A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Fox tossed his head, flinging a shock of fair hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t mean the speech, goose. I meant Julia’s stubbornness about marriage. I thought we’d never get her out of the house and off the dole.”

  “Off the—” Phoebe fought the urge to box her brother’s ear. “You never grow up, do you?”

  He smirked. “Granted, it’ll be a while yet for Amelia, but you . . . you had better start thinking about your own nuptials, sister. Owen isn’t going to wait around forever. Or is it that you haven’t quite hooked him yet?”

  “You really are insufferable, Fox.”

  “I’m a realist, which is more than I can say for you.”

  She shook her head at him. “Do you know how long it’s been since you and I had a real conversation?”

  “Funny, I thought we were having one now.”

  “No, we are not. This is you attempting to bully me with outmoded ideas.”

  “You won’t think it’s outmoded when I cut you off without a penny.”

  “You’re an arrogant, obnoxious little boy.” Without another word, Phoebe strode away, but she felt his smirk following her. She dearly would have liked to stay and say more, explain to him that, money or no, he would hold no sway over her life, now or ever. She also would have liked to make him understand—to drill it into that dull brain of his—that all of them would have to learn to earn their keep, because it wasn’t enough to simply preserve Foxwood Hall for future generations. Their legacy needed to be more than that, needed to contribute in some way to the world, and to the good of England, if the Renshaw family were to maintain any standing or dignity within society.

  “Everything all right?” Owen came up beside her and touched his fingertips to her shoulder—briefly. They had agreed ahead of time not to give anyone, especially Grams, reason to speculate about another impending wedding. But his timing couldn’t have been better, almost as if he had read her mind and knew Fox had upset her. Or perhaps he had recognized the menacing expression on Fox’s young face.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied, looking up at his strong features. They steadied her, those features, however much they used to confuse her and make her blush in the most exasperating way. No more, for she had learned in the past year that she was his equal and, more importantly, that he saw her as such.

  “Let me guess.” He grinned. “Now that Fox has Julia married off, you’re next.”

  “If he has his way. He’s convinced it’s the only viable option.”

  “You, of course, have other ideas.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” She hadn’t told anyone what she had in mind, not even Eva. She wished to attend university and perhaps study law. The very notion of what her future might hold made her heart pump faster.

  “Then I’ve no reason to hope?” His expression told her he only half jested; hope did indeed glimmer in his eyes, but it was tempered by prudence and, most important of all, patience. She silently thanked him for that.

  “Now is not the time to speak of the future, but I do have plans that must be set into motion before I make any permanent decisions.”

  His grin returned. “How mysterious.”

  “Not really. But as I said, now is not the time.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to wait around indefinitely, then.” He let out a long-suffering, rather melodramatic sigh, which made her laugh. Then she sobered.

  “Do you mind very much?”

  He shook his head, his lips curling ever so subtly. “Aren’t the best things worth waiting for?” He raised her hand to his lips. “If you’ll excuse me, I see your grandfather finally has less of a crowd around him.”

  She watched him go, half smiling, and marveling that not once had they discussed marriage. There had been no proposal, no plans voiced, yet somehow it had become understood that their futures were linked. She had been told on more than one occasion not to let a man like Owen slip through her fingers. There were so few eligible bachelors in England nowadays; so few had come home from the war that odds were women Phoebe’s age might never marry if they didn’t already have someone. But marriage driven by a sense of desperation?

  Not for her. And if Owen felt content to wait, why should she rush things?

  In a corner of the saloon, a gramophone trilled out a lively tune, and Phoebe recognized the light jazz of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra from America. There wasn’t room on the Georgiana for a live ensemble, and besides, there would be no dancing, at least nothing more than a token swaying back and forth of the happy couple at some point. A few guests were tapping their feet, nonetheless, obviously tempted. But Gil—and Julia, for that matter—had made this stipulation perfectly clear, for Gil could not dance. Could not walk without the aid of his cane and the prosthetic appendage that had replaced his real leg from the knee down some twenty years ago.

  She drifted into the dining room and found Amelia patiently awaiting her turn at the buffet. Phoebe lifted a plate of creamy white porcelain emblazoned with Gil’s family crest in blue, green, and gold enamel. “Watch out for Fox,” she whispered with a chuckle. “He’s got one sister married off and is coming for us now.”

  Amelia apparently didn’t find this amusing. “I know. He’s already been round to taunt me. You’re lucky. You have Owen. Do you suppose I’ll have to marry someone I don’t love for the sake of the family?”

  They had moved up in line, and Phoebe had been about to reach for a serving fork. Her hand dropped to her side. “Dearest Amellie,” she said, using Amelia’s childhood name, “don’t listen to anything Fox says. He’s a spoiled child who thinks more of himself than he should.”

  “It isn’t Fox. It’s what Julia said earlier. About Foxwood Hall no longer supporting itself. Oh, Phoebe, we can’t lose it. We simply can’t. It’s home. It’s been home to the Renshaws for generations. I won’t be the cause of it slipping away, bit by bit, until it’s all gone.”

  “It won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure, if we’re already losing money?”

  “Well, then, we must find ways to support ourselves. We must put ourselves to work and put Foxwood to work.”

  Amelia shook her head, her forehead puckering. “How?”

  Phoebe sighed. “I’m not sure yet, but there has to be ways to make the running of the place more efficient while at the same time helping it make its own self-sustaining income.”

  “Good heavens. You’re starting to sound like Olive.”

  Amelia referred to Olive Asquith, an unlikely friend of the family who unabashedly spouted socialistic ideals, despite her hailing from a wealthy and steadfastly Tory family. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Phoebe replied. She herself was no radical. But practical, yes; and she was becoming more so with each passing year, as she became more acquainted with the world beyond Foxwood Hall. “But we surely can’t go on doing things as they have been done for the past several hundred years. The world is changing, and we must change with it.”

  “What is this? I do hope I heard you wrong.” A matronly woman stepped around them and reached for the serving fork Phoebe had abandoned at the outset of her conversation with Amelia.

  “Oh, hello, Aunt Wilma,” Phoebe and her sister said in unison. Wilma Bancroft was their mother’s uncle’s wife, and a widow since before the war. Like many a wealthy woman her age, she was plump, direct, and made no apologies for her opinions and convictions. She tended to voice them often, and loudly.

  Her graying auburn hair was pulled up into a pile of curls on top of her head and secured with a befeathered bow and a bit of jeweled netting that draped over her forehead. She plunged the serving fork into a silver chafing dish. “You must remember, my girls, that tradition is everything. Abandon tradition, and you abandon civilization. And then where would we be?”

  “Phoebe and I are only discussing the need to make Foxwood Hall more profitable, Aunt.” Amelia looked to Phoebe for consensus, but Phoebe already knew their aunt’s opinion about that.

  “Yes, well, tha
t is certainly no matter for feminine minds.” The woman cleared her throat and sniffed decisively. “Really, girls. I fear I shall have to have a word with your grandmother.” Aunt Wilma shifted her bulk away and continued on along the buffet, piling her plate high.

  “Do you suppose she will?” Amelia frowned with worry. “Speak to Grams, I mean.”

  “Don’t fret over it. Come, let’s have something to eat. I’m suddenly famished.”

  They made their selections and searched for room at the long dining table or at one of the smaller tables set up along the sides of the room. Most seats were taken, though many of the diners only picked at their food while darting looks out the windows to the undulating horizon. Once again, Phoebe spared a thought for Eva and wondered how she was getting along below, whether seasickness had rendered her prostrate. She would have to sneak away soon to check on her.

  She finally spotted a young man sitting alone at one of the tables, apparently undisturbed by the movement of the yacht as he tucked into his food with enthusiasm. Did he mind sitting alone? Why had no one joined him?

  Phoebe gestured to Amelia. “Look, there’s Gil’s cousin Ernest. Let’s sit with him.”

  As they approached the table, Ernest Shelton glanced up from his solitary meal. His eyebrows jerked upward as if with alarm, and his fork slipped through his fingers to clank against his plate. In his attempt to retrieve the implement, he knocked over his wineglass, sending a splatter of red droplets across the linen tablecloth and the sleeve of his coat. Conversations hushed as those nearby paused to see what the matter was. The poor man blushed nearly as scarlet as the wine. He started to rise, bumped the table with his thighs, and nearly fell over onto it. His attempt to right himself resulted in the table being lifted up onto two legs, wobbling once, twice, and crashing over onto its side. His plate of food went flying. The dining room fell into shocked silence.

  “Oh dear,” Amelia whispered with a gasp. “I fear we are to blame for this small disaster.”

  * * *

  Eva and Hetta finally made it onto the yacht. Chilled through, they were only too happy to go directly below, where the staterooms, service cabins, and galley were located. Miss Blair met them, and Eva asked her to let Lady Julia know they had arrived and were available to perform any function the Renshaws required.

  “I’m quite sure everything is being taken care of in a satisfactory manner, Miss Huntford. I truly don’t see why you and this young woman here”—she spared a skeptical glance for Hetta—“were required to come aboard. We’re crowded enough as it is.”

  “We only know what we were told, Miss Blair.” Eva regarded the severe line of the woman’s bangs and the preponderance of makeup emphasizing her large eyes. Miss Blair seemed to her a haughty package of conceit and control. Yet for all that, she had done an unassailable job of organizing the day, and Eva couldn’t help but be grateful. “Lady Julia wished us to be here,” she said calmly. “If there is any way we might be of service to you, please let us know.”

  “There is. Please do your best to stay out of the way. You may use the small sitting room that adjoins the viscount and viscountess’s stateroom.” Miss Blair turned on the heel of her pump and strode away. Eva sighed and then noticed the sensation that had been slowly building inside her since boarding the yacht.

  “Where is that sitting room?” She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

  Hetta eyed her warily. “Was ist falsch?”

  Eva wasn’t sure what she had just been asked, but she elaborated, “I’m not feeling altogether well.”

  Hetta studied her, her brows knitting. Then she began peering into doorways, until she apparently found what she sought. “Fraulein Eva.” She pronounced Eva’s name the German way: Ava. She pointed through a doorway. “Das Wohnzimmer.”

  Then she scurried back to Eva and, taking her arm, walked her to the sitting room Miss Blair had mentioned, for another open doorway looked onto a spacious bedroom. Hetta patted her shoulder before hurrying from the room. Eva barely had time to wonder where she had gone when Hetta returned, holding a glass of fizzing bicarbonate of soda and fresh mint leaves. As Eva sipped, her stomach gradually settled.

  “Better, ja?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Hetta.” She blew out a breath. “You’re a treasure.”

  It wasn’t long before Lady Julia came to find them. “I’m so glad you’re finally here,” she said as she sailed—literally, her veil flowing behind her—through the sitting room and into the bedroom. “I’ve been longing to change out of this gown. And this dratted veil must go, as well. Good heavens, all those photographs. And mind you, it isn’t over yet. I don’t know how much more of it I can endure, especially out on deck. My teeth will be clacking from the cold.”

  Eva and Hetta followed her, Hetta quickly and Eva more slowly, testing the effects walking had on her stomach. All seemed well, for the moment. Lady Julia was already tugging at the pins that held her veil in place. Hetta, looking alarmed, closed the distance at nearly a run, and rightly so, for a tear in that precious lace would utterly destroy its value. With her combination of broken English and pantomime, Hetta bade her mistress sit at the dressing table, and she set to work removing the headpiece without making a shambles of Lady Julia’s artfully arranged hair, though some minor repairs would be needed. Hetta’s English might be lacking, but her skills certainly were not.

  “Eva, come sit near me.” Lady Julia moved over on the bench seat and patted the cushion. Puzzled, Eva squeezed in next to her, half perching and trying not to take up too much space. “Good. I don’t wish to be overheard.” She glanced in the mirror at Hetta’s reflection and seemed satisfied when the Swiss woman met her gaze briefly and continued with her task.

  Lady Julia’s manner raised Eva’s concerns. Could there be a problem in the marriage already? “Is everything all right, my lady?”

  Lady Julia blew out a breath. “I’m horribly frustrated. I learned only minutes ago that Gil—that is, the viscount—and I are to be accompanied on our honeymoon voyage, and not merely by the crew, mind you.”

  “Who else is going with you?”

  “Who isn’t?” Lady Julia made a face. “Veronica Townsend, to begin with. Gil claims he hasn’t the heart to leave her home all alone, that he dotes on her and she would be horribly lonely without him.”

  “I suppose that’s the sign of a good brother, my lady.”

  “Oh, pish. Then that friend of his, Sir Hugh, is coming along, as well.”

  “That does seem irregular.”

  “Yes, Eva, it certainly does. My husband says Sir Hugh has been experiencing some personal difficulties and needs to get away to ‘ease his mind.’ ” Lady Julia spoke with sarcasm. “Can you imagine that he needs to do so on my honeymoon?”

  “Perhaps if the viscount speaks to his friend—”

  “That’s just the thing. He won’t. He refuses to say a word to Sir Hugh about it. He says they’ve been friends a long time, and if Sir Hugh needs a favor, Gil is only too happy to oblige. ‘What about me?’ I asked him. And do you know what he said?” Lady Julia folded her arms indignantly.

  “I cannot imagine, my lady.”

  “He told me I shouldn’t make a fuss. Sir Hugh would keep to himself, and I’d hardly know he was on board.”

  “Well, it seems a diplomatic answer, my lady. He does seem solicitous of your feelings.”

  “Does he? Accusing me of making a fuss? When do I ever?”

  Eva pursed her lips as she mulled over how to answer that question with tact.

  Julia pursed hers, as well. “Never mind. But that isn’t all.”

  Hetta finished with Julia’s hair and gestured for her to stand. When she did, the maid began on the lengthy column of tiny buttons down the back of her gown. Just as Julia had docilely accepted the photographer’s rather tactile directions earlier, she now stood patiently while Hetta worked. The only hint of her simmering irritation was the little ridge growing beside her inner right eyebrow.

 
; “Gil finds it necessary to bring his secretary.”

  “Miss Blair?”

  Julia’s mouth tightened. “The very same. Why on earth should we have need of a secretary on our honeymoon?”

  “Perhaps in case your husband finds he must attend to business matters?”

  “Bah.”

  Hetta finished with the buttons, and Julia held out her arms while the sleeves were slid free, Hetta being careful not to catch the delicate fabric on the beautiful diamond-and-platinum wedding ring. Eva stepped closer to help hold the dress to prevent it dragging on the floor. Julia stepped out of it and, in her lacy underthings, crossed to the dressing room, where she flung open the door of a built-in armoire. The ensemble she had chosen for the reception consisted of a sleeveless, drop-waist frock that incorporated ivory lace and satin in a way that complemented her wedding gown while being much lighter and easier to move in. A matching coat of the same fabric and length would drape over it to provide a bit of warmth.

  Hetta joined them in the dressing room and raised the frock above Julia’s head. As the garment fell into place with a swish, Julia once more confided in Eva.

  “I do not like Miss Blair, Eva. I don’t trust her.”

  Eva didn’t, either, but she didn’t feel it was her place to say so. “She’s done a splendid job supervising the wedding.”

  “I’m not saying she isn’t good at her job, but she is altogether too familiar with Gil. It worries me . . .” She glanced once more at Hetta, who showed no sign of following the conversation. “Eva,” she said, lowering her voice, “I want you to watch her. Follow where she goes today, and tell me if you see anything unusual. Anything at all.”

  “My lady, do you really think . . .” Eva didn’t know how to phrase it. The very idea that the viscount might be bringing his mistress along on his honeymoon was too repugnant for words. Luckily, she was saved from having to complete the question.

  “I don’t know what I think,” Lady Julia declared. “Gil hasn’t given me any reason to suspect anything, at least not really. But there is something in that woman’s manner that leaves me uneasy.”