A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss Townsend?” Owen asked in an obvious bid to steer the conversation into more congenial waters.

  “It was akin to any other, I suppose. Proper. Correctly small and tasteful.” She shrugged and spared Phoebe a downward glance. “You and your sister did make a very pretty picture in your matching dresses and hats. Julia, of course, looked lovely.”

  Resentment once again, and Phoebe traded another glance with Owen. The slant of his mouth told her he had heard it, too. Would Julia find difficulty in the person of Miss Townsend? In marrying Gil today, had she also attached herself to someone intent on making her life troublesome?

  “Phoebe, my dear, you’re shivering.” Owen came to his feet and extended his hand. “Miss Townsend, would you care to join us inside for the rest of the ride?”

  She waved them on. “No, you go ahead.”

  With a hand at the small of Phoebe’s back, Owen hurried her along the deck, but when they reached the door to the cabin, they passed it by and ducked around to the port side. They were by no means alone here, either. Several others, wrapped in overcoats, with their hats pulled low, drifted along the railing or sat in small groups here and there. Owen led Phoebe to an empty corner near the stern, where they could speak in semiprivacy if they kept their voices down.

  “Phew,” he said with a shake of his head. “Thank goodness for a brisk wind, or we wouldn’t have had an excuse to escape. I didn’t think she’d care to follow us. A bit of a shrew, isn’t she?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’ve hardly got to know her at all. Perhaps it’s only the strain of the day and this wretched wind.” She tucked her chin and raised her shawl.

  “It won’t be as bad once we reach the yacht. It’s the forward motion of the launch that’s raising much of the breeze.”

  Phoebe smiled, regarding his dark eyes and firm features. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here. I wouldn’t miss your sister’s wedding. Or the chance to see you so prettily turned out.” He looked down at her in a way that sent fresh chills racing up and down her length, ones that certainly had nothing to do with the weather and that left her slightly discombobulated.

  A brisk laugh and a shake of her head restored her equilibrium. “Another comment like that and you’ll go overboard, Owen Seabright.”

  Another laugh skittered along the deck. Two men and a woman had gathered near the port cabin door. It had been the woman who laughed. Phoebe had met Mildred Blair briefly last night, when the Renshaws had arrived in Cowes and met Gil and his sister for dinner. From what she had gathered, Miss Blair worked for Gil, yet her manner toward him had struck Phoebe as being rather more familiar than a typical employee’s. Her grandmother had certainly noticed, too, if her disapproving frowns were any indication.

  The young woman excused herself to her companions and made her way over to Phoebe and Owen.

  “Lady Phoebe.” Without waiting for Phoebe to greet her in return, she directed her attention to Owen. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She extended a hand clad in kidskin, black to match the trim on her coat, which draped from her shoulders and fell to her calves in the latest fashion. With raven’s dark hair cut into blunt bangs and a clear, translucent complexion, she rivaled Julia in film star beauty. “I’m Mildred Blair, the viscount’s personal secretary. So good of you to attend the wedding. Do let me know if you need anything. Are you staying at the Mariner Hotel with the rest of the guests?”

  “Owen Seabright,” he said. “And no, I won’t be staying the night.”

  “Such a shame.” Miss Blair spoke briskly. “The viscount has a lovely brunch planned tomorrow at the hotel. He and his bride won’t be there, of course, as they’ll have sailed away by then. Such a pity you’ll miss it.”

  “I’ll be there,” Phoebe said. “My family and I are staying to see Julia and Gil off tomorrow. And then we’ll be going over to East Cowes to tour Osborne House.”

  “Yes.” Miss Blair curled her reddened lips tightly. “I meant Mr. Seabright.”

  “It’s Lord Owen Seabright,” Phoebe corrected her and, from the corner of her eye, saw his poor attempt to hide a grin. She realized Miss Blair reminded her of someone: her cousin Regina. Poor Regina. She had been larger than life, a vital force that swept others along for a breathless ride. The two women resembled each other, with their black hair, pale skin, and sense of style. There, however, the resemblance ended. Regina had never been intentionally rude—not to Phoebe, at any rate.

  Yet she would not have accused Miss Blair of flirting. She saw no seductive pursing of her lips, no invitation in her gaze. What did she want, then?

  Miss Blair sized up Owen with a raised eyebrow, looking neither intimidated nor impressed by his rank. “I see. Then, if there is anything Lord Owen needs, he has only to ask.”

  He drew Phoebe’s arm through his. “Thank you, Miss Blair. We’ll let you know if we require anything. If you’ll excuse us.” Once again, he hurried Phoebe along the deck, murmuring in her ear, “Should we meet one more charmer like the last two, I’ll be obliged to you for throwing me overboard.”

  “And I’ll gladly jump in after you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Eva stood on the main pier of the Royal Yacht Squadron, her arm linked with Hetta’s. The launch would be back for the rest of the guests, but she and Hetta and a few other servants might not make it on until a third crossing. Nor had they been invited to wait inside the building after the ceremony. Thank goodness both women had worn their sturdy woolen coats and close-fitting hats.

  Footsteps echoed on the boards behind her, and Eva glanced over her shoulder. What she saw made her slide her arm free of Hetta’s and turn full around.

  “My lord, good morning. Are you . . . going to the reception?”

  Theo Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, smiled grimly and shook his head. “Good morning, Miss Huntford. No, I’m not going. Bad enough I attended the wedding. Although, I am an invited guest.”

  This produced a shock. “You are? That is . . . I mean . . .”

  “It’s all right. I was surprised, too. I suppose the countess invited me to impress upon me the fact that Lady Julia is taken now.” He nodded to Hetta, who offered a shy smile and nodded back, though Eva caught the faintest hint of pity in her bright azure eyes. Hetta had not known him before the war, but its ravages were plain to see. His lordship had once been a handsome man—before the mustard gases of the Battle of the Somme. From the corner of his mouth to the left side of his chin and beneath, the chemical burns had left the skin pitted and stretched, a permanent sneer whether he willed or not. And his hands . . . It pained Eva to see him struggle to perform the simplest tasks, yet perform them he did, without assistance, with minimal fuss.

  His last words sank in and took her aback. There had never been open acknowledgment of his affections for Lady Julia—at least not in Eva’s hearing. The intimacy of his admission, so at odds with their disparate stations, sent a heat of confusion to her cheeks.

  And yet he had ventured onto the dock to speak with her. She owed him her attention, and any solace she could offer.

  “Miss Huntford, is she, do you think, happy?”

  Her heart dropped. Of course he would ask this—the one question she felt incapable of answering truthfully. She prided herself on her honesty; speaking lies was abhorrent to her. She narrowed her eyes in the glare cast by the steely waters and studied the Marquess of Allerton. What did he seek? An assurance of Julia’s happiness, or the knowledge that she had sacrificed her true desires for the good of the family? Which would put his mind more at ease, knowing she loved him still or believing her heart had switched its allegiance?

  Desperation flitted at the corners of his eyes. His hands were balled in the pockets of his overcoat. He loved her; Eva believed that fully. And she realized, given the totality of the circumstances, what she must say.

  “I believe my lady will be happy.”

  A breath whooshed out of him, causing his
shoulders to sag, his eyes to momentarily close. “I’m glad. It’s what I want. I watched her back at the church, listened to her take her vows, but I couldn’t be sure. You know her better than anyone. If you say she is happy, then I can go away believing it and get on with my life.”

  Eva’s throat clogged, and she couldn’t trust her voice not to betray her. She forced a smile, a small one, which the marquess returned briefly. Then he thanked her, bade her and Hetta good day, and made his way back to the clubhouse. Moments later, a motorcar pulled away from the building—a gleaming Silver Ghost that had once belonged to Theo Leighton’s deceased brother, who had been the Marquess of Allerton before him. He would make his way to the ferry landing and leave Cowes—and Lady Julia—behind him.

  “All right, ja?”

  Eva turned away from the retreating motorcar. “Everything is fine,” she lied, because she could not have made Hetta understand, not with the language barrier between them. But she hadn’t exactly lied to the marquess. She hadn’t said, as he believed, that Lady Julia was happy. She had said she believed Lady Julia would be happy. Someday. Eva clung to the notion. But whether that happiness would someday include Theo Leighton, who could say?

  The launch, having deposited its first round of passengers onto the decks of the Georgiana, had turned around and was once more approaching the pier. The doors of the clubhouse opened, and wedding guests began filing out. Judging by the number of them, Eva and Hetta would be waiting for a third crossing. She drew Hetta off to the side so they wouldn’t be in the way.

  * * *

  If Phoebe had had any doubts about Mildred Blair’s position in Gil’s household, the woman briskly dispelled them now. As soon as they stepped onto the Georgiana, she shed her fashionable coat and began issuing orders to the crew and checking to see that everything had been laid out according to plan. Flowers and bunting adorned the main saloon and the dining room offered a buffet of choices from canapés and foie gras to seafood and fine cuts of beef, to the sweets and pastries surrounding the tiered wedding cake. Miss Blair inspected all, her face a mask of seriousness, her eyes keen and missing no detail, her hands quick and deft when rearranging was warranted. Upon completing her circuit of the yacht’s public rooms, she disappeared once more into the dining room. Phoebe assumed she was on her way down to the galley to ensure all was running smoothly there.

  Unfortunately, the boat itself was anything but smooth. Although from the Royal Yacht Squadron the vessel had appeared more or less stable, now that Phoebe had boarded, she could feel the deck swaying beneath her feet. So could the other guests, judging by their tight expressions. Phoebe rarely suffered from motion sickness, but she worried about Eva, whose insides became unsettled from bumpy motorcar rides, never mind boats on choppy waters.

  Julia and Gil had boarded but had slipped away, following the photographer out to the top deck for more pictures. Phoebe was grateful her presence didn’t seem to be required this time. Amelia and Fox had set about exploring. Phoebe had left them to it and instead strolled through each of the public rooms, exchanging light conversation with friends and relatives. She and Owen had gone in separate directions upon reaching the Georgiana, but every so often she felt his gaze upon her, a soft caress of his regard, and would look up to find his eyes smiling over heads at her.

  She wandered beyond the saloon, where a conservatory lay enclosed in glass and furnished in bright colors. Had the sun burned its way through the clouds, she could well imagine the resulting cozy warmth, but today’s overcast sky neither warmed the space nor invited the observer to stay. As a result, no guests had gathered here. With a shiver, she turned to retrace her steps, but in the small, connecting passageway she went still when voices made their way through a door that led outside, onto the starboard deck.

  “I agree with you, Veronica,” a woman’s husky voice said. “She can be marrying him only for his money.”

  Phoebe didn’t recognize the voice but guessed Veronica must be Gil’s sister. The reply confirmed it.

  “My brother’s a fool. A man of his age . . . Good heavens, he’d better not come crying to me when she cuckolds him.”

  Phoebe dragged in an indignant breath, and it was all she could do to stop herself from bursting through the door and issuing a thorough dressing-down. But the two hadn’t finished yet.

  “She is a beauty, though. Even you must admit that, Veronica.”

  “Humph. Mark my words, she’ll bring him nothing but trouble, Antonia. Trouble he well deserves.”

  The one named Antonia spoke more gently. “You’ve never forgiven him, have you, my dear?”

  “Forgive? Why on earth should I? I’d have been happily married to Harold until he perished in the war, God rest him, and now I’d have children to comfort me and a home and an income of my own. Instead, look at me. I’m a lonely old spinster with no prospects and entirely dependent on my brother’s generosity, or lack thereof. He hates me. He blames me for Georgiana’s accident and has been taking his revenge ever since.”

  “But . . . I thought Georgiana died of the influenza. Surely you could not be blamed for that.”

  “I’m not talking about her death, Antonia. I’m talking about the accident that killed their unborn child and left her unable to have more. The carriage accident twenty years ago.”

  “But how can that have been your fault? Didn’t a dray come barreling into the vehicle you and she were riding in?”

  “Indeed it did. But going out that day was my idea. You see, I intended to meet Harold, and I asked Georgiana to come along to, well . . . you know . . . keep things respectable. Harold would not have compromised my reputation for anything.”

  “A true gentleman.”

  “That he was. But after the accident, Gil blamed us both and threatened to ruin Harold both socially and financially if he ever came near me again.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes, he did. And he’d have done it, too. Vindictive to the last, my brother. And now he married this chit of a schoolgirl to get himself an heir, but also to rub my face in the fact that he can move on with his life just as he pleases, while I continue to languish in the obscurity of middle-aged spinsterhood. A woman of my age certainly can’t expect suitors to come knocking at her door.”

  “I wish there was something I could do for you, my dear.”

  A dramatic sigh rumbled its way through the closed door. “I do appreciate that, Antonia. There is little to be done, at least for now. But someday, my friend, oh, yes, someday I shall have the last word and the last laugh. And then my brother will be sorry for the way he’s treated me all these years. In the meantime . . .” Another sigh, although this one bordered on a groan. “I’d best make my appearance on the top deck. Gil wants a photograph of the two of us with the sea as a backdrop. I cannot imagine why.”

  Footsteps indicated the pair was moving on, and further conversation eluded Phoebe’s hearing. It had become a bad habit, eavesdropping, but one for which she had learned to feel remorseful after the fact. As it was, she had learned her sister would find no friend in Veronica Townsend and indeed had better watch her back around the woman. Would Miss Townsend seek to redress her brother’s wrongs through Julia? Phoebe must find a moment to warn her sister.

  Julia and Gil didn’t reappear until after the last of the guests had arrived. Then they took center stage in the saloon. Miss Blair also returned and coordinated with the waiters to make certain every guest held a glass of champagne. Many of her directions were pantomimed rather than spoken, while the staff moved with the precision of a choreographed dance. She directed the photographer, as well, showing him where to set up his tripod and equipment.

  Phoebe couldn’t help admiring the secretary’s skill in managing such an event in these relatively cramped quarters. Having the wedding at Foxwood Hall would have been infinitely easier and would have pleased Grams infinitely more. But Gil had insisted....

  His best man, Sir Hugh Fitzallen, moved beside the bridal couple and
raised his glass. Before he spoke, all three looked in the direction of the camera and smiled. Phoebe detected little sincerity in those smiles, but then, it wasn’t easy to look carefree and at ease in picture after picture.

  Besides, a steady stream of frigid air poured in through the yacht’s open windows. Gil had insisted they be open, claiming that to close them would defeat the purpose of holding the reception out on the water. Phoebe tightened her wrap around her. Likewise, many of the guests had chosen to keep their overcoats around their shoulders.

  At a nod from the photographer, Sir Hugh launched into his toast. “Julia, Gil, love ‘beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’ ”

  Phoebe recognized the quote, from 1 Corinthians 13:7. Apt and lovely. He went on, but her attention wandered. There hadn’t been many guests on Gil’s side of the aisle earlier, hardly more than a handful, and mostly all his age. Had he no young relatives, or elderly ones, for that matter? How sad, she thought, to be so alone in the world. Or had he simply not invited them?

  Sir Hugh’s baritone caught her attention again. “And as Socrates said, ‘By all means marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll be happy. If you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.’ ” He paused at the resulting chuckles. Gil laughed outright. Julia looked wary. The photographer captured the moment as Sir Hugh again raised his glass. “Here’s hoping, Gil, that you never become a philosopher.”

  More laughter, but again, not shared by Julia. Instead, her gaze wandered to Mildred Blair, who hovered in the doorway of the dining room with an expression that reminded Phoebe of the doting approval of a governess. Which struck her as exceedingly odd.

  “Thank God that’s done.” The voice startled her and, flinching, she turned to find her brother at her shoulder. “I was afraid it would go on forever.”

  “Keep your voice down, please.” Phoebe glanced around to see if anyone had overheard. “I take it you didn’t enjoy Sir Hugh’s speech?”