Kindred Spirits

by Allison Lane

  Jack had given the bankers a week to recover the missing money, which should never have passed through Barnett’s fingers in the first place. Now he admitted that pressure from the trustees gave Barnett another reason to attack him. The man would have to mortgage everything he owned to repay what he’d stolen.

  “There you are,” said Devall when Jack reached the library. “Any news at the club?”

  “Everyone lucky enough to be in town will be at Lady Potherby’s to gawk at Marianne.”

  “Inevitable.” Devall shrugged. “Angela went through the same scrutiny, you might recall. We’d better call out the staff and practice a crowd scene tonight so she’ll be ready for the crush.”

  Jack nodded, relaxing. He should have thought of that himself instead of wasting his time on self-pity – or on air-dreams of bedding his wife.

  “Fitch found Miss Dubois,” Devall said, breaking into Jack’s thoughts.

  “Where?” Jack refused a glass of wine.

  “Serving Lady Wedleigh only ten miles from London.”

  “Does she recall anything that might help?”

  “I think so, Colonel,” said Fitch from near the fireplace. Jack hadn’t noticed him. The man had a talent for unobtrusiveness that often allowed him to overhear private conversations. “She recalls every moment of that journey. Watching the assault revived memories of her father’s death.”

  “I thought she remained in the stable loft,” said Jack.

  “She did, but there were ventilation gaps under the eaves. That not only allowed the slightest sound inside, but it offered a view of the stable yard. She kept watch so she would have warning if anyone returned to the stable. The mob was large – eight travelers augmented by half a dozen stable hands. All were drunk. She describes them as chance-met travelers heading for Paris to join Napoleon’s new army. That probably accounts for the excessive violence. Each had to prove his worth to the others.”

  “The monster attracted vicious followers,” agreed Jack. French soldiers had inflicted many atrocities on Spanish partisans.

  “So Miss Dubois actually witnessed the attack?” asked Devall.

  “Yes. She has never forgotten the screams. The attack lasted from noon until well after dark. She remembers being glad that Miss Marianne did not understand gutter French – the men described in detail what they were doing, planned to do, or had already done. But the words and actions were alien to a gently bred English schoolgirl.”

  Jack exhaled in relief, though she still repeated some of those words in her nightmares. But her mind might have truly snapped if she’d understood.

  “Anything else?” asked Devall.

  “Miss Dubois’s description of their escape mirrors Miss Marianne’s. Miss Dubois was shocked to learn that her charge had left Barnett Court so soon afterward. She would never have departed if she’d thought Miss Marianne would be mistreated.”

  “Nor would I have done so,” put in Jack. “But Miss Dubois had no choice. Lady Barnett took one look at her and saw red. She does not allow beautiful females under her roof.”

  “I believe that Miss Dubois feels guilty now that she knows the full story,” said Fitch diffidently. “And not just for leaving her there. She recalls a comment her mistress once made that implied Lady Barnett was a harridan and not overly bright. Miss Dubois regrets going to Barnett Court at all. Her last words in our interview were a wish that she had returned to Halworth and sought advice from Mr. Barnett’s solicitor.”

  “Is she willing to testify?” asked Jack, wishing that he’d questioned Francine further at the time. He would have gladly escorted them to Halworth.

  “Yes, though she would prefer not to.”

  “As would we all.” Devall shook his head, then turned to Jack. “Is there anyone else who might have helpful information?”

  Jack shook his head. The only other possibility was to look for witnesses to his own character, but he could not mention that to Devall. The best ones would know about Waterloo, playing directly into Barnett’s hands. Devall must concentrate on building Marianne’s self-confidence and poise.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marianne slipped into a seat at the back of Lady Potherby’s music room, grateful to have arrived after the program started. It was another sign of Jack’s consideration – like arranging to call on Lady Beatrice half an hour before her scheduled at-home. The gossip had enjoyed meeting Marianne before her rivals did, and Marianne had been relieved to face her away from prying eyes – especially since Lady Beatrice had shown her no special consideration. The woman was as acerbic in private as in public.

  “It’s about time I met your bride,” she had snapped at Jack. “You’ve been in town for five days.”

  “But I could hardly insult you by calling clad in a rustic gown that would shame even a servant,” Marianne had dared. To test her growing social skills, she and Jack had agreed that she would answer questions as long as possible, signaling Jack to step in if necessary.

  “Explain. Your father left you flush in the pocket.”

  Marianne nodded. “But I’ve lived secluded at Halworth since his death, so I had no need of a wardrobe I would never use.”

  “Ran mad is what I heard.” Her eyes gleamed. Though well past seventy, she showed no sign of waning memory or fading sight, and she hunted scandal with the intensity of a well-trained terrier.

  “It is true that I was in a state of shock when I returned from France twelve years ago.” She kept her voice steady. “But I had just listened to a mob butcher my entire family, barely escaping with my own life. Without Colonel Caldwell’s help, I would have perished.”

  “What?” Lady Beatrice stared at Jack, too surprised to control her voice – quite an accomplishment.

  “It’s true,” he said calmly. “She was taking the air under the eye of her mother’s maid when the mob arrived to punish the enemy Englishmen who dared defile a French country inn. I found her two days later and escorted her home.”

  “Why had I heard none of this?” She sounded aggrieved.

  “Between shock and grief, I was unable to talk about it,” admitted Marianne. “Thus my uncle knew no details. By the time grief waned, I was alone at Halworth and accustomed to my solitary state, so there was no one to tell.”

  Lady Beatrice bored in, firing questions so fast that Marianne had no time to think. She answered a dozen before calling a halt. “Enough, my lady, I beg of you. Rather than revive the grief and pain of that time, I prefer to concentrate on the future. Nothing else matters.”

  Lady Beatrice nodded, then turned her penetrating stare on Jack. “Have you seen your father lately?”

  Marianne scowled.

  “I’ve not seen Deerchester in thirteen years, as you well know,” Jack said calmly, though Marianne detected strain beneath his voice. Angela had confirmed that Barnett was reviving every scrap of scandal about the family. This call was as difficult for him as for her.

  Lady Beatrice quizzed him on his motives, his prospects, and his plans for the future, as if she were Marianne’s father evaluating his worthiness to make an offer. She didn’t miss any of Barnett’s insinuations.

  Marianne wanted to tear the woman limb from limb for impugning Jack’s honor, but she bit her tongue. He would not thank her for interrupting. He was quite capable of defending himself – which he did by denouncing Barnett as a fortune hunter without directly mentioning the viscount or his motives.

  By the time they left, Marianne was limp with exhaustion and fearful that the rumors were driving Jack closer to suicide, but she’d learned three things: Lady Beatrice despised Lord and Lady Barnett, which worked in her favor and Jack’s; to Lady Beatrice, being the first to report a new story was more important than the story itself; and Lady Beatrice would make a formidable ally. Anyone hiding the tiniest indiscretion feared her.

  Jack had planned his campaign well. With Lady Beatrice on her side, Barnett could not set society against her. She doubted whether the gossip’s support would allay
suspicions of Jack, though. He could deflect specific charges, but he undermined his credit every time he opened his mouth. That note of guilt convinced listeners that he was hiding grave crimes. The only way to eliminate it was to convince him that he had not betrayed his standards. Only then would his voice ring with confidence.

  Now she let her eyes wander the packed music room while a dark-haired lady coaxed cascades of notes from a pianoforte.

  Devall had warned her that the musicale would be crowded, for Barnett’s rumors had ignited rampant curiosity. But she hadn’t envisioned such a crush. If this many people were in town at a time everyone described as thin of company, what would a Season be like?

  Don’t think about it. Concentrate on tonight.

  People would have been curious to meet her anyway, for no one expected one of Wellington’s heroes to wed someone unknown to society – she’d not been to school or London or even to Dorset gatherings. Barnett’s charges of madness added a ghoulish element that could easily turn cruel if she showed signs of weakness.

  Jack would remain with her tonight, but she must learn to stand alone. Society frowned on wives who lived in their husband’s pockets. They would interpret her dependence as proof of incompetence, making Barnett’s claims more believable. She could hardly admit that she must stay close to Jack for his sake. Once he decided she no longer needed him…

  Walking that line would be tricky indeed.

  The music closed with a flourish that brought tears to her eyes. “I’ve never heard anything so beautiful,” Marianne whispered as the room erupted in applause.

  “I thought you would enjoy it,” Jack murmured back. “Miss Tassini is very talented.”

  “Who is Beethoven? The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “A German fellow who’s been all the rage for some years now.” He led her to the refreshment room as Miss Tassini began an encore.

  “He must be very good to amass a following so quickly.”

  “True, but beyond his musical talent, he is a canny businessman. He has an arrangement with an English publisher, who prints his music almost as soon as he writes it. That makes it more accessible than the works of other composers, even those who are long dead.” He headed for a corner table, which would keep the crowd from pressing too close. “And since he writes for the pianoforte rather than the harpsichord, he is able to infuse his music with emotion.”

  “It shows. I’ve never been more moved. It makes the pieces I know seem insipid.”

  “If you wish to study his works, hire a music teacher.” He glanced at the door, but they remained alone. “I received some news just before we left the house. Most of the guests will have heard it by now, so you need to be prepared. Barnett filed a second petition this afternoon.”

  She sighed. “What now?”

  “He wants an immediate hearing so I cannot squander your fortune before he has a chance to rescue you. We can contest it if you like.”

  She was sorely tempted, but a moment’s thought convinced her that, for Jack’s sake, it would be better to conclude the hearing as soon as possible. Continued repetition of the Deerchester scandals would harden Jack’s resolve to kill himself. So she said, “Opposing a quick hearing would not serve our interests. There are only two reasons we could cite. The first – that I am unable to face examination yet – would support Barnett’s contention. Arguing that my new trust protects me might raise the bishop’s suspicions.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Think deviously, Jack. I may be the sole trustee, but I will have to hire a man of business to handle the investments. Failing to do so would be mad. You know as well as I do that a woman cannot trade shares. And this is not the time or place to argue whether I can understand complex financial issues.”

  He choked.

  “Exactly. If I were mad and you were greedy – and the court has not ruled on either contention as yet – then you could exert your nefarious influence on my feeble mind and convince me to appoint you or a confederate to handle my affairs, thus giving you free rein to plunder my trust at will. You have the bad fortune of possessing a brother who would do just that.”

  “Devil take it!”

  “I think we should ignore this latest petition and let the bishop schedule the hearing whenever he wants. That will make us seem open and cooperative, undermining Barnett’s claims. I am more comfortable tonight than I dreamed was possible. Talking with Mrs. Halsey explained many of my fears, which allowed me to put them behind me. I will be all right.”

  Jack could only nod, for the other guests were crowding into the refreshment room. Many headed straight for Marianne – soldiers, dandies, ladies, rakes, all demanding introductions and offering congratulations. Names and faces flashed by so fast she doubted she would remember more than half. She didn’t like the suspicion directed at Jack – more evidence that Barnett’s campaign was undermining his credit – but she maintained both her calm and her smile. All she could do was pray that Jack was thinking clearly enough to attribute the antagonism to Barnett and not to his imagined crimes at Waterloo.

  It helped when Lady Debenham arrived. She was Lady Beatrice’s chief rival for the cachet of Most Knowing Gossip, so her support was also essential.

  “I refuse to believe Barnett’s latest tales, Colonel,” she said, shaking her head. “The man is mad as a March hare if he thinks anyone could confuse you with Wilcox. You are his antithesis in every way.” She turned to Marianne. “Barnett actually accused your husband of defrauding you. Of all the stupid, idiotic…” She sputtered to a halt, inhaling twice before she could continue. “Barnett is insane. Do you know he actually thinks Colonel Caldwell will squander your dowry on one of those rackety investment schemes Wilcox used to promote? The colonel has more sense – to say nothing of his own fortune to see after.”

  “Lord Barnett is laboring under considerable pressure,” Marianne responded lightly. A gossip of any stature would know about Barnett’s financial woes. After selling his town house, moving to Ibbetson’s, and mortgaging his estate, only the dullest intellect would think him flush in the pocket.

  “How true,” Lady Debenham purred. “And he still has four budding harridans on his hands. But attacking the colonel is personal – which I will make sure everyone remembers. He will never forgive Wilcox for luring him to ruin twenty-five years ago, though he is barking up the wrong tree this time. A more honorable man than the colonel would be hard to find.”

  Jack stiffened, but Marianne ignored him. “Thank you, my lady. I am pleased to find my judgment validated. I have considered him a paragon since he saved my life in France.”

  “I heard about that.” Her tone proclaimed pique that she hadn’t first heard it from Marianne.

  Marianne appeased her with details she hadn’t told Lady Beatrice. The tale became easier with each repetition. Sometime over the past twelve years, her grief had waned.

  She wanted a quiet word with Jack – was he upset about Wilcox cheating Barnett or about Lady Debenham’s praise? – but the moment Lady Debenham left, Lady Hartford swooped in.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you since reading of your marriage in the papers,” she said once Jack left to collect refreshments – Lady Hartford was Marianne’s age and as warm as Angela, so Marianne had sent him away. “Hartford and I had heard nothing about Colonel Caldwell since noting his name in the casualty lists. We were afraid he had succumbed to his injuries.”

  “He is fine, as you see.” She gestured to where Jack was juggling plates. “Do you live in London, or are you up on business?” The question bordered on rude, but she wondered how much of this large crowd had come to town to gawk at her.

  “Neither, actually,” said Lady Hartford easily. “We came to hear Miss Tassini play – I adore Beethoven, and she is a master of his work.”

  “I’ve never heard anything so lovely,” agreed Marianne, relaxing.

  Lady Hartford sat down across the small table. “How did you meet Colonel Caldwel
l? He is rarely in England.”

  “We met in France when I was a child, then more recently when he inherited the estate next to mine.”

  “So the rumors are true that your family died in France.” Lady Hartford shuddered artistically. “You must have been terrified. I cannot imagine losing my family at all, let alone so tragically.”

  “It was not pleasant,” Marianne admitted in a vast understatement. “But thanks to Jack, I escaped.”

  “And now you are wed. It is very nearly a fairy tale. But I must ask why you lived alone for so long – I know the rumors, of course, but I prefer to ask those directly involved; gossip so often twists tales.”

  Marianne shrugged. She had decided to say nothing negative about her family – not only was it good manners, but showing family loyalty might help her case with the bishop. He was as attuned to society as anyone. So she said, “I suffered nightmares for some time after returning from France. They badly disrupted my uncle’s household, so it was better that I returned home. And I was more comfortable with my familiar staff.”

  “I can read the truth well enough, for I know Barnett’s daughters. They doubtless threw fits because you needed attention.”

  Marianne tried to protest, but Lady Hartford stopped her. “Not to put down your relatives, but I cannot abide Lady Barnett. She demonstrates the worst characteristics of the mushroom class. A more selfish harridan I cannot imagine. And unscrupulous. Last Season, she spread false tales about one of my friends.”

  “Why?”

  “Miss Sheridan had attracted Kendall’s heir, a man Lady Barnett had hoped to attach for her oldest daughter – not that he would look twice at her – or even once if he could avoid it.”

  “What happened?” Every new fact about Lady Barnett made her seem worse.

  “Nothing in the end. Few believed the tales, knowing who had started them. The Barnetts’ reputations eroded further, and Kendall’s heir offered for Miss Sheridan a month earlier than anyone had expected – protecting himself, perhaps.” Her smile broadened as a dark-haired gentleman approached with Jack. “There you are, Thomas. What took you so long? I’m starving.”