The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “She is economizing, my lord.”

  “I never heard they were in such straights. Was it Mrs. Longstone’s idea? Or Mr. Longstone’s?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.” And there it was again, one of those seductive upward glances, almost like looking through her fluttering eyelashes.

  Curling his lip, he strolled toward her. “What can you say, little bird?”

  She did not back away but met his gaze boldly. There may have been a hint of fear in her bright eyes, but mostly they were welcoming, teasing. It was an interesting mixture of expressions, and he was fairly sure he understood it.

  Deliberately, he placed one finger under her chin and tilted up her face for his examination.

  “Whatever you want me to say, my lord,” she breathed.

  “What did they tell you say?”

  Her caught breath and the flash of intensified fear in her eyes told him all he needed to know. He was right.

  “I don’t understand, my lord,” she said desperately.

  A movement at the door caused him to look beyond her. Over the chambermaid’s head he met the shocked gaze of his wife.

  Chapter Seventeen

  How did it all go so wrong so quickly? How has it come to this? From a couple of trivial quarrels, easily mended, and a silly suspicion, hastily discounted, Cecily now found her husband flirting with the chambermaid he’d been so eager to dismiss only a few hours ago. Was it revenge? Had he wanted the temptation removed? Even now, she couldn’t believe he was so crass or so shallow.

  And yet, there he stood, close enough to kiss the maid who was in his power, his careless finger under the girl’s chin. He showed no shame. Instead, his lips quirked upward into a half-smile, as though she was meant to understand. Confused, she stared back.

  It was Anne who moved first. With a gasp, she whisked herself out of Verne’s hold, grabbing clumsily at her dustpan and brush and dusters. “My lord,” she mumbled. “Sorry, my lady.”

  Cecily turned and walked away. She could not bring herself to speak. Instead, she hurried along the passage and downstairs. By the time she reached the bottom, his footsteps were clattering after her. She could not bear his company right now, and yet, she had nowhere to go that was not his, no room of her own. Her only hope was to reach the bedchamber and lock the door before he caught up. Surely, he would not make a figure of them both by demanding entry or breaking down the door?

  She could not put either past him, and as it turned out, she never had the chance to put him to the test, for by the time she had crossed the library, he reached over her and held the door to the bedchamber shut.

  “Stop.”

  “I cannot speak to you right now.”

  “You would rather live in ignorance?”

  She closed her eyes. “Is that what I have been doing?”

  “God help us both, I don’t know.” The flat of his hand struck the door hard, making her jump. “Damn it, Cecily!” he exploded. “Without any evidence whatsoever, in the teeth of everyone else’s accusations, you insist on believing me innocent of all guilt in the matter of the fire that killed my brother and his wife. And yet you suddenly assume I’m guilty of such paltry, squalid little acts as making love to that same sister-in-law and seducing the maids? I suppose you believe the same of Shilton, too?”

  Anger soared, heating her face as she swung around to face him. “Oh no, Verne, you will not make this my fault! You were all over that poor girl like a rash.”

  His furious gaze clashed with hers. She had never provoked his temper before and now that she had, a fierce, perverse triumph took hold of her, urging to push him further and further.

  “Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” he said, curling his lip with a contempt she had never imagined she would inspire in him. “Now why do you suppose that was?”

  Her anger vanished so suddenly she felt dizzy. Stricken, wordless, she stared at her husband’s cruel face while her world crumbled.

  And then a soft knock at the library door heralded the entry of Will, the new footman.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” he said woodenly. “Lord and Lady Overton have called. I’ve shown them into the drawing room.”

  “Thank you,” Cecily managed, and as soon as the door was closed, she ducked under Verne’s imprisoning arm.

  “Cecily,” he said, and suddenly his voice wasn’t harsh at all, but she couldn’t turn, couldn’t wait or she would break in pieces. She knew enough not to do that.

  She walked on blindly to the library door.

  “Of course.” His mocking voice followed her. “A bride visit at last. You had better go before they change their minds.”

  She kept walking. It seemed to be all she could do. In the hall, she drew a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened her shoulders. She had always excelled at the game of manners and social graces. At this moment, it seemed her only salvation, so as she climbed the stairs to the drawing room, she summoned up a smile and metaphorically pinned it in place.

  “How lovely to see you,” she greeted Lord and Lady Overton. “How do you do?”

  “You look wonderful,” Lord Overton beamed.

  “We just heard you were back and had to come and welcome you!” Lady Overton said. “Henrietta is in London with Thomasina, but I had to come home since the children are ill. Your rebuilding has gone apace, I see!”

  “Indeed. We are still a little at sixes and sevens, but I’m so glad you came. Do sit down and I’ll ring for tea. How are the children?”

  “Oh, I think they are on the mend. I suspect the boys brought something nasty home from school and kindly passed it to their sister!”

  By the time tea was brought in, Cecily had been brought up to date with local gossip, including the fact that the Longstones were back home and that Lord Torbridge and the Renardees were both staying there.

  What an odd time to economize, Cecily thought. Her stomach twisted as she wondered if Patrick could possibly be right about Anne Wilson. Why would you get rid of a chambermaid when you were entertaining guests? She thrust the thought aside to concentrate on her own guests, while waiting in vain for Verne to join them.

  “So, are you happy to receive visits now?” Lady Overton inquired as she stood to take her leave. “If you are, I shall spread the word! But don’t feel obliged, for everyone understands you are in the middle of building and decorating.”

  “Oh, everyone is welcome,” Cecily assured her.

  Only this morning, this visit and the prospect of others would have delighted her. Not so much for her own sake as for Verne’s. She had assumed, perhaps too optimistically, that marriage to her would somehow make him more acceptable, absorbing him into the community that had shunned him for years. She had been annoyed that such hadn’t so far been the case. Now, the whole matter seemed trivial, for something she couldn’t quite grasp had gone wrong in her marriage and that was so huge it blotted out everything else.

  When the Overtons had gone, she plucked up her courage and did what she should have done earlier—went to talk to her husband. But he wasn’t in the library or the bedchamber. She found Daniel in the dressing room, sorting out laundered shirts and freshly brushed coats. For some reason it was odd to see him actually carrying out the duties of a mere valet.

  “Where is his lordship, Daniel?” she asked.

  “Riding, my lady,” Daniel replied. He hung up his master’s best evening coat and turned to face her. “He’ll come back in a better mood.”

  Cecily regarded him carefully. Had he been in the bedchamber and overheard their quarrel? She could not ask him that. Instead, she said lightly, “Were you on the receiving end of his temper?”

  Daniel grinned. “Don’t worry, my lady. I’m used to it.”

  And he was still here. As Cecily would be.

  Daniel threw a pile of stockings onto a shelf. “He’s quick tempered but as quick to forgive. And apologize where it’s due.”

  “Of course,” she murmured and went out before his information b
ecame any more obviously advice for her.

  She remembered something Alvan had said to her about Verne, perhaps trying to talk her out of the engagement. He is quite disastrously self-destructive and liable to swallow everyone around him in the explosion. When she’d married him, she had convinced herself she would prevent such calamities, as Charlotte kept Alvan’s melancholy at bay.

  Yet, here she was fanning the flames, accusing him of things in the heat of the moment, through her own insecurity. The truth was, she had never been sure of Verne. She had pursued him, given him ideas, perhaps, which he would never have considered left to himself. Was she good for him?

  In an agony of self-doubt and need of his presence, she waited for him to come home.

  She changed for dinner with a heavy heart, for there was still no sign of him. And then, as Cranston pinned her hair, she heard the thud of galloping hooves in the yard. Relief washed over her.

  As soon as Cranston released her, she went to meet him, and found him already striding into the dining room. Instructing the servants to bring dinner in, she followed him.

  He was gazing out of the window but turned as she entered. “Hope you’ll excuse the dress,” he said, indicating his mud-spattered breeches, “but I’m starving and I’d only hold you up if I stop to change.”

  “I don’t mind in the slightest,” she said civilly, taking her place which was set close to his as always. At first, despite their almost oppressive politeness to each other, Cecily merely reveled in his return, his safety, his presence, but gradually, since there was no opportunity to talk privately, with servants going in and out all the time, she grew frustrated and impatient.

  Patrick, on the other hand, seemed in no hurry. He responded to whatever she chose to talk about, and despite his absence during the Overtons’ visit, looked interested in their news and the fact that the Renardees and Lord Torbridge were both staying with the Longstones.

  “I knew Torbridge was there,” he observed. “I saw him with Henry in Finsborough this morning. I’m sure they’ll all be beating a path to your door now that the Overtons have shown the way.”

  Unlike this afternoon, there was no sarcasm in his tone or expression, just a profound distance that made Cecily miserable.

  “Shall we go to the library?” she suggested when the interminable meal was finally finished. “Bring your wine with you, if you want to.”

  His hesitation made her heart ache. Have I truly ruined this already? No, she would not let it be ruined. She would talk to him, explain…

  At least he followed her down to the library and closed the door. The long summer evening was coming to a close and the fringes of dusk were beginning to darken the sky and the marshes in the distance.

  She turned to face him. “When I think, I do not doubt you,” she blurted. “But my own weakness, my self-doubts make me jealous and then I no longer think. You have such power to hurt me that I’m frightened. I don’t want to quarrel, Patrick.”

  She could not read his turbulent gaze, but just for an instant it was no longer cold or distant.

  “Neither do I,” he said. “But since you live with me, we will quarrel. That does not mean…” His gaze shifted beyond her, growing more distant once more. “You must understand…”

  “What?” she urged, almost despairing.

  “We’ll talk,” he promised. “But not now. I have to go out.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Now? You have to go out now?”

  A sound escaped his lips, half groan and half laughter. “Oh, my dear, you should never have married me! Don’t wait up.”

  And with that, he was gone. No kiss, no soft word. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa and gave way to tears.

  *

  It had never entered Verne’s head that Cecily would feel insecure in his love. It was he who had never been good enough for her and never would be. That he had won her love would never cease to amaze him. But suddenly understanding that she feared she was unable to keep him—chaotic and wicked as he undoubtedly was—floored him. He meant to stay, to make things right between them again, only the light in the marsh caught his eye. Eerie and unnoticeable to most among the weird, natural lights that often appeared there, this steady light was undoubtedly the signal of a most urgent message from France, or even a most urgent need of his presence, and he had to put that first.

  When he came home, he would show her how much he cared. As he galloped hard across the country, picking his way through the familiar marshes, he could not help dwelling on all the many ways he would show her. Until he pulled himself up short.

  According to Jerome, the traitor knew everything, which must surely include the signal. Verne could be riding straight into a trap.

  He could be, but he couldn’t take the chance of ignoring it. He had to get to the Hart, keeping his wits about him at all times.

  It was fully dark by the time he reached the inn, fortunately without incident. He found the taproom busy and Captain Cromarty glaring at anyone who tried to sit at his table. He glared at Verne, too, though more for effect, and in any case, Verne was immune. He’d known Cromarty since he was sixteen-years-old and the smuggler had fished him out of the sea and away from the excisemen pursuing his comrades. Those same comrades who had fed him to the wolves to escape themselves. “You’re a gentleman,” they’d said with contempt. “No one will lock you up.”

  Cromarty, on the other hand, hadn’t cared what kind of family he came from. He treated everyone the same, cabin boy and prince. He was, in many ways, a deeply flawed man, but he had his own rough honor and Verne had never quite lost his boyish admiration.

  “There are no other places,” he said, mildly, sitting on the bench opposite the smuggler captain and waving at Villin for ale. Then, he focused his gaze on Cromarty. “Your light?”

  Cromarty nodded. He dropped his palm on the table next to Verne’s, and a folded paper passed between them. “For Hobbs,” Cromarty said grimly.

  The name on the letter always indicated its urgency, and S. Hobbs demanded speed. With an inward groan, Verne knew he would have to ride to London tonight, which meant not seeing Cecily until tomorrow. All he could do was have Villin send a note to her. He just wished he could send Villin or Cromarty to London in his place.

  He sighed and pocketed the letter. “No trouble?” he asked the captain.

  Cromarty shook his head. “What about you? I hear you are a married man.”

  Verne couldn’t help grinning. “I am. I’ll bring her to meet you one day.”

  “I doubt she’ll be wanting to number me among her acquaintances,” Cromarty said wryly. “I shan’t be offended.”

  “Neither will she. You’ll like her.”

  Cromarty cast a searching glance at him and then laughed. “Caught, by God. You treat her well, then. None of your nonsense.”

  A pretty maid set a mug of ale before each of them and swayed away with an inviting smile over her shoulder.

  “None of my nonsense,” Verne agreed, and turned back, raising his mug to the captain in a silent toast.

  Cromarty returned the gesture and they drank.

  “I’d best be off,” Verne said, rising to his feet. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back to Cecily. “Take care, Captain.”

  “And you,” Cromarty said with a quick frown that spoke of genuine anxiety. “Is your man with you?”

  Verne shook his head.

  “Then perhaps I—”

  “No,” Verne interrupted. He gave a crooked smile. “Against the rules. Good night, Captain!”

  “Patrick.”

  *

  He set out across country by the quickest route toward the main London road. But he had not gone far before he realized he was being followed. To begin with, it was merely a feeling he could have put down to mere anxiety, but he had learned to trust his instincts in such matters, at least when he was sober. And so, all his senses were on high alert. The faint sound of distant hoofbeats, of moving branches in the forest.

 
; Someone else had seen the light. Someone who knew what it had meant. They must have waited for him at the Hart—hiding outside the inn, for he had scanned the patrons inside quite carefully. They had waited until he had taken possession of the message and now meant to take out both at once.

  It could only be the traitor he had been looking for. And by coincidence, both Torbridge and Renarde were in the area. As was Henry, of course, but this was a crime Verne was inclined to acquit him of.

  Again, his mind balked at the aristocratic and apparently proper Torbridge taking money from a foreign government to do its dirty work, but in Torbridge’s case, there was no doubt, personal animosity, because Verne had won Cecily.

  On the other hand, few hated revolutionary France more than the émigrés forced to leave their country and wealth behind for exile and poverty. He could not imagine Renarde getting into bed with Bonaparte, and for Isabelle’s sake, he hoped to God he hadn’t.

  Not for the first time, he thought fleetingly of Isabelle herself in the role of traitor. She had the courage, and the stomach to do just about anything through boredom. It could even be why she had returned to Renarde. But would she really hurt him?

  He slowed, more irritated than anything by this new impediment to his swift return to Cecily. Again, he heard the faint snort of a horse behind him on the track. More worrying, something moved in a different direction, as if someone rode parallel with him in the forest.

  There were two of them.

  His plan of confrontation no longer seemed quite such a good idea. He could ride on, wait for them to attack him… or lead them straight to S. Or at least the office of S whom he had never actually met. Verne liked neither alternative, so, sticking with his original intention, he chose a place at the edge of the wood where he had the cover of trees, and yet the moonlight could shine down on those who came after him.

  Quickly, he led Jupiter out of the way of stray shots—although a dagger seemed to be the preferred weapon of the traitor—and tied the reins to a tree branch. From his saddle bag, he took the double-barreled pistol which had been a gift from his brother Arthur. With that, he could get off two shots, which at least evened the odds.