The Irish Upstart

chapter 15



Over the following weeks, a whole new world opened for Evleen. It seemed as if overnight she had become London’s darling. It mattered not that she hadn’t officially come “out,” nor been presented at court. Men fought for her favors, extolling her beauty, melodious accent, vivacious Irish charm. London’s leading hostesses vied for the presence of “that delightful young lady from Ireland.”

Lord Trevlyn crowed with delight. “We must have the dressmaker back. A popular young lady like you must have an ample wardrobe.”

Properly chaperoned, she was escorted by eager beaux to Astley’s Royal Amphitheater where horses and clowns alike gave delightful performances; to Kings Theater where she sat in awe of the actor, Edmund Keen; to Green Park where she and Patrick breathlessly watched a spectacular balloon ascension, the daring balloonists using a newfangled contraption called a parachute.

During all this, Evleen felt elated, yet torn. What a heady experience to be admired and sought-after. Yet her new-found popularity did not come without a price, for the atmosphere around the Trevlyn’s London townhouse was decidedly cool. Lydia Trevlyn, hardly able to contain her jealousy, was now only barely polite. Bad enough that Evleen now outshone Charlotte, who had always been considered the great beauty of the family. Worse, despite Evleen’s efforts to discourage Montague, he continued to pursue her, obviously enchanted with her Irish charms. He appeared to have forgotten Charlotte even existed, let alone she was destined to be his bride.

At least Amanda was doing well. Much to the ongoing surprise of her mother and sisters, of late she had blossomed and now had several suitors.

Thus far, Evleen had yet to meet a man she really liked, although she now had at least a dozen to chose from. Mama was right. Too many men of the English nobility were vain, self-centered, and shallow: naught but worthless aristocrats who contributed nothing to the world but lived only for their own decadent pleasures. Evleen could not imagine being married to any one of them, regardless of how rich they were, or how grand their title.

Meanwhile, Evleen had not heard one word from Thomas. Although she tried not to think of him, she often did. She concealed her thoughts from everyone, though, even Penelope, who had become a fast friend these past weeks. Often Evleen was tempted to ask Penelope the latest news of Thomas, but pride prevented her each time. With her sharp percipience, Thomas’s sister would guess immediately how much Evleen missed him and wanted him back. At least Evleen knew where he was. From Penelope’s casual remarks she gleaned that Thomas had returned to his home near Abingdon where he remained in excellent health and was devoting his time to breeding horses. It was obvious he wanted nothing more to do with her. Time after time she tried to convince herself she must forget about him, but had not succeeded thus far.

She was having trouble sleeping nights. She could easily blame the excitement of her glittering new social life, but she knew otherwise. It was Thomas who kept her awake in those dark, silent hours when for the hundredth—the thousandth?—time, she would relive that magical trip from Ireland when they’d exchanged that deeply meaningful look at The Whispering Arch; when she was seasick aboard The Countess of Liverpool and he’d cared for her so tenderly; when he, with the utmost generosity, had seen to it that Patrick got to ride in the flying machine across England. What fun they’d had! And then London, and that night they kissed in his coach...

Oh, Thomas, how could you leave and not even say goodbye? I thought you cared for me. Were those passionate moments in the carriage really just lust, as meaningless as Lord Corneale’s kiss?

In dawn’s clear light, after but a few hours of fitful sleep, Evleen would always wake up to cold reality. Thomas did not care. Everything he’d done for her was out of pity and duty. But what of it? What was she thinking of? Even if he did care, he was but a second son with a limited income, not even close to fitting Mama’s requirements for the rich, titled Englishman she was supposed to find and marry.

She had written home that she now had her pick of rich Englishmen. Mama’s letters in return revealed how pleased she was, how eagerly she was waiting to hear who would be the final choice. Evleen suspected that one or two of her most ardent suitors were about to propose, but in the meantime, much to her great chagrin, there was Montague.

Nothing but trouble there. Montague had been doggedly pursuing her. He would not take no for an answer. How she would be able to handle his unwanted attentions she had no idea.

* * *

One day, another problem arose when Evleen, about to step into the drawing room, heard Patrick’s voice and because of its imperious tone, stopped to listen.

“I said bring it now, and be quick,” demanded Patrick, obviously addressing a servant.

“Yes, of course, Master Patrick,” came the reply.

The butler. Evleen was horrified. Pierce, the white-haired butler who carried himself with supreme dignity, had been the family butler for more years than anyone could recall. Never had she heard him treated with less than the greatest respect, until now.

She waited until Pierce withdrew, then drew in a breath to regain control of herself and stepped into the drawing room where Patrick was playing a game by the fireplace. “What were you saying to the butler just now?” she asked with deceptive calm.

Pouting, Patrick told her, “I asked for some sweets and he said I shouldn’t have them till I ate my lunch.”

“He’s absolutely right.”

“He’s not right.” Patrick leaped to his feet and glared. “Pierce is only a servant. He must do as I say.”

She was flabbergasted. “Who on earth told you such a thing?”

“Nobody had to tell me. Mrs. Trevlyn and Charlotte and Bettina yell at the servants all the time.”

“Not Pierce they don’t.”

“Maybe not, but all the others.”

That much was true, Evleen thought grudgingly. She was constantly appalled at the rude, unfeeling way the Trevlyn ladies treated their servants. “I cannot argue, Patrick, but are you a sheep? Mama taught us to be kind and courteous to everyone. She taught us to be strong and do what we know in our hearts is right, no matter what the consequences. You reveal a weakness when you follow what other people do and don’t think for yourself.”

“I don’t care.” Patrick crossed his arms over his thin chest and raised his chin. “I shall be the next Earl of Alberdsley, and everyone will have to do my bidding, even you.”

“What?” Fury almost choked her. Her palm itched to slap that arrogant little face, but she had never struck Patrick, and, despite her rage, knew she never would. With a supreme effort, she quelled her hot rush of anger. Actually she was as horrified at herself as much as Patrick. She should have seen this coming, she thought with fearful clarity. While she’d been busy enjoying the delights of London, Patrick had changed from a bright, easy-going boy into this spoiled little prig who placed himself a cut above the rest. And all because of the indulgence of his grandfather. “Who do you think you are?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You must never talk down to the servants. Pierce may be a servant, but he’s older than you, and wiser than you, and you will respect him, Patrick, or . . or...”

“Or what?” Patrick defiantly demanded.

“Or... it’s too terrible to tell you.” She waited, expecting her little brother to blush with shame at her rare castigation, or perhaps even cry. Instead, he regarded her with brazen defiance. “I don’t care what you say, Evleen, I’m the heir. I can do as I please and people have to obey me.”

In shocked silence she took the time to examine her red-haired little brother who had the face of an angel, but underneath, had developed the temperament of one of those worthless aristocrats she detested. Hard to believe that back in Ireland, Patrick had been an agreeable, even-tempered child without an arrogant bone in his body. But now... ?

Was having all this richness and privilege worth the trouble it caused? Perhaps they should just go back to Ireland. Evleen could almost laugh, thinking of how long it would take Mama to set Patrick straight. And going back would be good for her, too. She wouldn’t have Montague chasing her about, nor suffer the unpleasantness of the Trevlyns. And perhaps she’d stop thinking about Thomas if she knew for certain she would never see him again.

But it was much too soon to think of going home. Besides, all Patrick needed was a strong male voice to inform him of the error of his ways. But whose voice? Possibly Lord Trevlyn’s, although considering the way he doted on the boy, she doubted he could administer the proper discipline. Regardless, Lord Trevlyn could be of no help now. He had returned to his estate and had not said when he would return. Walter was here, but weakling that he was, he could hardly be called a voice of authority.

There was only one man in all this world whom Patrick not only respected, but downright idolized. How ironic, she mused, that Patrick would not listen to his own sister, but if Lord Thomas were to tell him what to do, he would leap to obey.

If only Thomas were here!

And for many reasons, she mused, many of which had nothing to do with Patrick’s transgressions.

* * *

Late on a warm evening in June, at the ball given by Lady Fitzgibbons at her palatial mansion on Bolton Street, Thomas, who had just arrived from Tanglewood Hall, stood by the side of the dance floor, gazing intently at the dancers.

“She’s here, although I don’t see her,” said Penelope, who stood beside him.

He asked, “What makes you think I’m looking for anybody?”

Penelope tilted her pert nose. “Why the sudden visit to London? Aren’t your precious Thoroughbreds enough company?”

He shot her a teasing glance. “I prefer my horses any day to a certain nagging sister of mine.” A force beyond himself pulled his gaze back to the dance floor. Where was she?

Penelope asked, “Did you know she’s become the most popular belle in London?”

“Who?”

“You know very well who.”

He deigned not to answer as he continued his search. Ah, there she was, dancing with Montague, a vision in a pale yellow silk dress, trimmed with silver.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” remarked Penelope. He nodded briefly, careful he gave nothing away. “I know she’s the reason you’re here, Thomas. What do you plan?”

No use trying to fool her. “I want her,” he said simply.

Penelope drew in her breath and clasped her hands together in a gesture of glee. “What wonderful news! Evleen and I have become fast friends these past few weeks. I so admire her for her honesty, her liveliness, her wit and charm, as well as—” Penelope’s expression switched from ecstatic to doubtful “—oh, dear. You want to marry her?”

“Of course. What did you think?”

“Oh, dear.” Penelope looked crestfallen.

Thomas laughed at his sister’s sudden discomfit. “I know what you’re thinking. I am far from being a prime candidate for her hand, aren’t I? Second son, with but a modest income? On the face of it, my chances are nil.”

“Montague is after her.”

“With all due respect to my beloved brother, Evleen is far too smart to marry such a profligate.”

“But you know her mother wants her to marry well.”

“Never love an Englishman,” Thomas quoted with a wry smile, “just marry a rich and titled one.”

“Then how can you even think–?”

“I don’t have a chance, unless she loves me.”

“Does she?”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Penelope lightly rapped his arm with her fan. “Oh, you can be so exasperating. Why didn’t you tell me? I suspected you liked her, but then when you left London all those many weeks ago, I thought you didn’t care.”

“Never fear, I care all right.” Care enough to risk getting soundly rejected, Thomas thought but didn’t say. Tanglewood Hall had been his retreat, a place where he had expected to find not only peace, but forgetfulness. In his ignorance, he had assumed he could easily erase those tormenting dreams of Evleen and concentrate fully on breeding his Thoroughbreds. Surely Montague would marry. He would then proceed to present Papa with the heir he so keenly desired, and thus relieve Thomas of any further responsibility. Only if Montague remained single, would Thomas consider taking a wife. Not Bettina. He had finally concluded he could not abide spending the rest of his life with such a bubble-head. But if need be, surely he could find some agreeable lady of modest means who would be happy to marry a second son in reduced circumstances.

Such was his plan, but it contained a major flaw. His tantalizing thoughts of Evleen did not fade as expected. As time went by, she increasingly haunted his dreams. When Penelope wrote that Evleen was now the toast of London, the jolting news caused the remnants of his forced, false serenity to quickly evaporate. The thought of Evleen being cajoled, charmed, wheedled and deceived by a bevy of shallow London dandies unleashed such a torrent of angst and apprehension within himself, he was forced to return post haste to London.

She was finishing her dance with Montague, who looked fuddled, he could tell, even from here. Although it was getting late, he still had plenty of time. He would get her alone after supper, lay his heart at her feet, pride be damned, and see what she said.



* * *

“Montague, you’ve had too much brandy,” said Evleen as the dance ended. She looked into Montague’s face, now slack from drink. “Take my advice and go home.”

“Me, foxed?” Montague regarded her with blurry eyes. “Ridiculous. I’m as sober as a vicar.”

He staggered, ever so slightly, but enough for her to notice. “You see? And whatever you do, don’t try dancing again.” Her toe still smarted from where Montague had stamped upon it.

Montague replied, “I assure you, my wild Irish beauty, I am totally in control. Matter of fact, I rather hoped you would take supper with me.”

“I think not.” Disgusted, she tried to back away, but he took her arm.

“You’re so beautiful, Evleen,” he said, voice thick from drink. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders to the exposed top of her breasts where it lingered, frankly assessing. “Such beauty needs to be caressed, to be kissed, to be—”

“Oh!” Evleen cried, so revolted she yanked her arm away. “Go home and sober up, Montague.”

As Evleen spun around and headed for the side lines, she felt several pairs of eyes upon her. She felt mortified the disagreeable scene had been witnessed by several people, but what could she expect? They had, after all, been standing in the middle of the dance floor.

When she reached the side lines, she found Lydia Trevlyn staring at her with cold, questioning eyes. “What did you say to Montague?”

“Mrs. Trevlyn, Montague is extremely foxed, I believe is the way he put it.”

“I can hardly believe that. Besides, was that any reason to be rude?”

“You did not hear what he said.”

“I didn’t need to hear.” Lydia slowly shook her head, as if dumbfounded Evleen could do such a thing. “Tis beyond me how you could have shown such ill manners to the future Marquess of Westhaven, and right in front of everybody.”

Evleen wondered what a title had to do with an absolute boor, yet she maintained her calm. Let Lydia condemn her, she knew she had performed with admirable restraint. “I regret that you feel that way, but I did what I had to do.”

Mercifully, the innocuous Lord Edgemont approached at that moment and asked her dance. She swiftly said yes, thankful to get away from Lydia Trevlyn. He asked her to take supper with him, which gladly she did. After, she was approaching the chaperones, girding for another confrontation with Lydia, when she heard a voice behind her that stopped her in her tracks.

“Wait, Evleen.”

Thomas. Her heart leaped in her chest.

From close behind her, his breath warm on her ear, she heard, “Have you time for an old friend?”

Slowly she turned, giving herself time to recover from her shock. By the time she faced him squarely, she had regained her composure enough to playfully remark, “He leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye, he doesn’t write.” Jamming one gloved hand to her hip, she went on, “Some old friend indeed.”

Laughing easily, he remarked, “I hear you’re the toast of London these days.” He gave her a mocking bow. “Must be thrilling, all those men begging for so much as a glance, a dance, a smile.”

Enough of silly banter, she thought as she burst, “I’m so happy to see you. How long will you be in London? I suppose you came to see the horses at Tattersalls?”

“Not really. I came to see you.”

“Oh.” At a loss for words, she noticed she’d been frenziedly and quite unconsciously, fluttering her fan, a sure giveaway of her inner excitement. She snapped it shut and took a moment to collect herself. I am so attracted to this man, she thought, finally admitting the truth to herself. Judging from the intensity of his gaze, she hoped she might be receiving more than a casual answer to her next question. “And just what did you want to see me about?”

Thomas opened his mouth to answer, but was jostled by the pressing crowd. The continual noise had been loud enough, but now it was deafening, what with the murmur of the crowd, the announcement of the last dance of the evening, followed by the orchestra starting to play the last song. Grimacing, he glanced about. “This is impossible. I do want to speak with you, Evleen. I shall call on you tomorrow.” At her quick nod, he said goodnight and melted into the crowd.

Penelope appeared. “Where has my brother gone? I know he especially wanted to speak to you.”

“We couldn’t hear over all the din,” Evleen answered, her voice raised. “He said he’d call on me tomorrow.”

“Come with me,” said Penelope. After she’d led Evleen to a quiet corner, she asked, “You do know what it’s about, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I think you are.”

No sense trying to fool Penelope. “I suppose I am, but...” Evleen frowned and bit her lip. “I am so confused. My mother thinks the most important thing in the world is for me to marry well.”

Penelope raised her fine, arched eyebrows. “We are all supposed to marry well, but that doesn’t mean we must. I want you to listen to me. I don’t care if I offend you or not, but there are things you ought to hear.”

“Do go ahead,” Evleen answered softly, not having the vaguest notion what her friend was going to say.

Penelope began, “I don’t know what your true feelings about Thomas are, but I know what they should be. Of course, he is but a second son. Of course, he doesn’t have a fortune. But a finer man never walked the face of this earth. He loves you, Evleen. He’s going to ask you to marry him, and if you turn him down, I shall never forgive you.”

“But I am in such a dilemma! My mother wants the best for me. I promised—”

“I am amazed. With all due respect, I cannot believe that a woman as strong and independent as you would not do exactly what she pleased instead of blindly following what she perceives to be what her mother wants.”

“That’s not so.”

“Isn’t it?” Penelope’s eyes blazed with intensity. “Are you blind? Can’t you see all that Thomas has done for you? Who escorted you clear across Ireland and comforted and took care of you when you got sick on the boat? Who found you and Patrick when you were lost and brought you home? Who saw to it that you learned the waltz, and all those other dances, and the language of the fan? Surely not the Trevlyns. And it wasn’t my idea either, it was Thomas’s. He cares for you, Evleen. Oh, you can find a rich man and a title easily enough, but can you find a man who’s generous and kind and loves you with all his heart? I think not. And I think if it’s true love you want, you’ll use your own judgement and follow your heart, not your mother’s wishes.”

Penelope stopped for breath. “Oh, dear,” she said as a rueful smile crept over her face. “I didn’t mean to be so vehement, I just wanted to let you know how deeply I felt.”

“Quite all right,” Evleen hastened to say, not revealing she was shaken to the core. “I value your opinion. My feelings for Thomas are... I’m just beginning to see... rest assured, I shall think about what you said.”

“Do,” answered Penelope. She bid Evleen goodnight and turned away, leaving Evleen in such a state of confusion she could only stand and stare, and consider Penelope’s advice.

Follow your heart, not your mother’s wishes...

Follow your heart... Of course. She loved Thomas. It was a moment of awakening that left her reeling. Suddenly she felt wrapped in a blissful cocoon of euphoria. Thomas loved her. Tomorrow he would tell her so. Tomorrow he would ask her to marry him and with heartfelt joy she would accept because yes, yes, a million times yes! she loved him, too. Up until now, her mother’s demands had come first. Make me proud, Mama had said, and she, ever the dutiful daughter, had so wanted to abide by her mother’s wishes she had never considered doing otherwise until this very moment. In all her heedful life, she had never understood the young girls who, in the name of love, had brought shame and disgrace upon themselves and upon their families because of some man. Had they no pride? How could they do such a thing? Now, for the first time, Evleen knew what a mad, heated, utterly irrational desire for a man could do. Nothing on earth compelled her to do what her mother said. Suddenly it didn’t matter what her mother wanted. Nothing mattered, except her passionate desire to be in Thomas’s arms again, feel his lips on hers, and do those forbidden things that until now she could only guess about and dream about.

Evleen hated to even think how devastated Mama would be. Yet she knew Sinead O’Fallon was a reasonable woman, compassionate, and kind. Given time, perhaps she would forget money and titles, and be proud to have for a son-in-law the kindest, most witty, most exciting man in all the world.

* * *

Outside, Evleen stood by the curb, clutching her light wrap about her, searching for the Trevlyns. All around, departing guests milled about. Carriages and horses clogged the streets. The air was filled with the cries of impatient coachmen who had picked up their passengers and were anxious to move from the curb.

To her surprise and disgust, Montague approached. And she thought she’d seen the last of him this night!

“Ah, my dear Evleen,” he began, his voice even thicker than before. “Are you ready to apologize for your rudeness?”

“I shall apologize when hell freezes over, Lord Eddington.”

“But see here...” As Montague rocked back and forth on two unsteady feet, his muddled mind groped for words. “Haven’t you heard... uh, what a great catch I am? Come, my sweet, it would be to your advantage to be more friendly.”

He reached for her. Repulsed, she backed away, just as Lydia and her daughters approached. “Leave me alone, sir,” she coldly replied, too angry to care if the Trevlyns overheard. “You are most certainly not a great catch. You’re nothing better than a cup-shot scapegrace, and I want nothing more to do with you. Imeacht gan teacht ort!”

Montague appeared taken aback. “What does that mean?”

“It means, ‘may you leave without returning.’”

Montague appeared nonplused for a moment, then gave her an overelaborate, and rather unsteady bow. He mumbled, “In that event, I shall bid you goodnight, but you haven’t heard the last of me, my love,” and disappeared into the crowd.

“How rude of you, Evleen,” Lydia exclaimed.

“But, Mama, didn’t you hear what he said?” asked Amanda.

Lydia ignored her daughter and glared at Evleen. “No lady of impeccable breeding would ever say such things.”

For once, Evleen did not care to humble herself. “He deserved it, Mrs. Trevyln.”

Charlotte looked amazed. “I simply cannot understand how you could have talked to Lord Eddington in that fashion.”

Evleen ignored her. In uncomfortable silence they were waiting for their carriage when the sound of the frantic neighing of a horse came from up the street, followed by a shout of warning. There was silence for a moment, then horrified screams and more shouting. Men started running. With a sense of premonition and dread, Evleen ran, too, until, halfway up Bolton Street she saw a dark, still bundle lying on the cobblestones and a horse with an empty saddle standing close by.

She stood frozen. It couldn’t be, but that bundle in the street lay so still. Her mind refused to accept the horrifying possibility, and yet she knew that only moments earlier, she had been talking to Montague, telling him to leave and not return. And now...

In a daze, she heard a familiar voice call, “My brother!” saw Thomas rush past and kneel beside the still figure. Just then, Lydia and her daughters came to stand beside her. “It cannot be Montague,” Lydia said in disbelieving horror.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Is he dead?”

Before Evleen could say she didn’t know, someone shouted, “Eddington was thrown from his horse and hit his head. The poor devil’s dead!”

Amanda looked stunned. Bettina started to cry. Charlotte, her hand pressed to her mouth, gasped in consternation. Her knees sagged, and she would have collapsed had not her mother and Evleen caught and supported her.

A grim-lipped Lydia looked to Evleen for support. “Help me. We must get my girls to the carriage at once.”

“Of course.” Evleen cast one more horrified look at the still body in the street and the small knot of people gathered around. Thomas was there. She longed to comfort him, but Lydia needed her.

With a heavy weight on her heart, she helped Lydia half-carry a grieving, near-hysterical Charlotte back to their carriage, along with her stunned and horrified sisters.



* * *

“Montague, speak to me, speak to me. Oh, God.” Thomas, kneeling in the street, held the body of his brother in his arms. Montague was dead. An unbearable wave of grief consumed him as he remembered the Montague of the olden days. In age, they were only two years apart and had been inseparable when they were young. Always the defiant one, Thomas had been saved from trouble many a time by his older brother. Now Thomas’s heart cried out in anguish, not for the drunken wastrel Montague had become, but for that little boy who had always been staunchly loyal to his younger brother, always taking his side, fighting his battles.

He felt Penelope’s presence beside him. “Is he gone?” she asked, tears choking her voice.

“He’s gone,” Thomas whispered, hard put to keep back his own tears. He laid Montague’s lifeless body gently in the street, removed his coat and with care and reverence covered his brother’s face. His own grief was nearly overwhelming, but sensing his sister’s near hysteria, he drew her into his comforting arms.

Someone said, “I saw the accident, Lord Thomas. His horse shied, I don’t know why. He fell off, making no effort to hang on, it seemed, and struck his head on the cobblestones.”

Someone in the crowd remarked, “Good grief. This changes everything for Linberry.”

Did it? Thomas couldn’t think beyond the fact he had just lost his beloved, only brother.



* * *

The momentous consequences of Montague’s death did not occur to Thomas until after his brother’s remains had been removed, and he and Penelope were in their carriage, finally going home. Through her tears, Penelope asked, “Thomas, do you realize the import of this?”

“What do I care about import? Our brother is dead.”

“But you must care. Think of it. Montague is gone and he didn’t leave any heirs. That makes you the heir apparent.”

Exhausted, not wanting to think, Thomas leaned back against the squabs. In the dim circles of light cast by passing street lamps, he could see his sister’s anguished face. From outside, he heard the familiar clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves and he thought how strange it was that anything could sound so ordinary on this extraordinary night. Soon, as he half listened, the stunning meaning of Penelope’s words crept into his consciousness.

Yes, now he was the first son...

Yes, from this day forward he was Lord Eddington...

And yes...

He sat straight, hurtling back from his universe of grief into a new reality. No longer was he the insignificant second son. He was now Lord Eddington, who some day would become Marquess of Westhaven and inherit one of the largest, most wealthy estates in all England.

“Do you not see what this means?” asked Penelope. “Your life is about to change, and most dramatically.”

“Dear God,” Thomas muttered. As a second son he had been in charge of his own life with nothing expected of him. But now he was the heir.

A new anguish seared his heart. Except for his dilemma over Evleen, he had been supremely happy with his life, just as it was. But what Penelope said was true, and he knew his life was about to change forever.

There was something else, too. It was a glimmering fact that he would tuck away in the back of mind until later he could deal with it.



* * *

Evleen and the Trevlyns arrived home after a woeful carriage ride during which the Trevlyn girls worked through various stages of hysteria, particularly Charlotte, who appeared near prostrate with grief. It was not until they were all seated in the drawing room and Pierce had been instructed to bring them tea, that Lydia said to Charlotte, “Do you realize Thomas is now the heir?”

“What do I care?” cried Charlotte, “Montague is dead, isn’t he? My life is over.”

She really did love him, thought Evleen with deep sympathy. How it was possible to love someone as selfish and self-indulgent as Montague was difficult to fathom, but Charlotte no doubt saw him through different eyes.

Lydia said gently, “Your life is not over, Charlotte. Just now, you’re overcome with grief, which is natural, but soon you’ll be looking to the future, and that means Thomas.”

“Thomas?” Charlotte asked in a vague way. With her lace handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes.

Lydia briskly nodded. “In case you didn’t hear me the first time, Thomas is now Lord Eddington and will inherit his father’s entire estate.”

“Thomas is now the heir,” Charlotte repeated in dazed wonderment. “I always did like Thomas.”

Bettina said, “There was never anything wrong with Thomas except he was a second son. But he isn’t any more, is he?” She brightened. “He has always liked me, you know. He greatly admires my needlework.”

“So Thomas is the new Lord Eddington,” Charlotte, ignoring her sister, mused aloud. It was obvious she had finally grasped the full meaning of Thomas’s new position in life. “Oh, Mama, do you think—?”

“So all is not lost, after all.” A note of triumph, mixed with relief, filled Lydia’s voice. “Montague was a fine man, God rest his soul, but he was into his cups a great deal of the time, whereas Thomas—”

“Thomas is everything Montague was not,” said Charlotte with growing enthusiasm. “I’ve always had the feeling he admired me.”

Lydia shot her a look of disdain. “There are matters far more important than whether he admires you or not. Bear in mind, the Marquess’s fondest wish has always been that Northfield Hall and Aldershire Manor be conjoined. This is not the time to consider such matters, however I have not one doubt the Marquess will expect Thomas to carry out his plan. Meanwhile, girls, we must summon Celeste at once. We must have suitable black clothing to wear to Montague’s funeral. I suspect he’ll be buried at Northfield Hall, so we shall be taking a journey tomorrow.”

Montague’s funeral, Evleen thought in despair. Little did she know when the day began how horribly it would end. She pictured her wardrobe, but there was nothing suitable. “I’m afraid I have nothing black to wear.”

Lydia regarded her strangely. “You? Go to Montague’s funeral?”

“Naturally I thought... well, yes, of course I shall go,” answered Evleen. “Is there anything wrong?”

“You can go if you wish, of course,” Lydia answered with an elaborate shrug, “far be it from me to stand in your way, but I’d hardly advise it, considering feelings will be running high against you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Evleen asked, totally bewildered.

Charlotte spoke up. “She means those awful things you were saying to Montague. A lot of people heard you.” She burst into a new fit of sobbing. “And now he’s dead and you are the one responsible!”

Evleen was dumbfounded. “But that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” asked Lydia. “Can you deny you pushed Montague while on the dance floor? Many people saw you, Evleen. Of course, we shall try to stand by you.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a half-hearted smile. “Even though that might prove difficult.”

Still dumbfounded, Evleen declared, “I don’t need you to stand by me. I have done nothing wrong.”

Lydia appeared not to hear. “And then there’s that business at the curb. You did say some terrible things to Montague. Surely you cannot deny it.”

Evleen was aghast. “Are you trying to say I caused Montague’s death?”

“Can you honestly say you had no part in it? That remark you made in Gaelic, telling him to leave and not return—in retrospect, do you realize how utterly vile it was?”

“But you don’t understand.” Evleen gave a choked, desperate laugh. “I mean, I said some things, but there were circumstances... didn’t you hear what he said to me? Caused his death? That is beyond all reason.”

Lydia answered, “Oh, you didn’t personally throw him off his horse, if that’s what mean, but it’s clear your sharp tongue unsettled the poor man.”

“Which is why he was so distraught he raced off on his horse and fell off,” said Charlotte. Her eyes blazed with accusation. “It’s all your fault, Evleen. You so much as killed him, and don’t think for a moment the whole world doesn’t know.”

“That’s not so, Charlotte,” said Amanda, who up to now had remained silent. “Evleen is right. People don’t know all the circumstances. We were standing right there, all of us, so surely you must have heard Montague saying those insulting things to Evleen. She was only defending herself. We need to tell people that. We need—”

“Hush, Amanda, you don’t know what you heard.” Lydia Trevlyn glared accusingly at Evleen. “Charlotte is right. We all heard the abominable things you said to Montague, and for no reason, other than your own vituperative motives.”

“Utter nonsense,” Evleen flatly declared. Up to now she felt so confused and badgered she could hardly speak, but now she was getting angry. She stood up and declared, “You know very well, Lydia Trevlyn, Montague fell from his horse because he was foxed. That’s the reason, pure and simple, and if you say otherwise, you are being hideously unfair.”

Hearing Lydia’s sudden intake of breath, Evleen knew she’d offended the woman, but she was too sickened and disgusted to care. Before Lydia could speak, Evleen raised a hand to silence her. “Montague is dead because of his own folly and I’ll not hear another word.”

With firm steps, she strode from the drawing room, vastly relieved to escape an atmosphere reeking of reprobation, all directed toward her. She was about to mount the stairs when she heard Lydia’s voice behind her.

“Wait a moment,” the older woman called in a compromising tone. “I have something to say to you alone.”

“And what might that be, Mrs. Trevlyn?” Evleen was hard-put to keep the anger and resentment from her voice.

“We talked once, remember? I told you my daughters would always come first.”

“I remember.” Evleen wondered what the woman was trying to say.

Lydia raised her chin firmly. “I just want you to know I meant what I said—that I shall always put the best interest of my girls before anything and anyone.”

The truth dawned. Evleen felt sick inside but knew her only recourse was to confront the woman. “Mrs. Trevlyn, you have considered me a threat from the beginning. At first you thought I might ‘steal’ Montague. Now that he’s dead, you’re afraid I might do the same with Thomas, so you’re willing to let untrue rumors circulate that surely will ruin my reputation. Am I not correct?”

Lydia Trevlyn’s silence gave Evleen all the confirmation she would ever need.

“Then why are you even bothering to tell me? Is this some kind of apology?”

“Not an apology but a warning.” Lydia gave Evleen a long, withering stare. “You know Lord Thomas fairly well, don’t you?”

“He accompanied Patrick and me from Ireland.”

Lydia cocked her head. “Do you consider him attractive? I am only asking because—”

“You want me to stay away from him, don’t you?”

“Exactly. He belongs to Charlotte now. I trust you understand.”

In the face of Lydia’s appalling warning, Evleen threw caution to the winds. Bitterly she replied, “I understand all right. You said you put the best interests of your girls before anything and anyone. It is obvious you put them ahead of honor and integrity, as well.”

Not wanting to hear another word, Evleen spun on her heel and left. Shocked, feeling totally isolated, she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, wondering if there was any way she could set straight the Trevlyns’ accusations. Amanda knew the truth, of course, but Evleen wasn’t sure the girl could stand up for herself. The more Evleen thought, the more she realized there was nothing she could do. How could she prove Montague had been drunk and insulting when here were the high-and-mighty Trevlyns implying Montague was a saint, and his death was caused by that rude, selfish upstart from Ireland who had for no reason insulted him?

Her chances were nil.

The brief period of euphoria Evleen had experienced at the ball was forever gone. Ah Thomas, our dreams are shattered. Evleen’s heart ached as she perceived with fearful clarity that the sudden, tragic death of Montague had changed her life. The man she loved was not plain Lord Thomas anymore. How ironic! Mama had wanted her to marry a rich and titled Englishman, and now Thomas was, but the barrier between them was higher than ever. As Lord Eddington, new heir of the Marquess of Westhaven, he would be a different person and things between them could never be the same.