“Meow?”
“That’s right. A big, ferocious feline with long claws and sharp teeth. Not one more word.”
So the crow silently squatted on Ardeth’s pillow.
Chapter 7
The rest of the wedding journey—an end to army life, an escape from despair, or the entry to real existence, depending on whose eyes the trip was viewed through—passed uneventfully.
Ardeth kept busy with the horses, his papers, and his increasing staff of couriers, information gatherers, and outright spies. He was planning his arrival in London and introduction to its society with the same care he had given sieges on enemy strongholds. He did not intend to fail. Too much depended on his acceptance. Now he was responsible for another’s welcome back into the rarefied air of the aristocracy, where she would have to live after he was gone.
Genie had no intention of living among the haut monde, because she knew she would never be accepted there. She would worry about Ardeth’s disappointment later, though, for now she kept busy with seasickness, motion sickness, morning sickness, and being sick at heart when they finally reached London.
Gracious, she had taken enough of a chance wedding a slightly mad stranger, but Ardeth was far stranger than that! She had married a monster, a freak. There was no other way of describing her befuddlement. Ardeth did not seem evil, just so different her mind could not comprehend his nature. She tried out the notion that he might be an angel. Heaven knew he was beautiful enough. Sometimes he talked in such otherworldly terms that she could not conceive of a real man being so noble, so wise, so learned. She had a hard enough time believing in angels coming to earth to work wonders, however, much less marrying pregnant widows. Besides, what did angels need with money if a simple miracle or two could better mankind? And no angel would pull a dagger from his boot to carve his beefsteak.
Her mind skittered to the idea that her husband—‘good god’ she was truly married to the man!—was a wizard, with a crow for familiar. But wizards were fairy-tale creatures, weren’t they, ancient, with long white beards and pointed hats? Ardeth was far too virile for that. And he had no staff. Well, not that kind.
Perhaps he was a warlock, she speculated, for he’d spoken of killing. But a warlock would not marry in front of a priest, under a cross. At least she thought not, recalling tales of covens meeting at midnight, naked under moonlight. She would not let herself think of Ardeth without his clothes on, so eliminated black magic from her musing.
Which left everyday magic, then, if every day was a country fair or a ha’penny show. A wandering magician could learn tricks from many cultures, sleight of hand from hundreds of sources, even books. She’d heard of fakirs who slept on beds of nails, shamans who did rain dances, Gypsies who told fortunes, and mediums who spoke with the dead. She scarcely believed any of it, but she was not well-read or well traveled, so supposed such things were possible. And she had heard Ardeth himself shout that he’d performed a trick. So her husband was a conjurer? At the same time he was an earl? That was even harder to believe.
Unless he had pulled the earldom out of his hat, as a magician pulled out a rabbit, or a gold coin from behind someone’s ear. His wealth could be as much an illusion. In that case the determined London newspapers would soon discover that none of his story was true, that he was a charlatan, a mountebank.
Did they hang impostors? What of their wives? She guessed they would be transported to Botany Bay at the least, which was better than being burned at the stake, she supposed.
At best his relatives would lock him in Bedlam Hospital, and condemn her for taking advantage of a poor deluded lunatic. Heaven knew what would happen to her then, for she thought any contract a crazy person signed could be declared invalid. Even wills had to be made with sound minds.
The sound she made was half whimper, half moan.
If her fears were not bad enough, they were magnified by her self-imposed isolation in the earl’s London town house. She had no one to discuss her concerns with. She would not speak about her husband to the servants, not to gossipy Marie, and not to steadfast Campbell, who was so happy with the horses, he’d never hear a word of criticism of his master. As for the other servants, they were all in awe of the earl, and so correct in manners that they awed Genie. Why, she almost curtsied to the butler!
Even if the housekeeper were a friendly, motherly sort instead of a coolly efficient work of starch, Genie would not be so disloyal as to talk about the man who had rescued her and now had her ensconced in the center of Mayfair, with new servants to manage, new furnishings to select, a new wardrobe to purchase.
For the latter, Marie quickly discovered the correct modistes to patronize, and Genie quickly discovered that a countess did not have to be bothered with tedious fittings or waiting her turn in some shop. Linendrapers and dressmakers came to her, to her house, at her convenience. For the chance at dressing a countess, a courteous countess whose husband paid the bills promptly, one enterprising shop owner hired a young woman of Genie’s height and weight, except for the baby, so Genie did not have to stand to be pinned and poked.
As a matter of fact, and a matter of choice, Genie seldom left the house. She told herself she was too busy, helping Ardeth, making a home for him. In truth she was too worried about facing society. If he was not denounced as an interloper, she would be. He’d discover she was not welcome in an earl’s circles, that he’d married a pariah who could not attend the balls and such where he would meet other men of influence, to speak of his charities.
For herself, she could withstand the turned backs and sneers. She was not sure about Ardeth. With his sense of honor, he was liable to repay the insults by turning some disapproving dowager into a frog.
Genie giggled at the idea.
“Is something funny, my lady wife?”
Genie quickly got to her feet, spilling a few of the parcels she was unwrapping onto the floor. The carpet was so thick, nothing broke. “I did not hear you, my lord.”
“Don’t you think you could call me Ardeth or Coryn by now?”
“You call me wife.”
“I like the sound of it. And your laughter. Have I told you recently?”
See? Magic. He melted her fears away with a few words. The room was warmer, the day brighter, because he was smiling.
“No,” she said, but added, “You have been too busy,” in case he thought she was looking for more compliments. “I have hardly seen you.” That sounded wrong, too—the man betwattled her brain! “Not that I am complaining, of course, for I never expected you to dance attendance on me.”
“Yet dance we shall. The walls of bureaucracy have now been breached. My claim to the title has been validated. My call to Parliament will be forthcoming.”
“No one questioned your birth?” She wanted to say “sanity” or “peculiarity,” but did not dare.
“I have proof of my legitimacy, if that was what had you worried, and my right to the earldom. That has been on record for decades. My signature has been accepted at the banks.”
Someone should question the intelligence of those in charge, she thought, but said, “Then congratulations indeed!”
He took her hand and swung her around, right off her feet, in a mad whirl. “I have met with the foreign secretary, the home secretary, and the prime minister. His Excellency the prince is hosting a grand fete to celebrate the defeat of Bonaparte after all those years. I am invited. I shall learn to waltz.”
“I thought everyone knew how to waltz by now.”
“Not where I came from. Show me, lady wife.”
So Genie hummed and counted the beat. Ardeth learned quickly, except that he wanted only to sweep her up and twirl her around, missing the boxes on the floor by inches.
“No, no,” she said through her laughter. “The waltz is far more decorous than that. And your partner will become ill if you keep spinning.”
“Are you feeling queasy? Shall I…?”
She slipped from his arms and fussed with the twine
on another box. “I am fine, thank you. You will do well at the ball.”
“It would be a serious insult to refuse the prince.”
Genie was catching her breath, and not just from the wild waltz. She had never been held so easily, with so much joy. “Of course it would. You must attend. The prince might listen to your plans to improve conditions of the poor instead of spending all his money on building palaces and pavilions.”
“From what I hear, he will never listen. But others might. You will be expected at my side, of course. People are already asking about you, and I can only claim your weariness from the journey for so long.”
She wrapped the string around her fingers, rather than meet his eyes. “I thought I would not attend public functions yet. In memory of Elgin, you know.”
“Nearly everyone there will have lost someone in the war. They are celebrating that no more young men will be sacrificed.”
“There is no reason to stir up more gossip,” she insisted.
“Gossip lurks in every dark corner, like dust. Such it has been in every court I have ever visited, as well as every alehouse, washing well, and milking shed. The only way to defeat it is in the open air. Furthermore, the Russian prince will be there with his sister, and three Austrian princesses, I understand. Everyone will be talking about mem, not you.”
“I am not ready to go out.”
“What, you have nothing suitable to wear?” He raised one dark eyebrow at the stacks of parcels in the small, cluttered parlor at the back of the house. There was even a crate in one corner.
“These are not mine! I would never spend your money on so much frippery.”
He peered into one box, but saw only wrapping tissue. “Toys for poor children? Hats and mittens for the workhouses? I thought we discussed hiring a warehouse for that kind of thing.”
“We did. These are your packages. They are all hourglasses.” She led him to the connecting room, where shelf upon shelf was filled with the timepieces. Some were tiny, with enough sand to time an egg or a move at a game of chess. Others were so large they could have clocked a cricket match. Some were wood, some brass. A few were gold, or gold plated. Some of the sand was white, and some looked like mud dredged out of the river Thames yesterday.
“Campbell found a man to build me shelves,” Genie told Ardeth. “Scores of hourglasses arrive every day dirough your agents, more so now that the reward notices have been posted in London. I have the names of all the senders, in case one deserves the money, but I do not think so, from your description. A few have clasps roughly glued to the backs, trying to make them into brooches, but Olive says they are not right.”
“Olive?”
“I thought he would recognize the one you seek, because you sent him out looking.”
“I sent him to get rid of the nuisance. That twit would not recognize his own pecker, that is, his own beak.”
“Well, he does claim these are not alive, as if an hourglass could live and breathe. I thought he was saying they were not for Olive, not food, not shiny enough. Then he said they were not ours.”
The former Dead Letter knew the former gremlin was saying “not Ar’s.”
Ardeth picked up a little one of the collection, surprised at its lightness. The real one, for all its smallness, carried the weight of the world, or so it had always seemed. He put this one down.
“I appreciate your efforts, but they are not necessary. I would know if the thing were found. I would… feel differently, I think.”
Abracadabra again, Genie thought, her ebullience fading. “What shall I do with these? I’d think schools and hospitals would rather have clocks.”
“We could melt down the gold ones, I suppose, or return as many as we can, with a few coins. The ones sent as gifts to curry favor require mere thank-you notes. But leave them for now. We need to discuss the prince’s reception.”
“I would rather not go.”
“I know,” was all he said, lifting an hourglass that had colored glass beads embedded in its bottom and top. It was garish enough for a bordello, if the wenches worked by the hour.
Lord Ardeth was not asking, Genie knew, feeling more trapped by his turned back and silence. He’d done so much, given so much, and asked so little in return. Now he was letting her choose her own path, confident she would choose the right one. She’d rather catalog the timepieces.
She could let him go off on his own, Genie thought. Ardeth had managed well so far. According to Campbell, the earl had won membership to White’s men’s club, which he accepted, and invitations to Jackson’s boxing parlor, Manton’s shooting gallery, and Antonio’s fencing academy, all of which he refused. Genie wondered what he’d told the sporting gentlemen, for he’d told her he would not take up arms against a man, ever again, not even in play. The Corinthians ought to be glad Ardeth was not wielding fists or sword or pistol, for she’d wager he’d be a formidable opponent. As for White’s, Genie knew her husband did not care to gamble, and never drank to excess since she’d known him. Again, she wondered what the other men thought, if they were already calling him the Eccentric Earl. As sure as the sins he would not commit, he was different from the rest of them, yet seemed to command respect wherever he went.
Most likely the tulips would admire his style. They’d all soon be wearing long black capes like his despite the warm weather, and putting on dark, mysterious airs, which the women would adore. The hint of danger, the slight scent of smoke, his unspoken past—and his wealth—would make him an irresistible challenge for the women of the so-called polite world. They would be less than polite in their pursuit, married or not.
Maybe she better go to the celebration, Genie told herself.
She owed him the protection of her presence. Besides, the earl had not been brought up in English society and might not know all of its ways. That was what he’d asked of her, wasn’t it, her help in finding his place? His manners appeared perfect, now that he’d stopped eating with his fingers, courtly even, but what if he said something bizarre, like his muttering now about why anyone would keep a memento mori, a reminder of death. The hourglasses were only timing devices, for goodness’ sake, and he had asked for them.
Genie decided she ought to go with him, to stop him, if she could, from advertising his oddities. Heavens, what if he decided to take his pet crow, or put out all the fires in Carlton House? Or start one.
“Very well, I will go.”
“Thank you,” he said, his rare smile returning.
Genie held up her hand. “But I will not dance. That would be too outrageous a flouting of the conventions.”
“How disappointing. I was looking forward to a real dance with my wife.”
Genie thought she might have liked that, too, despite her concerns, which was worrying in itself. Insanity must be contagious, like a putrid sore throat. Feeling any kind of attraction to Lord Ardeth now was bound to be more painful later.
“Prinny is known to adore crowds,” she told him, “so I doubt there will be room for dancing anyway. Besides, I hear he keeps his rooms too warm for any strenuous activity such as dancing. Ladies have been known to swoon from the heat.”
“Then I will be comfortable there. I do not understand this English penchant for cold, damp rooms and unlit fires.”
“It is summertime.”
“So what?”
Genie could not imagine Ardeth being uncomfortable anywhere. Wherever he was, he was in charge. Like now, when he was planning a dancing party of their own.
“We can hire an orchestra, serve champagne punch and those lobster patties that seem to be in fashion, and festoon the ballroom with silk swags and flowers.”
“Appearing in public is in poor enough taste as is. Entertaining on such a large scale so soon after my husb—that is, after Elgin’s death would be highly improper. No one would come anyway.”
“Good. I did not mean for us to invite anyone else to our ball but the two of us. Would you like that?”
“What, hold a grand f
ete for you and me?”
“You in your prettiest gown, me trying to remember the steps. The musicians behind a screen so they cannot see my blunders or stare at my beautiful wife.”
“Who is breeding, in case you have forgotten.”
“And more beautiful for it.”
She tsked at him, rather than let him see her pleasure in his compliments. “A private ball would be a silly waste.” And the most romantic thing she had ever imagined. She could almost feel his arms about her, drifting to the music, with the sweet scent of roses in the air and no one to spout propriety. Then they could go upstairs—when he’d remember his oath of abstinence. “A total waste. Surely you have better things to do with your time and money.”
He turned six of the hourglasses upside down, one after the other, to let the sands run out. “I am not sure anymore.”
“Well, I am. I have much to do before the prince’s reception. For one thing, I cannot go until I pay a duty call I have been putting off.”
“I did not take you for a shirker or a coward.”
“Sometimes avoiding unpleasantness is easier than facing it head-on. I owe my former mother-in-law the courtesy of a visit before I enter society. She never liked me, and she will disapprove even more of my hasty marriage, with good cause.”
“You did what you had to do to survive.”
“She would prefer that I had perished rather than cause another scandal, and will certainly tell me so. I brought home some things of Elgin’s she might like to have, though, his sword and pistol, a pocket watch that might have been a gift from his father.”
“Do you think she’d believe Macklin owned one of these hourglasses? You could tuck it in with his scabbard.”
Genie ignored his efforts at lightening her mood. “I was hoping she would not be in town, but I had one of the footmen make inquiries.” She sighed. “Lady Cormack is here, likely well aware of my return to England.”
“You could send the trappings.”
“Now that would be cowardly. Elgin’s mother deserves an explanation of our marriage. The nature of his death will be harder to explain.”
The Hourglass Page 7
