Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (37 page)

Two days after their visit to the Delaneys, Beth found herself alone with her husband as he was about to escort her and the duchess to a rout. He placed a finger under her chin, the better to study her face. "You are finding this hard, Beth," he said kindly. "This society life does not suit you at all. Just a few more weeks, then I promise you need never come to London unless you choose."

"And you, Lucien? Will you not come to Town again?"

He looked puzzled. "But I enjoy it, Beth."

"I suppose you do," she said.

She had thought perhaps this evening would be an opportunity to grow closer, but now she lost the urge to try. It would doubtless suit him very well to have her in the country bearing children while he conducted his debauches in Town with the White Dove. If, she thought bitterly, they ever progressed to the stage where bearing children became a possibility.

He frowned and looked as if he would question her, but then the duchess joined them and he changed the subject, relating an amusing anecdote. Beth couldn't help laughing. He could always make her laugh, but it never lessened the bitterness inside.

Over the evening, the chill in her manner eroded his good humor, and he spent less time with her, tried less to amuse her. Beth felt the loss like an aching void but could not change her behavior. It was amazing, she thought, how two people could have such a thorough falling-out without a word spoken in anger.

When she rose from her bed the next morning determined to turn a new leaf and try to win him back, he was, as usual, already out.

To distract herself from her unhappiness, Beth concentrated on Clarissa's problem. She tried to think of solutions but got nowhere. If she had money she could send the girl to a distant town or even to the Americas, if she would go. Did Clarissa have that kind of character?

If she had money she could offer it to the Greystones as a dowry, but that would solve nothing. They did not simply wish to marry Clarissa off; they wished to get the fee offered by Deveril. If they were paid to forego that marriage they would find another similar.

Besides, Beth had virtually no money. She had the guineas Miss Mallory had given her, and Lucien had arranged pin money for her. But all the accounts for the house, her clothes, and such like were settled by the de Vaux man of business.

If nothing better occurred, Beth could help Clarissa to return to Miss Mallory's, but that would be the first place her parents would look. Beth was not even sure Miss Mallory would conceal the girl from them. Aunt Emma always had to balance her principles against business sense.

As she was sitting in her boudoir that afternoon, taking tea and worrying about the problem, Lucien came to join her. It was so unusual an event these days that she felt panicked and quite unable to take advantage of the situation. She rushed straight at the subject on her mind.

"Did I tell you one of the girls from Miss Mallory's visited me last week?" she chattered. "Clarissa Greystone. Her parents are selling her to an unpleasant husband. She expects an offer any day."

The marquess raised a brow. "With anticipation?" he queried, obviously not outraged by the affair.

"No. With trepidation."

"If he is not to her taste, she would be well-advised to reject her suitor unless she puts money before other considerations."

"Her parents do."

"Yes, I hear Greystone's rolled up," he said off-handedly.

Beth wondered why he had come, if it was of significance. An awkward silence was growing, and so she picked up the topic, hoping for some worldly wisdom. "It seems a shame for the girl to be sacrificed for her family's sake."

He shrugged. "For her sake, too, surely. If the money's all gone, she'll end up as a governess if she's lucky. Marriage is preferable to that."

This was pragmatic and possibly true. It irritated Beth. "There should be some better way. No woman should be so forced—"

She broke off as he rose angrily to his feet. "I wondered why you were so obsessed by this silly chit. I am sorry, my lady, I have no mind to sit and have guilt heaped on my head again."

With that he walked sway out of the room.

Beth sat stunned.

Was that what he thought? That she was cold to him because she still harbored a grievance about her marriage? In one sense it was true—she would never feel comfortable with the way she had been forced to act against her will. But any tendency to blame Lucien had died weeks ago.

She saw how destructive her present behavior was. Nothing was less likely to detach the marquess from his mistress than being refused his wife's marriage bed and given only cold words. Her thought processes were even more tangled than poor Laura Montreville's. Laura at least had a clear line of thought, no matter how unrealistic. Beth could not persuade herself that she had been operating on logic at all, which was very galling for someone who prided herself upon her intellect. Looked at objectively, her husband had been kind and considerate throughout. If he could not love her, there was no blame in that. He was willing to be as loving as was in his power.

She forced herself to acknowledge that she had been motivated by that base emotion, jealousy. Jealousy because she wanted more than kindness, more than friendship. She wanted him to return her love.

She loved him.

Beth took a deep steadying breath. How foolish, how very foolish to have succumbed, and how useless to expect him to reciprocate. What on earth was she to do?

If she were free, Beth would have put herself as far away from the marquess as possible. What other sane course was there for a woman besotted by a man who merely found her bearable? That choice was not available. The only other thing to do was to fight. Impossible as it might seem she must gamble that she could one day gain his love, and undoubtedly the first step to that was the consummation of the marriage. The unnaturalness of their lives and her own anxiety and longings hung like the sword of Damocles over them.

Being a logical woman, Beth resolved to sort this all out in the straightforward way, in writing.

It was not quite as easy as she had hoped. One problem was that she felt it necessary to be discreet in case the note should be read by a third party. Another was deciding quite how much she was willing to say. She could not even think how to start it. My lord? My Lord Marquess? Lucien?

Eventually she wrote,
My dear husband.
That at least addressed the point in question.

At your convenience,
she wrote at last
, I would wish to speak to you in my bedroom on a matter of importance. Postponing matters in the hope of change in me seems unlikely to lead to success. Perhaps the elimination of anxiety in that respect would serve us better.

There. That seemed clear enough, and if he were in any doubt, the word
bedroom
should eliminate it. She signed it,
Beth
folded it, and sealed it thoroughly, stamping the wax with the de Vaux arms.

Then she felt a strong urge to tear it into tiny pieces and dispose of it somewhere.

She would not let herself play the coward at this point, however. She left the note on his shaving stand in his dressing room. It was only later she was informed he would not be in for dinner that evening but was engaged with friends.

Friends? What friends? Beth fought and won a battle with raging jealousy. There was no reason for him not to be at the Delaneys. She pleaded tiredness and canceled all her own engagements so as to be at hand when he finally read the note.

She could not help but be disappointed that he was out of the house indefinitely. Too late she knew she could have chosen her moment more carefully, but what was done was done. She had no intention of trying to retrieve her letter.

She prepared for bed that night with care and in a state of nervous anticipation, wishing she could ask Hughes whether her husband had been in the house since the afternoon and whether he had read the note.

Would he come?

How late would he be?

If she fell asleep would he just go away?

Despite her efforts, she fell asleep and had no way of knowing whether he had come or not.

When she woke the next morning she was the victim of sick anxiety. How was she to stand another day of waiting? Would he come to her to discuss the matter in broad daylight? That seemed horrible to Beth, so detached and coldblooded, when she wanted to regain the passion she had so briefly known.

Beth had no need of pretense to appear to be under the weather. She breakfasted in her room, waiting for the tap on the door which might signal a visit from her husband. At midday she discovered he had returned home in the early hours, slept, breakfasted, and gone out. He must, at least, have got her note by now. What, oh what, had been his reaction, and what was she to read into the fact that he had not come to speak with her?

Was it of such small significance to him?

Perhaps, Beth thought bitterly, she should not have said, "At your convenience."

She had to escape from the house, and so she went for a long walk accompanied by her maid. She attempted once or twice to strike up a conversation with the woman, but Redcliff, though obviously fond of her mistress, was determined to keep to her place and never encouraged familiarities.

They were nearly home again when a young man hurried over to them. "Your ladyship," he said.

Redcliff moved forward as if to drive him off but, with astonishment, Beth recognized Clarissa in boy's clothing and stopped the maid.

"What is it, Charles?" she asked, hoping the girl had the wits to go along.

Clarissa looked at the end of her tether, but she tried. "I need to speak to you," she whispered. "I have run away from home."

"Oh, lord," muttered Beth, "why now?" But Clarissa was so distraught it was unthinkable to abandon her. The only possibility was to take the maid into their confidence. Beth explained the situation in brief and asked the maid to keep the secret.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Redcliff. "It isn't right, milady."

"Right or not, I intend to help Clarissa," said Beth firmly.

The maid clucked in disapproval but reluctantly agreed to be an accomplice.

"We cannot stand in the street like this," said Beth. "The question is, Redcliff, can we get Miss Greystone into the house without her being seen? Her parents will soon set up a hue and cry."

The maid's face was set in lines of rigid disapproval, but she said, "There is a side door, my lady, for the coal deliveries, and a back stairs up from there. If it is unlocked we could probably get to your rooms without being seen."

"Very well," said Beth. "Lead on."

Belcraven House stood detached from the other nearby houses, but there was only a narrow passage down the side, wide enough for a cart. Along that passage was the doorway. It proved to be unlocked.

The door and floor were sooty, and all three ladies eased their way carefully through the small hall and up the narrow, bare-wood staircase. Eventually, the maid led them through a green baize door into the sudden opulence of the corridor off which the bedrooms opened. Beth wondered how many of those bleak little staircases there were to enable the servants to care for the house without intruding in the lives of their employers.

Once in the boudoir Clarissa pulled off the old-fashioned tricorne she wore and tossed it into a corner. She was pale and close to hysterics. "Oh Beth! Lord Deveril came today to offer for me!"

"Well, really, Clarissa," said Beth impatiently, for she knew they were in a pickle, "could you have not appeared to comply? I haven't had time to make any plans."

"I did," wailed the girl, bursting into tears. She pulled at her loose cravat and used the ends to wipe her eyes. "And then... and then my mother
left
us! He... he
kissed
me!"

Beth looked at the girl with appalled commiseration.

"I threw up my breakfast over him," added Clarissa, not without a touch of satisfaction.

"You didn't!" Beth gasped and began to laugh. "Oh Clarissa. What happened then?"

"Everyone was dreadfully angry," the girl sniffed, though there was an echo of Beth's amusement in her eyes. "My mother tried to say I was unwell but... but he looked at me so hatefully." She was making a mangled wreck of her neckcloth. "Then when he'd gone she... she beat me and locked me in my brother's room. My room doesn't have a lock."

"She beat you!"

"She said she would beat me harder if I did such a thing again, but truly I couldn't help it!" The girl's twisting had worked the neckcloth free and now she pulled at it with her whitened fingers. "His mouth tastes like the midden, and he terrifies me!"

Beth gathered the girl into her arms. "I can believe that, my dear. But how did you escape? Did your brother help you?"

"Simon?" said Clarissa incredulously. "No, he's off at Oxford, and anyway, he thinks it a famous thing just as long as his comfort is not disturbed. I took some of his old clothes and climbed out of the window."

Beth looked at the girl with new respect. "Good heavens. Was that not very dangerous?"

Clarissa shrugged. She looked down with distaste at the damp and tortured rag in her hand and dropped it on a chair. "It was only the first floor, and there's a high wall by his window. I got onto that and sort of wriggled my way along to a shed, then to the ground. But you can see I couldn't have done it in a gown," she said with a blush. It was obvious that the girl felt her boy's clothes were the most heinous aspect of it all.