The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1)

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Is it true?” the young woman whispered.

  Romayne put down her book. “Is what true?”

  Ellen’s pink dressing gown rustled as she sat next to Romayne. “Did you marry Jamie only to help me find a husband?”

  “What gave you such an idea?”

  “I just heard Mama tell Grange she would be glad when I was wed, so she and Fergus and Jamie could return to Scotland. Not she and Fergus and Jamie and you. Did you marry him only so I could have the Season I had dreamed of?”

  “No, of course not,” she murmured, staring down at the book.

  “Why did you marry him? Until we arrived in London, I thought you might love him.” Her blue eyes widened. “Do you still love that odious Mr. Montcrief?”

  “I assure you that, no matter what you might believe, Bradley is out of my life now that I am married to your cousin.”

  “He doesn’t believe that. I fear he wishes to force Jamie to defend your honor, so he can kill him. Do you think he would be so stupid?”

  “James or Bradley?”

  Ellen laughed tersely. “Mr. Montcrief, of course. Jamie is a wonderful shot.” Her eyes widened with abrupt dismay as she gasped, “Is Mr. Montcrief proficient with a pistol, too?”

  Instead of answering, Romayne posed her own question. “Why do you wish to know such details about our marriage?”

  “I need to know if you married Jamie only to allow me to come to London to find a husband because …” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I do not want you to end your marriage at the same time I begin mine.”

  “You have accepted Lord Culver’s suit?”

  “Not yet, but he is a most charming man.”

  Romayne concentrated on breathing evenly. This was too quick. Even Philomena had known Mr. Boumphrey for a fortnight before she accepted his proposal. “You would be wise to think carefully. You have only met Lord Culver. Don’t you think you need more time to make a decision?”

  “No.”

  “You are not yet out, Ellen. Why would you end your first Season so early?” Romayne forced a smile. “I don’t mean to disparage Lord Culver.”

  “I know, but—”

  Gently she interrupted again. “There are no buts. He is much older than you, Ellen. Although he could provide you with a comfortable life and make you his viscountess, are you ready to set aside your chance to enjoy London? He plans to return to his estates in Jamaica.”

  “Romayne, that does not bother me.”

  “It should!” Standing, she put the book back in its place. “Guard your dreams well, for once you compromise them, you risk losing them forever. Are they worth the standing you could gain in Society to push them aside?”

  Hearing Ellen’s dressing gown whispering as she rose, Romayne faced her. Ellen took Romayne’s hand in hers, her smile faltering. “Dear Romayne, you are worrying needlessly.”

  “You don’t wish to marry Lord Culver?”

  She laughed lightly. “He has not offered a proposal to me or to my knowledge approached Mama.”

  “Then why are we discussing this?”

  “Because I wished to learn the truth. You are still my bosom bow. You care about me after I said such frightful things to you.” Sitting again on a chair, she folded her hands in her lap. “I was a widgeon, Romayne, to think that you would betray Jamie in Mr. Montcrief’s arms. I wanted to apologize to you, but it isn’t easy for me.”

  “You have no need to apologize. What you saw was horrible, but I can assure you I shall find it difficult to forgive Bradley for forcing his attentions upon me.”

  “So you love Jamie?”

  Romayne hesitated. Ellen had bared her heart; could she do less? “I don’t know.”

  “Then how could you marry him?”

  “He asked me.”

  “And you wished to protect your reputation?” Her eyes filled with accusation. “I did not believe that when Grange told Mama, but it is true, isn’t it?”

  “It is more complicated than that.”

  “How can it be more complicated? What other reason but love is there for marrying?”

  “What other reason?” Romayne repeated. Once she had believed as Ellen did, but that was before she had learned there were as many reasons for marriage as there were people who were willing to chance breaking hearts for their own purposes.

  “I asked Jamie the same question, and he had no answer either, but to say that I should not hurry into any decision.”

  Hating the words she must say, but knowing she had no choice, Romayne could only recall her grandfather forbidding her to see Bradley again. Had it hurt him to speak those words as it hurt her now? “Mayhap James sees reasons why such a match would be ill-advised.”

  “He only cares about me marrying a rich man!”

  “You know that is not true. He wants—”

  “Why should I care what Jamie wants?” she cried. “He has made a hash of his life! I would be foolish to let him queer mine!”

  As Ellen ran to the door, Romayne whispered, “Ellen, wait. Listen to me.”

  Ellen unlocked the door and whirled to face her. “Why should I listen to you? Your life is more of a bumble broth than Jamie’s! You are the one who has compromised her dreams.” She fled, slamming the door behind her.

  Romayne dropped to the settee. Ellen was right. She had made a muddle of her life by falling in love with her husband. She was an air-dreamer, and her dreams were doomed to ruin. Once the tears began to fall, she could not halt them as she mourned for the tragic tangle of their lives.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That both James and her grandfather returned from Brooks’s club in good spirits added to Romayne’s disquiet. Her tears had been wiped away more than an hour before, but her despair was undiminished. Although she had wanted the two of them to be friends, she distrusted this sudden amity. As she watched her grandfather clap James on the back before they parted at the top of the stairs, she hurried to ask James what had happened.

  “It shall have to wait until later,” James said with an irritating smile that she had learned signaled his pleasure.

  “But, James—”

  He kissed her cheek. “Don’t be a shrewish wife. Let me ready myself for this party tonight. You wouldn’t want me tossed from Mrs. Kingsley’s house if I show up in dusty trousers and an afternoon coat.”

  Romayne refused to be put off. Following him into their bedchamber, she clenched her hands on the back of her favorite chair as he dropped himself into it. “You enjoyed Brooks’s?”

  “A diverting little club,” he said without looking at her as he pulled off his boots.

  “Stop it!” she cried. Flinging herself around the chair, she sat. “James, I think I deserve an explanation.”

  He reclined nonchalantly against the cushions, but potent emotions burned in his eyes. “Why?”

  “I am your wife.”

  “Again I ask ‘why.’ Being my wife gives you no right to subject me to an interrogation simply because I spent the afternoon with the Duke of Westhampton at his club.”

  “You demand I tell you where I am going and what I did.”

  With a shrug, he laughed. “My dear Romayne, I do have the right to ask that of you. You are my wife.”

  She rose and faced him, her hands at her hips. “You are being more beastly than usual! If you recall, I have never acknowledged you as the lord and master of my life.”

  Standing, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto the settee. When she was about to rise, he pressed her back against the cushions. He leaned over her. She struggled with her rebellious heart’s reaction to his touch and her outrage that he dared treat her so.

  “I know you wish to belong to another man,” he said.

  “I wish to belong to no one. I am not a possession. Not my grandfather’s, not yours.”

  “For now, according to the law, you belong to me.”

  She batted at his hands. “You know that there is nothing legal about our marriage. I shall n
ot suffer your pawing. Release me!”

  Softly he said, “It appears that I may be releasing you far sooner than I had planned.” He stood and walked toward the dressing room.

  “James?” she called as she looked over the back of the settee. She had seen the pang of what appeared to be regret on his face. “What do you mean? Have you found your man?”

  “I mean,” he said, his smile daring her to contest him, “to get dressed quickly so that you and my cousin shall not be late in arriving at Mrs. Kingsley’s party. We do not want to offend anyone with our country-put ways, do we?”

  Standing, she asked, “James, what happened at Brooks’s? What did Grandfather say to you?”

  “Will you ring for Cameron? I need to talk to him about some matters before we leave.”

  “James!” she cried in exasperation.

  His cold smile faltered, and hope surged within her. It died when he winked at her. “Don’t be curious, dear wife. The only time your name came up in the conversation was when your grandfather spoke of his concerns for your future. He cares deeply for you.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Did you expect there to be more?” He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Get dressed in your finest, Romayne. We want to do Ellen proud tonight.”

  At the mention of his cousin’s name, she shook off her concerns as she recalled Ellen’s. “James, I need to speak to you about her … about her and Lord Culver.”

  His smile froze into a scowl. “There is nothing to say about that.”

  “She thinks she has a tendre for him.”

  “How can she when she has just met the man?” Turning, he walked again to the dressing room. With his hand on the latch, he said quietly, “On this one thing, Romayne, don’t argue with me.”

  “I didn’t intend to, because I believe you are right.”

  “Do you?” He sighed. “I wish I could be so sure.”

  Romayne blinked back tears as she stepped from the carriage. Despite all her efforts, she could not keep from looking at the box. Jeffries smiled at her, but the old man should not have been in Thatcher’s place.

  James put his hand on her arm, and she looked up at his strained expression. How could he understand her heart so well and still be willing to shatter it by refusing to see how she loved him? She could feel his pain as if it was her own, but his other thoughts were as closed off as his heart.

  Hearing a soft sob, she draped her arm around Ellen’s shoulders. Ellen had become friends with Thatcher while they looked after her pup at Westhampton Hall, and she could not conceal her grief.

  “Mayhap we should return home,” Romayne said. “It would not do for us to enter Mrs. Kingsley’s house with faces as long as a giant’s breeches.”

  “Mayhap we should,” whimpered Ellen.

  James shook his head. “Nonsense! We are here, and it would do you good to be out with other people.”

  “You are heartless, Jamie!” Ellen pressed her hands to her face and wept.

  Muttering, James took Romayne by the arm. He drew her around the back of the carriage. “Convince her to go in.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to speak with someone in there tonight.”

  “About—”

  He put his finger to her lips. “Say nothing when we are not in our private rooms.”

  “I will try.”

  “You must. Otherwise—”

  With a smile, she raised her finger to his lips. “Hush, James, before you spill the truth yourself.”

  “You are a vixen, dearie.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly. Yearning coursed through her, but she did not linger. She did not dare to, for her desire for his caresses was too potent for the walkway. Going back to Ellen, she put her arm around the younger woman again. A few whispered words calmed the girl, and Ellen nodded.

  “Thatcher was such a nice lad,” Ellen whispered.

  “I know, but now he is home at Westhampton Hall.”

  Blinking back tears, Ellen rubbed her hand against her face as they climbed the steps to the front door. Romayne looked back to see her husband watching them intently. The warmth of his gaze swept over her, and she wanted to ask the question tearing at her heart.

  The person he was to meet in here tonight—would it be the one who would enable him to catch the traitor? And then, once his duty was complete, how long before he left her to mourn for a love he never shared?

  Mrs. Kingsley’s house glowed with candles and gaiety, but Romayne found it impossible to find a smile. When Lord Culver led Ellen into the ballroom with its garish mural of ancient Greece running along three walls, James kept his arm around Romayne. They walked through the choke-full room. She said nothing, and he seemed as disinclined to talk. When she saw him scanning the room, she wondered when he would find the person he was seeking.

  A short man with a huge brown mustache pushed through the assemblage and asked, “James MacKinnon?”

  James smiled tautly. “I collect you are Farmer?”

  “Captain Chester Farmer, late of the Royal Horse Artillery.” He bowed in Romayne’s direction. “I trust Lady Romayne will forgive us if we speak of business.”

  “Is there a place where we can speak in private?”

  Captain Farmer shook his head. “The only other room on this floor is filled with those who prefer the company of cards to the pretty ladies.” He offered a smile to Romayne that was so genuinely warm she could not help smiling back.

  “Then we shall speak here. Romayne, would you serve as a lookout in that direction?” He pointed to her left. “Let us know if someone approaches so near that they can take note of our conversation. Farmer?”

  “I have your right shoulder covered, Major.” He flushed and gulped, “Sorry.”

  A smile fled across James’s face. “No damage done. What information do you have for me?”

  “Another Frenchman has been smuggled ashore. Do you wish us to intercept him?”

  He shook his head. “No, but keep someone so close to him that they step on his shadow.”

  “Yes, Mr. MacKinnon.” He hesitated, then said, “Whalen would like to see you in Brighton at your leisure.”

  Romayne clenched her fingers around her fan until she heard its spines creak. She was shocked that James and Captain Farmer were so bold as to discuss their espionage even this openly.

  “Give me an address where I can find him,” James ordered.

  “I can give you more than an address. Why don’t you meet me at Boodle’s tomorrow? We can ride out to Brighton together.”

  James nodded. “Tomorrow, say at noon, at Boodle’s.”

  When James put his hand on her arm to steer her away from the captain, Romayne did not protest. This was one of the few times she had seen him as Major MacKinnon. Even when they had been hiding in the barn in Scotland, he could have been any gentleman who had come to the aid of a frightened lady.

  Her husband, this man that she yearned to love, was a soldier who might die on the morrow. She walked beside him blindly, not seeing the gilt sparkling on the walls. Sprayed before her eyes were scenes of James riding into combat with more concern for his honor than his life. A quiver raced through her as she fought her imagination that wanted to show her a vista of him lying dead and crumpled on a bloody battlefield.

  “Romayne,” he said calmly, “I think it would be wise if we turned our attention to another matter of some import.”

  When she followed his gaze across the room to Lord Culver, she linked her fingers through his. She could not speak the accusation that seared like acid on her tongue. Was he anxious, despite urging Ellen to give her heart slowly, that his cousin be betrothed before he revealed the truth of the feigned marriage? Then he could ride away to his dreams of glory, his tasks in London completed.

  “Of course,” she answered listlessly.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  Again she was tempted to speak the truth. The idea of him dying in the m
idst of the horrible war sent nausea roiling through her stomach. Forcing a smile, she said, “Just tired.”

  “Are you still unsettled from the carriage accident?” His gaze swept along her.

  “I shall be fine.”

  “If all goes as I hope in Brighton, this shall be over soon.”

  “I know.”

  He scowled at her bleak tone, but she added nothing else as they walked toward where the viscount was laughing with Ellen. Lord Culver greeted them enthusiastically.

  “Here are the brave victims of misfortune,” he said with a smile. “You look as lovely as ever, Lady Romayne, and you, MacKinnon, have the dashing appearance of a war-ravaged hero.”

  “A rôle I have no interest in assuming.”

  Romayne said, “Please excuse me.”

  “Romayne?”

  She did not look at her husband as she said, “I see a friend with whom I must speak.” It was a lie, and she knew he would know that if he saw the distress on her face.

  Rushing away before he could ask another question and demolish her fragile composure, she walked so quickly across the ballroom that she did not need to stop for any conversations. She sought a corner at the far side of the room and sat on a bench beside a plant that half-concealed her. She hoped no one would notice her.

  As so often before, her hopes were spoiled by another’s kindness. Her name was called in a familiar voice. She was able to smile when Philomena Boumphrey stopped in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for the fury that should be aimed at Bradley instead of her. Romayne wanted to apologize, but did not know what to say that would not insult her friend.

  Instead of flying into a pelter, Philomena offered her a studied smile. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me to your cousin’s come-out tomorrow evening. I would have called this afternoon, but I fear I was at home myself.”

  “That—that is very nice of you to say.” Hating herself for stuttering, Romayne was confused. Philomena had every reason to despise her, because Bradley had acted as if Philomena did not exist once Romayne had arrived at the soirée at his house.