“You poor man,” she clucked sympathetically. “It is beyond me how the ungrateful girl could have behaved so shabbily to you.”
“Aye. And I am a flesh and blood man, I need a wife.”
“I understand perfectly, Sir Basil, but you must proceed with caution. Once the story has died down, you can get an annulment on the grounds that her health is bad.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Brockhaven owned thoughtfully. “I suppose I could say that I did not think her health sufficiently good for childbearing, couldn’t I? Hmmmmm …” Abruptly, he reached to pat Lavinia’s hand. “And how old are you, my dear?”
“A gentleman never asks a lady her age,” she simpered.
“But you ain’t above forty, are you?”
“La, but I shall never tell.”
“But you ain’t?”
“No, not quite.”
“Good.”
In spite of the cold, Lavinia had to own that the rest of the drive went rather well. Sir Basil bent himself to be all that was accommodating and polite, and she was pleased with the attention. Since Sir Lawrence’s death, she had lived at Greenfield almost as a recluse, emerging only when it was necessary to support dear Augusta through something, and now she was restive with yearning to return to a more active life.
Mrs. Marling was standing at the window when they returned. She could not help her lack of manners—she had to stare when Sir Basil clambered out and assisted Vinnie down. While Vinnie was quite colorless, the baron was quite something else.
“Augusta, will you look at that?” She held back the curtain for her sister-in-law.
Augusta looked out and had to suppress a chuckle. “Looks like a fat robin. Really, Eleanor, would you tell me why a man of Sir Basil’s proportions would be seen wearing a light suit with a red waistcoat, especially a suit so tight that he cannot possibly breathe in it?”
“Lavinia does not seem to notice.”
“No, she doesn’t, does she?” Augusta agreed.
“I thought I should have died of mortification yesterday”—Eleanor shuddered at the memory—“when he arrived to take us out in a puce suit with yellow stockings.”
“He has no taste.”
The object of their amusement was already reentering his carriage, blissfully unaware of their comments on his sartorial splendor. He settled back into his seat and placed his fingertips together over his well-rounded belly while he mulled a new and intriguing prospect. He was still engrossed with the idea when he alit at his home and mounted the steps to his town house.
A man darted out and touched his coat sleeve. Unused to being accosted by members of an inferior class, Brockhaven raised his cane to show the fellow a thing or two.
“Now, guv’nor, ye don’t ’it Leach,” the man told him with an injured look. “Yer missin’ yer lady, ain’t yer? ’Appen I know where ’er is.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Brockhaven told him stiffly, and pushed past.
“Pretty thing ’er is—dark ’air, big eyes—got an aunt in York—”
“Get out of here!”
The man shrugged. “ ’Ave it yer way, guv’nor. Mebbe there’s others t’listen t’ Leach.”
“Wait!” Sir Basil’s mouth was dry as he glanced furtively up and down the street. “What do you want?”
“Ter restore yer lady ter yer.” He doffed his hat with a wicked grin and added, “Fer a price.”
“I see.” The street appeared deserted as Brockhaven made up his. mind. “Come ’round to the back and I’ll have someone let you in.”
“Thought yer would.”
Later, in the safety and privacy of his library, Lord Brockhaven listened to Leach’s strange story. He paced restlessly while the driver watched from the comfort of one of his chairs.
“But Lady Sandbridge is here. My wife cannot have gone there.”
“Thet I don’t know fer a fact, guv’nor, but I do know ’er was with milord, Trent. Mebbe ’e took ’er ’ome wi’ ’im.”
“Trent? You are mistaken—he would not want a woman like her.”
“They looked friendly enough ter me.”
“No, not Ellen.”
“Thet so? ’E discharged me fer talkin’ ’bout ’er.”
“I do not even know Lord Trent’s direction.”
“I do. Yer fergit—I was ’ired t’ work fer ’im.”
Brockhaven closed his eyes and pictured Ellen—her slender young body, those purple eyes, that youth. Trent! That could be unpleasant, but not even Trent would dare to cut up a dust over another man’s wife. Besides, even if the story were true, he would probably have tired of the girl by now. If rumor could be believed, he’d not been constant to anyone above two or three weeks, anyway.
“How much do you want?”
“Five ’undred pounds.”
“Ridiculous!”
“I can allus tell ’er family.”
“Three hundred—payable when she is returned. After all,” his lordship reminded the driver peevishly, “I do not even know you are telling the truth.”
“Five ’undred, guv’nor, when ’er comes ’ome.”
“Oh, very well,” Brockhaven capitulated finally, and then set about formulating a plan whereby Leach and another man were to meet him the next morning and set out for Trent’s country home first and then go on to Augusta Sandbridge’s estate in York if Ellen proved not to be with Trent.
“Yer can trust Leach,” the driver promised confidently, and took his leave.
Brockhaven poured himself a good-sized drink and sat down before the fire to mull over this strange turn of events. The Marquess of Trent! Unthinkable! And yet there had been the ring of truth in the strange little man’s story. A slow smile crept over the baron’s jowled face. Well, if it proved to be true, he bet the chit knew a thing or two now.
Committed to taking Mrs. Marling, Lady Sandbridge, and Lady Leffingwell to the theater for the evening, he considered sending around a note of cancellation and then thought better of it. After all, if he were successful in retrieving Ellen, he would still need the good offices of those ladies to pull it off without a scandal. No, it was best to keep the engagement. But to think he had been contemplating offering for the Leffingwell woman! He must have been on the verge of insanity. She might still be young enough to provide him with an heir, but she certainly could not compare with a young woman.
Later, while dressing with his usual care, he hummed happily at the thought of having Ellen back. This time, he would not have to bother with the subtleties; he’d bet that Trent had already taken care of that, and the girl would know how to please a man now. A thought stilled him momentarily: what if she were increasing? He’d have no bastard Brockhavens—never! Well, he could wait to see on that one. He began to hum again as he tied his starched neckcloth under his full chin. He glanced in the mirror and ripped off the offending piece of linen with an oath, cursing the day that stocks went out. His valet stepped forward with a fresh cloth and draped it around his lordship’s neck, twisting it deftly into the Oriental, a style that Brockhaven himself never cared for—too plain by half. The baron stood to shrug himself into his lavender swallow-tailed coat, a creation that had even given his tailor pause, for it was lined in a purple-and-green-striped nankeen that matched his trousers. To set it all off, he wore a green silk waistcoat. When he left his house, he was certain he would impress the ladies.
It seemed to him that his choice had been perfect, for when he led the three women into his box, Lavinia, herself attired in bright parrot-green satin with dyed-to-match ostrich feathers in her hair, was on his arm. He noted with satisfaction that all heads turned to watch them. Behind them, Augusta Sandbridge and Eleanor Marling trailed as far as was polite in their rather subdued silk Empire gowns. To acknowledge what he was certain was the admiration of those around him, Brockhaven bowed smugly to the occupants of the boxes around his.
He was in high spirits at the thought of reclaiming his young wife, and he set
about to entertain Vinnie with the latest gossip before the candles were doused and the curtain rung up. He put his glass to his eye and worked through the crowd looking for interesting pairings.
“There’s Rockingham”—he pointed—“with Lady Marlow.” Catching sight of the earl, he waved brightly before moving on with his glass. “And over there is Mrs. Farmington—Moreland’s mistress, you know.”
But Lavinia’s attention was already caught by the people in the box directly opposite them. She tugged at the baron’s sleeve to gain his attention. “But is that not Madame Mantini over there? And, good heavens! Who is that arresting man with her?”
“Eh?” He strained to follow her direction and saw the raven-haired beauty pouting next to the marquess. “ ’Tis the Mantini—and Trent!”
“La—is that the Marquess of Trent? My, ’tis no wonder he is so remarked.” She turned her pale eyes back to the baron to observe, “But he dresses rather plainly for a marquess, don’t you think?”
Brockhaven seemed frozen in his seat as he stared across the pit and tried to make sense of Trent’s presence in London. Either Leach was a complete liar or Trent had already abandoned Ellen somewhere. “Hmmmm?” he finally caught himself and acknowledged Lavinia’s insistent tugging.
“Are you quite all right, Sir Basil?”
“Yes, but I am surprised to see him here. I had thought him in the country.”
“You do not look at all well.”
“I am fine,” he muttered half to himself, “but I intend to pay his lordship a call at first intermission, you can be sure.”
His agitation was so great that he could not have repeated anything that occurred in the first act. He knew it would be risky speaking with Alexander Deveraux, given the man’s high temper, but Brockhaven meant to make the attempt in hopes of gleaning some information as to Ellen’s whereabouts. He’d paid enough for the chit that he did not intend to be cheated of his rights even by the likes of Trent. As soon as the candles were relit, he excused himself and made his way around to the other box.
“Your servant, my lord,” he told the marquess as he pushed his way into the closed area. “I would have a few words with you, sir—in private, if you please.”
Trent shrugged and nodded a curt dismissal to Sophia Mantini, who stood up, rustling the skirt of her red silk gown, and tried to hide her irritation. “I see Leonie, Alex, so I shall pay her a call.” She brushed past Brockhaven without a word and ignored his appraising stare.
“Egad, sir! The luck is all yours!”
Trent ignored him and adjusted the sleeves of his dark-blue coat over the snowy cuffs of his silk shirt with a detachment that the baron found disconcerting. Brockhaven stared at him in fascination, amazed that anyone dressed so plainly could make him feel so dowdy by comparison. It must be the man’s height, he decided. He cleared his throat to regain Trent’s attention, and tried to screw up his courage to ask about Ellen. Trent, for his part, leaned back in his chair and lifted his long legs up to rest his feet on the polished brass rail before clasping his hands over his flat stomach. His blue eyes were very cold and forbidding when at last he looked up at the baron from heavy lids.
“Well?”
A wiser man than Brockhaven would have heard the challenge in the icy voice and backed down, but the baron chose to interpret that single word as an invitation to sit. He dropped heavily into the chair beside the marquess and mopped his sweaty brow. After taking a furtive look around them, he leaned closer.
“An interesting story came my way today, my lord,” he began.
“I never listen to interesting stories, Brockhaven, for I find they are usually incorrect and therefore a waste of my time.” Trent turned his head slightly to his unwanted guest. “But you may go on, if you find it necessary.”
The baron again wiped his wet forehead and licked his dry lips. “There was a man by the name of Leach who came to my house today, sir.” He waited impatiently for a reaction and got none. “He said you had my wife.” There was not even a flicker of interest as Trent sat there with a bored expression still on his arrogantly handsome face. Finally, Brockhaven could stand it no longer and blurted out, “Well, do you?”
The marquess raised a black eyebrow. “You have lost your wife, Brockhaven? How careless of you. I never favored having one myself, but I doubt I should misplace her if I did.” His whole body was a study of indifference, as he added casually, “But do go on. What else did—I am sorry, I am afraid I did not get the name—but what else did this person allege?”
“Leach. He said you was taking my wife to her Aunt Sandbridge.”
“But I seem to be here, Sir Basil, and if I am not mistaken, that is Augusta Sandbridge in your box. I would suggest you approach her before you come to me with the tale.” Trent swung his legs down and straightened up. He vaguely indicated another box with a sweep of his hand, and the light caught the ring on his little finger. “If you are quite finished, sir, I believe I see Brummel over there—ah, yes—and Prinny, too. I believe I’ll pay a call.”
“But I am not through. Dash it, sir. Is Leach telling the truth?”
“That your wife is at Lady Sandbridge’s? How the devil should I know that?” Trent asked irritably as he heaved himself up to tower over the dumpy baron.
“But have you seen her?” Brockhaven persisted recklessly.
“Lady Brockhaven? I believe I once had the distinction of spilling champagne on her wedding gown.”
“But have you seen her since?”
“Really, Sir Basil, I tire of this ridiculous discussion. You have insinuated yourself into my box with some farradiddle about my having taken your wife somewhere. Now, if I remember the chit, she is rather plain, and I do not consort with plain females, Brockhaven.” There was an edge to the marquess’s voice.
“You have not answered my question, sir,” Brockhaven snapped as he lost his temper.
Trent’s hand snaked out to lift the baron until he dangled in midair by his chin. Brockhaven’s florid face grew redder as he wriggled helplessly. “I choose not to dignify such a sordid story with a reply. If you persist in this nonsense, I shall conclude that you are calling me out. Certainly, I know that if I thought someone had my wife, I should be issuing a challenge rather than asking silly questions.” He set Sir Basil down with deceptive gentleness. “Well?”
“Your pardon, my lord.” Brockhaven’s face paled now to a sickly gray, and his eyes bulged. “Of course, I did not credit the story, my lord. Heh, heh. I did but think to amuse you with the tale. I quite see I was mistaken.”
“I should not repeat it anywhere, if I were you. I believe I should stay with the rumor she has consumption.”
Brockhaven strained to catch another glimpse of the ring on the marquess’s hand, but the light was faint. He was positive that Trent had begged the issue, but he dared not push it. He bowed stiffly and turned to leave.
“Oh, Brockhaven …”
“My lord?”
“You may tell Mr. Leach that he is a dead man when I see him.” Trent inclined his head slightly, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Good night, Sir Basil.”
13
ELLEN SAT CURLED up in a chair before the fire in the Meadows’ library with a book open on her lap as she listened to Gerald read Trent’s letter. It was but a brief message telling that he’d posted an anonymous letter to her parents in London assuring them of her well-being, that he expected Gerald to see that she had whatever she needed in clothes and pocket money, and that he’d be home Christmas week.
Gerald finished reading and looked down to where she sat with a faraway expression, in her eyes. There was a wistfulness on her face that touched him, and he felt compelled to drop a consoling hand on her shoulder.
“Do not be pining for him, Ellen,” he advised her gently.
She gave a guilty start. “I am not pining!”
“You would have better luck in getting me into parson’s mousetrap than Alex, my dear—and that’s n
ot saying much.”
“Gerry, please, I am not up to even the mildest flirtation.”
“ ’Twas not my intent, Ellen. I was but telling you that neither of us is husband material, when it comes down to it. And while there have been dozens of women who thought to bring Trent to heel, not a one has even come close to managing the trick.”
“Captain Deveraux,” she sighed, “I was not even thinking of Alex, if you want the truth. His letter did but remind me that I’ve no right to be here hanging on his sleeve and letting him spend his money on me. I am not your poor relation, after all.”
“If neither of us minds, my dear, I cannot see why that should worry you.”
“But it does! Can you not see? I’ve not the least claim to either of you.”
“Ellen, you saved his life—’tis enough. And to tell the truth, I like your company: you make intelligent conversation, you play more than a credible hand of faro, and I could listen to your music all day. Moreover,” he added with feeling, “you ain’t given to megrims and freaks of temper—except when you get this maggot in your brain about being beholden to us. I find myself wishing we were related, my dear, for I’ve no wish to have you leave.” He dropped to his knees beside her chair so that he could reason face to face. “You know what?” he confided. “You remember my friend Allendar who was her yesterday? He’s quite taken with you, too—went so far as to ask if I thought Alex would entertain his suit.”
“What a hum, Gerry. He did no such thing.” A hint of a smile crept to the corners of her mouth.
“He did—said you don’t fan and flirt and preen yourself like a peacock in a man’s presence, that you’ve got some ideas of your own in your head.”
“And what do you think he would say if he knew about Sir Basil?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I’m telling you that you lighten this place up enough that you earn your bread here. When we have Christmas, the whole neighborhood will admire our lovely cousin.”
“Now I know that is a whisker, Gerry”—she laughed in spite of herself—“for I had it from Trent himself that I was not a beauty and would not even rate a second glance were it not for my ‘unusual eyes.’ ”
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