A Husband's Wicked Ways

by Jane Feather

  “That would seem the obvious conclusion.”

  “Yes, it would,” she agreed with a snap. “But since you claimed to have been in the country only a few days when you descended on my doorstep, after an absence of quite a few years, I wonder how you’ve managed to arrange for this country sojourn…or whatever you wish to call it.”

  He glanced sideways at her with an amused smile. “You’re fatigued,” he said as if soothing a fractious child. “It’s hardly surprising after such a day.”

  “No, it’s not,” she returned, exasperated. Annoyance took the edge off both fatigue and unease, she discovered. “But my question is not unwarranted.”

  “True enough. It’s been four days since I last saw you, and much can be accomplished in four days, as I’m sure you understand.”

  She left it at that and drew the horse blanket, which true to its name smelled strongly of horse, up over her knees, trying to make herself comfortable on the narrow bench perched over the iron wheels.

  “We’re going to a farm in a little village called Monken Hadley,” he told her, turning the nag to the left at the crossroads.

  “And what are we going to be doing there?”

  “I’m going to teach you some of the basic skills of my trade. Communication in particular.”

  “Why couldn’t we do that in London?”

  “Because we will have to spend a lot of time together, and I rather imagine that would draw unwelcome attention in town…a widow living alone in the constant company of a bachelor colonel?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow, and she had to concede the point.

  “Are there people living on this farm?”

  “Certainly…very discreet people,” he said cheerfully. “They were tenant farmers on my father’s estates until they came into a small windfall and were able to buy their own farm.”

  Aurelia said nothing to this, interesting though she found it. Surely someone who’d known him as a child would have some enlightening insights to offer if gently prodded. She was quite good at gaining people’s confidence and there was a great deal she’d like to know about Colonel, Sir Greville Falconer.

  They went the rest of the way without further conversation. Greville seemed content whistling softly between his teeth as he guided the nag down the narrow country lanes. Aurelia huddled into the horse blanket and watched the countryside go by. She didn’t know the county of Essex at all and was struck by how flat it seemed after the hills and forest of her native Hampshire. She was used to the salt tang of the sea as well when in the countryside, but here there was only the loamy smell of the turned fields on either side of the lane. Flocks of starlings chattered, rooks circled cawing in the treetops preparing to nest as afternoon yielded to the early dusk.

  They drove through several tiny hamlets where lamplight began to show in cottage windows. A herd of cows being driven for the evening milking blocked the narrow lane at one point, and Greville drew back on the reins and brought the nag to a halt. He seemed untroubled by the delay, which surprised Aurelia. She would have expected this man of action to be impatient about moving on to the next stage of his plan.

  “Hungry?” The question, breaking their strangely companionable silence, startled her.

  She considered the matter. “As it happens, I’m ravenous. We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

  “No. But if you look under the seat, there should be a basket. I asked the innkeeper to provide something in case we were delayed on the road.”

  A man of action who thought ahead. Aurelia reached under the bench and drew forth a small hamper. She put it on her lap and opened it. “Pork pies,” she pronounced with satisfaction. “And apples.”

  “Will it do, d’you think?” He glanced at her with that same smile, and again she felt a little frisson of excitement that could have nothing at all to do with sitting on the bench of a gig at a standstill in a country lane behind a sea of ambling cows.

  For answer, she handed him one of the pies and took a hearty bite of the other. “Yes,” she pronounced. “It will do very well indeed.”

  “It’ll hold off starvation until we get to Hadley. Mary will have supper ready and waiting, but I expect you’ll want to wash off the dust first.”

  “Are you always this considerate of your partner’s needs?” she inquired through another mouthful of pie.

  He shrugged. “When I can be…although it’s not always necessary.” That flashing smile again. “I don’t often have female partners.”

  “So this consideration is because of my sex?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed. I’m not too proud to appreciate it.”

  “Good.”

  Aurelia lapsed into silence, eating her pie and apple, letting her body flow with the rhythm of the gig on the uneven lane, falling into a kind of trance that was not quite sleep, but refreshing nevertheless.

  “Here we are at last.” Greville gestured with his whip to a cluster of lights up ahead. “Journey’s end.”

  Or rather, journey’s beginning, Aurelia reflected. She had no idea what the next few days would hold, but for the moment her uncertainty held no fear. Something about Greville Falconer gave her confidence, a sense of security, and a sense of rightness in what she had agreed to do.

  As Greville drew rein in a small yard behind a thatched-roof farmhouse, a young boy bounded out of the house, a path of light from the open door streaming ahead of him.

  “I’ll take yer ’orse, sir,” he cried eagerly, running up to seize the harness.

  “Thank you, lad.” Greville tossed the reins onto the nag’s back and jumped down. He reached up a hand to help Aurelia alight.

  She stepped down rather stiffly onto the cobbled yard, murmuring, “I am so weary of traveling.” Presumably a real spy would never complain about such a mundane hardship, but she didn’t really care at present. She was cold, stiff, and hungry despite the pork pie.

  “Ah, there you are, Sir Greville…madam, you must be perished with the cold. Come you in now by the fire.” A stout woman in a flowered apron hurried out of the open door and across the yard. She bobbed a curtsy and blushed fiery red when Greville took her hand and kissed her weather-roughened cheek.

  “No need for ceremony, Mary,” he said warmly. “Aurelia, this is Mistress Mary Masham, who has known me almost from the cradle…. Mary, this is Lady Farnham.”

  Aurelia came forward, hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Masham. I own it’s been a long and tedious day.”

  “Aye, I can believe it, ma’am. Come in now and we’ll soon have you comfortable again.” Mistress Masham bustled ahead of them into a large, stone-flagged kitchen dominated by a long deal table and a massive range from whence came the most enticing aromas.

  A man, as stout as Mistress Masham, sat at the deal table, a tankard in front of him. He was whittling a piece of wood, his large, rather stubby hands wielding a small knife with incongruous delicacy. He looked up as the newcomers came into the kitchen and nodded a silent greeting before returning his attention to his task.

  “That’s my man, Bert,” Mistress Masham declared. “He don’t say much, but he’s a good man.”

  Bert made no response to this encomium, and Aurelia wasn’t sure how to respond herself. She glanced at Greville, who said simply, “Evening, Bert.”

  “Evenin’, sir.” Bert didn’t look up from his whittling.

  And that seemed to be that. Aurelia wondered absently what the woman must think of her visitors’ strange garb, but Mary didn’t appear to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. She was ladling the fragrant contents of a saucepan into a pewter bowl.

  “There now, a goodly drop o’ posset will do ye the power of good.”

  Aurelia cast off the old cloak with a sigh of relief and took the warm porringer that the woman handed her.

  “Thank you, Mistress Masham.” Gratefully Aurelia buried her nose in the steamy fragrance of the warm spiced wine.

  “Eh, Mary’s
good enough for me,” the woman said comfortably. “There’s not many folks around ’ere that calls me anythin’ else…. Now, Master Greville, will ye take the posset, or would you rather a pot of Bert’s strong ale?”

  Aurelia hid a smile. Sir had yielded to the master of Greville’s boyhood in a very short time. Greville didn’t appear to notice the change as he said he’d settle for Bert’s strong ale.

  Bert rose heavily from the table and disappeared into a scullery, reappearing with a foaming tankard that he set down on the table with a satisfied thump. “There,” he declared, and returned to his seat opposite. Greville, with a word of thanks, straddled the bench as if he was quite at home in this kitchen and raised the tankard to his lips.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ a nice wash in some ’ot water, I’ll be bound,” Mary now said, turning back to Aurelia. “You come along a’me, m’dear, everything’s ready for you…. Bring the posset.” She picked up Aurelia’s cloakbag and bustled to the door of the kitchen, and Aurelia, rather reluctant to leave the warm, cheerful room, followed with her porringer.

  They climbed a narrow staircase rising from a corner of a small, stone-flagged hall. Every piece of furniture was agleam with beeswax, and the scent of lavender oil perfumed the air. Mistress Masham clearly kept an immaculate house.

  “Here we are, m’dear.” At the top of the stairs, Mary opened a door wide and Aurelia followed her into a square chamber lit by oil lamps and a bright fire in the grate. The hangings were chintz, the colors faded from frequent washing, but they were crisply starched and pressed. The bed coverlet was a patchwork quilt of intricate design, the furniture solid and well crafted. Once again the scents of beeswax and lavender oil filled the warm air.

  “Now, there’s ’ot water in the ewer.” Mary gestured to the marble-topped washstand. “An’ I’ll pop a bed warmer between the sheets while y’are at supper. Nice an’ cozy, you’ll be.”

  “Yes, I will,” Aurelia said warmly, looking with longing at the four-poster bed with its piled pillows that were scattered with lavender. An uncomfortable day had certainly ended in a delightful haven.

  Chapter Eight

  MARY SET AURELIA’S CLOAKBAG on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Anythin’ you want laundered, m’dear? ’Tis wash day tomorrow an’ I can do it in a trice.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Aurelia said. “Everything’s clean…except for what I’m wearing.” She brushed disdainfully at her serge skirt. “This is somewhat travel-stained.”

  “Leave it out an’ I’ll sponge an’ press it tomorrow,” Mary said, going to the door. She swept one more critical glance around before nodding her satisfaction. “Make yourself at home, m’dear. Supper will be served in the front parlor.”

  It was on the tip of Aurelia’s tongue to say she’d much prefer the kitchen, but then she thought that Mary and her family might find it uncomfortable to eat with their visitors. For all Mary’s apparent informality, the social chasm between them remained a fact.

  Aurelia opened the cloakbag and took out the gown she’d been wearing that morning before assuming the guise of the tenant farmer’s wife. It wasn’t too badly creased. She shook it out and laid it on the bed, then unhooked the serge gown. In her chemise and petticoat, she poured hot water on a washcloth and sponged her neck and arms.

  A knock at the door startled her. She looked at the door, washcloth poised over the crook of her arm. “Who’s there?”

  “Greville. May I come in?”

  “Just a minute. I’m not dressed.”

  “Well, put something on quickly. There are a couple of things I would like to discuss before we go down to supper.”

  Aurelia took the muslin gown from the bed and dropped it over her head, buttoning it swiftly. She smoothed down the skirt and went to open the door. “Come in.” She moved away immediately into the middle of the room.

  Greville closed the door behind him. For a moment he leaned against it, regarding her closely, his mouth quirked in a half smile. Gleams of light danced in the dark gray eyes as he murmured, “You look quite charming, my dear, not in the least fatigued, despite the rigors of the day.”

  “Looks are deceiving,” she said, attempting to brush aside the compliment. But she felt strangely vulnerable, suddenly acutely aware of the ramifications of what she had agreed to when she’d agreed to help him. It seemed emphasized by their isolation in this country retreat, by her complete separation from the life she knew and understood. In that life, she would not have been in an unfamiliar bedchamber alone with a man who was neither relative nor close friend. She wouldn’t have thought twice if Harry or Alex were standing where Greville now stood, but they would not have been looking at her with that gleam in their eyes. It was very much the look of a man seeing a woman in a particular light. And his thoughts were definitely on something other than the mundane.

  Her heart started to jump around behind her breastbone, and her fingers quivered slightly. She sat down on the bed, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “So, what do you wish to talk about?”

  “I want to prepare you with the right story.” He came farther into the room and took up what seemed to be his favorite position in front of the fire, one arm leaning along the mantel. “Mary knows nothing of my extracurricular activities. She knows me only as Colonel Falconer, and she believes that in that role I am escorting you to Scotland. You are the wife of a fellow officer presently stationed abroad who, when he knew I would be returning to England on leave, asked me to ensure that you reach your Scottish relatives safely.”

  “Wouldn’t she think our arrival in that hired gig, dressed like peasants, somewhat odd in that case?” The conversation was effectively calming Aurelia’s overheated blood, and she rose from the bed, going across to the dresser to adjust the loosened pins in her hair.

  “She believes your circumstances are somewhat straightened,” Greville said, watching. The curve of her arms was deliciously sensual as she raised them over her head, and his breath caught in his throat.

  He cleared his throat and continued in a brisk tone, “She knows that’s why it’s necessary for us to travel by stage, and our somewhat eccentric attire is designed to make us inconspicuous among our fellow travelers. Less likely to be robbed, or hassled in any way. Perfectly reasonable explanation, and I don’t believe that she’s given the issue a second thought.”

  “But are we staying here for the full five days?” She twisted a ringlet around her finger, encouraging it to curl tighter, before affixing a pin.

  “Yes…you find travel debilitating…you’re recovering from an illness and a few days in the fresh air before we continue our journey will be beneficial.”

  Aurelia shook her head in mock admiration. “My, my, you have been busy in the last four days. What a fabrication.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I should watch that hornet’s tongue of yours, if I were you. It could get you into serious trouble one of these days. As it happens, the fabrication, as you call it, is purely for your benefit. I thought you might be more comfortable in this situation with an unimpeachable explanation for it.”

  Aurelia turned slowly on the dressing stool, her expression a little rueful, as she regarded him with her head slightly tilted. “I’m grateful for your consideration, Colonel.”

  He bowed in acknowledgment, his eyes uncomfortably penetrating. “I have told you already, Aurelia, that your safety and well-being are of paramount importance. I will do nothing to jeopardize either.”

  She met his gaze steadily for a moment, then said slowly, “I know that I need your protection and I have no intention of making light of it. I don’t have your experience at manipulation and deception, but I have a healthy sense of self-preservation, believe me. For my daughter’s sake, if not my own. She’s not going to lose two parents to this wretched war.”

  “Then we understand each other.” He moved to the door. “Let us go down to supper.”

  Aurelia walked past him as he held the door and walked downstairs.

&n
bsp; “Ah, there you are.” Mary popped out of the kitchen as Aurelia reached the hall. “Go into the front parlor, ma’am. I’ll bring supper directly.” Aurelia opened a door to the right of the stairs onto a bow-windowed room, comfortable but shabby, warmed by a blazing fire and well lit with oil lamps hanging from the rafters. A round table in the bow window was set for two.

  “May I help you carry something, Mary?” Greville asked.

  “Bless you, no, Master Greville. Our Billy can lend a hand, and I’ve taken little Bessie Cobham on…you remember the Cobhams, I’m sure…anyway, it was doin’ them a favor to take the little maid on. They can barely feed the mouths they ’ave, an’, while she’s small, she can still ’elp out a bit with the light work.”

  Greville murmured something appropriate and came into the parlor as Mary returned to the kitchen. “Now, I sent down a case of some rather fine claret…I wonder if Mary remembered…oh, yes, of course she did.” With a nod of satisfaction he went to the sideboard, where a bottle of wine and two glasses reposed on a pewter tray.

  He opened the bottle and poured wine into the glasses, bringing them both over to the fireplace, where Aurelia stood pleasurably warming her backside.

  She took the glass with a nod of thanks.

  “To our enterprise.” Greville raised his glass in a toast. His eyes gleamed, his crooked mouth curved in a smile as he touched his glass to Aurelia’s.

  Something about the smile made her heart race again. He was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. She took a deep draft of her wine and turned with relief to the door as Mary came in bearing a laden tray, accompanied by a young girl of around nine, who carried a bowl of potatoes.

  “Set ’em down here, Bessie, there’s a good girl,” Mary instructed as she began to unload her tray on the table. The rich scents of oxtail and parsley dumplings filled the room.

  “Master Greville said as ’ow you needed fatten’ up a bit, m’dear,” Mary said comfortably, beginning to serve from the steaming cauldron. “Not been well, I gather. Come an’ sit down now.”