“I'm married now, remember?”
Lord Fernworth focused on his face with some difficulty. “Yes, yes, of course, but what's that to do with it? What the little lady in the country don't know won't hurt her.”
“Lady Foxhaven is here in London, refurbishing Foxhaven House even as we speak.” Jack recalled the chaos at home with slightly less than his earlier aversion.
“Here in Town? Man, are you mad? What the devil did you want to bring a wife here for? You have changed, Jack.” Lord Fernworth glared at him balefully before tossing off the rest of his drink.
Jack regarded him impassively, then allowed his gaze to take in the rest of the establishment where he'd spent a significant portion of his time last September. The clientele consisted of those on the outer fringes of Society, as well as the occasional younger son hoping to achieve Town bronze in short order. Though it was but late afternoon, most were already deep in their cups. What on earth was he doing here?
“Yes, I suppose I have.” Pushing his untouched glass across to Ferny, he stood. “Or maybe I've just grown up.” Leaving his onetime crony to ponder the meaning of that statement, he strode from the place, never to return.
Walking along Piccadilly on his way back to Foxhaven House, yet another familiar voice hailed him, this one feminine. “Jack! What a delightful surprise!”
“You're looking well, Miranda,” he cautiously greeted the stunning woman before him. “I take it you remained in Town during the holidays?”
She pouted prettily. “I had no choice, unless I wished to join my odious brother and his starched-up wife in Suffolk. I'd planned to attend Lady Hartshorn's house party, but she took ill and canceled it.”
“How very discourteous of her, to be sure.” Though his tone was light and bantering, Jack's thoughts were in turmoil. Here was his first opportunity to carry out Wellington's request. He'd best make good use of it.
“My sentiments exactly,” Miranda replied, trilling one of her lovely laughs.
Jack started before realizing she'd responded to his careless words, not his thoughts. Carefully, he said, “A pity you've had such a dull time of it.”
“Ah, but now you're back in Town, that will change, will it not?” She lowered her voice seductively and laid a hand on his sleeve. “By now you've no doubt had time to become bored with your proper little wife and will welcome some excitement as much as I.”
“Surely you haven't spent the past month entirely alone?” he asked, though his conscience smote him for failing to defend Nessa. Not that the details of his marriage were any business of Miranda's, he reminded himself.
“It does seem at times as though all the world's in Paris—or Vienna—but I've had escorts to the theater and what few entertainments are available with Town so thin of company. Don't think I'm that dependent upon you, Jack!” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Of course not. An attractive woman like you must have so many admirers I'm amazed you missed me at all.” Jack was almost startled to discover he could still spout insincerities so effortlessly.
“Ah, but you are in a class of your own, Jack.” Miranda sidled even closer to him.
“I'm flattered. Say, do you still see anything of Jameson these days?” he asked casually. “There was something I wished to ask him about.” He was becoming impatient with her flirting. Evening was coming on, and he wished to get home.
Miranda smiled. “Owes you money, does he? You're not the only one, but I may have some information you'll find useful. If we combine forces—” She stopped, her attention caught by something over his shoulder. “Why, good afternoon, Lord and Lady Creamcroft! I was just having the most delightful coze with your new brother-in-law.”
Damn. Jack turned to face the newcomers, unobtrusively disengaging Miranda's hand from his sleeve. “I give you good day, Philip, my lady. I was just returning to Foxhaven House. Would you care to see how the redecorating is coming along?”
Prudence glanced from Jack to Miranda, a concerned question in her eyes, while Philip replied. “We're on our way home ourselves, to dress for dinner at the Glaedons.' I believe Lady Foxhaven has requested we wait until all is finished before calling in any event, has she not, my dear?”
Recovering herself, Prudence nodded. “Yes, she's determined to do it all herself, though I offered my guidance. I managed a quick peek a few days since, when I brought a few things she'd left at our house, but she shooed me out before I could see much.”
Apparently bored with the turn in conversation, Miranda spoke. “I'll leave you all to your domestic concerns, then. Jack, I propose we continue our discussion later. If you'll call on me tomorrow, we can no doubt arrange a more private venue.” With a saucy smile, she continued along the street.
Cursing her impudence but unwilling to make explanations to the Creamcrofts, Jack took his leave as well. “I need to hurry along myself, as Nessa will be expecting me. If the workmen adhere to her schedule, we should be able to invite you to view the finished result in a matter of days.”
A moment later he was on his way, thankful that it lay in the opposite direction to Miranda's. He wondered who else had seen them together on the street. He quickened his pace, suddenly eager to see Nessa again.
Bounding up the front steps, he opened the front door himself, unwilling to wait for his incompetent butler. This proved a mistake. The door bumped a ladder propped near one of the front windows. It teetered, then fell with a crash, barely missing him. A decorative urn near the stairway was not so lucky, however.
Sweeping the shards to one side with his boot, Jack waited for Nessa and the servants to come running to investigate the commotion –but no one did. “Nessa?” Frowning, he headed up the stairs. “Anyone?”
Jack continued up to the second landing, then glanced around. In which of the four bedrooms was Nessa likely to be occupied? He glanced into her chamber first, but found only Simmons there, clucking and shaking her head as she bundled up stray bits of fabric and wallpaper and brushed ineffectually at the dust.
The doors of the two spare bedchambers stood open, and as he heard no sound from their direction, he opened the door to his own room—and stood blinking on the threshold. A remarkable change had been wrought since he'd left early in the day. The new paper was hung, in blue and gray stripes, as were fresh curtains and bed-hangings. The carpet was still rolled up at one end of the room, but everything else appeared finished.
And Nessa herself sat upon the floor, hemming the new curtains!
“My dear, whatever are you doing?” he asked, recovering his wits and striding forward. “Are we not paying an army of people to do such chores as this?”
Nessa turned to him with a smile. “Hello, Jack! I'd hoped to have this completed before your return. Do you like it?”
He glanced about the room again, but his attention was on Nessa herself. Seated on the floor like a servant, her hair coming loose from its pins, a smudge on the tip of her nose, she looked… beautiful. And tired, he realized, looking closer.
“It's far better than I expected,” he admitted, “but you have not answered my question. Why are you doing such a menial task yourself?”
Her smile faltered. “Mrs. Latham, the seamstress, wished to get home, for her son is ill. As there was only this last length to hem, I decided to complete it myself. And—” she turned back to the folds of fabric in her hands and tied off a knot— “'tis done. I'll go consult with Cook about dinner.” She scrambled to her feet before he could move to assist her, and hurried from the room.
Jack frowned after her, then turned to examine more closely the results of her labors. Remarkable! Clearly, she'd made a real effort to have it done quickly, in order to cause him a minimum of inconvenience. Smiling, he rang for Parker to help him change for dinner.
Joining Nessa in the drawing room a short while later, he was surprised to find a small table set for their meal.
“The dining room table has paper and glue pots on it, so this made more sense,” she ex
plained apologetically. “It should be only for one night, or perhaps two.”
“I begin to think we should have returned to Fox Manor until the renovations were complete,” he commented, seating first Nessa and then himself at the little table. “But I know that you prefer to oversee the process yourself.”
“I'm sorry, Jack. I know you don't like all of this disorder, but it will be over soon, I promise you.” She took a spoonful of soup—and grimaced. “I fear we'll have to look for a new cook before holding a major entertainment. I hope this one has not been with you long.”
He shook his head. “All of Grandfather's servants left when the house was shut up during the time my Uncle Luther held the title. I fear I never paid proper attention to hiring a competent staff to replace them, but relied solely on an employment agency.”
“Then I won't have the slightest reservation about seeking a new staff at once. I'll begin tomorrow.”
When Jack's after-dinner brandy was served, she rose. “As we are already in the drawing room, I'll withdraw to my chamber upstairs, if you do not mind. I imagine Simmons will need direction on where to bestow some of the clutter.”
He considered asking her to remain, but then nodded. An early night would do them both good. “As you wish, my dear. I'll join you shortly.” She responded to his wink with a grin, then left the room.
Scarcely twenty minutes later, Jack followed her upstairs. Somehow she had managed to have the carpet laid in his bedchamber while they were below, he noticed. Shaking his head in awe at her efficiency, he quickly changed into his dressing gown and opened the connecting door to her room.
A lone candle burned on the nightstand, and Nessa lay beneath the coverlet—sound asleep. Smiling tenderly, Jack leaned over and kissed her cheek, careful not to awaken her. Extinguishing the candle, he quietly returned to his own bedchamber. Climbing into his own bed, alone for the first night since their marriage, he stared up at the ceiling.
Two hours later, with sleep as far away as ever, he rose and went down to the library, where he cleared a chair of debris. Poking the banked fire into a small blaze, he poured himself a measure of brandy and sat down to consider his options—and the exact nature of these disturbing feelings he had for his own wife.
SIXTEEN
NESSA AWOKE from the deepest sleep imaginable to find the room dark and the bed empty, save for herself. Momentarily confused, she fumbled for a candle, then rose to light it at the fireplace. She must have fallen asleep before Jack joined her. Not surprising, considering how tired she'd been. No doubt he'd returned to his own chamber rather than wake her, which was considerate of him, if a trifle disappointing.
Softly, she opened the adjoining door and tiptoed across the fresh-laid carpet to his bed—only to find it empty. Confused again, she went to look at the clock on his mantelpiece. Why, it was after two o'clock in the morning! His bed appeared to have been slept in, but where could he be now?
She returned to her room to don a wrapper, but then stopped. Doubtless he was simply downstairs in the library, reading. He had done so once or twice before when unable to sleep, she knew. And what would it look like if she went padding down after him? Might he think she didn't trust him? Climbing back into bed, she decided to redouble her efforts to finish the house this week.
It was clear Jack did not care for the disorder the workmen had created, though he was good enough not to say so. She would take care he did not catch her acting like a servant again, as he had clearly disapproved. That thought rankled a bit, reminding her too vividly of her childhood and first marriage, but she pushed it aside. She would direct her energies to more efficient delegation, hiring more and better servants and carefully supervising the workmen. Inside of a week, Foxhaven House would do its master credit, she was determined.
~ ~ ~
BY THEIR THIRD MEETING, Jack was convinced he'd extracted all the useful information he could from Miranda. Jameson and Cranshall had indeed been important links in the abortive assassination plot—as had Miranda herself. For a handsome fee, she had passed along certain information about Wellington's plans while in Paris last fall, which they in turn had forwarded to the would-be assassin— whose name Jack had finally discovered.
“Surely you needn't leave so early today, Jack.” Miranda pouted across the little table at Bellamy's coffee-house, where they'd shared luncheon. “If you'll just come home with me for a moment, I've a new gown to show you that I think you'll approve.” She leaned forward to give him an unobstructed view of her ample cleavage.
Though once or twice Jack had felt the stirrings of old lust, he had by now learned enough about Miranda to effectively douse any admiration. There was nothing, seemingly, that the woman wouldn't do for money. She'd betrayed her country for it, and now that her co-conspirators had lost their funds, she just as readily betrayed them. Jack had to force himself to smile.
“I fear not, my dear. I've decided to take up my duties in Parliament at last, and have much to catch up on there. Besides, we don't wish to arouse gossip, do we?”
She shrugged negligently. “It's a bit late for that, don't you think? Even with your string of excuses to avoid being entirely alone with me, we've been seen in public often enough. If all London believes me to be in your pocket anyway, you may as well enjoy the advantages.” She lowered her lashes seductively.
With an effort, Jack restrained himself from glancing around the room. He'd tried to be discreet, meeting with her at times and places when fewer people would be about, but he feared she might be right. It was time to break things off, now that he had that all-important name to pass along to the Home Office.
He stood. “If we've become an object of gossip, as you say, then we'd best not meet again. I don't want my wife hurt.”
Miranda remained seated. “Goodness, we mustn't offend the sensibilities of the oh-so-proper Lady Foxhaven, Jack!” She trilled a laugh, a shade too loudly. “Do you really think she's as innocent as all that?”
When he didn't reply, she rose languidly and tried another ploy. “I've heard Cranshall is about to open a gaming hell. If you'll come give me your opinion of that gown, I'll tell you all about it.”
Jack shook his head. “I think not, Miranda. Here's the money Jameson owed you. I was able to put your information to good use, as you'd promised.” He held out a folded wad of notes, money authorized by the Home Office.
Her eyes blazed, but she snatched the money from him. “So pleased we could be of use to each other,” she snapped.
“As am I.” Bowing so that she could not see the irony in his expression, Jack turned and walked away from her for good.
~ ~ ~
NESSA COULD NOT suppress a tendency to smugness as she surveyed the results of her hard work and management. She had consulted with experts and read dozens of periodicals and was now satisfied that Foxhaven House was smack up to the nines—and just happened to suit her own taste as well. Bright, cheerful, new upholstery, carpets and drapes throughout, but nothing that would soon go out of style.
In addition, she had hired an entire new staff. Daniels, the new butler, had arrived two days since, as had the new cook, and already meals were much improved. Mrs. Blessing seemed destined to live up to her name in the capacity of housekeeper. Nessa had gladly turned the keys over to her this very morning. How Jack had managed without a housekeeper was beyond her.
Now it was midafternoon, and Nessa was occupied in writing out the invitations to the soiree—to be held on the last day of January— which was to formally open the house and introduce her to Society in her new role. After weeks of answering servants, tradesmen and workers, she was becoming accustomed to the name of Lady Foxhaven. But would she ever get used to her husband?
Jack had become rather an enigma of late. Out all day, he would return for dinner but say little about how he'd spent his time. The night after the one she'd spent alone in bed, Nessa had made a point of encouraging him to new heights of passion—and he'd seemed more than willing to be encourag
ed. The next day, however, her monthly courses had commenced, so there had been no further opportunities.
Nessa sighed and addressed the next envelope. Jack had been most understanding, of course, but she herself was more than a little frustrated—and disappointed. And now she must find a way to let Jack know that she was once more approachable.
Her courses had come late, and not until their arrival did she realize how much she'd hoped to discover she was with child. If Jack were similarly disappointed, he'd given no hint of it—unlike Lord Haughton, who had always contrived somehow to make Nessa feel guilty for failing to produce an heir.
Throat-clearing from the open parlor doorway interrupted her musings. “Lady Creamcroft, milady,” Daniels informed her.
Nessa set down her pen and turned with a smile. “Prudence! Welcome to Foxhaven House at last.” She rose to greet her sister with outstretched hands.
“I've been all impatience to see what you've done here, Nessa!” exclaimed Prudence, returning her kiss. “What I've seen so far is charming. I insist on a full tour before you ring for tea.”
Nessa complied, as eager to show off the house as Prudence was to see it. “Now, you must be totally honest with me,” she said when they at length returned to the parlor. “What have I forgotten? What would you have done differently?”
“Not a thing,” Prudence assured her. “In fact, I'm now itching to make changes to my own Town house in an effort to duplicate the light, airy feel you've given yours. Did you really direct all of the redecorating yourself?”
Nessa rang for the tea tray then, and they were soon deep in a discussion of fabrics, colors and furniture arrangement. They were still so when Jack returned, half an hour later. At once, Prudence rose to take her leave.
“I'll give you good day, Nessa, and you as well, my lord. You must realize by now that your wife is a woman of many talents. I've no doubt that she will do you great credit… if you will allow it.” With those enigmatic words, Prudence departed.
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