Lady of the Lock Page 22

  “I swear he thought I should be flattered,” she declared. Honest reflection indicated that somewhere in his spate of apologies there had been a few words about knowing she would never agree, but they were fleeting and easily discounted. While she remembered all too vividly the arrogant listing of his intended largesse—house, annuity, education for their bastard children . . .

  “I can certainly see why you did not choose to put that in a letter,” Hetty murmured, “but I do wish you had told me sooner so that I might have shared your pain.” Mandy squeezed her friend’s hand in thanks but could not look at her, unwilling to view the sympathy she knew she would find in Hetty’s eyes. “You truly loved him, did you not?” Hetty added. “The way I love Gideon.”

  Mandy sucked in a breath, her lips curling in a rueful smile. “If only I could reach inside your head and compare our emotions. I fear, I very much fear, that the love you know is real, while mine has been nothing more than a chimera born of girlish fantasies and nurtured by a man’s inevitable interest in a pretty face, a bit of verbal sparring, and the thrill of a chase that could never end in marriage.”

  “That is not so,” Hetty declared stoutly. “You are a lady through and through. The Challenors should be delighted to have you.”

  Mandy shook her head. “You are too kind, my dear. And far too naive. The duke would hire me as an artist, just as his son would hire me as his mistress. I am a commodity. Not just beneath the salt, but altogether out of the building, fit only to be tucked up in a cottage in St. John’s Woods.”

  “Amanda Merriwether, do not denigrate yourself in such a fashion!” Hetty paused, then neatly switched topics when Mandy turned her head away, offering no response. “Did the duke like your painting?”

  “I could not bear to look at it,” Mandy said without turning around. “It was only a few days ago Papa and I packed it up and sent it by courier to Castle Carewe. Since I have no idea where the duke is at the moment, it may be some time before he sees it.”

  Shouts from the canal penetrated the maze, evidently from a narrowboat tying up and preparing to disgorge cargo intended for Bath. The canal—the glorious, demanding, ever-present monster that controlled her life, that had initiated her pain. Without the K&A she would never have met him. She might have lived a perfectly normal life, without so much as a jot of anguish over the Marquess of Montsale.

  Mandy fisted her hands before her face, determined to hold back her tears. Oddly, there had been few tears since the day of the picnic, her hurt too great, her mind too numb for an outward display of her distress. So perhaps the onset of tears was good, a sign that she was healing.

  A vision of Jeb Bates’s wife and children leaped into her mind. Now there was sorrow, true sorrow. What right had she to grieve for Bourne, when he was hale and hearty and no doubt enjoying himself hugely at some houseparty or London gaming house, dining in all male splendor at one of his clubs . . . chasing an opera dancer or someone else’s wife.

  Mandy stared at the path leading down into the gloom of the grotto . . . and pictured Captain Gideon Dunstan, standing upright and proud, garbed in full military dress. Dear Hetty lived in daily fear of hearing he had been wounded again. Or worse. Yet her friend was comforting her for the loss of a man woefully unworthy of the years of love she had lavished on him. The grand nobleman who did not toil or spin, did not fight, did not build canals. The man who had concurred in the building of a tunnel that killed seven people.

  Shameful! Herself, as well as Montsale.

  “Come,” Mandy said, springing to her feet. “Let us see what cargo they are unloading. And we’ll likely see my father there as well. He has lived and breathed the K&A for so long, he finds it impossible to stay away.”

  Smiles once again wreathing their faces, the two girls began the winding journey back to the beginning of the maze.

  High Meadows, Wiltshire

  “Your Grace!” Bourne sprang up from his desk chair so swiftly it tilted, rocking wildly before settling back onto the rug. He bowed. “A surprise, Father. May I offer you a chair, or would you prefer the drawing room?”

  “This will do nicely,” Carewe declared, easing into a chair that allowed him to confront his son face to face.

  “You are passing through?” Bourne asked when the duke simply stared at him, as if searching his soul.

  “No.” The duke continued to stare. Looking for something that wasn’t there? Bourne wondered.

  “When you wish to see me, Father, you send for me. You do not pay me a visit. Can you wonder I am mystified by your sudden appearance?”

  “Your mother tells me that your correspondence has been sparse . . . and that you may be planning a voyage to the Greek isles. Perhaps I thought to remind you that entire area is caught up in a war.”

  “A-ah.”

  “Indeed.” The duke’s gray eyes, so like Bourne’s own, never wavered.

  “I also considered the Canadas and the United States,” Bourne offered. “Less hazardous, perhaps, but then that was the appeal of ancient Greece. Enough danger to keep my thoughts fully occupied.”

  “With no thought for the dukedom, for your responsibilities,” Carewe intoned.

  “Jeremy would make a splendid duke. You need not worry about the succession.”

  “Good God, Montsale,” the duke roared, “do you think that’s all I care about?”

  “Is it not?”

  “Oh, my boy . . .“ The duke’s voice faded away. Silence hung like a great weight, almost as if they were sitting fathoms deep on the bottom of the ocean. In a gesture similar to his son’s, the duke ran a hand through his hair. “Montsale . . . Bourne . . . I want to see you smile, I want to see you happy. I want you to enjoy your life as I have enjoyed mine—”

  “Then let me marry where I choose!” The change from despair to white hot anger was so swift Carewe could only stare, stunned by the transformation. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have loved but one woman in my life and you have done everything in your power to separate me from her. When, in desperation, I offered her carte blanche, she refused me. And rightly so, for she is a gentlewoman to the core. Fit to be a princess, let alone a duchess.”

  “How very odd,” Carewe murmured.

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Bourne snapped.

  “That is why I have come,” the duke said. He retrieved a cylinder from his lap, which Bourne, in his agitation, had failed to notice. He uncapped it, fished out a large roll of heavy paper, and smoothed it out on the top of Bourne’s desk. “Very fine, is it not?” he inquired in the bland tones his son so frequently affected.

  “Mandy’s painting,” Bourne murmured.

  “She is gifted with considerable talent, is she not?”

  “She comes by it naturally,” Bourne returned coldly. “Merriwether is a remarkable man.”

  “Son of a duke, they say. And the girl’s mother, the granddaughter of an earl.”

  Bourne sucked in a sharp breath. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that I had hoped the Merriwether girl was a passing fancy, but since it appears she is not, we must make the best of it. And that does not include,” the duke added most awfully, “setting up the daughter of my most honored and trusted employee as your latest bit of muslin!”

  Bourne swore, rather colorfully. “Now that I’ve made a complete ass of myself, you tell me this!”

  “If you truly loved the girl, I had thought you would find a way around any edict I might make. Instead, rather than defy me or swallow your pride enough to lay your heart at her feet, I find you planning to hare off into the midst of a war.”

  Bourne groaned. “I have insulted her most dreadfully, Father. She needs time. If I approach her now, she’ll hand me my head in a basket. You know what a termagant she is!”

  “And if you never came back from your far-flung journeys?”

  Bourne shook his head. “Fantasies. I would not have gone. You have drummed duty and responsibility into me since the day
I was born. I suppose my plans for escape were merely my way of breaking the cord. Other than this one thing, I promise you I will be a dutiful son, but Amanda Merriwether I must have. If she has not taken me into such disgust that she will never speak to me again.”

  “So what are you going to do about it,” Carewe challenged. “I hear she is cutting a swath through a whole line of eager suitors in Bath. I do believe procrastination is not an option.”

  Bourne gave his father a sharp look. “Tell me, Your Grace, why did you commission a painting from the Lady of the Lock? Why visit her in Upper Berkley Street?”

  “A charming location,” the duke murmured. “Most genteel.”

  “Father, I swear—”

  The duke held up a hand in surrender. “I had a most favorable impression of the girl during those few days at the Castle. I wished to take a closer, more private look.”

  “And?”

  “I was won over.” The duke paused for a soft sigh. “Truthfully, perhaps resigned is a better description—”

  “And you said nothing? You knew I was suffering and you said nothing?” Even a duke could look sheepish, Bourne discovered.

  “I suppose I still had hope you were suffering from infatuation.” His father raised his hand, palm out. “Yes, yes, I know. I am now convinced it is more than that.”

  Bourne leaned back in his chair, fingers to his forehead. “She won’t forgive me long enough to hear my plea.”

  “A letter?”

  “I’ve written a dozen. No reply. I doubt she opened them.”

  Silence once again filled the room until the duke asked, “If Miss Merriwether is attending public assemblies in Bath, what in the devil’s name are you doing in Wiltshire?”

  “Your Grace,” Bourne declared after a short pause, “I am most sincerely sorry you have such a dolt for a son.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Bath, Somerset

  “Miss Merriwether . . . my dear Amanda.” Mr. Avery Rutherford, leaned slightly forward, his earnest blue eyes pleading a case Mandy did not wish to hear. Yet she had no choice as her papa had given his permission and allowed them these moments of privacy. They were seated in the Merriwether’s drawing room in Laura Place, Mandy on the sofa, Mr. Rutherford in a chair across from her.

  “I know you have stated you will not marry until the canal is finished,”Mr. Rutherford continued, “and I assure you I admire your loyalty to your father and his great project, but I dared hope—” He broke off, huffed a breath, and squared his shoulders before trying once again. “I have admired you for so long. I hoped you might be willing to enter into an betrothal, with marriage to come after the Caen Hill locks are completed.”

  Mandy gazed at the carpet while her common sense warred with her heart and soul. Here before her was her most sensible choice. A personable and good-hearted gentleman who was offering his deep affection, if not love. Offering an opportunity to live comfortably in one of the country’s most charming cities, never again to roam from pillar to post and back again. Home, companionship, children. A normal life—something none of her papa’s peripatetic engineers could ever lay at her feet.

  Undoubtedly, this was the best offer she would ever receive. Mr. Rutherford had made no declaration of undying love, so she would not feel guilty about not coming to him heart-whole. They liked each other very well. She liked the life he offered . . .

  Silence had enveloped them for too long. She must say something! Mandy fell back on convention, having no clear idea where her tongue would lead her after the traditional words were spoken.

  “Mr. Rutherford, I am honored by your offer, and I am very cognizant of the fact you have waited a long time since you first spoke to my father. I apologize profusely for my intransigence. For my refusal to marry or even to consider marriage until the K&A is finished. I realize my decision can make little sense to you.” She clasped her hands so tightly in her lap she felt a knuckle crack. “I beg you to grant me a bit more time.” She looked down, wincing, knowing she sounded like a weak-willed will-o-the-wisp, forever drifting, unable to settle in one place.

  A swift glance at Mr. Rutherford revealed his disappointment . . . and was that a touch of amused tolerance? He was a solicitor, after all, well able to follow her train of thought. Very well, perhaps she could surprise him. “Mr. Rutherford, I am most sincerely flattered that you have persisted in your affections when we have had so few opportunities to meet. But under the circumstances I will understand if you choose to place your affections elsewhere.”

  Merciful heavens, what was she doing?

  Whistling her best offer down the wind. She could name at least three Bath misses who would snap him up in a moment.

  Take it back. Now! But she could not. Numbly, she watched as he stood, proffered a stiff bow, and exited the room.

  Exited her life.

  Spinster. Cats. A cottage in Tunbridge Wells . . .

  Shoulders shaking, Mandy buried her face in her hands. She was a flirt, an addle-brained flibbertigibbet. Unworthy of any of her suitors. In truth, she was married to the Kennet & Avon canal, and when it was over she would be left high and dry, too old to follow her father about, keeping him from making a life of his own. Keeping him from finding love, even if she could not.

  She could write a conciliatory note to Mr. Rutherford . . .

  She could accept Alan’s open offer—dear Alan—and continue to live the only life she had ever known.

  She could wait for Luke to return and hope his many offers had not been entirely humorous. Except she loved him as a brother, not as a lover.

  She could encourage Mr. Farnborough, youngest son of a baron. Except there was nothing there but the mildest affinity.

  She could accept Montsale’s offer of carte blanche.

  Quite horridly, the lure of a cottage in St. John’s Woods with occasional visits from Bourne Challenor was far greater than the lure of a cottage in Tunbridge Wells with none but cats for company.

  Amanda Grace Merriwether! A shocked chorus from her mother and ancestors far removed. The room seemed to reverberate with their collective horror.

  Don’t listen to them, dearie. It was grand.

  Wha-at? Shocked, Mandy begged for a repeat of that last, but heard only faint laughter echoing through her head.

  Papa’s mother? That was the only explanation. The one who had evidently enjoyed herself with the Duke of Bridgewater.

  A rueful smile lit Mandy’s face. She would never emulate her father’s mother, but the thought was enough to warm her sorrowing heart. Somehow . . . somehow she would manage.

  For a night in the waning days of January, the Upper Assembly Rooms were surprisingly warm, with roaring fires in the great fireplaces and a crush of patrons so thick the footmen were hard-pressed to keep the floor cleared for dancing. Fortunately, Mandy’s party had arrived in time to claim chairs. She was sitting between her Aunt Tynsdale and Hetty, with Cordelia Grimley on one end of their group and Mrs. Oglethorpe on the other. Mandy and Hetty had their heads together, while the others quite shamelessly attempted to eavesdrop.

  “You did what?” Lady Tynsdale exclaimed, loud enough to turn a number of heads in their direction. Ignoring Mandy’s attempts to hush her, she continued inexorably on. “You refused Mr. Rutherford? Are you mad, child? You’ll never have a better offer!”

  “I did not refuse him outright,” Mandy mumbled. And what a bouncer that was. “I simply did not say yes.”

  “You told him he was free to look elsewhere,” Lady Tynsdale returned most awfully.

  “I was speaking to Hetty, Aunt. That was not intended for your ears.”

  “Did you, or did you not, tell him he should look elsewhere?”

  Mandy hung her head. “Truly, Aunt, it was the only fair thing to do.”

  “Fair?” the dowager mimicked, her voice once again rising. “You think life is fair, marriage fair? After all you have endured from Montsale, how could you be such a ninny?”

  “Aunt!” Mandy
murmured in strangled tones.

  “Lady Tynsdale,” Mrs. Oglethorpe interjected, “I beg your pardon, but the Assembly Rooms are scarce the place for such a conversation. Everyone is staring.”

  “Let them stare,” the baroness stated grandly. “My niece is unique, quite worthy of a grand stare or two. But if she keeps procrastinating in this fashion, she will end up alone, a pariah, abandoned by all those who cared for her.”

  “My lady,” Miss Grimley cried, “you go too far. Do not berate her so.”

  Everyone—Mandy, Hetty, Mrs. Oglethorpe, and Lady Tynsdale—gaped at the dour companion, whose pronouncements were customarily full of gloom. Miss Grimley drew herself up to her full height, staring past the four startled ladies. “In fact,” she pronounced, “I go so far as to predict an unexpectedly rosy future for our reluctant miss.”

  “Good God, Grimley, you’re touched in the upper works,” Lady Tynsdale declared. “Has senility claimed you?”

  In response, Miss Grimley offered only a smirk.

  “Miss Merriwether, I wondered if I might have this dance?”

  Four gasps of surprise. Three welcoming smiles and an I-told-you-so nod from Miss Grimley.

  Mandy rose to her feet, tilted her head up to look the Marquess of Montsale straight in the eye. “My lord,” she declared, “I would not dance with you if you were the last man on earth.”

  With that she stalked off toward the cardroom, where she was certain to find her father. Time to go home. Before she burst into a spate of tears that would flood the ballroom, drown the fires, and send a torrent of salt water tumbling down the hill to the River Avon.

  John Merriwether sat in his favorite spot, a bench seat he’d had built just east of the K&A’s loading dock. If he turned one way, he could view all the activity along the canal. If he turned the other, he had a spectacular view of the city of Bath, with its multitude of chimneys sticking up from predominantly gray roofs. To the east was the wrought iron bridge that had been built when the canal cut the top of Sydney Gardens off from the part nearest town. Sometimes he simply stood on the bridge and watched the narrowboats and their cargos pass beneath. A sense of well-being, of accomplishment, filled his soul. For this he would be remembered, even if it was only for a generation or two. Definitely his finest achievement.