The Secret Mistress

DURING THE TWO weeks following his disastrous proposals to both Eunice and Lady Angeline Dudley, Edward was so mortally depressed that more than once he was on the verge of announcing that he was going to return to Wimsbury Abbey until next spring. Why should he not postpone marrying, after all? He was only twenty-four, he felt perfectly healthy, and he was neither a reckless driver nor a dueler. He did not indulge in any activities, in fact, that might put a sudden period to his existence. Barring some unforeseen accident, it would be quite safe to wait another year or so before settling down. Though all accidents were unforeseen, he supposed, or they would not be accidents. And really, what was the point of waiting? The deed must be done eventually, and why not now so that he could put the whole business behind him and start making the best of married life and fatherhood?

At the end of the two weeks there was a distraction. Fenner came to call late one afternoon, but instead of asking for Lorraine as he often did in order to drive her in the park, he asked to speak privately with Edward.

This was mystifying, Edward thought. He was neither Lorraine’s father nor her brother. He was no blood relation at all, in fact.

“The Countess of Heyward’s father is not in town,” Fenner explained when the two of them were alone in a downstairs salon. “I shall be writing to him, of course. But the countess has requested that I speak with you, Heyward. She feels responsible to the family of her late husband, especially so soon after his passing. She is exceedingly fond of you all and claims to have received nothing but kindness and affection from you since her marriage. Indeed, she feels as though you are her family, and of course you really are her daughter’s family. You share the guardianship with the countess, I believe. The countess is very afraid of offending you, even hurting you.”

It had been perfectly clear, of course, that a serious romance was brewing between Fenner and Lorraine. Edward had not realized it had reached such a critical stage already, but it was not really surprising, was it? They were both mature adults and both were free. It was a perfectly eligible connection. With his head Edward could even be happy for them—Maurice had not been a good husband. But with his heart? Well, Maurice had been his brother. Now it felt as though he were being consigned to the grave all over again. His mother would feel it too. So would Alma and Juliana. But theirs had been a blood connection with Maurice. Lorraine’s had not. And there was a difference. And they had all taken Lorraine to their hearts when she married into their family. She felt in many ways more like a sister than a sister-in-law.

“Lorraine’s happiness is important to us,” he said. More important under the circumstances than their grief, which was a private, ongoing thing.

“I wish to marry the countess,” Fenner said. “I loved her five years ago and I have not stopped loving her since. She wishes to marry me. I am confident that she loves me. However, neither of us wants to do anything that will appear distasteful to your family. If it appears to you that we are acting with indecent haste, then we will wait a year. No longer, I hope. But we will wait a year if we must. I hope we do not need to.”

He paused and looked inquiringly at Edward.

Love, Edward thought broodingly. What the devil did it mean? It meant all the euphoria of romance and all the underlying but unspoken power of lust, obviously. Perhaps it had only to be believed in to be experienced. But was there any real substance to it? Did it last? Somehow one had the feeling that with Lorraine and Fenner it would, perhaps because they had taken the wrong path five years ago—at least, she had—and now had a second chance to take the right one. Second chances were very rare. If Maurice had not agreed to—or suggested—that curricle race, if he and the driver of the hay cart had not met exactly on the blind part of that bend, if—Well, if any of a thousand little, seemingly insignificant details of life had been in the smallest way different from the way they actually had been, then the whole of life would be different.

There was absolutely no point to such thoughts. Lorraine and Fenner had been given their second chance, and they were embracing it with firm resolve. As they ought. Maurice was dead, and life went on.

“I cannot speak for my mother and sisters, Fenner,” he said, “though I believe they will agree with me wholeheartedly. Lorraine was the best of wives to my brother and she was and is a good mother to my niece. Her happiness is as important to me as if she were my sister. If she can find that happiness with you—and I do believe she can—then I see no reason why the two of you should be made to wait a year or even a day longer than you choose. The mourning period is at an end. Life must continue for all of us. I wish you well.”

He offered his hand, and Fenner grasped it warmly.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are kind.”

And Edward found himself, quite unreasonably, feeling more depressed than ever. Because Maurice was dead and Lorraine was moving on? Because other people seemed to believe in love and sometimes it could lead them to happiness? Or because of something else?

It did not take long for it to strike him that Fenner was Lady Palmer’s brother and Tresham’s cousin—or second cousin, anyway. He was Lady Angeline Dudley’s second cousin. And Lady Palmer was her sponsor for her come-out Season. This betrothal was sure to bring the two families together, even if only for the wedding. If he never saw a single member of the Dudley family again, he would be entirely happy. But Fenner was a member of that family even if only in the capacity of second cousin.

His forebodings were well founded, he discovered less than a week later, just after he had read the official announcement of the betrothal in the morning paper. Actually, the situation was even worse than he had anticipated, for it was not just the wedding that was to bring the families together.

Lady Palmer had decided to celebrate the betrothal with a brief house party at Hallings in Sussex, her husband’s country estate. Edward and his family were invited to attend, of course, and he did not need to be told that Fenner’s family would be there too. The party was to last five whole days.

Nothing could be more conducive to further depression. Five days of trying to avoid Lady Angeline Dudley in the intimacy of a country setting. If he had known what was facing him when he left Wimsbury Abbey less than two months ago, he would never have left. The duty of taking his place in the House of Lords be damned. And he would have chosen a bride from the ranks of the local gentry.

But it was too late now.

The rest of the drama is yet to be written, Eunice had said to him a few weeks ago. It was utter nonsense, of course. There was nothing still to be written. It was unlike Eunice to be so very wrong.

He had not set eyes upon her since the morning she had said it. He missed her.

ANGELINE WAS DESPERATELY gay during the three weeks following her rejection of the Earl of Heyward. She spent almost every morning out riding with Ferdinand and his friends or walking in the park with Maria or Martha, sometimes both together, or shopping on Oxford Street and Bond Street. She bought three new bonnets as well as feathers and ribbons and fans and reticules that she did not need but could not resist. She visited the library twice and borrowed books each time, though there was really little point as there was absolutely no time to read—there was too much fun to be had doing other things. She called upon Miss Goddard twice, careful to take a recovered Betty with her, and they sat and talked all morning both times, since both times it was raining and they could not go out for a walk. She could not remember afterward what they had talked about except that it was not bonnets and beaux and not Lord Heyward. They had each talked an equal amount, though, and really had not stopped for a moment.

She spent the afternoons paying calls with Cousin Rosalie or attending garden