A Well Pleasured Lady (22 page)

Remembered agony tried to well up through the cracks of his composure, but he tamped it down with the ease of long practice.

As if she didn't realize how well composed he was, Mary rubbed her hand across his back and made shushing noises.

He both disdained the comfort and relished it. Beneath her stroking hand he was melting like butter on a hot cross bun. “I worked. On the docks. When Mother died, I went to Lady Valéry. She smoothed the rough edges I had acquired and loaned me money to start my shipping business. I have since repaid the loan and she has made a tidy profit.”

“Of course,” Mary murmured.

Being in her arms had a narcotic effect, but he injected his lax muscles with resolution. “So you see why you can't give your fortune to the Fairchilds.”

She released him so quickly, he swayed. She turned her back to him, walked away, stood looking out over the lands as he had earlier.

Did she see wealth ill tended? Did she see ill-gotten gains? Or did she simply see the hint of lush summer green? He wanted to tell her to look below the surface, but somehow he feared to do so. Somehow
he feared if he suggested she look closely at her own family, she would look closely at him, too. She would see the lad who had walked London's streets looking for a job, and had found only other children, tougher children, who'd fought him, stripped him of his fancy clothes, and rolled him in the mud. She would see that lad hardening as he grew. She would see the times he'd stooped to theft, the times he'd been almost caught, the tears he'd wept when he'd come home to find nothing he'd done had been enough, and his mother had died of grief…

Her words came to him on the breeze. “So you did marry me for my fortune.”

That jerked him from his melancholy. “No!” He strode to her. “I tell you, you can take that money and fling it out the window, for all I care.”

“But you did,” she said stubbornly. “You married me so the Fairchild fortune would never return to the Fairchilds.”

“I never thought of such a thing.” He turned her to face him. “Good God, woman, why would I? I couldn't have imagined you would come up with such a witless idea.”

She didn't answer, ignoring the story he'd just told. The story that so clearly explained why she couldn't give her fortune to her family.

He'd plastered over the hurts of the past. His parents' betrayals no longer affected him. He'd been strong, stoic, enduring—until Mary had come into his life. Now he needed something, something he
didn't comprehend but something he knew she could give him, and instead of showing any kind of compassion, she whined about her family. In an unrehearsed and thoughtless phrase—all right, a stupid phrase—he gave an ultimatum. “Choose. Them or me.”

In some wild part of his soul, he must have hoped she would enfold him in one of those gratifying embraces. When she just stared at him blankly, his stomach sank. His emotions seesawed from anguish to denunciation, from resentment to rage. Deep, bubbling rage.
That,
he knew how to release. “Fine.” He almost spat the word. “You don't want me. You can have your precious Fairchilds, although I'll be interested to see how they'll react when you're hanged as a murderess.”

The color leached from her skin, and her eyes grew round and wild.

“What's the matter?” he taunted her in a low tone. “I told you my secrets. Didn't you want me to know yours?”

“It's not only my secret,” she blurted. Then she shuddered, and clasping her hands, she raised them in entreaty. “I beg you.”

He wasn't enjoying this as he should. He actually felt a little sickened by his own cruelty.

She fumbled in her pocket and produced the little book. “Here. Take it. Only don't turn me in.”

“You'd do anything to save yourself.”
Not just her secret.
Of course, it wasn't just her secret. He knew that.

She took his hand. She was trembling so hard, she could scarcely close his fingers around the diary. “If that's what you think, then think it. But please—”

He looked down at the diary. The damn, stupid little diary that had caused all the problems. That and the damn, stupid Fairchild fortune. He didn't give a damn about either one.

“Take it.” She dropped to her knees before him. “But promise me—”

“Hell.” He shoved the diary back at her. “Keep it. Give your money to the Fairchilds. Do whatever you want. I don't care.” When he stepped back, he knew he was running away. Running away…from what? He glanced at the woman groveling just for him.

Was he running from her? Ridiculous.

He pointed his index finger at her. “Just stay away from me.”

And he fled.

Murderess.

Meet me alone at the fountain in the garden with one hundred pounds, or I'll tell all and collect the reward.

Murder. Ian flinched. Hadden hadn't given out any details, and Ian hadn't asked, for really, it didn't matter. He was going to help his cousins.

He knocked on Wilda's door and smiled flirtatiously at the maid when she opened it. “I would like to speak with your mistress.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “She's resting, sir, and will see nobody.”

“She'll see me.” Over the maid's protests, he pushed his way into the bedchamber.

Wilda lay on the bed with the pillow over her eyes.

Leaning against the mattress, he crooned, “Wilda, I need you,” and lifted the pillow.

He found himself staring at a face marred by tears.
Her nose was blotchy, her eyes were rimmed in pink, and she looked thoroughly miserable. Ian sighed. She still mourned the young man who had ruined, then jilted her. Someone needed to take her in hand.

“What do you want, Ian?” Her voice sounded scratchy and her chin quivered.

He sprang back. She was going to cry again. Oh, God, she was going to cry again.

But he needed one of the Fairchild cousins. He needed that distinctive hair, that body, and that height. The other sisters would simply laugh if he requested a favor. In fact, they would delight in thwarting him. But Wilda was soft, so Wilda, it would have to be. “Dry your tears, dear,” he whispered. “I need your help.”

 

Sebastian knew.

Deficient in sight and hearing, keeping one hand on the wall, Mary shuffled like an old woman as she traversed the halls of Fairchild Manor.

He'd always known.

Shock held her in its grip. Sebastian remembered the bloodstained girl who had killed Besseborough, and he'd been waiting, withholding that information until such time when he could use it against her.

She shouldn't feel so crushed. She'd always known he might remember. She'd always known of Sebastian's ruthless character. But somehow the past week had changed her opinion of him. She thought she saw glimpses of vulnerability, portions of caring. She'd
begun to cherish thoughts of having more than a sham betrothal, more than a forced marriage. She'd begun to dream…

Ah. She'd begun to dream.

She laughed aloud, then silenced herself when she heard the shrill note in her voice. “Papa,” she whispered. “Why do I still dream when everything I ever dreamed of or hoped for is a chimera?”

Stupid, stupid.
She swiped a trickle of tears off her cheek. Stupid to cry about something so obviously ordained. Stupid to dream about a life spent learning to smile, to trust, in a slow, sweet communion called marriage.

Dreams. Dreams were the cause of all her tears.

A sob escaped her and she glanced around in embarrassment. A maid lugging a bucket looked at her curiously, but kept walking, and no wonder. A thorough cleaning would be necessary to return the manor to pristine order after the house party.
A housekeeper knows these things.

She stopped by a table and with head bowed she squeezed the bridge of her nose as if that would force back the tears.
A housekeeper keeps control.
But she wasn't a housekeeper anymore. She was…She didn't know what she was. She had to hold off this bout of crying, at least until she could reach her bedchamber. And dear God, where was that?

“My dear?” The kindly voice was only too familiar. “Is there anything wrong?”

She kept her head down. “Nothing, thank you, Mr. Brindley.”

He stepped in front of her and bent to peer into her face. “Tut, tut. Those look like tears. Why is the blushing bride crying?”

“I'm not.” Her voice wobbled.

“Of course not.” He offered a clean handkerchief, and she wiped her face with it thankfully. “There. You're better now.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She glanced at him. His wig was askew, making his head appear crooked. And the color in his face had not improved. Remembering that earlier he had appeared pale and distressed, she said, “You don't look well. You should go lie down.”

He didn't seem to hear her. “We will go somewhere and talk.”

“I thank you, but no.” She had no intention of talking about the day's events to anyone, no matter how well intentioned.

“You don't want someone else to see you in such a state,” he insisted.

“Then direct me to my bedchamber.”

Taking her arm, he led her down the corridor, and she went gratefully until they reached the small stairway that led up to the servants' quarters and attic. She'd traversed these stairs today on her way to the roof to tell Sebastian the good news, and she'd come down them broken by Sebastian's contempt. “This isn't the way.” She tried to tug back.

He didn't allow it. “We'll go on the roof. I believe you were there before.”

“Does everyone know my business?” she asked petulantly.

“I hope not,” he muttered, and yanked her by the arm.

She stumbled after him up the steps. For an older man, an ill man, he was surprisingly strong. She didn't want to go with him, but neither did she want to make a fuss. “Really, Mr. Brindley, I don't think…”

“Don't think, dear. Let kindly old Mr. Brindley take care of everything.” They went up the even narrower stairway to the roof, and she gave up and just let him drag her along. Somehow it seemed easier than struggling.

They stepped out into an afternoon of changing weather. Smoke hung low against the roof, and long, gray clouds slithered across the sky. Mary's mood slipped lower. Even the sky would weep with her.

“Tell me what's wrong.” Mr. Brindley didn't sound sympathetic at all. In fact, he sounded rather brisk.

She pulled away from him. The myriad of chimneys and vents raised themselves like some doomed volcanic landscape. She zigzagged among them to the wall that encircled the roof, to the place where she had looked out over the Fairchild lands and realized Sebastian would never relent of his hatred. She should have known then it was hopeless. She shouldn't have been so surprised at his accusation of murder.

Mr. Brindley spoke again, his voice rough, surprising her with a lower-class pronunciation. “Tell me what happened between ye and yer husband, madam, to make him storm from here so furiously.”

Threading her fingers together, she sought the right words. “Really, Mr. Brindley, as much as I treasure your kindness, what happened between my husband and me is not any of your concern.”

Coldly Mr. Brindley said, “I think he was raging because ye didn't give him the diary.”

 

“You've made a fool of yourself now, Sebastian.”

Sebastian stood before Lady Valéry in her bedchamber, his toes lined up on one of the floorboards, his hands behind his back. He fought the sensation of being a young boy again, of having disappointed Lady Valéry. He was a man grown now, and she shouldn't be able to intimidate him like this.

If only someone would tell her.

“Your wife came to me and told me the most incredible story about how she recovered my diary without a bit of trouble to anyone. And you accused her of murder.”

“She wanted to give her fortune to the Fairchilds.”

“Her fortune, Sebastian.” Lady Valéry sat in her chair and pointed her cane at him.
“Her
fortune.
And you accused her of murder.”

“Well, I saw her,” he muttered.

“Saw her what?”

“Saw her after the murder.” In the low light of the stable yard, the bloodstains and dirt had mixed together, and he'd thought nothing about it except that the girl—a Fairchild—had been romping in the dark with her lover. He'd reprimanded her and gone
on his way. “I realized she'd done it when they discovered the body in a shallow grave.”

Lady Valéry didn't care, that was obvious. “Does that give you the right to use her guilt as a weapon? She almost destroyed every last bit of joy in her own life as penance for that killing, and whom did she kill? I ask you, whom did she kill?”

He tried to wait her out, but her flaming gaze demanded he answer. “Besseborough.”

“Besseborough.” The name was a profanity on her lips. “The most notorious child buggerer in England. Why, I know noblemen he caught and defiled who would today reward Mary for having killed Besseborough.”

“I realize that!” Of course he had known about Besseborough.

“And why did she kill him?”

“Don't know.” Sebastian tried not to visibly sulk, but he suspected his lip was drooping.

“She's got a brother who was nine years old at the time. You guess.”

Sebastian had guessed correctly ten years ago, and once again he winced at the thought of the earl of Besseborough and Hadden. In his secret heart, he wanted to applaud Mary. It was just that she—

“She frightened you, didn't she?” Lady Valéry demanded. “You wanted to give up your stupid vengeance for her, and that scared you.”

“I wasn't 'fraid.” Damn, he sounded just like a child. “I was not afraid.” He enunciated clearly this
time. “I simply thought she should choose between—”

“She told me. What a jackass you are, Sebastian. You want your wife to be charitable, loyal, kind, and honorable, and when she displays those qualities, you reproach her for them. If she had willingly disowned her family, you would have spent the next fifty years waiting for her to disown you, too.”

Lady Valéry was right. He hated it, but she was right. “Maybe.”

“Were you just chagrined because after all your skulking around, she got the diary without even searching for it?”

“No!”

Lady Valéry stared at him.

“Certainly not.”

She still stared.

“I wasn't chagrined because she got the diary.” Not too much. “I was chagrined because I wanted her to want me. I wanted her to—” He hesitated. What was the word he searched for?

“To love you.” Lady Valéry shook her head. “Sebastian. Sebastian. What am I to do with you? Of course she loves you. If she didn't, do you think a woman of impeccable integrity and unshakable virtue would have a man like
you?
”

A little twinkle of hope blinked in his soul. “Really?”

“Really. And I suspect she would like to know you love her back.”

“Do I?”

Lady Valéry cackled. “Don't you?”

He rubbed his mouth with his hand. “I don't know, I've never…But then, I've never felt so…It's as if she…But I didn't, either.”

“There you have it, then.” Reprimand over, Lady Valéry smiled at him kindly. “Come and give me a kiss on the cheek, then off you go! Find Mary and tell her you love her.”

 

Mary swung around and stared as Mr. Brindley strode toward her. “The diary? What do you know about that?”

“I know I came here to buy it. Lord Smithwick told me Lady Smithwick would give it to ye when he was trying to chase me off.” Smoke clung to Mr. Brindley. Demonlike, he waved it away, and the smoke obeyed. “And I'm not leaving without it.”

“You want the diary?” she asked stupidly. He was one of the people Sebastian spoke of so disparagingly. She stared at Mr. Brindley. Did she recognize him? This wasn't the kindly countenance she'd come to associate with him. This man had a hard glint in his eye. His fists were large and meaty, and he held them as if he would strike her.

She glanced around her. There was nothing with which to protect herself. No umbrella stands, no domed silver serving covers. She backed up, skirting the wall, trying to avoid the corners created by juts in the outer wall. “I don't have the diary.”

“Let me see.”

“What?”

“Turn out that purse ye're clutching.”

She shook her head. “I don't have the diary anymore.”

He took a giant step forward and loomed over her. He reached for her, and she hastily turned out her purse. “See? I haven't—”

A black leather-bound book tumbled to the ground.

She gasped. “But that's not the diary!”

Snatching it up, he chortled. “I'll bet it's not.”

“You don't understand!”

“No, madam, ye don't understand.” He shook the book in front of her face. “This is mine now, and there's nothing—”

A blur streaked out of the smoke and mist. Mary yelped. Mr. Brindley half turned. And the blur materialized into Sebastian.

Mary heard the thud as the two men slammed into the wall. As they rolled onto the rooftop, Mr. Brindley lost his wig. It rolled like a gruesome head from a French guillotine. Then someone landed a punch.

Sebastian. Sebastian had landed the first blow. The book flew from Mr. Brindley's hand. Mary grabbed it before it could tumble three stories to the ground.

The men, grappling wildly, rocked toward her. She scrambled out of the way.

Sebastian was younger. Mr. Brindley was larger, and he had obviously been raised on the streets. But Sebastian, too, had learned from his time in London's
slums. Together they created a brutal dance, kicking, punching, grunting with each powerful blow.

Mr. Brindley used his longer arms to catch Sebastian, then wrestled him into a hold with his arm around Sebastian's neck. Sebastian stabbed his elbow into Brindley's ribs, and as Brindley wheezed, Sebastian rolled free. Brindley staggered to his feet and kicked at Sebastian's stomach. Sebastian caught his foot and jerked it out from under him. Mr. Brindley went down like a large rotten elm, smacking his head on one of the chimneys, and the fight stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Sebastian stood, bleeding, gasping for air. “Yield, traitor.”

Leaning against the brick, Mr. Brindley dragged himself to his feet. He fumbled in his coat—for his handkerchief, Mary thought.

Sebastian shouted, “No!” and launched himself at Mr. Brindley.