Botham, the Reverend Cumberhill, Mr. Davis and Dr. Linford are calling.”
Jeffrey drew a breath. Perhaps they would be his salvation. Perhaps they would see him directly to some jail. “Send them in,” he said, and stood in the middle of his study, silently tapping eight times against his thigh. And again. And again.
Reverend Cumberhill could scarcely look him in the eye when he entered, and Jeffrey could hardly blame him. Mr. Botham, the magistrate, seemed only perplexed. Mr. Davis, the town’s mayor, eyed him curiously, as if he were examining a scar on Jeffrey’s face.
Dr. Linford, however, looked at him with a bit of sympathy in his eyes. He was the one person on this earth in whom Jeffrey had confided his dangerous thoughts.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and gestured toward seating in his office. “Tobias, tea, please.”
“I think that is not necessary, my lord,” Mr. Botham began. “I shall not draw this unfortunate matter out any more than is necessary. We have called on Miss Cabot and have questioned her thoroughly. She will not turn against you, and insists that this was her doing.”
Jeffrey wondered if that was her attempt to protect John? Or was she foolishly honest?
“However, she has agreed, as has her cousin’s husband, Mr. Frederick Brumley, that because of the heinous nature of what has occurred, the only options available are to accuse you of rape...”
Jeffrey’s gut seized. He was a powerful earl, but even he could not escape such an accusation.
“Or,” Mr. Botham said, glancing down at the carpet, “to marry you to avoid what would be a very damaging scandal for you both.”
Jeffrey swallowed. He counted the buttons on Mr. Botham’s waistcoat. There were only six. Six.
“We counseled her that to marry a brute is to consign oneself to enduring a brute for a lifetime,” Reverend Cumberhill said curtly.
Jeffrey didn’t speak. He was suddenly plagued with the image of her body, her legs open to him and his cock pumping into her.
“We have counseled her,” Mr. Botham agreed, casting a look at the reverend, “but she insists she will take that risk rather than sully your name, or the name of her family.”
Jeffrey didn’t want to marry her, for Chrissakes! He wanted nothing to do with her! And yet, he had no other option. “Who...who is her family?”
He saw the exchange of looks between the men, the disgust that he didn’t even know who he’d sullied. “She is the stepsister of the Earl of Beckington.”
God in heaven. Jeffrey tried to recall Beckington, and could not. It scarcely mattered. The man was an earl. If Jeffrey didn’t take his sister to wife, the man would surely see him hanged for rape; Jeffrey would do no less in his shoes. He lifted his chin. “I am an earl,” he said tightly. “I have a duty to my family and my title to oversee our fortune and produce a legitimate heir.” He glanced at Dr. Linford. “Have you examined her?”
“For harm, yes,” he said. “She does not appear to be harmed.”
That wasn’t what Jeffrey meant. “I mean, is she a virgin?” he asked bluntly.
The reverend made a sound of despair or disgust, and Davis looked appalled.
“We are speaking of Miss Grace Cabot,” Mr. Davis said. “She is the stepdaughter of the late Earl of Beckington, who only recently passed, and the stepsister of the new earl. She comes from a fine family, my lord.”
Jeffrey began to clench and unclench his fist, eight times. “That is all well and good, but you are surely aware that a proper pedigree does not weight a woman’s hem.”
Dr. Linford and Mr. Botham both glanced at the floor; the reverend covered his face in his hands. They were appalled by him, yes, but Jeffrey noticed that none of them contradicted him.
“She has assured me she is...intact,” Linford said tightly.
Mr. Davis cleared his throat. “May we assume, then, that a marriage will take place?”
Jeffrey hesitated. He thought of Mary Gastineau, the daughter of Lord Wicking, his second cousin. Mary was the second daughter of the second Lord Wicking, and she was the second woman he had seriously courted. He had courted Miss Gastineau for two years, grooming her to his way of life and his need for perfection. While Mary Gastineau did not excite him in any way, Jeffrey thought she would be the wife that he needed. He did not imagine her naked body, did not think of his body sliding into hers. The woman did not make mistakes, and seemed perfectly suited to walking the edge of the knife with him.
And still, he had put off making an offer as long as he reasonably could. For symmetry, he’d told himself. From fear, his conscience barked at him. Nevertheless, Jeffrey had been prepared to make the offer this Season.
“My lord,” Mr. Botham said, his low voice drawing Jeffrey out of his rumination, “if you do not agree, we will accuse you of the crime of rape. We will not ignore what you have done to that poor young, innocent woman.”
Innocent. Inexperienced, perhaps, but she was not innocent. Jeffrey lifted his gaze, and four pairs of eyes steadily met his. Their minds were made up then—they would see him prosecuted if he did not solve the very real problem he had created for them. “Yes, I will marry her.”
No one spoke at first; the three men looked at the reverend, who was the most aggrieved by what had happened. He stood, rising to his full height, which was still considerably shorter than Jeffrey’s. His expression was sour, as if he were displeased with the decision. But Reverend Cumberhill was a shrewd man. He knew that to go against the powerful Earl of Merryton would not work in his favor. He clenched his jaw, peered at Jeffrey. “You will make this marriage straightaway?”
“Not only will I do it straightaway, I shall remove myself and this woman to Blackwood Hall at once.”
“Then we are agreed,” the reverend said crisply.
* * *
COUSIN BEATRICE’S LACE cap had been askew since the night the Franklin sisters had brought a disheveled Grace to her. Like everyone else, Beatrice assumed that Grace had suffered a great trauma to her person. She’d cried as she’d helped Grace undress. “Your mother will never forgive me!” she’d wailed.
Her mother, were she in her right mind, would never forgive Grace for what she’d done. Grace would never forgive herself. Yes, she’d suffered a great trauma, all right, but not to her person. The trauma was in the awful truth that she’d trapped the wrong man into scandal. Moreover, now that the trapping had been done, Grace was appalled by how deplorable an act it truly was. Would it have been any different had it been Amherst? Would he not have looked at her with the same loathing she’d seen in Merryton’s eyes? How did she ever come to believe this horrible, wretched plan would work?
Honor had been right when Grace had shared her scheme with her before traveling to Bath—it was a ridiculous, impossible plan. Why was it that this would be the one time that Honor was right? Could she not have been right that it was perfectly fine for two young women to race their horses on Rotten Row? Could she not have been right that the coral silk Grace had coveted was the best color for her? No, she had to be right about this.
Cousin
