by Thea Devine
"You can be mute as fish all you like," Jeremy went on, ignoring Nicholas' interruptions, "but I think your upper story's to let if you think this danker will pass muster with the ton. Your reputation won't withstand it."
Nicholas shrugged. "Frankly," he said lazily, "I don't care."
"Ah, Nick . . ."
"You're making more of this than needs be. The end-tale is simple: Miss Bowman and I were married by special license directly we left Annesley's party."
"Ah, but Nick—never a word or a sign . . ."
"Surely never a word," Nicholas said satirically. "I wonder why you thought I lifted her out of Brighton."
"I thought you were three sheets to the wind," Jeremy said
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dampingly. "And I blame mother as well. Who should know better than to become embroiled in one of your schemes. She is prostrate, Nick."
"Yet, she was here," Nicholas reminded him cuttingly. "And provided the loan of a ring," he added meaningfully, and Jeremy froze. "So what you must do, Jeremy mine, is merely corroborate that I am married and I am a happy man."
"Annesley don't say that," Jeremy said, because he could not push the disapproval of his mother a step further.
"Well, Annesley appeared last night at a very inopportune time and let no grass grow before he began turning my bedroom into his sanctum and proposing to turn my wife into his abbess. Please, Jeremy—that viper is the least reliable witness on earth and a downy one at that. He mixes trouble and innuendo in lethal doses, but I warn you, neither I nor my wife will sip from his cup of scandal broth. Nor do I recall asking him advice on the how and about of my marriage. He knew nothing, he invaded my house with great incivility at four in the morning, and I leave the rest to your imagination. Are you clear now on that sequence of events, Jeremy?"
"As glass," Jeremy said ungraciously. "And the shock of it reverberates all around London. This ain't a secret to keep between the teeth, Nick. They're going to be on your doorstep, imagining the worst."
"Are they not already?" Nicholas asked, with a nod toward Jeremy himself.
"It's obvious you don't care a farthing for my opinion, Nick. I can take the hint. I hope you ain't headed for a come-down, but that is your lookout." He rose from the table and bowed stiffly to Nicholas. "Nick." And he turned to Jainee. "Lady Southam."
Nicholas began languidly buttering a piece of toast. "How kind of Jeremy to favor me with his company on our wedding day. He does like to air his vocabulary."
Jainee roused herself finally over this disingenuous understatement. "Nonsense, he rang a rare peal over you, my lord, and from all indications it is nothing to what is to come."
"It is nobody's business," Nicholas said, and there was a steely
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note in his voice which caught Jainee like the scrape of a knife against metal.
"Well then, my lord, perhaps you might tell me just what follows next?" she asked caustically.
Nicholas bit into his toast. "Do you know, Diana? I haven't the faintest idea."
******************
It was all of ten o'clock before things calmed down. Coxe popped in, and Mr. Chevrington, and Charles Griswold, all quite curious to see the how of it: Coxe and Chevrington swearing that when they had separately left him the evening before, Nicholas Carradine was not a married man.
"I believe no one ever gave me a chance to make the announcement," Nicholas said chidingly. "Annesley was in his cups and full of fantasy about what he wanted to do with my wife, and the wonder is, gentlemen, that I did not throw him down the stairs. Please pay your respects and remove yourselves so that we may have some peace this morning."
They at least were chastened by Nicholas' unequivocal assertion that they had been married on the heels of their departure from the Annesley home.
Annesley was another matter altogether.
"If you ain't awake on all suits," he said admiringly, clapping
Nicholas on the shoulder and gallantly kissing Jainee's hand. "But you can't fool me, Nick. I was there. You just let Dunstan prattle on and on and then you made your choice for the second go-round."
"My dear Annesley, can anyone stop Uncle Dunstan when he is having a chin session? Especially when he's disguised? Let us leaven this bumble-broth with a spoonful of reality, Max. I left your party with Miss Bowman, as you well know. Indeed, I quit the game early, did I not? Yes. And, if you recall, there was a plausible, if not entirely truthful excuse as to why / was escorting Miss Bowman, and not Jeremy or Lucretia. The rest, my friend, is none of your business except that you were impossibly uncouth that night, and discourteous, uncivil and rag mannered, and
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frankly, Max, I truly didn't think you deserved any explanation for what you found there."
This gentle and rather flaying speech only slowed Annesley down a step. He smelled blood: Nicholas was too talkative, too disdainful.
"Don't try to turn me up sweet, Nick. You know damned well you had not thought of tossing the handkerchief until Dunstan put it in your head."
Nicholas shrugged. "Or perhaps it had already been done, Max, and what was the point of arguing."
"I don't believe you," Annesley said.
"You may ask Dunstan if the Reverend Maynard did not pay us a wedding day call."
"Oh God, Dunstan here already? Came running, did he?"
"To wish us well, of course," Nicholas said gently.
"Ah, Nick —this is a smoke-cloud if ever I saw one, and just to protect your lady-bird against the slings and arrows."
Nicholas got up and walked over to the table by the parlor door, picked up a piece of paper and tossed it negligently right into Annesley's lap.
He read it and for a fleeting second he stiffened and then he flung it down on the sofa beside him. "You can't fob me off with paper, Nick. I know what's what."
"If a man can't read what's before his face, he must be drunk as an emperor, and at ten in the morning. I don't know, Annesley. I think I would advise you to think about marriage yourself. And Charlotte Emerlin would not be a bad choice."
"Oh, you've got starch, Nick, I'll say that for you," Annesley said angrily. "But I promise you, I have more than one string in my bow: I'll get to the truth, damn if I won't."
"But why must you?" Nicholas asked gently.
And Annesley turned to stare at Jainee, who was huddled in the corner of the sofa opposite where he sat. His face was set and he reached for his hat.
"I'll tell you why, old son. Because I wanted her for myself."
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She was exhausted. It was not yet noon, and Marie had not arrived, so she could take no relief in changing her clothes so that she could at least move around in company. No, she must sit primly in the corner minding her manners and tamping down on her temper and wondering exactly what she had gotten herself into.
Had she truly felt she had had no choice in the matter of saving Lucretia's reputation? Or had she just been swept away by the event of the moment and the force of his conviction?
Whatever it was, she was leg-shackled for life. Or she could disappear just like her father and never give it a second thought.
Lady Southam: so well known now that no one could sneak up behind her in the depths of the night with murder on his mind.
So well known now that even her father must pause to consider the consequences of such an action. So well known that the haunting shadows that moved in the night would totally disappear.
Who had gained the benefit from this marriage, she thought ruefully. Southam was stuck with her while she harvested the advantage from his protection and his name. Therese would have been proud of her. The best way to love them is to strike a bargain with them . . .
Or perhaps that stricture had been knit into the fabric of her being before she had ever been aware of a father and her disillusioned mother.
Whatever it was, it was true, for despite all the gains on her side, Southam was still free to do as he would and there was no way she co
uld stop him.
It was ever so with a man, she reflected as she watched him stare into the fireplace from her corner of the sofa. The next party might well find him ensconced in another sanctum with another knot of willing women by his side.
That was marriage; her duty was to get him an heir, and she understood very well all about that.
She narrowed her gaze speculatively as Southam picked up their marriage lines and stared at the paper as if he had never seen it before. 361
Yes, things were different now. Her life would be subject to the will and the whims of Nicholas Carradine and she could have no say in his own: he might go anywhere and do anything he pleased.
Well, we shall see, she thought, we shall see. She still held an ace in hand—the liberating symbol of the Lady in Black, whom she had thought never to resurrect again. But maybe, she thought, just maybe—depending on how closely Southam meant to confine her—she might spend that card again.
******************
And finally, Marie arrived, just in time to save her from falling asleep on the sofa.
"But which room?" she asked in bewilderment as she caught sight of the long wagon train of trunks and suitcases strung along the steps to the second floor.
"My mother's room connects with mine," Nicholas said, hiding his dismay at the generosity Lucretia had displayed with his largesse. "You may closet your wardrobe in there, but you will sleep with me."
She saw immediately why she had noticed no door in his room: his clothes-press was backed up against it, and it had to be moved before the trunks were brought to the adjoining room.
This operation required three footmen under Trenholm's direction, and a subsequent rearrangement of the bedroom furniture in order to accommodate the clothes press, which then usurped the space taken by the washstand, which necessitated the bed being moved to find a place for it.
In the end, the clock had struck two by the time she and Marie were able to unpack the trunks. Marie was so excited, she could barely hold a dress steady to hang it.
"Mademoiselle—madame ... my lady: such news, and to be among the first to hear it! How clever you are, madame, how subtle. All will be well now, eh? You need not fear for anything and your search will go on."
Her search—yes, her search. Her father was found, she knew she had confided that much in Marie, but the rest ... oh, she was so tired, so drained from taking this irrevocable step.
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Southam would make no demands on her: somehow she knew it. She climbed into the beautiful gilded bed that had been his mother's and drifted off to sleep.
******************
He awaited the morning newspapers, thankful that she was occupied elsewhere. He had the peculiar and unconscious sense that everything was fixed now, ordered, and that she could never leave him now, no matter what the provocation.
But her presence in his house did not engender a sense of peace; rather, he felt edgy, prickly; she was not a comfortable woman. She was one about whom he would always be wondering what she might do next.
She was a one who would twist circumstances to her need. Clever. Apt. Daring. All the things that had made the jaded bucks of London want to fall at her feet. And all the reasons he had wanted to contain her.
"My lord?"
Trenholm, bearing a tray full of papers: The Post, The Chronicle, The Times ... he made sure they were all there, and he lifted out The Chronicle and began to read.
The columnists were not kind. The news had spread in a minute; the wonder was, there was that much detail.
What much-courted nobleman, favored by the gods from childhood on, has now taken fate into his own hands and secretly wed the Fashionable of the moment and precipitously snatched her from the hands of her devoted admirers? A marriage of convenience? Of love? Or of expediency? Only the parson knows for certain. Suffice it to say that my Lord has never come up to scratch heretofore. So, why now?
That was The Chronicle, condescending as ever. But The Post was no better.
The elusive lord and the fast and flashy arriviste: a match
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to be reckoned with between the pages of a lurid romance novel, but surely not as the first on-dit of the Season. Town is agog with the news of the secret alliance between his evasive lordship and the bedizened "lady" whom all men desired. The wonder is his lordship fell for it—or perhaps he was tripped?
He threw the paper aside and reached for The Times, but the informant, whoever it was, had not gotten there in time. The sole item of interest surrounded speculation about the mysterious lady who had attended the evening at Lady Badlington's and had played impressively and with skill.
And of course, there were the requisite several lines about Annesley's party and a coy reference to the games behind the scenes, which had been omitted from the previous two papers.
Annesley would be green that his party had been relegated to five lines in one column. But that it had been mentioned was enough: the tit-tattlers were everywhere, and if they could not sell to one paper, they would take some silver at the next.
And they were sharp: nothing got by them—which meant that he must see to returning Lucretia's ring before someone noticed. And he also must send a formal announcement to The Times.
There were invitations to reconsider, although he rather thought he would receive notes remedying that and including Jainee, even at the last moment.
Above all, he thought, he must not forget his primary objective with her: this marriage did not negate the quest which he had undertaken two years ago. A traitor existed, and he played among them and was considered one of them, and he had sworn to root him out.
It was the one thing of which he must reassure his uncle. Nothing had changed. The marriage would not interfere. It would be as if nothing had happened. The game would go on.
"At long last, a moment alone," he said whimsically as he seated her at the long dining room table and took a seat directly
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across from her rather than at the other end of the table. "Surely you have some engagement or other tonight," Jainee said tentatively—or was she hoping? She could not imagine what would happen next. For the first time she felt tentative and awkward. The ring constricted her finger, reminding her, taunting . her—she had made another bargain, and this time she might not come away the winner. She did not know how to share with another human being. She knew how to take care of and she knew how to take action. She knew nothing of a life of leisure and grace where the days were filled with pretty pursuits and gossipy visits with friends, and parties or theater at night.
"Not tonight," Nicholas said. "I have sent round notes cancelling tonight and one other engagement later on in the week. We dine ΰ deux and we will talk, nothing more."
"But there is nothing to say: Lady Waynflete's reputation has been saved, yours has been ruined and mine has been elevated to heaven," Jainee said testily. "And now I must learn how to . . . to-"
"To be a Lady Southam," he interpolated, "as opposed to lady anything else. Dear Diana—it is time to be mortal."
"All in aid of preserving appearances," she put in stringently.". "And now look where we sit."
"But nothing has changed, Diana, except that now you are with me and Lucretia can no longer complain."
"And so I will be a target for every disappointed virgin in the whole of London. Yes, I should say nothing has changed."
"Exactly my point. The only difference is that you cannot go around tempting all your former acolytes."
"Indeed?" she said coolly. "What may I do, pray?"
"I have not thought so far ahead as that."
"But I have, and the future looks dismal."
"Then I shall have to keep you entertained, Diana. Perhaps the
ongoing search for your father will occupy some of your time.
You have now had another go-around in the upper strata whose
behavior is more like the lower orders; is there nothing to report?"
Was the
re a little flicker of acknowledgement behind her eyes?
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"Nothing," she said firmly, on sure ground now because the ultimatum was obviously negated. "And what of your threats and promises, my lord?"
"Oh, I daresay the punishment fits the crime, Diana," he said as Trenholm entered, followed by the first footman bearing a loaded tray. "We are married, are we not? There is a prison if ever there were one."
******************
There was a different kind of tension between them now: they were distant with each other, polite, wary. The powerful sensuality between them became tempered by a kind of circumspect circling of each other, as if they were sniffing out weaknesses, misrepresentations, lies.
They had had their wedding night, Jainee thought ruefully as she tucked herself into the bedroom of his mother yet another night alone. And he had done everything up just right: she could not cavil.
He had sent the formal notice of their marriage to The Times so after that first flurry of disbelief, no one could gainsay him.
He had given her the wherewithal to replace Lucretia's ring with one of her own choice which she had presented to him solemnly and with unusual formality.
He had taken her to visit the patronesses of importance: Lady Ottershaw and Lady Jane Griswold; they who had championed her to begin with would continue to observe the niceties if she only played her part, he told her.
She did not know how to be meek, but she did understand how to be gracious. They could not comprehend how Lucretia thought she was brassy or unsuitable.
They went to the theater and to Bagnigge Wells. He bought her a subscription to the lending library and took her on rides around the park so they could be seen, but never did he suggest they go one foot near the place she most wanted to be: Lady Badlington's gaming house.