by Brenda Hiatt
Still beset by those troubling thoughts, Harry was silent on the carriage ride back to Grosvenor Street. Xena, who’d danced every set, was already nodding, so seemed not to notice. On their arrival, she made no protest when he merely bid her good night before shutting himself into the library with the port decanter.
Half a bottle brought him no closer to figuring out what, if anything, he should do, so he finally made his disgruntled way up to bed.
The arrival of two more dresses the following day—and from Madame Fanchot’s, the most exclusive modiste in all London—served to sharpen Harry’s suspicions further. Xena happened to be out returning calls when the boxes were delivered, so on impulse he took them from the footman to carry upstairs himself. Outside her chamber door, he peeked inside to see whether a card might be enclosed, but none was.
Wellington was both smart and discreet enough that the omission proved nothing, but without firmer proof he could scarcely confront Xena about an affair. Nor was he certain he would—or should—do so even if he obtained such proof. They had never pledged fidelity to one another, unless one counted those wedding vows they’d been forced to recite, once upon a time.
Upon their return from Lord and Lady Varens’ soiree that night, however, his resolve to keep his own counsel on the matter was shaken when Tig greeted Harry at the back gate with news that Xena, while supposedly making calls that morning, had again visited the boarding house on Rundel Street.
Giving the boy a few shillings for his trouble, Harry walked back to the house, wondering how he might discover who she was meeting there. A frowning glance at Xena’s window showed it already dark. Just as well, he realized. For a moment, he’d been tempted to demand the truth from her this very night.
Instead, he again retired to the library after calling for a fresh decanter of port.
CHAPTER 15
XENA FELT as though she’d scarcely closed her eyes when Gretchen opened the curtains late the next morning.
“It’s that sorry I am to wake you, mum, but you said as how I wasn’t to let you sleep past eleven o’clock.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Xena yawned cavernously. “’Tis an at-home day, so I must be ready to receive callers soon.”
After nearly a full week in Society, Xena felt as though she’d been sucked into such a whirlpool of morning calls, afternoon teas, and evening musicales, card parties and balls that she scarcely had time to draw breath. She and Harry rarely had a moment alone. Even breakfast was often only a hurried bit of toast and coffee before her first visitors arrived.
Every dinner since their first had been committed elsewhere, which she sincerely hoped Lord Peter would not consider a violation of the terms of their agreement, as it was a result of his interference. And every night they returned home so late that it was all she could do to make her way up the stairs before collapsing into bed.
Harry was still surprisingly attentive in public, always making certain she was well supplied with refreshment—though she noticed his own glass was always full as well, generally with wine or something stronger rather than her usual orgeat or lemonade. In private, however, he had grown increasingly aloof.
He was not in the breakfast room when she descended and a casual query revealed that he was still abed. Either Harry was as exhausted by their recent schedule as she was…or he’d gone out again last night after their return from that soiree in the wee hours. At the moment, she could scarcely summon the energy to wonder which.
After three cups of coffee she felt awake enough—barely—to remove to the drawing room, resolving that for the remainder of her time in London she would have but one at-home day in a week. That resolve was strengthened when Lady Mountheath was announced, mere seconds after she’d seated herself on the divan.
“My dear!” The overbearing matron greeted her with a too-broad smile that boded ill. “I am glad to see you are alone as yet. Indeed, I came rather earlier than my wont in hopes of finding you so.”
“Good day, my lady.” Xena rose only long enough to dip a quick curtsey. “You have come with a particular purpose, then?”
“Indeed, and I wish it were a more pleasant one.” Lady Mountheath now affected an expression of deep concern that looked no more sincere than her smile had. “I am here to put you on your guard.”
Xena’s initial misgiving deepened. “On my guard? Against what?”
“Against opening yourself to rumor and gossip. The other night, at Lady Ellerby’s ball, I overheard something that worried me exceedingly on your behalf.”
“Oh?”
Lady Mountheath nodded sententiously. “Perhaps, being so very new to Town, you are unaware that, for all his heroism, the Duke of Wellington has…less than an impeccable reputation when it comes to his dealings with ladies. To be publicly seen receiving marked attentions from him is sure to give rise to speculation.”
“The Duke was an old friend of my father’s,” Xena primly informed her unwelcome visitor. “He asked me to dance so that we might speak of those shared memories. That is all.” With an effort, she refrained from glancing down at her new morning gown—purchased with money the Duke had sent her through Mr. Gold.
“If you say so, Mrs. Thatcher. However, it is not my opinion you need fear, as I am the last one to spread gossip. You should consider instead how others might, ah, misconstrue a pair of dances accompanied by overt admiration.” Her expression conveyed clearly that she believed the rumors.
Nor could Xena claim that they were completely unfounded, given the Duke’s stated intentions, however blameless her own behavior had been. “What others?” she could not help asking.
“Your husband, for one. I overheard him speaking with Lord Fernworth at the ball. It sounded as though he is already quite looking forward to both extra time to indulge his own disreputable pursuits and the money to better fund them, all as a direct consequence of Wellington’s improper interest in you.”
Before Xena could summon an appropriate response—if one even existed—more callers were announced. Lady Mountheath immediately rose, donning a sunny smile. “I will bid you good day, Mrs. Thatcher, for I have several more calls to make.”
Several more ladies’ days to ruin, you mean. Xena bid her a frosty goodbye, then turned to greet the newcomers, striving to put the hateful woman’s insinuations from her mind—though with limited success.
* * *
By the time Harry made his way down to breakfast, well past noon, the first of Xena’s morning callers had already arrived. Not only had he stayed up too late and drunk too much, but once in bed he’d slept poorly, tossing and turning till well past dawn.
He tried to convince himself that his black mood this morning was due to lack of sleep, aggravated by the fact that it had been a week since he’d had opportunity to play the Saint. Damn Pete’s interference, anyway, persuading him to the role, then obliging him to abandon it just as it was becoming enjoyable. Though his last haul had been a particularly a good one, he was positively itching for another foray.
Deep down, however, he knew the real root of the trouble was Xena. The thought of another full month of going about together, pretending to the world that they were a normal married couple while he was torn in two between desire and suspicion, was unbearable.
He would have to contrive a private moment with her to finally get some answers. If she meant to leave him for Wellington, better to know at once and end this torment. And if she did not?
He honestly wasn’t sure.
“I decided to cry off from Lady Jeller’s dinner and musicale this evening,” Xena surprised him by announcing later that afternoon when they chanced to pass each other on the stairs after her last callers had gone. “I fear I would be likely to embarrass us both by nodding off during the performances, as little sleep as I’ve managed the past several nights. I hope you do not object?”
“Object to being spared a boring evening of mediocre music and tepid lemonade?” The Jellers were teetotalers and known for enforcing th
eir preference on their guests. “Hardly.”
Looking closer at Xena—something he’d avoided lately, as the effect she had on him only led to frustration—he realized she did look rather drawn.
“I believe an evening’s rest will do you good,” he said with sudden concern. “Our schedule has been rather frenetic thus far and I’d not have you make yourself ill by doing too much.”
Her brows rose in surprise, but then she laughed. “’Tis a sad commentary on how a few years can change one, is it not? Time was, I could march fifteen miles in a day on less sleep and far shorter commons than I’ve had here in Town.”
“Yes, well, I doubt I’m up to such exertions myself these days. There’s a reason soldiering is primarily an occupation for the young, you know.”
“Not that we are so very old, either one of us.” She sounded almost wistful. “I should say Town living is more to blame than age for our comparative lack of vigor. Were we to make a habit of long walks and fewer, simpler meals, we might discover ourselves as capable of such as we ever were.”
Was that a veiled reference to his drinking? Nothing in her expression indicated that, but he wondered. After cutting back the first day or two, his consumption had gradually increased again until it nearly rivaled its previous level.
“Shall we ask Mrs. MacKay to send up nothing but chicken and vegetables tonight?” He kept his voice light and bantering. “Perhaps we should also tell all the Society biddies to go to hell and schedule a series of marches for ourselves instead of this endless succession of parties.”
Xena laughed with him. “I won’t deny the idea holds a certain appeal. Though I wouldn’t dream of insulting Mrs. MacKay’s excellent cooking by asking for such a meal, I confess that a quiet dinner at home will be a most welcome change.”
An entire evening alone with Xena, something they’d not managed since their first night in the house, should give him ample time to ferret out the truth of where her money was coming from…and where her affections lay. That was surely why his heart quickened at the thought—not because of some foolish hope that this evening might end differently than their first.
Swallowing hard, he stood. “I’ve a few matters to attend to just now, but I’ll return in good time for dinner. Until then?”
“Oh, ah, certainly. I’ve fallen sadly behind in my correspondence, so will have plenty to occupy me in the meantime.”
Harry went downstairs, calling for his hat and coat. Those “matters” he referred to were fictitious, but he needed air—and distance from Xena—to work out a strategy for achieving his aim later on.
Deep in thought, he bent his steps to the Guards’ Club. He’d avoided the place in recent days but by now most of his old comrades had already had opportunity to give him a hard time about his marriage. On entering, he was met by a chorus of greetings, though not without a sly allusion or two.
“How does it feel, now the shackle is on the other leg, eh, Thatcher?” quipped Thomas Westercott, whom Harry had mercilessly tweaked upon his own marriage a year since. “Not quite so bad as you expected, I’ll warrant.”
Before Harry could respond, Sir Barney Phillips gave an ill-natured laugh. “Not so bad? I can’t imagine anything worse than being saddled for life with a shrew like that, no matter how comely she’s become.”
“Clearly my wife pricked your pride as sharply as your shoulder, once upon a time,” Harry shot back. “Won’t deny she’s got spirit, but a real man isn’t put off by that. Rather the reverse.”
That got a general laugh, for the story of Xena besting Phillips in that duel back in ’09 was well known to most there. Harry joined in, though privately he was startled by the unreasoning anger that swept through him at hearing Xena termed a shrew. It wasn’t as though she needed a husband or anyone else to defend her honor.
Though the glowering baronet left a moment later, the banter about Harry’s abrupt transformation from bachelor to seven years married continued unabated. Regretting his decision to come here after all, he was moving toward the door to follow Phillips out when a new arrival changed his mind.
“Jack! When did you return to Town? Thought you were fixed in the country for the winter.”
Lord Foxhaven stepped forward to clap Harry on the back. “Nessa insisted. She claims to be feeling better, though right now she’s having a lie-down, as the trip to London rather tired her. Thought I’d make myself scarce rather than racket about the house unpacking and such.
“So,” he continued, with what Harry considered an ominous gleam in his eyes, “I understand you’ve set up housekeeping for the rest of the year?”
“Ah, that’s why you’ve come back, is it? To witness my domestication firsthand?” Harry lowered his voice. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the true tale is the one I already told you, not the long-lost-love faradiddle Pete sent to the papers.”
Jack frowned. “But it is true you and your wife are living under the same roof, is it not? I had that from Peter himself.”
Harry snorted. “Only because he bribed us both to make the attempt. She’s no happier about it than I am.” If it cost him a pang to admit that aloud, he strove to hide it.
“In that case, why did you both agree?” Jack now looked skeptical. “Pete couldn’t possibly have thrown that much money at you. He’s well off, I grant you, but—”
“Come, let’s share a bottle and talk of something else.” Turning his back on his friend, Harry moved to a table in the corner.
Jack obligingly ordered a bottle from a passing servant before sitting down, but refused to change the subject. “Don’t tell me that after living for a week in such close proximity you haven’t managed to recapture any of the early attraction that ended in your marriage?”
Shifting in his chair, Harry shrugged. “Won’t say I’m not attracted. You’ve seen her—I’d have to be blind. Haven’t seen much evidence it’s mutual, however, so I can’t very well press the matter, can I?”
Jack started to chuckle. “Oh, of course not! The upstanding Harry Thatcher would never pay the least bit of improper attention to a woman unless she expressly invited it. No, wait. I must be thinking of someone else, not the greatest flirt and seducer at the Congress of Vienna.”
“This is different,” Harry snapped, nearly as irritated as he’d been by Phillips’s insult. “Xena is not some lightskirt to be tumbled for an evening. She—”
“Is your wife,” Jack finished with a grin. “Play your cards right, and the tumbling may well go on for a lifetime. A most enjoyable lifetime.”
Harry opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, having no good answer other than to voice his suspicion about Wellington—something he had no mind to share with even his closest friends…even if it turned out to be true.
Instead, he considered the possible merit of Jack’s words. He’d proven dozens of times since the war that he was more than capable of charming a woman. What might happen if he focused those vaunted skills on Xena? Might he finally persuade the full truth from her or…more?
Perhaps it was worth a try.
* * *
True to his word, Harry joined Xena in the drawing room nearly half an hour before dinner.
“Give you good evening, my dear.” He executed an elegant bow. “My, what a fetching frock that is. That particular shade of pink brightens your complexion and makes your hair appear even more lustrous than usual.”
Xena regarded him suspiciously. Lately, no matter what pains she’d taken with her appearance, Harry seemed not to notice. “That is kind of you, considering that this dress is in fact secondhand. I’m told it is not quite the thing to be seen publicly in the same gown twice, so I must needs save my few new ones for when we are out in company.”
She carefully did not mention her two newest ones. After Lady Mountheath’s comments earlier, she felt more than a little conflicted about wearing those dresses at all, as she’d bought them with the Duke of Wellington’s money. In fact, had she not already forwarded the bulk of th
at money to Yorkshire for needed repairs, she’d be tempted to return it to him forthwith. As it was, she’d written to Mr. Gold that afternoon, telling him she had reconsidered selling the balance of her father’s Grecian collection to his “mysterious” buyer.
“Then may I say that you wear a secondhand gown better than most ladies wear the costliest creations from the finest modistes.” Harry poured them each a glass of sherry from the sideboard and moved to sit on the sofa.
Ignoring her glass, Xena moved to a chair that was near, but not too near, him. “What are you playing at, Harry? You know better than most my opinion of flattery.”
Rather to her surprise, he chuckled. “I wasn’t certain whether you still felt the same. I’ve heard any number of men heaping you with praise this week without having their ears pinned back for it.”
She couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’ve wished to do so on several occasions but stifled the impulse to avoid giving offense. It would seem most gentlemen of the ton find it safer to lavish empty compliments upon a lady than to attempt actual conversation with her.”
“To be fair, I’ve known hardened battle veterans, brave enough under enemy fire, to cower in the face of your incisive discourse on certain topics. These pampered London dandies wouldn’t stand a chance.” His hazel eyes twinkled as they used to during all their spirited discussions of her unorthodox opinions. Discussions she’d quite enjoyed…and missed.
“It is difficult to give them any reason to cower when they never ask my opinion on anything weightier than the state of the weather or the cut of their coats. Speaking of which, you look rather fine for a dinner at home. Do you have other plans for later?”
“None whatsoever. Who deserves my best, if not my wife?” he replied with a hint of a wink.
She might have asked that exact question, had he not deflected it so neatly. Vaguely unsettled by the look in his eyes—one she remembered rather too well—she changed the subject.
“Were you able to deal with your business this afternoon?”