Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “I thought you were Lisette. Had I realized it was you that first time—” He shrugged and her eyes fell from his face down his body, and he knew she was looking at him and he merely shrugged again. “You had to do it. What an odd thing for you to say. Why? Surely you, of all women, of all bloody virgins, wouldn’t willingly want to take a man. You’re so cold I doubt you would ever have consented to have me inside you unless . . .” His voice stopped cold. He stared at her.

  “The one time was necessary. You’re safe now, Marcus, you’re safe from yourself and your perhaps unthinking anger . . . that is, you can’t now annul the marriage.”

  “So,” he said. “I thought that, but I didn’t want to believe it, even in my muddle-minded state, but I couldn’t believe that I could think such perverse thoughts. Goodness, Josephina, you even forced yourself to be impaled on me. And I helped you because I believed you to be Lisette. Yes, that worked mightily in your favor, didn’t it, Duchess? If I hadn’t come awake, wanting her again, why I never would have realized what had happened until the morning. But I saw your blood all over me and on the sheets as well, your precious virgin’s blood, a commodity Lisette hasn’t shared with a man in many a long year. But I did wake up. You’re right, there’ll be no annulment now.” He looked at her another moment, and his expression was hard and unyielding.

  “Marcus,” she said, and she lifted her hand to him.

  He just shook his head. “I doubt I would have annulled this marriage, Duchess, despite what you have done. I’m not all that stupid. Even I wouldn’t whistle a bloody fortune down the wind all for the sake of pride.”

  “But you gave me the impression that you would, you made me think—”

  He just smiled, not a very nice smile. “I was angry,” he said, as if that explained everything, excused everything. “Now, it is done. No annulment. Don’t misunderstand me, Duchess. I still believe that bloody pederast Trevor can still be my heir, or if he begets any little pederasts, then they can. Don’t believe your precious blood will flow through the next earl. Never would I give your damnable father that satisfaction. If I father a child, then it will be as illegitimate as you are—were. And, unlike you, he will remain a bastard.

  “No, no annulment, Duchess. Your simple mind can now be at ease again. You have made your ultimate female sacrifice. And here I was crude enough to force myself on you again. Well, that’s a man for you. And I am your husband.”

  “Do you truly want to be my husband?” She heard the plea in her voice and hated herself, for she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to dash her into the rocks, and he did.

  “I wonder what that means?” he said, still stroking his jaw, his voice sounding mocking in his scorn. “Does that mean I must be civil to you at the breakfast table? Does that mean I must force myself to take you occasionally? As I did tonight? I must tell you, Duchess, that first time when I believed you were Lisette, ah, that left me blank-brained with lust and pleasure. This second time, knowing it was you, well, consider it an experiment on my part, an experiment to determine if you are as cold as I believe you to be.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  “You, Duchess,” he said very precisely, the hated drawl more pronounced, “hated my touching you. Don’t deny it. It was difficult for me to bring myself to climax with you yelling at me to ‘stop, stop, please Marcus, do stop.’ Very difficult. I had to keep thinking of Lisette and the way she cries out and squirms against me and caresses me with her mouth and her hands.”

  She closed her eyes against him. “I didn’t hate you touching me. You woke me up and you hurt me again. Surely that doesn’t make me cold. I didn’t know how to caress you and touch you. And I didn’t yell at you to stop. I just didn’t understand, Marcus, and I was afraid.”

  “Well, let me be more simple for you, Duchess. Understand this, you forced your way into my life. I cannot force you out of it now, but I don’t have to accept it. Do go back to England, Duchess. You don’t need anyone hanging about you, particularly a husband. You are so self-contained, so very independent, and now you’re a countess, no longer an ignominious former bastard. But I beg you not to take a lover. There will be no progeny from this union, as I told you. I couldn’t punish your father in life, but, by God, I will make certain that he has no children from your womb. I slipped tonight, taking you that second time, but no more. Yes, Duchess, go to London, and do enjoy yourself. You are rich and you are now titled. Even the greatest sticklers should admit you to society.

  “But first, why don’t you tell me where you have stashed Lisette?”

  She had won; she had lost. There was no hope for it. She said, calm as the soft summer breeze outside her window, “She is in an apartment just down the street. There are embassies along the Rue Royale and that meant men of power and influence and wealth. I gave her ten thousand francs, Marcus.”

  “You spoke to Lisette?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you tell her? Jesus, you told her all of this debacle?”

  “Yes, it’s the truth. That I was afraid you would annul the marriage and I couldn’t allow that to happen. She understood, Marcus. She is fond of you and she wanted what was best for you. She was willing to help me help you.”

  “Not even a small showing of wifely jealousy, eh?”

  “There was no room for it.”

  “I see. Didn’t you even remark her abundant bosom and make a comparison to yourself?”

  She closed her eyes and said, “Yes.”

  “But no jealousy. Didn’t it bother you—after all—you are my wife at your own behest, that I have suckled Lisette’s magnificent breasts? That her body gives me immense pleasure? It didn’t bother you at all? You are silent again. Your nobility is beyond anything that I would ever have expected, beyond anything I ever wanted. I suppose you paid for her new apartment?”

  “Yes. It is at Number Forty-seven Rue Royale.”

  “Thank you, Duchess. Now, it is too late to visit her tonight so I will take myself back to bed. Good night, Duchess. Thank you for an enlightening episode.”

  “It was enlightening,” she said. He didn’t turn. She watched him stride naked from her bedchamber. She saw the anger radiating from him. There was nothing specific to point to. It was something she simply felt. She’d always felt him—when he was joyful as only a boy of fourteen could be, when he was dashed down, again, as only a boy of fourteen could be, beginning when she was nine years old, the first time she’d met him, but she wouldn’t think about that because it wasn’t important now. She’d won, for he’d breached her maidenhead. He’d consummated the marriage. He was safe, finally, despite his rage, he was safe. She wondered if he truly wouldn’t have considered an annulment. He was probably lying to himself when he said he wouldn’t have.

  It was Badger who awoke her the following morning, not Maggie. He had a tray on his arm. He handed her the wrinkled nightgown from the floor, then turned his back while she pulled it over her head and smoothed it down. She allowed him to assist her into her dressing gown, then drank down the thick black coffee. He said nothing until she had taken two bites from the warm brioche.

  “Do you not wish some butter and honey?”

  She shook her head. “No, this is fine, Badger. The brioche are wonderful. Did you bake them?”

  Badger waved away her words. “His lordship is gone. Mr. Spears said the earl was pulling on his boots when he went in to wake him. Mr. Spears said he was very quiet, not overtly angry that he could see, just very quiet. Mr. Spears, naturally, couldn’t question him. He did ask him when he would return and his lordship said, ‘Ah, I live here now, Spears, don’t you know? But I—’ ” Badger folded his lips into a thin straight line.

  “Please, Badger, tell me the rest of it. Nothing he would say could possibly surprise me. Please understand, I am quite used to Marcus’s rages and his insults.”

  “He said that he now knew where you’d sent Lisette and he would doubtless spend a good deal of time with her.”

  Sh
e took another bite of brioche.

  “Shall I send you Maggie? I heard her humming when I passed her door. Her hair is redder this morning, if such a thing is possible. She is a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” she said. “She makes me smile. Ah, Badger, please inform her that the three of us will be leaving for Calais by noon, no later.”

  He stared at her, opened his mouth, then closed it. He said ten minutes later to Spears, Maggie beside him, “It’s over. Your master and my mistress have bungled it royally. We’re returning to London. I will send you our address when we arrive.”

  “You won’t stay at the Wyndham townhouse?”

  Badger shrugged. “I have no idea, Mr. Spears. She won’t tell me anything. But I think we will. She let the lease go on Pipwell Cottage in Smarden. I can’t see her traveling to Chase Park, not now in any case.”

  “Thank God for that,” Maggie said fervently.

  He grinned down at her. “You’ll like the townhouse. It’s in the middle of everything that is exciting and fun. I’ll have to assign you a footman to keep all the young bucks away.”

  “I surely hope so, Mr. Badger,” she said, all demure as a nun, and winking at Spears. “But perhaps you shouldn’t act so hastily—with the footman and all.”

  However, Spears didn’t see her wink, which was just as well since he was looking austere as a hanging judge. “I will correspond to you as well, Mr. Badger, as soon as I understand what is happening here.”

  “His lordship is a bleater, Mr. Spears.”

  “Yes, Maggie, it would appear so, at least for the moment. I will take care of him and we will see. Good journey to you, Mr. Badger, Miss Maggie. Mr. Badger, I look forward to your veal and bacon terrine.”

  “And what will you look forward to with me, Mr. Spears?”

  “Why, your pert rejoinders, Miss Maggie, what else?”

  “How unoffensive of you, Mr. Spears.”

  12

  LONDON

  WYNDHAM TOWNHOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE

  LATE JUNE 1814

  BADGER STOOD IN the doorway of the drawing room, saying nothing, merely looking at her. She was writing and humming as she wrote, quicker and quicker, which meant that it was coming easily now. A blessing, he thought, for she’d been so silent, so very withdrawn, damnation, so very broken, since their return from Paris some weeks before.

  He waited patiently, grateful that she had something important to her to give her thoughts another direction. She looked up, jumped slightly at the unexpected sight of him, then smiled. “Do come in, Badger. I was so immersed in this. It happens sometimes, which is good.”

  “I know, I know. It means everything is flowing freely out of that clever head of yours.”

  “Clever? Well, that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Odd, isn’t it. Now I do it because of the fun of it, not because I have to pay the rent or buy eggs or try to pay your wages.”

  She’d always paid him, despite his protests. She’d always paid him first, even before paying the rent on Pipwell Cottage. He’d hated it but he’d known it was important to her; paying him proved to her that she had control over her life. He said, clearing his throat, “I heard the ditty about Czar Alexander and the Grand Duchess Catherine. Goodness, what a harridan she is. She certainly deserves her treatment in the song. In this case, I must admit I felt sorry for the Prince Regent. He might be a fat selfish sod, but he’s an English sod and not one of those feudal tyrants in Russia who kill peasants because they don’t like the smell of them.”

  “It’s true. Grand Duchess Catherine really outdid him in rudeness, crudeness, and lewdness.” She laughed and it warmed him to his toes. “Isn’t it marvelous that all those juicy words rhyme?”

  “Yes, and they roll off the tongue. I hear it everywhere I go.”

  “The Czar is just as horrible, rude to the Prince Regent, hobnobbing with the Whig opposition who in truth think him a fool. He deserves a ditty all to himself, I think.”

  “Possibly,” Badger said. “But he didn’t force himself into that all-male banquet at the Guildhall like the Grand Duchess did. Then she insisted that all the music be stopped because it made her sick. I should have loved to be there.”

  “I too. Can you imagine the Regent having to plead with her to allow the musicians to play God Save the King?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and she complained loudly through the whole thing. I have been thinking, though. There are other subjects than the state of diplomatic affairs, though those buffoons give as much credence to incompetence and self-aggrandizement than the gentlemen and ladies of the Ton give to frivolity and sin.”

  She laughed again and he wanted to shout for the sweet sound of it. “You’ve a good point there, Badger. Hmmm, perhaps I should read other parts of the London Times and the London Gazette with that in mind.”

  “You used to read all of the papers, every single word. Perhaps it is time again. I came to speak to you about something else, Duchess.”

  She merely cocked her head to one side, her quill still held in her right hand, poised above the piece of foolscap.

  “It’s his lordship.”

  She became utterly still, almost as if she were trying to draw into herself, to protect herself. “What about him?”

  “Mr. Spears has written to tell me it is possible that his lordship will be returning to London soon.”

  “I see. Has he sold out again?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Spears didn’t say, so I must assume that he hasn’t.”

  “Very well. This will require some thought. Ah, is that the front door knocker?”

  It was. Nettles, the London butler, allowed Mr. Wicks to present himself a very short time later in the drawing room. He gave her a low bow and a frazzled smile.

  “Dear Mr. Wicks, what is the matter? Do sit down, sir. Should you like a cup of tea? Brandy?”

  “No, no, my lady. It’s . . . oh dear, this isn’t good, but I had to come tell you immediately so that we could make plans. I’m so very sorry, Duchess, er, my lady, that—”

  “Please, Mr. Wicks. Calm yourself. Nothing could be that dreadful. Do sit down and tell me about it.”

  In his agitation, he was actually pulling on a straggly lock of grizzled white hair. She waited, her silence meant to calm him, to steady his nerves, and it did. She was good at soothing nervous animals, nervous humans, all except Marcus, her husband. All she could do to him was make him want to murder her.

  Finally, he managed to draw a deep breath. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted out, “The American Wyndhams are at Chase Park!”

  “The Americans. Oh yes, my father’s youngest brother, my uncle, gambled and wenched until my grandfather wanted to throw him in Newgate, but then to top it all off, Uncle Grant went to America and had the gall to marry an American, which finally got him disinherited, and he went to Baltimore to live, which was her home.”

  “Yes, yes, and Grant Wyndham is dead. But his wife, Wilhelmina, isn’t, nor are the three offspring. There is Trevor, James, and Ursula. Oh dear, you already know all of this. They’re all at Chase Park.”

  “Tell me about it, Mr. Wicks.”

  “I wrote to them, my lady. I had to because I believed back in April that the earl, er, your husband of three weeks now, wouldn’t marry you and that the Americans would inherit and thus I had to write to them and tell them of their probable good fortune, and now they’re here. They never wrote me back, they never came to see me in London. They just went directly to Yorkshire, to Chase Park.”

  “How very odd. How did they know where the estate is, I wonder? You did say that Uncle Grant is dead. He would have known, surely, but his wife?”

  Mr. Wicks shook his head distractedly. “I don’t know, but I do know, Duchess, that I must leave now, today, no later than tomorrow morning. I must go to Chase Park and I must explain to them that there is nothing for them, nothing at all. It is a dreadful coil. Why didn’t I simply trust you to bring his lordship about? I’m a dolt, Duc
hess, a bloody dolt.”

  He stopped cold, shocked that he’d spoken so, with such unplanned emotion.

  She merely smiled. “Perhaps you should have waited, but you didn’t. Indeed, you did what you believed the proper thing. No matter, Mr. Wicks.”

  “I’m relieved the earl isn’t here and thus, perhaps, if the good Lord still believes me an obedient servant, the earl won’t find out about it.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if he were here or if he did find out. You did what you believed was right, Mr. Wicks. Don’t chide yourself further.”

  She rose and shook out her skirts. “Well,” she said more to herself than to Mr. Wicks. “Life does dish up odd things on one’s plate.” She turned to him, holding out her hand. “I will come with you, Mr. Wicks. Please don’t worry. We will face the dreaded Americans together. I wonder if Marcus would declare the name Wilhelmina as ugly as Josephina.”

  * * *

  Marcus Wyndham, VIII earl of Chase, arrived at the Wyndham townhouse in Berkeley Square on the twenty-sixth of June.

  Nettles took his lordship’s cloak and hat. “My lord,” he said with more formality than before, for now there was appropriate substance in his lordship’s pocketbook, no longer just the title, “her ladyship left with Mr. Wicks for Chase Park just yesterday morning. She was accompanied by Badger and that red-haired maid of hers, Maggie.”

  “I see,” Marcus said. “Spears,” he said, turning to his valet, who appeared to be closely regarding the elegant baseboard molding in the entrance hall, “do see to our things. I wonder if there is anyone here to prepare the meals since Badger went with my . . . went with the Duchess.”

  “I have instructed Mrs. Hurley to resume the responsibilities, my lord. Her ladyship told me to see to it quickly since it was possible that you would be arriving here shortly. If I may say so, my lord, her ladyship has seen to everything in a very nice way—so considerate she is—if you don’t mind me saying so.”