Frowning in concern, Mrs. Garner watched her mistress ascend, thinking what a shame it was that matters had come to this—depending on a housekeeper to mend what was broken. “Hmmph,” she muttered. “Harebrained, it is. But it must be done.” With that, she bustled to the kitchen, where Cook had already prepared the tea.
“How did she seem?”
Mrs. Garner shook her head. “Like one o’ them ghosties what haunt the graveyards.”
Cook handed her the tray. “Best get to it, then.”
Five minutes later, Mrs. Garner stood before Lady Atherbourne, watching the lady pen a note to some swell or other. She tidied the tray she had placed on the long table beside the desk, pretending busy-ness until her ladyship paused in composing her correspondence. At last, the quill stopped.
“Billings asked Geoffrey and Donald to put yer trunk in the blue room, my lady. That Donald is a fine one. Not too many things ’e can’t lift, one way or t’other. Yes, indeed.”
The lady sighed quietly. “Thank you, Mrs. Garner.”
“Oh, ye’re most welcome. Why, I recall the week we hired the lad. Must’ve been the very same week his lordship arrived. Those were dark days, I reckon. Lord Atherbourne hadn’t visited Wyatt House in some time. Staff had dwindled by half. Then, one day he shows up. I can tell ye, both Billings and Mrs. Garner had a tall order getting this place running proper. But we was happy to do it.”
Mrs. Garner watched Lady Atherbourne’s reactions carefully, noting a sudden perk of interest in the tilt of her head. “He arrived without notice?” the lady asked softly.
“Oh, aye. All rags and bones, lookin’ like he’d ridden through death’s own valley. A pitiful sight to behold, he was. Lord Tannenbrook had to help him off his horse, sad to say.”
Blue-green eyes met her own, a spark of curiosity mixing with sudden sympathy in their depths. “Lord Tannenbrook came to London with my hus—with Lord Atherbourne?”
The housekeeper gave an exaggerated nod, then remembered what Cook had said: Don’t appear too eager or give the information too easily, lest her ladyship become suspicious. She pointed to the tray. “Would ye like me to pour, my lady?”
Lady Atherbourne followed her gaze briefly, then shook her head, clearly impatient to learn more. “How—how long have they been friends, do you know?”
Deliberately tightening her mouth so as to appear reluctant, Mrs. Garner pursed her lips, then said, “I couldn’t say, my lady.” She glanced surreptitiously toward the door, then continued in a whisper, “But iffen anyone would understand the sad business from that time, it would be his lordship. Tannenbrook, I mean. Known the family fer years, if I’m not mistaken. He was there through the whole of it. No one else Lord Atherbourne’s like to confide in, so they been thick as thieves these past months.”
Watching her ladyship spark to life in that moment, seeing her make the connection Mrs. Garner had so artfully proffered—well, it was satisfying, to say the least. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Still clearly lost in thought, Lady Atherbourne shook her head. Mrs. Garner turned to leave, but stopped when her mistress suddenly reached out and clasped her hand. The contrast between a refined lady’s soft, white hand and her own callused, work-worn one was stark and slightly embarrassing. “Thank you, Mrs. Garner. You are the finest of housekeepers.” With that rather startling declaration, she let go and returned to her correspondence, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper with, apparently, renewed vigor.
As Mrs. Garner exited the sitting room, closing the door quietly to give her mistress plenty of time to think, she smiled to herself. Among the many duties a housekeeper must perform, first and foremost was maintaining a pristine and orderly residence. And like a filthy chamber, this particular mess was about to be cleaned up proper, or her name wasn’t Mrs. Garner.
~~*
Chapter Thirty
“Yes, I suppose London is delightful, providing one prefers breathing noxious air and being surrounded by filth. And that is merely its residents.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Rumstoke during a ride along Rotten Row.
London’s light was always somewhat weak, but today it was positively dim. Fog blanketed the streets, causing late morning to feel more like dusk. Victoria sighed as she squinted at the portrait of Lucien. Despite the low light, she noted with satisfaction that his waistcoat was now a vivid, eye-catching blue, thanks to her ultramarine pigment.
In the week since the confrontation at Clyde-Lacey House, she had visited her former home twice, once to retrieve her art supplies and once to speak with Harrison. Fortunately, Lucien had lost interest in preventing her seeing her brothers.
Unfortunately, he also had lost interest in her. After they’d arrived back at Wyatt House, she had retreated to her sitting room, needing a few hours of solitude to digest what had occurred. Lucien had not attempted to touch or speak to her. In fact, he had closed himself up in the library until well past midnight.
She had fallen asleep without him. He still had not returned to their bed.
Hugging herself against a chill, she wandered to the windows of her studio, staring vacantly at the gray. The muffled clacking of carriage wheels could be heard through the glass, but all she could see was fog. It was eerie, really; knowing something was so close, yet being unable to see it. Breathing against a faint sense of despair, she stiffened her spine. Lucien had studiously avoided her for the past week, spending most days away from the house, his nights in one of the guest chambers.
On two occasions, she had caught him on his way out, had tried to speak to him about Colin and Harrison, to discuss what should happen with their marriage. Both times, he behaved as a stranger—remote, polite, even dull—brushing her off as he would an overly aggressive fruit seller. At first, it was understandable. Then, it was vexing. Now, she was angry. If he thought he could ignore her forever, he was the greatest of fools.
Last night was the fifth evening Cook had served fish for dinner. He had said nothing, although her intent had been to solicit some sort of reaction. She swallowed against a roll of nausea. Even she was growing weary of the stuff.
A change of tactics was required, that was all. He would speak to her, blast it. They would resolve this one way or another. They must. Otherwise, she was terribly afraid their marriage would continue to deteriorate until only dust remained. Perhaps that was his intention, she thought. It was still possible he felt nothing for her, that revenge had been his sole reason for being with her, and she was no longer useful to him. After all, now that Colin had confessed his part in Marissa’s death, everything had changed.
Or, had it? Lucien might, at this moment, still intend to deliver justice upon Colin. A part of her would understand if he did. What Colin had done was contemptible, and as his sister, she was both ashamed and furious with him. Not only had he badly mistreated Marissa, he had remained silent while Harrison fought a duel over the consequences of his actions.
Looking back, it was clear Colin had felt guilt over the incident. His drinking had increased dramatically during that time, and had been a curse ever since. Truly, her brother’s recklessness and lack of honor had set a series of disasters in motion. And that would be difficult to forgive, even for those closest to him.
But was he the only one at fault? Marissa herself bore some responsibility, surely. Victoria tried to imagine herself in the same situation—deeply in love with a man who abandoned her. Disgraced. Unmarried. With child.
Her hand drifted to her belly.
Would she, Victoria, choose to take her own life, and that of her unborn child?
No, she decided instantly. Not in a thousand lifetimes would she willingly deliver such grief and suffering upon those who loved her, or deprive her child of the chance to be born. As heartsick as she would be if Lucien treated her in such a way, she would always choose life over death.
Marissa had made a different choice, and it had been devastating.
Her hand fisted around the cloth at h
er midsection. She imagined a babe growing inside her body. Lucien’s child. Perhaps with his dark hair and strong features. A wave of love and longing rushed through her in a warm tingle. Steadying herself, she gritted her teeth and raised her chin. Perhaps her marriage was a sham. Perhaps he did not give a fig about her. But at some point between deciding to defy Lucien’s mandate and deciding to accompany him back to Wyatt House, she had realized he was likely the only husband she would have, the only one who could give her children. He might not love her, but he had married her, and he would not escape his responsibilities so easily. He would not escape her so easily.
She gave a startled jerk as Billings bellowed from the doorway, “My lady, Lord Tannenbrook has arrived. Shall I show him up?”
“Please do, Billings. Thank you.”
He nodded and disappeared. Victoria quickly covered the portrait and gathered her sketchbook from the work table. She ran a hand over its soft leather cover, a half smile emerging. If Lucien would not speak to her, she would do what she must.
Moments later, Lord Tannenbrook filled the doorway of her studio—quite literally. His shoulders brushed the jam on either side. The man was as big as a mountain. Dressed simply in a dark brown woolen coat, green waistcoat, and tan riding breeches, she fancied he wore the colors of one, as well. James Kilbrenner reminded her of the Scottish Highlands she had visited as a child—stalwart, intimidating, and inscrutable.
She smiled brightly in welcome, thanking him for coming.
But for the mildly awkward way he hovered in the doorway, he was as unreadable as ever. “Your note said Lucien required my help.” He glanced pointedly around the room. “Is he late arriving, Lady Atherbourne?”
The flat question implied she had done something improper. Perhaps she had, inviting a man who was not her husband to meet with her privately. But, dash it all, she must have answers—answers Lucien was unwilling to provide.
There was a time when she had simply accepted the rules of society, playing the role assigned to her by birth and station and expectation. But after the scandal, she had begun to realize how arbitrary those rules sometimes were, particularly for women.
Strangely, it was her marriage to Lucien that had given her the courage to fight for what she wanted, rather than allowing others to choose her fate. And if the past few days of cold civility had served any purpose at all, it had forced her to acknowledge what she wanted most: Lucien himself.
The infuriating, manipulative, disgustingly handsome, intelligent, romantic, dashing devil.
She shook her head, annoyed at herself. She could not even sustain a good rant against the man in her own head.
Tannenbrook took her gesture as an answer to his question about whether Lucien would be joining them, and shifted as though preparing to leave. “I’m not certain I understand, then. Perhaps we should wait to discuss this until Lucien is available.”
She walked toward Lucien’s friend, hugging her sketchbook to her breast with one hand and gesturing toward a pair of chairs with the other. “Please, Lord Tannenbrook. Won’t you sit and talk with me? I promise my intentions are exactly as my note described—to help Lucien.”
Sharp green eyes met her own, studied her for several seconds. Then, slowly, Tannenbrook stepped into the room, the knock of his boot heels against the wooden floor echoing in the largely empty chamber. He came to a stop near the corner adjacent to the fireplace and stood beside one of the chairs she had indicated.
Victoria smiled gratefully and seated herself, waiting for the dark-blond giant to do the same. As he lowered into the chair, he asked, “My lady, forgive me, but are you not concerned what your husband might say should he discover we have met privately?”
She patted the cover of her sketchbook, then opened it cheerfully and pulled a pencil from the pocket of her apron. “Not a bit,” she replied. “You are here so that I may sketch you. While I do so, we shall simply pass the time in conversation.” Giving him a conspiratorial grin, she smoothed an empty page and immediately began long, sweeping strokes of her pencil, her eyes moving quickly between him and the emerging image.
While at first he appeared surprised, then skeptical, she glimpsed what appeared to be the faintest half-smile. Well, well. The stone-faced earl seemed agreeable, at least enough to remain in place. That was good, because she had questions that must be addressed.
“How long have you known my husband?” she began casually.
The chair creaked as he repositioned himself, the faint light from the windows doing intriguing things with the furrow on his heavy brow. “Since I inherited the title. Fourteen years or so. Tannenbrook lands border Thornbridge to the north.”
“You knew his brother, Gregory, as well, I presume? And … Marissa.”
The strokes of pencil over paper whispered in the long silence before his deep, rumbling voice finally answered, “Yes.”
“What were they like?”
He tilted his head subtly, considering her question. “Marissa was guileless. A bit wild, perhaps, but in the way of a bramble rose. Delicate.”
“And Gregory?”
“Good.”
Her brows arched in inquiry. “Good?”
Tannenbrook grunted affirmatively. “A good man. Good brother. Good friend.”
She nodded, perceiving the earl’s emotion surrounding Gregory’s death. To most, his face would appear expressionless. But as she drew his features, she could see the nearly imperceptible changes in the cast of his eyes, the tic of muscles tugging down the corners of his mouth. The grief was there, just well hidden.
“And how would you describe Lucien?” she continued.
“That is more complicated.”
Victoria struggled for a moment with the shading of Tannenbrook’s temple, focusing on the sketch. He was a difficult subject to capture well, as his face changed radically depending on the light, from sinister to calm, craggy and blunt to surprisingly elegant. It was disconcerting, as though his identity changed moment by moment.
Returning to their conversation, she asked absently, “How so?”
The man’s chair creaked again as he shifted. “Death has changed him a great deal.”
Victoria’s eyes flew to meet Tannenbrook’s. “You mean the deaths of Marissa and Gregory.”
“Yes. But also before that. Waterloo. Lucien was a Dragoon captain—heavy cavalry. During a charge on Napoleon’s forces, his horse was shot from beneath him. He was pinned, unconscious for hours. Much of his unit was decimated. Later, he was able to rejoin the battle, and he fought as though his life meant nothing. Wellington reportedly said Lucien either possessed extraordinary courage or wished to die.”
Cold settled over her skin, causing a sickening shiver. She had known he’d been a soldier, knew he’d been at Waterloo, knew he’d fought bravely. But to realize he had almost died, that many of his men had fallen around him, and he’d been unable to do anything about it … She pressed her lips together and stared down at her hand where it lay clasping the pencil above her sketch.
She felt sadness for the men who had been lost, wounded. She wanted to weep at the guilt that must have driven Lucien to risk himself so recklessly. But, most of all, she felt grateful.
That he had survived. That she had been granted the opportunity to love him.
Tannenbrook’s voice intruded once again. “I knew him before he was either a captain or a viscount, merely Lucien Wyatt. He was good, like his brother. Laughed all the time. Couldn’t stop him, in fact.” One side of his mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Gregory tried a few times. Said Luc would have to take life seriously at some point.” The smile faded. “Then Waterloo. I think if that had been the only blow, he might have borne it. But he returned to England broken, only to discover his sister and brother were both dead. It was …” He halted, seemingly unable to continue.
“It was too much for anyone to endure,” she ventured softly.
Tannenbrook’s eyes, the dark green of a forest after sundown, became echoing cavern
s of past pain. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Luc was lost. The grief ate him whole.”
Victoria firmed her trembling lower lip and swallowed hard against the tears that burned to be released. Now was not the time to crumble. She returned her attention to completing the sketch.
“How—” She cleared her throat. “How did he recover? Find his way back to—how should I phrase it—himself, I suppose?”
Again, the chair creaked as Tannenbrook repositioned himself. She glanced up briefly, but he did not meet her eyes.
He seemed most uncomfortable.
“My lord?”
This time, it was Tannenbrook who cleared his throat. “He did not.”
“What do you mean?”
After a long hesitation, he sighed, appearing resigned. “Luc was in a very bad way.”
She opened her mouth to ask for further details, but he stopped her with a stern, “It is best to leave it at that.”
Sensing he was likely to be stubborn about protecting Lucien’s privacy, she nodded and gestured for him to continue.
“I did what I could to help him. Spent a good deal of time at Thornbridge. Occasionally, it seemed he was improving. We would ride together. Discuss the estate. But then he would disappear again. I grew a bit desperate, I’m afraid.” He turned his head to watch the wisps of fog float past the windows. “Did you know I was Gregory’s second?”
She shook her head, but he didn’t see. Her hand flew over the paper, shading and reshading as the light shifted over the man’s face.
“Luc is my friend. I refused to lose him, too. So I suggested he consider who would gain justice for Gregory and Marissa if he was … gone.” His gaze returned to hers. “It was the only thing that seemed to revive him. I have never seen him more fired with determination.”
Victoria understood. “You gave him a reason to continue on. To live. For them.”
Big hands curled into fists on the arms of the chair. “For the better part of a year, this bid for revenge has been the only thing keeping him upright. I have worried a great deal. It is why I remained in London.”
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