by Eva Leigh
Nessa shooed this away with a wave. “You’ll find a way through this. The important thing is that you’re rich—and you control the purse strings.”
“I don’t want to,” Tamsyn objected.
“Listen, my girl.” Nessa rose and walked to her. “Ever since taxes were raised and the catch dried up, the folk of Newcombe have been scraping by. We took to smuggling because we had no choice. But we don’t have to worry anymore. You’ve got more than enough to keep the roofs over our heads and fresh bread on the table.”
Tamsyn stared at her. “Just hand over the Blakemere fortune to the village?”
“Why not?” Nessa challenged.
Pacing away, Tamsyn said, “That’s not a solution to our difficulties. Subsisting on charity is no way to live.”
“How would you know?” Nessa demanded.
Tamsyn threw up her hands. “I live in a house that’s less than a mile from the center of Newcombe. I might not live in the village, but it’s my home, and yours. And . . . we’re proud people. Too proud and hardworking to depend entirely on alms. When Will Fox’s house burned down and everyone came to fix it—he patched up all the boats and sails in the harbor to pay everybody back.”
“Aye, I remember,” Nessa said with a nod.
“The villagers smuggle because it doesn’t hurt anyone. None of us are criminals. We’re not going to steal all of the earl’s money.”
For a moment, the other woman was still. Then her shoulders drooped. “You’re right, blast it. I can’t see Alan Hammett or Susan Bligh going a-begging. They’d never countenance it.”
“No,” Tamsyn said with a shake of her head, thinking too of the independent, dignified fisherman and the washerwoman, “they wouldn’t.”
“Shame we can’t touch that money, though,” Nessa murmured.
“But . . .” A thought occurred to her. “I’d been planning on using my allowance from Lord Blakemere on a down payment for Chei Owr.”
Excitement filled Nessa’s face as she realized where Tamsyn was heading. “And now—”
“I can buy it outright.”
The house would be hers. The smuggling could continue, and nothing had to change.
Thank you, Lord Somerby. I never knew you, but you’ve helped me in ways you’ll never know.
Tamsyn went down to supper a short while later. As she suspected, Kit wasn’t in attendance.
“Where’s Lord Blakemere?” she asked a footman.
“He went out, my lady,” was the answer. “Didn’t say where or when he’d be back.”
Her feelings of celebration dimmed as she sat alone in the large dining room. The chamber seemed even more cavernous, occupied as it was by only her and a retinue of servants. Liam and Dennis were there, but neither of them winked or sent her a knowing look.
On her plate, she made neat piles of peas and potatoes, and aligned the fish so that it was perfectly horizontal.
I’ve gotten what I needed. The village is going to be safe. So why am I not happier? Beyond the money to buy the house, what she wanted, what she needed, was an inattentive husband. The more her spouse was away, the easier it would be to continue smuggling. It was a simple equation.
Yet her stomach was knotted as she barely ate her elegant supper.
She could solve one problem, but there were so many others to consider. Everything at home was in suspension, waiting for her return. There was a secret door leading to the caverns beneath Chei Owr, the same caverns where the smuggled merchandise was stored before buyers were secured. Tamsyn was the only one who had the key to that door, and it would remain locked until she came home.
She needed to get back to purchase the house from Jory. He was a suspicious man and wouldn’t agree to anything in a letter, so the transaction had to be done in person.
How long would it be before she was able to return? Kit had stated he wanted her to stay until she was with child. But at this rate, with him too stunned by their new arrangement, that would happen precisely never.
Further, if her nerves kept her out of his bed, that made the possibility of pregnancy nil. She was going to have to overcome her trepidation.
Kit might make sex feel good, but if she thought of it as merely a transaction she wouldn’t have to fear him damaging her heart. He would move on to his actresses and opera dancers while she kept Newcombe alive. Everyone got what they wanted.
Abruptly, she stood from the table. Solitary meals had a way of curtailing her appetite.
She wandered into the library and ran her fingers over the spines of the books on the shelves. It was such a luxury to have books, especially ones without mildewed pages. These volumes had come with the house, so they did not reflect Kit’s reading tastes. She didn’t know if he enjoyed books, or indeed, what gave him any pleasure. He liked to play cards and gamble and Lady Daleford had said he went to the theater often, as well.
Tamsyn wasn’t a child. She knew men met courtesans at theaters, or else chose a lover from the dancers and actresses.
Was Kit there now? Was he selecting a woman for the night—or was he already in her bed?
Despite her resolution, a cold burning lodged in her stomach. He’d said plainly that he wasn’t going to be faithful, and it seemed especially likely in the absence of consummating their marriage. But did it have to be so soon?
To distract herself, she chose a book at random and sat down in one of the chairs by the fire. But a history of Roman London couldn’t hold her interest, not when pictures of Kit kissing an eager opera dancer kept flitting through her mind.
Exasperated, she left the library without returning the book to its shelf and went up to her bedchamber.
Nessa gossiped amiably about the other servants as she helped Tamsyn undress, but Tamsyn could only offer monosyllabic answers.
“Why aren’t you smiling?” Nessa asked. “Our troubles are over.”
Tamsyn shook her head ruefully.
“Ah, child,” her friend murmured. “You’re worried about that man of yours. I wouldn’t fuss overmuch about it. He’ll get used to the way of things.”
“If he does,” Tamsyn answered, “he’ll be in my pockets every moment. Men of fashion spend extravagantly. He’s supposedly one of the worst of them. Everyone said he goes through money as if it fell from the skies. And I’ll be the one bankrolling it—if there’s anything left over after purchasing Chei Owr.”
A thought struck her. If Kit wanted to keep a mistress, Tamsyn would have to approve the costs of that woman’s keeping. The house, the carriage, the clothes and jewels. All of it. In essence, she’d be paying another woman to sleep with her husband.
“God above,” she muttered. “What was Lord Somerby thinking?”
“He probably thought he was doing you both a favor.” Nessa tsked. “If he loved his wife as he claimed, he didn’t think his lordship would go chasing after lightskirts. That Lord Somerby wanted the same kind of love for you both. With each other,” she added.
“That’s an impossibility,” Tamsyn answered. It could never come to pass, for so many reasons.
Nessa gasped. “I forgot to ask you—did his lordship treat you right in bed? I’m certain he made your first time agreeable.”
“He didn’t. That is to say,” she added quickly when her friend scowled, “we didn’t. Consummate the marriage.”
“The devil you didn’t!”
After glancing away, Tamsyn said, “I got to thinking about how he’d make me care about him, and I can’t do that.”
Nessa crossed her arms over her chest. “Men of his station want heirs, and you don’t find babes floating down the Thames, like Moses in the bulrushes.”
Tamsyn threw up her hands in exasperation. “I know!”
“You’d best harden your heart and open your legs, or he’ll file for an annulment, and then where will we be?”
Rubbing her forehead, Tamsyn groaned in frustration. “You aren’t helping.”
Nessa sighed. “It’s not precisely an enviable pl
ace you’ve found yourself, ’tis true.”
Tamsyn shot Nessa a dry look. “Can you at least pretend to cheer me up?”
“Ah.” Nessa forced a smile on her face. “Everything will work out fine and you’ve nothing to fret over.” She looked at Tamsyn expectantly. “How was that?”
“I feel much better,” Tamsyn drawled.
When she’d finished changing into her nightclothes, and Nessa had gone for the night, Tamsyn climbed into bed. It was the finest bed she’d ever lain in, and yet with her thoughts in a furious jumble, the mattress felt stuffed full of tacks and glass. Sleep didn’t come, not for many hours, but she told herself that she wasn’t waiting up for Kit.
Yet she was still awake at four in the morning, when she heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone paused outside her door. Her breath caught and held as she waited.
But then the steps moved on, and she remained alone.
Chapter 12
His billiard cue balanced in his hands, Kit tried to line up his shot. It ought be a straight trajectory to the corner pocket—but then, very little in his life seemed to follow a direct course lately.
The turmoil ought to have passed by now. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since he’d learned of Lord Somerby’s stipulations, which should have been enough time for Kit to settle into this new mode of being. Should have been but wasn’t.
Fighting to steady his hands, he took the shot. The ball rolled toward the pocket. Kit held his breath in anticipation.
The ball clipped the corner and went spinning off into the expanse of green baize covering the table.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered as he straightened.
A man at the next billiard table coughed at Kit’s language. Kit fought from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t as though profanity had never before crossed the threshold of White’s. But the club could also be stodgy and straitlaced. He should find another club—except all of his friends belonged to White’s and he wasn’t certain if foul language should be the hill upon which he should die.
“Marriage has certainly sanitized your vocabulary,” drawled Langdon as he chalked up his cue.
Kit shot him a warning look. “You’re so amusing you should join a company of strolling players—and stroll away.”
His friend feigned a look of horror. “I’m not amusing? But . . . Mother always said I was witty!”
“Go find her, then,” Kit growled. “She’ll be at her favorite gin house across from the soldiers’ barracks.”
“You wound me, sirrah,” Langdon said pleasantly.
Kit exhaled roughly. “I came here seeking solace.”
“A pity that you found me, instead.” He peered at Kit. “But why should you need solace? I assume Somerby’s money has been transferred.”
“It has. Signed a mountain of papers yesterday.”
Langdon thumped him on the shoulder. “Felicitations, old man. Welcome to the world of wealthy, titled wastrels.”
“Here I believed I already lived in that world,” Kit said drily.
Langdon waved his hand. “Third sons dwell in another circle. The nonessential laggards. Of course, there were some alterations to your status when you were made an earl. But now you’ve ascended to the heights of the rich aristos.” He titled his head in contemplation. “Yet there’s an air about you . . .”
“Are we playing or not?” Kit demanded, gesturing toward the billiard table.
But Langdon ignored his demand and studied Kit closely. Finally, he said, “You’ve the obstructed look of a man who hasn’t rogered anyone lately. But that can’t be. You’re newly wed. Unless . . .” His eyebrows shot up. “Good Christ, you haven’t swived her yet.”
Kit scowled at Langdon. “She was too nervous on our wedding night.”
“And the last night?” Langdon pressed.
“I was too busy drinking myself into a stupor to make an attempt—on her or anyone else.” Alcohol was an old crutch, there to help him sort through confusion. But instead of aiding him in sorting through the tangled web of his life, he’d only fallen into more uncertainty.
His head still felt a little tender from the effects of too much wine. Or brandy. Or was it both? Damn, but he couldn’t remember. He had vague recollections of taking a solitary supper at a chophouse, and then . . . Did he go to a gaming hell? He might have. He’d gambled deep, and now he owed an obscene amount of money to the proprietors. Money he’d have to pay back by asking his wife for the funds.
Langdon shook his head before walking around the table, assessing his position to set up his next shot. “Married barely two days and already you’re drowning yourself in drink. I thought the gel fit all the necessary requirements to be your bride. She looks beddable enough.”
Kit’s jaw hardened. “We may have married for the sake of convenience,” he rumbled, “but you don’t speak of my wife that way. Have some sodding respect.”
He started at his unexpected defense of Tamsyn. It seemed that, despite yesterday’s tangle and the earthquake that followed, his attraction to her persisted.
His friend held up his hands in surrender. “As you please.” Langdon sized up the layout of the table, then positioned himself to shoot. “Your temper is remarkably terrible, considering you’re a wealthy earl.” He took his shot, and, to Kit’s disgust, the ball sank neatly into its pocket.
“An earl in a quandary,” Kit said moodily. As concisely as he could manage, he told Langdon about what had transpired with the reading of Somerby’s letter. “Today, the bankers came to our home and told my wife about the vast fortune she now controls. I made certain I wasn’t home for that appointment.”
For several moments, Langdon seemed immobilized, save for the opening and closing of his mouth. Finally, he said in a stunned voice, “Your friend Lord Somerby was a son of a bitch. No offense,” he added hastily.
“You aren’t expressing thoughts I haven’t already entertained.” Kit sighed and stared at the oil lamps illuminating the table. “I believe that the legal term for my situation is: fucked.”
“Surely she’ll agree to give you whatever money you ask for,” Langdon objected.
“Perhaps. We haven’t discussed it. And there’s a project I’ve got my eye on that’s ruddy expensive.” Kit thought of that dream, how thoughts of the pleasure garden had sheltered him through years of war, offering him solace in the middle of misery. Now it seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer with each moment.
She would never agree to committing so much of their income to something that was, admittedly, a risky investment. A pleasure garden wasn’t a mine or canal or shipping operation. It could fail.
He refused to consider that possibility.
But something couldn’t fail if it never came to pass in the first place. I hold on to every penny, she’d said.
Langdon frowned. “What project is that?”
“No point in discussing it if it’s not going to happen.” Kit tossed his cue onto the billiard table. “I can’t play tonight. My hand’s as unsteady as your morals.”
“If I recall correctly,” Langdon mused, “we both agreed to climb onto the roof of the girls’ academy. So your accusations hold no weight.” He placed his cue in the rack on the wall. “How much does this plan cost?”
“Ten thousand pounds—minimum,” Kit said flatly.
“Good God.”
“Precisely,” Kit agreed. “It’s not exactly a sum that one parts with readily. Somehow, I doubt Tamsyn will simply hand me the cash and send me merrily away.”
“I don’t see why she wouldn’t,” Langdon said with a puzzled frown. “If you tell her what it’s for . . .”
Kit tapped his fingers on the baize covering the table. “I can’t. She’ll think it frivolous and a waste of money. She doesn’t come from the most affluent circumstances.”
“So you think she’ll hold on to her new wealth,” Langdon surmised.
“From what I’ve learned of her”—which admittedly wasn’t much—“she doesn’t like to spend mone
y. Told me so herself. More than likely,” he speculated grimly, “she will refuse to sink such a vast amount into my scheme, and I’ll be back to where I am now, which is precisely nowhere.”
“Ever the officer, planning a battle,” Langdon noted.
“I fought for eight years,” Kit answered wryly. “Hard to break the strategic habit.”
“You know the best way to win a battle,” Langdon prompted.
“To have the enemy surrender before a single shot is fired.”
Langdon slapped his hand on the wooden side of the table. “Exactly. Lady Blakemere won’t have cause to obstruct your fiscal desires, no matter how extravagant.”
“And how is this supposed to come to pass?” Kit demanded.
A grin spread across Langdon’s face. “You’re going to seduce your wife.”
Kit and Langdon left the billiards table and ensconced themselves in two wingback chairs by the fire. A servant brought them brandies, but Kit waved off his glass. Spirits didn’t help his thought process.
“Out with it,” Kit demanded. “Tell me what you meant.”
Langdon swirled the brandy around in his glass, then took a sip. “All the money must pass through the countess’s hands, correct?”
Kit grunted in response.
“If you were to go to her today, this very evening, and tell her you need . . . How much did you lose last night?”
“Eight hundred pounds,” Kit muttered. “All on credit. I was trying to raise the blunt I need.”
His friend grimaced. “Christ in heaven, no wonder Somerby wanted to protect you from yourself.”
Leveling a look of sincere displeasure at Langdon, Kit said darkly, “This from the man who bought a fleet of phaetons.”
“I had to see which was fastest,” Langdon said defensively.
“Did you ever consider simply asking?”
Now it was Langdon’s turn to look irate. “We’re deviating from my point.”
“Which is growing cloudier by the moment.” Kit drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.
His friend exhaled loudly before continuing. “So you go to Lady Blakemere and ask her for eight hundred pounds to cover your gaming debts. What would she say?”