The Wagered Wife (5 page)

“Yes, I believe it is. Special license. Properly ordained clergy. Witnesses. I
am
of age. Of course it is.”

“I just do not understand how this could have happened,” his mother said with a dramatic sigh.

“I—it was a debt of honor.” Trevor was embarrassed by the inadequacy of this explanation.

“Honor!” his father raged. “There was a great deal of
dis-
honor in this affair. You, son, were the veriest gull—duped by that conniving Fiske and his pal Latham. And aided by the very questionable Fitzwilliam.”

“You walked right into it,” Gerald sneered.

“And now we Jeffries are the subject of such talk. And—and—even
cartoons
in the newspaper!” His mother put a handkerchief to her eyes.

“Is this true, Marcus?” Trevor turned to the one from whom he felt at least some empathy.

“I am afraid so, Trev.”

“Show him,” Gerald said without an ounce of compassion.

Marcus lifted a clipping from a table and handed it to Trevor. The cartoon was a vicious piece of work depicting a card table with caricatures of three players—unmistakably Fiske, Fitzwilliam, and himself. The figure meant to be Trevor was clearly intoxicated. Behind the figure of Fiske was a buxom lass spilling over the top of her dress. She leered at the drunk young man. But what was really shocking was that the artist had depicted the woman as obviously pregnant. A balloon caption had her saying, “But, Uncle, I must have a husband—any husband.” The uncle responded, “Coming right up, my child.” The only comment of the young drunk with Trevor's features was “Hic!” The cartoon was labeled “The Wager.”

Staring at this hideous distortion, Trevor felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and glanced around to see harsh, accusing glares from three members of his family. “I . . . I . . . it was not . . .”

Marcus squeezed Trevor's shoulder. “Cartoonists sell only if they exaggerate, but—”

“But,” Gerald cut in curtly, “this is essentially true, is it not?”

“Yes . . .” Trevor's voice was small. Then he jerked upright. “No. No, it is not. It is a malicious libel of Caitlyn.”

“How so?” Gerald sneered.

“Caitlyn is—she—uh—she was—a virgin.” He felt himself actually blushing. “I apologize for such plain speaking, my lady.”

“And how do you know this?” his father demanded.

“Perhaps I should leave the rest of this discussion to you gentlemen.” As the countess rose, those seated rose as well to bow her out. “I am most disappointed in you, Trevor,” was her parting comment.

“How do you know?” his father repeated when she was gone and they sat again.

Trevor felt his blush deepening. “Surely everyone in this room knows the answer to that question.”

Gerald gave another derisive snort. “What everyone in this room knows—with the possible exception of you, Trevor—is that women have been faking virginity since time began.”

Trevor glared at him. As they were growing up, Trevor had always hated the way Gerald delighted in declaring some treasured belief of the younger children to be false or silly.

“All it takes,” Gerald went on, “is a little pig's blood or chicken blood in a vial—easily secreted in the bedclothes. That, and a bit of clever acting.”

Their father shook his head. “I cannot believe a son of mine could be quite so damned naive.”

“But Caitlyn is not like that. She is sweet . . .” Trevor not only felt it a duty to defend her, he truly believed her to be sweet and chaste.

“Is it true that you never actually met the girl before the wedding?” his father asked in a calmer tone.

“Well, yes, but—”

“So you have even now known her for how long? Ten days? A fortnight?”

“About that.”

“So you do not
really
know her at all well, do you?”

“No.”

Could
it be true?
Could
Caitlyn have manufactured that scene at the inn? He did not want to believe it of her. But what did he truly know? And had he not been in an alcoholic haze for two days by then? How observant could he have been?

“Perhaps you do not know much about your bride at all.” Gerald picked up another paper from the table. “Her father was a country vicar in the Lake District. Lost his post and became a curate up north—near Durham—Monksford, actually. Our Uncle Hermiston's chief property was there.” Aunt Gertrude, Trevor thought, as Gerald pressed on. “When her father died, the girl went to live with the Fiskes, where she ran wild over the countryside. She set her sights on Viscount Latham's son, but Latham put a damper on that. Apparently not soon enough—as you can see from that cartoon.”

“Where do you come by this information?” Trevor asked, truly angry now. Most of his anger centered on Gerald as the bearer of such tidings, but in truth, he did not know precisely where his fury should be directed.

“I merely asked around,” Gerald said with an airy wave of his well-manicured hand. “It is common knowledge.”

“Common. Yes,” Trevor said. But he recognized the basic facts of Caitlyn's background. Had she taken the Latham heir as a lover? Had he been the “puppy” outside the church that day?

“There is more,” Gerald said. “Marcus, you tell him about his good friend Fitzwilliam.”

Marcus shifted uneasily. “I am sorry, Trevor. Fitzwilliam has been suspected for some time of having lucky streaks at the table that were a bit too convenient.”

“Suspicions are not proof.” Trevor felt compelled to defend one he had considered a friend.

“He and a confederate were caught the other night. There was no doubt. No equivocation. He fled the country.”

“I cannot believe . . .”

“It is true, though,” Marcus said softly. “The pattern of their cheating was consistent with what witnesses reported of your game with Fiske.”

“Oh, God.” Despair washing over him, Trevor buried his face in his hands.

“After that racing fiasco, I assumed you had learned your lesson.” The Earl of Wyndham sounded thoroughly disgusted with his youngest son. Trevor maintained a stoic expression, not wanting his father to know he had struck home. “Obviously, I was mistaken, for this latest escapade truly is beyond enough.”

“Something must be done to quell the gossip,” Gerald said.

“I have left town. What more can you want of me?”

“Frankly, I would have you out of the country,” Gerald replied.

“Father? Marcus? Do you feel as he does?”

“Trevor, I am that far”—the earl held his thumb and forefinger in an extremely small measure—“from disowning you entirely.”

Marcus shook his head. “I just do not know, Trev. Perhaps it would help if you were out of the country while we try to sort this out.”

“But . . . that smacks of running away. Whatever else I may be, I am no coward.”

“No one accused you of being a coward,” Gerald said dismissively, “just a fool. Getting you away will allow more level heads to handle the situation.”

“Handle—how?”

“You need not be concerned with the details.” Gerald sounded as he might in speaking to a small child.

“I damned well do need to be concerned.” Trevor felt long-suppressed anger rise at Gerald's supercilious attitude.

“All right. Hold on,” his father said with a calming gesture. “How would you feel about traveling on the Continent? Italy and Greece are safe enough, despite Bonaparte's ambitions.”

“I don't know . . .” Trevor tried to sort out his jumbled thoughts. He was being hit with too much at once.

“Perhaps Russia? Or the colonies?” Marcus suggested.

“I do not know. I need time to think.” He was overwhelmed by their suggestions—and even more by their united wish to be rid of him. Never in his life had he suffered such total rejection. “What . . . what is to happen to Caitlyn?”

His father snorted with disdain. “No doubt that bit of baggage will be glad to accept a munificent offer to free you.”

“A bribe? I do not think Caitlyn would readily accept a bribe.” Trevor recalled a certain degree of pride in his young bride.

“Oh, come now. That was undoubtedly the plan all along. Why else would she be party to such a sordid affair?” Gerald asked.

“What do you mean by ‘free' me?”

“Marcus? You are the law expert in the family,” Gerald said.

Trevor knew that Marcus had studied law at the Inns of Court after leaving university.

“Well . . .” Marcus began hesitantly, “an annulment is probably out of the question. Trevor has admitted the marriage was consummated.”

Trevor felt himself blushing again.

“So what about a divorce?” Gerald demanded.

Marcus shook his head thoughtfully. “That could be very complicated—especially if she should object.”

“I doubt she has funds of her own, and God knows Fiske would never part with the blunt to fight us in a court battle,” Gerald observed.

“True. But it could get very messy anyway. Of course, it is easy enough to buy necessary witnesses to prove ‘criminal conversation.' ” His tone suggested Marcus found this idea distasteful.

“Crim . . . con . . . ? You want to accuse Caitlyn of adultery?” Trevor found this idea appalling.

“What does it matter if you were cuckolded before or after the vows?” His father's blunt question set Trevor aback.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Hmm. There are other considerations . . .”

“What?” The earl obviously wanted a solution, not “considerations.”

“All court proceedings would be published—and probably reprinted in penny pamphlets. The scandal would explode instead of dying down.”

“And what else?” Gerald persisted.

“And, assuming she is with child, the babe would be born within Trevor's marriage. The child would, as far as the law is concerned, be
his
legitimate offspring. Fiske wins that one.”

“It would not be the first time in our family history that a Jeffries man has had to deal with a bastard in his nursery,” the earl declared in what Trevor thought to be an especially bitter tone.

“My lord?” Trevor's gaze engaged both his father and Gerald. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, but I would ask that you temper your language. Both of you. Caitlyn is, after all, my wife—”

Gerald gave a derisive “Hmmph” but was otherwise silent.

“Quite right,” his father said, looking a bit chagrined. “However, we are trying to solve a
family
crisis here. And, I might add, it is a crisis of
your
making.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So—Marcus—have you a recommendation?” the earl asked.

“If Trevor agrees”—Marcus looked at his younger brother—“he could absent himself. A legally valid marriage may be easily—and I might add quietly—dissolved if it is not consummated for two years or more.”

“Two years?” Trevor groaned.

“If you are out of the country, who could possibly say you had been in her bed?” Gerald was apparently striving for a reasonable tone.

“I . . . I . . . will need to think about this,” Trevor murmured.

“Well, as you do so,” his father said sternly, “think also on this: If you choose to remain in England, your allowance stops as of now. If you go, you may continue to enjoy the benefits of your current allowance abroad.”

“What about . . . about my wife?”

“What about her? She may fend for herself. You may leave her at Atherton if you so choose. That property is yours, after all. I would guess a clever lass like that will move on soon enough.” The earl reached for his brandy glass.

“As soon as she is aware that there will be no access to the Wyndham fortune, you may be sure she will be gone.” Gerald sounded ridiculously smug.

Trevor rose, feeling thoroughly beaten. “I shall give you my answer tomorrow.”

On leaving Wyndham House, Trevor initially wandered the streets, caught up in thought. He wanted to reject the notion that Caitlyn had been a party to what amounted to a conspiracy against him, but his father was right. He did not know her—had never met her until that meeting on the church steps.

Yes, it was possible that ridiculous scene on their wedding night had been contrived by a clever actress. Would a clever actress not have handled things with a deal more sophistication, though? Or was that part of the cleverness?

Most of Gerald's information corresponded with what Caitlyn herself had told him. Logical reasoning would indicate that the rest was true, too. Damn her! Innate honesty, however, forced him to admit to his own role in the affair. Her uncle's success had been ensured by Trevor's gullibility.

Finally arriving on Theo's doorstep, he surprised even himself by refusing his friend's offer to share a bottle of brandy. Instead he accepted a glass of sherry, which he sipped absentmindedly as he related the newest developments to Captain Ruskin.

“So what will you do?” Theo asked.

“Go to the colonies, I suppose. My father has a cousin in Philadelphia. Should be able to occupy myself for a couple of years.” But his lack of enthusiasm was clear even to his own ears.

“What about your property here?”

“Two more years of neglect will not make that much difference. There is a steward. He has little imagination, but he is adequate.”

“What about your . . . uh . . . your wife?”

“I honestly do not know what to do, Theo. I feel
some
responsibility for her. I doubt her family will do anything to help her. You saw how eager Fiske was to be rid of her.”

“Yes, I did.”

“After today, I have some idea of what that was like for her,” Trevor added, the bitter memory of his father's disgust and Gerald's contempt fresh in his mind. “Told you what my father said.”

“Yes. That was cold of him, was it not?”

“True. But if she has saddled me with another man's brat . . .”

“You know that for sure?”

“No. But all indications are—”

“Trevor, you cannot just desert her. She bears your name, after all.”

“I know. I have no intention of just walking away from my responsibilities. Not my style, you know.”

“I do know.”

“I guess . . .” Trevor said slowly, working it out even as he spoke, “I could see that she has a portion of my allowance until such time as she can decide for herself what she will do. She can stay at Atherton as long as she needs to.”

“You cannot leave a young girl out there in the country alone.” Theo was aghast.

“Well, I cannot afford to hire a companion for her.”

“Perhaps she has some cousin—or a maiden aunt—or
someone
.”

“If she does, she has not mentioned such. But, wait—Aunt Gertrude knows the area in which Caitlyn's father had his last post. I shall check with her tomorrow.” He felt better for having even this much of a plan.

“Philadelphia, hmm?”

“I think so.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“Well, for God's sake, Theo, what is there for me in the colonies? I want to do something worthwhile. I know that has a hollow sound to it, given my recent past. . . .”

“Something—like what?”

“I do not know. . . . I actually thought with some help I might make a going concern of Atherton—but that's out for the present.”

“There are a couple of lieutenants' commissions available in my regiment,” Theo said.

“Go for a soldier? Do you think I could?”

“Don't see why not. Just a matter of purchasing the commission.”

“So long as it is not a cavalry regiment. No horses, please.”

“You know very well my regiment is the 96th Foot.”

“Yes-s-s. That might answer. Wyndham would probably agree to part with the ready to buy colors for me.”

“You will need to decide soon. We leave for the Peninsula to join Wellington in a matter of days.”

“But I have no training,” Trevor said, coming to his senses.

“Never mind. 'Tis not unknown for an officer to buy into a position with no military training. You do know how to ride and shoot, and you are in good physical condition. I shall help you as much as I can.”

“Hmm. I must say, this idea has far more appeal than going off to Phila-damn-delphia!”

 

 

In a matter of days, it was all arranged and Trevor was on board a troopship sailing from Plymouth harbor. Prior to that, however, had come calls on Lady Gertrude and Lord Wyndham. And he had written a rather stiff letter to Caitlyn.

Aunt Gertrude had welcomed him with sadness in her eyes. She directed him to a settee and took a seat beside him.

“You should have told me, dear,” she said. “I might have been able to help.”

“I doubt anyone could have done much. But perhaps you can help me resolve part of the problem now.”

“I shall try.”

“Did you know of a curate named Woodbridge when you lived in Monksford? Came originally from the Lake District.”

“I knew him quite well,” she said with surprise. “His daughter Caitlyn was a student in my dame school.”

“Caitlyn is my wife.”

“Caitlyn?
Caitlyn
is the girl in that dreadful cartoon? It cannot be.” Shock and disbelief registered in her tone and countenance.

“Believe it, Aunt.”

“How? Why? I cannot comprehend this. I had heard she was summarily shipped off to some relative when her father died, but I had no idea to whom she had gone. I was here in town by then, of course.”

Trevor gave her as much information as he knew about Caitlyn, including the knowledge that Gerald had supplied.

“It is not true,” his aunt said emphatically. “The girl I knew would never be a party to such a nefarious scheme.”

“Perhaps she changed, for it certainly appears that she was.”

“Oh, dear. . . . Well, what is it that I can do to help?”

He explained his plan to take a commission and leave the country as his father had ordered. “But I cannot just go off and leave her alone at Atherton,” he finished. “I thought perhaps you would know of a female relative she might call upon to stay with her until this mess is all sorted out.”

She appeared to consider this request for some time. Finally, she said, “I am sorry, Trevor. I can think of absolutely no one. I seem to remember her father's brother emigrated to Canada years and years ago. I really think the Fiske connection was the only one she had. The poor dear.”

“I just do not know what to do,” Trevor said. “I know this is probably as much my fault as hers, but my father refuses to budge from his decision.”

“Encouraged, no doubt, by his precious Gerald,” Lady Gertrude said, her voice harsh. Then it softened as she asked, “Have you no feeling for Caitlyn, then?”

Trevor shifted uncomfortably. “I . . . I hardly know her. She is pleasant enough. I even
liked
her, I think. But she . . . well . . . she is not . . . I don't . . .”

“You do not find her attractive? Is that it?”

“Well, yes—rather. It is just that I never would have been drawn to such a girl, you see. And now that I know . . . I just cannot deal with her—at least not now.” He knew this sounded lame.

“But you do care enough to want to provide for her properly?”

“Well—yes. She bears the Jeffries name, after all. I cannot engender additional scandal. It would reflect on Melanie—and Marcus. They do not deserve that. And—in all honesty—Miranda Morton probably does not deserve it either.”

“You are a good sort, Trevor. Oh, yes, misguided a bit, but basically good, I think.” She patted his hand.

Trevor felt a warm glow at this rare praise from his opinionated relative. “Thank you, my lady.”

“And I may be able to help you.” She paused. “How would it suit you if I were to go and stay with your bride until such time as she finds a suitable relative of her own to join her? Or until matters are handled otherwise?”

“You would do that?” Trevor asked in wonder.

“Certainly. As I think on it, I like the idea even more. I have grown somewhat bored with life in town. Not that I would forgo it completely, you understand.”

“Aunt Gertrude, I would be so grateful—”

“Never mind. I shall enjoy the country.”

The visit with his father had had a much less amiable tone, especially as Gerald was a party to the interview. In the end, however, the earl agreed to the purchase of a commission.

He would also continue his son's allowance, half of which would go to the unwanted bride until Trevor's return and a divorce could be quietly effected. However, the earl wanted nothing to do with “that girl”—the business would be handled through a solicitor.

Trevor departed, saddened by what he perceived as the defection of his family. Offsetting this despondency, though, was a feeling of purpose and direction he had not felt since the deaths of Terrence and Jason. He was also heartened by another visit with his sister. Melanie would, in all probability, marry Sheffield and follow him to some foreign post with the diplomatic corps.

He knew that writing Caitlyn a letter was rather cowardly, but time was of the essence if he was to ship out with the regiment. Secretly, he was glad not to deal with her directly. Best not to encounter pain in those aquamarine, teal-colored eyes.

 

 

Caitlyn was furious—actually trembling with anger. In fact, she had been annoyed for several days at her husband's continued absence. Married less than a month, and her husband had been away for over half of that time! And there were estate matters he should be seeing to. Mr. Felkins, the steward, had brought them to her, but what did
she
know of running an estate?

Heavens. She barely knew anything of running a household. Had not Mrs. Bassett kept her keenly aware of
that
shortcoming?

But now—not only was her blackguard husband absent, he had no intention of returning! She reread the letter several times, her anger increasing with each reading.

“Details of the circumstances” indeed! And just what details were there that he did not know previously? After all, it was he, not she, who had been aware of—party to—that infamous wager.

And leave her to fend for herself, would he? Oh, yes, the letter had included a postscript with news of his providing for her from his allowance and that some aunt of his was coming to look after her. She did not need looking after and would soon enough send some meddling busybody on her way.

A
divorce?
He would have her tainted with such a smear for the rest of her life? True, divorce was not unknown, but only persons of the very highest echelons of society could weather the disgrace. Even then, it was rare for a woman to be accepted after such a scandalous action. And for a female of Caitlyn's status? Impossible.

When she finally calmed down enough to think about it rationally, she wondered what had precipitated Trevor's decision. There had to be something more than the wager—bad enough in itself, but Trevor knew of
that.
Then she had the answer.

Mrs. Bassett set a newspaper at Caitlyn's place at breakfast one morning. “Thought you might be interested in this, madam,” she said with a rather peculiar twist on the term of respect.

Curious, Caitlyn leafed through the journal twice before the cartoon caught her attention. She drew in her breath. Yes, two of the card players were clearly meant to represent her uncle and Trevor. She did not recognize any of the other figures. The artist had apparently had no inkling of characteristics in
her
that would be clearly identifiable. But he did not need a personal trait to do his damage. One look at the female figure long gone with child was more than enough.

Now Trevor's behavior had an explanation, even if it did not excuse him. And Trevor actually believed . . . She had not felt much like breakfast this morning anyway, and this item sickened her. Idly, she wondered just what it was that Mrs. Bassett had intended by showing this to her.

Caitlyn spent the rest of the morning in her room—the one she shared with Trevor—pondering her options—or rather, the lack of them. In the end, she simply did not know what else to do but carry on as before.

Three days later Caitlyn was in the library, located in the front of the house on the ground floor, when she heard carriage wheels on the driveway. For an instant, she wondered if Trevor had changed his mind. She went to the window and peeped through the drapery. An older woman in a huge hat with fluttering ostrich feathers shielding her face was handed down from a smart traveling carriage. Another vehicle loaded with luggage drew up behind hers.