by Susan Ward
Her wide doe eyes sparkling, she brushed the hay playfully against his chin, and then purposely down his shirt with its missing buttons.
“A little less perfection and a little more laughter does suit you so much the better,” Merry exclaimed and gave him a quick, improperly thorough kiss full on his lips. She waved to her mother, gathered her skirt above her bare feet and calves, before running into the house.
~~~
Merry and Varian in marital estrangement had been a torture for Lucien Merrick to endure; their wedded bliss was a misery. Their reconciliation of affections after that long remembered, often laughed at in private, quarrel in the drawing room brought a rapid shift in their personalities.
Ironically, or perhaps not ironically at all, it was Merry’s best behavior that kept calm from ever settling fully in the Merrick household. Varian had always been a man of smooth and controlled elegance, his manners impeccable, his social graces an art. No longer compelled by the necessity to behave badly, he was usually the better of the two them.
It was Merry’s conduct that was outrageously shocking, a strain to the serenity and a constant irritation in her father’s attempt to maintain civility with her husband. She was a wild and impulsive girl, but happy at Varian’s side, her feelings for her husband were a powerful force that rushed through the walls like a crashing storm.
Varian adored her in every facet she turned, always tolerant and amused, so obvious in his love for her, that his displays of affections were the only element of his conduct ever to wander outside of propriety. Though how the man managed to maintain composure and not beat the girl at times, would be a much wondered question in the Merrick household in the days to come.
They made an absolutely nonsensical match, and Lucien watched, graying head shaking, with poorly straining temper, partly wanting to kill Varian, partly wishing he’d spanked his daughter more, and partly wishing he didn’t feel compelled to hold them here.
As the months passed, Lucien wasn’t sure which of Merry’s moods he dreaded more. When his daughter was angry with the ‘odious, insufferable man’ or when she happy with the ‘insufferable man’. Both were equally volatile states.
As bad as it was to watch them quarrel, it was outside tolerance to witness his daughter’s displays of contentment in marriage. And Lucien couldn’t help but to witness it. Merry wouldn’t let anyone escape the damn thing. The girl had no restraint of conduct and never had. That was the one fault of Merry’s Lucien didn’t even try to blame on Varian.
If Varian were gone—and Varian was making his flying trips more frequently, unannounced and unexplained, now that the war between them was open war—Merry, whether clad in dressing gown or fully clothed—it was worse on days Varian arrived at dawn because his daughter had developed a strange fetish to sleep often times in her husband’s shirts—would greet her husband with none informing her of his return, her senses always pricked to awareness of the man with a keenness that never failed her.
She would run to meet him before he even entered the house, as though he’d been gone for years, her wild and dark curls streaming around her beautiful young face, throwing herself into the always opening arms of her more elegant husband. They were lucky when her mood was such her desires only sought his welcoming embraces and kisses. Their exchanges in that a thing improper and quite enough to bear. When her impulses desired more, it was dreadful.
His daughter was at times a madwoman, overflowing with laughter, wild in happiness, and unconcerned about what any of them thought of any of it. Her adoring husband didn’t do a damn thing to temper it. Never faltering in his fairness, Lucien doubted any man would. Varian Deverell was a man undeniably loved by his wife.
As the days grew, still working and not there, as they gathered proof Varian was the infamous Morgan, Lucien felt the pressure of making his decision in a way he had never imagined. Bizarrely enough, this man firm in his duty and love of England found that what he wanted most was the peace of his house back. He almost didn’t care any longer what crimes Varian had committed. If letting Varian escape justice for his past, by letting him move happily on with Merry, would succeed in bringing calm back to Lucien’s world, Lucien was more than mildly tempted to do it.
And Rhea was positively right about one thing. Watching them together had made it an inescapable truth and the most harshly cutting of all Lucien’s worries. Any act against Varian would devastate Merry. The girl was head over heels, passionate and devoted, totally loyal to the man. The child she carried, growing larger, made her connection to Varian complete and tied Varian’s fate with the Merricks forever.
Two years of diligent work for Whitehall now sat stalled in a morass of morals and personal loyalties at war for the Merrick men. Strangely enough they were joined in the web of this struggle, in the same house awaiting the birth of a child that linked them all, with the infamous pirate Morgan. All three men played at civility, played at normalcy, and covered truth with pretense. Each was unwilling to commit the first move in an unspoken, dangerously progressing battle carefully held at bay out of their love for two women. No one it seemed wanted to fire the first shot, though it would happen, and they all knew it. When the truth was at last unable to be ignored, none of them were certain yet where they would go with it or what they were willing to risk or what they were capable of doing out of love.
So it lay there, simmering, in unpleasant wait with the passing months as the Merrick’s continued gathering their evidence against Varian. It was absolute lunacy the three men involved somehow managed to exist fully aware and in a single house.
Lunacy. It was Merry.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Merry lay in the small day room next to her father’s study beneath an open window. A book in hand balanced on the enormous swell of her middle, she struggled to be comfortable atop a stack of strategically placed pillows.
Early in her ninth month, she was irritable, volatile and much to her dismay, weepy. It felt like she had a baby whale inside her instead of a child. She was ridiculously enormous, no doubt the fault of that goliath husband of hers and she couldn’t help but wonder if Varian’s tolerance of her moods had finally waned— they were quite simply dreadful now and she knew it— and if her conduct combined with her unsightly figure were the reason why his last absence had reached nearly a month.
Rolling awkwardly onto her side and not even finding comfort in that position, she cursed that insufferable man and wished him home.
Hearing her father’s study door close and the familiar voice of Warton, she smiled. Half asleep, she cursed this time that day eighteen months ago when she had lay in this very spot eavesdropping because it had sent her into reckless actions that crossed her paths with a pirate captain, now her noble husband, and responsible for this miserable state.
Damn you, you odious insufferable man, I will kill you when you get home. Kill him for this discomfort and kill him for being gone so long. Brushing at tears, she knew she wasn’t crying for any reason. It just seemed to happen.
God, she wished she had been nicer to Varian the day he’d left. She’d thrown a book at him, in front of her mother no less and the woman kept stitching calmly. Those black eyes sparkling, Varian had smiled, laughed and kissed her goodbye. The man was impossible to annoy when he was happy, and he was happy with her and happy with his child.
For the life of her she couldn’t recall why she had done it. There was probably no reason to it all. She seemed to do nothing motivated by reason any more. It was discomfort, and the ever present strain of the worry she was unable to escape that Varian denied existed at all.
She brushed her cheek against a pillow, thankfully feeling the pull of sleep and thought, you insufferable man, I don’t blame you for staying away. Merry wasn’t really listening to her father’s meeting. The voices were simply there in the room with her, faintly floating around her. She had no intention of giving it full notice, and yet slowly that’s what she did.
It was Warton’s voice
that first caught her attention. “These are everywhere, Your Grace. They began circulating two months ago, after the inquiry was started regarding Rensdale’s cargo on the Hampstead. Whitehall has had a full investigation under way for weeks and are close to charges and arrest. Four days after Varian reached London, Rensdale disappeared without a trace. There’s not even a hint of what happened to the viscount.”
Merry heard the distinct sound of ruffling papers. “Damn.” It was Lucien’s voice, harsh, displeased. “What does Whitehall think? Do they think these speculations have a basis in fact? That it was Rensdale and this group of conspirators who sank the Carolina ten years ago, killing Ann Deverell? What about the rest of the accusation. Where are they in confirming them?”
Warton’s voice was firm. “Every one of the accusations seemed to point clearly to truth. What is unclear is who began circulating these documents. It wasn’t any of our operatives. Some of this information is quite old and obscure records from Whitehall, the customs office, shipping manifest, insurance records, and Rensdale’s letter. There’s a floodtide of it out there, Your Grace. A lot of very highly placed people are panicking and furious. Whoever gathered this held it long to use it wisely.”
“Be blunt, Warton. Did Varian kill Rensdale? What are the reports from the men you’ve had watching Windmere? Is that the speculation?” Andrew asked.
Lucien spoke before Warton. “Damn it, Andrew, I wouldn’t blame the man if he did. It would be a damn ill-timed stupid move since we’ve all played at our intrigue with calm and patience, but I wouldn’t hold it against him. I don’t believe for a moment Varian killed Rensdale. I more suspect he’s responsible for the appearance of these documents. The act of murder is the act of an uncontrolled man. These documents are the act of a patient man. It must have taken a decade to assemble all these, thorough, complete, and irrefutable. Varian is a patient man. He’s proved that by staying here with us so long, fully knowing where we are with our investigation of him. Waiting for us to tip how we’ll act. Calmly waiting to react. It’s little wonder we were unable to catch him before. He’s patient and thorough, Andrew. Patient men are successful. They are not rash and stupid.”
“There is no speculation on what has become of Rensdale. None,” Warton said. “There is also no evidence Varian is involved in his disappearance, though there is rumor out there again. Windmere has met only with three people since his arrival in London. He’s had four meetings with Camden. He’s had seven with this man at a tavern on the waterfront. We put a sketch artist in there and managed to get this. Do you know who he is?”
More sounds of ruffling paper. “I have never seen him before,” Lucien Merrick stated with heavy speculation. “Have you Andrew?”
“No,” Andrew replied. “Has this been distributed yet to see if we can locate his identity?”
Warton again. “It’s being done, Andrew, though it seems unlikely we’re going to get answers there. That’s why Varian is unconcerned about meeting him in a public place where he knows we’ll most probably witness it. The dockside tavern was an act of amusement. You should have seen it, sufficiently low and dreadful. My first operative got a good thrashing trying to leave the tavern to report on the meeting. This man has no ties to anything or anyone in London. He’s proved to be a dead end. We tried to put a man on him, but that was not successful. He lost him.”
It was Lucien Merrick. “You said he’s been meeting with three people. Who is the third? Do we know who he is?’
Warton’s voice came to Merry, and something in it made her nerves prick with sudden rawness even before the words had meaning. “I most certainly know who she is, Your Grace. I can’t even tell you how many times they’ve met. Most of their meetings have been at his house in Mayfair, though they have been seen in society and there is quite a bit rumor about this also. It’s not worth counting meetings. Frequent. He spends most of his time on his visits to London with the Lady Wythford. I am sorry, Your Grace. I would have preferred not to tell you that. But the firm speculation is that she’s his mistress and he seems quite content to stay in London, and he’s not the least careful about not letting it be known.”
Merry was already out of the room, wanting privacy and tears. She never heard her father. “Put a man on Lady Wythford. She’s not his bloody mistress. He wouldn’t make a point of displaying her if she was. The man’s prudent and the man’s clever. He wanted you to think he’d taken a mistress so you wouldn’t put a man on her. She’s been coming and going without your men speculating or following her. He’s using her as a go-between. Make sure you find out where it is he’s sending her and why.”
~~~
Varian turned his horse down the desolate country lane that was the last part of his journey back to Bramble Hill. Giving no notice to the countryside, he was thinking of his homecoming and wishing necessity had not made him leave Merry for so long. He never liked leaving her. But he loved coming home to her. Her wild and passionate displays of affection, half done out of the intense love they shared, and half done, he suspected, to irritate Lucien. Why did the girl love to irritate? She was such a whimsical and ridiculous creature at times, and he adored all of her. He would never want to change any part of what made her the miraculous woman she was.
He wanted to think of Merry in his arms and not the things that continue to force him to London and dimmed the joy of his life. He needed to locate Rensdale. Rensdale was dangerous. He was desperate and somehow knew who was responsible for the slow destruction of his life.
He had escaped the man Varian had left watching the viscount as the drama of the ruining of his world unfolded. Damn, he didn’t want this complication, or the worry that Rensdale might strike a second time at the thing he cherished most in this world, his wife.
Varian had enough to concern himself with, what with the Merricks still probing for evidence against him and the uncertainty of what they would do when they succeeded. They would eventually succeed. Christina was moving vigilantly amid the myriad of political and government connections of her husband, keeping close to Warton and watching the Merricks for him, there to warn of danger before it came.
Tom had journeyed to London. Varian’s ship was in Bristol. The boy had been successful in taking a rather valuable prize and with a cargo rich in the hold, and his never failing ability and shrewdness, Indy was deep in the process of selling his cargo under the guise of having legally obtained it. Indy wouldn’t visit him, though he had known from Tom that Varian had been in London.
The boy wanted time away from him, and Varian had to give it to him. That the boy, freed, hadn’t immediately rushed off the kill Rensdale was a good sign. That he had no part in Rensdale’s disappearance a greater sign of hope and evidence of the healing he was sure Merry had brought in the boy’s soul. So he settled for knowing of his son by meeting with Tom Craven in a dockside tavern on the waterfront where Tom had booked lodging.
He was getting too content in his life and it was making him foolish, not careful as he always had been. A sketch artist had been there. Christina had informed him of that before leaving London, getting Tom’s image permanently trapped on paper, and his senses hadn’t even warned of the danger. Rensdale had slipped from his watching eyes. His senses were too focused on Merry. He would have to do a better job if he were going to protect them all.
A month. It was too long and Merry would be furious with him. He missed her so much it hurt. She’d been enormous when he’d left her, and that was only in the middle of her eighth month, if his calculations were correct. He could not imagine her size near the end of her time with their child in her.
That was another worry. How tiny she was. How difficult of a birth this would be for her. He had lost a young girl on staff this way, the agonizing death of being unable to pass a child too large. He would rather not have the joy of this child than to lose Merry. He loved her in a way he had never known before, with an intensity at times that was aching, because it made him afraid of life without her. He couldn’t
even remember his life before Merry.
When she finished bringing this child of theirs into the world, he would let it be enough. He would never be reckless again in his lovemaking of her. Though how he would manage to deny himself the glorious full expression of his love for her with the passion she stirred in him, was something he was unsure he’d accomplish.
Varian noted that the worker’s on the Merrick farm greeted him with less reserve than they had six months passed. He climbed from the saddle, tossed the reigns to a footman, and was surprised his return was only greeted by a smile from Rhea. She was in her front garden, hands grubby with hummus, and his wife’s tiny running form hadn’t burst through the door yet. Sharp worry struck him, and then died as Rhea came to him. If something were wrong with Merry and his child, Rhea would not be so calmly in her garden potting flowers.
Rhea’s soft brown eyes held a smile as she held her dirty hands wide and gave Varian a light kiss on the cheek. Chiding, she admonished, “You have been gone too long...” then playfully, in a manner that so resembled her daughter, she added impishly, “...you insufferable man. However I have a feeling today you are going to be an odious, insufferable man. So you had best tread carefully. My girl has been miserable this prior week. You’ll understand why when you see her. She has been resting in your room most of the day. Go and make my daughter smile so I will not worry for her. She hasn’t smiled and laughed in days. She has been crying, though I think it’s discomfort and fear about the birth, and worry for you.”
Varian took one of her filthy hands and carried to his lips. “Oh, Rhea, I hope you know how much I love your daughter. I could not leave her at all if I did not know you were watching over her for me.” Then more seriously, his senses alert to some unknown danger, he asked clearly troubled, “Is she all right, Rhea? It’s not like Merry to stay indoors on such a beautiful day.”