The Wicked Wife (Blackhaven Brides Book 9)

by Mary Lancaster

  The roads were easier on the following day. But as they came to the crossroads—straight on for Carlisle and the south, or east to Edinburgh—he leaned forward on impulse and rapped on the roof for the driver to halt.

  Only about a week ago, she had mentioned Mrs. Marshall being in Edinburgh to sell her husband’s house. Torridon hadn’t paid much attention, for he didn’t care for the brash widow. He enjoyed flirtation as much as the next man, but not after his engagement and certainly not with the friend of his betrothed. In his opinion, she was fast and grasping and quite untrustworthy, and he could not like Frances’s friendship with her.

  And Frances knew that. Frances was angry with him.

  Making the detour to Edinburgh would add at least a day to his journey to Blackhaven. But if she was there…

  He opened the window and gave the instruction.

  *

  No one he spoke to in Edinburgh seemed to find it odd that a gentleman should be asking for Mrs. Marshall’s house when it was close to midnight. When he eventually found his way to Charlotte Square, there was a light in the kitchen but not in the main part of the house. He wondered if they had all retired to bed, or if, as seemed more likely, Frances was out with her friend at some party. If the latter, he hoped grimly they had left Jamie with proper care. By God, if they had not…

  He rapped sharply on the door and rang the bell. When no one answered, he did both again rather more impatiently. Eventually, a faint light flickered in the arched window over the front door, and a moment later, he heard the bolts being pulled back.

  A half-dressed footman stuck his bedraggled head and shoulders around the door. A woman stood poised behind him with a large candlestick raised like a weapon.

  “Is Mrs. Marshall at home?” he snapped.

  The man blinked. “No, sir. She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Why would she tell me? I’m dismissed like everyone else. The house is sold.”

  “Take a guess,” Torridon said unpleasantly.

  “South,” the footman blurted. “London, probably.”

  “Did she have companions?”

  “Lady Torridon and the baby, sir. And Lawson, Mrs. Marshall’s maid.”

  “In her ladyship’s coach?”

  “Oh, no, sir. A hired chaise called for them at five o’clock. With postilions and everything.”

  Relief washed over Torridon. They were safe. Whether they were heading to Blackhaven or London, they were safe.

  “Are you Lord Torridon?” the footman asked reluctantly, probably because the woman with the candlestick was nudging him so forcefully.

  “I am. Why?”

  “Her ladyship left a letter for you. I was to post it in the morning, but since you’re here…”

  Torridon held out his hand and the woman, who had dashed off as soon as the footman began to speak, arrived back in time to place a sealed missive between his fingers. He broke it open and snatched the footman’s candle in order to improve the light from the square.

  My dear Torridon, she began. Not my dear Alan, as her letters had used to open. He felt the distance between them like a spear through his heart. I hope you are not anxious, for I assure you there is no cause. I sent Gordon back to Torridon with the coach and a letter which you should have had by now. However, I have changed my mind and am no longer in Edinburgh, having a fancy instead to visit my sister in Devon. Jamie loves traveling; I think he likes the bumps and the shaking that everyone else hates!

  Hoping you are well and assuring you of our best, Frances.

  Torridon crumpled the letter into a ball and thrust the candle back into the footman’s surprised fingers. Without a word, he ran down the steps and out the gate, more furious than he had been since this silly escapade began. He was not fooled for a moment. She was not going all the way to Devon. She was trying to make him give up on any ideas he might have had of following her to Blackhaven.

  The knowledge enraged him. For whatever his own folly and unconscious unkindness, he did not deserve such treatment. And he had had enough.

  *

  Frances found herself smiling as they drove into the town of Blackhaven. This town, and Braithwaite Castle on the hill, were home as Torridon could never be. Every street, every other building, held a memory of one kind or another, places she had played or quarreled with Serena, taken tea with friends, or bolted from in some childish mischief. Where she had walked arm-in-arm with Torridon, a year ago…

  The last memory brought a lump to her throat before she could banish it. Newly married, she had been so happy, so full of hope for their future together, so blindly in love with the sternly handsome Scottish earl with his sardonic sense of humor and his tender kisses… Then she remembered that he had left Blackhaven the following day, having received word of his mother’s sickness. And Frances had attended the annual spring ball at the castle alone.

  Well, hardly alone, she thought, laughing at herself. She had been with her family and friends whom she’d known since childhood, and with new friends who had accompanied them from London.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said aloud, gazing at Ariadne. “This is the week of the spring ball, Blackhaven will be full of people we know.”

  “They won’t count,” Ariadne said. “You have to fool a sister. Or sister-in-law at the very least.”

  “I’ve never met my sister-in-law,” Frances objected. “Or my brother-in-law. And an actual sister is a much harder proposition, especially if they know I’m here.”

  “Then pull down the veil on that ridiculous garb and leave me to do the talking,” Ariadne instructed as the chaise pulled up at the imposing Blackhaven Hotel.

  The ridiculous garb was, in fact, Ariadne’s own black widow’s weeds, bought to mourn her late husband, but rarely worn. Frances didn’t actually like wearing them. For one thing, it felt like tempting providence with Torridon’s life. For another, it crept into her head that the dress symbolized the end of her marriage, at least in any way that mattered to her. Sweeping such thoughts aside, she drew down the veil, clutched Jamie tighter, and alighted.

  While the hotel porter took in their luggage, Lawson held the baby, and Frances paid off the post boys. Ariadne, meanwhile, sailed inside to arrange accommodation. Following her friend into the familiar, large foyer, Frances saw that she had forgotten her role already. They had decided that Frances should be the widow with an excuse to wear the veil where she was likely to know people, and Ariadne should be her submissive companion—about as unlike Ari’s character as one could get. “Submissive” did not come easily or naturally to Ariadne Marshall. Frances would have to coach her before they ran into anyone likely to recognize them.

  As they followed the boy upstairs to their rooms, it struck Frances that this jest was taking on a whole life of its own. And yet, it was only to be until she managed to run into some member of her family and prove they did not recognize her. They were staying at the hotel under assumed names—Mrs. Alan and Mrs. Thom—with complicated roles and pasts all mapped out. Frances had devised most of this because she really had to win the wager. The very thought of Ariadne having the rubies, even wearing them for one night, churned her stomach. Torridon would not see the joke, and Frances knew she was wrong to have ever indulged in the silly wager.

  Still, there was something quite liberating in being someone else.

  Ariadne had engaged a suite of rooms with a sitting room, two large bedchambers, and a tiny one for Lawson. Two hotel servants brought in a cradle for Jamie, which was placed in Frances’s chamber.

  It was very comfortable, almost luxurious, and Frances began to wonder for the first time how she was going to pay for it. She had only pin-money with her, which she doubted would stretch to these rooms, even for a mere couple of nights. She didn’t really want to have the bill sent to Torridon. Well, perhaps she would win Ariadne’s diamonds, sell them, and give poor Ari what was left after the bill was paid. After all, she suspected Ariadne had very little to live on. Tom Ma
rshall, a reckless gambler and adventurer, had not left her with much.

  “But this is charming!” Ariadne enthused. “We shall dine in style tonight in that very ornate restaurant we saw from the foyer—”

  “We can’t,” Frances told her flatly. “Even if it’s quiet and we know none of the guests, most of the hotel staff are Blackhaven people and are bound to know me. I can’t eat with my veil on.”

  Ariadne’s shoulders drooped.

  “We can do so once this is over,” Frances said hastily. “As soon as I have spoken to one sister or brother who does not recognize me, we can throw off our cover.” She frowned. “Although perhaps we should stay at the castle after we do so, for it will be embarrassing to admit our false names to the hotel!”

  Ariadne laughed. “Fine. Then let us have tea in our rooms, then sally forth and you may show me your town.”

  *

  “Goodness,” Ariadne commented an hour or so later as they stood at the harbor. She gazed not out to sea, but along the shore to Braithwaite Castle perched on the cliff above the town. “It could have been drawn straight from knightly tales of old. Or from Mrs. Radcliffe. Does your family really live there?”

  “Oh, yes, but it isn’t all medieval stone turrets. Most of the old castle is in ruins, except for the bit Serena insisted on living in as soon as she escaped the nursery. There is a newer house built on to it, which makes much more comfortable living for the rest of us.” She smiled and walked on toward the market, where the stalls were beginning to close. “When our wager is done, we could go to the ball, if you like.”

  Ariadne took her arm. “Apparently, it is a masked ball.”

  “Masked?” Frances exclaimed, startled. She laughed. “I wonder how Serena got that past my mother?”

  “I believe it has become a craze in Blackhaven after some masked assembly ball.”

  Frances regarded her with fascination. “How do you know these things?”

  “I ask and listen. How do you not know them? Doesn’t your family write to you?”

  “Yes, but I had already told them I could not come for this.”

  “Why not?” Ariadne demanded.

  “My health. Torridon was afraid I was not recovering well from the birth.”

  “And yet, here you are, without even one pampering servant to look after you.”

  “You must not discount Lawson,” Frances protested. “Who is even now looking after my… Gillie!”

  Ariadne seized her arm as Frances instinctively veered across the market square toward the old friend she had just spotted strolling toward the harbor on her husband’s arm. They made a handsome couple. Marriage and being a baroness appeared to suit Gillie very well.

  “Lord Wickenden,” Ariadne all but purred, although she pulled Frances onward.

  “Behave,” Frances warned her, resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder. “He is a married man and has just become a father. You know, Gillie lived here all her life, too. She even shared a governess with Serena and me for a year or two. She is almost a sister. Could I not just go and bump into her, and apologize and see if she knows me?”

  “No,” Ariadne said firmly. “She is not a sister.”

  “Susan and Effie are not your sisters, either,” Frances pointed out.

  “No, but that advantage is cancelled out by the fact that they knew I was in Edinburgh. That is a disadvantage you do not have here.”

  “I want to talk to Gillie and see her baby,” Frances said ruefully.

  “Then hurry up and find your sisters! Or your mother.”

  “My mother would boil me in oil for this escapade.”

  “Fun, isn’t it?” Ariadne said, and Frances laughed, because truthfully, it was.

  They were returning to the hotel via the quieter streets when Frances actually did glimpse one of her sisters. She began to smile behind her veil, gladness at the coming reunion vying with mischief as she wondered how far she could fool Maria. She was about to nudge Ariadne in warning when her sister turned her face up to her companion and smiled adoringly.

  Startled—for she still thought of Maria as a child although she was now sixteen years old—Frances regarded the companion. A very young officer of the 44th who were barracked at Blackhaven, he was not known to Frances at all. Most of the regiment had joined Wellington in the Peninsula last year, so this man was probably a new recruit. And something in his manner set Frances’s back up. It wasn’t simply that he seemed too familiar with Maria. After all, several officers were well known to all the best families in the area, including her own. But this man looked somehow… furtive.

  All this, she gathered in an instant. A moment later, Maria flitted off in the direction of the church and the officer strode on.

  And so, Frances said nothing about Maria to Ariadne. It was a trivial incident, for of course her sisters would have friends now that she did not know. But she could not shake off the anxiety that Maria was indulging in a clandestine and therefore dangerous assignation.

  *

  Lord Torridon, having driven through the night, arrived at Braithwaite Castle before anyone but the servants were up. Paton, the butler, showed him into the breakfast room, where he availed himself of coffee and a vast plate of ham, eggs, cheese, and toast.

  He was just tucking in when a young man wandered into the room. His rumpled dark hair was too long to be fashionable and his clothes were hardly the first stare of fashion.

  Torridon, who never judged a man by appearance, nodded to him. “Good morning.”

  The newcomer paused in mid-yawn, eyebrows raised. “Oh! Good morning! I beg your pardon, I didn’t know anyone was up yet.” He strolled over and offered his hand with careless friendliness. “I’m Tamar.”

  “Are you, by God?” He regarded the man with more interest. The almost legendary and penniless lost marquis was rumored to be an excellent artist, among other eccentric things, and the polite world was not quite sure why the Earl of Braithwaite had permitted him to marry Lady Serena. “I’m Torridon.”

  Tamar blinked. “Frances’s husband? How famous! Very glad to make your acquaintance at last. Serena will be delighted. She was quite cast down that you were not coming to the ball.”

  Torridon merely smiled. He had been too proud to ask Paton if his wife was there, and the same vice held him back from asking Lord Tamar. However, his agony was soon at an end because his brother-in-law, Lord Braithwaite, walked in a moment later, saying, “The whole place will be in uproar today, Tamar, so I suggest—good God.”

  Torridon rose to shake hands. “Alas, only me, and I hope you don’t mind my consuming your breakfast.”

  Braithwaite laughed. “As long as you leave me a sliver of ham. I’m very glad to see you here! Where have you put Frances?”

  Torridon’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. He sat back down too quickly. Uncaring now for Tamar’s presence—the whole story would be around the castle in no time, anyhow—he said, “She is not here, I take it. I was sure she was coming here. And Serena… the Tamars have not left for Devon.”

  “We’re going after the ball,” Tamar said, mystified. “Does this matter?”

  “Have you lost Frances?” Braithwaite asked carefully, sitting beside him.

  Torridon tried to smile. “In more ways than one. I followed her to Edinburgh where she stayed a night with Ariadne Marshall. They left together in a hired chaise…” He refocused his gaze on Braithwaite. “Might I trouble you for horses? Mine are done in, and I had better set off as soon as I’ve eaten.”

  “Hold on there, Torridon, don’t go off half-cocked! Tell me what’s happened.”

  Torridon, holding himself rigid, gave a brief account of the quarrel and his wife’s sudden bolt. “Her letter said she was going to Devon. I thought she was trying to deter me from following her here, but perhaps it was the truth and she didn’t know Serena was still in Blackhaven.”

  “I’ll bet she knows,” Braithwaite said shrewdly. “Besides, my mother and the girls are here, too, and I d
oubt she would pass up the chance to meet my wife. What’s more, if the baby is with her, I can’t see her travelling another four hundred miles. I expect you passed her on the road.”

  Torridon rubbed his forehead. He was too tired to think straight. “She could have stayed at any inn on the way,” he allowed. “I should wait a little, shouldn’t I?”

  “Definitely.” Braithwaite hesitated, then. “You know, she is subject to wild starts, but it is never from ill-nature.”

  “I know. I suppose I am more worried because of the company she is in.”

  “Ariadne Marshall? She is a little on the fast side, and Marshall was a bit of a loose screw, but I never heard anything terrible about her.”

  “I think she is little more than an adventuress,” Torridon said bluntly. “I never forbade the friendship, but I cannot like her, and I don’t see why Frances does.”

  “I expect the lady appeals to her wilder streak,” Braithwaite said. “But Frances is not weak, Torridon. No one can make her do what she does not wish to.”

  Except you, when you made her marry me. Even as the thought entered his head, he knew it was not true. There was no coercion. Frances had been perfectly willing to marry him. He had believed she loved him. And, God help him, though he was a not a man who loved easily, she had enchanted him from the day he’d met her. But her nature was mercurial, and he knew those months spent at Torridon had begun to irk her. It hurt, but it could not change his own feeling.

  Braithwaite gripped his shoulder. “You look exhausted. Get some sleep, and I shall make a few discreet enquiries. It won’t do for you to barge all over town asking for sightings of your own wife!”

  Chapter Three

  Still heavily veiled, Frances promenaded up and down the high street with Ariadne. Since it was the day before the spring ball, Frances knew that Serena would venture into the town at some point for last minute fripperies, or just to escape the massive, organized chaos of the preparations at the castle. Of course, these would now be the responsibility of the new countess, Gervaise’s wife, but she doubted her mother would relinquish her hold on things very easily.