The Unexpected Wife

by Caroline Warfield

Savor it, Zambak. Such moments are fleeting.

  Chapter 14

  Filipe trotted down the road to catch up with Charles and Zambak the next morning. “Lady Zam. You forget me?” he called, breathless.

  “Not needed, Filipe. I can escort Lady Zambak,” Charles told him. I don’t need another pair of prying eyes and big ears.

  “You may need me,” the cheeky boy replied. At least he left the blasted parasol behind.

  For the first time that morning, Zambak’s tense expression softened, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. The sight made him wonder what passed between her and her servant. I need to get the boy alone anyway. He told Filipe to follow but stay out of earshot.

  They turned back to their mission, Filipe trailing along behind them happily until he saw their destination. “Bad man,” he muttered in front of Jarratt’s house.

  “So you warned us,” Charles said, raising the knocker, Zambak rigid at his side. Filipe looked at the door and down at the steps. He sank down on the lowest one. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  Charles thought Zambak might also bolt, but she stiffened her spine, thrust out a determined chin, and tossed a haughty glare at Jarratt’s butler.

  “Mr. Jarratt told Lady Zambak to return today. I trust he received my notice,” Charles said, drawing a glare from Zambak. Did she think we could arrive unannounced and find her brother on his feet? Of course I warned them.

  The servant didn’t appear to be surprised. He escorted them into a large drawing room, one with the studied and slightly overblown sumptuousness of the nouveau riche—too much gilt, too many tassels, excessively applied velvet. Zambak’s momentary hesitation at the door alerted him that the room was familiar. “What is it?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Is this where you saw him last?” He studied her carefully, or he might have missed the sick look, quickly suppressed. Whatever happened in this room had been ugly. She nodded, her deep frown leaving furrows in her brow. He reached for her hand, pulled her around to face him, and gave the hand a squeeze. “Courage,” he said. “We’ll know how he is momentarily.”

  A half hour later, Charles watched her pace the length of the room and feared they would not see her foolish brother at all. No word had come, nor had refreshments been offered. He had almost decided to summon the butler when the door opened.

  The man who entered appeared to be approaching middle age, his lean face dry, wrinkled, and mottled; a faint bruise marring his chin. The newcomer’s clothes hung on him as if they had been made for a much larger man. Charles realized with a jolt that he beheld Thorn Hayden, not some stranger fifteen years the boy’s senior. Only the greasy white-blond hair that hung to his collar and the familiar ice-blue Hayden eyes, dull though they were and burdened with purple bags, identified him as the Marquess of Glenaire. Dear God. No wonder his sister was horrified!

  “Come to cut up my peace, Zamb?” Thorn growled.

  Zambak ignored his complaint. She rushed toward her brother, arms open to embrace him, but he brushed her away. “I’m not a baby to be cuddled!”

  “He most certainly is not. He is a valued employee.” The man who entered behind Thorn loomed over him, powerfully built and self-assured. Charles had no doubt who it was. “William Jarratt, I presume,” he drawled like the vapid aristocrat he pretended to be.

  Jarratt glanced down at him. “You are?”

  Charles had long practice with men who thought their superior height intimidated him. He found, on the whole, his size gave him the benefit of surprise when needed. He stood, feet firmly planted and answered smoothly. “A family friend,” he answered curtly.

  “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Murnane,” Zambak said. His name took immediate effect, but not in the way Charles expected. It neither impressed nor angered the man.

  “Are you?” Jarratt drawled. “I heard you were in Macao, seeing the sights as it were. We have a mutual . . .” His lips twitched, and he watched Charles avidly. “. . . acquaintance,” he concluded.

  His odd reaction distracted Charles. What in God’s name?

  Zambak’s outburst called him back. “Thorn Hayden, what has become of you? Mother would be horrified.”

  “Not a boy, Zamb. You heard him. I’m a valued employee. I don’t take orders from women. Women don’t need to push their nose into men’s business. Women have their uses, but they are meant to stay out of men’s affairs.” His face twisted in an attempt at snide superiority; he achieved only childish petulance.

  “Where did you learn that pile of cow slop, Thorn? Not at home, that’s for certain,” his sister spat back. The siblings glared at each other like two cats ready to spring, except it seemed to Charles “spring” might be beyond the young marquess’s capability.

  “Are you unwell, Thorn? You haven’t been taking care of yourself.” Charles modulated his voice to as mild a tone as he could manage.

  The marquess blinked at Charles as if just noticing him and not liking what he saw. “Murnane? When did you come? If my father thinks he can force me home—”

  “I’m not here to drag you home.” He put a hand on Zambak’s back to head off any outburst that contradicted him. He hoped she would catch his meaning. I wasn’t sent here for that, but it doesn’t mean I won’t try. “Your father respects your decision to make your fortune on your own.”

  Thorn preened a bit. “Right. Making my own. Can’t depend on the old man. Tries to run my life when I take his money.”

  “Quite. He who pays the bills always calls the shots.” Charles glanced pointedly at Jarratt who studied the interaction intently. “You do not look well at all, though. Perhaps you should take better care of yourself.” He caught Zambak’s eyes then, silent messages passing between them.

  “Charles is right, Thorn. To succeed you have to be able to give your whole self to the enterprise.” If she had sucked on a lemon, her face could not be more sour. Zambak Hayden is the world’s worst liar.

  Thorn considered what his sister said. He pulled at his cravat and smoothed his jacket with one hand. “I have been a bit low, lately. I’ll turn around, Zamb, don’t you doubt it.” He had begun to sway.

  “I have friends here, Thorn, who could help. They understand this sickness and—” Anxiety gave Zambak’s voice a breathless tone.

  Charles assumed she meant the Quakers. He hadn’t considered it, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they understood opium and its remedies.

  Thorn wasn’t having his sister’s help. “What sickness, Zamb? Ain’t sick, just a bit low.”

  “Come with me,” Zambak urged. “We can help you.”

  Thorn pulled his arm away when she tried to grab it, and rubbed his hands vigorously up and down as if his arms itched. “Don’t need help from a woman. I don’t hide in a woman’s skirts.” He looked over at Jarratt for confirmation. The boy had been coached, and coached well.

  Zambak pulled back, leaning into Charles’s arm. He took comfort in how well she fit. “Of course not. You’re a man grown.” Her voice cracked. “Why don’t we at least take a walk? Some fresh air might do you good.”

  Thorn swayed again. “Don’t need fresh air,” he whined. “Don’t need you, Zamb.” He turned and took a step away. “I think I’ll lie down now.”

  Zambak started to go after him but came to an abrupt halt when a large servant appeared in the doorway to lead Thorn away.

  “You heard him, your ladyship,” Jarratt said into the silence. “Your brother chooses to be here. He does not wish for your interference.”

  She spun on the man. “You could—” Whatever she meant to say, something in Jarratt’s expression cut it off, and all color drained from her face.

  Charles narrowed his eyes at Jarratt. The rotter had done something to frighten her, no small feat with this woman who dared much. She shrugged it off and
stood a bit taller, justifying his belief in her great store of courage.

  “I will see him tomorrow,” she pronounced.

  “Perhaps he will be receiving. Perhaps not,” Jarratt retorted. “I, on the other hand, am ‘at home’ to the ladies of Macao frequently.” He managed to give the word “ladies” a distasteful sound.

  He nodded at Charles. “And visiting dignitaries as well,” he said, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll find something to amuse you in their company.”

  “Come away,” Charles said to Zambak. “We’ll talk.” The hand she put on his arm trembled. Jarratt will pay for this; he’ll pay dearly if he hurts Zambak.

  They had almost reached the door when another voice interrupted. “Why, Charles, what a lovely surprise.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He knew that voice. It belonged to the woman he least wanted to see, and yet the one he had pursued across Southern Asia. Julia. His wife.

  Chapter 15

  Thorn disappeared from the upper landing. The burly servant’s hold on her brother’s elbow disturbed Zambak even more than his appearance had. She restrained herself from charging up the stairs with great willpower augmented by the duke’s firm arm dragging her to the door. She almost missed the person who sauntered down the steps to caress the newel post at the bottom, but she felt Charles stiffen at the sound of the woman’s voice.

  Zambak turned to examine the lady—if she was a lady—through narrowed eyes and found her unfamiliar. Her excess of cosmetics and diaphanous, somewhat dated, gown gave her the aspect of a faded strumpet, but her eyes appeared sharp enough, and they cut like knives into Charles. “What a lovely surprise,” the strumpet purred.

  Charles tripped but caught himself when he turned to stare long and hard at the vision at the foot of the stairs. “Hello, Julia” he said at last, something thick in his throat muffling his words. “I heard you were in China.”

  Julia! Merciful angels. Is this harridan the famous Julia, the malicious beauty who abandoned her husband and son? The jezebel who betrayed him over and over? Zambak heard delicious whispers about the Duchess of Murnane now and then growing up and imagined a glamorous, but cold, woman who charmed men and led them to their doom. This sad creature bore no resemblance to her imagined siren. She did not even appear to be well.

  “How good of you to come—or perhaps you didn’t come to see me. Still an errand boy for the Duke of Sudbury?” She snaked a languid glance at Zambak, examining her head to toe as if she found her wanting.

  Zambak shuddered under a furious temptation to slap the woman silly.

  “Neither,” Charles said with icy calm. “I am merely visiting parts of the empire. I heard of your intentions in Madras. Too late to turn back then.”

  “Wandering the world aimlessly, Charles? How unlike you,” the woman smirked.

  “I needed a distraction after Jonny died.” If words could be constructed of ice shards, his were—cold, sharp, and intended to wound. The cruel tones cut into Zambak who had never heard him speak that way.

  Julia’s mouth clamped shut, the corners turned down. Jonny. Her son. Dead.

  The two of them—husband and wife—held each other’s eyes across the expanse of Jarratt’s foyer. Zambak felt the tension, electric in the air around her. Charles poured all his love into that boy. He held him when he died. Julia never came, not to the deathbed, not to the funeral. Did she even know before now?

  Zambak’s mother had explained that the duchess couldn’t bear that the boy had a defective heart and left as soon as he was born. Zambak wondered if she would have cared any more if Jonny had been healthy. Rage so raw it would have frightened her in any other man radiated from Charles’s entire body.

  Julia’s gaze skittered away first. “Poor defective child is probably better off,” she murmured, and Zambak found herself holding on to Charles’s arm. This time she held him back.

  “How touching,” Jarratt said, pouring oily derision into his words. “A reunion in my foyer. Perhaps you two lovebirds would like a private room to catch up, although greeting one’s wife with another woman on your arm isn’t done, Your Grace. At least not in your circles.” Jarratt’s avid eyes moved from his examination of Zambak’s bosom to her iron grip on Charles’s arm. “You really mustn’t be so possessive, Lady Zambak. He isn’t yours.” The lout chuckled at his own wit.

  Charles seemed to pull himself into the present, aware of her at his side. His eyes, when he turned to her, held an ocean of regret.

  You aren’t alone, Charles. The thought came unbidden, but it felt right. He had endured unbearable suffering, but he wasn’t alone. He had Zambak.

  “Take me home, Charles. I’ll see Thorn tomorrow,” she said. At that moment, Thorn’s problems seemed far away, but she needed to distract him.

  “Not alone, you won’t.” The flash of steel in his expression sent relief flooding her.

  Charles faced Julia one more time. “We’ll talk later,” he said before he walked away, Zambak gripping his arm.

  Julia’s voice trailed after them. “Yes. We’ll talk later. I’ll make sure of it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Is the sympathy of another person a boon or a burden? Walking away from Jarratt’s house, Zambak held his arm, her hand warm and comforting. She did not complain about her problems with Thorn, scheme to drag the boy away, nor prod him about his own problems or the scene she had just witnessed. God love this woman. She stood steadfast and silent at his side, and he clung to her support, though his conscience shouted that he ought not.

  They had moved from adversaries to allies, and he had counted it a success because it made it easier for him to protect her in spite of her determination to go her own way. He glanced over at her, and she smiled back, a smile of such sweetness that his heart contracted. Not for me, Zambak. I don’t deserve it.

  “Are you well?” he asked her.

  “As can be. You?” Concern deepened her voice.

  “As can be,” he ground out.

  She didn’t intrude. She didn’t say, “My, but that woman is horrid,” nor ask, “How can you stand the witch?” Nor did she ask, “Have you always been a cuckold, too weak to control your own wife?” Zambak Hayden, fiercely loyal, asks merely if I am well. Have we moved past allies? If so, what are we? We’ve become close. Too close.

  A married man—a soon-to-be-divorced man, if he had his way—had no right to court an innocent young woman. He had even less right to hold, to taste, or to touch, and at that moment Charles longed to do all three, to mine as much warmth and comfort as he could until the memory of his cold, conniving wife disappeared. A wise man would fear the wrath of the Duke of Sudbury at that thought. Charles feared the loss of his trust.

  I have to put a distance between us before I do something completely inappropriate.

  When they came to the crossroad, he searched the road behind them. Filipe grinned and waved. He could leave her here and do what needed doing.

  “Filipe can see you back to the Elliots.”

  She searched his eyes but didn’t argue. “I mean to visit Temperance. Her classes should be over. She can teach me more about opium sickness and its remedies.”

  “Excellent notion. Tell her everything.” The influence of the steady Quaker woman had been good for Zambak. He hoped Temperance might strengthen her where Thorn is concerned.

  The woman at his side nodded solemnly. “I mean to. Will you—” Whatever she meant to say, she thought better of it and sank back. She neither pried nor burdened him with an excess of sympathy. She watched Filipe come up, patted the arm she still held, and set off toward the ladies’ seminary.

  Watching her walk away he devoured her graceful form with his eyes and for a moment gave full rein to his longing. When she disappeared around a corner, he lowered a heavy door on his desire and
locked it away where it belonged before setting about his business.

  It took little more than an hour for Julia to appear in response to his summons. She came alone, with no maid or companion in sight, uphill toward the bench he had selected, one overlooking wharfs, far from the shady glade where he frequently met Zambak. While he waited, he reached a conclusion about the mystery of the Dean woman’s odd behavior at dinner and the coldness of the other ladies. Julia had already spread malice about him.

  She stormed up to him, breathing heavily and spewing outrage. “Really, Charles, is all this necessary?” She waved a hand to encompass the bench, the wharfs, the city itself. “It is just like you to demand to meet me in the least comfortable spot in Macao.”

  His weary gaze took in the battered feather on her bonnet, the frayed hem, and the discretely mended but obvious repair on her sleeve. Julia had come on hard times and, when she got wind of his arrival in Macao, set out to milk him. She would have to think again.

  She huffed, dropped to the bench, and reeled on him so close he could smell the stink of rotten teeth and dyspepsia on her breath. Hard living showed in the rough skin of her complexion; its former beauty long eroded beyond recognition. No, Julia Wheatly, erstwhile Duchess of Murnane, was not doing well.

  She looks sick. I shudder to consider what disease she may have contracted and from whom. If he had met any other woman in that state, he would not have been able to hold back compassion. For Julia he had none.

  I once believed that I loved this creature. How could I have been so foolish? He had been duped. That his cousins had both pursued her offered no consolation. She made fools of all three of them.

  He examined her closely in the several moments it took her to catch her breath. She must need money badly to tolerate my demand she meet me here. He watched her take one particularly deep breath and arrange her features into an expression meant to be coy. Julia managed only calculation. She stretched a hand to touch his sleeve. He pulled away.