The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  She cast him a naughty look that suggested she might have some ideas for his further education. His imagination boiled over. “I’ll race you to the farthest oak tree.”

  He caught her rein. “Joking is one thing. Playing with your safety quite another. We’ll keep to a sedate trot.”

  He dropped her at home and took his horse on to Fleet Street, to the offices of his man of business. He felt an urgency to get his finances in order so he could be master of his own house. The news wasn’t good. The tangle of his father’s investments had got worse rather than better, and he returned to Conduit Street in a poor mood, ready for some wifely soothing.

  He found her in the little-used ground-floor morning room, sitting at her desk with pen in hand and frowning at papers scattered over the surface.

  “Oh good,” she said. “I can’t make head nor tail of my accounts. Now you’re back, and I can give up.” She pushed the papers into an untidy pile.

  Even across the room, he could tell they were bills that bedeviled her. “I can wait,” he said, drawing a chair up beside her. “Better still, I can help. I’m good at reckoning.” Had he been a betting man, he’d have wagered a large sum against Caro’s ability to add a column of figures correctly.

  She’d made a list of the sums outstanding against her, and he quickly perceived she owed more than could be paid by two quarters of the fair, if not overly generous, pin money he’d settled on her. And that was only her personal expenditure, not including the household bills, some of which were months old.

  He tried to stay calm. “How have you spent so much in such a short time?”

  “I needed new clothes. That was all right, wasn’t it?” She sounded anxious, as well she might when he saw the size of the bills from modistes, milliners, and haberdashers from the best London addresses. More interested in seeing her out of them, he hadn’t paid much attention to her gowns. She’d given up her white muslins. Today, in yellow silk, she looked like a jaunty daffodil with her red curls. He was in no position to criticize, having just paid some hefty tailor’s bills of his own. He recalled with amusement that he’d ordered his new wardrobe with Caro in mind, though at the time he’d fooled himself that impressing Anne was his purpose.

  “You must buy what you need, of course,” he said. “But you should live within your means.” He perused an invoice from a silk warehouse for yards and yards of ruinously costly cloth. “Such a lot of material to cover a small lady,” he said with a ponderous attempt at humor he was far from feeling.

  “That’s for the drapery in our bedchamber. I’ve ordered new curtains for the whole house. They are shabby, and many of them are stained.”

  Stained by drunken artists spilling wine, no doubt.

  “My love, we may not remain in this house much longer. I wish you’d consulted me.”

  She clasped her hands to her breast, the picture of contrition. “I’m sorry, Thomas. Can’t you afford it? I thought you were rich.”

  His pride was pricked by his situation, being unable to let his new bride indulge herself. He’d like to indulge her, let her buy whatever took her fancy, shower her with gifts. Damn his father.

  “My income is large,” he said, “but my father made some poor investments. I still have to provide for my sisters.” That he allowed himself to admit.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have been more careful.”

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, risking a measure of frankness, “I thought you might not keep the matter to yourself. I prefer not to have my financial affairs discussed by your friends and the news spread around London.”

  Her mouth gained the stubborn set she sometimes wore, just for a moment. Then she appeared thoughtful and nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right. Oliver, in particular, is not always discreet.”

  “I can rely on you, then?”

  “I won’t breathe a word.”

  As long as it didn’t put his sisters’ reputations in jeopardy, he could enjoy making his wife a confidante. “I just learned that a trading ship went down at the loss of a large capital sum.”

  Caro put her arms around his neck. “Poor Thomas, I understand. It’s like a bad night at the tables. I’m quite used to that.”

  “No it isn’t,” he said. “There’s a difference between an unlucky investment and throwing away money on the fall of the dice. A little care and economy, and we shall come about.”

  “That’s all right then. Your credit is good, and there isn’t the slightest need to pay any of these horrid bills until things are in order again. I’m quite used to fighting off the duns.”

  “I trust no merchant will have the temerity to dun me,” he said, appalled at the vision of bill collectors and bailiffs disturbing the dignity of his household.

  “It’s my experience that one’s creditors possess unlimited temerity. But I know just the way to stop them. Order something else.” She smiled at her brilliant idea. “It’s a lovely day, and I saw a lovely bonnet in the window, just around the corner. Why don’t you come with me?”

  With such a philosophy, it was little wonder she’d got herself into such straits. “The idea is to lessen one’s debts, not increase them.”

  “You are quite right, Thomas. I certainly don’t need that bonnet.”

  On the other hand, shopping with her sounded fun. “I daresay one hat won’t make much difference,” he said, against his better judgment. “Let’s go.”

  For the moment, he would ignore the fact that marriage, instead of solving his financial problems, threatened to make them worse.

  Chapter 22

  People seemed to think the appearance of the Duke and Duchess of Castleton at the Beaufetheringstone ball marked the end of the honeymoon. Caro found herself besieged by callers, including curious members of the haut ton. For Thomas’s sake, she refrained from saying anything outrageous and managed well enough. She amused herself watching these proper ladies, most of them claiming to be relations of Thomas’s family or the Brothertons, mix with her own crowd, who now streamed back into the house, expecting to be fed and entertained. She and Thomas rarely dined alone, and he put up with it very well, good man that he was. He’d become adept at dropping loaded hints when the evening grew late. As eager as he to retire to bed, she made no effort to slow the parting guest, despite twinges of guilt that she was abandoning her friends, who’d so often stayed up all night to save her from her own company.

  No more was said about her extravagance, and she did her best to hold back. But it was so hard, after a year or more of penury, not to succumb to a pretty shawl, a pair of embroidered slippers, or an extra course at dinner when Mrs. Batten suggested it. She couldn’t bear to say no to her cook, who’d been loyal through hard times and enjoyed stretching her talents with the best ingredients.

  She was sitting with the Countess of Ashfield, a kind if acerbic lady who had adopted her as a protégée, an assistance that provoked mixed feelings. Her Ladyship was delivering some heavy-handed advice about how she should go on when Marcus made an appearance. He’d called a couple of times, and since she knew Thomas found it trying, she hadn’t encouraged him. Marcus tried to annoy Thomas by flirting with her, and her husband showed himself all too responsive to the provocation.

  “Lord Lithgow,” said the countess at her most disapproving. “I knew your mother.”

  “More than I did,” said Marcus. “She died when I was in long skirts.”

  “I knew your father, too.” Her tone descended to frigidity. “I heard he died,” she then added more cheerfully.

  “So sad,” Caro said, before the countess could congratulate poor Marcus on the demise of his sire. “He died abroad, didn’t he? Naples? But we are all so pleased to have Marcus back in England.”

  The countess glared. “I remember well when the four of you were sent down from Oxford. Townsend and Windermere’s son were bad enough, but you and Fortescue were disgraceful.”

  Caro covered her mouth to hide her mirth. “Do you know why they were ejec
ted from the university?” she asked innocently. “They broke into the Bodleian Library at night. You’d think the proctors would have been impressed by such enthusiasm for scholarship.”

  “I believe Her Ladyship knows what we were looking for,” Marcus said.

  Indeed, Lady Ashfield’s expression resembled that of an affronted rooster, while Caro and Marcus exchanged sideways smirks.

  Caro’s resolution of good behavior wobbled. “They were just pursuing their studies in art. I think it’s very mean of Bodley’s Librarian to keep the erotic books and pictures under lock and key.”

  Lady Ashfield swung her lorgnette in Caro’s direction. “You always were a silly girl, Caro. I’m sorry to see marriage to a solid man like Castleton hasn’t made you mend your ways. As for your first husband, the less said the better.”

  Suddenly, the conversation wasn’t so amusing. Caro dug her nails into her palms. I will be good, I will. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s not discuss Robert because I’m afraid we shall never agree.”

  “I’ll say no more on the subject,” the countess said. “I forgive you because I could never abide your mother.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Lady Ashfield, there’s certain illogic in your position. You accept my transgressions because of my parent, but condemn Lithgow because of his.”

  “Let me repeat that you are a silly girl, Duchess. I shall take my leave, but if you have any sense, you’ll keep this fellow at arm’s length. Castleton won’t tolerate a scandal.”

  Marcus, who’d observed the exchange with blatant amusement, burst out laughing once the countess had harrumphed herself out. “Well done, Caro. You accused the old beldame of being illogical. Very good, coming from you.”

  Caro turned her ire on him. “Don’t start. And what do you mean by kissing my hand like that when you came in? Do you want to create a scandal?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I’ve been doing it all my life, just by existing.”

  “I know. It’s unfair you should always be tarred with your father’s brush. Thomas told me he stole a valuable miniature from Castleton. I assured him you had nothing to do with it.”

  Marcus’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Really? Is that his excuse?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were summarily ejected from Castleton, and he knows why. It doesn’t reflect well on him.”

  “I’ve never known Thomas to be untruthful. What happened? Let’s sit down, and you can tell me the story.”

  Marcus sank into a chair, crossing one leg over the other. “My father inveigled us in for a visit, based on our very tenuous connection through my mother, then ignored all hints we should be gone. He was good at that.”

  Caro smiled. “I always heard he was the consummate rogue, and very charming.”

  “He taught me everything I knew.” The resentment underlying the flippant remark was unmistakable, then dissolved into a kind of yearning. “I loved it at Castleton. I’d never known such a wonderful place. Clean, orderly, with well-behaved servants and regular meals. After a childhood spent living hand to mouth in pokey lodgings, always one step ahead of the bailiff, it was heaven on earth.”

  “What was Thomas like then?” she asked, eager for a glimpse of her husband’s past. “He was how old, about thirteen?”

  “Yes, and I a year or two younger. He was reserved, not used to playing with other boys, but neither was I. Of course, I wasn’t reserved. I was far too used to charming the debt collectors, and the women my father was cheating of their fortunes. I’d never met anyone as straightforward as the Marquess of Tisbury, as he was then known.”

  “He hasn’t changed,” she said with a fond smile.

  “Turns out I was wrong, Caro. His father was very strict. Oddly enough, I envied him that.”

  It was hard for Caro to see the appeal of a strict parent. Instead, she felt a kinship with her husband. Their reactions to harsh upbringings had been different. He never spoke of his father except with respect. She never spoke of her mother at all.

  “We got along well enough. He helped me with my riding, which was pretty bad while he was an excellent horseman. One day we rode out together, practicing jumps. We were bragging back and forth, daring each other to try taller ones. Of course, I couldn’t win, but I challenged him to attempt one far bigger than I could manage. He sneered at it, calling it a small log, and instead he went for a monster of a hedge.”

  “What happened?” Caro held her breath, charmed with this picture of her staid husband as a competitive boy.

  “He took a run at it, but his mount caught its hind leg on the descent and they went down. The horse came up lame.”

  “Thomas must have been devastated. He loves horses.”

  “Mortified at his failure more like it.”

  “That too.”

  “We walked the horses back to the stables in silence, any camaraderie lost. He was clearly afraid of his father. That evening, before dinner, my father came to my room. Told me we had to leave immediately because I’d damaged a valuable horse, and the duke no longer tolerated our presence.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all like Thomas,” Caro said, shaking her head. “He would never make another take the blame for his mistake. Your father was lying. He wanted to escape with the miniature.”

  “I’ll grant you my father could have lied. And stolen. Likely in fact. What was this picture, anyway?”

  “A portrait of Charles II, Castleton’s ancestor.”

  Marcus shook his head incredulously. “Is that all? I expected a Holbein at least. There’s no way it could have been worth more than fifty pounds. My father would never have abandoned a cozy berth for such a paltry sum.”

  “Well, you’d know the value, so I won’t argue. But I refuse to believe Thomas made you take the blame like that.”

  Marcus stood up and paced around the room. He stopped in front of Oliver’s Venus. “So this is the thing you’ve tried to palm off as a Titian.”

  Caro suppressed her irritation at having to return to a subject she was now thoroughly sick of. Once she’d told the story of the substitute Venus, again, Marcus sat beside her on the chaise and took both her hands.

  “I want the Venus,” he said. “The real one.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “That was then, when you needed it. Now you don’t need the money, and I do. You’ve married a duke, for heaven’s sake. If you still have that picture, I’m claiming my debt.”

  “I don’t have it,” she snapped, avoiding his eye. “And you can’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Taking her head between his hands, he made her look at him. “You’re a good liar, Caro, but not good enough to fool me. Don’t forget, I’m a professional cardplayer. I haven’t lived all these years without knowing when to spot a bluff.”

  Caro’s chest heaved. Once upon a time, when Robert was alive, she’d believed in the sanctity of a debt of honor. But her struggles with his debts had taught her to pay only what was enforceable. While sorry if Marcus was short of funds, she wasn’t giving him the Titian.

  She tilted her head in Marcus’s grasp and pursed her lips. “No,” she said softly.

  Chapter 23

  Thomas walked into the drawing room and discovered his bride on the sofa with Marcus Lithgow, with every appearance of being about to be kissed. A rushing in his ears drowned out all but a single instinct: the villainous Lithgow could not have Caro. Unlike his father, he would fight for his wife.

  He strode over, pulled Caro to her feet and thrust her out of the way. Then he grasped Lithgow by the neckcloth with his right hand and raised his left in a fist, preparing to do what it had itched for since the minute he’d seen them together in that ballroom.

  “No!” Caro shrieked, tugging at his arm. She clung like a creeping vine, and even through his rage he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. The time wasted disentangling her allowed Lithgow to react, and not in a gentlemanly fashion. He kicked Thomas hard with his boot, a
nd they both ended up on the floor, knocking over a small table in the process and complicating Thomas’s efforts to beat the stuffing out of his adversary.

  Though he had at least a stone’s advantage over Lithgow, the smaller man knew how to fight, experience doubtless gained in all sorts of low places. The battle degenerated into kicks and scratches and gouges. He had the blackguard beneath him when he was shocked by a deluge of cold water and flowers on his head, contributed by Caro. It gave Lithgow a chance to shove him back, but the contents of another vase went straight into the other man’s face.

  “Stop it at once,” Caro said. “I have more flowers, and I’m not afraid to use them. Roses this time, and they have thorns. I was not about to kiss Marcus, and he wasn’t kissing me.”

  The civilized gentleman in Thomas beat back the inner savage. This was no way to settle a quarrel. He let go and rolled off. He and Lithgow lay side by side on the carpet, panting and spitting out water and bits of foliage. Caro stood over them, brandishing a large porcelain rose bowl. “Don’t you dare, Marcus,” she said, when the bastard made another move. “I will not have you two fighting in my drawing room.”

  The sound of her speaking like an outraged dowager almost made Thomas laugh. Almost. Instead, he stood up and loomed over Lithgow, who sat on his arse with his knees apart and looked remarkably foolish with a white lily tucked behind his ear.

  “Name your weapons!” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Absolutely not!” Caro said, inserting herself between the combatants. “Marcus is lethal with guns and swords.” She set the roses on a table that had survived the melee intact and gripped his arm. “Please, Thomas. I want you alive.”

  He gathered Caro against him possessively. While a little miffed that she doubted his skills, he was glad she didn’t wish him dead. “If you value your life, Lithgow, you’ll leave this house and never set foot in here again.”

  “But—”

  He cut off Caro’s expostulation. “Quiet. We’ll speak about this later.”