Chapter Two
GAVIN HAD BEEN standing with Mrs. Sullivan, watching the lady put off the advances of a comically young and noticeably poor poet named Avery who no doubt had an eye out for a wealthy patron, when the lady’s butler, Fergus, edged into view. With him stood a nervous-looking maid in her trim cap and black dress. Excusing herself, Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from her guests.
“What is it, Fergus?” he could hear her ask.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but Jessa believes she overheard voices in one of the rooms.”
His eyes darted around the room, searching out Ina. He shouldn’t have left her alone. Years of friendship had taught him that a bored Ina was a dangerous Ina. She had little patience for society and, in turn, society extended her little understanding. Things might have been different if she’d stayed with the Bohemian circles she moved in so comfortably, but her position as a wealthy—albeit eccentric—man’s daughter meant her world was wider than that. Money opened doors, prompted invitations, and brought scrutiny.
“Certainly that’s not cause for alarm,” Mrs. Sullivan was saying.
“I heard a gentleman and a lady speaking,” the maid said.
Why couldn’t he find Ina? She wasn’t with Lana Russell, Christine Nell, or Anne Breck, three of her close friends.
“I see,” Mrs. Sullivan said quietly. “Which of the rooms was it?”
“The library,” said Fergus.
The same room he’d told her the Carriera hung in. Damn but he was an idiot. He’d dangled a carrot in front of Ina and then wandered off, more interested in propping up his faded career than in her well-being.
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I know who may be in your library,” he said, inserting himself with the same low tone the hostess and her butler had used.
“And who is that, Mr. Barrett?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.
“Miss Duncan.”
“With a gentleman?”
He pursed his lips. “It would be out of character for her to seek out an assignation.”
Wasn’t it? Although sometimes he felt as though he knew Ina’s mind better than his own, love and marriage was the one area they always stayed away from. She didn’t ask him the details of his life, and he didn’t want to know hers. It was the only way he could keep the story he told himself about them being “just friends” alive.
“Then you’re worried for her safety,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
He tilted his head in confirmation.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come with me,” said the matchmaker.
It was Fergus’s turn to quirk his brows. “Are you certain, ma’am, that I cannot be of assistance? Your guests—”
“Will be just fine without me,” she said firmly. “However, if you could find a discreet way to collect Mrs. Coleman without alerting her that there are concerns about her niece’s whereabouts, that would be welcome. There’s no need to worry the lady if it isn’t, in fact, Miss Duncan at all.”
Please don’t let it be Ina.
Without another word, Fergus bowed and led the way out of the room, opening the door for them both as they went, followed by Jessa.
They’d just reached the staircase leading to the upper floors when a woman’s scream pierced the air.
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Sullivan said, picking up her skirts.
Without thinking, Gavin broke out into a run, stopping abruptly when Mrs. Sullivan threw open a nearby door just in time to see the flash of Ina’s hand hitting Sir Kier Gowan squarely in the nose. The man roared in pain, blood soaking his fine leather gloves, and Gavin was on him, hauling him by the throat and ramming him against one of the towering bookshelves.
Now he could feel the satisfying crunch of Gowan’s windpipe as the bastard clawed at his hand.
Gavin’s breathing was ragged as he held onto what little self-control he had left. The man had laid his hand on Ina. It would give him no end of pleasure to put Gowan through a wall, strangle him, or throw him out of a window into the street.
A soft touch fell on his shoulder. “Mr. Barrett, you must let him go,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
He squeezed a little harder, and Gowan’s eyes bugged as he scratched at his hand with more urgency.
“Miss Duncan is safe,” Mrs. Sullivan said, more firmly this time.
Reluctantly, he let his grip loosen. Gowan tore away from him, staggering back a few steps before hitting a low table and falling to the ground.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Gowan shouted, his hand at his throat as he stared in disbelief and disgust at Gavin.
“I should think the same thing could be asked of you,” said Mrs. Sullivan, her voice booming through the room now.
Real fear replaced the anger in the lout’s eyes. Good.
There came a squeak. Jessa was peering out from behind Mrs. Sullivan, her jaw slack.
“To the kitchen, Jessa,” the matchmaker ordered sharply. The maid scrambled out the door, shutting it behind her.
“Are you unharmed?” Mrs. Sullivan asked Ina, taking her by the arms to study her.
Ina’s cuff was torn and there was blood down the front of her dress. Gavin’s own blood began to boil anew.
“Yes, but I wish I’d hit him harder,” said Ina as she kneaded the base of her palm.
That was the Ina he knew—strong and spirited. If Gowan had diminished that spark in her, no amount of cajoling from Mrs. Sullivan could have saved the man.
“Sit here,” said Mrs. Sullivan, guiding Ina to a chair. “Now, will you tell me what happened?” she asked as gently as if she was speaking to a frightened child.
“I’m the one who’s hurt,” muttered Gowan.
“If that’s all that happens to you after tonight, you’ll be fortunate,” he snarled.
“That deranged harlot broke my nose,” Gowan whined from behind his handkerchief.
Gavin strode across the room and hauled Gowan up to his feet by his lapels. “Call her a harlot one more time, I dare you. I’ve dreamed of this since we were at school together.”
“You know him?” Ina asked.
“He was great friends with my brother at Rugby. He was a bastard then, and obviously not much has changed.”
Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat. “As much as I would support you thrashing any man who lays a finger on an unwilling woman, Mr. Barrett, there are things of greater concern at hand.”
“I can’t think of one,” he growled.
“Miss Duncan’s reputation is a start,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “Jessa has not been in my employ long and—”
“Ina!”
Mrs. Coleman nearly knocked Mrs. Sullivan over with her wide dress as she too rushed into the room.
“I’m fine, Aunt Jacqueline,” said Ina, trying to smooth her hands over her rumpled, blood-spattered skirts. “Although this gown has seen better days.”
Mrs. Coleman looked at her niece in horror, and it clearly had nothing to do with the state of Miss Duncan’s dress.
“What happened here?” the woman asked.
“A bloody misunderstanding,” said Gowan. But before the man could elaborate, Gavin twisted his shirt collar a little harder, eliciting a strangled gurgle.
“Mr. Barrett, what on earth are you doing?” asked Mrs. Coleman.
“Discussing the finer points of manners with Sir Kier,” he said, glaring at the red-faced man.
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Coleman.
“Sir Kier was attempting to . . . to kiss me when Mrs. Sullivan and Gavin found us,” said Ina, drawing her shoulders back as she no doubt prepared herself for the explosion that was sure to follow.
“But why were you with him in the first place?” Mrs. Coleman asked with a gasp.
“I was hoping to see Mrs. Sullivan’s Carriera,” said Ina, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Her what?” her aunt asked.
Mrs. Sullivan pointed at the painting. “My Carriera. Miss Duncan has excellent taste.”
“But why would you leave unaccompanied?” asked Mrs. Coleman, wringing her hands.
“Mrs. Sullivan was occupied and I wished to see the Carriera alone. I thought I could step away for just a moment and no one would notice I was gone.”
Again, guilt slid through Gavin. This was his fault. He hadn’t protected Ina, and now she was in a mess he couldn’t fix.
“Of all the selfish, dangerous things you’ve done,” said Mrs. Coleman.
“I just wanted to see a painting,” said Ina in a whisper. “I was only going to be gone ten minutes.”
“Please say that no one saw her,” said Mrs. Coleman, her eyes pleading with Mrs. Sullivan.
The matchmaker shook her head. “Unfortunately, there was a maid. I don’t know the extent of her loyalty yet as I only just poached her from Mrs. Abercrombie.”
Every face except Kier’s fell at the name of the city’s worst gossip.
“You’re ruined,” said Mrs. Coleman, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “Even without your mother’s reputation, no one would ever believe that you hadn’t been complicit in this tête-à-tête. What will I tell your father?”
Ina opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead, she looked helplessly at Gavin. His shoulders sagged at the realization that he might be prepared to give her the world but, if she was compromised, he could do nothing for her.
“I don’t know, Ina,” he said, his heart clenching as defeat broke over her face.
But then Mrs. Sullivan stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Moira Sullivan had seen her share of scandal—a lady didn’t reach the age of fifty-two without drama washing up on her doorstep. Considering she was Edinburgh’s finest matchmaker and general solver of problems great and small, she was often the woman tasked with cleaning up the aftermath of impropriety.
This, however, was a first for her.
“Everyone sit,” she said. When no one moved, her tone sharpened. “Sit. Now.”
Each of them scrambled into a seat, even Mr. Barrett, although he kept a close eye on Sir Kier, no doubt ready to strangle him again if the man put even one foot out of place.
“Tell me exactly what happened here,” said Moira. “Do not leave out details.”
Miss Duncan swallowed, but Sir Kier was faster.
“The chit practically dragged me away from the drawing room. I tried to stop her but—”
“There are three things in life I cannot abide, Sir Kier,” she said sternly. “Being lied to is one of them.”
“What are the others?” Miss Duncan asked, her eyes curious despite the gravity of the situation.
“Infidelity and”—Moira smiled—“cucumbers.”
Miss Duncan snorted, earning her a look of reprimand from her aunt.
“Cucumbers?” Mr. Barrett asked. “Who objects to cucumbers?”
“There’s something about the texture I can’t stand,” said Moira.
“Oh, who cares about cucumbers at a time like this?” cried Mrs. Coleman, her hand clenching creases into the handkerchief she always carried. “Ina, did you go with Sir Kier?”
“No!” the young lady protested. “He was here when I arrived.”
“But you did leave the drawing room unchaperoned,” her aunt said.
Miss Duncan nodded. “Yes, I left the drawing room unchaperoned. I apologize, Mrs. Sullivan. I realize that it was unwise and impolite.”
“Oh, Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.
“There are far worse transgressions in this life than seeking out a painting during a party. What happened next?” asked Moira.
“I was looking at the Carriera, and then Sir Kier made himself known. I felt trapped, as though I couldn’t just leave,” she said, shuddering at the memory. “He tried to grab at me, and he threatened to . . . to ruin me.”
Mr. Barrett’s lips curled up in a snarl. “I should kill you.”
Very interesting . . . A plan had begun to form in Moira’s mind the moment she saw the way Mr. Barrett defended Miss Duncan’s honor, and now she was more sure of its success than ever.
“I’d prefer if we could dispense with any notions of killing tonight, tempting though they might be.” Moira fixed Sir Kier with a glare. “You realize you’ve exposed Miss Duncan’s reputation to untold damage?”
“Damned if I care,” said Sir Kier.
“You should care. There’s a young woman’s reputation at stake,” she said.
“And your continued bachelorhood as well,” said Miss Duncan.
Sir Kier’s lips cracked into a hard, smug smile. “I’ll not be caught up in some scheme to entrap me in marriage.”
“I don’t want you,” said Miss Duncan, her words fierce.
“But, Sir Kier, you have to marry Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman. “You’ve ruined her.”
Ruined. It was a dirty word. An illicit one that conjured up all sorts of images of a young lady’s bad behavior. Very little of it ever fell back on the gentleman involved unless he was caught so publicly he was forced to marry the girl. But that required the lady to have parents with a strong hand. Perhaps if Ina’s mother, Brianna, had still been alive, Moira could’ve coaxed the match, but Brianna had been dead too long, and she doubted Arthur Duncan ever emerged from his study long enough to pay his daughter any mind.
Still, it was worth a try.
“You will marry Miss Duncan,” said Moira, “or I will see to it that you’re barred from every household of quality in this city and a good number of those in London as well. The women of the ton will put up with a great deal from a gentleman, but they can be formidable when they set their minds to it.”
Fear crept into Sir Kier’s swiftly blackening eyes, but still he held his ground. “You couldn’t do that.”
Moira arched a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
Sir Kier rose to his feet, clutching his bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. “I’ll not be threatened like this.”
“You can’t leave!” cried Mrs. Coleman. “Mrs. Sullivan, make him stop.”
The man sneered. “Try.”
No one moved when Sir Kier marched to the door.
“Excellent,” she said as the door slammed shut. “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”
No woman should be saddled with a husband like Kier.
Mrs. Coleman swung round, her eyes pleading. “You must fix this.”
“I plan to,” said Moira.
“This happened under your roof,” Mrs. Coleman continued. “How could you invite such an odious man?”
“Aunt Jacqueline,” Miss Duncan chided, “Mrs. Sullivan isn’t to blame for Sir Kier’s actions.”
“But he was a guest in her home,” her aunt pressed. “If she didn’t keep such inappropriate company, none of this would ever have happened. All of those artists and poets and libertines.”
Clawing her way up the social ladder from poor relation to dancing mistress to wealthy man’s wife until finally she was a woman of independent means had instilled in Moira a higher degree of tolerance for insult than most; however, even she had her limits.
“He wasn’t a guest,” she said, her tone low and warning. “He was brought by someone without my knowledge, and you can be assured there will be consequences. However, those artists and poets you speak so derisively of are welcome in my home, and I will not have them maligned.”
“My apologies. I spoke without thinking,” said Mrs. Coleman quickly. “This is all most distressing.”
At least on that they could agree.
“This still happened under my roof, and I’ll take responsibility for the safety of Miss Duncan.” Moira’s expression softened. “Did he hurt you?”
The young lady shook her head. “The heel of my hand stings a bit, but that’s because I used it to hit him.”
“Good,” Moira said, even though she could see that the skin exposed by Ina’s ripped cuff was covered in goose bumps from shock. “Then I’m afraid it’s time to face the fact of the matter.”
“What is that?” asked Mr. Barrett.
Moira shrugged. “As Mrs. Coleman says, Miss Duncan must marry.”
For the second time that evening, it felt as though the bottom had fallen out of Ina’s stomach.
“No,” she said at the same time her aunt said, “It’s high time.”
“No,” she repeated more emphatically. “I don’t want a husband.”
“I’m afraid your options are limited, my dear,” said Mrs. Sullivan gently. “Unless you wish to recede from society.”
For a moment, she weighed the idea. The prospect of sculpting without calls or suppers or balls interrupting her was thrilling, but giving up society would mean losing so much. Already Anne’s mother didn’t approve of her, and she wouldn’t hesitate to bar her daughter from seeing Ina. Lana, an artist’s model, and Christine, an opera singer, would be free of such pressures, but even being seen walking in the park with a ruined woman would eventually wear away at their careers. She’d have to give them up for their sakes. She’d have to give up Gavin.
Her heart ached at the very thought for, although she knew he’d want to stand by her side through whatever came, he couldn’t afford a friendship with a notorious woman. The second son of a baronet who received only a nominal allowance from his father, he’d been supporting himself on the proceeds from his first novel, but she knew those must be drying up. He needed work, and she couldn’t stand the thought that associating with her might make cautious editors think twice about him.
“There must be another way,” she said, twisting her hands.
Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “I don’t see one.”
The unfairness of the entire situation stung. She’d not fended off three proposals in five years only to end up married to a stranger. What if he disapproved of her sculpting? What if he disapproved of her friendship with Gavin, preferring his wife to keep only female friends so there could be no whispers of impropriety? She couldn’t take those risks.
“I’ll not marry a random man,” she said.
“You should’ve accepted Mr. McDonald’s proposal,” her aunt sniffed.
“I was never going to say yes to him. He wanted me to give up art entirely,” she told Mrs. Sullivan.
“And he’s twice her age,” muttered Gavin from his corner.
“I’m familiar with the gentleman, and I can honestly say that Mr. McDonald would’ve been entirely wrong for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a sympathetic smile. “Miss Duncan, I need you to know that what I’m suggesting is in your best interest. You would have been too young to remember this, but I was a friend of your mother’s a long time ago.”
Ina’s heart squeezed in her chest, and her fingers wrapped around the tapes of her crinoline through the heavy fabric of her green skirts to ground her to something—anything—real. Her mother’s friend. There weren’t many women who’d admit to that any longer.
“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick.
“She was delightful company—the sort of lady who would’ve been more at home in Paris, where uniqueness is seen as a virtue. You remind me of her in that regard.
“I should have been a better friend to you over the years. I see that now,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “but your father and I were never easy in one another’s company.”
Ina bit her lip to keep from saying, “Not many people are.”
“I want you to know that I’d never try to force a girl to marry if she didn’t wish to, but your situation must be addressed immediately before rumors begin to spread. I can’t pretend that I ever knew your father well, but he’s never struck me as the sort of man who would invite gossip and scandal into his home.”
“No,” she said. Scandal meant interruptions. Interruptions would take him from his manuscript. Anything that did that sent him into a sulk punctuated by periods of anger.
Mrs. Sullivan nodded. “I can help you, if you’ll trust me.”
The funny thing was she did trust this tall, stately woman with stone-gray hair swept back from her forehead and topped with a single, sapphire-encrusted comb. There was something about her manner that was matter-of-fact yet maternal. Mrs. Sullivan was just the sort of person you wanted to tell all of your secrets to, knowing they’d never escape her tightly sealed lips.
“Tell me what I need to do,” said Ina.
Mrs. Sullivan’s smile sparkled. “Good. Now, Mr. Barrett, is there any chance you find yourself in need of a wife?”