The Improper Wife (4 page)

Gray picked up the garment and addressed Tess. “She cannot wear this,” he said. He ought to have thrown it away with the rest of the towels and blankets. Some rag picker would be in for a surprise when he came across that bundle in the alley.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Tess, wrinkling her nose at the crumpled, damp garment.

“Wrap her in my greatcoat,” Gray said, tossing the dress aside and walking over to where it hung on a peg.

Tess rocked the infant back and forth in her arms. “A man’s greatcoat will never do. Why did you not ask me to bring some clothes?”

Because if he had asked such a thing, Tess would not have come, Gray thought, but did not speak out loud.

It perturbed him that the young woman should have to wear the ruined dress, but why the devil he should care escaped comprehension. He shrugged his shoulders and handed her the garment, turning his back as she struggled to put it on.

“She needs help, Gray,” Tess said. She thrust the infant into his hands and rushed over to assist.

Gray thought to protest, but the baby stared at him with the same wide eyes as the mother. Gray felt a stab in the vicinity of his heart. “Hello, little fellow,” he whispered. “Remember me?”

The baby opened his mouth and yawned, looking exactly like a tiny little person. Gray grinned in spite of himself.

“For God’s sake, turn away, Gray,” Tess demanded. “I am dressing her.”

Gray obeyed, but gave the infant a conspiratorial wink. “I suppose she thinks I delivered you with my eyes closed.”

The baby stared.

Tess soon snatched the baby back, ridding him of his burden. Gray told himself he was grateful.

“Come, dear.” Tess headed for the door. She stopped abruptly. “My goodness! I do not even know your name!”

Gray glanced at her. What would she tell Tess?

“It is Maggie,” she said. “Maggie . . . Smith.”

“Maggie, then.” Tess tossed Gray a knowing look. “Gray will assist you. Tell him where we must take you, and we will be off. I cannot like you in that dress. We must get you home posthaste.” Tess hurried out the door, wrapping the baby in her shawl as she went.

Maggie stood frozen in place. She raised a hand to her temple and pressed hard. Her head felt light and she dared not move or she might faint dead away onto the carpet where her baby had been born.

The baroness knew this gentleman. She
knew
him! She’d addressed him as Gray several times now and she seemed too genuine, too kind, to aid and abet the man in deception.

He came to her side and offered his arm.

She shrugged it away and whirled on him. “Are you truly Captain John Grayson of the 13th?” She could barely make her voice work.

He looked puzzled. “I thought we had settled that.”

She grabbed the lapel of his coat, swaying as she did so. “Truly?”

He grasped her arm, steadying her. “Yes.”

He urged her toward the door. Maggie did not resist. Her mind raced.

If he was John Grayson, then who was her husband?

Had her husband given a false name? There did not seem any other explanation. There could not be two John Graysons in the 13th regiment, otherwise, surely this man would have known.

“Where shall we deliver you, Miss . . . ah . . . Smith,” he asked.

She tried to pull away from him. “Nowhere.” Her voice broke. “I have nowhere to go.” All hope that she’d not killed her husband had now been dashed.

Dear God, what would happen to her now? To her son?

“You have nowhere to go?” the real Captain Grayson repeated.

His words jolted her back. “I . . . I was unable to pay my charges at the inn. I cannot return there. Not even for my portmanteau.”

She’d fled the inn that morning, running on slippery cobbles while the innkeeper’s wife bellowed curses at her fleeing back. Her flight had most likely brought on her labor.

“Surely you have family.”

She shook her head. “There is no one.” She’d always been an unwanted encumbrance to her uncle, not welcome in his house even when a child. How many holidays and summers had she spent at school when the other girls had gone home? Could she throw herself upon the mercy of the headmistress of her boarding school? Not after the relentless lectures of the shame of fallen women.

“Bloody hell.” The captain’s grip tightened on her arm.

Lady Caufield’s head popped through the doorway. “Gray, really. Do not speak so. It is not fitting. Hurry, please. The coachman waits.”

“She bloody well has no place to go,” he snapped.

Lady Caufield gave the captain a disapproving glare, but turned on Maggie a melting look of sympathy. “Oh, you poor darling! Well, there is nothing else for it. You and the child must come home with me.”

Maggie’s lips trembled at the unexpected kindness.

Captain Grayson propelled her out of the apartments to the street below. His arm felt secure around her. And determined.

They reached the pavement. “Tell me the name of the inn,” he said, his breath warm against her ear as he spoke.

“The inn?”

“Where you stayed.”

She blinked into his face, which looked no less piratelike. “The Wanderer in Chelsea, but—”

He ignored her.

Lady Caufield waved them on to the coach. She thrust the baby into the captain’s hands so the footman could assist her into the coach. The footman wrinkled his nose as he assisted Maggie next. Lady Caufield reached for the infant. The captain hesitated a moment before lifting the baby into her arms.

“Call upon us soon, Gray,” Lady Caufield said.

Maggie looked out the window as the coach pulled away. Captain Grayson stood on the pavement, hands on his hips. He remained there until the coach turned the corner and she could no longer see him.

That evening, Gray sat at the back table of the dark, musty tavern around the corner from his lodgings. The smell of smoke mixed with the sour stench of unwashed bodies, hops, and roasting meat, but the brandy was tolerable and the oyster stew quite tasty. Besides, the rumble of voices and laughter softened into a hum that shut out his thoughts. Gray poured another glass, downed the liquid, and stared into the haze.

A gentleman entered, his immaculate evening dress a contrast to the soot-stained, brown-coated men who were there to drink their gin and ale. The gentleman looked about the room and hesitantly wound his way through the crowd, skipping aside to avoid collision with the unwashed bodies.

He spied Gray and hurried to his table, a grin spreading over his face.

“Thank God, Gray. I’ve been searching for you in every establishment on the street.”

“Harry.”

Gray’s cousin, a kind-eyed, fair-haired man in his early thirties, eyed the chair across from Gray with dismay. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and spread it on the seat before sitting down.

“Do you want a drink?” Gray signaled to the serving girl.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Is it safe?”

Gray gave a dry laugh. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”

The serving girl leaned over and favored him with a glimpse of her ample bosom, giving him the bizarre thought that the last breast he’d seen had had a baby attached to it. He suspected that was not the image she’d intended to invoke.

The girl brought a bottle and a second glass. Gray nodded his thanks to her. He poured for his cousin.

Harry held the glass up to what scanty light was available and cautiously peered at its contents.

“So what brings you here?” Gray asked.

“Well you know, Gray”—Harry took a wary sip, raised his brows in surprised approval, and followed it with another bolder one—“I have in my care a young lady and an infant, and I came to inquire what you intend to do about them.”

Gray gazed lazily at his cousin, the twitch in the corner of his mouth betraying an amused irony. “Do about them? I thought myself rather clever to fob them off on your good-hearted wife.”

“Just so,” Harry muttered.

“They are not my responsibility.”

“You cannot mean that.” Harry placed his glass on the table. “Surely you have not sunk so low.”

He shrugged and took a long swig of his drink.

Harry’s eyes kindled. “What are you about, Gray? Are you still ill? Has your injury troubled you? I wish you would have accepted my invitation to stay with us at Curzon Street. You’ve been a recluse. No one sees you in town. Are you certain you are well?”

“I have never been better,” Gray lied. “The wound is a mere nothing. I am in no need of a nursemaid.”

“Are you not?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “You look the very devil.”

He took a gulp of his brandy. He had no wish to spar with his genial cousin.

Harry went on, “And now this Miss Smith, as she calls herself. I declare, Gray, it astonishes me that you would dishonor a female, let alone abandon her to her fate. I cannot believe it.”

A vision of Rosa flashed through Gray’s mind, that vision he could never escape. What would Harry think of him if he knew about Rosa?

But he’d be damned if he’d be leg-shackled to another such female. “Miss Smith is not my responsibility. Her presence in my rooms was a lamentable accident.”

Harry shot him a very skeptical look.

Gray sighed. There was no point in arguing. “I will call in two or three days.” It appeared God would not be so kind as to rid him of this annoyance quite yet.

His cousin smiled. “Very good.” Harry raised his glass and regarded him with a friendly gaze. “Gray, perhaps you might clean yourself up a little before calling? Where is your valet?”

Gray laughed. “I have little need of a valet. I grew used to taking care of myself while in the Peninsula.”

Harry raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “Yes, I can see you care for yourself very well. All the same, I could send my valet to assist you, if you like.”

“Spare me that. I will contrive to look presentable, do not fear.”

“Excellent.” Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out his timepiece. “And I must leave presently. I have promised to escort Tess to the Harrington rout, though I believe she’d rather stay home and play nurse.”

Harry stood up and retrieved his handkerchief, folding it with precision and returning it to his pocket. “We will expect you soon.” He offered Gray his hand and Gray accepted without further comment. Harry then took a deep breath and resolutely picked his way back through the untidy throng.

Gray sat twirling his glass with his fingers.

His cousin would like to play Gray’s conscience, it seemed. If Harry only knew he needed no auxiliary in that department. His own conscience was quite skillful at tormenting him.

Let Harry take responsibility this time. Gray refused to consider this woman any charge of his merely because she’d found her way to his door with a story of being his wife. He needed no wife and certainly did not need family to dictate his duty. He’d joined the army and traveled to the Peninsula to avoid family demands, and well Harry knew it.

He took another long sip of his brandy.

He’d certainly made a mull of things all the same.

After the heady victory at Vitoria, he’d been primed for celebration. His friend Lansing assured him he’d found two fresh Spanish girls eager to entertain the two English officers. They’d all spent a rollicking night together, the Madeira flowing in abundance.

Gray had been too full of drink to precisely recall bedding Rosa, but Lansing assured him he’d had a splendid night. When Gray returned from his leave in Gloucestershire three months later, Rosa identified him as the man who sired the baby she carried in her womb. Her father insisted Gray do the honorable thing by her.

So he had married her. What else could he have done? He’d strictly forbidden her to accompany him on the campaign, but she followed him to Orthes. Perhaps she feared he would desert her, as Lansing deserted her cousin by returning to England.

Gray would be damned if he’d allow himself to be embroiled in another female’s troubles, especially when those troubles were not of his making. He delivered her baby and paid her charges at the inn. Her belongings were bound for Curzon Street. It was enough.

Gray drained his glass and placed the cork back in the bottle. He threw some coins on the table and stuck the bottle into his pocket.

No bloody way he would call on his cousin. Let good-hearted Harry solve the woman’s problems. Gray washed his hands of her.

Chapter
THREE

T
hree days later Gray stepped up to the door of the comfortably elegant townhouse on Curzon Street. He wore his new regimentals, the blue coat more presentable than the worn uniform that earned the 13th the nickname Ragged Brigade.

He’d found a man to cut his hair and he’d shaved his cheeks smooth, using the same razor that cut the baby’s cord, but Gray disliked thinking of that.

Why the devil was he standing upon this doorstep at all? The sky was almost blue this fine May afternoon. He could be walking through Hyde Park, pretending to be in the country.

More likely he’d be searching for some dark room in which to gamble or drink. Perhaps it was just as well he was doing precisely what his cousin wished. Gray sighed. He disliked following family dictates on a manner of principle. God knew he’d defied plenty of them.

No, his reasons for making this call were selfish, no other way about it. The past two nights had brought nightmares, more horrific than he’d experienced before. The repeat of Rosa’s death was no surprise, but this time Maggie Smith and her child took Rosa’s place, over and over, a kaleidoscope of destruction. Brandy no longer guaranteed oblivion. The images returned whenever he closed his eyes.

Gray drew the line at witnessing babies blown to smithereens, even in a dream, so he entered into a bargain with God. If God would stop the nightmares, Gray would atone for his sins.

God invited him to go first.

Gray sounded the gleaming brass knocker. The door was promptly answered by a footman who bowed as he entered. The butler appeared in the foyer.

“Is the baron in?” Gray asked, handing the footman his shako and gloves.

“Lord Caufield is not at home, sir,” the butler answered, eyeing him with one brow slightly raised.