The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

  Filipe lost interest in the traders swiftly. He peered behind Charles at the Chinese girl on the stairs. “New servants ‘r Grace? I can help.” He slipped behind Charles before the duke could stop him and quickly fell into animated conversation with the cook.

  God help me. Zambak will get an earful. Charles stood at his door and ran a hand over the back of his neck. He needed to find laudanum. He needed to change his clothes. He needed to talk to Elliot. His hand fell to his waist.

  I need Zambak, but I can’t have her. Not like this.

  ~ ~ ~

  Zambak studied the tiny woman who appeared to have a poker up her back, lips so tight they might crack, and stone cold brown eyes. This must be the famous Mrs. Josie.

  “I run a respectable boarding house,” the woman repeated, rigid with indignation. “Young women are not permitted. Respectable ones do not knock on my door.”

  Zambak called up aristocratic arrogance, the product of eight hundred years of breeding. “My dear lady, do you know who I am?”

  “I’ve heard about you. The Duchess of Murnane made certain of that,” Mrs. Josie spat, unimpressed.

  The left side of Zambak’s mouth quirked; she respected a woman with backbone. She changed tactics.

  “I appreciate your delicate position, Madam. I’m here to see my brother, however. The Marquess of Glenaire?” And Charles, the wretch, if he is here. He dumped me at the Elliots’ and disappeared. She had Filipe scouring Macao for the pair of them when neither saw fit to communicate for three days. Now she couldn’t find Filipe either.

  “The Marquess is out I fear, Lady Zambak,” the landlady replied. “Mr. Hugo Jarratt called this morning, and the two of them went out. Right happy, the marquess looked.”

  Zambak groaned inwardly. How could Charles let that happen? He promised to keep him out of trouble until we can get him on a ship.

  “His lordship has been lonely here with most of the men trapped in Canton and that duke off about his own business.” Mrs. Josie’s sniff at the end managed to convey her conviction the duke’s “business” involved no end of foul debauchery.

  Where the hell has Charles been? She tossed around for a way to ask if the landlady knew where he could be found.

  Both women spun around at the sound of raucous conversation at the boarding house gate. Several young men—clerks by the look of them, and more than one slightly foxed—argued over something that made Zambak pay attention.

  “I say he didn’t. I don’t care what Oliver, that old grandmother, reported.”

  “Oliver swears he had every ball of opium tar smashed, buried in salt and lime, turned into sludge and dumped into the sea?” That one seemed to revel in the description.

  “Twenty thousand chests of opium? Impossible. It would take an army.”

  “Old Lin has an army, you lack wit. He can do what he pleases. Oliver doesn’t lie.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t bamboozled. He’s in Lin’s pocket. No one would destroy over twenty million pounds in opium.”

  “Lin would,” Zambak said from the porch, pitching her voice to the fools coming through the gate. “He is a man of honor.”

  The dregs of Macao’s trading company clerks, sweating in English wool in an attempt to appear respectable merchants rather than the smugglers they assuredly were, gaped back at her.

  “I say, aren’t you the tru—er, lady who met Lin?”

  The men eyed Zambak in open speculation, the same questions the more circumspect ladies had the day before naked in their eyes. What did you give him to let you go? Were you tortured? Raped? Or did you give your favors freely to escape punishment?

  She clamped her jaw tight and glared back.

  Paying customers on her doorstep overrode any other consideration for Mrs. Josie. She stepped forward to welcome them. “Gentlemen! So many of you at once. Cook will be aux anges! Come in and tell me what you need after your horrid ordeal. Did those savages starve you?” She clucked like a mother hen, ushering them past Zambak. “Have the Chinese given up?”

  “Ought to.” One of the men sneered. “Elliot made us give up a lot of opium—some firms turned in half of what they have—to meet Lin’s demands. He pulled us all out. Threatening to stop trade completely—all a hum, of course. Getting back at Lin.”

  Elliot pulled them all out? Zambak’s left thumb twitched as facts fell into place, and she turned them over in her mind one by one.

  “Good thing the company made other plans,” one said proudly. “The rest of you will have to catch up.”

  “What plans?” she asked, suddenly alert.

  One snickered and nudged the man who spoke. “Works for Jarratt & Martinson. Always six steps ahead.”

  The first preened. “We are. Soon as Lin claimed he would destroy the opium, the price dropped in India. Old Jarratt himself has been in Manila buying cheap and setting out for the coastal routes. We’re already starting full bore up the coast in Fukien.”

  Of course they are. They’ll make a fortune. She had never doubted they would. “Do I understand Captain Elliot is back?”

  They glanced around until one answered her. “First boat in. Probably ran home to the missus.”

  She set out for the Elliot mansion without a backward glance.

  Chapter 36

  From the house he rented for Julia in the respectable, but crowded, neighborhood near São Lourenço, Charles had to walk downhill toward the harbor. Opium was no more legal in Macao than any other part of China, but the Portuguese authorities preferred not to know when and where it could be found. Stores near the house held nothing so very British as laudanum, and while Charles sniffed at various suspicious local remedies, he found nothing he dared purchase. He promised Julia laudanum, and he planned to deliver it.

  He had sent Filipe back to Zambak with a stern warning to “look after your mistress and tell her I said to stay away.” He hinted that he and he alone had power over any future removal of servants from Macao and prayed the boy paid attention. The boy promised to go as soon as he helped carry in supplies for the kitchen.

  Charles now had two choices. He could scour the streets along the port, a haven for contraband on any continent, or go hat in hand to one of the English trading firms and beg. He preferred the former.

  Filipe hadn’t lied about the fleet. From the top of the hill, Charles caught sight of a horizon bristling with masts off shore and the gigs, launches, and dinghies crowding the docks. Men disembarked and scurried to offices, or trudged upward toward him, undoubtedly seeking homes, rented rooms, and rest. Two caught his eye, and the hair on his neck began to rise. Thorn Hayden walked up from the commercial strip with a well-dressed merchant.

  The other man, sharp eyed, caught sight of Charles approaching, and amusement gleamed in his eyes. The resemblance to his uncle was unmistakable. Hugo Jarratt. Damn. Sudbury’s heir twists in the wind to these men.

  “I say, Charles.” The young marquess had the grace to blush.

  “I thought I asked you to stay put,” Charles thundered without preamble.

  Thorn dug in his heels. “You can’t expect me to sit all day in Mrs. Josie’s parlor staring at her bric-a-brac!”

  “I should think not,” Jarratt chuckled, drawing a grateful glance from the marquess who took a step close to him.

  “You might find a way to make yourself useful,” Charles replied, though how exactly the boy might do it escaped him.

  “I have been given the impression you objected to Lord Glenaire’s gainful employment with our firm,” Jarratt interjected. “But we haven’t been introduced, have we?” He made no attempt to acknowledge the duke’s rank.

  “I know who you are,” Charles growled. “And yes, I object. You seem to have a strange set of behavior standards for your employees.”

  Jarratt studied Thorn, m
aking no effort to hide his amusement. “Only our most valuable ones.” The marquess, oblivious to the undercurrent, preened.

  Jarratt did bow then, a simple inclination of the head. “This is where I take your leave, my lord,” he said to his companion. “You obviously have things to discuss with your—tutor is it?” He walked back down toward Jarratt & Martinson premises, chuckling while Thorn turned beet red.

  “Damn it, Charles, you act like my nanny. You have no authority over me. My father—”

  “Your father told me to watch over you, and I intend to do so. What did Jarratt want from you, anyway?” He examined the boy carefully but found no signs of opium.

  “Nothing. He just came to check if I needed anything.”

  “Did you?” Charles demanded.

  The question took the marquess off guard. He stuttered, shifty eyed, “No. Well, yes. Bored you know. I need work, but Hugo says you won’t let them hire me. No one wants to hire me. We went to tea. That’s all it was. Tea.”

  “Did he offer you opium?” Truth, Thorn. Tell me the truth.

  “Don’t be daft, Charles. It’s all hidden!”

  Hidden not gone.

  The marquess babbled on. “Anyway, I promised my sister. It’s just . . .”

  “Laudanum, Thorn? Did he give you laudanum?” Shame flooded Charles; he hoped the answer was yes so he could take it to Julia.

  Thorn refused to meet his eyes. “His firm keeps a supply. For staff, in case they need it.” He looked up sharply at that. “Only if needed. Carefully guarded. Only goes to trusted employees.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “What? No! I told him about the pain—you don’t know Charles. You don’t understand the pain—and he offered.” The boy lied poorly.

  “You know where it leads, Thorn. You’ve been to that hell.” Give it to me.

  A belligerent chin stuck out. “But the path lies through heaven. You don’t know that part, do you?” Thorn said, a smug expression, ugly across his face, as if having one up on a duke made him important.

  I hope I never find out. Torn between a desire to send Thorn to demand laudanum for Julia and a drive to keep him far away, Charles froze in thought. As much as he loathed the idea, he would have to chase down Jarratt’s blasted nephew.

  The marquess turned the subject before he could. “You know Elliot is back? Lin’s been subdued for now. The companies are trading up the coast, out of the line of fire. Old Elliot will be so busy keeping the Portuguese pacified he won’t have much energy left to watch. You going to tell him?” His words had the pattern of a well-coached argument.

  I have no time for Elliot. I have to get this lost boy on a ship home with his tempting sister before it all crashes down, put my own damned affairs in order, and leave this pestilential place once and for all.

  “He knows. Neither Lin nor Elliot are the fools the traders take them for. They are engaged in a dangerous chess game, though, and I intend to make sure we aren’t caught in the middle. Get yourself back to Josie’s until you hear from me about passage. It won’t be long now.” At least, he hoped not. He swung away and headed after his quarry, certain his words would have no impact on the marquess.

  With the traders returned, and—from the looks of it—HMS Lorne back from Madras, he could board a ship with Zambak and her brother and leave. At least, he could if he left Julia to die alone. The servants he hired would strip the house and disappear as soon as he did.

  He could leave. But he wouldn’t.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles Elliot had little to say to Zambak when she hurried into his parlor, bonnet askew, to ask a dozen questions. He waffled between exasperation and astonishment at them, but managed to convey three things: Macao’s safety remained secure, he would handle Lin, and he needed to spend time with his wife.

  Effectively dismissed, Zambak sought out Temperance to apologize for neglecting her duty and to ask for her assistance. She wondered fleetingly where Filipe had gotten to and why he hadn’t returned, but her brother’s earlier absence worried her more. She begged her friend to go with her to Mrs. Josie’s boarding house.

  “I do not see why thee need my protection, Zambak.”

  “Not protection, Temperance. Respectability. The duchess and the gossips between them have convinced the proprietor I’m a woman of easy virtue. You are the most respectable woman I know.”

  “Thee are not that, Zambak. Thee are a lady of character.”

  Her friend’s staunch defense warmed Zambak’s heart, or would have if honesty didn’t force her to admit how close she was to embracing easy virtue, at least in her own heart. “Will you come if I help you finish here?” she begged.

  Temperance accepted help readily and finally went reluctantly when Zambak’s fears for her brother overcame her friend’s disgust with “false stories and outward judgment.”

  In the shabby front foyer of the boarding house, Mrs. Josie’s face softened slightly at the sight of the well-known Quaker missionary on her doorstep. She glowered from Zambak to Temperance and back before stepping aside with a reluctant sigh.

  “You’ll find the marquess in the back parlor. He has been there for hours—ever since Hugo Jarratt left. Quiet as a mouse he is. I wish all my boarders behaved as well. You can have ten minutes, mind you, and only if Mrs. Knighton chaperones.” She swept back into her office and left them to find their way down the dim hallway.

  Cow shite. Jarratt. Fear crept up her neck, fear confirmed as soon as she found her brother smiling blankly at a potted fern from a chair in the corner. He leaned back against blue silk upholstery worn thin by others before him and grinned like a booby.

  “Thy brother found his oblivion, Zambak,” Temperance whispered. A brown bottle hanging from his pocket confirmed it.

  Zambak yanked the laudanum from her brother’s side and stuffed it in her reticule.

  “Zamb? Best give it back. B’longs to J&M. Only let trusted employees have it,” Thorn slurred. “Trusted. Only most esteemed colleagues. Hugo said so. Great gun is Hugo.” He stirred slightly.

  Zambak knelt at her brother’s feet and grasped his hands. “Do you know why the Jarratts court you, Thorn?”

  “You think they just want to cozy up to the title, don’t you?” he answered, shaking off her hold. “Hugo likes me—respects me. Says I have the right sort of views. Will do well in Asia. Hugo says so.”

  She shook her head sadly, wishing she could confirm Hugo’s “respect.” Her brother badly needed it. She swallowed and tried to force her voice to sound calmer than she felt. “I wish they were merely imposing mushrooms. They are far worse than that.”

  Her brother screwed up his face in confusion. “I don’t think . . .”

  “Listen to me, Thorn. Hugo’s uncle has been sending thousands of pounds to London where Martinson has established himself. They’re filling the papers with reports of Chinese treachery.”

  “Chinese are treacherous,” Thorn nodded agreeably.

  “False stories, Thorn. They are trying to buy public opinion. They are bribing ministers and MPs—they want support for intervention to keep the opium trade expanding, and they want to use you to pressure Father to stay out of their way. They will stop at nothing.”

  “Silly Zambak. No one can make our father do anything. The great Duke of Sudbury listens to no one.” He closed his eyes, repeating “no one” over and over until Zambak thought he had fallen asleep. She stood up just as his eyes snapped open. “Doesn’t care about me, you know. Father doesn’t. Told Hugo so.” He rolled to his side and shut her out.

  Oh, but he does. Rather desperately. He just can’t seem to show you. She stepped back and knew her heart must be in her eyes when Temperance’s arm came around her waist.

  “I warned thee, Zambak. Some will sell their immortal soul for poppy juice. Thee
cannot fix him. He must fix himself.”

  “I can’t. But I can fix Hugo Jarratt.”

  Temperance ran to catch up. Her long stride kept her even with Zambak, but she could not convince her friend to stand down. They strode side by side into the Jarratt & Martinson premises where Zambak demanded to see the proprietor’s nephew. The clerks were no more prepared to assist her than the last time she invaded the male bastion, but she made her voice heard, and it drew her quarry from his cave.

  “This is indeed an honor, ladies. May I show you into my office? We can speak more comfortably there,” Hugo said with a raised brow. He had his uncle’s dark hair, great bulk, and knowing eyes. Unlike the elder Jarratt, he showed so much sign of dissipation that Zambak suspected his vices would kill him eventually. The thought gave her devilish satisfaction.

  She checked to see if Temperance would follow her into the private office, gave a sharp nod, and responded to his gesture directing her there. His pointed gaze sent clerks running back to their work.

  Hugo moved behind his desk, but Zambak didn’t pause. She waved the laudanum bottle under his nose. “You have no business giving this to my brother.”

  “Brother? We haven’t been properly introduced”—he smirked—“but I deduce you mean the Marquess of Glenaire.”

  At the sound of the heir’s title she had coveted since she was old enough to know what it meant, the title so tarnished by her feckless brother, Zambak’s stomach clenched. “I do indeed mean Lord John Thornton Hayden, Marquess of Glenaire, eldest son and heir to the Duke of Sudbury. My father can and will ruin you if you harm his son, and harm him you have.” She glared across the gleaming desk at the man behind it, her body rigid.

  “I fear you’re mistaken about me, my lady. Did you ask your brother where he got the poppy juice? Not that you can believe the word of one in its grip.”