by Anne Gracie
“Rose might have something to say about that,” Galbraith said. “She didn’t exactly reject him.”
She hadn’t exactly embraced him, either, Thomas reflected. But he didn’t say anything. He’d decide what to do once he’d talked to Rose.
“I can handle Rose,” Ashendon said.
Galbraith looked amused. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” He looked pointedly at Ashendon and waited.
“Very well, dammit,” Ashendon said reluctantly. “We’ll take Beresford to his hotel, and he can bathe and change.”
“I don’t have a hotel,” Thomas said. “And until the Navy Board sees fit to release my back pay, I am entirely without funds. All I currently possess are the clothes I stand up in.” The look of disgust on Ashendon’s face was almost enjoyable. He thought Thomas was trying to push up the price of his bribe. “But I’m sure Ollie will lend me what I need.”
“And we’re supposed to await your pleasure while you find your friend and titivate, are we?” Ashendon snapped.
“You don’t have a choice,” Thomas pointed out. “I’m doing it whether you want me to or not.”
“No need to find your friend,” Galbraith said. “My house is just down there.” He gestured.
“I know that, what of it?” Ashendon said impatiently.
“Beresford can clean up at my place. My valet will take care of him. And find him some clothes. We’re much the same height.”
They both stared at him, Thomas with wary surprise, Ashendon with outright disbelief.
“Decent of you, Galbraith,” Thomas said. “My thanks.” Was Galbraith playing some deep game or showing genuine goodwill? Time, he supposed, would tell.
They walked the short distance to Galbraith House and Galbraith sent for his valet, a short, nattily dressed man. “Mr. Beresford requires a bath, Enders.”
The valet glanced at Thomas, hesitated, then an impassive expression—almost wooden—dropped over his face, like a theater curtain closing. “Very good, sir.”
“And a shave and haircut,” Thomas added.
A flicker of expression crossed the valet’s face before returning to wood, almost stone. “Of course, sir.” He bowed, a very correct bow that somehow conveyed that if his employer wished to ask his Very Superior Valet to clean up A Scruffy Beggar, then, against his better judgment, the superior valet would comply. But it had better not become A Habit.
“He’ll need a change of clothes, too. See if you can find something of mine to fit him,” Galbraith added.
The valet bowed again. “Very good, sir.” Meaning quite the opposite. “If you would come this way, sir?”
* * *
* * *
While Beresford was upstairs cleaning up, Ned’s butler, Fenchurch, provided them with a cognac and left them to ponder the situation.
Ned sipped his cognac. “Not exactly how we expected the day to turn out.”
Cal grunted and stared into the fire.
“Think there’s anything to his story?”
“I do, dammit,” Cal said. “You didn’t really know Rose back then. She was completely uncontrollable. Sneaking out and getting herself married to some impossible blackguard was exactly the sort of thing she’d do.”
“So you’ll accept it?”
“No. It’s a devil of a tangle, but I swear I’ll get her out of it.” Cal stared into his glass, brooding. “Somehow.”
There was a long pause, then Ned said, “I find his approach interesting.”
“Interesting?” Cal snorted. “I can think of a better word. Infuriating. Inconvenient. Impossible. I’d like to strangle the swine.”
“As I recall, you almost tried.”
“Can’t blame me. Fellow’s got a damned cheek.”
“Didn’t seem to bother him, though, did it? Not afraid of you, was he?”
Cal shrugged. “Didn’t fight back.”
“Chose not to,” Ned said with meaning.
Cal cast him a swift glance and scowled. “Damned provocative.”
“Mmm. That’s what I find interesting.”
“Eh?”
“I think he’s doing it deliberately.”
“Doing what?”
“Stirring you up, trying to provoke you.”
Cal snorted. “Trying? He’s damned well succeeding.”
“You’re too close to the situation. Think about it. He’s testing you.”
“Testing me?” Cal sat up indignantly. “Why the devil should he be testing me?”
“That’s what I find interesting. If he was trying to get himself accepted by Rose’s family, one would expect him to be more conciliatory, even ingratiating. But he’s not.”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Exactly,” Ned agreed.
“Hmph. He’s too damned sure of himself.”
The two men sipped their cognac thoughtfully. “The way he handled your attempt to bribe him was interesting, too,” Ned said after a while.
Cal snorted. “He knows she’s worth more than that. That’s why he’s being so blasted annoying—he wants more money.”
“Not so sure about that, myself. Think he’s winding you up.” Ned crossed his long legs and settled back in his chair. “It must have occurred to him, if it hasn’t yet occurred to you, that as Rose’s legal husband, he’s already entitled to the whole of her fortune.”
“Not if I get it annulled.”
Ned shrugged. “Think there’s a good chance he’ll end up as our brother-in-law.”
“Over my dead body.”
Ned looked amused. “Hope it won’t come to that.”
There was a short silence, then Cal said, “Where do you think he’s been all this time?”
Ned pursed his lips, considering. “He’s dashed reticent about it. Got to be something shady.”
Cal nodded. “And his reappearance—timed perfectly for the speak now or forever hold your peace part—too blasted melodramatic for words. Got to be calculated for maximum impact.”
“And in front of half the ton—no chance of hushing it up now.”
Cal grunted agreement and lapsed into another long brooding silence. Then he said, “You’re sure Lily didn’t know about this wedding? Those girls would happily lie through their teeth for each other.”
“No. I saw Lily’s face when it all came out. She was as shocked as you and I.”
“But if it was a real marriage—and it does sound like it was—why would Rose keep it a secret all these years?”
Chapter Three
Doubts are more cruel than the worst of truths.
—MOLIÈRE
“It was when you had the mumps—remember, Lily? More than half the school was ill—your entire dormitory—and those of us who’d had them already were sent home.” The bath had helped. She’d given her situation a lot of thought while she was bathing—it was amazing how water helped clear the mind as well as the body—and realized there was only one thing that mattered: that Thomas was alive.
Lily nodded. “And you went to stay with Aunt Dottie, but—”
“And you know how Aunt Dottie likes to visit the pump room every day,” Rose continued hurriedly. She knew what Lily was going to say. Why hadn’t she told her afterward? Rose had no answer to that. She wasn’t entirely sure herself. All she knew was that at first she hadn’t wanted to speak of it to anyone, had wanted to hug it to herself as a most delicious, exciting, intensely private secret.
And later . . . Well, later she hadn’t been able to speak of it at all.
It was so painful, dredging up these memories, memories she’d never thought would see the light of day again. She’d buried them in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind and sealed them over with ice, frozen deep and cold and safe, never to be recalled, never to torment her again. No one would ever know, ever
suspect. But now, the fragile shell had been cracked open and she was having to bare her secrets, her precious, private moments, to the harsh, if loving, exposure of family judgment.
Because Thomas was alive. Remember that. He was alive.
Aunt Dottie nodded. “I do enjoy the company at the pump room, it’s true. And that was such a difficult time for us all.” She turned to the others in the room and explained. “Poor little Lily took the mumps very hard—some people just sail through them, but not Lily. She was so sick they wouldn’t even let us visit. Poor Rose was beside herself with worry, weren’t you, dear? So I took her out as much as I could.”
“Yes. And that’s where I met Thomas.”
“At the pump room?” Lily exclaimed in surprise.
Rose nodded. “His friend, Mr. Yelland—the man who came to the church today, remember?—had been ill, and was recuperating under the supervision of a Bath physician. Taking the waters twice daily, bathing in the hot springs, that kind of thing. Thomas had been given leave while his ship was in dock for repairs, and he came to Bath to see how he was getting on.”
“And?” George prompted.
“We met, and fell in love.”
George pulled a skeptical face. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Even now, after all those years had passed, Rose could remember the absolute certainty she’d felt, almost from the moment they met, that she and Thomas were meant to be together for all their lives.
And Thomas had seemed to feel the same. Napoleon had just been defeated—or so they’d thought at the time—and Thomas was making plans to leave the navy and make a home with her, perhaps to manage one of his uncle’s estates.
But later, she’d wondered whether perhaps Thomas hadn’t felt quite the way she did . . .
Aunt Dottie nodded understandingly. “Young love, I know.”
Aunt Agatha snorted. “Young nonsense, more like! To make such an appalling mésalliance behind everyone’s back! If her father had found out, he would have horsewhipped the fellow and sent him on his way! Rose should be a duchess by now, and instead she’s, she’s—”
“Oh, be quiet and listen for once, Aggie. And don’t ridicule what you don’t understand. The heart wants what the heart wants.” Aunt Dottie continued, “Of course, it was very naughty of you to sneak out and make a secret marriage, Rose dear, but Aggie is quite right; your father, God rest his soul, would never have allowed it—”
“I should think not!” Aunt Agatha snapped. “A penniless nobody!”
Rose flashed her a hard look. “Thomas is not a nobody to me.”
“Well said, my love.” Aunt Dottie patted Rose’s knee. “So I quite understand why you did it in secret. It is very hard when you’re young and in love, and you think nobody understands or will listen.”
“Pshaw! Don’t imagine it has slipped my notice that you are the one at fault here, Dorothea! You were in charge of Rose at the time. It is your disgracefully lax guardianship that is at the root of this calamity.”
“Pooh! We don’t know that it’s a calamity at all. We haven’t even heard the poor boy’s story yet.”
“Of course it’s a calamity, you ninny! We lost a duke!” Aunt Agatha snapped.
“Pfft! Who cares about dukes?” Aunt Dottie dismissed an entire class of noblemen with an airy wave of her hand. “Love is far more important. I must say, I don’t much like that beard, but he has lovely eyes, your Thomas. And those shoulders . . .”
Aunt Agatha swelled with outrage, but before she could scald them all with vitriol, Emm intervened, saying in her best schoolteacher voice, “Stop teasing your sister, Dottie. Go on, Rose, I can understand you falling in love—I did it myself at your age, quite disastrously as it happened—but what prompted you to make a clandestine marriage? Why did Mr. Beresford not apply to your father—or Aunt Dottie at the very least—for permission to court you? Why hide it from everyone—even after the event?”
“And not even tell me,” Lily said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t have told.”
“I know.” Rose squeezed her sister’s hand in mute apology. Looking back, she hadn’t really meant to keep it such a secret, not for so long. At first it was simply because falling in love with Thomas had seemed so magical, so precious and private—too private to share. She wanted to hug it to herself, to revel in the secret joy of being in love. Of being married to the most wonderful man in the world.
Besides what would be the point of telling anyone at that stage? Thomas was away on his ship, so it wasn’t as if they could commence their married life together. And if her family had learned she was married, apart from the dreadful fuss they would make, Rose knew she’d be pulled out of school, separated from Lily, and she couldn’t allow that to happen. Lily struggled in school, and Rose had to be there to protect her.
Then the news had come that Thomas’s ship had gone down. All hands lost . . . Dead.
For the next few weeks she’d been too busy hiding her grief. Because if anyone discovered she’d been secretly married, the fuss she’d dreaded would happen anyway—and to what end? If Thomas were alive it would have been a different matter, but he was dead, dead and gone, and the prospect of going over it all again, explaining to Miss Mallard, to her father and Aunt Agatha—the thought of them all picking through the ashes of her dreams with their horrid, suspicious minds—was unbearable.
She might have shared her secret with Lily at that point, but Lily was staying with Aunt Dottie at the time, slowly recuperating from her very severe reaction to the mumps—she’d almost died—while the rest of the school returned to their lessons.
And then . . . No, she couldn’t bear to speak of that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Afterward, she couldn’t bear to have it sullied by a lot of questions. The kind of suspicious, ugly questions she was facing now. So she’d done her best to bury her dreams along with her husband, buried them deep and covered them with ice as best she could. Never to speak of them again.
And now Thomas had returned from the dead . . .
“I cannot think well of him for going behind everyone’s back,” Emm said. “You were, after all, just sixteen. He was much older, and an officer.
“He was twenty-three,” Rose said. And even at sixteen she knew what she wanted.
Emm raised her brows. “Really? He looks much older.”
Rose nodded. “He’s changed a lot. That’s why I didn’t at first recognize him.” The knowledge of that failure twisted inside her once more.
“It’s obvious why he married her in secret,” Aunt Agatha declared. “He was after her money, of course.”
“He wasn’t,” Rose flashed. “He knew nothing about my inheritance.”
“Don’t be naïve, child, of course he did.”
“He didn’t, I’m sure he didn’t. Or if he did, it made no difference.” Thomas was unlike any other man she’d ever met. He hadn’t seen her as the Earl of Ashendon’s daughter, or the Rutherford heiress, or even as the latest beauty—he’d looked at her and seen Rose, the person, the girl with hopes and dreams and fears and insecurities.
“Then why make such a hasty, havey-cavey marriage?”
“It wasn’t havey-cavey. There wasn’t time. Thomas had to leave. He’d been called back to his ship.” And she knew if she’d told anyone in her family—even Aunt Dottie—there would be a grand fuss and they’d step in and prevent the marriage, and she wanted to be married to Thomas, she really did.
“So? That’s no reason to rush you into marriage. He at least should have known better.”
“He wanted it as much as I did, but it wasn’t for the sake of my inheritance, it was because—” She broke off, biting her tongue.
“Because?” Aunt Agatha raised a sardonic brow.
Rose felt her cheeks heating. She looked away. It was all sounding so tawdry now, and it wasn’t, it hadn’t been. Her ti
me with Thomas had been beautiful.
“Hah! He made sure of you, didn’t he?” Aunt Agatha said knowingly. “The villain, seducing an innocent young gel. I devoutly hope Cal is giving the fellow a thorough horsewhipping at this very minute.”
Rose turned in distress to Emm. “He won’t, will he, Emm? I don’t want him to hurt Thomas.”
“Hush now, it will be all right,” Emm said soothingly. “Cal isn’t such a brute.” But she didn’t sound completely confident.
“Thomas didn’t seduce me,” Rose admitted, her face flaming. “I wanted it too. We were in love! He married me to protect me, to protect my honor, in case—” She stopped.
“In case you were caught with a bast—” Aunt Agatha began.
“It wouldn’t have been a bastard!” Rose felt her face crumpling. She fought it. “Because he married me!”
“Pah! He married you, gel, because—”
Emm cut her off. “That’s enough! All this happened in the past and there’s nothing any of us can do to change it. Recriminations are both pointless and unnecessarily hurtful. It is Rose’s welfare now that must concern us, and how we—and she—are to go on in the future. And until Cal and Ned return with Mr. Beresford—and until Rose gets a chance to talk with Mr. Beresford alone, and decides what she wants, nothing can be decided.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “I cannot think what can be keeping them so long.”
“A good horsewhipping, I hope,” Aunt Agatha muttered.
* * *
* * *
Galbraith’s valet took Thomas upstairs to a small dressing room. Indicating a plain polished dressing table with a chair facing a looking glass, he said, “If you’d care to wait here, sir, I’ll arrange your bath.” Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off.
It was a gentleman’s dressing room, elegantly appointed but plain and practical, containing, as well as the dressing table, two large wardrobes, a high chest of drawers, and a comfortable-looking armchair and small table next to the window. A large enameled bath sat before the fireplace, currently empty.