The Discarded Wife

by Camille Oster

  An alarm pierced her mind and she sought the sign of trouble she had obviously seen and her mind was trying to draw her attention to. Looking out the window, she saw her brother approaching, wearing a light brown top hat and a similarly colored suit. He tended to dress more like a dandy when his finances afforded it. He was obviously getting money from somewhere, because he was dressed immaculately.

  What her brother did for money, she didn't ask.

  For a moment, she wondered if she could lock the door and pretend she wasn't there, but just that moment, he looked up and saw her. A beatific smile spread across his lips. Something had pleased him.

  The bell over the door chimed as he stepped inside and Sophie closed her eyes. "Whatever it is, the answer is no."

  "You don't even know what I am going to say yet." But his smile still showed he was inordinately pleased. "All our troubles are finally sorted."

  "No, nothing is sorted," she said adamantly, knowing now that Lord Aberley had sought out her brother. What was even more disturbing was that Oliver would even contemplate selling Alfie to that man.

  "You'll never guess who I ran into last night."

  She had a good idea. Crossing her arms, she turned back to the window and stared at the scene outside. Costermongers touted their wares, carts and hack traveled by. "I am not selling my son," she said sharply so it echoed off the walls in the quiet store.

  "Who said anything about selling? A fantastic house, a sound education, a future with more wealth than he could ever need. And of course, we would be taken care of too. He offers two thousand pounds. It's not selling, Sophie. Alfie has the opportunity to live the life we can only dream of."

  "Being raised by that man. Do you know what that man is like?"

  "I know he pays his bills handsomely."

  "The answer is no."

  "You can't say that, Soph. This is not an opportunity that comes along every day. Even better than discovering some long-lost spinster aunt is leaving you her estate."

  Sophie snorted. It was probably what Oliver had dreamed of for years. "Alfie and I are fine. I will not give him over to some cold monster to raise."

  "Monster? What are you talking about?"

  "He is cold. There is absolutely no joy in his house. And you," she said, brandishing her finger at him. "You will not treat Alfie like your personal piggy bank. He is not here for you to gain from. He is your nephew and you should be interested in his welfare."

  "I am. You're the only one who seems uninterested in his welfare."

  "Why are you so enamored with those people?" Sophie challenged. "They're awful. All of them. Miserable, self-absorbed and they don't give a care for who they hurt. You're so blinded by their gold you don't even see who it is you're adoring."

  "That is Doug speaking," Oliver said dismissively.

  "I happen to agree with him." Doug had had strong opinions on what happiness was and that wealth never promoted anything but greed. "I will not have my child raised in a cold house with no one other than servants raising him. I am his mother. His place is with me."

  "You are being selfish," Oliver accused.

  "Selfish?" she said, stepping closer to him. "You are the one here hoping to profit off your nephew. Well, I promise you: You will never profit from Alfie. You will never gain from him: I will see to it, and the fact that you're trying to is why I am asking you to leave—and not come back."

  Oliver looked at her as if she were insane. To him, she probably was, but she'd had enough of Oliver leading her astray. He'd never had her best interest at heart. She'd been his leverage to wealth and now he was trying to do the same to Alfie. The worst was that he didn't see it—or didn't care to see it. Anyone who didn't go along with his plan was selfish. It had been like that since they were children. If she didn't comply, he refused to be her brother. Well, now it was her turn to refuse.

  The bell chimed and the door banged as he marched away. He was angry. So often, he'd used that anger to bully her, but she refused to be bullied now. Her loyalty was with her son, and perhaps it was time that Oliver learned that. It was time Lord Aberley learned that too—and anyone else who sought to use her or manipulate her. No more would she help people with their agendas.

  Turning around, she faced her shop and smiled gently as a young man walked in. Callouses on his fingers showed he played some wired instrument. "Hello," she said brightly. "May I be of assistance?"

  He sought the new song everyone was talking about. Sometimes that happened, a new song would take the whole city by storm and she sold endless copies of the sheet music. When it happened, she kept the copies on her desk and she led him there.

  Accepting payment, she smiled again as the customer left, feeling the smile melt off her face as she was alone again. There were so many challenges in her life right now, and today she had realized that she might truly have to cut ties with her brother. He was the only person she had in the world, except for Alfie, but now she had to be strong for her son.

  Putting the coins in her drawer, she stared at the money she kept there. Some of it would likely have to go to Mr. Lawrence before this was all over. It seemed she could barely keep her head above water, all her money disappearing the moment it came in. But she would simply have to do what she needed to do to protect Alfie.

  If she was in the remotest convinced that Lord Aberley was interested in Alfie because he was his father, she would perhaps tolerate a relationship between them, but he wanted an heir—someone to stash away out of sight and out of mind to later be given a stipend to continue to be out of sight until the day he was actually needed as an heir, dragged out at his father's funeral and given a title.

  She had seen the evidence of this with her own eyes. The man she had married had been the product of it himself—and he believed mothers would happy relinquish their children for the sake of a purse. Such a man cannot be responsible for raising Alfie. Over her dead body would she turn her lovely, gentle son into such a monster. So whatever she had to spend on Mr. Lawrence to ensure their protection, she would spend it—probably go into debt in the process.

  Why couldn't they just be left in peace? It seemed the moment she was treading water, someone sought to pull her under, and she still had her grief to deal with. Despair threatened her for a moment, but she couldn't afford to give in to it.

  Shutting the drawer sharply, she steeled her back and inhaled. They would be alright. They had each other and that was all they needed. Alfie was happy, and that made her happy. If she had to keep every form of predator from him, she would do so with a reassuring smile on her face.

  Still, she knew that her nemesis wasn't finished with his assault. He would come again, even if she had trouble foreseeing how. Perhaps he would turn up with an even larger purse of money. She would almost be disappointed in him if he did. It would show he simply didn't understand a heart of a mother. Perhaps he didn't. He hadn't really had one after all. That knowledge had softened her heart to him when she had first married him, but she had quickly learnt how hard and cold a motherless boy grew up.

  Chapter 10

  THE DARKENED STREETS OF London held all sorts of dangers and delights, but tonight Tristan was on his way to a place he rarely went. A place notorious for vice and drunkenness. It was a place open to all sorts of men with money to spend. Rowdier than the gambling establishments he typically attended. In his youth, these types of establishments had held more appeal.

  But he wasn't there for the women or the drink. Tonight, he was seeking that miscreant brother of the former Lady Aberley. No note had arrived that afternoon, which prompted him to go search for the man. Why had he been thinking that dealing with him would be straightforward? Nothing about the man had ever been easy or fruitful.

  Eventually his carriage stopped outside the establishment, where flames above the door burned high into the sky from two founts before the staircase leading up. Innocuously, it was called The Pelican, written in gold letters over the door. A doorman let him in, but that was whe
re the respectability ended.

  Noise assaulted him first as he took the internal stairway up to the large floor that was the main area of the club. Every surface was red and gold, and there were tables throughout the large, cavernous space. Young bucks and wizened debauchers filled every chair, not to mention the women dressed in satins and silks, necklines so low, the top of nipples peered out.

  This was the kind of place he would expect to find Oliver Bancroft.

  "Hello, my lovely," a woman said, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. "You look like you could use some company." Rouged cheeks and red lips camouflaged her age.

  "Not this night," Tristan said dryly. These painted ladies were not normally his weakness. They made him feel as cheap as the artifice of their painted beauty.

  The woman cursed at him as she walked away, her hips swaying, seeking her next customer. If he were to look for female company for the night, it certainly wouldn't be here. But there was certainly no shortage of them plying their trade here. Another was quickly approaching him, and he walked in the other direction, searching the tables for the face he sought.

  Oliver Bancroft was sitting at a table, playing cards with a group Tristan didn't know.

  "Mr. Bancroft," he said as he approached and the man looked up, for a second, a hunted look ghosted through his eyes. That was not what Tristan had been hoping for. Had Sophie convinced him too with her delusion?

  "Lord Aberley, what a surprise," the man said with a tight smile. "Care for a game."

  Looking at the table, Tristan saw they were playing Faro. "I don't play games of chance." He infinitely preferred games of skill, rather than ones he had absolutely no control over. Still, he sat down at the table and with his finger, ordered over one of the serving girls. "Italian red," he said and she retreated with a nod.

  "I would like an update on the matter we discussed the last time we met." The last time he'd sought this man here. Acquaintances who traveled in more disreputable circles when they wished to, informed him that Oliver Bancroft could be found here on a regular basis. "I trust you have put my proposal to your sister."

  "She will not listen," Oliver finally said, avoiding his eyes. "In fact, she told me not to come back."

  A frown spread across Tristan's face. Not because he remotely cared about some rift between this man and his sister—more because it appeared Oliver had no control over her. "Then what will she listen to?"

  Oliver shrugged. "Women are illogical," was all he said. Tristan had trouble arguing with the assessment. "Thinks she is independent. There is nothing worse than when they think they're independent. Lose all rhyme and reason. Then again, it's not my fault she has such a poor opinion of you. That is a cross you will have to bear," Oliver said accusingly.

  "I never mistreated her, but I was fully in my right to considering your crass and despicable behavior."

  "Well, I can't help you with regards to Sophie. She refuses to listen. Would rather live in poverty than have her child associated with you. Puts doubt into your assertion you treated her well."

  "I won't stand for paltry accusations coming from you," Tristan said in all seriousness. Someone like Oliver Bancroft attacking his character was absolutely unacceptable. But as expected, the man was a coward and backed down before he was called to stand by his statement.

  "Honey traps more flies than vinegar," Oliver finally said. "If you want a woman to do something for you, there are easier ways." Tristan could see the drunkenness in the man's eyes. "Whisper sweet nothings in their ears and they are putty in your hand—willing to do anything you ask of them. You managed to pry her legs open once, maybe you should again."

  "Are you suggesting I seduce your sister?" Tristan said with distaste—for the idea or simply for a brother suggesting such for his sister, he didn't know. It only confirmed he was dealing with base people and needed to get that boy away from them before they ruined him irreparably.

  "If you want a woman to do something, it's the easiest way." Oliver drank deeply from his glass and placed more money on the table for the next game. Whose money was it he was gambling, Tristan wondered.

  Despite the tawdriness of the suggestion's source, it did have some merit, except Tristan had absolutely no experience with seduction. It had never been a pastime he'd engaged in. Beyond rattling his purse, there was little he did to get women. Except Cecelia Hartright, but in all honesty, that had been the more sizeable rattling of his estate. Although a bigger estate had won her affection in the end.

  The kind of seduction that Oliver Bancroft engaged in—for power, manipulation and control—was not something Tristan had any skill in. The mere fact that he abhorred lying by anyone—including himself—proved that it was a strategy he could not engage in. Seducing without making false promises was definitely not an art he was skilled in, and it was unlikely to work on Sophie anyway. The only reason she had submitted to him in the first place was wifely duty. And also, duty was the only reason he had sought her out in the first place.

  It was that same duty that drove him now.

  Without a word, he left the table and made his way out of the club. There was nothing to be gained here, other than learning the despicable lengths the Bancroft family would go to to get what they wanted. The problem was that he couldn't readily understand what Sophie wanted. Independence her brother had said. Perhaps on some level, he understood that. There had been years where Tristan had himself longed for independence. In truth, he never quite achieved it, and wouldn't until an heir was in place. With a chuckle, he considered that they sought the same thing. Except they were at odds, because he needed her to give up on what she wanted for him to achieve what he wanted.

  "Home," he ordered his driver as his carriage pulled over to him. Closing himself inside, he put the tawdriness of The Pelican behind him.

  Sophie thwarted him because she had the independence to do so, but it was merely an illusion. There was no security in a mere retail shop. Perhaps he needed to prove that to her to make her see reason. There was only one further step away from the workhouse than they had been before. Her precarious situation was something she needed to fear. His offer could not be scoffed at because of something that could fall apart at any moment. A number of things could make her small business unviable. If she fell ill, she and her son would be in the workhouse before the month was out.

  Showing her the risk was perhaps an easier solution than more involved strategies like seducing her. Obviously, she was an attractive woman—she always had been. Her prettiness had always been something he'd been wary of. Like her brother, he firmly believed she used it to get what she wanted. Except now she wanted independence and turned her back on everyone.

  Unfortunately, she wasn't as strong or as independent as she liked to believe, and the best interest of her son would be to accept his offer. It shouldn't prove too hard to convince her.

  "Smyth," Tristan said as he walked into his house. "I believe I need to see my man of business."

  "It is past midnight. Do you wish me to send someone to his house to raise him?"

  "Ah, no, I suppose it can wait until morning. Send a note over first thing and have him come. We have business to conduct. I can see to myself. Return to bed," he ordered and Smyth locked the entrance door.

  Feeling lighter, he walked up the stairs to his bedchamber.

  Chapter 11

  HER CONSTANT GUARDING at the window of her shop bore fruit, but she didn't want it to when she saw the Aberley crest on an approaching carriage down the street. Of course, there was no reason he would be here by chance.

  As she watched, she saw the carriage stop and the black door open. Lord Aberley's dark hair was seen first, stepping out before he put his hat on. His eyes immediately sought her through the window and he tipped his fingers to the rim of his hat in greeting.

  With her arms crossed, Sophie refused to acknowledge him. Why couldn't she just walk over and lock the door? Because it was childish. What she needed to do was to face down this ma
n.

  "Lord Aberley," she said as he walked through the door. "What a pleasant surprise. Can I assume you are here to buy some sheet music?"

  He didn't speak for a moment and simply stood by the door, then closed it behind him, and Sophie wished he wouldn't. She didn't like them being alone, even in the fishbowl which was her shop. It wasn't that she expected him to be a danger to her, but he was here for a reason—and it was unlikely he had come unarmed, figuratively speaking.

  "So nice of you to speak to my brother," she said tersely. "I hope he successfully conveyed my sentiments to you."

  His steps were heavy as he walked closer and Sophie shifted her eyes away and out onto the street through the window. She liked him coming closer even less. It was strange to think she had been married to this man—had been intimate with this man a few times. She had tried her best to develop feelings for him, but had never succeeded, which was a blessing. But then how could anyone develop feelings for a man that was so cold?

  Memories of Doug and his sweetness stole into her mind.

  "I have come to appeal to your better judgment," he finally said, his voice deep and clear.

  Sophie chuckled at the unexpected sentiment. The man truly was deluded—but then he'd believed she would essentially sell her son for a sum of money, so it wasn't perhaps surprising. "I believe I have made up my mind. What is your objection to actually taking a wife? You certainly got rid of the one you had in a hurry."

  "I despise deception."

  "Deception?" she said. Well, perhaps it had been. She didn't know how the marriage had come about, but it had been her brother's doing, so there might well have been some deception involved. For some reason, this man had let Oliver foist a bride on him, and it had something to do with his sister, because the moment she died, her divorce was set in motion. Oliver had somehow blackmailed him into it.

  "You claim there was no deception involved with our marriage?"