The Madcap Marriage (29 page)

His head ached. She knew more about every enterprise than he did.

He’d sworn that he preferred competent, intelligent women to the conformable widgeons he usually encountered in society. Debating ideas with his mistresses had always increased his enjoyment of the subsequent bed games.

But he’d never lost one of those debates, he admitted grimly. His love of books meant he knew more and understood more than any of his friends. Even his mother had rarely bested him in a battle of wits. He was beginning to fear that Helen might.

A sobering thought. Why was obtaining the wife he’d claimed to want so chilling?

Her voice echoed:  You’d declare grass was blue if he proclaimed it green.

Hillcrest insisted that ladies must obey orders and never contradict their husbands. But if Rafe sought independent, intelligent women because Hillcrest abhorred such creatures, could he claim to be independent?  Had he – horrible thought – made sure that none of his carefully selected mistresses possessed enough wit to debate him as an equal?  Such chicanery would gratify his need to flout Hillcrest while maintaining his own superiority.

The idea was so troubling, he thrust it aside. They had more pressing problems. Steven had poisoned everyone against Helen. Despite her vow to return the rents to normal and refund last year’s increase, the tenants remained suspicious. Few believed she had the authority to institute change. And everyone looked at him askance. Standing aside while Helen conducted business made him appear weak, eroding his credit in the eyes of Audley’s tenants. If the neighbors reacted the same way, he would become a laughingstock.

But even that was not his most pressing problem.

They had stopped in the nearest village to speak with the butcher, who was recovering from a run-in with Dudley. As they’d emerged from his shop, a mob had surged forward, led by the blacksmith. Helen was clearly the target, and not because she owned Audley.

The charges still rang in his ears – whore … corrupter of children … thief … poisoner…

Rafe had gotten her safely away – despite years of Luddite rabblerousing, most of the villagers still hesitated to physically cross class boundaries, so he’d had to subdue only Smith. But he needed answers.

Chills wracked him as he examined the last week in light of these charges – her seductive caresses outside Christchurch, her uninhibited response to his touch, the speed with which she’d mastered the arts of lovemaking, the secrets he could see lurking behind her eyes. Was she experienced?  So passionate a woman might well have yielded to temptation, and she’d been betrothed to Portland.

Suspicion nearly choked him. He didn’t want to believe the tales, but he could not afford to ignore them. And not just on a personal level. If even one was true, he would never find the backing to stand for Commons. Who could trust a man who had jumped into marriage with a wanton?  Or worse, a killer?

“What the devil was that all about?” he demanded, seating Helen on a bench, then standing over her so she had no escape.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Smith has been a problem since Father bought Audley,” she said, shaking her head. “Friendship with the previous owner gave him airs above his station, but the sale canceled his entrée into the gentry. Though Papa admired his artistry as a blacksmith, he didn’t invite him to dinner. Smith has been sullen ever since.”

“So twelve years later he risks transportation by attacking you?  It won’t wash, Helen. What did you do to draw such ire?”

“Nothing!”  She surged to her feet, glaring into his eyes. “I’ve never even heard half of those charges. They are ridiculous!”

“What about the other half?”  His heart sank, though he kept his voice steady.

“Baseless innuendo.”

“It must have had a cause, Helen. Even my reputation had a starting point.”

“But not everyone is to blame for their reputations, Rafe. I told you Alex was here on business – not that we knew of his ties to the Home Office. We thought him just another guest at Sir Montrose’s house party.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “Pretending to court me gave him an excuse to remain after the house party ended, but it also convinced everyone that he was serious about offering. So when he left without a word, everyone believed it was my fault.”

“I see.”

“I might have countered the gossip if I’d been paying attention, but the next day we learned that Papa was dying. With Alex gone, he had to train me to run Audley, which meant I didn’t get out socially for weeks.”

Rafe flinched. It would have seemed as if she were hiding in shame.

“By the time I realized what people were saying, my unladylike interest in the estate had added new stains to my reputation, turning me into a pariah.”

“For a time,” he agreed, grabbing her arm when she started to turn away. “But people should have discovered the truth by now. Even the most sensational rumors eventually die if there is no evidence to support them. And this sort of thing rarely interests villagers anyway.”

She flinched as if he’d struck her, then shoved his hand aside. “That might be true if I were male, but females never get second chances – not that you seem to care. You are as contrary as your mother and as gullible as your father. I can’t believe you would accept the demented ranting of a mad blacksmith over your own wife. Alex would never be so stupid. He knows I’m honorable.”

“Helen, I—”

“Enough. Go soak your head in the horse trough. I have work to do.” She stormed off, leaving him frozen, mouth agape, heart in his toes. He’d just witnessed an exhibition of the adage,
the best defense is a good offense
. Rather than answer another question, she’d gone on the attack. Were there worse secrets she was hiding?

But it was choosing Portland as her weapon that hurt the most. His feet felt like lead blocks as he made his way to his room.

“I need information,” he told Jameson when the valet answered his summons. “The villagers are vilifying my wife. I must have facts if I am to protect her.”

“I can’t—”

“You must.” He could see that Jameson believed the stories. But without knowing the details, he could never find an innocuous explanation to offer the gossips. Whatever the truth, he had to protect her. His political future wasn’t the only thing at stake. Scandal of this magnitude would tarnish any children they produced.

Jameson sighed. “Very well, sir. But it will not be easy. No one trusts me because I belong to you. Nalley is threatening to turn off anyone who serves you.”

“I’ll have him up on charges if he tries. But his antagonism will encourage others to vilify Helen, so you should learn the worst quite easily.”

Jameson nodded.

But Rafe’s heart sank. They might yet have to turn off the entire staff. The current situation could not continue.

* * * *

“Mr. Portland started the trouble, as you might expect,” Jameson reported two hours later as he brushed lint from Rafe’s evening coat. “He ran tame here four years ago. According to Frank – the head footman – he was closeted with Sir Arthur for two hours that last afternoon, discussing marriage settlements. That evening he and Miss Helen disappeared together. She returned an hour later – alone. Mr. Portland has not been seen since.”

That matched her story, though she continued to claim there had been no betrothal.

Jameson continued. “Most regard him too highly to believe he seduced her, so the consensus is that she confessed earlier indiscretions, forcing him to withdraw his offer. Her fury when he defected – she vowed to rip his heart out – was so unladylike that it reinforced the image of a vulgar harlot.”

So whatever Portland’s true intentions, Helen’s heart had been thoroughly engaged. Humiliation might drive her to disclaim a betrothal, or Portland might exaggerate their understanding to annoy a longstanding enemy, as he’d done with his duel claim. It would provide a new tale to set London on its ear – Rafe had again shamelessly poached from Portland.

But Portland’s intentions didn’t matter. Rafe needed to know whether Helen’s heart remained engaged and how badly she’d been compromised. At least everyone agreed they’d parted years ago, so he needn’t fear she was carrying Portland’s brat.

“Miss Helen was immediately cut from local society,” continued Jameson. “She might have recovered if she’d remained in the drawing room, but plunging into estate management confirmed that she was no lady. The lower classes didn’t care, though – except the blacksmith, who hates her family. She turned her back on the neighbors and concentrated on Audley.”

Rafe nodded.

“It was Sir Steven who maligned her to the estate dependents, reviving and exaggerating the earlier tales. Mr. Dudley added to the scandal when he accused Miss Helen of poisoning Sir Arthur to cover the theft of items she’d given to various paramours. Presumably, Lady St. James discovered her crimes, which triggered her apoplectic fit. And when a village girl disappeared last month, he hinted that Helen had arranged for her abduction and sale to a London brothel to repay the girl for competing for a lover’s affections.”

“Absurd!”

“As you say, sir. But proving it will be difficult. Sir Steven and Mr. Dudley never visited Somerset during Sir Arthur’s life, so few know their characters. And Smith has been very active in keeping anger on the boil.”

“The tenants will accept the truth when we expose Steven and Dudley as liars and thieves.”

He hoped. But he knew too well how difficult it was to correct false impressions.
Where there is smoke, there must be fire
was the motto of the gossips. He had to expose Steven soon or Helen would be ostracized by society. How was he to cope with a wife who loved another and whose reputation made his own pale?  He had no evidence that the original tales were false.

Or had he?

Frowning, he headed downstairs for dinner.

Helen’s impassioned defense of Alice and her insistence that he salvage Alice’s reputation hinted that she knew the pain of unjust accusations.
Everyone will believe she is ruined … speculate … how many men did she entertain, when, where, who, even why … whisk their children away lest she corrupt them … every libertine for miles will seek his share.
Unlike the locals, Rafe knew Portland was capable of casually harming others, so Helen might well be innocent. Now all he had to do was prove it.

* * * *

Audley’s drawing room was as elegant as the entrance hall. Intricate paneling in subtle shades of green framed paintings and niches containing urns or busts. The patterns of the ornate plaster ceiling were repeated in the carpet. Green velvet draperies fringed with gold framed windows overlooking the park. Green-veined marble accented the twin fireplaces and topped half a dozen pier tables. Satinwood chairs sported green and gold upholstery.

Rafe paced to the window and back, letting his feet sink into the lush carpet, then exchanged glances with the cherubs dangling from the cornice – Sir Arthur had retained Adam’s style when he’d refurbished. Ten minutes passed before the sound of approaching footsteps pulled his eyes to the door.

Helen looked lovely in a lavender gown trimmed with black – Tessa must have been busy, for he was sure that gown had been trimmed out in pink only two days ago. He stepped forward to take her hand, but the sounds of arguing stopped his greeting.

She rushed away. He followed.

“Of course, Mr. Portland is welcome,” Helen was saying as Rafe reached the entrance hall. “He is a family friend. Put him in the red room, and set another place for dinner.”

Nalley glared, but closed his mouth when he spotted Rafe.

She smiled at Portland. “I’m delighted to see you, Alex, though I won’t say you look good. You don’t.” His injuries had bloomed into spectacular bruises. “Come in by the fire. You needn’t change for dinner. It’s just us.”

“Thank you, Helen.” He kissed her hand. “In truth, I can’t change. I’ve outdistanced my luggage by half a day.”

“You rode?”  Helen gaped. “You must be ready to collapse. I can’t believe you even tried such a stunt. I know very well your ribs are worse than Rafe’s. Sit down, for heaven’s sake.” She tugged him toward the drawing room.

“Please.” Rafe set aside pique. If the man had ridden
ventre à terre
to Audley, the news must be grim. But it would be better to hear it away from Nalley’s prying ears.

“Thank you.” Portland ushered Helen into the drawing room.

Rafe shut the door firmly behind them. “Be careful what you say,” he warned. “The butler, housekeeper, and an unknown number of others seem loyal to Sir Steven.”

“That does not surprise me.”

They pulled chairs close to the nearest fire. Helen poured brandy for Portland and adjusted the fire screen so he was comfortable.

“You can’t have been in town long,” said Rafe, suppressing irritation at Helen’s fussing.

“Long enough to see the investigation off and running.” Portland stretched his legs. “The initial reports are troubling. The broker who hired Barney and Arnold is dead. His body was plucked from the Thames three days ago. It had been there awhile.”

“He died before the attack?” asked Helen.

“Yes. And the directions given to Barney for collecting their remaining fee were false.”

Rafe nodded. “Steven is severing all ties to the incident.”

“Brutally dishonorable. But this means someone must have been watching Barney and Arnold – how else could Sir Steven know if they succeeded?  That man may have carried the news to Sir Steven – or he may have followed you here,” Portland finished.

“I doubt it,” said Rafe. “I would have noticed.”

Portland looked skeptical, but let it pass. “The broker’s death means we can’t officially connect Sir Steven to the attack. But we uncovered several investment frauds that involve him.”

“Fraud sounds exactly like him,” said Helen. “Father always claimed he would do anything for money.”

“Why did no one notice fraud earlier?” asked Rafe.

“They did, but the perpetrators appeared to be other men – Mr. Rawlings, Mr. Bixly, Mr. Underwood, and so on. Only recently did anyone speculate that Sir Steven might be behind all the schemes,” said Portland.