The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “He doesn’t know. No one in my family knows, and they will not be told.” She pinned Robin with an unyielding look. “You will not mention this to anyone.” She turned to Kit. “Neither will you. If Shelbrooke and I can reach an agreement, I would prefer the world, including each and every member of the Effington family, to believe this marriage is for no other reason than—”

  “Love?” Kit’s tone was mocking.

  “Affection,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Or whatever other reasons people marry for.”

  “I’ll hold my tongue, but until the moment you wed I will not cease to express my opinion as to the foolishness of your decision.” Robin shook his head. “Mark my words, Gillian, you will regret this.”

  “Perhaps, but I shall regret it in a state of sweet financial freedom.” She smiled pleasantly. “Enough of this. Since we were speaking of Thomas, come see the landscape he sent me. He’s never been particularly interested in art, but this is excellent.” She crossed the room to the painting.

  Robin and Kit dutifully stepped to her side and murmured appreciative comments. It was indeed a striking work, with muted greens and shafts of golden sunlight. An idyllic depiction of the English countryside. The way life should be. This was an artist who poured his heart and soul into his work.

  One could say the painting expresses not the soul of man but the soul of God.

  A shiver ran up her spine, and without thinking, Gillian crumpled the lists in her hand.

  “You look like hell.” Thomas Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, lounged in an aged, threadbare chair and swirled the brandy in the glass held loosely in his hand. “Did you work all night again?”

  “Not all night,” Richard said absently and dabbed an infinitesimal dot of azure blue on the canvas before him. “I dozed a bit before dawn.”

  “And were back at your easel the moment the sun was up.”

  “Um-hum.” Richard stepped back and studied the painting with a critical eye.

  “You’re working too bloody hard.”

  “I have little choice,” he murmured. “I needed to finish this.” It was a half-truth at best. Oh, he did wish to complete the painting: the sooner it was in the hands of a dealer, the sooner he would be paid. There were a half dozen other unfinished works that demanded his attention as well. Besides, work always cleared his mind and helped him think. And he had a great deal to think about.

  Thomas heaved a frustrated sigh. “I still don’t see why you insist on remaining anonymous. You could be the darling of the ton.”

  “I would prefer the Earl of Shelbrooke not be the pet du jour, thank you very much.” Richard picked up a turpentine-soaked rag and wiped his brush. “Besides, from what you’ve said and the gossip I’ve heard, plus the sizable sums my paintings are starting to command, success is already within reach.”

  “Perhaps, but not your reach,” Thomas said pointedly. “The artist gaining growing acclaim is Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

  “At your service, my lord.” Richard swept an overly dramatic bow.

  “If people knew Toussaint was in reality the Earl of—”

  “All would be lost.” Richard tossed the rag and brush onto a battered, paint-speckled table. “We’ve had this discussion before, and my views have not changed. If anything, my desire to keep my identity secret has strengthened.”

  Thomas adopted the stubborn expression Richard knew all too well and braced himself for yet another round of debate. “Still, now that Toussaint’s paintings are becoming all the rage—”

  “Even more reason to remain hidden,” Richard said mildly. “Come now, Thomas. Think for a moment. Earls gamble. Earls hunt. Earls ride.” He snorted in disdain. “Earls squander their families’ money and destroy their good names, yet no one in society gives it a second thought.

  “However, earls do not go into business to earn an honorable living. Earls do not emigrate to uncivilized countries to seek their fortunes. And under no circumstances do earls paint. It’s what little girls still in the schoolroom or elderly female relatives do to fill their empty hours.” He raised a brow. “Society views such activities much the same way it views the writing of poetry by marquesses.”

  “I haven’t published anything,” Thomas muttered and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  Richard grinned. “And you’ve told no one about your efforts, have you?”

  “No, but my writing is an entirely different issue altogether from your painting.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  Thomas raised his glass in a mock salute. “Your work is excellent. My poems reek.”

  Richard laughed but could not bring himself to deny it. Thomas had written poetry since their schooldays, and in spite of his continuing efforts, had not shown significant improvement through the years.

  “Still, if my writing was any good, I would not hesitate to shout it from the rooftops.”

  “Yes, but you are a marquess and heir to the Duke of Roxborough, with all the wealth and power of the Effington family at your disposal. You can do as you please. I, however, have a name and a reputation to restore. I am dependent on the good will of the ton for that as well as for its money. Do you honestly think the work of an earl could command the prices of a mysterious Frenchman?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “There is no perhaps about it. My work would never be taken seriously if my real name was attached to it.”

  “Then it is as much your pride that keeps you silent as anything else.”

  “Damnable pride,” Richard said with a wry laugh. He could joke about it with Thomas, but it did rankle that the same skills praised in an unknown artist would be seen as little more than dabbling in a member of the upper classes. “Besides, I quite enjoy the history we’ve—or rather, you’ve— concocted for Etienne-Louis.”

  “I have done a remarkably fine job.” Thomas grinned and took a sip of his drink. “Not that it was all that difficult. A well-placed comment here. An observation there, and—”

  “Voila.” Richard adopted an exaggerated French accent. “We have Etienne-Louis Toussaint, the only surviving son of a noble French family slaughtered in the revolution, who was spirited out of the country by loyal servants. Now he spends his days painting with the passion of his forebears, and his nights, ah, mon ami, his nights—”

  “That was a brilliant touch.” Thomas’s grin widened.

  “Brilliant, indeed. For a man who has never been seen in person, his reputation as a lover is approaching legend.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas shrugged in an overdone show of humility. “One does what one can. I must admit, it has been a great deal of fun, particularly when I overhear women discussing the charms of the irresistible Etienne-Louis. Pity I don’t hear similar comments about the Earl of Shelbrooke. Isn’t it about time you looked for a suitable match?”

  Was Thomas aware of his sister’s legacy and the conditions it carried? Richard wouldn’t put it past Thomas to maneuver his friend into a marriage with his sister that would benefit them both.

  “The last thing I need in my life right now is another female. Between my sisters and my aunt, I have more than enough women to deal with. Besides, a woman who is both suitable and willing to overlook my financial shortcomings is difficult to find.” Richard paused. If indeed Thomas was aware of Gillian’s inheritance, there was no more opportune moment for him to mention it. But his friend remained silent, and Richard suspected he knew nothing of his sister’s proposal. “Enough talk of women, Thomas, now come here and look at this.”

  Thomas pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to stand beside Richard. For a long moment neither man spoke.

  “You have a great talent, my friend,” Thomas said softly. “Your skills improve with every work. It’s excellent.”

  “Excellent? It’s magnificent.”

  “Your modesty is as overwhelming as your talent.”

  “Modesty is pointless when you live your life hidden in the shadows of another’s name.”<
br />
  “I wish you’d let me speak to my sister. She wields a great deal of influence and would never betray your secret.” Thomas’s voice was a shade too casual.

  In light of everything else that had occurred last night, Richard had nearly forgotten his shock at seeing one of his works in Gillian’s possession. He matched Thomas’s manner of studied indifference with his own. “Ah yes, the lovely, widowed Lady Gillian. However, as I said, I have no need for another woman complicating my life at this point, even if the lady in question could be of great benefit. I will repeat once again that I do not wish you to approach your sister on my behalf.” He raised a brow. “You are honoring my wishes, aren’t you?”

  Thomas hesitated, and Richard bit back a grin. “Well … certainly.”

  “You would never speak to her about my work?”

  “No … never.”

  “Or suggest she invite me to one of her salons?”

  “Absolutely not,” Thomas said staunchly.

  Richard studied him carefully. “Then you did not prompt her to invite me to a gathering last night?”

  “Last night? No, of course not.” Thomas frowned. “Did you go?”

  “Well, yes but—”

  “She invited you? And you went.” Thomas’s expression brightened. “I say, what luck.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s obvious …” Thomas hesitated. “Exactly whom did she invite?”

  Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “The Earl of Shelbrooke. The invitation came through my solicitor.”

  “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I believe you.” He turned his attention to the last of the brushes still needing cleaning but watched Thomas out of the corner of his eye. “It was a rather interesting evening.”

  “Was it?”

  “Rife with fascinating discussion, entertaining guests, and the occasional odd coincidence.”

  “Oh?” Thomas said uneasily.

  “You, of all people, can imagine my surprise when I discovered one of my landscapes on display.”

  “One of your paintings?”

  The presence of the painting plus my unexpected invitation, well, you can see why I wondered if my secret had been revealed.”

  “Of course.” Apprehension colored Thomas’s expression. “And was it?”

  “Not at all. But I was shocked to hear a bit of information I never anticipated.” He leaned toward Thomas as if he was about to reveal a well-kept confidence. “Did you know Lady Gillian has a brother other than yourself?”

  Thomas’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about? Gillian has no other brothers.”

  “No?” Richard widened his eyes in mock surprise. “But she must.”

  “Why?”

  Well it’s obvious, old man.” Richard straightened and pinned Thomas with a firm look. “If she has only one brother, then the brother who sent her my painting must be you. And we both know you would never disregard my wishes and do that.”

  For a moment Thomas stared, looking for all the world like a man with the axe still in his hand ready to deny the chopped tree at his feet. “Damnation, Richard.” He downed the rest of his brandy. “You never would have known if she hadn’t invited you to her salon. Who could have foreseen that?”

  Richard raised a brow.

  “Very well, I confess.” Thomas strode to an ancient, wobbly table littered with an array of paint jars, rags, and various other supplies and plucked a bottle of barely passable brandy from the confusion. “I had to do something. You simply cannot keep on like this.”

  “Thomas.” A warning sounded in Richard’s voice.

  He ignored it. “No, this time you listen to me. You spend every day and most nights painting in this hellhole—”

  “Come now, it’s shabby but it’s not that bad. Besides, you own this hellhole.”

  “That doesn’t make it any more acceptable,” Thomas snapped. “When you’re not painting you’re attending the occasional social affair simply to observe subjects for your portraits—”

  “Who pay very well,” Richard murmured.

  “Of course they do. You paint from that remarkable memory of yours that conveniently fails to note overlong noses or mottled complexions.” He refilled his glass and held the bottle out to Richard. “And when you’re not here you’re in the country trying to do something completely absurd like assist your tenants with harvesting—”

  “Planting at this time of year.” Richard removed several brushes from a glass, wondering vaguely if he didn’t have an actual snifter somewhere, dropped them on the table, then crossed the room and accepted the bottle.

  “Regardless. You’re in the fields or pouring over ledgers or trying to mend the roof of Shelbrooke Manor—”

  “Someone has to.” Richard shrugged and poured the brandy.

  “Yes, but that someone needn’t be you.” Thomas drew a deep breath. “Gillian can introduce your works—”

  “Toussaint’s works.”

  “Your works to the people who could most benefit your career. Your paintings will be in demand. You could charge whatever you wish.” He aimed his glass at Richard. “And you’ll have the money to hire someone to fix the blasted roof or do anything else you want.”

  “Very well.”

  “Very well?” Thomas’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean, very well? I’ve offered to involve Gillian before, but you’ve always rejected the idea in no uncertain terms. Why aren’t you objecting now? What are you up to, Richard?”

  “Not a thing. I’ve come to my senses, that’s all. You’re right: the Lady Gillian can be a great help to my endeavors.” What would Thomas say if he knew just how much of a help his sister really could be?

  “I’m right?” A slow grin spread across Thomas’s face. “Of course I am.”

  “So.” Richard pulled a long swallow of the brandy and tried not to compare it to the fine liquor he’d sampled last night. “Tell me about her, this sister of yours?”

  “Well … she’s a sister. You understand,you have sisters.” Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know exactly what to say. She’s quite smart and somewhat pretty, even at her age—”

  “Very pretty.”

  “Stubborn and strong-willed, but then, she’s an Effington.”

  “Why hasn’t she married again?” Richard asked as if the answer was of no importance.

  Thomas stared into his glass. “She loved Charles very much. Had loved him from the time she was a child. It was really quite impressive.” He looked up. “She was devastated when he died and not herself for a long time. My parents worried that she’d never be the same again.

  “She was, of course, eventually, although she is somewhat more reserved now than she was then.” Thomas shook his head. “One never knows what Gillian is thinking or feeling. At least I never do. Maybe her friends—”

  “Weston and Cummings?”

  Thomas nodded. “The three—four, including Charles—practically grew up together. I’ve often wondered if they’re among the reasons she hasn’t remarried.”

  Richard swirled the brandy in his hand, the pale amber coating the sides of the cheap glass. “I understand her husband had not yet inherited.”

  “Bloody piece of bad luck. She deserved better. She does receive an allowance from the family, but it’s not extensive. Mother frets that she won’t accept more. I don’t understand it myself. Gillian rarely speaks of it, but I suspect she would prefer not to take anything at all.”

  “I see,” Richard said quietly, remembering her passionate comments last night. Maybe Gillian was simply tired of her family’s charity. For whatever reasons, she obviously wanted this inheritance badly.

  “I should be on my way.” Thomas glanced at the new painting. “I gather this isn’t ready for me to take yet?”

  “Not quite. It should be completely dry by the end of the week. You can fetch it up then. I expect it to bring enough to pay the staff at Shelbrooke Manor, or wha
t’s left of the staff, for a good three months.”

  “You could also invest in a new jacket.” The marquess cast a disdainful glance at the glass in his hand. “And a better bottle of brandy.”

  “You don’t seem to mind drinking it.”

  “But I do mind. I drink it only to be polite.” He finished the liquor and set the glass on a table.

  “The sure sign of a good friend.”

  Thomas was indeed his closest, in truth his only, friend, as well as his coconspirator. They had known each other from their school days but hadn’t seen much of one another until after Richard’s father had died. Somehow, they’d renewed their acquaintance then and now were as close as brothers.

  Etienne had been born three years ago when Richard was at his wits’ end trying to turn a neglected estate into a profitable enterprise. It was in fact Thomas who had originally suggested that Richard attempt to make his secret vice provide the income he sorely needed.

  Now, Thomas delivered his paintings to a solicitor who in turn passed them on to a dealer in art. Payment proceeded backwards along the same obscure route. Both men were confident the convoluted process ensured Richard’s continued anonymity.

  “And, Thomas, don’t forget this time to take the rent out of whatever is left after the dealer’s commission.”

  Thomas rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. This too was an ongoing debate between them. “This place cost me less than what I’d spend on a good horse. I can well afford to—”

  “Nonetheless, I will not—”

  “I know, I know.” Thomas blew a resigned breath and strode to the door. “Very well. But you could at least permit me to find better quarters for you.”

  “This is adequate for my needs. And the light is excellent. Besides,” he grinned, “I rather like this hellhole. It asks nothing from me.”

  It was a single large room encompassing the top floor of a mercantile building in an unfashionable but not disreputable area on the fringe of the city’s business district. The room served both as studio and living quarters and was passable for a man living alone. His sisters and aunt remained in the country at Shelbrooke Manor, but Richard’s work demanded his presence in London. His family had no inkling as to the source of his still meager funds, and he preferred to keep it that way.