The Clarendon Rose (29 page)

He sighed.
 
“Yes, I suppose I can see your point.
 
I’ll think on it at least, Tina.”

“Fair enough.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a time.
 
Eventually, Edmund spoke, “You know he was frantic with worry when you disappeared, don’t you?”

“Give over, Edmund,” Tina said wearily.
 
“We both know his reputation when it comes to women.
 
I may have caught his interest for the moment, but he made me no promises when he proposed.
 
In fact, he went so far as to say that his feelings were likely short-lived, just so that I wouldn’t enter the marriage with any false ideas.
 
Once the fire has burned out, the best I can hope for is friendship and mutual respect.
 
I refuse to expect more.”

“Well if he truly doesn’t love you, then he’s a bloody fool, if you don’t mind my saying.”

She smiled.
 
“I don’t.
 
But then you’re biased.”

“So I am.
 
Doesn’t make me wrong now, does it?”

“Not inherently.
 
But it doesn’t make you right, either.”
 
Tina grinned to cover the sadness she felt at such a conclusion.

“There is that.”

“I am sorry about your mother though, Edmund.”

“As am I, my dear.
 
Often and for quite a few years now,” he said on a sigh.
 

“No, but I’m serious.
 
She was being horrid, but still I felt so petty, telling her off like that.”

He sat up, alarm dawning in his expression as he looked at her.
 
“That doesn’t mean you’re going to apologize and ask her to stay, does it?”

“I’m not
that
sorry, Edmund.”
 
She chuckled at his expression.

He leaned back with a theatrical sigh.
 
“Well, thank God for that at least.”

“The small mercies, is it?”

“It is, Tina my dear.
 
It is indeed.
 
Much though I love my mother, I really can’t stand her most of the time.
 
I’ll write to her regularly when I’m in India, but I’m already looking forward to being able to fold up her tirades and set them aside if I don’t feel like facing them at any given moment.”

“Do you think Clarendon will mind?”

Edmund laughed.
 
“He almost did the very same thing when we were in London.
 
I somehow doubt he’ll have much to say about it—except, perhaps, ‘thank God.’”

“Poor woman.
 
Neither of her sons can bear to spend time with her,” Tina said.

He sighed.
 
“We might all wish for things to be different…”

“… but they aren’t, and if pigs could fly, they’d be pigeons,” she finished, for it was one of his favorite refrains.

“Just so.”

They talked a while longer, but avoided the troublesome topics of their respective emotional entanglements, with the result that it was only as Tina prepared to retire for the night that she recalled the dowager’s nasty insinuations.

Staring at herself in the mirror as Jane brushed her hair into a frizzy cloud, she swallowed the shame that rose up her throat.
 

Perhaps the old crow was right.
 
After all, how long would some like him realistically want someone like me?
 
Perhaps I’m different enough to satisfy some whim of his—the novelty of a country life with a country lass as a wife, for instance.
 
A queasy feeling had lodged in the depths of her stomach.
 
The notion felt altogether too sickeningly plausible to be dismissed.
 
And how long can that last if he’s already hankering to be off in London on some pretext of business?
 

Indeed, the dowager was right to imply that a man like Clarendon was unlikely to desire someone like Tina to the exclusion of anyone else.
 
The heir-begetting visits, of course, were likely to continue.
 
He’d do his duty by her.
 

“Here, don’t look so glum, Your Grace.
 
I know you miss the duke, but he’ll be back soon enough,” Jane murmured as she deftly braided Tina’s hair into a tight, tidy rope.
 
“You should be glad of the break, I’d think.”

 
“Thank you, Jane.
 
That will be all.”
 
Tina forced a smile for the abigail, who curtseyed and took her leave.

That he might seek satisfaction outside of his marriage
did
make perfect sense.
 
Such agreements—conducted with the utmost discretion, of course—were not even all that unusual among marriages between members of the
ton
—as the dowager had also been at pains to point out.
 

Rather, it was Tina whose response would be regarded as in bad taste—and, worse still, dreadfully unfashionable.
 
After all, the rise of a mad, raging fury, that wove itself into her heavy sadness and shattered it into tiny fragments, could hardly be regarded as an appropriately blasé reaction to her husband’s discreet infidelities.

But then I’ve never given a
damn
for fashion in the first place.

Between the journey to London and the logistics of tracking down Lord Sebastian, it wasn’t until late evening that the two men sat down together in Clarendon’s study to discuss the latest developments.

Clarendon gave a terse account of his non-confrontation with Pepridge in the forest while Lord Sebastian sipped his brandy and frowned.
 

“Strange, isn’t it?”
 
Bastian rubbed his chin and sat back.

Clarendon set down his drink, surged to his feet and began pacing.
 
“Infuriating, is what it is.
 
If I could get my hands on the damned man, he’d know what it means to inspire regret.”

“Yes, well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?
 
Finding the snake?
 
I looked into address on the calling card he gave Miss Smye, but it’s simply a mail holding service.
 
Apparently, someone comes in to pick up the mail—sometimes it’s Pepridge himself, and sometimes it’s a hired lackey with a letter of permission.
 
I’ve set a man to watch the place, but so far, not a peep.”

He straightened.
 
“Which reminds me.
 
I don’t think we should rest on our laurels too much regarding Pepridge’s previous modus operandi.
 
I’ve been looking into the details of his trial and from the sounds of it, he’s a slippery type.
 
Just because he’s steered clear of involving the other families in his vengeance scheme doesn’t mean he’ll continue to do so.”

Clarendon paused.
 
“By God but you’re right, Bastian.
 
He was an unpredictable beggar even back then, wasn’t he?
 
So now what?”

“I’ve got my men standing by at the manor.
 
Pending your consent, one will be assigned to discreetly guard your mother.
 
Another will be assigned to your wife.
 
A word to Edmund, setting him on his guard, should suffice.
 
I somehow suspect that Pepridge won’t attack from that front anyway.
 
He’s far likelier to exploit weakness—or whatever he perceives as such.”

“Send along the orders, Bastian—the sooner the better.”
 
Clarendon dropped back into his chair.
 
“So what else have you discovered?
 
What were those other leads you mentioned that brought you to London?”

“All the roses you received are registered as having been bred by different men.
 
It stymied me at first, but then one of the names that came up sounded familiar.
 
A chap whom I was pretty certain was dead—if it was the same person, of course.
 
So I came to London to make inquiries.
 
Turns out, all the names listed as the breeders either died or were missing in action from the old war days.”

Clarendon sat forward, his eyes widening.
 
“The bastard’s been stealing identities!”

Bastian nodded.
 
“Who knows but he may have even killed some of the men himself.
 
He must have stashed away all their personal information for later use.
 
When he escaped from imprisonment, he retrieved them and went about becoming someone else.
 
Or rather, a number of other people.
 
My guess is that he probably assumed a new identity after each of his victims disappeared, so that if someone did start to investigate, they’d reach a dead end at some point, when the apparent perpetrator also vanished into thin air…”

“…and assumed a new identity,” Clarendon finished for him.
 
“An identity in no way connected with the previous one.”
 
His mouth twisted.
 
“It’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it?”

“That it is.
 
And, given the method he used to lure you to the hut, I would guess that his previous victims had little idea of what was coming.”
 
Sebastian set down his drink and ran a hand through his hair.
 
“The real question is how we’re going to get the man.
 
He’s bound to trip up sometime, I suppose—particularly with us watching the manor and the townhouse.
 
But I’d prefer to have him contained sooner rather than later.”

Clarendon had begun nodding slowly, his eyes narrowed.
 
“Perhaps, Bastian, it’s time to give the man a taste of his own methods.”

Bastian leaned forward.
 
“How so?”

“I have an idea.
 
See what you think…”
 
Clarendon outlined his plan, and by the time he finished, Bastian was grinning.
 

“It’s worth a try, by God!”

“Shall I come with you?”

Bastian shook his head.
 
“He’s probably watching your movements, Clare.
 
I’ll take care of the logistics and contact you when all is in readiness.”

“Good.
 
I wasn’t about to have you cut me out of the finale, old man.”

After Bastian had gone, Clarendon began sorting through the papers McPhee, his man of business, had left.
 
They would be meeting tomorrow morning, and Clarendon wanted to ensure he had a full understanding of the latest developments regarding his various interests beforehand.
 
From a brief glance, it seemed as if a few of his holdings were at key points of growth and would require fresh infusions of capital in order to speed things along—another thing to attend to tomorrow.

He worked for several hours, before finally rising from his desk, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked over to the decanter of brandy.
 
He poured himself two fingers’ worth, then began prowling the room, smiling grimly as he thought about the plan Bastian would be putting in motion.
 
Hopefully, it would work—but if not, they were in no worse a situation than before.
 
The cold rage he felt towards Pepridge was mollified by this latest development.
 
Now, he had only to wait—and try to behave as if the situation were safely contained.

It would be damnably difficult keeping his turmoil over the Pepridge situation from Tina.
 
Somehow, confiding in her felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.
 
But, this was not her battle—and he had married her to alleviate her worries, not add to them.
 
He would prefer not to go into the specifics of Pepridge’s crimes.
 
They were not the sort of thing he fancied detailing to anyone—man or woman.
 
Given that, the notion of providing Tina with a full explanation of his caution regarding the man was distasteful in the extreme.

Instead, he would repeat his warning that she be on her guard.
 
Between that and Bastian’s man, she should be safe enough.

And, other than that, Clarendon preferred she not fret over whatever threat Pepridge posed to him.

Still, it would be a considerable challenge.
 
After the incident with the gamekeeper’s hut this morning, he had been too furious to do much more than keep a tight rein on his emotions.
 
She had known something was wrong.

Perhaps it would be better to keep his distance, at least until this issue was resolved.
 
He had enough to keep him occupied, here in London—though he trusted McPhee, he had always liked to stay on top of his investments.
 
And Tina could take care of the holdings without his assistance, as she had amply proven.
 

Of course, he already missed her.
 
Perhaps that was part of the reason for his restlessness—the knowledge that she wouldn’t be waiting for him when he retired for the night.
 

Staying away would be hell.

But there was nothing to say that he couldn’t visit her one last time, before coming back here until the Pepridge issue was resolved.
 
That would give him the chance to reiterate his warning about any communications from Pepridge.
 
He could also tell her about his overseas investments and provide her with a fully plausible reason for staying in London for a spell.
 

He frowned into the darkened hearth, then nodded to himself.
 
He would return to the manor after his meeting with McPhee tomorrow.
 
Make love to her.
 
Explain that he would be needed in London a little longer.
 
And then, he could return here in good conscience, thereby eliminating the need to try to behave normally with her, when he was having more and more difficulty confining the issue of Pepridge and his machinations to a small compartment of his life.