The Wagered Wife (12 page)

“Well, if he means to be rid of his wife, he should probably just get on with doing so.” Trevor had spoken without thinking, and the words hovered in the air for a moment.

Then Theo cleared his throat. “I would guess there is more at stake than merely his freedom.”

Trevor felt himself coloring. “Hmm. Well . . . yes. You are probably right.”

Theo shifted the subject. “The
ton
seem as eager to see and be seen by the visiting royalty as ever the rabble have been.”

Trevor seized on the diversion. “The Wallenfords's ball will bring them out in droves. My mother will be in alt.”

“Will you go?”

“I rather think so.”

“Meanwhile, my friend, if amidst all this glitz and glamour you have so little of substance to occupy your time in London, you might come round and lend me some of that expertise you expended on logistics and supplies in Spain.”

“And what would
you
be needing help with?” Trevor asked skeptically.

“My father handed me a wagonload of information on our textile mills and that damned pottery. Said he thought I should ‘study up on things' before taking over.”

“Not rushing you at all, is he?”

“No-o-o. Nothing like that.” Theo's sarcasm was clear. “But,” he added more seriously, “he is anxious to turn over the reins. I think he wants to be sure I can handle them.”

“So you are trading your regiment of soldiers for an army of workers, eh?”

“Something like that. Though a few of them will be the same people.”

“Oh?”

“I have hired some of our men. The job situation out there is difficult, to put it mildly. Impossible if a man is lame at all.”

“England does not seem to have been prepared for our return.” Trevor thought his personal situation—feeling superfluous in his own household—was a reflection of the plight of the common run of former soldiers. At least, he had no worries about feeding himself or a family.

“No. And things are bound to get worse when the troops in America arrive back on home soil,” Theo replied.

“Cheap labor for folks in your position.”

Theo started, and his voice was cool. “I hope you do not harbor the view that I would take advantage of the less fortunate souls among us.”

“No, of course not, Theo.
You
will not. But there are those who will.”

“Right.” Theo was mollified, but remained glum. “No wonder the Luddites go around smashing machinery they see as robbing them of the few jobs that are available.”

“You have had troubles in that regard?”

“Not yet. But my father thinks it is a real danger. Be glad you do not own cotton mills, Trev.”

“I say!” A merry voice broke in on them. “Why are you two old warhorses looking so blue-deviled?”

“Ah, Jenkins and Moore. Welcome. Thought you were still in the country at a race meet.” Theo gestured to chairs and the nearly full brandy bottle.

“Returned this morning,” Jenkins said.

As the newcomers helped themselves, Theo deepened his voice to a pompous tone. “We were discussing The Problems of Returning to Civilian Life After the Rigors of the Campaign Trail.”

“Shouldn't think either of
you
have such great problems,” Moore said. “I mean, Ruskin here is the heir of a viscount. And Jeffries's father is as rich as Croesus.”

“Right,” Jenkins said, falling in with Moore's teasing tone. “Now, we younger sons—we are the ones with genuine worries.”

“Ha!” Theo and Trevor said in unison, for they both knew the other two to be very well positioned both financially and socially.

Trevor had no intention of discussing his private affairs with these two. Theo, yes; others, not at all. He turned the conversation by asking them about their activities of late. Jenkins and Moore had come just now from the opera again. This brought up the subject of a dancer who had caught Jenkins's eye.

“Our friend Harry here is fickle indeed.” Moore gestured toward his companion. “He has already forgot about the beauty in the box the other night.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jenkins said in mock umbrage. “No man could forget such a delectable creature as that!”

Theo gave a bark of dry laughter. “Well,
you
had best do so, Harry. That ‘delectable creature' is Trevor's wife.”

“Wha—”

“Never say so!”

Jenkins and Moore were obviously stunned at this news.

“Thought I'd better stop you,” Theo said, “before Trevor here was forced to invite you to grass for breakfast.”

“Hmmph. Well. In such a case, I am sorely afraid you would all have discovered the ugly truth about me,” Jenkins said, his voice a parody of sadness.

“And that is . . . ?” Theo prompted.

Jenkins lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “I am a coward at heart. I would never accept a challenge from Trevor. Why—he's a crack shot, don't you know?”

They all laughed at this and the tension was eased. Trevor tersely explained that he had not seen his family in five years and had not known his wife to be in town. He could tell the others were not completely satisfied, and he surmised that he and Caitlyn were sure to be a prime topic in at least two drawing rooms on the morrow.

As he took a hackney back to what he continued to think of as Caitlyn's house, he thought over the discussion he and Theo had had before the arrival of the other two. Theo's comments had triggered something. Ah, yes. Ledgers. Whitcomb, the solicitor, had pressed files and ledgers into his hands some time ago.

Perhaps he should have a look at them.

 

 

Caitlyn had tried to keep up a facade of normality about her life. Apart from inviting Trevor to ride with her once, she had made no personal overtures to him. She thought they had accepted enough invitations together to deflect the worst of gossip. These had been discreet affairs like that musicale the other evening.

She and Trevor were invariably polite to each other, but she thought they both studiously avoided being alone together. She had been unable to bring herself to remain with her husband one night when Aunt Gertrude rather pointedly excused herself. Pleading fatigue, Caitlyn too had retired early. She and Trevor did not live exactly as strangers, though—more like school acquaintances who did not much care for each other.

However, they both cared a great deal for Ashley. Caitlyn experienced sincere gladness—and growing apprehension—as she observed the developing affection between Trevor and his daughter. Already Ashley adored her papa and was in a fair way of wrapping him around her little finger.

Trevor had said he would not take her child away. Caitlyn would have to rely on that assurance for now. But what would he say later—when his family decided they opposed the uneasy truce between Trevor and his wife? He had bowed to their wishes readily in the past. She knew he had called on his mother, but he had not discussed the visit, nor did she feel free to ask about it. The crisis would come when his father and brother returned to town—as they were sure to do for the round of celebrations, which had already started, to mark the defeat of Napoleon.

The newspapers had babbled for months of the grand state visit of England's allies. The Prince Regent was sparing no expense in his plans to entertain Alexander, Czar of All the Russias, and Frederick, King of Prussia. The czar's sister, the Grand Duchess Oldenburg, had arrived as early as March to help smooth the way for her brother, though it was whispered she was also on a diplomatic mission to forestall any talk of marriage between the daughter of the Prince of Wales and a Dutch prince. Russia feared an alliance between the two great maritime powers of the day.

The society pages of every journal were filled with this soiree or that rout to honor the visitors. The grandest of these affairs, aside from a dinner and ball the Prince would host at Carlton House, was to be a ball staged by one of the
ton's
favorite hostesses, the Duchess of Wallenford.

Caitlyn had been surprised to find herself included in the Wallenfords's guest list. But then she supposed that it would have been “bad
ton
” even for the duchess to invite Trevor and exclude his wife, and Trevor's connection to the Earl of Wyndham insured his invitation. The gilt-edged vellum missive had put Caitlyn at sixes and sevens at first. Never in her wildest imaginings would Caitlyn Maria Woodbridge have dreamed of being in such exalted company. She had seen Trevor's mother on occasion, and, of course, had actually met the hateful Gerald, but she had never even seen her husband's father, let alone met the man.

Now she would be in the same room with her in-laws who despised her. Then she mentally raised her chin in characteristic stubbornness. Aunt Gertrude would be there. And surely Trevor would stand by her, figuratively and literally.

Although he tried to immerse himself in his own affairs, Trevor found himself more and more interested in Caitlyn's activities. Not expecting anything for himself, he took little interest in the mail which Thompkins, the butler, set at Caitlyn's place each morning. She would sort through it, dividing the missives into piles of estate affairs and social doings. There were usually one or two of the latter addressed to Aunt Gertrude and, occasionally, one to him.

There would ensue brief discussions over acceptance of social invitations, which arrived at an increasing rate. Of course, the most significant of imminent events was the Wallenford ball. Breakfast over, Caitlyn would closet herself in the library while Trevor escorted Ashley on some excursion or another.

Trevor wondered about matters that required such concentrated attention, but Caitlyn had so far not volunteered any information, though he surmised she dealt with estate business that should probably be his. He was not yet ready to shake the fragile accord they had achieved by asking about those matters.

He was perplexed, intrigued—even overwhelmed—by his personal reaction to this woman who was, in fact, his wife. He came to savor the light floral scent when she was near. He listened for her throaty laugh in a room. His fingers itched to touch the warm brown softness of her hair. Her most arresting feature, of course, was her eyes. If he were not careful, he might lose himself in those eyes.

She seemed to avoid any physical proximity to him. If their hands happened to touch as she passed him a dish of tea, she would quickly draw away. It was usually a footman who handed her into or from a carriage, but if it chanced that her husband did so, she allowed only the briefest of contact. Yet she clearly was not a squeamish, “untouchable” sort. He had often seen her lay a hand on or touch a fan to the arm of a man or woman with whom she spoke. And she never failed to gather Ashley—or even Ashley's dog—into her arms, with little regard to mussing her gown.

Did she consider him so very repulsive, then? Even as he found himself responding to her more and more intensely? Her bare arms in the drawing room or at the dining table, the swell of breast at a low neckline, a glimpse of deeper cleavage as she knelt to hug Ashley—all would cause a catch in his breath, a tightening of his body.

He imagined his hands spanning her waist, caressing her body. He cursed himself for his fierce jealousy as she danced or laughed with other men—things she rarely did with him. Then he would shake himself with the reminder that he was still contemplating the dissolution of this marriage. Of course, that was not a matter of great urgency at the moment. . . .

One morning as Caitlyn sorted through the mail, she looked at a certain letter curiously.

“This one is for you, Trevor.” She handed it across to him.

Trevor recognized the bold, heavy hand immediately. “My father.” He opened it and scanned the brief contents. “A summons. The earl has returned to town and demands that I call immediately.”

He looked up to see apprehension in Caitlyn's eyes. Such a summons no longer had the power to cause him any trepidation, but he well remembered how he had felt five years ago at the last such demand for him to present himself. He wanted to reassure Caitlyn, to erase that worried look he saw her exchange with Aunt Gertrude.

“ 'Tis not a matter for worry, ladies. He is in town for the celebrations.”

“Has Gerald come with him?” Aunt Gertrude asked in an apparent effort to discuss the matter normally.

Trevor glanced again at the letter. “Yes. Along with his bride. They all plan to stay through the celebrations.”

“That should please Lydia,” Aunt Gertrude observed. “She and Miranda get on quite well together.”

“Being birds of a feather, you mean?” Trevor asked with a derisive but not malicious laugh.

Aunt Gertrude chuckled. “Well, there is that . . .”

Gerald had been married nearly four years. Trevor recalled his mother's letter and the clippings describing what had been one of the most lavish society weddings in a decade. He had noted at the time the pointed absence of his own wife, though Aunt Gertrude had been listed among the guests. So far, Gerald and his wife had failed to produce an heir.

“I shall go this afternoon,” Trevor said. “I should, of course, have called upon them even without such a kind invitation.”

Later, when he arrived at Wyndham House, he had a distinct feeling of
déjà vu.
Heston gave him a sympathetic look as he took Trevor's hat and gloves, but there was no Melanie to give him warning. In the drawing room, his father and his brother Gerald stood to offer their hands, but Trevor felt there was more courtesy than warmth in their greetings. Trevor kissed his mother's proffered cheek.

“You remember Miranda, of course,” the countess said, gesturing to the woman next to her on the settee.

“Yes. How do you do?” Trevor took his sister-in-law's hand briefly. Miranda's severely styled, almost black hair failed to soften her sharp features and contrasted starkly against her very white skin. It was a warm summer afternoon, but this woman looked cold and forbidding. What had Gerald seen in her? Trevor wondered, and then answered his own unspoken question. The proper credentials, of course. A father who was a lord, a suitable dowry, all the “correct” accomplishments of a
ton
miss, and a firm sense of her own lofty place in the scheme of things. She returned his greeting condescendingly.

Salutations over, Trevor took a seat and waited. His father seemed to be silently assessing his younger son. Finally, the earl spoke.

“Your mother informs me that you have taken up residence in Bedford Square. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

The earl seemed to be waiting for Trevor to say more, but he did not elaborate.

“With that . . . that connection of Fiske?” Lord Wyndham asked, hesitating when Trevor directed a hard, questioning glare his way.

“With my wife and daughter, yes. And Aunt Gertrude.”

“
Your
daughter?” Miranda's innuendo was clear.

“Yes, my lady.
My
daughter.” Trevor experienced a fleeting triumph when Miranda could not hold his gaze.

His mother sniffed. “No one in society believes that.”

“They will.” Trevor's tone was flat, matter-of-fact.

“You are still the veriest gull,” Gerald sneered. “Five years seem to have taught you nothing. Nothing at all.”

“On the contrary. I learned a great many things. Foremost among them is that I need not sit here and endure your insults. If you will excuse me . . .” Trevor rose, bowed curtly, and turned toward the door.

“Now see here,” Gerald sputtered.

“Oh, Trevor, please—” his mother implored.

Miranda sat looking pinched, but said nothing.

“There is no need to fly into the boughs,” the earl said. “Gerald, hold your tongue. This will get us nowhere. Please sit down, Trevor.”

Trevor, surprised at the strength of his own fury, reluctantly resumed his seat.

“Now,” the earl continued, “we should like to know why you are pursuing a course of action that will merely make an unpleasant situation worse.”

“Sir, with all due respect, the ‘situation,' as you put it, is mine, and the course of action will be mine as well.”

Gerald gave an audible snort. “Are you daring to tell us that you will make this family the laughingstock of the
ton—again?
”

“Oh, my heavens!” Miranda sounded appalled.

“You cannot allow that bit of baggage to subject us to yet further shame,” his mother said, her eyes flashing in rage.

“I will not sit here and have you insult Caitlyn, either.” Trevor rose again.

“Sit down, son, please,” his father said. “Lydia, you are not helping.”

Trevor sat again, surprised by his father's reasonable tone with him, and even more surprised at the earl's mild reprimand of his heir and his countess.

“Oh, Alfred.” Lady Wyndham seemed to be fighting tears. “I simply cannot bear the thought of more scandal in our family.”

Trevor might have felt sorry for her had he not been wondering how much of this was show.

Ignoring his wife's outburst, the earl said, “Trevor, I thought you had agreed with the rest of us that this affair was best put behind us.”

“That was before—”

“Before what?” Gerald demanded.

Trevor looked directly at his brother. “Before I knew my own family had deliberately deceived me. Before I knew Ashley to be my child.”

None of them would meet his gaze.

“We acted from the best of intentions, darling,” his mother said as though she were addressing a child.

“But you had no right to withhold Caitlyn's letters from me. You hid the truth from me.”

“And just what ‘truth' would that be, little brother?” Gerald employed a demeaning tone that Trevor had always hated.

“You knew very well that the child was mine, but you chose to keep me uninformed.”

“We
knew
nothing of the kind,” Gerald declared flatly. “Nor do
we
know it now. That woman may have successfully fooled
you,
but it takes more than a passably pretty face and some clever playing with the calendar to fool the rest of us.”

“We cannot allow this, Trevor,” his father said quietly. “There is no need to continue this charade. You must convince the chit to accept our offer.”

“And if I cannot do so?”

“We shall cross that bridge only if we must,” the earl replied.

“Well,” the countess interjected in an adamant tone, “I can tell you right now I shall never recognize that . . . that woman—or her child.”

“If one could truly believe the child was a Jeffries, that would shed a different light on the matter.” Miranda's disbelief was clear.

“As it is, there will always be doubt, you know.” The countess was placating now.

“When Gerald and I married, the initial scandal had died down.” Miranda glanced at her husband. “Now it will be all stirred up again—and just as the whole country has come to London. It is too much. Really. Simply too much.” She, too, sounded as if she would burst into tears, but her eyes were wondrously dry.

“Cannot you do something to spare the family further scandal, Trevor, darling?” his mother wheedled.

Trevor stood to lean against the mantel of the fireless hearth. “Look,” he said. “I accept fully my role in the original contretemps. And I apologize—again—for any embarrassment I caused you five years ago.”

Gerald interrupted. “That hardly excuses the situation now.”

Trevor raised his hand as a signal for him to halt. “However,” he went on, “the scandal was prolonged and has been kept alive all these years through you.”

“Wha-a-at?” His mother fairly choked on the word.

“Preposterous!” Miranda said.

Trevor held his hand in that silencing gesture again. “Had you listened to Aunt Gertrude—had you quietly accepted Caitlyn and the child, the gossip would have proved a nine days' wonder—and not worthy of renewed attention now.”

“Well, I never.” Miranda snapped her thin lips closed.

“Allow that blackguard Fiske to foist some unknown by-blow off on us? Unthinkable,” the earl said, showing his strongest emotion yet.

Trevor glanced at his father and wondered at an enigmatic look he saw pass between his parents. He stood straighter and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Father,” he said gravely, “I have no idea what the quarrel once was—or is—between you and the Baron Fiske. However, it has nothing to do with either my wife or my daughter.”

“Your wife, yes. Unfortunately.
Your
daughter? Not likely.” Gerald's sneer had not diminished.

“Gerald.” Trevor's tone was deadly, and threatening in its quietness. “If you venture one more slur against Caitlyn or Ashley, I shall be forced to call you out, brother or no. Now,
there
would be a genuine scandal for you.”

“You would not,” Gerald said, but his voice indicated he believed otherwise.

“I would. I will,” Trevor said in the same quiet tone. “I was always a better shot than you—and I have had a good deal of practice lately.”

“Alfred—say something!” the countess screeched.

“Come now, Trevor. Gerald. This wrangling is unnecessary.”

“I will
not
accept that woman—nor her child—in my home.” His mother was being her stubborn self, Trevor noted. “Nor will I acknowledge her in public gatherings.”

“Why should you change now?” Trevor muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “You will not be asked to, Mother. We shall manage to contrive. Now, if you will all excuse me, I really must be off.”

“I had hoped this could be handled more amicably,” the earl said in a weary voice that caught Trevor's attention.

He looked at his father intently.
Why, he is not well,
Trevor thought, somewhat surprised at realization of his father's mortality. The earl stood and took his younger son's hand briefly. Trevor noted that his father's skin looked and felt like parchment.
Not well,
he told himself again. Trevor gave the others a stiff little bow in farewell. Their faces remained closed, rejecting.

As he left his family, he felt unutterable sadness at the breach. Thinking back, he relived the entire scene and made a surprising discovery. He had actually believed what he was saying. At some point recently, he had come not only to believe Caitlyn, but to believe
in
her.