The Unexpected Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  The duke stilled. He would never, Charles knew, do anything as common as shrug. Finally, he spoke. “Should you see them, news would be welcome.”

  Trust Sudbury to solve two problems with one blow. Charles looked down at the note in his hand. Victoria R. Such a young woman; so much responsibility. Perhaps this is what I need.

  “I’ll do it of course. How could I say no to the queen? But you knew that when you arranged this.” He faced his uncle and his long-time mentor, resigned to his fate, and swallowed his brandy. Solve two—no three—problems at once: reconnaissance for the queen, check on Sudbury’s unruly offspring, and get the despondent nephew out of his malaise.

  The duke nodded. “Just so.” Will glanced at the duke and away quickly, a furtive and uneasy glance.

  “There’s something else.” Charles knew the two of them too well.

  “No,” Sudbury answered, chin up. Will stared at his lap, and the hairs on Charles’s neck rose.

  Chapter 2

  Macao, September 1838

  Nothing cluttered Superintendent Elliot’s desk except the dispatch box that had been delivered that morning. No one looking at it would know it had been thoroughly searched, repacked, and placed in its habitual spot. For what Charles Elliot called “a slip of a girl,” Lady Zambak Hayden was a highly skilled picker of locks. Neither the one securing the desk drawers nor the one on the dispatch case had given her the slightest difficulty.

  Zambak rubbed her middle finger with her thumb, as if itching to take action while she considered her options. The information she sought had not been in the box. The superintendent’s description of the British navy hovering around the mouth of the Pearl Delta while war junks patrolled and neither side took action would be laughable if the issues weren’t so serious. A year earlier, the emperor’s men turned a blind eye; no longer. For the second season, chests of opium piled up on Lintin Island just outside narrows while the war junks kept up the pretense that they could keep gunships from transporting it to Whampao just inside the narrows to be smuggled inland. Without silver from the smuggling, the tea traders, snug in their factories all the way upriver in Canton itself, couldn’t pay their suppliers.

  Where the devil is my brother in all this? Too much leisure will ruin him. Thorn had left with the other men at the start of trading season, off to the all-male bastion of Canton. God only knows what manner of vice the bacon-brained nincompoop has gotten up to there while I cool my heels here. Her hand fisted in frustration. For a moment, Elliot’s desk lamp was in danger of being tossed against the wall.

  Her shoulders sagged, and she stared back at the dispatch case. How much does my father know? Most of it probably. Not much escapes Sudbury. The duke would welcome information from another source, though, and she briefly considered reopening the case so she might take more extensive notes. She shook off the thought. No. That will keep.

  For now, her brother Thorn mattered more. There had been nothing in the official papers about him. John Thornton Hayden, Lord Glenaire, her father’s heir, The East India Company’s newest and least competent clerk, had trundled off to Canton to take up his post. They quarreled before he left, and Thorn had accused her of being their father’s spy. The accusation stung.

  Someone has to keep an eye on the lack-wit, for the family’s sake if not his own. Thorn will disgrace us all if he doesn’t learn self-discipline.

  She groaned. Damn it Thorn, what happened to the happy boy of five years ago? The one who teased me out of doldrums, and kept the younger ones laughing? She missed the boy buried in her sullen brother; she feared for him.

  Zambak left the dispatch case undisturbed, cracked the door open, and, seeing no one, slipped out. There had to be information. Mrs. Elliot sent her pitying glances all through breakfast and had not been subtle about it. When sweetly pressed, the woman claimed she worried for Zambak so far from home—a patent lie. The woman had some sort of troubling information. If it wasn’t Thorn, it came from England.

  A thick missive addressed to Clara Elliot had accompanied the dispatch case, and Zambak turned her attention to locating it. It was not in the Elliot’s office, and the only places left to search were the woman’s private quarters.

  A half hour, three detours to avoid perceptive servants, and one frustrating moment impressing the butler with her consequence later, she found what she wanted on the sewing desk in Mrs. Elliot’s sitting room. An ear to the door detected no sound while she quietly scanned the precisely penned message.

  She ignored the affectionate words from husband to wife, blushing hotly at one particularly intimate turn of phrase. She reread it twice, distracted by a view of marriage so different from her parents’. She forced her attention back to the matter at hand and found what she sought at the end of the lengthy billet-doux.

  Wagner at the Company offices reports that Sudbury’s heir continues to disappoint. Admittedly the lull has left all of them with little work, but the boy makes no pretense of employment. Wagner says young Glenaire’s interest in Canton is limited to seeking directions to the flower boats and other dens of vice, the one subject about which he has made an extensive study. He should be sent home, but one does not challenge Sudbury. Thank goodness the daughter is all a lady should be—if one disregards the strange start that sent her to Macao in pursuit of her brother.

  The paper dropped from Zambak’s hands, and she leaned her head against the door. Thorn may be ignored as he finds his way straight to hell while I’m all a lady should be.

  Rage so great her body shook seized her. A woman had sat on the throne for over a year, but the Duke of Sudbury’s line of succession still passed over his eldest to land on a son with neither spine nor character. Behind the anger lay grief for the sweet boy of her childhood, the one who never let their parents hear of her adventures and never failed to make her laugh. Fear lapped at its heels. What will become of him if I don’t act?

  That fear had driven her to China—that and a desperate need to get out of London’s marriage mart with its stifling expectations. So far she had succeeded at neither. Thorn had gone beyond her reach, and the narrow minds of the ladies of Macao surpassed those of London hostesses.

  Canton. How can I get around the Chinese interdict against Western women there, find passage, and insert myself into the factories? The conundrum made her fingers itch.

  ~ ~ ~

  A pink parasol bobbed up and down in Zambak’s eyes, its fringe flying. Elliot’s major domo—on Clara Elliot’s orders, no doubt—insisted a servant follow her on her rambles, and that personage struggled to keep up with her long stride. The shading of “Lady Zam” constituted his sacred duty, and he worked mightily to carry it out. He gripped the base of the umbrella’s long handle, bent at the top to cover her while keeping a respectful distance. Even with that canny device, he raised his arm above his shoulder to compensate for the difference in their heights.

  What else has he been charged to do? Report back to the major domo? Does he know enough English to understand my words with the Irish smuggler over his odiferous little vessel? He appeared to cringe when I called the man a— She cut off the thought, wondering if the word had different meaning in Cantonese and glowered over her shoulder at him without breaking stride. He grinned back. More boy than man, a hint of European ancestry mixed with his very Chinese features.

  “Bad man, Lady,” he said, eyes twinkling.

  He understood then. In the polyglot port of Macao everyone knew everything. She snapped forward and continued her climb up from the docks. If she didn’t want the Elliots to hear about her efforts to convince someone to take her to Canton, she would have to bribe the boy and probably the major domo as well. She sped up and the parasol kept pace.

  Frustration added length to her stride. Her effort to approach a ship captain earlier that day failed as readily as the last ones. They all liked the glint of her coin
, but not one cared to risk his business smuggling a woman into Canton. The government decreed no Western woman could defile the factories of Canton, and the traders bowed to Chinese law in that at least. They might take opium up the coast, or sneak the contraband into Whampao, but they would not risk transporting a woman. She suspected they just preferred to keep their all-male bastion free of feminine interference.

  The inevitable commercial street ran just above the port, winding around parallel to the shore. Zambak hurried along Rua dos Mercadores, as the Portuguese called it, and turned toward the place where it intersected with a major road, anxious to get to a more salubrious neighborhood. She skidded to a stop at the end, forcing the little servant to step sideways to avoid running into her. A peculiar group crossed in front of them, one never seen on the broad shore road lined with the mansions of wealthy traders, the carefully tended neighborhood of Superintendent Elliot and his wife.

  A group of girls giggled and minced along, most of them barefoot, but some were wearing the tiny shoes of a well-bred Chinese girl or the raised horse slippers of the upper-class Manchu ladies. Many reflected Macao’s mixed-race subculture. One or two appeared to descend from the black slaves of the Portuguese.

  A white woman urged them forward. Of indeterminate age, but certainly older than Zambak, the woman dressed in plain clothes, the sort servants in her father’s house might have dressed up with ribbons and frills to serve as their Sunday raiment. She caught Zambak’s eye and nodded before hurrying along behind her charges.

  “How odd,” Zambak murmured.

  “Is very bad,” her attendant asserted.

  Diverted, Zambak asked, “How so?” In her experience, servants did not express opinions to their superiors unless requested, a situation that left her family uninformed more than once. Thorn would have benefited if servants had interfered years before.

  “School for girls. Emperor not like.” The little man shook his head.

  “This is Macao. The emperor is far from here,” she retorted. A school for girls! Her Aunt Georgiana would approve. Aunt Georgie sponsored a proper school for young women in Cambridgeshire, one that taught them history and politics as well as classical languages, to Zambak’s everlasting gratitude.

  Does this one teach subjects worth pursuing? Or is it one of those designed to keep women in their place—serving tea and stitching seat covers?

  “Who is that woman?” she asked.

  The little man shrugged. “American,” he replied as if that explained everything.

  A few of the wealthier American traders brought wives, but the ones she met looked nothing like the woman making her way down the road. Almost as tall as Zambak, she had a straight back and confident way about her but none of the airs the other women put on.

  “Missionary,” the attendant went on when she continued to puzzle over it.

  Ah. American missionaries. Clara Elliot spoke of them occasionally, usually in disparaging tones. The school probably teaches Bible and embroidery. Still . . .

  A broad avenue wound through the municipal park. A few yards in, Zambak darted into a space hidden between two hedges, forcing the servant—and the parasol—to follow. Her thumb rubbed the middle finger of her left hand through her gloves while she studied him closely.

  To his credit, the boy did not shrink under her perusal.

  “What is your name?” she asked at last.

  “Filipe,” he responded, driving her eyebrows upward. He shrugged. “My grandfather,” he said in answer to her unasked question, eyes following the hand that reached into the pocket sewn into her skirt. They widened when she pulled out coins.

  “So, Filipe, I did not visit the docks today. We visited churches, to see the sights.”

  One coin disappeared into his clothing. “Of course not. Churches only.”

  “Not even the major domo,” she added sternly, drawing a cheeky grin.

  “‘’Specially not old Hua.” His delight in pulling one over on the major domo boded well for their relationship.

  She held another coin between two fingers.

  “That woman. Can you find out her name and direction?”

  “If Lady Zam wishes, I can do,” he said with a bow.

  She smiled back. “I think you and I will deal well together.”

  Because lies with a bit of truth are easier to maintain, they set out to find a church while Zambak tallied her available resources in her mind. The funds the duke had put on account for her added up to much more than pin money. Give father credit. He knew I’d need bribes. She probably had enough to commandeer a ship if she could find someone to captain it.

  A broad avenue took them through parks toward São Lázaro church, Macao’s oldest, while a new plot coalesced in Zambak’s mind. If the smugglers won’t take me to Canton, perhaps the missionaries will. A smile spread from ear to ear.

  Chapter 3

  The HMS Bridgetown lay at anchor off Madras, its senior officers at ease in the captain’s quarters with an excellent brandy and an amusing guest. The Duke of Murnane, well known from his time in the War Office, had been as generous and his brandy as excellent as his reputation led them to believe. His supply of racy gossip from England had been equally welcome.

  Charles, for his part, sipped carefully, keeping his wits about him while he watched the navy men relax and their tongues loosen. He had unwound his cravat, removed his coat, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. After three days of pompous posturing and well-practiced nonsense from the East India Company, he much preferred these men. Whatever The Duke of Sudbury wanted from him—and he still couldn’t be sure what the old fox actually intended—he’d find better intelligence for the queen among her navy in any case.

  “You’re telling me Maitland sailed with HMS Wellesley and the Algerine under orders not to fire a shot?” He didn’t have to fake outraged amusement.

  General disgust greeted the question and a quantity of well-chosen profanity. Captain McGuffin nodded dourly. “Aye. Nary a shot. Waste of a good voyage, and in the damned southern heat too.” Charles met McGuffin during his early days in the War Department and knew him for a tough fighting man with no pretense. McGuffin had been temporarily invalided and spent time in the navy offices ashore until he worked his way back into a command. They’d shared a few memorable evenings together in that time, and unbent to the point McGuffin called him Murnane more often than Your Grace.

  “D’ye think Elliot remembers what to do with a ship of the line?” the first mate asked to general laughter.

  “Nah. Too much time dancing with ambassadors’ daughters,” another said, touching off a round of ribald comments about men who left the service for nancy jobs in diplomacy.

  Charles opened another bottle, poured, and shook his head sympathetically even though he knew most of them would jump at a chance for Elliot’s career. “Fools use the navy like a flag to wave, no? What is he trying to accomplish?”

  “Near as we can tell, he wants to remind the Chinese who they’re dealing with, though with that emperor a thousand miles away from the Pearl Delta and untouchable, I don’t know who he hopes to impress. Palmerston doesn’t want to piss off the viceroy in Canton.”

  McGuffin, swallowed a half glass of brandy in one gulp, screwed up his face while it burned its way down, and growled, “The Company danced to the emperor’s tune these fifty years. The Chinese don’t even recognize Her Majesty’s government. Only let their merchants deal with our merchants.” He spat the last word. “Time and past time we persuaded them otherwise.”

  “Force them to take our opium?” Charles’s voice had an edge to it. He knew better than most how vile the stuff was.

  “Opium, wool, cotton—hell, I don’t care if we make ‘em buy geegaws just so they show some respect.”

  Charles considered that respect had to travel two directions or it degrade
d into bullying. His view generally invited disdain; he kept it to himself.

  “India, now, it’s a fair English place these days,” the first mate declared. “Canton is a cesspool of European merchant types trying to outdo each other. The pushy Americans are worse.”

  “We had some German Cit claiming to be a baron hanging around Madras a few months ago trying to cadge transportation to Macao. Rushing to see if he could cash in,” another interjected.

  “Drove Maitland mad. The admiral finally gave him passage on the Algerine just to shut him up,” the first mate said. He leaned toward Charles. “The swindler claimed the trull with him was an English duchess.”

  The hair on the back of Charles’s neck stood up. Duchess. A lump formed in his throat and went down hard before he asked. “Duchess? It takes balls to make that big a claim,” he commented, a sharp edge cutting the humor from his voice.

  “Maitland bought it,” the first mate said in disgust. He opened his mouth to speak until a glare from the captain shut it.

  “We get all sorts—” McGuffin began, but the flicker of sympathy in his eyes killed any doubt Charles harbored.

  The hidden agenda. Damn Sudbury. “Let me speculate here,” he said. “She claimed to be the Duchess of Murnane.” My wife.

  At his words, the first mate sank back in horror. “I didn’t—”

  A wave of a long-fingered hand stilled the man. “You wouldn’t think it would you?” Charles told him. He turned his attention to McGuffin. “Julia?”

  The captain stared at his drink. “So she claimed. I can’t say that I ever met the duchess.”