“That depends on when you were in London. She generally prefers aristocratic lovers when she can get them. Or land stewards. Or grooms. She has never been immune to navy men, though, so you might have,” Charles ground out.
The world knows. The navy might as well. Julia. My wife. My unfaithful, lying, grasping, promiscuous wife. The woman who deserted her son for a lover, who found Jonny’s illness disgusting. The chain around my neck. Julia has migrated to East Asia, and both Sudbury and my uncle—his partner in devilment—knew it. She must have run out of Italian counts.
The duke might not have known she headed for Macao, but he would have guessed she’d follow money where it took her, especially after Charles cut off her allowance three years prior. Those damned interfering old nursemaids knew Julia would be here and sent me on a wild goose chase to confront the one person I least want to see. Ever.
Charles wondered how quickly he could arrange passage back to England. Only one thing kept him from asking—the signature on his commission: Victoria R. He couldn’t refuse a mission for the queen, and his meddlesome uncles knew it. He emptied a bottle into his own glass and began to drink in earnest. “So gentlemen, discerning men that I know you are, what is the best brothel in Madras?”
~ ~ ~
His binge through the stews of Madras changed nothing, the orgiastic bender earned him merely a sick head and self-disgust over cheap sex and third-rate liquor. Visions of the sad-eyed girl at the end would haunt him, in spite of the stack of gold coins he left in her pocket. The queen’s commission still lay in his portmanteau. Little of use waited for him in London. Julia still lived.
Charles had never spent much energy considering her life or death before Jonny died. At thirty-three, death felt remote until he’d watched his son fade away and take the light from his life with him. That long final night while he sat next to the boy, and family fretted below stairs, one thought rose to the surface over and over: Why couldn’t it be Julia instead of Jonny? If Julia died, he would at least be free. If she had rushed to their son’s side, eager to play the grieving mother in the end, he might have choked her on the spot. She didn’t come. After that he wished for his own death, but it hadn’t come either.
Charles twisted his neck, impatient with the valet Lord Elphinstone had loaned him. It was another steamy morning in Madras, and the man fussed over his wilted cravat just as he had made a theatrical event out of shaving “His Grace sahib.” Word came—twice—that the governor wished to speak to him, and Charles’s patience ran out well before the man finally bowed and apologized for his obviously valiant effort to turn out the English duke in style.
Warnings from Sudbury and a snippet of gossip preyed on Charles’s mind. Elphinstone, a canny Scot with the thinnest of titles, had gone from captain in the Royal Horse Guards to a member of the old king’s privy council in four years. The queen—or those wanting to move him far from her, so gossip went—appointed him governor of Madras, but the position would not satisfy him for long. He bore careful handling.
“Don’t underestimate the man’s ambition or overestimate his skill,” Sudbury had said. Charles might as well face him. He would face his own mess soon enough, God help him.
A footman bowed him into one of the smaller drawing rooms. A tall man in uniform stood in rigid contemplation of a seascape on the far wall. McGuffin.
“Your Grace! It is good to see you up and about,” the governor rose to greet him. “Captain McGuffin told me you had a small shock.”
Behind the man’s back, the captain gave a discrete shake of his head. Whatever he told the man, it didn’t include specifics.
“You were laid quite low—as any man would be—that some woman used your wife’s name in such a way.”
Charles swallowed the urge to set him straight. He’d had a lifetime of humiliation at that woman’s hand; he didn’t need more. Not this morning.
“One wondered, of course. The woman did not seem to be what she ought to be, but still. The Murnane diamonds…”
Every sense rose to alert. Julia had stolen the diamonds from his safe after seducing a former steward out of the combination. He believed them long gone. “She displayed diamonds?”
He hadn’t thought the man could become more ill at ease, but Elphinstone managed. “Yes. A tiara and earbobs.”
Charles had assumed she’d sold them all. The bracelet had turned up in Venice; the necklace he believed lost. Trust Julia to flaunt the tiara. “What makes you think they were the Murnane diamonds?”
“Lady Westervelt recognized them. Of course she claimed to recognize the, er, lady, so we might discount her word. When the woman sold them of course, one ought to have known. A tiara of that quality floating about Madras! It caused a stir.”
Sold it! Charles would hunt it down even if it meant another month in the heat of Madras. In the meantime, he had business to conclude.
“If I may, Lord Elphinstone, I would like a private word with His Grace,” McGuffin put in.
“Of course, War Department business I suppose,” the governor replied, looking pained. He presented Charles with a stiff bow and dragged his feet to the door. “You will, of course, let me know if—that is, if anything of import impacts Madras.”
Of course, you prancing fool. My mission has nothing to do with you.
The door closed, leaving blessed silence behind. Charles faced McGuffin with a raised brow.
“Nothing of import, Murnane, except to apologize. I just wanted to get that civilian out of our air.”
A smile brought a lift to the side of Charles’s mouth. “Apologize for what?”
“For letting uncomfortable subjects arise in your presence the other night and for—” He indicated the room at large, and Elphinstone in particular, with a single gesture.
“How did he get wind of any of it?” Charles asked.
McGuffin studied his feet and puffed out his cheeks, mulling over his words. “He sent me a not-so-carefully-worded message demanding to know what happened during your ‘official visit’ to the Bridgetown. I thought it best to come myself.”
“And tell him a bit of the truth,” Charles suggested.
“It’s usually best to start with that.”
“He’s probably guessed the rest,” Charles allowed.
“Yes, but too polite to do anything but protect your good name.” McGuffin looked confident of that.
Charles had no response. The gossips of Madras would buzz in any case. At the end of the day, he would be judged “the poor duke,” some version of a spousal monster, or a pathetic fool. It had been thus since he married her twelve years before. Only his own demeanor had ever saved his reputation, and he would not be in Madras long enough for it to make a difference.
They would probably conclude his true mission there had been to pursue her, and that at least would be helpful. Snooping visitors from London with the ear of the queen made colonial officials nervous.
“Those of us who know you, think well of you,” McGuffin said, guessing his thoughts. “Tongues rattled in London as well, but no one judged you poorly for it. Did you know?”
“That she was here? No.”
“I thought not. Bad luck.”
Not luck at all. The duke and my uncle sent me into the fray deliberately.
He shook McGuffin’s hand. Genuine gratitude added warmth to their good-byes.
Hands clasped behind his back, eyes blind to the exquisite patterns of the Persian carpet, Charles stood for a long time. He would always have to work for the respect of his peers as long as Julia ran wild. He could not rebuild his life as long as marriage tied him to her, either. Divorce was neither easy nor pretty, but it was the only route out of the wilderness his life had become.
The old men are right. It’s time I deal with my wife once and for all. I’ll divorce her, find so
me nice biddable girl to marry, install her in the country, and set up a real family for once. He would have no peace—and no career prospects—until he did. I’ll do it if I have to drag Julia to London by her hair—with or without her latest amour.
Chapter 4
“Thy name is out of the ordinary, Zambak Hayden.” It didn’t sound like approval.
Zambak stiffened, unable to decide if the woman’s outspoken comment and failure to use her title insulted or amused her. She had quite properly instructed Filipe to announce her as “The Lady Zambak Hayden,” there being no other person to make an introduction.
“I am generally addressed as Lady Zambak, Mrs. Knighton,” she said, holding the woman’s eyes.
The direct gaze didn’t falter. Few women stood tall enough to meet Zambak’s eyes. “Among Friends we shun all titles, Zambak. Thee may call me Temperance.”
“We aren’t—” Zambak bit back a set down. The woman must be a Quaker. They call themselves the Society of Friends. “I am not one of your faith, and in my world, we do not shun titles, Mrs. Knighton.”
Temperance smiled patiently, as she might have at a recalcitrant child. “My observation about thy name was forward, Zambak. I beg thy forbearance.”
Temper never serves; Zambak held hers in check in spite of the woman’s forward ways and her own long history of impertinent questions about her peculiar name. A proper rebuke would never endear her to the missionaries she intended to court.
“You are not the first to find my name curious, Mrs. Knighton. I am called Zambak after my mother. The Arabic word for Lily, her true name, was bestowed on her in Constantinople. Since I was born along the Barbary Coast, my father thought it amusing to name me Zambak.” And that is more than most people get from me on the subject, if this woman but knew it.
“Is thy father often given to flights of fancy?”
The idea of the Duke of Sudbury succumbing to flights of fancy brought a laugh up from her depths. “Hardly. My name may have been his last impulsive act.”
It brought an answering grin. “Perhaps he wished to bend thy character toward fortitude and strength, Zambak. My own wished a temperate daughter. We do not always turn out as they desire, do we?” the Knighton woman asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Shoulders relaxed, and the thumb of Zambak’s left hand began to itch. This might just work.
The woman glanced back at her students, bent over their texts. “How may I help thee?” she asked.
“I hoped to learn more about your work,” Zambak responded. And find out if you can help me find a way to Canton.
“It is as you see. Are thee a teacher?”
The thought startled. “No—that is, not yet. What is it you teach?”
“English first,” Temperance said. “That they may might find employment far from the dens of evil in this city and others like it.”
“You are training servants?”
“No Zambak. We teach these women that they are children of God, valuable and precious, that they are possessions of no man and may never be used for ill purposes.”
Valuable and precious. Never mere possessions. I hadn’t thought there were more important things to teach than history and economics. Perhaps I was wrong..
“How extraordinary. Women in England might benefit from your teaching, Mrs. Knighton.” She squirrelled the thought away for another day. Aunt Georgie would love this, but I have other more pressing needs.
“All God’s creatures are valuable in his sight. We teach them to read, which will prove useful in their lives, as will ciphering,” Temperance explained.
Not embroidering then. Thoughts raced through Zambak. What excuse do I have to grow closer to these people? “Do you teach them about other lands?”
“We believe it useful for all to know the vast expanse of the Lord’s world. We show them the globe and speak of our homelands, but many of them find it fanciful. Can thee teach of other lands, Zambak?” Temperance peered at her hopefully.
“I can.” Though what Mrs. Elliot will make of that, I can’t say.
In short order, days were chosen, and a schedule decided. Zambak would come to the school weekly to teach geography. They also agreed that she would teach politics and diplomacy.
“Thee might learn as well as teach, Zambak,” Temperance suggested.
Yes, but perhaps not what you intend. “Is your husband engaged in the China trade, Mrs. Knighton?”
The knowing spark in Temperance’s eyes this time took on a shrewd rather than merely intelligent gleam. “The trade brought us here and funds our work. My husband partners with Oliver and Company to bring furs and other useful items to exchange for tea.” This woman will not be easily fooled.
Oliver and Company. A memory unfolded. “Mr. Daniel Oliver’s company?”
“Yes. Does thee know him?”
“No, only by reputation.” Daniel Oliver shunned the opium trade, refusing at all cost to touch the stuff. His company had become a reproach to the less scrupulous. People called his factory in Canton “Zion’s Quarter.” Whether that denoted admiration or disdain depended on the speaker. Whatever else one said about Oliver’s practices, he was his own man.
“Daniel is a man of great character.”
“I would like to meet your Mr. Oliver some day,” Zambak said. I would like that very much indeed.
~ ~ ~
The eastern sky faded from indigo to purple behind them as the Bridgetown swung around to approach its destination. Charles blinked against the sun now low in the sky, its golden fingers of light glinting off the sea in front of him and bathing roofs of the city while casting the fronts of eastern-facing buildings in shadow. Macao at last—close, but still not approachable. McGuffin estimated the Bridgetown could disembark late afternoon the next day. He leaned on the railing and wrestled with impatience. Sooner done; sooner over.
The tasks lying before him oppressed him as heavily on him as the humidity. The queen’s commission would be the easiest. He spared it little thought. Dealing with Sudbury’s stubborn children might prove more of a challenge, but not an insurmountable one. Even if he didn’t maneuver them onto a ship home—something he had every confidence he could do—his report on their welfare should satisfy. That is, it would satisfy if he found them in good order. Time would tell. The great weight on his heart, the last of the three tasks, confronting Julia, made his stomach roil. Thoughts of Julia always made his stomach roil.
“It’s a beauty.” At McGuffin’s voice, a welcome diversion, he pushed himself higher with both hands and turned to greet the speaker.
“In this light, yes.”
“Cesspool, though, especially around the port side.”
“All cities have stews,” Charles said.
“True, but this one…” McGuffin trailed off.
“Explain.” Charles stood upright, curious.
McGuffin shook his head. “Not so many slums as you might think. The Portuguese built churches and great homes. The China traders build bigger ones and better, strung along the shore like pearls. The world comes here: Americans, Germans, Dutch.”
“English.”
“Yes,” McGuffin agreed, “but not our finest. Some try to maintain standards. You’ll find Elliot is solid, but behind those fancy houses, anything goes on. Some go so far as to install their Chinese mistresses in them. Gives ‘em ideas. Daniel Magniac married his. Forced to resign. About ruined his brothers. Crude manners. Crude dress. Crude practices. And those are just the natural perversions.”
Charles could imagine the unnatural ones.
“The place swarms with mixed-blood products all vying for a place at the table, and there’s plenty of money flowing to allow it. Madras and Calcutta are refined by comparison. Money rules here and not much else.”
Charles gazed across t
he water at the city, closer now, shining in the sunset. “Opium?”
“Money—opium—same thing. It rules.”
Something raw and long buried uncoiled in Charles. The boy who had watched his mother succumb to the siren song of laudanum, opium’s respectable English façade, ached for her anew. “Opium corrupts all who touch it,” he murmured.
“Like I said, cesspool.”
“What of tea?” Charles asked, though he knew the answer.
“Britannia rules the waves. Tea rules Britannia. Worth a fortune back home, but they need the opium to get the tea, don’t they?”
“Yes, and the Chinese want silver and nothing else for it. They hold us over a barrel.” Sudbury told him the treasury relied on the tea tax for fully a tenth of its revenue. The tea trade had to continue at all cost.
McGuffin snorted. “We’ve made ‘em want our Indian opium in spite of that emperor hidden away in his palace. We’ve taught ‘em to crave it and pay silver for it. Opium for silver. Silver for tea.”
“Is opium used in Macao?”
“It’s China isn’t it, or near enough?”
A flash of color in the shadows along the dock caught Charles’s eyes. “Hand me your spyglass,” he said.
“See something interesting?”
“What is a young lady doing along the docks?” Charles adjusted the telescope for a clearer picture.
“Meeting her lover most like—or husband, to be fair. I don’t know why they bring their women out here,” McGuffin said.
A gust of wind caught the young woman’s bonnet and pushed it backward to rest against her back, swinging by its ribbons just as Charles brought it into focus. She pulled it back on quickly but not before Charles recognized her. The unmistakable white-blond hair of a Hayden brought a curse to Charles’s lips. He swallowed it. McGuffin didn’t need to know Lady Zambak Hayden prowled the docks. He’d bet a small fortune she wasn’t there to meet a lover. What is the hoyden up to now?
The Unexpected Wife Page 3
