Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

  “You’re canceling the ball?” Rose took the list and glanced at it without really seeing it.

  “Unless, of course,” Aunt Agatha said in a withering voice, “you think we should hold a ball to celebrate a wedding that didn’t happen.”

  “Everyone needs to be notified to let them know it’s off,” Emm said. “Oh, and Cal, while I remember it, we’ll need to cancel the musicians too.”

  Cal grunted and scribbled something on a piece of paper.

  Rose stared at her elderly aunt. A slow smile grew on her face as it all came together in her mind. “What a wonderful idea, Aunt Agatha. Thank you. It’s the perfect solution.”

  Aunt Agatha lifted her lorgnette and stared at Rose through it. “What are you talking about, gel? What solution?”

  “Not to cancel the ball.”

  Emm looked up, surprised. “But we must.”

  Aunt Agatha sat forward in her chair, suddenly intent. “Unless you’ve decided to be intelligent, that is. Is that it, gel? If the annulment can be hurried through—Ashendon, you can get onto that immediately—and the duke agrees to go ahead with the marriage—we’ll need to speak with him—”

  “No, Aunt Agatha.” Rose interrupted her gently. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I won’t agree to an annulment. I made sacred vows to Thomas Beresford and I mean to keep them.”

  The old lady’s thinly plucked brows snapped together. “But the fellow refused you, said he was willing to let you go. I heard him myself.”

  “I know, but he only said that because he thinks he has nothing to offer me. He’s very noble, my Thomas.”

  Aunt Agatha sniffed. “Or very clever.”

  “You don’t know him yet,” Rose said. “But when you do, you’ll like him, I’m sure.”

  Aunt Agatha dismissed that possibility with a sharp gesture. “That remains to be seen. Your insistence on being stubborn and foolhardy is one thing; the matter of the ball is quite another. Naturally we must cancel it, and the sooner the better. Why on earth would we continue with a ball that was to celebrate your marriage to the Duke of Everingham?”

  “To celebrate the return of my husband, Thomas Beresford, from the dead?” Heart in mouth she glanced at Emm and Cal, beseeching them with her eyes.

  Aunt Agatha snorted. “A ball, for a nobody?”

  Rose kept her voice even. “As I’ve said before, Aunt Agatha, he’s not a nobody to me.” Her aunt eyed her balefully.

  George spoke up. “Besides, if nobody’s ever heard of him, all the more reason to introduce him, don’t you think?”

  Rose smiled at her. “Exactly.” Dear George could always be relied upon to enter the lists against Aunt Agatha.

  Aunt Dottie clapped her hands. “I think it’s a splendid idea. I do so enjoy a ball. Remember the one Edward’s grandfather held for Lily and Edward? Simply delightful. And now another one, in London, and at the height of the season. It will make a wonderful splash.”

  “That was the intention, Dorothea,” Aunt Agatha said acidly. “When we were celebrating a duke.”

  “How much better,” Aunt Dottie declared, “to be celebrating love, and a man’s return from the dead. Sooo romantic.” She pulled out a wisp of lawn and lace and wiped her eyes with it.

  “I think it’s a lovely idea,” Lily said. “Clever, too. It will make it clear to the ton that we are welcoming Mr. Beresford into the family.”

  “Are we?” Cal grumbled. “I don’t want to welcome the swine anywhere.”

  “Are you sure about this, Rose?” Emm asked quietly. “Not about the ball, but about the marriage.”

  “Very sure, Emm. I know I was young when I married Thomas, but truly, he is the man for me.”

  Aunt Agatha made an exasperated sound. “But you know so little about him, child—he has no family, no background—”

  “You can tell he was well brought up,” Rose said. “His manners are impeccable. And he was an officer in the navy.”

  “And where has he been the last four years?” Cal snapped. “Not with the navy, that’s certain. Did he explain that while you were talking to him yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “And did he explain how he intends to support you?”

  Rose lifted her chin. “I have a fortune. We can live on that.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like a lamb to the slaughter. I ought to wash my hands of you.” But it was clear he wouldn’t. Her brother was very protective, and while his hostility toward Thomas was distressing, she was sure eventually the two men would come to like and respect each other. But in the meantime . . .

  “That reminds me,” Rose said. “Did you hit Thomas yesterday? He had a fresh bruise on his jaw.”

  Her brother’s eyes grew flinty and hard. “Why, what did he say?”

  His attitude confirmed in Rose’s mind that he had. “He said he tripped on a cobblestone, but I don’t believe a word of it. You hit him, Cal, didn’t you? Well, I won’t have it, do you understand? Thomas is my husband and the sooner you accept that, the better.”

  Her brother said nothing. He folded his arms and sat with a mulish expression.

  Emm picked up her pen. “Well, do we go ahead with the ball or not?” She looked at Cal, who threw his hands up and muttered, “Oh, why not? If she’s so determined to have him, we might as well try to put a good face on it.”

  “Nobody will come,” Aunt Agatha warned.

  “Nonsense! Of course they’ll come, Aggie,” Aunt Dottie said. “Everyone will be bursting with curiosity, desperate to meet the man who not only returned from the dead, but who in doing so displaced a duke so dramatically. It’s going to be a delicious squeeze.” She rubbed her hands together. “Such fun!”

  Emm looked down at the papers spread before her and nodded. “Very well. The wedding gifts will have to be sent back regardless, but we will go ahead with the ball. We’ll need to inform all our invited guests of the change of plan. We can get new cards of invitation printed, of course, though it will be a frightful rush. And Rose, you will have to write all the notes explaining. I warn you, there are hundreds. George, you can address them, and Lily, I rely on you to seal the notes with that pretty gold wax—I hope we still have enough of it left.” She made a note to check. “Oh, and Rose, when you see Mr. Beresford next, ask him if there is anyone he would particularly like invited.” She separated several sheets from the pile. “All these arrangements can remain as they were, thank goodness.”

  “And before any of those notes are sent out, Rose will have to apologize to the duke,” Aunt Agatha declared. “In person.”

  Rose grimaced. There was no getting out of that one.

  * * *

  * * *

  Thomas spent the next two days going from one Admiralty office to another. He came away in the late afternoon of the second day seething with fury and frustration. His back pay wasn’t the issue—that would take time, but eventually the navy would cough up.

  It was the men he’d left behind that were the sticking point. Five British seamen, held in appalling conditions in a foreign country. Surely the navy had an obligation to rescue them?

  Apparently not.

  What exactly are these conditions?

  He couldn’t say, exactly, but—

  You haven’t seen them for almost four years? My dear fellow, you must see how impossible it is for us to act after all this time. Apart from the cost, anything could have happened to them. No, no, no. Quite impossible.

  Again and again the message was the same. It was unfortunate, but nothing could be done.

  But Thomas was committed to getting those men back to England. He needed to get them home. Safe, as he was. They were his responsibility. They were the navy’s responsibility.

  But was anyone in the whole blasted Admiralty concerned for the fate of five ordinary seamen that they’d w
ritten off as drowned four years ago? Not one sympathetic ear could he find.

  Oh, he’d been given a vastly better reception now that he was clean-shaven and dressed as a gentleman, but still, his concerns were dismissed. He’d demanded to speak to men of higher and higher rank—and each time he was—eventually—granted an interview. But each man pointed out to him the impossibility of his mission, that in this postwar environment the navy was shedding men, that it was a pity, but when a man joined the service he knew the risks. Fortunes of war, you know.

  And when he’d pointed out that it was peacetime now, and that several of these men had been press-ganged, forced into the navy against their will, that only made several of the smug bastards more adamant. Nothing can be done, dear fellow. Think of the costs. And even if we could afford the ransom, even if we could spare a ship to send on this wild-goose chase, what guarantee is there of finding them after all this time? No, it’s a demmed pity, but there it is. As if his men deserved their fate, and press-ganged men, well, what did it matter? Not proper seamen, were they?

  Finally he’d seen the most senior admiral in the place, semiretired but bristling with self-importance and gold braid.

  No no no. I’m sorry, dear fellow, but we sent Exmouth to clear out several nests of those villains several years ago—bombed the living daylights out of Algiers—you didn’t hear about that? Tremendous victory, thousands freed, hundreds of our fellows brought home. Cost us a fortune—which we don’t have now the war’s over. But we made our point. Couldn’t possibly justify any further expense, especially not for a mission to rescue a handful of ordinary seamen who might not even be alive, what?

  And then as the admiral’s aide was showing him out, the old fellow had added, Different if they were officers, of course. Might have been able to do something then.

  Thomas had to leave. It was that or commit murder.

  * * *

  * * *

  He called in on his bank on the way back to Ollie’s, hoping for some good news there. He gave his name to the clerk and asked to speak to the bank manager. The bank manager emerged from his office and approached Thomas with a smile.

  “Mr. Beresford, how very good it is to see you.”

  Thomas shook the hand the man offered. “Yes, as you can see, I’m not dead, after all.”

  The manager gave him an odd look. “No, quite. I can see that. Were you after an advance? Because you’re earlier than expected—quarter day is not for several weeks yet.”

  “Quarter day? I’m not sure I follow you, Mr. . . . ?” He hadn’t made any kind of appointment, so how could he be early?

  “Filbert, Matthew Filbert, sir. You won’t remember me. I was just a clerk when you were in here last. But I’m very glad you’ve come. There’s a small matter I need to discuss with you. Will you step this way, please?” He ushered Thomas into his office and shut the door.

  Thomas proceeded to explain his situation. Filbert’s eyes almost popped.

  “You mean, you were reported dead? For the last four years? Bless my soul, what a shocking situation. I had no idea. But how—?” He broke off, frowning, then rang a bell. A clerk arrived a moment later. “Be so good as to fetch the Beresford account files,” Filbert told him.

  A few moments later the man returned bearing a heavy, clothbound ledger. He laid it on the manager’s desk and withdrew. Filbert leafed through it and muttered something under his breath.

  “You say you were reported dead four years ago?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And that until three days ago the navy had you listed as dead—definitely dead, not merely missing?”

  “Definitely dead. There were witnesses to the destruction and sinking of our ship, and they reported it as sunk with all hands lost.”

  “But you survived?”

  “Yes. I and five others managed to make it to shore.”

  “Ah, so you’ve been back in England all this time.”

  “No, we were trapped in a hostile country for the last four years—the other five men are still there. I escaped, and arrived back in England three days ago.”

  Filbert frowned over the account book, and Thomas added, “What is all this about? I assume you were notified of my so-called death. I understand there might be some difficulties in releasing funds immediately, but I assure you, I am Thomas Beresford.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that. I recognize you from before, sir.” Filbert tapped the ledger book. “But if you’ve been ‘dead,’ how is it that you have been withdrawing funds from your account every quarter day for the last four years?”

  “What? I haven’t!”

  “Well, someone bearing your signed authority has. Every quarter day, the money held in trust for your allowance is deposited in your account—”

  “You mean the money from my late mother’s trust fund? I thought that could not be touched until I turn thirty.”

  “Yes, yes, that one can’t. I’m speaking of the allowance your uncle set up when you first went to sea.”

  Thomas stared at Filbert, his brain reeling. “You mean he didn’t stop it? He continued supporting me financially?” Four years ago, Uncle Walter had rejected Thomas’s appeal for ransom in no uncertain fashion, denying any knowledge of him, refuting any claim Thomas made of him and ending with a statement that Thomas was not even a member of his family.

  And yet, according to this man, he’d continued to pay Thomas’s allowance into his account? It made no sense.

  “Yes, it’s paid into your account every quarter day, and three days afterward, your agent arrives bearing your authority and withdraws it all.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t have an agent and I’ve never signed any authority.”

  For answer Filbert passed over a small sheaf of documents. “Is that not your signature?”

  Thomas examined them. Each one was an authority to pay the bearer the entire quarterly allowance, and was signed by . . . Thomas. If he didn’t know better, the signatures would have fooled even him. He swore and pushed them back across the desk. “I agree it looks like my signature, but I swear to you I never signed any of these. I’ve never authorized a payment to any other person. I didn’t even know that my uncle was continuing to pay my allowance.”

  Filbert looked skeptical.

  “Dammit, I haven’t even been in the country! How the hell could I sign those blasted things when I was imprisoned on the other side of the world?”

  Filbert pursed his lips. “Can you prove you were out of the country?”

  “I have a witness to my return, and I can prove the navy has me listed as dead—will that do?” Filbert hesitated, and Thomas added, “Dammit, why would I be claiming such a thing if all this time I’d been signing those notes and collecting my allowance? What would be the point of my coming here—to tell you I’m not dead? When you never imagined I was dead in the first place?”

  Filbert pursed his lips. “There is that. It is most perplexing.”

  “It’s more than perplexing,” Thomas said grimly. “Someone has been systematically stealing my money—and with the bank’s connivance.”

  “Connivance?” Filbert was shocked. “Never that, sir. Oh, no, no, no! Never call it connivance. We were deceived—you must admit that is a very convincing facsimile of your signature. I shall instigate an immediate investigation. Never fear, we will get to the bottom of this, sir, be assured.”

  Chapter Seven

  He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted, and rather selfish, is to be ill-disposed . . .

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  “Will you come with me to visit the duke?” Rose asked George. “I need a break from writing all these wretched notes.” She stretched her aching fingers. She’d been writing notes for the last day and a half and was only three-quarters through the list of people who needed to be
notified of the change of purpose of the ball.

  “Why do you want to visit him?” Caution laced George’s voice.

  “I need to apologize to him, about, about the . . . the cancellation of the wedding.” So awkward. She couldn’t even think of a polite phrase to describe what had happened.

  “Can’t you just write him a nice apologetic letter?”

  She could, of course, but she felt she owed it to him to apologize in person. “I think what happened caused him a lot of embarrassment. A letter seems insufficient.” And rather cowardly.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You were as surprised as anyone when Mr. Beresford turned up. And the duke didn’t seem embarrassed to me. More irritated.”

  “Whatever he felt, I still need to apologize. In person.”

  George wrinkled her nose. “So why do you need me? I was going to take Finn for a walk.”

  “I cannot call on an unmarried man, not in his home, not by myself.”

  “Why not? You’re married, after all. And you said you’d be free once you were married.” George was refreshingly indifferent to the niceties of social conventions.

  Rose laughed. “Not quite that free. Please come, George. Emm is taking a nap—this baby makes her so tired—and Lily is off somewhere with Edward, which only leaves you or Aunt Agatha to accompany me, and if she comes she’ll make me feel like a naughty schoolgirl.”

  Aunt Agatha had indicated she would come again in the late morning, before visitors started arriving—a lot of curious Claras had called the previous day, wanting to sniff out the details of the scandal, and they were expecting even more today. Rose wanted to have the apology over and done with before she arrived. Otherwise Aunt Agatha was sure to insist on going.