A Marriage of Rogues

by Margaret Moore

“What gentleman?”

  “He said he was her solicitor.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, dark hair, rather fierce.”

  “Dundrake’s pet lawyer,” Leamington-Rudney muttered angrily. He glared at the young man. “Where did they go?”

  Whitcombe’s hand closed around the handle of the cosh. “I really cannot say, my lord.”

  The viscount’s eyes narrowed. He pulled out his wallet and tossed two pound notes on the counter. “Where are they?”

  Whitcombe made no move to pick up the money. “I really cannot say, sir. It may have been to the magistrate, considering the lady’s injuries.”

  Coloring, the viscount snatched up his money. “I’m leaving as soon as I’ve packed my things.”

  “Very good, sir,” Whitcombe sincerely replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sir Develin’s French chef regarded Thea with a baleful expression. “There is no need for such economy,” he protested with the accent of a Parisian born and bred. “Sir Develin has never questioned the amount spent for food in all the years he’s been in charge. He understands you cannot ask a builder to use inferior bricks and mortar.”

  Thea folded her hands in her lap and regarded Monsieur Bertrand with a look that had stood her in good stead with many an angry merchant or landlord. “Household matters are no longer my husband’s concern,” she pointed out to the peevish cook.

  “You are an excellent chef,” she went on, softening her tone as well as her expression, “and naturally when we have the ball in a few weeks’ time, you will have no such restrictions. Indeed, I’m counting on you to suggest and prepare a menu that will make our first ball something to be remembered.”

  The chef brightened noticeably. “I promise you, my lady, I will make such food that you will be the envy of every hostess for miles around!”

  “I’m quite sure of that, Monsieur,” Thea replied. “However, in the meantime, we shall use more plain and inexpensive ingredients.”

  She caught sight of Mrs. Wessex hovering in the doorway and spoke before the chef could raise any more objections to her decision.

  “That will be all for today, Monsieur,” she said, beckoning for the housekeeper to enter.

  The chef gave a baleful sigh, yet he realized he’d been dismissed. He walked past the housekeeper with a nod while Mrs. Wessex came farther into the morning room.

  Thea hoped the housekeeper’s arrival didn’t mean a domestic crisis. She’d been mercifully free from any conflict in that regard so far.

  “Still no word from Sir Develin?” Mrs. Wessex asked.

  Thea kept any worry or dismay from her face as she answered with the same excuses she’d used to comfort herself as one day became two, then three, and still no word had arrived from her husband about when he might return. “Not yet. I suppose a bride must get used to her husband’s ways, and he has yet to realize he has a wife who would like to know when he’ll be coming home.”

  Mrs. Wessex gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, that’s it, I’m sure. He was always an impulsive boy, quick to laugh and get into mischief. Many’s the time he’d come running to the kitchen and beg us to hide him from his fath—” The housekeeper swallowed the last of the word and smiled again. “As you say, he’s new to being a husband.”

  “Is there something you require?” Thea asked, wondering if she’d forgotten to do something or issue an order. “Or do you have a question about the ball?”

  Mrs. Wessex had been delighted to help with those arrangements, or so it had seemed. They also seemed never-ending, at least to Thea, and the ball was still over four weeks away.

  “No, my lady,” Mrs. Wessex said, a frown darkening her features. “It’s Lady Gladys. She’s arrived all in a flutter and wants to see you at once. At least, I think that’s what she said. She’s in such a state, it was difficult to tell.”

  Thea rose at once. “Where is she? Why didn’t you ask her to come here?”

  “I put her in the drawing room. If she doesn’t calm down, there’s more space so less chance of...unfortunate accidents,” Mrs. Wessex finished with a bit of a guilty look.

  Something serious must have happened to upset Gladys so much. Perhaps Gladys’s mother, or the earl had fallen ill...or maybe the duke’s son had come home.

  Whatever it was, Gladys was clearly in distress, so Thea hastened to the drawing room. She found Gladys, garbed in a wondrous creation of emerald-green velvet spencer jacket, long flowered gown and cunning tricorn hat with a drooping ostrich feather, striding about the room as if she must march or die.

  “Gladys, what is it?” Thea cried as she hurried closer. “Not bad news, I hope?”

  Gladys came to such an abrupt halt she nearly toppled onto the sofa. Facing Thea, she turned beet red when she saw Thea’s concerned visage.

  “Oh dear! I’ve given the wrong impression,” she remorsefully exclaimed. “Nobody’s died. At least nobody I know. I’m sure people I don’t know have shuffled off this mortal coil recently, but then, that wouldn’t trouble us, would it? People die all the time.”

  Thea took hold of Gladys’s hands and pulled her down onto the sofa beside her. “Yet something has happened, I’m sure. Something important?”

  Something about somebody named Paul, she wanted to add, but she held her tongue.

  “Indeed yes, I’ll say it has! The most astonishing thing! You’ll never guess—” Gladys’s hazel eyes narrowed. “I say, are you quite all right?”

  “I’m fine, only a little tired.”

  “That’s what you said the other day. You ought to try Mater’s tonic. It does wonders for her.”

  Thea had no desire to sample the countess’s tonic, and it wouldn’t cure what ailed her anyway. “I’m quite all right, really. What is this astonishing thing?”

  “You won’t believe it! I didn’t when I first heard, but I have it on good authority. I’m sure the vicar can be considered a good authority, don’t you? I mean, if one can’t trust a clergyman to be truthful, who can one trust? To be sure, some members of the clergy are terrible gossips, but not the rector here. The Reverend Mr. Furnival is a model of discretion, although he does tend to confide in Mater, especially in matters that concern the duchess. He practically had to beg the duchess for the living, you see, and she sends him notes on every sermon, like Sir Randolf used to do. Believe me, if there’s anything that can anger a clergyman...”

  Gladys finally stopped to draw a breath and Thea grabbed her chance. “What is this astonishing news?” she repeated, doubting now that it had anything to do with the duke’s son.

  “It’s shocking! Truly. Well, perhaps not completely. I mean, I suppose one might have seen it coming, but I never thought...not Leamington-Rudney, at any rate!”

  Thea would find it easy to believe any disreputable thing that fellow did. “What’s he done?”

  “He’s run off with Caroline. Or Caroline’s run off with him. Either way, they’ve run off together.”

  Thea stared at Gladys with dismay. Caroline and that odious viscount? Thea had seen no sign of any attachment whatsoever at the dinner party, and Caroline had been so upset about her marriage to Develin that eloping with Leamington-Rudney was the last thing Thea had expected of that young woman, or any woman of sense.

  “Exactly!” Gladys exclaimed. “I was just as surprised. I spilled an entire cup of tea on myself when the Reverend Mr. Furnival told Mater and me. Ruined my dress completely. But it seems they ran off a few days ago, hopefully to Gretna Green, although nobody’s sure yet.”

  About the time Dev had departed for Liverpool, Thea realized. An odd coincidence surely.

  “They’ve managed to keep it secret for a time obviously, but it’s no secret now. Apparently they found a note from Caroline after they discovered she was gone,” Gla
dys continued. “Not even Caroline’s maid knew about her plans. The poor creature was promptly sacked nonetheless. That was a mistake and not only because the maid had nothing to do with it. Gossip can be a disgruntled servant’s revenge.

  “The duchess is understandably beside herself, although it’s not a bad match as things go, if one discounts Leamington-Rudney’s propensity for drink. He’s titled and rich and stands to inherit a good deal more. No, it’s the scandal the duchess is upset about, especially when no one’s sure they’re actually married yet or ever will be.”

  “But to choose Leamington-Rudney of all men,” Thea said with honest distress. “He’s not fit to be any woman’s husband.”

  Gladys sighed and when she spoke, she was calmer and her voice was full of pity. “You’re right, of course. No amount of money can make up for a terrible husband, as I’ve told Mater a hundred times.” Her gaze grew unexpectedly shrewd. “I suspect Caroline wanted to get away from her parents more than she wanted to marry. I fear the duchess has been impossible to live with ever since...”

  Ever since Dev married another. Gladys didn’t have to say what was passing through both their minds, and she didn’t.

  After looking around the room and although they were alone, Gladys lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “I should warn you that the duchess is blaming you.”

  “Me?” Thea protested. “How am I responsible?”

  “She says you and Develin gave Caroline the idea of eloping.”

  “We aren’t the only couple who’s ever gone to Gretna Green!”

  “Of course not,” Gladys agreed, “and nobody else would blame you. Still, you’d best warn Develin to stay away from the duke’s seat for the next little while, even if Caroline and Leamington-Rudney marry.”

  Thea thought of another possible repercussion. “We were going to have a ball.”

  Gladys frowned as she pushed her spectacles back into place. “That could be difficult.”

  “I suppose we should postpone. Thankfully we haven’t sent out the invitations yet. I’ll tell Develin when he gets home.”

  “Home? Isn’t he here?”

  “He’s gone to Liverpool for a few days, on business.”

  A look of consternation came to Gladys’s face.

  “What is it?” Thea asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Gladys tried to smile. “It’s nothing, really. After all, not everyone who goes to Liverpool can expect to meet your husband there, even if they do always stay in the same hotel.”

  A horrible feeling of dread stole over Thea. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that Papa went to Liverpool directly after the duchess’s dinner party and we had a letter from him yesterday. Usually when he and Develin are in Liverpool, they stay in the King’s Arms, so they generally meet and have a dinner or drinks together. But he said he hasn’t met a soul he knows this trip.”

  “Perhaps Dev decided to stay in a different hotel,” Thea suggested, telling herself that was a likely explanation.

  And hopefully not with another woman, she added in her thoughts.

  “Yes, that’s probably it,” Gladys said with a relieved smile. “He might even have done so with the express intent of avoiding Papa. He’s decided to follow Develin’s example, you see, and build a charity school on the estate. I daresay he’s been pestering Develin nearly to death about what to do, how large it should be and all that sort of thing.

  “Yes, that must be it,” Gladys carried on cheerfully. “And I wouldn’t blame Develin a bit. Papa can be like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea in his head. I’m quite sure that if Develin told you he was going to Liverpool on business, he did.”

  “His solicitor told me.” The moment those words left Thea’s mouth, she wanted to call them back, especially when she saw the look on Gladys’s face.

  Fortunately it seemed Thea’s friend’s reaction was based not on the unusual method Dev had chosen to tell his wife he was going away, but on the solicitor himself. “You’ve met Mr. Bessborough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grim fellow, isn’t he? But he’s an excellent solicitor, I gather. Completely discreet and absolutely trustworthy.”

  “As a solicitor should be,” Thea agreed.

  “Especially when some young men need a solicitor to get them out of ticklish situations with women of a certain sort.”

  Gladys colored when she saw the dismay that Thea couldn’t manage to hide. “Not Develin, I’m happy to say, although acquaintances of his have availed themselves of Mr. Bessborough’s skill and a few more than once. Even if the women aren’t completely honest, Mr. Bessborough always ensures that they’re treated fairly.” She dropped her voice to that confidential whisper again. “Papa said Mr. Bessborough nearly killed a client with his bare hands once when he found out the fellow had beaten his mistress to within an inch of her life. She recovered, fortunately, and the man fled to Australia. Good riddance, Papa said.”

  “And Mr. Bessborough? Was he arrested?”

  “No, and even if he was, I’m sure Dev would have seen to it that he suffered no ill consequences for coming to the defense of a woman.”

  “Has Dev known Mr. Bessborough long?”

  Gladys thoughtfully pursed her lips. “Oh, a number of years now. He hired Mr. Bessborough first for some mortgage matter or other, and steered some of his friends to him, and Papa, too—not that Papa’s had any illicit doings with females, I assure you! Nothing would be further from his mind! But he does appreciate a good bit of legal work. He says Mr. Bessborough is the finest solicitor in London, and I believe it!”

  “Is Mr. Bessborough related to my husband? They look a bit alike.”

  “Related? Oh, I don’t think so!” Gladys said with a throaty laugh. “Roger Bessborough grew up in Cheapside!”

  Thea refrained from pointing out that one’s relatives could be born anywhere.

  Gladys rose, smoothed down her dress and adjusted her hat. “Well, I must dash. Mater’s expecting a bevy of visitors once word gets out about Caroline, and I’ll have to help pour the tea. Give my best to Develin when he returns.”

  “I will,” Thea said, walking Gladys to the door and incidentally shielding the smaller pieces of furniture.

  The butler appeared as if by magic to escort Gladys to her waiting carriage, and with a wave, Gladys departed, tripping only once on her hem as she went out the front door.

  * * *

  After Gladys had gone and Jackson had closed the door behind her, Thea returned to the drawing room and stared, unseeing, at the barren garden.

  Perhaps Caroline wasn’t going to be the only young woman in the county with regrets.

  And perhaps the time had come to get some answers about Dev’s sudden and mysterious visit to Liverpool. Even if she learned he had a mistress there, it would be better than living in this perpetual state of anxiety and ignorance.

  Her decision made, Thea went to her husband’s study. Although she had the uneasy feeling that the man in the portrait was watching her, she searched the drawers until she found a letter bearing the address of Mr. Bessborough’s chambers in London.

  Opening another drawer, she took out a piece of foolscap, found a quill, sharpened the end with a few swift slices of a penknife, dipped it in the inkwell and began a letter to the solicitor. If he didn’t respond within a week with information as to why her husband had gone to Liverpool and where he was staying, she wrote, she would go to Liverpool herself.

  Regardless of her condition, too, although she did not include that.

  If she was with child—and it was still too early to be completely certain—she could risk a journey. So far, other than the obvious lack of her monthly, the only other symptom was weariness. But those two signs could be signs of anxiety and sleeplessness, too.

  She als
o did not inform the solicitor that she would begin by going to all the gaming hells that catered to aristocrats, including some that were very private indeed.

  Or that it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done such a thing, although she hadn’t been looking for her husband.

  Her letter finished, she lit a candle, heated some sealing wax and sealed it.

  As she started toward the door, she paused and looked up at the portrait over the fireplace. “What kind of father were you?” she asked aloud. “And what lessons did you teach your son?”

  * * *

  The next day Thea leaned her head against the back of the sofa in the large library of Dundrake Hall. It was quiet here, the books on the shelves helping to keep out any noise from the rest of the house. She wanted some peace and quiet, and time alone where none of the servants would ask her questions, or look at her askance because she didn’t know when her husband would be coming back from Liverpool. No doubt they were all wondering why he’d gone, just as she was, but of course they wouldn’t ask.

  She still had had no word from him, and it was early yet to expect an answer from his solicitor.

  She sighed heavily and closed her eyes. She was so tired, and yet she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since her husband had gone. Instead she lay awake wondering and worrying, afraid he had secrets she hadn’t yet uncovered, that for all her efforts to learn about the man she’d married, she was ignorant of serious sins or vices.

  Sleep wouldn’t come here, either. Sighing, she rose from the sofa and strolled along the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of the leather-covered books. Perhaps if she read something that she’d read before, she would relax and sleep would finally come.

  At the far end of one of the shelves, she found an old volume of Robinson Crusoe, the spine cracked. She knew that story well, having read it many times while alone and waiting for her father to return, until he’d eventually pawned it.

  She sat in the nearest chair, opened the book and paused when she saw something written in a childish hand on the flyleaf: I’d like to be on an island by myself.