Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  She was la­te. He won­de­red if she we­re even co­ming.

  Xan­d­ria had stop­ped by his of­fi­ce that af­ter­no­on to in­vi­te him for sup­per-and to in­form him that his wi­fe wo­uld al­so be a gu­est. Sla­de's re­ac­ti­on had be­en in­c­re­du­lity, ex­ci­te­ment, and ap­pre­hen­si­on.

  Yes­ter­day he had ma­de the de­ci­si­on not to di­vor­ce her. It had be­en spon­ta­ne­o­us. Sin­ce then he had had plenty of ti­me to dwell upon the myri­ad of pos­si­bi­li­ti­es a mar­ri­age might hold for them. He was torn. On the one hand the­re we­re dre­ams, un­s­pe­akab­le dre­ams, im­pos­sib­le dre­ams, and on the ot­her cold, cru­el re­ality.

  Any fe­eling of bet­ra­yal for her de­ce­it was long go­ne. She had not bet­ra­yed him. She had de­ce­ived him be­ca­use she was af­ra­id the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir wo­uld ha­ve mar­ri­ed him in her ste­ad had she told the truth. She had wit­h­held her iden­tity and mar­ri­ed him be­ca­use she had be­en fond of him. How easily he co­uld for­gi­ve her!

  But her fe­elings we­re in the past. Now she was fu­ri­o­us and ada­mant abo­ut a di­vor­ce. Ap­pa­rently she did not be­li­eve that had he known, he wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver aban­do­ned her so cru­el­ly. He tho­ught that he co­uld spend a do­zen ye­ars con­vin­cing her-and it wo­uld not be too gre­at a pri­ce to pay for the­ir fu­tu­re. The tho­ught wo­uld not le­ave him in pe­ace: if she had ca­red abo­ut him on­ce, it co­uld hap­pen aga­in. He had al­ways be­en a stub­born man, a de­ter­mi­ned man. It was a De­lan­za tra­it. Did he da­re find out just how far his pa­ti­en­ce ex­ten­ded? For her, he tho­ught it might span a li­fe­ti­me.

  But the cir­cum­s­tan­ces had chan­ged and he da­red not de­lu­de him­self for an in­s­tant. His wi­fe was no lon­ger an am­ne­si­ac na­med Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. James no lon­ger sto­od in the­ir way, but now, it se­emed as if the ob­s­tac­les fa­cing them might be even gre­ater. She was a Bri­tish aris­toc­rat and a Bragg he­iress. Un­der the best of cir­cum­s­tan­ces, much less the worst, they did not su­it each ot­her. Even if he did suc­ce­ed in brin­ging abo­ut a re­con­ci­li­ati­on, then what? She had al­re­ady de­man­ded a di­vor­ce just days af­ter the­ir wed­ding. Even if she did co­me to ca­re for him aga­in, how long wo­uld it last? A ye­ar? Two ye­ars, or even fi­ve? Co­uld an up­per-class nob­le­wo­man li­ke her be happy with the kind of li­fe he co­uld of­fer her? Co­uld she re­al­ly be happy with him?

  He was af­ra­id. The pos­si­bi­li­ti­es, di­amet­ri­cal­ly op­po­sed, we­re both ex­hi­la­ra­ting and ter­rif­ying. What wo­uld the fu­tu­re hold? Hap­pi­ness, or he­ar­t­b­re­ak?

  It se­emed as if he was de­ter­mi­ned to find out. Al­t­ho­ugh it wo­uld ha­ve be­en sa­fer, so much sa­fer, to ha­ve sig­ned tho­se damn di­vor­ce pa­pers, he was not go­ing to do it. He co­uld not bring him­self to the po­int of ir­re­vo­cably se­ve­ring the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip. He was un­wil­ling to push her away, un­wil­ling to walk away him­self. Per­haps he was the one now be­ing the fo­ol. But it was too la­te, the die was cast.

  Sud­denly he spot­ted a lu­xu­ri­o­us car­ri­age pul­led by two fancy grays co­ming up Ca­li­for­nia Stre­et. His he­art jum­ped. He was inex­p­li­cably ner­vo­us.

  He tur­ned as ca­su­al­ly as pos­sib­le from the win­dow, stra­ig­h­te­ning his nec­k­tie and cuffs. He had don­ned an ele­gantly cut ta­il­co­at for sup­per, wan­ting to ap­pe­ar his best and ho­ping that his wi­fe wo­uld be im­p­res­sed. Me­eting Xan­d­ria's eye, he ma­na­ged a smi­le, ho­ping she co­uldn't see too much in his ex­p­res­si­on. The witch had da­red to tell his wi­fe that he was a pru­de. She had mer­ci­les­sly te­ased him to­day with lit­tle bits and pi­eces of the con­ver­sa­ti­on she'd had with Re­gi­na. She had even hin­ted that his wi­fe wo­uld be ame­nab­le to his over­tu­res. He co­uld not be­li­eve it, but the me­re tho­ught ge­ne­ra­ted no small amo­unt of ex­ci­te­ment. And bossy as Xan­d­ria was, she'd told him to be on his best, most char­ming be­ha­vi­or. Xan­d­ria was a busy wo­man, the le­ast li­kely can­di­da­te to play mat­c­h­ma­ker, but he was gra­te­ful for her in­ter­fe­ren­ce to­day.

  Re­gi­na was es­cor­ted in­to the sa­lon by Mann's Bri­tish but­ler. Sla­de tri­ed not to sta­re as Xan­d­ria ro­se and swiftly went for­ward to gre­et her. As al­ways, Re­gi­na was he­art-stop­pingly be­a­uti­ful. And she had dres­sed, too. Her gold gown was worn off the sho­ul­der, its fit­ted bo­di­ce crus­ted with to­paz se­qu­ins, its dra­ped skirts full and vo­lup­tu­o­us. Her ha­ir was up­s­wept, re­ve­aling the long, ele­gant li­ne of her neck, and her ba­re sho­ul­ders we­re smo­oth and ro­und and an en­ti­cing sha­de of ivory. Her gown was low-cut but not eno­ugh to re­ve­al any cle­ava­ge; still, it was eno­ugh to re­mind him of how she had felt in his hands on the­ir wed­ding night. Re­gi­na lo­oked exactly the way one wo­uld ex­pect the da­ug­h­ter of an earl to lo­ok-ele­gant, sop­his­ti­ca­ted, gen­te­el, and stun­ning. Not a hint of her pas­si­ona­te na­tu­re sho­wed, and Sla­de co­uld be su­re that he was the only man to ha­ve ever glim­p­sed it, to ha­ve ever felt it, to ha­ve ever sha­red it. He ga­ve up all his at­tempts not to sta­re. An un­fa­mi­li­ar and pos­ses­si­ve emo­ti­on swel­led his chest. Pri­de.

  "Re­gi­na, I'm so happy you are he­re," Xan­d­ria sa­id.

  Re­gi­na nod­ded, her ga­ze slip­ping past her hos­tess to cling to Sla­de. "It was tho­ug­h­t­ful of you to in­vi­te me."

  "Ple­ase, co­me and me­et my fat­her. Char­les, this is Sla­de's wi­fe." Xan­d­ria was be­aming.

  Char­les Mann to­ok both of Re­gi­na's hands in his, hol­ding them tightly. "May I kiss the bri­de?"

  Re­gi­na re­tur­ned his in­tent ga­ze. She had not be­en su­re what to ex­pect, but what she saw did not sur­p­ri­se her. Char­les was an at­trac­ti­ve man in his six­ti­es with ke­en, in­tel­li­gent eyes and a kind, warm ex­p­res­si­on. His grip was fil­led with both ple­asu­re and ac­cep­tan­ce. She sen­sed that he was ever­y­t­hing she had ima­gi­ned him to be, and mo­re. She lo­oked at Sla­de, stan­ding ri­gidly by the win­dows, wat­c­hing her. He had not mo­ved sin­ce she had en­te­red the ro­om. Des­pi­te her do­ubts and des­pi­te the cir­cum­s­tan­ces, she was glad he had fo­und a man li­ke this to be his fri­end.

  Sla­de's eyes held hers. Her he­art flip­ped in res­pon­se. He sa­id, "Go ahe­ad, Char­les."

  Re­gi­na of­fe­red her che­ek for the ot­her man's kiss. Sla­de's lo­ok was in­ti­ma­te, mat­c­hing his husky to­ne. She was trying to de­cip­her his mo­od. She wat­c­hed him as he cros­sed the ro­om, his stri­de ca­su­al, yet he­ading pur­po­se­ful­ly to her. If her he­art had so­mer­sa­ul­ted be­fo­re, it was not­hing li­ke the ac­ro­ba­tics it now en­ga­ged in.

  He was bre­at­h­ta­kingly han­d­so­me, im­pos­sibly ele­gant, so ur­ba­ne. He was, in short, de­vas­ta­ting. She had ne­ver se­en him in ta­ils be­fo­re. How co­uld she ha­ve tho­ught for a se­cond that this man wo­uld not fit in with her fri­ends and ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces back ho­me? He wo­uld fit in an­y­w­he­re; he wo­uld be at ho­me if he had an audi­en­ce with the qu­e­en.

  He pa­used by her si­de, not ma­king any at­tempt to to­uch her. "Hel­lo, Re­gi­na."

  For a mo­ment they sta­red at each ot­her.

  Edward in­ter­ve­ned. He strol­led for­ward, stan­ding be­si­de Xan­d­ria. "I fe­ar I shall in­ter­rupt this mo­nu­men­tal re­uni­on." He smi­led at Re­gi­na, ta­king her hand and kis­sing it. "If my brot­her is at a loss for words, it is un­der­s­tan­dab­le. You are ra­vis­hing to­night, sis­ter de­ar. When Sla­de shows you off to the city, the­re is go­ing to be an up­ro­ar."

  Re­gi­na blus­hed, but ne­ver­t­he­less fo­und it im­pos­sib­
le to ke­ep her ga­ze from Sla­de. To her shock, he sa­id softly, "He's right."

  It was a com­p­li­ment. Re­gi­na was so mo­ved she al­most burst in­to te­ars. Qu­ickly she duc­ked her he­ad, not wan­ting him to see how such sim­p­le pra­ise co­uld af­fect her so po­wer­ful­ly. She re­ali­zed that she was putty in his hands. He had hurt her ter­ribly; now he was ple­asing her vastly. She was af­ra­id, af­ra­id he wo­uld hurt her aga­in if she da­red al­low the­ir mar­ri­age to con­ti­nue. But how co­uld she not gi­ve him anot­her chan­ce? And wasn't that what she was do­ing me­rely by be­ing he­re now?

  They sat in the sa­lon with ape­ri­tifs. Al­t­ho­ugh Char­les to­ok over the con­ver­sa­ti­on, di­rec­ting it at her, she was acu­tely awa­re of Sla­de, who had cho­sen to sit in a cha­ir be­si­de her. Des­pi­te the do­ub­le li­fe he led, she had ex­pec­ted to see so­me of the old Sla­de, but the­re was not­hing vo­la­ti­le abo­ut him. The ten­si­on she felt ema­na­ting from him had not­hing to do with an­ger. She was as­tu­te eno­ugh to know that it had ever­y­t­hing to do with her.

  "How do you li­ke our be­a­uti­ful city, my de­ar?"

  "I lo­ve it. I al­ways ha­ve. I ha­ve be­en he­re be­fo­re, vi­si­ting my re­la­ti­ves, the D'Archands."

  "Ah, yes. Fi­ne pe­op­le, Brett and his wi­fe. Tell me, do you know the city well?"

  "Not re­al­ly."

  Char­les tur­ned to Sla­de. "You are not thin­king cle­arly, son. You are neg­lec­ting yo­ur be­a­uti­ful bri­de to see to my af­fa­irs? That must be rec­ti­fi­ed im­me­di­ately."

  To Re­gi­na's sur­p­ri­se, Sla­de sa­id, "I ag­ree with you, Char­les."

  Char­les smi­led. "Why don't you show her the city? Ta­ke her to the Con­ser­va­tory, wi­ne and di­ne her on Ke­arny Stre­et, to­ur our fa­bu­lo­us mu­se­ums and art gal­le­ri­es. Ta­ke her to Chi­na­town." He smi­led at Re­gi­na. "Ha­ve you ever be­en to Chi­na­town?"

  "No."

  "It's a wor­t­h­w­hi­le ex­pe­ri­en­ce."

  Re­gi­na glan­ced at Sla­de. She fo­und the idea of his es­cor­ting her aro­und the city ex­ci­ting, even tho­ugh she was sup­po­sed to be in­tent on ob­ta­ining a di­vor­ce. With every pas­sing se­cond, tho­se in­ten­ti­ons we­re fa­ding.

  She was sta­ring at him. It was so hard not to. Sla­de was not the man she had mar­ri­ed at Mi­ra­mar, not com­p­le­tely, and se­e­ing him li­ke this was pro­of. She co­uld ba­rely te­ar her ga­ze from him. Every en­co­un­ter they had had sin­ce her ar­ri­val in the city se­emed to fill in the pi­eces of the puz­zle he had kept hid­den from her. She it­c­hed to know mo­re, so much mo­re, abo­ut him.

  "What are you do­ing to­mor­row?" Sla­de as­ked, his ex­p­res­si­on in­ten­se.

  Re­gi­na was al­most in­ca­pab­le of res­pon­ding. "N-noth-ing," she qu­ave­red, his ga­ze ma­king her shi­ver slightly. "I me­an, I ha­ve no re­al plans."

  "I'll pick you up at ten."

  She sho­uld tell him no. She sho­uld, in fact, get up and le­ave the ho­use at that very mo­ment. Be­ing with Sla­de was as dan­ge­ro­us as ever. The truth was, he mes­me­ri­zed her, he fas­ci­na­ted her, and he had from the mo­ment they had first met. He was ma­king her for­get ever­y­t­hing, in­c­lu­ding how badly he had hurt her. Re­gi­na fol­lo­wed her he­art, pra­ying she wo­uld not reg­ret it la­ter. "I'll be re­ady."

  Sla­de's eyes gle­amed with emo­ti­on she was af­ra­id to iden­tify. She ho­ped it was mo­re than tri­umph. And Char­les clap­ped his hands in ap­pro­val. "Very go­od! And you, Sla­de, I don't want to see you at the of­fi­ce for the rest of the we­ek!"

  Char­les as­ked Re­gi­na to sit on his right at sup­per, as the gu­est of ho­nor. He was smi­ling, cle­arly ple­ased to be pre­si­ding over the small gat­he­ring of fri­ends and fa­mily- Sla­de ca­su­al­ly to­ok the ot­her se­at be­si­de her. She fa­ced Xan­d­ria, who was stun­ning in a very da­ring and very low-cut gown, one that was blo­od-red and as stra­ight as an ar­row. Ed­ward sat next to her, as han­d­so­me as ever and im­p­res­si­vely das­hing in a whi­te din­ner jac­ket and a black bow tie.

  Sup­per was su­perb, an eig­ht-co­ur­se me­al pre­pa­red by Mann's French chef, who had pre­vi­o­usly be­en em­p­lo­yed in Pa­ris. The ser­vi­ce was flaw­less, as was the tab­le. It was set in Bel­gi­um li­nens with French crystal and Wa­ter­ford por­ce­la­in. The cen­ter­pi­ece was an exo­tic tro­pi­cal blo­om that re­min­ded Re­gi­na of oran­ge-and-pur­p­le birds. Xan­d­ria ex­p­la­ined that the tro­pi­cal mo­tif was the ra­ge the­se days. Re­gi­na co­uld ha­ve be­en di­ning in any aris­toc­rat's ho­me in Lon­don.

  Her hus­band was si­lent du­ring din­ner, but it was not the kind of si­len­ce she had wit­nes­sed at Mi­ra­mar. On the one hand, he was re­la­xed in a way she had ne­ver be­fo­re se­en him; on the ot­her hand, she was cer­ta­in that he was as ex­c­ru­ci­atingly awa­re of her as she was of him.

  Con­ver­sa­ti­on flo­wed fre­ely along with the bor­de­a­ux and sa­uvig­non blanc, both from the Rot­h­s­c­hild vi­ne­yards in Fran­ce. Char­les, Xan­d­ria, and Ed­ward car­ri­ed on most of it. At the end of sup­per they lin­ge­red over the­ir des­sert. Xan­d­ria sa­id, "Fat­her, why don't we all enj­oy an af­ter-din­ner drink to­get­her to­night?"

  "I don't mind." Char­les lo­oked at Ed­ward and Sla­de. "Do you mind, gen­t­le­men?"

  "Not I," Ed­ward sa­id, tur­ning his lazy glan­ce on Xan­d­ria. "I pre­fer the com­pany."

  She ga­ve him a warm smi­le.

  "You al­ways pre­fer the com­pany of fe­ma­les," Sla­de sa­id dryly. He was lo­un­ging in his se­at. Re­gi­na's eyes wi­de­ned when she saw that he had- pla­ced his arm on the back of her cha­ir. His sle­eve brus­hed the ba­re na­pe of her neck.

  "Un­li­ke you," Ed­ward re­tor­ted, "who is hard put to no­ti­ce even the lo­ve­li­est of wo­men en­te­ring the ro­om."

  Sla­de smi­led. "I no­ti­ced to­night."

  Re­gi­na's eyes flew to his. He had be­en drin­king red wi­ne qu­ite li­be­ral­ly, but so had all the men. He did not ap­pe­ar in the le­ast bit ineb­ri­ated. And he had no­ti­ced her when she had ar­ri­ved. He had be­en openly sta­ring.

  "Well, if you don't no­ti­ce yo­ur wi­fe, anot­her man will," Ed­ward sa­id po­in­tedly as they we­re ser­ved sherry and port.

  Sla­de was un­per­tur­bed, shif­ting slightly, and Re­gi­na felt his knee aga­inst hers be­ne­ath the tab­le. She co­uld not even mo­ve. Her pul­se had be­en wa­iting for just such a cue and se­emed to ri­ot. "If anot­her man lo­oks at my wi­fe the wrong way, he will be mo­re than sorry. And I am too po­li­te to say in mi­xed com­pany what his fa­te wo­uld be."

  Re­gi­na tur­ned and sta­red.

  Sla­de smi­led at her very slightly. She de­ci­ded he was just a to­uch fo­xed. She was ab­so­lu­tely bre­at­h­less. Wha­te­ver was go­ing on? What kind of mo­od was this? What did his be­ha­vi­or sig­nify?

  Char­les in­ter­rup­ted her tho­ughts. "May I ha­ve yo­ur at­ten­ti­on," he sa­id, tap­ping his spo­on upon his empty wi­neg­lass. Ever­yo­ne tur­ned to lo­ok at him. In the dra­ma­tic pa­use that fol­lo­wed, Re­gi­na sud­denly had an in­k­ling of what was abo­ut to co­me.

  Char­les re­ac­hed in­to his bre­ast poc­ket and wit­h­d­rew an en­ve­lo­pe. "First I wo­uld li­ke to to­ast the new­ly-weds."

  Re­gi­na ten­sed. Her sus­pi­ci­ons had be­en cor­rect. She da­red to lo­ok at Sla­de from the cor­ner of her eye. His glan­ce slid over her fe­atu­res one by one. She had ac­tu­al­ly ex­pec­ted so­me pro­test or an­ger, but his in­te­rest ap­pe­ared to be fo­cu­sed so­lely on her, not on Char­les. Then, star­t­led, she felt his fin­gers gli­de over her ba­re sho­ul­der, just on­ce.

  "He­re, he­re," Ed­ward
sa­id, stan­ding. Xan­d­ria ro­se, too.

  Char­les sa­id, "To pe­ace and hap­pi­ness, and, I ho­pe, to lo­ve." He tip­ped his glass.

  Edward and Xan­d­ria che­ered and drank.

  Re­gi­na blus­hed, not da­ring even to pe­ek at her hus­band this ti­me. He had not re­mo­ved his hand from her sho­ul­der.

  Char­les pic­ked up the en­ve­lo­pe. "This is one of the most ple­asu­rab­le mo­ments in my li­fe," he sa­id, sud­denly gruff. "Sla­de, no re­al son co­uld be de­arer. Re­gi­na, you are a fit­ting bri­de for Sla­de, mo­re fit­ting than you can know. This-" He wa­ved the en­ve­lo­pe. "-is a wed­ding pre­sent from both me and my da­ug­h­ter." He han­ded it to Sla­de.

  Sla­de to­ok the en­ve­lo­pe, smi­ling slightly and ap­pa­rently be­mu­sed. "Char­les, you sho­uldn't ha­ve." He sho­ok the en­ve­lo­pe. "The­re's so­met­hing he­avy in he­re." He was wry. "A sil­ver dol­lar?"

  Char­les la­ug­hed. "Go on, open it."

  Sla­de tur­ned to lo­ok at Re­gi­na, who was very still, her eyes fi­xed on his happy fa­ce. "The­re's so­met­hing he­avy in he­re," he told her. "He­avy and me­tal­lic."

  She co­uld not spe­ak. But it was at that mo­ment that she knew she wasn't go­ing to di­vor­ce him. If he co­uld be li­ke this, then they had a chan­ce. Then the­ir mar­ri­age had a chan­ce. And she was go­ing to do her best to see that he sta­yed li­ke this-a happy, con­ten­ted man.

  Sla­de ope­ned the en­ve­lo­pe and to­ok out a key. His ex­p­res­si­on im­me­di­ately so­be­red. He lo­oked up. Very qu­i­etly, he sa­id, "What is this?"

  "Pack up yo­ur bags," Char­les sa­id, grin­ning. "Be­ca­use that is the key to 1700 Fran­k­lin Stre­et."

  Sla­de lo­oked stun­ned.

  Re­gi­na grip­ped his hand. "What is it?"

  But Sla­de did not lo­ok at her. He sta­red at the key. "That's the He­nes­sy pla­ce," he sa­id, so ho­ar­sely his words we­re ba­rely audib­le.