by Maggie Dove
Nicholas had never discussed it, but Marguerite feared that having the woman under the same roof could very well have hastened matters. They had given Nicholas ample time to forget his love for Clarissa and marry some other young lady. Any other debutante would have sufficed, and there were quite a few who would have stood in line to become Nicholas’s wife, but their stubborn son had shown no serious interest in any of them.
Although Edmund knew deep down that Nicholas had not forgiven Clarissa for her betrayal and would probably never marry her, Marguerite felt different, and after years of living with his wife’s intuition, Edmund had decided not to take any chances.
When Victoria Montclair proposed the merging of the families in order to form the venture, he decided to kill two birds with one stone. But what kind of woman was this Angelique Beauvisage? A woman whose ex-fiancé was now under his employment. Moreover, Nicholas had firmly instructed that Henri Bertrand’s presence here be kept secret. What the devil was going on?
Suddenly feeling restless, Edmund stood from the bed and donned his jacket. He had to admit Bertrand was a hard-working fellow. The lad had been on the job less than a week and was already proving to be quite apt. Like the venture, Bertrand would go far—of that Edmund had no doubt.
But why did Nicholas want Bertrand out of the way for a year? Did he fear this mere lad could actually pose a threat? Rubbish! Edmund broke into a grin, as he adjusted his straw hat before the mirror. “Relax, Charlie, my boy,” he spoke to his image. “Your son takes after you. He was married two days ago and his competition is safely under your supervision, learning the banking business.”
Still, the earl could not wait to hear Marguerite’s opinion of Angelique Beauvisage. Had Nicholas found his bride appealing? An acquaintance from the Loire had informed him that she was quite a spirited beauty, precisely what his son needed. A chit who would not bore him like all the other chits in England—with the exception of his brother’s widow, he thought dryly.
Edmund quickly dismissed this thought. Thanks to the Bank of Kent and Angelique Beauvisage, the Blake woman was no longer an issue. Whistling a cheery tune, he left the room and made his way downstairs.
Standing in the foyer, she watched in silence as Edmund descended the stairs and exited the townhouse. Arrogant snob—hardly noticed her—walked right past her without so much as a welcome. She should be used to it by now. For years, he had ignored her. Why should today be any different? she thought, as she strolled past the drawing room and began to climb the grand marble staircase.
Her hand caressed the wooden railing, enjoying the smooth, cool feel of dark mahogany beneath her palm, while she passed the numerous portraits of distinguished Kent ancestors.
“Stop staring at me with that overbearing look, Jamie dear. November will mark the fourth anniversary of your death,” she snickered, pausing to stand before the portrait of James. Her heart raced as she remembered the look of shock and desperation on his face when she pushed him down the cellar stairs at Windword.
“Shush—do not argue with me,” she whispered. “You are nothing but rotting bones underneath the ground, and I am here with the living. Still enjoying your mansions and your family and, oh yes, the vintage wines that you so lusted for. What? No, no, no, Jamie! Do not torment me. I know—I should have been the one to marry him,” she rasped bitterly, making an angry fist and clenching her hand so tight that her fingernails almost drew blood as they bit fiercely into her palm.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was about and leaned closer to the painting. “I’ve waited much too long to have that French whore snatch him away from me.” Looking around one last time, she cupped her hand by the side of her mouth so no one else could hear, letting the portrait in on her little secret, “This is why she must die, Jamie. Like you, she will die. But first I will make her hate him. Now, what do you think of that?”
Chapter Seven
Angelique clamped her hand to her mouth and climbed over the bulky walnut desk. Tossing aside Nicholas’s maritime paraphernalia and a few nautical books that fell to the wooden floor, she quickly yanked open the porthole and purged her breakfast into the sea. She struggled to the porcelain washstand, rinsed her mouth out with water and dragged herself back to the bed.
Her stomach having settled somewhat, she reclined on the large mahogany bed. Poor Nicholas! What kind of a honeymoon was this? Wincing, her eyes fixed on the hammock where he had slept for the past two nights. Since her arrival on the ship, she had been too ill to share his bed. She was certain there had never been a more imperfect bride. But she could not have asked for a better, more considerate groom.
After much reassurance that her conduct at the wedding reception had been beyond reproach, Nicholas had made it possible for her to travel with his mother and sister as though she had acted with perfect decorum.
Angelique had attempted to apologize to her mother-in-law while sharing the same compartment on the train to Paris. But Lady Marguerite had feigned ignorance. “Why my dear, I don’t know what you mean. I recall having a wonderful time at the reception.”
Lady Marguerite had insisted, “I only wish Edmund had been present to make the day complete. Angelique, you were the loveliest of brides, all grace and elegance.”
Upon hearing her mother’s words, Anna had not been able to hold back any longer. “Grace and elegance! I’ll bet poor old Madame Richell must be keeping a close eye on her husband,” she blurted out between giggles. “You know … the one who steals kisses from sweet young maidens in mazes. And Louie …”
“Oh, no—I didn’t say that, did I?” Angelique asked, mortified. “Some time ago, Monsieur Richell tried to kiss me, and I hit him over the head with his own cane. What about Louie? I did not accuse him of kissing me, did I? The poor man has always behaved most correct.”
“You didn’t accuse Louie of anything,” Nicholas drawled. “Poor Louie has never had an opportunity to hold you, let alone kiss you. Too busy holding on to his toupee.”
At this, the Kent women had doubled over with laughter. Despite her embarrassment, she had found herself joining in the merriment as Anna had entertained them, recalling aloud every one of Angelique’s remarks made the night before.
Their entourage had changed trains in Paris and arrived at the port of Boulogne, where Nicholas’s ship, the Eugenia, had been docked at the harbor. Once they boarded the ship, the Eugenia had crossed the channel to the English port of Dover, where Lady Marguerite and Anna had disembarked to hastily catch a train to London, leaving the bride and groom to resume their two-week holiday at sea.
No sooner had the ship set sail again for open sea than her stomach had turned to jelly.
“How are you feeling?” Nicholas’s voice startled her.
Looking up, she saw his familiar form leaning against the door. His hair was unkempt, his body soaked from the splashing waves. His arms, folded across a soiled, white cotton shirt, which had opened to the waist, allowed her a clear view of a strong, tanned chest. Tight black breeches, now drenched, displayed every muscle underneath. She noticed how his eyes were warm and his lips formed a worried frown.
“Never mind. You don’t have to answer that—I can see for myself.” He walked over to the chest of drawers and withdrew a change of clothes. “I’m turning the ship back to Dover. I don’t care what you say,” he said, removing his shirt.
“I’m feeling better.” Angelique shifted her eyes to the porthole as she attempted to suppress the rousing sensation that rushed through her at the sight of him undressing. “Please, Nicholas, do not cut our honeymoon short.”
Nicholas eyed her with concern. “Honeymoon? I’m not putting you through this hell another day.”
“Nicholas, I promise to feel better.”
She heard his deep chuckle and immediately turned her head to find him pulling up his pants. “You promise?” A very attractive smile began to form on his lips as he tucked in his shirt. “Fine, but if you have not recovered by this evening, we�
��re turning back.”
Before she could object, he walked over to the door. “We need to talk, Angelique. There is something you should know. I’ll ask Rhourk to bring a remedy for your seasickness. It’s strong and I’m giving it to you as a last resort. Please take it and rest awhile. Our talk can wait until you feel better.”
Angelique slumped back against her pillow, watching the door shut behind him. She wondered what it was he wanted to discuss. He looked so serious just now. What could be troubling him?
She felt the rocking motion of the ship against the water and could see the rise and fall of the waves splashing against the glass of the porthole. Frantically, she clamped her hand to her mouth, knowing she was going to be sick again. This will stop … this will stop … this has to stop! She repeated the words over and over in her mind, willing herself to feel better as she rushed to the porthole.
A cold swim in the ocean to clear my head would do good just about now, thought Nicholas as he headed toward the galley to find Rhourk. He had delayed telling Angelique the truth long enough, but, damn it, the thought of her hating him greatly disturbed him. He imagined her stunned while listening to his confession, then seething in anger as she finally realized the extent of his manipulation of her.
No doubt she would be furious, but he would have to convince her that his plan was the best way—the only way. He must make her see that her year of sacrifice would guarantee her freedom, her fortune and her precious Henri. Most importantly, he would make certain that before disembarking the Eugenia, they would have reached an understanding.
The little fibster deserved to know that she was stuck with him for a year, while her sweetheart rotted in London. He should be craving the precise moment when he would tell her that he had been aware of her deception from the start and show her how he had defeated her at her own game. He should be enjoying his revenge but, if so, then why did he have an empty, rotten feeling eating at his guts?
* * * *
She hurried down the staircase and headed for the entrance door. No one must see her leave. There would be questions. Questions which she would prefer not to answer. As she rushed past the library, she heard the laughter inside and paused, retracting her steps. Her heart raced at the mention of Nicholas’s name.
“Father, Angelique will make Nicky happy—just wait and see. Why, she even has him laughing again.”
“Laughing? I doubt that very much, my sweet. Your brother has had a scowl on his face for years,” Lord Edmund teased. “If I know my son, he is just doing his duty for the sake of the merger. It’s an act and nothing more.”
“Father, you don’t mean that,” Anna, said, giggling. “Just wait until you see them together. There is passion between them.”
The earl chuckled. “Passion? Passion—indeed! Marguerite, are you listening to your daughter? She is much too romantic for her own good, and she is becoming more fetching with each passing day. Soon I will not be able to control the number of suitors at the door. If we are not careful, some chap will come along and sweep her off her feet.”
“That’s quite enough, Edmund,” Lady Marguerite replied, laughing. “Anna is a romantic. Yes, dear, you are,” she said to Anna when her daughter started to protest, “however, I agree with her this time, my darling. Nicholas is quite taken with his bride. I am afraid your marriage of convenience and business arrangement has turned into something very different. She has him hooked, why he almost …”
“Pounced, Mother. The word is pounced,” Anna chimed in.
“Dear, you mustn’t start that again. I shan’t forget the look on poor Matilde’s face when you …”
“Matilde?” Edmund interrupted.
“Matilde is Angelique’s aunt on her mother’s side. She’s quite remarkable,” Marguerite informed him. “With all she’s had to endure living with that horrid woman.”
“What horrid woman?” asked Edmund. “And what is this about pouncing?”
“Never mind about pouncing, dear,” Marguerite replied with a wave of a hand. “Edmund, Nicholas is insisting that Matilde come to live at Windword. Once you have met her, I’m certain you will feel the same way. Victoria is making her life miserable.”
“Madame Beauvisage does not strike me as the kind who would …”
Lady Marguerite cut in, “How well do you know her, Edmund?”
“When it comes to business, she is highly regarded. I would never have agreed to join our resources if she weren’t.”
“Angelique never complained to us, but judging from what we witnessed in the short time that we were there, we are certain the woman has made our daughter-in-law’s life a living hell. The same goes for poor Tante Mattie. Really, Edmund, we must help her escape France and Victoria.”
“My dear, Angelique’s aunt is welcome in our home and can stay as long as Nicholas sees fit,” Edmund declared, then asked earnestly, “Marguerite, be honest, do you really believe this French girl can help him forget Clarissa at last?”
“Clarrisa, who—my darling, Edmund?”
Seething, she refused to listen to any more. Arrogant, self-serving lot of them! How she despised them with their smug camaraderie. Occasionally, they would pretend to care about her, but she wasn’t fooled, she thought as she rushed out of the townhouse. Oh, Nicky, that French hussy may have bewitched you into forgetting all others, but not me—never me!
She crossed the street, looking around to make certain she was not being followed. Positive no one had seen her leave, she walked through block after block of elegant four-story townhouses and extravagant mansions guarded by black iron fences.
The day was filled with sunshine and a blue, cloudless sky. She hardly noticed. Instead, she hustled through Hyde Park with such speed that she almost ran into a group of children playing under their nannies’ watchful eyes.
At Bedford Square, she signaled for a coach. “The Mason poorhouse, and hurry,” she instructed its driver. After a bumpy ride on cobbled streets, she dismounted the coach and paid the driver. Then she rushed through dirty and dreary streets, recoiling from the shabbily dressed ragamuffins and vagabonds who seemed to occupy every inch of sidewalk. She loathed this part of town. Regardless of how many times she had visited, she could never get used to it, and was still repulsed by its putrid smells and its shallow, hungry faces.
Almost tumbling over a drunk, she regained her balance and walked on, not bothering to look back. A few seconds later, she turned the corner on Regent Street, where the poorhouse finally appeared before her. Approaching the dirty old building, she knocked several times on its creaky wooden door. After what seemed an eternity, the door opened, its rusted hinges making it creak even more.
“Do come in, viscountess!” exclaimed Gertrude Mason, her fat face flushed with surprise as she wiped her sweaty brow with her apron. “Won’t my Edgar be stunned? We were not expecting you. In your letter you said you wouldn’t be coming until … never mind, we’re always glad to see you.”
“Indeed, you are always glad to see my money,” she corrected. “As usual, I must make haste. No one must discover my absence from the townhouse. The sooner I leave this wretched dwelling, the better. Now take me to him.”
She followed behind the woman, listening to the swishing sound of thighs brushing against each other as Gertrude led her to the study.
“Seldom do we have a member of the nobility visit us,” Gertrude explained as she opened the study door. “Edgar, dearie, I have a surprise for you. Look who is …”
“What is it? I’ve told you not to bother me when I’m working!” Edgar Mason barked. But his features soon softened and his demeanor changed when he looked up from his desk and noticed his most generous benefactress at the entrance of his study.
The skeletal man with the beady eyes, pox-olive complexion and hooked nose stood instantly.
“Gertrude, where are your manners? Offer Lady Kent some refreshments. Forgive my wife, milady. Please come in. Won’t you sit down? The children are napping at the moment, but
if you wish to see him …”
“That will not be necessary, Mason. I’m only here to settle our account,” she replied tautly, opening her purse to hand Edgar an envelope.
Edgar counted the bills. “As you wish, viscountess. But I don’t understand why you don’t wish to see the child. He is …”
“Oh yes, milady!” Gertrude interrupted her husband. “He is growing up so. A handsome little devil with those dark blue eyes and hair black as night.”
“It is none of your concern should I wish or not wish to see the child.” She stood and gathered her parasol and purse. “I don’t care for your opinions. Any more of them, and I shall take my business elsewhere. I’m paying you quite handsomely … that should be sufficient. I have never failed to appear before you each summer with your money—that is all that should concern you.”
Edgar quickly apologized. “Lady Kent, it won’t happen again. The child has been in our care for the past three years, and, rest assured, we shall continue to give him the best of care.”