Treasured Vows (24 page)

The next morning Wallace woke him a half hour before dawn. Grant moved stiffly, his muscles, especially in his shoulder, sore from spending the night in a chair in his study instead of in his bed. That thought chased him as he silently climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom. No candle burned, but he could see in the moonlight that Phadra slept on the bed right where he’d left her. Still dressed in the yellow and blue dress from the night before, she hadn’t even climbed under the covers but had snuggled under the jacket that he had so carelessly tossed upon the bed.

Grant moved quietly so that he wouldn’t disturb her as he changed for his meeting with Lofton. When he was about to leave, he stopped and then walked over to the chest at the foot of the bed. Taking out a blanket, he tucked it around her. It was then he noticed that she held a book in her arms. Gently he pulled it away from her. Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
He should have known.

Setting the book aside on the bedside table, he noticed that the leather was damp. Pressing his fingers gently to the pillow under her cheek, he could feel the evidence of her tears.

A wave of regret washed over him. He’d botched everything he’d touched lately. If Phadra were wise, she’d put distance between them. They were both too headstrong, and judging by the way matters had been
progressing, he couldn’t ever imagine the two of them making a marriage work—no matter what Jane and Anne said. He ran the back of his fingers along the smooth line of her cheek, the skin warm and vibrant beneath his touch.

Then he quietly left the room.

U
nder dark, threatening skies, Grant met Lofton in the park for the duel and dispatched him with a ruthlessness that was almost ungentlemanly. Those privileged to watch the duel were stunned by Grant’s superior swordsmanship. He showed the earl no mercy. After he had unarmed Lofton for the third time, his sword point aimed at the man’s heart, the earl finally, bitterly, admitted that his honor was satisfied.

Offering Grant his coat and hat, Duroy noted quietly, “You’ve made an enemy.” But Grant’s concern wasn’t centered on Lofton. Instead he caught himself scanning the road for signs of his wayward wife.

She hadn’t come to rescue him this time. He felt strangely disappointed.

Grant immediately left for his office at the bank, chased there by questions for which he had no answers. The day before, he had known what he wanted; he had known how to get it. Now, however,
he didn’t even understand himself, let alone know which direction to take. Unfortunately, throwing himself into his work didn’t make the questions go away.

The summons from Sir Robert to meet him in the Court Room came late in the morning. When Grant arrived, he discovered the governor wasn’t alone. All the members of the Court sat gathered around one side of a long table. With a sense of foreboding, Grant entered and stood at the opposite side of the table. He nodded his respects to Sir Robert and the others—except for Sir Cecil, who refused to look at him, staring at his thumbnail instead.

Sir Robert, sitting in the middle of the group, cleared his throat, gaining everyone’s attention.

So, Grant thought,
I’m about to be sacked.
Lofton worked fast.

Clearing his throat again, Sir Robert placed both hands on the table, stood, and announced with great ceremony, “Morgan, you’ve got to control your wife.”

“Control my wife?” Grant repeated. He looked around the table, surprised by the seriousness of their expressions and the intent way they appeared to be waiting for his answer. “Gentlemen, if I knew how to do that, I would have exercised the power days, weeks ago,” he admitted candidly.

His response was evidently not the one Sir Robert sought. Dumbarton rapped the table with his knuckles, emphasizing each word as he said, “This morning my wife ordered the papers delivered to
her
before I’d had a chance to read them. When I informed her that I always received the papers first, she answered that I would have to wait my turn. She
wanted to read about what Parliament was up to.” He sat back in his chair and glared at Grant. “I never thought she knew what Parliament was other than that its opening signaled the beginning of the season.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Grant said, not certain that he understood the bank’s governor correctly, “but you’re saying that you are upset with me because you didn’t get the papers first this morning?”

“I always get the papers first,” Sir Robert answered. “It’s my home. My papers. Or at least they were mine, until Lady Dumbarton met your wife. I ordered her to turn them over but she informed me, as cheeky as you please, that since she had brought most of the property into our marriage, I could deduct the price of the papers from that amount—and she went right on reading!”

“Well, at least she isn’t jingling around!” shouted Sir Henry. “I know exactly where my wife is because she’s wearing blasted bells, just like Mrs. Morgan. When I told her she sounded silly, she laughed at me. She said it was all good fun. I told her she was too old to be fun, and now she won’t talk to me. Plus I have to put damned cotton in my ears to keep the jingling and ringing out. There’s no peace in my house. No peace at all!”

“Your problems are only beginning, gentlemen,” Sir James jumped in, the lines of his long face, so much like his wife’s, set in a frown of displeasure. “When I left the house, my wife was dipping pen in ink to invite all of her acquaintances”—he looked around at the others sitting on his side of the table so that they knew their wives were included in that group—“to form a women’s club.”

“Certainly there is nothing wrong with that,” Grant protested mildly.

“That’s a matter of opinion, Morgan,” Sir James shot back. “She’s not planning a whist club or a music club or any of those other foolish things women do to keep themselves busy. Seems your wife told Emma some folderol about your saving a pregnant doxy from a beating by some jack named Mad Bob and sending her home to her parents. She put a queer notion in Emma’s head that women of means should help their more unfortunate sisters living in the streets, and that’s what Emma wants her club to do.” He slapped his hand down on the table. “I informed Emma she already has a sister, who lives in Chelsea. She didn’t need to go out looking for sisters.”

“And was that the end of it?” Sir Victor asked.

“No!” Sir James practically barked at him. “We had a loud and angry argument, and then she said it didn’t make any difference what I commanded her to do because she was going to do as she pleased. With that she walked out of the room as if she were the Queen herself, before I’d finished speaking!” He waved an accusing finger at Grant. “She’s never gain-said me, not once in twenty-two years of marriage, and then, within four and twenty hours of knowing your wife…” He clapped his hands together for effect, then sat back and grumbled, “A man doesn’t want to argue with his wife. If I want to argue, I can go argue with my mistress. I need my wife to know her place.” The others around the table nodded their agreement.

Sir Robert stood, commanding the attention of all in the room. “Morgan, Sir James makes an important
point. You may have one of the finest financial minds in the bank, mayhap even this country, but frankly, I’m worried about your future here. A man’s wife is either an asset or a liability. Yours is turning into a liability. Furthermore, there are those among us, Morgan, who have received particularly bitter complaints from the Earl of Lofton and Dame Edith Cunnington. I fear that if we were to take a vote now, you’d be summarily dismissed. However, Sir Cecil believes you should be given another chance and has argued eloquently on your behalf.”

Grant shot a look at Sir Cecil. The man glanced up, turned red in the face, and then looked down at his thumbnail again, confirming Grant’s worst suspicions. If Sir Cecil was championing his cause, he had to have another motive. The idea of a future spent at the man’s beck and call didn’t sit well with Grant.

Then Sir Robert grabbed his complete attention by announcing, “You have twenty-four hours, Morgan, to get your house in order. If you are unable to do so in that amount of time, we’ll have no recourse other than to take action against you.”

For several seconds Grant stared at him, scarcely able to believe his ears. After all the time and service he’d given them, they’d sack him because of his wife?

He straightened his shoulders, made a perfunctory bow, and without another word turned on his heel and walked out the door. He left the bank.

The sky still threatened a storm by the time he reached his house. He stood on the walk outside and stared up at the black lacquered front door, still feeling confused by the sudden turn of events. Could anyone control Phadra? He hadn’t even been able to
make a wife of her yet! That knowledge surely would have set the directors’ tongues wagging!

The bitter truth, he answered himself, was that perhaps they didn’t suit each other. If that was the case, perhaps he should let her go. Annul the marriage.

He didn’t like the solution.

The door of the servants’ entrance opened, and Mrs. Shaunessy walked out and up the steps, her marketing basket over one arm. She stopped short at the sight of him. “Good day to you, Mr. Morgan.”

Grant managed a smile. “Good day, Mrs. Shaunessy.”

The woman walked past him, giving him a decidedly peculiar look, and went on her way. Grant watched her go, his mind still working over his problem…and then a thought struck him.

If he was entrusted with a matter for the bank, he would look for information and advice from someone who understood the situation better than he did. Why was his problem with Phadra any different? And whom did he know who understood her better than Henrietta Shaunessy?

Grant’s long legs quickly closed the distance between them. He startled her when he slipped his arm through the handle of the basket. “May I help you?”

She slid him a suspicious look but let the basket go. They walked a few paces before she asked, “What do you want, Mr. Morgan?”

He gave her his most charming smile. “Why do you believe I want anything at all?”

At one time such a smile would have melted her resistance, but now she snorted in disbelief. “You give
yourself away, sir. You never have time to waste.” She took her basket from him. “What is it you want?”

They walked a considerable distance toward the small shopping district close to his home while he debated how much of the truth he should tell her. Mrs. Shaunessy stopped by a fruit vendor’s stand before he’d reached a decision. She reached for the oranges and then pursed her lips in indecision. Finally she reached instead for a cluster of purple grapes. She looked up at him and smiled. “The oranges are Phadra’s favorite but too expensive. Economies, you know.”

He ignored her gentle jibe. “You’ve known Phadra for some time, haven’t you, Mrs. Shaunessy?”

She snapped shut her purse after paying the fruit man and gave him a sweet smile. “Longer than you have, sir.” Abruptly she turned on her heel and walked through the crowd toward the next stall.

Grant followed quickly, sidestepping the fruit man. “So how did you meet?”

She stopped suddenly and looked up at him. “Why do you want to know?”

Her effrontery caught him off guard. “Because she’s my wife.”

The redhead gave him a slow, hard look up and down before raising her eyebrows. “Is she, indeed?”

An uncomfortable heat stole up his neck. “She is.”

Mrs. Shaunessy hummed her thoughts on that and casually walked over to an apothecary’s shop where vinegars were set outside on display. She picked up a bottle, pulled out the stopper, and gave the contents a sniff. Her nose scrunched at the smell of it.

Grant stood waiting.

She set the vinegar down, pushed one of her outrageously
red curls back under her bonnet, and said, “I met her the first day she arrived in London, green as fresh hay with that book of hers about women tucked under her arm. She needed someone to look after her.”

“And you were where at the time?”

Mrs. Shaunessy’s back stiffened. “I’d fallen on hard times, sir, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.” She looked at him. “It isn’t easy for a woman alone.” There was a wealth of unspoken meaning in those words.

Grant took the basket from her. “Then she was lucky it was you who found her.”

At his words some of her defensive starchiness seemed to relax. “Aye, there are those who would have taken her purse and
more
in no time,” she confessed. “But something drew me to her. Maybe it was those big, shining eyes or the way she told everyone who passed that she’d come to London to start the search for her father. Said she wanted to make a home for him.”

And there was something in the way Henrietta Shaunessy said the word
home
that made Grant understand Phadra’s appeal for the woman. Henrietta Shaunessy had been another of Phadra’s strays—just like pregnant Sarah and Wallace and Jem and probably the little lady’s maid.

Mrs. Shaunessy picked up another vinegar, sniffed it, and apparently found it to her liking. She held it out to the shopkeeper and then started to take out her purse.

“I’ll get it.” He started to reach for his coin purse.

“No. This is a gift for Phadra. I’ll pay for it with my own.”

While she handed her coins over to the shopkeeper, Grant watched the bustle and activity of the market even in spite of the approaching storm. Some vendors began moving their wares to shelter, but most tried for that last sale before the customers were driven back indoors. He began to enjoy the sight of commerce taking place and wondered why he hadn’t ever made the trip down there before now. Someone bumped his arm.

Turning, he discovered a woman with a basket of flowers done up in nosegays. “Flowers, sir?” she asked, but the husky tone of her voice told him that she offered more than flowers.

“I’m done with my shopping, Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Shaunessy said, stepping smoothly between them and forcing the woman away with a hard stare. Mrs. Shaunessy looked up at him, her brown eyes sharp. “You know, don’t you, that Phadra is one woman who won’t hop in a man’s lap just because he possesses a handsome face?” Without waiting for an answer, she started walking back in the direction of the house.

Grant followed. “What do you mean?”

The wind had picked up, and Mrs. Shaunessy placed a hand on the brim of her bonnet to hold it in place as she hurried along. “If you have to ask, Mr. Morgan, then you’ve just confirmed something I’ve long thought.”

He reached out and pulled Mrs. Shaunessy up short under the branches of a good-sized oak. “And what is that?”

“That there are some men who are too handsome for their own good.” She poked her finger at his chest impudently. “They are so used to having women
throw themselves at them, they don’t understand that occasionally they have to work for what they want.”

“And you think I’m one of those?”

“I
know
you are one of those.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “You should hear yourself, sir. You’ve ordered, berated, and growled. You’ve done everything but say what a woman wants to hear, and I think the only reason you haven’t done that is because you don’t know how.”

“How to what?”

“Woo her. Win her.”

Grant studied her a moment, as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Woo her?”

The plumes on Mrs. Shaunessy’s bonnet bobbed and bounced in the wind. “Court her,” she said with some exasperation, and then took the basket from his hands. “Mr. Morgan, I can’t tell you how it’s done. You have to think of that for yourself. But so far, in spite of being miserably clumsy about the business, you’ve been surprisingly successful.”