Wife Errant (3 page)

They chatted about Bath doings until the tea arrived, and close behind it came Lord Revel, wearing a navy flannel dressing gown with a white towel around his neck. His wet hair was all askew, and his feet encased in slippers knitted by his mama.

“Anthony!”
his mama exclaimed. “Good God, is this any way to appear in public? There is a lady present! Did Figgs not tell you?”

“Figgs used the word ‘Urgent!’
I thought you had set the house afire at least.”
He turned to Tess. “My apologies, Miss Marchant. I shall return presently.”
He bowed and left, chewing a smile.

It had been worth the embarrassment to see Tess Marchant’s eyes trotting all over him as if she’d never seen a man not fully clothed before. Very likely she hadn’t, come to that. Her chronic rectitude annoyed him. He knew he ought to admire her many sterling qualities, but frankly, he preferred a little naughtiness in his ladies.

Lady Revel explained, “I am a virtual hermit here. I so seldom have any callers that Anthony doesn’t care how he walks around the house, but he does not usually come downstairs without his trousers on at least.”

Tess blushed like a blue cow and said it did not matter in the least. But she knew that when Revel returned, it was she who would be ill at ease with the memory of that glimpse of bare chest, with the patch of black hair showing above the dressing gown.

Some half hour passed; the tea chilled in the pot, and still Lord Revel did not come. Lady Revel was threatening to hobble upstairs after him herself when the sound of languid footsteps heralded his approach. Tess looked to the doorway and felt the wait was well worth it. Lord Revel, fresh from his toilette, was a very pineapple of perfection.

It was generally agreed, among the few hundred gentlemen who cared for such things, that no figure became Weston’s jackets so well as Lord Revel’s broad shoulders and tapering torso. His cravat was a marvel of pristine intricacy; his biscuit-colored trousers free of either wrinkle or spot; and his Hessians gleamed like black diamonds. His closely cropped hair was brushed forward à
la Titus, lending a rakish air to the severity of a straight nose and angular jaw. His lean face was bronzed from riding, and wore such an expression of ennui that one would think he had lived a hundred full lives. Eyes of an unholy blue twinkled mischievously, to belie his air of studied indifference.

He glided forward, performed an exquisite bow, and said, “A thousand pardons, Miss Marchant. I shall have Figgs thrashed for his dereliction.”

Tess had collected herself, and betrayed not a jot of the turmoil she was feeling. “One pardon will do, Lord Revel. I am sure a thrashing is not necessary.”

“Nor possible,”
Lady Revel added. “Figgs could darken your daylights, Anthony. Now sit down and stop making a cake of yourself. There is no need to put on airs. It is only Tess Marchant.”

“Only?”
he exclaimed, annoyed at his audience’s cavalier treatment. Miss Marchant ought to be close to swooning by now. He would turn up the charm. “Really, Mama. One does not use ‘only’
in the same sentence as ‘Miss Marchant.’ "He took up a seat on the striped sofa and gracefully threw one leg over the other. “About Figgs’s claim of urgency: How much do you need this time, Miss Marchant? Are we providing coats or candles?”

“I am not taking subscriptions today, Lord Revel,”
she said. “I only do that at home, for the church, you know, or the orphanage.”

“Money is not
urgent,
Anthony,”
his mama said.

“That depends very much on the circumstances. But I scent a more interesting story here. Pray proceed, Miss Marchant.”
He turned the full blaze of his sapphire orbs on her and smiled his encouragement.

Before Tess was seduced into admiration, he immediately helped himself to a cup of tea and complained that there were no sandwiches.

“Figgs can bring you some cucumber sandwiches, if you like,”
his mama offered.

“Where do you get cucumbers at this time of year?”
Tess asked.

“Figgs can get anything,”
Lady Revel said categorically.

Lord Revel declined the offer of a sandwich and turned expectantly to Tess, mildly curious to hear what had brought her. Tess took a deep breath and considered how to phrase her request.

Impatient, Revel said, “It is Dulcie. Such charming young ladies inevitably fall into a hobble with the gentlemen. Only give me his name and I shall undertake to call him out.”

“No, it is not that bad, Lord Revel. And it is not Dulcie. It is Mama.”

“Ah, the other Marchant charmer. But surely your mama has a more likely defender. I refer, of course, to your father.”

Revel was so busy being clever that he failed to notice for a moment that he had unintentionally slighted his caller. To imply that this dull lump of a lady was one whit less charming than her mother was, no doubt, wounding.

He smiled easily and added, “They have wisely sent the most charming of the lot to seek my help. What can I do for you, Miss Marchant?”

His mother said, “You can stop playing off your airs and graces, gudgeon, and listen. Your cousin James is carrying on with Louise. You must speak to him.”

“Surely your cousin lands in
your
bailiwick, Mama,”
he said, subtly shifting the onus of the relationship to buttress his position.

“Much attention James would pay to me.”

“Or to me. Indeed there is some irony in such a tarnished vessel as I calling cousin black.”

“I am not so foolish as to expect you to preach propriety,”
his mother said bluntly. “What you must tell him is that it is bad ton to take advantage of a married lady.”

“Mmmm. Especially when her
esposo
is
so close to hand, and not a bad shot, either. That is rather raffish of James.”

“Then tell him so.”

“He surely knows it.”

“Yes, but he does not know that Mama is planning to get a divorce,”
Tess said.

“Divorce!”
he exclaimed, shocked out of his lethargy. “Surely it would be wise to investigate less ... questionable options before speaking of divorce!”

“Yes,”
Tess agreed, “but you know Mama has a taste for being a dasher. She does not realize the consequences to others.”

“Nor to herself,”
he added. “Propriety apart, the thing will not succeed. A lady will never be given a divorce on such paltry grounds as adultery.”

“Paltry!”
Tess exclaimed, skewering him with a gimlet gaze.

Revel refused to be subjugated by mere morality. “Adultery is paltry in comparison with divorce,”
he insisted.

“Use your wits,”
his mama declared. “It is Mr. Marchant who will end up demanding a divorce, and it is James whose reputation will be sullied as partner in the crim. con.”

“It would, of course, be a great pity to cast a stain on James’s immaculate reputation,”
Revel said ironically, then he subsided into silence, with his eyes closed. Tess thought he had fallen asleep and wanted to strike him.

Before she succumbed to the urge, his eyes opened and he said, “You’re right, Mama. It is Mr. Marchant who could hope to win a divorce, but it is Mrs. Marchant who owns Northbay, if memory serves. He will think twice before putting such a fine property at risk. James, on the other hand, is probably working under the misapprehension that Northbay belongs to Mrs. Marchant outright.”

“Oh, no. It is entailed on Henry,”
Tess said.

“I wager James don’t know that. If the threat of being blackened with a crim. con. don’t provide a large enough stick to beat him into propriety, Northbay’s being entailed will. Consider it done.”

“I knew you would think of something, Lady Revel,”
Tess said. “Thank you so much.”

Revel looked surprised that the thanks were not delivered to himself. He was too well-bred to display his surprise, and spoke of other things. “I expect you have been to take the waters at the Pump Room, Miss Marchant,”
he said, choosing the outing he thought would suit her.

“We tried the water once, but since then Dulcie and I just promenade to watch the people.”

“I go faithfully every morning,”
Lady Revel said. “I just sit like a lump in the lounge. Promenading is impossible with this demmed toe. It aches worse than a bad tooth.”

“If thy toe scandalize thee, cut it off,”
Revel suggested.

“Don’t think I have not thought of it. The gout would only fly to my knee or my neck,”
she said resignedly.

Their conversation was interrupted by Figgs, who appeared at the doorway and announced, “He’s here—Lord James.”
He turned to Revel and added, “Now is your chance to have a word with him.”

Tess expected Lord Revel to cut up stiff at this breach of butlering etiquette. He gave a lazy smile and said, “Congratulations, Figgs. Your hearing has improved since you failed to hear my request for brandy last evening. I waited half an hour for it, and finally had to fetch it myself.”

“The exercise is good for you. Keeps you soople,”
Figgs replied.

“Kind of you to be concerned for my health. Show Lord James into the study. I shall speak to him there.”

Revel took his leave of the ladies. Tess began to gather up her gloves and reticule. “Wait a moment,”
Lady Revel said. “James won’t stay long. He dislikes to be scolded. You may as well hear what Anthony has to say when he returns.”

Within ten minutes, both gentlemen returned to the saloon. Lord James did not look chastened. His manner toward Tess was a little friendlier than before, which she took for a sign of compliance.

“Miss Marchant. Don’t you look dashing this morning? A lovely bonnet,”
he said, touching the pink feathers.

Drake was a sort of blurred copy of Lord Revel. He was a decade and a half older, with the accompanying signs of age and dissipation. His hair was touched with silver at the temples, his brow was creased, and his manner just a shade too oily to please the discerning. Decades of having to cater to his betters had left their indelible mark. His eyes, in particular, lacked that devilish luster of Revel’s. There was a sort of sly look in them, an insincerity.

“Thank you, Lord James. I just bought it this morning.”

“You ought to be paid to wear it. You are a splendid advertisement for the milliner.”

Lord Revel looked from James to Tess, to see how she reacted to this blatant flattery. She said, “Thank you,”
in cool accents. What a cold wench she was. Butter would freeze solid in her mouth.

“How is your bellyache, James?”
Lady Revel asked, to bring him down to earth. “The last time I saw you, you were suffering from cramps.”

“A slight and passing indisposition, cousin. How’s the toe?”

“Wretched.”

They chatted for ten minutes, at which time Tess began to make her adieux, as Revel could hardly say anything interesting in front of his cousin. “Not leaving so soon!”
Lord James exclaimed.

“I have some letters to write,”
she said.

“Oh, letters! I never write letters,”
James said.

“You are being obtuse, cousin,”
Revel said, tossing a smile at Tess. “When a lady claims she must write some letters, it is a polite way of saying she is tired of the company. May I accompany you home, Miss Marchant?”
He expected to see a flash of triumph in those stormy gray eyes. Nothing.

“My carriage is waiting,”
she said. “And I really do have to write letters. There was one from the bailiff.”

“Ah, yes,”
Revel said, with a sapient glance at Lord James. “Northbay belongs to your mama, of course, until Henry takes control, so she will tell you what to write.”
That won him a small smile of approval.

“Mama takes very little interest. And with Papa so busy, I usually handle the correspondence myself. I daresay the bailiff is just pestering us to tile the west pasture again.”

The gentlemen rose with Miss Marchant. Lord James said, “I wonder if I might impose on your kindness to give me a lift to Milsom Street, Miss Marchant? My rig is hors de combat. I tore a wheel loose in a race yesterday. These hills around Bath!”

“Did you win the race?”
Revel asked.

“No, Anthony, I did not. I lost the wheel early in the game. But the betting was light.”
He turned back to Tess. “Miss Marchant?”

“Certainly, I will be happy to give you a ride, Lord James,”
she lied, and went out with him, her heart aflutter to be alone with her mama's beau.

In the saloon, Lady Revel said to her son, “What did you say to him?”

“Just what we discussed. He had no idea Northbay was entailed.”

“But he will stop seeing her? Those poor girls are kept home every night, Anthony. They cannot go to the assemblies without a chaperone, and you may be sure James does not take the mama there.”

“He says he has already made a few assignments with Mrs. Marchant. He will fulfill them—it would be rude to do otherwise—but he will cut the friendship off gently.”

“Good. Now call Figgs. And give me some money. I owe him a guinea. Best make it two. He always wins. I am quite certain he cheats.”

“I must show you how to palm the cards.”
Revel dropped some coins into his mother’s outstretched palm and went to call Figgs.

In the Marchant’s carriage, Lord James was walking on eggs. Anthony’s announcement that Mrs. Marchant had a son was a sore blow. The boy had been at school when he met her, and she was not the sort of lady who harped on her children when she was with a gentleman. He thought Northbay was hers outright.

An estate entailed on a son was no good to him. Tess, on the other hand, had a dot of ten thousand clear. Dulcie had the same, and she was prettier, but a lady close to a third his own age was just a trifle absurd. He was absurd enough without that. Tess was not much less than half his age.

“I want to apologize for my thoughtlessness, Miss Marchant,”
he said humbly. “I assure you my only motive in seeing your mama was to give her whatever solace my presence provided at this cruel time.”

“Thank you, Lord James,”
she said, and was suddenly seized with a shaft of pity for the man. It was a shabby way to have to live, running from pillar to post. “I made sure you would see common sense when you knew the whole.”