Page 82 of What a Scot Wants
“Though we cannot prove it’s him, Lady Bradburne said she heard that apparently Silas Calder, a gentleman who has admired and loved you for years and was once your betrothed, received a message from you for a rendezvous in a surprising part of town. He’s claiming he didn’t say anything to the police when he was questioned because he didn’t want to tarnish your reputation, but now, after the accusations made against him, he has no choice.”
“That bastard,” Imogen swore. “He’s no gentleman. He’s a liar and a crook. And he’s not in love with me in the least. He’s in love with my coffers. My father’s coffers, to be precise.”
A chambermaid arrived with tea, and Hilda had seen to a small amount of whisky for each of them. Imogen’s hand shook as she poured.
“I’m sorry, Imogen. People can be awful,” Aisla said, compassion written all over her. “For what it’s worth, all our friends, like the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne, the Earl and Countess of Dinsmore, and the Earl and Countess of Langlevit have been your champions these past few days, and they are powerful voices speaking on your behalf. Niall and I have done what we could as well.” She gave a small smile. “Though my husband’s tactics are more hands-on. I’ve had to keep him on a tight leash so he isn’t tearing aristocrats apart.”
Imogen swallowed. “And Ronan?”
“He’s furious, of course, but he’s focused on finding Calder’s accomplice.”
She’d wondered why she hadn’t seen much of Ronan the last two days. He’d been busy, though she suspected nothing would come of his efforts.
“He won’t find him,” Imogen said with sudden and overwhelming despondency. “Silas is clever and has likely had him dealt with by now. Besides, as you’ve said, people are already judging me. Finding one man with an eye injury isn’t going to change anyone’s mind.”
Aisla reached for Imogen’s hand. “You don’t have to stay in London. You could go to Maclaren. These rumors won’t matter there.”
Perhaps not, but they would still be like an impenetrable wall around London, barring her from ever coming back. And if the rumors mounting here were to reach Edinburgh, she would not be able to escape the ramifications even there. She closed her eyes and remembered thatRonanbelieved her. He’d vowed to, always. She could go with him to Maclaren, as Aisla suggested. And now that they were marrying, Haven would not suffer a lack of funding, ever. Emma and the girls who needed the shelter could carry on as always.
But Imogen would still be running in shame. Silas would have ruined her, as he’d promised to do, and driven her from the life she’d built for herself.
“I can’t let him win,” she whispered, withdrawing her hand from under Aisla’s and standing to pace the room. “I can’t let him walk away, unscathed, perhaps even to harm any other young women one day.” Her eyes met Aisla’s. “I trust you’ve heard of Lady Beatrice?”
“Ronan told me.”
“Well, she wasn’t the first,” Imogen said in a dead voice. “My governess Belinda died in childbirth out of wedlock. He seduced her, impregnated her, and ruined her life, all the while courtingme. He’s a silver-tongued, two-faced monster.”
Aisla now knew about Silas’s manipulation of her, and about Lady Beatrice as well. But Imogen still held the darkest part of her secret regarding Silas to herself. Confessing to a flirtation with a man and being persuaded to believe he intended to marry her was only a fraction of the truth. Telling Ronan what happened at the Golden Antler, how he’d drugged and forced himself on her, still made her stiff with dread.
“Trust in Ronan.” Aisla stood without touching her tea or whisky. “If anyone can see to Calder’s recompense, it’s him.”
Imogen nodded, even though the words did little to soothe her. Silas had successfully thrown Imogen’s reputation to the curb, and she’d done nothing but help him, what with her own scandalous and outrageous behavior these last weeks. All done, ironically, to thwart him. It seemed instead he’d used the gossipmongers against her, and she’d played right into his conniving hands.
Aisla left, and Imogen sank into her chair. She swallowed each small glass of whisky on the tea service and curled herself into a ball, tucking up her legs and feeling the effects of the drink as it burned her throat and loosened her limbs. She felt like she had all those years ago. Confused and scared and angry. Resentful that she’d made such terrible mistakes. Trusted a man who had turned out to be a consummate liar. Lost everything. And distraught yet again that she was about to lose yet another future.
The next hour ticked by, and Imogen still had not moved from the chair. Hilda eventually returned to clear away the tea service.
“You’ve heard the rumors, I imagine,” Imogen said with a glimpse at her tight face.
“Aye, my lady,” the maid said softly. “A few of the kitchen maids mentioned they’d heard a thing or two.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It would have only made things worse,” she replied.
“Well it’s certainly not going to get better now.”
The engagement ball would have to be called off. It stung, even though she’d only just started to become excited for it. No one would attend, and the poor turnout would only be another thing for thetonto gossip about.
“My parents,” she said, “they have heard these lies as well?”
“Have faith, my lady,” was all Hilda said as a knock landed on the sitting room door. She answered it, and a moment later came back in. “You’ve a visitor. The duke.”
Ronan? Imogen hadn’t been expecting him and, as she took the stairs to the front parlor, assumed Aisla had gone to him after leaving Kincaid Manor. She must have explained that Imogen now knew about the rumors impugning her honor. He was likely here to speak to her about them. Perhaps try to make her feel better or plead with her to leave for Maclaren as soon as possible. While she wanted to see Maclaren, the home Ronan so loved, she didn’t want to do it under a black cloud. Deep down, she didn’t want to bring shame tohim.
She frowned as she heard raised voices coming from the parlor. And then her mother’s, clear as a bell: “What, exactly, do you want us to do, Your Grace?”
“To stand up for yer daughter. Is that too much to ask?”
