The Devil You Know Page 12

  Rannoch seized Rutledge’s wrist and tore it from his coat. “Bold words, you fool,” he retorted, shoving the younger man back. “And bolder moves, I see. You must have wanted that special license rather badly to roust a bishop from his bed at such an hour.”

  Rutledge planted both palms firmly on the desk and leaned into him. “We’ve no more time to waste, Rannoch,” he snapped. “You and that idiot Weyden have botched this so thoroughly there’s no saving her from embarrassment now. We’ll get on with it. And we’ll get on with it today.”

  He was, Rannoch saw, entirely serious. And in part, he was right—a fact which served only to enrage the marquis. “Oughtn’t you to have considered the potential for embarrassment before you seduced her, Mr. Rutledge?” he sneered. “Perhaps, before you lured her into your bed and stripped her of her maidenhood, you might have considered that she is little more than a child? A gently bred child, who is no match for a man the likes of you?”

  For the first time since entering the room, Rutledge dropped his gaze and backed off. “I’ll not deny you’re right.”

  Rannoch had half expected Rutledge to slough off the blame, and when he did not, the marquis inexplicably exploded. “But you didn’t, damn you!” he roared, pounding one fist on his desk. “Instead, you—a guest in our home!—took the most indecent liberties imaginable and violated our trust in a way which ought to get you shot at dawn. No, do not look to me to sanction your sudden self-righteousness. Do not expect me to offer up an innocent girl on the altar of matrimony to some worthless scoundrel, merely to appease his newfound notions of propriety. By God, I ought to put a bullet through you purely on princi—”

  Rutledge cut him off. “You may find that harder than you hope,” he snarled back. “But once the vows are spoken, and Miss d’Avillez has the protection of my name and my family, then, by all means, send your second to wait upon me.”

  “Hell, no,” said the marquis. “I’d rather watch you suffer. And suffer you surely will, for I mean to see to it.”

  Scorn curled Rutledge’s lip. “And you’ll rue the day you set eyes on me, Rannoch.”

  “Many men have, I’m told,” he agreed. “But you’ve made an ill choice in your victim today, Rutledge. Now, get out of my house, and account yourself fortunate I’ve not splintered both your kneecaps.”

  But to his shock, Rutledge set both hands flat on the desktop again and leaned forward with an ugly snarl. “No, you will fetch that girl down here, Rannoch,” he demanded. “And you will tell her what her duty is. I’ve sent for the parson, and I want this deed done, do you hear me? I’ll own my sins, yes. But I know the law of this land, and I know she carries my child. I’ll drag this through the courts until hell freezes over. And by the way, this is England, Rannoch, not your godforsaken Caledonian wilderness. We have laws here.”

  “Oh, bravo!” Someone near the door began to applaud slowly. “Spoken like a man who has acquired a passing familiarity with the judiciary.”

  Rannoch looked past Rutledge’s broad shoulder. Gus Weyden stood in the doorway, one elbow propped casually against it. “By the way, Elliot,” added Gus dryly, “your cousin-in-law is coming up the stairs and looking very much as if he’s on a mission from God.” Then he turned his attention to Rutledge. “As for you, old friend, I look greatly forward to rearranging that beautiful face of yours in a more private moment.”

  Before Rutledge could reply, a golden-haired man in clerical black appeared behind Gus. With a tight smile, Gus stepped fully into the room, and the Reverend Mr. Cole Amherst followed him in, still attired in a sweeping merino cape and carrying his elegant beaver hat in his hands. It was hard to believe that this tall, serene gentleman was stepfather to such a young hellion as Lord Robert Rowland. Even more outrageous was the fact that he was Rannoch’s kin by marriage. But the vicar had what some might call the misfortune to be both those things.

  Rannoch stepped from behind his desk. “Damn you, Cole, must my very family turn on me?” the marquis snapped. “Haven’t I enough crosses to bear?”

  The vicar smiled faintly. “God never gives us more than we can bear, Elliot,” he said quietly. “Just pray for a little patience, and all your burdens will seem lighter.”

  “Patience?” Rannoch felt as if the blood vessels in his temples were about to explode.

  The vicar’s eyes lit with humor. He looked at Rutledge and spoke. “I have done you the favor of interceding with the bishop, Bentley, and at a most unreasonable hour. Now, return it by permitting me to speak with his lordship in private.”

  When the younger men were gone, Amherst set his hat on one corner of Rannoch’s desk. “Is it true what Bentley claims?” he asked, stripping off his driving gloves and tossing them down with his hat.

  “True enough, damn him.” Rannoch fell into his chair and waved vaguely at the coffee service. “Help yourself.”

  The vicar did not move. “She carries his child?”

  Tightly, Rannoch nodded. “Though I cannot believe she was fool enough to tell him.”

  “And yet you meant to marry the girl off to someone else?” asked Amherst gravely. “Really, Elliot, was that wise?”

  Rannoch shoved a hand through his hair. “It was just a ruse,” he admitted. “Freddie got her back up and said she wouldn’t have Rutledge. Nor did I wish to see her bound for life to such a one. What was I to do but take her away under some pretense? She has always been a good girl, and I love her like a daughter.”

  Amherst moved to the tea table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “But I fear Rutledge has a point, Elliot,” he said, returning to his chair. “In the eyes of the church, they should marry. He might carry through with his threat and drag this into the ecclesiastical courts. It will be futile, of course. But nasty. However, if you wish to charge Rutledge with something very unpleasant—I think you know what I’m getting at here—and hold this matter up to the bright light of the law, you might best him quite thoroughly. But you will need Frederica’s cooperation. You will need her to accuse him of something which I fear is simply not so.”

  Rannoch stared into his empty cup for a long moment. Frederica had never denied her complicity in this appalling affair. And Rannoch had somewhat exaggerated her naïveté. He wanted Rutledge to be wholly at fault, but damn it, it simply was not so. “I take your point,” he grumbled. “But Rutledge is a rake and a scoundrel.”

  “Elliot, Elliot!” murmured the vicar, slowly stirring his coffee. “When we are young, we are none of us much better than the world expects us to be. You know that. Besides, he is no longer young. And I have found I quite like him.”

  Rannoch grunted. “Do you indeed?”

  Amherst grinned weakly. “Yes, and on some level, Frederica is fond of him, too, Elliot. Else she’d never have done such a thing. Surely you know that much of human nature?”

  “I suppose so,” muttered Rannoch. “Tell me, just what do you know of him?”

  The vicar fell silent for a moment. “In the past,” he finally said, “I have had occasion to be greatly in his debt. If you require the tawdry details, you’ll have to get them from my wife.”

  Rannoch caught the faint stench of an averted scandal. “Young Robert, eh?”

  Amherst nodded. “And Rutledge, despite everyone’s expectation, proved himself over and over to be a loyal friend, even when Robert scarce deserved it. And that, Elliot, is in part the measure of a man’s maturity.”

  Rannoch took up one of his quills and began to draw it back and forth between his fingers. “You think he will make Freddie a good husband?”

  The vicar smiled again. “Only God knows that,” he answered. “But remember what Erasmus said. Better the devil you know, Elliot, than the one you don’t. What will her future hold if she does not marry him?”

  Rannoch shoved away his empty cup. “I don’t know.”

  “Ah, and there’s our quandary!” said Amherst, setting his cup aside, too. “It is a hard world, Elliot, and we cannot always protect our children from
it. At least Rutledge is from an excellent family. I account his brother Lord Treyhern a good friend. If—and I do say if—he does not properly care for Frederica, you may be sure the family will. So I have put my prayer book in my pocket and my faith in Bentley Rutledge. What do you say, Elliot?”

  For a long moment, Rannoch sat perfectly still. Then, with the swift decisiveness of a self-confident, slightly arrogant nobleman, the marquis jerked from his chair. “Wait here,” he said over one shoulder. “I’ll have to go and ask my wife.”

  In the end, Amherst prevailed over Lord Rannoch, and Lord Rannoch’s wife acceded to Amherst’s wisdom. However, Lady Rannoch emphasized—and it was a big however—the marriage would have to be Frederica’s decision. They had already promised her one thing and could not now fairly go back on it.

  And so the marquis met again with the devil he knew, banked his temper, and explained to Rutledge—as best any man could—Frederica’s feelings. Then Rannoch and his wife found Freddie in the music room and told her of their change of heart. The young lady was not pleased. Nonetheless, half an hour later, Bentley found himself being pointed in the direction of the music room and given an encouraging thump on the back by the vicar.

  When he entered the room, Freddie was seated at the pianoforte, plinking out some gloomy tune with one finger. She did not look like a woman who was with child. She just looked like—well, like Freddie, with her inky black hair swept up in an elegant twist. And her eyebrows. Those beautiful, bewitching eyebrows. She lifted them now as she rose, a vision of graceful, exotic beauty.

  “Good morning, Frederica.” The words were spoken calmly and firmly. So far so good.

  Freddie showed her nervousness with a stiff half-curtsey. “Thank you for coming today, Rutledge,” she coolly began. “I’m sorry Elliot could not make plain my position.”

  So she meant to brazen it out, then. “Your position?” he inquired, cocking his head to one side.

  She swept across the room toward him. “It’s kind of you to offer for me, but I do assure you it is not necessary.”

  “And I do assure you that it is,” he challenged. “Freddie, you are carrying my child.”

  She gave a faint smile. “As I’m well aware, having spent the better part of the morning vom—ah, but never mind that.”

  Bentley felt a moment of alarm. “Freddie, are you unwell?” he asked, sliding a hand beneath her elbow. “Shall I send for a doctor?”

  She smiled again, that curving, bitter smile he feared he might grow to dread. “Thank you, but it is not necessary,” she said, stepping away again. “No more necessary than my marrying. Perhaps you do not understand, but in my country, illegitimacy is no great stain, and once this dratted civil war is finished—”

  Something in her tone made him snap. “Oh, no, Freddie,” he interjected, holding his palm up. “I’ve already heard this from Rannoch, so don’t even start. You aren’t running off to Flanders, and you aren’t going home to Portugal. And you aren’t marrying some imaginary fiancé, which is just what I suspect you were up to.”

  Her eyes flared with anger. “You are not yet my master, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Bentley felt his blood begin to boil. So much for persuasion. “Perhaps Rannoch did not make plain my position, Freddie,” he said, biting back his anger. “But by God, this is your country. And that is my child. And if you think for one moment that you are going to poke so much as a toe off English soil with my babe in your belly, then you are about to get one hell of a rude awakening.”

  Her entire body went rigid. “Why, I daresay I just have!” she said softly. “Is that a threat?” Beneath the blue silk of her morning dress, he could see her shoulders begin to tremble with rage.

  “That child is mine, Frederica,” he said tightly. “And I mean to take care of it. Do not even think of getting in my way.”

  Her black eyes mocked him. “Your child! Your way!” she spat. “How dare you suggest I do not care for the welfare of this babe? Trust me, Rutledge, I know too well the importance of having a parent. Of having safety and security. Consider being a child with none of that, as I once was, then give me your high-handed attitude.”

  Bentley tore his gaze from hers and stared blindly into the depths of the music room. Oh, yes, she did know. Perhaps she knew far better than he. She was also young, and emotionally wrung out. But she was no one’s fool. Frederica had been left an orphan. And in his own heedless way, Bentley had left his first child—his and Mary’s daughter—an orphan. Because of his thoughtlessness, Bridget was dead. But this child was different. He knew about this child. He would not commit the same sin twice. Nonetheless, as husband material went, Frederica obviously believed him worse than nothing. And he couldn’t say she was wrong.

  He walked to the windows and stared out into the colorless fog, his hands clasped tightly behind him. In a way, Frederica’s words had cast just such a pall over the room. Over his hopes and his dreams. Even his dread and his fear. Because, again, it all came down to this. The child. And a marriage that must be made the most of.

  He left the window and returned to her. Frederica had sat back down on the piano bench, her shoulders slumped. Bentley knelt at her feet and took both her hands in his. “Oh, Freddie,” he said, squeezing them tight. “We must make this work. There is a great passion between us. Surely we can build something more. Aren’t you even willing to try? Do you think this is easy for me?”

  “No,” she said sorrowfully. “I am sure that being saddled with a wife is not at all your idea of pleasure. Men like you do not want wives. I cannot think you want a child, either.”

  He leaned into her then and lightly kissed her cheek. “And girls like you do not want husbands like me, Freddie,” he whispered. “Do you think I don’t know that? But we’ll survive. And as for pleasure, I daresay that whether or not we find that in our marriage will be up to us.”

  Her eyes had widened at the unexpected kiss. “You must think that I have trapped you.” She sounded perfectly wretched. “Oh, Bentley, I just—I just didn’t consider the consequences. I did not think about having a child!”

  Bentley rose to his feet and set his hand on her narrow shoulder. “It’s my fault, Freddie,” he said. “We shouldn’t—I mean, I wasn’t…prepared.”

  Freddie’s face twisted with confusion. “Oh? And you think I am?”

  Bentley lost her for a moment. “Am what?”

  “Prepared.”

  Bentley smiled and shook his head. They had best get this one straight here and now. “Freddie, sweet, not that kind of prepared. Don’t you understand, every time one does, er, it—”

  “It—?” she interjected.

  “Sex.” He strangled out the word. “Every time you engage in—er, that, you run the risk of having a child.”

  She looked at him blankly, and then a spurt of sardonic laughter bubbled up. “Good Lord, Rutledge! Probability being what it is, you must have sired a veritable cricket team.”

  Bentley felt his jaw begin to twitch. “Freddie, that is none of your damn—” He checked himself at once. He’d been about to tell a lie. And curse. His business was, for the most part, her business. Or would be in a matter of hours. “Just one,” he finally bit out, stabbing a finger at her perfectly flat belly. “And that makes two. And even if this hadn’t happened, I would still be honor bound to marry you.”

  She lifted her delicate chin and stood. “A matter of gentlemanly honor, now, is it?”

  He tried to smile. “Absolutely.”

  She arched her exotic brows, shot him a strange look, and then began to pace the room. Bentley was enough of a gamester to know when a person held a worthless hand and was desperately looking for a way out. But why was he not doing the same? Why was he going so easily up the steps to that guillotine of domesticity? He told himself it was because of Mary and what he’d done to her. Because he had failed their child, and the result had been horrific. He would not willingly do so a second time.

  But what if he couldn’t do it? Wh
at if he failed anyway? He would be trapped. Again. And this time, he’d have trapped someone else with him. His chest began to tighten with that old, familiar panic. His hands began to sweat. Then shake. Good God, not here. Not now. But all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room.

  Questions tormented him. Could he be a steadfast husband? A reliable father? Could he promise never to leave her? He braced one hand on the piano and forced his breathing to calm.

  When he’d first assumed they would marry, he had told himself it was a mere inconvenience. That nothing would really change. But everything was going to change. Freddie wouldn’t accept anything less. They found one another physically desirable, yes. Even looking at her now, he could feel something deep and profound stirring inside him. But Bentley feared that mightn’t last. And Frederica, at least, deserved something better.

  He studied the lovely angles of her face as she turned and paced again toward the windows. And suddenly, he was struck by the unnerving realization that in wedding her, he would be giving up the one thing which had always sustained him through every personal relationship in his life. The freedom to simply storm out—out of the room, out of the country, even out of someone’s life, if they got too close, too demanding, too…anything which he found uncomfortable. No one, not even his sister, Catherine, held him in thrall. No one could force him to do their bidding. No one could bully or blackmail or shame him into love, obedience, or any other emotion. Never, ever again, he’d sworn, would he live like that. And if the price he’d paid for his freedom had been a life lived in a measure of isolation, he could not say as how he’d overly suffered from it.

  But was it fair to let Frederica suffer from it?

  At last, she stopped pacing and turned to look at him, her narrow shoulders set stubbornly back. “We’ll just end up hating one another,” she said.

  But “I’ll end up hating you” is what she really means, thought Bentley. “No, we won’t,” he said firmly. “We can’t. We have a responsibility to the child.”