A Tangled Web

by A. Claire Everward

  He let out a breath and dropped back on the bed, fully clothed.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Robert had expected this. He had avoided Ian’s calls all morning precisely because of it. Finally the man who headed Ian Blackwell Holdings simply summoned him to his office, and that Robert could do nothing about.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Robert tried. “I thought you might stay at home for a day or two at least, get to know your wife.”

  “She’s spending the day with yours. Robert,” Ian’s tone was dangerous. “Her?”

  “Come on, it makes sense. If you didn’t react to each other in this way, you would see it too.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed, and Robert took a step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay. Look, she is honest, she is reliable, and, come on, you’ve got to admit she is bloody gorgeous. I knew she didn’t follow your business ventures, otherwise she would have recognized me. In fact, she didn’t seem to know anything at all about you, and she certainly didn’t seem to follow gossip, which, under the circumstances, is priceless. And the way she stood up for her friend, well, if she does that for you . . .”

  “She would rather throw me off a cliff.”

  “Yes, and you would rather throw her off a cliff. But you’re both adults and you both got into this with your eyes open.”

  Ian shook his head and turned to look at the familiar skyline of the city he had built himself in. Right now he felt more inclined to deal with the Cecilia Hearts of this world than with the woman he had in his own home.

  “She fits your shopping list.”

  “She is its opposite, Robert.”

  “She certainly has the looks,” Robert argued. “She’s intelligent, in fact she’s no less intelligent than you. And she won’t bore you, I’m betting you’ll have a lot to talk about.” If they could let go of each other’s throats for long enough. He sighed inwardly. He’d gone with his gut feeling when he chose Tess, but that didn’t mean he had an inkling of an idea how to make this work. How to make them work.

  “What about socially adept? With an impeccable fashion sense and an ability to hold her own under the onslaught of just about everyone she will meet?” Ian said, not at all amused.

  “Perhaps not, but you can teach her that. And Muriel can help, you know she will, and so will I.”

  “Robert, she has no idea what to do in this world of ours. They will eat her alive.”

  Robert wasn’t so sure. “I guess we'll see.”

  Her husband wasn't in the house when she came downstairs in the morning. Relieved, Tess went directly to the kitchen, determined to get to know the people who were tasked with taking care of her.

  The kitchen was all wood and stone, all but the marble work surfaces along two walls and the one on the island in the middle of the kitchen. It was the biggest kitchen she had ever seen, and it was certainly more equipped than any other kitchen she had ever been in. But everything had its place, nothing was there just for show. And it looked convenient. No, not convenient. It looked comfortable, and the smell of strong coffee and the sight of jars of recently made jam near the stove only added to the ambience.

  Graham was sitting at the kitchen island, reading aloud something from an online newspaper he had on a tablet, for Lina, who stood at the kitchen sink. Surprised at her appearance there, they both turned to her, exchanging a glance between them.

  “Ma’am, we would have come to you, all you needed to do was call,” Graham said, standing up.

  “I didn’t want to put you out.” She looked from him to Lina and back. “Unless, of course, you're uncomfortable with me being here. I’ll understand if you are.” She said it kindly, and she meant it. She was the intruder here, the unknown wife they were forced to accept and serve.

  “Not at all,” Graham said. “You're welcome here whenever you like, ma’am. In fact, if I may, your being here will give us a chance to find out your food preferences. Beginning, I think, with your tea or coffee preference.”

  “Coffee, if I’m to have any chance of waking up in the morning,” Tess said with a smile, and Lina nodded vigorously in agreement. “And is the ma’am necessary? I know you’re not allowed to call me by my first name, but the ma’am sounds like . . .” She searched for a description.

  “An old matron. All stiff with that bluish hair,” Lina said, laughing.

  “Lina!” Graham said to her in reprimand, but then turned back to Tess when she pitched in, not at all angry.

  “With a far too critical eye and a shrill voice,” she agreed. “Exactly. No, I don’t think I could be that formal, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just Mrs. Blackwell, then,” Graham said, nodding.

  “Still better than ma’am,” Tess agreed, noting that they were already relaxing.

  She ended up having her breakfast in the kitchen with them, coffee with light cream cheese on fresh bread that Lina had just taken out of the oven, and the jam that turned out to be blueberry jam that she had made, some of which was still cooling on the stove. Graham and Lina used the time to ask her everything they could think of that they needed to know, that was relevant to them for running the house with her now in it. And she answered, although it felt strange for her to do that, to let others do things for her. It only brought to a sharper light the drastic change in her life.

  And she learned quite a bit from them, too. She learned that while Lina made the homier food in the house, a lot of which reminded her of her childhood, she said with some nostalgia, Graham was the chef who cooked the excellent dinners Tess had been eating, which he had learned to do while working for Mr. Blackwell and was clearly proud of. They spoke of the house and its workings, and about their life with Mr. Blackwell, giving her some insight about the man she had married, through the eyes of those who were privy to what no one else was.

  She learned from Lina that he never raised his voice, that he was patient, that he had been unfailingly kind to her since she had come to work for him in this house. From Graham she learned that he rarely interacted in his home with anyone other than the two of them, that for the most part everyone else who worked in this house and its grounds did so when he wasn’t there. That most days, including weekends, he left for his office early and returned late, choosing to make the drive to this place where his privacy was not disturbed. That on the rare occasion he would spend the day in the house, where his den provided what he needed to do his work, and that it was important for Graham to make sure he could do so uninterrupted. That he worked too hard, Lina said, a worried tone to her voice, as she sat down near Tess with a cup of coffee. That those things all those people had been saying about him ever since that horrid Cecilia Heart had begun to bother him weren’t true, they didn’t know him at all. That he went out, yes, to charity functions, or to meet business associates, friends rarely, the Ashtons of course, he was the godfather of both their children. And yes, there was a woman now and then, why not, a young man like him.

  And that was what stayed with her when she left them. That they were endlessly loyal to Ian Blackwell. And that they loved him.

  She was in the morning room, looking at the sunny day outside and contemplating what she had learned about her husband, when Graham came to tell her she had a visitor waiting in the living room. Here we go, she said to herself, and went to meet Robert Ashton's wife.

  Muriel Ashton was a head shorter than her husband. Tastefully dressed and meticulously made-up, with straight blond hair that framed her face and blue eyes that looked at Tess with open curiosity. Graham left them alone, and the two women looked at each other in silence.

  “Expecting criticism. And judgment. Yes, you are, aren’t you?” Muriel’s voice was mellow, with a touch of an accent. Something southern, a remnant from a past long gone, Tess thought. “I suppose that's to be expected.”

  Tess only nodded.

  “You are not one for pretenses, are you? You're perfectly aware of your position and acce
pt it because it was a choice you made. And just like Robert said, you’re not about the frills and money and society and what being Ian Blackwell's wife gives you, are you?” She shook her head in wonder. “No, you're not.”

  “You sound like a therapist.” Tess didn’t like this. She felt exposed.

  “Worse.” Muriel sat down with an audible sigh. “I'm a mother to a girl who is in a rush to grow up and to a boy who has not long ago discovered there’s a world beyond his mommy. Which also makes me a certified mind-reader and spy. And,” she added in a more serious tone, “I'm a part of that societal circle you're about to find yourself thrown into. And while the people in it don't know the facts and likely never will, sooner or later the rumors about you and Ian will start. Probably later.”

  “Later?”

  “Ian is a very private person.”

  Tess tilted her head slightly.

  “He really is. Despite appearances. Think about it. You’ve seen him in business contexts, and you’ve seen him with the occasional woman, and he does catch the eye, true, but he is never the one to seek the publicity. It always seeks him. Initially it was because of who he is, and that was fine, that’s just the way it is, but now gossip is constantly at his heels. And I suppose that in the era of that dreadful social media this cannot be avoided. But what do you really know about Ian Blackwell the man?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I work, or used to, in a demanding job. I read books. No television, it bores me. And I’ve never liked gossip. I never paid any more attention to his name than I did to others in the news, or in business contexts, as you call it, and I didn’t hear much about him at all until he bought the company I worked in and everyone started talking about him and before I met him there I wouldn’t recognize him if I bumped into him on the street.” Tess breathed in. It felt good to finally let it out. “Ian Blackwell, your husband, you, you all seem to expect me to know who he is. But I don’t. I don’t know him, and I don’t know what kind of life he leads.”

  Muriel’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Robert wasn’t kidding. Okay. Honey, you’re going to have to learn all about him. And yes, you’re married to him because talk about him, the intrusion into his life, has become impossible to deal with, so you’re bound to hear all about that. Just please don’t believe everything you hear. A lot of it is far from being fair.”

  Tess was a lot of things, but naive wasn’t one of them. “I don’t listen to what people say. I judge for myself. And I remind you that I now live with him in the same house, I’m bound to see for myself.”

  Muriel was beginning to see why Robert liked this woman. “You realize you’re going to become a media persona yourself, right? In fact, you already are. Robert and Ian Blackwell Holdings’ public relations department released the news yesterday. There is already a whole of lot of interest in Ian Blackwell’s mystery wife.”

  Tess felt a tug of apprehension, which Muriel saw. “Don't worry,” she said. “Ian will protect you. He protects his own. As for dealing with the attention you’ll be getting when you’re out there, just look at him, do as he does. He’s very effective with them. With the serious media, that is. As for the others, just don’t take notice of them. There’s no dealing with that sort of people.” She paused. “But you need to know that while the mystery will hold for a while, there will be speculations. No matter what Ian and Robert think they’re doing here, the simple fact is that you and Ian are not in love, and ultimately that will show.”

  Tess contemplated her. “You're very open with me about this. And you don’t seem to be judgmental, not at all.”

  “Look.” Muriel leaned forward. “I don't know anything about you, or about why you're doing this. All I know is that you're now married to a man I care deeply about.” She sighed. “And you know what, whatever this is, you're now in it, alone. And I'm thinking that you need to have someone you can trust, preferably a woman. And since my dear husband has had a decisive part in this absolutely crazy and unforgivable plan, I think I owe you that this someone would be me.”

  “You owe me nothing.” Tess stood up.

  “I'm sorry, that’s not what I was . . .” Muriel gave herself a mental kick. “Look. I tend to be candid. Too forward sometimes, Robert says, but, you see, I grew up rich, spoiled, and surrounded by the kind of behavior that has made me rather averse to the games people play. I know you don’t know me, and you certainly have no reason to trust me, but give me a chance.”

  Tess was considering her again, and Muriel quickly pressed on. “At least let me accompany you today, I promised Ian I would. And I really can help.”

  Muriel was assessing her again in the Bentley, but this time it was her clothes that were the target of the scrutiny. She was adamant to help, and Tess had to admit that she welcomed her company in this shopping trip she really didn’t want to go on.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” Muriel said. “And you’re also modest. And while you seem to prefer wearing simple clothes, clothes that I do not at all consider feminine, your choice is rather . . . no, not tasteful. Aware, I would say. Yes. You don’t wear any makeup, but you do take care of yourself very well, don’t you? That’s a good start.”

  Tess chuckled. “Wow.”

  Muriel smiled, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ve always given quite a lot of attention to the way I look. I love clothes and I love buying them. And I love Glimpse. That’s the name the stylists we’re meeting go by. They are two high-end designers who also act as exclusive personal stylists for the women they choose as their clients, and they do luxury, they do fashionable, and they do feminine. It will be quite a transition for you.”

  “I can do feminine and I know how to buy myself clothes.” Tess stared out of the side window. She did, she just never wanted to. Did everything she could to avoid it, if she was honest with herself.

  “You're about to go up many, many levels in the quality and diversity of what you wear,” Muriel said.

  “That will be new,” Tess admitted after a pause.

  “Ian has opened an account for you at Glimpse. It will remain open if you decide you like their choice of clothes.”

  “I have my own money.” It came out more defensive than she'd meant it to. She wasn't about to let any man pay for her.

  “This is quite a lot of money,” Muriel said gently. “It’s a completely new wardrobe for the wife of Ian Blackwell. And,” she said, halting Tess's protest, “whatever money you have, and I’m sure Ian knows about it, he has still made sure you have an open account at Glimpse and he will continue to make sure you have everything you need, and I assure you he won’t even feel it. The man could buy this city and not feel it.”

  Her attempt at lightheartedness failed, and she took again the no-nonsense tone the younger woman seemed more comfortable with. “Tess, he's not doing this because he thinks he owns you. He's doing it because he feels it's his responsibility. You're here for a purpose, his purpose, and he will provide all means for you to fulfill that purpose. And right now, the means you need are clothes and shoes and purses and makeup and, well, more clothes. So let's go get them.”

  “I wonder that he didn't come with me himself.” Tess had speculated about this since their conversation the previous evening.

  “He thought you wouldn’t feel comfortable with him doing so at such an early stage of your acquaintance. He will if he believes it's required later.”

  “He's a calculated man,” Tess said quietly.

  “You don't become what he is without being calculated. But that doesn't mean he's cold. And the ruthless in him extends only to business.”

  Tess wasn’t anywhere near ready to believe that.

  The Bentley slowed down, and Tess peeked out. They were in Nob Hill, Muriel told her, but that didn’t mean anything to her, although she figured it would soon enough. Their destination appeared to be a three-story building just up ahead. While its ground level boasted a women’s clothing store, made to look fancy and appealin
g, the second floor had a solid appearance more befitting an office building, and so did the third, except for its arched windows that, together with the entire building’s light-colored plated stone cladding, gave it an old-world look. Jackson turned the car right, into a narrow driveway, and drove through to a private car park with an internal entrance to the store. Taking her cue from Muriel, Tess waited while he got out of the car, took a look around him, then opened the door on her side.

  They entered a private hallway with an elevator up, and Tess walked over to a door in the corner and peeked through it into the store. It was huge, with a range of women’s clothes that made her feel dizzy. A swirl of colors, low bodices, daring designs, flowing fabric, sheer, too sheer, she thought with apprehension, and turned away.

  Muriel led her to the elevator, which took them two stories up and opened to reveal a vast space that would have looked more like a large living room, with the sofas and armchairs conveniently placed on the carpeted floor, if not for its numerous mirrors. There wasn’t a piece of clothing in sight, though.

  “This is where the real magic happens,” Muriel explained. “Glimpse the store is the front that these designers use, but up here is the fashion house that caters to the privileged. Here is where they see their clients, work with them, see what fits them and what they want and need. And other fashion houses and designers can also be contacted from here if there’s anything the clients want. And in the floor under us, immediately above the store, that’s where the actual work is done, the preparation of their original designs or the fitting of ordered items. I’ve been with them for years, they’re amazing. If you’ll like them, they’ll become your personal stylists, and everything you wear from now on, whether they make it themselves or send for someone else’s designs because you happen to like them, will go through them.”

  Tess was listening with only half an ear. Her apprehension was growing. The clothes she had seen in the store downstairs were not at all her. They were much too revealing, not nearly what she would be comfortable in, what she could bear to wear. The resistance in her was higher than ever. She would not agree to this. She—