“I’m not certain yet,” Rohan had said slowly. “There is much to resolve here. We will see.”
And now they were riding in a carriage bound to the south of England to Branholly Cottage, situated not more than fifteen miles east of Mountvale House.
Rohan was afraid of what he was going to discover. On the other hand, McNally was a scoundrel. He had lied all his wretched life. Why should he not have lied about Tibolt?
Susannah, as if sensing his thoughts, squeezed his hand.
Tibolt Carrington, a very popular young man in the small market town of Edgeton-on-Hough, was renowned for his piety, his wisdom, surprising in one so young, and his quiet yet devout tending of his flock. He always had time for even the most dissolute of his fold, even Jasper the blacksmith, who drank so much he was known to have shoed his horses backward on the morning after a particularly debauched night. He looked up from his half-written sermon when his man, Nelson, cleared his throat from the doorway of his study.
“Your brother is here, sir.”
“My brother? Goodness, Nelson, the baron is here?”
Tibolt Carrington was on his feet in an instant, a wide smile lighting his face when his brother strode into the room.
“Rohan! Welcome. What are you doing here? Oh, is Mother all right? Has anything happened? You are well?”
“Oh, yes, I am quite well, Tibolt, as is everyone else. I have brought you a visitor. Susannah, do come in.”
Susannah came into the room and found herself face-to-face with a man she had never seen before, a handsome man who had much the look of Rohan and George, but yet there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the fierce intensity in his eyes or the hard set of his mouth. She wasn’t sure. He had the male Carrington cleft in his chin and the green eyes. His smile toward her was meaningless, vague and blank. She stood very still beside Rohan, waiting.
Rohan was watching his brother’s face very closely. Unlike Susannah, he thought he’d seen a flicker of surprise, of recognition, but it was so quickly veiled that he couldn’t be sure. He wondered if he would discover that he didn’t know this brother any better than he had known George.
Tibolt gave Rohan an inquiring look, raising his eyebrow in the identical way Rohan did.
“I see you recognize Susannah,” Rohan said quietly, without preamble, going with his instinct. “You saw her how long ago? Five years ago at Oxford? Did George want you to come to his mock wedding?”
Rohan saw clearly now that his brother wanted to lie to him. He quickly raised his hand. “No, don’t, Tibolt. Tell me the truth. I imagine that if you, a vicar, lied, your punishment would be much harsher than mine in hell. I am your brother. I deserve the truth from you. Come, spill it out.”
“Yes, my punishment would be harsher than yours would be. Oh what a tangled web we weave—”
Rohan’s voice fell in hard and cold, with a goodly lacing of contempt. “Spare me the literary platitude. All I want from you is the bloody truth.”
“Very well, Rohan. George made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone, particularly you. I found out by accident, I swear it to you. I was visiting Bishop Roundtree and stopped to see George. He was preparing for his, er, wedding. It was then that he told me. As for you,—” he was staring at Susannah, the hard set of his mouth now fashioning itself into an ugly sneer, “since you are with the baron, you obviously went to him and told him what had happened. You have obviously blackmailed him. He has taken care of things, hasn’t he?”
He turned back to his brother. “Rohan, will you give her money and send her to the Continent? She would enjoy Paris, no doubt—a woman of her sort. Yes, Rohan, it was no tragedy. George wanted her, but she pretended to be a lady, so he had to resort to McNally, something not at all uncommon at Oxford. So what is a bit of money to you? You are rich. She will gain a new protector quickly, I would just ask that you send her from England. It would harm my reputation—all our reputations—were she to parade herself about in front of everyone and announce what a Carrington had done to her. Even if no one believed her, there would be talk. My own precious flock wouldn’t understand. They would stand by me, don’t get me wrong, but it would be a blow.”
Rohan looked mildly interested, no more. Susannah realized, however, that he was furious. Odd how she knew him so well after less than three weeks. As for herself, she was so shocked by his brother’s words that she hadn’t moved from Rohan’s side.
“Tell me, Tibolt,” Rohan said now slowly, easily, his fists smoothed out at his sides, “what do you mean, it would be a blow? You mean that your flock would perhaps question your character were they to find out that your younger brother was such a perfidious little bastard?”
“They wouldn’t question me at all, for I would tell them the truth—well, perhaps not the entire truth. That wouldn’t be necessary. Listen, Rohan, George was just weak, I told you that. He wanted her, but she was coy and wouldn’t let him bed her. He told me she even lived with this old man who pretended to be her father and this small child, a little boy she claimed was her brother. George told me the little boy was probably her son, that she had begun in her sinful ways very early.”
“Ah, when she was twelve or thirteen?”
Tibolt just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, George wanted her. No, my congregation would revile her, not George—for is it not the woman who is the sinful creature in our world? Does she not lead men astray?—but still it would cast a blot on our family name. Don’t you see, Rohan? She must go, she must leave on the first packet to France. Oh, dear God, you haven’t become her protector, have you?”
“Her protector? Susannah, do you consider me your protector?”
“You are the best of protectors,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “But, you know, just perhaps I would prefer Tibolt. He reminds me of George, and I was fond of George. You are too knowing, too experienced, my lord. I would be unable to manipulate you as I did George. But then, George got the last laugh, didn’t he? I wasn’t really married at all. Tell me, Tibolt—”
“I am Mr. Carrington to the likes of you!”
She gently tugged on Rohan’s coat so he wouldn’t dive across the small study and throttle his brother. She heard him draw a deep breath.
“All right, Mr. Carrington. Tell me, is there hope for me? Surely you have more money salted away than what you gain from this living? I have had protectors who had very little and others were quite rich. I am not particularly greedy. Did I not let George keep me for only ten pounds a quarter? Nor am I uncaring. What do you say, Mr. Carrington? It would save the baron many difficulties and you would have me.”
“You are a strumpet, madam,” Tibolt said, drawing himself up as stiff as a lightning rod. “I do not bed strumpets.”