Authors: Lavinia Kent
“Cook does hate it if you’re late
. Does she yell at you too?”
“Not quite, but I have gotten a good glare.
” She strode towards the house and then stopped, turning back to Will. “If I come tomorrow will you be here? Maybe then I could try an apple.”
“Don’t know where else I’d be
. You’d better hurry. Maggie says cook can have an awful temper.”
“
Thank you. I will be back tomorrow.” She picked up her boots and hurried off towards the house and her lonely meal. Maybe food would cure the pain that had begun low in her belly.
Tristan stared out the window at his wife. He’d been watching for a full ten minutes as she flounced around the yard with Will, her slim body sharply outlined by her windswept dress. She was an enchantress in her innocent play. He’d almost run out when she fallen, but her fast recovery had stayed him.
He should have been concentrating on his quest to find out what was happening in the China Sea, but as Marguerite turned back towards the house he leaned forward and rested against the windowpane
. The cold of the glass cooled his heated skin. What was he going to do about her?
He’d planned it all out a week ago, but then he’d received that damn note saying Huismans was deserting London to attend a fight
in Crawley. The idea of the prim and proper Dutchman at a boxing match was laughable – and, therefore, suspicious. He must be meeting somebody.
Tristan had dashed off within an hour of receiving the note from Violet
. He refused to miss seeing Huismans’ contact. This could be the break he needed. Only Huismans never showed and days of searching for someone who had seen him revealed nothing. All he had managed was to get Moreland drunk on numerous occasions. Now, there was a man you’d expect at a fight. Simon took great pleasure in bloodshed, as long as it was someone else’s.
If only the man weren’t an idiot
. Simon had an increasing habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the more time they spent together the more apparent it became that any thoughts in Simon’s head were borrowed from someone else.
Damn
.
It would have been so easy if
Tristan could lay it all at Simon’s door. In didn’t hurt that Simon had a clear fascination with Marguerite. The more potted he became, the more he commented about Tristan’s delicious young wife.
Tristan pursed his lips in displeasure
. Some of Simon’s comments passed all lines of decency. It had taken great restraint not to start his own fight. There would have been great pleasure in planting his fist in that smug face.
Only something had stopped him
. He turned from the window and walked to his desk. Why had he not sent Simon crashing to the ground? Honor and appearance should have dictated it. He ignored the niggling feelings that there were even deeper reasons he had wanted to let his fists fly.
What had held him
? He tapped a finger on the edge of the desk. He was still certain that Simon did not have the brains to mastermind this affair. He had come across many a man who pretended foolery to disguise a spinning mind, but Simon’s idiocy was too genuine. He might be leering, lecherous and even on occasion malicious, but he did not have a plotter’s mind. Any success he might encounter was either accidental or planned by his mother.
Planned by someone else
. That was it. Simon could not be the schemer, but could he be the puppet?
Tristan’s tapping grew faster.
He placed the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind. He still was far from having a completed picture, but things began to take shape. Simon attended both afternoon teas and gentleman’s clubs. He might not be the source of original thought, but he could certainly repeat it and pass it along.
The question then became, if Simon was the puppet, was he a marionette with strings that could be traced back to his master?
Tristan stopped tapping and walked back to the window. Marguerite had left the stable and was walking back to the house. She had proved able, if unwitting, at procuring the invitations he needed. Could he use her again?
He had seen Simon’s interest in her,
and it could be used. How to best manipulate things to his best advantage? His belly roiled at the thought of using Marguerite in such a fashion, but he forced it down. It would not hurt her. She already spent time with Simon in public and all he would need to do was encourage it. If questions were planted in her mind and any information then retrieved, it would be no different than things he had done a thousand times before.
Only it didn’t feel the same.
He looked down at Marguerite. She looked so happy.
She had surely been angered by his abrupt departure, but hopefully his note had waylaid the worst of her displeasure
. He’d used his very best technique and phrasing. No woman could stand long against sweet words.
It was time to make this a real marriage
. He would not allow circumstance to waylay him further.
He peered out the window again
. Marguerite had paused before entering the house. She stood staring at an early rose as if counting its petals. She had such intensity, such focus. To the idle eye she might seem to be going through the same rituals of any young society matron, but he saw the gleam of interest in her glance as she approached each task.
What would it be like to have such extreme interest focused directly on him
? His body stirred at the thought. From the first moment he’d seen her at Rose’s house party he’d noticed the hidden passion in her. Their recent kisses had only heightened his assurance. Dear, sweet Marguerite had a tigress hiding within her and he was just the man to bring it out.
She stiffened suddenly and spun towards the house
. She must have realized how long she’d spent flower gazing.
He turned towards the door with a spring in his step, h
e would join her for luncheon. A meal with Marguerite was the perfect place to start working the information he needed into simple everyday conversation – an art he had already perfected. His wife was young and naïve, it would not be difficult to have her moving to his choreography. He was a master of control.
Now all he need was for her to follow the cue – something she’d
neatly avoided so far.
He was halfway down
the stairs when the maid, rushing from above, careened into him. She ran on without pause, almost as if she hadn’t seen him. Then she stopped, and her face turned pale and she panicked. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry, but Oh . . . We must fetch the doctor. My lady, she’s bleeding.”
Bleeding
? He hadn’t seen Marguerite cut herself when she fell. Then, as the maid continued to stare at him, gaping like a fish, understanding came to him.
He turned and bound down the stairs
, passing the maid and calling for a footman.
“John, leave now to fetch Dr.
Howe. No matter what other matters he attends he must come – now. Tell him the marchioness is in great distress – I will suffer no delay.”
Tristan turned to back to the steps and stopped
. The maid was gone, returned to her mistress. Should he follow? Would he be wanted, needed? He could not remember ever feeling so helpless.
Chapter Nine
“I have done all that can be done. Your wife is resting comfortably, although she still suffers from emotional distress.”
Tris
tan stopped pacing as the Dr. Howe entered his study. He ground out the cheroot that he’d left burning in its tray. There was little more than ash left. A whiskey sat, untouched, on the table.
“How is she?
” He held his voice steady.
“She is as well as can be expected.
” The doctor looked towards the window.
“She will be fine, then?”
“Yes.”
“And the baby?
” Tristan held his breath as he waited for the answer.
Dr. Howe
paused. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Finally. “There will be no baby.”
Tristan sat in the chair behind his desk and stared at the letters before him
. No baby. Marguerite must be devastated. He’d seen her rest a hand on her belly when she thought nobody was looking, seen the softest of expressions cross her face.
“How did my wife take the news?”
The doctor darted a look at him, then his glance returned to the window. “She is distressed, but I think that is a matter you must discuss with her.”
“You are the doctor, surely you can tell me
. She is my wife.”
Dr. Howe
turned to face him. His color blanched under Tristan’s stare. “It is best if you speak with her ladyship. I find that between husbands and wives some matters should remain private. If your wife will not speak with you, then I will, of course, clarify any remaining difficulties.”
Tristan kept his gaze steady on the doctor
. He did not blink as he waited for more details of Marguerite’s condition.
The doctor flinched under Tristan’s glare, his eyes flickered about as if looking for escape
. “Please, your lordship. Speak with your wife. I do not know enough of the circumstances to answer you fully. Lady Wimberley knows you will have questions and I believe she is preparing to answer them.”
“Why the mystery
? You have told me that she has lost the child, but is in no personal danger. What more is there to say?”
The doctor turned away, breaking the eye contact
. “I can only repeat exactly what I have said. There will be no child. Your wife is doing as well as can be expected. Now, I will say again you must speak to her for any remaining clarification. Any other advice you need is probably best heard from a close male friend or relative.” The doctor shuffled towards the door. His glance fell on the whiskey. “And you should probably indulge less. Now, you must forgive me. I have other patients who are in urgent need. I wish you the best, Lord Wimberley.”
Without further comment the doctor departed
. Tristan stood there, staring at the door, waiting for his whirling thoughts to still.
Marguerite had lost the baby
. The rest of the doctor’s muddled words faded before that fact.
Marguerite had lost the baby.
He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey and downed it in one gulp. The bitter burn filled his mouth and throat. He poured another one.
He should go to her
. She would need comfort, a shoulder to cry on. He lifted the glass, stared at the amber liquid, then swallowed it down.
He stalked to the window and stared out at the view the doctor had found so entrancing
. The day was as gray as his mood. As if on cue the heavens opened and another heavy downpour began.
He allowed himself to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose
. Then he turned for the door.
Marguerite rolled the crumbled sheet between her hands. She had cried until there were no tears left. There was no baby. It should not hurt so deeply. She had never wanted the baby. She had felt cursed that he was on the way. She had turned her whole life around for him – and now this. She dropped her hands to her sides and let her head drop back on the pillow. She wished numbness would fill her.
There was a soft knock on the door.
She turned her head away.
Another knock sounded, louder.
She clenched her eyes tight. She knew she had to face the world, but she still felt so raw. Her hand massaged the now familiar ache in belly.
She heard the door handle turn and then the soft rush of air as the door was eased open
. She turned to face it.
She met her husband’s quick
silver eyes.
“I thought you were asleep
. I wanted to be sure you were in no distress,” he said as he entered the room.
“No, I am awake
. I could not sleep.”
“The doctor said you were resting.”
“Yes.”
“He said that you were doing well, but that . . .”
“. . . that there was no baby.” Marguerite suppressed the broken laugh that rose within her.
“Yes, he said you had lost it
. I am so sorry.”
She pushed herself to sitting
. Why did she feel such an invalid? There was no reason. “I did not lose the baby.”
She could feel Tristan’s glance move over her
, examining. “Forgive me. I must not have heard you correctly,” he said.
“No, you heard me
. I did not lose the baby.”
“But the doctor said . . .”
His voice trailed off.
“I am sure the doctor said ‘there will be no baby.’ And there won’t be
. But, I did not lose the baby.” Marguerite stared down at her hands. They were clenched so tight that the knuckles showed through.