Chapter Twenty-Five
The following day, however, Robert found himself embroiled in an interview with his own father that was fated to produce much less happy results than that between Cecily and the Duke.
Robert had passed the two days since the aborted elopement in a state of frustrated misery. His father, confined to his chambers once more by a recurrence of the gout triggered by his exertions on the road to Loxwell Park, refused to see him. If Robert thought there was anything to be gained by it, he would have smashed down the old man's locked door and stormed in to confront him. But Cecily had asked him to wait while she reasoned with her own father, so wait he must.
"You are not accustomed to patience, my dear fellow," said Beaumont sympathetically, seeing how Robert chafed against his lack of action. "You do not have the temperament for it."
All the gentlemen at Scarcliffe Hall, saving of course the Marquess, had been brought up to speed with the situation. Robert had kept to himself only the painful fact that, for a few short hours, he and Cecily had been en route to Gretna Green. That wound was still too fresh to be spoken of.
He did not blame her for going home. If Hart, or his sister, had begged him to call off the elopement, he might have done the same. He knew that Cecily had her own dreams for the start of their married life which he was loth to cast aside. She wanted family, joy, happiness – white flowers and her own parish churchyard. Her mother's happy tears, her father's blessing.
Robert understood these needs, but he could not share them. All he wanted was Cecily.
He refused Beaumont, Northmere and Hart's entreaties to ride out with them and forget his sorrows in the summer weather. Knowing that every passing moment brought the news of the Duke's decision closer, he could not in good conscience leave the Hall.
It did not escape his notice that a note bearing the Balfour crest was delivered to his father the evening after Cecily returned to Loxwell Park. Nor did he fail to discover from his father's valet that the note had been cast immediately onto the fire, unread.
The absence of the ring on its chain around his neck was so tangible that it almost pained him. He had given it to Cecily to help her persuade her father; he had not thought that the loss of the token would pierce his heart with the fear of a still greater loss.
"I am not one to give in to imaginary terrors," he told himself, through gritted teeth, as he caught sight of his own pale face in the mirror.
When the morning after the burned note brought a carriage bearing Balfour livery to the door, Robert found it impossible to remain inactive.
"Father!" he shouted, pounding on the Marquess's locked door. "The Duke of Loxwell is here to see you, and I'll be hanged if you don't let him in!"
"That man is not to be allowed entrance to my house!" came the stubborn reply. Robert turned to Peters, the butler.
"Show the Duke into the drawing room," he commanded. "I will be with him presently."
Peters, looking unhappy, made no move.
"Show the Duke in!" Robert gritted out, trying to stop his fists from clenching. He was tempted to kick the door in and shake some sense into his father's proud head. "This is my house, not his – father is here as my guest, and I will not suffer him to snub a man I have chosen to welcome!"
"It is not your house yet!" the Marquess raged. "I am not dead, boy, much as you would wish it!"
"My lord," said Peters, "do not ask me to disobey the Marquess, I beg you. I – I fear for my position."
"Your position is under me," said Robert. Peters's mouth opened and shut again miserably. Robert regretted his insistence immediately. He knew he had put the man in an intolerable position.
Custom might make Robert the master of Scarcliffe Hall, but it – and everyone who dwelt within its walls – were legally under the power of his father.
"Don't worry, Peters," he said. "Please go outside and ask the Duke to wait, if he will."
When Peters was gone, Robert rapped again on his father's door, this time more softly. "Father, let us not shout at each other like growling beasts. Let me in, so that we may discuss this face-to-face."
There was a long pause. Robert thought at first that his father was simply ignoring him, but a moment's patience was rewarded by the sound of soft footsteps within the chamber, followed by the click of a key in the lock. His father's valet opened the door and let him in.
The Marquess was sitting on a heavily-stuffed sofa with his ailing leg propped up on a padded footstool. On the table at his side was a glass of port – exactly what Doctor Hawkins had recommended against. Robert set aside his tirade on the importance of following the Doctor's instructions for a later, calmer time.
"Father," he said, taking a seat opposite the Marquess, "it is no small thing to turn a Duke away at the door."
The Marquess scoffed. "When it comes to these Balfours, Robert, titles are irrelevant. They are low people, no matter how high society raises them. They behaviour and their temperaments are common. No, worse than common. They are disgraceful. Only a fool would trust a Balfour." He fixed Robert with a beady eye. "I trust that I have not raised a fool."
"I have been foolish," Robert sighed. "I have trusted your word for so many years without question. My eyes have been opened now. You know my intentions, father. You cannot call it foolish to make a good and honest woman my wife."
"Enough!" The Marquess seized his silver-topped cane and pounded it against the floor. "You have been deceived, Robert! Shamefully deceived! It is not enough to say that your feelings for this chit of a girl are pure. The Balfours have simply insulted our family too much, over too many years. I can no more allow this Duke into my home than I can cut out my own heart. The damage of either action would be too deep. Do you see?"
"I do not see," said Robert coldly. "I only see that you are treating the Duke very ill, and it reflects badly upon you. I myself will go out to him, and offer him my most sincere apologies."
"You will do nothing of the sort!"
"You cannot stop me, father. Just as you cannot stop me from marrying Cecily. It is out of your hands now."
"Is that so?" asked the Marquess, eyes glinting cruelly. "Once again, boy, you talk as if you were already Marquess of Lilistone. Let me remind you that I am not yet in my grave, however much you would wish it."
"Now, now, father," drawled Hart, entering the room behind Robert. "Nobody has wished any ill upon you at all." He bent down to whisper into Robert's ear. "I have spoken to the Duke. He is more reasonable than I might have expected. He knows you have a formidable task here with father."
"Do not take your brother's part, Hart," the Marquess warned. "You will regret it."
Hart shrugged elegantly. "There are already so many things I regret. What's one more?"
"I will not have this insubordination," growled the Marquess. "Nor will I see my son and heir married to our enemy."
"With all due respect, father," said Robert, grateful for Hart's place at his side, "I do not see what you can do about it."
"What I can do? What I can do?" The Marquess laughed without a trace of mirth. "If I could disinherit you, Robert, I would do it without a moment's hesitation."
That was difficult to hear. Hart's hand landed on Robert's shoulder in solidarity. Robert shrugged it off, determined to let no trace of his inner feelings show.
"A pity, then, that the law does not allow it."
"But it is my good fortune that the law says nothing about second sons." The Marquess's eyes flickered briefly to Hart. There was more malice in them than Robert had ever dreamed to see in his father. "You may one day inherit my lands and money, Robert, and there is nothing that I can do about that. Hart is another matter. His inheritance is entirely in my gift."
"Don't let him bully you, Robert," said Hart calmly. "I am not afraid."
"I would rather see you both turned out onto the streets and cut off from society than have you defy me," snapped the Marquess. "That, at least, is in my power to do. You will have no money, no social standing – not so much as a kind thought from me until I leave this earth. Is that what you want?" His eyes darted from one son to the other, glittering with an anger that came close to madness. "And furthermore, do not forget that I still have in my possession a letter addressed to you in Lady Cecily's hand. Most imprudent of her, to write to you before a formal betrothal. We shall see what the ton makes of that!"
Robert knew his father was elderly, in pain, and unused to disobedience. It was only these considerations that prevented him knocking the old man off his stuffed sofa to the ground.
"You go too far, father!"
"There is no limit to the lengths I will go to protect our family's honour."
"What honour is there in punishing Hart and Cecily for my crimes?"
"You have proven that you will not listen to reason, Robert." For a moment, the Marquess's anger drained from his face, and he ceased to be the furious lord. He was no more than an elderly man, sick and weary, faced with troubles he was too old to manage. "If I cannot persuade you rationally, I must mete out whatever punishment I can find to affect you."
"Well, I've had quite enough of this, pleasant as it is to chat," said Hart airily. "Robert, let's step outside for some air."
Robert was loth to abandon the conversation at such an impasse, but, remembering that the Duke still waited outside, he allowed Hart to lead him away.
"What am I to do?" he asked, in a low voice, as they made their way downstairs. "I cannot let him hurt you. Still less, Cecily."
"Don't worry about me, brother," said Hart, maintaining that laconic carelessness Robert knew he worked extremely hard to perfect. "I can always join the Navy. I've often rather fancied myself a naval man."
Robert stopped on the staircase and gripped his brother's arm. "I will not see you fling yourself off to war in foreign climes on my account, Hart. That's an end to it."
Hart's mouth quirked at the corner; the only indication he would give that he was at all affected. "I rather think father is more likely to end it than you, Robert, but I would not abandon you to him for all the world. Now, get along with you. Dukes are not accustomed to waiting."
Robert took Hart's advice and hurried outside, where he was relieved to find the Duke's carriage waiting in the wide driveway.
This was his first meeting with his future father-in-law – a thought which only struck him as he approached the carriage window. Robert was not a man usually cowed by those with greater titles than his own. The fact that Loxwell was a Duke meant little.
The fact that he was Cecily's father, on the other hand – now that was a fearsome prospect.
Robert nodded to the footmen and knocked on the window, trying to rap the glass in a way which spoke of respect. The inner curtain was jerked aside and, though Robert could not make out the occupant, he imagined he was being carefully inspected from within.
The door opened.
Robert made a low bow. "Your Grace," he said. "Please allow me to introduce myself."
"I know who you are," came a crusty voice from the gloom. "At least, I can guess. Sent your brother out first, did you?"
"My apologies, Your Grace," said Robert. "I was attempting to reason with my father. Unfortunately –"
"The old goat does not wish to see me."
Robert swallowed the insult with good grace. "My father is presently indisposed."
"And I am not to be permitted into the house!" the Duke barked. "As though I were a beggar at the gates, not Duke of Loxwell!"
"Again, Your Grace, I can only offer my most sincere apologies –"
"Apologies, apologies! Tush! Am I to understand that my Cecily has given her heart to a craven apologist?" The Duke pushed the door open a little wider. A shaft of light entered the carriage, revealing a bewhiskered face and a pair of kind eyes beneath a craggy brow. Robert was amused to discover traces of Cecily about the Duke's elegant nose and firm chin. Clearwell was right – the Balfour features ran strong.
"Come in, my lord Scarcliffe," the Duke invited him. "If you are going to apologise for anything, it ought to be that you have been most remiss in asking me for my daughter's hand. Really, I would have expected you to speak to me sooner."
"Forgive me, Your Grace." Robert was painfully aware that he was apologising yet again. "I did not know exactly how I would be received."
"Quite right!" The Duke let out a wheeze of laughter. "Quite right, too! Before yesterday, I would not have allowed you into my daughter's presence at all. But let us not dwell on the past. There's been too much of that done already. Step inside and let us talk here, if your father will not see me. I wish to get to know you a little before I make my decision."
Robert got into the carriage and took a seat opposite the Duke. "Your decision, Your Grace?"
The Duke lowered his impressive eyebrows. "I take it you still mean to ask for my daughter, Scarcliffe."
"With regards to that…" Robert's eyes drifted to the carriage door. Beyond it, at the window to Scarcliffe Hall's lower drawing room, he saw Hart watching him closely.
His brother would give up anything to see him happy. He knew that. Hart had long ago given up all hope of happiness for himself. A war ship, a battlefield, the comforts of Scarcliffe Hall – Hart would likely claim it was all the same to him.
But Robert could not allow his brother to be cast out. And he could not risk Cecily's reputation.
"Go on," the Duke urged him. Robert could not meet the old man's eyes.
"I am afraid that it will be impossible for me to make your daughter a serious offer until I am my own man, Your Grace," he said.
The Duke was silent for a long while. "That is not what I expected to hear," he said, finally.
"It was not what I expected to tell you, Your Grace. Nevertheless. The happiness of more than myself depends upon it." He raised his head. "That is not to say that I have entirely given up hope. If Cecily will wait for me, we will be married as soon after my father's death as propriety allows. If she will not wait for me…" He paused for breath, the words tasting too bitter in his mouth to continue. "I will not hold her to any promise she has made me."
"If you are trying to be noble, this is a grim way to go about it," said the Duke. "Cecily led me to believe that you had cast aside the old enmity between us."
"And I have done, Your Grace, believe me. I know you are no enemy of mine, and I wish you nothing but good."
"Then why are you behaving in this way?" The Duke glanced towards the house. "If your father intends to cut you out, you must know that money will be no object –"
"It is not only money, Your Grace. It is a family matter. For my brother's sake – for the sake of our mother, who would take the loss of us most sorely…" Robert found for perhaps the first time in his life that he had no clever answer to give. No degree of wit or courage would alter his situation at all. "I cannot be the instrument of my own family's destruction. Not when, by waiting, I might keep us all together. My father is an old man. His health is poor."
"It does you no credit to wish your own father dead, Scarcliffe."
"And yet it is the only comfort I have left to me."
The Duke's face creased with sorrow. "My daughter will take this news very ill, I fear. And yet the fault is not yours, Scarcliffe. No. It is your father and I who should have seen sense and put the feud to rest years ago. The shame of it! That our own children should have to teach us how to behave!" He leaned forward and fixed Robert with a stern blue stare. "Since your father will not relent, let me take the first step. I issue an open invitation to you and yours to visit Loxwell Park. You will all be made most welcome."
"I am grateful, Your Grace." Gratitude was the least of Robert's emotions in that moment, and the Duke seemed to know it. He nodded sympathetically as Robert took his leave and left the carriage. The driver called briskly to the horses, and Loxwell's carriage disappeared down the long driveway.
Pain had dampened Robert's usually acute senses. As he walked back up the wide front steps to the Hall, he barely registered that Hart was no longer at the window. The four burly footmen who accosted him in the doorway went wholly unnoticed until Robert walked straight into an unmoving body.
Robert was tall, but his father had a penchant for strength and power in his servants, and these men were at least his equal in height and vigour. There was no question of what they were doing there. All four were grim-faced. None had been chosen from among the servants of Scarcliffe Hall; they were his father's men.
"Where is it I am to be taken?" Robert asked, his voice a dangerous growl. The footmen held their ground, though one or two of them looked as though they had much rather take a step away.
"My lord, the Marquess has decided that it is time for you to pay a visit to your sister and her husband in Larksley," said the tallest footman.
Robert shrugged first one shoulder, then the other, squaring up slowly, and letting his muscles play visibly in his arms. "And if I choose not to go?"
"I beg you, my lord, do not refuse." The footman swallowed. "If you say you will not go, we are to make you."
Robert caught sight of Hart standing in the halflight of a part-open doorway, watching the proceedings with an impassive face. As their eyes met, Hart gave a firm nod and disappeared.
Robert let his choice hang in the air a few moments more. Was this the moment to fight? Or was he to let himself be parcelled up and sent away under guard, trusting in Hart to come up with a scheme to help him?
The enormity of what Robert had just given up for his brother's sake struck him like a blow to the chest. Cecily. Would she wait for him? Would she understand that he had not left willingly?
He took a last look at the solid oak doorway of Scarcliffe Hall, and wondered when he would see it again.
"Very well, gentlemen," he said. "I have no wish to fight you. Let us depart for Larksley."