Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  “I … I … lied!” Garvey’s voice, somewhere between a snarl and a sob, rose higher. “Damn you, Strand! You have it! I—lied!” He turned, thrust his way through the shocked crowd, and was gone.

  * * *

  Walking slowly down the steps of The Madrigal, very conscious of the eyes that watched from every window, Strand knew victory to be a cheap and hollow thing, and all his dreams like so many autumn leaves, dead and withered, scattering to the four winds. So many men had been eager to buy him a glass of brandy, to offer him their congratulations after Garvey’s dramatic defeat. Even old Smythe-Carrington, making his majestic way across the room, had said a stentorian, “Well done, m’dear fellow. Must protect honour—’t’all costs. What?” and amid a chorus of endorsement, rumbled off again. Bolster, who had been one of those so tensely watching from the doorway, glanced at the set smile on the pale features beside him, and uttered, “All m-my fault. Very bad.”

  “No such thing.” Strand waved to Owsley and Hughes as they climbed into a brougham and drove away. “And you’ve my apologies for going off without you this morning.”

  Bolster gave a dismissing gesture. “Should have w-warned you. B-beastly mess!”

  “It is.” Strand glowered. “I wish to God he’d agreed to meet me.”

  “Much b-b- safer,” Bolster concurred. “He’s ruined, of c-course. You’ve made a dangerous enemy, poor fellow. Gad! But he was r-raving!”

  “Cannot blame him,” Clay pointed out glumly, coming up looking very gallant in his regimentals, with the pelisse slung across his shoulders. “Sanguinet properly forced him to his knees, and you all but stepped on his face, Justin.”

  “When I would so much sooner have blown his head off,” muttered Strand savagely.

  Clay met Bolster’s eyes, and glancing up in time to see that meaningful exchange, Strand added, “You’re thinking the situation would more likely have been reversed.” He shrugged and, striving for a cheerful smile, informed them that he had learned a few things whilst in India.

  “Have you perhaps learned how to mix a better bowl of punch than that hideous concoction we used to brew up at school?” asked Clay, also trying to be cheerful despite a heavy sense of foreboding.

  “I have!” Strand slipped a hand through his arm. “And you and Jeremy shall come home with me, while I—” He stopped. Lisette would be at home. He could not face the treachery of his beautiful wife; not now. The wounds were too raw.

  Bolster saw the suddenly stern look. “B-better not,” he advised, taking Strand’s other arm. “Cook there. Dreadful dragons, co-cooks. Now, at my place, we’ll be undisturbed.”

  Strand threw him a grateful smile. “Ryder Street it is, then. And I’ll brew you a punch you will never forget.”

  Clay cheered and hailed a passing hackney, and they all three piled inside.

  * * *

  Having changed into a peach velvet gown with tiny pearl buttons down the bodice, Lisette allowed Denise to arrange her hair in a soft and feminine style that she knew Strand admired. By two o’clock he had still not put in an appearance, and she dared not venture out-of-doors until she knew just what to expect, so she lunched alone in the breakfast parlour, listening to the rain patter against the windows and wondering where he was, and what was happening. Her appetite was poor. She ate sparingly, then wandered into the book room where the fire was well established. The novel she selected could not hold her attention. One horrible scene after another rose before her mind’s eye so that she scarcely saw the printed page. Suppose Strand was jeered at wherever he went. That swift temper of his would flare, to Lord knows what effect! Suppose he guessed that Beatrice was responsible and drove straight to Somerset to challenge poor William? He would slaughter that gentle creature, beyond doubting! The very thought of such a disastrous train of events made her blood run cold.

  Shortly after three o’clock she heard the door knocker and tensed, straining her ears. She could not detect Strand’s brisk voice, nor the quick, light step. Still, her heart jumped with nervousness when the door opened. It was only Morse, bringing the salver to her, and she took up the card it held, irritated and determining that she would not be at home to any tabby who had braved this wet afternoon to sniff out whatever juicy morsel she might let slip. The card was inscribed “Miss Amanda Hersh,” and, brightening, Lisette desired that her caller be shown in, and that tea be served.

  She stood when Amanda entered and said a welcoming, “Good afternoon. How charmingly you look in that green gown, and how very kind in you to come and see me. Pray sit here beside the fire, it is so chill for this time of year.”

  She was mildly surprised when Amanda, her little face deeply distressed, seized her hand between both her own and said in a tragic rush of words, “I came as soon as I heard. Oh you cannot know how sorry I am you must be fairly retort and so soon after you are wed my poor poor soul!”

  Lisette blinked and, drawing Amanda to sit on the sofa beside her, said, “I am humiliated, of course, but—”

  Amanda breathed an astonished, “Humiliated? Good heavens!”

  She looked quite shocked. Flushing, Lisette said, “I should have said ‘ashamed,’ I suspect. Is it not ghastly that such tales are—” She trailed into silence, for Amanda was regarding her with stark horror. Frightened, she demanded, “Mandy, what is it?”

  “Oh, my!” cried Amanda, wringing her hands. “I was sure Strand would have told you by this time of the incantation at The Madrigal I did not think to be the one to have to tell you.”

  In a detached way, Lisette thought, She must mean confrontation, and felt for a moment as though she were wrapped inside a glacier.

  “I am truly sorry,” Amanda faltered, “but after what Mr. Garvey said Strand had no choice, and—”

  “Garvey?” Lisette croaked. “Wh-where? When?”

  “This morning. I am staying with my godmother Lady Carden you know and Lucian my cousin came and said it was a great pity Strand had not a whip in his hand.”

  Gaining some control over her numbed lips, Lisette asked threadily, “What happened?”

  “Oh! Do not ask!” Amanda pressed her hands to hot cheeks. “Indeed I dare not repeat—”

  Despite a flaring surge of anxiety and impatience, Lisette managed to be calm. “I know how difficult it must be for you, but I beg you, Mandy. If you are truly my friend, tell me.”

  “I am indeed your friend, Lisette.” Amanda clasped her hand, her gentle eyes moist with sympathy. “I will never forget how kind you were to me and Strand also was so good and I know Lucian thinks him a jolly good fellow for he said so which he don’t always about every man.” Not appearing in the least short of breath after this scrambled utterance, she folded her hands in her lap and, fixing her green eyes on them, began, “Lucian says that Mr. Garvey was remarking how much he cares for you and that you care for him also.” She heard Lisette gasp but, not daring to pause, swept on in her rushed fashion. “He laughed and said that you had given Strand a—a run for his money because you cared for him, Garvey I mean.” Expecting a shriek or even a swoon, she slanted a fearful glance at Lisette and saw her sitting rigidly, staring at the fire, her face without colour, her eyes wide but not tearful.

  After a moment, Lisette asked in a far-away voice, “And—my husband heard all this?”

  “Yes and Lucian says he was absolutely splendid and threw a full glass of wine in Garvey’s face!”

  “Dear … God!” whispered Lisette, closing her eyes.

  “Oh my heavens!” Amanda wailed, throwing an arm about her. “Do not swoon, please!”

  Clinging to her, dreading the answer she must receive, Lisette whispered, “When do they meet? Did Strand have the choice of weapons? Yes—he must, of course. But he has no chance, Mandy. No chance at all! Oh, merciful—”

  “Stop! Stop!” Quite unnerved, Amanda said, “There is not going to be a duel for another man was there and stopped it and I cannot recall his name but he was French and Lucian said he seemed to exert gre
at influence over Mr. Garvey and Lucian dislikes him very much and says he is a menace which does not seem quite fair since he stopped the duel, does it?”

  “No.” Pressing a hand to her brow, Lisette tried to think. “Could it have been a Monsieur Sanguinet, perchance?”

  “It was! How clever of you to guess and who would think anyone could make Mr. Garvey draw back from a duel when everyone knows he is such a dead—” She bit back the rest of that observation in the nick of time, and went on hurriedly, “But he did and Lucian said Garvey was so outraged he thought him like to have a seizure and went roaring off cursing like a bull! Garvey I mean not my dear Lucian.”

  Morse entered at this point, followed by a neat maid carrying a tray with the impedimenta for the tea ritual. Smiling mechanically, Lisette manipulated teapot, cream, and sugar, her thoughts in chaos and one dread fear uppermost: Strand must be mad with rage and humiliation. He certainly would attempt to trace the rumour to its source. Whatever would he say when he learned the source was her own sister?

  * * *

  At precisely the same time that Amanda was closeted with Lisette, two other meetings were taking place in rainy London Town. The first of these was held in the cosy parlour of Bolster’s lodgings in Ryder Street; a fragrant parlour, due to Strand’s precision with such things as a steaming bowl, lemon peel, and cloves. By reason of that same bowl, now set on a trivet in the hearth, it had for a time been a merry parlour, but now Clay was dozing in his chair, and conversation had become desultory. Bolster was still pondering the one problem, and Strand, his brow deeply furrowed, his brain clouded with the fumes of the potent brew, stared at his glass, seeing again Lisette’s small hand resting so fondly in Garvey’s clasp, her glorious eyes smiling up at the man; hearing Garvey sneer, “… she tells me she is his wife in name only … she returns my affection as fully.”

  Bolster muttered, “Women! They’re the very devil, dear old boy. You’re perfectly contented until they come into your life and show you how much more wonderful it could be—and then, dashed if they don’t turn around and take it all away!”

  “Jeremy,” said Strand, “you’re drunk. Y’never stammer when y’drunk. Why’s that, d’you s’pose?”

  The mystery held Bolster’s attention for some moments. “Don’t know,” he admitted at last. “Y’right though. P’raps I’d best stay drunk all the time, eh?”

  “Good idea. I’ll join you. Drink up, ol’ fella.” Strand lurched over to the bowl to refill their glasses. He spilled considerable of his first ladleful, a feat that made them both laugh so much there was no point in again attempting it until they were able to stop chortling. He managed the task eventually, by which time they both were seated on the rug before the hearth. Strand saluted Bolster gravely with the ladle, put it aside, and remarked that the more he thought on it, the better the idea seemed.

  “What idea?” asked Bolster, blinking at him owlishly.

  “Why, t’join you. When y’go to—to Europe with ol’ Mitch Redmond.”

  Bolster lay down on the rug and howled with mirth. Propping himself on one elbow, he peered at Strand, who was watching him approvingly, and said a succinct, “Went.”

  “Y’did?” Strand frowned, digesting this. “Y’mean—y’already back? ’Magine that! Clay, ol’ fella, d’you know Bolster’s back? He don’t answer, Jerry. Why won’t he answer? Don’t want to talk to th’ laughingstock, eh, Marcus?” And awareness knifing through the fog, he drew a hand across his brow and sat hunched over and silent.

  Bolster placed a consoling hand on that bowed shoulder. “Should have done as I told you,” he pointed out with a slight hiccup. “Never fails. Worked f’me.” He sighed. “For a while.… Why don’t we go to Africa? Might get eaten by lion, course. Or elephant. Do elephants eat people, d’you know, Strand?”

  “I did try it,” muttered Strand, rather lost in the maze of his friend’s monologue. “Took me an age, but—waste. She—she never even owned she saw it.”

  “Oh,” said Bolster, his hazel eyes filling with tears. “Thass so sad, ol’ sportsman. I—can’t bear it!”

  Clay opened one eye, failed to locate his friends, stood, and promptly fell over them. When the hilarity over this feat had died down, he sat on the carpet with them and told them sternly, if indistinctly, that they were both thoroughly foxed. Their vociferous indignation did not convince him. “Must be,” he said judicially. “Stands t’reason. You wouldn’t be sitting on the floor was you sober. ’Sides, y’can’t go anywhere, Strand. Not now.”

  “C’n go anywhere I want!” Strand flared. “Oh, you think m’wife would ’ject? Well—” he bent closer and leered confidingly—“when I come home after my li’l trip to Sil’vrings, she said—y’know what she said? She said I’d perfect right t’come an’ go as—chose. So I choose to—go ’way.” Having delivered himself of which, he curled up on the floor and went to sleep.

  Clay said solemnly, “He don’t know how t’handle women. Never did, Jerry. Silly fella should’ve told Lisette th’ truth. She’s spoiled on ’count of being so pretty, an’ awful high in th’ instep, but she’s a good heart, y’know.”

  Bolster thought about this for a while, then offered, “No. Couldn’t’ve. I couldn’t. Could you? Under circumstances?”

  “’Course I could!” Clay paused, then amended slowly, “Well, p’raps not, but you ask me, ol’ Justin got just’s much pride as lovely Lisette. An’—” He swung around, waving an emphatic finger, only to find he’d lost Bolster again. Relocating him, comfortably settled with his head and shoulders propped against Strand’s back, Clay bent and went on, “’Nother thing—that r’dic’lous business with Garvey—”

  “Gad!” Bolster opened drowsy eyes. “Wasn’t it famous to see his high an’ mightiness back down like that? Wonder I didn’t—laugh out loud.”

  “Mus’n laugh at James Garvey!” Clay warned. “Matter of fact, Jerry, been thinking. You’d best keep an eye on ol’ Justin. Garvey’s not th’ type to let this go, an’ Justin ain’t thinking clearly jus’ now.”

  Bolster yawned. “Glad to. You goin’ t’keep eye … s’well, Marcus?”

  “Wish I could, but—” Clay shrugged wryly—“got to go to Horse Guards. P’raps next time, Jerry. P’raps next time…”

  * * *

  The third meeting involved only two gentlemen. It was quieter than either of the others, but by far the more deadly.

  Claude Sanguinet was one of those present. Apparently engrossed in the cuticles of his right hand, he was seated in a comfortable Sheraton chair in the sumptuous suite he maintained year round in London’s luxurious Clarendon Hotel.

  James Garvey was the other occupant of the room. Standing with one shoulder propped against the mantel, his brooding gaze on the leaping flames of the fire, he waited through a long silence, then, flinging around, demanded harshly, “Well? You had me brought here. Say what you want, and be done!”

  “Why, my dear James,” Sanguinet answered in the French he invariably resorted to in private, “you were not obliged to obey my—er—summons, did you not so desire.”

  “The devil I wasn’t! That peasant, Shotten, would likely have rammed a knife under my ribs had I refused.”

  Claude smiled. “He is a loyal soul.”

  “A soul is something he knows as little of as do you know loyalty! You humbled me today, Claude! Forced me to my knees in front of half London. And after all I’ve done for you! Tell me of loyalty!”

  “But, my dear friend”—Sanguinet waved a languid hand—“you brought it on yourself. Has it become good ton in London for a gentleman to so publicly repeat the confidences of a lady—and with her unfortunate husband present?”

  “Justin Strand ain’t begun to know what ‘unfortunate’ means!” snarled Garvey, his handsome features twisting to a singularly ugly expression. “This is no lightskirt we speak of, Sanguinet! I want the girl. And I mean to have her!”

  “Over his—ah—dead body?” Sanguinet prompted, amused.

>   “I had rather he was alive to see it, but—damn his soul!—yes! From the moment I saw Lisette Van Lindsay I knew she was born to be my wife. He stole her from me, not by his charm, and not by reason of her love, for she despises the clod! But because—damme how it galls!—because his was the larger fortune!”

  Sanguinet chuckled. “You might, I believe, have dispensed with the adjective.”

  His fists clenching, Garvey scowled at the elegance of the Frenchman. “It was large, until you ruined me, just as you ruined Rupert Strand! I wonder does his son know of it.”

  “Do you know, James,” purred Sanguinet, “almost, you bore me. If you chose to gamble and lose in one or two of the clubs I chance to own, that is scarcely to be laid at my door. Did I not help when you were desperate? Did I not provide you with home, servants, all the luxuries of the fine gentleman?—which, I may add, you are not, my James.” He laughed, his light brown eyes shining as they met Garvey’s murderous glare. “We suit, dear my friend. You have the useful connections. You can open those certain doors in London to which I require admittance. And I—I have the bottomless purse. We suit. It is the satisfactory arrangement.”

  “It did not suit me this afternoon! But for your interference I could have called out that brown-faced cit and removed him from my path.”

  “Cit? Surely, you are too harsh, my dear. But I collect you crave an exercise for your so renowned marksmanship. A ball straight to the heart, no?”

  “No. When the time comes I shall place my shot through the liver, I think. With luck, it will take Strand a week to die.”

  His eyes suddenly icy, Sanguinet came to his feet. “Brutality disgusts me. Even when my loved brother Parnell was alive, some of his traits—” He broke off abruptly.

  Seething, Garvey did not dare to speak his rage and instead goaded slyly, “Do you tell me then that you bear no malice toward Tristram Leith, after he ran off with your intended bride? That you plan no vengeance?”