Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  Strand glanced at his wife curiously. “You play, my dear?”

  “And very prettily,” confirmed Lady Bayes-Copeland. “Though not as well as she sings.”

  Lisette said that she would be glad to sing if someone would play for her. “You know what a dunce I am when I try to play and sing at the same time, Grandmama. Perhaps Judith could—?”

  Colouring up, that damsel replied that she’d not practised in weeks and there was no use asking her to play poorly in front of everyone.

  “I found lots of music in the little garden house,” said Lisette, “but it was rather old, and I doubt you could read it.”

  “I’ll tell the men to bring it all to the house,” said Strand. “If there is something you favour, I might be able to help.”

  “Famous!” The old lady rapped her cane emphatically on the floor, causing the dozing Brutus to leap into the air with shock.

  Lisette murmured a surprised, “You play the pianoforte, Strand?”

  He grinned. “One of my numerous accomplishments. I think.”

  “Such modesty,” teased Judith. “I expect you play magnificently, Strand.”

  “Wait until after dinner,” interposed the old lady, “and you’ll see. Lisette, you may bear me company whilst I change my dress, and tell me how it comes about that Judith and Norman are so remarkably improved in looks.”

  Standing respectfully as Strand ushered his wife and Lady Bayes-Copeland into the hall, Norman winked at his sister and muttered, “Wait until dinner, dear Grandmama, and you’ll see!”

  * * *

  Despite her alleged curiosity regarding her grandchildren, once upstairs her ladyship vouchsafed only a grunt upon hearing the explanation for their svelte figures, and at once launched into a tirade regarding their presence at Strand Hall. “I was never more shocked,” she snorted, raising her chin so that her abigail might pin a snowy white lace fichu to the bodice of her violet silk gown. “I declare Beatrice must be all about in her head to dump two young people on a bridal couple! And what mischief is she up to that they must be hustled off so? I warned Dwyer to beat her! More fool he! She’ll bring disgrace on us all yet, and you’ll have no more cause to look down your nose at that fine husband you’ve caught!”

  Blushing furiously, Lisette waited until her grandmother dismissed the abigail, then expostulated, “Really, Grandmama! I wish you would not say such things in front of your woman! And I most certainly do not ‘look down my nose’ at Strand. He has—has been more than good.”

  “More than good my mother’s knickers!” rasped the old lady, delighting in her granddaughter’s horrified gasp. “I have never yet succeeded in keeping a secret from the servants, and had you lived in my day, Lizzie—”

  “Oh! Has he taught you that odious nickname? The man—”

  “Is kept at arms’ length, I do not doubt! Just as rumour says!” Lady Bayes-Copeland leaned forward and, having caught her bedevilled granddaughter as offstride as she’d intended, demanded keenly, “Is it truth? Is your marriage a farce?”

  “Dear heaven…! How— Who—”

  “Need you ask? How could you have been so addlebrained as to confide in Beatrice? The girl’s got a tongue like a washerwoman, and for some reason loathes Strand. I put the fear of God into her, I can tell you! I hope I may not have been too late. If the clubs get hold of it, you’ll have made that fine boy into the jest of London!”

  Sudden tears stung Lisette’s eyes, and she sank her head into her hands. “My God! How could she?”

  “It is truth, then! You must be feather-witted! Do you not know that—”

  “It is not true!” Lisette flared, lifting a stricken face. “Not now, at all events. But if it was, it would be his fault, not mine! You are quick to condemn me, ma’am, but precious little you know of it! And if you fancy Strand abused—what of me? Do you know what it is like to be married to a man who—who has never uttered a word of tenderness or—or passion? Who sees me as nothing save a social symbol to salvage his confounded—stupid name?”

  Inwardly pleased by her granddaughter’s spirited departure from her customary poise, the old lady snapped, “No, I do not. Your husband may not be clever with words, Lisette. He is, I venture to suspect, better with actions. And vastly more worthy than you warrant, madam! Now give me your arm. I trust you have an adequate chef, for I can scarce wait for my dinner.”

  Fortunately, her trust was not misplaced. The chef had outdone himself and after two excellent removes and several hearty laughs as a result of being given more details of her grandchildren’s starvation, Lady Bayes-Copeland was in a mellow mood. By contrast, Lisette was unusually silent. She was filled with apprehension lest her sister’s love of gossip should have tragic consequences. The very suggestion of criticism was sufficient to arouse Beatrice’s animosity, and the fact that Strand had dared to interfere with her choice of a bridal frock for Judith and then been praised for his choice was quite enough to win her enmity. She tended to brood over real or fancied slights and might very well take revenge by scandalmongering, or—

  “Wake up! Wake up!” cried my lady irritably.

  With a gasp, Lisette saw that all eyes were on her. Murmuring her apologies, she stood and led the ladies to the drawing room. Here, the dowager saw fit to rhapsodize over Brutus and chatter with Judith about the forthcoming jaunt to Town, but she was becoming impatient when the door opened and Norman stuck his head in to announce that Strand was ready now, and that the pianoforte had been carried to the “blue salon.”

  “Fustian!” grumbled my lady. “The word is ‘saloon,’ boy, not that Frenchified fal-lal! Fetch my shawl, Judith, it’s likely freezing whether it be misnamed or no! Great draughty place!”

  A fire had been lighted some time since, however, and the saloon was quite comfortable. Strand had spread the music out on a sideboard, and Lisette leafed through it while he settled Lady Bayes-Copeland into a chair beside the fire. Lisette selected several songs, none of which appeared to dismay her husband. His rendition of the introduction to the first of these, however, caused her ladyship to throw up her hands and utter shrieks of mirthful consternation. “For heaven’s sake, boy!” she chided. “It is a love song—not a military march! Must you always go at such a pace?” Strand took the criticism in good part and moderated his tempo. Lisette had a charming, if not powerful, voice, and aside from launching into the fourth melody in the wrong key, Strand played quite well. Unfortunately, they were soon joined by another performer. Brutus, apparently feeling obliged to contribute to the evening, sat up and joined in, howling sonorously and reducing Judith and Norman to muffled hysteria. Strand struggled to preserve his countenance, and Lisette tried to finish her song, but the dog’s full-throated accompaniment, plus the smothered giggles, conspired to defeat them. Strand collapsed over the keys with a shout of laughter. Equally overcome, Lisette leaned against the piano, and my lady, cackling hilariously, consoled Brutus with the outrageous falsehood that he “sang beautifully.”

  * * *

  London was grey and chilly and, as usual, bustling. Best threaded the carriage with nice precision through the heavy traffic to Portland Place, where Judith and Norman were to stay, and Lisette went inside with them to greet the staff and hug her loved Sanders. “Might just as well have come down to you, miss,” the abigail sniffed, much affected, “had I known the missus would be away for so long.”

  “We none of us knew, Sandy. Has there been any late word?”

  “Mr. Powers got a letter this morning saying that Sir Ian has been took better. The master says if this keeps up another week, he’ll come home. It seems like the weather’s been a touch bleak, and he’s got some chilblains, poor man.”

  Thoroughly conversant with her father’s dislike of extreme cold, Lisette had no doubt but that they would soon be able to restore Judith and Norman to the bosom of the family, and she hurried back to the carriage to relay this information to Strand. He did not seem especially delighted to hear it, saying that he’d a pr
oject in mind that he was sure would keep Norman busily occupied for as long as he was able to stay in Sussex.

  They proceeded to the house Strand rented in Sackville Street. Lisette had never visited this establishment. She thought it comfortable but austere, the furnishings a uniform mahogany and the colours of the upholstery and draperies rather sombre. Reading her expression aright, Strand said cheerfully that they would search for a more suitable house when his lease expired at the beginning of September. “Might as well purchase a town-house,” he said. “We’ll likely spend the Season here if— Well, I’ll be dashed!”

  He had opened the door of a small bookroom, where sprawled a gentleman, fast asleep in a wing chair.

  Amused, Lisette said, “Why, it’s Lord Bolster!”

  Strand beckoned the footman who hovered nearby. “Has his lordship been here long?”

  The footman cast Bolster a shocked glance but was unable to shed any light on the situation. The butler, being summoned, gave a little leap of dismay when he saw that softly snoring figure and exclaimed, “Good gracious! I’d no idea he was still here, sir. His lordship called last evening and said he would leave you a note, but I thought he had left.”

  “Good God! Do you not check the rooms before you retire?”

  Reddening, the butler affected the air of a maligned deity and imparted that every room in the house was checked whenever the master was in residence, but since, to his knowledge, no one had used the book room yesterday, he had not felt it necessary to go in there. Furthermore, the note Lord Bolster had left was even now on Mr. Justin’s desk in the study, wherefore—

  His lordship snorted and stirred. Strand waved a dismissal to the butler and walked over to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Wake up, old man,” he said, gently shaking him. “What a dreadful host you must think me, that you were abandoned here all night.”

  Bolster blinked up at him. His yellow hair was rumpled and untidy, he was badly in need of a shave, his garments were dishevelled, and there was about him a strong aroma of cognac. His bewildered gaze drifted from Strand’s smiling features, to Lisette, watching him anxiously. Becoming red as fire, Bolster lunged to his feet, bowed, tried to speak and, failing, stood in quaking misery.

  “Come along upstairs, Jeremy,” said Strand kindly. “You can shave and refresh yourself in my room. Matter of fact, I think we may kidnap you back to Sussex with us. What d’you say, ma’am?”

  “Why, that would be delightful,” Lisette answered warmly, and then hurried out, well aware that his lordship’s disrupted nerves would be better able to recover if spared her alarming female presence.

  In the hall, a prim, tidy little woman was waiting. She identified herself as the housekeeper and presented two maids, a lackey, and the footman to their new mistress. Next, Lisette was shown to her suite, a spacious bedchamber, small parlour, and dressing room on the second floor, where Denise was already busily unpacking.

  Bolster, meanwhile, allowing himself to be commandeered by his energetic host, was allowed small chance for comment even had he been capable at that point of making one. His rumpled clothing was whisked away, hot water was carried up for a bath, breakfast—despite his shuddering aversion—was ordered, and an hour later, feeling comfortably relaxed, the crick in his neck much eased, and his power of speech restored, he lounged on his host’s bed, clad in a borrowed dressing gown and sipping gratefully at a cup of hot chocolate.

  “D-dashed decent of you, Strand,” he acknowledged. “Don’t know wh-what you m-m-m- will be thinking. Your wife must fancy me to-totally looby.”

  “My wife,” said Strand easily, “has taken a deep liking to you, Jerry. In fact, were I not assured she is madly in love with me, I’d be tempted to call you out.”

  He had spoken lightly, but to his surprise the expected laugh was not forthcoming; his lordship’s eyes slid away and the ready colour surged into the pleasant face.

  With an uneasy premonition of trouble, Strand asked, “Jeremy? Is something amiss?”

  Bolster’s hand twitched. “M-matter of fact,” he gulped, nervously, “I th-thought—that is—well, the r-r-reason I c-came—” But here he became so inarticulate that Strand deftly changed the subject, then pleaded to be excused so that he might glance at his correspondence, and departed, leaving behind a guest both grateful for the reprieve and guilty that his warning had gone unuttered.

  A small pile of letters lay on the desk in Strand’s study. He identified two as being from friends in India, and several others of a business nature that he would peruse later. There was a short letter from Lord Leith and a longer one from Rachel, some statements that could be handled by Connaught, a cluster of invitations that he would go over with Lisette, a notice that the bracelet he had ordered was now completed, and at last, somehow having found its way to the bottom of the pile, the note from Bolster. The fact that this had been sealed and his lordship’s crest imprinted in not one but four places along the fold, caused Strand to suspect Jeremy of having been well over the oar when he wrote it. The handwriting was, as usual, a disaster. The message, brief and to the point, drove the amusement from Strand’s eyes. He read:

  My Dear Strand—

  You have always been a good friend and your Lovely Wife is very kind. Especially to Amanda. I must repay you in a way I Abomminate. There is some ugly Roumours about. Nothing to Dredfull but please do not rush of half cocked untill you have Talked to,

  Yr. affecsionite and ever gratefull,

  Bolster

  His frowning gaze lingering on those four seals, Strand refolded the note automatically. Bolster, he thought, his mouth settling into a grim line, had been wise in his caution, after all. What kind of rumours? More of poor Rachel and that bastard Sanguinet, perhaps. He wandered into the corridor, paused, staring blindly at the black and white marble squares of the entrance hall, and thus became aware of his wife’s voice, very low, in the small saloon. His frown deepened. If the gabblemongers were at work, he had best caution Lisette. The last thing he wished was to involve her in more scandal, yet …

  His musings were abruptly severed as he entered the saloon. James Garvey, resplendent in a primrose jacket that clung lovingly to his fine shoulders, fawn pantaloons that accentuated his shapely legs, and a waistcoat of striped primrose and cream brocaded satin, was clasping Lisette’s hand while she smiled up into his face. “You did get my note, then?” Garvey was murmuring. “When you did not answer, I—”

  “Forgive me, James. It was so very beautiful. But you should not have come here!”

  “Yes, yes. I know we must be very careful, but—”

  The revelation that a clandestine love affair had been conducted under his nose was like a dash of icewater in Strand’s face. Emerging from that staggering shock, he said, “My love, I would not disturb you while you—ah—entertain, but—”

  Garvey spun around, his expression malevolent. Lisette, deathly pale, managed to say calmly, “We are no sooner in Town, Strand, than we have callers. Is it not delightful? Two gentlemen already, and—”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” murmured Strand, slipping Bolster’s note into his pocket.

  Lisette gave a gasp. Garvey, yearning for an excuse to face this man across twenty yards of turf, purred, “Your pardon, sir?”

  Ignoring him, Strand went on smoothly, “I cannot think of Jeremy as a mere ‘caller,’ ma’am. He will, I trust, be with us for some time. It was kind in you to call, Garvey. May I be of some assistance to you?”

  “I had not intended—” Garvey began, with a sneer.

  “To stay longer? But how very polite in you. Thank you, and do call again. I shall be very pleased to—er, meet you. At any time.”

  Blue eyes, suddenly deadly, challenged narrowed green ones.

  Her breath fluttering, Lisette extended her hand. “Good day, Mr. Garvey.”

  “Allow me to show you out,” offered Strand, his teeth gleaming in a wide smile. He tugged on the bell rope, and a lackey floated into the room so instantl
y that he could only have been waiting by the open door.

  “Mr. Garvey’s hat and gloves, if you please.”

  Strand had no sooner spoken the words than a footman appeared, the required articles and a cane in his pristine grasp. Strand made no attempt to restrain his approving grin, though his servants remained woodenly impassive.

  For an instant, Garvey stood there, seething. Then, he bowed low to Lisette, marched past Strand without a word, tore his belongings from the footman, and strode from the house. He had every intention of flinging open the front door and leaving it wide, but that little gesture was denied him as the butler hastened to perform the service, bowing him forth and closing the door gently behind him.

  Strand turned to Lisette. She had changed her travelling clothes for a gown of beige muslin with brown ribbon fashioned into small fans around the low neckline and the sleeves, and little brown bows here and there around the flounce. He wondered if it was possible to find a dress that did not become her. Her eyes looked enormous and were fixed upon him. Anxiously, not fondly, as they had been for Garvey.

  “I wonder,” he mused, “if I erred in coming back to Town. It is so distressingly filled with—unpleasantness.”

  “Justin, please do not imagine that—that Garvey and I—that we—” She bit her lip and said a pleading, “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Unfortunately,” he conceded, dryly. “A deal sooner than I’d expected, I admit.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Regardless of what you may think, he is a very dangerous man. You would be—”

  One mobile brow arched. He drawled mockingly, “A warning, ma’am?”

  “No!” Her hands clenched. “How could you dare to think such a—”

  The door opened. The butler announced, “Lady Hermione Grey, Miss Smythe-Carrington, and Mrs. Duncan, madam.”

  Nerves taut and heart pounding, Lisette fought for calm. “Show them to the drawing room, if you please.” When the man had left, she turned to Strand. “That was a perfectly dreadful thing to say! You have no right—”