Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  He sighed, knowing his man was testing him. It was an old game between them. “This is London, Macfie.”

  “Aye, and London can also be cold as a winter’s privy, cannae she?” Macfie returned.

  “I concede the point. However, today is not one of those days, as you undoubtedly are already aware,” he said. “But enough of all this nattering. You must realize I have a reason for calling you in here at this time of the morning.”

  “Aye.” Macfie flashed an unrepentant grin. “Since ye ordinarily spend all morning scowling at yer desk and hollering for more coffee, with the occasional threat tae my puir eyebrows, I had a suspicion ye needed tae speak with me.”

  Decker bit back the urge to laugh, much-needed though it was today. “Am I that terrible, Macfie?”

  His aide-de-camp blinked. “Need I answer ye, sir?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Not if you wish to keep your position.”

  Macfie made an exaggerated effort of rolling his lips inward, as if they were now pasted together. He furthered the comical display by holding his breath. Decker wanted to be irritated with him, but he could not deny the man was hilarious. Furthering the effect, Macfie’s face was turning red.

  “Are you holding your breath?” he asked needlessly.

  Macfie nodded his head in assent, looking as if he were about to burst.

  Cheeky arsehole.

  “You are fortunate you excel at your position, Macfie,” he said somberly, the same old threat. “You may exhale. I wish to have a serious conversation with you.”

  Macfie released his breath in a noisy display. “Thank ye, sir. What was it ye wanted tae discuss that is serious? The last time I had a serious conversation with anyone, it was after I went for a wee swim in the loch and emerged with leeches feasting on my doodle.”

  This time, Decker could not help himself. He laughed because he bloody well had to. “Dare I ask what manner of conversation such an event precipitated?”

  “It swelled up something horrible, tae where I could scarcely even take a piss, and I had tae see a physician over it.” Macfie nodded, his countenance earnest. “Never again will I go swimming in a loch. ‘Tis a solemn vow. The sea or nothing for me. Now what was it ye wished tae discuss?”

  How to follow up leeches on a doodle? Decker was reasonably certain he was the only man in England currently facing such a quandary. But Macfie was all he had for the moment. He needed advice, and he could not very well ask Sin. Happily married men who fancied themselves deliriously in love with their wives could not offer trustworthy guidance.

  Decker busied himself with rounding his desk. “Have a seat, Macfie. This may take some time.”

  His desk here was simple and unadorned. Not nearly as elegant or ornate as the desk in his study and yet, somehow, this desk suited him far better. He was a wealthy man—now in his own right, and to the devil with the Earl of Graham’s leavings—and yet simplicity still appealed to him most of all.

  Decker seated himself in the familiar comfort of his chair and watched as Macfie folded his massive body into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. The man scarcely fit.

  “Out with it then, sir,” Macfie invited when Decker hesitated. “I just told ye about the leeches on my doodle, after all.”

  “Right.” He paused, searching his thoughts. “Have you ever been in love, Macfie?”

  The Scotsman’s expression sobered instantly. “Aye, of course I have.”

  “What happened, if I am not being so bold?” he dared to ask. “There is no Mrs. Macfie, unless I am mistaken.”

  Macfie shook his head. “There isnae. The lass I would have had as my bride wanted tae stay where she was, live the life she had always known. I wanted something more. I left, and she remained. That is all.”

  “Do you have bitter feelings toward her?” Decker asked. “If this female in question were to send you a letter, telling you she still loved you and that she was free to pursue you now, what would you do?”

  He had not forgotten about Nora’s letter, it was true. Though he had burned it, and though he had vowed to be a man worthy of Jo’s love, more emotions had pummeled him on the carriage ride here. He did not want Nora—quite the contrary. No part of him longed to pursue the invitation she had given. But he was…confused. Unsettled. He needed to speak with someone, and Macfie seemed his best option at the moment.

  Macfie flashed him a wry smile. “Rose would never tell me that, but if she were tae, I would tell her we are different souls. I am not the man I was when she knew me, and neither is she the lassie.”

  “And if you had a Mrs. Macfie at home, and you received a letter from your Rose, what would you do then?” Decker asked.

  Macfie eyed him for a moment, before breaking his silence at last. “If I had a Mrs. Macfie that I loved the way ye love Mrs. Decker, I would tell Rose tae go and have a swim in the loch, and I would hope the leeches would find her cu—”

  “That is quite sufficient,” Decker interrupted. “I am sure I can gather the rest. Thank you, Macfie. However, as much as I admire Mrs. Decker, I would not say I am hopelessly besotted just yet.”

  Did Macfie truly think Decker loved Jo? He had hinted as much before, but still, Macfie ought to know him better. Surely he understood Decker was incapable of such an emotion? Was he not?

  Decker looked inside himself, and all he saw was murk.

  “I was going tae say her curmudgeonly arse,” Macfie said, his tone as innocent as his expression. “And I would also argue ye are hopelessly besotted, but ye can lie tae yerself all ye like. Now, would ye care tae tell me the whole story, or are ye wanting tae keep feeding me bits, like a fish ye are attempting tae catch on yer hook?”

  Decker sighed, and then he confided in Macfie—an abbreviated version of his past with Nora and the letter he had received. When he had finished, Macfie whistled.

  “Does Mrs. Decker know of this Lady Tingly?” Macfie queried.

  “Tinley,” Decker corrected, not that it mattered. Indeed, he was reasonably certain his man was getting the name wrong intentionally. “And no, to answer your question, she does not. I have never shared this part of my past with her as I did not consider it imperative.”

  The shame he had felt at keeping the letter a secret from Jo returned, burning as hotly as Nora’s words had.

  “If she learns of it on her own and ye havenae told her, it will go badly for ye,” Macfie advised, quite sagely. “Ye love her. This Lady Stringy of yers, she is part of yer past, aye? She broke yer puir heart, but she likely paid ye a favor. Ye wouldnae want to shackle yerself to a lady who wasnae certain ye were the one for her, a lady who wasnae willing tae fight and do whatever she must tae claim yer heart forever.”

  This time, Decker did not bother to correct Macfie’s confusion of Nora’s title. “As always, you are right, Macfie. I should tell Mrs. Decker everything. And you know? When I read that letter today, I was furious with Nora—all the pain and resentment of the past returned, but I did not, for a second, feel as if I wanted her to be mine. Or that I regretted what happened, the way my life has turned out. I am content with Mrs. Decker and pleased to have her as my wife.”

  As he spoke the words aloud, he realized just how true they were. The murk cleared, and suddenly there it was: clarity. Astonishing in its brilliance. The talons of the past no longer clawed at him. He felt, for the first time in years, free.

  Was it Nora’s letter which had opened him to such profundity, was it Macfie’s cheeky wisdom, or was it his fierce, passionate wife?

  “Of course ye ought tae be content with a fine lady such as Mrs. Decker as yer wife,” Macfie said then. “If ye werenae, I would think ye an arsehole.”

  Decker snorted. “In truth, I am an arsehole. I am merely a discerning one.”

  He thought again of Jo’s embrace yesterday in his study, of her soft declaration of love. Of his inability to return it. He had to do better, to be a better man. For her.

  “Och, ye arenae an arsehole, sir,�
�� Macfie told him quietly, his ordinarily mischievous mien serious. “Ye are a good man. Didnae think I failed tae notice all yer time spent sending coin and pianos and books tae the orphanages. Tae say nothing of the hospitals ye fund.”

  Decker had arranged for all those acts of charity himself. The notion of carrying on with the Earl of Graham’s wealth had seemed anathema to him, but he had hardly wanted anyone to believe him good and selfless. His gifts were often selfish—made in a need to cleanse himself of guilt, or to spite his dead sire. Still, even as intelligent and thorough as Macfie was, Decker had not supposed the man would take note and dig deeper when he saw lines labeled as miscellaneous on the ledgers.

  He flashed his man a smile. “I have to make amends for my sins somehow, Macfie.”

  “Donae forget to make amends with yer lassie,” the Scotsman reminded him pointedly. “Only a fool would fail tae appreciate a wife with such a perfect set of—”

  “Macfie,” he growled, “do not forget about my threats to your ‘puir’ eyebrows.”

  Macfie raised the eyebrows in question. “What? I was going tae say teeth, sir.”

  Jo was surrounded by a flurry of women in the Duchess of Bainbridge’s drawing room, the appointed location for this meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society. The buzz in the room, rather akin to a hive of honeybees, was comforting, keeping her thoughts from wandering too far.

  “How many signatures do we have on the petition for the second reading of the bill in favor of suffrage?” the duchess asked Jo’s sister-in-law Clara.

  One would never look upon Clara and know she had so recently become a mother. She had thrown herself back into the Society’s work with aplomb, for time was of the essence.

  “Two hundred and four,” Clara reported.

  “I do believe I can gain two more signatures tomorrow,” said the Duchess of Longleigh, a new addition to the society and a recent mother herself.

  Like Clara, she was a flaxen-haired beauty, but she was far quieter and more reserved. There was a sadness about her eyes which could not be denied. Jo had heard whispers that her husband, the Duke of Longleigh, was an unkind man.

  “The Countess of Corley has promised me she will sign,” added Callie.

  “Viscountess Portsmouth has also indicated her support,” chimed in Helena.

  “That will bring us to two hundred and eight signatures!” The Duchess of Bainsbridge exclaimed, beaming with excitement. “We will address it to each member in the House of Lords, reminding them this measure of fairness has been brought before Parliament for nearly twenty years. It is time they voted in favor of change.”

  Her enthusiasm was catching. Soon, the entire room was a flurry of chattering and swirling skirts as the gathered members of the Lady’s Suffrage Society celebrated the success of their efforts.

  But while Jo was pleased at the number of signatures they had gathered and hopeful the House of Lords would see reason at last, her mind traveled back to her husband’s expression that morning at the breakfast table. To the elegant scrawl on the envelope.

  Viscountess Tinley.

  As the other ladies spoke, Jo took the opportunity to join Callie, who had wandered from a chat with the Duchess of Longleigh at just the right moment. Jo moved toward her.

  “My dear!” Callie said, smiling. “I was just en route to your side. Forgive me for taking so long. How are you?”

  Jo was silent, considering how she ought to answer such a difficult question. “Do you know the Viscountess Tinley?”

  She had not meant to ask the question, but there it was, no way to retract it now.

  Callie’s smile vanished. “Why do you ask?”

  Jo swallowed, made certain none of the other ladies were near enough to overhear the conversation. “Decker received a letter from her this morning. He grew quite distressed upon reading it and left. I discovered the envelope with her name upon it after he had gone.”

  Her friend frowned. “Did he speak of what the letter said to so disturb him?”

  Here was the part that hurt the most.

  “No,” she admitted. “Indeed, he did not mention the letter at all. Instead, he sprang up and left, claiming he had just recalled a meeting of some import.”

  Callie bit her lip in a telltale gesture that bespoke her own discomfort. “Oh, my darling.”

  “What is it?” Jo asked, fear curling around her heart. “Is Lady Tinley the woman you spoke of yesterday?”

  “She is,” Callie acknowledged quietly.

  Jo felt as if she had been dealt a physical blow. The pain was crushing.

  “That is…” She trailed off, then tried to gather her whirling thoughts and failed. “I feared as much.”

  “I never should have told you about her,” Callie fretted. “I thought it would help you to understand Decker better if you knew. Had I any inkling he would receive a letter from her, I would not have spoken out of turn.”

  “No.” Jo shook her head slowly, digesting this new information. “You were right to tell me, Callie. My husband ought to have told me himself.”

  He ought to have told her about the letter this morning as well.

  It would seem he had some secrets to which he was insistent upon clinging. Or, rather, a woman.

  “You must speak to Decker about this, Jo,” Callie said then. “Do not be too hasty to rush to conclusions. I am sure there is an explanation. Decker is a very private man, but he is a good man.”

  Yes, Jo knew those facets of her husband. He was the man who had wooed her with cream ice, who had given a piano to orphans, who had danced with her in the rain. But he was also the enigma who kept a part of himself from her, who could never quite complete the intimacy between them no matter how many times they made love.

  He was also the man who had turned rigid as a statue in her arms when she had foolishly confessed her love to him.

  “You are correct,” she agreed with her friend, sotto voce. “I must speak with my husband.”

  The sooner, the better.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jo returned from the Lady’s Suffrage Society meeting later than she had intended. She had scarcely handed off her trappings to Rhees when Decker strode into the hall, his expression grim. Her heart clenched instantly at the sight of him, so handsome. The hurt came rushing back to her, along with all her misgivings.

  What if he could never return her love?

  What if he was still in love with Viscountess Tinley?

  What had been in that dratted letter?

  “Good evening,” he clipped, offering her an abbreviated bow before turning his attention to the butler. “See that the carriage is readied. I need to get to Hertfordshire as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course, Mr. Decker,” said Rhees, before going off to do as he was bid.

  He was leaving? What was in Hertfordshire? Or, dare she ask, who?

  The icy fingers of dread which had held her heart in their grasp all day squeezed harder. “Decker, what is going on? Why are you rushing off to Hertfordshire?”

  “My mother is ill,” he said, turning to her once more, all the color leaching from his face. “The situation is grave. I must go to her at once. You shall remain here in London, of course. I will send word to you as soon as I am able.”

  He meant to travel to see his ailing mother without her? Even as renewed hurt swept over her, Jo’s heart ached for him. She knew he and his mother had not had a close relationship in recent years. But his countenance said far more than his words did. He looked as somber as she had ever seen him.

  “I will go with you, of course,” she decided instantly.

  “You cannot,” he denied, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “You must not.”

  “Yes,” she countered. “I must. My place is at your side, and there is nowhere I would rather be.”

  She meant those words, oh how she meant them, even if he did not want her there. Even, much to her shame, if he did not want her. How could he believe she would allow him to go anywhere wit
hout her when he was in such a state? When he would need her?

  “That is generous of you, Josie, but I insist.” He frowned. “You have only just returned, and you have not eaten dinner. What manner of husband would I be if I were to drag you away to Hertfordshire to a mother whom I have scarcely spoken with in seven years, and who is perhaps on her deathbed?”

  The sort of husband who was not too afraid to want his wife at his side.

  She did not say that, however.

  Instead, she took his hands in hers. “And what of you? Have you eaten dinner?”

  His gaze was distant, his jaw rigid, but he did not withdraw from her touch. “No, of course not. I was awaiting you when the telegram arrived from Hertfordshire. Now there is no time. My valet is packing a case as we speak. From what I understand, she is…fading.”

  “Oh, Decker.” Although she longed to throw her arms around him and embrace him, she was not certain if it would be welcome just now. Things between them this morning had been awkward at best. And he seemed more distant this evening, if understandably so. “I am so very sorry.”

  “There is nothing for which you ought to be sorry. ‘Tis the way of life, is it not?” he asked. But while he was doing his utmost to remain stoic, there was an undercurrent of deep emotion in his voice.

  Although her mother had died just after her birth, Jo had felt her mother’s absence keenly all through her life. As a child, she had pretended her dolly was her mama. She had gone to sleep, staring into the darkness of the nursery, fancying her mother could hear her speak. She understood Decker’s pain, even if it was not the same breed as her own.

  “I am not allowing you to go without me,” she told him firmly. “I will see to it that a hamper is packed with food for the carriage ride, and I will have my lady’s maid collect a valise for me as well. We will go together, Decker. I am your wife now. It is only right.”

  She thought he would argue, but he was silent for a moment, his mien becoming tired. “You are determined?”

  As determined as she had ever been.