An Inconvenient Wife (30 page)

“Fiddlesticks?”

Anne gasped, the book
dropping from her suddenly nerveless fingers with a thump. “Good gracious, you
scared me half to death.”

She leaned forward, trying
to see into the shadows that cloaked most of the room. “What are you doing down
here? You should be in your bed.”

“So should you.” Westcott
emerged from the gloom. “Why
are
you here, Anne, and what brought on the
“fiddlesticks”?”

Anne looked up at him,
resplendent in a brocade dressing robe, one allowing a disturbing view of his
chest between the satin lapels. Hair disheveled, arm in a sling, only an eye
patch missing to turn him into a pirate ready to sweep all from his path—or
seize whatever he wanted. A breathtaking pirate, Anne admitted, and firmly
squashed the hot tickle spiraling from belly to throat. “I was unable to sleep
and I forgot my sherry, which I see you have not.” She flicked a finger in the
direction of the glass in his hand.

“Brandy,” he corrected, with
enough dry humour in his voice to send a rush of heat to her face.

“Of course, I should have
known,” she said tightly.

“How should you? We have
seldom had the opportunity to enjoy a drink together.”

An accusation? A casual
comment? Anne was unsure, and his face was hidden as he set his glass on the
mantelpiece and moved across the room—to pour her some sherry, she realized
gratefully, shaken by the unexpected encounter in such intimate surroundings.
Their recent conversation, her suspicions about the Major, her radical
treatment of Sarah’s leg; all of it tumbled around in her head in a dizzying
array of guilt and conflict.

She took the offered glass
with a terse, “Thank you,” and watched as he retrieved his brandy and sat in
the chair opposite. “I am surprised to see you so far from your bed, sir. Does
Harman know you are wandering around in your condition?”

“Harman is enjoying a
well-deserved night’s sleep.” Westcott peered at her over his glass, his voice
edged with sardonic humour. “I, on the other hand, cannot sleep, but find
staring at the same four walls any longer impossible.”

“Your shoulder….”

“Is fine.” He brushed her
concern aside impatiently. “I intended to be up and out tomorrow in any case.”

The decision was made and
he’d not be persuaded otherwise, Anne judged from the look on his face. In all
actuality, she was surprised they had managed to keep him confined for even five
days.

“What are you reading?” He
glanced at the book on the floor. “Or should I say, planning to read?”

She lifted a shoulder and
gave him a crooked smile. “The adventures of one of your traveling ancestors,
and I use the word adventure rather loosely, understand. I wanted something to
help me sleep.”

That produced a short laugh
and one of those rare, genuine smiles that caused her breath to catch. He was
devilishly appealing when he smiled, so she was grateful he did so
infrequently.
Which is a barefaced lie, Anne. You like his smiles all too
well.

“If it is as boring as most
of those diaries, it will do the trick. Why anyone believes their experiences
will be of interest to others is beyond me.”

Since Anne had had the same
notion, she merely nodded, took a sip of her sherry and searched for another
subject. Westcott appeared ready to stay indefinitely, and she could hardly
disappear the moment she saw him. Besides, far from being sleepy, she was more
wide-awake than ever.

Her gaze fell on a small
portrait of Camille and a very young Sarah. “Sarah has your eyes, but otherwise
looks much like her mother.” Instantly wishing she could retract her comment,
Anne waited for a curt set-down. She
knew
the subject of his first wife
was unwelcome, but other than a flicker of distaste in his eyes, he answered
readily.

“Yes, Sarah is very like her
mother in appearance. I believe her more like my side of the family in
personality, leavened with some of Camille’s liveliness.”

“She has a delightful
enthusiasm for life,” Anne said softly. Westcott never spoke of his wife, but
the expression on his face was more pensive than forbidding and she set aside
her glass and leaned forward. “Tell me about Camille, please. Sarah mentions
her at times, and I know very little of her.”

 Westcott rose, picked up a
poker, and stirred the fire before bracing one hand on the mantelpiece, his
back to her. A long silence ensued, and Anne was beginning to think she had
made a grave error in asking about Camille, when he spoke.

“We met in London, at a
ball. Not normally an event I’d attend, especially since it was less than a
year past that my father died, but it was Margaret’s come out—St. Clair’s
sister—and he insisted I support him. Plus, Lady Lynton expected no less of
us—Carlisle, St. Clair and myself.” A thread of humour touched his voice. “Lady
Lynton is not someone you say no to easily, and in any case, Margaret was a
sister to us all.

“We arrived a little before
times, as St. Clair was expected to stand with Margaret and her mother to greet
the guests, and we lingered in the entrance hall, Carlisle and I, waiting for
Devlin and the drink he’d promised us.” Westcott half-turned to pick up his
brandy, seemingly deep in thought, and Anne watched the play of emotions on his
shadowed face. The look of some pleasant memory passed quickly, replaced by a
chill sternness that was painful to see.

“When she appeared at the
top of the staircase, I imagined a fairy princess had stepped from the pages of
a book and I was instantly besotted. So lovely and graceful, her hair shining
gold in the candlelight and a smile I felt sure was directed at me. Camille
appeared just as struck, and to do her justice, I think she did love me, as much
as she could love anyone.” Westcott emptied his glass, walked to the sideboard
and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “Will you have more sherry?”

Anne held up her glass to
show it still unfinished, and he refilled his own with brandy.

“I stayed in Town, spent as
much time as she allowed as her escort, and a few months later asked for her
hand, counting myself the luckiest man in the city to win her, over the several
others in pursuit, who had far more address than I.” He sat down, stretched his
legs out, and stared into his glass.

Anne took a sip of her
sherry, uncertain as to whether to protest his deprecating comment, or let it
pass. If he meant he hadn’t the ways of a man about town, she had to agree, but
then there are some who valued other qualities more.

“We married as soon as my
year of mourning ended. Camille was eager, and I wanted badly to get back
here.” He looked up, caught her gaze, and continued. “I have never been
enamored with cities.”

An understatement, that, and
Anne hid a smile. A countryman, Lord Westcott, which anyone with intelligence
would know after a day in his company. She had watched him, listened to him in
conversation with his steward, learning as much as she could about Westhorp. He
loved the land, was
attuned
to it.
If ever a man needed sons
….

Anne shied from that thought
and returned her attention to her husband, who had never been so open with her.
Not a husband, but maybe a friend? Can you settle for that? Should you? It’s
more than you expected—and not enough.

“So I suspected,” she said.
“I am fond of the country as well, although I’ve had little experience of it.
I’ve lived in towns, cities and villages, but seldom the true countryside.”

“Camille was not so fond,
but she loved the house and enjoyed redecorating and entertaining; we do have
some social life here, but it is rather humdrum, and a somewhat limited
society. We compromised and spent an occasional month in Town, until Sarah was
born.”

Westcott stood and returned
to jabbing at the embers, every line of his body rigid with remembered pain.
Should she interrupt, cut off this distressing reminiscence? No, he needed
this, she felt, and wondered if he had ever spoken of these things to anyone
else.

“I’ve never believed the
city a healthy place for children and was unwilling to leave Sarah here alone.
Camille felt differently and continued her stays in Town, short visits at
first, but they grew lengthier as time went on.”

He turned to face her, his
expression once more contained and unreadable. “Camille loved Sarah, doted on her,
and when she was home they spent hours together, but it was not enough. She
craved the excitement and glitter of the
Ton
and saw no reason to give
it up.”

He fell silent, rubbing
absentmindedly at his shoulder, his gaze on some point over her head. Anne felt
his mind was far from this room, and from her. His next words were so softly
spoken she barely heard them.

“I should have known, before
it was too late.”

“Known what?” Anne ventured,
but the confidences were done.

Westcott started, shaking
his head as if to clear it, and dropped into his chair. “Many things,” he said
dryly. “Speaking of the unknown, why were you in Portugal? Isn’t it time you
disclosed some of your history, Anne?”

She stared at him in
consternation, unable to hide her shock at this sudden reversal. Why bring this
up now? It was so late, and she was tired.
You are not in the least bit
sleepy and he deserves an explanation, Anne. If you put him off, he is sure to
imagine something worse than the truth.
The glass trembled in her hand and
she placed it on the table with exaggerated care, avoiding his intent gaze. The
truth was sordid enough. If nothing else, she had to tell him of her suspicion
that
the Major was responsible for the attack on him.
You’ve wanted
to tell him for days, Anne. Now is your chance, in this quiet interlude.
It
is the perfect time. Then why was her chest tight with dread?

Chapter Twenty-four

Westcott narrowed his eyes.
Why the look of fear on her face of a sudden? The idea of Anne being involved
in anything so bad she feared telling him was beyond his imagination. She had
assured him she was not a murderess, he remembered now, and a huff of laughter
escaped him.

Anne’s head jerked up and
she eyed him warily.

“You are not going to
confess
now
to murder,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his
voice. “You did tell me otherwise, in Portugal, if my memory is correct.”

“Of course I am not!”

Bristling, a delightful
blush colouring her cheeks, she was the picture of indignation, and he grinned.
“That being the case, you won’t mind satisfying my curiosity. Or are you going
to hare off to bed with some excuse about being too tired?”

“It
is
very late,
sir. I….” She glanced sideways at him.

She
had
intended to
run off. The un-Anne-like behavior piqued his curiosity even more. Westcott
rose, refreshed his brandy, and poured a small amount into another glass. “A
little ‘Dutch courage’. You appear in need of it.” He took her hand, wrapped
her fingers around the glass, and guided it to her lips. “Drink—in sips, mind you.”

“Ugh.” Anne shuddered at the
taste. “I don’t know why you enjoy this stuff, Westcott. It’s horrid.” She
glared at him, but the second sip went down more smoothly and she leaned back,
seeming more at ease.

“I have begun to realize how
little I know of you, Anne,” Westcott said, resuming his seat. “Start at the
beginning. You were in Gibraltar prior to Portugal. Why?”

“My father was posted there,
and I joined him as soon as my school year was finished.”

Seeing his surprise at the
mention of school, she explained, “Whenever Father was sent to someplace unfit
for females, I attended a school in Switzerland.” She paused. “Are you at all
familiar with military life?”

“No,” Westcott said with an
apologetic smile. “I have some friends in the military, but know little of
their customs.”

“It can be very insular for
the families who accompany the men, especially in a place like Gibraltar. One
sees the same people repeatedly, and there were not many people to attend
social events. The officers and aide-de-camps attended when duties allowed, of
course.” Anne’s mouth curled in a half-smile. “No woman ever lacked an escort,
and fortunately for me, the Governor’s sister took me under her wing, acting as
chaperone when Father couldn’t, although sometimes several of Father’s officers
escorted me.” Her lips tightened. “They were
gentlemen
. Father trusted
them implicitly. Even so, he always assigned several
high
-ranking
officers to attend me.”

She sipped at the brandy,
more to gather her thoughts, Westcott felt, than because she wanted the spirit.
He tried, without success, to picture her as a carefree young girl making her
first forays into society. He suspected she had never been one of those giddy
debutantes thronging London every year, although she had a dry sense of humour
he was coming to appreciate.

“Very wise, your father,”
Westcott said, and she laughed.