Page 48 of Romancing the Scot
“How many years ago?” Grace asked, determined to draw her out.
Jo hesitated before answering. “Fifteen years.”
“So you were a toddler when this happened.”
A hint of a rare smile put a dimple in her surprised face. “I am a mature woman of six and thirty now.”
Grace scoffed. “Let us never know what old age is. Let us know the happiness time brings and not count the years.”
“Whom are you quoting?”
“Decimius Ausonius.”
“How can you know so much?”
“No matter.” Grace didn’t want to talk about herself right now. She wanted to help Jo unburden her troubles. “Who was he?”
“Why do you assume this is about a romance?” The tears were gone.
“You were one and twenty. Your husband?”
“I’ve never married.” She shook her head. “But at the time, I was engaged. To a man named Wynne Melfort. He was a lieutenant in the navy.”
Noticing the look of grief creeping into Jo’s eyes again, Grace pushed on. “What went wrong with your engagement?”
“Before I say more, you should know that I wasn’t born a Pennington. I was adopted by my parents as an infant. My birth mother died during the delivery, on a road very close to Baronsford. She was traveling with other folk who were victims of clearances, put off someone’s land with only what they could carry. I’ve been able to learn nothing more about who she was or where she came from. I don’t know who fathered me.”
Grace gripped her friend’s hand. Somehow, this revelation didn’t come as a great surprise to her. Jo and Hugh looked nothing alike, and Anna had hinted at this when she spoke of the Pennington siblings. It also made sense, given Grace’s understanding of Lord Aytoun’s efforts to stop the clearances, as well as his son’s passionate disgust with the practice.
“And that caused the problems? The truth of your adoption was made public?”
“No. It was never a secret,” Jo told her. “Wynne knew about it. His family was told, and they raised no objections. I imagine that was partly due to the size of my dowry. But my family never made any effort to hide it. My mother brought me back here on the day of the summer ball. They all witnessed it. Lady Nithsdale was here, as well.”
“Did you love him?” Grace asked gently. “Had you given your heart to this naval officer?”
“Too many years have passed. I don’t remember.”
Grace recognized the lie in the way Jo’s eyes misted over again as she turned her face again to the window.
“What went wrong? Please tell me. Why was your engagement broken off?” Grace had heard a thousand times that nothing unburdened the heart like confession. If only she could follow that advice herself.
“Gossip. Rumor. Unfounded stories that my birth mother was a common prostitute,” Jo said, pain etched in her eyes. “I don’t know why talk of it became the rage. I don’t know the source of it. But suddenly, it was all the ton cared about. Smirking, tittering behind their fans, and spreading falsehoods as if they were gospel.”
The rank malice of the elite. It was a rampant disease in the social circles of the wealthy everywhere, it seemed. The more you had, the more you envied others. False friendships, backstabbing, and the maniacal joy of seeing a perceived rival brought low. This was the stuff of court life and the social classes that emulated it. She’d only met Lady Nithsdale once, but Grace knew the woman was the type to take great pleasure in circulating what she knew, as well as what she could invent.
“That summer, when the tongue-wagging was at its worst—up to that point, at least—Wynne wrote to me informing me that he wished to end our engagement.”
“The blackguard,” Grace snapped angrily. “Small, weak, and unworthy of you. Did anyone challenge him? The dog should have been shot.”
“My father was prepared to challenge him, and he would have. I know it. But Hugh beat him to it. He tracked Wynne to Vauxhall Gardens and slapped him publicly. They nearly fought it out right there, but Wynne’s friends intervened. Word came back to our house in Hanover Square that they would fight at dawn. I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t bear the thought of going through life having the blood of either of them on my hands and conscience.” Jo stabbed away at fresh tears. “I was like a madwoman. I begged my parents to stop it. I swore that if anything happened to Hugh, I’d take my own life.”
“Did they stop him?”
Jo’s eyes glazed as she relived the memory. “My mother tried, but to no avail. My father’s only regret was that Hugh was fighting this duel instead of him. I paced all night. I can’t describe the anguish I felt.”
Grace knew this was what wives and sisters and daughters went through the night before every battle. The abject fear for your loved ones. The cold dread that drains the life out of you.
“Just after dawn, word came back to us. They’d fought in Hyde Park. Hugh’s shot passed through Wynne’s right shoulder. I know my brother could have killed him. He can hit a mark dead-on at a full gallop. For me, he chose not to kill him. Even so, Wynne was carried off, bleeding badly, and they feared that he wouldn’t live out the day. But he did live.”
