The Secret Pearl(97)

But how could she believe him? How could he help her? And why would he wish to do so? To him she was only a whore whom he had pitied—perhaps. Or a whore he hoped to entice into a more lasting relationship.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him. But how could she? She had been alone for so long. Even Daniel, who was gentle and godly, would not have been able to help her in her predicament. He would have had a crisis of conscience if she had asked for his help after admitting to him that she had killed Hobson—even though it had been in self-defense.

She wanted so badly to believe him. She sat on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes. And she realized what had been happening to her over the past weeks. He had been turning—so gradually that she had scarcely noticed the transition—from her nightmare into her dream.

Because she had come to know him as a man worthy of respect, liking, and perhaps even …? No. No.

Because he had planned it that way? Gradual seduction by patient steps, more skilled than Matthew?

She dropped her head forward until her chin rested on her chest. She did not know what to believe, but she did know that she must go away from him as much as she must go away for other reasons. He was a married man and perhaps an evil man.

She had an image of him standing in Mr. Chamberlain’s garden, talking with Miss Chamberlain, Lady Pamela sitting up on his shoulder shrieking excitedly into his ear.

She had been his prisoner all day. Jeremy had been outside the library that morning and outside the schoolroom all afternoon. He had escorted her downstairs for dinner and back to her room after she had sat with Mrs. Laycock for a couple of hours.

Had she been his prisoner? Or had he been merely protecting her? Jeremy had told her that Matthew had come upstairs during the afternoon and had been very annoyed to be told that Miss Hamilton had been ordered by his grace to work with her pupil all afternoon without interruption.

But she had felt like a prisoner. Like a prey to both of them. Like a chained bear to their hounds.

She had to leave. She had to go home. Matthew would follow her there, of course, and they would play out the last scene of the drama that had begun almost three months before.

There was no mystery about the conclusion of that drama, of course. But she would no longer avoid it. She had to go back and somehow come to terms with what she had done and with what the consequences were to be.

Better to go back freely than to be taken back in fetters. And better to go back alone and independent than as Matthew’s bride or mistress, her integrity forever gone.

She finally blew out the candle and lay down fully clothed on top of the covers of her bed. She stared up into the darkness.





IT WAS RAINING AGAIN THE FOLLOWING MORNING. That long warm, dry spell seemed to have deserted them for good, the Duke of Ridgeway thought as he stood at the library window looking out. It seemed that they must face a more typical British summer than the spring had been.

Perhaps it was just as well that it rained. He had been able to plan his talk with Lord Brocklehurst more carefully than he would have done if the sun had shone. He strode restlessly to the desk, gazed down at the unfinished letter lying on its surface, and put it away in a drawer. There was no point in trying to concentrate on writing.

She had not come down to practice in the music room that morning. Just on the day when more than ever he needed the soothing balm of music, she had not come.

And perhaps that was as well too. He was going to send her away soon. In fact, that was the main topic of the letter he was writing to the dowager Countess of Hamm, an old friend of his father’s. Once he had had his talk with Brocklehurst, he was going to make other arrangements for her—unless by some miracle her fortune could be released to her.

His left hand rubbed absently at an aching hip. He was going to have to learn to live without her music. And without the daily sight of her. He was going to have to find someone else who would be as good for Pamela as she was.

His hand opened and closed at his side. Perhaps Sybil would not object to his taking Pamela to London with him for a few weeks or months. He could not leave her again for another long spell—he had decided that at this last homecoming. But how would he be able to stand the loneliness and the constant aggravations of life at Willoughby?

Especially now that she had been there.

Several of the guests had expressed their intention the evening before of leaving within the next few days.

There was a tap at the door and Jeremy opened it to admit Lord Brocklehurst.

“I’m sorry about the ride,” the duke said after the two of them had exchanged morning greetings. “Have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?” He glanced toward the half-open door leading to the music room.