Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (3 page)

You see, I have been your husband’s mistress
for quite some time now. But I beg you not to cast away this letter
until I have stated what I need to say—your life may depend upon
it.

Your husband has the great pox, my lady. Or
in some circles it is known as the grandgore. But the name of this
disease does not really matter; the result will be the same in the
end if one is so afflicted—death.

You ask how do I know this to be true? It is
because I now have the pox. After an encounter with your husband
several months ago, I developed sores, ulcerous craters on my body.
And now I have a rash and worse. But I will not describe the rest
of the symptoms of this terrible malady to you as I am sure you do
not care to know about the afflictions of your husband’s
mistress.

Suffice it to say, I am absolutely certain
that it was your husband, Lord Beauchamp, who infected me. Indeed,
there was evidence of the pox on his body at the time of our very
last encounter—an ulcer on the ring finger of his left hand was the
most prominent mark.

However, I did not know of its import until
it was too late. I pray that it is not too late for you.

Of course, Elizabeth had not wanted to
believe her husband’s mistress. Instead, she had wanted desperately
to believe that the anonymous writer—although she claimed
otherwise—had only written to her out of malice and spite. But then
she had noticed that her husband did indeed sport the incriminating
mark of the disease. She’d spotted the angry, red ulcerated patch
on his finger when he had eventually joined her for breakfast later
that very morning.

Her eyes had fixed on his left hand as soon
as he’d entered the room. She’d watched his ring finger with
something akin to morbid fascination as he’d buttered his toast,
picked up his teacup and turned the pages of his newspaper. He
hadn’t even noticed her unusual fixation or her barely contained
distress, which was not unsurprising—he hardly noticed anything
about her at all on most days.

She’d had no clear idea of what action she
should take that morning. She realized now that she must have been
in a degree of shock. It wasn’t until Jenkins had enquired as to
her well-being as he’d replaced her cold pot of tea with a fresh
one, that the idea of seeking a medical opinion had entered her
dazed mind.

Somehow she scraped together what could pass
for a normal voice. “Hugh…I am going to ask Dr. Morton to call on
me this morning…and I wondered…”

Hugh continued to read, his article
obviously more engaging than her.

She started again. “I noticed…the mark on
your finger…”

He flicked her a glance over the pages.
“It’s nothing.” He resumed reading.

“Are you certain? It looks—”

He lowered the paper. His eyes narrowed on
her, his gaze cold. Hard. Like bright blue ice. “I told you. It’s
nothing.”

“But—”

“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, I don’t need you
to carp on at me like a fishwife.” He threw the newspaper down on
the table, his mouth a hard line. And he walked out.

That’s when she knew that she would have to
leave. Even before Dr. Morton had confirmed her worst fears, and
had warned her about the dangers of sharing any kind of intimacy
ever again with her husband.

Intimacy
. That was something she had
never shared with Hugh. Even though she no longer loved her
husband—it was hard to love someone who proclaimed you to be as
dull as yesterday’s broadsheets—it still hurt that the charming,
golden-haired Adonis she’d married had turned out be such a false
idol. He’d wooed her, wed her, bed her for a month or so, then
promptly ignored her for the most part. And she’d never understood
why.

The solution to Elizabeth’s dilemma had come
unexpectedly the very day that she’d received the incriminating
letter. After Dr. Morton had departed Harcourt House, Jenkins had
asked if she still required the carriage to attend the monthly
Widows of Waterloo Trust meeting that afternoon at two o’clock. She
had completely forgotten about the appointment and had seriously
contemplated not going, given her ongoing distress. But in the end,
she had decided that focusing her energies on alleviating the
problems of other women in more desperate circumstances than
herself would help to take her mind off her own situation.

It had turned out to be a fortuitous
decision. A chance remark made by a fellow committee member—the
formidable bluestocking Lady Charlotte Airlie—about the perennially
vacant governess’s position within the Marquess of Rothsburgh’s
household in Scotland, had planted the seed of an idea to make good
her own escape. Thank heavens the woman had a clarion-like voice
because it was that alone that caught Elizabeth’s attention, and
had drawn her out of her distracted state.

“It’s such a shame that we cannot seem to
help my dear friend, Helena, Lady Maxwell, find a governess for her
niece,” Lady Airlie had said, to her neighbor Lady Talbot. “You
might have heard that her brother, the Marquess of Rothsburgh, lost
his wife recently under tragic circumstances. I don’t know the
precise details, but I believe there was a terrible accident at
their home in Scotland. Apparently Lady Rothsburgh had been trying
for some time before her death to secure a reliable English
governess for their five-year old daughter, but the applicants
either turned out to be unsuitable or were unwilling to travel so
far.”

Lady Talbot had nodded sagely. “I understand
the marquess’s seat of Eilean Tor Castle is terribly remote. It
would be a lonely existence, I should imagine, to be so far removed
from society. And from what I’ve heard, the marquess is quite the
misanthrope.”

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Airlie agreed. “Helena
remarked that she thinks her brother scares the poor gels off. A
pity—we could have recommended one of our widows if it wasn’t such
an unappealing position.”

Unappealing or not, it was a better
prospect than contracting syphilis
…

As the carriage jolted over a rough patch on
the coastal road, Elizabeth unconsciously tightened her hold on her
reticule that contained her self-penned letter of reference. Trying
to ignore the nervous churning of her stomach, she prayed that she
could convince Lord Rothsburgh that she was the very woman he
needed for the post. If the man did indeed turn out to be a
misanthrope, it might actually work in her favor. A man who shunned
the company of others would probably leave her alone to get on with
the business of educating his daughter. Yes, the less attention she
received, the better.

Looking out the window again, she could see
the carriage was slowly negotiating a steeply winding road down to
the small seaside village of Torhaven. The village consisted of a
meager cluster of squat stone buildings that clung like limpets to
the shoreline below whin covered hills and towering cliffs of slate
colored rock. She had lost sight of Eilean Tor. The headland upon
which it sat was obscured by a gigantic, rocky outcrop that jutted
into the roiling sea and over-shadowed the northern edge of the
cove and the village. She could not see a single living
creature.

Even though the weather had deteriorated—it
had started to rain lightly—she was relieved to have at last
reached her destination. She was longing to quit the cramped,
stuffy interior of the carriage so she could breathe the fresh sea
air and stretch her aching muscles. Today in particular, she felt
much older than her twenty-four years. Indeed, she felt weary
beyond measure; she felt like an old woman.

She hoped the village inn where she would
shortly be deposited had a decent room for hire. She needed to
change out of her travel-stained clothes and freshen up in general
to ensure she made a good impression on Lord Rothsburgh when she
presented herself for interview; an interview that was completely
unsolicited.

To quash her anxiety, she had already
rehearsed in her mind everything she would say to persuade the
marquess that she was up to the task of developing his daughter’s
intellectual, artistic, and musical skills. Elizabeth couldn’t, no
wouldn’t
contemplate the idea that she would be turned
away.

* * * *

“I’m verra sorry, ma’am but I canna hire oot
a room to ye.”

Elizabeth stood in the dimly lit taproom of
The Black Barnacle Inn—the place where the mail-coach had deposited
her and her trunk only minutes ago—and stared at the innkeeper, not
wanting to believe what he had just told her. A tall, thin man with
stooping shoulders, a craggy countenance and sandy-red hair, his
pale blue eyes regarded her with something akin to suspicion,
perhaps even dislike.

Ignoring his less than welcoming manner, she
summoned her most polite smile. “Are you certain, Mr.…”

“Geddes,” he supplied. “I assure ye, it is
the case.”

Elizabeth fought a wave of frustration. This
wouldn’t do at all. How could she approach Lord Rothsburgh looking
as rumpled as a pile of dirty laundry? “But surely you can’t be
full,” she ventured again, forcing herself to maintain her smile.
“The village seems to be so quiet…”

Mr. Geddes grunted. “No’ a question if
there’s a room. It’s more the case we havna the staff to take care
of ye—” He broke off and coughed, a great hacking sound that shook
his whole body and left him breathless.

When the fit was over, he fixed pale,
watering eyes on her. “There has been a terrible ague…in the
village this past fortnight, ma’am…an’ several older folk have even
died, ye ken. There isna anybody, aside from myself an’ my son
Seamus…to look after things here.”

Elizabeth raised a gloved hand to her
throat. “Oh heavens, I’m so sorry, Mr. Geddes,” she said with
heart-felt sincerity. “And you are clearly not well either. But I’m
afraid that I have not arranged anywhere else to stay. Would there
be a private room I could hire for a few hours until I can make
alternative arrangements?” If she was able to secure the
governess’s position this afternoon, perhaps she could ask Lord
Rothsburgh to accommodate her within the servants’ quarters at the
castle.

Mr. Geddes shook his head. “There is only
this room, ma’am. Torhaven doesna get many visitors, ye ken, an’
The Black Barnacle is only a small inn. We dinna have any private
rooms because we havna the custom.”

“Oh, I see…” Elizabeth sighed and cast her
eyes about the taproom. Despite the strong smell of peat smoke,
hops and some sort of fishy stew, it was a clean, pleasant enough
room. It would have to do for the moment. “Then perhaps, if it
isn’t too much trouble, might I take a seat by the fire for a
while? I have travelled all the way from London, you see, and find
I am a trifle weary.”

Mr. Geddes’s eyes narrowed on her. “A
Londoner you say. Wha’ on earth have ye come all the way here fer,
if ye dinna mind my askin’?”

Elizabeth swallowed. Her throat felt dry and
scratchy, and she really wanted nothing more than to sit down and
have a cup of tea. Nevertheless she had nothing to lose by
answering the innkeeper’s question. Perhaps she could even glean
some additional intelligence about the mysterious marquess. She was
already taking a huge risk approaching Lord Rothsburgh when the man
would still be in deep mourning for the marchioness. She certainly
hoped that neither he nor his daughter had taken ill as well. It
would be reprehensible if she turned up on the marquess’s doorstep
unannounced in such an unfortunate circumstance.

“I’ve come to apply for the governess’s
position at Eilean Tor Castle,” she said then flushed when Mr.
Geddes threw back his head and laughed. However, he quickly
succumbed to a coughing fit again that left him gasping.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Geddes,” she said,
her brow furrowing with confusion.

“Och…it’s just tha’…there have been so many
young English lasses tha’ have tried oot fer the job. I canna
believe there’s another one. But by all means, Miss…”

“Mrs. Eliott. As in the Lowlander spelling,”
she supplied with an inclination of her head. She had chosen the
alias simply because it had been her mother’s maiden name. But if
it helped her to gain some ground with the taciturn and quite
possibly Anglophobic Mr. Geddes, then all the better.

“Och, ye wed a Lowlander, did ye? So yer no’
just a Sassenach. Well, take a seat by all means. An’ I s’pose
ye’ll be wantin’ a cup of tea as well?”

“If it’s not too much trouble…”

“Och. It’s no trouble.” His craggy face
twisted into what might have passed for a smile. “But I think ye
will have need of somethin’ a wee bit stronger afore ye face Lord
Rothsburgh. Are ye sure I canna bring you a wee dram of whisky or
sherry?”

In the face of Mr. Geddes wry amusement,
Elizabeth suddenly feared that the marquess
was
really going
to live up to his churlish reputation. Not that it would make her
change her course of action; she would just have to work harder to
win the unsociable nobleman over. At least it didn’t sound as if he
had contracted the ague.

“No thank you, Mr. Geddes. Just the tea will
be sufficient,” Elizabeth replied then smiled again at the
innkeeper. She would need to exercise her charm a little more on
him—not that it had really helped her thus far. But she needed a
way to get to the castle.

“I’m afraid I need to ask you for another
favor, sir. As I cannot stay here, perhaps I could ask you or your
son to take me and my luggage to Eilean Tor, when I am done taking
tea? Of course, I will pay you well for your trouble on such an
inclement afternoon.”

Again Mr. Geddes seemed amused at her
expense. “I’m verra sorry, Mrs. Eliott, but I canna take you. Our
cart has a broken axle, an’ neither myself nor Seamus have been up
to fixin’ it of late. Besides, the tide is still high, an’ the
causeway across to the castle will be too dangerous fer anyone to
cross fer another hour. Ye will have to wait a wee while yet.”