First, though, it was understandable that Mariah would want to know his progress concerning the unexpected request she’d made several weeks ago. There was much to admire in this woman who had suffered with such dignity.
Almost businesslike, she asked, “I presume you are here because you have discovered something?”
Justin was not deceived by her tone of detachment.
“There are several avenues, Mariah.”
“Several.” She took a breath, drawing herself up and fixing him with an incisive look. One dainty black slipper peeped from beneath the flounce of her once fashionable cerulean gown. Mariah had always dressed elegantly but in the dim light Justin could see the signs of wear, the discreet darning.
“Yet nothing concrete?”
He shook his head. “Mariah, if you need money—”
She raised her hand, cutting him off. “I sing for my supper every Wednesday, Justin. Mrs Plumb has been a good friend.” She indicated the small drawing room in which they sat. “She gives me my privacy when I need it and ensures I do not lack entertainment.”
Justin gave a wry laugh. “I wish it weren’t necessary to disguise myself, Mariah. I feel like a thief in the night and don’t know how I’d begin to explain these visits to my wife.”
“Your wife should strive a little harder to value the prize jewel she married. You’ve not told her about what you’re doing, Justin? You promised me.”
His urge to confide in Mariah was checked by her mild criticism of Cressida and he regretted unburdening himself when he’d hinted that his wife was no longer as eager for the joys of the marital bed as she once had been. But it had been so good to see Mariah again after nearly ten years, and natural to revive the friendship with its old familiarity.
“Cressida is an angel. I’d trust her with my life, but since you are concerned that she mixes with some of the parties concerned in my investigation I assure you that my lips are sealed.”
“Cressida is a lucky woman.”
He glanced at Mariah’s face, serene and faintly sympathetic in the light cast by the Argand light on the low table nearby. He did not think jealousy was behind the faint contempt he sensed. Mariah and he had shared similar interests and an affectionate rather than passionate physical relationship all those years ago. He’d been generous when he’d given Mariah her congé but she’d already proved she could do better, having married the much wealthier Lord Grainger nine years earlier. It was, initially, for Justin’s legal expertise that Mariah had turned to him when her marriage to the ageing peer had been in its final stages of disintegration, and the once-famous singer had been struggling to maintain her dignity in the face of Grainger’s shocking treatment of her. Mariah had given the youthful Justin her loyalty and her gratitude for his friendship. Much later she’d given him her body, but never a hint as to the reasons for her humiliating divorce. Not all of them, anyway.
“It seems Cressida would rather put you through the mill than offer a reasonable argument for her cruelty.” Mariah looked so disdainful that Justin laughed. “You always were my champion, my dear Mariah,” he said, “but since you have never met my wife I beg you to refrain from passing judgement. I must be blamed for this erroneous perception of her, for, I assure you, a man could have no better a wife.” Smiling, refusing to countenance the churning in his breast, he added, “Cressida is the most conscientious of mothers. It is a trial and a sadness that our youngest is not robust, but I will not hear Cressida criticised for choosing her son’s comfort over mine, on occasion.”
“Perceptions matter as much as the truth.” Mariah fixed him with a direct look. “The word about town is that Lady Lovett has not been seen more than three times by your side during the last year. You are lonely, Justin.”
The concern in her expression was genuine, not a gambit for offering him the solace of her charms.
Indeed, it was on account of his genuine liking and respect for his old friend and former mistress that Justin allowed her to persist with the subject.
“Have you ever suspected there might be someone else, Justin?”
When he shook his head she countered, gently, “I was married to Lord Grainger for nine years. I thought I knew him better than I knew myself. It was only in the final year of our marriage that I discovered I did not know him at all.”
This was not the time to question Mariah about her husband. Justin rose and went to the window. “As I have already made plain, Mariah, nothing stands between Cressida and me except”—holding back the curtain he stared into the moonless night—“the children.” It was the first time he’d put it into words. A vision of their young, happy faces blurred in his mind. Unhappily he added, “They are everything to her.”
“Children play an essential part in the success of a marriage, as I well know—” her voice wavered—“but they cannot provide her with everything she needs, Justin.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mariah, it was thoughtless of me—”
“You are too sensitive if you thought your words implied that, just as your many children may be the reason for your troubles, the lack of children was the entire reason for my divorce and current situation.”
He no longer wanted to pursue this line. Mariah was quite likely to prise from him deeper pain and grievances than he wished to articulate.
“Cressida has given me four healthy daughters and a son, yet I am as drawn by her beguiling charm as I was the day we met.” He realised the words sounded trite and rehearsed. Forcing himself to cast aside his despondency, he began to pace. “She is an extraordinary woman and, just as she is devoted to family life, I am devoted to her.”
Mariah gave a desultory little clap. “Bravo, Justin. Would that all husbands were as loyal to their wives as you are to your Cressida. I hope she may yet prove she deserves you.”
From the window embrasure, Justin turned. “She does so every day. Cressida is kind and gentle and it is only natural that with the arrival of so many in the nursery she is less driven by the carnal desires which curse we men.” With a restless sigh, he returned to the sofa, giving Mariah a rueful smile. “You sought my services in the hope I might put an end to your pain and suffering by at least supplying you with an answer to the one question that has haunted you for eighteen years—the identity and location of your daughter.” Taking her hand, he squeezed it lightly. “Though so different from my wife, you are a woman, Mariah, who craves the same things Cressida does, the joy of seeing one’s children grow. Ironically, Cressida has this in such abundance she no longer needs me as much as she once did. I have her love and affection and I tell myself it should be enough.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t hurt. “I’m following your investigation for you as a friend and, as discussed, I refuse payment for these services. But…” He dissembled, unsure where his thoughts were taking him. Deciding there was no need to censor the activity of his brain, he proceeded with unusual recklessness, his throat suddenly dry as he realised how much he wanted advice. “But, Mariah, as a friend, and a woman experienced in life’s sorrows and disappointments, perhaps I could ask from you some small payment? Perhaps you could tell me plainly if you believe all hope is lost.” He hesitated. “And, if not, suggest how I might rekindle my wife’s desire?”
Mariah’s look was kind. In the manner of her countrywomen she gave an expressive shrug. “Have you tried talking to her? That’s always a good beginning.”
“I hear the irony in your tone, and I concede that words are the obvious, but sometimes the hardest, way to begin.” Frustrated, he added, “Cressida knew nothing about relations between men and women when I married her, though she seemed to have no aversion to her…bedroom duties.” With a pang of remembered longing, he reflected upon her unexpected enthusiasm and the heights of passion that had quickly elevated their relationship beyond the early kindling of their love.
Until Thomas’ birth. No… He frowned, thinking. She had withdrawn before that. With three children in the nursery, her wifely devotion
s had swung definitely in favour of motherly duties, though it was only in the past ten months she had developed the regular megrims that seemed to coincide with his visits to her bedchamber.
“Cressida was obviously born to be a mother.” He raked his hand through his hair. The evening had been most unsatisfactory. He could tell Mariah nothing that would give her comfort with regard to her search for her lost child, meanwhile Mariah’s mild criticism of Cressida made him reluctant to pursue a discussion on the marital problems that neither he nor his wife seemed able to discuss.
He drew down his demi-mask as he prepared to leave, returning to the subject of the business that had first brought them together. “I shall bring with me next time a list of the children who were admitted and removed from the Sedleywich Home for Orphans in the years in which you are interested, Mariah. My report is begun and I am following your lead, though I must tell you now, if your suspicion is correct, great effort has gone into muddying the trail that might identify your daughter’s new identity.”
Mariah sent him a grateful look. “You are a good man, Justin, and you have always been kind to me. If I can do anything in return it would be to suggest that you return home, take your wife in your arms, and ask her what is troubling her.”
Chapter Four
Lady Belton’s masquerade seemed a distant memory but the pain of what Cressida had learned the previous Saturday—four long days ago—was like a niggling boil that tonight must be lanced.
Regardless of the truth, people were talking. Catherine had said so. Cressida could either resign herself to being an object of gossip, or try to discover the truth for herself. She’d hoped to confront her husband directly but she did not have the fortitude for how disappointed Justin would be in her if he knew she seriously doubted his constancy.
That was what she’d come to verify tonight—and didn’t it make her feel a thief in the night? Justin’s love she knew she had in abundance, but his constancy…? If he had strayed, she had only herself to blame.
Staring up at the unassuming four square house in a part of town where no self-respecting woman would be seen dead, she reflected on a boldness she’d not dreamed she possessed. After exhorting Cressida to learn the truth for herself, Catherine had then told her to accept the inevitable as she had done years ago. Although Cressida was timid by nature, and certainly compared with Cousin Catherine, she could not allow Catherine to complacently brand Justin as no better than any other man.
The ring of the horses’ hooves as the hackney disappeared around the corner was the loneliest, most frightening noise she had ever heard. In her whole life she’d never been alone in the dark. Nannies, governesses, Justin and then children had accompanied her everywhere.
Adjusting the thick gauze veil over her face, Cressida took three deep breaths for courage as she stared at the brass door knocker. She was trembling so much she thought she’d crumple upon the spot.
She took a bolstering breath. She had to do this. Succumbing to her usual fear was not an option. She had to be able to inform Catherine that her husband had never set foot within the notorious—as she’d now learned Mrs Plumb’s salon definitely was—den of vice and iniquity. Regardless of what she discovered, she’d tell Catherine that, anyway. No, Cressida had to know for herself.
Within seconds of her knock she was admitted into a dim, quiet passage lined with paintings of women in various states of undress, the heavy atmosphere overlaid by a strong scent of musk. She felt the thickness of her veil for reassurance as she battled to combat the nausea caused by the sudden surge of fear, before pressing her hands briefly against the passage wall to steady herself.
She could do this. She had to do this.
Her courage was bolstered by the sound of a confident soprano issuing through the door that had been opened for her by a slip of a parlour maid. Italian opera… Excitement mingled with trepidation as the maid took her cloak. She trembled at the distant sound of clapping.
However, by the time Cressida had settled herself on a blue brocade chair, she was dismayed to find a tall, balding young man offering the company—of about thirty, altogether—a passionate recitation of a passage from Ivanhoe. If only she had timed her arrival a few minutes earlier but Thomas had been fractious and— She stopped mid-thought. The truth was that, although Justin was out, she had searched for just about every excuse not to come this evening and face her terrors.
Now her usual prevarication, if not cowardice, had resulted in the loss of her prime opportunity for seeing for herself this Madame Zirelli, whom Catherine claimed had ensnared her husband, before deciding how best to act.
Casting around the room for a woman who fitted the sketchy description Catherine had given her of a dark-haired woman nearing forty, she decided Madame Zirelli had quit the scene of her rousing performance.
Of course, no one with pretensions to respectability would be seen dead at Mrs Plumb’s, which was why more than half those assembled were in masquerade while another handful were, like herself, heavily veiled.
Smoothing the skirts of her black silk gown, Cressida tried to swallow down her nervousness at seeing several gentlemen whom she knew were acquaintances of Justin. Of Justin, however, there was no sign, which made her vague, desperate plan seem all the more ill-conceived and not properly thought out. Was it any wonder her husband had grown tired of a wife who seemed capable of little more than nursing his children?
Clapping dutifully as the current performer, the dome-headed orator, came to the end of his repertoire, her mind focused on her next move. What if someone addressed her? Asked her name? She had no idea how matters were conducted in a place like this, or indeed what went on other than music and conversation, though she could not plead complete ignorance. Catherine had not shied away from more than simply alluding to the nefarious assignations in the dim chambers beyond, a discreet service Mrs Plumb made available for those whose amatory needs were not met by their spouses, but whose desire for discretion precluded bawdy houses or more public carte blanches. The idea sickened her. People like Justin—and even apparently well-connected, irreproachable women like herself, Catherine had said—came here to meet a lover. If Catherine were with her, she’d claim that Justin and the Italian warbler she had heard on her arrival were closeted together at this moment, engaged in the very activities Cressida had once enjoyed so greatly but that now terrified her.
Covering her face with her hands, she recalled Catherine’s gleeful revelations. She must not dwell on them. After all, it was only gossip and Catherine thrived on gossip. It was to settle her doubts that she had come here.
Even as she tried to bolster herself with this, she acknowledged that as Justin was rarely home these days she must assume he was seeking company more diverting than her own.
She was only half aware of the emptying of the drawing room—the withdrawal of patrons into chambers beyond while those remaining made small talk around a table of glazed ham and plover’s eggs.
Her misery enveloped her like a cloak of heavy green slime. As she sat hunched in her chair, protected from her environment by her veil, Cressida’s mind roamed over Justin’s likely perusal of his options, once she had started to habitually reject his overtures. A man had his needs, after all.
“Would you care for some refreshment, madam?”
It was Mrs Plumb, judging by the description Catherine had given her. Coarse, plump Mrs Plumb, dressed like Cressida in respectable widow’s weeds, smiling unctuously at her as she held a tray of fizzing champagne coupes. Glancing about her, Cressida realised she was alone amidst a sea of empty blue brocade chairs.
“Or perhaps there is a certain gentleman, known or otherwise, to whom you seek an introduction. Madam, are you all right?”
The woman’s vulgar words brought the bile rushing up Cressida’s throat. Declining with a wave of her hand, Cressida rose and hurried towards the door, pushing her way past a knot of people gathered near the supper table, to find herself in a darkened passage. What on earth
had possessed her to come to such a place? She was out of her depth.
In the gloom she saw a gentleman walking down the corridor, smiling at her. Fear spiralled through her and she gripped the first doorknob that came to hand as she cast wildly for the way out. She had to escape Mrs Plumb and her odious assumptions. Who knew what the woman was going to suggest for Cressida’s entertainment? This was not a place for a gently reared female and the sooner she was back home where she belonged, the better. It was time to admit defeat.
Slipping into the room, she closed her eyes as she sank against the door on the other side, weak with relief that at least she was alone, since the room hadn’t opened on to the street and freedom. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry but a calming scent of rosewater dissipated her nausea. She heard a faint stirring.
Confused, Cressida opened her eyes and found herself gazing upon the countenance of the most angelic creature she’d ever seen.
“Would you like to join us?” asked the young woman who smiled when Cressida jerked back, her fear apparent.
Dressed in flowing, diaphanous robes, the woman’s long fair hair rippled from a high, Madonna forehead and her eyes were blue and guileless. “My name is Ariane,” she said, “and I was once like you—fearful. But there’s nothing to be afraid of in this house. Not if you are looking for love.”
Everyone Cressida had seen tonight was dressed in masquerade, or heavily in disguise, but this young woman looked as if she had nothing to hide, as if she’d stepped straight from a mythical painting, adding to Cressida’s sense of unreality that she should be in such a place. Ariane was the most beautiful woman Cressida had ever laid eyes upon.
Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma Page 3