Mary Nichols - The Hemingford Scandal

‘Oh, Harry, I am so sorry. I love you both so much.’

‘And you may still love us both. That has not changed. And I thank God for it. Now, do you think we can make a little more haste, I came out without my breakfast and I am gut-foundered.’

They rode home in silence but, for all his cheerful countenance, his heart was heavy. Had he really expected Jane to recognise the new man and be ready and willing to forgive and forget and take him back? It was the thought of redeeming himself in her eyes that had kept him going, been with him through the long watches of the night when he had been cold and wet; it had been with him on endless marches when he had been almost roasted alive. It had sustained him when he had been living among his country’s enemies and helped him safely back to his comrades when his mission had been accomplished. The vision of her face had helped him to survive that long night hiding in a ditch with a bullet in his leg. When he had been praised for his daring by none other than Old Douro himself and mentioned in his dispatches, it was of Jane’s good opinion he had been thinking. All for nothing!

They dismounted outside Bostock House and left the horses with a groom before going indoors. The house had been bought by the first Earl when Cavendish Square was an isolated residential area in the countryside north of London. He had chosen it for its proximity to the capital and its fresh air. Now it was part of the metropolis, an old house in the middle of new. It had not even been modernized, because the Earl had not visited London since his son, the twins’ father, had died. Most of the year it remained empty and was only opened up when Anne came to town for the Season. If Harry had his way, it would be sold. The ground it stood on must surely be worth a fortune with the way London was spreading northwards and the Regent clamouring to have a new road built from his residence at Carlton House to Regent’s Park.

‘When are you going home to Sutton Park?’ she asked him, as they entered.

He grinned. ‘Do you want to be rid of me?’

‘No, you know I do not. I have seen nothing of you for two years and there is no hurry, is there? I am going back myself in a week or two, we could go together.’

‘You think I might need protection from Grandpapa?’ He laughed as they climbed the stairs to their respective rooms. ‘You are probably right at that. You could always turn him round your thumb.’

‘Gammon!’

He stopped outside her room and put out a hand to stroke her cheek. ‘Dear Sis, always looking after her wayward brother. I do appreciate it, you know.’

‘I know. Will you take me to the theatre tonight? That is, if you are not too fatigued.’

‘I will gladly take you, if my evening coat still fits me, but have you no beau dangling after you?’

‘Oh, Harry, do not be so foolish, I am long past marriageable age.’

‘Humbug! I think I will find you a husband while I am in town. In fact, it is my duty.’

‘It is not! You look to your own affairs, Harry Hemingford.’

He knew she meant Jane, but that was entirely out of the question.

Not for a minute did he think that agreeing to take his sister to the theatre would have such a profound effect on his mind and heart. Jane was there with her new love, sitting in the box opposite theirs, accompanied by an elderly lady in a hideous mauve-and-lilac striped round gown, whom he recognised as her great-aunt. And he knew with a certainty that almost unmanned him that he had been lying when he said he had moved on.

Jane was in amber silk, almost the same colour as the highlights in her hair. It heightened the creaminess of her shoulders and neck, the softness of her complexion and the brilliance of her eyes. Looking through his opera glass, he could see her quite clearly. She appeared to be watching the stage, but he was sure she had also seen him and was looking away on purpose. Was she afraid he might see what was written in those eyes? He had known her since she was a small child, knew her every mood, had seen her eyes full of mischief, teasing, laughing, crying and furious with indignation. He had seen them sad and he had seen them happy. He could not make himself believe she was happy now. And he could do nothing to remedy it. He had forfeited the right.

Jane knew perfectly well she was being watched. She had seen Anne and her brother take their seats before the curtain rose and, though she had turned to talk to Donald while the rest of the audience filled the theatre and, when the performance began, had concentrated on watching the stage, she was aware of Harry’s scrutiny. He had no right to look at her like that, no right to make her feel discomfited. She made herself angry; it was the only way she could go on.

She was still angry when the intermission brought the curtain down and everyone began moving about, waving to friends in other parts of the theatre, visiting other boxes. It made her a little sharp with Donald when he asked her if she would like some refreshment, but she immediately regretted it and smiled sweetly at him. ‘A cordial would be very nice, please. It is warm in here, is it not?’

He left on his errand and Jane turned to talk to her aunt about the play. Aunt Lane, who had her opera glasses to her eyes and was surveying the other boxes, did not appear to be listening. ‘Why, there is your cousin, Anne,’ she said. ‘And who is that with her, surely not a beau? My goodness, I do believe it is that rakeshame brother of hers. I wonder where he has popped up from.’

Jane had no answer, not having had the presence of mind to ask him that morning. ‘I am sure I do not know,’ she said.

‘Did you know he was back in town?’

‘We met him this morning while we were out riding.’

‘You did not say.’

‘I did not think anything of it. We exchanged greetings, no more.’

‘He looks much changed.’

‘I believe he is.’

‘My dear, what will you do?’

‘Do, Aunt? Why, nothing. If I meet him again, I shall be civil for Anne’s sake, but that is all.’

‘Very wise.’ The old lady paused, still looking through her glass. ‘But I admit to being curious. I wonder what he has been up to for the last two years? Not with the beau monde judging by his evening coat—it is at least three years out of date. Oh, my goodness, he has seen us and pointed us out to Anne. They are getting up. Do you suppose they are coming here?’

Anne and her brother arrived at the door of the box at the same moment as Donald returned with Jane’s drink. They greeted each other coolly and Aunt Lane, whose curiosity was overwhelming if she thought there might be a titbit of gossip worth passing on to her cronies, invited Anne and Harry into the box with something akin to cordiality.

Anne kissed Jane’s cheek and sat down beside her, depriving Donald of the seat he had had. He gave Jane her glass of cordial and sat himself on the other side of Aunt Lane. Harry, smiling, pulled a chair round to face the ladies. Aunt Lane leaned forward and tapped him on the knee with her fan. ‘Tell me, young man, where have you been hiding yourself these last two years?’

‘He has not been hiding,’ Anne said before he could reply himself. ‘He has been serving his country in the Peninsula, and though he will not tell you so himself, for he is far too modest, he distinguished himself with great courage.’

‘Is that so?’ Mrs Lane queried, smiling.

‘My sister was ever my champion,’ he said, but though he was smiling at the old lady, his eyes were on Jane. She was looking a little taken aback. Did she find it so difficult to believe that the man she had known and professed to love could behave with merit? Or was she simply discomfited that he had had the effrontery to invade her box?