CHAPTER 17
A Shift in the Wind
“He’s a good man, your father. I like him well,” Connor said as he walked back out to the mews with Gable, having finished his meeting with Lord Sefton.
“He seems impressed with you, likewise, and believe me, that’s no easy feat.”
The rain had stopped, and the fresh, damp aroma of it rose from the cobblestones, mingling comfortingly with the smell of horses and hay from the stables.
“You two certainly seem to get on well together,” Connor continued. “It’s nice to see.”
“We didn’t always, God knows.” Gable smiled wryly while the sound of hungry horses neighing for their supper floated out on the evening air. “He used to think me an utter wastrel. And frankly, before Trinny came along, he was not altogether wrong in his estimation. She straightened me out.”
“She seems a fine woman.”
“Why don’t you join us for supper tonight?” Gable asked as they strolled across the mews, heading for the stable. “I have to stay here a little while longer with Father to go over some things he wants me to see to in his absence, but you could take your horse home and make sure he’s settled, then join us at our house in Moonlight Square. We’re quite informal, and we’d love to have you. After all, you are our new neighbor.”
“That’s very kind of you. But won’t your lady mind?”
“Not at all. She spent so many weeks closeted in her confinement with the babe that she’s eager for company. Besides, I have an ulterior motive.”
Connor looked askance at him. “You want to show off that baby of yours, don’t you?”
“Oh God, am I that obvious?” the viscount exclaimed, laughing.
Connor chuckled knowingly.
Gable’s face flushed. “I try not to be too obnoxious about it, but I am ridiculously smitten with the tot.”
“As you should be,” Connor said.
“So, are you free?”
“I’d be delighted,” he said.
As they went back into the stables, a groom reported that Hurricane had behaved himself, to Connor’s relief. The groom led the way to the stallion’s temporary stall, but Connor had no sooner reached for the stall door than he furrowed his brow and turned back, his heart sinking.
“You know, on second thought, I should wait until all this trouble is laid to rest before I set foot in your home. God only knows what these enemies of mine are capable of. I could never forgive myself if I were to draw danger to your wife and child.”
Gable’s expression turned grim. “Damn. I hadn’t thought of that… That’s a hell of a thing,” he murmured, then folded his arms across his chest. “Do you really think…?”
Connor shrugged. “Not worth taking the chance. Let us just postpone it. Better safe than sorry. But thank you. It means a great deal to me.”
Gable frowned. “If it were just me, I would say it doesn’t matter, but—”
“No, no, not at all.” Connor hauled open the stall door and collected his horse.
Gable leaned against the wood frame, admiring the animal, though his eyes showed his concern. “So, do you think you’ll confront your aunt and see if your family’s troubles now have anything to do with her past?”
“Confront the dragon?” Connor ran down a stirrup and gave Gable a sardonic glance. “Who do you think I am, Saint George?”
His friend chortled.
Connor shook his head. “It’s a delicate matter, to be sure. I think she’s still grieving and I don’t want to make anything worse. I may ask a few cautious questions—after this soirée she’s holding for me, of course. Such questions are sure to offend her, and God only knows what she might do to me in revenge at the party if she sets her mind against me.”
“My father certainly had fond memories of her beauty back then.” Gable shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that before.”
They both laughed at the earl’s rhapsody over “Lucky Lucy Bly.”
“Well, I’ll say this for her,” Connor remarked as he went around to the other side of Hurricane, resting his hand on the animal’s flank on the way so the temperamental stallion knew where he was. “Difficult as she is, she must be one hell of a survivor to have clawed her way up from that life to being a duchess. There’s something in that I can’t help but respect.”
Gable nodded. “At least it explains how she became so formidable.”
“Aye.” Connor shrugged and then tightened the saddle girth.
A couple of grooms gathered around to admire Hurricane as Connor led the stallion out. They kept a respectful distance but ogled the tall thoroughbred and ventured to ask a few intelligent questions about the animal. Connor happily indulged them by answering their queries about the horse’s lineage and speed.
“He’s a fine animal, Your Grace,” the head groom finally said with a bow as they let Connor and his horse go on their way.
“Thanks for looking after him,” Connor said, and gave the man several coins to pass around to the stable boys.
Gable sauntered after him, hands in pockets, as Connor led Hurricane back out into the cobbled yard.
“You know,” the viscount said as Connor threw the reins over Hurricane’s withers, preparing to mount up, “supper might have to wait, but surely you could come and play cards with me and the boys tomorrow night.”
His ears perking up at the sound of fun, Connor turned to him. “Oh?”
Gable nodded. “We’re playing long whist at the club starting at eight, if you want to join us. It’s deep play, but we’d be glad to deal you in.”
“Sounds a fine way to get rid of some of this ridiculous fortune I’ve inherited.”
“Could be,” Gable said with amusement. “More importantly, there’ll be a whole crew of us at the table, so you would not appear to be singling anyone out, even if your enemy was watching. But it’s doubtful that he would be, since only residents of Moonlight Square can be members at the Grand Albion. Of course, they can bring guests,” he admitted. “Netherford always brings Peter Carvel, for example. But Rivenwood will be there. Sidney, me. What do you think?”
“Aye,” Connor said, nodding, “that I could do. Thank you, Gable. I’ll be there. Sounds a proper way to spend a Saturday night.”
“Into morning, usually.”
“Aha. And you mean to stay awake for it?” Connor jested, recalling the new father’s frequent yawns.
Gable grinned. “Coffee, man. Nectar of the New World. So, are you any good at gambling?”
Connor gave him a cheery wink. “Luck o’ the Irish.”
“Ha! Well, you’ll need it. Watch out for Netherford; he’s a shark. And Sidney is a master of the bluff.”
With a hearty laugh, Connor swung up onto his horse. “Thanks, mate. I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
Gable nodded, and they parted ways.
* * *
“I cannot believe she did that to you!” Penelope cried, pacing back and forth across Maggie’s chamber. She had returned from her day off and been appalled at the news. “I simply…cannot…believe it! What is wrong with that woman? Begging your pardon, my lady, but—I’m sorry—your sister’s a witch!”
“I don’t disagree,” Maggie replied wearily, propped up against the headboard of her bed, with several pillows around her and three blankets tucked in about her shivering body. She sneezed again, covering it with her handkerchief just in time.
Penelope rushed to Maggie’s bedside as though she were dying. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I feel responsible for this! If I had been there, at least—”
“You’d have caught a cold, too. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine by tomorrow. I’m hardier than I look.” With a half-smile, Maggie reached gratefully for the cup of hot tea that Penelope had brought her.
It was Mama’s old remedy for colds, passed down for generations, simply to add a stiff shot of whiskey to a cup of tea and go to bed early.
Worked every time.
Confident she’d feel better by tomorrow, she was not above making her next sneeze extra loud so that Delia might feel her reproach.
Of course, Delia had problems of her own right now, for Edward had never been so enraged.
Penelope and she had tried not to listen to the shouting coming up through the floor.
It was the fiercest fight between husband and wife that she’d ever heard, and if her presence here was now adding this kind of strain to her sister’s marriage, then it merely drove home the point that Maggie needed to go.
She did not want to be responsible for destroying their marriage.
“Good God, woman, who are you?” Edward had thundered from below, and though the floorboards and carpet somewhat muffled their argument, it could not hide the fury in his voice. “I’ve tried to overlook your immaturity, God knows, but there comes a point—I mean, what sort of monster have I married?”
“Monster?” Delia hollered. “I’ll tell you what sort of woman I am, Birdwell—one who’s too good for you!”
“Oh, really?”
Penelope shuddered while Maggie sank down a bit beneath the covers.
“She’s going to ruin her own life,” Penelope murmured grimly.
“She might as well,” Maggie said. “She’s already ruined Edward’s. Poor man.”
“He should take a mistress,” Penelope whispered. “He’s too good a man to put up with such treatment.”
“I don’t disagree,” Maggie said.
She did not approve of adultery, of course, but at the moment, she was not convinced that her sister was even capable of love, and Edward deserved it.
Penelope shook her head, pacing. “It could put you off marriage entirely.”
Maggie nodded and sipped her fortified tea once again.
Upon her bedraggled return, it had given her some satisfaction to see how angry Edward had been on her behalf. His calm face had flushed with fury, and he had immediately sought out his wife.
Even Delia knew she had gone too far this time, as much as she’d tried to pretend nonchalance. Maggie did not see fit to tell either of them about Bryce’s beastly behavior. How he’d enjoyed adding insult to injury. But he’d only brought dishonor on himself, and so had Delia.
The Marchioness of Birdwell now found herself an outcast within the walls of her own home.
Having heard the shocking story from Hubert the coachman, the entire staff had joined the insurrection, each of them, from butler to scullery maid, going out of their way to show their displeasure with their mistress by being very slow to obey any orders Her Ladyship gave them.
Maggie appreciated their silent show of support, but was too fed up to care anymore. She felt miserable in both body and mind and did not know what would become of her.
It was clearer than ever now that she could not stay here much longer. This living arrangement was simply not suitable. It might even be preferable to take her chances at Halford Manor, near handsy Uncle Wilbur.
Only Penelope dared give voice to what she’d told Maggie all the servants were feeling. “Of all the petty, callous, insensitive—”
“It’s all right, Pen. I survived it.”
“That remains to be seen!” Penelope set her hands on her waist. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch the physician?”
“It’s just a case of the sniffles. I’ll finish this good stuff, then get some sleep.”
Penelope frowned, scanning Maggie’s face. “Very well. But if you start feeling worse, I think he should come and see you.”
“As you wish.”
In truth, all Maggie wanted to do was pull the covers up over her head and block out the world.
She was already cringing to think of how the mighty major would react when he heard about her defeat. He’d inspired her to fight, and she had—and she’d been soundly trounced.
Having to face him again and admit it merely doubled her shame. He was going to think she was the world’s worst weakling. And who would want to marry that?
Certainly not a man who practically personified strength.
He was going to feel sorry for her, and that thought utterly depressed her. She knew how it felt to pity a suitor, after all. She shook her head, then took another deep drink of the tea. She might’ve been trounced by her sister, but she refused to be laid low by a stupid cold, too.
Her eyes watered at the fiery scotch in the tea, but she finished it all, coughing a little as it burned its way down to her belly. Then she set the cup aside on the tray Penelope had rested on her night table.
“If you’d excuse me, Pen, I really think I ought to get some sleep.”
“Oh yes, of course, my lady. Do ring me at once if you need anything at all.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Penelope gave Maggie a fretful look as she collected the tea tray, and then bustled off to the door and closed it silently behind her.
When she had gone, Maggie stared at the ceiling, then heaved a great sigh. Meanwhile, the fight between Edward and Delia raged on below.
She hoped with all her heart that her sweet-tempered brother-in-law fared better against the redheaded dragon than she had, but deep down, she rather doubted it.
Delia always won.
* * *
The next night, a cloud of cigar smoke hung over the green baize table. The card game at the Grand Albion gentlemen’s club was well underway.
The smell of tobacco, the taste of good whiskey, the raucous sound of male laughter, and the sight of the colorful playing cards spread out before him…it all brought Connor back to his Army days. Of course, the luxurious club tucked away at the back of the hotel’s ground floor was a far cry from the cramped and moldy officers’ tent where he used to play. But he could not deny that it felt good to be a part of things once more.
He was not, by nature, a solitary soul—a thought which, inevitably, carried his mind back to Maggie.
Though he watched his male neighbors taking their turns around the table, by now—around eleven o’clock on Saturday night—his curiosity about how she’d fared at Hyde Park yesterday was killing him.
He told himself he was probably being overeager and nosy, to boot.
But, prodded by impatience, he had decided to send her a one-line note: How are you, my dear?
He’d had Will run it over and hand it off to her lady’s maid. When Will had returned, he had brought back her reply: Forsooth, Your Grace, I’ve been better. Fondly, ~M.
He’d arched a brow at the humorous tone of her answer, but what her words meant, exactly, he still wasn’t sure. It perplexed him.
It worried him.
“Your turn, Amberley,” said Netherford.
“Right.” Stirred from his thoughts, Connor considered his cards.
Netherford frowned across the table. “Rivenwood, what the hell’s wrong?”
Connor glanced over curiously as Azrael frowned.
“Yes, do tell,” Sidney chimed in. “Why the long face? You’re brooding even more than usual.”
Major Peter Carvel chuckled at that and took a swig of his ale while they all looked at the blond duke in question.
Azrael let out a huge sigh. “Alas, boys, I am out of my lady’s good graces,” he announced.
From all around the table, jovial protests erupted.
“What? No!”
“Say it isn’t so!”
“But you two never fight.”
“Really,” Sidney drawled, “it’s disgusting.”
“What did you do?” Netherford said, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
Azrael shook his head. “My fair duchess asked for a favor I couldn’t grant. Serena,” he said, “is not used to anyone telling her no. Especially me.”
“What on earth did she want from you?” Netherford asked with a grin.
“Yes, what labor of Hercules did she ask?” Gable chimed in. “Although, for what it’s worth, I feel your pain. Trinny has the same unholy power over me.”
Azrael laughed softly and sat back in his chair. “Well…” He paused, glancing briefly at Connor, then kept his voice down. “She told me I needed to have a word with Lord Birdwell.”
At the mention of Maggie’s brother-in-law, Connor looked over his hand of cards, his stare homing in on his fellow duke’s angular face. “Why is that?”
“You’ve probably all heard by now how Lady Birdwell threw her poor sister out of their coach yesterday?”
“What?” a few fellows asked.
Connor went motionless.
“Yes.” Azrael winced and nodded. “My wife did not witness the row, but she told me she and her friend, Portia Tennesley, happened across the two sisters while they were taking their drive in Hyde Park yesterday. Serena said Lady Birdwell was extremely unpleasant to her sister, making barbed jests at poor Lady Margaret’s expense.”
Connor felt a growl gathering in his throat.
“Serena gave the marchioness a bit of a sting to warn her to behave, but they parted ways then, so she did not witness the row itself. But by the time my wife had circuited the Ring, she happened across another friend who’d seen it unfold. Quite a heated exchange.” Azrael shook his head. “Apparently, the two sisters ended up in a shouting match, and then Lady Birdwell ejected Lady Margaret from the carriage. Made the poor girl walk home.”
Deaf now to the exclamations of shock that rose from around the table, Connor set his cards down slowly, ignoring the worried glances that several of the men cast his way.
Obviously, they knew that he and Maggie were on quite friendly terms; she was the one who had introduced him to most of the men present.
Indeed, half of Society had seen them dancing together.
Though his heart pounded and his hands itched to punch something, Connor held himself back from going on the warpath. He said not a word.
“And so, Serena wanted me to say something to Birdwell, tell the chap to get his wife in line. But, as much as I adore her, I told my darling duchess that a man does not tell another man how to manage his lady.”
“To be sure,” Netherford agreed, nodding and still looking shocked at Her Ladyship’s rudeness. “If anyone ever criticized Felicity in my hearing, let alone suggest to my face how my wife ought to behave, whew! Even if she’d been a wild hellion, it would not go well for him.”
“Exactly,” said Azrael. “If any man said a word to me against Serena…” He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. But he sighed. “And so she is cross at me now. It pains me to deny her, but this, as I told her, I simply cannot do.”
“This is different,” Gable agreed, nodding. Then he glanced at Sidney, brightening. “Maybe you can drop a hint to Birdwell, Sid. You’re very tactful—when you mean to be.”
They all looked at the golden-haired viscount, who had an odd look on his face. A rather taut, rueful expression, as though he knew more about this Hyde Park matter than he had yet revealed.
Connor studied him with a sharp eye, listening to Azrael, who continued.
“Well, someone should warn Birdwell, because my wife is threatening to speak to the patronesses of the subscription ball about revoking Her Ladyship’s voucher.”
Netherford’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that would take the woman down a peg, to be sure.”
Except that she’d probably just take it out on Maggie, Connor thought.
“What say you, Sidney?” Gable asked. “Will you be our diplomat once more?”
“Yes, you’ve been unusually quiet,” Netherford remarked.
“Um…” Sidney hesitated. He drummed the table with his fingers.
“What?” Connor said.
Sidney sent him a guarded glance. “I, er, wasn’t sure if I should say anything. But…I’m afraid there’s a further twist to this story that, ah, makes Delia’s role pale by comparison.”
Connor leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “What are you talking about?”
All his male neighbors seemed to have realized by now that this was his problem.
And, oh, to be sure, he would deal with it.
Sidney lifted his eyebrows, as though he feared violence was the inevitable outcome of his words.
Gable glanced uneasily at Connor, then looked over once more at his boyhood friend. “Sidney?”
Connor narrowed his eyes, waiting. “What did you hear?”
Sidney downed his last swig of rum. “Promise not to kill anyone, ol’ boy?”
Connor nodded.
“Right. Ah well.” Sidney set his glass down with a thud. “Bryce and a few of his set were here last night drinking till late. I’m afraid Lady Margaret’s ex-suitor was laughing his head off over having spotted her traipsing home through the streets in the middle of the downpour.” Sidney winced. “Bryce seemed to find it amusing that poor Maggie ‘had the nerve,’ as he put it, to hope that he might let her into his curricle and drive her the rest of the way home. He deigned not to, on account of her jilt.” Sidney paused. “In fact, he spoke of steering through a puddle to splash her on purpose with his carriage as he drove away.”
“What a cad,” Gable murmured in amazement.
Azrael looked appalled, Netherford incredulous. The others were silent, then Carvel looked at Connor expectantly.
Connor was seething. He could picture the whole thing in his mind. No wonder the poor girl had gone into hiding.
She must be mortified. If she hadn’t caught her death.
“Thank you, Lord Sidney,” he said through gritted teeth, then slapped his cards down. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I have business to attend to.”
The room had gone absolutely quiet.
He swept to his feet. “Deal me out. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Amberley, what are you planning to do?” Gable called after him as he headed for the door.
Connor did not answer, but gusted away, banging out through the club’s double doors in a fury.
I’ll kill him, he thought as he marched back out across the marble-floored lobby. Aye, and I might just wring Delia’s neck, too.
The uniformed doorman saw him coming this time, and must’ve noticed the wrath on his face, for he quickly pulled the door open and held it. “Good night, sir.”
Connor jogged down the front steps of the hotel and paused for a moment, unsure which direction to go.
Part of him burned to go at once to Maggie’s and pound on the door, demand to see her, make sure for himself that she was all right.
The other half of him considered marching back inside to get Bryce’s address so he might go and kill the man.
Or at least send his second there now to finish what they’d started a week ago.
But no. He had to think.
Clenching and unclenching his fists, he pivoted and began stalking home. Though he was livid, his anger did not dull his awareness of his surroundings.
Casting a wary glance over his shoulder, he scanned the square for any sign of threat, detecting none.
I have to see her. I’ve got to do something! He could not believe that his goading could have led her into such circumstances. The poor girl. He felt awful for putting her up to this.
He’d encouraged her to stand up to her sister and then he’d ridden off to let her face it alone. True, she had told him to go. Still.
I knew I shouldn’t have left her.
His heart pounded in time with his footsteps as he marched the rest of the way to Amberley House, his dodgy knee aching from the change in the weather.
When he arrived, he slammed the door behind him with such savagery that they probably heard it in Dublin.
Enraged, he let out a futile war cry. Pacing across his own entrance hall, he unleashed a tirade of obscenities.
Seconds after his bellow shook the house, Will and Nestor came running.
“Major?” the lad cried with a blanch as he flew down the staircase. “What on earth is the matter?”
“And what did you do to that painting?” Nestor frowned at the landscape of Desert with Bedouins, through which Connor had just put his fist.
A growl was Connor’s only response. He stomped across the entrance hall and began bounding up the steps.
Will and Nestor got out of his way—but then Connor suddenly paused, turning to them. “Any word from Lady Margaret while I was out? Did she send a note?”
“No, sir,” Will said.
“What happened, man?” Nestor insisted, but Connor was in motion once more, pounding up the staircase.
“Did somebody try to murder you again?” Will called after him.
“Not this time!” he answered. Churning with fury, Connor ran up to the third-floor bedroom on the corner of his house.
Crossing the dark, little-used chamber, he paused only to plant his hands on the windowsill, briefly peering out across the square at the Birdwell residence.
Most of the windows were dark; a few glowed from within.
With everything in him, Connor longed to see her. He had to know if she was all right. He stared at the window that she’d said was her chamber…
In a heartbeat, his mind was made up. With that, he reached for the lantern and lit it. He set it on the sill and then, for urgency’s sake, lit the second one, praying Maggie looked out her window to notice his summons: Come to me. Now.