The Rake's Rainbow (30 page)

But fate had played her false. Darnley turned against her early in their marriage, much to her satisfaction. His aging body and limited stamina could never begin to satisfy her needs, and his defection left her free to sample the lustiest bucks in town. Not until his death did she learn the ramifications of his rejection. His will left her nought but her own dowry – a mere ten thousand pounds – and use of Darnley House for but a year. Invested, the money would produce an annual income of a few hundred pounds. Adequate if she retired to a country cottage and spent little on clothes. Impossible given her extravagant tastes and addiction to
ton
pleasures. Nor could she count on her parents. Her father’s disgust over her escapades was clear.

She was still coming to terms with her dilemma. Within the year she must find a new husband. Yet capturing one seemed impossible. Only Thomas still believed her pretense of sweet innocence. In her quest for satisfaction she had badly overplayed her hand. Never expecting to wed a second time, she had made no attempt to preserve her reputation. But she would die before casting lures at a cit. Such people were beneath contempt. The future loomed as a terrifying choice between country obscurity and abandoning all pretense to society for life as a courtesan.

If only Thomas was not married!  His devotion and blind adoration made him a perfect match. He would instantly accept her hand and count himself lucky in the process. But Caroline stood in the way. Again the country vicar’s chit had bested her. That humiliating musicale still haunted her nights.

Her breakfast tray crashed against the wall.

* * * *

Thomas moved through the early days of mourning in a fog. Only three images remained in his mind:  Caroline offering silent comfort and support when he had broken down beside Robert’s body; his fury when he learned of Wroxleigh’s blatantly improper call, particularly the report that they had been shamelessly embracing; and Caroline, swathed in mourning, head bowed over the casket. Black did not suit her.

Yet as he analyzed his conflicting emotions, confusion reigned.

He should have felt utter humiliation at breaking into tears in front of her. But he didn’t. Despite the hours in George’s rooms, he had needed the release. And Caroline’s presence actually helped. It was as though he had transferred some of the pain onto her shoulders, easing his own burden. Nor was he ashamed of such a display. She would never criticize him or think less of him for such weakness. Nor would she mention it to others. How did he know that?  He had no answer. Yet the certainty remained.

He watched her move confidently around the house, directing the servants, making arrangements, soothing Eleanor, comforting his mother, supporting his father, a rock in a sea of grief, the one anchor that kept them all from drowning. He had badly underestimated her worth and felt more than a bit foolish as a result. But oddly enough, the feeling engendered no anger.

Her appearance was very like the dowd he had first met rather than the elegant society matron she had become. Yet he could no longer think of her in those terms. She had forever changed. He wondered at this new perception. Was he beginning to care for her just a little?  Not love. That emotion was reserved for Alicia, whatever steps he took to remove her from his life. But his spirits rose whenever she entered a room. And he thanked fate for providing a mate he could rely on.

On the other hand, her continued association with Wroxleigh infuriated him. Even his new tolerance would not extend to accepting that. Oh, he could understand how she might have begun their liaison. But it must cease. How could he bring this about?  He had already tried the direct approach without success. And given his own negligence and mistreatment, any further demands would meet the same fate. Even if she agreed with his reasoning, she might ignore him out of sheer pique.

Perhaps he should do nothing while in London. They would return to Crawley within the week, as soon as he finished the painful business of settling Robert’s affairs. Once they were home, he would begin anew to forge a partnership with Caroline. If they could rediscover their aborted friendship, perhaps then they could discuss Wroxleigh. She would have little need of an affair at that point. At least he hoped so. Visions of those two together haunted his nights, forcing his other nightmares aside.
Dear Lord, please help us find a way to live with each other.

* * * *

It had rained continuously since the evening of Robert’s death. Almost as if heaven itself mourned him, reflected Caroline. She was busy enough that she had barely noticed the weather. Nor had she been accorded much time for thought. Which was just as well. Robert had been almost a caricature fop, but he had possessed a sweetness that was very endearing. Remembering him raised a lump in her throat, but she dared not break down. Everyone else’s composure was too fragile.

Finally, two days after the funeral, the rain ceased.

She rejected taking a turn around the square. Such a public appearance would not accord with accepted mourning practice, particularly in such a popular location. Sunshine brought all of society outdoors. Carriages clustered around Gunter’s, and dozens of people wandered through the square. Sighing, she settled for several turns about the Marchgate garden. Though not extensive enough to allow any real exercise, she could at least benefit from fresh air. And they would return home very soon. Crawley beckoned invitingly.

The garden glowed in a rainbow of colors, spring flowers massing before shrubs feathery with new growth. High walls separated it from adjacent houses, providing privacy, their only break a decorative iron gate leading to the mews. The height muted the noise from the square, allowing her to relax as though in the country.

What would returning home accomplish?  Thomas had been deeply affected by Robert’s death. Would this change his perceptions of Crawley?  Of Alicia?  Of her?  Reminders of mortality sometimes forced people to take stock of their own lives. She could only hope that such an analysis would benefit him.

She had surprised several indecipherable looks in his eyes over the preceding days. Was he finally seeing her as she was?  Or was he cursing her existence?  Without her, Alicia would be his, for Lady Darnley would accept marriage now. He held a viscount’s title with a promise of an earldom in the future. His financial position was secure, again with the promise of great wealth. And he still offered both good looks and passion. A lady of Alicia’s propensities would appreciate both.

Caroline shook her head. Such thinking served no purpose. Instead of considering failure, she should be planning how to further her own cause. She hoped she had made a start. He seemed to appreciate her efforts to spare his family in their time of grief. They would remain at Crawley throughout mourning. Even if he lived in the stables from dawn until dusk, there should be ample opportunity to spend time together. Perhaps they could rediscover their early camaraderie. She would make a concerted effort to earn his respect. And this time, she would have additional weapons at her disposal.

* * * *

As he started down the stairs for breakfast, Thomas spotted Caroline just ahead of him. Even though neither left the house these days, they rarely met. Irritation flared, for she seemed oblivious of his presence. He quickened his pace to catch up. But in his hurry, he overstrode the next step, throwing himself into a fall. He lunged for the railing, grasping it with one hand, but the other caught Caroline between the shoulder blades, pitching her forward. Still fighting to regain his own balance, he was unable to catch her.

She screamed.

* * * *

Caroline was lost in thought as she headed for breakfast. As much as she hoped and prayed for a rapprochement with Thomas, it seemed so impossible. Nightmares had tortured her sleep. Again and again she relived Alicia’s greeting when Thomas had appeared at her door. Nor did her imagination stop there, filling in the details of a passionate encounter of epic proportions. What hope was there for her own paltry dreams?  Yet what options did she have?  A wife was but a piece of property, wholly at the command of her husband. She was obligated to live where and how he ordained, suffer whatever treatment he meted out, and perform whatever services he demanded. She owned no property, could instigate no divorce proceedings, commanded few legal rights.

Someone touched the center of her back and pushed. Hard.

Screaming, she pitched forward, gripping as tightly as possible with the hand that had trailed down the railing, flailing wildly with the other. One foot slid off the edge of a step, but she managed to regain her balance without falling. Heart pounding she turned to see who wished her ill.

Shock froze her soul. Thomas stood calmly, three steps above her, his face completely blank. But his eyes blazed with guilt. And with something else she refused to name.
Hatred,
whispered the voice.

So it was true. Obsession had won, even over honor. Only freedom would satisfy him now. Stifling a sob, she fled to the breakfast room.

* * * *

Thomas had barely gained his balance when Caroline caught herself. Guilt over his carelessness paralyzed him, but when she turned her eyes to his, he was overcome with self-loathing. She clearly believed the push was deliberate. How could he have brought them to such rampant distrust?  Despite his treasured honor, his touted ethics, even his chivalry, manners, and good sense, his treatment of his wife – the one person he had vowed to God, no less, to honor and cherish – was so appallingly callous that she accepted without question the conclusion that he sought her death. But he could not blame her. The conclusion was wrong, but his behavior was abominable. He was the worst sort of cad.
How could he ever atone?
  Wearily, he plodded back to his room.

He went out that evening for the first time since Robert’s death. Not publicly, of course. He dropped by George’s rooms to bid farewell to his closest friend. Jeremy was also visiting.

“My condolences,” offered Jeremy solemnly.

“Thank you.”  The morning’s shock had receded, blending into that gray fog that had protected his emotions for the past week. It permitted him to carry on a normal conversation, even about Robert.

They spent the evening sharing memories, first of Robert, then of past escapades and mutual friends. George’s brandy was good, a late supper better, and Thomas stayed until nearly dawn, relaxing in the warm friendship and support, maintaining a parody of his customary demeanor without too much effort.

But his mind churned, quite apart from the discussion, rehashing the details of his marriage. By the time he collapsed into bed, he had decided that postponing the confrontation with Caroline until they reached Crawley was unacceptable. He would speak with her first thing in the morning.

* * * *

Caroline awoke with the dawn, too restless to go back to sleep. A week tied to the house was finally eroding her composure, and a night of confused dreams left a pounding headache. Donning a black gown, she wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and slipped into the garden. Much as she would have preferred the square, she could not flout convention. Besides, anyone she met this time of day would likely be a gentleman staggering home after a long night, and she did not wish for such an encounter.

She was no longer convinced that Thomas’s push had been deliberate. Surely, if he had intended death, he would have first removed her hand from the railing. He had never been stupid. This hope was supported by a glimpse of him crossing the foyer after lunch, limping as though his right ankle was badly sprained. He had not seen her, so was not faking. Had he slipped on the stairs, regaining his balance as he crashed into her?  She clung to this picture, using it to erase that blaze of hatred that had flared in his eyes.

Fog clung to shrubbery and trees, turning the garden into a forest of ghostly images. She paced the enclosure for nearly an hour, mind churning in nauseating circles. She loved Thomas. Thomas loved Alicia. Alicia loved Alicia. And anything in breeches. How could she induce Thomas to discover that fact so he could turn his attentions elsewhere?  If she destroyed his image of Alicia, would he hate her forever? 

Yet his current resentment was just as bad. It was time to chance his wrath. Nothing she did now could possibly make things worse. So how could she expose Lady Darnley?  Denounce her to Thomas’s face?  Challenge him to discover the truth for himself by watching the mews gate to Darnley House?  If Alicia was half as active as rumor reported, but a few hours should convince the most determined skeptic.

The light gradually brightened, but the fog remained, casting a shroud of mourning over the garden. She shivered as its icy fingers penetrated her cloak. It was more than time to return to the house. But nothing was settled. She allowed herself one last circuit.

As she approached the gate to the mews, she spotted another early riser on the other side. He had donned a hooded cloak against the foggy chill so she could not see who he was, but he seemed to be staring directly at her.

Her mouth opened to bid him good morning, but no sound emerged.

His right hand clutched a pistol. Taking careful aim, he squeezed the trigger, the sound echoing hollowly through the fog.

Caroline reacted the instant she identified the weapon. Twisting sharply to the right, she dove for a thick hedge and rolled behind it. The bullet whistled past her shoulder, putting a double hole through a fold of her cloak. A muttered curse rent the morning calm, the voice clearly belonging to the London slums. Footsteps rapidly retreated along the mews.

Carefully working her way behind the hedge until she was out of sight of the gate, she concentrated on control, refusing to dwell on what had just occurred. Stealthily she slipped from tree to shrub to bench, forcing calm, forcing quiet, forcing blankness into her mind. Her back tingled, expecting attack at any moment. Her head was in constant motion, twisting this way and that as she scanned the fog-shrouded landscape for other assailants. Every misty shrub assumed a sinister cast. The five minutes it took to reach the door stretched like five years.