A Worthy Wife (13 page)

“Oh, no, I could never part with our Ned, especially not after last night. But I do know of a one-eyed veteran who is in need of a position. He’s willing to do anything.”

“If the rest of him’s intact,” she said with a cackle, “send him over. I’ve never turned down a willing man yet. Which reminds me, I have a gift for you, too—a wedding gift.”

At her gesture, one of the maids brought out a parcel wrapped in a square of silk, tied with a gold cord.

“But you should not have, my lady. Truly, Sweety was generous enough.”

“Nonsense. Besides, I can’t enjoy the thing since my eyes went bad anyway.”

Aurora was carefully unfolding the fabric, which was beautiful on its own, all hand-painted flowers and birds, to reveal a book with carved wooden covers. When she reverently turned the first page, she saw that the richly colored illustrations and the chapter capitals were limned in gold, like a cloister’s book of days. “It is exquisite, ma’am. I will treasure it forever. I only wish I could read the text.”

“Well, it’s Sanskrit, so I’m not surprised you can’t. No matter, there are pictures enough.”

Aurora was turning the pages. “So there are, and lovely ones at that. Look, Kenyon, people play leapfrog in India, too.”

Kenyon had been watching her as she opened the gift, studying the innocent delight, the gentle curve of her mouth in an
oh
of appreciation. Deuce take it, he still hadn’t bought her a bridal gift, nothing but some additions to her wardrobe that were his rightful expense anyway. He wanted to bring that pleasure to her, and more. Blast the old besom for putting the seeds of doubt in
his mind in the first place. And…leap frog? He grabbed the book, eliciting a squawk of protest, and gave it a quick glance—his spectacles were good for something—then slammed the covers shut. “My word, ma’am,” he said, “you have given my wife a pillow book!”

“And what has you in a fidge over that, Windham? It ain’t as if she’s some milk-and-water maiden. The gel’s a married woman now. And you’ll be happy she has it. English gels aren’t taught how to please a man, or to be pleased. That’s why so many men stray from their wives’ beds. You won’t have to.”

“Good grief, you meddlesome old—”

“Thank you, Lady Anstruther-Jones. It was lovely of you to worry about the success of our marriage. Perhaps if you told us what you discovered in my mother’s letter, we would have a better chance.”

“Aye, I can see where making love to a dead woman could dampen your husband’s enthusiasm.”

She couldn’t see anything, the harpy, but, with or without his spectacles, Kenyon could see her scrawny neck under all those necklaces. He wanted to wring it. No man wanted a practiced courtesan for a wife, by all that was holy, and if he did, he wanted to be the one to teach her, not some book! Hell, the monkey was a better gift. At least the monkey didn’t think he needed instructions on pleasing his wife. He would have left then and there, but Aurora was finally getting the septuagenarian strumpet to speak.

“As I told you, I had my assistant find your mother’s letter. Elizabeth Halle’s letter, that is, that she wrote to me after I expressed my sympathy for the loss of her daughter. She was everything polite, but one sentence struck me as odd. That’s why I invited you back.”

“And we do appreciate it, my lady,” Aurora said, poking Kenyon in one of his sore ribs until he murmured his agreement.

“Hmpf. Well, the odd thing was, I had offered to pay for a marker for the child’s grave. Everyone knew the Halles didn’t have a shilling to spare. Elizabeth wrote back that a headstone wouldn’t be necessary, thank you.
Not that she already had one, or that the infant was cremated, or they were sending her back to England for burial, just that one was not needed.”

“Because the infant was not dead!” Aurora crowed in triumph. “I knew it!”

“I’m sorry, child, but I know there was a funeral.”

“But you can’t know if the casket was empty. I believe my mother wanted to send me back to England before she died herself, and her husband would not agree.”

Kenyon noted that she no longer referred to the scapegrace Halle as her father, only as her mother’s husband. He couldn’t blame her. If he were related to such a loose screw, he’d try to distance himself, too. “What do you think, ma’am? Could Mrs. Halle have feigned the child’s death and smuggled her out of the country?”

“I think I love a mystery more than anything!”

Kenyon was polishing his spectacles with the silk from the book wrapping. “Well, I am sure we are glad to brighten your day, ma’am, but you can understand how the uncertainty of the situation is upsetting, to say the least.”

“You always were a restive sort of boy, Windham. It’s a wonder you ever sat still long enough to learn to read and write. I comprehend your problem—I ain’t the chowder-head you seem to think—but I’ll have to think on it some more.”

Aurora was frowning at him, but speaking to Lady Anstruther-Jones. “We are grateful for any scrap of information you might remember. In the meantime, do you recall Lord Phelan Ramsey? He was the younger brother of the Earl of Ratchford, and I believe Lord Phelan was in India at the same time all of this was transpiring. In fact, according to what I have been told my whole life, it was Lord Phelan who arranged for nursemaids and such for my journey to my new home.”

“Yes, he was in India, although I could not have been so specific as to the time. His brother offered to buy him a place in the Company, I remember, since George’s marriage and son had cut Phelan from the succession. Phelan was a lazy ne’er-do-well who came out to look us over, stayed one month, and decided he hated the
heat, the insects, and the thought of work. He’d rather be Ratchford’s pensioner, it seemed. No one thought anything of his calling on the Halles, since he’d lived near Elizabeth’s family most of his life. He spent his month or so in India drinking with Halle, since Elizabeth was beginning to ail and the child took most of her time. I suppose Lord Phelan was a good enough friend to Mrs. Halle to aid her in the deception. I
can’t imagine why, else. Have you asked him about it?”

“As soon as we find him,” Kenyon replied. “I thought he’d be back in London by now from a certain errand he had, but no such luck. We’ll come upon him soon, I am certain.”

“And I’ll keep thinking. We’ll figure it out—see if we don’t.”

*

The more Kenyon thought about it during the ride home, the more Aurora’s theory seemed possible. Either that or he was wanting it to be true so their marriage was legal and unchallengeable. Of course that still left Podell and his scurvy schemes. “What do you think, my dear?”

Aurora looked up from her book. “I think I couldn’t stand on my head like that.”

Chapter Thirteen

The answers had to lie in Bath. Or tell the truth, in Bath.

Windham’s brother, unfortunately, was lying in France, and his sister was in a decline in Derby.

Christopher was finally ready to be transported home, although the prison doctors were not encouraging about his condition. With defeat staring the French in the face, they’d been more willing to negotiate, for a higher price, of course. Windham did not trust any army transport ship to bring Christopher home, though, nor any private fishing boat—not after Andrew’s passage. The earl wanted to fetch Kit back in his own yacht, with his own doctors aboard. He’d made a last promise to their mother to look after Kit, and by Jupiter, he meant to do it. He hadn’t been able to keep the clunch out of the army, not with patriotic zeal and a craving for adventure coursing through Christopher’s young blood. Damn, Kenyon would have gone, too, if he hadn’t been responsible for the title and properties and investments and dependents. Kit had been safe enough in the command post position Kenyon had purchased for him, but what had the cabbage-head gone and done? He’d gone exploring on his own, looking for the lost Windham legacy, the jewels Genevieve had taken. He was captured, of course. It was a marvel he was not shot instantly as a
spy.

As for his sister in Derby, Windham’s aunt had written that when they received his message saying Podell was not only alive but was about to marry another young woman in Bath, Brianne had shut herself in her bedroom
and had not come out since. Aunt Ellenette and Frederick feared for Bri’s sanity.

“Coming from Aunt Ellenette,” he explained to Aurora as he paced the confines of the hotel sitting room, “who has nothing but feathers in her own cockloft, it’s a grave concern. Oh yes, Aunt Ellenette. I have any number of relations I have not mentioned, not wanting to frighten you off altogether. Aunt Ellenette is…odd, but she’s always been at Windrush, so we have grown accustomed. She has a pug dog. Frederick is fat, mean, and droolly.”

“There’s nothing terribly odd about that. Lady Anstruther-Jones has a pet leopard,” Aurora reminded him from her place at the writing desk, where she was trying to compose a thank-you for Lady Anstruther-Jones. Since Kenyon had confiscated the book, Aurora felt awkward enthusing over the gift, especially knowing the note would be read by the viscountess’s secretary. She was glad for the interruption.

“Yes, but she talks to Frederick.”

“Many people talk to their pets. Most, in fact, I believe.”

He sighed. “Frederick talks back. Aunt Ellenette believes the mutt is the reembodiment of her dead husband, Charles, my father’s younger brother, who was also fat and mean. I do not recall if he drooled. He, or Frederick, has opinions on everything concerning the family.”

“Your aunt and Lady Anstruther-Jones would be great friends if they met.”

“Heaven forfend. Either way, if Frederick says Brianne is in a decline, then my sister is in queer stirrups indeed.” His sister never had been a comfortable sort of girl, but Kenyon saw no reason to drag all the family linen out for viewing at once. Brianne was headstrong, hoydenish, and hard to handle—on her good days. The earl loved her, of course, but he’d been secretly delighted that Harland Podell had wooed her away from Windrush. Now she was back, permanently, cutting up his peace.

“The poor thing must be having a hard time of it. To
be widowed is bad enough, I’d imagine, but to have her marriage dissolved as if it never happened must be devastating. Where does that leave her?”

“On my hands forever, as damaged goods.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Deuce take it, I cannot see my way to managing everything at once.”

“Of course not. The trip to Bath can certainly wait. No one will question our wedding lines for now; if the marriage has to be annulled or dissolved like your sister’s, I’ll be no more ruined next month than I will be next week. You must take your yacht to France, naturally.”

He faced her, leaning over the desk and putting his hands on the wood to either side of her. “You cannot go along, so don’t even think it. I mean to carry physicians and medical supplies, and bring home as many of Christopher’s men as we can carry on the yacht. I could have had the noble jobbernowl home six months ago if he’d agreed to leave his men. There will be no room, and no place for a lady.”

“I was not suggesting I go with you, my lord. I thought I might travel to Derby in your stead, to ease your sister’s mind, At least I would be company who understands her plight.”

Kenyon took both her hands in his. “You’d do that—you’d help my sister? I thought you might go to Bath by yourself, with outriders, of course.”

“Your sister needs me more.”

“Gads, I haven’t been much of a husband, yet you’d sacrifice your own plans for a woman you don’t even know, because she is my sister.” He kissed first one hand, then the other.

Blushing, Aurora pulled her fingers away. “I never had a sister,” was all she said. “I always wanted one.”

“You haven’t met Brianne yet,” he muttered, but he was vastly relieved, she could tell. So was she. Aurora thought they’d do better apart, she and her halfway husband. She had her principles, but, as he’d proved, she also had passion. Whenever be touched her, or brushed by her, or smiled at her, as now, Aurora’s stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with nausea. She
was Kenyon’s worry; she wanted, quite desperately, to be his wife. Until the doubts—his doubts—about their vows were resolved, ’twould be better for both of them to put distance between. The English Channel was a bit more distance than she thought absolutely necessary, but with all the problems he had, she could not add to his burden.

Aurora had problems of her own. She’d be going off with Sweety and a street urchin to face the dotty aunt and the dieaway sister—and the boy who might be Kenyon’s son but who was definitely Aurora’s son. She wondered if the resident Warriner ladies would resent her, if they would hand over the keys, if they would find her a worthy bride for the Earl of Windham. Of course they would not. They were unbalanced and unhappy, not deaf, dumb, and blind.

Aurora wanted someone bigger than Ned in her corner for this battle of acceptance, so she wrote to her aunt and uncle, inviting them to visit her in Derby. She missed them terribly, she wrote, and was sure they’d enjoy exploring a new venue with her. She added the request that her aunt search through the attics and bring along any letters she might have from Aurora’s mother.

Aurora put the pen down, hoping that a lord as grand as Windham would have a stagnant pond or two. And that Kenyon wouldn’t mind she had invited another pair of eccentrics to his estate. How could he mind Uncle Ptolemy’s turtles, when he wouldn’t be there?