In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4)

by Cynthia Wicklund

  As he reached his mother’s step, James grabbed the brass knocker and gave it three swift raps. With pleasure he recognized the butler who opened the door.

  “Harris, good to see you, my man.”

  “And you, my lord. I missed seeing you when you were here last.”

  “How are you getting on now that Mother has confiscated you from the big house?”

  “Getting on is the correct term, my lord,” the old man stated, bent and gnarled with age. “In years that is. Cannot fathom why the Lord has left me here so long.”

  “Why? Because you are needed. The Lord knows that. How would the Tremonts survive without you?”

  The servant gave him a mocking smile. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “Where is my mother?”

  Harris looked suddenly wary, and it was then that James heard a masculine voice emanating from the front room. Without waiting to be announced, James brushed past the butler and thrust open the door to the parlor. Two heads spun around at his entrance, one his mother, the other his cousin Derrick.

  This was all it took to cap off his day. Fury like vitriol poured through his system, taking any calm that he had managed to retain. So appalled was he, for a moment he could not speak.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he shouted, breaking the stunned silence.

  His mother rose from the sofa, perennial glass of spirits in her hand, and moved toward him. “Now, James—”

  But James was not looking at her. “I told you to be gone by the time I arrived home, Derrick. You had better have a dire explanation for defying me.”

  His cousin’s demeanor was lazy, almost smug. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by the purple bruise on his mouth.

  “Your mother took pity on me. Offered me a place to stay.”

  James’s attention shifted to the dowager. “Excuse me?” he said in an awful voice.

  The only clue he had that the old woman was nervous was the slight shaking of her hand as she took a deep gulp of what he assumed was brandy. At least, that had always been her choice of drink. Her breath echoed in the glass as she swallowed, making her sound uncouth and, frankly, pathetic. James was immediately repulsed. He had grown up with an alcoholic mother. This blatant reminder of her addiction was more than painful.

  “Derrick had nowhere to go,” she said as the brandy cleared her throat.

  “I don’t give a damn. He’s not staying on my property.”

  “This is my home, James.”

  “At my indulgence.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He changed his tack. “Why would you help him, Mother? You’ve never cared for Derrick.”

  She stiffened. “That’s uncalled for.”

  James sent his gaze to Derrick again, not because he was worried about his cousin’s feelings, but because he wondered just how thick was his skin. If the young man was offended, he chose not to show it. In fact, his smile widened although it had taken on a brittle quality.

  “What did he do that is so terrible?” the dowager asked. “Spoke the truth? Is your wife a fool or did she truly believe you married her for herself?”

  Her tone had taken on the belligerence so common in the inebriate, and James knew before long she would be truly drunk.

  “Be careful, Mother,” he spoke quietly now, afraid the rage that was beginning to consume him might make him do something he would later regret.

  “A big raw-boned girl like that,” she continued, almost to herself. “She has her nerve.”

  Derrick sniggered, but his amusement died instantly when James and he exchanged a glance.

  As for James, he was truly offended for Amanda’s sake because the words were not only harsh, they were untrue. His wife was tall, yes, but she had a magnificent body, and there was nothing raw-boned about it.

  “Tell me, Mother, do you wish to be exiled from my home?” he asked.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “You think not?” he bit out. “One more unkind word about my wife, even implied, and you will not be welcome in the big house.” He turned to Derrick. “As for you—”

  “I did it for Henry,” the dowager hurriedly broke in. “She was heartbroken that you had put your cousin out. I felt it was the least I could do.”

  James watched her a moment, cynicism claiming his thoughts. What was his mother’s motive in all this? She had never cared for Aunt Henrietta any more than she’d cared for Derrick. Fact was, the dowager had never cared for any of the Tremonts. Seemed an unnecessary cruelness to mention that right now, however. Derrick could not be trusted to hold his tongue, although James suspected his mother’s attitude was no secret to the rest of the family.

  His aunt was the one weight he carried on his conscience. Henrietta’s distress was very real as was her love for her son. Poor thing, she was not blind to Derrick’s faults. More than once she had admitted that he was flawed like his father. Regardless, she clung to her only child, hoping as only a mother can hope.

  Damn it! Allowing Derrick to stay in the dower house would be like enduring a splinter under his fingernail, a constant painful irritation. And if irritation was the worst of it, he would be lucky. Intuition told him that having his cousin on the premises was inviting disaster. He didn’t even care to think how Amanda would respond when she found out.

  “I want you at dinner tonight, Mother,” James said. “So you had better stop drinking now. I also expect you to apologize to Amanda for missing her homecoming today.”

  The dowager pursed her lips sourly but gave him a curt nod. “As you wish.”

  “And you, Derrick—”

  His cousin sat up straight, the uncertainty he was feeling—probably the outright fear—suddenly apparent. “Yes?”

  “Stay out of sight. Your only hope is not to remind me that you are here lest I reconsider.”

  The young man’s shoulders slumped with relief.

  “Oh, and Derrick? Stay away from my wife, also. Upset her again and lack of a home will be the least of your worries.”

  James left, more disgusted than he thought possible. Those two deserved each other. He smiled grimly. How amusing it would be when they realized their effort to plot against him was not nearly enough reward to dispel how little they had in common.

  ***

  CHAPTER 8

  Dinner went well, a party atmosphere prevailing. James was pleased by his family’s acceptance of Amanda, his mother notwithstanding.

  The dowager had arrived only a little tipsy. She sat through the meal, picking at her food, sullen, because James had refused to let her drink more than one glass of wine. He had been discreet, of course, warning the footman before everyone was seated. But his mother had known and her resentment was palpable. She chose to leave immediately after dessert.

  “Didn’t you have something you wished to say to Amanda, Mother?” James asked as the dowager prepared to depart.

  He had chosen a public forum, the entire family still lounging around the dining table. Again he detected his mother’s displeasure with him. There was a protracted silence and Amanda gave her husband an uncertain look.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for reminding me, James.” The dowager’s sarcasm was lost on no one. She turned to her daughter-in-law. “I was indisposed this afternoon, my dear. I apologize for missing your arrival.”

  “Quite all right—” Amanda began.

  His mother turned abruptly and traipsed from the room, weaving only slightly.

  Well, that had been a mistake, he thought, humiliation making him sweat. He should have known his mother would find a way to turn an apology into an insult. He glanced over to find Aunt Henrietta gaping at him in consternation—James was afraid to look at his wife again. He released an exasperated breath and stood from the table, signaling the end of the meal.

  Henrietta cornered him in the drawing room. Her guilty gaze darted from him to the others in the room and then back again as if assessing whether or not she could speak privately. He took her hand t
o reassure her, leaning down so she could whisper in his ear.

  “You’ve been to the dower house, James?” she asked in an undertone.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she moaned. “I tried to tell you when you arrived, but I didn’t want to upset Amanda.”

  “It’s not your fault, Aunt Henry.”

  “I should have told Derrick to leave, but I…”

  “Would he have listened?”

  Her shoulders drooped. “Most likely not. But that’s no excuse for my not trying since it was your wish.”

  James patted the hand he held. “Not to worry, dear. I’ll handle Derrick. You must trust that I will not be unfair.”

  “Oh, James, you know it’s not my lack of trust in you.”

  “I know. But you realize I cannot allow Derrick to get away with mischief. His jealousy is his undoing, and I can’t tolerate that.”

  Again, the guilty look entered her eyes. “Has Amanda recovered?”

  Should he lie or tell the truth? He settled on something in between. “For the most part but it has definitely been a source of pain.”

  “I’m so sorry!” She sounded as though she might cry. And in fact, she reached into her bodice and extracted a lace hankie, holding it to her mouth.

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, Aunt Henry, I must share the blame. I should never have listened to Amanda’s father. In doing so, I gave Derrick the ammunition. I simply wish he had not found the need to use it.”

  He could tell that his words gave her comfort and for that he was glad. He loved his aunt and sympathized with the misery she’d suffered due to her wayward son.

  “May I ask you a question?” she ventured.

  Suddenly wary, he nodded.

  “Did you marry Amanda only for the money?”

  He frowned. “Does it matter?”

  “Oh, yes. Perhaps it’s none of my business, dear, but indeed it matters. I like her.”

  James relaxed, smiling. “I like her, also. Originally, I agreed to meet Amanda because of the fortune her father dangled in front of me. I admit that. But I would never have married her for that reason alone. Too much sacrifice for me, I’m afraid. The Tremonts would have had to find another way to thwart starvation.”

  “Truthfully?”

  He lifted his brows at her devilishly. “Does she look like a woman who would inspire only avarice in a man?”

  “But do you love her?”

  He paused, sending his gaze to his wife where she sat on the sofa, entertaining Huey. Her dark head was bent close to his uncle, the smile on her face kind and interested. He appreciated her compassion. Not everyone outside the family was tolerant of Uncle Huey’s limitations.

  Even as he watched her, Amanda looked up, her lovely brown eyes widening when she saw him staring at her. They shared a moment so personal, so fraught with meaning, it seemed for a time that the room and its occupants faded, leaving only the two of them.

  “Do you?” his aunt insisted, her voice seeming far away.

  Continuing to observe his beautiful wife, he murmured, “Yes, I believe I do.”

  Her gaze followed his. “Have you told her?”

  “Would you believe me right now? Would you trust me to tell the truth when I’m already proven to be a liar?”

  “James—”

  “Would you fear that I was using expediency rather than revealing my true feelings?”

  “Perhaps, but then what are you to do?”

  “I have to demonstrate that I love her.” He took in a weary breath. “I have to demonstrate that I am worthy of her loving me, how I don’t know.”

  “Does she love you?”

  “Does it matter? She doesn’t particularly like me right now, and love without like is a very tenuous thing. It has the potential to be corrupted at any moment. And once love dies it is rarely resurrected.”

  This time she took his hand, “Then don’t let it die, James.”

  He smiled wistfully. “She is a stubborn girl, is my Manda.”

  “Just what you need, if you ask me,” Aunt Henry said in a tart voice.

  “Never let me get away with a thing, do you? Will you do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked Amanda not to share our problems with anyone. I’d hate for her to think I did the very thing I asked her not to do.”

  “Not a word, love. Your secret is safe with me.”

  ***

  With much effort, Amanda forced her attention back to Uncle Huey, who sat next to her on the sofa. She had glanced up, compelled by a feeling of being watched, to find her husband staring at her from across the room. His blue eyes were filled with an intimacy that took her breath away, made her heart beat painfully. Not the intimacy of physical desire, but something she had never seen in his attitude before, something more intimate than sex.

  Hard to believe there was anything more intimate than sex. But she knew people often shared their bodies without sharing what was in their hearts. She had never understood the aristocracy’s penchant for marrying for any reason except love, had wondered how they could be disdainful of the only emotion that made marriage worthwhile.

  She chanced a peek at her husband again, but James was now concentrating on something his Aunt Henry was saying. His love for the older woman was obvious as he listened to her.

  Whatever their private little heart-to-heart was about, it ended then. He cupped his aunt’s elbow and guided her to the others in the room.

  Amanda felt a tug at her sleeve.

  “Do you play chess, Amanda?” Uncle Huey asked, enunciating each syllable clearly.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “I do. I play very well.”

  “He certainly does,” Uncle Hamilton broke in from where he lounged next to the fireplace. He was nursing a glass of port and watching Amanda and Huey with obvious enjoyment.

  Uncle Harry stood next to him, and he nodded his balding head, nursing a like glass of port. Apparently, Harry’s contribution to any conversation was to confirm whatever Ham had to say. If he could do so without speaking, so much the better. Or at least so it seemed.

  “That’s wonderful, Uncle Huey,” Amanda said. “You have my deepest admiration. Chess is not for the fainthearted.”

  “Will you play with me sometime?”

  “Do you promise to be tolerant of a woefully inadequate player?”

  He grinned, green eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Oh, yes!”

  “Then it’s decided.”

  He reached over with his withered hand, placing it on hers, and she smiled into those green eyes. Only then did she understand it was a test, for there was a shrewdness in his gaze that belied his limited intellect. Had she shrunk from his infirmary—as she suspected many people had done before—that would have been the end of her relationship with him, not because she would shun him but because he would have nothing more to do with her.

  She heaved an inner sigh when his expression indicated she had passed. To hurt this sweet man would have been a sin. She sensed the relief in the room and, startled, Amanda realized that all had gone quiet as she and Huey had enacted their little tableau. Even the servants had stopped to watch. She could feel the warmth and approval from this family who loved and fiercely protected their favored “child.”

  James sat down on the sofa next to her on the other side from Huey. Amanda turned to him, hesitant, but his eyes shone with that same approval.

  “Uncle Huey and I are going to play chess,” she said brightly because, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of another thing to say.

  “So I see,” James said. “Huey?” He leaned forward to look at his uncle. “Don’t thrash her too badly at first. She’s new to the family and we don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  The group broke into uproarious laughter. The twins toasted each other, clinking glasses, while Aunt Henry rocked backward and forward from where she stood, her chubby person looking much like a teetering wooden top. A
s soon as one person ceased laughing, another would break out again, and so it went until everyone was spent.

  “Haven’t had a laugh like that in years,” Ham stated.

  “No, indeed,” Harry reiterated, wheezing loudly.

  And for some reason, that started the mirth all over again.

  The party dissipated shortly after that. Uncle Huey escorted Amanda upstairs, his arm tucked in hers. He bowed at her door.

  You meant it?” he asked shyly. “You’ll play chess with me?”

  “Absolutely. But remember, you promised not to thrash me too badly.”

  His giggles trailed behind him as he hobbled down the hall.

  Amanda entered her room and closed the door. James had remained downstairs, indicating he would be up shortly. There had been a shaded look in his eyes that told her little and so she must wonder. She supposed he was allowing her to ready herself for bed without his intrusion, as he had done while they were traveling. Why not? She certainly had complained about the lack of privacy.

  Her clothes had been unpacked, and she found the drawer where her nightdresses were neatly folded. On top of the stack was an ivory silk nightdress trimmed in matching lace. She had chosen it for her wedding night. Her throat tightened as she ran her fingers across the slick material, remembering how deliciously titillated she had been when she first chosen it. How she had looked forward to her first night alone with James! Dispirited, she pushed it aside, choosing a more staid gown to sleep in.

  She still had not had a bath since leaving London and, more than anything, she wanted one. It was late, however, and most of the servants had already retired for the evening. The maid who was waiting for her unlaced her corset, then Amanda sent the woman off to bed as well.

  Amanda settled on a sponge bath, stripping down to her linen drawers. The water in the pitcher was cold and she shivered, running a soapy washcloth over her torso and under her arms. She washed her neck and face until they stung pleasantly then repeated the entire process when it was time to rinse.

  A soft snicking as if the door had been gently pulled into place caused her to whirl around, washcloth dripping from one hand, the other hand held to her mouth in alarm. Her glance darted over the room but all was quiet, eerily so.