Page 13 of The Inconvenient Compromise
“That shameless trollop!” Lady Habersham said. “Shameless! I will make it my primary goal to close all doors to her in society. She will not gain from this as she intended.”
Charlotte continued to weep softly. “My understanding, now that I have finally seen the truth of her character, is that she and her younger sister have cooked this up together. The other girl means to come into London society soon, and her sister’s success was simply preparation for the younger girl to swoop in and snatch up a titled gentleman of her own. They have no connections to speak of aside from a cousin of her mother who married well. It is shameful, really. How are we to preserve society if everyone is permitted to be part of it?”
There was a chorus of agreement, and Charlotte knew that she had them just where she wanted them. Fiona Trimble would pay dearly for failing her. And anyone who had the misfortune to be connected with her would pay, as well. And in exacting her vengeance, she would discredit anyone who could damage her own reputation.
ELEVEN
Tuesday—morning…
The small house in Smith Terrace was, in a word, nondescript. The neighborhood was decent, though not exactly fashionable. The house was plain, unadorned, and lacked any truly distinguishing features. And yet, as they approached it, Lucian could feel the tension in Fiona growing more pronounced with each step.
“Will it truly be so terrible?” He asked the question just as they turned to climb the wide, shallow steps to the door.
“Yes,” she said, her expression grim. “My mother will be all hysterics, and my father—well, he will either be all smiles and then rage like a madman once we have gone, or he will lose his temper entirely and begin throwing things about the room.”
Before Lucian could say anything more, the door was suddenly yanked open, and a young girl rushed out, wrapping her arms around Fiona.
“I’ve been so worried! It’s been horrid since you’ve been gone. Father is fit to be tied, and mother… well, it’s mother,” the girl gushed.
“Francesca,” Fiona said, stepping back, “I need to introduce you to someone.”
The girl turned then, her expression becoming very guarded. “Oh, forgive me. I was so happy to see you, Fiona. I didn’t realize you were with someone.”
“Francesca, this is my husband, Lord Lucian Maxwell, the Earl of Rathmore. Lucian, my sister, Francesca.”
The girl’s expression went from guarded to almost comically puzzled. Her head whipped back and forth between them. “Your husband? But, Kenwo—” Francesca broke off abruptly as if realizing that she’d been about to say something that would create problems for her sister.
“I’m well aware of my wife’s former pursuit of Kenworth, Francesca. I simply count myself incredibly fortunate that she did not catch him,” Lucian offered with as charming a smile as he could muster. It was apparently effective as the girl smiled in relief.
“Oh, I’m so glad you have a sense of humor.” Francesca reached out, taking his hand in hers. “You will need it. Father is livid with you for running off in some mad scheme with Lady Bruxton. Coming home, having eloped no less, will surely send him into fits of apoplexy.”
With that, Francesca opened the door and tugged him inside, Fiona at his side. The entry hall of the home was meticulously clean. There was an empty space where a bench had once been, and a shadowy outline on the wall showed where a painting had once hung. It was the hallmark of a family in financial crisis, the slow selling off of belongings.
Down the corridor, loud voices erupted from behind a closed door. Not everything being said was audible, but it was quite clear that the argument was about money.
“It’s been like that for days,” Francesca confessed quietly. “Mother went Lady Bascomb’s.”
Lady Bascomb.Lucian let that sink in for a moment. The woman was a notorious gamester. Her salons were renowned for deep and potentially dishonest play. Only the most desperate and degenerate of gamblers ever went there. And it seemed that Fiona’s mother ranked amongst their number.
“How terrible is it?” Fiona’s question was pitched low, her voice soft and filled with concern.
There was no opportunity for Francesca to answer. The door opened, and a woman burst into the corridor, weeping profusely. When she saw them, she simply stopped, one hand covering her mouth as she stood trembling. The humiliating scene was too much for her, though, and she turned, running the other way back towards the kitchens.
“Francesca, see to mother,” Fiona urged her sister. Then, with a note of dread in her voice, she added, “It’s best if Lucian and I face father alone.”
They paused outside the door to her father’s study. Lucian’s gaze was locked on Fiona’s drawn face as he knocked softly on the door. A terse command was called out for them to enter.
The moment he did so, Lucian understood the nature of John Trimble’s issues. The smell of strong spirits permeated the space. The man’s face was florid, broken veins standing out in stark relief on his nose and cheeks. Both of Fiona’s parents had their vices, it would seem.
“What is the meaning of this?” Trimble thundered, slapping his palms on the top of the desk as he rose. “You run off with that upstart Lady Bruxton after making yourself an object of ridicule for hanging after one man… and now you return wed to another?”
Lucien didn’t need to ask how he knew. Lying atop the desk was a copy of the Lady’s London Gazette. The gossip rag was well known to one and all. The headline splashed across the front page of it, just below the publication’s title, was ‘Any Earl Will Do.’ It was no great mystery what they referred to. But it didn’t matter how the news had come to be broken. All that mattered was that he take control of the situation.
“We came here to break the news gently, but it appears the gossip rags have done so for us already,” Lucian stated.
Trimble’s face was purple with outrage. “How dare you! You’ve behaved like a wanton and shameless hussy, and now we shall all suffer for it!”
He felt Fiona’s indrawn breath, felt the tension that filled her at such a horrible accusation—and he responded accordingly. His tone was cold and hard as he said, “Mr. Trimble, while I can certainly appreciate how shocking this must all be to you, I will not permit you to speak tomy wifein such a manner.”
