Regency Surrender: Wicked Deception: The Truth About Lady Felkirk / A Ring from a Marquess

Chapter Eight

Justine was already seated at the luncheon table when Will came down from his nap. He found it faintly annoying. He was unaccustomed to seeing anyone across the table from him, much less a person who would arrive before he had so that she might be ready to attend him. Here she was, fresh, cheerful and inescapable in a muslin gown and starched cap, offering to prepare his plate or help him in any way she could.

He did not want help. He wanted to be left alone to understand what had happened to him. It was an urge he must learn to ignore. After his brave words in the coach about facing troubles and moving forward, he had taken the first opportunity to escape to his room for a sulk.

At least, now that he was free of his brother’s home, he would not have to see the ring of happy faces about him, convinced that everything was fine when he was sure it was not. There was only one face before him now. Though it was beautiful, it had the same detached expression it had worn since the first. If they were truly so alike as Adam thought, she should be as angry with him as he was with himself. He had ordered her to bed as though her wants and needs meant nothing at all. She had responded as though she had no feelings to hurt.

Perhaps she was waiting for the same thing he was: a sudden rush of memory that would explain all. But it seemed she viewed it with the strange dread he did. ‘Are you not going to ask me if I have remembered anything, now that I am home?’ he said, watching her intently as she poured the wine.

She took a sip from her glass. ‘I expect, if you do remember anything, I will be the first to know. You do not mean to hide the truth from me, do you?’ Her eyes were wide and innocent as though the idea that he might not share all his thoughts had never occurred to her.

It made him feel like a cad for barking at her. ‘Of course not,’ he said hurriedly. What reason would he have to conceal what he knew? After his talk of annulment, she must think he meant to negate their marriage by feigning ignorance of it. Even if he did not wish for a wife, he would not abandon this one to her ruin, just to avoid a forgotten bad decision.

He spoke again, in a gentler tone. ‘It is good to be home. I found the attention at Adam’s house to be rather oppressive.’

‘It is because they care for you,’ she said. ‘They cannot help but crowd you. Would you not have done the same for your brother, in a similar situation?’

He thought back for a moment. ‘I suspect I already have. There was a time, a few years back, where Adam had difficulties. I suppose I’ve told you that the scars on my arm came from a fire that he caused?’

She seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded as though his statement had answered an unasked question.

Surely he had explained the damaged patch of skin to her on their first night together. She must have noticed it. The smooth red mark stretching from elbow to shoulder was impossible to miss. He was self-conscious about it and quick to offer explanation, so as not to alarm the women he took to his bed. But his own wife was looking at him as though he had said not a word to her on the subject. It was strange.

But it was just one of many strange things that had happened in the last week. He willed himself to forget it, and began again, cautiously. ‘I wanted to help Adam then and was told on several occasions to go to the Devil. I questioned his wisdom in marrying Penny as well.’

‘You disapproved?’ Now Justine’s eyes were round with surprise.

‘I was wrong, of course. But that did not stop me from speaking. Tim Colton went through his own dark time, after his first wife died. He is a particular friend of Adam’s, so I did not have to bear the brunt of his moods. But apparently his behaviour was extreme. He also refused the help of his friends.’

‘So you are telling me that all men are difficult?’ Justine said, with a slight arch of her eyebrow.

‘All men around here, at any rate. Perhaps it is the climate in Wales that leads us to be melancholy and pigheaded.’

She nodded. ‘Then if you snap and grumble, I shall not blame myself for it.’

‘You needn’t. It is my problem, not yours,’ he said. He thought back to his suspicions of the previous day and wondered if that was true. If she was the one keeping secrets, he would be quite justified in blaming her. But to look at her now, fresh and pretty in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed churlish to find fault with her.

He took a bit of cold salmon and a swallow of wine, and admired her over the rim of his wine glass.

She was nibbling on a bit of roll and glanced up to catch him staring at her. She put it down and spoke. ‘Now that you are home, what are your plans? I assume that I am not oppressing you by enquiring.’ There was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth and he wondered if she meant to be amusing.

It was rather amusing to think of her attention as a heavy burden. She seemed to work at being unobtrusive. Beautiful to look at, but quiet as a ghost, she hovered barely noticed on the fringe of any conversation. When he needed her, she came just close enough to help, then disappeared again, like a sprite. Perhaps that was why he had married her. To find a woman willing to fit herself seamlessly into his life was a rare piece of good fortune.

She was enquiring after his plans. What were they? Many of the activities he might have favoured were quite beyond him, until he regained his strength. ‘I don’t have any,’ he admitted.

‘Then might I trouble you to show me around your home?’ she said. ‘The housekeeper will do it, if you do not wish to. But I suspect it would be more interesting to hear the details of the place from you. It is many hours before you mean to bed me. We must find some way to pass the afternoon.’

He choked on his next swallow of wine. When he could compose himself to look at her again, there was no sign that she had been laughing. But he was quite sure she had been. It was a promising sign.

He would enjoy walking the halls of his own home, again. And to show it to one of the few women in England who seemed to appreciate its design. Even Penny, who had few strong opinions about anything outside of her books had proclaimed the place an eyesore and suggested that he tear it down and rebuild from the foundation up.

Perhaps Adam had been right all along and he had simply married a woman who suited his character. It would be interesting to see if her opinions matched his on the interior. For though the decoration was not the current style, he liked it very well. He might regain some of his strength as they walked from room to room and pause to rest as needed, under the guise of telling her old family stories.

And why did he suspect that she knew just that and had found a perfect way to preserve his dignity while encouraging him to exercise his wasted legs? ‘A tour sounds like an excellent idea,’ he agreed. ‘Let us finish our meal and we can begin.’ Perhaps if he spent the day with her, he would learn something of her as well.

* * *

But, after an afternoon of walking the house, he knew no more about her than when they began. She was an attentive audience and he took pleasure in regaling her with childhood tales about growing up in the old manor. But she offered no similar details of her own youth. It was nearly time to dress for supper and the sum total of his knowledge was no greater than when they had begun. She was beautiful. She was Belgian. She was an orphan. She had impeccable manners and made lace, though he had never seen her wear any. And she was most grateful to be married to him and eager to see to his comfort in all things.

As they walked, she seemed to sense when he was tiring and took his arm, as though she was too shy to walk alone. When she suspected that they had gone too long without a break, she claimed exhaustion and requested they sit for a time, in the conservatory, or the music room, which she had guessed were his favourites. In all things she supported him, while persuading him that he was, in fact, supporting her.

She was the perfect wife.

Or nearly perfect. Should it be so disquieting to have such a devoted helpmeet? He could not find fault with her looks. She was quite the loveliest woman he could imagine. But it was as if a painting had come to life, or a statue. There was no passion in her. Her red-gold hair was contained beneath a cloth cap. Her shapely body hid beneath a modest gown. At the table, she had shocked him with her frank acceptance of tonight’s possible activities. But once they were in bed, would she be an enthusiastic lover? Or would she be as mild as she was here in the drawing room, listening intently as he described the family members in the portraits and the history of each ornament on the shelves? Did she truly have no character other than the one she assumed he wished to see?

He was sure his married brother could explain to him the dangers of a wife who wished to be contrary. But to have found one that was nothing more than a mirror reflection of his own opinions was not as pleasant as it sounded.

They had walked nearly back to the bedrooms, now, and were standing in front of the nursery. He paused, strangely unwilling to open the door. ‘We needn’t bother with this,’ he said, stepping back from it. ‘There is nothing within but old playthings. But you will find the rooms to be most sensible, when we need them for our children.’

‘Of course,’ she said. And just as strangely, she stepped away as well.

‘Now that Adam has started his family, we can be reasonably sure of the succession,’ he remarked. ‘The need for a son is not pressing.’

‘We needn’t rush,’ she agreed. ‘Unless, that is what you wish,’ she added hurriedly. Once again, there was the slight, acquiescent bow of the head, as though she would try to produce an entire family for him, right now, should that be his desire.

As if he wished to raise children with a stranger. Despite her looks, he was not even sure he truly wanted to bed her. There would be no joy in it if her response was apathetic acceptance of the act. What was the point of marrying a beautiful woman, if one had to find an equally pretty mistress who would at least feign enthusiasm for his lovemaking?

Then he looked forward, into the nursery again, remembered the reason for wives and retreated. ‘We will discuss such matters again when I am fully recovered.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed, turning away to return to her room.

* * *

Justine did her best to maintain her composure in the hours that followed, but her new husband made it more challenging than she’d expected. When she’d first hit upon this scheme, she had not thought that such an evening was in her future. Though she would do her best to save him, William Felkirk was going to die.

She had been sure of it. She’d felt terror mixed with pity at the sight of his bleeding head and Mr Montague’s dispassionate expression as he raised the poker for a second blow. Before he could strike, she’d hurried to convince him that the man would be better off in the bosom of his family than as a corpse on the floor of their salon. What would happen if the Duke of Bellston appeared in Bath, enquiring after his missing brother?

Worse yet, suppose he sent the law? There was no question that they would both hang for murder. Margot would be left alone, with nothing but the scandalously false broadsheet confession of Montague’s mistress: the salacious details of a good woman brought low by her own depravity.

She had insisted that further violence against William Felkirk was unnecessary. If the blow did not kill him, the trip north likely would. If he survived that? Then she would linger for a time, until she had discovered the diamonds and could disappear.

But now he was across the dinner table from her, eager to rebuild his imagined past. Escape was impossible, if he meant to watch her every bite. What would he expect of her, now that they would have so many hours together? The tour of the house had been helpful and she had seen a half-score of rooms where she might search for information about her father.

But they could not spend each day in rambling about the house together. Nor would he wish to spend his evenings thus. Along with the letter to Montague, she had scribbled a hurried note to Penny and begged her to come to dinner, hoping to alleviate this awkward togetherness.

The duchess had sent an equally hurried response. ‘You need time to get to know one another again,’ she had said. ‘You do not need the distraction of others. In a week, perhaps, we shall come to see how you are getting on.’

A week? Penny might as well have said a year, for all the help that offered. Justine had sighed and informed the housekeeper that all meals would be served ‘for two.’ And that was a problem in itself. She had no idea what her husband’s favourite foods were, his schedule when home, or even what rooms he took his meals in. She would have to rely on the servants. With the instruction, she had added a shy flutter of her lashes and a worried look. Then she had remarked that he had been sick for so long she’d feared ever having this opportunity...

The housekeeper had rushed to her aid, promising that every effort would be made to help her learn the likes and dislikes of the master, and the proper running of the house. The woman’s eagerness to help her made her feel like even more of a liar than usual.

But trusting Mrs Bell had led to the table in the main dining room, facing an excess of silver and crystal, and a banquet clearly meant as a triumphant celebration of their return home. The man who could barely lift his fork two days before was enjoying nine courses and three wines.

Though he ate with obvious relish, she could feel his eyes upon her, just as Montague’s were, when they were alone together. His gaze was possessive, as though he was admiring some lovely ornament on a shelf, still surprised that he had come to own it. Soon, he would take it down and run his hands over it, to learn its every contour and detail. She shivered again.

He glanced immediately to the far side of the room, to the unlit fireplace. ‘You will find that old houses such as this are draughty. It is as if the chill settles into the stone, even in summer. Shall I call for a servant to light a fire?’

‘It is not necessary,’ she assured him. ‘We will not be here for long. If it bothers me again, I will remember to bring a shawl to dinner.’

‘Oh.’ There was a faint downward inflection, as though the idea that she might hide her bare shoulders disappointed him. Why did he not simply refuse her the comfort? She had long ago learned not to make such requests of Montague, for fear that he would insist she must wear even less, to show her obedience. When one had been given the choice of just a gown, or just a shawl, one learned to ignore the cold.

Now, Lord Felkirk pushed his dessert away. ‘There is no need for an ice so late in the season, no matter how beautifully it is presented.’ He stared down at the china ice-cream pot on the table, its lid heaped with ice to keep the contents cool. The butter, as well, rested in a basin of ice so that it might keep its perfect mould of the Felkirk family crest. He stared at the display and shook his head. ‘So cold, all of it. Cold as the grave.’

As Justine watched, his attention slipped from her. He had gone oddly pensive, of a sudden, his expression darkening as though his mind wandered in a cavern somewhere, further and further from the light of day. It was almost as unsettling as his earlier thoughts. ‘Let us retire to the salon,’ she suggested. ‘There is a fire laid there. I am sure it will be most cosy.’ She feared that was rather an overstatement of the truth. Although the old manor was smaller than the new one, it was still too large to house a single couple. At the very least, it should hold two rambunctious boys, as it had in William’s youth.

But the man before her was no longer an energetic child. When he stood, he offered his arm. But they both knew that what appeared an ordinary courtesy was a subtle request for her support so that he might manage with just a walking stick and not crutches. As she had in the afternoon, she came to his side and they proceeded together down the hall.

In the formal sitting room, she led him to a divan and poured him his port. Then she took her own place in a chair opposite, where her lacemaking pillow had been arranged for her. The evening was likely to be a silent affair, as full of thoughtful glances and mutual speculation as dinner had been. They were strangers, after all. There was little they had to converse about.

Necessary though it was, she could not bring herself to create any more memories out of whole cloth, demanding that he believe anecdotes from their courtship and elopement. There was only one thing she wished to discuss and the topic was unreachable. What was it about his house that had set him looking for a diamond pouch that had been missing and forgotten since late in the last century?

She made a covert study of the room: fireplace and mantel, landscapes on the wall, rug thick, but flat. There were no obvious hiding places here. She could not imagine herself stomping about the place, sounding for loose floorboards and hollow compartments. As her husband stood and approached her, she could not help but listen, hoping that one of his steps might sound different from another, revealing a trapdoor in the planking. But each sounded the same as the other, until he stopped just short of her, staring down as she worked.