But still Adela wondered...and she had a feeling that Wilson wondered, too.
His passion, though, remained voracious, which was both convenient and delightful, because the more she lay with him, and touched him, and kissed him, and fucked him, the more voracious in turn Adela became.
Regular sex was a wonder, and different, and new. And not only for all the daring experimentation...but also the sense that she never had to yearn in the back of her mind for someone else. Now she could lie with that “someone else” every night of the week, and be thoroughly and deliciously serviced by him.
She couldn’t get enough of Wilson’s sleek, powerful body and his narrow, precise hands. She couldn’t get enough of gazing into his pale, beautiful eyes as he fucked her. They coupled in every position known to her through her reading of esoterica, and a few that were luscious and new. Wilson had a fine collection of pillow books of his own.
They always used French letters. Another unspoken agreement.
There was only one thing that Adela would really have liked to change. Wilson’s insistence on maintaining separate bedrooms. But Adela accepted her husband’s rationalization for the sake of marital harmony, and he was right, in some ways. She knew his whirling, inventive mind often woke him in the night, so crashing with ideas that he’d spring out of bed to record them at the desk in his room. She’d frequently heard him get up and go bounding down the stairs to his workshop, when simply writing in his notebooks wasn’t enough. All this coming and going was sure to wake her, so it was better for the health and welfare of both of them if they each had their own bedchamber. Surely?
It makes sense. It makes perfect sense.
It was all definitely much more than she’d been given to believe that most married couples enjoyed, probably even the ones who shared a mutual love.
One morning, Teale announced a visitor. It was something of a novelty, as even though her friends from the Circle had sent charming notes keeping her up to date, nobody had called in person since the wedding, clearly respecting the Ruffingtons’ “honeymoon at home.” The weather was gorgeous, mild and sunny, and Adela had chosen a spot under the gazebo in which to work today. It was rapidly becoming one of her favorite places—out of Wilson’s way while he muttered and gnawed his lip over his “secret” work for the government, yet still allowing her to see his dark curls as he sat at his desk in his workroom. Somehow having him in sight lent a greater vibrancy to her work, even when she wasn’t drawing him.
“Miss Sybil Ruffington, ma’am.”
Happy for a change of routine, Adela set aside her drawing— a sketch of Wilson’s austere yet harmonious profile. But her heart sank at the sight of her sister’s flurried and pale face as she dashed past Teale across the lawn.
“Hello, darling.” She rose and hugged her sister, alarmed that Sybil was shaking quite hard. “Come and sit down here and we’ll have a chat.” She glanced toward Teale, hovering discreetly, waiting for the logical instruction—to bring tea.
Up close, Sybil was as white as milk and her eyes were red. She’d been crying, and for an extended period, judging by the state of her.
“Teale, I know it’s a little early, but do you think you could possibly bring us some sweet sherry? I’m feeling a little daring this morning, and I’ve a hankering for something a touch more exciting than tea.”
“Of course, ma’am.” He sped away.
“Now, sweetheart, I know what you’re here about, but let’s wait until we have our sherry, and you can tell me all.”
Sybil nodded woefully. Then attempted a smile, her eyes roving over Adela’s appearance. “You...you look very well, Della. In fact, you look really pretty.... Married life must be agreeing with you, even if you haven’t had a proper honeymoon.” Her attention settled on Adela’s waist, not so clearly defined now in her loose emerald-green gown. True to her intention, it was of rational design, and skimmed only gently over her corset-free form. Wilson was delighted with her trousseau, too. Unfitted gowns, and light, nonconstricting undergarments were ideal for impromptu caresses.
“You’re not, um... You’re not enceinte already, are you?” Sybil inquired.
“No, I’m not.” Again the new yearnings stirred, but Adela firmly put them aside. Sybil’s difficulties were her priority now, not her own. “It’s just that I can please myself what I wear all the time, now that I have my own establishment, and I don’t have to worry about upsetting Mama with my lack of corsets. You should include some rational clothing in your own trousseau. I’m sure Algie would approve. There are certain, shall we say, advantages.”
Sybil’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to pursue the subject, but just then Teale arrived with the sherry decanter and glasses on his silver tray.
When he was gone, Adela took a sip of the sweet and deliciously syrupy wine, then fixed her sister with a firm look. “So, have you received a communication about your missing letters? Has there finally been a demand?”
Sybil took a long swig from her own glass, in a way that made Adela half suspect that her sibling was quite familiar with the wine. Then, starkly, she named a sum.
“Good Lord, Sybil, I wonder where this person believes you might get an amount as large as that? One might almost think they’ve been biding their time until we were back in funds again, thanks to Wilson.” Adela’s fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. Anxiety swirled. Wilson would happily pay up. Money of itself meant nothing to him. But the thought of a blackmailing predator out there, taking advantage of the unwariness of young girls, and women in love, was disquieting and made her shudder in disgust. “Is there any indication who sent it? Any instructions about how to pay?”
Sybil’s face crumpled. “Yes...the payment’s to be delivered to a private poste restante at the Farage Hotel in Coop Street. I believe it’s somewhat seedy, not a nice place at all...but that’s not the worst of it...” She paused, twisting her fingers so tightly around the sherry glass stem that Adela feared she might break it. “I think I may have made the situation even worse...”
Worse? What could be worse? Adela ached for her sister, waiting for her to expound.
“In what way, sweetheart?”
“I confided in Mr. Devine. I didn’t mean to...I wanted to tell you first. But Mama invited him to dine, and when I went out into the garden, to take the air and clear my head from all the whirling and worrying, he was out there, taking a cigarette. You know how tobacco smoke in the house makes Mama sneeze. He saw my abstraction, and remarked that I seemed pale...and...well...I found myself telling all. I don’t know how...or why. He just seemed so very sympathetic.”
Adela’s heart sank at her sister’s words. Devine would be sympathetic; it was his stock in trade.
“I don’t even like him, Della,” Sybil continued, “I never have done. I just tried to like him because of Mama. It seemed unkind not to be civil to a friend she seemed so fond of.”
Adela frowned. Not at Sybil, but at herself. Once again, she’d underestimated her sibling. Warm, pleasure-loving Sybil did see the truth in people. Her only failing was that most of the time, she preferred to see the best in them instead. She wanted to be nice.
“I know, my dear, we’ve all be trying. You, and I, and Marguerite... So, what else transpired?”
“He offered to help. With his services as an intermediary, as he didn’t think a gently bred young woman should have to...to negotiate with the blackmailing classes. He said he’d deliver and collect any correspondence from the poste restante, advise me what to write...so he could perhaps ameliorate the terms.”
Sybil rubbed her eyes and drank more sherry. “But that isn’t the very worst thing of all.”
Suddenly Adela knew what that was, too, the very worst thing. In her heart and her gut she knew. She’d always known...well, something. But instead of protecting and advising her vulnerable sister and her vulnerable mother, she’d connived, by default, with a predator; preferring to devote her time and energy to her friends of the Sewing
Circle, her drawing...and her sexual appetite.
Adela resisted the urge to toss back her own sherry and pour a second glass. “Go on, Sybil.”
Sybil took a deep breath, straightened her spine and took another fortifying sip. “I’ve a feeling that Mr. Devine is more than an intermediary, Della. I think...I believe that he’s the one with the letters. The blackmailer. It’s just something I heard when I attended an exhibit with Daisy Drummond and Agnes Wentworth yesterday, trying to distract my mind. We fell to discussing a mutual friend who none of us has seen for a while...and a story came out.”
Adela laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “Can you tell me?”
Haltingly at first, then with a growing confidence and a new grit that Adela admired in her flighty sister, Sybil laid out what she knew.
The disappeared friend, Viola Champney, had also had letters stolen from a house party. Mr. Blair Devine had been a friend of that family, too, and offered his help. But later it had transpired that someone had seen a maid suspected of taking the letters in clandestine conversation with the young solicitor...and something, something that might be a small bundle had been seen to be passed across.
Adela didn’t ask how that all might be verified, but she could believe it. It was common knowledge that servants talked to servants, and even if it was not meant in a bad way at all, secrets and ruinous information could travel like wildfire.
If only it had traveled in the direction of the Ruffington women before Devine had pinned them as a possible target.
“That horrible snake! I can’t think why he would believe we had any money to give him. At least not before I married Wilson. Why he would be interested in us at all? He must have known we had very little redress against the Old Curmudgeon, and his blessed will...and yet suddenly he’s Mama’s dearest confidant.” Adela wondered again if she dare top up her glass without seeming a terrible example to her sister.
Sybil gave her a despondent look. “You’ve always been so very self-sufficient, Della. I suppose you decided when your nose got broken, and you had chicken pox, that you’d learn to live without hope of getting a husband.” Despite the gravity of their talk, Adela had to hide a smile. Sybil was shrewder than she looked sometimes. “But Mama isn’t like you. She adored Papa, but she’s a woman who needs company, who needs admiration. I think she was flattered by Mr. Devine, and was probably indiscreet.” Sybil drew in a great breath. “I think Mama was so cross about Wilson getting all the money as well as the title, that she really made herself believe that Mr. Devine might be able to obtain legal recompense for us. For you.”
Adela saw it all now. Indignation welled up like a fulminating chemical. It wasn’t just Sybil’s letters, it was more...so much more. What a sly devil that man was! Once or twice, she’d sensed him on the point of making overtures to her, but he’d made no blatantly obvious move. She’d been repelled by his oily nature and perhaps he’d sensed that, and chosen to bide his time. Presumably his longer plan had been to romance her, and failing that, romance Mama herself, in order to gain access to the Ruffington wealth when the prospect of it was returned to them, rather than Wilson.
“So, that was his plan—help Mama overturn Grandfather’s will, then marry me, or failing that, her, to get his paws on our money.” Gritting her teeth, she topped her glass, and Sybil’s, from the decanter. “But why on earth did he think he could succeed? Wilson is the old beast’s closest male relative. He is the next Lord Millingford, and if Grandfather chooses to bequeath all his money along with the title, that’s his prerogative.”
Sybil pursed her lips and played with the strap of her small beaded bag. “Yes...but there’s something. Something Mama hinted at, but wouldn’t say more. I believe there was—is—some question about Wilson. Something concerning his parentage... I think Mr. Devine must have obtained some papers...or something.”
“What?” Adela clenched her teeth to stop herself adding an oath, not sure who she was more surprised and vexed with.
Mama could be such a schemer, and it seemed her dear parent had tried to plan for two eventualities. Either she managed to marry her daughter off to Lord Millingford’s heir, or if that wasn’t possible, prove that the heir wasn’t the heir, after all, so that, hopefully, the money, if not the title, would still come to that daughter.
“Ah, Mama. I know you mean well....” Steadying her breathing, Adela took a sip of sherry. Who cared about slight inebriation now? This was enough to drive anyone to the bottle. “But you’re not a very good judge of character.... You should have chosen a better conspirator to share your grandiose schemes.”
“She just wanted the best for you, Della, really.”
“I know that, Syb. I know....” It was true. Mama loved them all, but sometimes her decisions were far from wise. It seemed they might have made an enemy now.
Adela drew in a calming breath. Spiteful enemies were made to be vanquished. Wrongs were placed in the world to be put right. She would not let this viper Devine hurt Sybil or Mama, or anybody else for that matter, if it was in her power to prevent him doing so. But she needed a plan and she needed help...from Wilson.
As she thought of him, the back of her neck prickled, and as if summoned magically like a djinn, her husband appeared in the doorway leading to the house. He was clad in his usual working garb of silk dressing gown, trousers and loose collarless shirt, but to Adela he was a valiant knight in shining armor. As he strode toward them, he seemed almost mythical, his robe turned to a floating cloak of chivalry.
“Hello, Sybil, how are you? How kind of you to call. I’m sure Della has been missing you and Mrs. Ruffington and Marguerite....” He picked up the sherry decanter and poured himself a measure into a glass that he produced from his pocket like a conjurer. “May I pour you both some more?”
When they declined, he took a seat in the wrought-iron garden chair facing them, and stretched out his legs. “Very well, then, tell me immediately what’s wrong and how I can help. I can see from both your faces that something less than pleasant has occurred.”
Adela smiled at him. He was so clever, so observant. He could detect the subtlest signs in a person’s face. Not that anyone would need arcane skills to read the faces in this instance. From the way Sybil glanced nervously and imploringly at her, even the densest of dolts would have been able to deduce a serious dilemma.
“Don’t be scared, Syb. You can put your complete trust in Wilson. If anyone can fathom the correct solution to this wicked business, he can.”
Haltingly, Sybil repeated her tale of woe, but for the first few moments, Adela hardly heard her. She was dazzled, made almost faint by the way Wilson glanced at her from time to time. He was listening intently, and paying attention to Sybil, but at the same time there was a silent aura about him focused solely on her, Adela. It was as if the fact that she had trusted him, brought him instantly into their circle of concern, touched him, and touched him deeply. He effected a little nod in Adela’s direction, favoring her with a tiny but infinitely telling smile.
When the younger woman fell silent, Wilson seemed to contemplate for a moment, fingertips pressed together, touching his lips. His eyebrows had risen when Sybil had touched on his own status, but Adela could see from his face that the revelation wasn’t a complete shock from the wild blue yonder. Had he suspected something akin to it all along?
“What should we do, Wilson?” she prompted.
“Well, naturally, if you wish to pay this creature off, I’ll put all the funds you need at your disposal, Sybil. Regardless of what he’s found out about me, you’re still a cherished member of my family because Adela and I are married. I’ll aid you in any way you need.”
“Oh, thank you, cousin Wilson, thank you!” cried Sybil, her eyes shiny with tears and relief. “I didn’t know what to do, or how I could pay. And I don’t want Mama to know, because she’s so desperately happy about my engagement—” she paused, and glanced between the two of them “—and your marriage. I don’t want to spoil it all f
or her. And make her feel a fool for trusting that horrible man. And Algie’s parents must never hear of the letters. Algie doesn’t mind that I wrote to a sweetheart before him...he’s a darling like that. But some of his family are terribly straightlaced about things like decorum and respectability.”
Wilson sat back in his chair, his fingers still a steeple, his eyes intent on the point where they met. His thinking pose. He was working out something much more than the most discreet way to pay up. Something far grander in scope, and despite her worry for Sybil—and for him, if there were damaging documents about his parentage—Adela’s heart fluttered with excitement. Wilson was brilliant and innovative, and he was afraid of nothing.
“Now then, Sybil...” He gave the younger woman a firm, almost schoolmasterly look. “This taking risks with letters has to end. Now. It isn’t worth putting yourself in jeopardy just for a few pretty words. If you’ve written more letters to Algie, and he to you, you must both destroy them immediately. You must watch him burn yours before your eyes, and vice versa. Do you understand me?”
Sybil nodded, her eyes wide. Adela hid a smile. Wilson, the man of decision, had struck awe in her sibling. And, she’d be the first to admit it, in his wife, too.
“And I need you to give me a full list of what’s missing. I think that before we’re forced to the last resort, that is, paying this blackguard, we should first try to recover the letters by other means and then guarantee their destruction so they no longer represent a risk.”
“But how can we do that?” Adela asked.
“‘We’?” Wilson smiled.
“Yes, of course...I plan to assist you in this. Sybil is my sister, and I’m determined to help resolve her difficulty. With all respect to her, I don’t think she’s in a position to participate, but I certainly am.” She held Wilson’s gaze. “And I feel a degree of responsibility. I told Sybil to burn those letters, but I never ensured that she’d done it. If I’d insisted, and watched her do so, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
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