Married to a Perfect Stranger (25 page)

“Bexley?” The secretary frowned and looked at Mary.

“And Mrs. Bexley,” said the clerk, a picture of disapproval.

“I've brought some…” Mary began.

“I have something to show you,” said John at the same moment.

“No, it was my idea,” Mary insisted. “John is not…”

“My wife was just leaving…”

“I'm not… You will not be blamed this time…”

“Perhaps you had better come in,” their host interrupted. His commanding tone silenced them. They followed him into a book-lined office and stood before his desk as he sat.

“I suppose you know my name,” Mary blurted out. “Because of my drawing of Lady Castlereagh.”

John hated to see her cheeks redden as Lord Amherst's secretary nodded. “Mary, let me…”

“Then you know it was thought to be a striking likeness.” She opened the sketchbook. “I have some others, of a man who has been following John.” She laid the page before him. “It was all my idea to bring them,” she repeated.

John saw a new resolution in her face. When she'd spoken of her portraits in the past, there had been a shyness, almost an expectation that they would be belittled. Now she presented them…with determined confidence. He felt as if something turned over in his chest. But he had to say, “I intended to bring them to you, sir. Mary should not be dragged into this.” Before the other man could answer, he launched into the story of his explorations in Limehouse and of being followed. “Mary noticed the person first,” he acknowledged.

“So I waited behind the fence in the square and caught him with a dark lantern,” she said. Her voice quavered slightly. She pointed to the drawing on the desk. “This is the man.” She swallowed. “It is a true likeness. I…I am very good at capturing faces.”

“Indeed,” said their host.

John listened for sarcasm in his tone. He didn't think it was there, but he said, “Astonishingly good. My wife is extremely gifted.” He saw her blink and prayed it was not tears he glimpsed in her eyes.

They all examined the pages. Lord Amherst's secretary bent closer, eyes narrowed. “I believe this man was on the ship coming back from China,” he said.

“But…we did not hire on any Asian crewmembers,” John said. He looked closer.

“After the
Alceste
went down,” said the secretary.

With this hint, John was suddenly flooded with memories. “Yes! Yes, I saw him on
Lyra
, when we were pulled from the sea. I thought I must have encountered him in Limehouse. I didn't think…”

“Interesting.” The secretary turned the pages, examined Mary's other studies of the figure. “A curious coincidence.”

“You think he might have had something to do with the wreck?” The idea was startling. There had been high seas and rocks.

“Impossible to say. There are certainly many in China who want no diplomatic contact with the Western ‘barbarians.'” He straightened. “We must find this fellow, as soon as possible.”

John leaned forward. “I could go…”

But the secretary was shaking his head. “Not you. From what you say, your face has become too well known in Limehouse. We will send others there and into the surrounding areas. We can use these portraits.” He turned to examine Mary. “Could you produce a few more likenesses, rather quickly, Mrs. Bexley?”

“Of course.”

“Today, that is.”

“In an hour,” she answered.

“Splendid.” His examination grew more acute. He shifted his gaze to John and then back, seeming to consider something. “As you know, Bexley, this is a rather delicate time in our trade relations with China.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lord Amherst's secretary looked at Mary, evaluating. He started to speak, thought about it, then went ahead. “The East India Company has begun to cultivate tea in Assam,” he told her.

Mary felt the weight of his regard. This felt like a test somehow. “So that someone besides China can sell it?”

Their host nodded with what looked like approval. “Indeed, they intend to break the Chinese monopoly.”

“And we would prefer that China not discover this new venture,” Mary replied.

He smiled like a man who has proved a budding theory. “Precisely.”

After that, matters moved very briskly. Mary was given a seat at a desk and a handful of pencils. She used the blank pages of her sketchbook for more likenesses of their quarry. John was closeted with others to review the routes he had frequented in Limehouse. By the end of the afternoon, men were fanning out through the slums to find John's shadow, and Lord Amherst's secretary was bidding his visitors a cordial farewell. “Thank you, Mrs. Bexley. You have done us a service. Good work, both of you.”

Gazing into Mary's eyes, John saw his pride and affection perfectly mirrored there.

* * *

In the street outside the Foreign Office John found a hackney cab. His horse was to be retrieved by a trustworthy fellow named Simmons, who would take the animal to its customary stable and then keep watch on their house for any signs of the man they were looking for.

Mary was still vibrating with triumph as they climbed into the vehicle. Her drawings had been received more enthusiastically than she could have dreamed. John had been praised, too. His superiors clearly valued him. She felt they'd erased the last stigma of their earlier disgrace. She wanted to bounce in the seat and crow or hang out the window and declare her happiness to pedestrians on the pavement. She settled for smiling at her husband as he sat beside her.

John put an arm around her and pulled her against him. Mary nestled close, reveling in the feel of his strong body along the length of hers. The lines and hollows of his muscular frame were familiar now but all the more thrilling because of that, it seemed. Bursting with love and kindling desire, Mary turned a little in his embrace, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

His response was all a woman could want. His lips took up her kiss and deepened it until she felt as if she was drowning in a sea of sensation. His hands moved under her cloak with possessive tenderness. One found its way inside the bodice of her gown and teased taut flesh. Afire, Mary let her fingertips drift down over the buttons of his waistcoat, and farther, until they encountered unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

John groaned and drew away, breathing hard. “We must stop, Mary, or we will arrive home in a scandalous state.”

She let her fingers roam a bit.

“My darling…”

She loved the way his breath caught on another groan. With John she had learned the intoxication of the power to give pleasure. She exercised it again.

“Ahh. Really, Mary…Ohh. No.” His hand closed over hers and drew it gently but decisively away. “Simmons cannot catch us climbing out of a cab half-dressed and panting.”

Though the image this conjured made her laugh, Mary had to concede. Simmons had planned to ride with all speed and reach the square before them if he could. She would not embarrass her husband before his colleague. “Later,” she whispered, inches from his ear.

“You may count on that,” came the murmured reply.

* * *

Moments after they unlocked the front door at home, Arthur popped up from the kitchen stair. “It's both of them,” he called down it. “All safe and sound.”

A rumble of complaint traveled upward in response.

“Cook's mad as fire about the dinner,” the boy added. “Nobody told her you'd be late, and the fish has dried to shoe leather, she says.” He regarded them hopefully, keen for information about where they'd been.

“Let her serve us whatever chewable bits remain,” declared John in a voice that was only too likely to carry between the floors.

Mary was not surprised to hear an indignant reply from Mrs. Tanner. “My dinner is not spoiled! Drat that boy.”

Mary took off her cloak. When Arthur reached out, she gave it to him. “Is Kate…?”

“Off someplace with her fee-an-say,” Arthur said.

“Ah.” That meant Arthur would be serving at dinner, which he should not be obliged to do. Unless Mary wanted to carry the dishes up herself. Not for the first time, she counted out the days until Kate's wedding in her mind.

The boy waited and took John's coat and hat as well. “I'm going to fetch that bottle of champagne,” John said. He'd started a small wine cellar in a corner of the storeroom. “We're going to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” asked Arthur, who showed no sign of moving even though he was nearly buried in cloth. “Have you been…?”

“Life,” John said, heading for the stairs.

Mary took pity on Arthur, who so clearly wanted to go after him, and retrieved the coats. She took them upstairs and left them, along with her bonnet, before tidying her hair and freshening up. Dinner was on the table when she returned, and the door to the kitchen stairs was closed. John was twisting the cork in a fat bottle. It gave with a pop. He filled two glasses. “A toast,” he said as he handed her one.

She raised it and waited, warmed by the admiration in his gaze.

“To a marvelously talented artist,” he said. “And all her gifts have brought us.”

Mary felt her face heat with gratification. She sipped, then raised her glass again. “To one of the leading lights of the Foreign Office,” she proposed, “and his certain continued success.” She watched John's cheek flush as he drank.

He held out the bottle and refilled the goblets. “To the ‘managing' woman I found when I came home from China. Thank God.” He looked at her with shining blue eyes.

“To the masterful man who returned to me. Thank God.”

They drank.

“If I hadn't been called away, we never would have…”

“Fallen in love?” whispered Mary, her heart hammering in her throat.

“Fallen in love,” her husband repeated, holding her gaze with the promise of forever.

Mary held up her glass one more time. “To perfect strangers,” she said.

John grinned. They drained the goblets. And Mrs. Tanner's dinner was left to congeal on the plates.

Despite all the Foreign Office's resources and efforts, the man in Mary's drawings was not found. Days passed with no word of him. John heard from the agents who were combing Limehouse that they believed some people recognized the portraits, but none would give information. Fear and uncertainty seemed to seal their lips. Watchers saw no sign of him near the Bexley house either.

“You won't go looking for him yourself, will you?” Mary asked him one evening when he had shared this news of failure.

“I might have…” At her anxious gesture, he shook his head. “If I thought I could do better. But I can't. I've contacted Shen and every other source I cultivated. None of them had substantive news. The fellow knows he was seen and has gone into hiding. Very effectively. Perhaps he's even left the country.”

“I hope he has!” Mary refused to be sorry for alerting him. Who knew what he might have done if she hadn't? John could be dead in a slum alleyway or before their front door. She prayed he was gone. The storm of scandal had passed. John was more valued than ever at his office. All had ended well. She needed no more excitement of that kind.

Thus, when John brought home an invitation to an afternoon reception at the Castlereaghs' country house, Mary didn't feel the triumph that the first such gesture had roused. On the one hand, it seemed the crown and justification of all that had occurred, a mark of favor that John fully deserved. On the other, there was the risk of new disasters. Not that she would draw for anyone's entertainment! Lord Castlereagh himself could beg on bended knee, and she wouldn't touch pencil to paper before the ranks of society.

“It is a large party,” John told her. “Not exclusive, and we are not invited to stay.”

“They expect people to drive down and back on the same day?”

“It can be done. It's a matter of twelve miles from Charing Cross. I shall hire a chaise. If we leave very early…”

“And return in the dark?”

“There's a full moon that evening. They planned it so, I believe. And there will be a number of carriages on the road. Quite safe.”

“It is a great effort and expense for a few hours,” Mary grumbled.

“If you don't wish to go…”

“No, no. It is an honor for you. Of course we shall go.” She shook off her lingering reticence. Old habits tended to return, she'd found, even when you no longer wanted or needed them. They were like oak roots twisted deep into internal crevices. “Is William Conolly going? Perhaps we could ride together.” That would make the journey, and the party, easier.

“I suggested it,” John replied. “But I'm not certain he's invited. He was…oddly evasive.”

“That doesn't sound like him.”

“Indeed, it's not. He's been a bit strange lately. But he swears nothing is wrong. I've been rather preoccupied myself.”

Mary was too taken up with thoughts of the coming, not ordeal—she mustn't think of it that way—say rather pleasant duty, to do more than nod.

* * *

On the day, they left at dawn, warmly dressed, with hot bricks at their feet in the chaise and drove southeast into Kent. The driver kept the pace brisk but steady, so that there would be no need to change horses. The team would rest during the party and take them home again later on. More than once, Mary wished that William Conolly and Caroline were with them in the coach. Not that she didn't enjoy the sole company of her husband, but their assurance and familiar presence had been comforting at the last Castlereagh gathering. Until Caroline's unfortunate idea had set her drawing, Mary thought. And she decided the present arrangement would do very well.

They arrived at midmorning to find a line of carriages already pulled up before the facade of Waletts, the Castlereaghs' country retreat. Guests stepped down and were ushered inside to be plied with mulled wine or hot tea. Mary welcomed the latter, cupping her chilled hands around the cup. Strangely, no one offered to take their cloaks and gloves. Mary examined the chattering crowd, hoping to see someone she knew.

Almost immediately, Lady Castlereagh's stately butler revealed the reason that the guests remained bundled up. A tour of her ladyship's menagerie was the first item of entertainment. He divided the herd of guests into smaller groups and sent them out a pair of French doors at intervals.

John and Mary were in the fifth group to exit. Arm-in-arm, they walked down a gravel path with their designated companions. The day was sunny, at least, and not terribly cold. Mary wondered what their hosts would have done if it had featured one of the cold, soaking rains common to November?

As they walked, people struggled to find something to admire in the winter garden. One woman spoke nervously of the tiger. “It is in a cage, Susan,” replied her husband. “It cannot get at you.”

A roar from up ahead made the woman jump.

And then the menagerie came into sight, a cluster of cages, sheds, and fenced enclosures housing her ladyship's collection. The tiger was immediately visible—right up front and clearly a great feature of the place. He was huge and striped and snarling as he paced his cage. He looked like he was longing to eat one—or more—of the people gaping at him, Mary thought. She didn't entirely blame him.

Lady Castlereagh stood in the midst of it all like a very superior sort of tour guide. “This creature is called a ‘kangaroo,'” she was telling the group ahead of them. “It is native to Australia and was sent to me by the colonial governor there.”

The odd-looking animal leaped as if it had springs. Its head seemed very small in proportion to its massive legs.

“I wager the convicts wish they could hop it like that,” murmured a man near Mary.

“And these are African antelopes,” their hostess continued, pitching her voice to reach the newcomers.

“Lady Castlereagh! Ma'am!” came a call behind them.

“Fordyce,” said John. “One can never escape the fellow.”

They turned to see Edmund Fordyce hurrying along the path. Two footmen behind him carried a large wooden crate, and he urged them on impatiently. As he passed John and Mary, completely ignoring them, Mary thought of sticking out a foot and tripping him. But too many people were watching.

Fordyce stopped before Lady Castlereagh and signaled to the footmen. “Put it down, put it down. Just there.” They set the crate at her feet. “You may go,” added Fordyce with a lordly wave. The footmen retreated.

Mary caught movement in the corner of her eye and turned to find William Conolly and Lady Caroline Lanford drifting up the path from the house. Astonishingly, Arthur Windly was with them, lurking behind Caroline's skirts. The look of anticipation on all their faces roused Mary's suspicions. She'd been so busy and preoccupied that she hadn't really paid attention, but… Various odd occurrences suddenly popped into her mind and linked together. Combined, they suggested that Caroline and Conolly had not given up the idea of playing a prank on Fordyce. Quite the contrary.

“I've brought you an addition to your collection,” said Fordyce, voice pitched so that everyone within fifty feet could hear. “One you've been quite keen to acquire, I understand.”

Lady Castlereagh looked interested. People moved closer, anticipating a show, forming a loose circle around the pair.

“As you know, I was a key member of the China mission,” Fordyce went on. He was really as pompous as it was possible to be, Mary thought.

John snorted.

“And in honor of that historic voyage…” He paused for dramatic effect.

“Historically unsuccessful,” muttered John. Mary pressed his arm in solidarity and to suggest that he might want to stay quiet.

“I present you with an exotic golden monkey from the wilds of the Orient.” With a flourish, Fordyce lifted the lid of the crate. The crowd leaned forward.

A small round head popped up. The monkey's fur was gold, Mary saw, not smooth and brown like pictures she'd seen.

A pair of golden arms rose over the top of the crate. But…that was strange. The animal's fur
was
brown—a rather mottled brown—under its arms. There was a darker patch beneath its chin, too. Mary wondered if they were some kind of markings.

And then in a flash, the monkey was up and out, balancing on the rim of its prison, gazing this way and that with preternatural alertness. Fordyce put a proprietary hand on its shoulder. The creature bared its teeth, unexpectedly formidable, and snapped at him, nearly taking off a bit of finger. Fordyce emitted a surprisingly high-pitched sound and jumped backward.

Startled, the monkey gathered itself and leaped—directly at Lady Castlereagh.

She did not scream. Her hands went up as if to catch it.

The monkey twisted in midair, eluded her grasp, caromed off her shoulder, and hopped onto her head. Its hands scrabbled at her fashionable bonnet. Bits of feather and straw sifted down like flakes of sunlight. The monkey sat up and looked around like a statue at the top of a plinth. Mary choked back a laugh.

“No!” cried Fordyce, eyes popping. “Don't! Stop that! The creature is trained. I was assured it was well trained.”

Lady Castlereagh reached up, her head shifting with the movement. Unable to maintain its perch among the false flowers and ribbons, the monkey wobbled, recovered, bounced off Lady Castlereagh's shoulder once again, and jumped to the ground. It started toward Fordyce, chittering as if trying to communicate distress. He backed away, fearfully fluttering his hands. “No. Down, sit, you wretched little…” The monkey ran at him, arms out, eyes wild. Fordyce aimed a kick at it. “Keep away from me!” When it bared its teeth again, he turned tail and raced for the house. He was surprisingly fast.

A nearby gentleman lunged as if to capture the animal. It flinched and scampered off to the left. Brought to bay by the circle of onlookers, it dithered, then darted toward a stately woman in a voluminous black cloak. The lady shrank back—she had been pointed out to Mary as a duchess—and then jumped and screamed as the animal burrowed in beneath her wide skirts.

The crowd froze in horror. Mary heard a gurgle behind her and knew it was Caroline. She didn't dare look at her or at Conolly.

The duchess screamed again and twitched. “Get it away, get it away!” She jumped and cried, “Help!”

Someone must do something, Mary thought. Where had those footmen gone? But they were nowhere in sight. Everyone else just stood about looking horrified. She heard John take a breath, and then he had dropped her arm and stepped forward. He made a bow before the duchess. “If your grace would forgive a…an intrusion?”

The woman screamed and jumped again. She shook her skirts, to no avail. “Yes, yes, just get it away. However you can!”

Like a courtier from the last century, John bowed even lower. “Be silent, please,” he said to the crowd. Then he crouched so as to be closer to the monkey's level. With one deft twitch, he raised an edge of the duchess's skirts, averting his eyes from her flounced underdrawers. As a collective gasp passed through the crowd, he held out a hand to the cowering monkey. The creature shrank back, trembling. John remained still, hand extended. The animal watched him.

Finally, when John simply waited without threatening, the monkey crept forward. Tentatively, with some false starts, it reached out and took John's hand. He let the duchess's skirts fall behind it. The crowd exhaled. The duchess took a step back, and then another, and another. The crowd parted to let her by as she turned and headed full speed for the house.

The monkey whimpered. John encouraged it to come closer. When the crowd started to erupt in a babble of comment, he silenced them with a quick gesture of his free hand.

“Where is Bowman?” said Lady Castlereagh. To Mary's awed admiration, she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

A man who looked like an upper servant was already pushing his way through the press of guests. “Your ladyship. I beg your pardon! No one told me we had a new animal arriv…”

“We did not know,” interrupted their hostess. She spared one glance for the path Fordyce had taken in his flight. “Do you think it should go back in its crate for now? Until we can prepare better quarters?”

“Let's see, your ladyship.” The man hurried over to John and knelt beside him. Carefully, he held out a hand. “Now then young…lass,” he said. “I expect you're sick to death of that crate. Wouldn't you rather come along with me and see what we can find for you to eat? Something right tasty, eh?”

As if it understood, or perhaps recognized the kind authority in Bowman's voice, the monkey released John's hand. With something that looked very much like relief on its little face, it went to the other man and wrapped its arms around his neck. “There we are,” Bowman said in the same soothing tone. His voice was so reassuring, Mary thought; it positively made one want to do whatever he suggested. Bowman touched the golden fur gently, looking puzzled. “And some nice warm bedding, too. I expect you're tired out.”

The monkey hid its face on his shoulder. Holding the animal, Bowman slowly rose. “I'll take her off to get settled, your ladyship.”

“Thank you, Bowman.” As he turned away, she added, “That fur?”

“Don't believe it's a natural color, ma'am. Which is right odd. Never seen anything like it.”

“Yes,” replied Lady Castlereagh, as if he'd confirmed her own conclusions. “We'll have to ask
Mr
. Fordyce about that, should he ever dare to show his face again.” With a nod that promised retribution, she turned away. “If you'll come this way, we will see the aviary,” she said, the serene guide once again.

Now, finally, Mary dared turn and find Caroline and Conolly and Arthur. From the way their eyes danced, she knew that they'd been behind this and that they were beyond pleased with the result. She started toward them.