St. Raven (39 page)

She expected a sharp response to such impudence, but he only shook his head. “I told her she should have told you the truth years ago.”

She straightened. “The truth? What truth? You tell me. Now.”

He sighed. “You were a delicate child, Cressy. You failed in the heat. You caught infections. You nearly died twice. You had to come home, and your mother chose to come with you. I—I elected to stay awhile, to make my fortune. Year after year, I told myself I would return soon, but then I’d suffer a reversal…”

Thoughts raced through Cressida’s head. Tris had been right about her father, but who could have guessed about her mother?

“Mother was waiting for me to marry before joining you.”

“Perhaps, or I was to come home. It was never written of directly…”

Cressida put a hand to her spinning head. “Dear heaven, have I been a burden all my life?”

He rose. “No, no. Don’t think like that. Our marriage was never a grand love, and the years haven’t been unpleasant for either of us. But now, well, perhaps now we’ve found a fondness beyond us when younger, and we’re ready to go adventuring together. But we’d like you to come with us.”

He leaned forward. “You’re not delicate any longer, and there’s enough of me in you to savor the wonders of it all. You can dress in sarees and ride on elephants. Eat fruit and spices such as you’ve never imagined, see temples studded with diamonds, be rubbed with precious oils…”

Oils. Oh, God!

But, why not? India would be a world away from temptation. She would never have to fear turning a corner one day and bumping into Tris, or weakening and running into his wicked, careless arms.

“And there’s always plenty of men over there eager for an English bride. We’ll have you married off in no time.”

Cressida looked down at the letter, now crushed in her anger and made her decision.

“It does sound exciting, Father. I think I would like to go with you very much.”

Tris was in his study in Mount St. Raven, rereading the business letter that was not a business letter, drinking brandy that wasn’t wise, and ignoring a pile of work that Leatherhulme’s new assistant had delivered, when a footman tapped and entered.

“Your Grace, a Monsieur Bourreau has arrived and requests a moment of your time.”

Gads, if Jean-Marie wanted more money, he could dance on clouds for it. But Tris said, “Bring him up.”

He put down the letter and topped up his glass. He was drinking too much, but what the hell else was there to do when he was merely passing the days until the house party here at which he would propose to Phoebe Swinamer.

Cornelia was cock-a-hoop to be planning a party here in her old home. She’d be here in a week. Then a week later the various guests would arrive, including the Swinamers. Then there would be a grand masquerade. He’d insisted on a masquerade, despite Cornelia’s objections. She thought such events vulgar. So they were, but he was going out in grand style.

And thus, Cressida would be safe.

He had confirmed that the Marquess of Arden had indeed married a governess. Tris had fabricated an excuse to visit their charming small house and confirmed that Beth Arden was an ordinary woman, and even something of a bluestocking reformer. Not a pattern card duchess at all.

Of course, Arden was not duke yet, and probably wouldn’t be for decades, lucky man, but all the same, the heavens had not cracked. Their small baby had been brought into company and left with the parents without an attendant, and Arden—Arden!—had even cradled the infant with apparent confidence and pleasure.

He couldn’t imagine Miss Swinamer encouraging such outrageous behavior.

Tris had left after an hour, aware of wanting unworthy things, but not having the power to grasp them.

Lady Arden had been poor and middle-class, but there had been no taint of scandal there. And even so, the marriage was still talked of, her suitability still questioned. She had the sharp confidence to deal with that. He wasn’t sure Cressida did.

What’s more, Cressida knew what she wanted—a quiet, orderly, obscure life—and there was no way he could give her that.

Jean-Marie came in smiling. “
Cousin
,” he said in French, bowing.

Tris inclined his head. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

Jean-Marie’s brows rose. “To goodwill. I beg you to believe that.”

“I thought you already in France.”

“I had commissions. I am a man of honor, so I must complete them. I also have friends to take farewell of.”

“Miranda,” Tris said.

He had been surprised by that relationship, especially as La Coop appeared to have taken herself out of circulation for a while.

“Ah, no. Miranda, she comes with me.”

Tris allowed his surprise to show. “Did you come all this way to give me this happy news?”

Jean-Marie strolled around the room and paused to inspect a painting. “No, I came all this way to offer you some assistance.” He turned. “I encountered your Miss Mandeville recently.”

Tris contemplated the brandy in his glass. “And?”

“And me, I am observant. Miranda is with me—we are at a linen draper’s considering fabrics, you see—and Miss Mandeville, she recognizes her. She hides it quickly, but she does. When I ask Miranda, she tells me of Crofton’s party, and of your presence, and of your companion, and of your interest in the statues. Things snap together. Tell me, cousin, what was in those statues?”

Tris considered him, then told the truth. “A fortune in gemstones.”

Jean-Marie swore, but then shrugged. “I do not repine. I have enough. There is wisdom in knowing when enough is enough, is there not?”

“There is, indeed. But wisdom often comes with blade and fire.” Tris contemplated the wisdom sword, which was mounted on the wall where he could not help but see it from the desk. “What do you want, Jean-Marie?”

“I want you to hold an orgy at Nun’s Chase.”

Tris demonstrated that he’d improved upon his tutor’s French in some low places. He concluded with, “Anyway, the place is on the market.”

“So I understand. A farewell celebration.” He threw up a hand to block protest. “Attend. What if this would gain you Miss Mandeville, along with—one has to acknowledge the benefit—a portion of her father’s wealth and hope of all the rest one day?”

Tris couldn’t fight off a weakening stir of hope, but he kept his voice cool. “What mischief are you up to now?”

Jean-Marie strolled over and plucked the glass from Tris’s hand. “Do you know that the Mandevilles are going to India?”

“What?”

The sense of loss was sharp as a death. In Matlock Cressida would be still in his world. There was nothing to say the Duke of St. Raven couldn’t visit Matlock, couldn’t use their small acquaintance to call…

“Why would they do that?”

“Mr. Mandeville, he is a wanderer. It appears his wife is willing to go with him, and that their daughter will go, too. I do not think her heart will be in it.”

Tris grabbed him by the cravat. “What the devil do you know about her heart?”

Jean-Marie broke free and put wary distance between them.

Tris exhaled. “She’s curious as a cat and loves to get into trouble. She and India deserve each other.”

“Cousin, cousin! Unless my guesses are completely wrong, Miss Mandeville loves you as much as you love her. Do not deny it! She will go to protect her heart, but also in order to protect yours, to free you to make the marriage you must. Ah, it is a grand romance in the best tradition!”

Tris swore at him again, collapsed into his chair, and sank his head into his hands. One thought pounded there. He couldn’t let Cressida go half a world away.

What did this make of the house party and Phoebe? To hell with them both. He looked up. “What good will holding an orgy at Nun’s Chase do? I have no taste for that sort of thing anymore.”

“Except with one lady, eh? Love is beautiful. And in that cause, Miranda offers her professional skills.”

Tris stared at him. “No, thank you.”

“Her skills,” said Jean-Marie, “in portraying a certain houri…”

Hope, painful in its shock, made Tris dizzy. “Go on.”

“You are ahead of me, no? The reason you cannot offer marriage to Miss Mandeville is that too close connection with you will make men remember the houri. Already there is talk because of Hatfield. But it is brushed aside. Miss Mandeville, she is so ordinary, so boring. Ah, you Englishmen. You have no soul!”

“Some Englishmen.” But Tris was remembering that he hadn’t noticed her before that night. Incredible.

“By the way, cousin, what have you done with the so disagreeable Crofton?”

Tris smiled. “Nothing directly, but I understand he has found it necessary to leave England. A matter of a girl from good family enticed from home. Thank God I had Violet Vane in a vise by then and could save the child.”

“Thank God, indeed. Crofton was trading in such wares?”

“Violet was handling the girls for him but swears they were all willing. Judging from the ones I encountered at her house, that was true. Losing their virginity to Crofton was no treat, but he paid well. But I heard rumors of some who had been unwilling and then Mary Atherton turned up. By that time I had Violet scared out of her wits, so she came straight to me full of shock and horror. The men who’d snatched Mary confessed that they’d been paid by Crofton. I put it together in a nice little package and advised Crofton to leave England.”

“You did not think your courts would convict him?”

“They might, but a viscount is a viscount. It would go before the House of Lords. The peers of the realm don’t like to expose each other to common inspection. Faced with court, the kidnappers and Violet Vane might have tried to tell another story, and of course, whatever happened, poor Mary Atherton would have been ruined at thirteen. So I let him run.”

Jean-Marie leaned against a table. “I understand your reasoning, my friend, but it has stirred other problems. Perhaps enraged, he left behind more open accusations. What had he then to lose? There are men who were at Stokeley who are now convinced that Miss Mandeville was there with you, and that she was also my mistress. It is not possible to kill them all.”

“Damnation. Is it talked of openly?”

“No, but sooner or later it will leak out of the men’s clubs to their wives…”

“Perhaps she’ll be better off in India.”

“India is not far enough.”

When scandal flew, nowhere was far enough. Part of him was appalled, but part of him thought that this made marriage, even a tainted marriage, essential. For weeks he’d fought off his need for Cressida as wife, but now it surged in him like a torrent.

“You mentioned an orgy. At Nun’s Chase. Miranda playing the houri. But it won’t serve. It could still be Cressida.”

“In one week,” said Jean-Marie, “the Mandevilles host a ball to mark the end of their stay in London and the beginning of their journey to Plymouth, where they will take ship. Most of the guests will be of the merchant class, but there will be some of the higher orders. Certainly, it will be a notable event, and recorded in the papers.

“On the same night, you host a party at Nun’s Chase, which you attend with your houri. That will not be reported in the papers, but the whole world will know of it…”

“And there will no longer be the slightest chance that Cressida could have been my companion at Stokeley.” Tris surged to his feet. “My God, why did I not think of such a device myself?”

“Because you are a dull Englishman, rather than a Frenchman of brilliant invention.”

Tris threw a mock blow.

Jean-Marie laughed. “And this Frenchman hopes that perhaps by doing this service he will open a way to friendship between two who could be close as brothers?”

“After extorting twenty thousand pounds from me, you scoundrel?”

Another shrug. “What would you? I swore it to my mother on her deathbed. And it is right. And, I admit, I want it.”

Tris rubbed his hands over his face, trying to decide whether this was brandy-madness or a real chance. Trying to analyze what this would mean to Cressida. Surely it could be managed so she was free of scandal. All other problems shrank away.

“And consider,” said Jean-Marie cheerfully. “Though unwittingly, I gave Miss Mandeville that fortune in jewels. By arranging that you can marry, I pass some of it on to you. And thus, our accounts are balanced.”

“Your gall is incredible!”

“But true. I am a genius.”

Tris took a turn around the room. “I’ll have to invite some men I’d hoped never to consort with again…”

“And draw attention to Miss Mandeville being in London. I can do that.”

“And perhaps add a suggestion that Crofton had a grudge against Miss Mandeville—because he’d offered for her before her father’s disaster and been turned down. He never was a popular man. It’ll be believed. But how will it look when I woo her?”

Jean-Marie considered. “You were smitten at Hatfield. Slain by her courage under fire, entranced by her dignity and virtue. Women always want to believe that men are entranced by dignity and virtue.”

Tris laughed. “In this case, it happens to be true.” But then he considered, and added, “After a fashion.”

He realized then that he’d never believed that Cressida’s true milieu was Matlockian propriety. She’d shown too much wicked interest in the orgy for that. No, she belonged somewhere on the borders, and he could make a place for her there.

Jean-Marie was observing him. “Perhaps your friend Mr. Lyne can spread the story of your lurking admiration. And thus, spurred by her intolerable imminent departure, you come to your senses, fling yourself on your knees before her and win her hand and heart. Ah, I should have been a playwright, me.”

But Tris was wakening to problems. “Lord, Cornelia…”

Jean-Marie looked a question.

“My oldest cousin, Lady Tremaine. I have asked her to hold a house party here, including Miss Phoebe Swinamer, whose hand and fictional heart I was to win.”

“A madness from which you are now recovered. You planned for tragedy, but now you have a happy ending. Cancel it.”

“You don’t know Cornelia. She’ll come here anyway, sure she can bludgeon events to her choosing.”