An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Death of Scandal

Things happened very quickly, after that. A coach, second-hand but little used, was bought from one of Mr Redwood's old friends and a pair was found to match it. Half-made bridesmaids' dresses were hastily finished. The townhouse was not to be used until Grace came out of mourning, so two extra rooms were prepared in the Redwoods' house to give Grace and James some space and privacy in the early weeks of their marriage. In summer, they were to take a tour of the northern country, as something approximating a honeymoon, before returning to London at last. And, of course, the Banns were read.

It was very odd for James, sitting in church that next Sunday, to hear them. He had thought he would feel nervous, or even afraid. After all, he had been trying to avoid the marriage for so long. Instead, he felt flustered, very aware of eyes turning to him and whispers breaking out behind prayer books and — when Grace met his gaze across the pews — conscious of an absurd sense of jealousy. What right did anyone have to look at her and whisper? The feeling passed, leaving James uncomfortable. He had never felt jealous before. He had thought the emotion beneath him.

Before the wedding, James made efforts to repair what he could of his reputation. He spent time in London, at his club or at the houses of those few friends who still deigned to speak with him, and convinced some of them that Catherine Balley had lied. He hoped they would spread enough doubt on the story that others might begin to doubt it too. He even wrote to Sir William, offering an interview to clear up the misunderstanding, though he expected, and received, no reply.

The night before his wedding, he held a small dinner at his club. Sebastian Delacroix, whom he had been able to convince of his innocence, was there, as were a few other young men who believed him. So too was Mr Montague, who had come down with Ellen for the wedding, and Grace's cousins, Harry and Francis, who had been invited out of gratitude for the fact that Uncle Bernard's family refused to believe the rumours, though all they wished to talk about was the possibility of James suing Sir William for slander.

There was a funereal quality to the dinner. James's young friends were of a similar ilk as he. Or, he corrected himself, as he had been. They did not understand why he was getting married. Their toasts were full of pathos. They drank deeply of them and slumped into pools of silk velvet in their chairs, mumbling about silk nooses and golden yokes. James encouraged Grace's cousins — his cousins, now — to drink too. The more slurred and incomprehensible their words grew, the easier he found it to tolerate their conversation. In his efforts, he found himself drinking more than he had planned — he had wanted to keep a clear head for the morning. As his senses dulled with wine, emotions he had been suppressing swelled. Unease, guilt, even sorrow. They were going into this all wrong. They should have met like a normal couple, and courted like a normal couple, and married because of the courting. But they had met, hadn't they? She had said they had, and he had not even noticed her until his father brought her to his attention. What a fool he had been.

And she was not yet comfortable. She could not be, if she would not let him say he loved her. Perhaps she did not trust him not to lie. She had been lied to before on that matter, and scars like that ran deep.

It should have been different. They shouldn't have had to marry under shadow, but had they not weathered such shadow together, they probably would not be getting married at all.

That thought demanded another sad toast.

Towards the end of the evening, as the cousins were falling asleep on the table, there came an insinuating knock at the door. At first James did not hear it, but then Sebastian, who was facing it, said snidely, "The cat dragged in," and pointed.

James turned. Herbert Oliver stood in the doorway, an ingratiating smile on his face. James thought he was dressed in the same coat he had seen him in last. There were now more stray threads coming off at the cuff. It was beginning to have a fringe-like appearance.