Harry peered at him, looking like every self-righteous schoolboy who’d ever ratted on him at school. “Because you ought to make the visit, Gray. How long has it been?”
Gray straightened. “Since the day my father told me to never again darken his door.”
“Oh, fiddle,” Harry said. “You must know your father spoke in anger. I am sure he misses you very much.”
Gray gulped his drink. “Has he said so to you?”
Harry tapped on the stem of his glass. “No, not exactly, but dash it, Gray, he is your father.”
Gray stood and walked to the shelves, running his finger along the leather bindings of the books. Thucydides. Ovid. Sophocles.
“I defied him, Harry. You must know my father has no intention of forgiving such a transgression. I purchased my colors against his wishes, and he banished me from his lands and his life. It was a fair trade.”
Harry sighed. “I confess I do not understand either of you, but never mind. I will not tease you further.” He rose to pour Gray more claret. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“Your houseguest.”
Harry’s brows twitched, and he smiled. “I see.”
“Damn it, Harry. You do not see at all.” Gray walked over to the window. “I will not try to convince you that there is no obligation on my part regarding Maggie Smith, as she calls herself, but there is not.”
“What is her name, then?” Harry said ingenuously.
“How the devil should I know?” Gray said. “It is no business of mine what game she plays. She can go to perdition for all I care.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Do you mean that, Gray?”
Gray rubbed his brow. “No, I suppose not, because I have decided to assist her. For reasons of my own, I assure you. It has nothing to do with her.” This was his pact with God. He would assist Maggie Smith in order to atone for Rosa. But he could not explain that to Harry.
“Very well. Whatever you wish, Gray.” Harry raised his palms.
Gray walked over to his cousin and pulled a leather envelope from his jacket. “Here is some money to help her get settled, to find the baby’s father. I must leave arrangements to you, Harry. I hope you will agree to assist her.”
“Find the father. Of course,” said Harry with some sarcasm. He examined the contents of the envelope through his quizzing glass. “This is dashed generous of you, Gray.”
Gray glared at him. “I’ll not starve.”
Harry carefully replaced the bank draft into the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”
“One more thing, Harry,” Gray said.
“Yes?”
“I do not wish her to know about this.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How am I to explain, then?”
“I do not care what you say.” Gray walked back to the table and finished the glass of claret. “Tell her the money is from you. It matters not to me. But give me your word on it.”
Harry stood. “Of course, it shall be as you wish, but—”
“I must leave.” Gray extended his hand to his cousin.
Harry caught him in a hug instead. Patting Gray’s back, Harry said, “Take care, Gray. Take care.”
Gray extricated himself, touched by his cousin’s genuine concern. He stretched his mouth into a grin. “I always do.”
A moment later, when Gray reached the pavement outside his cousin’s house, he paused to breathe in the cool air. God ought to agree he’d done well. Perhaps it would take only one bottle of brandy to sleep this night.
Almost lighthearted, as if a bag of cannonballs had been lifted off his shoulder, he placed his shako on his head, and turned back toward the house. His eye caught a figure in the upper-floor window. The mother held the baby and rocked it slowly in her arms. When she turned to the window, she stilled, and he had the sense she’d seen him.
He could not move, until she turned and disappeared from his sight. He took a breath and strode purposefully toward St. James Street.
After his cousin left, Baron Caufield pulled the leather envelope from his pocket and examined the contents once more.
By God, Gray had given this woman a nice piece of change. If she were very frugal she could live for a year on this sum. What foxed Harry was why Gray did all this for a woman with whom he vowed he had no connection. It was not to be believed.
He stared into his claret, musing on when and where Gray might have met the girl. She did not look the sort who would have visited the Peninsula. He must have met her some other place. Gray had visited England in the last year, had he not? The trip had been brief, so brief he’d not managed more than a short note to Harry at the time.
Harry counted the months on his fingers. Yes, it was very likely Gray had met her on that trip. He’d have sailed back to Spain without knowing he’d gotten her with child. It fit very well.
The door swung open and Tess dashed into the room. “Harry, thank goodness you are here.”
“Of course I am here, my dear. Where else might I be?”
She skipped back to the door and peered into the hallway before shutting it. “I have something to show you!” she exclaimed. “I must hurry, because she does not know I have found it. Indeed, I was merely trying to help her unpack her portmanteau. She does accept so little help, I believe—”
Harry waved his hand at her. “What is it, Tess?”
She handed him a rolled up paper. “Marriage papers. She is married to him!”
Harry unrolled the paper and read carefully. “My God.” He released its end so that it curled again. “This I did not expect.”
“Nor I,” admitted his wife. “Although, one could tell there was a past between them. If you could see how they look at each other. I declare, I was suspicious from the first. I mean, why would she come to him, and so close to her time? Why allow any man near you, except—well, you do see what I mean.”
“Indeed,” agreed Harry. “Gray gave me no inkling of this turn of events. It makes some sense now, I believe.”
Tess unraveled the papers again. “This is his signature, is it not?”
Harry pulled out the bank draft from the envelope in his pocket and compared the signatures. “It appears to be.”
“I would wager this is her real name. Margaret Delaney.” Tess pointed to it. “Maggie Smith is a false name, I think.”
Harry gave her a fond smile. “Do you?”
“I do.” She nodded seriously. “What are we to do?”
“This does change things, does it not, Tess?” Harry pondered.
“It does,” his wife agreed. She stared at the paper again. “She is married to him.”
Harry stood up and began pacing. Tess rolled up the papers again. The marriage papers. Harry had not conceived that Gray had actually married the girl. He did not seem so generous now. He ought to have acknowledged her as his wife and settled her comfortably.
That was badly done of him. Dishonorable. If Gray were still present he would give him a well-deserved tongue-lashing.
Harry tapped his lips with his fingers as he paced.
“Say something, Harry,” his wife cried. “What must we do? I think I should tell Maggie we know her secret, but if I do, she will know I’ve rummaged through her possessions. She would not like it, would she?” She began pacing as well.
The two of them crisscrossed the room like skaters on a pond.
Harry stopped. “I have it, Tess!”
“Have what, dear? I thought we were seeking a solution to this dilemma.” Tess looked puzzled.
“But I have the solution!” Harry marched over to her and grabbed her hands, bringing them to his lips.
Tess smiled and blushed as prettily as if she were still the ingénue he’d fallen in love with years ago.
“I believe that we must undo the wrong Gray has done,” Harry began. “It is our obligation.”
“I am sure it is,” Tess said, adoration in her eyes. “But how?”
Harry was certain he looked a
s wise as he felt. “Where should a soldier’s wife reside while she waits for his return?”
“Well, my former schoolmate, Horatia Bromley—do you recall her, Harry? She had a large nose, but otherwise was perfectly amiable—she married a military man, who is now a colonel, I believe.” She placed a finger on her cheek and tilted her head. “Or is it a general? I cannot recall. Anyway, when he went to the colonies, she remained at the family estate, his father and mother still lived, you see, and she stayed with them, even though her husband was the younger son, not the heir at all. He was a shocking man. Spent most of his time in those gambling places, I think. What do you call them, dear?”
“Gaming hells.” Harry smiled at her. “And you have the right of it, my love. We shall take Maggie and the child to where they belong. When Gray returns, he will have to seek her there and that will bring him back to where he belongs as well.”
Tess blinked up at him. “Where, dearest?”
Harry squeezed her hands. “We will take Gray’s wife and child to the place and people Gray has neglected these many years. To Summerton Hall. To his father.”
Chapter FOUR
The traveling carriage, in spite of its well-sprung design, weaved and bumped its way down roads roughened by recent rains. Maggie braced herself against the red velvet upholstery, arms weary from tightly clutching the baby to keep him from lurching out of her grasp. At one month of age he was still so tiny, much too young and fragile for such a journey.
When the baron and baroness desired to quit London for the summer, Maggie had no choice but to accompany them. She had no other place to go. Indeed, she was fortunate they cared enough to invite her. Both had been so kind. What would she and her baby have done without their help?
She shivered, though the bright sunshine of the country-side kept the interior of the carriage comfortably warm. Lady Caufield dozed. Her mouth opened slightly as she snuggled herself in the opposite corner of the carriage, crushing the willow-green satin ribbons and violet silk flowers of her straw bonnet. The sun filtering through the window bathed her face with a soft light, making her appear as peaceful and innocent as the sleeping baby. Maggie smiled in spite of her discomfort. There was nothing peaceful about Lady Caufield, whose incessant chatter, good-natured as it was, fatigued Maggie almost more than the bouncing and swaying of the carriage.
Maggie gave her knuckles a mental rap, all she could manage at present with arms full. Such unkind thoughts, however fleeting, were undeserved. All these dear people had done was help. In fact, yesterday and today, the baroness had held the baby nearly as long as she. Thank goodness he was asleep as well. If not for the aching of her arms, Maggie might have savored the momentary calm.
Instead, her nose wrinkled. Wafting up from the basket at her feet came the sour scent of soiled nappies. No wonder Lord Caufield had chosen to ride, rather than share the dubious comforts of the carriage. After two days cooped up in it, Maggie envied him.
She leaned toward the window, trying to fill her lungs with fresh country air. It was glorious to be in the country again, with its clover-filled hills all white and pink with flower.
Maggie was grateful that the baron’s lands were in the east country, far from Gloucestershire, where she would always fear encountering someone she knew. It was much safer to be Maggie Smith, rather than the pregnant Maggie Delaney, sent away at the same time the young officer was drowned. At least that was how she imagined it. After she left, his body would have been found all white and bloated as . . . as . . .
Tears suddenly blurred the green hills and their dottings of flowers.
The swollen, disfigured bodies of her mother, father, and seven-year-old brother, their dear, familiar features made grotesque by the ravages of the Severn River, swam before her eyes.
Her father, the impoverished third son of an Irish landowner, had struggled to provide for his wife and children. He’d been enthusiastic about his new post as schoolmaster. Maggie’s high-born mother, banished from her family when she married Sean Delaney, had joyfully accepted the role of a schoolmaster’s wife. Maggie, at nine years old, had merely been grateful for the house provided for them. On that fateful day she’d chosen to remain in the tiny house rather than join her father, mother, and brother on an excursion to Gloucester Cathedral.
A sudden storm capsized their boat and swept them under the cold gray water of the Severn River, the same river that had taken the man she’d thought was her husband.
The carriage jerked and tilted, jolting Maggie back to the present. She blinked her tears away and sniffed as quietly as she could. The baby wiggled in her tired arms, and she feared for a moment she’d awakened him. His little face puckered and reddened, but with a reflexive movement of his mouth, he settled back into sleep.
She’d named him Sean, after her father. Lord and Lady Caufield had raised their eyebrows in unison when she’d announced her choice of a name. Maggie supposed the Irishness of it gave them pause. She could always say the baby’s father had been Irish. She could say anything she liked about the baby’s father. Anything would be preferable to the truth.
She stared into little Sean’s tiny face, eyelids fringed with feathery black lashes, a nose no bigger than a button, but lips as perfectly shaped as an adult’s. He was her family now, and through him flowed the blood of her mother, father, and brother. His father’s blood also flowed through him. Perhaps that would make up for his father’s loss of life, too.
Maggie could not precisely remember what her false husband looked like. His image was fading from her memory. She could easily recall the dark hair, full lips, and steely gray eyes of Captain Grayson, however.
Lord Caufield rode up to her window. “We’ll be changing horses soon. There’s a posting inn up the road. Is Tess sleeping?”
“Yes,” answered Maggie. “Both she and the babe.”
His face softened. “She always sleeps in the carriage. I suppose you’d better wake her.” He trotted off.
By the time they’d reached the inn, Maggie had woken Lady Caufield and helped her straighten her bonnet. Little Sean was in full wail, and their descent from the carriage was accompanied by Lady Caufield calling orders to whoever would listen. The innkeeper hurried them into a private parlor, no doubt to protect the other patrons from the assault of a baby crying with a lung power truly remarkable in such a tiny body. Lord Caufield quickly excused himself, ostensibly to procure them some refreshment, but Maggie suspected it was to avoid the noise and allow her the privacy to nurse. As she’d learned that day in the parlor with Captain Grayson, her breasts ached when the baby cried. She could never tell when the milk might flow unbidden, embarrassing her once more.
Putting the baby to her breast, she remembered the stunned look on the captain’s face when he saw her dress stained with milk. It was the last she’d seen of him.
No, not the last. He’d stood outside the townhouse when she came to the window, holding the baby. He’d stood a long time.
Little Sean was more fussy than hungry, but his little stomach won the war with his need for protest. Maggie held him against her shoulder after nursing him until he emitted a satisfying burp, another sound unexpectedly loud for such a little creature. Maggie placed him in the small cradle Lady Caufield had bought for him. She held her breath lest he wake, and tried to quiet the queasiness in her stomach left over from the constant motion of the carriage.
Soon a serving girl carried in food and drink. Lord Caufield peered in cautiously. Seeing the baby was no longer at her breast, he entered.
“Harry, darling.” His wife raised her hand to her husband as if she’d not seen him in an age. “I declare, I must have slept the whole morning. Did I miss much of the countryside?”
He leaned down and kissed her hand soundly. “No sights you’ve not slept through before, love,” he replied, regarding her fondly. He turned to Maggie. “How have you fared, my dear?”
“Not too ill when the baby slept.” Maggie’s voice came out sharper than she’
d intended and she bit her lip. She did not wish him to think she complained.
“He’s a lusty little lad, that is sure.” Lord Caufield sank into a chair next to his wife. “This is the last leg of our journey. We shall arrive in less than two hours.”
The serving girl placed the dishes on the table and, with a curtsy, left the room. Maggie’s companions, always loquacious beyond measure, lapsed into a tense silence.
“I am curious to see Caufield House,” Maggie said with a try at polite conversation. “I imagine it is a lovely place.”
“Oh, it is,” exclaimed Lady Caufield a little too brightly. “It is indeed lovely.”
The silence descended again, and Lord Caufield busied himself buttering a biscuit. His expression was uncharacteristically stern. Lady Caufield quickly dipped her head and poured a pitcher of cream over a dish of raspberries. Maggie gaped at them from across the table.
Lord Caufield lifted his knife, butter still clinging to it. He pointed it toward Maggie and opened his mouth as if to speak. He shut it again, sighed heavily, and placed the knife crosswise on his plate.
“We are not arriving at Caufield House today.” He spoke with slow deliberation, as if imparting important news to a very slow child. “Caufield House is another day’s journey.”
“I see,” said Maggie, though she did not at all see why this information should be accompanied by so serious a face. “Where is it we are bound, then?”
Lady Caufield choked on a sip of lemonade. She sputtered and coughed. Her husband patted her back, fussing and cooing over her. Maggie grasped her hands tightly in her lap, waiting somewhat impatiently for his solicitude to run its course.
His wife restored, Lord Caufield folded his hands and rested them on the table’s edge. He turned his attention back to Maggie. “We are bound for Summerton Hall.”
This meant nothing to her. “Summerton Hall?”
“Summerton Hall,” echoed Lady Caufield.
Maggie stared at them without comprehension.
“Gray’s home,” Lady Caufield said.
The Improper Wife Page 5