by Allison Lane
He thrust the image aside and concentrated on suppressing another wave of lust. Every glance recalled the feel of her cradled in his arms on the long ride to Wyndhaven or nestled in his lap as she’d cried. His thighs still felt her weight. His fingers knew her soft skin and silky hair. Her taste lingered—
This was no time for desire. If he’d kept an eye on Marianne as he should have done, he would have discovered Barnett’s plot years ago. Rectifying his negligence was an honorable goal, but it could never counter murder – for which he must still atone. So he had no business lusting after her.
He set his tankard on the table and stifled a yawn. It would be time enough for sleep when he was sure Marianne was safe.
Angela noticed. “You look exhausted Jack – and no wonder. You were up all night.”
Marianne’s head whipped around. Her eyes widened as she examined him. “I never thought— You need sleep, Jack. You were tired enough yesterday.” She blushed.
That kiss. “I slept when I returned to Seacliff,” he said.
“Not long, I’ll wager. You reached Carey’s only two hours behind me. Did you sleep at all last night?”
“He did not,” swore Angela. “Go to bed, Jack. You are no good for anything when you are this tired.”
“Yes, go,” added Marianne.
He raised his brows to ask if she was sure.
“I’ll be fine.” She nodded firmly.
So he left.
* * * *
Marianne hid her clenched fists as Jack rose from the table. He was so kind that it was easy to be selfish. But she couldn’t ask that he push himself beyond endurance. It was time to manage on her own.
The trip to Wyndhaven must have been difficult. She had no idea how far they had traveled, but it would have taken hours. He would not risk remaining near the asylum. Complicating the trek were the battles he must have fought at Carey’s and being burdened with a body during a long night journey. When he’d come to Halworth yesterday – had it really only been yesterday? – he’d shown all the signs of a sleepless night spent drinking. So she kept her expression calm until the door closed behind him.
Then she sagged.
Trust Angela, said Jacques. She won’t hurt you.
Listen to him, added Hutch. You are safe here.
Perhaps, but emotion rarely followed logic. Taking a deep breath, she looked at Lady Blackthorn.
The marchioness was a beautiful woman whose stunning auburn hair set off moss-green eyes. Her morning gown seemed simple enough, but Marianne’s newfound knowledge detected an even more elaborate system of pins and ties than on the one she wore. The gold-hued muslin set Angela’s face glowing, and cunningly embroidered vines seemed demure even as they drew attention to her generous bosom.
Lady Blackthorn’s character was probably just as deceptive as her gown, no matter what Jack claimed. A man accustomed to the horrors of war would think any lady harmless. Angela could undoubtedly be formidable, but today she had chosen informality, exuding an aura of relaxation Marianne had never before encountered. And discovering that her hostess was at least as well-read as she made Marianne wonder if her image of society was wrong.
To prepare for taking charge of Halworth, she had read widely about crops, commodity prices, and anything else that might affect her estate or tenants. The newspapers also contained society news, which she perused so she would know enough to venture out if necessary. But it left the impression that society ladies disdained intellectuals. It was another reason she had been content to remain at Halworth, for she would never have felt comfortable talking to people who derided her interests. Now she suspected she had misunderstood. So she asked.
“Educated women are called bluestockings,” Angela said frankly. “It is not a compliment in some circles – current fashion ridicules intelligence. Thus most of us stick to gossip in ballrooms and drawing rooms.”
“Isn’t that dishonest?”
“No. We also attend intellectual soirees and scientific lectures, making no attempt to hide our activities. And Madame de Stäel was eagerly received all over London when she visited last year.”
“The author?”
“Exactly – and a renowned intellectual. But when I sit in Lady Beatrice’s drawing room, I follow her lead, which restricts my remarks to gossip and scandal. No one knows more about society than she.”
“Ah. The hostess sets the tone for any event.”
“Exactly. Formal balls – even subscription balls like Almack’s – are other places with light conversation. When I came out, I despaired of finding a congenial husband, because most Marriage Mart events disallow serious subjects.”
“So how did you manage?”
“Luck. I met Dev in a bookshop. He’d been banished from society long before – though that misunderstanding has now been rectified, thanks to Jack – so I would never have met him at a ball.” Mischief gleamed in her eyes, but Marianne refrained from asking why. Learning about society was necessary if she was to prove her reason, but asking about Lady Blackthorn’s courtship was too personal.
Angela laid down her fork and rose. “You will need several other gowns, Marianne – I may call you that?”
Marianne nodded.
“Good. And I am Angela. I hate formality at home.”
“This gown is plenty,” protested Marianne. “At home I rarely change clothes except for gardening.”
“Horrors!” Angela shuddered, then laughed merrily. “You cannot appear at dinner in a morning gown. Nor can you wear the same thing for a week.”
“A week!”
“At least. Dev says we will soon leave for London, but even Mademoiselle Jeanette cannot outfit you in a trice. The local dressmaker has no talent, so you cannot shop until we reach town.”
Marianne’s head was reeling, but she pushed thoughts of London aside. Jack would explain when he awoke. For now she must concentrate on relaxing with Lady Blackthorn.
“Come,” ordered Angela. “We have much to do.”
Marianne hesitated. “I cannot impose on you for more than a dinner gown,” she said firmly.
“It is no imposition. I will be replacing most of my gowns soon anyway – Dev is active in Parliament, so we spend half the year in London. Thus I need an enormous wardrobe, all in the current style. Dev insists.”
“But—”
Angela must have seen the shock in her eyes. “I had trouble accepting the necessity at first, too,” she admitted. “My brother inherited a pile of debts, so my wardrobe before marriage was quite limited. It was a shock to discover that a marchioness is expected to set style, but I’ve become used to it. The profligacy became easier to bear once I realized that it benefits the lower classes.”
“Really?”
Angela laughed. “Sarcasm! Wonderful. You are finally relaxing. I feared you would flee – Jack would hang me for sure if I drove you to such desperation.”
Marianne shook her head as she trailed her hostess up a broad staircase.
“But to answer your question, yes. Replacing my wardrobe every year helps the lower classes. First, by keeping my modiste in business, thus supporting the dozens of seamstresses she employs. Second, by contributing to my maid’s retirement fund – she sells my castoffs to a clothing dealer in London, then invests the income.”
Marianne was speechless.
“By custom, one’s maid lays claim to discarded clothing. It is one of the benefits of her position – or his; valets have the same arrangement with their masters.”
Marianne nodded, but inside, she grimaced. There was much about everyday life she didn’t know.
“The next to benefit, besides the clothing dealers themselves, is the merchant class, for secondhand clothing provides them with stylish wardrobes they could not otherwise afford. In turn, their old clothes go back to the dealer to be sold to the lower classes, often more than once. Ultimately, the remnants go to rag pickers to be turned into paper.”
Angela’s explanation had carried them upsta
irs to her dressing room. Marianne stared. At least fifty gowns hung on pegs or lay stretched on shallow shelves. Others were neatly folded into wardrobes. She had never imagined one person owning so many gowns. Her own wardrobe had never held more than four, even before her parents’ deaths. There had been no need for more.
“You see?” said Angela. “I won’t miss a dozen gowns. Have Daisy alter them as needed. And if you still feel guilty,” she added as Marianne shook her head, “then give them to my maid as soon as you replace them with your own. I will be ordering at least that many when we reach London and replacing the rest for next year’s Season.”
Marianne remained overwhelmed, but she allowed Angela to choose two more morning gowns, three dinner gowns, a walking dress, a carriage dress, a cloak, and two nightrails. Each had matching slippers, gloves, and other paraphernalia that left her lightheaded. Was this how Cinderella had felt after the encounter with her fairy godmother?
* * * *
The wardrobe expedition tired Marianne enough that she returned to her room with a book from Lord Blackthorn’s extensive library. It wasn’t cowardice, she assured herself. The strain of too many new experiences atop yesterday’s shocks and a hefty dose of laudanum had worn her out.
And she did not remain alone for long. Half an hour later, Daisy arrived to fit the new gowns and chatter away about the household. Marianne heard about Blackthorn’s son, Lord Harbrooke, now sixteen months old and the apple of his papa’s eye. She heard that Angela was again in an interesting condition, though it did not yet show. And she heard that Jack was beloved by the Wyndhaven staff, though his last visit had been shortly after Napoleon’s first abdication. It was impossible to stay nervous in Daisy’s company.
That afternoon, she donned one of the altered gowns – an elegant Indian muslin embellished with rows of ruching around the neck, hem, and puffed sleeves – then joined Angela in the drawing room. Angela was pouring tea when Jack arrived, accompanied by a satanic figure who could only be Lord Blackthorn.
His title fit him perfectly. The sharp planes of his face made her think of thorns. And he was not only dark in his own right, with black hair and weathered skin, but he dressed in black from head to toe, the starkness broken only by his cravat and linen. This was a man capable of anything.
She couldn’t help herself. She flinched.
“So this is your neighbor,” he said to Jack, ignoring her reaction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Barnett.” A smile changed him to approachable.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Marianne managed without stammering.
“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.” He turned to his wife with a question about how she had spent her day.
Jack joined Marianne on the couch. His eyes were clearer after his sleep, though next to Blackthorn, his red and gray uniform seemed almost garish.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly. “This must be difficult.”
“Not as hard as I thought it would be,” she admitted. “Angela is everything you claimed, and more. It is impossible not to like her.” Even as she spoke, she cast a nervous eye at the marquess.
“I knew you would get on. You are very alike.” He glanced at her gown. “Nice. I see you’ve had a busy day.”
“Exhausting. Angela is far too generous.”
“As is Devall. Trust him.” He patted her shoulder, then turned to his friend. “Tell Marianne what we were discussing just now.”
“About Lady Barnett?” Those peaked brows rose so high they nearly disappeared into his dark hair.
“Yes. She should understand that it was not her fault that Barnett Court offered her no comfort.”
“Ah. You can rest easy on that score, Miss Barnett,” said Devall, taking a chair near the fireplace. “I have met Lady Barnett and her unholy brood several times, thanks to these two meddling in my affairs. The moment society accepted me back, the woman sicced her oldest daughter on me. I had to flee town to escape.” He scowled fiercely at Jack.
“It was time to set the record straight, and you know it,” said Jack calmly, then turned to Marianne. “He had been hiding from the world for years, refusing to fight for his rights after society ostracized him for no good reason.”
Marianne read the message in his eyes. Jack thought she was doing the same thing, hiding in the comfortable but lonely world she had created. And perhaps he was right. Today had been far easier than she had expected. When had she changed?
Devall shook his head. “I cannot imagine a more ill-suited person to care for a child awash in grief. Lady Barnett is cold to the bone. Having no emotion herself, she cannot abide it in others. And she is the most selfish woman of my acquaintance.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Angela. “My mother is worse. Lady Barnett has worked tirelessly to find husbands for her daughters. It is not her fault that their dowries are inadequate and their characters are worse.”
“I might quibble with that analysis, for their faults arise mostly from aping her, and their dowries were much larger in the beginning. But I was not exaggerating. She cares nothing for the girls and wants them out of her life as quickly as possible – she bristles at snide remarks that blame her for rearing two brace of spinsters. Suitable marriages would stifle her critics and allow her to resume her quest for social power. Lacking maternal feelings for her own offspring, she would have cared even less for a girl not of her blood.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jack told me that you were silent the entire time you were in France, but that you collapsed into hysteria when you arrived at Barnett Court. Is that true?”
“Yes. I knew no one at the house. My father and uncle had long been estranged, so I had never met the man.”
“And Barnett left immediately?”
She nodded.
“I suspect that Lady Barnett shoved you out of the way the moment you started crying. Did she banish you to a remote part of the house?”
Again she nodded.
“And if you did not obey when ordered to be quiet, she undoubtedly punished you.”
“She has a heavy hand,” Marianne admitted, then blushed. She had not meant to say that. She had offered so much provocation during her month at Barnett Court that she could hardly blame the woman for trying to subdue her.
“That does not surprise me. She was the worst sort of person to take charge of a grieving child. But her antagonism was not your fault.” He straightened, changing the subject. “You will remain here until we discover Barnett’s plans. Once he learns that you are no longer at Carey’s, he will likely press for an immediate hearing on his petition, using your flight as evidence against you. We must be ready to mount a defense.”
“I’m not sure I can,” admitted Marianne.
“You can.” His eyes bored into hers, filling her with unexpected courage. “We will leave as soon as we discover where that suit will be heard – probably London, but it is possible that he filed in Essex, or even Dorset. Use the time to speak to everyone you can. My staff is harmless, so you need not be nervous. But the more practice you have in meeting others, the easier it will be to handle the not-so-harmless men you must face in London.”
“We will start in the stable,” said Jack, helping Marianne to her feet.
She froze. “I ca—”
“Yes, you can. I know stables make you nervous, but the reason is obvious. The smell reminds you of France. One of the benefits of discussing that day is that it makes everything else easier. Knowing what causes the fear will allow you to separate it from the stimulus.”
“Very well. I will try.”
But her knees were so weak that she could barely follow.
Chapter Ten
Three days later, Devall summoned Jack and Marianne to the library.
She had become accustomed to his appearance and had learned to relax with both him and Angela, which confirmed that her aversion to Craven was not a general problem. While she must remain wary of those associated with Barnett, she ne
edn’t automatically fear other men.
It was a liberating conclusion, and not only because it promised a chance to lead a normal life. Many of her fears were fading. She no longer jumped when a servant appeared. This morning she had not needed deep breathing before she could summon Daisy.
Yet some terrors remained. Her first expedition to the stable had been a spectacular failure. Her hysteria had ended in a swoon. Jack swore that practice would help, but three more tries had elicited the same response. She couldn’t force even one foot over the threshold.
The prospect of going to London wasn’t much better, though at least those fears were rooted in logic rather than emotion. London was dangerous for a single lady who had no father or brother to protect her – and not just from social disgrace. The newspapers decried London’s rampant crime. Footpads lurked on every street. Females who ventured forth alone could be abducted and sold into brothels. Some neighborhoods were so unsafe that ladies could not enter, even in daylight when accompanied by sturdy footmen.
It sounded too much like France, so she was praying that her sanity hearing would be scheduled in Dorset.
“Is there a problem?” asked Jack once the butler closed the library door behind them.
Devall sat behind his desk. “Nothing we didn’t expect. Fitch just returned from London.”
“What did he learn?” Marianne forced the words from a suddenly tense tongue.
“Many things. To begin with, Barnett sold his town house last week to cover his son’s gaming debts – proof of how badly he’s dipped. He submitted a petition to Chancery a fortnight ago requesting full control of your affairs, citing your unsound mind. Until the hearing, he is staying at Ibbetson’s.”
“He must be in trouble, indeed,” said Jack, then turned to Marianne. “Ibbetson’s is the cheapest hotel with any claim to gentility. It is a favorite of vicars and schoolboys.”