In Love With a Wicked Man

by Liz Carlyle

  “Oh, I daresay,” said his wife vaguely, “but I’m very glad your brother is here.”

  The duke chose that moment to leave his aunt’s side and wade through the crowd. And then the awkward moment Edward had dreaded for twenty-odd years was upon him.

  The duke bowed to Kate, and thanked her for her hospitality. Then he slowly extended a hand to Edward. “Ned, it is good t-to see you,” he said.

  “And you, Freddie,” said Edward with excruciating politeness.

  The handshake broke, then a heavy silence fell all around them.

  After a moment, Kate cleared her throat. “Well,” she said a little too brightly. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Do you make your home in London?”

  “No,” said the duke, “very rarely. We live in th-the country, my wife and I. Our children are small, and we pr-prefer a quiet life.”

  “Children, how lovely!” Kate murmured, her smile fixed in place. “How many have you, Your Grace, and what are their ages?”

  The duke looked vaguely awkward. “We have th-three,” he said, “and another expected any moment. Our Charles is n-nine, Margaret is seven, and our youngest—Edward—is four.”

  “Edward,” Kate echoed.

  “It is a family name,” Edward interjected a little coolly, “and a common one.”

  “Er—yes, we traditionally have an Edward in each generation,” agreed the duke.

  He spoke stiffly and with little warmth, Kate noticed—but with the faintest stutter, which might be the cause, she thought, of his formality.

  She decided to press her theory. “And what are they like, your children?” she said, determined to keep him talking. “Which is most like you? Which is the smartest, and which is the most mischievous?”

  “Edward, I believe, is m-most like me,” said the duke, warming a little. “He is a quiet child. Meg is very like her mother, and a pr-prettily-mannered girl. But Charles is Ned made over; smart and mischievous. Up to every rig, Charles is. You m-m-must …”

  “Must what?” Kate prodded.

  A brilliant hue was blooming across the duke’s cheeks. “You m-must c-come and see them,” he said, tripping awkwardly over the words, “if, th-that is, you w-wish, Ned—I beg your pardon—if you can bear it, I mean.” Then he bowed stiffly. “I think Aunt Isabel wants me. I believe I had b-better go.”

  Kate’s eyes followed him back through the crowd.

  “Well, he’s none too pleased to be here,” said Edward tightly. “I wonder what Isabel threatened him with?”

  “I think it is not displeasure,” said Kate pensively. “He stutters. And he seems sad; almost painfully shy, really. Was he so as a boy?”

  Edward said nothing for a long moment. “Yes, Freddie was always quiet,” he admitted. “Father used to strop him for stuttering, and tell him he was so hopelessly backward he wasn’t worthy of being a duke.”

  “How very tragic,” said Kate, still watching Dunthorpe blush and stammer his way through the crowd. “He did a good deal of damage, your father.”

  “Father!” Edward laughed, but without bitterness. “After all these years, I still call him that, and now I have you doing it, too.”

  At last Kate turned from the crowd. “I wouldn’t be too sure he wasn’t your father,” she said a little grimly.

  When Edward opened his mouth to protest, she threw up a hand.

  “You don’t know, Edward, nor do I,” she said firmly. “Neither do we care. In fact, it’s just as likely, I daresay, that Alfred Hedge sired the both of you—for if you and Dunthorpe don’t share two parents, I’ll be hanged. Blood runs too true for the pair of you to look so nearly identical.”

  “Hmm,” said Edward. “I never thought of that.” Then threw back the rest of his champagne. “Aunt Isabel always said the truth would never be known,” he mused. “And do you know what, Kate? You’re right. I do not care.”

  “Then you’ve made peace,” she said, “or something near it.”

  He set the glass away with a gesture of finality, and circled an arm around Kate’s waist. “Yes, I have,” he said. “But now I think on it, Kate—now I look upon Freddie, and consider back over what his life must have been like—I wonder which of us had the worst of that terrible bargain?”

  “He lost his brother,” she said quietly, “and was left alone with a man who sounds like a monster.”

  Edward slowly nodded. “He was left under Father’s thumb, I suppose,” he mused, “whilst I was left to raise myself amidst the dregs of society. But neglect gave me a measure of freedom, at least, and I learnt early on that I needn’t be obliged to anyone. That I could live—and prosper—by my wits.”

  “There are worse lessons, perhaps, and harder ways to learn them,” said Kate. “Your father was not a kind man. And your brother still seems so painfully awkward, Edward. Perhaps you might go to him and say—well, I do not know. Perhaps you might say to him what you just said to me?”

  Edward turned and smiled deep into her eyes. “Tomorrow, perhaps,” he said, leaning very near and dropping his voice huskily. “Today I wish to think only of tonight, and of what you and I will be—”

  “De Macey!” Kate’s eyes lit with feigned brilliance. “Look, my love, who is standing just behind you.”

  Edward turned just as de Macey circled around him to seize Kate’s hand. “My dear child!” he said with a sweeping, elegant bow. “So very sorry to not have made it back to Bellecombe yesterday. May I say that today, on this most blessed of days, you outshine even your dear mamma in your radiance.”

  “Oh, I do not doubt that,” said Kate dryly. “Aurélie is not so much radiant today as she is victorious.”

  “Cat-in-the-cream-pot, I’d have said,” murmured Edward. “And poor Anstruther! What a merry dance he shall be led.”

  The comte trilled with laughter. “Oh, he long ago learnt the steps to Aurélie’s tune, mon ami, but she shall not be leading!” de Macey declared. “Do not grieve for Farmer John; he will have Madame Heartbreaker in traces before the week’s out.”

  “Do you think?” asked Kate.

  “I do,” said de Macey, smiling wickedly. “It is what she craves, child. Her sort has no respect for a man they can get round with their wiles. Trust me, I should know. She and I—mon Dieu! Was ever a pair more ill-suited?”

  “Well, you’re a sporting fellow.” Edward clapped a hand to de Macey’s back. “Now tell me, have we settled that other little business?”

  De Macey flashed an even more wicked smile, his elegant mustache lightly lifting. “Indeed, just as I promised,” he said silkily. “Lord Reginald Hoke will be shortly arriving in the salubrious isle of Guadeloupe where he will be put to work on my sugar plantation.”

  “And he signed the papers without quibbling?” Edward pressed.

  “But of course!” De Macey opened his hands expansively. “What choice did he have when I explained to him our offer?”

  “What papers?” Kate interjected. “What offer?’

  “Oh, my pet, a generous one,” declared the comte. “Your husband offered not to have him hung for kidnapping.”

  “In exchange for … ?”

  De Macey laid a hand dramatically over his heart. “In exchange for ten years of pondering his folly, my dear,” he said. “Did I not tell you to trust me to deal with Reggie? He shall spend ten years serving an old friend faithfully. What more could a scorned man ask?”

  “Oh, my God,” said Kate quietly. “You indentured a nobleman’s son?”

  “Oui, to me!” said de Macey gleefully. “But as a … a … How would you say it? A clerk of the accounts? Yes, at long last, Reggie shall learn arithmetic. The dear boy needn’t even sully those lovely hands of his in the field, child; he need only learn self-sufficiency. He has escaped his English creditors by fleeing to French soil, and now he will earn a wage.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Kate.

  “Alas, I was once something of a fribble myself,” confessed the comte. “But not,
I grant you, one foolish enough to game his money away.”

  Just then, someone waved at de Macey from across the room. People were beginning to trickle out, Kate realized, though Aurélie was still swanning about the crowd, kissing cheeks and cooing at all her guests. Anstruther and Richard, however, were lingering near the door to either side of Nancy, who—despite a decided glow of happiness in her eyes—looked otherwise wan as they bent attentively toward her.

  “Oh, dear,” Kate murmured. “She is feeling not quite the thing again.”

  “Indeed, speculation runs rampant,” whispered the comte behind his hand. “The wise and knowing Hetty advises that already the villagers count the months—but not, she adds, with any spite in their hearts.”

  “In either case, they count in vain, if they are counting on a scandal,” said Kate.

  No, if it was a minor scandal they hoped for, Kate very much feared they were counting over the wrong Wentworth. Indeed, Kate was beginning to regret having permitted Aurélie to put off their double wedding another fortnight while they awaited the favor of Madame Odette.

  Just then, Nancy left her husband’s side and came toward them, her color a little improved.

  “Kate,” she said, embracing her. “Congratulations. I am so happy for you.”

  Kate slid a surreptitious hand to her sister’s belly. “And I for you, Nan, I hope?” she murmured into her ear.

  They came apart, Nancy blushing furiously as she glanced back and forth between Edward and Kate. “Yes,” she finally whispered. “It seems almost certain.”

  Kate caught her shoulders, and set her a little away. “Poor dear,” she said. “Are you perfectly wretched?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Nancy, her eyes welling a little. “Wonderfully, wonderfully wretched! Oh, Kate, I shall be twice blessed in less than a year. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I only wish for you my same happiness.”

  Nancy kissed Edward before leaving.

  “She is happy, my dear,” he murmured, taking Kate’s hand and squeezing it. “And just look how Richard’s gaze follows her. He’ll make an excellent father.”

  “I have never doubted it,” said Kate.

  De Macey had slipped away. Aurélie was still babbling effusively, this time to Mrs. Granger, who had been persuaded to attend by Richard’s aunt. Kate and Edward had welcomed Mrs. Granger warmly, and said no more. But Kate hoped that her attendance was, perhaps, the beginning of a tentative friendship.

  Already Aurélie appeared to be making inroads with her irrepressible charm, though Anstruther had risen from his chair. Kate could see that his patience was at an end.

  Kate shrugged, and turned to her husband. “I believe, my dear, that I should like to rest before dinner,” she declared.

  “And by rest,” he murmured, “I hope you mean not rest.”

  “Just so,” she said, curling a hand around his arm in a more proprietary fashion.

  They strolled in the general direction of the door, pausing to accept the well-wishes of those few people to whom they had not yet spoken, reaching it just as Anstruther hitched his arm through Aurélie’s and hauled her from the room. Kate and Edward followed them down the passageway, the four of them alone, it seemed, for the first time in a week.

  In the great hall, they chattered aimlessly while Aurélie’s coat and muff and warming blanket and hot bricks were fetched. When the bricks were found not to be ready, Anstruther simply dragged her out.

  “Oh, haud yer wheesht, Aurélie,” he grumbled. “Dinna ye think I can keep you warm from here to there?”

  “Why, John Anstruther, I’m sure I do not know!” she declared, jerking to a halt on the cobbles. “Sometimes you have a cold, cold heart.”

  At that, he simply swept her up and carried her across the bailey. Edward helped Jasper carry out the two bags Aurélie had left waiting, while Hetty followed with Filou, who was curled up in a large wicker basket.

  “Do you really think you can manage that woman?” Edward muttered once Anstruther had loaded her up into his carriage.

  Anstruther grunted. “In the long run, laddie? I dinna know. But in the short of it? I’ll be sorely tempted to lay the business end of my crop to her arse.”

  “I hope you won’t,” said Edward darkly.

  Anstruther grinned, motioning for the dog to be handed up. “Nay, I’ll not do it,” he confessed, “but I’ll have to threaten it often enough, I dinna doubt.”

  Edward opened his mouth to advise against it, then remembered de Macey’s wise words. Anstruther had been warming the woman’s bed for nearly twenty years, he decided. They both had to know what they were getting into.

  “Well,” said Edward uncertainly, “good luck with that strategy.”

  “Thank ye,” said Anstruther, leaping up into his carriage.

  Edward contented himself to strolling back into the great hall where his bride awaited with some impatience.

  “That rest before dinner?” Kate reminded him, tapping her tiny, silk-shod toe.

  “Indeed, my love,” he said.

  Then, following Anstruther’s good example, he swept up his bride and carried her—giggling and shrieking—all the way up the stairs and all the way down the corridor to her suite.

  Once inside, he kicked the bedchamber door open and dropped her, still laughing, in the middle of the bed. Then, going back into the parlor, he extracted a long, thin box he’d hidden behind the divan.

  Carrying it back into the room, he presented it to his bride with a de Macey–like flourish. “Lady d’Allenay,” he said, “your wedding gift.”

  She squirmed back upright, the ivory silk bunching most delightfully around her derriere. “It is an oddly shaped box,” she teased. “I thought I was getting platinum and sapphires?”

  “Not exactly,” he said tucking himself beside her. “Something infinitely better.”

  Eyes dancing, Kate opened the box.

  “Oh … my,” she said a little blandly.

  Inside lay what could only be described as a ring of utterly hideous proportions; a great, jagged stone that looked like nothing so much as a lump of blue-black coal, and mounted in a thick setting made from a metal so lacking in luster it could not possibly have held any value. Scrolled inside the ring, however, was a document.

  Slipping the ring off the scroll, Edward took Kate’s hand and slid it onto her finger, kissing her cheek as he did so. “As I said earlier today, my love, with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  “How touching.” Kate waggled her fingers a little, then held the lump to the light. “Well, it is certainly original in its design. I rather doubt any other bride has ever seen the like.”

  “I’m sure they have not,” he said, “for I shall have you know, Baroness d’Allenay, that that is the famous Wentworth sapphire.”

  “Is it?” Kate looked at him and giggled. “I never heard of the famous Wentworth sapphire. And it is still rather ugly, my love, but I shall treasure it all the same.”

  Edward kissed her, then removed the ring from her hand, smiling. “It is ugly, my love, because it is uncut,” he said, holding it to the sunlight “And it will be called the Wentworth sapphire, for it shall be your choice how it is cut, and yours to hand down to your Wentworth daughters.”

  “My Quartermaine daughters,” she corrected.

  “As you wish,” he said. “But the ring is deservedly yours, nonetheless, because it is one of the finest purple-blue sapphires ever to come out of Ceylon. I know, you see, for I mined it myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Well, not literally,” he said. “But I told you I went to Ceylon to make something of myself, you will recall. One cannot do that entirely on an officer’s pay. So one of the things I did there was to purchase—using more of Hedge’s ill-got gaming revenue—an interest in a mine which, at the time, didn’t look like much.”

  “And now?” she asked a little breathlessly.

  “And now it looks like a rather great deal,” he admitted. “Little by l
ittle, I’ve channeled the club’s profits into the place, and gradually bought out the other investors. I must say the old place is becoming quite a profit engine, and it’s how I learnt what I know about mining.”

  “I see,” she said, her eyes widening with amazement. “I wondered about it at the time.”

  “And this,” he said, tapping on the stone, “will likely be a pure, perfect sapphire to exceed one hundred and twenty carats when cut, my love—larger than even the famous Stuart sapphire in the Queen’s Imperial State Crown. It is, in short, nearly priceless.”

  “Good Lord,” she murmured. “And the unique setting?”

  “Is pure tin,” he said.

  “Tin?”

  He extracted the paper from the box. “From your new tin mine,” he said, “in Cornwall. The one you and Anstruther have been lusting after this age.”

  At that, her eyes turned to saucers. “You … you bought me a tin mine?” she said. “As a wedding gift?”

  “I did,” he confessed. “Was that utterly unromantic of me? It seemed the only thing you truly wanted.”

  “Besides you?” she said on a laugh. “No, Edward, it is actually the most romantic gift ever given, for it is the gift of a husband who truly knows his wife, and does not mind if she is plain and pragmatic.”

  “My girl, you are nothing close to plain,” he chided. “As to pragmatic, if you wish, I shall manage the mine for you,” he said, “but only if you wish. Indeed, I can look after all your industrial concerns, if you wish. After all, you will have your hands full with the estate, and Anstruther … well, Anstruther will have his hands full with Aurélie.”

  “She may not interfere with his work!” declared Kate, who had put the ring back on, and was turning it this way and that to admire it. “It is out of the question.”

  “Well, good luck with that strategy,” said Edward—the same words he’d spoken to Anstruther himself mere moments earlier. He didn’t expect either of them to fare well with the task.

  “Oh, I have a plan,” said Kate, “to keep Aurélie busy. Trust me. But first, let me kiss you, my darling. I’m sure these are the most famous wedding gifts a bride ever received.”