There was motion at the back of the box. William turned his head. His wife had arrived at last. Her hand was on Alistair’s arm, a smile frozen to her lips. His presence wasn’t expected, or welcome, apparently.
Both he and Jasper rose and bowed.
“Good evening,” William said, stretching out his hand. “I’d hoped to find you here this evening.” He must begin as he meant to go on if there was to be any hope of peace between them. She didn’t refuse her hand, but it took just a moment too long for her to bestow it, enough that any interested watchers would see her reluctance.
She’s just saving face, he told himself. Things would go better in private.
“Pouring balm into my cousin’s wounds?” Jasper asked her. “Or has he been attending to yours? I hear an injury to one’s vanity can be crippling.”
Ignoring sharp looks from both his parents, Jasper made to leave, but Georgiana stopped him with a question. “Do you hear from Sophy?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
Jasper’s face turned colder still. “Ask her yourself.” Bowing once more, he exited the box.
In the loud silence that followed, William quickly settled Georgiana in the chair at his side before she could think to resist. No doubt she had many friends who would be glad to offer her a seat for the remainder of the evening—a ploy she had used before, though not for a good many years. Still, William wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks.
Alistair took the chair on Georgiana’s left. “A pleasant surprise to find you here, uncle.” He waited for an answering nod before continuing, more slowly than before. “Jasper mentioned in my hearing that Mrs. Bagshot was doing well.”
It took a moment for William to realize that by Mrs. Bagshot, Alistair meant Sophy. It sounded utterly wrong.
“What a dreadful name,” Georgiana shuddered, apparently feeling the same.
Alistair gave him a guarded look. “I’ve looked in to that matter we recently discussed. It appears I was mistaken in my reading of Bagshot’s character. The connection I thought was unsavory appears to be entirely innocuous.”
Georgiana looked curious, but William wasn’t about to go into that conversation here. “I’m glad of it.” One less worry—a significant one—but he still had many.
They sat in paralyzed silence for some time, pretending to watch the stage. The next act began, but as none of them knew who any of the characters were, or what the preceding action had been, it was more labour than it was worth to reconstruct the tangled story. The types were there: a villain, a foolish maiden, a pair of vulgar comics—he thought they were supposed to be husband and wife, but couldn’t say for certain.
“I’m ready to go home,” Georgiana said, “I don’t feel up to waiting for the farce.”
“I’ll join you,” William said, rising.
She paused, her fan halfway into her reticule.
“I left no instructions for my coachman,” he added. “If I don’t go with you, I’ll have to take a hackney.”
Acquiescing with a faint lift of her shoulder, she followed Alistair from the box, William behind. Inside the carriage, she and Alistair kept up a gossipy conversation about one Frederick Morris, whom she had happened to see across the theatre. He seemed an unpleasant fellow, from their talk. They dropped Alistair at his family’s townhouse, where he thanked them for the evening and the convivial company, managing not to sound sarcastic. “Do you ride tomorrow, sir?” he asked.
“I’m not certain. Probably.”
“I’ll hope to see you in the park,” Alistair said, and turned away.
The footman shut the door with a snap and the carriage shrank to half its size.
“Am I crowding you?” he couldn’t help asking.
“A little,” she said, so he moved to the seat opposite. A regrettable move, but it did thin the air that had congealed around them.
“Why the interest in Frederick Morris?” he asked.
“I’m not certain,” she said. “Alistair was curious about him.” She confided nothing more.
“You look lovely this evening,” he ventured.
“Thank you.”
They turned the corner—not quickly, but she reached for the strap nonetheless.
“Sophy would have liked the play,” he said.
“Yes, she would.” Georgiana turned her head to the window, though it was too dark to see anything. The small lantern inside reflected her face off the glass back to him. Her expression was familiar—unhappy.
“Do you ever think,” he began slowly, “that we may have been wrong?”
“I don’t think about it,” she lied, and set to work straightening her long evening gloves. Her cloak fell open as she moved. Beneath its dark velvet, the silk folds of her gown shone in the dim light.
“I’m considering the idea,” he admitted. “Not that it’s a new one. I have been wrong so many times before.” He watched her, hoping she’d take the offered opening.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said.
“Georgy.” She didn’t frown at the use of his old nickname, so he went on. “You know what I mean.”
“It’s an easy thing to say, when it comes too late.”
His throat tightened. “Is it?”
She didn’t answer, just knotted her fingers together. The carriage halted. He’d been leaning forward, but the sudden stop swung him back into the padded seat. He heard the footman jump down onto the pavement.
“Not just yet,” he called. “Drive us round Grosvenor Square and back.” That would give him a little more time. He’d need it, he realized, countering Georgiana’s outraged stare.
“Do you have any idea what they might think?”
“Not particularly. I don’t propose to care either. I expect they think we have something to say to each other.”
“I don’t know why. We never do.” The carriage swayed as the footman climbed into his seat. Georgiana’s hand found the strap again.
“It has often been borne on me, over the years, that I haven’t been the husband you might have wished.”
She snorted. Good. He was getting somewhere. She might be preparing to verbally eviscerate him, but at least she wasn’t doing it yet.
“I would like to change that,” he finished.
They rolled on in silence. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she said at last.
“Whatever you like,” he encouraged. Just not some polite nothing, for God’s sake. Form had always been one of her strongest weapons. “The children are gone. It’s just the two of us now. If we don’t try, think how hellish it will be.”
She flinched, and he knew he should have chosen the word wretched instead.
“What makes you think,” she said carefully, “that it hasn’t been hellish for me already?”
Her thrust went home, sliding right through him. He grappled for words, knowing it was too late for a defensive parry. “You haven’t seemed unhappy. Until recently, I mean.”
“Because I had Sophy.” Her voice turned reedy, her control as crumbly as a fragment of chalk. Facing the elopement was hard for them both, but Georgiana’s grief only grew stronger as the days passed. “I thought she and I—I thought she cared.”
“I’m sure she does. Much more than she ever cared for me.” It was the truth. Only recently had he found a way past Sophy’s guard. He’d been watching Sophy and Georgiana with their heads bent together, planning wardrobes and dinners and goodness knows what else for years.
“She didn’t care enough,” Georgiana said. He had no answer for that. It was true. She’d chosen Bagshot in the face of both their displeasure.
He leaned forward, his hands clasped together in the space between them, his elbows on his knees. “Perhaps, in time—”
“Don’t. Just don’t,” she said. From under her hood, she sent him a freezing glare. “I don’t know why you trouble yourself. Surely it can’t be that hard to buy congenial company.”
He reminded himself he deserve
d that. “Don’t want it,” he said. “I only want yours. Congenial, or otherwise.”
“Really,” she said, her face skeptical.
“Why don’t you take me on trial?”
She wasn’t smiling, but the sound that slipped out might have been a laugh. “Of all the—we are already married. I can’t get rid of you, which I’ve often found a great pity.” She sobered. “I can’t refuse you either.”
“Haven’t you, though? For years and years?”
“You haven’t asked,” she countered.
“I am now.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I have to think about it.”
William leaned back in his seat. “Do.” And for the remainder of the drive, he rested his eyes upon her. He felt it might be a good sign, the way she fled into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was no harm done indulging a little curiosity, Alistair decided the next morning. He was awake anyway.
“No, not riding dress,” he said, when Griggs brought him his clothes. “I’ll wear my uniform.”
The sight of a hussar’s jacket was said to soften female hearts so Alistair thought he would give it a try. With Mrs. Morris, he needed every advantage he could get.
“It’s a pleasure, Captain, seeing you properly kitted out again,” said Griggs, as he moved behind Alistair’s back, brushing his coat. “The fellows would be glad.” Alistair didn’t know if other officers gave their batmen such tremendous license, but Griggs was remarkable in many ways and a certain degree of familiarity was unavoidable after enduring the rigors of campaign. Griggs was proud, ugly, and foul-mouthed, but Alistair liked him much better than Cyril’s valet, a long-faced man with obsequious manners who spoke in gravelly whispers.
“They’ll see for themselves soon enough,” Alistair said. The brush stopped.
“Orders have come?” Griggs asked.
Alistair nodded.
“You make my heart glad, Captain,” said Griggs, resuming work with cheerful zeal. “London’s well enough for a spell, but it will be good to be back where we belong.”
Lord, Griggs was a bloodthirsty fellow. Alistair was a dreadful employer, only managing to pay Griggs’ wage at spotty intervals. Griggs made up the difference, however, picking off the dead, and doubtless did very handsomely. But even when pickings were slim, Griggs was entirely happy with the army. The dampest billets, the dreariest rations never disheartened him. If Alistair were half as stalwart, he’d set off for Spain with a light heart.
“Going to headquarters?” Griggs asked.
Alistair shook his head. He’d seen the surgeon there yesterday after calling on his aunt.
“Why the rig out then? No one’s out and about this early,” Griggs said, scrutinizing Alistair’s uniform.
“Thought I’d go to church.”
Griggs laughed. When he realized that Alistair wasn’t hoaxing, he composed himself, pretending he’d never lapsed. “An excellent notion,” he said, his voice bland, but his eyes suspicious. As well he might be. The last time Alistair attended services, he’d gone on a dare. Today’s challenge wouldn’t net him fifty pounds, but on the bright side, he was less likely to be arrested for disturbing the peace.
The congregation gathered in the church on Basil Street was a large one. A good number of eyes followed Alistair as he found a seat, but none of them belonged to Anna Morris. No one ventured to speak to him and he didn’t recognize a soul. The sermon was well begun before he finally found Anna and her mother. He couldn’t see their faces, for they sat at the front of the church and wore simple, close-fitting bonnets. The memorial plaque on the wall above them was the telling clue. It was for one Richard Fulham, lost at sea, 1804. A brother, probably. An older man, the right age to be her father, sat beside them on the pew. Alistair couldn’t see well enough to note much more than his abundant side whiskers and thinning hair. His shoulders were a little stooped, unlike the ramrod posture of his wife and daughter.
Their combined attention didn’t waver the entire sermon. Watching it was exhausting, for someone used to letting his eyes travel over the congregation, waiting for the tinted light from the stained glass windows to make a man’s nose turn blue, or give a prim spinster a rosy blush. Alistair joined in the hymn singing, thinking it ought to go some way to offsetting his complete lack of attention to the sermon. He had a fine baritone and performed well in drawing rooms. He’d hoped—ignominiously, to be sure, that the sound of his voice might make Anna Morris glance over her shoulder, but the congregation sung with such enthusiasm he doubted she would hear him. The woman down the row from him warbled atonally, and ahead of him a passel of children sitting between their parents, orderly and well-behaved as a wall of bricks, sang in rousing unison.
It wasn’t until after the service that he caught Anna Morris’s eye, while fielding questions from the local Divine—a worthy gentleman who accosted Alistair the moment he exited the chapel.
“And are you connected with any of the families in this flock?” the vicar asked.
“Er, no,” Alistair answered. “Merely acquainted.” Anna dodged his eyes, but her mother smiled at the sight of him.
“Captain Beaumaris. What a surprise.” She took her daughter’s hand. Anna couldn’t escape, but she’d apparently decided against looking at him. Well, he could charm her mother instead. Alistair bowed over Mrs. Fulham’s hand, wishing her good day, being generous with compliments—he’d hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her here, and how fortunate this was, that his wish had come to pass.
“You must dine with us today,” Mrs. Fulham said, ignoring the start given by her silent daughter. “Unless you have other plans?”
“You do me too much honor,” Alistair said, “But I am happy to accept. I have no other engagements.”
“How fortunate. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to the vicar.” She turned away, marooning him and Anna on a silent island amid the chatter of the dispersing crowd.
“Using my mother isn’t fair,” Anna said, her face devoid of expression.
“Yes, but I make much better progress.” Time was slipping fast.
“Ahem!”
Alistair turned. It was the father, side whiskers and all, frowning at him. Anna made introductions while Mr. Fulham looked him over, unimpressed by the lacings of gold braid crossing Alistair’s (he was told) admirable chest. “How do you come to know my Anna?” he demanded.
Interrupting Anna’s lie about a friendship with her late husband, Alistair said, “I met her at a dance. It was quite unforgettable.”
Fulham snorted. Anna sent him a kindling look.
“You knew Morris then,” he said. Plainly, that was no endorsement.
“Not really.”
Fulham harrumphed something that sounded almost like ‘ruddy blighter.’
“Do you mean me, or Mr. Morris?” Alistair asked, making a lightning decision. Better to ride to the charge than try flattering this fellow. “Because if you mean me, I must inform you that I’m generally referred to as a bang-up cove. I won’t presume to classify the late Mr. Morris.”
“Well, I will. He was a rogue,” Fulham said.
It was a toss up whether Anna was preparing to snarl or swallow her tongue. Alistair forestalled her with a raised hand. “Flying to your husband’s defense? Very proper. But I can’t say I wish to hear about him.”
“You wouldn’t want my tears spotting your coat,” Anna interjected sarcastically.
Alistair pretended to consider. “Well, as to that, I’d hazard that most men would put up with a great deal to put an arm around you. Spots are not too bad, weighed in the balance.”
Fulham choked back a laugh and Anna’s cheeks bloomed with color—angry or embarrassed, he couldn’t tell.
“I’ll say no more on that head, sir,” Alistair said. “Your wife has been kind enough to ask me to dine. If I infuriate your daughter too much, I won’t get any dessert.”
This time Fulham allowed himself a chuckle, looking at Alistai
r with a kinder eye. Anna, on the other hand, looked ready to slice him into quarters. Before her mother finished talking with the vicar, she attached herself to her father, leaving Alistair to take her mother’s arm. They set out for the Fulhams’ house, Anna walking ahead with her father and Alistair and Mrs. Fulham following behind.
He managed to evade her close questioning about the sermon by agreeing with everything she said and quickly turning the conversation by inquiring about her activities at the church the other day. Her half-hidden smile suggested she knew he was dodging, but she didn’t seem to mind. By the time they reached the house, Alistair had learned a great deal about the Basil Street Benevolent Society, but nothing at all about Anna or her secrets. Mrs. Fulham turned to her daughter at the door. “Do you intend to walk more today?” she asked. Anna hesitated, and Alistair was too quick to let the opportunity pass.
“Allow me to accompany you,” he said.
“I’d hoped to call on Henry,” she said, stalling, her eyes on her mother.
“Who is Henry?” Alistair asked, looking round.
“My son,” Anna said.
He blinked. The boy didn’t live here? “Where is he?”
“He lives with his guardian. My brother-in-law.”
Ah. This must be the source of her difficulty. “I’d still like to come with you, if I may,” he said. He turned to Anna’s mother. “We crossed paths in the park once, Master Morris and I, but at the time, his mother didn’t see fit to present me.”
“I can’t think why,” Anna said. The edge in her voice made her mother glance between them.
“No reason why you can’t bring along the Captain,” Mr. Fulham said.
“I can see no reason why Captain Beaumaris should be interested in my concerns,” she said.
“Can’t you?” her father asked, giving her an admonitory look. “Go on, both of you.”
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 8