The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

  He handed her his handkerchief and looked discreetly away while she removed any trace of her sick. “What happened Zambak?” he pressed.

  “I had to know.”

  Charles glanced down the street. Elliot directed him to Jarratt’s establishment; it should be just around the corner. Did the little fool go there herself?

  “What about Thorn,” he asked, searching her face.

  “He—” She swallowed convulsively.

  “Zambak Hayden, what have you done?” He took both her hands in his.

  “I went looking for my brother. He lodges with William Jarratt.”

  Damn, damn, damn. “And?” He held her eyes, his thumbs gently rubbing both hands.

  “He’s ill.”

  “Ill?” Dread filled his heart.

  “Opium can be a sickness, can’t it?”

  Something ugly formed in his throat. I know better than anyone how true that is. “Yes, very much so. Tell me what you saw.” She did; he regretted it. Memories of his mother— unresponsive, pupils dilated, skin gray—flooded him, but he shook them away. They wouldn’t help.

  “I have to get him away from here.” The bleak desperation in her eyes and the way her voice cracked as if another sob threatened stretched his self-control to the limit.

  “From Jarratt?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Jarratt. Macao. China. I asked Jarratt for help. He refused. He said Thorn didn’t wish it. He said Thorn begged him. He said—”

  He went very still. “He’s right.”

  She went rigid with outrage and shook off his hands. “Right?”

  “He probably does wish it. Once under the control of the poppy, they crave more and more.” He searched the blue of her eyes, darkened with emotion. He found the grief he expected, but instead of the frustration and determination he might also have anticipated, something there horrified him, something he never thought to see in Zambak Hayden: fear.

  “Tell me what else happened? What made you cast up your accounts?” he demanded.

  She looked down at his coat. “Nothing,” she said. “Seeing Thorn upset me, and the sun was hot, and I realized this morning’s fish must have turned.” She stood back and laid a shaking hand on her belly. “I’m fine now. Truly.”

  Charles knew a bouncer when he heard one. He could see she withheld information again, but the stubborn set of her shoulders told him as clearly as any words that she would not be moved from her story.

  “Nothing else?” he asked smoothly, retrieving his handkerchief and handing it to Filipe.

  She glanced at Filipe, guilt all over her expression. “Nothing. Only Thorn matters. I will find a way to—”

  “We will find a way to send him home where he belongs.”

  He expected her to object, but she didn’t. She nodded, misery etched in every line of her face.

  He didn’t trust her pretense of acquiescence. The obstinate woman won’t wait for help no matter what Jarratt said to upset her. She’ll be off on her own as soon as I turn my back—Boudicca off to save her people. He wanted to drag her back to the Elliots’ and lock her in her room until he could formulate a plan. He wanted to lock her in a cabin on the Wild Swan—Zambak and her wretched brother both—and pay Oliver to take them to London. He wanted—

  Oh God, I want her. The embrace had been a mistake. He intended a brotherly gesture of comfort, but the feel of her curled against him unleashed a rage of feelings both protective and predatory.

  She smoothed her skirt and tossed her head. “Well Charles—will you kindly move so I can be on my way.”

  The duchess had returned; he gave her a mock bow. “Certainly, Lady Zambak. I will be happy to escort you wherever you wish to go.” He winged an arm for her to take and stood firmly in place until she took it with a tsk of irritation. She allowed him to lead her toward the Elliots’ mansion.

  Thorn deserves a thrashing, poor soul. Jarratt deserves worse. And Filipe? He and I are due for a little chat.

  Chapter 13

  He’s going to pry until I spill my humiliation as disgracefully as I spewed my breakfast. Zambak walked in angry silence past several houses before she dug in her heels and forced him to stop. His tender care and the sensation of his arms around her tempted her to cling to him again, to sob her story out like some fragile flower of womanhood. She hated that feeling.

  We will talk, Your Grace, but not about what happened at Jarratt’s. “We do need a moment of private conversation,” she said. “The public park is nearby.” She almost laughed at his startled expression. She hoped he stayed uneasy, never sure what she would do next.

  He let her select a secluded bench but turned to Filipe without sitting. “Your mistress will be safe with me,” he said before handing the boy a coin and sending him to the apothecary for sugared ginger. “For the lady, mind. Make sure all of it comes back to her.”

  Filipe gave a cocky salute and took off at a run.

  “Tell me everything Elliot told you,” she said without preamble, determined not to give him room to interrogate her. “I gather the viceroy meant to make a point with the public execution.”

  He raised a brow. “You are well informed.”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “How bad was it really?”

  “As bad you might think. The Chinese have moved from blocking the wholesale dealers on their end—the illegal hongs—and begun to prosecute the lower-level suppliers. The man brought up on charges ran an opium den near the European factories. Such blatant disregard for law will no longer be tolerated.”

  “But execution!”

  He shrugged. “Elliot believes it may just be the beginning. The emperor is determined. Elliot applauds it. Does that surprise you?”

  “Opium is vile,” she said.

  “No one knows that better than I.”

  Odd statement. She’d never known Charles to show signs of laudanum use, much less any other form of opium. “How so?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  “Have you met my mother? She sometimes attends my uncle’s holiday gatherings.”

  Zambak searched her memories. The image of a pale, nervous woman leaning on his uncle’s arm came to her mind, the image of a perpetual invalid. “Laudanum?”

  He nodded. “As you say, vile stuff. She determines to stop using it periodically. She always fails. Any problem or setback becomes an excuse to embrace narcotics again.” He slumped forward, as if absorbed by the sight of his boots, and Zambak hesitated to interrupt his morose thoughts. “After she married her second husband, I hoped it would change, and she actually stayed away from it for several years, but when Douglas died, she took to it again with a vengeance.” He breathed deeply and sat up straight. “And it is perfectly legal from any apothecary in England.”

  “Thorn as well. You may recall he broke his leg badly three years ago.”

  “He spent the summer in bed,” Charles acknowledged.

  She nodded. “They gave him laudanum for pain. It has been his constant companion ever since. He left university. He stopped seeing friends. He lost interest in sailing and even boat building. He wants—or wanted—to be a boat builder. Did you know that? He refused to tell Father, certain of disapproval.” She sighed deeply. “I fear he has he moved on to worse.”

  “Smoking opium tar?”

  “Temperance told me smoking ensnares users more deeply. Thank God that practice hasn’t reached London.”

  “Yet,” Charles responded bitterly. When he glanced over at her left hand, she stilled her fingers. “You’re plotting something,” he said, gesturing toward her hand.

  “Thinking,” she replied primly before her left thumb began to move again. “There has to be a way to bring a halt to this ugly business before it destroys China and our honor with it.”

 
; “Elliot hopes the Chinese will force the traders to back off. He hopes the government will continue to stay neutral.”

  “You need to get my report to London,” she said, lost in thought. Her face lifted. “You said ‘Elliot hopes.’ What does he fear?”

  “Shrewd question.” The respect in Charles’s expression warmed her heart more than his pity or protective gestures ever had. “He fears money rules in London. The government doesn’t want to stop the trade entirely—the revenue from tea depends on supply, and the supply depends on the sale of opium.”

  “Yes, yes. We know that. Do you think the navy will return?”

  “Jarratt’s partner, Martinson, has reached London,” he told her. “Bribery, lies, and pressure could force the government to send the navy back, this time with orders to attack.”

  At the mention of Jarratt, her stomach clenched, and a vile taste crept into her mouth. “What else?” she rasped.

  Charles looked down. His sigh sounded deep and weary. “Elliot fears the Chinese response will eventually ensnare an English user or dealer. If they arrest someone or threaten violence, he may be forced to act.”

  If Thorn is as closely allied to the opium dens as Jarratt implied—and out of his senses from the narcotic—he could be—cow turds!

  “Charles, I have to get to my brother. I can’t leave him in Jarratt’s circle.”

  The duke’s eyes held hers until she felt him boring into her soul. He put out a comforting hand, and she gripped it to steady herself. “How exactly do you propose to do that, Zambak?” he asked.

  “Jarratt said to come back. I’ll go tomorrow. He implied Thorn might be well, might be willing to come with me.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” he corrected.

  She stiffened in outrage for a moment before Jarratt’s face leered at her in memory, and she sagged toward Charles. When he cupped her cheek with one hand and searched her face, she thought for a moment he meant to kiss her. Absurd. Charles is a married man, and we’re friends. Only friends.

  “We’ll go together, Zambak. We will get Thorn help together.”

  Together. Relief flooded her. She had thought that accepting help made her weak, but the tenderness in the duke’s eyes gave her strength.

  ~ ~ ~

  With the men in Macao—however briefly—the women of the British enclave, starved for social life, demanded a formal dinner. Clara Elliot embraced the idea without question and sent invitations the day her husband arrived.

  Party or not, revelations about Chinese actions lay like a dark cloud over the colony, and the mood in the Elliots’ drawing room sank under its gloom that evening. Conversation took a ponderous tone, artificial cheer hardening ladies’ faces. Fans flipped open, waved frantically, and snapped shut. Zambak thought they resembled nothing so much as nervous geese, frightened by a fox. The image of a fox made her scan the company again to confirm Jarratt’s absence.

  Either the Elliots don’t wish for Jarratt’s company, or Clara is afraid a single man will upset her seating arrangements at the dinner table. She wondered idly if she had missed another unmarried man in the room, being the only unattached woman present. Either way, the man’s absence worried her.

  On the heels of that thought, the drawing room door opened to admit a latecomer. Her stomach flipped over. If they seat me next to Jarratt at table, I will be unable to eat, much less think clearly.

  The door opened fully, and Hua announced, “His Grace the Duke of Murnane,” and Elliot greeted him warmly. Zambak’s heart did a leap, and she let out the breath she didn’t know she held. Sometime in the past week, her attitude toward Charles had shifted. When did he become an ally and not an adversary?

  The duke’s presence gave her confidence, but the memory of his arms around her, of his hand cupping her cheek, drove her temperature so high she feared her face must show it. The warmth in his smile chased her doldrums away in spite of the hint of sadness that had, she realized, lurked in his eyes as long as she’d known him.

  When his welcoming expression drew her, she started toward him, but a shift in the conversation slowed her pace. Small whispers replaced the awkward cheer—gossip of some sort. Zambak had neither time nor patience for gossip. Charles and Elliot broke off what appeared to be an intense conversation as she approached. Charles took her outreached hand and bent over it, formal manners in place for the social situation.

  “Lady Zambak, how delightful,” he said. “May I say your gown is particularly becoming this evening?” His words sounded across a suddenly silent room.

  Odd, that. Before she could puzzle it through, however, Hua announced dinner, and Elliot offered his arm to lead her in. Charles followed with Clara Elliot on his arm. Zambak hadn’t given much thought to rank beyond what she took for granted daily, but this, her first formal dinner in Macao, brought home to her that she and Charles were the highest-ranking members of British society there.

  A prickling up her neck brought the suspicion that rank might be disadvantageous in Macao, resented among all the self-made men and rising wealth. She wondered if that resentment caused the silence that greeted Charles. Upbringing came to the fore, and Zambak stood tall, taking her chair at the head next to their host with her most regal bearing. No one could say the Duchess of Sudbury’s daughter didn’t know how to behave in society. She glanced up and down the table daring the wives of merchants to criticize. One woman, caught frowning down at Charles, colored under Zambak’s scrutiny.

  After a pretty speech by Superintendent Elliot, conversation proceeded properly, each person dividing his or her time between the person to the left and to the right. Zambak, trained from childhood in the art of polite nothings, had no trouble. It took the entire first remove to pick apart the warm climate and its difference from London.

  Halfway through the second course, Mrs. Dean, who had the place next to Charles, gave him what could only be described as a cut, refusing to turn back toward him when conversation shifted and keeping her eyes glued on Mr. Bunche on her left. Neither of those seated near Zambak dared such behavior. On the contrary, she had already grown weary of fawning references to her dear father and darling mama.

  Not rank then. The women of Macao have taken Charles in dislike. When he caught her watching, Charles, ever the rogue, gave her a cheeky wink. He seemed utterly at ease in the face of the woman’s rude behavior. Zambak swallowed her curiosity and set out to charm her companions.

  Whether she succeeded or not, she couldn’t say, but by the time the pudding arrived, she felt weary of the exercise. Elliot announced that “due to pressing business in the morning” the gentleman would keep their traditional port to a minimum and join the women in short order. She reined in her impulse to lean on the table and join them and trailed after the ladies, impatience making her fingers twitch.

  Her store of meaningless prattle well exhausted, Zambak kept to a corner and tried to make herself inconspicuous. She failed. Mrs. Dean, the wind in her sails, charged directly at her and flounced into the seat beside Zambak. She opened with a breathless observation. “Our little society must be poor shakes compared to your normal fare, my lady.”

  Zambak murmured her demurral.

  “It is our honor to have you among us. Your dear mother must be relieved to have you in the care of Clara Elliot.” Speculation glittered behind the woman’s façade. “One allows great surprise that the Elliots should be such a trusted part of your family’s circle.”

  A fleeting temptation to set the woman straight disappeared under Zambak’s determination not to embarrass the Elliots. It wasn’t their fault her father had thrust her under their protection. She smiled and nodded, having frequently found that sufficient with people who enjoyed the sound of their own voices. The Dean woman’s next question put her on alert.

  “How well do you know His Grace?”

  There was on
ly one duke here. She mimicked wide-eyed innocence. “Do you mean Charles?” she asked sweetly, hoping to quash pretention. “Our families have been friends my entire life. I’ve known him since the cradle.”

  “Your parents know him well?” She looked like she had sucked something vile. “Your father approves of him?”

  What the devil is this woman about? “Why yes. He loves him like a son.” Zambak thought about her statement. It was true, insofar as her father displayed affection for any of them. “Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Dean?” she asked, feigning naiveté.

  The woman wiggled in her chair, raising her bulk up somewhat, and leaned in to whisper, “With your dear mother not here, the attention of an older woman might be in order. I will speak to Clara on your behalf.”

  “I beg your pardon? I don’t understand.” She most certainly did not.

  “Your parents may have been reluctant to soil your ears with certain facts about—about that man. It is to their credit that they have not. But here, far from home, I caution you, my lady. Do not find yourself alone with him.”

  She’s warning me off Charles as if he were some sort of rutting rake? Cow slop. What in heaven gave her that idea? He may not be a saint but—

  The return of the men cut off further speculation. Charles’s eyes met hers from across the room, and he came toward her directly. Mrs. Dean gripped her hand—rather too hard— and murmured, “Remember my warning,” before scurrying off without greeting the duke.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “I honestly have no idea,” she replied.

  His lips twitched in amusement, and for one moment, they were in perfect accord. The blue of his eyes seemed to deepen until it forced her to drop her eyes to her lap. His regard made her feel powerfully feminine.