The Lady In Question

by Victoria Alexander

  “Honesty, above all else, I should think.” Unless, he amended silently, pure honesty conflicts with a higher purpose such as service to one’s king and one’s country. “Being true to one’s self, one’s principles.” And such principles should always be guided by the interests of king and country.

  “Do you think Lord Wilmont lived an honorable life, Gordon?”

  He chose his words carefully. “It’s not my place to say, ma’am.”

  “Nonetheless, you have helped me set the leavings of his life in order. Surely you have formed some impression of the man?”

  “I would not venture —”

  “Nonsense.” Impatience rang in her voice. She rested her elbows on the desk, cradled her glass between her hands and studied him. “You are a man with a vast amount of experience and, I suspect, an acute observer of those around you. Is there anything you have seen in all this that indicates to you that my husband lived a dishonorable life?”

  “No, my lady. Not at all.” It was the truest thing he’d said all night and came as something of a shock. Tony had had no idea what to expect from Wilmont’s papers, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated a total lack of questionable activity. Why, even some of Tony’s own personal transactions were, on occasion, not entirely aboveboard.

  “He had a dreadful reputation, you know. Regarding gaming and wild living and drinking and” — she shrugged matter-of-factly — “women.”

  “Reputations are not always as they appear, ma’am,” Tony said firmly. He couldn’t defend Wilmont at the moment and, even if he hadn’t been in disguise, would have been hard-pressed to do so at any rate. Some of Wilmont’s reputation was indeed exaggerated to hide his true activities, but much of it was well earned. Still, Tony wondered if perhaps he had judged his friend too harshly.

  “He did marry me.” There was a cool note in her voice. “And that probably speaks well of him.” Without warning she rose to her feet and paced the room.

  Tony jumped up a beat behind her.

  “Oh, do sit down, Gordon.” She gestured impatiently. “I cannot seem to sit still, but there is no need for you to be uncomfortable as well.”

  “I couldn’t possibly, ma’am.” The shocked note in his voice wasn’t entirely feigned.

  She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Very well.”

  Lady Wilmont circled the room casually, brandy still in hand, and perused the shelves as if searching for something of interest, but there was a tension in the line of her body and edge of her step that indicated she had far more on her mind than reading. She stopped and peered at the shelves, then selected a book and glanced at him. “Do you like Lord Byron’s works?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to say, my lady.” In truth, he thought both the man and his poems overpraised and overrated.

  She chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” She took another swallow of the brandy, set the glass on a shelf, then flipped the book open. “I myself am not overly fond of his more political offerings, but some of his poetry is rather evocative.” She paged through the book and stopped to read aloud. “She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies…”

  And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.

  “It’s quite nice, ma’am.” It was one of the few works of Byron he did indeed like, and suspected it appealed to a romantic aspect of his nature usually hidden.

  “Do you think so?” She continued to study the page, a frown creasing her brow. “The smiles that win, the tints that glow but tell of days in goodness spent. A mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent.” She glanced at him. “Is there such a thing as a heart whose love is innocent, do you think, Gordon? Is there, in truth, such a thing as love?”

  “I fear you have me at an disadvantage, ma’am,” he said cautiously. “I am not entirely certain what you are asking.”

  She laughed in a humorless manner. “Nor am I, Gordon.” She snapped the book closed and offered it to him. “Why don’t you take this? You might find it enjoyable. I have another copy.”

  He moved to her and accepted the book. “Thank you, my lady, I shall treasure it.”

  “You shall have to tell me how you like it. I know I could certainly use something interesting to read. To occupy my mind.” She plucked her glass from the shelf and sighed. “I daresay my odd mood is due to nothing more than weariness and being in this house and the storm raging about us. Or perhaps it’s the realization that with the end of sorting Charles’s papers we have come to the end of my grand adventure.”

  At once he was alert for any hidden meaning in her words. “Grand adventure, ma’am?”

  “I…” She shook her head. “I am rambling, Gordon, which in and of itself is unusual. I never ramble. Or at least, I never used to. I find myself doing any number of things I never used to do.” She sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “I’m sure you noted, as did I, that I am now possessed of a significant fortune.”

  “I am aware of that, my lady.” Between Wilmont’s family fortune and a number of shrewd investments, the man was astoundingly well off. The missing fifty thousands pounds was something of a pittance to such a man, and as such would have played no role, for good or ill, in his actions.

  “Perhaps I shall use it to travel. I have never been beyond England’s shores and there is an enormous world out there more than willing to show a wealthy widow its offerings. And I have always wanted to see the canals of Venice and the ruins of Rome.

  “Did your Lord Marchant travel, Gordon? Did he take you with him to see castles and cathedrals, great mountains and grand oceans? Have you had adventures abroad?”

  “No, my lady,” he said without hesitation.

  In truth, he had had far too many adventures in far too many places during the long years of the war. He had ventured into the grim back alleys and dark, disreputable sections of Paris and Marseilles, where information was bought and sold and a man took his life in his hands just to pass there. He had seen the battlefields of Spain and Portugal and the hidden lairs of partisans and mercenaries eager to provide assistance for a price, paid in coin or blood.

  Even after the war, when official military intelligence was deemed unnecessary, he’d become part of a newly formed arm of the Foreign Office innocuously titled the Department of Domestic and International Affairs. Together with men like Wilmont and Mac whom he’d trusted with his life in the effort to defeat Napoleon, it was a unique intelligence service intent on protecting national interests from threats within the country and without.

  “Time enough tomorrow, I suppose, to think about what I shall do with the rest of my life.” She stepped back to the desk and tucked the now-neatly-arranged documents into a large ledger. “It seems I have a great deal of time stretching ahead of me.”

  There was a resigned dignity about her that clutched at something deep inside him. He was seized with an urgent desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. Tell her that her life would turn out well. Assure her, promise her, that he and he alone would make it all right. And if his lips met hers in the process…

  He couldn’t, of course. Couldn’t pull her into his arms and kiss her lips still tasting of brandy or bask in the heat of her body next to his or feel the beat of her heart against his own. She was part of his job, nothing more. As distasteful as it was, she was bait of a sort, to lure whoever might be lurking out there. And no matter how tempting he might find her, she was still a new widow and the wife of his best friend. Dead or not, Wilmont deserved better from Tony.

  Yet, in this room, with the storm raging about them and the resigned look in her blue eyes, it was easy to forget who he was and why he was here.

  An agent of His Majesty’s government, posing as an elderly butler, whose sole purpose was to keep her safe.

  Except he wasn’t old, he wasn’t a servant and the one person he might truly need to keep her safe from could well be himself.

  Chapter 4

  Delia bolted upright in
the night. She gasped for breath. Her heart thudded in her chest, her blood pounded in her ears. The dark engulfed her, surrounded her, overwhelmed her. For a moment, she had no knowledge of where she was or what she was or who she was, existing only in the terror of being totally and completely alone.

  She clenched her fists, breathed deeply and willed herself to calm. She should be getting better at this: unidentified, unreasonable emotion akin to fear had jerked her from her sleep every night since Charles’s death. And every night she’d lain awake for long hours struggling to determine exactly why this awful feeling gripped her.

  In a rational part of her mind, she knew there was nothing to fear here save the dreadful loneliness of being without the people, the family, who had always surrounded her. Indeed, she’d decided it wasn’t fear so much as an overwhelming sense of guilt that she could ignore during the day but had no defense for during the helplessness of sleep. Still, identifying the problem had done nothing to vanquish it.

  Tonight was different. Tonight, with the slowing of her pulse and the ease of her breath came determination. And anger. Sharp, unreasonable, unrelenting anger. It was past time to settle accounts that had nothing to do with banks and bills and property.

  She threw off the covers and stalked across the small bedroom that adjoined Charles’s through a dressing room. She flung open the door of the dressing room, hesitated for no more than a heartbeat, then slammed open the door leading to Charles’s room.

  The storm had passed, the sky had cleared and enough moonlight streaked in through the tall windows to turn the masculine room, with its costly, massive furnishings and heavy, expensive, damask hangings, into a faded watercolor in varying shades of silver-grays and blue-blacks. She hadn’t been in this room — his room — since the one night she had shared his bed.

  Fury drove her to the very center of the chamber. “Enough, Charles, I have had quite enough.”

  The words came of their own accord. “I will not continue to play this game. I have given you six months in return for one mere night. My debt is paid. You are dead and I am sorry for it, but I am not to blame. I shall not feel guilty for one moment more because of your death. Nor shall I continue to berate myself because there was no love between us. I, apparently alone among us, thought at least there was affection.

  “I would have made you an excellent wife. I would have done everything in my power to make our lives together good and happy.” She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the darkness. “Why did you marry me? I didn’t demand it. I didn’t even expect it. I realized full well what I was doing when I came here to your bed. I am not a fool, I knew what the consequences would be. And for that acknowledgment, I credit you.

  “You made me see a side of myself I had never known. From the very beginning, I was a different person with you. You drew something out of me I never suspected existed.” Her anger rose with her voice. “I was confident and flirtatious and, blast it all, Charles, I was passionate with you. Not just in your bed but in my life. You made me feel as if I had never lived before, and I liked it. I liked the secrecy and the adventure and the illicitness of it all. I liked making my own decisions, choosing my own path regardless of the restrictions of propriety. It was glorious. I shall not give it up now and I shall not let you take it back from me. I shall not be the quiet, reserved creature I was before you. Never!

  “You tried to take it away, though, didn’t you? Why?” Her voice lowered. “When we married, you treated me as if I were of no consequence. As if you didn’t care in the least. I did not expect love, Charles, but I did expect” — she searched for the words — “something beyond polite tolerance. Something akin to the charm and desire you had shown me up until then. I didn’t understand at the time and I do not understand now. Did you regret our marriage the very moment we said our vows? Did you know what a horrendous mistake it was? Did you dislike me so intensely then that you could not bear to be in my presence? Did you leave me?”

  She paused to catch her breath. Maybe it was anger as much as guilt that drove her from her sleep every night.

  She forced a note of calm to her voice. “You have left me a great fortune, Charles, substantial enough to live a life of independence. I shall not have to marry some deadly dull gentleman now. You have given me choices and for that I shall be forever thankful. I shall mourn you, of course, but not for a man I now realize I did not know at all. But for what you and I never shared, never had the chance to share. And for that loss, my errant husband, I blame you. We could have had so much together. We might have loved in time. I liked you a great deal, and I thought you liked me.”

  Her chin jerked up defiantly. “You are gone and I will tell you here and now for the last time, I am sorry for your death. But I have an entire lifetime stretching before me. And I shall not hesitate to live it.”

  A sense of urgency to act rushed through her and without thinking she stepped to the bed, grabbed the draperies hanging from the cornice and yanked hard. The fabric resisted for a moment, then ripped free with a satisfying sound that echoed in the night. Delia tore at the bed hangings until they piled on the floor. She pulled the coverlet and pillows off the bed and tossed them aside, then moved to the windows and pulled down the draperies. She wanted to tear the very paper from the walls with her bare fingers. And with every act, with every shred of material that floated to the floor with a slow ease that bespoke more of a dream than reality, the weight that had settled on her six long months ago lessened.

  She paused in the middle of the room to catch her breath and survey her handiwork. This was all ridiculous, of course. She had no idea what had come over her. She’d never been prone to displays of violence or anger. But she had changed and Charles had changed her and, no matter what happened from here on, for that she would be eternally grateful.

  Fabric lay in soft drifts around the room, illuminated by the starlight, a strangely peaceful scene. A peace that invaded her soul.

  Somewhere in the distance, or possibly only in her mind, she heard the sound of amused laughter. Charles’s laughter. Not the cold, remote husband he became but the rake who had charmed her in private parlors and teased her in discreet meetings and introduced her to secrets in this very room and captured, if not her heart, then at least her desire. And the oddest belief seized her that he approved. That, regardless of his behavior at the end, he would want her to carry on with her life.

  The very idea that her dead husband wanted her to destroy his room was absurd. Yet, what about the two of them from the first moment to the last was not absurd?

  “Charles…” She shook her head and smiled. “I will never know what was real with you and what was a pretense, will I?”

  She started slowly toward her room. In the morning, she would begin a new life and, for the first time since her marriage, she looked forward to the new day.

  She reached the dressing room door and glanced back at her husband’s chamber. Tomorrow, she would make it hers.

  “Thank you, Charles,” she said softly, and closed the door firmly behind her.

  ———

  She looked dreadful in black.

  Delia studied her reflection in the long mirror in Charles’s — no — her room. Or at least it would be, once she had the walls repapered and the fabrics replaced and installed new furniture as well.

  Regardless of the cause for her behavior last night, this morning she was a new woman. A woman prepared to face the forbidding world of London society. Lady Wilmont. And while Miss Philadelphia Effington would have hesitated to flout the conventions she had abided by much of her life, Lady Wilmont had no such reservations.

  She flashed a wicked grin at her reflection, then winced. Black was not at all her color. It drained the color from her face and turned her pale complexion a stark white. She looked, well, dead. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? She’d been wearing black for months. Indeed, there had not even been time to unpack her clothes sent from her parents’ house after her marriage before s
he’d had to change her wardrobe to mourning. The dresses she’d worn before her marriage and her widowhood were still packed away in the trunks still stacked in her room. She sighed with resignation. And would have to remain packed for the rest of the year.

  Of course, she was already the subject of scandal and gossip. How much worse could it be if she flouted convention altogether and wore colors? She wrinkled her nose. Much worse and scarcely worth the effort. In spite of her resolve, she wasn’t entirely certain she was ready to face the world as the scandalous Lady Wilmont. Although, as she had destroyed her reputation, she might as well enjoy it. Precisely how to enjoy it was still a question.

  A discreet knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  The door swung open and she watched Gordon in the mirror. He stepped into the room and paused. His gaze darted around the room, a look of concern flashing across his face, to be replaced almost at once by his usual noncommittal expression. She stifled a grin. Charles’s room looked as though it had been ransacked, the disarray appearing far worse in the light of day than it had last night.

  “I fear it’s a bit of a mess in here, Gordon.” She turned toward him and waved at the chamber. “I had something of a revelation last night.”

  “This is a revelation, my lady?” he said skeptically.

  “Indeed it is.” She nodded firmly. “My life has changed dramatically in recent months, although I believe I needed to return here to truly face that fact.” She paced the room in an erratic path, avoiding the piles of linens scattered over the floor. “Entirely my fault, of course, and I make no excuses for it. However, the time has now come to move on. I am a widow with wealth and property and an entire life ahead of me. It is time I begin to live it.”