Nineteen

Randolph sat in his room holding the lute, but not playing. Exhaustion was at the root of this lethargy, he thought. He hadn’t slept well for many days. When he was more rested, he’d see what needed to be done. He ought to climb into bed right now in fact, even though it wasn’t yet ten. Would he rest any better tonight though? At a knock on the door, he looked up. “Yes?”

His father entered. “Will you come down to the library for a bit?”

Randolph rose and put the instrument aside. “Am I in trouble?”

“Of course not.”

He joined his father, and they walked together down the stairs. “When we were called to the library as boys, it usually meant a scold.”

“Not in this case” was the reply, accompanied by a rueful smile.

“I usually deserved it,” Randolph added. “Or some brother or other did.”

In the library, they sat in facing armchairs. The duke poured glasses of wine and handed one to Randolph. “I thought we might discuss the recent…development.”

Irrationally, Randolph felt as he had after some youthful transgression. “I suppose I ought to have expected Mr. Sinclair’s objection,” he said.

“It’s difficult to anticipate idiotic behavior.” The duke sipped his wine, deep red in the candlelight. “Unless one is an idiot. Which of course you are not.”

Randolph smiled, as he was meant to. But he couldn’t agree. “He’s right about my position, Papa. My chances of advancement in the church are poor. And Verity doesn’t want to spend her life buried in a country parish. It was the very first thing she said to me.” Despite everything, he remembered the encounter fondly.

“Her wishes are important to you,” the duke said.

“Yes. Naturally.” An odd question from a man so devoted to his wife’s happiness, Randolph thought.

“I ask only because…if someone wanted an excuse to end an engagement—”

Randolph nearly leaped to his feet. “I do not!”

“Good.” His father nodded. “That’s settled then. What do you intend to do?”

The fog of exhaustion rolled back in after Randolph’s momentary bolt of rebellion. “Call on Mr. Sinclair, I suppose. Perhaps I can talk him ’round. I must say he seemed immoveable—like a type I’ve met before.”

“Rather fond of his own opinions?” put in the duke. “Not susceptible to persuasion?”

Randolph nodded. “But I’ll think of something. Whatever I have to do to keep Verity.” His mind offered up a flash of memory—clanging saber blades as he beat at Rochford. So gratifying, and impossible.

“I wonder if I might be of help?” asked his father.

An old longing for Papa to make things right warred with Randolph’s need for independence. He knew all his brothers felt the conflict. They’d discussed it. At the root was a fierce desire to make their parents proud. “We’ve always wanted to stand on our own feet.”

“You rarely ask me to put my oar in,” the older man agreed.

“And I would be the one who does,” answered Randolph, humiliated. “The one who takes things too hard, who has to be coddled, who can’t succeed on his own.”

The duke sat up straighter. “My dear boy.” He put down his glass and leaned forward to place a light hand on Randolph’s knee. “Don’t be daft.”

“You always told us to take responsibility for our actions,” Randolph pointed out.

His father sat back. “I did. When you were children, forming your characters. And look how well you’ve all done. But that never meant you had to stand alone. What more could I ask than to help my sons?”

Randolph’s throat tightened. He swallowed to clear it.

“And I’ve aided your brothers on a number of occasions.”

“Really? Which? How?”

The duke smiled appreciatively. “My lips are sealed in that regard. As they will be about your affairs.”

“Of course.” Still, Randolph’s mind bubbled with surmise. Who had it been? James, before he sailed off across the world? Alan had had some dealings with the Prince Regent last year and might well have needed Papa’s counsel. Surely not Robert. Or Nathaniel; the heir to the duke was a paragon.

“Shall we take stock?” said his father. His amused look suggested that he knew exactly what Randolph was thinking. “How shall we show Miss Sinclair’s father that he’s wrong?”

Randolph came back down to Earth with a metaphorical bump. “That’s the trouble. He isn’t.”

“I might argue, but never mind. If you were…reconciled with the archbishop, Mr. Sinclair could have no further objections.” The duke’s expression grew haughty on the final word, as if he still couldn’t quite believe any man would object to a son of his. “What have you done so far, on that front?”

Trying not to feel discouraged, Randolph said, “I apologized, of course. At the time and in a letter afterward.”

“This had no effect?”

“I received a chilly response, from the archbishop’s secretary.”

“A snub then.”

Randolph nodded. “I worked very hard to do a good job in my parish.”

“And did so, I have no doubt.”

“The congregation seemed pleased. My bishop sent a commendatory letter about our support for the poor.”

“Did you send a copy to Canterbury?”

“I asked the bishop’s offices to do so. I thought it would have a greater effect coming from there.”

“And did it?”

“None at all,” said Randolph.

“One wouldn’t expect our chief prelate to be vindictive,” his father mused.

“I don’t think that’s it. More like…whenever I come to his attention, his mind shies away and moves to something else.”

“I see. Did you make progress reports? Listing all your successes?”

“No.” He’d given up at some point, Randolph realized. He’d liked his parish duties, and he didn’t really enjoy remembering the ram either.

“Or enlist friends in the church to sing your praises?”

“No.” He should have thought of that. Who could he have asked?

“You’re not really a politician, are you?” the duke asked with an understanding smile.

Humiliation hovered over Randolph again, suggesting his brothers would have done better in his situation. Well, no, Sebastian and Robert would have fallen down laughing at the ram. They wouldn’t have been able to stop themselves. James, too, probably. Alan would have been more interested in scientific observation of the phenomenon than in placating the archbishop. Randolph perked up. Nathaniel would have done better. He couldn’t deny that. But to come second to Nathaniel—not bad. “I did get a new appointment in Derbyshire. I’ve been wanting to move south, and I thought that was a sign of, er, redemption.”

“Perhaps it was. Does Miss Sinclair know about your new parish?”

Randolph nodded.

“I’m sure she’ll inform her father then. She looked like a young lady with arguments ready when they left.”

That was a cheering thought.

“Shall I make some inquiries about the archbishop?” asked his father.

“What sort of inquiries?”

“Discreet ones.”

“I haven’t quite gotten over the belief that you can fix anything,” Randolph observed.

“Untrue, I fear.”

Still, Randolph felt vastly better. Experience said that Papa could do a great deal. There was no more astute ally.

“Together, we can do much though.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

The duke stood. He rested a hand on Randolph’s shoulder. “You should get some sleep.”

“So should you.”

“We can all rest now.” And with that he went to say good night to his providentially well wife.

“What’s going on?” she asked when he entered her bedchamber.

“I’m not sure what you—”

“I know there’s something,” she interrupted. She made an uncharacteristically languid gesture. “I can feel it in the air.”

“You need to rest.”

“Tell me, and I will.”

Giving in, the duke recounted Mr. Sinclair’s visit.

“Not approve of Randolph?” she said when he was done. “The cheek!”

Outrage had brought some color back into her face, at least.

“I wonder if he’s told Verity about the ram?” she added.

“He said he hadn’t had time. He would have been wise to tell her.”

“Wise,” the duchess repeated thoughtfully. “Has he been wise? I’m not sure what to think about this match.”

“You had doubts about Nathaniel’s at first,” the duke pointed out.

“True. And then Violet…bloomed.”

“Like her namesake in the spring,” the duke replied with a smile. “You fretted over Robert, too.”

“He and Flora spent so much time sniping at each other.”

“As they still do. Though I wouldn’t call it sniping, precisely. Jousting, perhaps.”

“Why do they enjoy it so, I wonder?”

“There’s no accounting for tastes. You also questioned Alan’s choice, as I recall.”

“The very first of our sons to marry.” The duchess smiled. “How I could have thought Ariel an adventuress.”

“Or James’s Kawena a—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” she said. “I worried about all of them. Needlessly, as it turned out.”

“I would never say that. But it seems we can trust our sons to find their way to happiness.”

“None of the others suffered a disappointment like Randolph’s. Has he told her about that, I wonder?”

“It seems to me that they’ve done very little talking.” They exchanged a warmly amused glance before the duke added. “So he and Miss Sinclair have a good deal to discuss.”

“Oh lud, what a conversation. I wonder how it will go.”

“I think a…challenging conversation will be quite good for Randolph.” The duke saw that he’d surprised his wife, which was curiously satisfying. It seemed he did indeed know a few things about their sons that she didn’t.

The duchess sank back on her pillows with a sigh.

“This has tired you out.”

“I’m so weary of being tired,” she responded fretfully. “How am I to watch over my family when I can’t get out of bed? If I were to call on the Sinclairs…”

“Leave it to me,” he said.

“You’re going to call?”

“Not that. But something.”

“What will you do?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Her worries masterfully assuaged, the duchess relaxed into a doze.

* * *

Randolph waited for Verity in the park outside Gunter’s, under a blustery and threatening sky. He’d slept much better after his talk with his father, and he was ready for action. He was also more than ready to see his betrothed. In a strange way, it seemed an age since they’d met. The days of his mother’s illness had run together in an unreal blur, life in abeyance. Now they could move ahead.

She was late. He refused to worry. Her father might try to prevent her from seeing him, but she wasn’t eighteen. And he wasn’t a boy who would stand for that sort of interference this time. Still, it was a great relief when he saw her approaching. He felt a smile spread over his face as he walked toward her. He took her hand and kissed it.

She smiled back at him, but looked preoccupied. “We have some problems,” she said.

“I intend to call and talk to your father. I’m sure I can convince—”

“There’s Papa,” Verity agreed. She made a checkmark in the air with one of her gloved fingers. “Then there’s a duel we must prevent,” she added, miming another. “And there’s Rosalie.”

Randolph gaped. “What duel?”

“Let’s walk. We can go over to Hyde Park.”

Randolph would rather have sat down. “The weather’s not right,” he said. “It’s going to rain.”

“I need to move,” Verity replied in a tone that was almost militant. She grasped his arm and pulled him along at a rapid pace. The wind whipped her skirts around their knees and tried to snatch their hats.

Randolph chose the most sheltered streets, and once at the park, he headed for a path bounded by hedges. The place was nearly empty. Only a few riders braved the gusts. The treetops twisted and swayed.

The wind was a little less on the path. Their headgear seemed safe for the moment, though puffs still made Verity’s cloak billow. “What duel?” he repeated then.

Verity nodded. “We should take matters one by one. It’s probably good to get the duel out of the way.”

“It usually is,” replied Randolph dryly. “What are you talking about, Verity?”

“It’s Olivia’s fault. She’s…obsessed with tormenting Mr. Wrentham. And Miss Reynolds.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because it’s completely nonsensical. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t serious.”

The wind swooped down and caught Randolph’s hat brim. He only just saved it from flying away. “Let’s go back to Gunter’s,” he said. They could find shelter there without the complications of family. Surely there would be a nook where they could talk privately. “I’ll buy you another strawberry ice.”

Verity stopped short and looked at him. “You remember the flavor I had?”

“Of course.”

She gazed up at him, her blue-green eyes limpid with emotion. There was no one about. Randolph bent and kissed her.

It was a tender kiss, full of promise. That promise moved toward fulfillment. Randolph revised his plan. They couldn’t do this at Gunter’s.

Verity drew back a little. Her breath came out on a sigh. “Why must everything be so complicated?”

“Is it really?” No one could stop them from marrying, Randolph thought. Family support was preferable, of course. But surely Verity’s father would come ’round eventually.

“Olivia has somehow…connived to make Mr. Wrentham believe that Miss Reynolds visited Mr. Rochford’s house. Alone, in the evening.”

Randolph took a moment to untangle the names. “Ah.”

“Olivia had her invitation from Rochford, you see, which put the idea in her head. I have no idea how she managed the rest.”

“I do see.” He saw that they didn’t want people thinking about young ladies visiting Rochford. Perhaps investigating. “Wrentham issued a challenge?” Randolph shook his head. “Sort of thing he would do, the clunch. Just draws more attention to the matter.”

Verity nodded. They’d reached the end of the sheltered path, and the wind tugged at her bonnet. Randolph turned them around to walk between the hedges again. He didn’t like the state of the sky.

“You’ll have to stop them,” said Verity. She’d regretfully decided that this part must be up to Randolph. No gentleman would talk to her about a duel, stupidly. And she didn’t want to press Olivia for details. Her friend was too clever; she’d be suspicious. “As I understand these matters, you can speak to Mr. Wrentham’s second. His name is Lord Carrick.”

“Oh lud, not Carrick,” said Randolph.

“You know him?” This ought to be good, but it seemed it wasn’t.

“I met him at Salbridge in the autumn. He’ll make a whole Cheltenham tragedy of the meeting. He’s probably hired an orchestra.”

Verity frowned. Had she heard him correctly? And was that a distant rumble of thunder? “Orchestra?”

“He likes staging dramas. He was behind a play they put on at the house party. Quite a memorable performance, as it turned out.” His smile faded. “I’ll never dissuade Carrick from participating in such a scene.”

“A duel, with real swords, is not a play.”

“I’m well aware.”

Their eyes met in a shared memory of the bout at Rochford’s. “Well, at least you know him.”

“And Wrentham, and Rochford. Have no fear, I’ll find a way. There’ll be no tattling about late-night visits.”

“Good. Now, as for Papa.” That was thunder, Verity concluded. But it sounded far away. “He told me about the archbishop’s ram.”

Randolph’s resolute expression became startled, then amused. “Don’t let him hear you put it that way.”

“I only wish he could. I’m all out of patience with the man.”

“You don’t think I was careless?”

“It was a silly accident! Years ago, according to Papa.”

“Three years.”

“Then it is past time for the archbishop to forget about it.”

“You are a gem among women,” said Randolph.

Verity felt a tremor of pride. “I thought of asking my mother to intercede with the Duke of Rutland. She and the archbishop are both related to him.”

“You think he’d help?”

“I’m not well acquainted with him myself, but what harm could it do to ask?”

“A good deal, possibly.” Randolph grimaced. “If the duke hasn’t heard the story, then approaching him would simply spread it farther.”

“Ah. And make the archbishop angrier,” Verity said. “I see.”

“My father is looking into the matter. I expect he’ll come up with something. He always does.”

Verity could easily believe this. It was a great relief. “So that leaves only Rosalie,” she said in the teeth of a rush of damp wind.

Randolph looked down at her profile. Her tone had changed. “I mentioned Rosalie after that dream, didn’t I? I wasn’t sure, afterward, precisely what I’d said.”

“You did.”

“Are you angry?” She sounded terse.

“I’m curious why you hadn’t told me you were engaged before.”

Still, her tone suggested something sharper. “I would have.”

“And yet you didn’t.”

“I’ve scarcely thought about Rosalie for years.” Which was mostly true, Randolph thought. Recent events had brought his former love back into his consciousness. “And there’s scarcely been time. I don’t know a great deal about your life.”

“We have plenty of time now,” she said crisply.

A gust of wind buffeted them. Randolph grabbed his hat again. They didn’t actually have much time. Rain was undoubtedly imminent. But he could see she didn’t want to hear about that. Best to speak quickly and get her home before it started. “Just after I was ordained, I came down to London for a visit,” he began. “I met Rosalie Delacourt at a concert.”

“Did you sing with her?” Verity interrupted.

“No.” Randolph searched his memory for music they’d shared, and found none. Their time had been so brief. “We were…drawn to each other at once. We became engaged.”

“You offered for her, you mean.”

“That is the customary procedure.” He wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t tell her how very pretty Rosalie had been, how elfin and delicate. He didn’t say he’d thought himself head over heels in love. “And then she fell ill. A virulent fever. And in a matter of weeks, she died.” He still felt sadness. That was natural. But it didn’t rip at him as it had then.

“Her family wouldn’t let you see her,” Verity commented.

“I wasn’t allowed in her room,” he agreed with an inner prick of resentment.

“That must have been terrible.”

He gave a curt nod. “It was also six years ago,” he finished. “All over long ago. Truly, Verity.”

“It didn’t sound over when you spoke of her that night.”

“Nonsense. Of course it is.”

“You seemed anguished,” Verity said.

“I was half out of my mind with fear for Mama.”

“And Rosalie.”

“The dream muddled them up. They do that, you know. Think of the odd dreams you’ve had. A nightmare is irrational.”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Tell me more about Rosalie.”

“There’s little else to tell.” This seemed a chancy line of conversation.

“What was it like the first moment you met?”

The memory unfolded in Randolph’s mind, and he was briefly caught up by it. “We talked and talked and found we agreed on every important point.”

“Every single one? How extraordinary. Are you positive? Or did you talk and she listen?”

She sounded rather tart. Her blue-green eyes bored into Randolph. “What?”

“And did she actually agree? Or did she nod and smile and praise you whenever you made a statement?”

Randolph was taken aback. “You didn’t know her.”

“I didn’t,” Verity said. “So very likely I’m being unfair. Tell me one of her opinions with which you agreed.”

“What?” he said again. That clap of thunder was louder. They needed to get moving.

“You said you agreed on every important point. I’m interested in one of Rosalie’s points.”

Randolph tried to remember an occasion when Rosalie had expressed a strong opinion. Such as the determination of his current companion on their first meeting—never to marry a country clergyman. He couldn’t come up with one. “She was very young,” he said. “Her mind would have developed over time.”

“I’m sure it would have,” answered Verity. “And such development would have promoted idyllic happiness.”

She sounded very much like Randolph’s dry inner voice, which so often spoke wisdom, however sharp or unwelcome. Perhaps he had set Rosalie up on a pedestal, Randolph thought. Or rather, he’d idealized their story. The truth was, he hadn’t really known her. There’d been no time.

Verity was perfectly right, he acknowledged. Rosalie hadn’t expressed opinions or done anything in particular. She’d admired him, and that had been enough for his younger self. He’d been a little smug, cocky, stuffed full of fresh learning and great plans. A pretty girl who was eager to praise them was the summit of his desire. There was no telling where their lives would have gone. Very likely Rosalie would have tired of listening, at some point, if her death hadn’t destroyed all their possibilities. She’d been a human girl, not a paragon. He would always remember her affectionately, but…

He didn’t want a wife who simply listened and agreed, Randolph realized. Not any more—if he ever really had. He wanted a partner full of ideas and passions, who occasionally interrupted him and quite often made him think. Even when he didn’t really want to. He wanted someone who contributed to plans for their future, rather than accepting whatever he suggested. He wanted a woman who set him afire with longing. In short, he wanted Verity Sinclair. He loved her as he’d never loved Rosalie, with a man’s clear-eyed understanding and wholehearted intensity.

He hadn’t said so when he offered. He hadn’t understood the depth of his feelings then. He needed to tell her. It was becoming a familiar impulse, the need to tell Verity, to hear what she thought.

“I’ve made you sad,” she said, sounding rather melancholy herself. “I beg your pardon. Of course I know nothing about it.” She looked at the ground.

He’d barely even kissed Rosalie, Randolph thought. There’d been a few stolen embraces after their engagement was settled, but those had been nothing like the flash of passion with Verity by the pianoforte, or the ecstasy at Quinn’s cottage. And to compare such things was caddish, and he wouldn’t do it. He didn’t have to. He knew where his priorities lay.

“I’m not usually waspish,” said Verity. “I suppose I was…am jealous.” She sighed. “How dispiriting.”

“I don’t think of Rosalie,” Randolph repeated. “She’s gone. My mind is full of—”

“And yet, what does Shakespeare say? Her ‘eternal summer shall not fade.’”

She touched some truth in that—a wispy, nostalgic principle. “For the callow youth I was, perhaps. But as you guessed, that boy thought more of himself than any other. What he called love…” Randolph shrugged. “I don’t quite recognize it now. Not since I’ve become acquainted with you. It’s much more…expansive, isn’t it? Fiery and challenging and informative and rather all-encompassing, really.”

“Love?” murmured Verity.

“I’m not sure why it took me so long to see that I love you with all my heart.”

She stared at him. She blinked and swallowed. “I was thinking exactly the same thing,” she said, wonderment in her voice.

He smiled down at her, joy unfolding many layered inside him. “Well. That’s good then.”

“Oh, Randolph.” She threw herself into his arms.

Jubilantly, he caught her. And here was yet another sort of kiss—this one free and exulting, a promise sealed. How many more were waiting to be discovered? He couldn’t wait to find out.

The crack of thunder over their heads seemed a proper punctuation—and much too close. He had to step back. “We need to go. The storm is nearly upon us.”

Verity nodded. Hand in hand, they hurried back toward the gate. They were barely halfway there when, with a blinding flash and a splintering crack, lightning struck a tree not twenty feet away. Randolph moved quicker than thought, an arm around Verity’s waist, pulling her tight against him. He took a long step and then another. Even as the thunder assaulted them, shaking the very air, he got them behind a stone plinth.

A heavy section of the tree, split off by the lightning, thudded to the ground near where they’d been standing. Branches speared through on either side of the statue above their heads. He held her. She was trembling. He expected he was, too. It was difficult to tell over the beating of his heart.

The skies let loose then, a deluge, pounding on their hats and shoulders, soaking them instantly. Randolph bent his head and held on. Verity clung to him. The fallen half-tree hissed and sputtered.

“I’ve n-never been so close to a lightning strike,” Verity said, her lips inches from his ear.

“Nor I.” Water streamed down his coat, her cloak. It dripped off his hat brim onto her neck. “What a fool I was. I knew it was going to rain.”

Verity laughed.

When he peered down at her, she laughed harder. He could feel her body shaking with mirth now.

“A nervous reaction,” she gasped. “An excess of—” She dissolved in laughter.

Randolph couldn’t help smiling. And then laughing as well. Rain was a massive understatement. This was a fluid barrage. A pummeling to follow the volley by tree. It was like standing under a waterfall. His hat was slowly drooping down over his skull. Her bonnet was disintegrating over her bright hair. But they were all right—pressed deliciously together, laughing like lunatics.

Then Verity said, “I suppose we should go on before we catch a chill.”

The phrase froze Randolph’s blood. The laugher died in his throat. “Come. I must get you home.” He guided her back to the path. “I’ll find a cab.”

Verity picked up her sodden skirts. He kept his arm around her. They rushed together through the rain to the park gate.

Randolph had to step into the street to stop a hansom cab. “Ye’ll soak the seats,” the driver objected, hunched under a hooded cloak. “No one else’ll want to ride.”

“You have a blanket,” Randolph said. He could see it from where he stood. “We’ll spread it out and sit on it.” He’d rather have put it over Verity, but getting the ride was more important.

“Well—”

“And I’ll give you a guinea extra.”

This won the driver over. Randolph hastily unfolded the blanket and helped Verity into the vehicle. He gave the man the address and joined her. She nestled against him. “You’re cold,” he said.

“So are you.” She slipped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.

Randolph forgot the chill. Indeed, he was much warmer. He had a sudden flash of the two of them, in this cozy position, over and over down the years to come, right into old age. The idea touched him to the heart.

In a few minutes, the cab pulled up before the door of Verity’s lodgings, and Randolph handed her down. “You must go home,” she said when the maid opened the door and began exclaiming over their bedraggled state. “And get out of those clothes.”

If only they could do so together, Randolph thought. He’d be more than happy to help her out of that wet gown and set of stays, and untie her laces as he had at Quinn’s cottage. He could almost feel the cloth under his fingers. But that was impossible. For now. Soon, soon. He bowed and climbed back into the cab.