The Wagered Wife (14 page)

“There must have been fully half of England's notable families represented tonight.” Trevor was determined to uphold his part of any conversation.

“Oh, rather more than half, I should think,” Caitlyn offered. “Even Lady Hedley made an appearance, and she is really quite a recluse.”

“She is a distant relative—a cousin, I believe—of the duchess, who was a Spenser, you know,” Aunt Gertrude explained.

“No, I did not know.” Caitlyn seemed uninterested in the topic. She leaned her head back against the squabs at the back of the carriage seat and closed her eyes, effectively stopping the discussion.

Neither woman had mentioned the spectacular entrance of La Contessa Oliveira. Trevor wondered why, for the Portuguese beauty had certainly made a splash in the pool of London society.

Trevor had known Dolores well in Lisbon. She had long since come out of mourning when he met her. A vivacious flirt, she had welcomed the company of men nearer her own age than her husband had been. Reeling from the pain and scandal of his marriage, Trevor had sought to ignore his own recent past and simply enjoy the superficial and frivolous banter of Lisbon's social offerings.

His battered ego had responded eagerly when the contessa singled him out. It suited both of them to have others believe there was much more to their relationship than there was. The truth was that, beyond a quick kiss or two, there had been nothing physical between them. They simply enjoyed each other's company, and he had called often at her villa. She was invariably properly chaperoned, and more often than not there was a crowd of laughing guests, anxious to forget previous battles and forestall the prospects of new ones.

Since neither Aunt Gertrude nor Caitlyn had mentioned the Portuguese beauty, Trevor wondered if he should bring up the topic, especially given Dolores's effusive greeting to him. But he was somehow reluctant to introduce the subject himself, lest he be required to make awkward explanations.

So nothing was said, and on arrival home, the three of them bade each other good night and sought their own chambers.

Trevor spent much of the night deep in thought, prompted by the interview with his family. Given the reality of his daughter—a reality he no longer questioned in the slightest—he determined that it was past time he took a more active interest in his own estate matters.

With this in mind, he arose in the middle of the night to search for the ledgers and files Whitcomb had pressed upon him a few weeks ago. He pushed his bed pillows into a pile, lit the bedside lamp, and examined several sheets on the “desk” of his drawn-up knees. He fell asleep before he had gained more than cursory information.

The next morning after his usual outing with Ashley, he sat at a writing table in his chamber and studied the documents in earnest. And was baffled by what he saw.

Aside from the land and buildings—which were admittedly of considerable value—Atherton had had few assets when it came into his hands so fleetingly before his departure for the Peninsula. Profits from the estate had dwindled steadily since his grandfather's death some fifteen years earlier. That is, they had dwindled until about four and a half years ago. Then they had stopped altogether.

For nearly two years, there was little in the way of income from the home farm, and nothing from the tenant farms that made up the bulk of the estate. This was especially puzzling. No matter how badly things had deteriorated, there should have been
something
coming in from the rents. There it was—nothing in the way of such income.

By contrast, there were great outlays. These were not specified in great detail in the ledgers other than “buildings,” “supplies,” “stock,” or “repairs.” With no appreciable income, where on earth had the money come from for these ambitious expenditures?

Trevor knew that neither his father nor Gerald would have franked such a venture, even had he or Caitlyn had nerve enough to ask them to do so. Whitcomb had said Marcus was not involved, and Trevor remembered his brother's own cash-poor status earlier. Also, Whitcomb had openly admired Caitlyn's business acumen.

Still—where had
she
obtained adequate funding for the expenditures he was seeing? She had come to him virtually penniless, and he very much doubted the Baron Fiske would have advanced her any monies. Surely she had not contracted for vast loans—or had she gone to the cent-percenters? No. Not likely. But how . . . ?

An image of Caitlyn head-to-head, laughing gaily, with the immensely wealthy Willard Ratcliff flashed across his mind. Graham, too, was known to be a very rich man—as was Latham, though Latham, Trevor knew, had only recently inherited.

The longer he studied the books, the more agitated he became. Finally, it occurred to him that the documents he had were not up-to-date. Nor did they tell the whole story since they dealt only with Atherton and did not include household expenses in London or other investments which Whitcomb had mentioned in passing.

Whitcomb had also said Trevor's allowance had come in recent years from Atherton. Had it really come from Ratcliff or Graham? Or Latham? And if it had, what sort of “bargain” had his wife made?

He had worked himself into quite a snit of anger by the time he met Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude in the dining room for luncheon.

“I trust your morning went well,” Caitlyn said brightly to the others once they were all seated.

“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Mine went very well. I finished a new book by that wonderful lady who wrote
Sense and Sensibility.
Such a delight.”

“I shall have to read it,” Caitlyn said. “And you, Trevor? Have you had a good morning, too?”

“I, too, have been doing some reading,” he said.

“Anything of interest?” Caitlyn asked.

“Of immense interest.” Trevor waited for the servant to finish serving and leave. “I have been reading ledgers and files Mr. Whitcomb gave me.”

He saw the surprise in Caitlyn's eyes before she quickly lowered her lashes. Finally, she spoke slowly and cautiously, no brightness in her tone now. “I was not aware that you had seen Mr. Whitcomb.”

“I did so some weeks ago, just after my return.”

“I see.”

Trevor decided to plunge right in. “The information he gave me is far from current—or complete. I should like to see those ledgers you labor over so on a daily basis, if you do not mind.”

He saw her blanch and swallow hard before exchanging a look with Aunt Gertrude, but her voice was steady.

“Of course, Trevor. I shall get them for you after lunch.”

“Here you are.” Caitlyn set the ledgers down and gestured to Trevor. “You will be more comfortable here at the desk, I think.” She tried to sound unconcerned.

“Thank you.”

“If you have questions, I shall be in the sunroom with Aunt Gertrude.”

“The books will probably speak for themselves.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow at what seemed to her to be a typical male sense of superiority in matters of business, but she said only, “I shall leave you to your study, then.”

Not until she had closed the library door did she allow anxiety to gnaw at her. Aunt Gertrude lifted her head and set aside her embroidery as Caitlyn entered the sunroom.

“You seem worried, my dear.”

“I am. I just gave Trevor the account books.”

“Why should that be worrisome? I am sure you have recorded things accurately and honestly.”

“To the best of my ability, in any event.”

“Well, then . . . ?”

“Why now?” Caitlyn asked, assailed by doubts and apprehension. “He has shown no interest heretofore. While he was away, he did not correspond with Mr. Whitcomb, yet he apparently consulted the solicitor before making his presence known to us.”

“But he did not know we were in town, did he?”

“And now,” Caitlyn went on, consumed by her own thoughts, “he demands to see the accounts only after he has visited his father and brother.”

Aunt Gertrude's expression was genuinely confused. “What has that to say to anything?”

“Do you not understand? He must have changed his mind. They have convinced him they were right all along. You heard his mother. They have persuaded him to pursue a divorce after all.” Her voice broke on this thought.

“Now, my dear. You do not know this to be true. You are anticipating trouble that may never materialize.”

“How I wish you were right, but . . .”

“Think, Caitlyn. Besides the scandal attendant to divorce, it is an incredibly expensive and time-consuming affair. And
complicated
beyond all reason—what with ecclesiastical as well as civil courts—and these court proceedings are only the start. Then it takes an act of Parliament. What is more, one cannot be assured of the outcome at any stage.”

“Aunt Gertrude, you know as well as I do that the wheels of law and politics—even within the church—are greased by money—and His Lordship, the Earl of Wyndham, has a ready supply of such lubricant.”

“True, but—”

“And I have nothing—nothing—with which to fight them. Trevor controls all that I have—and if he behaves as he did before . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You must not become all to pieces, dear. Why not wait to see what happens?”

“I must. I have no other option but to wait. There is simply nothing else I can do. I truly hate this—waiting on the choices others make!”

“I know, love,” Aunt Gertrude consoled. “Many a woman would share that view.”

“For five years I have made my own decisions. And I have loved having charge of my own life.”

“You have a done a fine job of it, too. But perhaps . . .” Aunt Gertrude's voice faded.

“Perhaps what? What were you about to say?”

“Only that
sharing
responsibilities can be rewarding, too. Surely you can admit that you would have welcomed another view of many of the problems we have confronted in the last few years.”

Reluctantly, Caitlyn nodded. “Yes. And I have appreciated
your
support, Aunt Gertrude. But somehow I doubt sharing is what Trevor has in mind.”

“Well, you must wait to find out just what he does have in mind. Here. Here is something to take your mind off your worries.” She handed Caitlyn a book—the very book she had mentioned at lunch.

“
Pride and Prejudice?
I suppose the pride is male and the prejudice is female. Am I right?”

Aunt Gertrude chuckled. “I rather think each gender has its share of both—but read it and see what you think.”

Soon Caitlyn was lost in the world of Elizabeth Bennett and her Mr. Darcy.

 

 

In the library, Trevor found the account books meticulously maintained in a neat, round hand. Three years ago the home farm had started to turn a profit. The rents from tenant farms had actually increased overall, though they tended to fluctuate from one farmer to another and from one year to another. That was odd. The farms were of a size; their rents should have been a flat sum from each.

The profits had financed improvements on the estate, for the most part. He heartily approved of such a practice. But some had been invested on the 'Change. Risky business, that. One had to be knowledgeable about the market, and a host of factors could make or break the investor. His disapproval was thwarted, however, by these ventures having also turned a modest profit.

Who had been advising her? Trevor doubted the steward, Felkins, possessed such expertise. Graham? He came from an important banking family. He might have done so. Despite Trevor's reservations, one thing was clear. The financial status of the Trevor Jeffries household was, indeed, steadily improving and promised to continue on course. While he might never head one of the richest families of the realm as his father did, his situation would be decidedly comfortable.

Still—questions remained.
Where
had the initial funding come from? He remembered all too well the run-down condition of the estate and the dilapidated buildings of the tenant farms. And
where
the money had come from was not the only question. Also, from
whom?
And on what terms?

Could this newfound Jeffries wealth be based on his wife's having bargained her favors? He hated himself for such a demeaning thought, but had she not once been party to an equally nefarious scheme? If that were the case, how could he possibly carry on? The truth was, he could not.

But he could not bring himself to challenge her outright—at least not yet. He would give her ample opportunity to volunteer the information he needed. And he would visit Atherton for a firsthand view before bringing up the matter himself.

“Did you find everything in order?” Caitlyn asked later, her expression bland.

“For the most part, yes. You seem to have been very diligent.”

“I try to be.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “Does your sudden interest in the books mean you want to take them over?”

He stared at her, trying to discern whether she was dissembling. Finally, he shrugged. “Not yet. I shall want to see the estate first and talk with our people.”

“Of course.”

It would not have taken an Oxford don to recognize that the budding warmth of a few nights ago had suffered a defi-nite chill, Trevor thought, feeling rather testy about the situation. Yet he had to admit to himself his continued attraction to her. The notion of wooing her had not lost its appeal. Occasionally, he would catch her looking at him with a vulnerable, apprehensive expression in her eyes. But as soon as she realized he had caught her out, she would quickly right herself and make some lighthearted comment.

This, too, Trevor found frustrating. What was it she feared in him? Was he not living up to their agreement? Other than discussions of Ashley's activities, their conversations again centered on polite banalities. The two of them were rarely alone together. Trevor was convinced that Caitlyn deliberately planned that fact of their lives.

Despite the coolness of the Wyndham household toward the earl's youngest son, invitations continued to pour in from others to Trevor, Caitlyn, and Aunt Gertrude. Aunt Gertrude had informed him of Caitlyn's overhearing “cutting remarks” made by his mother and Miranda at the Wallenford ball, though she had not shared the specifics. He and his aunt now tacitly joined forces to protect Caitlyn from any repeat of such embarrassment. Only when they knew that Caitlyn was involved with someone “safe” would they pursue their own interests at a ball or rout.

Trevor often took a rather jaundiced view of what he had come to view as “safe.” Was he to consider it “safe” to see his wife waltzing in the arms of Ratcliff? or in obvious
tête-à-tête
in a drawing room with Graham? Or riding of a morning with the ever-persistent Latham?

One evening he chanced to overhear part of a conversation between Caitlyn and Ratcliff that gave him pause. They had attended musical presentations sponsored by the dowager countess Terwilliger. At an interval between performances, Trevor had gone to procure drinks for himself and Caitlyn. Aunt Gertrude was off with other guests elsewhere in the room. As Trevor returned, carrying two glasses of punch, he saw that Caitlyn and Ratcliff had their heads together and were unaware of his presence.

Ratcliff bent over Caitlyn's hand and was saying, “—cannot begin to express how wonderful for me our relationship has been. A most rewarding delight.”

Caitlyn smiled fondly and replied, “The rewards are mutual, I am sure. After all, Will, where would Atherton Farms be without your help?”

Trevor was stunned. It was one thing to entertain vague suspicions. It was quite another to have them confirmed. He cleared his throat rather noisily, and the two jerked apart, startled.

He handed Caitlyn one of the glasses. “Your drink, my dear.” He was pleased at how level his voice was.

Ratcliff jumped up. “Sorry, my friend. Just wanted a word with your lovely wife.”

Was that a smile or a smirk on his face? Trevor nodded and took the vacated seat. Aunt Gertrude returned, bubbling with some tidbit she had learned. Trevor was inordinately quiet for the rest of the evening, unable to put that snippet of conversation from his mind. Will? She called him Will? He was grateful that Aunt Gertrude's presence precluded an immediate confrontation.

 

 

Caitlyn was mystified by her husband's behavior. Beyond examining the account books, he had not challenged any of her decisions. The gift of the emeralds had thrilled her—more for his search for the right gift than for the jewels themselves. There had not been another such impromptu gift, nor another moment of tenderness between them. However, she had received several bouquets of flowers which arrived with no identifying card, and she suspected they came from Trevor.

Whenever they were invited out, it seemed the Portuguese beauty was also among the guests. Caitlyn grew accustomed to seeing La Contessa dancing or conversing flirtatiously with Trevor, but she could not accustom herself to her own twinges of jealousy. The insidious poison of her mother-in-law's words worked its deviltry despite her wish to ignore them.

Seeing Trevor happily laughing and chatting with that woman was especially painful because he was rarely that way at home—except with Ashley. Gradually, Caitlyn arrived at the conclusion that her husband was miserably unhappy in his marriage and that it was only a matter of time until he took steps to free himself of a wife he detested.

Then two events occurred to distract her from these dark musings.

Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude were sitting in the sunroom late one morning. Trevor had gone out with Ashley. Thompkins appeared in the doorway with a puzzled expression on his usually impassive face. He carried a salver with a card.

“There is a visitor, madam, asking to be presented.”

“At this hour?” Caitlyn took the card. “Sheffield?” She glanced at Aunt Gertrude.

“Melanie!” the two of them cried in unison.

“Show her in immediately,” Caitlyn instructed.

Suddenly there she was—fresh—faced, lively, and cheerful as ever. Melanie was dressed in a fashionable walking dress of wide stripes of brown and yellow and green and wore a pert little straw hat. The three exchanged warm, excited greetings, and Melanie was invited to sit and take a dish of tea.

“Thank you for seeing me so unexpectedly.” Melanie's eager gaiety was irresistible. “Andrew has gone off to the Foreign Office this morning, but I could not wait to surprise my favorite brother! We arrived yesterday. Mother assured me Trevor is in town, too.”

“Yes, he is,” Caitlyn said. “He should be back momentarily.”

“You are staying with Lydia and Alfred, then?” Aunt Gertrude asked conversationally.

“Oh, no. We are with Andrew's parents. Gerald and Miranda are at Wyndham House, too, you know.”

“Yes, we did know,” Aunt Gertrude replied, “but it is a huge house, after all.”

“But not as comfortable as the Sheffield home,” Melanie said frankly. “Neither Miranda nor the countess is happy having small children around—and I am sorely afraid both of mine take after their mother in hoydenish behavior, though little Anna is not yet a year old.”

“We look forward to meeting her as well as seeing Elizabeth again. And Sir Andrew, of course,” Caitlyn said.

“What is more to the point,” Melanie went on, barely pausing, “I wanted to be able to entertain
all
the members of my family as I wish.” She gave her listeners a speaking look.

“You have heard, then—” Caitlyn murmured.

“Yes. And I think the whole situation is simply ludicrous.”

She might have said more, but at that moment the door opened and Ashley skipped in, followed by her father, who stopped in surprise on the threshold.

“Melanie? Melanie!” As she rose, he enfolded her in a long, tight bear hug. “Let me look at you.”

Melanie stepped back and turned in front of him. “Not bad for an old married woman, mother of two, eh?” She laughed.

“Not bad at all.” He hugged her again. “I hope Drew appreciates his good fortune.”