Page 69 of Truly, Madly, Daring

Aggie shook her head affectionately as he bounded up the stairs to the front door, taking the steps three at a time. She was about to close the window and retreat when one of the other lads spoke.

“You know why he was distracted, don’t you? It’s that wretched girl. Miss Smith. She’s been staying here. That’s why he’s all starry-eyed.”

Aggie glowered at the speaker, who was scrawny and spotty and looked as if a strong breeze could knock him down. If she were a man, she would have knocked him down herself.

“No, she’s Miss De Montluc now, and she’s a pretty enough distraction,” said another, wagging his eyebrows and making a leering expression that made Aggie want to go down there and punch him in the nose too.

“Yes, except he’s not just dallying with the chit, he’s courting her.”

“No!” Exclamations of shock came from everyone but Scrivener. “You can’t be serious?”

Scrivener assured his revolting acolytes it was true. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t you say a word against her. He’ll crucify you. Believe me, I know,” he said, shaking his head.

“But Scrivs, she was born in the gutter. I know she’s a prime article, and I don’t blame him for having his fun with her, but he can’t be thinking of marrying her? She’s not the kind of creature a fellow marries, she’s a nobody. It will ruin him. No one will even receive them.”

Aggie stiffened, her breath catching at the cruel words.

“She’s the Comte de Villen’s daughter,” Scrivener said, his tone sharp. “And if you say a word against her in his hearing, I’d lay odds on never seeing you again. Haven’t you heard what they say about him?”

“Well, exactly. I mean, perhaps he is her natural father, but she’s still a bastard and he’s hardly respectable either, what with that business of the elopement. Besides which, she was raised in the Rookery. They say the comte picked her off the street when she was ten. I mean, imagine children with a mother like that. Bad blood, Scrivs. They’ll probably all turn out to be a lot of pickpockets and murderers.”

“Got to admit it, Scrivs. It’s a terrible mesalliance. We ought to save him from himself and say something. Marriages like that never work, not when they’re so unequal. He’s the son of a duke, for the love of God. And not just any duke. Bedwin! He might not be the heir, but the way Blackstone is carrying on, he’ll not live past five and thirty. Fred could marry anyone he chose, and she’s nothing but a cheap doxy for all her fat dowry and fine clothes. He should let some common Cit marry her and find a real lady.”

Aggie smothered her gasp, tears pricking at her eyes. She had known exactly what these men were, and what they thought of her, but to have it illustrated so vividly was more than she could bear.

“You do as you please,” Scrivener said, his expression implacable. “But you say a word against her, and he’ll murder you. Frampton tried to tell him something of the sort just before he came down here and he’s spent most of the last week in the infirmary. Last term, Harrison made some innocent remark about her, and Fred broke his nose. So, you do as you please, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Aggie closed the window and staggered away, unable to listen to anything more. Her throat was tight, and her lungs felt squeezed in her chest. Fred had been fighting to defend her. Her Fred, who was the gentlest, kindest man she had ever known. Her heart thudded painfully as she saw the truth. His friends were right. It was a mesalliance and, if they persisted and married, Fred would spend the rest of his days fighting over her, defending her from disparaging comments. Since they were children, she had lost count of the times he had stepped in to protect her. A woman with her past would never be a wife he could take pride in, could take to events and parties without having to ignore spiteful whispers. It would make him wretched, and it would make her angry until she behaved in a manner no lady would, and ruined everything entirely.

It wouldn’t work. It could never work. She thought perhaps she had always known it at heart, but she had not wanted to see it, nor to admit the truth. But those vile young men had spelled it out and, in a way, they had done her a kindness. They had protected Fred just as they had wished to do.

Perhaps one day he would be grateful for it, too.

23rd of February 1845, Cawston Hall, Cawston, Norfolk.

Wrexham held his temper and answered every question Dr Boniface asked him with as much patience and good humour as he could manage. They’d been at it for over two hours, however, and he was ill used to having his faculties probed, or having to answer so many inane questions. As the morning wore on, his calm demeanour became increasing hard to hold on to when the doctor began repeating questions he’d already answered.

“And can you tell me, my lord, what is your usual morning routine? Talk me through an average day.”

“I already did that and, surprisingly, the routine is still the same. I get up, bathe, eat breakfast, and then go about my business,” he said evenly, wondering how much more of it he could stand.

“And have recent events given you an aversion to bathing?”

“Why? Do I smell? I can think of no other reason to ask me that three times over.”

“Oh, no, my lord.” The doctor chuckled. “At least, it is an altogether pleasant scent, reminiscent of an English garden. But such a disturbing event would unsettle the strongest of constitutions. Nightmares have not troubled you? Dark thoughts? Notions of doing yourself harm?”

“No,” said Wrexham, though he might do the doctor an injury if this carried on much longer.

“Really? You’ve not thought of the events of that morning at all?”

“Well, obviously I’ve thought of it. I lost my sight, not my imagination. The image is a repulsive one, but it is not in my nature to dwell.”

“So, you do not dwell upon it?”

“No. I do not.”

“Not at all?”