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But first he must make absolutely sure of his facts. Having reached the study, Walter turned the door handle, allowing Dolly to precede him, then with heavy heart he followed her inside.
* * *
‘Why...Mrs Vickers...what a surprise to see you.’
Elise came into the room with Beatrice just behind.
Flustered, Edith shot to her feet.
‘Is my aunt with you?’ Elise asked pleasantly.
Edith’s affirmative manifested itself in a tiny vibration of her head.
‘Where is she?’ Elise prompted when she realised the woman was unable to relax or volunteer any information.
‘She is with her brother, but I don’t know any more than that,’ Edith insisted in a spurt. ‘I don’t know anything at all.’
‘Well...please do sit down again, Mrs Vickers.’ Elise exchanged a bemused glance with her sister, who’d also noticed their guest’s jumpiness.
‘Did you have a good journey from London?’ Beatrice pleasantly asked.
‘Yes...no...I’m not sure...’ Edith squeaked and looked about as though wishing to scamper off. She again charged to her feet. ‘There is tea in the pot—shall I pour you some?’
‘It is cold.’ Elise had pulled off the cosy and tested the crockery with a hand.
There was a single reason Elise could think of why her aunt and Edith Vickers would turn up unexpectedly and that was to celebrate her wedding. Her father had not mentioned inviting them and Elise suspected he had not, but Dolly would not let that put her off if she had a mind to be part of it all. Why Mrs Vickers was present, if she felt uneasy at attending the scandalous affair, Elise could not fathom.
‘We have been shopping for lace gloves,’ Elise blurted, hoping to lighten the atmosphere and still Edith’s fluttering hands. Yet a strange sense of foreboding had begun stealing away her happiness as though the older woman’s mood was infectious.
Elise unpacked the white, cobwebby articles from their tissue paper and Edith gave them a startled glance. ‘I have some similar ones. They are useful for all manner of occasions, not just weddings...’ She gasped in relief as Dolly appeared on the threshold.
‘Your papa thought he heard you arrive home.’ Dolly’s brief, defeated shake of the head answered Edith’s unspoken question, signalled by her bulging eyes. Dolly gravely turned her attention back to her bewildered nieces. ‘Your father would like to speak to you, Elise, my dear.’
* * *
Elise plucked the hood of her cloak to shield her cheeks, but the cool breeze buffeting her complexion seemed inconsequential compared to the ice enclosing her heart.
She had been sitting on the bench in the town square for nearly an hour and borne the inquisitiveness of people as they went about their business. Those stares had penetrated her numbness and she knew that she’d been recognised and her behaviour would be talked about. But she no longer cared about gossip or scandals. All she cared about was to see Alex. Her cold tremulous fingers twisted the heavy diamond on her hand, back and forth, back and forth, while she wondered if soon it would be gone. If there was no case of mistaken identity, and Alex had met his mistress at a tavern, then she could not marry him and would return the ring. She might love him till her dying day, but it was not enough without respect and trust. And how could she respect or trust a man who would betray her so soon after declaring his fidelity and his love?
At first she had giggled in shock when her papa told her that her aunt and Mrs Vickers had witnessed her fiancé kissing a woman at a tavern in Enfield. Once sense had returned she’d registered her father’s despair and the reason for the ladies’ awkwardness had become apparent. Her father had gone on to say Dolly and Edith had recognised the viscount’s companion as Celia Chase. On legs that had felt boneless, Elise had sought her father’s wing chair before she collapsed.
Within a moment furious jealousy had torn into her at the thought of Alex kissing and caressing his mistress at a secret location while she had been out buying lace gloves to wear at their wedding.
Now she also felt a stupid, gullible fool and, worse, she realised he must think her one, too, for readily swallowing his lies. On the afternoon he’d promised her the world he might already have had planned an illicit rendezvous with his paramour.
Hot tears again trickled on her cheeks as she clung to a theory that mistaken identity could be to blame. Yet in truth she realised such a forlorn hope was no more likely to save her than grasping at driftwood in a stormy sea when drowning. She must not condemn him yet, her heart argued with her shattered pride, despite all things pointing to his guilt. She must stay here and confront him and watch his eyes.
