Mary Balogh - The constant heart

The baron nodded affably to show that his guest was indeed permitted to say so.

"We must invite Mr. Sinclair to dinner within the week," Harriet said, as always oblivious to the fact that she was no longer mistress of the house. "But will that mean having to invite the whole family, Papa?"

"It will be a pleasure to have them all," Maude said. "It is some time since we gave a dinner party. Do you not agree, my lord?" she asked, glancing with hasty self-consciousness at her husband.

"Oh, quite so, quite so," he agreed.

"I hope Mr. Sinclair makes an effort to appear to advantage with his family," Mr. Bartlett added, smiling graciously at Harriet. "They are worthy and likable people."

Harriet raised her eyebrows and looked back at him, all attention. Rebecca, too, looked sharply across at him.

"Why would he not appear to advantage?" Harriet asked.

"Pardon me," Mr. Bartlett replied, serious for once. "There is nothing unacceptable in his manner by some London standards. If he is rather a spendthrift, one at least cannot say that he is so with anyone else's money than his own-now. And if he is something of a rake, one can say the same of many other men of rank in town."

Maude got to her feet and gathered together the embroidery that she had earlier set down beside her. "I am sure that Mr. Sinclair will know how to behave when he is here, Stanley," she said matter-of-factly. "Harriet, shall we go to my sitting room and make some plans for the dinner party?"

"Oh," replied Harriet, "I already have it all arranged in my mind, Maude. You do not need to worry about it."

"Then you shall tell me what you have planned," Maude said with quiet persistence, and she preceded her stepdaughter from the room.

The baron too retired to his room in order to rest before beginning the exertions of evening dinner and a hand or two of cards in the drawing room afterward.

Rebecca also rose to leave the room. She planned to have a leisurely bath after the hours spent teaching in a warm schoolroom and the hot, dusty walk to and from the village.

"You must have known Mr. Christopher Sinclair before his marriage, Miss Shaw," Mr. Bartlett said in his friendly way. He was smiling at her. "Though I believe he must be considerably older than you."

"Only a few years, sir," Rebecca replied. "And, yes, I knew him. It is impossible in a small place like this not to know one's neighbors."

"Tell me," he said, looking at her candidly, "was he always such an unprincipled man? I must confess that now I have made the acquaintance of the Sinclairs, I find it difficult to understand how he has become the way he is. I suppose that in most families there has to be one black sheep."

Rebecca sat down again. "Unprincipled in what way?" she asked guardedly.

"Perhaps he was a close friend, Miss Shaw?" Mr. Bartlett added, looking at her searchingly. "I would not wish to ruin your memories of him."

Rebecca made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "It is many years since I have even seen him, sir," she said.

"I knew his wife," he said. "She was a friend. A delightful creature, though not by any means a beauty. And many people despised her because her father was in business and not, strictly speaking, a gentleman at all. Sinclair married her for her money, of course. And I would not stoop to blame him for that. Many a gentleman with pockets to let has been forced to do as much."

Rebecca lowered her eyes to the hands in her lap. Perhaps she ought not to be listening to this. It was none of her affair, after all. But she could not help herself. It is sometimes too delicious to hear evil of a person one has despised for many years. She had not been mistaken, then.

"I could certainly have forgiven him for marrying my friend for her money," Mr. Bartlett continued, "had he treated her with proper respect thereafter."

"And he did not?" Rebecca prompted, raising her eyes unwillingly to his.

"The Sinclairs seem a humble enough family," Mr.

Bartlett said. "And that makes it all the more surprising that Sinclair himself is so insufferably high in the instep. He treated her with the utmost contempt, Miss Shaw. He never took her about with him, and he flaunted his mistresses before her most shamefully."

"Poor lady," Rebecca murmured, feeling sympathy for the late Mrs. Sinclair for the first time.

"Perhaps the situation would not have been so tragic had she not doted so much on him," Mr. Bartlett continued. "She lived with the hope that perhaps the child would bring him closer to her. Her death was tragic, yet under the circumstances perhaps for the best. She would have been disappointed, I am sure." His tone had become almost vicious.

"I do not find your story impossible to credit, sir," Rebecca said, her voice strained. "Yet I believe it would be as well to keep it to yourself. I would not wish to see his family hurt."

"Indeed, ma'am," he assured her earnestly, "I would not dream of breathing a word to anyone else. I would not have said anything to you either, but you seem to me to be a lady of sense. And I fear that perhaps Sinclair will not, after all, behave as he ought here. He has lived for too long a life of self-indulgence and depravity. I wish to suggest, Miss Shaw, with all due respect, that you keep careful watch over your cousin. She is a lovely and impressionable young lady and wealthy enough, I believe, to attract a fortune hunter."

Rebecca's eyes widened. "Do you believe he would dare?" she asked. "I cannot think it."

"And I trust you are right," he said earnestly. "But I felt it my duty to speak. I would not be able to forgive myself if anything happened because I had felt the matter too delicate to involve myself. Forgive me, Miss Shaw. My sister's family has in a sense become my own. I must be concerned for the welfare of its members. If Sinclair behaves as a gentleman ought, I shall be happy, though I may lose credit in your eyes."

"Not so, sir," Rebecca assured him. "I thank you for taking me into your confidence. You may be sure that I shall be properly concerned for Harriet's welfare when Mr. Sinclair arrives."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and his face relaxed into its accustomed smile. He took Rebecca's hand in his and raised it to his lips before turning and leaving the room.

Rebecca ascended to her room with lowered eyes and lagging steps. She could feel one of her infrequent headaches coming on. The day had been hot and busy. She rang immediately for a maid and directed that bathwater be brought to her dressing room. She ran a finger beneath the high neckline of her cotton dress and turned her head from side to side. But it was no-good. There was no cool air to be felt.

She should not have stayed to listen to Mr. Bartlett. She should have told him quite firmly as soon as he began that the way Mr. Christopher Sinclair chose to run his life was none of her concern.

People were all the same, she supposed. Everyone liked to hear gossip, especially if it showed someone one knew in an unpleasant light. She always prided herself on her lack of interest in either listening to or spreading vicious rumors. Yet there were times when she could not resist. And she had heard so very little about Christopher in almost seven years. She had taken a malicious sort of pleasure in hearing what Mr. Bartlett had had to say, and really she could not entirely blame either him for speaking or herself for listening. He had spoken from the best of motives-his concern for Harriet and the Sinclair family. And she had listened for the same reasons.

But now that she had had time to digest what she had heard, she would far prefer not to have listened at all. She undid the buttons at the back of her dress, not waiting for a maid to assist her. It was a relief to slip the fabric off her shoulders and arms, light as the cotton material was.