Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (9 page)

“Oh.” The pleasant glow turned to ice in her veins.

“And that's not all. The
lady
was wearing the ruby necklace he gave her last month.”

Diana interrupted. “That was before . . .”

“
And
a pair of ruby bracelets he bought
last week.
Bad enough he keeps a mistress when he's to be wed in three days. But to flaunt her publicly like that! It's an insult to you, Minerva. I'd like to call him out and I may do so when I go and tell him your wedding is off. At the very least I'll knock him down. I owe him a black eye.”

An enormous calm settled over Minerva. While Sebastian roared, Diana and Celia clucked, and Tarquin looked elegantly grim, she let them fade from her consciousness as she set her mind to the question of her future.

She had to decide now if she was to be wed the day after tomorrow. She considered her options and they hadn't changed. Nothing was any different than it had been that horrible morning when she realized she was forced to wed a man she despised. Except that it was, because back then she'd had no expectations. Her view of Blake and their marriage had shifted. Without really acknowledging it, she'd thought she could have everything she wanted, and more. She'd believed in the possibility of the kind of respect and affection her parents shared, and Sebastian and Diana, and their friends. How foolish! Lord Blakeney was neither capable of affection nor deserving of respect.

If she broke the engagement she'd still be ruined. She'd still be doomed to a life in the country and no chance of living her ambition to affect the future of the nation and the course of history.

“I'll marry Blakeney,” she said, blinking back an angry tear. “It isn't as though any of us ever believed him to be a saint. I don't see that I have a choice. I'm sure he'd be delighted if I cried off but I won't do it. Why should I be disgraced and he get off scot-free?”

Chapter 9

T
he marriage, by special license, took place in the drawing room at Vanderlin House. Neither party wished for a large affair. A handful of friends and relations on both sides witnessed the union of Arthur William Gerrit Vanderlin, Marquis of Blakeney, a bachelor, and Minerva Margaret Montrose, spinster daughter of William Montrose of Mandeville Wallop, Shropshire.

All present agreed that they were an extraordinarily striking couple, matched in blue-eyed golden beauty that exemplified the best of English aristocratic looks. The bride wore a simple but elegant morning gown of yellow muslin with a gold cross and chain as her only adornment. Her demeanor spoke of a calm self-assurance, admirable in a girl of nineteen who had landed the decade's greatest marital prize. Not one hint of unseemly triumph marred her porcelain prettiness.

The bridegroom, if you knew him well and observed him closely, appeared to have drunk too much the previous night.

T
hey were getting ready to leave, so they could catch the Calais packet from Tower Pier. The just-minted Lady Blakeney was surrounded by females, hugging and weeping and no doubt plying her with advice about the wedded state. Her new husband stood a little apart with James Lambton, whom Blake had invited to stand as groomsman, despite the fact that he was, in a way, responsible for the whole hideous occasion.

He envied Minerva the support of her brothers and sister. Maria was in attendance, with her husband Gideon Louther, but he'd never been close to his eldest sister. Amanda, the youngest of the family, was in Edinburgh, staying with the middle girl, Anne, and her Scottish earl husband. Among numerous letters of good wishes and felicitations, Amanda's was the only one he read. Writing in neat capital letters and keeping her missive mercifully brief, she conveyed her best love and wished him every happiness.

Just two people knew of his shame, and Amanda was the only one he trusted. Blake missed her very much, but it was better to have her absent. She'd be weaving tender fancies about his bride, even though she and Anne had certainly heard the truth from their mother. Utterly loyal in her discretion, she'd often urged him to reveal his secret to the family, and would certainly want his bride to know.

Never. Minerva, Marchioness of Blakeney wanted him only for his position in life. If she knew the whole truth of his absolute inadequacy she'd despise him more than ever.

“Blake, a word with you.” Gideon Louther approached, looking purposeful. But then he'd rarely seen his brother-in-law wear any other expression. “You're off to Paris,” he said, drawing Blake aside. “What are you going to do there?”

“Since I've never been there, I don't know. I expect I'll find out once I arrive.”

“Maria always tells me the dressmakers there surpass any to be found in London. I suppose Lady Blakeney will enjoy the shops.”

Lady Blakeney. The name sounded peculiar spoken aloud.

It had been the duchess who suggested they take the wedding trip to Paris, and Blake agreed without resistance or resentment. The last thing he wanted was to be immured in the country with his bride and no other distractions. In this he felt certain she would be in entire agreement.

“I know the duke has sent word to the ambassador, Sir Charles Stuart. Should you wish for company, you and Lady Blakeney will be received everywhere.”

“Oh, good.”

“French society has regained all its brilliance since the end of the war.”

“Really?” Blake was more interested in the brilliance of French horseflesh. Through friends in the Jockey Club he had introductions to a couple of breeders. And thanks to his marriage he had the funds to restock his stables with the best.

“While you're there you might keep your ears open. I'd like to hear your impressions.”

Gideon's casually delivered request caught his attention. Gideon had never shown the least curiosity about Blake's opinion on any matter. “My impressions of what?”

“King Louis is in poor health and won't last much longer. His brother Charles, the Count of Artois, will succeed him. Since he's a man of little tact and extreme authoritarian views, there are many of us who expect him to try the patience of his subjects. It's quite possible the Bourbons may lose the throne again.”

“Hah!” Blake said. “Having gained the habit of disposing of their monarchs the French may decide to keep in practice.”

He detected a note of surprise in Gideon's approving nod at this not particularly brilliant observation. “Precisely. And there are two possible replacements for Charles. The Duke of Orleans is the more likely and the more acceptable to us. But there remains a strong strain of Bonapartism among the French. Bonaparte's son, the Duke of Reichstadt may live in Austria, but there are those who would like to see him Napoleon II, Emperor of the French, in fact as well as name.”

“We wouldn't like that, would we? How old is this dangerous pretender?”

Gideon looked annoyed. “No one stays twelve years old for ever. Besides, the point is not the boy himself, but his allies. What we wish to know is who, among the French notables, would be prepared to support his restoration, and who would prefer the Orleanists.”

“That's all very interesting, Gideon, but what has it to do with me? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it's the job of our ambassador there to gather and report such information.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Blake, but you do know we are in opposition.”

“I may be slow but even I don't need a decade to notice that the other fellows are in power.”

“Not for much longer, we hope. And when we take over I expect to be Secretary for Foreign Affairs. It is of considerable use to me to receive independent reports from the European capitals. Anything I learn that puts me a step ahead of the government gives the party an advantage.”

“I'm flattered you should think me capable of discovering anything the embassy has missed. Actually, I think you may be a touch demented. No one ever talks to me of such stuff.”

“Exactly! No one expects you to care for anything but frivolity. Tongues that would be guarded to the presence of other Englishmen may wag freely in yours.”

“Finally my stupidity may be put to use, you mean.”

“Your reputation, rather. If I thought you stupid I wouldn't expect you to recognize a fact worth reporting.”

Good Lord. Kind words from Gideon. If he wasn't stone-cold sober he'd be almost flattered.

“I don't need to tell you to keep this to yourself.”

About to ask if he should mention it to Minerva, Blake held his tongue. He could imagine how gleefully she would latch onto the task. He wanted to do it alone, prove to himself, to Gideon, and perhaps even to his bride, that he wasn't entirely useless. He also took a slightly malicious pleasure in depriving her of the kind of intrigue that would delight her. Let her wait until their return to London to become the leading lady of the opposition.

“Don't worry, Gideon,” he said, with his most winning smile. “There's no one better when it comes to keeping a secret.”

T
hey reached Calais soon after dawn. Minerva was a good traveler, but even the best cabins on board were hardly luxurious and the crossing had been a trifle bumpy. Minerva assumed the lack of comfort had saved her from the attentions of her bridegroom the night of the marriage. Although she didn't sleep well, her rest in the narrow berth was undisturbed by a nocturnal visitation from Blake. She had girded herself to endure what happened between them, but couldn't deny her relief at the postponement.

They were met at the dock by Mr. Fussell, the courier hired by the duke to ease their journey to Paris. He escorted them to Meurice's Hotel to eat breakfast, while he took care of their passports, the unloading of their luggage, and the exigent French customs officials. Although Dessin's was the more luxurious establishment, he believed my lord and my lady would be more comfortable at Meurice's, where all the staff spoke English and the fare was just as visitors from across the Channel preferred it. Few French inns, he explained in dismay, served beer with meals and the tea was often undrinkable.

Minerva hated beer, and the chocolate, which she preferred to tea anyway, was good. She and Blake ate eggs and ham in virtual silence. His sullenness was, in her opinion, uncalled for. She had reason to be aggrieved. He had been seen in public with his mistress less than a week ago. Yet he responded to her polite attempts at conversation with monosyllables. With the important exception of the marriage vows, they'd barely exchanged a word in days.

Well, she had nothing to apologize for and it was his turn to make an effort. Luckily she had a book with her to occupy the journey to Paris.

Their silence was broken when Fussell returned and asked if they preferred to travel at a leisurely pace and spend an extra night on the road, or press ahead and sleep at Abbeville. In a desire to reach their destination as quickly as possible, they were as united as the most devoted newlywed couple. Abbeville it would be.

The Paris road was in decent repair, the hired animals swift, and the posting inns where they changed horses efficient. After a few hours they made a longer stop to take refreshment at a sizable inn and were shown into a coffee room with a blazing wood fire.

Minerva walked over to the hearth to warm her hands and a gentleman arose from a nearby chair. “
Ne vous dérangez pas, je vous en prie,
” she said.

“I know better than to sit in the presence of a lady,” he replied in English. “Take my seat. It's nearest to the fire.”

“Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand after sitting in the coach for so long.” She smiled at the man whom, from his style of dress and speech, she guessed to be a commercial traveler. “How did you know I was English? I thought my French accent was quite good.”

“Excellent, madam, but most of the customers at the Hôtel d'Angleterre are English.” From his tone she gathered this was a matter for rejoicing.

“It appears to be a comfortable establishment. It's not often one sees a wood fire.”

“All too often in France there's no fire at all. There's a dearth of fuel and the French don't approach the ingenuity of our countrymen when it comes to the extraction of coal.”

“Indeed.” Minerva hid her smile at the fellow's national pride. She had a feeling there was little in France he would allow to be superior to the English version. “I have found French food to be quite excellent so far.”

He shook his head sadly. “It's almost impossible to find a proper roast or beefsteak unless you know where to go. I'd be glad to offer my assistance to a fellow countrywoman. Allow me to introduce myself. Joseph Bell, at your service.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Bell.” She thrust out her hand and shook his heartily. “I am . . . Lady Blakeney.”

The effect was startling. He dropped her hand and his jaw, looked with alarm at Blake, over by the window, and almost doubled over in a deep bow.

“I am honored, my lady. My lord, I do apologize for my presumption.”

Blake had seemed more interested in activities out in the yard than his bride's conversation. He turned around to examine Mr. Bell, who appeared quite terrified. Minerva, adjusting her internal vision to see her husband through the eyes of a stranger, understood why. With his height of over six feet enhanced by a tall beaver hat, he towered over the little traveler. The multicaped greatcoat and gleaming top boots, worn with casual perfection of cut and fit, reeked of limitless wealth and aristocratic self-assurance. Used to looking at Blake and finding him merely annoyingly handsome, she now saw he might also be intimidating. Having no idea whether he would object to a lowborn stranger hobnobbing with his wife, Minerva intervened to protect her new acquaintance.

“There's no need, Mr. Bell. Lord Blakeney will be as grateful as I am for your assistance, won't you, my lord.”

Blake responded with an affable nod. “Certainly. You must tell us all the dangers we face in French inns.”

Bell bowed again, even lower, rather to Minerva's disapproval. As a believer in the principle of equality, she felt such obeisance excessive when no longer required for reasons of self-preservation.

“I have been traveling the roads of northern France for three years now and I could tell you stories that would curl your hair. The dirt and the cold I've had to suffer! I couldn't count the times I've been given forks encrusted with old food. And served nothing but insolence when I complained.”

“Dear me, how shocking,” Blake murmured and Minerva thought she detected a curl of the lip, a glint of amusement in his eye. Not wishing to hurt the little man's feelings, she hastily pressed him for further tales of horror.

“Well, my lady, I'll tell you the worst thing about French inns.” Minerva held her breath. “None of the bedchambers are furnished with . . .”—he paused for dramatic effect—“carpets!”

“Admit it,” Blake said ten minutes later when they settled back into the carriage. “You weren't expecting him to say
carpets
.”

If he thought her mealymouthed he was doomed to disappointment. “Certainly not. Neither were you. You were as relieved as I to learn that we are not going to find ourselves in rooms without chamber pots.” She blushed anyway because that night they would, presumably, sleep in the same room. And aside from the other thing that would happen, the question of chamber pots was not one she'd considered about sharing a bed with a man. She supposed there'd be a screen, but they could still
hear
each other.

Blake noted her blush. Was it caused by the reference to one private function of the body, or to another which she must be expecting to take place tonight? If the latter, he felt a faint malicious pleasure of which he was a little ashamed. They were, after all, sharing a moment of amusement. He decided he wouldn't spend the last hours of the day's journey in silence, with her reading and him looking out of the window.