by Karen Ranney
“I should leave,” he said huskily.
“Yes,” she conceded, lifting her gaze to him.
How could she bear the moment when they parted?
“I shall be fine, Michael,” she said again and forced a smile to her face.
He nodded once, then left the room.
At the doorway, Michael turned and glanced back at the morning room, torn between his duty and his wishes. A surprising conflict, one he’d rarely felt.
“Take care of her, Smytheton,” he said as his butler handed him his top hat and walking stick. Smytheton only nodded, his face carefully expressionless. Michael never quite knew what the man was thinking when he chose to be inscrutable.
As for himself, he was all too certain of his thoughts.
He entered his carriage, resigning himself to the errand before him.
He had not considered what the role of mistress would cost her, both in pride and dignity. Not once had he envisioned being in public with her, but keeping her to himself.
Like a caged animal, Michael?
The thought ate at him.
It had been nothing more than selfishness. An arrogance of thought and deed. He’d wanted her with him because his life seemed somehow more exciting with her. But he had never truly understood what it would mean to her. Their conversation on the river, the night at the theater had both been lessons in his overweening pride.
She had been right all along. What had she said to him that first day? Something about not being raised to be a mistress. Being with him would be the worst thing he could ask of her.
He respected her quiet dignity, was curious about the look of reflection in her eyes sometimes. She was his companion in abandon yet she was equally at home in silence while he worked.
The truth was that he didn’t want Margaret hurt, nor did he ever wish a repeat of what had happened at the theater. As long as he lived he would remember the sight of her sitting there, a queen in restraint and demeanor while people whispered about her. Never again, he vowed.
A terrible realization to make, that his fascination for a woman was capable of harming her.
A moment ago, he’d not wanted to leave her. What would it be like to do so in two days?
Alan Stilton stood at the window gazing out at the parklands of Wickhampton. A wandering stream curved through the garden, led to a walkway bordered by pleached limes. He could turn his head and view the landscape at the rear of the house, a verdant lawn graced with a long reflecting pool.
The lavender fields to the south of the estate scented the air. The drone of bees and the soft, melodic sound of the breeze rustling the leaves were the only accompaniments to his thoughts.
A legacy, Wickhampton. His sons would continue his lineage, and down through time the name of Stilton would be revered. For the grand deeds of his ancestors, perhaps but never for his own.
It didn’t concern him that he had ordered people killed. Soldiers were never deemed murderers, and he’d been involved in nothing less than war. He had tried to save the Empire and in doing so had placed his own heritage in jeopardy.
Tarrant had come to Wickhampton because he needed to be free of London for awhile. Or perhaps he just wanted to be reminded of his family’s five hundred years of service to England. He could not forget that. It was for his heritage that he had acted in the way he had, for the very glory of England.
“Enter,” he said, softening his voice deliberately, so that it appeared almost avuncular. There were those who believed him to be so. He had long accepted the premise that perception is truth. What people convince themselves they see, they believe. Therefore he was rarely without a smile or a kind word. Easy deceptions that cost him little.
He turned and watched as Peter came closer. A greeting, permission asked and granted.
“You needn’t search for Margaret Esterly any further, Peter. I have seen her myself.” A small smile curved Tarrant’s lips, hiding the fury he felt. “She has a protector, evidently,” he continued. “The Earl of Montraine.”
The Code Master. What an exquisite and horrifying irony. The last man in England who should read the Journals of Augustin X.
The moment he had seen Margaret with the Earl of Montraine, he knew that the situation had taken another dimension, become infinitely more dangerous.
“It is he who concerns me, Peter. He’s a man equipped with an intrusive curiosity. If she has the other two books in her possession, it might prove to be an altogether uncomfortable pairing.”
Peter remained respectfully silent.
“She has been a thorn in my side for years. She offends me and I would have her plucked out.” An order couched in a biblical parlance. “But he is the one who concerns me the most.”
“You wish him killed, Your Grace?”
Tarrant frowned at his coachman. “A nasty word, Peter. Let’s not use it again. It is enough that you and I understand each other. It is not necessary to speak of certain things. If both the earl and his newest fancy disappeared, I would be pleased.”
Only then would his world be secure once again.
Margaret felt oddly sad at Michael’s departure, then forced herself to turn back to the book. But the tale of Ivanhoe could not interest her for long. Instead, she kept envisioning him as Michael, tall, with black hair, blue eyes and an arresting smile.
She set the book down on the settee beside her, propped her chin in her hands and stared out the window.
There might come a time when she regretted this week. But she could not imagine that moment. She had expected to spend the time with him in passion, but had not suspected that they might find companionship together, also. Twice they had sat on the settee in the library together, each involved in a book. One afternoon it had rained hard while they were reading, the comforting patter on the cobbles adding a coziness to the scene.
Last night, however, had proven that this week was foolish. She played with disaster, all the while pretending that they lived in a world apart. They did not. The life each lived was all too proscribed. The experience at the theater had proven that.
She glanced toward the door, the sound of voices intruding on her thoughts.
“Mama, he will ruin everything. No one will be remembering the ball. They’ll be talking about this scandal. I will be ruined.”
“You are the most frivolous girl, Charlotte. All you can think of is yourself.”
“Elizabeth, you will not speak to your sister in such tones. It does not augur well for your manners. Such stridency will no doubt set your suitors to running.”
“I do not see why women seek out marriage at all. ‘Independence I have long considered as the grand blessing of life, the basis of every virtue.’”
“Please no, Ada. Must you forever quote Wollstonecraft?”
“She is a perfect martyr to the cause of women’s vindication.”
“Oh, pish, she’s not a martyr at all. You only quote her when you want to stir up an argument. I doubt you feel half of what you say.”
“I, for one, would always want the companionship of an amiable suitor.”
“Where is my son, Smytheton?”
It was bedlam; a bevy of female voices, all talking over each other.
Smytheton’s voice. “I regret, my lady, that the Earl has gone out.”
“It does not signify, Smytheton. We shall wait until he returns. Bring us chocolate in the morning room.”
“I shall not have chocolate, Smytheton. It spots my face.”
“I do think that it has something in it like laudanum. It leads one to feel enormously content and everyone knows that such is not the natural state of mind.”
His mother. Dear God, the Countess of Montraine. And Michael’s sisters.
Margaret stood, brushed her suddenly damp hands down her skirt, composed herself, and waited.
The door opened and she was face-to-face with a woman of middle years, expensively attired in a high waisted bronze colored silk. A matching bonnet, tucked and pleated in the s
ame shade of silk and adorned with ivory silk peonies was perched over startling red hair.
The countess slowly removed her leather gloves, tanned to match her dress, all the while staring at Margaret with narrowed eyes.
“Who, may I ask, are you?” she asked sharply.
Before Margaret could answer, the countess turned and addressed her question to Smytheton. “Who is this woman?”
The majordomo looked at a loss for words.
“Margaret Esterly,” she said. She swallowed hard, clasped her hands together, determined not to be intimidated by this formidable woman.
There was not one wrinkle on her face. It was so smooth that she barely seemed to frown.
It was a well-known fact that red flannel, dampened in hot water, and then rubbed over the lips could impart a pink hue for hours. A cloth soaked in blackberry tea and laid across the eyes could reduce puffiness. Coal ash carefully applied could darken blond or graying lashes and brows. Egg white, beaten with just the barest touch of honey, could smooth the face and eliminate all traces of age.
Margaret couldn’t help but wonder if the countess used egg white on her face, along with a bit of red flannel and coal ash.
For a long, uncomfortable moment they simply stared at each other. Smytheton slipped from the room like a tendril of smoke.
“Can you explain your presence in my son’s house? Or shall I make the necessary assumption?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Margaret admitted quietly, “exactly as you think.” And this meeting was the very worst thing that could happen.
“You admit it?” the countess asked. Surprise flickered over her face.
A slender young girl with brown hair and Michael’s sapphire blue eyes peeked around her mother then stepped forward.
“Hello,” she said warmly. “I’m Elizabeth,” the girl said. “I’m Michael’s youngest sister.” she explained. “And that is Charlotte, the middle one,” she said, pointing to a girl of her height with blond hair and brown eyes. “Ada is the oldest and never this silent normally.”
“Elizabeth,” the countess said tightly, “have you no sense at all? You’ve just introduced your sisters to a woman of ill repute.”
“Are you a soiled dove? Has Michael rescued you from a life of poverty and despair?” Ada asked Margaret curiously. Her brown hair was pulled back severely into a bun, as if she wished to make herself plain. Her eyes were a light brown; her gaze was as intent as her brother’s.
“His whore? We’ve just been introduced to Michael’s whore?” Charlotte wailed.
Margaret flinched, then held herself still.
“Where did you learn that crudity, Charlotte?” her mother asked, glaring at her. “That is not a word you should know, let alone speak.” She held up her hand. “Get in the carriage, girls,” the Countess said. “I have no intention of allowing you to be sullied by this creature.”
“But Mama…” Elizabeth’s protest was cut short by her mother’s look.
Once they had left the room, the countess turned and surveyed Margaret slowly from toe to nose, a slow, measured, and thoroughly disdainful look.
Margaret willed herself to appear nonchalant. The countess, however, was as intimidating a personage as the Duke of Tarrant.
“My daughters are innocents. I, however, have had experience in dealing with women of your ilk most of my life. Can I infer from your presence here that my son has lost his senses? Or has he taken a leaf from his father’s book and become enamored of his mistress?”
“I am not his mistress,” she said. Not exactly.
Smytheton appeared at the door once again, this time carrying a silver tray laden with two silver pots, a covered container, and an assortment of cups. The countess ignored his presence, never turning her gaze from Margaret. The butler carefully lowered the tray to the table and then looked at both women before choosing to leave the room rather than interrupt the awkward silence.
“Where is my son?” the countess finally asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Margaret admitted.
“Do you not know how to speak, young woman? You address me as my lady. And you are respectful of your betters.”
Irritation nudged aside the humiliation of this moment. Or perhaps it was pride, finally coming to the forefront.
The countess was not unlike those she had served at the bookshop. The women of the nobility traveled in black lacquered carriages, not seeming to notice the squalor they passed. Not for them the bone-jarring journey across the cobbles or the stench of London’s streets. Their carriages had springs to soften their backsides, and they carried nosegays to perfume the air. They rarely saw her when she served them or made remarks in her hearing that were insulting. Effortless rudeness performed condescendingly.
“If I erred in not addressing you properly, I apologize, my lady,” she said, tilting her chin up. “But should you not also apologize for your rudeness? Or are you simply an arbiter of manners and do not bother to abide by them?”
“You are as you are, young woman. I will issue no expression of regret for it.”
They stood facing each other across the table.
“You think to insinuate yourself into Michael’s life, no doubt,” the countess said caustically. “Your ploy will not succeed. I will see to it that he sends you packing back to the docks, where you can ply your trade with those who appreciate your no doubt considerable talents.”
Margaret knew full well that her presence in Michael’s home was not considered proper by anyone’s standards, either tradesman or noble. But neither was she a common doxy. However, not one protest came to mind. Instead, she was subjected to the other woman’s silent and all encompassing contempt.
The bitter tang of the chocolate wafted upward from the tray. She had never cared for the drink in the best of times, but today it seemed especially horrid. Perhaps it was because of all the rich food she ate last night, or simply the tension of this meeting. Or, perhaps her child was simply making his presence known in the most awkward and inopportune moment. For whatever reason, she felt suddenly and acutely nauseated.
She closed her eyes, waited for her stomach to settle, all the while breathing deeply. It was the only way to counter the discomfort. But it seemed as long as the chocolate was there, so was the feeling of sickness.
“What is wrong with you?” the countess demanded.
Margaret shook her head, pressed her hand to her waist, lowered her eyes and walked determinedly toward the doorway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the countess demanded. “I have not yet dismissed you.”
She didn’t turn, didn’t answer, intent only on the chamber she shared with Michael and privacy.
Chapter 24
If you would know another, know yourself.
If you would love another, love yourself.
The Journals of Augustin X
Robert was his usual reticent self when Michael turned over the results of the Cyrillic cipher to him. He had not expected anything else. But he knew his friend well, and could tell from the sheer absence of expression on Robert’s face that he was excited about the translation.
From this moment forward he wouldn’t know what happened to the cipher. Should any additional messages come into the Foreign Office’s possession using that same key, the code could be unscrambled by someone else. His involvement was only in deciphering the pattern. How it altered history was often unknown.
He returned home to discover his mother’s carriage waiting on the curb. The first sign that something was wrong. The presence of his oddly silent sisters inside the vehicle was the second indication. In addition, Elizabeth looked concerned, an expression that warned him of the confrontation no doubt taking place at this moment.
He confronted Smytheton at the door. “Where are they?”
“In the morning room, my lord.”
His feeling of dread accentuated with each footstep. The door opened just as he reached for it. Margaret swept by him, her face parchme
nt white. She brushed away his staying hand and raced for the stairs.
He turned to face his mother.
“What did you say to her?”
She frowned at him, jerked on her gloves.
“It’s what I have to say to you that’s important, Michael. Is that the same woman you had the temerity to bring to the theater last night? At the height of the season? Have you no thoughts for my standing? Or your sister’s reputation? If you must behave in such a deplorable fashion, then you should comport yourself with the grace your father did, and hide the trollop!”
“Is that what you told her?” he asked, his anger mounting.
“It does not signify what I said. Everyone is talking about what you have done, Michael. I had to be informed of it by Helen Kittridge!”
“So you thought it important to come here today,” he said, as dispassionately as possible. “And see for yourself.”
“No, Michael. I came to protect the reputation of this family, which is evidently not one of your concerns,” she snapped.
“Why, Mother, because I chose to have a companion at the theater?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No, Michael, because you chose a strumpet to accompany you.” Twin dots of fiery color appeared on her face.
“She is not a strumpet,” he said tightly. “Merely a woman with no family to protect her.” The truth startled him. Another bitter recognition of his own idiocy. “Her presence here is not her fault. But mine.”
“You’re very loyal to her, Michael,” his mother said, her lips tightening. “More so than to your own family.”
“Perhaps because she is more deserving of it.” He turned and left the room, intent on finding Margaret.
“Is it because of the child?”
He turned and stared back at his mother. She stood in the doorway, the picture of wealth and position. “What are you talking about?”
“Your absurd protectiveness for this woman. Is it because of the child she carries?”
At his silence, she frowned at him. “Surely you knew? She’s breeding.”