St. Raven (36 page)

“Well?” his cousin demanded. “What do you have to say?”

He made a sudden decision. “That I will marry before the year’s end. I do know my duty, but I am perhaps spoiled for choice.”

She nodded, a feather on her maroon turban nodding, stirring crazy thoughts in Tris of sultans and highwaymen. “I recommend the Swinamer chit. She’s beautiful enough to please and will behave exactly as she ought. Her mother’s a friend of mine and has raised her properly. So many girls these days have harum-scarum ideas and throw tantrums if their husband doesn’t sit by the hearth every night.”

She held out a hand, and he had to go and heave her to her feet. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“I’ll arrange a house party including her. When are you free. Next weekend?”

“I have an engagement next weekend.”

“Cancel it. I’ll invite—”

“No. I will not be forced, cousin.”

She scowled at him, looking distressingly like a bulldog. “Willful. Shame you weren’t raised at the Mount. You’d have had it beaten out of you.”

“I doubt it.” He took her arm and steered her toward the door. “I will inform you when it’s convenient, cousin.”

She halted at the door. “I don’t forget your word.”

“Nor do I.” Tris opened the door and nearly thrust her into the hands of her attendants. “Thank you for your concern, cousin.”

He watched to be sure she left, then sought the sanctuary of his own room. As soon as he made it there, he dropped into a chair to sink his head in his hands.

What had he done to have such a hell of a life?

He was a fatalist. He’d learned that lesson young when his parents had ceased to exist one sunny day, taking his entire life with them. Life was uncertain. Live for the moment. Seize fragile joy.

He’d shrugged off the fact that his only blood relatives rejected him, and been grateful for the Peckworths, who had filled that void. He’d never expected much of marriage except good manners and a few healthy children, some male.

For a moment now and then over the past few days he’d seen another way. Marriage to a friend, a helpmeet, a companion in laughter and adventure, but it wasn’t how it was done. Such pleasures faded, and it really wouldn’t be fair to Cressida to plunge her into a position for which she was completely untrained. Cornelia would eat her for breakfast.

He stood and poured himself some brandy. The Duke of St. Raven would marry, not poor romantic Tris Tregallows.

He contemplated the amber liquid. He was a fatalist there, too. Nothing but death could save him from being duke, and suicide had seemed a drastic solution. Since he was the duke, no point in spending his life kicking against it like a spoiled child.

He was applying himself to his duties, and that included marriage. Had he nurtured hopes of making the sort of marriage his parents had? He drank a mouthful, letting the warmth and spice of the spirit swirl from his tongue to his mind.

A folly. What did a twelve-year-old know, anyway? They could have fought most of the time and appeared in harmony for him.

The door opened, and he turned to repulse whoever dared invade. But it was Cary, who was allowed.

And who knew him well. “I’m sorry.”

He turned to go, but Tris said, “No, stay. Brandy?”

“Thank you.” Cary came forward. “It didn’t go well?”

“It went perfectly. Miss Mandeville has her jewels. As a bonus, she has all the other statues along with some other Indian gewgaws from Stokeley.”

“And—?” Cary asked, who did indeed know him well.

Tris laughed and gave his friend a swift account of the adventure.

“Gads. Crofton will talk?”

“Not directly, but he’ll feed the word. I’m not sure how to stop him short of murder.”

“Call him out?”

“Killing him in a duel could drop me in hot water, but it won’t serve, anyway. Unless he comes out with some direct slander about Cressida, a challenge would be assumed to be about secret things. Disastrous. At least I established a right to defend her reputation, so it should curb him a bit. For now, we need to get the true picture out before he and his cronies start to talk.”

“The true one?”

“That dreary Miss Mandeville, daughter of the nabob who threw away a fortune at cards, was attempting to sell some of her father’s possessions when Crofton and his cronies, drunk, burst in and embarrassed her.”

“Ah. Very good.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to wonder, just wonder, about Crofton’s skill at cards.”

Cary’s eyes lit and he toasted him. “
Very
good. We go now?”

“Yes.” Tris put down his glass, but then said, “What can we expect from marriage? My uncle’s was cold, and the Arrans’ is merely practical.”

Cary finished his brandy. “My parents seem content. My sister looks at her husband as if the sun shone out his arse.”

“But how does he look at her?”

Cary’s lips twitched. “As if the sun shone out of somewhere else. They’ve only been married a twelve-month, though.”

“Newlyweds are often ecstatic, but does it last? Have I done Anne Peckworth a favor in helping her to a rash love match?”

“Probably not, but at least she’ll have the brief ecstasy.”

Tris pressed his fingers to his head for a moment. “I’ve promised Cousin Cornelia that I’ll marry before the year’s end.”

“Why, for hell’s sake?”

“For hell’s sake, perhaps.” He shrugged. “It’ll stop this pointless dithering.”

“Miss Mandeville being out of reach.”

Tris worked at not showing anything. “That would have been a mistake.” He plucked Cary’s glass from his hand. “On to the clubs to ensure her safety, however.”

But would she find a husband who would appreciate her free-spirited nature, who would play all the bedgames she could imagine and then more?

No, she’d end up dressed in the sort of dull, abominable clothes she’d worn today, being a worthy wife to a stodgy professional man, saying and doing the right things, and devoting her energy to the worthy poor.

Lucky beggars.

He stopped at the door. “Oh, Lord. The Minnows.”

“Who?”

“Little fish caught in my net. The Pike will take care of them.”

“What?”

Tris laughed at Cary’s worried expression. “I’m not fit for Bedlam yet. Not quite, at least. Come on.”

As he went downstairs, however, he knew he’d have to do something about the Minnows. Something far away. He couldn’t be tripping over them all the time, constant reminder.

“Did you really promise to marry within the year?” Cary asked as they waited for their hats, gloves, and canes.

“Why not? I’m thinking of making Phoebe Swinamer deliriously happy. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.’ ”

“But can you say a marriage is done when ‘tis done? The trouble with a marriage is that it goes on, and on, and on.”

“And thus produces lots of little Tregallows, which is the purpose of the exercise.”

Cary glanced around and then said quietly, “Haven’t you described her as a china doll with little brain and no heart?”

Tris smiled. “But that’s what makes her perfect. She won’t care if I spend most of my time elsewhere and with others. She informed me at one ball that a lady is blind to her husband’s behavior outside the home and lives to serve his wishes within it. What more could a man wish for?”

“A wife rather than a slave?”

The footman approached then, and Tris took his things. “How quaint,” he said, and led the way outdoors.

Cressida awoke to a new day resolved on a practical future. How soon could they remove to Matlock?

Her father was out of his stupor. He was physically weak, and inclined to tears over his folly. Cressida didn’t think those tears were false, but she didn’t think those tears were truly repentant, either. He was already talking of ways to make a new fortune, a distinct gleam in his eye.

Yes, his wits were returning, which meant he’d soon want a coherent explanation for the return of the jewels. She’d better come up with one. Her mother had agreed to keep the truth about her first absence a secret, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

She’d like to keep Tris’s name out of it as much as possible. Her father had always fancied a grand husband for her. Heaven knows what he’d do if he thought he could pressure a duke into marriage.

She sat bolt upright. Tris had promised to call today! Almost, she wished he wouldn’t. After all, surgeons tried to perform amputations as quickly as possible. And yet perhaps this would provide the opportunity for a better farewell, one that wouldn’t leave such a bleeding wound.

The clock said nine. Hours yet before a fashionable call. Time to prepare, so she wouldn’t embarrass him or herself.

She knew his behavior yesterday had been acting, presenting the right impression to those disgusting men, but even so it had etched her mind. Those men had believed that she was not the sort of woman the Duke of St. Raven could be interested in. She was conventional, proper, and had always behaved as she ought. Having experienced an impropriety, she had not developed a taste for it.

Or not for its public aspects. To which he was an experienced guide.

He might change…

She rejected that folly. Tris was like her father—perilously charming, but addicted to excitement, to the wild places. If it came to a choice between them and her, he would choose them. And she was not her mother, to bear it with tranquility.

This was a short, sharp pain. Marriage to a man like Tris would be a lifetime of it.

She hugged her knees, resting her chin on the top of them. During the season she’d observed some fashionably arid marriages where husband and wife were hardly ever seen in each other’s company. The husband had his mistress, and once the wife had provided a couple of boys who seemed likely to survive, she took lovers.

Discreetly, always discreetly, but still it was known. At house parties, husband and wife were given separate rooms, and their lovers, if available, were housed nearby. It must at times be a great puzzle for the hostess.

Cressida’s night of passion made her more sympathetic to the wanton wives, but all the same, adultery disgusted her. When she married, she would be faithful, and she’d expect the same of her husband. Which Tris, no doubt, would think ridiculous.

She climbed out of bed to splash cold water on her face.

As she pulled on her stockings, she realized that once news of her father’s recovery spread, his City friends would call. They must hire extra servants. Cook should be told to prepare cakes and other delicacies.

In fact, she thought as she shrugged into an easy corset, at least one of those gems would have to be translated into money to cover their immediate needs. She wondered exactly what they were worth. She must find out because those jewels might have, to support them forever.

She was hooking the front of the corset when she realized she was dressing in Matlock fashion. Should she ring for Sally and put on a London gown? No. Better to say farewell to Tris this way. It would make it easier for him.

“A fine husband I’d look to be dressed by the best and driving this rig but with my wife in servant’s clothes.”

She chose a pale green dress with a beige stripe and a trim of narrow white lace. She remembered liking it when she’d ordered it in the spring of last year, but now she saw that it was stodgily prim and dull.

“…
that outfit and hat cry out a lack of funds
.”

She shrugged and put it on, fastening the apron front.

Tris, undoing the back of her gown…

She unplaited her hair and brushed it the required one hundred times, blocking, blocking, blocking the memory of him brushing her hair. Then she plaited it again and coiled it on the top of her head.

Not low down on her neck.

She squeezed her eyes shut as if that could kill the clear memories. If this carried on, she’d have her hair all cut off!

She sat a curl-trimmed cap on top and tied the laces, thinking that one benefit of a return to Matlock was that she could do without this idiocy soon.

Her hands stilled.

Perhaps not.

Would it not be an essential part of her disguise? If she encountered one of the gentlemen from the orgy, if there was any talk at all, any speculation, would her curlless face look too like Roxelana’s?

She studied her appearance. With the curls and without the darkened brows and reddened lips, surely she looked different. The color of the gown did nothing for her complexion, something she had not recognized before. She picked up her spectacles and added them, pursing her lips a little, like Mrs. Wemworthy…

Oh, don’t think of that!

But anyone would laugh at the mere idea that the woman in the mirror could have been a shameless houri at an orgy. In truth, it was hard for her to believe it herself.

* * *

She was with her father and had just finished her careful explanation of Hatfield when Sally came, all agog, to say that the Duke of St. Raven was below, asking to see her.

She rose, praying that her fluttering heart didn’t show. “Tell him I’ll be with him directly, Sally. And inform my mother.”

Her mother was in the kitchens, helping to prepare for exactly this, as well as the expected visits from her father’s friends. Her father was on the chaise rather than the bed, but still weak.

“Do you wish to speak to him, Father?”

“No, no. A wild sprig as I remember, though. But he seems to have behaved well in Hatfield.”

“Yes, and we must thank him.”

There was something in her father’s look that made her tense, but he only picked a jewel from the little hoard in his lap—a ruby as big as a robin’s egg. “Do you know what this is worth, Cressy?”

“Enough, I hope.”

He turned it, sparkling in the sunlight. “Enough for what? In a good market, it should bring more than ten thousand pounds.”

Cressida gaped. “But there are ten!”

“A couple of these might buy you a duke if you want one. I know St. Raven needs money. His uncle drained and mismanaged the estates.” He looked at her. “Do you want him?”

She could laugh wildly at the thought, but her father didn’t know that he was being as tempting as Satan.