What a fool she’d been, giving her blessing to that! Doubly foolish, for she’d let herself become attached to Max Ransleigh.
He didn’t belong to her. Since it was inevitable that he return to his world, better for her that he leave now.
That bitter truth burning in her gut, she turned away from the door and forced her mind back to the horses. She’d work here until late tonight, hoping he completed his preparations and left today. She wasn’t sure she could stand another scene like the one they’d just played.
Another painful stab of emotion seared her chest, shaking loose a few more tears. Angrily she swiped them from her cheeks. She’d felt bereft when Harry first left to go to university, too. But eventually the rhythm of life on the farm, bearing her along its stream of endlessly repeated tasks, had soothed the ache.
It would again.
But somehow, the prospect of accomplishing Papa’s dream no longer filled her with the same thrill as before.
Chapter Twenty
Nearly two months later, Max waited impatiently in an anteroom of the British Ambassador’s suite in Vienna. After a month of travelling by horse, carriage and mail coach from one inn or boarding house or manor to another, he was tired, gritty and not happy to be kept waiting by the men whose subtle condemnation had propelled him into the position he was in today.
As the door swung open, Max looked up to see Lord Bannerman, the undersecretary to the ambassador, walking in. Immediately Max’s spirits rose; Bannerman was a gifted and discerning diplomat whose talents he had come to appreciate during his days on Wellington’s staff. Thank heavens this time the embassy had seen fit to send in someone of authority, rather than the clerk who’d met him when he arrived in Vienna six weeks ago.
‘Ransleigh, good to see you again,’ Lord Bannerman said, shaking Max’s hand. ‘I understand congratulations are in order? You’re recently married, I hear, and to a considerable heiress.’
‘I am and thank you,’ Max replied, an ache tightening his chest. Long, weary days of travel and fruitless searching had helped him avoid pondering the unresolved matter of what to do about Caro and their marriage...most of the time. But it remained ever just outside his thoughts, a lingering wound that refused to heal.
‘Jennings told me he’d given you as much information as we had on Madame Lefevre. Were you able to turn up anything more?’
‘No,’ Max said, a month of frustration in his voice. ‘What Jennings gave me was damned little. If I may be frank, my lord, I don’t think the Foreign Office has much interest in my turning up anything.’
Bannerman smiled. ‘You have to admit, Ransleigh, the whole situation was awkward. An attempt on Wellington’s life, you claiming one of Prince Talleyrand’s own aides was involved, Bonaparte’s escape from Elba, every delegation in turmoil. Talleyrand insisting he had no knowledge of any plot and offended by the accusation that someone on his staff would stoop to assassination, neither one of the principals available for questioning... I’m afraid no one is very interested in dredging up that old problem.’
‘Except me, whose reputation and career were tarnished.’
‘Which was most unfortunate,’ Bannerman said, genuine regret in his voice. ‘You’re a man of great talent, Ransleigh. You would have made a fine diplomat.’
A shock ran through Max. Through all the weeks of tiresome and ultimately futile investigation, he’d stubbornly kept alive the hope that he might somehow find vindication. But in the finality of Lord Bannerman’s tones, he realised the trail had gone cold and the only authority with the reach to rake up the ashes had no intention of doing so.
He might truly never be able to clear his name.
Before he accepted that, he’d make Bannerman spell it out completely. ‘So, as far as the Foreign Office is concerned, that’s an end to it? That’s why I was fobbed off with a mere clerk when I arrived and sent tromping through half the posting towns of Austria and Italy?’
Bannerman shrugged...and suddenly Max understood why the highly ranked Bannerman had been dispatched to interview him this time. ‘Ah, now I see. The ambassador wanted you to find out if I had uncovered new evidence, then evaluate anything I might have discovered, so it could be suppressed if the Foreign Office deemed that prudent.’
‘Yes,’ Bannerman replied without apology. ‘Very astute, Ransleigh. You truly would have made a superior diplomat.’
‘No chance of that now, when I’m being officially prevented from clearing my name,’ Max retorted bitterly.
Bannerman shrugged. ‘Which means you must be destined to play some other role. I do understand your eagerness to wipe that blemish from your record. But, speaking as friend now, I strongly advise you to proceed no further with this. Prince Talleyrand has proved himself very helpful in restoring King Louis to his throne in France. The Foreign Office would find it most indelicate for someone to try to prove evidence of Bonapartist plotting amongst the prince’s staff, perhaps upsetting the new balance we are trying to achieve.’
‘So my good name is to be sacrificed in the cause of maintaining that balance.’
‘Talleyrand holds the key to delivering France. We’ll not do anything to undermine him. While you were fighting at Waterloo, would you not have sacrificed your life to keep Hougoumont from falling to the French, perhaps giving Napoleon the victory and unleashing a whole new wave of conquest upon the Continent? Of course you would have,’ Bannerman answered for him. ‘What is happening now in France may not involve cannons firing, but the outcome is no less important.’
Swallowing hard, Max nodded. ‘You are right; one man’s reputation is not more valuable than the peace of Europe. So I’m wasting my time here.’
‘A visit to a city as lovely as Vienna could never be considered a waste,’ Bannerman returned blandly.
For a year, Max had been driven by the burning need for vindication. Pain and despair twisted in his chest as that hope died.
He’d never be seen as redeemed by his father. Never regain the trust of Wellington.
‘I assure you, the Foreign Office does appreciate what you are sacrificing. I understand Colonel Brandon is looking for a War Department posting for you? We’ll certainly assist in whatever way we can.’
‘Thank you for that. And for your candour.’
‘The business of diplomacy sometimes involves compromises we wish we didn’t have to make. Good luck, Ransleigh. Best wishes to your bride.’
Max shook the hand Bannerman offered and, his spirits as weary as his body, walked from the room. As he passed the clerk manning the desk just inside the embassy entrance, the functionary called out, ‘Mr Ransleigh! I have a letter for you.’
Only a few people knew he’d gone to Vienna. Since Alastair, the former poet, now seldom put pen to paper, the missive was most likely from his mother or aunt, Max thought. Thanking the clerk, Max took the letter.
With a shock of surprise, he noted the address was written in a feminine hand he didn’t recognise. Might it be from Caro?
The unhappy terms upon which they’d parted had remained a hard, indigestible lump in his gut since that morning by the paddock at Denby Lodge.
After his departure, he’d deliberately thrust the problem from his mind, so that over the intervening weeks, he’d resolved none of those emotions. But now he found himself hoping it was Caro who had written—and was eager to see what she might have to say.
Restraining his impatience until he reached the privacy of his hotel suite several streets away, he unsealed the letter and rapidly scanned the lines.
My dear Max, I’ve directed this letter to the embassy, knowing they most likely will be able to pass it along to you. The sale at Denby went quite well, all the horses being placed with suitable owners and a number of new clients leaving preliminary orders for next year.
Immediately after the sale, she continued, her tone friendly, conversational, as if they’d never parted so bitter and abruptly, I departed for Ireland, where I’m now visiting breeders with whom my
father always worked. There are several very promising mares; after making my final choices tomorrow, I’ll be travelling back to Denby.’
He turned the note over. The words that met his eyes there sent such a shock through him, he sat upright in his chair.
I must apologize for the abrupt and hasty manner in which we parted. I hope, in time, you will forgive me for not revealing everything about my condition before we were wed, and we can start anew. I remain your affectionate wife, Caro.
Max re-read the last paragraph three times, the phrase ‘I hope...we can start anew’ resonating deep within him. He shook his head and sighed. The truth was, despite his anger and frustration the day they’d parted, he’d missed her. After barely a month of marriage, she’d inveigled her way into his consciousness and his everyday life so quietly but effectively that for these two months apart, he felt some vital element was missing, even as he tried to convince himself there wasn’t.
With Caro around, almost every day had brought some new insight, some perspective he’d never envisioned, born out of a life experience so different from his own. Some new bit of knowledge about horses or breeding, or a clever flash of humour that delighted him.
She was different from any woman he’d ever spent time with. He found her at once maddening, intriguing, impossible...and enchanting. As he read the letter one more time, the hard lump of anger began to soften and melt away. In its place grew an eagerness to see her again and heal the breach between them.
He let her image, which had been dancing at the edges of his mind the whole time they’d been apart, play again on the centre stage of his mind. Caro, in boots and breeches, coaxing the gelding on a lunge line, or putting one of the sale horses through his steps. Sitting at the dining table, tickling his mind with her observations while her bared shoulders and handsome bosom tantalised his senses. Caro, in those ridiculous spectacles and hideous dress, the first day he’d met her at Barton Abbey.
An expansive sense of hope rose in him, filling in the cold despair left by the wreckage of his quest to find Madame Lefevre. Lord Bannerman was correct; if vindication was not to be had in Vienna, his future must lie elsewhere. And his wife would play a part in it.
He was re-reading the letter when a knock sounded on the door. The hotel servant delegated to serve as his valet appeared, announcing, ‘A lady calling on you, sir.’ He held out an engraved card.
Max didn’t need the raised eyebrows of the servant to know a ‘lady’ would never visit a gentleman at his hotel. Glancing at the card, he noted the caller was Juliana von Stenhoff, a very expensive courtesan with whom he’d had an on-again, off-again liaison throughout the months of Congress last year.
‘Did the lady give her direction?’
‘She’s waiting in the lobby, sir, and asked if it would be convenient for you to receive her now.’
Whatever did Juliana want with him? Curious, he said, ‘Send her up, then.’
Though he’d not spent much time in the city itself, he was not surprised that Juliana had discovered he was back; she was impeccably well connected to the upper echelon of official Vienna. Doubtless, she also knew why he’d returned.
Perhaps Juliana, like Lord Bannerman, wanted to discover if he’d had any success. Max flattered himself that she’d developed an affection for him during their relationship and had been distressed by the disastrous end of his mission in Vienna.
Too bad he would not be able to tell her he’d found a way to rectify that finale.
A few moments later, Madame von Stenhoff swept into the room in a cloud of expensive perfume.
‘Max! It’s wonderful to see you again!’ she exclaimed, offering him her powdered cheek to kiss before settling in the chair he showed her to. ‘I’d heard you’d come back to Vienna. I called earlier, but was told you’d gone off into the countryside.’
‘Yes, I’ve done a good bit of travelling.’
‘Trying to find the Lefevre woman?’
‘Yes. And frankly, having no luck. Bannerman at the Embassy just advised me to give up the search altogether. It’s in the past and all those officially involved want to keep it that way.’
‘I’m so sorry! I’d offer to corroborate your story, asserting that, being otherwise occupied by me, you couldn’t have been bewitched by the French widow. But I’m afraid that wouldn’t serve.’ She laughed—a tinkling, musical sound that suddenly seemed studied and artificial to Max’s ear. ‘You men are such awful creatures! None of you would believe that possessing one mistress would stop a man from attempting to entice another.’
Letting that comment pass, Max said, ‘I do appreciate your willingness to help.’
‘I’ve always been willing to help...you.’ She laid a soft white hand on his arm. ‘I’m very fond of you, Max. I’ve missed you. Perhaps, now that you’re back, we could...rekindle old memories?’
Gently he removed her hand from his sleeve. ‘There’s a small impediment. I have a wife now.’
She shrugged. ‘Back in England—and running a horse farm, of all things, I hear! Quite wealthy, though. A clever match, under the circumstances. One that certainly doesn’t create any impediments for me.’
The truth was, the fact that he was now married would not be considered an impediment by most of his peers. Nor had he entered marriage promising fidelity. Indeed, the wife in question had already given him permission to indulge himself.
As he knew well, Juliana von Stenhoff was quite a delicious indulgence.
But the fact that Caro had stood by him, believing in him to the point of confronting his father, made taking advantage of that permission smack too much of a betrayal he couldn’t stomach. Despite the fact that, unless he was willing to put her at dire risk, they could never again be intimate. No matter how much his frustrated body clamoured for release and his mind whispered there was no harm in it, as Caro would never even know.
But he would. Nonsensical or not, tempted though he was by Juliana’s sophisticated loveliness, he just couldn’t do it.
‘I’m afraid this business of having a wife does make a difference to me,’ he said, catching up her fingers and giving them a brief kiss before releasing them. ‘I appreciate your visit. But you should probably leave now.’
She stared at him for a moment in disbelief. ‘Then everything we shared meant nothing to you?’
‘Like the Congress itself, momentous and exciting as it was, now it’s...over.’
Juliana made a moue of distaste. ‘Well, if that’s how you wish to look at it... I’ve never had to beg and don’t intend to start now. Enjoy your time in Vienna, Max...alone.’
She rose in a swish of skirts. He could tell she was angry, not really understanding his reluctance to play the game as it had always been played in their world. As he himself had once played it.
Max couldn’t blame her. He didn’t fully understand what had changed in him either.
As she reached the doorway, she paused to look back over her shoulder. ‘She must be special...this wife who runs a horse farm.’
A vision of Caro filled his mind: dark eyes glowing with concentration, auburn hair copper in the sun, as she soothed and gentled and guided a new foal. Spangled by candlelight, stroking and caressing and arousing him.
‘She is,’ he murmured.
‘May she lead you a merry chase!’
Max laughed ruefully. ‘She already has.’
Watching the slender, impeccably groomed, seductively dressed figure of the courtesan retreating through his doorway, Max thought that she could hardly be more different from his wife in dress, appearance, background and manner. Yet both women possessed a deep sensuality, cultivated and calculated in Julianna, natural, genuine, unstudied in Caro.
He felt a wave of longing for his wife, her presence, her conversation, her touch. He wanted her back in his life.
Besides, even if full intimacy was denied them, there were any number of other ways to pleasure her—and for her to pleasure him—that would bring them satisfaction with
out any risk of her conceiving a child.
Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to teach her.
Nothing further could be done in Vienna, hard as it still was to concede that fact. Time to accept that and move on.
He probably ought to travel by way of London and call on Colonel Brandon. But then, as soon as possible, he would go back to Denby Lodge.
Caro was a challenge he’d yet to master. But if in spite of her permission, he was giving up all other women—and it appeared he was—he’d better go home and figure her out.
Chapter Twenty-One
Back at Denby Lodge, Caro stood by the barn door, supervising the installing of the new mares brought back from Ireland. The horses had made the transit in very good condition; she could begin working with them tomorrow.
She sighed, fighting fatigue and a vague depression. The day Max left, she’d felt relief that she’d no longer have to struggle with the impossible task of trying to resist him. But once he was gone, she’d missed him terribly. Missed his stimulating conversation over dinner, the interest he showed in the stud and his encouragement to realise her goals; missed their rides around the estate, during which she’d been acquainting him with the fields and woods she loved so deeply.
With her newly awakened senses clamouring for satisfaction, she drove herself hard each day so she might fall into bed too exhausted to yearn for his touch.
And there was something more. At first, she tried to tell herself her abrupt swings of mood and sudden desire to burst into tears were simply nervousness about the sale, even though, under her father’s supervision, she’d conducted such sales many times. But by the time she finished her travels in Ireland, she could no longer deny that something more had changed than simply the loss of Max’s presence.
For the last month, she’d awakened every morning with her stomach in turmoil, frequently finding herself forced to cast up her accounts before even rising from her bed. The smell and taste of food remained vaguely nauseating; she tired far too easily and her breasts had grown swollen and tender.
The Rake to Ruin Her Page 20