The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4)

by Irina Shapiro

Jeremiah Marsden

  “He hardly even sounds like the Jemmy we knew,” Neve observed as she glanced at Hugo’s reaction to the letter. “Do you think he had to show the letter to Nicholas before sending it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hugo replied glumly. He tossed the letter onto the desk and glanced out the window, needing a moment to get his feelings under control. Jem sounded happy and well-adjusted, so why did he feel a pang of resentment? It was childish and made Hugo feel ashamed of himself, but rather than rejoice in Jem’s good fortune, he felt almost disappointed that Jem expressed no desire to return to them.

  “You are so transparent,” Neve said with a gentle smile, as she got up and came to stand behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Hugo, it’s all right to feel a little hurt. You took him in and loved him, and now he doesn’t need you anymore. Your feelings are natural.”

  “Are they? I feel a fool,” Hugo grumbled.

  “No one likes to be replaced. Jem will always love you; you know that.”

  “He has a real father now, one who bought him a chestnut mare,” Hugo replied churlishly. He could almost feel Neve smiling indulgently behind him.

  “Why don’t you go read a story to your son? Perhaps one day you can buy him a chestnut mare and teach him to ride it,” she suggested gently.

  Hugo smiled wistfully at his own foolishness. “You are right, as usual. I look forward to spending time with Michael as he gets older. I’ll take him hunting and fishing, and teach him all about the running of the estate. I think he will be good with numbers, he’s got a logical mind.”

  “And you deduced this how?” Neve asked, laughing.

  “He always looks at the pages of the book in sequence and never jumps to the end the way Valentine does, and he likes putting things in order. Haven’t you noticed that?”

  “I have. He is rather meticulous, unlike our unruly Valentine.” Neve grew silent as her mind went to Elena and what she had been like, but she didn’t say anything, knowing that it would bring Hugo pain.

  “Neve,” Hugo said, his voice full of hope, “do you think there’s a chance…?”

  Neve shook her head stubbornly. There would be no more children, not unless it happened by accident. The birth of the twins had been brutal, and the loss of Elena brought Neve to her knees. She was done with babies, she’d made that clear, so Hugo went back to using the prophylactics after the birth, telling himself that too many men lost their wives in childbirth, but he wouldn’t be one of them. As much as he longed to have more children, he was glad not to put Neve at risk, for life without her would be meaningless.

  January 1689

  Devon, England

  Chapter 45

  Jem waited until the house was quiet and everyone abed for the night before pulling Lady Everly’s letter from beneath his pillow. He fancied it smelled of her perfume but knew he was being silly. Neve didn’t wear much scent, and even if some had gotten on the letter while she was writing, it would have surely evaporated by now. Jem didn’t open the letter; he knew the words by heart, just held it close, needing to feel even the most tenuous connection to the Everlys. He managed to keep his mind occupied during the day, focusing on his studies and accompanying his father when he went out on the estate, but when everyone retired and Jem was finally alone in his room, he felt a soul-crushing loneliness that had nothing to do with being alone.

  His father never actually saw the invitation to the wedding. Jem had noticed the letter with the Everly seal lying unopened on the desk in his father’s study, and palmed it before anyone else had a chance to see it. What he’d written to Hugo was partly true, but he’d allowed himself some license with the timeline. It was true that his stepmother passed away, but it had actually happened just after the summer, and although his father did feel some sorrow at his wife’s passing, what he seemed to feel was mostly relief. The marriage had been strained to say the least, and Jem’s arrival did little to improve relations between Nicholas and his invalid wife, who saw Jem as a constant reminder of her failure to produce a son and heir.

  Anne Marsden had been surprisingly kind to him, but she was a woman who’d lost nearly all interest in life in the decade since her riding accident, and spent most of her time either reading or staring out the window at the world she could no longer enjoy. She’d been an accomplished horsewoman once, a woman who loved to dance and take long walks through the countryside. Her accident put an end to all that, her only exposure to the outside world being weekly trips to church and an hour or so outdoors on fine days. A burly groom named Wilfred, who smelled of horse manure and sweat, appeared every day at midmorning to carry Anne outside and settle her in her chair with a rug over her legs where she had a lovely view of the lawns and the park. Wilfred returned just before the midday meal to carry Anne back inside.

  To Jem’s knowledge, the two never spoke or even looked at each other, but Wilfred carried Anne Marsden as if she were made of fine china, and gazed on her with undisguised affection when she wasn’t looking. They’d been friends once, in the days when Anne went out riding every day with Wilfred galloping after her on orders from her husband to make sure that she was chaperoned and safe. After years of confinement, her death was probably just as much of a release for her as it was for her husband, and the only person who seemed to grieve for her was Wilfred. He was a man of few words, but Jem had seen him kneeling by Anne’s grave several times, an expression of abject misery on his face as he cleared away the fallen leaves and used his sleeve to wipe the dust off the inscription.

  Jem covered his ears as he heard the mewling of a baby coming from down the corridor. Anne died just in time, Jem thought bitterly as he pressed his face into the pillow. Nicholas married his pregnant mistress only a month after the funeral, and now he had a new son, a legitimate son, whose mother would fight tooth and nail to make sure that her boy got what was coming to him, and that the bastard son of her husband would not usurp what was rightfully her son’s.

  Nicholas spoke to Jem of the new baby many times, reassuring him that his brother would not in any way change what he felt for Jem or alter the order of the inheritance, but Jem didn’t believe that for a minute. Had Anne died a few years before, his father would have simply remarried and produced an heir, instead of coming all the way to France to find a child he fathered years ago with a woman who was hardly more than a whore. Jem loved his mother once, but now he knew too much about her to feel any love or respect for the woman who’d given him life. She seemed to have lain with just about every man in Cranleigh, and quite a few in London. She’d had no honor, no decency, and no modesty.

  Jem tried to remember her as she was when she took him to church on Sundays, but all he saw in his mind’s eye was a dark-haired woman, her head thrown back and her eyes closed in ecstasy as she rode Archie, her full breasts bouncing up and down, a cry of pleasure escaping her pouty lips as she ground her hips against his. There was a time when Jem thought that Hugo Everly was his natural father, or that Archie might marry his mother and they’d be a family, but his mother didn’t wish for a husband. She liked having lovers — many of them. Archie wasn’t the only man she’d taken to her bed; there were at least half a dozen that Jem had seen her with. She often caught him watching through a curtain around the alcove that contained his cot and winked at him, completely unashamed of her nakedness or carnality. He’d been frightened when Margaret died, but then came the best years of his life.

  Hot tears ran into the pillow as Jem remembered his time with the Everlys. He would never be Hugo’s son, but he’d felt a sense of belonging, and a quiet, steady love that he hadn’t known since. His father would have taken him to the wedding had he asked him to, but Jem couldn’t bear to see all of them again and feel the pain of separation. He could never go back, and to see them all would just be salt on the wound of his broken heart. He’d excel at his lessons, learn about the estate, and hope that in time, his father bequeathed him enough money to allow for some kind of independent existence.
He didn’t expect more than that, nor did he hope for more.

  Jem eventually fell asleep with the letter still clutched in his hand, dreaming of walking by the Seine with Hugo and stopping off for a freshly-made crepe liberally spread with butter and strawberry jam. How happy he had been then, and how naïve.

  March, 1689

  London, England

  Chapter 46

  Archie glared out the window at the darkness outside. A few windows still glowed with candlelight, but for the most part, the city was dark. Archie could have gone to bed, or went out to a tavern for a game of dice, but he kept his vigil by the window, waiting for Hugo to return. He would have preferred to stay at an inn rather than Bradford Nash’s London house where the two doddering old servants floated about like ghostly specters. They were so used to their routine that having unexpected guests sent them into a near-panic, especially since Archie and Hugo needed food that required chewing. The old retainers barely had five teeth between them, and subsisted on pottage and gruel. Hugo assured them that he and Archie would just eat out at nearby taverns, but they insisted on preparing meals for them, going to more trouble than was worth since the food was barely edible.

  Archie resumed his pacing. Next time, he would follow Hugo and keep an eye on him rather than sit around the house waiting like a neglected wife. His own wife wasn’t too happy with him going off to London with Hugo, but she understood his duty to his master. Besides, a few days apart were healthy, in his opinion. Frances seemed happy, but Archie knew what was on her mind. She’d just gotten her monthly courses before he left, and he’d seen the look of despair in her eyes. No amount of assurances from him convinced her that he wasn’t disappointed by her failure to conceive. It had only been two months since the wedding, so a child was hardly on Archie’s mind, but Frances thought of little else.

  He would have thought that constant exposure to Valentine and Michael would put a damper on Frances’s urgent need for a baby. Archie loved the children, especially Valentine, who in his opinion should have been born a boy. She was willful, clever, and fearless, unlike little Michael who was afraid of his own shadow. The poor boy spent all day surrounded by women who fussed over him for lack of anything better to do. Of course, the child needed to be kept safe and healthy, but an occasional fall on his behind wouldn’t hurt him. He needed freedom to explore his surroundings and learn from his mistakes.

  Neve, especially, hovered over the poor boy, walking behind him should he falter in his step, or running to soothe him the minute he began to cry. Archie smiled as he remembered his own mother. She’d let him have the run of the house as soon as he could walk, and he had many a scorched smock and bruise from going where he shouldn’t. His sister Julia had always been clean and tidy, and it drove his mother to near madness when Archie came home covered with mud or horse manure. She scolded him nonstop, forcing him to wash with cold water, something he’d hated. Archie said a brief prayer for the souls of Julia’s dead children and husband. He wished that his sister would rejoin the world of the living before their Da passed, but that would never happen.

  Archie poured himself a cup of ale and sat down in front of the fire, tired of pacing. He actually hoped that Frances would get with child, not because he was so eager to be a parent, but because it would put her mind at rest. She was so worried about what she’d done in Paris that nothing would pacify her save a baby in her arms. Well, it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. Archie shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of his sudden arousal. Frances had been afraid at first, but her worry evaporated after their wedding night, and she’d become quite the demanding madam, eager to perform her marital duties. Archie grinned at the thought. He loved that she was finally able to tell him what she wanted in bed, and that he was able to satisfy her. It warmed his heart to see her happy; her maidenly blush, when she ran into him during the day, sending a clear message of what was on her mind.

  If he were honest with himself, Archie was terrified of having a child. He didn’t love many people, but when he loved, he loved deeply and forever, and the thought of the vulnerability a child would bring scared him. He rarely thought of Julia’s children now, but seeing the unbearable pain Elena’s death caused, he remembered only too well what it was like to lose someone you loved so dearly. It would destroy Frances, too. She’d already lost one child. What if she lost another?

  “You are fretting like an old woman,” Archie grumbled to himself. Perhaps it was time he found his bed, and actually slept for a change. He was getting a lot less sleep these days thanks to his lusty bride, but he was genuinely happy — an emotion he’d never thought to achieve.

  Chapter 47

  The door closed behind Hugo with a soft click, leaving him alone in the street. It was deserted at this hour, the sky overcast, with scuttling clouds obscuring the moon for brief intervals during which the street was nearly pitch dark. It was dangerous to be out alone at this hour, even in this part of London populated by the wealthy and the titled. Hugo glanced around, and seeing nothing to arouse his suspicions set off for Brad’s house where Archie was no doubt waiting for him like a devoted wife. Hugo had considered bringing the young man along, but had left him behind since a man-at-arms might draw attention to what would otherwise be perceived as just a social call, which is what this was meant to appear as.

  Henry FitzRoy, 1st Duke of Grafton, had received Hugo graciously enough, although he did appear somewhat taken aback by the late hour. Henry was something of a night owl, so Hugo’s visit was meant to catch the young man alone and in private. His wife, Isabella, had already retired, and Henry was reading in the library when Hugo was announced. He was normally a man of high fashion who favored long, curly wigs like his father Charles II, but at this hour, he was wearing just breeches and a linen shirt, his feet and calves covered only in mustard-yellow stockings. Henry’s hair was cropped short, making him look more boy than man, and his face was remarkably smooth for such a late hour when most men would be covered in a day’s worth of stubble.

  Hugo had chosen not to write ahead of his visit, but to take Henry by surprise to gauge his reaction. The Marquis de Chartres had instructed Hugo to send all his intelligence through the Duke of Grafton, who was a loyal supporter of his uncle James II and a secret Catholic, having converted not long after his father’s death. But, Hugo couldn’t bring himself to put his trust in the illegitimate son of Charles II and the notorious Barbara Villiers, the Duchess of Castlemaine. Henry’s parents had both been shrewd and seasoned political animals, and with the recent events surrounding the abdication of James II and William’s ascension to the throne, Hugo couldn’t help questioning Henry’s loyalties. He might be genuinely devoted to his uncle’s cause, or biding his time to see which way the wind would blow. Hugo met Henry FitzRoy some years ago at the Court of James II, but Henry had been too young at the time to leave much of an impression. He’d been a handsome youth, in an ostentatious kind of way, but Hugo couldn’t recall anything of his character.

  “Lord Everly, what a surprise,” Henry exclaimed as he invited Hugo to sit and offered him a cup of very good claret. “So, you’ve discovered my secret. I stay up half the night reading and pursuing various interests of mine when no one can disturb me.” He shared this confidence in a low voice, as if it were a great secret and someone might overhear them. But the only person within hearing distance was the servant who’d let Hugo in, and he was fully aware of his master’s habits.

  “I do apologize for the interruption, Your Grace,” Hugo supplied smoothly, taking the casual comment as a chastisement for calling so late. “I’m afraid I’ve come on a rather delicate matter and hoped to find you alone.”

  Henry set aside the magnifying glass he’d been using to study some point of interest on a spread-out map, and leaned back in his chair, affecting the air of someone ready to give his full attention to an unwelcome visitor.

  “I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” Hugo began, watching Henry like a hawk from beneath hoo
ded lids.

  “Oh?”

  “The Marquis de Chartres sends his regards,” Hugo said casually.

  “Very kind of him, to be sure. I trust he’s in good health?”

  “He seemed to be the last I saw him,” Hugo replied, waiting for Henry to say something else, but the young man remained quiet. Henry was giving nothing away, so Hugo had to proceed very carefully. He supposed it was encouraging that Henry FitzRoy didn’t immediately take the bait and incriminate himself, but Hugo had no wish to incriminate himself either.

  “The Marquis was under the impression that you might be able to help me contact some friends in France. Letters do take such an awfully long time to arrive, don’t they? And are so often lost along the way,” Hugo mused as he took a sip of claret.

  “Yes, I do have a means of getting messages to France securely,” Henry replied with a small smile. “A good nephew must always inquire after his uncle’s health and send regards to the family. And, Cousin Louis is such a dear, always eager for news of his kin, despite the demands of his kingdom.”

  “No one would fault you for taking an interest in your relations, Your Grace,” Hugo agreed. “Keeping up with family is so important.”

  “I do, however, find that some people tend to take too much of an interest in our letters, mistaking affection and duty for something rather more sinister,” Henry remarked as he continued to study Hugo with undisguised interest.

  “These are uncertain times, Your Grace,” Hugo replied smoothly.

  “Indeed they are, which is why if I wish to say anything of import, I do so in code. A childish game really, but a necessary one. A precaution, if you will.” Henry was enjoying himself now. His eyes were sparkling with good humor, and his full mouth was stretched into a knowing smile. They were speaking the same language now — the language of espionage.