The Frenchman's Widow

by Eliza Lloyd

  The child she carried now? Time would tell. He was not going to worry, nor would he forsake the child because of it.

  Was Catherine right? Was this because of Imogene? What he did know was he could not make either woman happy.

  He was firmly married. There would be no divorce, no annulment. The only option was to separate—the unspoken agreement would be that they were free to pursue their own interests without criticism or judgment from the other, as long as there was discretion.

  And then there was Imogene. How she made him laugh—even now a well of contentment bubbled inside. It was hard to explain, even harder to accept. He’d found his boon companion on a dock at Twenty Acres. Yes, she made him laugh but there was more to his attraction than he could admit.

  Having been married, would she want the sort of association he could offer? That of paramour, mistress, lover. Love of his life? The spark was still there—he’d seen the fire in her eyes and he’d felt the flame in his groin.

  He’d been so careless with her.

  She’d lived on the streets but possessed an unusual innocence, professing love for him in such a simple, honest way. And he’d seen her as nothing more than a whore.

  Someone to enjoy for a season.

  At least Charlie’s prayers had been answered. Imogene had found safety and security in Paris. She had found someone to appreciate her as he never had.

  Jack heard the playful screaming as it came closer and then around the corner into the library. He smiled with ease when they were near.

  “Papa, Justin won’t let me play with the blocks. He keeps knocking them over.”

  The culprit came waddling into the room, holding one of the blocks in his hand. “My blocks.”

  Their governess had probably fallen asleep again and they had escaped the nursery. The little one was very adept at climbing stairs and escaping the most attentive house maid’s watchful eye.

  Benjamin ran between Jack’s legs and raised his hands. His son was still very light and he sat as a feather upon his thigh. Justin toddled closer, arms extended. “Up.”

  There was plenty of room in his lap. It took a little effort to keep Justin from toppling over, but Benjamin leaned into him and wanted to know when they could have a puppy.

  “Soon. Do you think you can take care of one?”

  “I’ll play with him.”

  “I know you will. How about we go outside?”

  He lifted them both, Benjamin’s arm about his neck and Justin trusting Jack by not holding on to anything except his block.

  They met Maxwell, Jack’s valet, as they walked toward the door to the back garden. Maxwell reached for Justin and patted his head.

  “Say, Maxwell. Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “My lord,” he said in deference.

  “Benjamin and Justin are keen on having a puppy of their own.” The boys needed to learn responsibility and a pet was a prime way to acquire such experience.

  Benjamin squirmed. “A black one.”

  “A collie, if you can find one,” Jack said.

  “I will do my best to find a black one, Master Benjamin.”

  It was the least Jack could do for them since he was going to take away their mother.

  * * * * *

  The chapel was in the center of the King’s College’s buildings, and from the foyer, Jack took the right staircase to the broad room, designed on King George IV’s notion of religion and practicality.

  He saw Danny first, sitting tall and straight beside his sister. Of course, he knew Danny would be in attendance—though he hadn’t thought about it since running into Imogene at the park.

  He hadn’t thought about much since seeing Imogene at the park.

  Imogene had changed. He wasn’t one to notice a woman’s dress in detail other than how a well-designed bodice might reveal cleavage. With Imogene, it was hard not to notice her attire. Hoydens who dressed in tattered trousers and oversized coats should not look so magnificent in a petite bonnet with a big bow at her chin or a demure, lightly flowered dress that made her appear angelic and sensual.

  Danny stood and shook his hand. “Lord Prescott.”

  Imogene nodded. She had a way of acknowledging him on a deeper level than just a formal greeting with words. No wonder an aged wine merchant had snatched her up.

  “Mr. Farrell. Madame LeClerc,” he said quietly, bowing slightly. “Mrs. FitzPatrick.” She sat on the inside, Imo and Jack bookending the Farrells, a metaphor for their life, he supposed. Maybe Charlie was the miracle worker in this little family, praying with sainted devotion since the moment the Farrells took him in.

  And maybe there was hope for Frank after all, shipped off to Botany Bay nigh on five years now. Imogene would not have given up on her brother.

  They sat without saying anything else. He was aware of her though, his senses alive. His heart thumped erratically, his thoughts churned and, well, he was inappropriately aroused.

  The chapel was filled with family, college dignitaries and the students receiving their honors degrees. A church was no place to stare at Imogene. Or lust after her.

  Jack heard the drone of the speaker, saw Charlie in his dark robes, but nothing could keep Jack from thinking, from feeling Imogene next to him.

  He was a fool to think he could resist her. She was right to have kept a distance between them. When he’d arrived at the chapel, he had imagined the circumstance in which he could reignite their liaison.

  She would say no. And she would say no for the right reasons.

  Afterward, they gathered outside until Charlie could join them. Mrs. FitzPatrick was agog at the finery and so proud of the boy she and the church had raised. Charlie might be a well-educated young man, but there was no doubt about his first love—he clung to God because God answered his prayers.

  “Will you join us, Lord Prescott? We are dining at Simpsons-on-the-Strand,” Imogene said.

  “I ought to be getting back,” he said. He fought his own nature but left the door open for persuasion.

  “Nonsense,” she said. She peeked up at him, a winsome smile upon her lips. She’d learned how to flirt.

  She’d learned to be a lady.

  “Let us repay some of your kindness,” Charlie said.

  And who could argue with Charlie’s earnest request?

  As if it had been preordained, they turned toward the walkway, Charlie and Danny walking with Mrs. FitzPatrick. Mrs. Fitz could at least breathe easy, knowing the Farrells had made it to adulthood and could nearly fend for themselves.

  Jack held his arm for Imogene and they followed a few steps behind.

  “How is Lady Prescott?” she asked.

  “Irascible. She wishes to be delivered of the child. It is a burden, she says.”

  “Hmm. Did your wife mention we met yesterday at the Burlington Arcade?”

  Tension coiled in his stomach. Meeting Imogene again, and so soon, might have explained why Catherine had been so venomous. “No. She did not. Was she unkind?”

  “She is under a mistaken assumption.”

  “Shall I take a guess?”

  “I cannot believe you would tell her about our past and I’m not accusing you of it. Well, maybe I am but I’m not Imogene Farrell anymore.”

  He laughed. “You are Imogene to the core, but the outer trappings are nice.”

  “You like it?” She displayed the skirt with a quick flare. “I bought it just for the occasion.”

  Yes. He liked the dress. He liked Imogene in the dress.

  “Whatever Catherine said to you, please accept my apologies. I am sure her words were laced with bitterness.”

  “I am sorry she makes you unhappy.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Not obvious. A guess.”

  “Let’s not talk about her. Tell me...when are you returning to Paris?”

  “I’m not. I’ve purchased a home in Brighton.”

  “Not London?” He wagged his brows. “I guess I can understand why.”


  “You do?”

  “Tiny Etherton was killed three years ago. At her brothel.”

  “Well, if that ain’t the shit,” she said. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  He smiled, just as he had when they were together. Imogene could not help herself. She was a product of her environment—honest, tough and spirited. There was nothing she could say or do to make him think differently.

  “Then about a year after that, the place burned down. The newspaper article implied there was a war between the toughs near Twenty Acres. I think your friend McGreggor was involved.”

  “He wasn’t my friend.”

  “The Runners are very interested in him and his activities. About once a week there is a mention of him in the papers. He’s grown powerful, with several honest businesses that pay the Queen’s taxes. Did he help you leave London?”

  “Oh no. I did that all on my own.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. I couldn’t be your mistress.”

  Jack frowned, uncomfortable that her words were so close to what he wanted. He had been accused often enough—she might as well have stayed in London and been his mistress in fact.

  “And now?” he asked.

  Imogene stopped and stared at him. Dear god, he wanted to snatch her up and run away with her.

  “Jack! You can’t be serious. After all this time? And you with a wife and children? It’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “For me it is. Pierre was the finest gentleman. I would have hated myself for any disloyalty to him. Your marriage may not be perfect, but you will hate yourself if you are not true to your vows.”

  “You think more highly of me than you ought. I am perfectly willing to break my vows when my own wife has broken hers.”

  Imogene snorted. “It was that prick Shiffington, wasn’t it?”

  They stared at each other.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I knew!”

  Jack glanced around. They had fallen behind the others and they were nearly alone on the walkway.

  “You knew?”

  “We can’t answer five years’ worth of questions in ten minutes.”

  “Then stay.” His hand cupped her neck. “Stay so we can talk about everything. The past. Our future. We can be together.”

  “Jack, the answer is no. I may look like a lady, but to you I will always be a whore. Your whore. And I want something more than that.”

  “That’s not fair. What we had was a mutual agreement.”

  “Where I was your whore. Come. We are well behind and I’m feeling hungered.”

  “Think about it? Please?”

  “No. Work it out with Catherine. I can’t be the only woman susceptible to your charm. And manly gifts.”

  He laughed as they headed down the path again. “Let me convince you.”

  “I’m leaving in a few days. I have responsibilities. Jack,” she implored, gripping his arm. “We are thankful. You’ve done more for the Farrells than anyone. Our agreement was met in your bed. Danny is working his arse off for the money you pay him. And Charlie? He’ll pray for you the rest of his life and you’ll be the better for it. I can’t go back. Don’t ask it of me.”

  “A man can try.”

  “I tell you what.” She leaned toward him. “If you live to seventy, I’ll fuck you proper one last time. Before you go to your grave.”

  “Hmm. I’ve never had such motivation to live into my old age.”

  As much as he wanted Imogene, he couldn’t help the measure of pride—was it pride?—that welled in his chest. The Farrells kept their word. And he would honor Imogene’s request. A man could only ask so many times before he understood that five years had polished Imogene Farrell into a diamond.

  And he hoped he lived to seventy.

  * * * * *

  Imogene squirmed on the comfortable squabs of Jack’s carriage.

  “You shouldn’t have agreed,” Charlie said.

  “Why the hell not? Jack offered—I wasn’t going to tell him no. And it beats being squashed in a train carriage for three and six pence, especially with all the trunks we have.”

  The purchased goods were securely packed on top and in back. They wouldn’t have to change coaches or make a rest stop unless they wished to do so or they needed to change horses. And she could smell the light, teasing scent of Jack’s cologne with each movement of the conveyance.

  “The train would have been quicker.”

  “Don’t make me explain to you what I can’t explain to myself. I wanted to spend time with you and I love returning to Brighton through the North Gate. I’m sentimental that way.”

  Laraine sat beside Imogene and snoozed to the rhythm of the rocking carriage.

  Charlie leaned forward and braced his elbows against his knees. “You didn’t encourage him, did you? Jack cares about you. Deeply, in my opinion, but he can’t know how you feel, how you’ve always felt. I don’t suppose time has really changed much between you.”

  “I’ve been married and I respected my vows. I wouldn’t do that to any woman, shrew or not. Jack was being considerate, as he has always been.” Imogene had been on her best behavior with Jack. Every effort went into speaking with English exactitude, though she’d made a few mistakes when Jack had provoked her. More importantly, she’d been firm in telling him renewed physical intimacy was impossible.

  Jack. Dear Jack.

  “I just don’t want Jack to misunderstand now that you are back on English soil. Many married men can be tempted to transgress,” Charlie said.

  “He won’t. He doesn’t. I can’t help but be grateful for everything he’s done for us though.”

  “Just don’t be too thankful in return.”

  Imogene laughed. “What would you know about such things?” How strange to talk with him as an adult, about adult things.

  He wagged his brow. “I remember how it was. I haven’t forgotten the back alleys and creaking floorboards. And Frank wanting to nug night and day,” he said with a light laugh.

  “No. I don’t suppose any of us will forget that.”

  They rode in silence for several miles. Charlie leaned back and closed his eyes too.

  She’d bade Jack goodbye outside of Simpsons, then spent two full days with Danny, Charlie and Mrs. Fitz. In the end, she’d persuaded Charlie to return to Brighton with them since he had holiday time until university classes started again in the fall for Michaelmas term.

  They’d played cards again last night, amazed as Laraine thrashed them, all the while laughing because she was not a card player. Laraine lacked guile and Imogene had never seen her turn a single trick, so it was a surprise when Imogene had counted up her loss of ten pennies.

  Thoughts of Jack intruded and she couldn’t help but smile at the memories. She loved him still. She probably always would.

  In the end, he had to respect her wishes. She couldn’t be Jack’s whore, not when she had a daughter to care for and not when she planned to take in more girls. If her girls were to succeed, Imogene had to be respectable. Those she’d had in Paris had Pierre’s influential wings to cover them. All the weight was on Imogene’s shoulders now.

  And not while Jack had a wife.

  Thinking of darling Lily caused Imogene to glance at Charlie. She’d all but persuaded herself Lily could remain a secret. Her existence brought up too many unanswered questions. Well, one question, if she got down to it.

  But it was a ridiculous plan. Maybe she could have kept the secret in Paris, but not when she planned to have houseguests such as Charlie and Mrs. Fitz. The time had come to tell the truth. Except the part about Lily’s undisclosed father.

  If she confessed to Charlie, maybe he could add his prayers to hers and somehow God would provide an answer as to Lily’s true paternity. Naturally her prayer was that Jack’s seed had found its mark.

  “Imogene?” Charlie asked, his eyes still closed.

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “Should I look for Frank? Find out what happened to him?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Frank has been in God’s hands all along, with His own plan. Even if he is alive, he can’t come home.” No one transported could. If he did, he would be guilty of another crime. Jack had also paid money, a bribe, to someone to help get Frank transported rather than hanged.

  “Not as Frank Farrell. But he could come home—change himself like we have. If he was still alive.”

  “Your endowment is a gift you earned. I won’t have you throw it away on the chance Frank needs us to rescue him from Botany Bay. If after two years you think it necessary, then go, but we should all talk about it first. That’s a long way to go on a hope and prayer.”

  “And come home again.”

  “Yes. And come home again. I don’t want to lose another brother.” She reached across the aisle and took his hand. “I won’t lose you, Charlie. Ever.”

  They stopped at a final posting inn for rest, and two hours later the carriage slowed, entering Brighton as the sun set.

  “Brighton,” Charlie said as he sat up and peeked out the window. “Close, but not too close.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Trust me, Charlie. My resolve is firm.”

  “Is Jack’s?”

  She raised her brows and shrugged. Educated now, Charlie directed his questions with precision but not without kindness. She knew his concern lay in her happiness and not necessarily Jack’s comforts.

  Laraine woke as the carriage came to a stop at Imogene’s new home.

  “So this is the house that will swallow all your money? You do have enough to sustain a respectable life?” Charlie asked. He glanced at the façade, still visible in the fading light.

  “Pierre was generous and this is the home I want. It’ll be yours too when you need a place to stay between terms.”

  Imogene’s stomach clenched. Lily would be eating supper in her room unless she heard the carriage. What would Charlie think if Lily ran to the foyer yelling, “Mama, Mama”?

  Maybe it would be best to get the introductions out of the way.

  A rascally scream emanated from the house. Mon dieu, that child!