Jane Feather - [V Series] (42 page)

Agnes shook her head. “No, of course not. Silly of me, I had the unmistakable impression I’d seen her alighting from a chaise … it must have been a trick of
the light. The lantern over the door was throwing strange shadows.”

Marcus sat still, a smile fixed on his face, his eyes on the harpist as she began to pluck her instrument. He felt enwrapped in tendrils of malice, the evil mischief emanating from the woman beside him seeming to weave around him. Judith had been right. Agnes Barret was not harmless. Agnes Barret was dangerous. And if Agnes Barret was Gracemere’s lover, then Judith was in danger. How or why, he couldn’t guess. But he was as certain of it as he was of his own name. Martha’s battered little face rose vividly in his memory, the despairing whimpers filling his ears anew.

He rose without excuse from his chair and left the room, while the harpist’s gentle music continued behind him.

Agnes, startled, watched him stalk from the room. She’d done no more than sow the first little seed. She hadn’t mentioned Bernard. That would come tomorrow or the next day, a whispered word to set the gossip on its way. What could possibly have driven the marquis to leave so precipitately?

Marcus left the house without making farewells and walked fast to Jermyn Street.

Gracemere listened for a minute in horrified impotence to the sounds of violent retching behind the screen. Then he strode to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for help. Madame came up the stairs, two of her girls on her heels.

“Whatever is it, my lord?”

He gestured to the room behind him. “Her ladyship appears to be unwell. Do something.”

Madame listened for a minute, gave the earl a most
telling look, and hurried into the room, disappearing behind the screen.

Gracemere paced the corridor, unwilling to return to the scene of such a horribly intimate disintegration. He thumped a fist into the palm of his other hand, cursing all women. It couldn’t have been the wine, she’d only had one glass and she’d been perfectly sober when they’d arrived.

Judith staggered out from behind the screen, supported by Madame and one of the women. She was waxen, a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, her hair lackluster, her eyes watering.

“My lord, I don’t know what …” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Something I ate … so mortifying … I don’t know how to apologize—”

“You must go home,” he interrupted brusquely. “The chaise will take you.”

She nodded feebly. “Yes, thank you. I have to lie down.” Staggering, she fell onto the divan, lying back with her eyes closed.

Madame took her fan and began to ply it vigorously. “My lord, I can’t have sick women in my house,” she said, an edge to the refined accents. “It doesn’t look good, and what my other guests would think, listening …”

“Yes, yes,” Bernard interrupted. “Have her taken downstairs and put in the chaise. Tell the driver to take her back to Berkeley Square.”

Somehow, a limp and groaning Judith was bundled down the stairs and into the waiting chaise. Bernard stood at the window, watching as the vehicle moved off down the street. Some devil was at work here, throwing all his carefully engineered schemes awry. He went to the table and flung himself into a chair, moodily refilling his
glass. He might as well eat the dinner he’d ordered with such care.

Marcus turned onto Jermyn Street from St. James’s. He was amazed at his own calm as he looked down the street. Three houses had lanterns outside their doors. Behind one of those doors he was certain he would find his wife in the company of Bernard Melville, Earl of Gracemere. He had no idea why she was there, why she would have allowed herself to be trapped by Gracemere, but the reasons didn’t interest him at the moment. There would be time for that later. He had but one thought, to reach her before she was hurt.

The first door had no knowledge of the Earl of Gracemere. The butler in the powdered wig behind the second door bowed him within immediately. Madame emerged from the salon, all smiles, ready to greet a new customer.

“Where is Gracemere?”

The clipped question, the burning black eyes, the almost mask-like impassivity of expression impressed Madame as nothing else could have done. “I believe his lordship is abovestairs, sir. Is he expecting you?”

“If he’s not, he should be,” Marcus said. “Direct me to him, if you please.”

Madame made a shrewd guess as to the business the new arrival might have with the earl. She gestured to Bernice. It was none of her business if Gracemere chose to invoke outraged husbands, and she wasn’t prepared to have a scene in her hall. “Show this gentleman to Lord Gracemere’s parlor.”

Marcus strode up the stairs after the girl. At the door, he waved her away. He stood for a second listening. There was complete silence. After lifting the latch
gently, he pushed the door open. The room had a single occupant.

Gracemere was sprawled in a chair at the table, a glass of claret in his hand, his eyes on the offensively cheerful glow in the grate. His head swiveled at the sound of the door opening.

“Ah, Gracemere,” Marcus observed, deceptively pleasant. “There you are.”

“I’m flattered you should seek me out, Carrington.” Bernard sipped his wine. “To what do I owe this unlooked-for attention?”

“Oh, a simple matter.” Marcus tossed his cane onto the divan and took the chair opposite the earl. He examined the place settings for a minute before returning his attention to the earl. “A simple matter,” he repeated. “Where is my wife, Bernard?”

Gracemere gestured expansively around the room. “Why ask me, Marcus? I dine alone.”

“It would appear so,” Marcus agreed. “But you are clearly expecting a guest.” He picked up the fork at his place, examining the tines with careful interest, before reaching for the second wineglass on the table. It was half full. “Has your guest made a temporary departure?”

The earl gave a crack of sardonic laughter. “I trust not temporary.”

“Oh? You interest me greatly, Gracemere. Please explain.” He turned the stem of the wineglass between finger and thumb, regarding the earl intently across the table.

“Your wife is not here,” the earl said. “She has been here, but she is by now, I trust, safely tucked up in her own bed.”

“I see.” Marcus rose. “And the circumstances of her departure …?”

Gracemere shuddered. “Quite innocent, I assure
you. Your wife’s virtue remains untainted, Marcus. Now, perhaps you’d leave me to my dinner.”

“By all means. But allow me to give you a piece of advice. If you should have any further plans involving the health and welfare of my wife, I suggest you drop them forthwith.” He picked up his cane and tapped it thoughtfully into his palm. “I would hate to use a horsewhip on you again, but if it did become necessary, I can safely promise you that this time it will be no secret. It will be the most talked of on-dit of this or any other Season.”

He bowed, mockery in every line of his body, but there was no concealing the menace in his eyes as they rested for a second on Gracemere’s flushed face. “Don’t underestimate me again, Bernard. And just remember that another time I’ll not let pride conceal the truth. I’ll face whatever I have to to expose you. That is all I have to say.”

He walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

M
arcus walked back to Berkeley Square. Whatever reasons Judith had had for involving herself with Gracemere initially, she’d been perfectly capable of extricating herself from trouble. Judging by the half-full wineglass, she’d left in haste, and she must have made some considerable scene if her putative host hoped she wasn’t going to return.

But why the hell had she been with Gracemere in the first place? Had she been defying her husband for principle’s sake? But that didn’t make sense—they’d resolved the issue amicably as far as he remembered. She’d agreed to do as he wished if he moderated his dictatorial manner. So why would she persist in cultivating such an acquaintanceship. No, it was much more than that. Acquaintances didn’t dine tête-à-tête. So why?

The old serpents of mistrust began to wreathe and writhe in his gut, and he felt cold and sick. Did he know her at all? Had he ever known her? Had she colluded with Gracemere to wound him? But if that was so, why had she left her dinner companion against his will? Perhaps she hadn’t expected seduction. His ingenuous wife had believed an invitation to a clandestine dinner to be completely innocent? Impossible. There was nothing ingenuous about Judith; she was far too worldly to fall for such a fabrication. But perhaps Gracemere had led her to believe the invitation was different—not a private party but one in company she knew. And when she’d discovered the truth … This explanation was more plausible, and he began to feel a little comforted. And then he remembered how she’d lied to him that morning—a party with her women friends. The serpents hissed and acid betrayal soured his mouth.

Judith was standing at her window, looking down on the square, when he came in sight of the house. She had been waiting for him, knowing what she had to do. She had known that Gracemere was capable of ruining a man with cheating and lies. She knew he was capable of running off with another man’s fiancée. But this evening she had glimpsed the depths of maleficence that outdid anything that she already knew. A clandestine rendezvous was one thing, but to pick such a place for the kind of woman he believed Judith to be was evil beyond anything. Somehow Marcus was to have been injured by Gracemere’s plotting and Marcus’s wife had been just a tool. Judith was now convinced of it. Was Marcus to be somehow confronted with the information of his wife’s rendezvous? Confronted and humiliated? Was it to be made public perhaps?

She stood at the window with her arms crossed over her breasts, still feeling weak and shaky after her violent
vomiting but knowing that unless she could circumvent Gracemere’s ulterior motive, she might just as well have yielded to seduction. If a public scandal was to be made, the simple fact of her willing presence in such a place with the earl would be sufficient cause.

She was going to have to tell Marcus the whole. If he heard it from her lips, he would be forewarned and forearmed. The thought of what she risked by such a course filled her with dread.

Marcus disappeared from view as he climbed the steps beneath her window.

She went out to the hall at the top of the stairs as Marcus was admitted to the house, then she sped lightly down the stairs toward him.

“Marcus, I need to talk with you.”

He looked up, and despite the gall and wormwood of his suspicions, his eyes anxiously raked her face. She was pale and tense, but other than that, as far as he could tell seemed quite well.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” he asked, unsmiling as he handed his cloak and gloves to Gregson. Until he decided how to deal with the situation, he would pretend he knew nothing about it.

Judith shook her head dismissively. “Could we go into your book room? I have to talk to you.”

Surely she wasn’t going to tell him? A thrill of hope coursed through him. “It’s a book-room matter?”

“I believe so.” She was clasping her hands tightly, her expression one of painful intensity.

Marcus knew he wanted her confidence now more than he had ever wanted anything. Only her honesty would have the power to erase the suspicions, defang the serpents of mistrust. But just in case he was wrong, he continued the charade. “Oh, dear.” He managed a faint smile of rueful comprehension at this choice of venue.
His book room seemed to have become the arena for discussion of all potentially explosive issues. “Could it wait until morning?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. Let’s get it over with, whatever it is.”

Judith led the way. The candles were extinguished but the fire was still alight. She relit the candles while Marcus tossed a log onto the embers.

“Am I going to need fortification?” He gestured to the decanters on the sideboard.

“I imagine so. I’ll have a glass of port also.”

Marcus filled two glasses, watching as Judith bent to warm her hands at the fire, its light setting matching fires aglow in the burnished ringlets tumbling about her face.

“I have a confession to make,” she said eventually, turning to face him, her pallor even more marked. “I’m afraid you’re going to be very, very angry.”

She was going to tell him.
He kept the joy from his expression and said evenly, “I’m duly warned. Let me hear it.”

“Very well.” She put down her glass and squared her shoulders. “It’s about Gracemere.” She paused, but Marcus said nothing, although his eyes had narrowed. He sipped his port and waited.

Quietly she told him how she had played piquet with Gracemere, what the stakes were, and where he had taken her that evening. “I’m afraid he intends to create some scandal that would humiliate you,” she finished. “I had to tell you … warn you. I couldn’t bear you to hear it from anyone else.”

She fell silent, twisting her hands against her skirt, her expression taut with anxiety as she waited for his response.

“You recognized the place for what it was?” His voice was level, and his eyes had not left her face.