Anne O'Brien (18 page)

‘Well?’

Sarah walked to the pianoforte to stroke a few notes. They sounded soft and clear in the still room.

‘Sarah.’ Her silence was unnerving. ‘Will you put me out of my misery? I remember you once returned something so trivial as a coat that you thought I should not have given you. What will you do if this does not please you?’

‘Does not please me? How could it not?’ Now she turned to him. The smile on her face stopped his words. And the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks.

‘Sarah!’ His arms opened wide and she simply walked into them, to lay her forehead against his shoulder and weep. ‘Don’t
weep, Scheherazade. We shall both be drowned. I will take it all back if that is your wish.’ But he knew there was no danger of that. He had seen the pure joy in her face. Everything was good. His heart clenched hard in a foolish beat of triumph as he pressed his lips against her hair.

‘No one has ever shown me such kindness. It is beyond anything I could imagine.’ She wiped away the tears with unsteady fingers. ‘I love it.’ She risked a glance at his face. ‘I suspect you had help here.’

‘Indeed I did!’ He waved his arm to encompass the room. ‘This is beyond me. But you have some good friends. And your children love you. The flowers are from Beth.’ They bloomed, waxy hellebores, in a little crystal vase on the side table.

‘It is beautiful. All of it. And the pianoforte… I cannot express how I feel. You have no idea how happy it has made me.’

And that, of course, was all that he desired to hear.

It put Sarah, being Sarah, into something of a difficulty.

A room of her own. A boudoir. How extravagant in the extreme. But it pricked her conscience. What could she possibly give Joshua in return? It behoved her to give him some symbol of her gratitude and—well—her love. But she could hardly spend his own money on a gift for him. It needed some serious thought. And eventually some skilful application of her talents. The result was a small package wrapped in silk, left on Joshua’s desk in the library with his name inscribed on a single sheet of paper.

Where Joshua duly found it. And that was so like Sarah, he thought, his smile a little sad. That she should leave it for him rather than present it personally, rather than risk his displeasure or disappointment. His constant dream was that one day she would find the courage to stand before him and speak her mind—and damn the consequences. Perhaps one day she would. But not yet. He unwrapped the silk to extract a small portrait, little more than a miniature, painted in water-colour
on ivory. An image of a young girl, head and shoulders only, with dark eyes and dark hair released and allowed to curl onto her cheeks, ribbons in her hair. The edging of her dress, a soft blue, just visible, brought colour to her cheeks. She had a smile on her lips and looked out at him confidently.

Beth, of course.

And, more importantly, Sarah’s work.

It was a good likeness, painted with a free hand to give a sense of youth and energy. The Beth he was coming to know, in fact, rather than the stiff, formal child who had arrived so short a time ago. The frame, too, was of Sarah’s making, silk embroidered with tiny flowers stretched and pinned over a wooden frame. A pretty thing, guaranteed to please. It still lay before him on the desk when Beth came into the library to select a book. She came to stand beside him to look at what took his attention.

‘That is me,’ she stated with delightful self-importance.

His teeth glinted in a smile. ‘It looks like you. And very pretty.’

She preened just a little and moved closer so that he was able to draw her into the circle of his arm. Beth leaned against him and touched his hand where it held the portrait. ‘Mama painted it.’ It still gave him a little jolt of pleasure to hear the word on his daughter’s lips. ‘It is good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. She is very talented.’

‘Do you like it?’ Beth had the persistence of the young.

‘Yes.’ He touched the painted face gently with his fingertips. ‘I shall keep it here on my desk, perhaps, so that I can see it when you are not curled on that window seat. What do you think?’

Beth nodded, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. ‘Mama is painting another of John. It will take her a long time.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He does not sit still. It sometimes makes Mama quite cross. She says John will be all of one and twenty before it is complete.’

Joshua grinned. ‘I can well imagine.’

Later in the day, he found Sarah on her way to the kitchen to speak on some domestic matter with Mrs Beddows.

‘Sarah…’ She came toward him with a light step, a smile.

‘Thank you, my lady. Your style, as always, is excellent.’ Joshua knew from the quick flush of colour in his wife’s face that he did not need to say more. He smoothed his knuckles over her cheek, soft and intimate, before lowering his head to kiss the corner of her mouth. Sarah returned the caress and then escaped before her inner delight overcame her.

So it would appear that some warm and blossoming depth of closeness and understanding would bless the marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon and his new bride. But it was equally apparent to the two individuals concerned that this rapport was not to be replicated when his lordship came to his lady’s bed, something that Lord Joshua continued to be by no means averse to doing. But by this time Joshua was being forced to keep command of his patience. He had always considered himself to be a patient man, and one who was perfectly ready to indulge the whims of a pretty woman. But in these circumstances, with his own wife, he found himself completely at a loss.

They were making no progress. His wife was willing, welcoming. She never refused him intimacy. She accepted his kisses, his caresses, the demands of his body with perfect equanimity. But it ended there. She had effectively built a wall between them based on restraint and reserve and an inability—or at least a refusal—to communicate on the matter. She said what he would wish to hear, thanked him most politely when he asked if she was content. Reacted as he would wish her to react. But she never allowed her own control to slip for one moment. Never encouraged, never initiated. Never allowed him to take her over the slippery edge of delight to her own fulfilment. Never indicated what her own pleasure or preference might be.

It was, he decided, like making love to a lovely doll. She resisted any attempt to leave the candles burning as if she could only consent to his touch when her face and her responses were cloaked in darkness. She did not have a dislike of him, of that he was certain. Nor did she dislike his advances. But he was the one to take the initiative. He was the one to take his pleasure. As for hoping that she would talk about it… Well, he had had no success there. She smiled and complied with his every demand, but gave nothing of herself. He did not know what to do. If he were honest, he was aware of a creeping hint of despair as the weeks passed and Sarah grew no more responsive.

And Sarah? She yearned for her lord’s touch, his heated kisses, the slick heat of his body against hers. The sheer weight of him when he crushed her to the soft mattress in ultimate possession. But she could go no further than that. She feared any adverse reaction to her clumsy attempts to respond to his love making: his pity, his disapproval, his dissatisfaction, even his condemnation. How would she exist if he were to find her wanting, turned away to take his satisfaction elsewhere? And she feared even more to reveal her love for him, her delight in his arms, her desire to allow him to push those amazing sensations further, so that she might lose herself in the splendour of being held and caressed by him. So what was left for her if it were necessary to mask her emotions? A calm and restrained acceptance. When her heart yearned for more.

It was very strange, Sarah thought when they had been returned to Hanover Square a little over two weeks, considering her new lifestyle, which demanded that she now participate in the social world with balls and soirées and breakfasts, but she had the distinct impression that someone was watching her. That since they had taken up residence in London again, she was actually being followed. It crept up on her as the days passed. And Sarah could not deny it, however much she might argue against the sense of it, but she felt the force of invisible
eyes focused on her. A presence that did not wish her well. The sensation touched her skin with a faint shiver of fear.

Considering that she was surrounded by people, she lectured herself, it was a ridiculous presumption. Her new family, the servants with whom she had once worked. The
ton
who noted the return of the Faringdons with interest and idle speculation at the sudden marriage. But still Sarah felt the brush of more than interested eyes when she took the children into the gardens in the Square, when she visited Hookham’s Lending Library, when she gazed in the windows in Bond Street or walked to Grosvenor Square to visit Judith or Thea. Even in the crowds of Hyde Park at the fashionable hour when Joshua drove her round in his curricle.

The tingle of being spied upon would not go away.

Foolish! She was quickly impatient with herself. Of course it could not be so. Yet she was still uneasy and sought for reasons why it might be, why someone might have an interest in her. There was certainly one possibility that came to mind with a terrible clarity. Was it Edward? Sir Edward Baxendale, her brother, who lived in genteel, resentful and bitter poverty and had proved his willingness to take any action, however disreputable, to increase the funds at his disposal. Now that she had married a man in possession of a fortune, Edward might see an opportunity to make new demands on her. If that were so, she could not possibly tell Joshua of her suspicions. She would do nothing to resurrect old memories.

But if it were Edward, why did he need to have her followed? Why not simply write and demand money, a brother’s begging letter to his wealthy sister? It just did not make sense.

So it was all in her imagination. And she saw no need whatsoever to tell Joshua of her fears.

Until one afternoon when they were returning to Hanover Square with Beth and John in their landau, taking advantage of the mild sunshine after a week of rain. As they drew up before the steps, Sarah quickly turned her head, her attention
caught by the smallest of movements. Was that a shadow of a man within the darker shadows of the trees and ornamental bushes behind the iron railings? Did he draw back to merge with the deeply dappled light as they came to a halt?

‘What is it?’ Joshua asked, aware of the sudden stiffening of her spine, her fixed gaze.

‘Nothing really. Just a…’ Her eyes continued to search the gardens.

‘Tell me.’ Was that the slightest edge to his voice?

‘I just had the sensation that someone was watching me…us.’ Her glance back again over her shoulder toward the garden could not but betray her anxiety. ‘Do you think it could be so?’

‘No.’ His hesitation was so slight as to be indiscernible. He smiled briefly, touched her hand fleetingly. ‘Just chance—there is nothing to hurt you here. Put it out of your mind, my dear.’ Joshua deliberately smoothed the crease from between his brows, intent on preserving an untroubled exterior. So Sarah was being followed, was she? There was only one man who might be involved in such an activity towards himself and his family. He would think about it and its implications when alone; they did not immediately spring to mind. But he would take steps to stop it if it became necessary.

‘Of course. How foolish I am.’ Sarah returned his smile in apology. Besides, she was wary of saying more for fear of sharp-eyed, sharp-eared Beth picking up the conversation. And Joshua, in truth, probably had the right of it.

The moment passed.

But as Sarah and Beth climbed the stairs together, Joshua having taken John with him to oversee the stabling of the horses, the little girl leaned close.

‘I saw him too, Mama. A man in a dark coat.’ Then ran on ahead.

Which consolidated all Sarah’s fears.

And then the rumours started.

Gently at first. Softly. Whispered in withdrawing rooms throughout fashionable London.

Then more loudly, insistently. Behind fans, sly hands, turned heads. In Hyde Park. At Almack’s. At private parties. Wherever the
ton
met. Eyes glinting in greedy interest, a delectable scandal to enliven the most tedious of gatherings. No one knew whence the information came, but everyone was prepared to discuss and speculate and claim that, of course, they knew it to be true beyond doubt. They had always known that there was room for suspicion when
that
name was spoken…

The details of the scandal were fairly complete from the very beginning. But embroidered with possibilities as the days passed. Until the nasty little rumours came perforce to the ears of Judith and Lady Beatrice, as such rumours must, when they attended a select little soirée at the home of one who might have been considered a friend. She was quick to acquaint them with the details. Horrified, Lady Beatrice Faringdon and the Countess of Painscastle held a council of war in Grosvenor Square on the following morning to compare notes and discuss their response. Considering the dangerous aspect of the content, and their close connection with the main target, the scandal could not be ignored.

The first Lady Joshua Faringdon, those in the know stated, a French lady of considerable charm and elegance, was dead. Nothing new or of moment here. Had died some years previously in France. But not of some virulent and fatal disease as all had been led to understand. Would you believe it? She had been
murdered
.

But who had committed the foul deed?

Well, who, of course? Did it need to be spelled out?

It had been heard on very good, but unnamed, authority that the lady was involved in a passionate love affair with an aristocrat at the Bourbon Court where she had been murdered in a fit of uncontrolled fury by her jealous husband. Lord Joshua
Faringdon. A pistol shot to the heart, no less. Her husband had then summarily disposed of her body, leaving everyone in England to believe that she had sickened, been buried and grieved over in France.