A Lady Most Lovely (34 page)

Tom was glad Geoffrey had given him some warning. Lizzie looked very pale, and although the girth of her stomach had increased she seemed to have shrunk everywhere else. Her face was pinched and drawn. Tom bent down to kiss her cheek. “I want you to know, dear Lizzie, that I am quite affronted that you did not greet me at the door.”

His attempt at humor brought out a wan smile. “You must blame Dr. Layton for that, I’m afraid. And Geoffrey, too, who I am convinced is in league with him. They seem to think I must be coddled.”

“Then you must allow them to do it,” Tom said. “There are not too many women I know who would complain about being waited on hand and foot. Enjoy it while you can.”

“Listen to your brother,” Geoffrey put in with an approving nod. “You must rest up, my dearest. Once you have given birth to that fat, pink baby, you may trot up and down those stairs all you like.”

Lizzie sighed. “It’s not the stairs I miss. It’s the park, and the riding. I miss the company, too. No one seems to visit us anymore.”

“Yes, well… perhaps that’s for the best,” Tom said. He could not help but throw a quick, worried glance at Geoffrey as he said this, which he regretted instantly, because Lizzie saw it.

“Why is it for the best?” she asked anxiously. “Is something wrong?”

Tom blamed himself heartily for his mistake, and hurried to cover it. He made an exaggerated tug at his cravat, which Stephens had so expertly tied for him this morning. “I have concluded that there is nothing more boring than society people, nor anything more confining than its rules. Be glad you do not have to endure such people for a while.”

She did not look convinced. “Does that mean you’re happy to be in the country, far away from the strictures of town life?”

“Well, my wife still has an annoying habit of making me dress for dinner.” It seemed odd to say those words—
my wife
. Tom was still getting used to them, especially since she was still his wife in name only.

Lizzie sat up, her eyes how bright and eager. “And
how is married life, Tom? You are the most wretched letter writer, you know. You’ve hardly told me anything. Now that you are here, you must tell me all about it. Are you and Margaret getting along well?”

Very rarely in his life had Tom been able to keep anything from his sister. Especially not when she looked at him so earnestly with those vibrant, violet-blue eyes. Today would have to be one of those times. He could not tell her of his trials at Moreton Hall—the separate bedrooms, the secret correspondence, the moments when he and Margaret had been tantalizingly close, only to have something arise that brought discord yet again. Tom could not trouble Lizzie with any of these things. She looked far more ill than Geoffrey seemed willing to acknowledge.

Happily, Tom had observed James’s trick of being able to say one thing and mean quite another, without exactly lying. It was a skill, indeed. And so, putting on an air of contentment to cover the irony, he said, “Oh, Lizzie, the way we are getting along would astound you.”

*

Margaret walked swiftly up the street toward the livery stable where she’d left her horse and carriage, pondering the conversation she’d just had at the post office with Mr. Rawlins. No matter how Margaret had approached the subject, he’d given no hint that Tom had been collecting letters there. He’d said only how happy he was that Tom would stop by from time to time to pass the time of day with him. Margaret was still unconvinced.

As she drove her carriage toward Moreton Hall, she breathed in deeply of the fresh, cool air. Autumn was
advancing rapidly; they might even have an early winter. All around her, the shorn fields lay brown, their bounty yielded up. Of all the seasons, Margaret loved the autumn best. The intense labor of summer was over, and life slowed to a more comfortable pace. The days grew shorter, but remained long enough to drive out and to pay visits to neighbors. Best of all, the weather was usually perfect for riding. Margaret longed to go riding again, to explore the meadows and woods as she used to do.

She was just approaching the little lane that branched off to the abandoned cottage, and on an impulse, Margaret turned her carriage into it. She had a sudden desire to see the place again. Upon arriving at the cottage, she was just getting down from her carriage when something unexpected caught her eye. There was horse dung near the hitching area, and it was fairly fresh—no more than a few days old at most. Someone had been here recently. Had Tom sent someone out to repair the leak? She could see no outward signs of roof work. Other than the evidence of a horse having been here, the place was undisturbed.

The interior of the cottage looked just as it had the day she and Tom had sought refuge from the rain. Memories of that day, which had wrought so many changes in her life, began to flood her mind. She ran a finger over the rough-hewn table where Tom had casually tossed his coat, and pictured him as he had stood by the hearth, his damp shirt clinging to him and his features lit by the fire he had started so deftly. Something
had
changed, though. She caught sight of a small wooden box on the floor, sitting half-hidden by a table leg. She bent down and lifted the lid. The box held pen, ink, and paper.

Margaret could think of no one else who would have placed these items here except Tom. He must have been coming here for a private place to read and write. That would explain why she had occasionally noticed ink stains on his hands, even after he’d been gone from the house all day. It would also explain those times when Williams had been unable to discover where Tom had gone or what he had been doing.

In Margaret’s mind, this was all the proof she needed that he had been keeping secrets from her. She returned the lid to the box and considered taking it with her in order to confront Tom with it as soon as he returned. But she doubted even this would force him to talk. Margaret had spent the weeks since their marriage learning, to her chagrin, that Tom was every bit as stubborn as she was.

Leaving the box where it sat, she straightened and prepared to leave. She paused at the threshold and turned back for one last look, her eyes drawn to the spot where he had kissed her for the first time. Even now the memory of it brought fire to her face and sent her pulse racing. On that day, as in all the days since, Tom had never concealed his desire for her. And yet he had never taken that desire to its logical conclusion. This had confused her, but now, suddenly, she understood. Tom had held back because she had pushed him back. In this one very important thing he had been a gentleman, not willing to take her against her wishes. With this realization came the certainty of what her next step should be.

With a man like Paul it had been easy to wield those powers of persuasion known as “feminine charms.” Why had she not tried this with Tom? In the depths of her soul, Margaret knew the answer. Back then, her heart had
been safely aloof, invulnerable. With Tom it was infinitely more complicated. Her reactions to him had been too intense, too unsettling, and she’d kept pulling back, afraid of losing control. She had never even considered that she might use their physical attraction in a way that could be to her advantage. Perhaps she should be like the biblical Delilah, coaxing the secrets from Samson’s heart.

*

“You understand, Mr. Poole, there may be repercussions from this,” Inspector Field said. “You must decide if you are willing to take that risk.”

Tom and Geoffrey were at Inspector Field’s home, which he had assured them was ideal for privacy and confidentiality. Field’s own wife sat in a chair outside the door of the little parlor where they were meeting, keeping watch to be sure they were not disturbed nor overheard by any of the servants. Since Mrs. Field was a sturdy, take-charge kind of woman, Tom had no doubt she discharged this duty quite well.

They’d only been here for a quarter of an hour, but Tom was already convinced that if anyone could help them, it was Inspector Field. He was a short man, but wide and solidly built. He kept an aggressive stance as he talked, constantly using gestures to punctuate his words. Tom could easily believe he’d kept criminals in line with his authoritative and no-nonsense manner.

Tom had explained that Richard Spencer wished to blackmail him with something he knew about Tom’s past. Inspector Field had not yet asked him the particulars, but Tom sensed they were getting around to that.

“What kind of repercussions are you speaking of, Inspector?” Geoffrey asked.

“If we prove Spencer is blackmailing you, and we subsequently bring him to justice, then the information you are now paying him to conceal may yet come to light. It could come out at trial.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers above his round chest, sending Tom a piercing glance. “Are you prepared for such a thing?”

Tom thought about this. “Yes.” He took a breath. “And no.”

This brought an inquisitive tilt of the head from Field.

“I’m not worried about myself,” Tom explained. “However, the honor of a lady is at stake. She has done nothing illegal, mind you—and yet she stands to lose her good reputation.”

“I see.” Field’s wide forehead scrunched in thought while he removed his wire-framed glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Naturally, when blackmail is involved, one expects that there are sordid or embarrassing reasons for it.” He resettled his spectacles on his wide nose. “I must ask for your complete candor, gentlemen. I promise you that nothing you tell me will go beyond this room.”

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Very well, then. Inspector, the lady we are speaking of is my wife.”

“I see,” Field said again, showing no appearance of surprise. No doubt scandals among the titled classes were not news to him. “It is no small thing to slander the wife of a peer.”

“She is also my sister,” Tom said. “And I will do anything to protect her.”

“Is she aware of your problems with Mr. Spencer?”

“No,” Geoffrey said firmly. “She is about to give birth to our first child, and she is in delicate health. She must not know anything about this until after she is fully recovered.”

“I understand. The timing is vital. When is the happy event to be?”

“In just over a month.”

“Never you worry, sir,” Field assured him. “We’ll do everything we can to keep the lady from distress. We shall proceed with the utmost care.”

W
hoa, there!” Tom struggled with the rope as he led his stallion off the freight carriage. Castor snorted and pranced, pulling Tom with him as he rushed down the ramp. Tom regained control once the horse was standing on solid ground. If anything, Castor’s spirit set Tom’s mind at ease. It was proof he had survived the journey intact, and for that Tom was immensely thankful.

The speed of the trains, not to mention the vigorous starts and stops and the piercing whistle, had been difficult enough for Tom on his first journey. Today they were doubly distressing because he had worried about their effects on his horse. Everyone had assured him that this was actually safer for the horse than tramping along rutted roads, but Tom had still been wary. They had come too far together for Tom to lose him now.

The gelding Tom had also brought was standing docilely a short distance off, held by a station hand. That horse had probably taken a train journey before, perhaps on its way to London from the farm where it had
been bred. It was a tall creature, and Tom liked the way he held his head. He could easily imagine Margaret on this horse. He had known it was the right one for her as soon as he had seen how easily the horse handled, and how well it moved. The gelding had plenty of spirit, though, and Tom was sure Margaret would be pleased. He could hardly wait to present it to her.

He hired a driver to take him to Moreton Hall. The horses were tied to the back of the dogcart, easily keeping up with its slow pace.

“Them’s gonna be a fine addition to any stable,” the driver said with admiration. “Don’t often see ’em so fine around these parts.”

“It’s just the beginning,” Tom said. “I plan to build the best stable of horses in Lincolnshire.”

“I reckon you’ll be up against Mr. Innis for that honor,” said the driver with a chuckle. “He’s got some fine ones, he has.”

“For riding?” Tom asked with interest.

The driver gave a nod of his grizzled chin. “Aye, and racehorses, too. He’s made a good penny or two on several of ’em.”

Seeing that Tom was inclined to listen, the driver launched into a description of Mr. Innis, who was by all accounts a conscientious and well-respected man. He was actually a tradesman, but through some distant relation he’d inherited an ailing estate. Under his oversight it was prospering, and he was even adding to his holdings. It occurred to Tom that perhaps he should make this man’s acquaintance, and find out what he had done to be so successful. Maybe Tom could apply the information to the Moreton Hall farms.

The dogcart plodded steadily along the country road. Everything around Tom gave him pleasure, from the smell of wood smoke wafting through the air to the leaves rustling in the stiff breeze. Already the place felt like home. He could not recall feeling this way about anyplace in Australia. His home with Lizzie had been a happy one, to be sure, and the landscape had become comfortably familiar over time. But never had his heart given the curious little stutter it was doing now as Moreton Hall came into view. He knew why, of course. His wife was there.