The Importance of Being Wicked (28 page)

“Does Caro know?”

Denford's voice was almost gentle. “No. And I think it would be better if she never learned.”

“I would never mention such a place to a lady.”

“Do you wish to partake of the amenities?”

“I think I'm going to be sick. And then I want to go home.”

“Yes,” Denford said. “I think you should.”

C
aro saw the carriage through the wavy glass panes of the big window in the saloon. Behind her, a contingent of sweating workmen labored to shift an enormous carved oak table. As the vehicle passed through the fantastic topiary guarding the forecourt of the house, she recognized the crested ducal traveling chariot.

Thomas was home, much earlier than she expected, though he'd been indefinite about his plans. He must have left soon after dawn to arrive at this hour. Her heart hammering with joy, she tore downstairs with scarcely a thought for the fact that a man might not be altogether delighted to return to a house turned upside down.

The front door stood open, and a footman was opening the carriage. He let down the steps and stepped aside with erect back and eyes straight ahead, waiting for his master's descent.

Caro ran out with no care for the proper dignity of a duchess. “Thomas!” she cried. When he didn't emerge, she scrambled in and found the duke splayed on the roomy bench, his clothing disheveled and emitting a loud snore. An empty bottle lay beside him.

“Thomas?” He stirred, and the snoring evolved into an alcoholic belch. Happiness, tempered by anxiety, turned to resigned disgust. “Lord Stuffy! You are drunk.”

He opened his eyes, flinched, and closed them again. She took him by the shoulders and shook hard. “You're home. Time to get out.”

His strength unimpaired, he tugged her down to him and tried to kiss her. His breath tasted of cheap spirits. “Ugh!” She pushed him away.

“Caro?” This time he kept his eyes open.

“I hope you didn't think you were trying to kiss anyone else.”

“Stay! I don't want to move.”

“You'll feel much better out of the carriage.”

“No. My head hurts, and I'm not moving.”

“I know just the remedy for that.”

Life had taught her how to deal with the return of a drunken husband. Swatting off a hand that was attempting, not very efficiently, to find her bosom, she backed out of the carriage. “James,” she said to the footman, “the duke will need help getting into the house. Take him up to his rooms.” She glanced at the lanky servant and back at her broad-shouldered husband. “Better have two of you do it.”

The coachman told her they'd left London at five in the morning. Discreet probing further revealed that the duke had been out all night—no surprise there—and been returned in poor condition to Conduit Street by the Duke of Denford, which did surprise her. Reading between the lines of the servant's tactful account, she gathered Denford had acted as interpreter of Thomas's incoherent insistence that the horses be put to without delay.

Once the duke had been delivered into the care of his valet, Caro sought the housekeeper and gave her the recipe for a potion guaranteed to cure overindulgence. She knew it by heart. She had to force the horrible remedy down his throat. He was already in bed, washed and put into a nightshirt by Minchin.

“I want to go to sleep.”

”You'll feel much better when you wake if you drink this first. Open wide. There you go.” He looked so miserable, she dropped a kiss on his forehead.

He blinked a couple of times, trying to focus on her face. “You're back, Caro.”

She could have pointed out that he was the one who'd been away, but she understood. “Yes, darling. I'm much better now, and you will be, too, once you've slept. What were you thinking, getting yourself into such a state?”

He groped for her hand. “You love Robert, not me. You don't love Lord Stuffy, so I tried to be like Robert.”

The sweet idiot! She felt like weeping again. She began to protest, but he cut her off.

“I don't drink and I don't gamble and I don't have a mistress. I'm dull. You told me so, the first time we met. So I tried to change.” He frowned. “Not the mistress. I'll never do that.”

“Good,” she whispered.

“I'm trying to be like Robert, but I'm no good at it. I drank wine. And brandy, lots of it. I didn't like it and it made me sick. I played hazard and I lost.” He looked momentarily cheerful and her heart sank. “But I didn't like that either. If I was a real man like Mr. Fox, or Robert, I'd have lost thousands.”

The sadder he looked, the more her heart ached, a happy ache.

“I failed you, Caro. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll always be Lord Stuffy,” he said, and closed his tortured, bloodshot eyes.

Caro caressed the stubbled jaw. “I wouldn't want you to be anything else.”

But Thomas had passed out and was not to be revived.

What a fool she'd been, and how cruel. She remembered all the times she'd sung Robert's praises to Thomas. The way she'd defended Robert's friends, even when they mocked him. Not that she'd give up her friends. Perhaps Marcus and Julian, though she'd like to know how Thomas happened to be with the latter last night. Thomas wouldn't expect her to, either. He'd never asked her to change, only to put him first. As he had every right to expect. As she wished to do.

Robert had been her first love, but her infatuation had been a girlish one. For so many years, she'd refused to acknowledge that he was a deeply flawed man, bound for destruction by his own ungoverned impulses. Clinging to his memory had been her way of denying that she might have made a mistake when she eloped at the age of seventeen. She had the great good fortune to win the love of a much better man. She'd failed to appreciate his worth and in doing so, almost lost him.

No, not that. Thomas loved her. He'd told her so and showed it in a hundred ways. His character was solid gold and his affection unshakable.

She wanted to wake him up and tell him immediately that she was in love with him. That she adored him and wanted him exactly the way he was.

He was sprawled across the mattress. Lord, how she'd missed him in bed, both awake and asleep. Even in this vast house with huge bedrooms for each of them, she swore they'd live in the same state of intimacy as at tiny Conduit Street. She never wanted to sleep alone again.

A grunt and a long wuffle drew a smile. Better let him sleep it off. It would give her time to gather the servants and tidy up the house.

T
homas woke to late-afternoon light. It must be twelve hours since Denford poured him into his carriage and sent him home to Caro. He thought better of Denford than he had. A little. He wouldn't go so far as to say he liked his fellow duke, but he felt a certain respect for him.

Examining the state of his head, he found it normal. He recollected Caro forcing some vile liquid down his throat on the grounds that it would make him feel better. Apparently it had. He couldn't understand why some men became drunkards. It was a most unpleasant process. The only negative physical effect he felt was hunger. He could summon his valet and demand food, but there was only one person he wanted to see.

Caro had seemed quite her old self yesterday. Or was he imagining that she was finally over the melancholy caused by losing their child? He rubbed his chin and frowned. Better not seek her out until he was shaved. He rang the bell.

“Her Grace asked to be informed when you awoke,” Minchin said.

“Where is she?”

“In the garden, I believe, Your Grace.”

Thomas had a new plan. “Let her be for the moment. I need to bathe and dress. And have someone bring me bread and a slice or two of meat.”

An hour later, feeling quite himself, he headed for the state apartments. His mother had complained of his father's miserly refusal to replace any of the furnishings, and he had to admit she was right. The rooms were gloomy and overly formal, understanding gained from living in the bright, cheerful chaos of Conduit Street.

Entering the saloon, he wondered if he was dreaming. First of all, it smelled of flowers, which bloomed brightly in three or four colorful arrangements. And where did that lacquered bureau cabinet come from? It wasn't a new acquisition, after all, but he'd never noticed how handsome it was until it stood in better light, out of the dark corner it had inhabited all his life, and probably for the last century. The room no longer seemed dismal, a ponderous space designed to overawe the visitor. The placement of the seating invited conversation. He imagined Caro here, entertaining callers and making them laugh. There'd never been enough laughter at Castleton House.

A picture over the fireplace made him frown. He had no idea who the lady in the ruff was, but her plain features weren't helped by a disapproving expression. Strange, Caro hadn't moved her. Too high for her to reach, no doubt.

He rang the bell and gave an order to the house steward. Now he needed assurance that his wife, whom he'd left languishing, hadn't endangered her fragile health moving furniture.

“C
ome with me to the saloon, please.”

Caro wasn't sure whether she was about to receive congratulations or a scolding for the new arrangement of the room. As for the other major apartments, she blenched. She hadn't had time to decide where everything should go. There were pictures on the floor in the dining room, and the smaller drawing room resembled a furniture warehouse.

Thomas led her by the hand through the main door in the garden front. He didn't seem angry. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him. “Close your eyes,” he said when they reached the double door to the saloon. He guided her in. “Now you may open them.”

She was speechless. The Farnese Venus—
her
Venus—hung in pride of place over the fireplace. She looked beautiful, and Caro had never thought to see her again.

“How? Why?” She clutched Thomas's hand, fearing the picture was a chimera that would disappear before her eyes.

“I went to London to fetch it, thinking it might raise your spirits. I was shocked when Batten told me you'd ordered him to take it to auction.”

“I wanted you to have the money for your sisters.”

He kissed her hand. “Denford tells me it's one of the great small paintings of the Italian Renaissance. Thank you for bringing my family such a magnificent dowry. I believe it deserves pride of place.”

“But Thomas,” she said, lifting her hand to touch his beloved face. “How do you come to have it? Did you
buy
it?”

He smiled into her hand. “Mr. Christie was remarkably amenable once I introduced myself and told him my duchess had consigned the picture without my permission. Some disappointed bidders will have heard that the Titian was withdrawn from the sale.”

“This is a case where I'll forgive you for being a high-handed duke.” She gave him a brief kiss and would have made it a long one, but he clearly had more to say. So she stretched her arms about his chest and snuggled up happily. Lord, how she'd missed his solid comfort.

“Despite how important the Titian is to you, you were ready to give it up, to help me. Thank you for your sacrifice, but I would never wish to deprive you of your memories of Robert. Your happiness is the only thing that matters.” His voice was matter-of-fact, without a hint of resentment.

“You are so good to me.”

She rested in the shelter of his arms and looked at Titian's goddess. For so long the Venus had held an importance to her far beyond artistic merit. What was its meaning now? Did she feel more than the simple pleasure at gazing on a marvelous painting, perhaps the best she had ever seen? Caro looked into her heart and discovered a quiet happiness, tinged with melancholy, at the memory of its acquisition. And a strong, bright love for the man whose generosity of spirit had brought it back to her.

“It's our picture now,” she said. “When I look at it, I will think of you.”

Thomas's cheekbones reddened in that embarrassed look she so adored. “She's very pretty, though she doesn't look much like you. You're prettier.” Dear Thomas. He would never be a critic. “The boy's a jolly little beggar.”

This seemed the moment to speak. She took a deep breath, for she knew it would be difficult. “There's something I must tell you. I think we should sit down.”

They shared a sofa, Thomas looking wary. She perched on the edge of the seat, her hands clasped together in her lap. She stared at her thumbs. “I want to tell you about losing my child. My first child.”

“My dearest! I shouldn't have mentioned the boy in the picture. Don't talk about it if it distresses you.”

“I must. I avoided thinking about it for too long. Avoided the truth.” The sentences jerked out. “I was so happy to be increasing after three years. I wanted a child. I thought Robert did too.”

“Did he not?”

“He seemed pleased, in a careless sort of way. I thought he was just being a man. I didn't yet know the gaming fever had taken hold of him, and everything else was unimportant. As I grew larger and came closer to my confinement he went out more and more, often late at night.”

She thought she could tell the story to the one she trusted above all others. But an open heart was vulnerable to hurt. She let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Thomas swore under this breath and placed a gentle hand on her head.

Through gathering tears she relived her terror. “The labors came in the middle of the night and woke me. I was alone. I called for the servants. They sent for the doctor. But Batten couldn't find Robert. He searched all over London for him, all the usual places, to no avail. My labor was very hard, and long. It lasted all day and into the next night.”

“When did Robert come home?”

“He didn't. Our baby was born in the early hours of the morning. He only lived a minute. Robert came home hours later. He never even saw his son.” Caro broke down.