Anne O'Brien (23 page)

‘And my wife? What are your plans for her?’

‘Leave her in London. We will continue our surveillance of
her until we are certain that she is uninvolved—or until we have proof that she is in the pay of others.’

‘And if I object?’

‘Where government security and policies are concerned you have no right to object. You do not know Sarah Russell. You do not know that you can trust her. We need you and your expertise in Paris.’

He did not like Wycliffe’s reply, but was forced to acknowledge the truth of the man’s assessment of French politics. Even as he damned the man’s callous disregard for any matter other than national security.

‘And the Countess of Wexford?’ he asked. ‘What are your plans for her?’

‘She is not your concern. Forget her. Will you go to Paris?’

‘I will consider it.’

‘Do so quickly, my lord. It is approaching the time of Carnival in Paris. When all the world and his wife celebrates.’ Wycliffe sniffed in distaste of such excess and the openings it provided for those who would destroy the restored government. ‘What better opportunity to carry out a
coup d’état
against the royal family when no one is prepared to consider anything other than his own pleasure?’

Lord Joshua Faringdon made no response, but slammed out of the room, no more satisfied with the situation than when he had entered the premises half an hour previously.

‘Going somewhere?’ Lord Nicholas Faringdon refused the services of Millington and announced himself in Hanover Square that same afternoon. He found Joshua in the library, folding documents into a well-worn leather case.

‘To Paris.’ Joshua barely looked up, but Nicholas could see the hard-held temper on his face, in every line of his body. Every movement was an essay in simmering fury. A brief, authoritative note from Wycliffe had followed hard on his earlier visit to and conversation with that gentleman, delivered by
hand. Lord Faringdon was expected in Paris within the week and should make contact with Sir Charles Stuart, British Ambassador to the Bourbon Court. Further instructions would follow. Thus Lord Faringdon was not in a mellow frame of mind.

‘Oh.’ In no way put out, intimately acquainted with his cousin’s moods, Nicholas helped himself to a glass of brandy and cast himself into a chair to await repercussions. ‘A sudden decision?’

‘Yes.’

Nicholas crossed one booted leg over the other, a study in patience. ‘Is this in the way of a rout by overwhelming odds?’ he enquired, knowing that the outcome might be similar to that of applying a match to a trail of gunpowder.

‘No.’

‘So?’

‘If you must know—’ the leather satchel was flung onto the desk with little vestige of control ‘—it is a tactical retreat before superior forces.’

Silence.

Until Joshua faced his cousin, hands fisted on hips. ‘What is your next question? Are you perhaps going to ask me if I murdered my wife?’ he snarled. ‘You have been remarkably restrained with regard to the fraught topic of Marianne.’ It had been a long and frustrating day. He had not enjoyed the confrontation with Wycliffe or its outcome.

‘I have, haven’t I? But it was not my intent. Not unless I wanted a sharp left to the jaw.’ Nicholas raised his brows, waited a heartbeat. ‘But since you broached the issue… Did you? The gossips sound very sure.’

‘No. I did not.’ Joshua’s face was cold and bleak, in contrast to his eyes, which blazed with molten fire.

‘So where did the tale arise?’

‘A slighted woman, is my guess.’ He flung himself into a chair and picked up the glass that Nicholas had thoughtfully poured for him.

‘Ah. The Countess of Wexford? I thought as much. Beware a woman scorned, particularly one as self-seeking as the fair Countess. I doubt that she enjoyed being evicted from her role in this household.’

‘She had no role in this household.’

‘Well…I expect that she wished she had.’ Nicholas grinned in appreciation. ‘The lady has certainly sharpened her claws and is now intent on sinking them into your tender flesh. The scandal has taken the town by storm.’

‘As I know to my cost!’ Joshua put down the glass with a force that threatened the perfection of the faceted crystal. ‘But I am innocent of this, Nick. I did
not
murder my wife! Marianne…she is…was…!’ Aware of Wycliffe’s warning and the crevasse opening before the unwary, Joshua bit down on any further incriminating words.

Nicholas choked on his brandy.

‘She’s what? I thought she was dead.’

‘Nothing! She is.’

‘Sher…perhaps you need to tell me just what is going on. Of course you did not murder your wife. No one with any sense believes that you did. But something is afoot. What is it?’

Joshua gritted his teeth, the muscles of his jaw hardening. ‘That, Nick, is the whole problem. I must keep a still tongue in my head.’

‘Does Sarah know?’

‘No, she does not.’

‘Will you take her to Paris with you?’

Oh, God! ‘Yes…no. I haven’t decided. It is none of your affair!’

‘I just thought…’

‘What did you just think?’ Joshua glared at him.

‘That it would be better for Sarah if you took her with you.’

Joshua sighed. Of course he should take her with him. She would be devastated if he left her in London. He knew enough of Sarah’s state of mind to know that she would see it as a per
sonal slight. But there was her safety to consider if death and violence were to be the order of the day in Paris.

‘It might,’ he said quietly, ‘be in the interest of Sarah’s safety if I left her here.’

Nicholas placed his glass carefully on the desk before raising keen eyes to pin his cousin down. ‘Sher—you can tell me to go to the devil, of course, but—are you involved in government work—something conspiratorial, perhaps—which necessitates your silence? Something which is not without its dangers?’

‘Why do you say that?’ The silver eyes narrowed with suspicion, but did not waver.

‘No reason. It is just that—’

‘You have a fertile imagination.’ Joshua was increasingly aware of a compulsion to unburden himself to his cousin. To lay before him the whole intricate web of plots and devious scheming that could undermine the peace achieved after Waterloo. To admit to the identity of The Chameleon. And knew he must not. He closed his eyes momentarily against it.

‘Perhaps I have. So you have no intention of unburdening yourself.’ It was as if Nicholas had sensed the internal battle, impulse waging war against necessity.

‘No.’

‘Very well. If that is what you truly wish.’ Nicholas pushed himself to his feet. ‘I cannot force you. But remember, if you ever need a sympathetic ear…’

‘Forgive me, Nick.’ Joshua also stood forcing his muscles to relax, managing a wry smile. ‘It is not my intention to appear churlish.’

‘But you do!’

‘All I can say is that the decision to unburden myself—as you put it so aptly—is not mine to make.’

Nicholas began to make his way to the door. Then, on a thought, looked back. ‘Do I surmise that your…er…
colourful
reputation is not as dire as you would have us believe? That it has all been a disguise for some undercover project?’

‘Surmise what you will.’ Nicholas could read nothing in Joshua’s expression. ‘But don’t discuss such an idea with Thea. Because she will surely talk to Sarah. And then where shall we all be!’

‘What an interesting life you lead, Sher!’ Now Nicholas laughed. ‘I never could accept that you were such a black sheep in the family as you would have us believe.’

‘Ha! I fear that my
interesting life
, as you put it, is about to call in its debts.’ For a moment Joshua hesitated, wondering if he were about to make a mistake, but was encouraged by the understanding smile on his cousin’s face. ‘You could do one thing for me.’

‘And that is?’

‘Come to Paris with me. I have the strangest feeling that I might just need your support.’

‘Will the Countess of Wexford be there?’

‘Highly likely. Now that she has done all the damage she can in London.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Thea will love it. She is not unacquainted with the city. Sir Hector was ambassador there for some months.’

‘I did not mean that Thea should… But of course she would accompany you.’ Joshua looked dubious at the prospect.

‘What—me go Paris with you—and leave Thea at home?’ Nicholas laughed aloud. ‘Have your wits entirely gone begging, man? When did any fashionable woman refuse a chance to go to Paris?’

‘Forgive me, Nick—I seem to have said that more than once this afternoon!’ Joshua bared his teeth in a passable smile and now, for the first time, there was some warmth there. ‘How crass of me! Perhaps both you and your formidable wife can give my fast-disintegrating reputation some much-needed support.’

That same night Joshua had intended to dine early at home before escorting Sarah to the theatre at Covent Garden. To hell
with the gossips! And the devil take Wycliffe with his insinuations concerning Sarah’s loyalties! He would not turn and run from public gaze. Had they not flung down a challenge at the Exhibition and survived the ordeal? But at the eleventh hour he could not face running the gauntlet of the tiers of boxes with their avid eyes and raised lorgnettes, pretending ignorance of the knowing looks and speculation on his relationship with Marianne. The discussion of his sins both in general and in wicked particular. His respect for Eleanor and Henry, who had done exactly that, multiplied. But he guessed, rightly, that Sarah would find no enjoyment in the performance if
they
were providing the audience with more entertainment than the actors on the stage.

Wycliffe’s lack of sympathy and insistence that it was Joshua’s duty to return to Paris had seriously ruffled the Faringdon feathers.

So Lord and Lady Faringdon dined
à deux
at home with a reasonable show of unity, finding enough food for conversation to carry them through the various dishes in the first and second courses. Perhaps with no real appetite, but with no serious conflict, or even a need to discuss the little matter of murder. Sarah was perfectly willing to follow her lord’s lead. What would be the value in their discussing so contentious an issue when there was nothing further to be said, when Joshua was as tight-lipped as one of the oysters on her plate? Until, that is, they reached the dessert, a marvellous confection of peaches in heavy syrup and spun sugar.

Lord Joshua found that he had no appetite; he did not pick up his spoon.

‘Sarah—I find a need to go to Paris.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes immediately flew from her plate to his face, her enjoyment of the sweetness effectively destroyed by that one short statement. ‘When?’

‘In two days.’

If he saw a flicker of disappointment, a deepening of the lit
tle lines of concern that marked the fair skin beside her eyes when she was troubled, he thought he might have been mistaken. Or perhaps not. He was now intimately acquainted with Sarah’s ability to hide her thoughts.

‘Some business that has come up.’
I know it is a lame excuse, but it is the best I can do.

‘Of course.’
What business? Has the Countess of Wexford gone back to Paris? Surely he has not arranged an assignation! But I asked that I should not be required to meet and acknowledge his mistress. This would be an ideal solution to the problem. To continue the affair in Paris when I am far away!
Her heart fell to the level of her satin shoes. She too put down her spoon.

‘Will it be a short visit?’ She kept her voice admirably calm, tried for a smile, which was not as successful, so skilfully raised her napkin to her lips to cover it.

‘I do not know. A week or two, perhaps longer.’

‘Very well.’
Even worse! Some would say that he is also going to ensure that there is no evidence to be discovered of the murder of poor Marianne. Many would say that. But I cannot—I will not—accept that.
The possibilities rushed into her mind, rendering her almost light-headed.

Joshua watched his wife as she licked the sugar from one finger, her skin suddenly very pale. She would never ask him what he intended to do in Paris. Of course she would not. As a partner in a marriage of convenience he knew that she would be very careful of her status, ask nothing of him other than he was prepared to give on his own initiative. The thought touched his heart with compassion. And as at Richmond when she had so desperately wanted to ride with him, a desire to give her more than she was prepared to ask. So he made his decision in the blink of an eye. What was there to decide, after all? He knew what he wanted—he would not think about his reasons for it—but he also knew what would be the best for Sarah at this crucial time in their marriage. He had tried to distance himself. That had been a disaster and he could not do it again. It would
be cruelty itself to leave her here alone to face the accusations, even more for her to have to tolerate Felton’s intrusive shadowing in his absence. She would assuredly think the worst of her absent husband if he abandoned her in cold blood.

He could not leave her. Had known it as soon as Nicholas had challenged him over it.

So he abandoned any attempt to eat Mrs Beddows’s masterpiece with some relief and cast his napkin on the table.

‘Sarah. Yes, I am going to Paris. But you are coming with me. Go and instruct your maid to pack some clothes. Not many, mind. You can enjoy the glories of Parisian fashion when you get there.’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak. She pushed aside her spoon with a clatter. ‘You will take me to Paris?’ Whatever she had expected, it was not this.

‘You, my dear wife. I have arranged for the children to stay with Judith.’ Well, he would do so first thing in the morning. ‘Don’t argue!’ as he saw her lips part. ‘Beth and John will enjoy it. Judith will spoil them inordinately. I need some time alone with you, away from the wagging tongues. Let us call it a late wedding visit, if you wish.’ He built his case skilfully unless she would still refuse. But what woman would? ‘I need to introduce you to Paris and you need to inspect our property there. It is Carnival, with much to entertain and amuse.’