Queen of Diamonds (20 page)

“They do not have to know—” Queenie started.

“If I told John George the truth, the way a proper wife should, he would have to tell them. And if I do not tell him, and they find out, he will lose his position.”

“I do not see why he should be dismissed. Why would they blame him for what he could not possibly know?”

“And you are supposed to be so smart! Well, you are not, Queenie, not in the ways of the world. The earl and his brother won't want one of your friends associated with their school, one who did not come forward when they asked. They would never trust me, or John George, no matter what they decide about you.”

“I intend to—”

“But not until you have to. And then it might be too late.”

“Fustian. A man owes his wife loyalty, too. Everyone understands that. And if the Endicotts are so harsh and cruel and condemning”—she shuddered, even in her blanket, thinking of her own confrontation with the noble family—“then your Mr. Browne will be better off in another position.”

“But Lord Carde was his benefactor! How will John George find a decent post without references from the earl? You know that will be impossible.”

“Difficult, not impossible. But you shall have your dowry to live on until he finds a school that suits.”

“That money was meant to find us a tiny house of our own here in London, for when we have a family, away from the students and the school. Besides, John George would be too proud to live on his wife's fortune, not that the dowry will amount to much anyway, knowing the baron.”

Queenie sighed. “Then you can live at his parents' inn until he finds something else. I know he is close to his family. They will adore you and you will like them.”

Hellen wailed. “They are farmers and tap-keepers. You know how I like the city and pretty gowns and parties. How will I live in a deserted inn set amid turnips and cabbages and cows? I have hardly been out of London in my life.”

“If you love him…”

“But he won't love me any longer if I cost him his dreams.”

“Of course he will. Mr. Browne is not the inconstant type. That is one of the things you said you admired about him, how steady and straightforward his is.”

“But what if I do not love him enough to live with his old mother and dwindle into a dowdy rustic drab?”

“Then perhaps you should not marry the man no matter what, if you have such doubts.”

Hellen started crying again.

So did Queenie.

* * *

Men did not cry, of course. They kicked and cursed and drank themselves into oblivion.

Nothing worked for Harry, especially not his numb toes.

He sat in his empty hotel room with a bottle in his hand, his feet in a tub of cold water, all out of swear words. The place was elegantly appointed, and as cold and empty as he felt. He wanted his own books, his comfortable worn chair, his faded robe, his Stubbs paintings on the wall. Instead he had polished wood, gleaming mirrors, velvet hangings and still lives of fruit that scores of strangers had gazed at.

Harry wanted to go home.

He wanted Madame Denise Lescartes, whoever, whatever she was.

He could not have either tonight, only another swallow of brandy.

A few minutes later, he went back to cursing.

Damn, he was a man of honor, above all else. He had devoted most of his life to upholding that honor because he cared. He believed in it and in himself. He knew what he owed his title, his lands, his ancestors and his heirs.

His father had dragged the family name through the gutters, and Harry had sworn to wash away the stains. His mother had been a harlot, and Harry had promised himself to wed a female above reproach.

All his life he had acted as he believed he ought, making up for those who came before. He was a dutiful, respectful man, correct to a fault, some might say, but Harry had chosen that path for himself, and tread it with satisfaction.

Now he was not satisfied, not by half. He would not be satisfied if he lowered his burning loins into that cold water at his feet. He might never be satisfied again. His bed was empty, true, but so were his arms…and his endless future.

And for what? The good opinion of people whose regard mattered not a whit? Who were no better than they ought to be, and often a great deal worse? Why did he have to uphold higher standards than everyone else—and what about his own happiness?

He supposed he could eventually find a decent woman to wed, one who would be suitable as his viscountess, accepted in his country circles, welcome to polite society when they visited London. She would be faithful and fecund, filling his nursery, performing her duty as he was performing his.

Oh, hell.

That is what it would be. Hell.

Men did not cry. Except on the inside.

Chapter Twenty

John George Browne did not rescind his invitation to Hellen to take Sunday dinner with his parents. He wanted them to see what a fine young woman she was, no matter her background. There might be questions ahead, Queenie thought, but he seemed absolutely certain now.

Instead, he extended the invite to include the others. His mother loved cooking and having company at the inn, the more the merrier, Mr. Browne swore, and his brothers would like to meet Lord Harking, to discuss his farming methods. His sisters and sisters-in-law, he was positive, would be in raptures at meeting Madame Lescartes, the fashionable dress-maker.

Queenie hesitated about accepting, but not for long. Hellen needed her support, and Queenie needed a day away from the shop. Since Rourke's visit, she had been furiously finishing gowns, sketching new designs to sell to the fashion journal, taking orders. She was filling her coffers as fast as she could, in case she had to flee London or hire a barrister.

Sunday was the day of rest anyway. Queenie could think of no better way to spend it than in the country, away from London, away from her daytime chores and her nighttime worries. She could find no finer escape…except spending the day with Harry.

Lord Harking accepted, so Queenie accepted. The viscount had not spoken of leaving for his own home, and Queenie did not ask. He had stopped at the store every day, bringing bouquets and bonbons, taking tea with the customers, but never taking liberties. Part of Queenie was disappointed, but the other part celebrated his unquestioning, undemanding affection. One more day in his company, safely among others, would be a treasured memory in years to come. Like her coins, it would be there to see her through whatever tomorrow brought.

Queenie had one more reason for making the trip past Richmond: she wanted to see the Brownes' inn's resident patient for herself. Phelan Sloane had set so many lives on end, surely he would have horns and a red tail and a forked tongue. That was what Queenie told herself, anyway, that she was simply curious.

Sunday dawned bright, thank goodness, but cool. Harry arrived driving a rented curricle with gold wheels, pulled by a pair of high-bred bays. He took a thrilled Charlie up behind the driving seat as his tiger, while the groom from the livery stable held the horses' heads.

A closed coach followed. Queenie headed for that.

“What,” Harry asked, stepping down, “you would rather sit inside on such a glorious morning? But I wanted to show off my prowess, like the coxcomb I am. I can't dance like the London chaps, can't recite verses to your eyebrow or serenade you worth a tinker's damn. But I can drive to an inch. I swear not to overturn us,
chérie
.”

Queenie eyed the light curricle with dismay, the restless horses with horror. “No, I do not like spirited horses or fast equipages. This one looks fragile, besides.”

“Nonsense, I inspected every spoke and spring myself, and tried out the bays' paces. They are such sweet goers, I am thinking of purchasing them. Besides, you would not want to ride with Miss Pettigrew and Browne and ruin their pleasure in a little bit of privacy, would you?”

Parfait was already in the hired carriage, acting as sole chaperon. His head was out the window, though, nose sniffing the air, instead of paying attention to his charges. Hellen and Browne would not welcome Queenie.

“Do you know, I think I am not feeling at all the thing. Perhaps I should stay behind, resting quietly at home.”

“Craven, the formidable Madame Lescartes who traveled to France and back and forged her own fate? I do not believe it.” Without a by-your-leave, Harry lifted her right off her feet and up to the—far too high—bench. He was strong enough to manage her weight without effort, and mean enough, she thought, not to notice her trembling.

“Cold?” he asked, the dastard, tucking a lap robe over her knees and repositioning the hot bricks at her feet. Then the groom jumped back, Harry flicked the whip over the horses' ears, Charlie whooped, and they were off.

Queenie kept her eyes closed, both hands clenched around the seat rail beside her, trying to maintain her balance and her breakfast. They did not collide with another vehicle, though, crash into a building, or collapse into splinters as they left London proper.

Eventually, Queenie had to open her eyes, just to see how far they had come and how much longer the torture would last. The horses were keeping a steady pace, the curricle was hardly swaying, and Harry was laughing. Now she knew he was touched in the upper works.

Without looking at the horses or the scenery or the ground rushing past, she stared at him, shaking her head. He was obviously glad to be out of the stifling confines of the city, with its crowds and congestion. He wore no hat, letting the breeze ruffle his brown waves. His muscular thigh, pressed so closely against Queenie's on the narrow driving bench, was encased in buckskin, like the country gentleman he was. If his lordship was not the finest whip in the country—and how could Queenie tell?—he might be the happiest. He talked to the horses, joked with Charlie, called out to riders passing the other way. She could see he was reveling in the horses, delighting in the speed and his own skill. His cheeks were rosy and his lips never lost their smile, not even when a flock of sheep blocked the road.

From the following carriage, Parfait barked at the herding dog trying to gather the stragglers. Queenie almost offered to get down and help—not that she had any intention of stepping foot in the curricle again—but Harry reached for her hand, prying it from the rail and bringing it to his lips.

“Isn't this glorious?”

She could only look into his laughing brown eyes. “Yes, glorious.”

As they moved on, thankfully a bit slower now that the horses were not so fresh, Queenie felt her cares slip away in the light of his enjoyment of the day, the drive, and her company. Other than the cold chill in the air, Queenie had nothing to think about now except the countryside, the coming dinner, and her companion. The day would have been perfect, despite the horses, except for one cloud on her horizon.

“I do not see why you had to invite Mr. Rourke to accompany us.”

The Runner had called at the shop the previous day to check spellings of some of the names Queenie had given him, other dressmakers where she had, in fact, applied for positions, where she had laid rumor trails about another English seamstress. He or his messengers would be kept busy, and would be convinced that Madame Denise Lescartes spoke the truth as she knew it. She had been careful again to say that the whole story was nothing but hearsay. They would find that true, too.

Hellen blushingly claimed that she was too busy to answer any more questions, since she was in a swivet getting ready to meet her possible new family, the Brownes, at their inn. She had to decide on the proper gown and the suitable hair style to make the right impression, didn't she? And did Mr. Rourke think it mannerly for her to bring a gift?

The Runner thought he would ask the peagoose his questions another time. Meanwhile, Rourke hinted that he usually checked on Mr. Phelan Sloane once a month, in case the unfortunate fellow remembered anything more about the coach tragedy so long ago, or wanted to cleanse his soul with another confession. Mostly, Rourke told the others, part of his job was making certain Phelan Sloane could cause no further trouble, scandal, or upset for Lord Carde and his countess, Sloane's sister. The Runner looked straight at Queenie and said, “I always do my job.”

That was when Harry invited him to come along in the hired coach, with Browne's permission. The journey was tiring, time consuming and expensive without a gentleman's carriage, so Rourke promptly accepted. At least he had the courtesy to sit up with the driver, so Hellen's day was not ruined.

Queenie's nearly was. She looked back to see the investigator watching their rig, almost as if they were going to try to outrun him and escape. She shivered. “He could have visited the Brownes another day.”

“But I wanted him to see we had nothing to fear.”

Harry's “we” warmed Queenie as no blanket or hot brick could.

She vowed to put the Runner from her mind. He had his reasons for coming to the inn; Queenie had her own. They were not the same.

She expected the Brownes' establishment to be rundown and ramshackle, from Hellen's description. After all, the reason Lord Carde placed Phelan Sloane here was that the inn was practically abandoned as a coaching stop when the new toll road took a different route. The Brownes needed an income aside from their farming acres, and the instigator of the crimes needed a secure sanctuary.

Sloane might be slime, a slug, and more than half insane, but he was still Lord Carde's brother-in-law. The earl made sure his beloved wife's brother lived like a gentleman. He might not be free to drive to the village, borrow a horse, or stroll past the front gate anywhere unaccompanied, John George explained, but Mr. Sloane's surroundings were genteel, a far cry from what he would find at a lunatic asylum, or a jail.

In fact, with the earl's assistance, the Browne family had refurbished their inn into a kind of convalescent hospital, the profitable kind. They had no medicinal waters, no hot baths, no scores of hovering physicians. They did have healthy fresh air, good plain cooking, and enough eyes to make sure none of their “guests” wandered off. Whereas the distance from London and Richmond had caused the inn to fail, certain members of society were delighted to place their embarrassing relations so far out of sight.

Browne warned them to bow to Lady Fishkill's decades-dead husband, present only in the old lady's mind's eye, and to avert their glances when Lord Rothmore raised his nightshirt. As for Mr. Bushnell, well, he was usually locked in his room when company came.

“Nervous?” Harry asked when the inn came into sight over a slight rise in the road. Queenie was clasping the hand rail again.

Not about the lunatics, she was not.

The inn was freshly painted, prosperous looking, with sheep grazing in the distance past fields almost ready for spring planting. She relaxed as much as she was able, finding comfort in the peaceful, bucolic scene. “What a lovely place. It is no wonder people come here to…recuperate. I had not realized how much I missed the countryside.”

Harry sorely knew how much he missed his own estate, although drives like this almost made up for not riding his own fields. He had never realized that the woman beside him, so elegant and polished, might enjoy rural life. He knew better than to ask which area of the country, or of France, she recalled so fondly. She would only prevaricate or avoid the question as she always did when her background was mentioned, saying her family traveled a great deal or some such, her mother seeking employment.

So he did not ask. Better to be ignorant than lied to, he had decided one long, sleepless night. She would trust him with the truth when she was able, he had also decided, resolving to wait as patiently as he could. He had slowly restored his family reputation, his fortune and his fields. He would restore the woman's faith in mankind, see if he did not. And he would not go home until he did, simply because he would spend every waking minute worrying about her, wondering if she was safe, or entertaining another man who was less worthy of her.

Home would not be home, Harry told himself, with Madame Lescartes left alone in London. So that was what he had decided to do about the conundrum of his
chérie
: win her confidence. As a friend. Nothing else was possible, but he would have that, by Jupiter.

Their welcome at the inn was loud and noisy, and obviously well meant. All of the Brownes gathered to meet the guests and make them feel at home, but especially their successful young scholar's chosen lady.

John George was a favorite of his sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews. They were all prepared to love whatever female he brought into the family. They were not Hellen's usual kind of acquaintance, but she thrived on their acceptance, and on John George's pleasure in introducing her. Her friend made a fine impression, Queenie was relieved to see, and the Brownes, in turn, impressed Queenie.

They were kind and accepting, with no hint of censure about Hellen's parents, or Charlie's. Queenie's street urchin was congratulated on his job as tiger, and hurried off with two older boys to tend to “his” horses before dinner.

Of course they were tolerant, Queenie thought. People who took murderers and maniacs into their home had to be more forgiving than most, and what was the stain of bastardy compared to that fat man in the corner who was wearing a bed sheet like a toga?

She would never recall all the names and faces, but they were obviously a close-knit family, with infants being passed from shoulder to shoulder, toddlers asking for horsey rides from whatever adult was handiest. Everyone helped serve the delicious meal at long plank tables in the inn's common room, even the strapping Browne sons carrying heavy platters piled high with food. Everyone looked out for the deaf old auntie, the invalid in the Bath chair who needed to be spoon-fed, and the thin woman who refused to eat anything on her plate that was not white.

There were toasts to the guests, and Harry made a lovely salute to the hosts on behalf of the visitors. There were glasses raised to Hellen and John George, which might have become ribald had Mrs. Browne not cleared her throat. “Not in front of the children. And we shall not embarrass our John George's dear Miss Pettigrew.”

As if Hellen could be put to the blush by a racy remark, after knowing her mother and her mother's friends. Queenie liked Mrs. Browne the better for the thought, and liked how Hellen would fit in with this lively, laughing group.

She, herself, would not. She moved the food around her plate, she sipped at her wine, she smiled at the gentle jokes. She answered questions passed her way across the table, as vaguely as possible.

She might have been eating rocks and drinking rat poison, in a den of scorpions.