by Diane Gaston
He cast one more regretful look towards the new Lady Keating, turned around, and left.
Chapter Five
Guy sat at the desk in the library, rubbing his cold hands. He’d not bothered to light a fire, though it seemed a small, useless economy against the enormity of their debts. In a moment he’d be throwing a shawl over his shoulders like Aunt Pip.
He counted his money a third time. Last night’s winnings had been modest, but then he’d been off his game shockingly. His wife had been the distraction, no doubt. True, she’d made no demands upon him during their visit to the Assembly Rooms, but he was not accustomed to having his attention divided. Dancing attendance upon a wife took much away from concentration on the cards.
He rubbed his face and stood.
Let him not fool himself. He’d scarcely given his wife a moment of his time at the Assembly. He was looking for excuses to explain the hands he’d lost, the money he’d pushed over to the winners.
The Bath crowd would certainly talk more of his card playing and lack of solicitude towards his new wife than gossip about her dancing with that rakehell, Cyprian Sloane. The man’s presence vexed him, however, and he was not sure why. Perhaps because Sloane courted trouble. Other people’s.
Guy ought not to be so concerned. His wife was too respectable to interest Sloane for more than a moment. Still, Guy disliked him paying any attention to her. What was the fellow about? Originally Sloane might have been after her fortune—her purported fortune—but that possibility vanished when Guy married her.
Perhaps he ought to commend himself for being the one to trick her into marriage. If Sloane had done the deed and discovered her penniless, what would his response have been?
Guy paced over to the window.
Could Sloane treat her much worse that he himself had done? He had neglected her at their first public outing. She did not deserve such treatment. None of the trouble he was in had been her fault.
Even so, he could not help resenting her. This anger did him no credit at all, but, devil take it, marrying her had made his financial situation worse. He could not even bed her now, could not risk repeating that one moment of pleasure with her, not as long as their future was so bleak. He did not dare produce an heir into this life of penury. What sort of irresponsible act would that be?
He placed his forehead against the cool pane of glass, but it did nothing to lessen the emotions boiling inside him like a cauldron of some noxious brew.
His resentment went deeper than her lack of fortune. His meagre glimmers of hope aside, he could only resent her complete lack of spontaneity, of life.
He ran a hand raggedly through his hair. He almost wished she would rail at him again. Throw another book at him. Damn him to the devil. At least there would be some excitement between them.
Any chance of making this a true marriage had disappeared when he told her he’d lied to her. He doubted she could forgive him for what he’d done to her by marrying her, for what life would be like for her if he could not reclaim their fortune.
Shivering with the chill, Guy gazed into the street.
More rain.
No relief to be gained by a brisk walk in this weather, he thought. Even the Royal Crescent would look dismal.
Like his future.
From beyond the library door he heard his great-aunts’ shrill voices and other sounds of the household stirring. Poor dears. He supposed they were becoming a bit hard of hearing. He ought to join them for breakfast. He had some responsibility to keep up everyone’s spirits.
And to smooth the tensions his wife’s presence caused. Aunt Pip seemed inclined to be friendly to her, but Aunt Pip was no match for his mother and Aunt Dorrie. They seemed determined to continue to make Emily’s life even more miserable than he had done.
Walking back to his desk, he plopped himself in the chair and placed his winnings back in the leather pouch. At least he’d come by enough blunt to buy some winter supplies for the tenants of Annerley and to pay for Cecily’s fancy school. Along with the pouch, he placed the politely worded letter from the headmistress back in the drawer.
Still, these winnings were only meagre patches in a dam that was bound to burst. Postponing the inevitable, unless he could raise more blunt. There was no doubt he needed to find games played for higher stakes.
He must go to London. In London betting ran deep and huge sums were won and lost every day. In London he might win enough money at one seating to set them up for life.
In London, of course, plenty of skilled gamesters would be equally willing to take his last ha’penny. Still, what else could he do? Quietly let Annerley go to rot and its people with it?
Guy slammed the desk drawer and turned the key in the lock. His heart pounded in anxiety, for what he was about to propose to his mother and her aunts—and his wife. London could mean salvation or it could hasten the end. What a choice.
He entered the dining room, where Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie sat at the table, sipping their chocolate.
‘Good morning,’ he said, trying to put some cheer into his voice. He gave each of them a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I hope you ladies slept well.’
‘That bed is an abomination,’ grumbled Aunt Dorrie. ‘It’s a wonder I get any sleep at all.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you get some, Dorrie, dear,’ Aunt Pip said in her soft voice. ‘I do hear your snoring from my chamber.’
‘I do not…’ began Dorrie in a huff.
Guy laughed. ‘Well, I am certain you both look well rested, at least—’ He cut himself short.
He’d not noticed Emily at the sideboard, filling a plate. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ he said stiffly.
She placed the plate down in front of Aunt Dorrie, giving him the barest glance. ‘Good morning.’ She turned to Aunt Pip. ‘Lady Pipham, what shall I place upon your plate?’
Aunt Pip gave her a little smile. ‘Oh, an egg, I suppose. And toast… No, a biscuit and ham.’
Guy walked over to his wife at the sideboard, reaching for his own plate. ‘Bleasby usually serves them.’
She did not look up from her task. ‘He woke with a dreadful cold this morning. I sent him back to bed.’
‘And he went?’ Guy said with surprise. ‘It is not at all like him to shirk his duties.’
‘I ordered him.’
She took the plate to Aunt Pip and waited at the table until he’d made his selections and sat down.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked, reaching for the pot.
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Her demeanour remained perfectly composed. How did she accomplish that? he wondered. He feared all his worry would show on his face unless he battled constantly to conceal it. Another drain on his nerves.
She poured his tea and without a further word returned to the sideboard to place two pieces of toast on her plate. She sat down on a chair opposite his aunts and delicately spread raspberry jam on each slice.
‘That is not much breakfast,’ he said.
She darted a glance at him. ‘It is what I like.’
He did not know what else to say to her. He watched her lift the piece of toast to her mouth and take a tiny bite. No relishing gulp of food for the self-contained new Lady Keating. A drop of jam clung to her bottom lip and her pink tongue darted out to lick it off. He remembered how her tongue had felt against his own, how she had tasted. He had to look away.
Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie intently chewed their food, offering no help in filling what seemed to Guy to be an oppressive silence. It was his responsibility to make the conversation, but what of? He could not speak his thoughts about tongues and tastings. He would not divulge that he meant them to go to London without his mother present. He cast about in his mind for something to say.
‘I suppose I should check on Bleasby,’ he finally came up with, though he ought to have thought of saying so when she’d mentioned Bleasby’s illness.
‘That would be good of you,’ was all she responded.
His m
other’s entrance saved him from having to invent something else to say. He stood.
‘What a dreary day.’ His mother swept into the room. ‘I declare I shall have nothing at all to do.’
‘The rain makes my joints ache,’ Aunt Dorrie said.
‘It will not last, I’m sure,’ assured Aunt Pip.
‘Good morning, Guy,’ his mother said, lifting her cheek, which he dutifully kissed.
Her complaints about the weather continued as she fixed her plate and sat down. He noted she’d neither spoken to nor even glanced at her daughter-in-law. Damn her. It made him ashamed.
‘Mother, did you enjoy your cards last night?’ Perhaps reminding her of Emily’s willingness to partner her would help.
‘Oh, indeed. I won some money.’
‘How much?’ His voice came out a little too eager. He hoped the ladies did not notice.
‘A guinea and five shillings.’
Not precisely a fortune. ‘Your share of the pot, or Emily’s, as well?’
Emily stood to pour his mother a cup of chocolate. His mother did not look up at her. ‘She gave the winnings to me.’
Emily sat down again and took a bite of her toast.
Guy stared at her. ‘That was a generous deed, Emily.’ His mother most assuredly did not deserve it.
She glanced up, looking surprised. ‘It was a trifle,’ she said.
Guy took another sip of tea lest he vent his temper on his mother. She deserved a scold, but it was best done privately. As soon as he could get her alone he would speak with her about her treatment of his wife. Again.
But since they were all present and a change of subject would have its advantages, Guy decided to seize the moment.
He cleared his throat. ‘I thought we might spend some time in London. Perhaps stay through the winter.’
His mother clapped her hands in glee. ‘London! How delightful!’
‘London air is bad for my lungs,’ said Aunt Dorrie.
‘Whatever you think is best, Guy,’ Aunt Pip said.
His wife glanced up at him, but said nothing.
‘Would it suit you, my dear?’ he pressed.
She paused before answering in her bland way, ‘I’m sure it will be very pleasant.’
He supposed he ought to be grateful that she was so accommodating, but, dash it all, he’d liked it better when she’d thrown the book at him.
‘Won’t be pleasant,’ grumbled Aunt Dorrie. ‘I’m sure to get an inflammation of the lungs.’
His mother rose to her feet and danced over to him, giving him a big hug. ‘Oh, it will be a delight. Thank you, Guy. There will be some other important people in town as well, I’m sure. Some entertainment, at last.’
Another matter to speak with his mother about. It would not do for her to spend his money as fast as he could win it. He’d have to speak with her about economising. Again.
He glanced at his wife, who quickly averted her eyes. It would ease his conscience if he thought her as delighted as his mother to travel to London. It would ease his conscience if he knew anything he did pleased her.
He stabbed his slice of ham with his fork and let his mother’s exuberant chatter wash over him.
Emily washed down the last crust of her toast with a sip of tea.
London.
Did she not have a considerate husband, asking her if a decision he’d already made suited her? Not that she had any illusion that a husband gave a wife any say in matters. Her father’s luck or lack of it had always dictated where they would go and what they would do. Her mother went along, managing to find her own enjoyment. Perhaps that was what Emily would do as well, find her own enjoyment, though she could not imagine herself seeking out the sort of entertainment her mother craved.
She’d spent years ensuring that her behaviour did not entice the sort of men who danced attendance upon her mother, men like Cyprian Sloane.
She swallowed another mouthful of tea. She was certain Sloane’s attention to her the previous night has been some sort of jest. Perhaps some other gentleman had put him up to it. ‘Bet you a quid you won’t get her to dance with you.’ She could imagine it.
At least Sloane had sought out her company, whatever the reason. It was more than her husband had done. But she would not think of her husband. She would think of London.
Was she pleased to return to London? It could hardly be worse than Bath, and perhaps their London accommodations would give her less reason to be in her mother-in-law’s way. Or her husband’s way, for that matter.
Her maid would like the change, Emily was sure, as it placed her so near her parents. For Emily, the distance away from her mother and father was an advantage.
She wondered if her brother would still be in London. After his brief visit to Bath, he’d said he was returning there. Robert had never been very pleasant company for Emily, loving cards as much as their father did even if he lacked the wit to be as conniving. Still, she would not mind seeing him.
She felt her eyes sting with tears and quickly poured herself another cup of tea. She must be lonely indeed if she pined for her brother’s company.
‘I thought we might leave in a week, if that would suit you.’
It took her a moment to realise her husband had spoken to her. ‘If Bleasby feels well enough to travel by then.’
Her husband murmured, ‘Yes, of course. I had quite forgotten.’
Did he think she’d chastised him? Good. His servants were his responsibility, after all.
‘What about Bleasby?’ her mother-in-law asked, still chewing her food.
Emily let the others answer. Her mother-in-law would like it so much better to listen to them explain, even though it had been she who had noticed Bleasby’s cough and ordered him to rest.
Peering through her lashes at her husband, she pressed her lips together. What was the real reason he wished to go to London? Was he fleeing creditors? That had always been her father’s reason for a change of location. Perhaps she ought to again offer him her vast inheritance of fifty pounds.
No, she said firmly to herself. As long as he did not require her to turn over the money, she would use it to help herself.
But help herself do what?
She sighed inwardly. Life had seemed so uncomplicated when she’d simply gone along with whatever her parents decided. She’d always known her father liked his cards excessively and that her mother was a frivolous creature, but she’d always thought she could trust them to see her well married.
All that changed when she discovered her sister Madeleine was alive.
She’d been a fool to trust her parents with her future, and she’d be no less a fool to trust Guy Keating. He was as willing to deceive her as her mother and father had been.
The only person she could depend upon was herself. She alone must determine her future.
Looking as if she were merely lifting her cup to her lips, Emily secretly gave herself a hearty toast to her new resolve.
A few days later Emily called upon her mother. She’d not bothered to mention her intention to do so to her husband, and she knew the ladies of the household would have little interest in her whereabouts. Indeed, she herself had little interest in making the call, but it seemed the dutiful thing to do. Though her parents had not noticed her absence when she’d eloped, it still behooved her to let them know she was bound for London.
The day was brisk and still damp from the nearly constant rain. Rain may have prevented some activities, but it had not stopped her husband from leaving the apartments every night. Did he truly go out only to play cards? Or perhaps did he also meet a mistress? She shivered at the thought. What a humiliation that would be for a new wife, but he certainly had ceased taking care of his manly needs in his wife’s bed.
Telling herself she did not care what her husband did, Emily walked up to her parents’ door and sounded the knocker.
In a moment, the footman answered. ‘G’d afternoon, Miss Emily,’ he said.
She did not both
er to correct him. ‘Good afternoon, Samuel.’ She pulled off her hat and gloves, and he assisted her with her pelisse. ‘Is my mother at home?’
‘Indeed she is. She’s in the parlour.’ He placed her items on the hall chair.
It was the fashionable hour for afternoon calls, but she hoped to find her mother alone. ‘Does she have other visitors?’
He frowned. ‘A gentleman, Mr Sutton said, miss, but he did not give me the gentleman’s name.’
Just her luck. She was probably interrupting one of her mother’s assignations. Perhaps with Lord Cranton. She had no wish to walk in on them. ‘Perhaps you should announce me.’
He bowed and went to the task, returning in a moment. ‘Lady Duprey says you may come up directly.’
She thanked him and proceeded up the stairs, trying to be optimistic. If her mother had company, perhaps her visit would be a short one. As she neared the parlour she heard a man’s voice and her mother’s trilling laughter.
As she stepped inside the room, her mother twisted around on the Grecian sofa. The gentleman stood.
Cyprian Sloane.
‘Emily, my sweet,’ her mother gushed, extending her hand. ‘Look who has come to call.’
With the briefest of hesitation Emily walked over to her mother and clasped her outstretched hand. ‘Hello, Mama.’ She nodded. ‘Mr Sloane.’
He bowed, his lips stretching into his most charming smile. ‘Lady Keating.’
Emily sat primly in a chair, facing her mother.
Her mother giggled. ‘Yes, can you countenance it, Cyprian? I am old enough to have a married daughter! It is too bad.’ She fussed with the lace on her dress. ‘Of course, I was married very young.’
Yes, Emily thought, her mother would most probably pretend to be a good ten years younger than her age, and neglect to inform the gentleman that she had an older married daughter as well, and a son nearing age thirty. As well as another daughter, younger than Emily.
‘Indeed you must have been, ma’am,’ he said agreeably. He turned to Emily and gave her that kind of appraising look that made her so uncomfortable.
‘I hope you are well, Mama,’ Emily said, trying to ignore him.