Barbara Metzger (28 page)

He had not accepted any invitations to dinners or parties this evening, not knowing his mother’s, his sister’s, or Athena’s plans, so could not drag Rensdale along for a free meal. His mother was resting after yet another strenuous day of shopping. His sister had found a new treatise on the rights of workers at the lending library. Athena was sewing baby clothes for Rensdale to take home, when her brother finally left.

Ian and Carswell would be welcome at whatever social gathering was being held this night, no matter if they had accepted or not. They were single gentlemen of utmost eligibility, especially since one of them, Lord Marden, was thought to be looking for a bride. Ian would eat a live eel before entering a ballroom full of hopeful mamas and their hopelessly homely daughters.

There was no fun in going to Vauxhall, not without a dasher on one’s arm to show off, and with whom to view the fireworks from some secluded glen. Rensdale had no interest in opera or theater, so Ian supposed the lecture at the Philosophical Society would hold no appeal. The circus at Astley’s Amphitheatre was too childish—and Ian was waiting to take Troy there—and Sadler’s Wells was too common—and Athena would adore the pantomimes. The museums and galleries were closed by now, although Ian could not imagine Rensdale enjoying an art exhibit. The sporting venues were also shut for the evening. Jackson’s boxing parlor, Manton’s Gallery, and the Italian Fencing Academy would all be locked tight. Ian refused to attend a cockfight, bearbaiting, or dog pit, so blood sports were out.

So was the sport of skirt-raising.

“What say we go to Sukey Johnstone’s?” Carswell asked. “I hear she has a new crop of—ooph.”

Ian had kicked him.

Carswell brushed at his trouser leg. “I say, there was no need for that, Marden. Oh, wouldn’t want your bride’s brother tattling? I see.”

Rensdale had started on a description of his own crops, mangel-wurzels or some such, before realizing that was not the kind of bounty Carswell was proposing. He sat up, more interested than he’d been at the mention of boxing matches or a game of billiards. “A crop of Mother Carey’s chickens, eh? I see.” He started to rebutton his waistcoat across his paunch.

Neither one of them saw. Ian did not think visiting a bordello was fitting behavior for a nearly betrothed man. Whether Athena learned of it or not, he would know that he had forsworn his vow of fidelity before a week had passed, before the actual wedding vows were spoken. What way was that to begin a marriage? He thought of all the wives who had betrayed their husbands in his arms, and made those gentlemen a silent apology…except for ones who kept mistresses. They deserved straying wives.

In addition to an ethical issue he had never considered before, Ian was shocked to discover that he simply did not want any other woman. He wanted to know his wife’s slender body and none else. He supposed Mrs. Johnstone could provide a slight young girl with blond curls, but his mind, and his body, he thought, would know the difference. “No,” he told the other gentlemen. “Visiting a prostitute is disrespectful of one’s wife.”

Carswell almost fell out of his chair, and Rensdale almost cried.

“Gads, man, do you mean to be a benedict in truth?” Carswell asked.

Ian raised his glass. “I mean to show my bride that I am worthy of her, as any gentleman should to the mother of his unborn babes.”

Now Rensdale sank lower in his seat, as if hoping the leather cushions would swallow him up.

Carswell stroked his chin, thinking. “You are right, of course. Tomcatting is for bachelors and unrepentant rakes. A decent fellow, wedding an esteemed wife, has to cease sowing his wild oats. A man with a dicey reputation might have to prove his honor beforehand by putting temptation aside.”

“Exactly.” Except that Ian was not tempted in the least. “But you two go on ahead, if you wish.”

How could Rensdale visit a whore after Marden’s moralizing? “No, no, got to think of my unborn son, too. Wouldn’t want to pick up the pox or anything, either.”

They both looked to Carswell. “No, I think I will forego the pleasure, too. Abstinence might be good for my soul. I’ll try it for a fortnight or so and see. Perhaps a sennight. Maybe until week’s end.”

“It’s all well and good to turn into monks, but what else is there to do?” Rensdale asked with a defeated whine in his voice.

“What do you do at home, then?” Ian wanted to know. “Are you at parties every night?”

“What, in the country? We attend the assemblies, and dine with Squire and his wife on Sundays. I visit the local, play a bit of cards, throw the darts some. But mostly we stay at home. Restful, you know. Not so costly. Veronica sews and I watch her.”

“You watch your wife sew?” Carswell was horrified. “Gads, you might as well watch your sheep grow wool.”

Rensdale’s cheeks were flushed. “I like to watch her, when she’s too busy with her needlework to carp and complain. Fond of the old girl, you know. And we talk of this and that.”

“Gads,” Carswell said again.

Ian could not tell if his friend’s oath was for the watching of the harridan or for Rensdale’s fondness for her. He understood, though. He thought he might enjoy watching Athena as she embroidered, chatting with her about their day, discussing his next speech in Parliament, speaking of all kinds of things. Her face held so many expressions, a man would not soon grow weary of watching her. Her opinions were usually well considered and reasonable. And when he did grow weary, he could go to bed, with her nestled against his side.

Maybe marriage was not all that bad. Ian hoped not, for celibacy was too uncomfortable without some reward. Hell, being hard without finding gratification was damned hard, indeed.

Carswell went off to find a card game, and Ian and Rensdale stayed where they were, talking. “Tell me about Athena then to pass the time, so I might understand her better,” Ian requested.

“You’ll never understand a one of them, but I can try.” Rensdale went on to tell Ian about his father’s young second wife. “A mere landowner’s daughter, and nearly twenty years his junior, besides. Nothing like the ten years between you and Attie, of course. That’s fine and dandy. My father made himself the laughingstock of the county, the old fool and his young filly.”

He’d wanted another son, the former viscount had, and another wife to warm his bed. He must have loved the woman, Rensdale recounted, for he went into a decline when she died in childbirth, turning mean. The old viscount hated the boy who had caused her death, furious that the infant was sickly, imperfect, an insult to his virility. Only little Athena had loved the puny babe, and their father had hated her, too, for looking like her mother and for telling him how to raise his son. She’d been stubborn while still in pinafores and pigtails, and she was stubborn since. Proof of that was in her rejecting the earl out of hand, when he was the best match she could hope to make.

The staff kept treating her like mistress of the Hall, even after Rensdale brought his bride home, and she did nothing to change their attitude. She always thought she knew what was best, treating the servants like family, putting the tenants’ welfare ahead of her own relatives’. Rensdale found her a nuisance, except that she had a good head for figures and the estate books. He could always hire a secretary who would not complain if he raised the rents.

Veronica found her young sister-in-law too harum-scarum to present to society. Athena was forward and fussy, strong-willed, disobliging, and altogether too immature to befriend. She had not the least understanding of a woman’s place in the world, much less a female of modest means dependent on her half-brother. According to Lady Rensdale, Wiggs was good enough for the girl, and the least exertion on her own part.

They would both be glad to be rid of her.

The boy was simply an inconvenience, an embarrassing burden, like having a lunatic in the attics. Lady Rensdale did not like to speak of him at all. She could hardly bear to look at him, so having Troy stay on as Marden’s ward would suit them perfectly. That was the only reason she was not calling her husband home to see to her comfort. She wanted him to get the job done.

“You can understand that, can’t you?”

Ian thought he did understand Athena better after listening to her brother. Those who should have loved her and looked after her, putting her interests first, had all failed her. No wonder she did not want to entrust herself and her brother to yet another person who thought he knew what was best. If he had had to fight for every crumb of respect, every inch of independence, he doubted he’d want to give it up so easily, either. Hell, he had the world at his command, with no one to naysay him, and he was still worried about putting on leg-shackles.

He never meant to keep his wife on a tight rein, but how could he convince her of that? Athena did not trust him enough yet to believe his word, and he wondered if she ever would.

He’d try, he swore to himself. He’d try to make her understand that he was a man of honor…who only lied to her when he couldn’t help it.

Some few hours later, Rensdale was ready to go home. Carswell was still playing cards, but Ian was happy to leave the smoke-filled room. With no carriage in town, Rensdale was about to have the doorman call him a hackney.

“I’ll drop you off, Marden. On the way, don’t you know.”

“No, I’ll walk home. It is not that far, and I need the exercise. It is not late enough to be dangerous, and the moon is full. I have my sword stick, besides.”

Rensdale did not want to be thought less fit than the younger man, so he said, “Right. I’ll walk with you.” He patted his paunch. “I could use some activity, too.”

“What about your, ah, disability?” It was not polite to mention another’s infirmity, but the man had a limp. Ian wished he’d accepted the offer of a ride, after all.

Rensdale tapped his leg. “This? It’s nothing. An old coaching accident, don’t you know. Bothers my wife more than me.”

So they stepped out into a clear night, for once, with the stars out for the first time in days. Without the fog cover, the air was fresher, the streets seemed cleaner, and the ebony hush was a welcome contrast to the noise of the clubs. Ian did not keep his normal pace, and Rensdale did not huff and puff too much.

When they reached the corner where they had to take different directions, they shook hands, Rensdale wishing Ian luck, and Ian wishing Athena’s brother a good night’s rest.

Ian walked on, thinking about the woman, wondering if she was still awake, and if his sister and mother were not. The evening was still full of possibilities, and pleasures. He walked a little faster.

Then he heard a shout, a cry, a thud. “Rensdale?”

He heard no answer. He turned, pulled the sword out of his cane, and started to race back the way he had come. A man was loping off down an alley, lurching at an awkward gait. Why the deuce was Rensdale running away? Then he saw a lump on the ground at the same time he heard the moan. Rensdale had fallen, clutching his head. It was someone else who had fled.

“Good gods, what a brazen footpad! Did he get your purse?” Ian set his sword down and knelt by the man’s side. Then he saw all the blood, ink black by the moon’s light. “The devil!”

This was a lot worse than a stolen purse. A brick was nearby, also covered in blood. “Can you speak, man? Are you hurt badly? Where did the dastard hit you?”

Rensdale was trying to sit up. “M’head, I think. Can’t see.”

Ian had his neckcloth off, and Rensdale’s own, trying to stop the bleeding. “You can’t see because of the blood in your eyes. Head wounds do that, you know. Bleed a lot.”

This much? Ian stood up and let out a piercing whistle, then shouted for the Watch as loudly as he could. He picked up his sword and slashed a circle, in case the thief was watching to see if he should make another try.

The Watch and two hackneys came at the same time. The first one drove off when he saw the blood. “Don’t want ’is claret on me cushions, guv.”

The second driver helped Ian haul the half-conscious Rensdale into his coach, while the Watchman took down his name and Ian’s description of the limping felon.

“So where to, my lord? Yer friend needs stitches, less’n I miss my guess.”

Where, indeed? Rensdale’s hotel? Who knew what care he would receive there. Ian gave his own address and told the driver to hurry. He’d pay extra for the speed.

He got in the carriage, trying to cushion Rensdale so he did not bump his head on the side panels as the old coach rattled down the cobblestones at the fastest pace the old nag pulling it could go.

Rensdale groaned the whole time, but he stayed upright, which Ian took for a good sign. They were nearly to Maddox House when Ian realized he’d have to wake Athena if she were abed. No one could sleep through the stir his arrival was liable to cause, with messengers sent to surgeons and Bow Street, the servants roused to nurse another patient. Ian would have to tell her himself that he had dragged home another of her siblings, wounded. This time it was a half-dead half-brother. Lud, what the deuce could he say to the poor girl?

His mind went blank when he saw her face go as white as the marble stairs. Her hand clutched the bannister as if she would tumble down the steps otherwise, which he did not have time for—not with Rensdale leaning against him, held up only by Ian’s arms, blood dripping onto the tiles at their feet. He looked at her and wanted to reassure her, wanted to promise her things would be all right. All he found to say, though, was: “I didn’t do it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Marriage is endless.

—Anonymous

Marriage is endless possibilities.

—Mrs. Anonymous

What a popular man he was! No seafarer had ever been greeted so eagerly, or by so many, Captain Barnaby Beecham thought. No, not even Odysseus, home from the wars, after his dog pointed him out to the others. Captain Beecham wished he could have remained unrecognized for another day or so. All he’d been looking forward to was a long sleep uninterrupted by ship’s bells, good English cooking, and clothes not permeated by dampness. The sail home had been nightmarish. His welcome to London was, too.