The Smithfield Bargain (30 page)

Romayne refused to be put off. Following him into their bedchamber, she clenched her hands on the back of her favorite chair as he dropped himself into it. “You enjoyed Brooks's?”

“A diverting little club,” he said without looking at her as he pulled off his boots.

“Stop it!” she cried. Flinging herself around the chair, she sat. “James, I think I deserve an explanation.”

He reclined nonchalantly against the cushions, but potent emotions burned in his eyes. “Why?”

“I am your wife.”

“Again I ask ‘why.' Being my wife gives you no right to subject me to an interrogation simply because I spent the afternoon with the Duke of Westhampton at his club.”

“You demand I tell you where I am going and what I did.”

With a shrug, he laughed. “My dear Romayne,
I
do have the right to ask that of you. You are my wife.”

She rose and faced him, her hands at her hips. “You are being more beastly than usual! If you recall, I have never acknowledged you as the lord and master of my life.”

Standing, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto the settee. When she was about to rise, he pressed her back against the cushions. He leaned over her. She struggled with her rebellious heart's reaction to his touch and her outrage that he dared treat her so.

“I know you wish to belong to another man,” he said.

“I wish to belong to no one. I am not a possession. Not my grandfather's, not yours.”

“For now, according to the law, you belong
to
me.”

She batted at his hands. “You know that there is nothing legal about our marriage. I shall not suffer your pawing. Release me!”

Softly he said, “It appears that I may be releasing you far sooner than I had planned.” He stood and walked toward the dressing room.

“James?” she called as she looked over the back of the settee. She had seen the pang of what appeared to be regret on his face. “What do you mean? Have you found your man?”

“I mean,” he said, his smile daring her to contest him, “to get dressed quickly so that you and my cousin shall not be late in arriving at Mrs. Kingsley's party. We do not want to offend anyone with our country-put ways, do we?”

Standing, she asked, “James, what happened at Brooks's? What did Grandfather say to you?”

“Will you ring for Cameron? I need to talk to him about some matters before we leave.”

“James!” she cried in exasperation.

His cold smile faltered, and hope surged within her. It died when he winked at her. “Don't be curious, dear wife. The only time your name came up in the conversation was when your grandfather spoke of his concerns for your future. He cares deeply for you.”

“And that was all?”

“Did you expect there to be more?” He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Get dressed in your finest, Romayne. We want to do Ellen proud tonight.”

At the mention of his cousin's name, she shook off her concerns as she recalled Ellen's. “James, I need to speak to you about her … about her and Lord Culver.”

His smile froze into a scowl. “There is nothing to say about that.”

“She thinks she has a
tendre
for him.”

“How can she when she has just met the man?” Turning, he walked again to the dressing room. With his hand on the latch, he said quietly, “On this one thing, Romayne, don't argue with me.”

“I didn't intend to, because I believe you are right.”

“Do you?” He sighed. “I wish I could be so sure.”

Romayne blinked back tears as she stepped from the carriage. Despite all her efforts, she could not keep from looking at the box. Jeffries smiled at her, but the old man should not have been in Thatcher's place.

James put his hand on her arm, and she looked up at his strained expression. How could he understand her heart so well and still be willing to shatter it by refusing to see how she loved him? She could feel his pain as if it was her own, but his other thoughts were as closed off as his heart.

Hearing a soft sob, she draped her arm around Ellen's shoulders. Ellen had become friends with Thatcher while they looked after her pup at Westhampton Hall, and she could not conceal her grief.

“Mayhap we should return home,” Romayne said. “It would not do for us to enter Mrs. Kingsley's house with faces as long as a giant's breeches.”

“Mayhap we should,” whimpered Ellen.

James shook his head. “Nonsense! We are here, and it would do you good to be out with other people.”

“You are heartless, Jamie!” Ellen pressed her hands to her face and wept.

Muttering, James took Romayne by the arm. He drew her around the back of the carriage. “Convince her to go in.”

“Why?”

“I need to speak with someone in there tonight.”

“About—”

He put his finger to her lips. “Say nothing when we are not in our private rooms.”

“I will try.”

“You must. Otherwise—”

With a smile, she raised her finger to his lips. “Hush, James, before you spill the truth yourself.”

“You are a vixen, dearie.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly. Yearning coursed through her, but she did not linger. She did not dare to, for her desire for his caresses was too potent for the walkway. Going back to Ellen, she put her arm around the younger woman again. A few whispered words calmed the girl, and Ellen nodded.

“Thatcher was such a nice lad,” Ellen whispered.

“I know, but now he is home at Westhampton Hall.”

Blinking back tears, Ellen rubbed her hand against her face as they climbed the steps to the front door. Romayne looked back to see her husband watching them intently. The warmth of his gaze swept over her, and she wanted to ask the question tearing at her heart.

The person he was to meet in here tonight—would it be the one who would enable him to catch the traitor? And then, once his duty was complete, how long before he left her to mourn for a love he never shared?

Mrs. Kingsley's house glowed with candles and gaiety, but Romayne found it impossible to find a smile. When Lord Culver led Ellen into the ballroom with its garish mural of ancient Greece running along three walls, James kept his arm around Romayne. They walked through the choke-full room. She said nothing, and he seemed as disinclined to talk. When she saw him scanning the room, she wondered when he would find the person he was seeking.

A short man with a huge brown mustache pushed through the assemblage and asked, “James MacKinnon?”

James smiled tautly. “I collect you are Farmer?”

“Captain Chester Farmer, late of the Royal Horse Artillery.” He bowed in Romayne's direction. “I trust Lady Romayne will forgive us if we speak of business.”

“Is there a place where we can speak in private?”

Captain Farmer shook his head. “The only other room on this floor is filled with those who prefer the company of cards to the pretty ladies.” He offered a smile to Romayne that was so genuinely warm she could not help smiling back.

“Then we shall speak here. Romayne, would you serve as a lookout in that direction?” He pointed to her left. “Let us know if someone approaches so near that they can take note of our conversation. Farmer?”

“I have your right shoulder covered, Major.” He flushed and gulped, “Sorry.”

A smile fled across James's face. “No damage done. What information do you have for me?”

“Another Frenchman has been smuggled ashore. Do you wish us to intercept him?”

He shook his head. “No, but keep someone so close to him that they step on his shadow.”

“Yes,
Mr
. MacKinnon.” He hesitated, then said, “Whalen would like to see you in Brighton at your leisure.”

Romayne clenched her fingers around her fan until she heard its spines creak. She was shocked that James and Captain Farmer were so bold as to discuss their espionage even this openly.

“Give me an address where I can find him,” James ordered.

“I can give you more than an address. Why don't you meet me at Boodle's tomorrow? We can ride out to Brighton together.”

James nodded. “Tomorrow, say at noon, at Boodle's.”

When James put his hand on her arm to steer her away from the captain, Romayne did not protest. This was one of the few times she had seen him as
Major
MacKinnon. Even when they had been hiding in the barn in Scotland, he could have been any gentleman who had come to the aid of a frightened lady.

Her husband, this man that she yearned to love, was a soldier who might die on the morrow. She walked beside him blindly, not seeing the gilt sparkling on the walls. Sprayed before her eyes were scenes of James riding into combat with more concern for his honor than his life. A quiver raced through her as she fought her imagination that wanted to show her a vista of him lying dead and crumpled on a bloody battlefield.

“Romayne,” he said calmly, “I think it would be wise if we turned our attention to another matter of some import.”

When she followed his gaze across the room to Lord Culver, she linked her fingers through his. She could not speak the accusation that seared like acid on her tongue. Was he anxious, despite urging Ellen to give her heart slowly, that his cousin be betrothed before he revealed the truth of the feigned marriage? Then he could ride away to his dreams of glory, his tasks in London completed.

“Of course,” she answered listlessly.

“Are you feeling ill?”

Again she was tempted to speak the truth. The idea of him dying in the midst of the horrible war sent nausea roiling through her stomach. Forcing a smile, she said, “Just tired.”

“Are you still unsettled from the carriage accident?” His gaze swept along her.

“I shall be fine.”

“If all goes as I hope in Brighton, this shall be over soon.”

“I know.”

He scowled at her bleak tone, but she added nothing else as they walked toward where the viscount was laughing with Ellen. Lord Culver greeted them enthusiastically.

“Here are the brave victims of misfortune,” he said with a smile. “You look as lovely as ever, Lady Romayne, and you, MacKinnon, have the dashing appearance of a war-ravaged hero.”

“A rôle I have no interest in assuming.”

Romayne said, “Please excuse me.”

“Romayne?”

She did not look at her husband as she said, “I see a friend with whom I must speak.” It was a lie, and she knew he would know that if he saw the distress on her face.

Rushing away before he could ask another question and demolish her fragile composure, she walked so quickly across the ballroom that she did not need to stop for any conversations. She sought a corner at the far side of the room and sat on a bench beside a plant that half-concealed her. She hoped no one would notice her.

As so often before, her hopes were spoiled by another's kindness. Her name was called in a familiar voice. She was able to smile when Philomena Boumphrey stopped in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for the fury that should be aimed at Bradley instead of her. Romayne wanted to apologize, but did not know what to say that would not insult her friend.

Instead of flying into a pelter, Philomena offered her a studied smile. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me to your cousin's come-out tomorrow evening. I would have called this afternoon, but I fear I was at home myself.”

“That—that is very nice of you to say.” Hating herself for stuttering, Romayne was confused. Philomena had every reason to despise her, because Bradley had acted as if Philomena did not exist once Romayne had arrived at the
soirée
at his house.

“Do plan to have an at-home with me again.”

“I would like that, but we should have it at my grandfather's house. I would not want to disturb your father while he is ill. How is he?”

Her face became a mask of tragedy. “Father is failing. His doctor debates whether he has days to live or hours.”

“I am so sorry. I know what it is like to live in fear of losing someone you love.”

Instead of answering, the brunette choked and hurried away. Romayne considered following, for she feared Philomena had misunderstood her words. She had not been talking of her sorrow for Bradley. That had ended when she discovered that he was alive. She had been speaking of the appalling grief of watching James ride off to his probable death with the army.

“You cannot help her.”

Romayne frowned as she looked at Bradley. His cold words offered no compassion. “Don't let me keep you from soothing her then.”

“She does not want my help tonight, my sweet.”

“You shouldn't call me that when—” She glanced guiltily toward where Philomena was now talking to Lord Kimmel. Could it be that she was renewing her relationship with the man she had spurned for Bradley?

“Philomena knows that my affection for you is very different from what I feel for her.”

“Even so, you should have delayed breaking off your relationship with her until—”

Sandwiching her gloved hand between his, he murmured, “Sweet Romayne, you need not hesitate. No one doubts that Lord Harcourt has few days left. Such a good man he is, so he has no concern about his next world.”

“Yet Philomena must be frantic about the thought of being without her father and without you.” Withdrawing her hand, she said, “You should have thought of her feelings.”

He refused to take offense. As he sat beside her and put his arm around her waist, bringing her back farther into the shadows near the wall, he smiled.

“Release me!” she ordered, her eyes widening as she recalled telling James the same thing only hours before.

“Release you?” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Sweet one, MacKinnon could not have changed you so completely. Don't you recall how you once loved this?”

His mouth pushed against hers as he pinned her to the wall. Her hands on his chest could not prevent him from sliding closer. She felt smothered, every touch a separate agony.