An Inconvenient Wife (4 page)

A flicker of comprehension
crossed Danielle’s face. She looked as if she might have more to say, but the
sudden appearance of Fatima at the door to the house put an end to any further
conversation. The woman looked impatient and for all the lack of a common
language, easily communicated her desire to leave.

Annoyed at this attitude—the
woman had been the one to go off, after all—Anne rose and put on a haughty
look. “They will be ready in a few minutes, when they have finished their juice
and my servants are free to escort you.”
Not servants, Bill and Maggie, but
this woman would not think they were anything else.
“I expect the children
to return tomorrow, Fatima.” Her Portuguese was limited, but she could say that
much.

Danielle set her glass, and
Guy’s, on the tray. “We will come if permitted,” she said in the grave,
un-childlike manner Anne found so disturbing.

 Guy handed Anne the dog,
smiled shyly at her, and bowed. “Thank you for the juice,
mam’selle
, and
for taking care of Bonnie.”

Anne watched from the door
as they hurried away, hand-in-hand, with Fatima grumbling behind them and the
Fentons following along more slowly. She could only suppose the maid feared a
scold if not back by a certain time, but she trusted Bill to make sure they
never left his sight.

Dispirited, for she had
learned little about them, Anne closed the door, collected the glasses, and
wandered into the kitchen. She wouldn’t mind a little juice herself. Bonnie was
content, after several noisy gulps of water, to settle on the blanket Maggie
had put down for her. Anne filled a glass and sat down to wait for Maggie to
return, but it was Bill Fenton who first stomped into the kitchen with a scowl
on his face.

“A queer household, Miss
Anne, and what’s to do with them young’ns I’d give a monkey to know. Never saw
such a pair of mice in all my days and that keeper of theirs’ a sour old
thing.”

Anne smiled wanly at him. “I
wish I knew, Bill. Something is seriously amiss there, but unless they tell me,
there is nothing we can do.” She drew her brows together in question. “Did you
see
Monsieur
Meraux this time?”

“No, and I can’t say I
regret it,” Maggie snapped as she stalked in to join them. “I didn’t take to
the fellow no more than you did, and I’d warrant it’s him that’s got those
children so scared.”

Anne raised her hands and
then dropped them in resignation. “I agree with you, but he
is
their
stepfather. All we can do is to see them as often as possible and let them know
we will help in any way we can.”

Anne could tell from the
stubborn expression on both Maggie’s and Bill’s faces her suggestion did not
sit well with either of them. They exchanged a pointed look, but neither
prolonged the argument, although it seemed Bill was not entirely willing to
abandon the subject.

“Talk to the
Senhora,
Miss Anne. Ask if she or the
Senhor
knows anything about them.
Foreigners generally cause a mite of talk.” He picked up his hat, fingered the
brim for an instant, and then clapped it on his head and walked out.

After a lifetime Anne was
accustomed to Bill’s abrupt manner. However, his idea had merit. The Lusitains
were the Condessa’s caretakers and unlike the other servants, had stayed in
Oporto to look after the house. They knew just about everyone in the area.

She nodded at Maggie. “I
will ask her first thing tomorrow.”

“That’s all well and good,
Miss Anne,” Maggie said, dropping into a chair, “and I want to help as much as
anyone, but we have our own problems to resolve.” She laid her hand over
Anne’s. “If you do not hear from England soon, child, you will have no choice
but to ask the Consulate for help. It won’t matter anyway if he shows up here.
At least we will have a chance to get a passage before that happens.”

Anne turned her face aside
and pressed her lips together until the threat of tears subsided. At times
events seemed overwhelming, but Maggie was right. A decision needed to be made.
She forced a smile and rose. “Give it a few more days, and then I will go to
the Consulate.”

“Well enough,” Maggie said
after a long look at Anne, but if she intended to say more, thought better of
it. Bonnie ambled over to sit at Maggie’s feet and her expression softened.

“She’s a good little thing,
no trouble at all. Which is more than you deserve, bringing her home like that.
I doubt you will get off so easy with those children,” Maggie said with a
sniff, leaning over to pick up the dog.

Anne looked at the ball of
fuzz nested in the crook of her companion’s arm. “I wish I did not think the
same.” But she felt committed now and in any case, had to do
something
to help those youngsters.

Chapter Four

Hampshire, England

Westcott straightened when
St. Clair walked into the hotel bedchamber. The view of the docks below had
palled some time ago and pacing in the small room almost impossible.

“How does Lady Lynton?”

Juliette had taken ill on
the journey to Southampton and instead of embarking upon their arrival, they
had found rooms in one of the many inns dotting the streets near the docks.
Since St. Clair’s expression was more pleased than worried, her ailment must
not be serious and some of the tension eased from Westcott’s shoulders. Perhaps
they could make the morning tide after all.

“Splendid. Not well.” St.
Clair sputtered. He stared around as if surprised by his surroundings, grinned
broadly, and slapped a hand on Westcott’s shoulder. “Gad, I sound an absolute
nod cock. Look, there has been a change in plans. I need to talk to you and this
is no place to hang about. Besides, I need a drink!”

Westcott lifted an eyebrow.
“You
sound
like an idiot. Is your wife well or not?”

“No, no, not here.” St.
Clair grinned again and strode from the room. “Come along.”

“Devlin, if this is one of
your mad starts…” Westcott’s words fell unheard into an empty chamber and
resigned, he followed his friend downstairs.

St. Clair called to the
innkeeper for some brandy as they walked through the common area, grabbed the
forthcoming bottle and a pair of glasses, and led Westcott into a private room.

“Take a drink with me,
Nick.” St. Clair splashed the spirit into the tumblers, handed one to Westcott,
and raised his high. “I’m going to be a father. Juliette is with child.”

The man’s smile was so wide
Westcott thought it might split his head and he grinned back and held up his
glass. “Congratulations, Devlin! No wonder you are acting the fool.” He stepped
closer to his life-long friend, gave him a brotherly punch on the arm, and
touched his glass to the earl’s. “
Santé
,
old fellow. It makes a man half-crazy, but it’s worth it. Now, tell me how the
lady is, and what change in plans do you propose?”

St. Clair finished his
brandy, and looking somewhat more collected, though still with the besotted
look which had become a fixture on his face, refilled their glasses.

“Juliette is well enough,
according to the physician, except for these bouts of sickness, which
apparently we can look forward to for the next few months.”

“Or more,” Westcott warned
him with a laugh. “At the very least, it will seem that long.” He leaned
against the sideboard and took another sip of his brandy. “Next you are going
to tell me she will not be able to travel.”

St. Clair’s smile faded and
he set aside his glass. “No, we cannot continue, Nick. I want her back at
Lynton Hall where she will have proper care if it becomes necessary. You will
need to go on alone and manage as best you can. You know as much about the
situation as I do.”

“Do I?” Westcott retorted,
unable to keep the anger from his voice. “What in hell am I to do with a young
girl if it becomes necessary to bring her here?”

“There is no reason to think
it might come to that. In all likelihood, Danielle is content with her family
and has no desire for any change.”

“More likely that anything that
can possibly go wrong will.” Westcott downed the remainder of his brandy and
started for the door.

“Nick, I’m counting on you.
We both are. Juliette feels badly about foisting this entirely on you but she
is very worried about the girl. She feels
la Comtesse
would never have
told us of her brother’s illegitimate child if she had not been seriously
concerned, and I must agree her letter conveyed a strong sense of urgency.”

Westcott halted and looked
back over his shoulder. “I gave you my word on it,” he said quietly, then
smiled widely. “It is good news, Dev. I’m pleased for you. Take your lady home.
I’ll do my best for you.”

“That’s all I ask.” St.
Clair picked up the bottle. “Wait, I’ll go with you to tell Carlisle. And Nick?
Thank you.”

Westcott laughed and clapped
him on the shoulder. “Don’t thank me yet, my friend. It may be I fail in
finding the child. Time will tell.”

Westcott maintained what he
felt was an air of good humour during the brief celebratory drink with Carlisle
and St. Clair. He well remembered the strangely contradictory feeling of joy
and panic at learning of incipient parenthood and was sincerely delighted for
St. Clair and his charming wife. To him, his irrational sense of betrayal and
justifiable anger at this turn of events was not important, and no reason to
spoil this moment for his friend. But the pretense faded the instant he took
his leave with the excuse of last-minute preparations. Nothing good would come
of this venture. He felt sure of it.

~* * *~

Westcott stood on the deck,
one shoulder braced against the bulkhead, and watched the smudge of gray on the
horizon that was Portugal. Given the time of year, the voyage had not been
unpleasant, and he had the satisfaction of surviving the entire trip without
being ill. Not that he felt particularly well, but for the first time a sea
trip had not banished him to a berth in misery.

A hail announced a visitor
and he turned to see the Captain stride toward him with his usual enviable
balance. “You could at least stumble now and again, Carlisle,” Westcott
grumbled, half in jest.

“You could fall off your
horse now and again,” Carlisle threw back at him with a laugh, referring to
Westcott’s equestrian skills and his own lesser proficiency in the saddle.

“I could at that.” The
viscount’s smile was as broad as his friend’s. He, St. Clair and Carlisle had
been inseparable since their schooldays. They’d met  on his first day at Eton,
when Jasper, the smallest of them all, had jumped in, fists flying, to aid
Westcott when some older boys had attempted to ‘break the bloody viscount in’.
St. Clair had plunged in right behind.

Carlisle’s searching gaze
swept the decks and the foam-topped waters below before he joined Westcott in
his sheltered corner. “What are you doing out here, Nick? It’s damn cold.”

Westcott shrugged, his eyes
returning to the horizon. “The air helps, and since I’ve managed not to
disgrace myself this trip…” He shrugged again. “How long before we reach
Oporto?”

Carlisle looked sideways at
him. “Tomorrow, if the weather holds and I expect it will. Anxious to get on
with it?”

“Anxious to get it
finished,
”
Westcott replied, “and get home to Sarah.”

“I’ll bet a monkey Sarah is
thoroughly enjoying herself and will even more when St. Clair and his lady get
back to cosset her, along with your mother and every servant in the place.
Don’t worry about Sarah.”

“I know that!” Westcott
heard the sour note in his voice and grimaced. “We haven’t been apart since the
accident,” he said. “She was so
pleased
about going.”

Carlisle looked at him levelly.
“You can’t keep her sequestered forever, no matter how much you want to protect
her.” He glanced around again, and apparently deeming all was well, gripped
Westcott’s arm. “I’ve had enough of this wind. Come below. A shot of whiskey
will keep you shipshape.”

“So you say,” Westcott
groused, but made no objection. Truth was, the wind did have a bite to it, and
settled a few minutes later in the Captain’s snug cabin, glass of spirit in his
hand, Westcott did feel more the thing. Maybe he was developing some sea legs,
at least when the water was calm.

“Tell me again about this
French girl you are going to see.” Carlisle topped up their glasses. “I
couldn’t get much sense from St. Clair. Who would imagine that hey-go-mad being
bowled over by a baby?”

They exchanged an amused
look and Westcott sipped at the brandy, savoring the fiery heat as it warmed
his chest and belly. “The girl is
la
Comtesse’
s niece. The child
was adopted but both parents have since died and she is in the care of her
adoptive mother’s second husband. For some reason, the man has taken her to
Portugal.” One corner of his mouth curled back and he lifted a brow. “This did
not sit well with
la
Comtesse
. She is…
was
concerned for
Miss Durant’s well-being and her dying wish was for St. Clair and Juliette to
ensure she is in good hands.” He swirled the liquid in his glass around and
smiled cynically. “The girl is an heiress of sorts and is not aware of her true
parentage. It may be she is being taken advantage of.”