In truth, there were a great many unpleasant thoughts roiling in his head. Chief among them must always be the fact that Cecilia had just made an undoubted enemy of Oliver Pallant. She had had every right to say what she said, and he would never have wished her – or any woman – to endure such unwelcome attentions from anybody. But he profoundly distrusted the Baron, and wondered what he might do now that his marital ambitions, and his brother’s, had been decisively thwarted. This was an undeniable concern even before one considered the reactions of such a man to being, as he would see it, publicly humiliated. Pallant had been doing as he pleased and getting away with it scot-free since his earliest youth; as far as Alistair knew, nobody had ever stood up to him before, or at least not with any effect. Certainly, no lady had ever given him such a dressing-down in public.
The Major was not a man to indulge himself in Gothic imaginings, and he was aware that if what little he had understood of the terms of Mrs Albery’s will was correct – and he had only Cecilia’s brief comment just now to judge by – it would do Pallant no good to contemplate such extreme actions as kidnapping or compromising his erstwhile prey, or either of her sisters. If she married, she’d lose her fortune, and her fortune was all he wanted. Surely, that fact would guarantee her safety, the safety of all of them, if only for a year, unless indeed His Lordship was so deranged that he decided to seek revenge, regardless of the consequences.
Alistair, maintaining his part in light, inconsequential conversation with a great deal of effort, could not entirely put this grim possibility from his mind. And that was not the end of his worries, by any means.
He could not know the precise terms of Augusta Albery’s will, and the last thing in the world he could do was enquire. If he mentioned the subject directly, if he asked an elaborately casual question of one of the sisters or Miss Macintyre, if he set his mother or his brother or anybody in the bloody world to find out, it would inevitably appear to Cecilia when she heard of it that he was a fortune hunter, every bit as bad as Pallant. She would be wary of his motives, and rightly so. But it would be unnatural in the highest degree not to mention it at all. So saying nothing would be almost as bad.
And continuing their… their liaison was out of the question. He did not believe, looking back on their past meetings, the thought of which still stirred his blood even in his current distress, that they could go much further without engaging in actions that would lead any honourable man to call a halt and propose marriage. Indeed, by every standard of decency, he should already have done so, and she might by now be wondering why he had not. But if he did, he’d be asking her to give up the financial independence that meant so much to her. He could support a wife; of course he could. But he had not her level of wealth. Why should she deny herself that, for him? What kind of man would ask her to? It seemed she was doomed to think him either horribly mercenary or a selfish idiot. There was no other choice that he could see. If he asked her to wait a year, if he said that he would be quite happy to do so, there was the fortune hunter again, cunningly securing an heiress for himself while trying to gain the credit for being noble and considerate.
The truth was, he loved Cecilia Constantine; he’d realised that only a few days ago, and been almost overwhelmed by the wonder and surprise of it. He could ask for nothing better than to spend his life with her, fortune or no fortune, and know himself the luckiest person alive. But it would be the height of arrogant folly to imagine for a second that she felt the same. He was no great bargain, scarred and wounded as he was. She’d told him, hadn’t she, in the plainest of terms that she did not mean to marry for a long time, if ever? And now he knew why. She’d entered into her clandestine relationship with him precisely because she was free for a year to do whatever she wished. And when the year was over, she could marry anyone in the world she pleased; her sister’s connections gave her access to gentlemen of the highest rank in society, as they’d all learned tonight. She too could look as high as a duke or a marquess or a leader of fashion. How could he make demands on her, then, as if he were any kind of catch at all, instead of a scarred cripple of no particular rank or fortune?
All the colour and enjoyment had gone out of the evening. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask Cecilia to dance again, as much as he’d like to; he had no idea what he would say to her, or she to him. He had the headache and, as if to remind him exactly what he was, his wounded leg was throbbing as it had not done for weeks. Would this interminable affair never end?
39
Bea had seen the confrontation between Lord Pallant, her sister and the Major unfold in front of her with a reaction little short of horror. Unlike everyone else, she’d also been watching Vivienne’s face too, trying to interpret the changing expressions she saw there as the nasty little scene played out and, also unlike everyone else, she had realised when His Lordship and Sebastian took their leave so precipitately that this left their sister stranded, with no means to get home. It didn’t seem very likely that Miss Macintyre, the Bartrums, or anyone else would come to her rescue and agree to take her all the way to Pallant Manor. Not after what had just happened.
She made her way swiftly through the chattering throng to Vivienne’s side. ‘I came to see how you are feeling,’ she told her quietly. ‘And what you mean to do now.’
‘I suppose I should set off walking,’ Miss Pallant said with a sad little smile, neglecting to answer Miss Constantine’s first question. ‘I can’t very well beg anyone to take me, and I don’t suppose they would even if I asked. The Major – and everyone else – might be concerned that Oliver would greet their carriage’s approach with a loaded shotgun, and Bea, after what I’ve just seen, I can’t honestly tell you that he wouldn’t.’
‘Do you feel safe going back there tonight?’ Bea asked her bluntly. While they’d been speaking, she’d drawn Vivienne away into a secluded and shady corner, where a high, old oak seat gave at least the illusion of privacy. Nobody was near them, and she thought that if they kept their tones low, they would not be in too much danger of being overheard amongst all the clamour of excited voices and lively music.
Her companion regarded her in silence for a moment, and then said bleakly, ‘As safe as I ever do. That is to say, no. But I am accustomed to it, after all. You must be thoroughly sick of my family, and it is good of you to worry about me at all after my brother’s boorish behaviour.’
Beatrice wished she could trust Vivienne completely, so that she could respond properly to the shocking things she was hearing, and comfort her. But there was still the chance that her words, her plea for sympathy, were part of the Pallants’ plan to inveigle themselves into the Constantines’ lives.
‘Does he hurt you?’
‘Not physically – or at least, not very often. Though his temperismost dangerous when he is drinking, and I can assure you, tonight, he will be drinking. The fact that what happened here just now was entirely his own fault, because he is not nearly as cunning and polished as he thinks he is, will not, believe me, prevent him from taking out his anger and frustration on anyone who comes within the reach of his acid tongue or his fists.’ She let out a mirthless little laugh. ‘All the servants are still here, including Fanny, and although she puts on airs to be interesting because she is his current paramour, and is perfectly foul to me every day of the week, I’m glad to see she has not left. I hate to think what he might do to her tonight if she were alone with him. If she has any sense at all, she’ll stay away for a while, till his temper has cooled.’
Bea reached out and took her hand; she did not know what to say. The greater part of her believed that this was the unvarnished truth she was hearing, but did not what she had just been told, she thought as Miss Pallant clung to her, make it more rather than less likely that Vivienne had, in fact, colluded with her brothers to entrap the Constantines from the outset?
Some trace of what she was thinking must have crossed her face; perhaps Vivienne was unnaturally attuned to other people’s reactions because of the tyranny under which it seemed she had always lived.
‘You’re thinking that we made a dead set for you all as soon as you arrived here, because you are heiresses, and that I was a part of it as much as my brothers,’ she said with disturbing accuracy.
‘I feel dreadfully sorry for your situation, and wish that there might be something I could do to help,’ Bea told her slowly. ‘But yes. It had crossed my mind. If Lord Pallant had bullied you…’
Miss Pallant shrugged with a poor attempt at casualness. ‘He has bullied me all my life, and my father was as bad. Worse. But I do not know that that can absolve me of all responsibility. Not in your case.Iwas the one who sensed on our first meeting that you were… like me. I was the one who told Oliver about it, with great eagerness, in order to win his approval. I was perfectly happy to involve myself in his plan, and help to entrap not only you but your sisters too, so that we – he, really – could have control of all your fortunes, and no doubt waste them within a year or two. I know exactly what a living nightmare it would be for your sister Cecilia to be married to Oliver, and life with Sebastian would scarcely be any better for Bianca. I didn’t care about any of their future undeserved suffering; I only wanted to protect myself, all the while knowing that I couldn’t really, no matter what I did. I am weak and despicable, and my only defence is that they have made me so. Sebastian is the same, but he’d still betray me in an instant, and I him, just as quickly, to spare myself a dressing-down from Oliver.’
Bea’s heart broke for her, and also, just a little, for herself. She was proud that she could keep her voice tolerably level as she responded, ‘I do most sincerely pity you, but I have to ask… it was all false, then? You made a dead set for me only because of your brother’s plan?’
‘In the first instance, yes,’ Vivienne said dully. ‘But not afterwards. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s true. The passion between us was genuine, you must surely be able to see that at least, and also the… the sense of connection. The joy I began to experience. I think it must have been joy – in any case, it was an unfamiliar sensation, and a precious one. I have not met many women like me in my life so far, and none like you, Bea Constantine. I think we could really have been happy together, incredible as it seems now, if only I could manage to escape from Oliver and live my own life. But of course I can’t, I never will. I know that.’
‘You understand that I can’t tell what part of what you say is true, and what part lies,’ Bea said. ‘I can see that you have been cruelly abused for many years, but I hope you will not think to blame me for saying that I feel as though I have been too, this little while, by you. I certainly believe that you have lied to me. Did you go and tell him exactly what we did together, in the greatest possible detail, so that he could congratulate you on how well you were doing?’
‘Don’t ask me that,’ Vivienne said, turning her face away. Beatrice did not know if she did this to hide tears, or a guilty face, or some mixture of both.
‘That is answer enough, I suppose. I don’t think you should go home tonight, for your own safety, but forgive me if I don’t ask you to stay with us; I don’t think my sisters could be expected to countenance it, and I’m not sure I want you there myself, since I don’t feel I can trust you near us. And even if I did, your brother would be bound to hear where you had been, through Lucy and Fanny, and, if all that you say is true, that would not help you in the long run, but only hurt you more. It has just occurred to me that perhaps Mrs Drinkwater will let you stay with her. I can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Thank you for the kind thought; I know it is more than I deserve. I am quite resigned to being an object of her Christian charity for one night. I barely know her – we don’t go to church, which can hardly surprise you – but she seems to be a good woman and will no doubt take a poor sinner in. But Beatrice, there is something else that I must tell you, even though I know it will just make you hate me more.’
Bea shivered despite the heat of the crowded barn. She had a sudden dizzying sense that she was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall and smash on cruel rocks below. ‘Go ahead, then – no need for any more drama. It’s hard to imagine what could be worse than what I already know.’
Vivienne hesitated for a moment, then said in an even lower tone, ‘Oliver has always been aware that your illicit liaison with me could not give him the legal control that marriage to your sisters would provide. You might be induced to live with us, if besotted with me, but you could hardly be forced to stay – particularly not when you saw your sisters ill-treated and miserable, which I can assure you they would have been, as soon as they were in his power. His solution to that was simple: blackmail, using what he already knows to your discredit – not just what we did together, but the secrets you revealed to me about your own history and I passed on so unforgivably.’
Bea was frozen in shock, horrified by this betrayal of the most intimate confidences she had ever shared with another person, and could not in that moment gather her thoughts sufficiently to make any protest.
