Mary Balogh - Slightly Wicked

“You know little about us Bedwyns,” Lady Freyja said.

“You will not help me, then?”

“Oh, I will,” Lady Freyja said.

Illogically, Judith’s spirits sank even lower if that were possible.

She had stood on the landing blowing her nose and not even looking around once, she thought. She had not turned to have a final look at him. All she had to remember him by was the handkerchief still balled up in one of her hands— and her straw bonnet.

“Thank you,” she said.

A few hours passed before Horace Effingham was led away from Branwell Law’s rooms under the escort of two burly men Bewcastle had conjured up from somewhere without ever leaving the room himself. Effingham was to spend the night in his own lodgings, under guard, and was then to be escorted back to Harewood Grange for his father to deal with, presumably in consultation with Mrs. Law, who was the injured party.

Effingham left with a red, bulbous nose and an eye that would be closed and black by the morning—both courtesy of Branwell Law within two minutes of the ladies’ departure. The Bow Street Runner had left a few minutes after that.

Rannulf had not laid a violent hand upon Effingham except to grab him by the scruff of the neck and hoist him up onto his toes a couple of times when he attempted obstinacy and insolence. Rannulf would have liked nothing better than to pound the villain to a bloody pulp, but Bewcastle’s cold, silent presence had a calming effect on him. What did violence prove, after all, but that one was physically stronger than the other? A physical show of force had been altogether appropriate outside his grandmother’s summer‘

house. Here it would have been mere self-indulgence.

Law produced pen, ink, and paper when asked to do so and Effingham was instructed to sit at the table and write his letters of confession and apology—one to Mrs. Law, one to Sir George Effingham, one to the Reverend Jeremiah Law. The task took almost two hours, principally because Rannulf did not like most of the letters. Before there were three that were acceptable to both him and Branwell Law—Bewcastle did not involve himself—they were both wading in crumpled-up sheets of paper that had been tossed to the floor.

The letters were sent on their way, franked by Bewcastle, before Effingham was led away. Detailed, abject, and groveling, they would arrive in the hands of Mrs. Law and Sir George before the culprit himself appeared. It would be a severe enough punishment, Rannulf decided, even though in some ways it seemed less satisfying than a thorough drubbing would have been. Public humiliation was a terrible thing for any man. Effingham’s face when he left, sullen and ugly with hatred and frustration, was testament to that. It would not be easy for him to return to Harewood, to face his father and his step grandmother.

The jewels, the rest of which had been fetched from Effingham’s lodgings, again at Bewcastle’s command, were to be returned to Harewood by special messenger.

“So,” Branwell Law said, sinking into a chair when Effingham and his escorts had finally left, tipping back his head against the rest and placing the back of one hand over his eyes, “that is that. What a ghastly to-do. And to think that I once considered him my friend. I even admired him.” He seemed to remember suddenly in whose company he was and sat up straighter. “I do not know what we would have done without your assistance, Your Grace, and yours, Bedwyn. I cannot thank you enough. Really.

On behalf of Jude too. She did not deserve this.”

“No,” Rannulf agreed, “she did not.”

Law smiled uncertainly and looked from one to the other of them, clearly embarrassed now that he was alone with a duke and the duke’s brother.

“I want to know the extent of your debts,” Rannulf said, remaining on his feet and clasping his hands at his back.

“Oh, I say.” Law flushed. “They are trifling. Nothing I cannot handle.”

Rannulf took one step closer to him. “I want to know the full extent of them,” he said, “down to the last penny.” He indicated the table, still strewn with paper, ink, and one unused quill pen. “Write it all down, every last trifling amount.”

“Oh, I say,” Law said again. “I most certainly will not do that, Bedwyn. You have no business—”

Rannulf reached down, took hold of the young man’s neckcloth, and lifted him to his feet. “I am making it my business,” he said. “I want to know everything you owe— everything, do you understand me? I am going to pay your debts for you.”

“Oh, I say,” Law said for the third time, indignant now. “I cannot let you do that for me. I will come about—”

“I will not be doing it for you ,” Rannulf told him.

Law drew breath again and then closed his mouth. He frowned. “For Jude?”

“You have all but beggared your family,” Rannulf said, “and are clearly about to complete the process.

Miss Judith Law has already been farmed out to wealthier relatives, who treated her like a glorified servant. One of your other sisters is about to suffer the same fate. And there are two more as well as your mother at home. A young puppy is entitled to sow a few wild oats, tiresome as he may become to all who know him. He is not entitled to bring ruin and misery on his whole family. You are not entitled to bring unhappiness to Miss Judith Law. Start writing. Take your time and make sure you forget nothing.

Your debts will be paid, you will be given enough ready cash to pay your rent and the barest of your expenses for the next month, and then you will support yourself on your own earnings or starve. One thing I will have your gentleman’s word on. You will never again apply to your father for even as much as a single penny.”

Law was white-faced. “You would do all this for Judith!” he asked.

Rannulf merely narrowed his eyes and pointed to the table again. Law sat, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the inkwell.

Rannulf glanced at Bewcastle, who was seated at the other side of the room, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled. He raised his eyebrows when he met his brother’s eyes but offered no comment.

The following half hour passed in silence except for the scraping of Law’s pen and a few whispers as he added up columns of figures. Twice he got up and disappeared into the bedchamber to reappear with a bill.

“There,” he said at last, blotting the sheet and turning to hand it to Rannulf. “That is everything. It is a considerable amount, I’m afraid.” His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

It did not seem a particularly enormous sum to Rannulf, but to a man who did not have the means with which to pay even the first pound of the debt, it must seem astronomical indeed.

“One word of advice,” Rannulf said. “Gaming can be a pleasurable activity if one has money to lose and if one sets strict limits on the amount one is prepared to bet. It is a miserable, hellish way to try to recoup nonexistent fortunes.”

“Don’t I just know it,” Law said fervently. “I will never make another wager in my life.”

Rannulf raised his eyebrows.

“Now, Mr. Law,” Bewcastle said, breaking a long silence, “you will tell me what sort of career you think yourself best fitted for.”

They both turned to stare at him.

“The diplomatic service?” Bewcastle suggested. “The law? The military? The church?”

“Not the church,” Law said. “I cannot imagine anything more tedious. And not the military. Or the law.”

“The diplomatic service, then?”

“I have always thought I would enjoy something in commerce or trade,” Law said. “The East India Company or something like that. I would like to go to India or somewhere overseas. But my father always said it would be beneath the dignity of a gentleman.”

“Certain positions are not,” Bewcastle said, “though of course a novice could not expect to occupy one of the hallowed positions in any company before working hard at lowlier tasks and proving himself.”

“I am ready to work hard,” Law said. “To tell the truth, I am rather sick of the life I have been living.

There is no enjoyment in it when one does not have the money one’s companions have.”

“Quite so,” Bewcastle agreed. “You may call on me tomorrow morning, Mr. Law, at ten o’clock. I will see what I can do for you by then.”

“You would help me start a career?” Law asked. “You would do that for me, Your Grace?”

Bewcastle did not deign to reply. He got to his feet and picked up his hat and cane. He nodded curtly to Branwell Law by way of farewell.

“I trust Freyja had the carriage returned for our use, Rannulf,” he said.

She had. And it was a good thing too—it was raining. Rannulf left the seat facing the horses for Bewcastle and settled into the other with a sigh. He felt exhausted. All he wanted was to get back home to see Judith, to take her in his arms—he would not care if all his brothers and sisters were lined up to see him do it—and assure her that her ordeal was over, that all was well, that there was nothing left for them to do but waltz off into their happily ever after together.

“That was decent of you, Wulf,” he said when the door had been closed and the carriage was in motion.

“The only chance he has to reform his life is to settle into a steady career. Yet without influence his choices would be severely limited.”

“You are planning to marry Miss Law?” his brother asked.

“I am.” Rannulf looked at him warily.

“She is,” Wulfric said, “despite the plainness of her dress and the severity of the style of her hair, quite extraordinarily beautiful. You have always had an eye for such women.”