A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  Oh, how thoughtful of him to remind her of his normal life without her. He had made that clear last night, leaving her, yet again. He was very talented at leaving her.

  He was very talented at kissing her too.

  She squeezed her thighs together and wondered how she could want to be near him, yet hate him all the while. Of course, she would have to be near him to throttle him, so perhaps it did make sense.

  “First, we must deal with the rather substantial evidence,” Sir Gordon said.

  “Evidence!” Joshua stopped pacing. “What bloody evidence?”

  “If you’ll be quiet, Joshua, Sir Gordon will have a chance to tell us.”

  With a snort, Joshua paced over to the sideboard and poked inside the ceramic bowl that held his candied lemon. Sir Gordon opened his dossier and his mouth to speak when—

  “What the blazes is this?” Joshua said. “This isn’t candied lemon.”

  “Heavens!” Cassandra slapped her palms on the table. “How can you worry about candied lemon when your family’s future is at risk?”

  “I have no use for family. What I need is candied lemon. Das?”

  “We ran out. That’s rahat lokum.”

  “Which is?”

  “The English call it ‘Turkish delight.’ Sounds less foreign that way.”

  “Turkish delight.” Joshua picked up a small cube and studied it critically. “It’s pink,” he said, sounding appalled. He sniffed it warily. “It’s sweet,” he added, and his eyes found Cassandra’s.

  A faint smile touched his lips. Last night’s heat glinted in his eyes and kindled an answering spark inside her. He popped the sweet into his mouth, licked his fingers, chewed slowly, swallowed, his eyes on hers the whole time.

  “And it tastes like roses,” he said. “I like things that are pink, sweet, and taste like roses.”

  Heat coiled in her cheeks and pooled in her belly. Heavens, even here, in a room with Sir Gordon Bell—her father’s friend, whom she had known all her life!—and Mr. Das, that insistent pulse started up between her legs.

  And he knew, the fiend!

  Oh, how she wanted to throttle him! Tear out his hair! How dare he tease her like that after what he did last night!

  Smiling broadly now, he placed the bowl by her elbow and lounged against the table beside her, because, of course, he could not simply sit in a chair like a normal human being.

  “Try some,” he said. “You might like it.”

  “Thank you, I won’t. Please continue, Sir Gordon,” she said. “There will be no further interruptions.”

  Sir Gordon cleared his throat in a suitably lawyer-like manner. He smoothed his hands over the dossier in front of him and looked at each of them in turn.

  “It turns out that Lord Bolderwood’s solicitor began his career as one of my clerks at Lincoln’s Inn,” Sir Gordon said. “He found it, ah, advisable to share the details of the case for the benefit of all concerned.”

  “As I said,” Joshua muttered.

  “Cassandra—Mrs. DeWitt, I should say.” Sir Gordon turned the dossier on the table, turned it again. “You may prefer to withdraw while we discuss this. Mr. DeWitt can tell you the pertinent parts later.”

  Polite-speak for “This is going to be bad.”

  “My husband is a very busy man, Sir Gordon,” she said. “It would be an inefficient use of his time to repeat the information in a separate interview.”

  “You might not like what you hear.”

  “Then I shall pretend it is not there. That seems to be the preferred approach in this household.” She looked at Joshua. “Where is Isaac today?” she asked pointedly.

  Joshua narrowed his eyes and was about to speak when Mr. Das coughed, which had the miraculous effect of causing her husband to say only “Carry on, Sir Gordon.”

  “There are eyewitnesses.” Sir Gordon pulled two pages from the dossier. He slid one page toward Cassandra and the other to Mr. Das. “Three servants and two innkeepers who claim to have clearly seen the, ah, events.”

  “In flagrante delicto, I presume?” Joshua said. “I do hope they have exciting, explicit details in their testimony, keep the masses enthralled.”

  He seemed to be enjoying himself, but Cassandra suspected that his attitude served to cover his anger. He did not realize how he betrayed his vulnerability when he did that. No wonder he disdained politeness: He had never learned that a polite smile was the most effective armor of all. It made it harder for her to be angry. Absurdly, it made her want to protect him.

  “I wonder who scripted their testimony,” he went on. “Do you think Lord and Lady B. sat together one night over the sherry, giggling away while they wrote it down?…”

  Cassandra silently pulled the bowl of Turkish delight closer. Joshua did not notice, talking on as he was.

  “…Or do you think Lady B. came up with it all herself, based on her fantasies? Or Lord B. based on his fantasies?…”

  Stealthily, she scooped up all the Turkish delight in one hand.

  “…If they want money, they should consider publishing their stories. With illustrations, naturally. Fanny Hill was banned but still sells well, and if they—ooff.”

  She shoved the sweets into his open mouth, then pressed her fingers over his lips. His lips were warm and soft, and his eyes heated and amused. He made a noise and she gave him a warning look.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, darling,” she said. “It’s not polite.”

  He had no choice but to chew and say nothing. Sir Gordon and Mr. Das were fighting smiles. Cassandra sat and tapped the list of names.

  “Perhaps Isaac could talk to them?” she suggested.

  “Wah gish oh,” Joshua said. “Osh ak aw.”

  “Yes, this is a matter for family. So glad you agree with me.” She smiled at Mr. Das. “In accordance with Mr. DeWitt’s wishes, please ask Mr. Isaac to help out with this.”

  Finally, Joshua cleared his mouth. “I don’t want Is—”

  “Hush, now. We’ve dealt with that item. No time to waste,” Cassandra hurriedly said. “Next, Sir Gordon?”

  To her relief, Joshua did not protest, but sat in the chair beside her and shook his head at her, amused in his defeat. Under the table, his leg nudged hers and she moved away. Whatever his game, she would not let him tease her today.

  “The next piece of evidence comprises a set of four letters.” Sir Gordon pulled out a few more pages. “These letters were allegedly written by Mr. DeWitt to Lady Bolderwood, expressing, ah, affection and, ah, longing.”

  Affection. Longing. Cassandra had never received a letter like that. Like the love letters Sir Gordon was sliding across the table toward them. The letters were short. Efficient, her husband.

  And angry again, but this time his face was hard and cold, his lip curled in disgust.

  “Most of the pages are copies,” Sir Gordon explained. “The one on top is said to be an original, to verify your handwriting.”

  She did not want to look, but the uppermost page called to her like a siren. She did not know Joshua’s handwriting—Mr. Newell penned all their communications—but she could believe it was his. The writing was nearly illegible, as if he wrote too fast and energetically for his quill to keep up, so that words were smudged and the page was splattered with ink.

  Yet she made out the opening salutation: “My dearest one.”

  She averted her eyes, ignored the sick chill shivering through her chest. Longing. Affection. None of her business.

  Clearly Joshua thought so too, for he did not spare her a glance as he gathered up all the pages.

  “I wrote those letters,” he said in a tone like steel. “But not to Lady Bolderwood. Someone stole them from my personal belongings. Last I heard, that’s a crime.”

  Sir Gordon regarded him over his spectacles. “The privilege of peerage—”

  “Sod their bloody privilege!” Joshua slammed a fist on the table. “They will return the original letters in full or so help me I will shoot them
both where they stand. Next.”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Next!” Joshua repeated.

  He shoved back his chair and paced around the room. Cassandra turned back to Sir Gordon, pleading with him silently.

  Sir Gordon lifted the next page from his file. “Third, and finally, these are the dates and times that Mr. DeWitt was reportedly, ah, having a tryst with Lady Bolderwood. It would help if Mr. DeWitt can account for his whereabouts at these times.”

  Mr. Das took the page and opened his own dossier. “I can check this against Mr. DeWitt’s work schedule,” he explained. “I keep a record of all his business meetings and movements.”

  They waited in awkward silence as Mr. Das worked. Cassandra traced the whorls of the woodgrain with her finger. She glanced up to see Joshua watching her. Then he pivoted away and went to the window. Cassandra returned to her tracing.

  When Mr. Das shuffled the papers together, he looked uncomfortable. “These are all periods that are unaccounted for in your official schedule. Sir.”

  Joshua stared out the window. “Isn’t it interesting,” he said with dangerous calm, “that every so-called tryst fits with a gap, and they have letters taken from my rooms. Now, who would have that access? Who is highly familiar with my work schedule?”

  He turned like a clockwork doll and looked right at Mr. Das, who looked right back at him. The air in the room prickled and hissed.

  “No.” Cassandra looked from one to the other. “There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation that has nothing to do with…anyone in this room.”

  “Perhaps that’s another matter Mr. Isaac can look into,” Mr. Das said coolly.

  “Perhaps that would be for the best,” Joshua said. “Is he here?”

  Without another word, Mr. Das left the room.

  “No,” Cassandra said again. “Joshua, you cannot possibly believe that.” She shot an apologetic look at Sir Gordon and went to Joshua’s side. “There must be another explanation. Mr. Das would not let you down like this.”

  “How do I know if I can trust him? He was married for years and never said a word.”

  “Whose fault was that?” She turned his face to look at her, ignoring the apparent irrelevance of his statement. “Did you ever ask him? Did you ever take an interest in his personal life?”

  “No. He has no personal life. He doesn’t exist outside work.”

  “Then how can you…Never mind. Think. Who else could it be?” She held his face in both hands, ignoring Sir Gordon, who was making a point of arranging his papers. “Someone else who could come and go freely in your house. Who might find your private letters and know what they were. Who also had access to your schedule.”

  He looked troubled, and she wanted to smooth away that trouble, and hated herself for her weakness.

  “You can work it out.” She recalled his words from the night before, when he chose the rose. “I have heard it said you are an inventive problem-solver.”

  A new gleam mixed with the trouble in his eyes. “You have heard that, have you?”

  His look was so warm she could feel herself melting. Longing for his touch.

  His touch. Her longing. His departure. Her humiliation.

  She yanked herself away from him and was halfway across the room when, from somewhere else in the house, came a sound that froze her in her tracks.

  “Did you hear that?” she said.

  “Hear what? What?”

  She cocked her head to listen, dread clawing at her stomach. There it was again: a woman’s laugh, bright like crystal.

  “No,” she said. “It can’t be.”

  But it was. A moment later, the butler was at the door, announcing Miss Lucy Lightwell and Miss Emily Lightwell.

  “She brought Emily?” she said faintly, as another burst of laughter hit her ears, heading up the stairs, if she wasn’t mistaken. She turned to Sir Gordon, who was gathering his papers. “Sir Gordon! Mama is at home alone!”

  He nodded, understanding as few did. “I’ll send an express to have someone check on her.” He tucked his dossiers under his arm. “I’ll see myself out. Mr. DeWitt and I will communicate regarding the next steps. Let me know if I can assist you further.”

  “I may require your services again very soon,” Cassandra said, marching past him. “As I’m about to murder my sister.”

  Chapter 17

  Joshua bounded up the stairs after Cassandra, who was already talking as she entered the drawing room.

  “Lucy, how could you!” Cassandra was saying. “Have you no idea how dangerous it is, to travel alone from London?”

  “Spare me, Mother Cassandra,” drawled a melodious female voice. “I did not come all this way for your nagging.”

  The voice belonged to a young woman with glossy dark hair, big green eyes, and delicate features arranged so artfully that parts of Joshua’s brain crashed into each other and he almost forgot how to walk. A red-haired girl with a sickly, anxious air stood by the table, her hand resting on a large, covered basket.

  “I like Cassandra’s nagging,” Joshua said. He stopped next to his wife, pressed a hand to the small of her back. This time, at least, she did not pull away. “You must be the legendary Lucy.”

  Lucy inspected him from top to toe. “And you must be—Oh my,” she said, looking past him.

  He twisted to see Isaac, leaning nonchalantly on his cane with an easy, rakish charm.

  Lucy’s eyes flicked between Joshua and Isaac. “Which one of you handsome devils is Mr. DeWitt?”

  “We both are,” Joshua said, his mood beginning to lift.

  “Two Misters DeWitt!” Lucy stepped forward, all grace and coquetry. “No wonder Cassandra has kept her husband secret these past two years—she had two of you! You greedy thing, Cassandra. And you scold me when I so much as look at the baker’s son.”

  “The baker’s son hasn’t the constitution to handle your looks, Lucy,” Cassandra said. “It upsets him and he crushes the bread.”

  “Do tell how it works,” Lucy said. “One woman with two men.”

  “I could draw you a picture,” Joshua offered, which earned him a wifely elbow in his ribs. He was starting to enjoy himself, despite everything, but before he could tease Cassandra some more, Das sauntered in.

  Joshua’s enjoyment faded. No, not Das. Please, not Das.

  “Look at you,” Lucy crooned to Das. “You’re brown!”

  “Lucy!” Cassandra scolded, but Joshua was curious to see what happened next.

  “And you’re pink,” Das said.

  “No, I’m not. I’m white.”

  “Definitely pink.” Das jerked his chin at the other girl. Emily. “And your sister there is looking rather green.”

  Confusion flickered in Lucy’s eyes, and then a slow smile spread over her face. A genuine smile this time, Joshua realized.

  “I’m pink, she’s green, and we’re both feeling blue!” Apparently delighted, Lucy danced toward Das. “I like you. Do you know how to waltz?”

  “My wife has been teaching me.”

  “How sweet.” Her tone turned saucy. “You won’t remember your wife’s name once you’ve waltzed with me.”

  “If you think that, then you know nothing of love and a good marriage.”

  Lucy’s expression faltered, revealing a vulnerable, lost girl beneath that brain-shatteringly beautiful facade. “Lucy is broken,” Cassandra had said, and he began to understand what she meant.

  But then Lucy laughed again and danced back to the basket, which she opened, saying, “I have a gift for you, Mother Cassandra!”

  Out leaped something fierce and gray that streaked straight for Joshua. He had barely identified it as a cat when it climbed him like a tree, finally coming to perch on his shoulders, its tail swishing wildly against his face.

  Joshua twisted up and around to grab the cat. With a growl, it dug in its claws, pricking his skin through his shirt.

  “No, Mr. Twit!” cried Lucy. “Don’t do that!”

>   “What did you call me?” Joshua asked through a mouthful of fluffy tail.

  Lucy laughed and started toward him, hands raised. He instinctively stepped away and, to his relief, Cassandra came to his rescue, nimbly inserting herself between him and her sister. She reached up and patted the cat. He fancied he felt it relax. That is, it unhooked its claws and stopped whipping his cheek.

  “Mr. Twit,” Cassandra said softly. “That’s what I named the cat you sent me.” Mischief danced in her eyes and his desire stirred, despite his current indignity. “Apt, really. He tends to be willful and poorly behaved at times, but he is lovely if you rub his belly the right way.”

  His own belly tightened at the thought of her rubbing it, any way at all. Of him rubbing her belly. Of their bellies rubbing each other.

  “And you claim to be so good,” he said.

  “I never claimed anything of the sort.”

  Then began what could only be his punishment for his idiocy of the night before.

  She reached up both arms, bumping against him. He rested his hands on her hips, to steady them both, and suffered through it, her floral fragrance softening his brain even as his body hardened, as she crooned to the cat and coaxed it off his shoulders and into her arms.

  Where the wretched beast was enviously content. It rubbed its head against her throat, batted at her chin, and settled against her, purring, its paw resting right on the edge of her bodice. He watched her fingers scratch the cat’s throat, and cursed himself for a fool all over again.

  He had only meant to tease her a little, and now he was the one tormented.

  He looked up to see everyone watching, with varying degrees of curiosity, and then, mercifully, Newell arrived.

  The red-headed girl stirred to life. “Mr. Newell!” she cried. She ran across the room and threw herself into the secretary’s arms. “I missed you. I have so much to tell you.”

  Joshua looked back at Cassandra in time to see hurt flash across her face before she ducked her head and crooned to the cat. He realized that Emily had not even spoken to Cassandra, whereas Lucy had displayed open animosity. After all that Cassandra had done for them! Had they no idea what she had given up for them? That she always put them first?