Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

  He sighed. He’d expected more questions. Rose was determined to find out all about the life he’d led in the last four years. He couldn’t blame her. She had a right to know about the missing years. And though he found it uncomfortable, he forced himself to do it.

  “Only twice. It’s hard enough to escape from your master—only the most trusted slaves are permitted outside the home compound. Then if you do escape, it’s almost impossible to find a ship that will take you—you need a permit to leave, you see. And the waterfronts are well patrolled by the sultan’s guards. Both times I was caught and returned to my owner.” And was given a thorough beating—sometimes two, one from the guards and one from his owner—but Rose didn’t need to know that.

  “And after each attempt I was sold on. Nobody wants a troublesome slave.”

  “Were any of your owners kind?”

  “Kind wasn’t quite the right word, but decent, yes; for the most part I was reasonably well treated. My last owner, Sidi Achmed, was a good and decent man who treated all the people of his household well and fairly.”

  “What happened?”

  “He sickened and died, quite suddenly, and we—all the household slaves—were left in the hands of his widow.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Not kind, for a start; in fact, kind is the very last word I’d use to describe her, or her spoiled bully-boy of a son. She and her son shared a taste and a talent for cruelty.” Conditions for the household slaves worsened considerably under their rule.

  “The boy was sixteen, and Sayida—that’s how we had to address her; it means madam—indulged him in everything. Nothing was too good for Adil.” Whatever he wanted, he took, and he took great pleasure in cruelty.

  “None of the female slaves was safe from him, not even the twelve-year-old kitchen girl, though I did my best to protect the child.” All it did was make Adil more determined to torment Thomas in whatever way he could, usually by torturing things that were smaller and weaker and couldn’t fight back—he didn’t dare take on Thomas himself; he knew Thomas wouldn’t hold back, regardless of the threat of punishment.

  “It was the women who suffered most under Adil, until the little sod realized I was fond of animals.”

  “He sounds appalling.”

  “His mother was just as bad. Two months after her husband died, Sayida decided it was time for me to warm her bed.”

  She rose up on one elbow. “What did you do?”

  “What do you think?”

  Her eyes widened. “Thomas, you didn’t.”

  “Rose, I didn’t.” He leaned down and kissed her nose. “Of course I refused.” Without apology or grace. No flowery excuses, just a blunt refusal. And when she persisted, plunging her hand into his loincloth and handling him like an animal, he shoved her off him, saying, “Touch me again like that and you die.” But Rose didn’t need to know about that humiliation.

  “You weren’t tempted? She wasn’t pretty?”

  He made a scornful sound. “She was pretty enough on the outside, but inside she was poison through and through.” From then on his life became one long round of hard work, semistarvation and beatings. “The more I got to know her, the more I understood why Sidi Achmed had turned up his toes and died so easily. It must have been hell being married to her.”

  “She and her son sound like a dreadful pair.”

  “They were. He had me beaten one day for refusing to call him sidi—which means ‘lord.’ I put on my thickheaded Englishman guise and pretended I didn’t understand the order.” Thomas smiled grimly at the memory. “He’d summoned the whole household to witness my punishment. But when he’d finished with the beating, I told him in perfect, fluent Arabic, in front of everyone, ‘Sidi Achmed was a good man; he would be shamed a thousand times over if he knew the vile creature his son has become.’”

  His expression hardened. “It was war from then on.”

  She nuzzled her cheek against him.

  “The last straw came when I came across Adil beating up a frail old man.” His stomach clenched at the memory. “Nasr was a gentle old scholar, Rose, a Greek, I think. He’d been with the family sixty years—imagine being a slave for that long. He’d taught Sidi Achmed his letters and later Adil. He must have had a fine brain, for he’d overseen the family business all that time, and it had thrived. He kept the account books, conducted all their correspondence—he spoke and wrote at least four languages. But by the time I arrived the poor old fellow was nearly ninety, and his mind was going.”

  Rose hugged him silently.

  “You’d think he would have earned an honorable retirement, but gratitude wasn’t in that woman’s vocabulary, nor her son’s,” Thomas said. “That day, I heard the old man crying out in the courtyard and went to see to him. That little worm was beating him, kicking him, punching, hitting him with a stick—a stick! And laughing, as the poor confused old fellow wept hopelessly and tried to dodge the blows.”

  Her eyes darkened with sympathy.

  “Years of faithful service and this was to be his old age. Bad enough to be confused and forgetful, but being endlessly tormented by a vicious young thug? For reasons that made no sense? It was unbearable.”

  “Poor old man. What did you do?”

  “I dragged him off the old man, seized his stick and was about to give the evil little rat the thrashing of his life when the other slaves stopped me. They dragged me away and kept me in the lockup until I calmed.” By doing so, they’d saved Thomas’s life, for the punishment for hitting the owner’s son would surely have been death.

  “Oh, Thomas. What did they do to you then?”

  “Sold me to the galleys, to the master with the most vicious reputation—a pirate. And you know what? I was better off there.”

  “You don’t mean that, surely?”

  “I do, because hideous as that existence was, it was from the galleys I eventually escaped, and thus made my way back to England, and you, my sweet Rose.” He kissed her.

  Chapter Ten

  It is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible.

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  “Did you send this?” Rose asked Thomas when he called in around noon a few days later. He’d arranged a delivery of wine and spirits—he was stocking the cellar—and had come to supervise the unpacking and storage of the wine.

  “What is it?”

  She showed him an elegant wooden box, shallow and divided into segments, each one containing a piece of beautifully made and arranged marzipan fruit. There were grapes, apples, pineapples, peaches and more, colorful and lifelike.

  “Very fancy,” he said.

  “Isn’t it? It came with this card.” She passed it to him.

  Welcome to your new home. He turned the card over and frowned. “There’s no name.”

  “I know, I thought it strange but perhaps whoever sent it forgot to sign it. Or maybe the shop mixed things up. It was on the doorstep when I arrived this morning.”

  “Odd. Oh, well, I expect someone will mention it and then we’ll know. In the meantime, they look very fine and expensive, so enjoy them.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t much like marzipan. I thought you might enjoy them.”

  “I used to love it when I was a boy, but these days . . .” He grimaced. “A bit sweet for me. Anyone in your family?”

  She shook her head, then became aware of the young apprentice paperhanger watching, clearly listening in. “Was there something you wanted, Peter?”

  He reddened. “Sorry, m’lady, just, I never seen anything so pretty. Are they some kind of sweet?”

  “Yes, marzipan. Almond paste and sugar, shaped to look like fruit and painted with vegetable dyes. See?” She held it out so he could see into the box.

  Peter edged forward, barely able to take his eyes off the glistening sweets.
“That there’s a pineapple, ain’t it? And there’s a peach. And cherries, like they was just picked off a tree.”

  Rose glanced a silent question at Thomas, who nodded. She handed him the box. “Here, Peter, they’re yours.”

  The young man’s eyes almost popped. “Mine, m’lady? You mean it?”

  She smiled. “Take them home to your mother or your sweetheart, and enjoy them with our compliments.”

  “Thank you, m’lady, sir.” He closed the box carefully and hurried away.

  “Nice thing to do,” Thomas said. “Thought you were dark on paperhangers these days.”

  She laughed. “He wasn’t the one who got the pineapples upside down.”

  The wine merchants arrived and Thomas went off to supervise the unpacking and stowing of the wine in the cellar. He’d had wine racks built earlier.

  Rose was preparing rooms for the servants: fresh paper for the women, paint for the men, a rug on each floor and warm blankets for the beds. Emm had stressed to her that you got the service you deserved—Emm recalled her own time as a lowly teacher, living in a cold attic room with no heating and inadequate bedclothes. It had made quite an impression on Rose and she resolved to ensure that her own servants were as comfortable as she could make them.

  Not that she had any servants yet—the domestic agency that had supplied servants to both Emm and Lily was sending applicants to be interviewed tomorrow. Emm was going to sit in on the interviews with her.

  * * *

  * * *

  The wine merchant’s carrier and his men finished unloading the wine. Thomas paid them and they departed. He surveyed the filled racks with satisfaction. Would they ever drink that much wine? Still, wine was an investment for the future.

  “Excuse me, sir.” It was the wine carrier.

  Thomas turned, surprised. “Did you forget something?”

  “No, but there’s a lad lyin’ on the ground out back, lookin’ right poorly. Thought you ought to know.”

  Thomas hurried upstairs and went through the kitchen into the backyard. Young Peter lay sprawled, half curled on the cobbles, retching in a pool of vomit. A few of his fellows were standing back, doing nothing.

  “Good God!” Thomas examined him. “You”—he stabbed a finger at a nearby workman—“is there a doctor around here?”

  “It’s all right, sir, the lad don’t need a doctor,” the foreman said. “He’s just reapin’ his reward for being a greedy guts.” He pointed at the overturned box of marzipan lying a few feet away. “He ate all them fancy sweets, all by hisself.” He bent to pick one up.

  “Don’t touch that!” Thomas snapped. It wasn’t simple overindulgence; there was foam coming from Peter’s mouth, greenish-yellow foam. “This boy is seriously ill. Now where’s the nearest doctor?”

  “There’s a Scotsman lives not far from here,” one of the men offered. “He’s good but he don’t have much to do with nobs.”

  “Fetch him,” Thomas ordered. “Tell him there’s a boy here been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” The foreman blanched and took a step back.

  “A guinea for you if he’s here within the half hour.” The man raced off.

  Thomas fetched a damp cloth and wiped Peter’s mouth. The boy was barely conscious. He moved him away from the soiled area but left him on the ground. It wasn’t cold, and he had no idea what to do, whether it was safe to move him. From the look of the lad’s vomit, there wasn’t much remaining in his stomach.

  But you never could tell with poison.

  He picked up the box of marzipan and carefully replaced the spilled sweets. Only three left. It might turn out to be overindulgence, but he didn’t think so. He closed the box and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  * * *

  * * *

  “And you say the boy’s still alive?” Ollie asked. Thomas had told him all about the incident over a glass of wine, late that night.

  “The doctor has high hopes of his recovery, but as he doesn’t know what the poison might be, it’s hard to say. He took one of the sweets and a sample of the vomit to test.”

  He showed Ollie the box and the card, which he’d also collected. “I don’t suppose you know of anyone who could find out more about this?”

  “Not my area,” Ollie said regretfully. “Figures, numbers, I’m your man. Poisons? Assassinations? You need Ashendon.”

  “Ashendon?”

  Ollie nodded. “Not that he’s involved anymore, but he knows people.” He tapped the side of his nose significantly. He pushed the marzipan box distastefully away. “Take that thing to Ashendon. He’s your man.”

  Thomas didn’t like the idea of asking Ashendon for anything, but someone had sent these filthy, poisoned, harmless-looking marzipan sweets to Rose. It could have been her lying there on the cobbles, vomiting her heart out. It didn’t bear thinking of.

  If anyone was motivated as strongly as Thomas to track down the villain, it would be Ashendon.

  Peter was still alive the next morning, though still a very sick boy. Thomas spoke to the boy’s widowed mother and discovered that Rose had been by earlier with a basket of food. It turned out that Peter was the breadwinner for his mother, younger brother and two sisters. Apparently Rose knew this. How, he had no idea.

  Thomas assured the boy’s mother that he would cover the costs of Peter’s medical treatment and that the family would be looked after. He slipped her five pounds to make up for the loss of the boy’s wages and left quickly to avoid her embarrassing gratitude.

  He then called on Ashendon. He explained what had happened—Rose had already told him some of it—and showed him the box, the sweets and the card. He finished by saying that Ollie had suggested he consult Ashendon because he “knew people.”

  Ashendon neither confirmed nor denied it. He questioned Thomas about the incident. “You don’t have any idea who sent it?”

  “No.”

  “Who hates you, who have you offended?”

  “Me? I’ve offended nobody—apart from you. Why would I be the target? I know practically no one in London. I’ve been at sea since I was sixteen, and missing for the last four. Hardly anybody even knows I’m alive, remember?”

  Ashendon raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Apart from everyone my sister sent an invitation to. Several hundred people at least, knowing Rose.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t know anyone in the ton.” His old friends, apart from Ollie, were all either at sea or dead.

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d wish to harm me.” Uncle Walter? he thought suddenly. But he couldn’t imagine it. Failing to act to save someone on the other side of the world was a far cry from actively attempting to kill them. In any case, what would be the point?

  Then he wondered about the attack by the two thugs.

  Ashendon eyed him shrewdly. “Thought of something?”

  “Not really.” He explained about the attack, but the more he talked the more certain he was that it was a simple robbery.

  “Saw them off by yourself, did you? Unarmed?”

  Thomas shrugged. He didn’t need to point out to Ashendon that he knew how to fight. The man’s face was still covered in scabs and fading bruises, courtesy of Thomas.

  “No one has any reason to harm me,” he repeated.

  “So you think it was aimed at my sister? Rubbish. Who would wish to harm Rose?”

  He was right; nobody in their right mind would want to harm Rose. Then again . . . “What about the duke, the one she was going to marry? Would he be the sort of man to want revenge? Because if you wanted to harm us both, that would be a way to do it.”

  “Everingham? I can’t see it, myself. He doesn’t seem the type, but it’s worth keeping in mind. Leave it with me,” Ashendon said. He refused to say more. Rose’s brother was a very irritating man.

  * * *

  *
* *

  The day finally arrived for Thomas and Rose to move into the new house. Everything was ready. In a rather prosaic arrangement, they’d agreed to meet at the house at two. Rose said she didn’t want any fuss, but Thomas had brought a bunch of flowers and a special bottle of champagne to celebrate—the vintage was the year they were married.

  He arrived early, as was his usual habit, bringing his belongings in the portmanteau Ollie had lent him. Ollie had come too, curious to see the refurbished house—and to take his portmanteau back.

  Thomas unpacked—it took ten minutes—and then the two men went downstairs. It didn’t seem right to open the champagne without Rose. He’d stocked the cellar a few days earlier—a masculine contribution to the setting up of the house—and recalled he’d bought a case of very good brandy. He found a bottle and poured out two glasses. Very fine glasses, too, he noted.

  Nothing had escaped Rose’s attention in furnishing this house. It was complete in every detail. He felt slightly guilty that he had done so little to help but told himself that women enjoyed these things. Nesting.

  His plans for the rest of the day involved a quiet drink with Ollie and then a slightly less quiet afternoon in bed with his wife. Rose and her sister-in-law, the countess, had interviewed potential servants, and a cook, two housemaids and a general manservant were due to arrive tomorrow, so Thomas was looking forward to his last day alone with Rose in the house.

  His time as a domestic slave had made him realize how much servants got to know about their masters. Most people never thought about it but very little was truly private.

  Rose had left the hiring of a valet to him, but he’d leave that task until afterward. Not long now . . .

  “To the new house and a more comfortable bed than my old chaise longue.” Ollie raised his glass and sipped. He raised his brows, sipped again, then eyed his glass with approval. “Very fine brandy this.”