while. I won’t tell anyone where you’ve disappeared to.” She gave a parting pat to Amelia’s hand. “But don’t dawdle long. I need you as an ally. Lady Helen always finds a way to steer the conversation to Montesquieu if we don’t stop her, and I don’t think my nerves can tolerate both him and Voltaire in the same evening.” She cast a forlorn look back toward the drawing room and heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s like being stuck at a dinner between the world’s two most narcissistic guests, only to discover that there’s no pudding waiting at the end.”
Amelia gave a short laugh despite the stinging of tears that threatened at her eyes.
“When fate brings us love, we have to hold on tight with both hands and never let go.” Agnes looked down sympathetically at her. “Whatever you do, my dear, do not let go.”
Amelia choked back a sob. If only being with Pearce were that simple! But she couldn’t fight her father twelve years ago, and she couldn’t fight the courts and the church now.
She said nothing as Lady Agnes made her way through the darkness and back into the house, but her hands trembled so badly that the whiskey from her cup sloshed over into the saucer. With a soft curse at herself, she set the unwanted drink aside, then dropped her head into her hands.
But for once, no tears came.
During the past twenty-four hours since Pearce had admitted to loving her, she’d cried enough to flood the Thames. Now, hopelessness ate at her, and she didn’t have the strength to let loose another tear. What good would it have done, anyway? All the tears in the world weren’t enough to dissolve her marriage. She’d given her soul to the devil the day she signed her name in the parish register.
With numb lips, she whispered into the darkness, “How could I ever have been so blind?”
Because she’d been in love. With Pearce. And needed someone to heal the wound that his absence had cut into her heart. Instead, Aaron had ended up shattering it.
Lady Agnes hadn’t experienced that. She at least had a chance at being with the man she loved. Amelia had never had that with Pearce.
Not being granted permission to marry? She choked back a strangled cry. If only that were the case! Frederick would certainly grant his consent to Pearce, now that he’d become an earl and a war hero, with a fortune to accompany the fame. After all, he’d so eagerly given it to Aaron, and he was—
Her head snapped up, her chest squeezing so hard that it forced the air from her lungs. Her heart stopped.
Frederick hadn’t given his permission. Not officially.
Oh, he’d pressed for the courtship and engagement, all right. But when it came time for the actual wedding, he’d vanished to London. The marriage settlement had been left unsigned, there was no public announcement or notification to any of their friends or distant family, no engagement party—they hadn’t even had a reading of the banns because Aaron had secured a special license so that they could wed outside his home parish.
Yet she’d been only twenty and needed her guardian’s consent…the same consent Frederick never publicly gave.
When her heart came back to life, the jarring thud was so violent that she cried out. This time not in pain but hope.
Shoving herself off the bench, she rushed inside the house to find Lady St James and give her apologies for having to leave so suddenly. But with the way she was shaking and fully unable to catch her breath, the countess had no reason to doubt her excuse that she’d suddenly grown ill. Neither did the hackney jarvey whom she ordered to take her home to Hill Street—“Quickly!”
She’d thrown open the carriage door and jumped to the ground before the carriage had come to a complete stop in front of the town house, then rushed inside with orders for a startled Drummond to pay the driver, leaving him in the front hall gaping after her. No explanations. No excuses.
No time.
She ran through the house to Frederick’s study and his desk. Her hands pulled desperately at the drawers—locked.
With determination pulsing through her veins, she snatched up the letter opener.
She paused only a moment to consider what she was doing, breaking into Freddie’s private study like this. Then she promptly dismissed the tiny prick of guilt as she slipped the knife-like tool into the center drawer and gave a hard twist. The lock popped free. She yanked open the drawer and grabbed up the little brass key her brother kept there.
She stalked across the room to the tallboy where Freddie kept all of his most important papers locked away from the servants and any prying guests—away from her. She slid the key into the top drawer lock and opened it with a soft click. Then the next drawer, the next after that…all the way down the front of the Chippendale cabinet, unlocking each faster than the one before. When the bottom drawer unlocked, she tossed the key to the floor and yanked it open.
She’d never dared to look through Freddie’s papers before, not wanting to risk his anger. Nor had she ever had cause. As far as the law was concerned, as her closest male relative, he was still her guardian, and that was his role—to oversee all that concerned her legally, financially…every way.
But he’d been a good guardian. Always, he’d made things so easy for her by making all the decisions himself, taking care of all the paperwork, simply giving her an allowance to run the household and pin money for her own expenses. Never had he wanted to burden her—
That time was over.
Her fingers flew through the papers stored inside the drawer, looking for any that were dated from seven years ago. Nothing. Determined, she pulled open the next drawer.
“Miss!” Drummond hurried into the room, aghast at what she was doing.
“Please leave, Drummond.” She didn’t bother to look up. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Ignoring the butler, she began to pull out the files and stack them on the rug. She couldn’t have cared less what she looked like to the servants, ransacking her own home like this. What mattered was finding her marriage contract. Surely, Frederick had kept it. God knew he kept everything, like a pack rat who—
There. Third drawer from the bottom, halfway through the stack.
She sank to the floor as relief flooded over her. Holding her breath, she scanned the sheet to make certain it was exactly as she remembered, with Aaron’s aristocratic signature scrawled across the bottom, her worthless one beneath…and an empty space where Frederick should have signed.
Oh, thank God!
Her hands shook as she held it. All of her shook! For the first time in seven years, she had hope. Real hope. She could barely breathe beneath the sob that swelled up from the back of her throat.
So much more than a mere piece of paper. It was her freedom. The document she could use to press for an annulment. Legally, the unsigned agreement couldn’t stand on its own, but when added to Aaron’s abandonment of her, her minority when they’d married, and Frederick’s testimony that he’d never granted permission, it would surely be enough for an annulment. Please, God, let it be enough!
She clutched the paper to her bosom, needing to prove to herself that it was real. Her petition would be messy and drawn out, expensive, absolutely scandalous…the verdict hanging by a thin thread, surely. But in the end, she would be free and legally entitled to remarry. She would finally be free to love Pearce, completely and openly, and his good character as a war hero and peer would prop up her charity and keep it from ruin until the scandal blew over.
If Freddie cooperated. If he were willing to have her sham of a marriage exposed and suffer all the damage by association that pursuing an annulment would surely bring.
A tortured sound rose from her. Even now, with freedom resting in her hands, she was trapped beneath the will of a man. Would she ever be free?
As she began to return the unwanted papers to the drawers, another sheet caught her attention, and she stilled. Another document with Aaron’s signature.
She frowned. She didn’t remember any other papers except the settlement. Fresh dread surged through her. If that sheet documented any kind of consent between Aaron and Frederick—
No. She didn’t dare let herself believe that. Yet her hand trembled as she reached for it. It looked like…a receipt? No, a contract of sorts, in which Frederick promised to pay Aaron five hundred pounds for services rendered in Birmingham, England, March 1811.
She frowned. March. The same month they’d met.
“This makes no sense,” she muttered, reading it again, this time much more slowly in search of any details she’d missed. Why would Freddie had been making contracts with Aaron so soon after meeting him?
“Amelia! What on God’s earth are you doing?”
Her gaze darted to the doorway, where Freddie glared at the mess on the floor. And at her.
Her mind whirled to find an excuse. She couldn’t tell him the truth—not yet. Not until she’d discussed it with Pearce. And not until she’d come up with a good argument to convince Freddie to go along with her plan. Or a good way to coerce him, if logic failed. After all, she still held the key to keeping the blackmailer at bay and keeping Freddie out of prison. He would owe her for that…and she was certain that he would gladly be rid of her by handing her over to an earl.
Judging from the furious look on his face, not a moment too soon either.
He stepped into the study. “You’re going through my private papers. You broke into my cabinet!” His eyes narrowed on her. “What’s that in your hand?”
Freedom. “My marriage settlement.” She held it up. No point in attempting to hide it.
He frowned, bewildered. “What do you want with that?”
“Pearce.” That was the God’s honest truth.
He froze, except for his face which paled. “Sandhurst knows about your marriage?”
She swallowed. Hard. And lied. “No. The turnpike. He wanted to make certain that I had ownership rights to Bradenhill, that I could consent fully to the trust without worry that someone else might have a claim to it.”
“But you refused the trust.” His eyes gleamed darkly as he slowly approached her. “Quite publicly, too.”
“He changed my mind.” Surprisingly, no guilt accompanied lying to her brother. Only regret that they were so suspicious of each other that she couldn’t even trust him with something as potentially wonderful as this. “He made me realize that I’d be able to help even more women with the revenue a turnpike would bring.”
A knowing smile broke across his face. “Finally you’ve listened to reason.”
No. Finally she’d listened to her heart. “He wanted to make certain that the decision would be completely and freely mine,” she echoed his words from last night’s ball. “That was when I remembered the marriage agreement. I wanted to make certain that Aaron couldn’t make any claims against the property. I wanted—” She looked down at the paper in her hand and took courage in it. “I wanted to make certain that the property was listed in the agreement as part of my dower. That way, if he ever does return and attempts to take it, I can use the intent of the agreement to make my argument to keep it.”
“Intent is worthless under the law. That agreement wasn’t signed by both parties, and that was what allowed him to steal all your money. That’s what all the lawyers I hired told us when we tried to retrieve your money, remember? Every last one of them.” He crossed his arms and glared down at her, the look of a prefect scolding a misbehaving student. “You were impetuous and acted without thinking, and we’re suffering because of it.”
With a scowl, he grabbed up the papers she’d tossed onto the floor and shoved them back into the tallboy, then picked up the key from the floor and locked all the drawers. Instead of putting the key back into his desk, he slipped it into his breast pocket.
Guilt began to rise in her throat—
No. He wouldn’t make her feel awful this time, as he always had before. She wouldn’t let him.
Pearce was right. She’d gone into her marriage with love, and the lies and treachery Aaron committed were not her fault. She could never have foreseen what he’d planned. No woman could have. She wouldn’t blame herself any longer.
Now, she would take back the life she’d been cheated out of.
“I found something else.” She held up the other document. The contract Freddie had made with Aaron. “What is this?”
Frederick took it and heaved out a sigh as he glanced over it. “Nothing to concern yourself with.” He added in an irritated mutter, “Like every other document in this cabinet that you have no right to rifle through.”
Despite his anger, she held on to her resolve and pressed, “You paid Aaron five hundred pounds. Why?”
“I don’t remember. That was so long ago. I’m sure I had good reason.” He shoved it into his jacket breast pocket. “But you’ve nothing to fear about Bradenhill, I assure you.” With a pleased smile, he crossed to the liquor tray and poured himself a glass of cognac from the crystal decanter. “Aaron Northam won’t be able to take your land, and he won’t be able to stop the trust now either. No one can.”
Alarm twisted in her belly. “What do you mean?”
“Sandhurst finally agreed. Told me himself just this afternoon at Boodle’s.” He returned the stopper with a soft clank, punctuating the significance of the moment. “Wants to push it through as quickly as possible, in fact, before the current session of Parliament ends.” He lifted the glass to her in a toast. “Congratulations, Amelia. We’ve got our turnpike trust.”
Her breath hitched. Pearce agreed? Impossible. He said they were together in stopping it, in discovering who was behind the blackmail. He would never have agreed without consulting with her first…would he?
Shame heated her cheeks, and she silently castigated herself for doubting him. She’d questioned Pearce’s love for her for so long that even now her first reaction was distrust.
But she wouldn’t let suspicion win. Not this time. He loved her, he wanted to protect her, he wanted to marry her… That was where she’d put her trust now. In Pearce’s heart.
If he’d agreed, he had good reason. Yet he’d done so without her when they were supposed to be working together. She couldn’t help a prick of betrayal in her belly.
“It’s all gone exactly as planned.” Frederick took a long swallow of cognac, as happy as the cat who’d caught the mouse. “Now the blackmail threats will end, and my career will be saved.” He gestured at her with the glass. “Your future as the sister of an MP is secure, society matrons will continue to cross the threshold of your little shop, and you don’t have to pretend to like Sandhurst any longer.”
“No.” She gave him a smile, one Freddie completely misread. “I don’t have to pretend to like him.”
He finished the cognac and set the glass down. “I’m going out to a club meeting and taking Sandhurst with me. I’ll be certain to tell him how happy you are about the trust.”
“No need.” She fought to keep the irony from her voice. “I’d be happy to tell him myself how I feel about it, the first chance I have.”
“I’ll be gone all night, most likely not back before dawn.” He sauntered from the study. “Don’t wait up.”