When Marrying a Scoundrel (3 page)

Her friend gave her a sympathetic look. “Vienne won’t let you slip away so easily. She will have questions.”

Of course Vienne would have questions. It was obvious Indara had them as well. How could they not? Both had been there to witness her awful exchange with Jack. The man did a terrible job of pretending he didn’t know her, even though he’d been the one to attempt the lie. She hadn’t said her husband was dead to hurt him. Well, perhaps she had, just a little, but she’d mostly said it to give him a way out, and instead he said…what he’d said. And damn him, he still had the power to hurt her more efficiently than any other.

She should have chosen a different last name. Leave it to him to read something into it.

“I will answer her questions,” Sadie allowed after a brief pause. “And yours as well, but not tonight.” Let Vienne try to wheedle it out of her, she would meet only failure. Vienne might be tough, but she was no match for Sadie when it came to digging in her heels, and Sadie needed to be alone. She needed a little time to think and accept. And perhaps, she needed a drink and a little time to cry.

“Go then,” Indara commanded, giving her a swift,
fierce hug. “I will see to this, and I will bring home food. You need to eat.”

Sadie opened her mouth to tell her friend that she wasn’t hungry, but closed it when her stomach rumbled and Indara shot her a sharp glance. “Food would be good. Thank you.”

She gathered up the paisley pashmina Indara had given her for her birthday and draped it over her shoulders. Then, she exited the tent through a flap in the back that usually allowed her to make her escape without notice. She’d learned a long time ago that people always wanted more from her, even after she’d given them all she could. There would always be at least one waiting outside wanting clarification on something she’d seen, wanting to know what it meant—answers she couldn’t give. How was she supposed to know the path of their lives when she didn’t even know her own?

There was a door camouflaged in the wall of the club behind the tent, and it was through there that she exited the ballroom. It led into a small chamber used as a kind of green room for the musicians and other performers provided by Saint’s Row. Sadie didn’t like thinking of herself as “entertainment,” though she certainly provided that as well. It brought back too many memories, and an unpleasant creeping sensation on her skin. She wasn’t some smoke-and-mirrors charlatan playing at being a medium. She was genuine in her talent, and other than a penchant for color and prodigious head gear, she made no attempts at showmanship.

Not anymore.

She crossed to her left, heels of her slippers muffled by thick carpet, and opened another door. This one led into a corridor that joined the main vestibule of the club with the ballroom—what used to be a theater years ago. People milled about in the open area, moving across the polished marble floor, their voices echoing slightly. It was cooler here, a little less noisy. Perhaps a few waited for their carriages to take them to another engagement, or deliver them to their homes, but most were content to stay until the end of the evening when Vienne hosted such galas. She was a very good hostess, and her refreshments and repasts rivaled the best in London, to the point where many society matrons were loath to host their own gatherings on nights when Saint’s Row had a special function.

There were people here every night and Vienne knew everything that went on. Sadie didn’t know how she did it, and she shouldn’t have been surprised to hear her friend’s voice just as she made her way toward one of the footmen stationed at the door.

“Where are you going?”

Sadie halted in midstep. She should have known she would not be able to escape so easily. She turned and watched wearily as Vienne swept toward her, mouth set, eyes bright.

“I am going home. I have a headache.”

Immediately Vienne’s expression turned to one of concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

Sadie shook her head. “I’m sorry to leave so early, but I…I need to go home.”

Vienne nodded. Unlike Indara, she didn’t try to touch her or offer comfort. It was as though Vienne knew what it was to barely hold oneself together and how easily intimacy of any kind could destroy that façade. “Come for tea tomorrow. We will talk.”

“I have a meeting with the landlord of my shop after luncheon, but I will come directly from there.”

“Yes.” Vienne’s eyes brightened. “I will want to hear all about your plans.”

For a moment Sadie’s mood lifted, thinking about the prospect of having her own business. Her own purpose. “And you have a meeting of your own, do you not?” With the question, a heaviness descended upon her once more.

Mouth thin, Vienne scowled. “Yes.” Obviously her opinion of Jack had soured somewhat. “One word from you, and I will tell him to go bugger himself.”

The offer almost brought tears to Sadie’s eyes, base and coarse as it was. Vienne was a business woman and prided herself on it. That she would give up an important alliance—one she’d spoken of for weeks—because Sadie asked it was humbling, and so very touching. “No,” she whispered hoarsely, then cleared her throat. “Do not do that.”

A gaze like the edge of a knife locked with hers. There was compassion there, yes; concern and love, but there was also determination. “Tomorrow, you will tell me who he is,
non
?”

Vienne was not stupid. Sadie only had to look at her to know her friend already guessed who Jack truly
was, but she nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow. Good night, my dear friend.” She said it a little too sincerely, for she saw something flicker in the French woman’s eyes—a combination of surprise and emotion competing for the chance to change her impassive features. Vienne La Rieux was the kind of woman who avoided close friendships, for reasons only she knew. For some reason Sadie was an exception, though even she would allow there were things about Vienne to which she would never be privy.

The redhead snapped her attention to one of the footmen. “Bring my carriage around for Madame Moon.” The man nodded and rushed off to do her bidding. Vienne then briefly turned back to Sadie. “Good night, Sadie.” Her accent, a little thicker than usual, drew out the syllables of her name and softened them,
“Saah-dee.”

Sadie watched as Vienne walked away, heels clicking sharply on the marble. How foolish she was to ever think herself alone in this world when she had such friends as Vienne and Indara.

She waited on the steps for Vienne’s carriage. The night was cooler now, carrying the promise of rain on the breeze. She lifted her face to it and breathed its dampness into her lungs. With it came the scents of horse, trees and flowers, coal and dirt. Some of the best and worst smells she’d ever experienced had been in this city. Despite modern sanitation marvels, there were still those who tossed slop buckets into the streets. And while one might revel in the sweet scent of flowers and fresh fruit at market stands, there were also those sell
ing pungent fish—often next to a baker’s cart. There was nothing quite so disturbing as the mixing of odors between mackerel and cake.

The shiny carriage pulled up in front of the steps, it’s rich, wine-colored lacquer gleaming under the lamps that lined the drive. Four perfectly matched blacks pulled the conveyance, and in the driver’s perch sat a smartly dressed man with a velvet top hat and a red cravat.

The footman who’d gone to fetch the carriage hopped down from the small ledge on the back and opened the door for her, flipping down the steps as well. “Mrs. Moon?”

Sadie thanked him and allowed him to assist her inside. Once she was safely ensconced, he thumped the side of the carriage and it began to roll out of the drive. Finally, she was free. She sagged into the corner of the plush cushions and closed her eyes.

It wasn’t a long journey to Pimlico, but this was the Season and traffic was always heavier this time of year, so Sadie tried to relax and allowed the gentle swaying of the carriage, coupled with the gentle clip-clopping of the team, to ease the tension that had gripped her from head to toe. When finally she was delivered to her front door, her headache had abated somewhat, but she felt almost completely drained of energy. Reading leaves always took a lot out of her, and seeing her husband after a decade apart, well, that had taken its toll as well.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Charles, met her at the door and took her wrap. Sadie told her she was going to take a bath, and to make certain that when Indara came home
she give Mrs. Charles one of the petit fours she liked so much. The pastry chef at Saint’s Row was a master. The housekeeper’s sweet face brightened even further at the prospect, and then she gave Sadie a vase of roses that had arrived earlier that day, along with a note from Mason Blayne, Sadie’s friend who could be more than a friend, and who was to escort her to a display of magic the next evening. Sadie took both the flowers and the note with her, grateful for the small surge of pleasure they wrought. If anyone could make her feel better it was Mason.

Upstairs, Sadie went into her private bath and turned the taps in the tub. She removed the stopper from a bottle and emptied some of the fragrant oil into the rising water, closing her eyes as the smell of vanilla and orange rose to greet her. Then she went into her room and removed her gloves, hat, and shoes. She and Indara shared a maid, Petra, who helped her out of her gown. Finally, in nothing but her chemise, Sadie entered the bath and closed the door.

She was totally alone.

The chemise dropped to the floor and she lifted one leg into the porcelain tub. The water was hot, but not overly so—just perfect. She turned the taps to stop the flow and lowered herself with a sigh. Leaning back, she allowed the edge of the tub to cradle her neck, pressing against the knotted muscles there. She groaned and began plucking the pins from her hair, letting them fall to the floor. Her hair tumbled down. Now she was comfortable.

Only then did she allow her thoughts to turn to the
man who had turned her entire world upside down. He had a habit of that, but shouldn’t she have better defenses against him now? After all she was seven and twenty, not fifteen as she’d been when she first met—and married—him. Back then he’d been a pretty boy of eighteen, tall and strapping, with twinkling green-gold eyes and a grin that could charm the devil himself. She’d never seen anything finer in all her young life, and she was ashamed to say she still hadn’t.

The years had been kind to Jack Farrington—Friday he called himself now. Not just kind, but munificent. His hair was darker, touched by gold rather than made of it, and shorter, but just as thick. The face that had been pretty was now heart-wrenchingly beautiful, so tanned and chiseled. Mary and Joseph, he even had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of that perfect nose! His tanned cheekbones were sharper, his jaw firmer, but his mouth was exactly as she remembered. Oh, perhaps his lips had a slightly harsher set to them, but they were still full and exquisitely formed—more so than any man should ever be allowed to own.

It was his eyes that had truly pained her, though. Those eyes that she always remembered as laughing and bright—and sometimes dark with desire when they’d looked at her—had lines fanning out from the corners, and they hadn’t been laughing when she gazed into them tonight. They’d been surprised and angry and…disappointed. He’d looked at her across the stifling confines of her little tent and she’d felt the weight of his disapproval like an anvil on her shoulders.

Disapproval of her livelihood. Disappointment that she was still reading leaves. What right had he to judge her when he had been the one to walk out and leave her to her own devices?

Once, they’d been terribly and passionately in love, as only the young could be. He lived in the “big house” on the outskirts of her little village. And he’d seemed equally fascinated by her as she was by him. They met at a village fair, and though his grandfather didn’t often allow him to consort with those beneath him, Jack often found a way to sneak out to see her, and she to him. He’d introduced her to books and helped her better her reading. He taught her about the stars and told her about London and other grand places he’d been. She showed him how to make butter, and how to ride a horse without a saddle. He treated her like a queen and she thought him a prince. They became friends on their way to becoming lovers, but Sadie had never expected him to propose to her. She’d known his world would never accept her, and the romantic notion of it befuddled her mind. If she’d had any sense she would have refused him instead of eloping.

But they’d had such a lovely life those first two years, despite being relatively poor. It had been easier for her, she supposed, than for Jack. He’d never been poor in his life. He seemed to think she was worth wearing mended socks and faded trousers. That was until Trystan Kane came round with his promises of fortune.

She folded her hands over her bare belly and closed her eyes, remembering the emptiness that had consumed
her in those dark months shortly after Jack had left. Tears leaked down her cheeks and she didn’t bother to brush them away.

It had been around this time of year when melancholy gripped her in a suffocating embrace. She’d lost something of herself then, a part of him and what they’d had together. Ripped away from her like a toy snatched from a child’s hands. And she hadn’t cared what happened after that. Hadn’t cared at all. Jack wasn’t there.

And then help had arrived from the least likely source, and she’d returned to Ireland for a brief time to heal and grow strong again. She liked to think she’d helped her benefactor do the same.

She would have to send
him
a note in the morning, let him know that Jack was in London. Let him do with that information what he would. Sadie would make this small effort and then she would wipe her hands of it. It was obvious Jack wanted nothing to do with her—and of course she wanted nothing to do with him. Each of them had a new identity and a new life. And if adultery didn’t render their vows invalid, the fact that all record of it had been destroyed certainly did. There was no reason for either of them to fear the other. No reason for them to have any interaction whatsoever.