“What? But…but, when? Who?”
“It’s a long story, but the short of it is that Douglas Camden was my brother-in-law, as well as friend. I suppose some might call me a coward, but I couldn’t bear to return to England and face Amy after his death.”
“But that was five years ago!” the colonel exploded. “Don’t tell me you have been afraid to face a woman for that long. I won’t believe it.”
Marcus laughed. “No. I suppose the truth is that time has just slipped by, and I have let it.”
“Then you won’t let it slip by any longer,” Bromley said firmly. Opening the top drawer of his desk, he rummaged around for a moment, coming up with a sheet of paper. “Ah, here it is. Perfect.” Fixing Marcus with a stern look that brooked no opposition, he spoke as if pronouncing sentence. “There is a ship leaving for England at the end of the week. I will notify the captain you will be on it.”
Marcus recognized the tone. There was no gainsaying the colonel in this. It was time for him to leave India. Barnes, at least, would be ecstatic.
Why had he lied?
What made him make such a claim? Beyond the obvious reason of diverting Anjeh’s attention, that is.
Had he, unconsciously, wanted the colonel to send him packing?
Perhaps he had. He knew he was losing control. The blackouts had been increasing ever since he’d been seeing Anjeh. He had no doubt she was giving him more, and stronger, stuff. Perhaps she thought that in one of his stupors she might have convinced him to marry her. He smiled to himself. That was all water under the bridge now.
Walking back to his rooms, he was oblivious of the oppressive heat. It was something he had become used to. Would he re-acclimate himself to England as easily as he had become used to India? At least he would be near the sea.
His brother Brand was the Duke of Warringham and overseeing his estate on the Cornwall coast. St. Ayers. While he had known of its existence, he had never been there. Looking back, he realized it was the only part of the ducal holdings his father always traveled to alone. Even his mother had been left behind when his father visited that particular estate. And his father had left it to him.
The ducal holdings were vast enough that the loss of St. Ayers had probably not affected the income. And, according to Brand, it was self-supporting. Perhaps he would retire there and see if he could get his life back together.
Then, maybe, he would find himself a wife. He nearly laughed out loud as he remembered Colonel Bromley’s expression when he had told him he was already married. It had only been sort of true—five years ago.
Douglas Camden had been his best friend. The only one who understood he had never shared his mother’s aspirations of a ducal coronet for him. All he’d ever wanted was a commission. As the third son of a duke, it should have been obtainable. But it had been derailed by the disappearance of his two older brothers when he was still a baby. When his oldest brother, Bertrand, nicknamed Brand, had reappeared, so had his dreams, and his father had wasted no time in acquiring the commission he had so dearly wanted.
The sharp, pungent smell of curry and saffron wafted on the light breeze. He’d enjoyed the local cuisine while he was there, but he wouldn’t miss it when he returned home. There had been times when he would have given anything for a plain pudding.
Eight years ago now seemed like a lifetime. At fourteen, Amy Houghton had been little more than a waif. Big gray eyes and mousy brown hair, she had been thin as a rail and all arms and legs. He and Douglas had concocted the scheme while in their cups. But it had been a sound one, nevertheless.
Douglas Camden was the only son of Baron and Lady Camden. When his father had put a pistol to his head after gambling away the family holdings, his mother returned to her parents’ home with her young son. A year later, she met and married Baron Nathaniel Houghton, a widower with five children. Unfortunately, under the influence of their uncle, Viscount Dryden, and his wife, the five children had done their best to make Douglas and his mother’s lives miserable. When Amy had been born a year later, they had not welcomed her any more than they had her mother.
Douglas had taken it upon himself to watch over and protect his baby sister at all costs. When his stepfather purchased him a commission shortly after leaving Oxford, he had requested he stay in England in order to stay close to his family. It had lasted for a number of years until his superiors decided he needed to be posted somewhere else. When Marcus arrived with his news of receiving his own commission, they had been pleasantly surprised to find they were both being posted to India. That was when Douglas’s perfect plan had been hatched.
It would be easy, Douglas said, to provide both he and Amy with a little peace of mind. Marcus, well acquainted with Douglas’s stepsiblings, agreed.
The evening before they left, they had taken Amy and bribed a vicar to perform a marriage ceremony. It was only a fallback. Without a license, he was certain the marriage wasn’t legal, but it was all semantics. He and Douglas were only counting on it to give him some clout if Amy needed protection, and he knew he could rely on his brother to provide the rest. The plan—to ensure that Amy need not ever be under her stepbrother’s thumb—was so simple, it was foolproof.
Or, would have been if she hadn’t died with her parents on an outing celebrating her seventeenth birthday. He still had the letter from her brother, Gregory, informing Douglas of his mother’s death, and Amy’s, along with Gregory’s father’s. If Douglas hadn’t already been dead, the letter would have killed him. His mother and sister had been everything to him. Marcus hadn’t bothered to write back. The letter he had sent to Douglas’s mother and stepfather would have passed the one he received. Gregory would have figured it out.
All in all it probably suited the new Baron Houghton just fine to be rid of both of his unwanted stepsiblings so neatly. But Marcus still found it hard to believe his gallantry had all been for naught. It seemed like such a waste. Amy had only been seventeen. She still had her whole life ahead of her.
London hadn’t changed much. It was still a sprawling metropolis, parts of which no man of means should venture into. The area around the docks after sundown was one such place, which was why Marcus found himself spending his first night in London still on board the ship he had arrived on.
Barnes was disappointed. Having been violently ill for the first part of the journey from Calcutta to Bombay, then recovering while enroute from Bombay to England, he was anxious to be on dry land again.
Marcus’s first morning in London was unremarkable by a Londoner’s standards, but Marcus discovered he had indeed missed the overcast, drizzly days London was famous for. It was as the hackney driver was grumbling about the weather that he realized this was summer and the weather was a bit unusual. Even so, he was enjoying the unexpected cool spell. After the heat of India, it was a welcome relief.
Arriving at Waring House, he was not surprised to learn the duke and duchess had left for the country. Upon inquiring of the housekeeper as to their whereabouts, he was pleased to discover they had repaired to St. Ayers. Dispatching a letter to his brother informing him he was back and would arrive at St. Ayers within a fortnight, he set out to put his affairs in order before leaving London.
He’d spent long hours on the voyage home deciding what to do with himself. Going back and forth over his options, he came to the conclusion he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in Her Majesty’s army. What getting out might entail, he wasn’t sure, but he would explore the possibility in the next few days before leaving for St. Ayers.
Having made the decision, he visited a tailor to refurbish his wardrobe. He considered stopping in at White’s on his way back to Waring House, then changed his mind.
What would he have done if Amy had lived? With Douglas and her parents gone, he would have become her guardian and their marriage would have had to emerge from its cover of secrecy. It might not have been a hardship. He wasn’t sure he had ever planned to marry. Being only a second, or third, son there was no need for him
to worry about carrying on the title. And his brother now had two healthy sons, the proverbial “heir and a spare”.
He and Amy would have rubbed along just fine. He could support her, and he could put a roof over her head. A very fine one if Brand’s descriptions proved accurate. Perhaps the reason to marry would be to leave St. Ayers to one of his own sons, instead of a nephew. To start his own line.
His mother had been obsessed with him inheriting the Warringham title. He suspected she might have had something to do with his brother’s disappearance all those years ago, but the plan, if that was the case, had not succeeded. Something for which he was very grateful. He had never aspired to fill his father’s shoes. Brand was much better suited to it than he—even after a twenty year absence.
He closed his eyes and pictured Brand’s wife, Felicia, for a moment. Engaging, bright, witty and beautiful, she and his stepniece, Amanda, now the Countess of Wynton, had been bosom bows. He wished now that she had met Douglas.
And he wished he had written her about Amy. She would have understood his motives in marrying a girl of fourteen. With two very protective older brothers, she would have understood his desire to protect a helpless young woman from vindictive older siblings, and would have applauded the sacrifice of his freedom to do so.
He shook his head as if to clear it of its depressing thoughts. There was a very large, comfortable library at Waring House. He’d find a book and entertain himself for the evening, but tomorrow he would head to Whitehall and find out what it would take to shed his uniform for good.
Lord Sherbourne regarded him suspiciously through spectacles perched on a prodigious nose. Through the glass, his eyes looked a greenish watery blur and Marcus had to force himself not to try to look this man in the eyes. It would only give him a headache, he decided. His thin lips were pursed in a moue of disapproval, his bald pate shining in the lamplight. All in all Marcus thought he looked a little like a gnome.
“So, you want out, do you, my lord?” Sherbourne’s thin, raspy voice reached out to him, like a ghostly specter.
“I do.”
Obviously taken aback by the confidence in Marcus’s voice, Lord Sherbourne merely regarded him owlishly.
“Well, it’s not that difficult. But we no longer cashier out. With the prohibition of the purchase of commissions also came the discontinuance of the practice of cashing out our officers.”
Marcus nodded in understanding. It had not occurred to him that cashing out was an option. He was well aware his father had pulled a number of strings to get his commission in the first place. Wanting out seemed a mite ungrateful.
Parliament had, in 1859, abolished the purchase and sale of commissions. It had, he thought, been the death knell on the possibility for him. But, despite the ban, upon his brother’s return in 1864, his father had procured a commission for him and he had been posted to India immediately. He had been too pre-occupied with attaining what had been his dearest wish at the age of twenty-four to realize his father had done so in order to shield him from the ugliness of the events following his departure. If the gossip that made its way to India in the ensuing months had even a kernel of truth in it, the months after he left England had been ominous indeed for his brother and sister-in-law.
Now, he looked over at Lord Sherbourne and said, “I did not expect to receive remuneration for leaving.”
“Very well. All that is necessary, then, is that you tender your resignation and it be accepted. Acceptance, you realize, is a mere formality, but it must be observed, nevertheless.”
“And who would I address my resignation to?”
“The War Office should be adequate,” was the reply. “You will receive a letter by return post informing you of the Office’s acceptance.”
Marcus rose to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”
Lord Sherbourne did not bother to rise, but nodded his head dismissively.
Marcus turned on his heel and left. Once outside, he looked up into the cloudless, blue sky, suddenly feeling freer than he had in many years.
Three days later he left London.
Chapter Three
If this letter finds you at St. Ayers, I will meet you there in approximately a fortnight.
Major Lord Marcus Waring to his brother, Brand, Duke of Warringham
Corinna sat on a large rock watching the gulls overhead swoop and dive in a cloudless sky, their shrill voices filling the air. On the beach, Michael and Caroline scampered barefoot over rocks and splashed in pools left by the tide, gathering shells, rocks, and treasures alike.
“Corrie, look,” Caroline brought yet another shell for her inspection, laying it beside the rest. They had been collecting and playing for some time now, and, looking up at the sky, she knew it was time to get back to the house. But not yet, she told herself. She wanted to stay just a few minutes longer.
“That’s very pretty,” she told Caroline. “Which one do you like best?”
Caroline studied the various shells intently for a moment before picking up a small, oyster-shaped one. The pink and white lines across the back were symmetrical ridges, but the inside was very smooth and a darker shade of pink. “I like this one,” she announced, “because it reminds me of Penelope.”
Penelope was Caroline’s favorite doll. It had a porcelain face with bright pink cheeks painted on, blue eyes, and golden hair. Although the doll had other clothes, Caroline kept her dressed in a pink and white ruffled confection that made her look like a piece of sugar candy. Thankfully, Caroline was too much of a hoyden to allow herself to be dressed similarly.
“If we put it on a piece of string, it will make a pretty necklace,” Caroline continued.
Michael came up to see what they were looking at. With his hair windblown and slightly damp, his cheeks reddened from the salt breeze, he could have passed for any of the village boys who often combed these shores.
“I found a crab,” he announced. “But it was very small, so I didn’t pick it up.”
“That was probably for the best,” Corinna told him. “It will probably go back out to sea on the next tide.”
“When it gets bigger, a fisherman will probably catch it for dinner.”
Corinna didn’t react. She had learned that Michael enjoyed making comments that often ended with something being eaten. He was fascinated by what his father referred to as the “food chain”.
“Show me,” Caroline demanded, and the two scampered off.
Corinna smiled and watched them go. They had been at St. Ayers for almost two weeks now, and she had fallen in love with the rugged beauty of the estate and the Cornwall coast. Now she understood why it had once been the domain of freebooters, smugglers, and even a few pirates. The coastline was dotted with coves and inlets, many with caves and hidden beaches.
St. Ayers sat above one such cove. The large house perched atop a sheer cliff and looked out over the blue expanse of the channel. Somewhere out there in the distance lay France. She’d already learned from the housekeeper that the house had stood for over two centuries, a haven from the winter storms that often blew in from the sea.
Being so far from London, Corinna had allowed herself to completely relax her guard and enjoy the children. She had ceased to look over her shoulder and no longer worried about the possibility of a chance encounter with someone who might recognize her.
Caroline and Michael tried to coax her out into the sea, but she admitted to herself, and them, that it was not something she wanted to try just yet. Maybe someday. They had, however, gone sailing one day with the duke and duchess, and Corinna discovered she enjoyed it very much.
The beach and cove below the house was a treasure trove for two children bent on exploring. There were two caves, one of which, the children had informed her, was a secret exit route from the house, and numerous tide pools in which the children found something new with each visit. The sea washed up a fresh batch of treasures every day.
Then there were the birds. At times the beach was thick with them, and
there were so many different ones they had lost count of them. Corinna had never seen so many different species before and she longed to find a book to tell her what they were. Perhaps she’d check the library. The duke would probably know if there was such a book there.
Glancing back up at the sun, she noted its place and called to Michael and Caroline. Gathering up their shoes and stockings, she directed them toward the house. It was time to wash up before tea.
“Can we come back tomorrow?” Michael asked as they made their way up the pebble-strewn path to the top of the cliff. “I want to see if my crab got back out to sea.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “We shall see how lessons go in the morning.”
Reaching the cliff before her, both children scurried off toward the house. It was as she reached the house that she noticed a carriage coming up the drive. There was no time to dwell on who it might be as the children had obviously seen it too. Hurrying forward, she entered the house by the same side door as the children, but they had already made it to the front hall.
“Look, Caroline, a carriage,” Michael’s voice floated back to her.
“Ooooh, I see it!” Caroline squealed, her voice echoing in the front hall.
“It must be Uncle Edward,” Michael joined in excitedly, his voice rising to match his sister’s in excitement. “He’s coming!”
Corinna’s heart sank as the duke emerged from the first-floor library, and the duchess came from the direction of the front drawing room. She remained in the shadow of the staircase watching the entry with dread.
“Is it him, Papa?” Caroline’s voice reflected the excitement she and Michael were feeling.
By now Michael was near the front door, which was being opened by Pulliam, the butler. “Of course it is, silly,” he replied in a slightly disgusted tone. “Who else would be coming here in a carriage?”
Family Scandals Page 3
