But Caroline could not wait in Anne’s house for Anthony to cast her out of it. She would not stand by while he dallied with his whores in the city, returning to her only when it pleased him, if ever.
Before long, he would come to the certainty that she had not simply been practicing knife play with a man of Viscount Carlyle’s choosing, but that Victor had been making love to her for two months behind his back. Caroline shuddered at the thought of Carlyle seducing her as he had seduced Anthony’s sister. Her bile rose so fast she almost had to stop Hercules by the side of the road to be sick. She controlled herself, but her breakfast that morning was hard to keep down.
She knew Anthony better now that she also knew his sister. She was sure her imagined lovemaking with the man he hated most on earth would fester in Anthony’s soul until he never spoke to her again. After the love she had borne him, in honor of the love she had once hoped he would feel for her, Caroline knew she could not live in his house as his wife and a stranger until the day he cast her out of it.
She would flee and take what came. She would go home.
Chapter 30
Montague Estates, Yorkshire
Caroline rode for three days. She kept to the main roads and spoke to no one. She was fortunate, for it did not snow as she traveled. On the first day, an icy, driving rain bit into the skin of her face, but the wool of her stolen coat and scarf kept her warm even when she was wet.
She slept little, only a few hours while on the road. One night, she stopped at an inn, where the stable master took pity on her, giving her shelter for a few coins. She slept in the stall with Hercules, one hand on his bridle, the other on her dagger for fear someone might try to steal him. Hercules slept, standing guard over his mistress. His hooves were deadly and would have dispatched any thief. The grooms were all frightened of him and warned all others away.
Caroline arrived at her father’s estate toward the end of the third day. The sun had not yet set, but the sky was overcast, so it was dark already.
As she rode into her father’s stable, no one looked shocked by her boy’s attire. They loved her enough to ask no questions and to look the other way.
Martin met her in the stables. He did not stand on ceremony or speak but drew her down from her horse.
Hercules was to be led away for warm oats and a stall full of hay, but not before Caroline threw her arms around his neck.
The horse breathed on her golden hair, his great brown eye looking down on her as if he would speak. She would never have made it home safely if not for him. She patted his neck, feeling stronger as she pulled away.
“You must come inside, my lady, before you catch your death.”
She felt faint. She had last eaten at sunset the day before. Martin lifted her in his arms and carried her through the kitchen, up the servants’ staircase, as he had carried her when she was a little girl. She tried to relax against him, but his arms felt wrong. They were not Anthony’s.
He left her in her old bedroom, and she knew he would send for her mother. The upstairs maid, Mary, arrived almost at once with hot water. The girl helped her to draw off her sodden breeches and coat, and helped her with her high leather boots.
Caroline was warm after her bath. She sat on her childhood bed, dressed in a gown of her mother’s that had been taken in. She watched her mother’s staff as they carried her old clothes away and as they adjusted her new gown. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never learn to run a household as smoothly as her mother did.
As if summoned by this thought, the baroness appeared in the doorway of Caroline’s bedroom. Lady Montague raised one hand, and the servants left as quickly as they had come, not even waiting to hear her speak.
“You have come home.”
Caroline wept then, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. Lady Montague did not turn away; she did not rail or accuse her; she did not speak at all. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her daughter and caressed her hair.
Caroline thought she might be ill she wept so hard, but she had not eaten in a day, so she was not sick. She blew her nose loudly, telling the tale of her disgrace, of the party at Carlton House. She spoke to her mother of her husband’s mistress and of her odd friendship with Viscount Carlyle. She did not speak of Anne at all, for that story was not her secret to tell.
Lady Montague listened without a word, all the while stroking her daughter’s hair. When she came to the end of her tale, Caroline looked at her mother.
“He will never have me back.”
The baroness waved one hand, dismissing her daughter’s words, but she stayed silent. Caroline could see her mother’s mind working behind the blank mask of her face, but she could not see where her thoughts were tending.
“When he found you with that man…when he found you alone together, he did not call for the magistrate?”
“No, Mother.”
“Nor witnesses, though they were close at hand?”
“No, Mother. There was only him, Viscount Carlyle, and I.”
“Yes. So you say.”
Lady Montague was silent a while longer, and Caroline felt the first stirring of hope. For though her mother loved her, she was not a sentimental woman. If all were lost and Caroline’s honor with it, she would already have called for her father. But she did not. Instead, she sat. And thought.
“You must rest,” her mother said at last. “You must sleep. It is not good for the baby.”
“I am not with child,” Caroline said.
“Of course you are. Why else would you behave with no sense of propriety or duty? Women always run mad when they are breeding. I always did, and your father had to stay my hand.”
Caroline blinked. Her mother never mentioned the other children she had lost, the ones who lay under marble headstones at the back of the parish church.
Lady Montague did not falter or notice her daughter’s surprise. She went on with her interrogation. “Have you been ill recently?”
“Yes, but I was upset.”
“You have been upset before, but you have never wept or been ill. I birthed you, ma petite, you cannot tell me otherwise.”
Caroline thought back but could remember no time when she had wept or been sick, but for the last month or so.
“Do you eat more? Sleep more?”
“Yes, Maman, but that was brought on by my time in London. I stayed up late a good deal.”
“And I suppose London made you gain half a stone, as well?”
Caroline blushed, for her stays had been laced loosely for the last month. She had thought it all the oysters she had been eating.
“No matter. You won’t need me to persuade you. We will call your father’s doctor from the village. He will tell you.”
Lady Montague stood to go, but Caroline grabbed her hand.
“Mother, I am still ruined, whatever the doctor says.”
“What nonsense! You are a Montague. You are not ruined. You are visiting your family. Your father has been ill, and your husband was kind enough to let you to attend him at his bedside. I will say as much in the letter I will write this instant.”
“Maman, it will take at least three days for a letter to reach Anthony.”
“If we sent it by courier, yes. But I will send it by carrier pigeon. We keep a man in London. He will deliver it to your husband.”
Caroline had thought pigeons were used only by the army in time of war. She saw then that for all her calm, for all her certainty, her mother was well aware of the gravity of her daughter’s plight. Lady Montague also had the situation in hand.
“We will invite your husband to stay, then return to the city with you both for Easter.”
“He will not come,” Caroline said.
Lady Montague stood to leave, looking down on her daughter with compassion, her eyes soft for the first time since she had heard Caroline’s story. All calculation done, she had time to be kind.
“If he did not cast you aside that very night, if he did not call for the magist
rate then and there to witness your disgrace, he never will. He loves you, God help him.”
“He does not,” Caroline said. “He loves her.”
Olivia dismissed Anthony’s mistress with another wave of her bejeweled hand.
“Daughter, if you were in your right mind, you would see how foolish that is. If he had loved her, he would have rid himself of you when he had the chance. If he chose her over you, he would not care what you did or where you went. As it is, I have no doubt he is tearing his hair out in the city, searching for you, thinking you dead or worse. If that does not cure him of his taste for his mistress, nothing will.”
Lady Montague moved to the door, ringing the bell for food to be brought. “Remember this well, Daughter, for the time when your mind returns to you and you have the wit to heed it. Marriage is about the exchange and protection of property. Mistresses come and go, but property is forever.”
The baroness left then to write her letter as Mary arrived with bread and meat, and a pitcher of watered wine. Caroline sat on her childhood bed, her mother’s words ringing in her ears.
She knew her mother was wrong. What had passed between her and Anthony went beyond property, beyond money for her father’s debts and an heir for his estates and title. But that her mother would see her marriage so simply, as a business transaction that could be tallied on one page, made Caroline laugh for the first time in days. Tension slid from her shoulders as she ate the good hot food Mary had brought. She was in her mother’s hands now. No one discounted the word of Lady Montague. Perhaps she might even make Anthony obey her.
Chapter 31
Carlyle House, London
Anthony did not sleep for three days. His steward in Richmond sent word immediately when his wife disappeared. The grooms found only her gown, discarded in some weeds by the roadside. The thought made him sick.
He did not go to the country, for he had no doubt who had taken her. He sent his people out into the city to find her. They sought her everywhere Carlyle might have taken her, giving bribes out down by the docks, combing the city itself. Anthony called in every favor owed him and spent more gold than he had spent on the last of his ships that had sailed out of port. Still, for three days and nights, he found nothing.
On the third day, he went to Carlyle.
It was early morning, but the sun had risen well above the horizon. He did not want it said that he came upon Victor unawares, in the dark, like a thief or a coward. He came unarmed, and the front door opened for him. Victor’s butler gave no sign of recognition, but he did not make Anthony wait in the hall or in the drawing room.
Almost as if Victor had known he was coming, Anthony was led upstairs to the viscount’s private chambers. The butler opened the door to a small sitting room. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, giving off warmth and comfort. Victor sat in his velvet dressing gown, slippers on his feet, a basket of pastry at his elbow, a cup of coffee in his hands.
“Lost your wife, have you?”
“Where is she?” Anthony asked, working hard to keep his voice even.
“So,” Victor said, “you’ve come to beg for her life.”
Anthony did not flinch but met the cold eyes of his enemy. “I have.”
Victor laughed, lifting his coffee to his lips. “I don’t have her, Anthony. If I had her, we would not be talking.”
“Where have you sent her then? Has she been sold?”
“Good God, man. You give me too much credit.”
“Or too little.”
The voice of Angelique came to Anthony’s ears, low and sweet, like the sound of water on stone. He thought it was his sleeplessness that made him hear her voice. When he turned, she was standing in the doorway in her royal-blue dressing gown, the silk gown he had given her because that shade of blue went so well with her eyes.
The sting of betrayal was sharp. Angelique had taken Victor as her lover, then. After the first moment, Anthony found he did not care. All he could think of was finding Caroline.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Leave us, Victor. Please,” Angelique said.
Anthony watched Victor soften under her gaze. He did not weaken, for he kept one eye on Anthony, but he went to her and kissed her deeply, as if she were a well he would draw from, as if he could never get enough.
“My footmen are in the hall, love, if you have need of them,” Victor said as he left the room.
Anthony shook with frustration. Every hour that passed made it more likely he would never see Caroline again. Every hour the sun came closer to setting once more, whoever had stolen her would have taken her that much farther from him.
He could not think of her dead, her long blond hair trailing in the water of the Thames. He would let go of everything he had, of everything he had ever known, even his deep and abiding hatred for Carlyle, if only he might see her again.
He shut off those thoughts before they consumed him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Angelique standing by, watching him.
“You truly don’t know where she is?” Angelique asked.
“She has been gone three days. I have paid out a river of gold, and there is no word of her.”
“She’s worth gold to you then?”
“She’s worth my life.”
“You would give your life for hers?”
He spoke without thought. “Gladly.”
They stood in silence. Words had never been their strong suit. Always before, they had fallen into bed and afterwards talked politics over a glass of wine. But never had they spoken of deeper matters, of emotion. As they stood apart now, virtual strangers, Anthony wondered why he had never seen the difference. Why laughter and wine and sex in the dark had always been enough, until Caroline.
“I am sorry, Angelique, for the way I ended it.”
“Do not be. It was I who ended it between us, and now I have taken another lover. You need no longer concern yourself over me.”
Angelique reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and drew out a black pearl on a long silver chain. She handed it to him.
“I return this now. I should not have accepted it.”
The pearl and chain were cold in his hand. All he could think of was the alabaster pearl his wife had cast back in his face and how different this pearl was. The alabaster pearl had lain in his hand the night he had given it to Caroline and had pierced his heart. This one was just a bit of sand with metal woven through it.
Anthony met the eyes of his mistress, and she smiled at him. “So you see how much you love her, when you compare her with me?”
“Yes.”
He had always been honest with her, and he was honest still. He thought his answer would cut her, would pierce her and make her bleed so even he would be able to see it in her face.
But instead, a lightness came upon her, almost relief, though that relief was mixed with envy and pain. “You never loved me, did you?”
She had never asked that question before, in all the years they had been together. He saw now it was not her pride she had been fighting for. He felt regret come to claim him, though he had little room for it. All he could think of was his wife and of how he had failed her.
“I cared for you,” he said. “But it is not the same.”
Angelique laughed then, and her laughter was not bitter. He could hear the regret in her voice for the years she had wasted, throwing herself away on a man who could give her pleasure but never love. When she stopped laughing, she met his eyes. It was as if she was seeing him from a great distance, as if she was truly seeing him for the first time. He saw affection in her face and a little hope. For once, that hope had nothing to do with him.
“Anthony, your wife is still a child. She has gone home to her mother.”
Chapter 32
Montague Estates, Yorkshire
Caroline sat next to the fire in her mother’s sitting room, dozing on a cushioned settee, the book in her lap forgotten. She could not focus on the words.
The fire b
urned sweet apple wood. The sound of the flames lulled her into a sense of peace. She was tired from her visit that morning with her father’s physician.
Her mother had told her the truth when she said Caroline was with child. The doctor said the baby would come in late summer, that she must eat well and rest to keep the baby safe and healthy for her husband. She did not laugh in his face, though she wanted to. She did not tell him she was in disgrace.
Her mother had stayed in the room with her during the examination. She had made certain Caroline said nothing but the politest of thanks. Caroline had listened to the doctor’s words as if he spoke of someone else. She could not feel happy about the baby, but she was grateful her ride north on wintry roads had done the child no harm. She could not truly conceive of such a change in her life. She wanted to tell Anthony about it, but of course, he was not there. She missed him more than she would have thought possible even a week before. The news of the baby to come simply made her miss him more.
As she sat alone that afternoon, she longed for Tabby’s chatter. Her mother’s servants were well trained, but they could not replace her own lady’s maid, her own little family.
A cup of tea sat beside her on a marble table, growing cold in its delicate china cup. She had promised her mother she would finish it, but she had not. It sat there, accusing her, and she felt in yet another way inadequate.
“You are unhappy.”
Anthony’s voice sounded like something out of a dream. At first she did not trust her ears, until she turned and saw him standing in the doorway.
Her throat closed, and any words she might have spoken were swallowed in her attempt to clear it. Caroline stared at him, taking in his beauty, the stubble of his beard where he had not shaved in days, the dark pools of his eyes, the line of his body as he leaned against the doorjamb of her mother’s sitting room.
He wore a midnight-blue coat covered by his greatcoat of black. His black trousers were tight, revealing the strong muscles of his thighs. His calves were encased in black leather boots. He was covered from head to foot in the dust of the road. She knew if she were to step close to him, he would still smell of sweetness and spice.
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