West End Earl by Bethany Bennett
Chapter Twenty-One
Cal would rather not delve into whatever circumstances had led to the archbishop owing his father a favor. It could have been anything.
Eastly summoned him to the drawing room—which annoyed Cal to no end, because this was his blasted house—and there stood Phee and Emma and an older man he didn’t recognize. Phee’s boots shined with a high gloss, and her hair had been ruthlessly subdued with pomade. Purple smudges under her eyes told him she’d slept as little as he had. Emma clutched a nosegay of flowers to match her pink dress trimmed in Brussels lace.
“Son, this is Vicar Norton. He’s here to officiate. We are witnesses.” Eastly leaned close and whispered, “She’s in the family way. Young Hardwick is stepping up. Smile and give your blessing. Now.”
What the hell? Cal bit his lip to stop his instinctive protest. Emma was pregnant and marrying the woman he loved. The absurd impossibility of it tore through him like a cannonball, destroying the last remnants of certainty he’d clung to, believing he might be able to explain to Phee today.
Last night, when she’d rocked his world off its axis as per usual, he’d barely been able to comprehend the parting volley she’d shot over her shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Phee had overheard the meeting with Father yesterday.
In this very drawing room, Cal had prevaricated, sidestepped, and danced along the line of outright lying to buy Miss Cuthbert a little more time to pull off their scheme. He should have simply shut down the conversation. Then perhaps Cal wouldn’t be standing in the middle of an unfolding emotional hellscape in which he lost Phee forever.
To his bloody sister, of all people. Cal stared at the couple, looking for a clue that Emma knew the truth about Adam Hardwick. If she did, she played her part beautifully. With dimples out in full force, Emma beamed at her redheaded husband-to-be.
For the first time, Cal’s efforts to fix one of Eastly’s scandals had failed spectacularly. Yet his first inclination wasn’t to salvage Father’s reputation or regroup and change the plan. The only thing concerning him right now was going on right in front of him.
The vicar spoke. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
A cold sweat broke out along Cal’s spine, and the points of his collar scraped against the underside of his jaw. For the first time since standing before a mirror at the age of fourteen and admiring the fit of a well-made suit of clothes, all Cal wanted to do was loosen the cravat so he could fucking breathe.
Everything about this was wrong. Somehow Emma had learned she was pregnant yet hadn’t said a word to him. Since her first skinned knee, she’d always come to him when in trouble. But not this time. To add insult to injury, she’d confided in Phee, and Phee hadn’t told him either. Now his lover stood before a man of the church, making vows before God.
And not only was Cal not the groom, but Phee wasn’t even the bride.
During the last twenty-four hours, his life had spiraled out of his control, and Cal didn’t know how to fix it.
Phee knew he’d failed to handle the Violet situation, and Cal didn’t have words that weren’t excuses. He wanted so desperately to explain that Eastly was like an explosive device—he must be handled delicately to avoid a tantrum that would inevitably make the situation far worse. Unfortunately, Cal should have realized Phee was capable of blowing things up too. Now she was clearly not open to further conversation, since she was busy getting married.
“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” The vicar paused for dramatic effect.
Emma shot him a glare, promising hell to pay if he tried to intervene. Clasping his hands behind his back, Cal couldn’t look away from the picture they made standing before Vicar Norton. If Cal hadn’t been paying attention, he might have missed Emma’s wink to Phee.
That was a relief, at least. With that playful, friendly wink, he knew Phee had shared her secret. That look had been one of shared conspirators, not lovers.
Then, there. Only a flicker, but Phee glanced his way. As if worried he would protest the marriage—which would require Cal to reveal her secret in front of Eastly and a vicar. The trust they’d built was truly gone if she thought he would betray her.
Vicar Norton announced them man and wife, and that was that. Before God and everything. With the deed done, the vicar shook everyone’s hand, wished the couple a long and happy life together, then departed.
Impeccably awful timing securely in place, his father elbowed him. “You’re next, Son.”
Cal closed his eyes and wished he could will himself back to bed, where he’d awake with Phee pressed snugly against his side and discover the past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare.
When Cal opened his eyes, the reality remained unchanged, and Eastly still stood there with his never-ending expectations of compliance. But why shouldn’t Father anticipate Cal’s obedience? It wasn’t as if Cal greeted each new disaster with a smile, but there had always been a willingness on his part. Years of this pattern—in both his and Father’s roles—had created one reliable point of stability in their family. Fixing everything proved time and again that Cal was useful. That he held value in a relationship where he otherwise never received affirmation, despite his achievements.
Phee and Emma wore twin looks of censure, as if to remind him of every misstep in this latest effort he’d bungled. Cal sighed, suddenly too old and tired to fake cheer.
“Father, I’ll only say this once, so pay attention. I am not marrying Violet Cuthbert. The whole purpose of this house party was to find a match that would satisfy Rosehurst and get you out of your latest debacle.”
“Judging by your father’s shocked expression, you should have made your wishes on the matter clear sooner.” Phee’s statement would be mistaken for polite commentary by anyone who didn’t know better. If Cal stood close enough, he’d probably feel her vibrating with restrained rage.
Sighing, Cal slumped into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. So that was how this was going to happen. With witnesses. “I promised I would handle it, and I have been trying to do that. You had enough to worry about with your uncle—who is still a threat. And thanks to this marriage, my sister is now in danger as well.”
Emma stepped closer to Phee, as if forming a wall of solidarity. The battle lines couldn’t be clearer. He was the enemy.
“Friends don’t hide things from one another, Lord Carlyle. No matter their intention,” Phee said.
Lord, she’d used his title. Another piece of his battered heart broke off and turned to dust. A spike of anger flickered to life amidst the pain. “Speaking of hiding things, when were you two going to say something about Emma’s condition?”
His sister bit her lip and looked away. Something that might have been guilt crossed Phee’s face before disappearing behind a hard, composed mask. “That wasn’t my news to share. As to Milton, if his goal was to eliminate me before I could inherit, that’s now moot. I’m married; I’ve fulfilled the terms of my parents’ will.”
“And the insurance policy?”
“If he paid for it out of the estate, then I’ll have the power to cancel it.”
There was the quick mind he’d relied on for the last two years. Losing her as a lover was gutting. Losing her as an employee would have lasting repercussions too. Cal shook his head. A dull throb thrummed at his temple.
“All right, but this doesn’t end when you notify the solicitor of your marriage. If you think Milton will just shrug and slink off when he finds you’ve outmaneuvered him, you’re delusional. The threat remains.”
Eastly cleared his throat. “Murderous uncles, pregnant daughters, and barons with the power to destroy us. It’s quite the party you’re having, Son. We’d best hope your machinations are effective, because if Miss Cuthbert doesn’t catch the eye of someone during this visit, there will be no saving us.” On the list of things sustaining his father’s existence, drama ranked high, along with opera singers and other men’s wives. With typical flair, the marquess delivered that dire prediction-cum-threat, then swept from the room.
Everyone observed his departure, then looked at one another in silence for a moment. Exhaustion made Cal’s feet feel like he wore lead-lined boots as he rose. “You could have warned me about the marriage.”
“For someone so comfortable misleading the people in his life, you might want to check your position right now,” Phee said.
“I asked you to trust me. I needed you to trust me.” The words came out sounding strangled. Phee’s mouth tightened into a hard line.
“And I needed you to be an honest partner. You wouldn’t have kept Adam in the dark. Before this last month, you would’ve not only included me but expected me to help you,” she said.
Ouch. She was right. He would have told Adam everything and pulled him into the details. But Phee? He’d treated her like someone he could pat on the head while saying, There, there, I’ll fix it. She’d said partner and he’d failed there too. “You’re right, Phee. I hate that you’re right, but you are. As usual.” Cal turned to Emma. “And you should have told me, brat.”
Emma nodded. “I know, but I was scared. Besides, you don’t have to fix everything, big brother.” With a grimace, she added, “I suppose we go tell everyone else now. Not that I’m really in the mood to celebrate.”
“Are the vases in danger again?” Phee asked, quirking her lips.
Emma laughed. “I don’t think so. But that could change at any moment. Stand at the ready, Phee. I might need you.”
Hearing Phee’s real name from Emma made Cal smile. Phee had one more friend who knew and would keep her secret, and knowing she wouldn’t be alone was a relief. “I’m glad you know the truth, Emma.”
“That Adam is actually Phee? Of course I do. Now, I may not want any champagne, but I have the fiercest craving for rhubarb tart. Do you think we could convince Cook to make some?”
“You’re the bride. You get what you want.” Phee offered her arm.
“One moment.” Emma fluffed the linen of Phee’s cravat. “There. Can’t have you appearing less than perfect when we tell everyone you’ve caught me.”
Phee laughed and shook her head. “Very wifely of you.”
They slipped out the door together, leaving Cal no choice but to watch them go, then swear profusely into the empty room.
* * *
“The tension between you and my brother is so thick, it would choke a goat. Also, you’re pale as a sheet,” Emma hissed. “I think the better question is, Do you need a vase?”
Phee pulled in a steadying breath. “Facing him was harder than expected.”
“You handled yourself beautifully when face-to-face with him, though. And again, I can’t thank you enough.” Emma squeezed Phee’s arm in a sort of side-body hug.
“We are helping each other. And as we said, we will deal with the future together.” Echoing the words Cal had said to her in the library made Phee wince. In the grand scheme of things, her and Cal’s brief stint as lovers would be a mere blip compared to the years ahead of her. Eventually, she might think of this time at Lakeview as nothing more than a lovely visit to the countryside. But right now, she hurt. Like vinegar on a wound, thoughts of being with Cal made her ache.
Since overhearing the conversation with the marquess yesterday, Phee had discovered a spectrum of pain. A sting, a throb, crippling agony—all unique and Cal’s fault.
Except, with the first step of her plan executed and Cal’s reaction played out for her to see, Phee had to wonder if there’d been another way. An explanation that would have satisfied her or exonerated him.
A hiccup of breath threatened tears if she explored that line of thought further. No. It was done. Anger kept her going right now. There’d be a time to set that anger aside and grieve everything, but showing him the full extent of her pain wouldn’t happen—and certainly not in the public rooms of his grand house, swarming with guests.
The murmur of voices filtered down the corridor from the breakfast room, where the late risers were beginning their day.
Phee had already died a thousand deaths and gotten married before they’d even drunk their first cup of tea. Straightening her shoulders, she nodded to Emma. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It will be all right. You’ll see. I’ll do my society-darling bit and smile a lot, and we will get through this. They’ll expect us to disappear after breakfast, then you can spend a few hours alone if you want to.”
What a bloody depressing wedding day. It hit her then. “Emma, I’m sorry. Here I’m focused on my disaster with Cal, and I haven’t once thought about what you’re giving up. This isn’t the wedding day you dreamed of, nor am I the groom you wanted.”
Emma’s dimples flashed, although the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Both of us gained and lost in this arrangement. Not to mention the potential eternal damnation for taking vows under false pretenses.”
Phee wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “For what it’s worth, you’re a beautiful bride. I’d like to think God understands the situation.”
When they entered the breakfast room arm in arm and announced their marriage, there was a moment of shocked silence. Miss Lillian was the first to stand and offer her well-wishes, then the others followed. Most of the congratulations sounded genuine, if skeptical. Everyone knew Lady Emma Carlyle had married beneath her. Phee shook hands, accepted the good-natured teasing from the men, and counted the minutes until she could retreat to her room.
The worst of it would come later, when any suspicions about the hasty marriage would be confirmed as news of the baby spread. By then, she and Emma would be long gone from London. For now, it would be the wedding itself that would set tongues wagging.
Perhaps the political climate would distract from Lady Emma’s unexpected match. With Queen Caroline essentially on trial and fighting to keep her title, the papers were busy with those salacious details. Mr. Nobody Hardwick marrying the daughter of a marquess should not warrant much more than a simple announcement. They could hope, anyway.
Servants rushed to provide champagne for the impromptu celebration. Raising a flute, Phee toasted Emma. “To the most beautiful bride in England.”
The sparkling wine slid cool and fizzy down her throat, washing away the unease of the morning. In its wake, resolve settled in her heart. She didn’t want to live the rest of her life remembering what it felt like to be held—she wanted to be held, and safe, and loved by someone who saw her beauty the way she did now. At the moment, it seemed impossible to imagine such a thing with anyone but Cal, but if Adam’s death had taught her one thing, it was that Phee could endure far more than she thought. So while she couldn’t picture it now, she knew someday she’d have love, safety, and a life that made her happy. And Emma deserved the same.