by Brenda Hiatt
He frowned at Harry, who glared back—though less from Peter’s words than at the memory of Wellington smiling suggestively down at Xena an hour since. As he’d not asked the Duke to keep word of his marriage quiet, he’d decided on the drive here to confess the whole to his two best friends tonight—which prospect contributed to his black mood.
Smoothing his frown with an effort, he put on as casual an air as he could summon preparatory to delivering his bombshell.
“You needn’t worry, Pete. As it happens, Miss Maxwell’s reputation was in no danger whatever—not when one considers that she and I have been legally married for some seven and a half years.”
The complete shock that wiped all traces of jocularity from both his friends’ faces was so comical it lightened Harry’s spirits somewhat.
“What?” Jack exploded.
“Married?” Peter exclaimed at the same moment. “Impossible!”
“Of course it’s impossible. He’s bamming us, Pete. Look, he’s grinning. Can’t believe we were actually taken in for a moment.”
Harry shook his head. “Though it would have been an excellent joke, I fear I’m quite serious. We were wed the very day before I joined the 48th, back in ’09. We’d, er, let our passions get the better of our judgment and her father got wind of it. Needless to say, I left the 45th under a bit of a cloud, though no doubt Colonel Maxwell did his best to hush the whole thing up. It’s why I never spoke of it.”
Peter’s disbelieving stare slowly became one of comprehension. “Then that letter you received, the one that started you drinking—”
“Was from her father, telling me she’d drowned when the frigate she had sailed upon was destroyed by the French.”
“Which she was not aboard after all.” Jack still looked thunderstruck. “So all this time you’ve believed her dead…until tonight? No wonder you reacted so when introduced. And Wellington—he knows, does he not?”
Harry nodded. “Xena told him we’d been married, believing me dead as well. Was rather a facer for both of us.”
“I can imagine.” Peter was frowning again now. “And while I can well believe Old Nosey would do such a thing to you, I’m surprised he would treat a lady so—particularly one so highly regarded by tonight’s company as Miss Maxwell. Or, I suppose I should say…Mrs. Thatcher!”
At that, both Jack and Peter went off into peals of laughter that effectively blackened Harry’s temper again.
“Very well, laugh. Can’t say I didn’t expect it. But don’t think this revelation will affect my life in any way other than providing you two fodder for humor at my expense.”
That only provoked more laughter. Indeed, it was at least two full minutes before either of Harry’s friends recovered enough to speak.
“After the way you’ve chided us both for the way marriage has altered us, why should you think yourself immune?” Jack wiped his streaming eyes. “I assure you, dear fellow, you are not.”
Peter, still helpless with laughter, simply shook his head.
“If this were what you two so sentimentally call a ‘love match,’ that might be true,” Harry countered. “But while Xena and I were admittedly more attracted to each other seven years ago than was wise, we both regarded it as a mere passing liaison to while away the boredom and stress of camp life between skirmishes. While I was supposedly endangering my wife’s virtue this evening, we were in fact agreeing to behave like civilized people and live our lives just as we’ve always done—separately. She means to return to Yorkshire within a day or two and I’ll go on as before here in London.”
That effectively quenched his comrades’ hilarity. Both men now wore matching expressions of outraged confusion.
“What?” Peter demanded. “Surely you can’t mean that! Why, you’ve just been reunited with the wife you lost and mourned all those years ago—and yes, we both knew you were mourning, though you never told us why. Now you mean to just…let her go again, without the slightest attempt to make a real go of your marriage? Are you mad?”
Now it was Harry’s turn to laugh—though his heart wasn’t in it. “Mad? Sane, more like—saner than either of you lovesick pups. Wellington himself pointed out how enviable most men would consider my position and I intend to take full advantage of it.”
“Never say you mean to take Wellington as a model for happiness in the married state?” Jack snorted with disgust.
Harry shrugged. “He seems perfectly happy to me—wife comfortably tucked away in the country while he pursues his pleasures in Town. Why should I not do the same?”
“Because you’ve never even given your marriage a chance!” Peter nearly shouted at him. “True, Wellington might have done better not to marry at all on discovering the woman he’d courted a dozen years earlier was no longer the girl he’d fallen in love with. But once he did, he at least made a go of it before abandoning her for months at a stretch. Surely you owe yourself—and your wife—that much?”
“Xena didn’t seem to think so,” Harry retorted. “When I suggested we live apart she practically jumped at the idea.” That still rankled slightly, though he’d never let his friends know it.
Jack made another attempt. “From what I heard of Miss Maxwell back on the Peninsula, she was even more unconventional and independent than yourself. Mightn’t that make her your perfect match?”
Though once upon a time Harry had begun to believe exactly that, he refused to be drawn in by such a fantasy now. “No such thing exists,” he said brusquely. “In any event, it’s settled, as I already told you. She’s leaving. I’m staying put. End of story.” Standing, he downed the rest of his port in one impatient gulp, ignoring the burn in his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my usual sordid pleasures to pursue. Give you good night, gentlemen.”
Snatching up his hat and greatcoat, Harry stormed out of the library and down the stairs, slamming the front door as he quitted the house.
Not till he was nearly to Seven Dials did he slacken his pace, belatedly remembering to act the drunken cripple so as not to be overly conspicuous to its denizens. Upon letting himself into Lord Hardwyck’s former rooms, he called out, “Flute? Are you here?”
“Aye, guv.” The boy’s straw-colored head popped around a corner. “Are you needing me to help you out of your evening things?”
“Yes, out of this costume and into a more appropriate one for housebreaking. The Saint has work to do.”
A bout of burglary with perhaps a narrow escape for good measure would be just the thing to banish Xena from his mind.
* * *
Peter stared after Harry’s rapidly-retreating form, blinking thoughtfully as his best friend clattered down the stairs and slammed out of the front door. One brow raised, he then turned to Jack.
“Would you say he seemed a bit more put out than one might expect from a man who claims to have just achieved a so-called perfect arrangement?”
A slow smile spread across Jack’s face. “He did indeed. Methinks he still has more of a soft spot for his long-lost wife than he’s willing to admit—even to himself.”
“My thought exactly. So the question now becomes, how do we go about convincing Harry of that?”
“Then you believe we should try?”
Peter nodded. “As I said, I cannot seem to help myself when it comes to forwarding the happiness of a friend—and you and I both know how much happiness is to be found in marriage to the right woman.”
“But is this the right woman for Harry? If she’s already decided she wants nothing to do with him or their marriage, what makes you believe we can change her mind? Or that we should?”
“How will we know—or, more importantly, how will they know—until they have spent sufficient time in each other’s company to discover the truth?” Peter retorted with a grin. “You saw how they greeted each other tonight. I feel certain there was more at work in each than simple shock at discovering the other alive. If I’m wrong, so be it. She returns to Yorkshire and we leave Harry to his own
devices.”
Jack quirked an eyebrow. “And you’ll really leave it at that?”
Sobering, Peter shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll admit I’d prefer that not transpire. You’ve not been in Town enough in recent months to witness it, Jack, but Harry’s been in a downward spiral of late. His drinking and gambling has reached new levels of excess, though it’s increasingly obvious he enjoys it less and less.”
He still hoped that becoming the Saint of Seven Dials would change that trend, but it was far too soon yet to know for certain. Besides which, as Harry himself had pointed out, it was an exceedingly risky pursuit with a distinct chance of landing him either in prison or at the gallows. Getting Harry happily settled with a wife was a far preferable option.
“From your thoughtful expression, I take it you are already planning a strategy to achieve this likely-impossible task?” Jack said, interrupting Peter’s ruminations. “Will it require my assistance, or may I return to Fox Manor tomorrow as planned?”
Peter hadn’t actually begun strategizing as yet, but now an idea began to form. “The first step, obviously, is to prevent Mrs. Thatcher from leaving London.” Pronouncing her married name still made his lips twitch—and Jack’s as well. “Nessa will be expecting you, so I’ll attempt that stage on my own. Should I succeed, however, I believe it might be helpful to have you about for the next stage of our campaign—and Nessa, too, if she should feel equal to traveling.”
“We had already discussed spending the winter in Town before she discovered she was increasing again. If her current indisposition proves as temporary as I hope—which she assures me is probable—we’ll likely return before year’s end. I can’t imagine Nessa will wish to miss this campaign any more than I do.”
* * *
Xena awoke with bleary eyes the next morning after an exceedingly restless night. She’d lain awake for hours, alternately wondering whether she were wrong to keep Theo’s existence a secret from his father, then fretting that she would not be able to leave London quickly enough to do so.
Scenes from the evening kept replaying in her mind—that first, breath-stealing sight of Harry, his fellow officers’ disclosures about the unsavory man Harry was now, General Wellington’s disappointing fall from grace. Nor could she forget the way her heart had fluttered the whole time she’d been alone with Harry, all too reminiscent of how he’d made her feel so many years ago on the Peninsula.
When she finally did fall asleep, her dreams were all of Harry, past and present. At one point she’d come half-awake, convinced he was in the bed beside her—then experienced a most disturbing pang of disappointment on realizing he was not. Clearly it was high time she removed herself from his vicinity and such foolish fantasies.
With renewed determination, she arose, dressed and joined the others in the small, central parlor where they were already breakfasting.
“Mother!” Theo greeted her enthusiastically. “Mrs. Henderson says that if you will give your permission I may go out to the stables today with Mr. Beasley, the groom, to see the horses. I may, mayn’t I? Please?”
Theo, as well as Gretchen and Yamini, had struck up a friendship of sorts with their landlady, and for the most part Xena had no fault to find with that, as it meant another pair of eyes to keep her active son out of trouble. Just now, however, she was struck by how very much Theo resembled his father.
Until seeing Harry again in the flesh last night, she’d almost forgotten the reddish highlights in his brown hair, so like Theo’s, and his changeable hazel eyes—another trait Theo shared. Her heart tightened uncomfortably at the obvious similarities.
“Mother?” Theo prompted when she did not answer at once. “May I please visit the horses today? I promise to stay away from their hooves and to behave exactly as Mr. Beasley tells me.”
“Oh, ah, yes, I suppose so, Theo, if you are careful.”
He might as well have one last innocent pleasure, she reasoned, for he would be excessively disappointed to hear they must leave London within the week.
“Do you suppose I shall be allowed to give one of the horses a carrot or lump of sugar?” Theo’s eyes sparked at the prospect. “I should like that very much!”
Xena smiled fondly at her son, deciding to wait until after she returned from her errands to give him the news about their departure. “As long as it is a very gentle horse, Mr. Beasley may allow it, if you ask politely.”
He nodded vigorously, then jumped up. “I am finished eating. May Yamini take me downstairs now?”
“After your face is washed and your hair brushed.”
“Will you come down, too?”
“Not just now. I must eat something and then I have a few errands to attend to. You may tell me all about it when I return.”
A short time later, Xena again entered Mr. Gold’s dusty shop. The old shopkeeper seemed delighted to see her.
“Ah, Miss Maxwell. I’d planned to send a message round today asking you to stop in, and here you’ve spared me the trouble. I’ve some very good news for you.”
“Good news?” Xena echoed.
“Indeed. Someone has bought every Grecian item you’ve already consigned to me and has expressed interest in purchasing most of the ones you listed as available from Yorkshire, as well. All for a most handsome sum, I must say! I dare swear it is because the recent controversy over Lord Elgin’s Marbles has sparked renewed interest in all things Greek.”
Mr. Gold named a sum that made Xena gasp aloud. It seemed too good to be true—which meant she must be cautious. “Has he left any sort of surety against the items that are not yet in London?”
“Believe me, miss, his name alone is surety enough, but I fear he bound me not to disclose it as yet. He fears if word were to get out others might attempt to outbid him, though to my knowledge there are few currently residing in Town with resources to equal his.”
Xena frowned suspiciously. “I can write to my steward in Yorkshire at once to request the shipping of the other items but should like some assurance first that this anonymous gentleman will not change his mind. I will not be remaining in London many more days, so it would be well if this business could be settled quickly.”
Mr. Gold smiled indulgently. “His, er, the gentleman in question gave me his word, so you need have no worries on that head. He also expressed a wish to discuss the collection with you in person when his press of business allows it. Surely, with so much money at stake, you can see your way clear to extend your stay? I should be happy to do more business with you as well.”
Xena thought hard. It was true that the total amount would cover every conceivable repair at home and ensure Theo’s future as well, but did she dare wait for it all? If she were very discreet and stayed well away from the West End, perhaps the risk would not be so very great, as Harry would believe her already gone…
“I will see whether I can adjust my plans, Mr. Gold, though I would prefer to have that meeting as soon as can be arranged. You will send me word the moment it is possible, will you not?”
“Of course. Now, about those Turkish figurines you mentioned earlier…”
After another ten minutes discussion, Xena left the shop two hundred pounds richer than she had arrived, and with the promise of much, much more in the near future. She’d intended to stop by the modiste’s to cancel the other two gowns she’d ordered but now decided against it. If she were to remain in London another week, there would be time for them to be made up and delivered, and she was now well able to afford them.
But who will I wear them for? a small voice whispered, introducing a note of disquiet to her otherwise improved outlook. Resolutely refusing to think about the one man she might wish to see her wearing them, she returned to Rundel Street. Only as she approached the entrance to Mrs. Henderson’s house did she perceive the smartly dressed gentleman standing just outside—a gentleman she recognized with a start from last night.
“Give you good day, Miss Maxwell.” Lord Peter Northrup stepped toward her with a br
oad smile. “Just the woman I was hoping to see. Might I have a word?”
* * *
Xena froze for an instant but it was too late to turn tail. “How did you find me?” she demanded.
Lord Peter’s brows rose. “Not quite the cordial greeting I’d hoped for, but an understandable question, given that it did indeed entail a bit of difficulty. Fortunately for me, Wellington’s secretary remembered where he had sent your invitation and was obliging enough to share your direction.”
Belatedly recalling her manners, Xena dipped a grudging curtsey. “I give you good day, Lord Peter, and apologize for my initial rudeness. Might I also inquire as to your reason for seeking me out?”
“Of course. Perhaps you might invite me in so we may speak in rather more privacy?”
“I fear that would be most improper, my lord, for my abigail is out on an errand, which would leave us unchaperoned.” Luckily Gretchen was not present to give her the lie, as Xena had not insisted the girl accompany her. “Surely we are private enough here, given how few people are about.”
Lord Peter twirled his hat in his hands for a moment before nodding. “Very well, Miss Maxwell—or, I should say, Mrs. Thatcher. I come on behalf of your husband to ask that you not give up on your marriage so easily when there is a chance it might yet be source of happiness for you both.”
Xena stared. “Harry sent you? He actually told you about—”
“No, no, you misunderstand. While it’s true that Harry informed me last night about how things stand between the two of you, he has no idea that I am here.”
“But you said—”
“That I was here on his behalf. I am. For it is primarily for Harry’s sake that I am making this request of you. I am convinced you are the very thing he needs in his life just now. And who knows? You may discover he is just what you need in yours, as well.”
A mirthless laugh escaped her. “I take leave to doubt both of those suppositions, sir. Harry made it quite clear last night that the last thing he wants is a wife hanging about. As for myself, after believing myself a widow all these years, I’ve grown quite set in my ways. I should imagine the same is true of Harry.”
