“My plans are not to be shared with you.” Sanguinet’s dark head lowered, and when he raised it the look in the brown eyes that glittered from under his brows brought a dryness to Garvey’s mouth. “I will tell you that this insult, it shall be dealt with. In time. But it is a matter not to be compared to your puny bunglings. I am no ordinary man, Garvey. This fact it would behoove you to remember. Always.”
Garvey knew a nervous impulse to laugh, but one did not laugh at Claude Sanguinet, especially not while that strange red gleam lit his eyes. He was mad, egocentric, and totally ruthless, but as deadly as Garvey was, he knew himself puny indeed, by comparison, wherefore his eyes fell and he was silent.
His mood changing in one of those inexplicable shifts that more than anything else had convinced Garvey the man rightly belonged in Bedlam, Sanguinet said amiably, “As to Strand, mon ami, do whatsoever you will.”
“But—you said…”
“Mon Dieu! Am I so abstruse? If you wish the fool destroyed—destroy him. But I am known to have been wronged by the family, and you are known to be my friend. I can afford no further breath of scandal. I must remain the injured party. So it is that there must be no possible way of connecting you—and thereby me—to the foolish little affair. Were you wise, my James, you would simply hire an assassin. Lord knows there are sufficient available.”
Garvey scowled. “No. It must be by my own hand.”
“As you wish. But I shall make myself very clear. Because of this Leith I am delayed. It will take me now many months, perhaps, before my plans against this so foolish government of yours, they come to fruition. I do not permit, James, that these plans be jeopardized, nor even slightly flawed, by reason of the lust … the clumsiness … of one man.” His voice a purring caress, Sanguinet raised one hand gracefully, and asked, “Is understood?”
For a moment Garvey stared at him in silence. Then his tight lips relaxed into a grin. “Is understood.”
Chapter 13
Whatever criticisms may have been levelled at Lisette Strand, that of disinterest in the problems of her friends had never been among them. Despite her own anxieties, she had become extremely fond of Amanda, and walking with her towards the front door, she murmured, “I simply do not see why you must feel so unworthy. Surely, everyone knows that Winfield is only your half-brother. From what St. Clair told me, you were never close, and nobody holds his crimes over your head. To break poor Bolster’s heart for such a reason seems—”
Amanda halted and turned to face her. “He is a peer,” she said miserably. “His family goes back—oh, farther than the Conqueror and people might sympathize now Lisette but what if Winfield should—hang and they say he will what then?”
Her own rigid standards rearing their heads, Lisette ignored them and said stoutly, “If Jeremy cares not, that should be enough. Indeed, Amanda, the poor soul looks so disheartened. I wish you will reconsider.”
“I cannot,” Amanda sighed. “Only I cannot really hope that while he is across the sea he will find someone else and—and forget me. Oh do you think he will?”
“No, of course not, you silly goose. But is he leaving again, so soon? He has said nothing of it.”
Amanda gave a gasp. “Has—said? He—is back? Jeremy is in England?”
“Good gracious! Did you not know?” Lisette cast a rather vexed glance at the front door. The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rainy skies having already darkened to the point that candles and lamps had been lighted. From outside came the sounds of revelry; one gathered that some gentlemen were considerably inebriated, probably as a result of a prolonged and convivial luncheon. She was about to instruct the lackey not to open the door until the drunkards had passed by when, to her annoyance, the man sprang to life and flung the door wide.
Singing uproariously, but not felicitously, since each warbled a different ballad, Strand and Bolster reeled into the hall.
Lisette’s relief was mingled with irritation. Amanda dropped her reticule and, with a little yelp of fright, stood motionless.
Swaying uncertainly, Strand peered at his wife. He drew himself up, bowed low, almost fell, but recovered. “Hail, madam wife,” he enunciated thickly. “I am … quite ’toxicated. When sober I—shall bid you farewell.” He reached out gropingly, and the butler sprang to support him. Strand gestured to the stairs.
“Wait!” cried Lisette. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Africa. Jerry ’n me. T’be eaten. C’mon, old f’la.” And he reeled off, singing heartily into the amused butler’s ear.
Lisette glared after him. All her worrying! All her fears and anxieties! A perfectly horrid afternoon, and he had come home in this revolting condition!
At the foot of the stairs, Strand flung up a peremptory hand, and Morse assisted him to turn around. “’Minds me,” he said. “I shall have some caps t’pull with you, ma’am.” He started off, paused once more and flung over his shoulder, “Whole … damn hat shop, ’n fact!” This reduced him to imbecility, apparently, and he negotiated the stairs giggling hilariously.
Throughout this brief interlude, Amanda had trembled before Bolster, and his lordship, much less inebriated than his host, had stood in mute shock before her. At last, his voice returning, he croaked, “Mandy … Mandy…”
“Jeremy,” she replied yearningly, then rushed on, “I did not know you was here else I’d not have come I hope you are well I must go.”
He leapt to snatch up her reticule and, clutching it to his breast, gulped, “No. I’m not. I’m drunk. But when I’m drunk I can speak, so I’m going to beg—to implore you to wed me, my dearest girl. You know how I adore you. Please, Mandy. Without you—” he shrugged eloquently—“there ain’t nothing, ’t’all.”
Amanda pressed one hand to her lips, but shook her head.
He glanced around. Lisette was nowhere in sight; they were quite alone. Dropping rather weavingly to one knee, he stretched forth a hand beseechingly. “Mandy, you must. I cannot live like this. And you, my sweet love, you are not happy.”
“Happy! Oh Jeremy I cannot I will not ruin your life, if I must I will run away and hide do not ask goodbye.” And staying for neither hat, umbrella, nor cloak, she ran out into the rain and to her barouche which was just pulling up on the flagway.
Bolster knelt there in the hall, Amanda’s dainty reticule still clutched to his bosom. Then he sprang up and reeled after her.
* * *
Lord Bolster, having summoned up a passing hackney in order to pursue his beloved, did not return that evening. Strand failed to put in an appearance at the dinner table, but Lisette was joined by Norman and Judith. They obviously had not yet heard of the incident at The Madrigal and, postponing a discussion of that unhappy development, Lisette told them her husband was engaged with friends but that she hoped he would return before it was time for them to leave. Norman was eager to discuss their visit to Lord Wetherby, which was to take place on the following morning, and Judith was anxious to secure Strand’s approval of a swatch of fabric she had obtained while shopping that day. Lisette’s opinion was sought, and her endorsement noted but without much enthusiasm, it being very apparent that Strand had become Judith’s oracle in matters pertaining to fashion, failing the presence of Miss Wallace, who, having contracted a heavy cold, had been left in Sussex. The evening slipped away, Norman and Judith said their farewells and were driven back to Portland Place, and still there was no sign of Strand. Lisette resigned herself to waiting until the following day to hear what had transpired at The Madrigal. It was, she decided, as well, since it was unlikely that he would recover to the point of being able to converse coherently with anyone.
She accepted her candle from Morse, bade him good night, and went slowly upstairs, pondering the events of this unpleasant day. It was beyond belief that a man as well bred as James Garvey should have been so vulgar as to bandy her name about in a gentleman’s club, especially in so crude a fashion. How she would ever again be able to walk out in public
, she could not think. The shock had obviously been sufficient to drive Strand into a bout of heavy drinking—a typical male reaction! One might suppose he would instead have had the kindness to come home and warn her of the rumours that had been spread about them. With her hand on the doorknob, she knew a pang of guilt. Poor Strand. Here she was feeling hardly done by, when he must have suffered the greater blow of hearing it in so public a way. No wonder he had challenged Garvey. Yet how strange that Garvey had apologized in such craven fashion, and why on earth should Claude Sanguinet have intervened? From all she’d heard one would think he would joyfully have encouraged a duel that must certainly have seen Justin slain. She shivered at the thought and hurried into her parlour. There was no sign of Denise, who usually sat before the fire in the evening, reading or sewing, and Lisette walked across to open her bedchamber door, calling, “Denise? Are you—”
Strand rose from the armchair beside the fire. “She is gone to bed, madam,” he said coldly. “You shall have to do without her tonight, I fear.”
He had changed into a smoking jacket of dark blue velvet and had discarded his cravat, his shirt lying open at the throat and very white against his bronzed skin. He appeared quite recovered from his earlier disgusting condition; he must, of course, have enjoyed at least five hours of sound sleep since he had returned home, but anger radiated from him, the brilliant eyes seemed to hurl fury, the lips were thin and tight, the jaw a fierce jut. Suddenly apprehensive, Lisette wished he had slept until morning.
“That is of no importance, Strand,” she said, coming quickly into the room and closing the door behind her. “What a dreadful day you have had. I have heard a little of it, and am so thankful you are not to go out with Garvey, for I—”
“How touching,” he rasped, his eyes glinting ever more unpleasantly. “Were you so concerned for my welfare, ma’am, you’d have done well to keep your tongue between your teeth.”
Lisette’s jaw sagged momentarily. “Wh-what? Do you dare to imply—”
“No, madam. I imply nothing. I state that your vulgar and irresponsible gabbling has caused one man to be ridiculed throughout London, and the honour of another to be hopelessly fouled! I trust you are well pleased.”
For an instant she was quite powerless to reply and simply stood there, all but gaping at him. Then, she said in strangled voice, “You dare … you dare to believe I would have spread such—such crudities?”
“If report errs,” he sneered, “if you did not in fact vaunt abroad your cleverness in having kept me at arm’s length through most of our so-called honeymoon, perhaps you will tell me who else might have done so. And why!”
“I need tell you nothing!” Lisette raged. “But had I spread such revolting gossip, can you suppose I would have been so noble as to have omitted all mention of your—your bird of paradise, or whatever it is you call such?”
Strand’s eyes widened. “Bird of— The devil! So that’s it! The incalculably superior Lisette Van Lindsay Strand guessed her unworthy husband had left her for another woman! Oho! How that insufferable pride of yours must have been hurt! And thus you thought to teach me a lesson, did you, ma’am?”
“After the disgusting boasts you made before we were wed,” she retaliated furiously, “I doubt there is anything I could teach you! In vulgarity, at least!”
“I cannot be responsible for the gabblemongering of a set of women! I will admit you have surprised me, however. And what could be more vulgar than that revolting little flirtation you engaged in with Garvey this—”
“Vile!” Trembling with wrath, Lisette snarled, “Despicable creature!”
“A poor defence, ma’am! I said you had surprised me. It was because I fancied you had eyes for a worthier man, but I should have known when I saw you hanging breathless on Garvey’s lips this morning, that—”
Crouching, livid, she hissed, “That … what…?”
“That right under my nose you have been conducting a sordid affaire! And that—no matter how intimate—every incident that transpired between us, was at once whispered into his eager ear! For shame, madam! If this is a sample of the famous Van Lindsay breeding—”
“Peasant!” she screeched, in a voice that would have stunned her grandmother. “Foul—loathsome—money-grubbing nabob!”
Strand was livid with rage. His eyes narrowed, their expression so threatening as to have daunted a lesser girl as he stepped towards her.
Lisette was far too infuriated to be daunted. She sprang at him, one hand flashing upward to be seized in a grip of iron, but the other eluding his grasp. He jerked his face away, but her sharp nails raked across his ear and down his throat.
Strand grabbed her flying wrist and rasped out a pithy sentence in Tamil which it was as well she did not understand. The sight of the crimson streaks she had inflicted sobered her, and the glare in his eyes was frightening.
Fear came too late. Strand had lived a nightmare this day. He had been publicly shamed, derided and, immeasurably worse, betrayed by the very lady he idolized. Lisette’s attack was the last straw. Scourged by disillusion and with his head throbbing brutally by reason of the afternoon’s excesses, he thoroughly lost his temper. For the first time, Lisette felt the full strength of him as she was swept up in arms that were more like steel bands. She uttered a shriek as he sat on the end of the bed, swung her face down across his knees, and reached across to seize the hairbrush from her dressing table.
“By God!” he snarled through set teeth. “It is past time someone taught you a lesson, you spoiled, prideful little snob!”
Kicking and struggling, beating her fists wildly against his leg, Lisette squealed, “Do not dare!”
For answer, he held her with crushing force and brought her hairbrush whizzing down. Lisette heard the whack more than she felt the pain. Her eyes grew as big as saucers; her mouth fell open. Never in her life had she encountered uncontrolled fury. Never in her life had she been really spanked. She experienced both now. Six times that hairbrush rose and fell, and at the finish she was sobbing with rage and humiliation and pain.
White as death, past caring, Strand stood up so that she collapsed in a heap at his feet. Glaring down at her, he said breathlessly, “Do you ever claw me again, madam tabby, you will get twice that treatment! And do you ever breathe one word of our personal relationship to anyone save your immediate family, you will really feel my wrath!”
“Beast…” she sobbed. “Savage! You s-speak of Garvey with—with contempt, but he would never treat me … s-so.”
“Then it is as well you’re wed to me and not to him. And wed you are!”
“Bought is—is what you mean. Bought and p-paid for!”
She crouched on hands and knees, tears streaking her cheeks, her great eyes filled with hurt and shock; and the enormity of what he had done penetrated his anger at last. He still held the hairbrush and now flung it from him with such violence that it sent a vase of flowers toppling.
Instinctively, Lisette shrank.
“Get up!” he growled, and when she only drew farther from him, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
“Do not—touch me!” she gasped out, cringing back, her lips twitching pitifully. “Do not dare to—to strike me again!”
“I’ll not touch you, never fear. I’ve not the stomach for it! But one thing I demand, ma’am. Your vicious little intrigues have spread over all London Town. As a result, we must face them down. Together. I’ll own my pride inferior to yours, but I’ll not be mocked on this suit. Now or ever! Good night, Mrs. Strand.” He stalked from the room, but closed the door quietly.
Lisette turned and, burying her face in the pillows, wept until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
The rain stopped shortly after midnight, and an hour later the clouds had dispersed, allowing the full moon to paint all London with its glory, silvering alike shabby houses and luxurious mansions, shops and squares, slums and church spires and palaces; turning the wet streets to rivers of light, and dimming the
feebler glow of flambeaux and street lamps. Slanting through a certain upper window of the now silent house in Sackville Street, it shone benevolently on the man who sat slumped forward across a table, his fair head cradled on one arm, while the other hand, clenched into a fist, beat and beat at the inoffensive tabletop.
* * *
Strand was not called upon to waken his bride the next morning. Coming heavy-eyed down the steps, he found Lisette and the horses waiting. She was exquisite in a habit of dark red merino cloth and a high-crowned pink hat with a red ribbon around it that fluttered out behind her. “Good morning, Mr. Strand,” she said in a voice of ice. “I am here to receive my orders.”
Flushing, he swung into the saddle, and when they were out of earshot of the grooms, he said, “I’d not intended to start this early, but it is as well.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me what I must expect.”
His flush deepened before that contempt, but he said steadily, “We shall attend every possible event for which we receive invitations. We will be inseparable; we will ride in the mornings, drive in the afternoons, visit the galleries and museums and, in short, be seen everywhere. And everywhere we are seen, we will bill and coo like a pair of damned lovebirds.”
“Sickening!” she judged with a curl of the lip.
“But necessary. You must appear to dote on me, madam. And I—” he looked away and finished harshly—“will worship you with my every breath.”
Lisette gave a brittle laugh. “’Twould require a consummate performance. Do you feel capable of maintaining such a fraud, sir?”
He did not immediately answer, looking straight ahead, his posture unusually rigid. Then he turned fully to her, a sternness in his eyes she had never before witnessed. “We either convince London of our devotion, Mrs. Strand, or become its laughingstocks. You may take your pick.”
Her lashes drooped. She felt suddenly wretched and said defiantly, “Oh, very well. When do we begin this foolish charade?”
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