The Valentine Legacy
Page 31
“My dear Jessie, that’s not exactly what I meant, but perhaps that is a consideration.”
“What can I do, Marcus?” James said, snagging the tart before the earl could. “My wife will surely pine away without me if she and the Duchess go off adventuring.”
“We’d never leave you to yourselves. It would be too dangerous,” the Duchess said, leaning forward, her soft white elbows resting on the white tablecloth.
“Do your ordering, Duchess,” James said, “then we’ll leave. But first, tomorrow night, we’re going to a ball in Jessie’s and my honor at the Blanchards’, where it all started with Jessie falling out of a tree on top of me, after, of course, she’d shot Mortimer Hackey in the foot.”
“Oh dear,” Jessie said. “Do you think that dreadful man will be there?”
“If he is,” James said, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet at the ankles, that last damson tart chewed and swallowed, “and if he gives me any threatening looks at all, you, my dear wife, can pound him into the Blanchard rosebushes.”
Surprisingly, Jessie didn’t laugh with all the others. She nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry about Hackey. Surely he’s feared me ever since I shot him in the foot.”
James rolled his eyes.
Spears said, “Quite right, Jessie.”
Marcus said, “I don’t suppose, Badger, that you hid just one more damson tart? James has proved himself an unworthy host. He popped that last one into his mouth before I had a chance to snag it for myself.”
Badger, giving Marcus the same fond look he frequently bestowed on Anthony, lifted the corner of a napkin to reveal one last tart.
The Blanchards, immensely fond of James but not his mother, and equally fond of Oliver Warfield but not his wife or his daughter Glenda, were perfectly willing to accept Jessie once Mrs. Blanchard saw that she wasn’t wearing trousers and smelling of the stables. Indeed, the Blanchards were so relieved to see something of a vision come into their house that Mr. Blanchard ordered more bottles of champagne to be brought up from the wine cellar.
He rubbed his beefy hands together. “Ah, James, she’s a fine girl, just look at that beautiful hair. Never noticed she even had hair before. And her, well, her other womanly parts look womanly, which is a vast relief, let me tell you.”
James took it all in good humor, just smiling and nodding.
Mrs. Blanchard wanted to exclaim her delight and her relief, but she was too in awe of the Duchess, this glorious English countess who surely could be a queen—filled with grace and charm and so achingly beautiful she knew all the gentlemen would fall over their feet to get near her. Not to mention that husband of hers—an earl!—and he was actually James’s cousin. They’d known about the English Wyndhams, of course, but actually to have them here in their own house in Baltimore—it was more than Mrs. Blanchard could stand, nearly. Her hands were over her bosom as she listened with rapt attention to the Duchess’s ever-so-refined voice, with all those clipped syllables and concise royal vowels. Mrs. Blanchard was filled to overflowing with sublime content, knowing that every matron in Baltimore and its environs would know of her brilliant accomplishment in hosting such fine guests. They’d worship at her feet. Which was of course the real reason they were giving the party for James and his new bride.
Mrs. Blanchard prayed that Wilhelmina Wyndham would be late. Indeed, she sent one brief, heartfelt prayer that Wilhelmina just might sprain her ankle as she stepped into her carriage. Maybe even break it.
No such luck, she thought, hearing Wilhelmina’s ringing voice all the way from the front steps. It appeared she’d arrived at the same time as the Warfields. Surely Glenda wouldn’t be with them. Surely.
James wasn’t at all surprised to see Glenda standing stiffly beside her mama, wearing a gown that surely showed off too much cleavage. She looked very pretty, if the truth be told, not the kind of pretty that attracted him, for he’d discovered that Jessie’s looks appealed to him now. He drew a deep breath, tucked Jessie’s cold hand in the crook of his arm, and said, “Good evening, Oliver, Mrs. Warfield, Glenda.”
That was the most optimistic line that came out of his mouth for the next five minutes.
“We are here because your father insisted we come.”
“Actually,” Oliver said under his breath, but not enough under it for everyone present to hear, “I wanted to come alone. I knew I’d have a better time if I came alone.”
“You can come with me, Papa, and have some champagne punch.” Jessie took her father’s arm, and the two of them bolted toward the punch bowl. James grinned after her, then watched the Duchess reduce his mother-in-law and sister-in-law to stuttering supplicants. Glenda even curtsied. The Duchess gave her a gentle nod of approval.
It was excellently done. As for Marcus, he took care of James’s mother when she swept into the Blanchard house, passing Mrs. Blanchard with a mere nod, heading straight toward the Duchess.
Marcus said to her without pause, “Charm is a very useful tool, if one has sufficient intelligence to realize it. Don’t you agree, ma’am?”
Wilhelmina pulled up short, twitching her skirt away from the Duchess, who was standing six feet away from her, and smiled flirtatiously up at the earl. “My dear papa told me that I was endowed with more charm than anyone he knew.”
That, Marcus thought, staring at that still-handsome face that had some of the look of James in it, was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to him. It probably hadn’t occurred to any member of her acquaintance. “I trust to see it oozing out of you tonight, ma’am. If it is not oozing out of you I will question my ability ever to converse with you again.”
Wilhelmina felt put upon. She also believed the earl, whose threat was distressing. She’d wanted to preen in front of all her neighbors because she was actually a relative of this illustrious couple, but at the same time she’d wanted to dash the damned Duchess into the floor. It wasn’t to be. Also, all her neighbors believed themselves more fortunate than God to have that damned adventuress and the earl in their midst. She drew a deep breath. She resolved not to insult the Duchess tonight. She wouldn’t insult her son’s new wife either, though that would be difficult as well. She didn’t want to lose the charming earl and his charming conversation.
“We will waltz, my lord?” Wilhelmina asked, patting the fat little sausage curls in front of her ear.
“Certainly,” Marcus said smoothly. “But first, a gentleman must dance with his wife.”
“You’re a smooth-tongued devil,” the Duchess whispered to her husband as he whirled her around in his arms to the lively music played in strict three-quarter time by a small group of men at the far corner of the room.
“I will be disappointed in myself if she slips her harness tonight and allows her tongue to run riot,” he said, kissed his wife’s lovely ear, and whirled her around in wide, full circles. “I will have failed in my, er, mild threat. Pray that she doesn’t, Duchess. My image of myself as a great diplomat would suffer.” The Duchess choked as she laughed up at her husband. Neither of them was aware that all the guests were standing around in a huge circle staring at them.
“Well,” Mrs. Blanchard said complacently, “they are nearly royalty. Of course one would expect them to dance to perfection. Doesn’t the countess even laugh perfectly? Ah, and they are so beautiful, both of them. She in that dark blue silk and he in those splendid black evening clothes. I do wonder what is wrong with Wilhelmina. She has the amazing good fortune to be connected to them. She looks as if she’s swallowed a prune pit.”
“She always looks as though she’s swallowed something,” Mr. Blanchard said. “As for the earl, he’s a damned good man, despite his being English. I suppose a fellow can’t help his antecedents.”
Mrs. Blanchard looked at Mr. Blanchard as though he’d lost his mental faculties. She was more grateful than she could say that for whatever reason Wilhelmina Wyndham hadn’t held a ball for the English royalty and her new daughter-in-law. So that privilege was now hers. S
he turned to greet Compton Fielding and his mother, Eliza.
“Ah,” Fielding said once he’d greeted and been greeted by the Blanchards, “I see that James and Jessie are here. I’m delighted they’ve married. It’s quite a surprise, but a good thing.”
“I was very surprised as well,” Eliza Fielding said. “I believed James looked upon her as a little sister. Jessie is a delight. I remember I tried to talk her into taking violin lessons from me when she was young, but she was always horse mad. How lovely she’s become.”
James and Jessie danced sedately. James didn’t want to take the chance she’d turn green and end up in the Blanchards’ garden vomiting up her dinner. Nor did he want to see the infamous tree that spat Jessie out of its lower branches and onto him.
It was midway through the evening when James finally got to speak to his sister, Ursula, Giff, and Alice Belmonde. He hugged his sister, thwacked his brother-in-law on his broad shoulders, and said to Alice, “You’re looking well. How do you feel?”
Alice gave him a brave sweet smile. She was pleased he’d married Jessie and told him so. “Just look at her, James,” she said, pointing to Jessie, who was talking to Compton Fielding. “She’s beautiful, so very different than the way she used to be. It’s surprising that none of us realized what was beneath those old hats she used to wear. Or perhaps it all happened by magic when you put that wedding ring on her finger.”
“Jessie’s still the same, Alice, just the outward package is a bit different. She’s splendid, you know.”
Alice was surprised to hear James Wyndham speak of any woman, even his wife, with such pride. Jessie had been transformed, turned into a beauty. Alice hoped Jessie’s inner self was still the same.
“I say, James,” Giff said, “I approve your choice of brides. I hope she can still ride a horse after the way she’s changed.”
Ursula said, “Is it true that Jessie’s pregnant? Mother was going on and on about it, her lips all tight and pursed.”
“Yes. You can give me even more congratulations.”
“So you did ruin her,” Alice said.
“No, Alice, Jessie isn’t all that pregnant, only about two months along, we think. I need to call Dr. Hoolahan over to Marathon to examine her.”
“Oh, here’s Nelda,” Alice said. “Excuse me, James, Ursula. Nelda and I are having tea tomorrow.” Alice waved as she walked away. James looked down at his sister. “Would you care to dance, Ursula?”
When they were on the dance floor, James kept their movements sedate. He said, “I know you wonder why I married Jessie. As always, you’re willing to bide your time. You have more patience than Job, Urs. You never let Mother rile you. I sincerely hope Giff appreciates you fully.”
“Giff is a smart man, James. Of course he appreciates me.” His sister gave him an impish smile. “Now tell me why you married Jessie Warfield, your nemesis on the racetrack.”
He said, “To be blunt, I married her because I wanted to. It’s as simple as that. She’s a marvelous girl. We share many interests, as you know.”
“I’m not upset that I’ll never know the whole truth, James. Mother is fairly chomping at the bit. I do hope she doesn’t begin to attack Jessie once that beautiful Duchess has returned to England with her equally beautiful husband.”
“If she does, then I shall have to call you to help me shut her mouth.”
Ursula laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh that sounded just like her husband’s. “I will wish us both luck,” she said, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss her brother’s cheek.
“Ah,” James said after he’d returned her to Giff. “Compton. Come on, let’s have a brandy and talk about Le Cid. It’s a marvelous play. You’re the scholar here, tell me how accurate it is.”
They spoke in French, James insisting. “If I don’t speak French occasionally, my mouth muscles refuse to work properly,” he said, and laughed. They spoke of the French playwright’s plays for some time, enjoying themselves thoroughly. James said after a pause, “Oh, Compton, do you know if our esteemed magistrate, Mr. Dickens, has managed to uncover anything about Allen Belmonde’s death?”
Compton shook his head. “No, he just dithers around, then goes home to bed his new bride. I’ve never before seen a man so smitten. Well, perhaps you fill the bill as well, James. I’ve watched you look at Jessie tonight. Your bride looks lovely.”
“I fill the besotted bill?” James asked in some surprise. “I’m very fond of Jessie, and the good Lord knows I savor all the other joys a man is offered in marriage.”
“You would be a wily diplomat,” Compton said, and laughed. “Did Jessie enjoy the latest diary I gave her?”
“Well, yes she did, actually. It’s quite a coincidence about diaries, actually. You’ll never believe what she remembered.” James paused, frowning at himself, then continued easily, “Well, never mind that. Tell me about your latest violin recital, Compton. I was sorry to miss it.”
James listened politely. Spying Jessie across the room, he smiled at her. She was having an animated discussion with Marcus, but seeing James, she smiled back.
Once Compton had finished describing his recital, James inquired again about Allen Belmonde. “Gordon has no ideas at all? No one he can suspect?”
“No, not really.”
“Mortimer Hackey hasn’t bothered Alice, has he, Compton?”
“Not that I know of. I do know that Giff has been keeping an eye on him. He’s dealing with all Allen’s banking affairs, you know.”
“Good,” James said, wondering what Mortimer was up to. In James’s experience, men like Mortimer Hackey didn’t give up easily. He said as much to his brother-in-law a few moments later when he caught him alone. “I appreciate it, Giff. I can’t help it. I just feel protective of Alice.” He shook his head at himself. “So Gordon hasn’t said a thing to you either?”
“Nothing directly pertaining to Allen’s death, but he did say that one of his dock rats, as he calls them, told him that it was Belmonde who was behind that incident with Jessie—when someone tried to run her down. Apparently Belmonde hired a ruffian to do it. I can’t understand why, but there it is.”
James stared at Giff in utter disbelief. This was the first he’d heard of the incident. “What did you say? Jessie what? Someone almost ran her down? She’s never said a word of it to me, curse her hide.” He turned around to stare at his wife, and this time he wasn’t smiling. She blinked at him in surprise.
“Yes, that’s right. I assumed you knew. Gordon heard that Allen might have hired a man to do it. Gordon asked me if I could think of any reason why Allen would want Jessie dead—he didn’t come to me until after both of you had left for England. I told him I couldn’t think of anything other than that she always used to beat him racing. Then she saved Sweet Susie from those thieves. He seemed pleased enough with her then as I remember, at least until she threatened to butcher him after he threatened you.”
“This is nonsense and I’m going to kill her,” James said, plowed his fingers through his hair, and turned abruptly on his heel. “I will speak to you later, Giff.”
Why the hell hadn’t she ever said anything about it to him? Why hadn’t anyone else said anything to him? He stopped a foot from his wife, who greeted him with a wide smile and a soft look in those green eyes of hers that somehow looked greener between her gown and her shining hair.
“Jessie.”
“Hello, James. Do you want to waltz with me again? I would like that. You’re so graceful and—”
“Be quiet. I don’t want to dance with you. I want to strangle you. Come with me to the garden.”
“Oh dear, is Mortimer Hackey here? I didn’t bring my pistol, James. I’m sorry. I forgot. Are you certain you want to go to the garden?”
He ground his teeth, took her hand in his, and pulled her across to the long bank of French doors that gave onto a balcony with steps down into the garden. “We’ll stay up here. I don’t know what you’d do if you got near that tree again.”
He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, but not too hard because he didn’t want her to turn green and heave up her dinner. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you about what? What are you talking about, James? I saw you speaking with Alice and Compton and Giff and ever so many other people. What do you mean?”
“Giff told me that Gordon Dickens, the magistrate—”
“I know very well who Gordon is. Other than pompous and an idiot, he’s got a father who managed to get him appointed as magistrate, truly a jest and—”
“It turns out that old Gordon heard from an informant that Allen had hired a man to run you down. Run you down how? When did someone try to run you down?”
“Oh, that.” She had the gall to shrug. “If the truth be told, I’d forgotten it. I’m not so sure now that that man wanted to kill me. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he wanted to mow Compton down. Now you say that Allen was behind it? That’s surely odd and difficult to believe.”
“What happened, Jessie?”
“It was last winter, James—well, late March actually. I was walking down Pratt Street, not paying much attention because I’d just seen Connie Maxwell and I knew she was your lover, well, never mind that. I went into Compton Fielding’s bookstore and bought a book. He walked me out to the sidewalk. Then, with no warning, this man driving an empty wagon, two horses pulling it, came right at me. He very nearly got me, too. If it hadn’t been for Compton Fielding, I fear I might have met my maker.”
“What did Compton do?”
“He grabbed me by the seat of my pants and yanked me through the door of his bookshop. The man drove the wagon within a whisker of the bookshop entrance. Fielding didn’t think it could have been an accident. The man whipped up the horses and was out of sight in seconds. Actually, what I remember most vividly is being furious because he was mistreating those horses. Neither Compton nor I recognized the driver or the horses. Actually Mr. Fielding couldn’t recognize any horse—he thinks they all look alike—but I could, and I didn’t. A good dozen people witnessed everything, but none of them remembered anything helpful.”