An Exquisite Marriage (10 page)

“He is my brother,” Adele reminded her. “You are my friend . . .”

“Our friend,” corrected Madelene.

Adele nodded. “Our friend, and you two were having an . . . what was it you said, Madelene?”

“Almost improperly intensive,” she repeated promptly.

“Thank you—an almost improperly intensive discussion in the public street. I would say that very much is our business.”

“It was not intensive,” said Helene crossly. “It was a discussion that may have gotten a trifle personal. Shall we go in? We are here to consider the suitability of these rooms for our ball, I believe, and it would not do to keep the manager waiting any longer.”

Adele looked at Madelene. Madelene looked at Helene and gave a small, not entirely happy shrug of assent. But at least they both held their tongues and they all could go inside.

***

Later that evening, somewhat against her better judgment, Lady Adele Endicott knocked on the door of Marcus's study. Upon being given permission to enter, she walked in and found him standing in front of the window, staring out at the street.

“Marcus?” said Adele.

“Mmm? Yes?” he said without turning around.

“Will you tell me what that was between you and Helene today?”

Now he did turn around, and Adele steeled herself against his frown. If there was anything Marcus disliked, it was being asked about his business. This, however, was important. “It was nothing,” he said. “A discussion that got a slightly personal, that's all.”

“That's almost exactly what she said.”

Marcus smiled. “Yes, it would be.”

Adele felt her eyebrows rise, and she forced them back down immediately. To evidence an expression of surprise that her brother might smile at the mention of any woman, or indeed to point out that his normally stern and direct gaze had gone distinctly misty around the edges, would bring about an abrupt end to what had suddenly become a most interesting conversation. “Helene's a very unusual person, isn't she?”

“Yes. Very,” Marcus agreed.

“And highly intelligent.”

“Highly.”

“She's beautiful as well, although most people don't notice that about her, at least not at first.”

“You've said that before, Adele.” Marcus's distant and misty gaze became very clear, and very tightly focused on her. “Was there something you wanted to talk about besides Lady Helene?”

Adele considered this. “No, I don't think so.”

“Then you can leave now.” He turned back toward the window.

“Of course, Marcus,” Adele replied primly. “I'm so sorry to have intruded upon your most important reflections.”

“Adele?” She paused and looked over her shoulder. Marcus was still facing the window. “I haven't told you yet, but I'm glad you've reached an understanding with James Beauclaire.”

Adele felt herself blush instantly. She pressed her hand against her mouth to muffle a string of words she wasn't supposed to know. Several of them were French. “And I thought I'd done such a good job keeping it secret.”

“I'm afraid not.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at her, smiling in an indulgent big-brother fashion that would have been infuriating if it wasn't exactly what she wanted to see from him.

“And . . . you're not upset?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe I would have been a year or so ago, but not now. Beauclaire's a good man. I think you will do well together.”

“He was going to call on you as soon as he gets back from Paris.”

He nodded. “I'll expect him then.”

Adele ran across the study and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Marcus!” she cried as she went up onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “You are the best brother in the whole world.”

“I hope you still think so when I'm complaining about the expense of marrying you off.”

“Oh, I'll let Aunt Kearsely deal with you when you get grumpy.”

“Heaven forbid,” he murmured. He also hugged her. “Now go on, Adele, I've got some letters to write.”

Adele did go. Her mind was suddenly so full of delight at the letter she could write to James that she didn't even notice that her brother had entirely diverted her attention from the suddenly unimportant little scene in the street with Helene.

Marius Darington's rooms had not changed much since Marcus's last visit. The dishevelment seemed a perfect match for the young man hunched on the leather sofa. His visit had clearly caught Marius while he was still asleep, and he hadn't bothered to take the time to dress properly. His waistcoat was open, as was his collar. His hair flopped untidily across his brow. There was no hint of care or interest or love of anything here. Only dissipation. Marcus touched the letter in his coat pocket and wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe the boy was just another wastrel, like Lewis Valmeyer or any of a dozen others he could name.

No. That wasn't possible. Lewis Valmeyer never would have gotten into a knock-down, drag-out fight over poetry.

“I've news for you, Marius,” Marcus said, sitting himself down.

Marius looked up from his slump. His eyes were clear, indicating that he might be tired and battered, but at least he was sober. “Is this about the fight at the auction house? Or has mother been talking to you about her latest scheme for my . . . reformation?” He stared at the ceiling.

“No, as a matter of fact, she's been remarkably quiet this week. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Marius bit his lip and shoved his hair back from his brow. “No. Of course not. Why should I confide in you? You are not the one . . .”

“I've secured you a place at a publishing house,” said Marcus

Marius's head snapped up. “
What?
”

“A man named Amos Brandt has agreed to take you on trial. This letter will be your introduction.” Marcus pulled the document out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “He is expecting you at ten o'clock on Monday.”

“But . . . but . . . Walters & Brandt is . . . they publish Bellmore! They publish Wheatford!”

“I suppose they must, since you say so. I take it that's a good thing?”

Marius snatched the letter up and opened it. His hands shook as he read, but this time it was not from drink, or anything of the kind. His eyes were bright with that energy Marcus had seen when he talked about his poet.

Marcus felt his own smile form, at least for a moment. Because as swiftly as that light had begun to shine in the boy, it died away to be replaced by something else. Fear.

“Mother won't allow it,” he said. “She wouldn't consider it gentleman's work.”

And there it was. The thing Marcus hadn't wanted to confront, and that Marius, out of loyalty, had not been able to say aloud.

“I will deal with your mother,” said Marcus. “In fact, I'm on my way to her now. What I ask from you is that you apply yourself to this.” He tapped the letter the boy held.

“Oh, I will. I will! It's what I always dreamed of! I . . . thank you, sir.” For the first time in Marcus's memory, Marius voluntarily held out his hand.

Marcus clasped it. “I have done what I can, Marius. It is up to you now.”

“I know that. I will prove myself to you, and to Mister Brandt. I may . . . may I write to you and let you know how I am getting on?”

“I would be glad of it,” said Marcus. “You should probably write your sisters, as well, and let them know about the . . . changes. They may have some things to tell you, too.”

“Yes, yes.” He stopped as the import of Marcus's words sank in. “Yes,” he said again, more slowly. “I have, perhaps, not paid as much attention to them as I should. I think . . . that is something else that will be changing.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Marcus told him. “Perhaps we could meet for another coffee next week?”

“Yes. Yes. Coffee.” But it was obvious Marius's thoughts were already racing down other paths. “I'll need a black coat, don't you think? And some new pens, and pencils. And . . .”

Marcus laughed and got to his feet. “Get yourself ready as you see fit. I'll not detain you.”

But as he reached the door, he paused. “Your mother is likely to make difficulties for you about this. But you must persevere.”

“I will,” said Marius. “This time I have something to fight for.” He swallowed, though, and folded the letter carefully. He stared at it, as if it could help him gather his nerve, and perhaps it did. “She spent the money,” he said softly.

“I'm sorry?” Marcus frowned.

“The money you sent for my education. She spent it. On the house. On jewels and her grand tour.”

Marcus said nothing.

“She swore me to secrecy. She said you didn't need to know, and I didn't need the education. My family connections would bring me all I needed. I was to associate with others of my . . . class . . . and ready myself to take my rightful position in the world.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry I said nothing sooner. I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . she'd suffered so much . . .”

“I understand,” Marcus told him. “And I thank you for your honesty, Marius. But that's over now. We are all starting afresh.”

“Yes, sir. I will not fail you.”

The boy bowed, stiff, formal, and clearly unnerved. Marcus nodded in return. He walked down the stairs, all the while struggling to control the bitter anger that swirled in his breast.

How had he not seen it before? How had he gone so long without recognizing that Marius was in the exact same position as he himself? The boy was also constrained and shaped by the title and heritage. The only difference between them really was the side of the blanket they'd been born on. Marius had been as afraid to truly battle the weight of his position as Marcus had, even though he knew it was keeping him from the life that could make him happy. With Marcus, the weight came in the form of his father's sins. With Marius, it came in the form of his mother's expectations.

It had taken Helene to show him the truth, and the way out.

But he was not there yet. There was still Bernadette. But as he had told Marius, he was on his way to her, and this time he was ready for her.

***

Bernadette, it seemed, was also ready for him, or someone like him. When Marcus presented himself at her door, the maid led him through to the conservatory. Bernadette was seated on a wicker bench framed by a set of spindly potted orange trees. Her dress and shawl were both sprigged with green, and she'd braided her hair with white and pink ribbons. All in all, she looked like a cross between a May queen and a hopeful maiden. It was not a combination that worked well.

“Marcus!” she cried with every appearance of delight as she rose. No formal curtsies here in the artificial orange arbor for Bernadette. She must come forward and take his hand and draw him to sit down, as if he was her lover come to meet her.

He wondered if she'd staged this sort of scene for his father.

“How wonderful that you should come to call,” Bernadette said. “I was not expecting you!”

“But you were clearly expecting someone.” Marcus let his gaze travel over the bottle of claret and the plate of hothouse grapes and dainty cakes.

She laughed brightly. “Only some lady callers. Don't tell me after all this time you've become jealous!” She fluttered her eyelids.

“You need not be afraid of that, madame,” he said.

Bernadette's face fell, but only for a moment. “Well, since you are here, you shall have some wine.” She reached for the bottle, but he held up his hand.

“I'm afraid I do not have the time.”
And when you've heard what I have to say, you may not have the inclination to serve me.

Bernadette folded her hands. “I see. You make me quite afraid, Marcus.”

He did not answer that. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers sealed in red wax and ribbon. He laid these on the tray beside the plate of cakes.

Bernadette stared at the papers. Her breath quickened, from fear or from hope, he could not tell. “What are those?” she inquired.

“Your marching orders, madame.”

Her clasped hands trembled. “But, Marcus, I don't understand.”

“I believe you do.” Marcus leaned forward. “You've lied to me, madame. You have been lying to me for years. You took the money I sent you for the betterment of the children, and you spent it on yourself.”

“Who told you such lies!”

“It is enough for you to know that I have found it out. What I will tell you is I am done with it. I have established a trust for each of the children, to be administered by my lawyers. The funds will be paid into accounts in the children's names, with the strict instructions that you will have no access to any of the monies.” The outlines of their trusts were, in fact, similar to the ones that kept Madelene Valmeyer's fortune safe from her predacious family. Another thing to thank Helene and Adele for.

“I am their mother!”

“And because of that you will have a regular stipend, which will also be paid out by my lawyers and will continue for your lifetime on two conditions.”

“Conditions! You dare!” Bernadette leapt to her feet, but she knocked against the light wicker table and it overturned, smashing glass and splashing wine across her maidenly skirts.

Marcus did not move while she batted at the mess, tears running down her cheeks. He wanted to feel sorry for her. Probably Helene would have been able to. But he was not so good a person.

Not yet. In time, perhaps. If he had help.

“The first condition is that you never set foot into my house again,” he said.

Bernadette looked up from her ruined skirts.

“And the second?” she spat the words.

“That I never hear from any of the children that you have in any way tried to get them to hand over one penny of their monies.”

Her face went dead white.

“I have already written all three about the arrangements, and the conditions.” The girls were in school, but they were fifteen and sixteen. It was young to have this burden placed on them, but old enough to understand much of their position, and their mother's. Also, they would have their brother's help now.

Bernadette's stained hands curled into tight fists. “You are a heartless monster!” she cried, and for once the tears that streamed down her face might have been genuine.

“I would have a care, madame, how you toss that designation about. It might come back to haunt you.”

“It is you, sir, who should have a care, if you think I will stand by and let you wrong myself and my children again!”

Marcus bowed in acknowledgment of this promise. “Now I expect you wish me gone. I will show myself out.”

He strode out of the conservatory, the sound of Bernadette's screeching and threats following him every step of the way. He stood aside for the maid, who was rushing in with a vial of smelling salts and a pile of handkerchiefs. Clearly, she had experience with her mistress's scenes.

Marcus walked himself to the foyer, collected his hat and cane, and left the house. He walked down the steps to his waiting carriage, climbed inside, and watched out the window as the driver touched up the horses.

It was done. Finally done. He did not deceive himself. There could still be repercussions. But the change had begun. It was freeing and, if he admitted it, frightening. Bernadette had been a part of his life and responsibilities since he'd inherited the title. He'd come to regard her as a permanent fixture.

But no more. He was done with her and with thinking like that. He would take the life he had been given, but he would shape it for himself.

To that end, there was another letter to write. Another change to begin. He had dared this much. He could dare the rest.

The question was, would Lady Helene be ready to take the dare as well?