"Good God! Do you not check the rooms before you retire?"
Reddening, the butler affected the air of a maligned deity and imparted that every room in the house was checked whenever the master was in residence, but since, to his knowledge, no one had used the book room yesterday, he had not felt it necessary to go in there. Furthermore, the note Lord Bolster had left was even now on Mr. Justin's desk in the study, wherefore—
His lordship snorted and stirred. Strand waved a dismissal to the butler and walked over to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Wake up, old man," he said, gently shaking him. "What a dreadful host you must think me, that you were abandoned here all night."
Bolster blinked up at him. His yellow hair was rumpled and untidy, he was badly in need of a shave, his garments were dishevelled, and there was about him a strong aroma of cognac. His bewildered gaze drifted from Strand's smiling features, to Lisette, watching him anxiously. Becoming red as fire, Bolster lunged to his feet, bowed, tried to speak and, failing, stood in quaking misery.
"Come along upstairs, Jeremy," said Strand kindly. "You can shave and refresh yourself in my room. Matter of fact, I think we may kidnap you back to Sussex with us. What d'you say, ma'am?"
"Why, that would be delightful," Lisette answered warmly, and then hurried out, well aware that his lordship's disrupted nerves would be better able to recover if spared her alarming female presence.
In the hall, a prim, tidy little woman was waiting. She identified herself as the housekeeper and presented two maids, a lackey, and the footman to their new mistress. Next, Lisette was shown to her suite, a spacious bedchamber, small parlour, and dressing room on the second floor, where Denise was already busily unpacking.
Bolster, meanwhile, allowing himself to be commandeered by his energetic host, was allowed small chance for comment even had he been capable at that point of making one. His rumpled clothing was whisked away, hot water was carried up for a bath, breakfast—despite his shuddering aversion—was ordered, and an hour later, feeling comfortably relaxed, the crick in his neck much eased, and his power of speech restored, he lounged on his host's bed, clad in a borrowed dressing gown and sipping gratefully at a cup of hot chocolate.
"D-dashed decent of you, Strand," he acknowledged. "Don't know wh-what you m-m-m- will be thinking. Your wife must fancy me to-totally looby."
"My wife," said Strand easily, "has taken a deep liking to you, Jerry. In fact, were I not assured she is madly in love with me, I'd be tempted to call you out."
He had spoken lightly, but to his surprise the expected laugh was not forthcoming; his lordship's eyes slid away and the ready colour surged into the pleasant face.
With an uneasy premonition of trouble, Strand asked, "Jeremy? Is something amiss?"
Bolster's hand twitched. "M-matter of fact," he gulped, nervously, "I th-thought—that is—well, the r-r-reason I c-came—" But here he became so inarticulate that Strand deftly changed the subject, then pleaded to be excused so that he might glance at his correspondence, and departed, leaving behind a guest both grateful for the reprieve and guilty that his warning had gone unuttered.
A small pile of letters lay on the desk in Strand's study. He identified two as being from friends in India, and several others of a business nature that he would peruse later. There was a short letter from Lord Leith and a longer one from Rachel, some statements that could be handled by Connaught, a cluster of invitations that he would go over with Lisette, a notice that the bracelet he had ordered was now completed, and at last, somehow having found its way to the bottom of the pile, the note from Bolster. The fact that this had been sealed and his lordship's crest imprinted in not one but four places along the fold, caused Strand to suspect Jeremy of having been well over the oar when he wrote it. The handwriting was, as usual, a disaster. The message, brief and to the point, drove the amusement from Strand's eyes. He read:
My Dear Strand—
You have always been a good friend and your Lovely Wife is very kind. Especially to Amanda. I must repay you in a way I Abomminate. There is some ugly Roumours about. Nothing to Dredfull but please do not rush of half cocked untill you have Talked to,
Yr. affecsionite and ever gratefull,
Bolster
His frowning gaze lingering on those four seals, Strand refolded the note automatically. Bolster, he thought, his mouth settling into a grim line, had been wise in his caution, after all. What kind of rumours? More of poor Rachel and that bastard Sanguinet, perhaps. He wandered into the corridor, paused, staring blindly at the black and white marble squares of the entrance hall, and thus became aware of his wife's voice, very low, in the small saloon. His frown deepened. If the gabblemongers were at work, he had best caution Lisette. The last thing he wished was to involve her in more scandal, yet…
His musings were abruptly severed as he entered the saloon. James Garvey, resplendent in a primrose jacket that clung lovingly to his fine shoulders, fawn pantaloons that accentuated his shapely legs, and a waistcoat of striped primrose and cream brocaded satin, was clasping Lisette's hand while she smiled up into his face. "You did get my note, then?" Garvey was murmuring. "When you did not answer, I—"
"Forgive me, James. It was so very beautiful. But you should not have come here!"
"Yes, yes. I know we must be very careful, but—"
The revelation that a clandestine love affair had been conducted under his nose was like a dash of icewater in Strand's face. Emerging from that staggering shock, he said, "My love, I would not disturb you while you—ah—entertain, but—"
Garvey spun around, his expression malevolent. Lisette, deathly pale, managed to say calmly, "We are no sooner in Town, Strand, than we have callers. Is it not delightful? Two gentlemen already, and—"
"Oh, I don't know," murmured Strand, slipping Bolster's note into his pocket.
Lisette gave a gasp. Garvey, yearning for an excuse to face this man across twenty yards of turf, purred, "Your pardon, sir?"
Ignoring him, Strand went on smoothly, "I cannot think of
Jeremy as a mere 'caller,' ma'am. He will, I trust, be with us for some time. It was kind in you to call, Garvey. May I be of some assistance to you?"
"I had not intended—" Garvey began, with a sneer.
"To stay longer? But how very polite in you. Thank you, and do call again. I shall be very pleased to—er, meet you. At any time."
Blue eyes, suddenly deadly, challenged narrowed green ones.
Her breath fluttering, Lisette extended her hand. "Good day, Mr. Garvey."
"Allow me to show you out," offered Strand, his teeth gleaming in a wide smile. He tugged on the bell rope, and a lackey floated into the room so instantly that he could only have been waiting by the open door.
"Mr. Garvey's hat and gloves, if you please."
Strand had no sooner spoken the words than a footman appeared, the required articles and a cane in his pristine grasp. Strand made no attempt to restrain his approving grin, though his servants remained woodenly impassive.
For an instant, Garvey stood there, seething. Then, he bowed low to Lisette, marched past Strand without a word, tore his belongings from the footman, and strode from the house. He had every intention of flinging open the front door and leaving it wide, but that little gesture was denied him as the butler hastened to perform the service, bowing him forth and closing the door gently behind him.
Strand turned to Lisette. She had changed her travelling clothes for a gown of beige muslin with brown ribbon fashioned into small fans around the low neckline and the sleeves, and little brown bows here and there around the flounce. He wondered if it was possible to find a dress that did not become her. Her eyes looked enormous and were fixed upon him. Anxiously, not fondly, as they had been for Garvey.
"I wonder," he mused, "if I erred in coming back to Town. It is so distressingly filled with—unpleasantness."
"Justin, please do not imagine that—that Garvey and I—that we-—" She bit her lip and said a pleading,
"Oh, you know what I mean."
"Unfortunately," he conceded, dryly. "A deal sooner than I'd expected, I admit."
Her cheeks reddened. "Regardless of what you may think, he is a very dangerous man. You would be—"
One mobile brow arched. He drawled mockingly, "A warning, ma'am?"
"No!" Her hands clenched. "How could you dare to think such a—"
The door opened. The butler announced, "Lady Hermione Grey, Miss Smythe-Carrington, and Mrs. Duncan, madam."
Nerves taut and heart pounding, Lisette fought for calm. "Show them to the drawing room, if you please." When the man had left, she turned to Strand. "That was a perfectly dreadful thing to say! You have no right—"
"Nor have we the time to discuss it while your eager callers wait." He stepped closer, his eyes bleak. "I fear the gabble merchants gather before we've had a chance to marshal our defences. If something is said concerning my sister or Leith, you had best pretend ignorance." He opened the door again. "As soon as they leave, madam wife, I shall require a little of your time."
Lisette walked down the hall to the drawing room, her thoughts churning. How enraged Justin had been to find her with Garvey. And how dared he imply that she hoped for a duel when her one thought in coming downstairs to see the man had been to thank him for his poem and to somehow make him go away before Strand saw him! What a miserable coincidence that her husband had walked in just as James uttered those unfortunate words. Naturally, Justin had read the wrong interpretation into the remark. She could still see his savage smile and hear the lazy drawl he employed only when he was very angry indeed. The antagonism between the two men had been an almost tangible entity, searing across that room, and the look on Garvey's face had been very clear to read. He wanted an excuse to call Justin out. And if they went out, he would kill her husband. With an ache of fear she knew that she did not want such a duel to take place, that she did not want Strand hurt—much less slain. It was not that she loved him, for he wasn't a very lovable man. Except… now and then, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, or when they twinkled at her, in his wretched teasing way, and, very occasionally, when she had thought to glimpse a wistfulness in his face that came and went so swiftly she could never be sure it had been there at all. As on the evening he had "shot" the tree for Brutus and she had scolded him, and he'd looked at her and said in his whimsical fashion, "As a matter of fact—I care very much."
She shook herself mentally. It was all fustian, of course, for he did not care. Not a mite. Or he would tell her so. Not once had he even uttered the words "I love you." Tears stung her eyes. Not once. Not so much as a tender "darling." He had been gently considerate in his love-making and had gone so far as to murmur that she was very beautiful, but his kisses were brief, almost careless, and of passion or real adoration there had been little trace. If anything, he tended to tease her even in those intimate moments, so that she was moved to laughter and her fears much lessened. She tensed. Was that why he never spoke of love? Did he know how frightened she'd been? Had he thought—
"Are you all right, madam?"
She jumped. A maid was watching her curiously, and small wonder, for she must have stood here an age with her forehead pressed to the door panel. Whatever was wrong with her mind? "Quite all right, thank you," she said, managing to smile. "A slight touch of the headache, is all." And she went inside.
Ten minutes later, aghast, she knew the disaster she had feared was upon her. Brenda Smythe-Carrington was the type of gentle, pretty, kind-hearted girl everybody liked, even Lady Hermione Grey, whose tongue was only a shade less acid than vitriol. Jemima Duncan was an inveterate gossip who could be vicious even while smiling fondly upon her victim. With a giggle here and a scold there, the latter two ladies welcomed Lisette to the ranks of the wives. Marriage was delightful, was it not? Even (and a spate of conspiratorial giggles) was it rather unwanted. Of course, if one really chose to repel a man—even one's husband—it could be done. Especially (with glittering smiles) by a really clever lady.
"Do you know, dear Lisette," confided Lady Hermione breathlessly, "you may scarce believe it, but I once knew the sweetest girl, quite one of our beauties at the time, who was all but sold into wedlock with a—rather unfortunate gentleman. Not exactly beyond the pale, but—" She pursed her lips and, before the stunned Lisette could comment, turned to Mrs. Duncan. "You remember the case, Jemima," she said, with a sly wink of the eye that was beyond the range of her hostess's vision. "I simply cannot recall the poor child's name."
"No more can I, Hermione," purred Mrs. Duncan. "But it was indeed a tragic case. One could but hope the sweet girl knew that all London wept for her." She laid a gentle hand on Lisette's arm and said cloyingly, "Poor dear, a helpless victim of financial necessity."
"One can but hope," said Lisette, a flush beginning to glow in her pale cheeks, "that she was blessed by such true and loyal friends as you dear ladies."
"Oh, indeed she was," interpolated Miss Smythe-Carrington, looking genuinely distressed. "Surely she must have been, poor thing. What could be more dreadful than to be wed to a man one did not care for? I should think death infinitely preferable!"
"Oh, infinitely," agreed Lady Hermione. "And apparently the lady in question felt the same way, for it was said that for an inordinate length of time she would not allow her husband in her chamber." She giggled. "Is that not delicious?"
Mrs. Duncan trilled, "It is! And was the prime on dit for weeks! I doubt anything else has been—I mean was—spoken of for an age!" She glanced mirthfully at her crony, and they both burst into refined gales of mirth so that at length it became necessary to dab at tearful eyes with lacy handkerchiefs.
"How jolly it is," observed Lisette with a slightly tigerish smile, "to see you so enjoying yourselves. But I fear you must be talked dry. May I offer you a dish of milk?" Two startled pairs of eyes flashed to her. "Oh, dear!" she touched her cheek in dismay. "Whatever can I be thinking of…? I meant tea, of course."
After that, the conversation was a trifle less hilarious, although it ran along politely. The ladies sipped their tea and talked of commonplaces, with Lisette inserting an occasional blushful reference to her "adored" husband, so that when they left, my lady and Mrs. Duncan were rather tight-lipped, and Miss Smythe-Carrington said with a melting smile how wonderful it must be to be "so really happy" as her dear Lisette.
No sooner had the door closed behind them than Lisette all but flew to the book room, and thence upstairs in search of Strand. In the upper hall she nearly collided with his valet, one Oliver Green, a rotund, merry-eyed little man who looked more like a publican than a valet. He was carrying a pile of neckcloths and juggled desperately to retain them. "Oh, I am sorry, Green!" cried Lisette. "I must find my husband. Is he in his room?"
"No, madam." The valet gave a small gasp of relief as he steadied his collection. "The master has stepped out for a short while. I believe he said he meant to look in at his club." He stood there uncertainly for a moment, watching Mrs. Strand walk away, and wondering why her pretty little face had become so very white.
Chapter 12
Strand's confrontation with Garvey had left him in no mood to be cordial to anyone, wherefore, quite forgetting the presence of Jeremy Bolster in his house, he donned hat, coat, and gloves, and stamped outside. It was a drizzly morning, which did not in the least deter him from walking a considerable distance. Had he been more aware of what transpired around him, he might have noted many amused looks, and as many whispered asides, but he responded to hails with nothing more than an abstracted wave of his cane and strode on, his mind obsessed with the memory of the fond light in his wife's eyes as she had gazed up at the revoltingly dandified conniver who went by the name of James Garvey.
From the very beginning of their marriage, things had gone badly. He could scarcely have managed a less propitious beginning than to have been obliged to leave his bride on their wedding night. He could no more blame her for that than for the fact that on his return he'd stamped
into her bedchamber and tumbled over the leviathan. When he had at last been able to mend his fences, he'd kept a rigid hold on his emotions, handling her very gently, afraid of scaring her off by revealing the depth of his love for her, and hurt because his attempt to impart his feelings had been coldly ignored. He'd never before been much in the petticoat line. There'd not been the opportunity. His father's gambling and spendthrift ways and ultimate folly of cheating at cards had decided his own fate. His years in India had been successful beyond his wildest dreams, but success had not come easily. It had taken backbreaking effort, an unceasing battle that had taken its toll of his health even as it had resulted in security for his sisters, and the payment of all his now dead father's bad debts. Having achieved what he'd set out to do, he had begun to look about for a bride. He'd hoped to find a lady of good family for whom he might also feel some affection. He'd not expected to encounter the embodiment of his every dream, who was also of lineage sans reproche.
His footsteps slowed, and he stared moodily at a sparrow hopping on an iron fence beside him. His courtship had, he acknowledged ruefully, been clumsy beyond permission. He sighed and, turning into Bond Street, knew that all his introspection had brought him nothing save the realization of defeat. His jaw set. However faint his hope of winning the love of his wife, he would see to one thing, by God! She never would become the foil of so unprincipled a libertine as Garvey!
Walking on with a resumption of his usual brisk stride, he entered a quiet little lane where was a discreet club known as The Madrigal. Here, as at White's or Watier's, could be found gambling, fine wines, and excellent dining. Lacking the exclusiveness of the larger clubs, The Madrigal gained from the membership of some of London's more successful artists, composers, and poets. Gradually, therefore, it had acquired a reputation as an interesting spot, where stimulating conversation crossed all political lines. The club began to thrive and had of late become the vogue, drawing in some very socially high ranking gentlemen, so that Strand had once laughingly told Bolster that had he not joined when he did, they'd now refuse to accept him.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption Page 19