The Wicked Wife (Blackhaven Brides Book 9)

by Mary Lancaster

  For the first time, it struck Frances that Lady Torridon was not so different from her own mother, which gave her pause… and a certain rueful sympathy for Gervaise’s wife. He had not even married someone used to running a great house, but merely the lost heiress to Haven Hall who, according to Serena, had had quite an unconventional upbringing.

  After two hours of gazing in shop windows and wandering around the art gallery while keeping watch on the street, Frances said, “I need to go back and feed Jamie. You must lunch in the restaurant and send me word if you glimpse Serena or Braithwaite.”

  “Very well. I wish we had put a time limit on this wager,” Ariadne said. “If we had, I would already have won. It was much easier to find Susan and Effie in a city far larger than this.”

  “You knew where they lived and when they would leave the house,” Frances pointed out. “We can hardly go and skulk at the castle gates and hope to be unnoticed!”

  “Fair point,” Ariadne allowed. “But if I have to look in that dress shop window one more time without buying anything—”

  If she finished her sentence, Frances didn’t hear it, for a sudden peel of quite recognizable laughter rang out on the other side of the street. It made her smile and jerk around at the same time, for the laugh could only belong to her youngest sister, Helen. And there, gazing in the shop window were the unmistakable figures of all her sisters.

  Helen was pointing out a hat with great delight. “Oh, but you must have that one, Serena; it will be so funny!”

  Frances began to cross the road, narrowly avoiding a cart which splattered mud on her skirts.

  “Hush, child,” Serena said tolerantly, “it is not my ambition to become a figure of fun in my new home. It is ribbon I need, not hats.”

  Frances snatched the handkerchief from Ariadne’s hands as her sisters began to move away from the hat shop. Since Ari had been using it to disguise her face from Serena, who had met her more than once, she immediately turned her head aside as though gazing in the shop window.

  Frances pursued her sisters. “Excuse me,” she said in a husky voice with a very soft, Highland accent. “Did you drop this, young ladies?”

  Inevitably, all four of them stopped and turned to face her. Her heart soared because they all looked so well and happy, and suddenly she wanted to cry. Serena was radiant, and the children so much more grown up than when she had seen them last. Especially Maria, who no longer looked like a child at all. She had become a very pretty young lady.

  Holding out Ariadne’s handkerchief, Frances tottered the last few steps toward them as though she were a much older woman. The thickness of the veil, she knew, would hide her features well enough.

  “It was on the ground by the window,” she said breathlessly.

  “Oh, no, it isn’t ours,” Serena said after a quick, quizzical glance at each of the girls. “But thank you so much for asking.”

  Frances inclined her head and tottered back to Ariadne. “Perhaps it is yours?” she suggested.

  “I expect it is.” Ariadne snatched it back. “And… they’ve walked on. They didn’t know you in the least. Drat you, Frannie, now we have a draw.”

  “So, we each keep our own jewels…”

  “Oh no, such a dull end to our wager doesn’t suit me at all! Or you. Come up with another plan.”

  “Hmm….”

  “Well?” Ariadne pursued, immediately intrigued.

  Frances watched her sisters continue to walk away from her, then turn into the new draper’s shop. “We could go to the ball and see if anyone recognizes either of us. But we’re only playing for honor now.”

  “And one night in each other’s jewels.”

  Frances laughed. “You think you have me because this is my home and my family.”

  “Oh, I think it’s more even than that. We’ll both be masked. At a ball, you can avoid your family easily enough if you choose to, and there will be many people there, will there not, who know both of us?”

  Laughter bubbled up again. It was good to be home. She took Ariadne’s arm, drawing her on toward the hotel. Only then did she notice the young officer in red pausing outside the draper’s shop to look at the tiny window display. She was sure it was the same officer she had seen with Maria yesterday.

  *

  Ariadne’s one concession to discretion was to dress more quietly than usual, so as not to draw attention to herself. From experience, she knew she was quite adept at this when necessary. Leaving Frances bouncing the baby on her knee and making silly noises at him, she sallied forth into the late afternoon sunshine to look for masks for the ball and to see what other entertainment could be extracted from this provincial little town.

  On her way across the hotel foyer, she noticed a great deal of activity in a room at the back, with tables and chairs being carried in and scraped across the floor, cloths being spread, and voices calling orders and acknowledgements.

  “Is there a party tonight?” she asked the doorman while he held the door for her.

  “A private club, ma’am. Gaming,” he said in a disapproving voice. “Not frequented by ladies.”

  “Ah, I see. Thank you.” She passed on with a gracious smile, hiding her rising excitement. A gaming club not frequented by ladies sounded ideal for her purpose.

  In a ridiculously tiny draper’s shop, she discovered a fine selection of masks, and asked the proprietor to put some aside for her friend to view later. Then she walked on to the market, which, however, was once more just finishing for the day. Beyond it was the pretty harbor, and she was just about to walk there when she spotted him.

  Alan Ross, Earl of Torridon.

  Her heart thundered. It always did at the sight of him. She didn’t know why. He barely knew she existed. And the one time she’d forced him to acknowledge her, he had looked at her as though she were the dirt beneath his feet.

  Of course, she had played her hand badly. She’d known he would never touch his wife’s friend after they were married, so in desperation, she had attempted to seduce him while they were merely engaged.

  He was no angel. She knew that because she’d made it her business to find out, but she’d waited too long for him to notice her without help, and suddenly, he was engaged to Frances of all people. More than that, the word was, he’d already broken off all contact with a string of disconsolate opera dancers and a beautiful married lady of the ton. Frances had been unaware these women existed. Ariadne had rather liked his honor in disconnecting himself from them… and made her play.

  She had only wanted one night. She wouldn’t even have taken anything from him. But she should have known his honor was not only for the world to admire. He lumped even one discreet night with her along with his infamous string of affairs and rejected her with unnecessary contempt. She couldn’t forgive that. And yet seeing him now, striding past the market toward the harbor, her heart leapt and she wanted him still.

  Frances did not know what to do with such a man. She didn’t understand him. Ariadne wasn’t sure she did either, but by God, she would know how to please him if she ever made it into his bed.

  Frances had assumed he would not leave Torridon. Ariadne had expected him to be half way to Devon by now. Both, it seemed, had underestimated him. He’d found them out. But not yet found them.

  Ideal. He would be at the ball, and he would know his wife immediately. Frances always paid up. The rubies would be in Ariadne’s hands for one night. And one night was all she needed.

  *

  In assuming Torridon hadn’t seen her, Ariadne was quite wrong. He had noticed her long before she caught sight of him. But he’d seen right away that Frances wasn’t with her and he had no desire to speak to the woman he suspected of leading his wife astray. Instead, he looked straight ahead and walked past her to the harbor, where he waited for her to become bored with the view. And then, when she turned back toward the high street, he followed her.

  There was no real thought behind his actions at this point, just disbelief and
anger. For Mrs. Marshall did not look like a woman who had just arrived in a strange place. She knew her way. She had been here at least as long as he, and his wife with her. This went beyond everything else. This was deliberate deceit. His sweet, charming, wonderful wife was deceiving him. How or why, he did not know. Not that he truly suspected another man—for one thing, she had had little opportunity of meeting one in recent months—but that she had not gone to her family who lived less than two miles from the town… it staggered him. And made him fear for his child.

  Without even glancing over her shoulder, Mrs. Marshall walked into the hotel. Following, Torridon was in time to see a hotel flunky bowing to her at the foot of the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thom.”

  Her manner had changed, almost beyond recognition. “Oh my,” she fluttered. “Good afternoon…” and she rushed upstairs as though she had just remembered something or was late for an appointment. There was very little sign of the supremely confidant, sophisticated woman Torridon knew.

  And she was using a false name. Mrs. Thom. Thomas, or Tom, had been her husband’s name.

  Torridon sat down in one of the sofas with his back to the stairs, as though he were waiting for someone. In reality, his mind felt dull, almost blank with disappointment. Pain twisted through his gut.

  On sudden impulse, he got up and went to the desk. “Which room is Mrs. Alan in?”

  The clerk looked haughty, but only for an instant. Torridon gave him the stare which had reduced to jelly even the most self-important of subalterns.

  “The west suite sir, on the far left of the first-floor hallway,” the clerk gibbered, then looked to right and left to make sure, no doubt, that no one else had heard him break the hotel’s policy.

  Torridon laid some random money on the desk and set off purposely up the stairs. The passage was empty as he made his way along to the end door, where he hesitated. This was a suite of rooms, not just a bedchamber, so it was more than likely Mrs. Marshall lived there, too. Besides, he had no idea what he wished to say to his wife, even if she were alone. He only wanted to know that his son was safe.

  But it was his wife’s voice he heard first, loving and indulgent. “Are you not the cleverest baby ever? Catch the pretty ribbon.”

  And then came a happy, unmistakable gurgle.

  Relieved beyond belief, he rested his forehead against the door. How could he feel this and so much anger and hurt at the same time?

  In a more normal voice, Frances said, “Did you see anyone from the castle when you were out?”

  “Not a soul,” Mrs. Marshall said cheerfully. “To my knowledge, that is.”

  Which was interesting, because there had been a moment as he strode past the market that he was sure she had raised her head. Had she truly not seen him, then? And if she had, why would she not tell Frances?

  “Control your impatience, Frannie,” she drawled. “You’ll see your family tomorrow night.”

  Torridon turned and stormed away. He could not bear to look at his wife today. And yet, through his rage, an inkling of understanding began to form. His wife was playing some game, not with him but with Ariadne Marshall. And Mrs. Marshall was almost certainly not playing fair.

  *

  When Frances retired for the night with the infant, Ariadne picked up the black veil she had abandoned on the chair and took it to her chamber. Here, Lawson helped her dress in the black silk and pinned on the veil with her diamond tiara. That is, it had once been set with diamonds before she had had to sell them and replace them with paste.

  “You may retire,” Ariadne told the maid as she left without explanation.

  As soon as she entered the gaming club in the hotel’s back room, she was glad of the veil, for among the many faces which turned to watch her were several that she recognized, including Lord Wickenden—the Wicked Baron himself—and young Lord Daxton who was probably even wickeder, and more likely to suit her purpose. But, she had learned her lesson from Torridon and had no intention of pursuing. She would let Daxton come to her if he was going to. Wickenden was probably too knowing to be useful. Besides, rumor said he had grown positively virtuous since his marriage.

  The doorman had been right. This was not the sort of club ladies attended. The women here were largely courtesans, actresses, and dancers, she guessed, hanging on the arms of the wealthy and the winning. Ariadne strolled among them, contemplating if and where to play with the very little money left in her purse. Most of the games were for higher stakes than she could ever consider. Even Daxton, normally in a hurry to throw away his money or, occasionally, win it back, eschewed those tables. In fact, his ridiculously handsome face betrayed boredom more than anything else.

  There was one nasty moment when a man pushed back his chair, only just missing her toes. Ariadne had no intention of making a fuss, since the man was Frances’s brother, Lord Braithwaite. He apologized profusely for his clumsiness, but did not appear to recognize her through the thick veil. However, she had only recovered from that shock when Lord Torridon strode through the door.

  Frowning blackly, he looked as if he were more inclined to start a fight than play games. Braithwaite called to him, and Ariadne hastily fished out her last sovereign and on impulse, leaned over the shoulder of a young gentleman playing E.O. and placed her coin on Odd.

  “Just in time,” the young gentleman murmured as the wheel spun.

  Ariadne, quite prepared to lose, was delighted to find the ball finished on Odd.

  “Drat, you won and I lost,” the young man observed. “Now, should I follow your luck or my own?”

  “I wouldn’t follow mine,” Ariadne said, amused. “I suspect I’ve just used it up for the next six months!” She scooped up her winnings with the help of the amiable young man who stood to present her with the rest. He gazed down at her veiled face with undisguised curiosity.

  “What is your story, ma’am? What brings a widowed lady to such a den of vice?”

  “Desperation,” she said lightly, “and you see it has worked.”

  “I hate to think of any lady so desperate. Won’t you let me be your guide and escort for the evening?”

  “But I don’t know who you are,” she murmured, casting a quick glance toward the door. Lord Torridon was leaving again, with Braithwaite and Wickenden. They were probably all staying at the castle.

  “Sylvester Gaunt,” he replied with a quick, almost jerky bow. “And you are?”

  “Mrs. Thom.” She raised her eyes to his handsome, if reckless face once more and sighed. “I am companion to a very exacting lady. I dream of winning my way out of subservience.”

  “You won’t do that here,” Sylvester Gaunt said seriously. “Place is full of card sharps. And even where the table is honest, the odds are so stacked against you, you’ll lose in the end.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” she asked tartly.

  He grinned, very young and attractively boyish. “Having fun, of course.”

  My ideal companion…

  *

  Frances woke with her husband’s name on her lips and her heart beating fast with excitement. Furious to be awake, for in her dream he had been about to make love to her, she lay staring at the ceiling, trying to gather herself before she responded to Jamie’s cry.

  She had not closed the bed curtains and daylight seeped through the windows. Rain pattered against the glass, reminding her that last year’s spring ball had been in fine weather. She had been happy last year.

  Rising, she went to the cot and gazed down at Jamie who stopped crying immediately and grinned at her.

  “What a demanding, greedy little fellow you are,” she said lovingly, and reached down to pick him up.

  Returning to bed to feed him, she listened to the rain and let her mind wander at will. She didn’t quite understand why she wasn’t happy any more. She had quarreled with Alan, of course, but that hadn’t so much caused her unhappiness as resulted from it. She loved Alan. She always had. She loved Jamie and being his mother. She eve
n liked Torridon and the people who lived there—with the possible exception of Lady Torridon who should really have taken herself back to her own establishment near Glasgow before now.

  She liked being mistress of her own house… but she missed her siblings more than she had imagined. That Serena and Gervaise had both married since she had last seen them made her feel alone and disconnected. And the girls were growing up so quickly. And all these things happened while she’d been trapped at Torridon.

  Only, no one else had trapped her. She had allowed herself to be trapped through her desire not to displease her husband. Which had hardly worked since all that happened was that she had exploded with resentment and quarreled with him, which was far worse.

  From nowhere, it came to her that she did not know her husband. He had courted her with just enough latent passion to overwhelm her with love, had married her, and given her a child along with all his worldly goods. But he had never given himself.

  Dreamily, she thought back to those heady, early days, of their wedding trip when he had first taught her the physical joys of love. He had been so gentle, so tender that she had never even thought of her mother’s warnings of shock and pain and endurance. Instead, she had fallen deeper in love with him, craving more…

  Looking back, she wondered now if his lovemaking had merely been polite. For he had never lost himself in loving her as she did in him. Even then, she had sensed a powerful passion that he had never fully indulged, never given free rein to. It had become an obsession with her to make him lose control, to show her his wilder nature. But it had never happened. Jamie had happened instead, and from the moment she had told him of her happy condition, he had never touched her again.

  And she, left behind with the baby whenever he went anywhere, had begun to suspect he indulged himself elsewhere.

  According to Mama, she should never know such things. If she could not avoid knowing, she should turn a blind eye. A husband’s peccadilloes were beneath her.