Twenty-one

Half an hour later, following his fiancée’s explicit instructions, Randolph caught up with Charles Wrentham in another of the reception rooms. He was moving toward the front door, which wouldn’t do. “Heard you had your head examined,” Randolph said.

Wrentham snorted. “The fellow’s a charlatan. Eventuality. What sort of tripe is that?”

“I need to speak to you,” said Randolph.

“I’m sorry, it’s not convenient.” Wrentham lowered his voice. “I’m not going to talk any more about the duel. I told you. I’m carrying through. There’s no other choice.” He sounded more resigned than pugnacious.

“Not about that,” said Randolph. “Something else. Just a few minutes of conversation.” He herded Wrentham toward the designated location.

“No. I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m leaving. I have an urgent appointment with a bottle of brandy.”

“It will still be there if you’re a few minutes late,” replied Randolph dryly. He didn’t understand what Miss Reynolds saw in this young man. But then he didn’t know her either. And they’d looked all lovey-dovey when they acted together in the play at Salbridge, he remembered.

“Let me be!” exclaimed Wrentham.

They’d reached a corridor, and there was no one nearby to hear. What was more interesting was that Randolph had caught a despairing note in his companion’s tone. Mr. Wrentham was not happy. Why? Randolph steered him left rather than right toward the front entry as he asked, “Is something wrong?”

The younger man bared his teeth and shook a fist. Then his shoulders slumped and his expression shifted from anger into tragedy. “Nothing whatsoever. Except that I can’t do anything right,” he said. “Everything I try goes ludicrously wrong!”

With a light touch on Wrentham’s shoulder, Randolph guided him into the small back parlor that was his goal. Fortunately, it was empty. Still.

“I made a fool of myself over cards at Salbridge,” Wrentham continued, seeming not to notice his surroundings. His words came faster, a spate suddenly released. “And now here in London I don’t send flowers when I should have. And whose bouquet was it, anyway? I have my suspicions there! Then I’m accused of not turning up for meetings I know nothing about. As if I’d ever leave a lady standing alone. Well, I ask you!”

He looked at Randolph, dark eyes snapping. “’Course you wouldn’t,” Randolph replied.

“You can damn well be sure I wouldn’t! And then I’m twitted with being timid and dull. Wouldn’t dare ride my horse backward through the park, would I? Well, I showed her! Only it wasn’t her, seemingly. If I ever get my hands on the person who sent that message…but that’s nothing to the news that she’d been taken in by Rochford, of all men.”

He clenched his fists again. Randolph could see that it was no use suggesting this idea was as false as the others he’d listed. Wrentham wasn’t listening.

“Lured her with a pack of lies, I expect. Or threw her into a hack and dragged her to his house.” He nodded as if this idea was more appealing to him. “I wanted to kill him. I shall kill him! He may be a very devil with a rapier, but I’m not so bad myself. Well, you can attest to that.”

He glared again. Randolph bit back comments on Wrentham’s wild fencing style. Rochford could carve the young man up like a Sunday roast, if he decided to be an idiot.

Wrentham fell onto a sofa, sullen. “And then I’ll flee to France and never see my home again and everyone will be sorry.”

Where was Verity? Randolph wondered. Another minute and he’d be telling Wrentham he was acting like a schoolboy. He didn’t think that was what she had in mind.

Verity was in a nearby room. She’d finally tracked down Frances Reynolds, sitting half hidden by a clump of greenery. “There you are,” she said. “Come along.”

“Where?”

“With me.” She took the younger girl’s arm and urged her up and across the room.

“Where?” repeated Miss Reynolds. “What are you doing? We scarcely know each other. Actually, we don’t know each other at all.”

“Something important,” Verity replied. She had to slow several times to acknowledge polite greetings, but at last they reached the door and the corridor outside.

There, Miss Reynolds rebelled. She pulled her arm away and stopped. “I won’t move another inch until you tell me what’s going on,” she said.

Verity admired her spirit, even as she wondered where it had been these last few weeks. “An adventure,” she said.

“An—”

She hadn’t included herself in the plan, Verity realized. That wasn’t right. “And a chance to set things straight. With Mr. Wrentham.” If Miss Reynolds refused the opportunity, she’d have to let her go.

Speculation followed surprise on the girl’s pretty face. She frowned, considered, then gave one nod and followed Verity into the small parlor they’d picked out.

Randolph stood by the door. Mr. Wrentham was sprawled on a sofa looking petulant. He jumped up as they entered and exclaimed, “Miss Reynolds!”

Verity could see why he’d excelled at amateur theatrics. As they’d planned, Randolph moved to shield the entrance and keep everyone else out. Verity took a station in the center of the chamber. “So,” she said.

It was all very well to recommend open and frank discussion, Verity thought. The duchess had made it sound like a calm, rational exchange of views leading to perfect understanding. Or perhaps that’s what Verity had heard. Now she realized that conflicting feelings would pop up. Probably with yelling. This sort of talk most likely required skill or practice, or both. Which she didn’t actually have.

Well, someone had to start. “Right,” she said. “Here’s the thing. Those flowers? Mr. Wrentham didn’t send them. That trick with the horse? Frances had nothing to do with it.” Verity hoped to avoid naming Olivia. “I’ve discovered they were pranks played on you. Both. As was the missed meeting at the museum. Deplorable, unamusing jokes.”

“Was Callaghan behind them?” demanded Mr. Wrentham.

Verity didn’t know a Callaghan. She avoided distraction. “No.”

“And how did you find out?”

She evaded that question as well. “My point is…you mustn’t let them stand in the way of the strong attachment you obviously feel for each other.”

“That doesn’t explain Rochford,” Mr. Wrentham said. He glowered at Miss Reynolds.

“Who is Rochford?” the latter asked.

“Feigning ignorance won’t help you. Everyone’s heard you went to visit him. At his house. Alone.”

Randolph very much hoped that everyone hadn’t yet heard. He started to object.

Miss Reynolds spoke first. “Well then, everyone has got the wrong end of the stick.” She looked humiliated but resolute. “I don’t know a Rochford, and I have certainly never visited him. As if I would do such a thing! How dare you suggest it?”

“False rumor,” Verity said. “Another prank.”

“Prank!” Wrentham turned on her. “You will tell me who’s behind this…persecution. At once. And by God, I’ll make them eat their filthy, lying—”

“Charles,” said Miss Reynolds.

He looked around. His gaze encountered the girl’s bright-red face. “Oh, the deuce,” he said in a very different tone. “Don’t look like that, Frances. I can’t bear it.”

“Did you hear what Miss Sinclair said? It was a hoax. All these misunderstandings. Someone was playing mean tricks on us.”

“Which they will pay for!”

“Is that the important thing? Is that what you wish to talk to me about?”

Miss Reynolds appeared to have a knack for open discussion, Verity noted.

“Have you nothing else to say to me?” she added, blinking back tears.

“No, Frances, dash it. Don’t cry. You know I love you. Have since the play.”

“Do I?” She swallowed. “You said you didn’t even remember how it was in Salbridge.”

“Well, I was angry. And I’m an idiot.” Wrentham let out a great sigh and shook his head. “Things just seem to pile up and drive me distracted. I couldn’t get any of them right. Will you marry me anyway? Even though I’m a complete bungler? Say you will.”

Miss Reynolds examined him. “You really mean it?”

“Never meant anything more.” He took her hand and gazed down into her eyes.

“Well, then I will. I’ve been trying to for months.”

He laughed and kissed her hand.

“There. That wasn’t so very difficult, was it?” asked Verity.

The finally united couple turned to stare at her. “You must get along great guns with Lady Robert,” said Mr. Wrentham.

It took Verity a moment to realize that he meant Flora. “I do,” she answered.

“I must say the Greshams are better men than I.” He looked at Randolph. “Can’t see the appeal of a managing woman myself.”

“Charles,” said Frances.

“Right. Doesn’t matter. Not my problem.”

“I’m in the habit of speaking my mind,” Frances added.

“Not the same. You’re adorable.”

Frances gave her intended a brilliant smile.

“Small matter of the challenge,” Randolph put in.

“What challenge?” Miss Reynolds looked from him to Wrentham, brightly inquisitive.

“Never mind,” Wrentham told her. “I’ll withdraw it tomorrow,” he said to Randolph.

“What challenge?” Miss Reynolds repeated.

“Tell you later,” Wrentham replied. He gazed at Randolph. And Verity.

The fellow was waiting for them to leave the room and give him some privacy, Randolph thought. Which seemed a cheat. They’d fixed his romantic problem; they should get the reward of hearing how he talked himself out of that one. Or better yet, have this parlor to themselves for a bit. But they weren’t going to; he could see that.

“So that’s done,” said Verity out in the corridor. “On to the archbishop.”

“You are a marvel,” said Randolph.

“I had some help from your mother.”

He wasn’t the least surprised.

A chattering group came out of a room along the hall. He wanted to say how much he loved her. It was nearly unbearable that he couldn’t take her in his arms when he felt he’d waited a long age of the world to find her. But the group surrounded them. It included friends who pulled them along. Their solitude was at an end.

Later that night, rattling around in his bedchamber, too restless to sleep, Randolph came upon his lute in the wardrobe. He took it out, sat down, and opened the case. As he strummed a few chords, his fingers moved automatically to pick out the maddeningly elusive tune he’d been trying to master for months. It lay haunting, poignant at the back of his mind, like a peak he could see but never reach.

He played the first notes. That sounded right at last. He added the next bit. Yes! He hadn’t been able to get that fingering on the strings the last time he’d tried. He started over at the beginning, breath held. And after all this time, he heard the song that had come to him in an odd sort of vision ring out into the air. Anxious, he tried it again. Yes! He had it now. Because of the love in his heart, he decided. He’d had to know real love to play this song.

Randolph exulted. Here was a sign. All would be well. He’d make Verity happy. He played the melody again. He sang the words. He’d really gotten it! He fell into a pleasure of harmonies and variations. Soon he forgot all else in the lovely sound.