Married Past Redemption

by Patricia Veryan

  “Nor have we the time to discuss it while your eager callers wait.” He stepped closer, his eyes bleak. “I fear the gabble merchants gather before we’ve had a chance to marshal our defences. If something is said concerning my sister or Leith, you had best pretend ignorance.” He opened the door again. “As soon as they leave, madam wife, I shall require a little of your time.”

  Lisette walked down the hall to the drawing room, her thoughts churning. How enraged Justin had been to find her with Garvey. And how dared he imply that she hoped for a duel when her one thought in coming downstairs to see the man had been to thank him for his poem and to somehow make him go away before Strand saw him! What a miserable coincidence that her husband had walked in just as James uttered those unfortunate words. Naturally, Justin had read the wrong interpretation into the remark. She could still see his savage smile and hear the lazy drawl he employed only when he was very angry indeed. The antagonism between the two men had been an almost tangible entity, searing across that room, and the look on Garvey’s face had been very clear to read. He wanted an excuse to call Justin out. And if they went out, he would kill her husband. With an ache of fear she knew that she did not want such a duel to take place, that she did not want Strand hurt—much less slain. It was not that she loved him, for he wasn’t a very lovable man. Except … now and then, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, or when they twinkled at her, in his wretched teasing way, and, very occasionally, when she had thought to glimpse a wistfulness in his face that came and went so swiftly she could never be sure it had been there at all. As on the evening he had “shot” the tree for Brutus and she had scolded him, and he’d looked at her and said in his whimsical fashion, “As a matter of fact—I care very much.”

  She shook herself mentally. It was all fustian, of course, for he did not care. Not a mite. Or he would tell her so. Not once had he even uttered the words “I love you.” Tears stung her eyes. Not once. Not so much as a tender “darling.” He had been gently considerate in his love-making and had gone so far as to murmur that she was very beautiful, but his kisses were brief, almost careless, and of passion or real adoration there had been little trace. If anything, he tended to tease her even in those intimate moments, so that she was moved to laughter and her fears much lessened. She tensed. Was that why he never spoke of love? Did he know how frightened she’d been? Had he thought—

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  She jumped. A maid was watching her curiously, and small wonder, for she must have stood here an age with her forehead pressed to the door panel. Whatever was wrong with her mind? “Quite all right, thank you,” she said, managing to smile. “A slight touch of the headache, is all.” And she went inside.

  Ten minutes later, aghast, she knew the disaster she had feared was upon her. Brenda Smythe-Carrington was the type of gentle, pretty, kind-hearted girl everybody liked, even Lady Hermione Grey, whose tongue was only a shade less acid than vitriol. Jemima Duncan was an inveterate gossip who could be vicious even while smiling fondly upon her victim. With a giggle here and a scold there, the latter two ladies welcomed Lisette to the ranks of the wives. Marriage was delightful, was it not? Even (and a spate of conspiratorial giggles) was it rather unwanted. Of course, if one really chose to repel a man—even one’s husband—it could be done. Especially (with glittering smiles) by a really clever lady.

  “Do you know, dear Lisette,” confided Lady Hermione breathlessly, “you may scarce believe it, but I once knew the sweetest girl, quite one of our beauties at the time, who was all but sold into wedlock with a—rather unfortunate gentleman. Not exactly beyond the pale, but—” She pursed her lips and, before the stunned Lisette could comment, turned to Mrs. Duncan. “You remember the case, Jemima,” she said, with a sly wink of the eye that was beyond the range of her hostess’s vision. “I simply cannot recall the poor child’s name.”

  “No more can I, Hermione,” purred Mrs. Duncan. “But it was indeed a tragic case. One could but hope the sweet girl knew that all London wept for her.” She laid a gentle hand on Lisette’s arm and said cloyingly, “Poor dear, a helpless victim of financial necessity.”

  “One can but hope,” said Lisette, a flush beginning to glow in her pale cheeks, “that she was blessed by such true and loyal friends as you dear ladies.”

  “Oh, indeed she was,” interpolated Miss Smythe-Carrington, looking genuinely distressed. “Surely she must have been, poor thing. What could be more dreadful than to be wed to a man one did not care for? I should think death infinitely preferable!”

  “Oh, infinitely,” agreed Lady Hermione. “And apparently the lady in question felt the same way, for it was said that for an inordinate length of time she would not allow her husband in her chamber.” She giggled. “Is that not delicious?”

  Mrs. Duncan trilled, “It is! And was the prime on dit for weeks! I doubt anything else has been—I mean was—spoken of for an age!” She glanced mirthfully at her crony, and they both burst into refined gales of mirth so that at length it became necessary to dab at tearful eyes with lacy handkerchiefs.

  “How jolly it is,” observed Lisette with a slightly tigerish smile, “to see you so enjoying yourselves. But I fear you must be talked dry. May I offer you a dish of milk?” Two startled pairs of eyes flashed to her. “Oh, dear!” she touched her cheek in dismay. “Whatever can I be thinking of…? I meant tea, of course.”

  After that, the conversation was a trifle less hilarious, although it ran along politely. The ladies sipped their tea and talked of commonplaces, with Lisette inserting an occasional blushful reference to her “adored” husband, so that when they left, my lady and Mrs. Duncan were rather tightlipped, and Miss Smythe-Carrington said with a melting smile how wonderful it must be to be “so really happy” as her dear Lisette.

  No sooner had the door closed behind them than Lisette all but flew to the book room, and thence upstairs in search of Strand. In the upper hall she nearly collided with his valet, one Oliver Green, a rotund, merry-eyed little man who looked more like a publican than a valet. He was carrying a pile of neckcloths and juggled desperately to retain them. “Oh, I am sorry, Green!” cried Lisette. “I must find my husband. Is he in his room?”

  “No, madam.” The valet gave a small gasp of relief as he steadied his collection. “The master has stepped out for a short while. I believe he said he meant to look in at his club.” He stood there uncertainly for a moment, watching Mrs. Strand walk away, and wondering why her pretty little face had become so very white.

  Chapter 12

  Strand’s confrontation with Garvey had left him in no mood to be cordial to anyone, wherefore, quite forgetting the presence of Jeremy Bolster in his house, he donned hat, coat, and gloves, and stamped outside. It was a drizzly morning, which did not in the least deter him from walking a considerable distance. Had he been more aware of what transpired around him, he might have noted many amused looks, and as many whispered asides, but he responded to hails with nothing more than an abstracted wave of his cane and strode on, his mind obsessed with the memory of the fond light in his wife’s eyes as she had gazed up at the revoltingly dandified conniver who went by the name of James Garvey.

  From the very beginning of their marriage, things had gone badly. He could scarcely have managed a less propitious beginning than to have been obliged to leave his bride on their wedding night. He could no more blame her for that than for the fact that on his return he’d stamped into her bedchamber and tumbled over the leviathan. When he had at last been able to mend his fences, he’d kept a rigid hold on his emotions, handling her very gently, afraid of scaring her off by revealing the depth of his love for her, and hurt because his attempt to impart his feelings had been coldly ignored. He’d never before been much in the petticoat line. There’d not been the opportunity. His father’s gambling and spendthrift ways and ultimate folly of cheating at cards had decided his own fate. His years in India had been successful beyond his wildest dreams, but success had not come easily.
It had taken backbreaking effort, an unceasing battle that had taken its toll of his health even as it had resulted in security for his sisters, and the payment of all his now dead father’s bad debts. Having achieved what he’d set out to do, he had begun to look about for a bride. He’d hoped to find a lady of good family for whom he might also feel some affection. He’d not expected to encounter the embodiment of his every dream, who was also of lineage sans reproche.

  His footsteps slowed, and he stared moodily at a sparrow hopping on an iron fence beside him. His courtship had, he acknowledged ruefully, been clumsy beyond permission. He sighed and, turning into Bond Street, knew that all his introspection had brought him nothing save the realization of defeat. His jaw set. However faint his hope of winning the love of his wife, he would see to one thing, by God! She never would become the foil of so unprincipled a libertine as Garvey!

  Walking on with a resumption of his usual brisk stride, he entered a quiet little lane where was a discreet club known as The Madrigal. Here, as at White’s or Watier’s, could be found gambling, fine wines, and excellent dining. Lacking the exclusiveness of the larger clubs, The Madrigal gained from the membership of some of London’s more successful artists, composers, and poets. Gradually, therefore, it had acquired a reputation as an interesting spot, where stimulating conversation crossed all political lines. The club began to thrive and had of late become the vogue, drawing in some very socially high ranking gentlemen, so that Strand had once laughingly told Bolster that had he not joined when he did, they’d now refuse to accept him.

  The porter swung the door open with his usual polite, “Good morning, sir!” but Strand thought to see a troubled look also and, rather belatedly reminded of Bolster’s note, at once forgot it again in his consternation that he’d abandoned his guest. In the act of removing his coat, he started to put it back on, but the horror in the porter’s eyes dissuaded him. If something really ugly was circulating regarding Rachel and Leith, his abrupt departure must lend weight to it. He grinned at the porter, vouchsafed a blithe remark to the effect that he had forgot to collect Lord Bolster, and allowed himself to be divested of his outer garments. The porter looked relieved and promised to tell his lordship Mr. Strand was here, did he arrive. Strand nodded and went into the ground floor lounge, where he wandered over to warm his hands at the fire. The room was not crowded at this hour, and the few gentlemen occupying it were more interested in their newspapers than in a new arrival. It seemed to Strand that General Smythe-Carrington stared at him with unusual intensity before retreating behind The Times. Lord Gregory Hughes, walking through from the stairs leading to the upper regions where were the card rooms, checked, started to say something to Strand, then coughed, shook his hand, and went out. A waiter approached, and Strand accepted the wine he offered, while wondering what was abroad to result in such obvious consternation.

  A blow on the shoulder that almost knocked him into the fire disturbed his reflections and sent the wine in his glass splashing in all directions. A familiar voice cried, “Strand! You miserable varmint!” and he spun around to be seized in a hug that he gladly returned.

  “Marcus!” He set down his depleted glass to grip Marcus Clay’s uniformed shoulders. “And a Major, by gad! I’ve not seen you since—”

  “Since the Spring of ’twelve when I was home on a repairing lease.” The soldier’s eyes, bright with affection, scanned the lean face of his friend. “What the deuce happened to you? You’re brown as a berry!”

  “I’m positively pale compared to when first I came home.” And in answer to the questioning lift of this schoolmate’s dark brows, he elaborated, “India. But enough of me, tell me of yourself. Did you see any of the action? You must have, I take it, to win all your rank. Lord, what luck! I demand—”

  Here, an irked hissing warned that they disturbed the peace of others, and they adjourned to a pair of high-backed chairs beside the window. The dark head and the fair leaned closer together as they enjoyed a low-voiced conversation that bridged the years since last they had met. Clay was a personable young man, now happily married and the father of four hopeful children. He spoke lightly of his military career and said little of the exploits at Waterloo that had made him into a national hero, but Strand was enthralled. Too enthralled to notice the room filling and the level of conversation rising until he heard his own name, spoken in a contemptuous drawl that caused him to stiffen in his chair.

  “… gave Strand the devil of a run for his money.” Holding forth at the centre of an amused group, James Garvey laughed, and went on, “She is incalculably far above the man, of course, and from what she tells me, everything you’ve heard is truth, and she is his wife in name only.”

  Strand, who had sprung up, reeled as though he had received a physical blow, and stood momentarily stunned with shock, while Clay, coming to his side, slipped a hand onto his shoulder and glared wrathfully at Garvey’s back.

  Quite unaware of their presence, Lord John Chester, his youthful face alight, demanded, “How the deuce did the lady manage it, I wonder? And how are you privileged to know, James? Have you seen the bride of late?”

  “Very often.” Garvey dug him in the ribs. “And often late. You must know that I worship at her shrine, and she returns my affection as fully. She never had any use for Strand, except that his—”

  Battered by hurt and fury, Strand tore free from Clay’s attempt to restrain him. Growling a curse, he caught Garvey by the arm and swung him around. “You,” he stated unequivocally, “are a foul-mouthed, unmitigated liar, sir!” And he dashed the contents of his glass into that handsome countenance.

  A chair went over with a crash amid an explosion of excitement. Then, a breathless hush fell. Every man present was on his feet, and new arrivals, at once becoming aware of the tense atmosphere, crowded the open doorway.

  Garvey accepted the handkerchief Chester offered, wiped his face, and drawled, “Will you second me, John?”

  “But, surely that will not be of the necessity immediate, my James?” The smooth voice with its pronounced French accent came from the door. Garvey tensed, paling, and his head jerked towards the speaker, a slight, very elegant gentleman, who watched the proceedings with a faint smile upon his mild features. “Claude…” breathed Garvey, his voice barely audible.

  Strand had not seen Rachel’s former fiancé for some years, but it seemed to him that the notorious Claude Sanguinet had not changed one iota. He must be forty, at least, but his dark hair was untouched by grey, his face unlined, his figure as trim as ever. “You mistake!” snapped Strand, still pale and trembling with rage. “This fellow bandied my wife’s name about, and—”

  “And you the felony compound, eh, Monsieur Strand?” Claude Sanguinet shook his head reproachfully. “Your indignation she is nonetheless warranted, for I also have hear my friend’s so regrettable remarks. It would be well, James, did you make the apology, no?”

  His eyes flashing, Garvey smiled. “Impossible, I fear, Claude. I have taken a glass of wine in the face, and—”

  “Quite impossible,” Strand confirmed grimly.

  In some circles, Sanguinet was thought to be the most dangerous man in Europe, but there was no hint of this in his manner as he murmured gently, “Mais non, gentlemen. This cannot be. The bride would be assurément, devastated. As would I, dear my James.”

  Strand frowned from one to the other. Garvey was very white, his hands clenched at his sides, his narrowed gaze locked with Sanguinet’s mild one. Through a quivering silence that battle of wills was fought. Then, incredibly, Garvey’s eyes fell. He wrenched around as if impelled by an unseen hand and, his gaze fixed on the sapphire in Strand’s neckcloth, said in a hoarse, strained voice, “It is … quite true that I … spoke without … without consideration of the feelings of the lady. I—I offer you my…” He seemed to choke, then gulped, “my—most profound apologies, sir.”

  Somebody exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Strand’s voice sliced through a
flurry of comment. “You may tell your master over there that I shall take no apologies, Garvey. Not unless you also admit—before every man here—that you lied. My dear wife would never in this world have uttered such vulgar remarks.”

  “But you must own he has apologized, Monsieur Strand,” the Frenchman pointed out softly.

  “He apologized for bruiting about malicious gossip concerning my personal life,” said Strand doggedly. “He has not admitted that he lied. My challenge stands.”

  There was a ripple of agreement. Mr. Garvey, it appeared, was not so popular as had been supposed, nor Mr. Strand as despised. Marcus Clay, however, groaned inwardly. Whatever the hold Sanguinet had over Garvey, it was too much to expect any man to take that ultimate insult.

  Garvey’s eyes slid to the Frenchman. “Only so far, Claude,” he warned, in a voice low and cracking with rage and humiliation.

  “For the sake of a lady who shall be nameless, but for whom I still hold a deep affection,” Sanguinet persisted, “I am my every effort bending to avoid what must be a most tragique meeting, Monsieur Strand. My friend was perhaps—” he shrugged—“ill advised. He have repeat that which he is told. That which he believe come from the—ah, unimpeachable source, shall we say? And he—”

  “Shall we rather say he lied?” said Strand very clearly.

  “By … God…!” Garvey ground out between closed teeth. “If I—”

  “You are, monsieur, a gentleman most impitoyable, I fear,” sighed the Frenchman. He stretched forth an impeccably manicured white hand. “James—my James—I must insist that you your mistake acknowledge. Admit you—”

  “Admit you lied!” Strand grated.

  “For the sake of the Fair, I implore it,” murmured Sanguinet.

  “The devil!” snarled Strand. “For the sake of truth!”

  Garvey was shaking visibly. His face was like putty, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and trickled slowly down his cheeks. For an endless moment he stood there, while only the ticking of the mantel clock broke the deathly hush, and upwards of a hundred gentlemen stood scarcely breathing, waiting. Then: