The Unexpected Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  “Hard to say,” he said handing the telescope back. “How early did you say we will disembark?”

  Sooner done; sooner over. He had to find Sudbury’s headstrong daughter in the cesspool that was Macao and return her to her mother before some taint stuck so firmly she carried it back to London.

  Chapter 5

  Zambak hung the plain blue pinafore Temperance insisted she wear on its peg by the door and prepared to leave The Macao Ladies’ Seminary. She suspected her new acquaintance wasn’t so much worried that she might soil her dress as that the sight of Zambak’s finery distracted the students; she found the pinafore business easy enough to accept if it helped ingratiate her to the missionaries.

  “A blessing on thy day, Zambak,” Temperance said as she tied her bonnet.

  How does one respond to that? Nothing in her experience prepared her for this American woman’s ways. “I wonder, Mrs. Knighton—”

  “Temperance—”

  “Would you perhaps care to take tea with me some day?” Most young women in London would leap for joy at an invitation from the Duke of Sudbury’s daughter. This one frowned and appeared to be considering something. Zambak liked her better for it.

  “I am not given to idleness, Zambak. Do thee wish guidance about teaching?”

  Guidance? No one but the duke and duchess ever dared. That the woman knew she needed it didn’t surprise her. The courage to say so startled her. “It would not hurt.”

  “Not this day, but perhaps soon,” Temperance concluded.

  “Which way, Lady Zam?” Filipe asked when she met him outside.

  She thought for a moment, tempted to wander down to the docks to see if any new—and more persuadable—ships had arrived. Tired of failure, she decided against it. “Home—the Elliots’ home at least.”

  A blessing on thy day. Given to idleness. The words followed her. What will you do today, Zamb? If lucky, she would find Mrs. Elliot to be out, and there would be none of the never-ending round of calls from cronies and underlings, the incessant repetition of gossip that drove her mad. If lucky, she could retire to her room, sort through her notes, and record her observations in the journal she kept. She intended the journal as a report to her father in lieu of letters. Letters addressed to the Duke of Sudbury might go astray or be opened and resealed. She held on to the journal and her reports, often gleaned from her forays into Elliot’s dispatches and augmented by overheard conversations, in hopes of finding a trusted courier for it.

  Old Hua the major domo disabused her of hope as soon as she arrived.

  “A guest awaits you, Lady Zam,” he informed her, dismissing Filipe and gesturing toward the smaller drawing room. “Do you wish to freshen first?”

  Do I? No. Sooner done; sooner over. She sighed. “Is Mrs. Elliot there?”

  “The lady is out, I am so sorry to say. The guest asked for ‘Lady Zambak Hayden.’”

  Curious. She removed her gloves, holding both in one hand, but left her bonnet in place. “Very well, announce me.” I’ll dismiss whoever it is quickly.

  The door swung open to reveal a sunny little room filled with exquisite porcelain vases full of flowers. A gilded teacart held a decanter of golden liquid and brandy glasses.

  Not a lady then.

  The man leaning one elbow on the mantle studied a particularly fine porcelain tea jar decorated, Chinese style, with swimming fish. His deep auburn hair raced from memory directly to her heart. Lean and whip strong, she knew he stood a half head shorter than she; she knew it because she knew the man. When he turned with the gracefulness of a dancer to frown at her, joy expanded in her chest only to collapse as his frown deepened.

  “What the hell drove you to this misbegotten start, Zambak Hayden? You’ve outdone yourself this time.” The Duke of Murnane, rigid with outrage, glared at her.

  Zambak’s chin rose as quickly as her spine lengthened and her heart froze. One thought consumed her. “Does my father expect you to beat me or merely drag me back?”

  The duke clamped his jaw shut.

  “Well, Charles? Isn’t that why you have turned up here like some unexpected parcel?” No power on earth would make her look away.

  He didn’t flinch. “Do you honestly think your father needs to send a peer of the realm half way around the world just to collect his disobedient children? He could have you trussed up in a cell on any ship in Her Majesty’s navy if he chose. The duke has more important things to do.”

  Of course. The fate of England always comes before his children. She often wondered whether Thorn would need to prove himself so desperately—or to defy their father—if the duke had shown him the attention he needed. She had puzzled over her father’s reasons for not dragging her back since the day she arrived and found a clipper had arrived in Macao with his instructions to Elliot on her behalf and a line of credit in the bank before she and Thorn even disembarked. There had been no letter for Zambak and, she had been shocked to discover, no funds for Thorn.

  “Are you here on England’s behalf then or merely distracting yourself?” She strode into the room, removing her bonnet and passing it to the little chambermaid who had slipped in behind her to provide silent watch, a sop to convention so she would not be alone with a man. Hua left the door open a crack, no doubt with his ear to it.

  “My mission isn’t your concern.” A stern expression she had never seen before transformed his once-familiar face. Their families were closer than most relatives, and she’d known him since infancy. He’d been a duke even then, as a boy of twelve, but never stuffy or arrogant like he was at present. Even at his son’s funeral the year before, he had spared a moment to tease her.

  She studied him for several moments, taking in the clenched fist and the unwavering line of his jaw. Where did the funny, impulsive elf of my childhood go? Has Jonny’s death stolen him away and left this sour old man in his place? “Ever my father’s disciple. Are you here to visit the emperor? Others have tried,” she said at last.

  “The queen—” He broke off and ran a hand behind his neck. “Look, Zambak, your father worries.”

  An unladylike snort accompanied her answer. “About disgrace to his title? He should look to my brother.”

  “Whatever you may think, he cares. What about your mother?”

  “My mother probably cheers me on.”

  That brought a grin. He looked like the Charles she remembered at last. “Once she knew you were safe, she may have. That doesn’t mean they don’t worry.”

  “You may inform them I am well,” she said, regretting the primness she heard in her own voice.

  “Where have you been today?” The sour old man returned.

  “I am unaware of any legitimate concern on your part,” she replied with no regret about her tone at all.

  “Only the concern of an old family friend. Where have you been?” he repeated.

  “Teaching the women of Macao they need not bow to the tyranny of man.”

  His startled expression gave her every satisfaction she might have hoped for. She feared he might swallow his cravat. He schooled his expression while she remained poised and finally ground out, “Fascinating. You’ll have ample time to tell me more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t the major domo tell you? I’m to be Superintendent Elliot’s guest.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Buttons on the waistcoat worn by Elliot’s junior secretary strained at their buttonholes, and his double chin threatened to cover his cravat when he gripped the arms of the superintendent’s desk chair. Charles thought him rather young to be running to flesh; he would be corpulent at thirty-three, Charles’s own age.

  Is thirty-three young? It doesn’t feel like it. He wondered if he was simply weary from the journey or if grief had aged him so much. Perhaps his confrontation with Zambak, ut
terly young and full of innocent zeal, left him feeling like an old man. How old is the chit? Eleven—no twelve—years younger than I. Was I ever that naive?

  He gave the secretary a weary sigh. “Mr. Higgins, I merely asked how frequently dispatches are transmitted to Canton and—”

  “If I could share the government’s information with you, Your Grace, be assured I would, but with you here in no official capacity, I have no authority to provide details of the superintendent’s whereabouts and travel, much less the transmission of sensitive reports. If you care to leave your message with me, I will see that it is delivered at the soonest possible moment.”

  Officious little worm. Charles clamped his jaw shut. He debated showing his commission. Victoria’s signature would put a fire under the clerk. His reasons for holding back still made sense, however. If they knew he reported to the queen, they might bury him in falsehoods or clam up. He had come to gather information informally.

  The missive in his hand merely announced his arrival as “part of my tour of the empire,” begged the superintendent’s hospitality, and congratulated him on his position. It would do. He handed it to Higgins, eyed the locked dispatch case on the corner of the desk, and left.

  He stood in the hallway, grim in the knowledge he had just allowed a third-rate clerk to dismiss him, and at a loose end. He could swear the case had arrived that morning and longed to inspect the reports inside. Obviously Higgins had no intention of allowing it.

  Having chosen the role of idle aristocrat, he would have to play it out. He had certainly done it before. How do the idle rich spend their time in Macao? When I find out, that’s where I’ll find Julia.

  Zambak had disappeared above stairs after their confrontation. He tossed about for the best use of what remained of the afternoon, and found none. He had yet to speak to his supposed hostess. He went in search, hoping she had returned.

  The major domo seemed to think obeisance for a duke required a bow so low his nose almost reached the floor. He rose with a gesture of abject apology. “Missy Elliot” it appeared had retreated upstairs, tired from her exertions. The man flicked a hand gesture, and another servant brought a folded message on a porcelain salver.

  His face contorted under the force of rose scent pouring off the thing when he snapped it open. Waving it back and forth between two fingers helped, but he frowned as he read.

  Your Grace,

  My profoundest apologies that I was not able to greet you when you arrived. May I suggest we meet before dinner for a brief chat?

  Respectfully

  Clara Elliot

  That door closed, Charles set off on foot to survey the city. If he didn’t locate his wife’s latest lair, he could at least get the big picture of the sprawling spectacle of Macao.

  Dealing with Julia promised difficulty, and the Hayden children promised more. Only the queen’s commission felt like a manageable goal. The commission came first; he planned to begin by finding his way into that dispatch box one way or another.

  Chapter 6

  Zambak paused at the drawing room, having arrived on time and properly dressed for dinner as Mrs. Elliot dictated. Conformance to small demands generally saved her unnecessary conflict better left for more important issues.

  Higgins, eager for his nightly meal before toddling off to his boarding house, had arrived before her. Once she made it clear that she would suffer no familiarity soon after she met him—and quickly ascertained he would be no help with passage to Thorn—she had dismissed him as unimportant, and thus could ignore his sullen glance, quickly deflected, without effort.

  Mrs. Elliot’s worried frown gave her more concern. “I understand you met with our guest this afternoon,” the woman began without preliminary.

  “The redoubtable Mr. Hua saw to it all proprieties were met,” Zambak responded.

  “I have no doubt my dear. Still, a single man…”

  Instead of exasperating her, the woman’s discomfort shone light on a possibility. Zambak rubbed the middle finger of her left hand for control while she schooled her features to wide-eyed innocence. For once she wished she could blush at will like some of the more conniving debutants during the London season. The tiniest quiver added just enough meekness to her voice when she murmured, “It isn’t the thing, I know, but he is an old family friend, and I didn’t think I could deny the meeting.”

  At the play of emotion across her hostess’s face, Zambak pulled her shoulders back and turned toward the window, suppressing a smirk. Her behavior hit its mark. Clara Elliot wouldn’t permit an unmarried girl in her charge to be discomforted by the close presence of an unmarried man. With any luck, she’ll send him packing.

  The swish of silk from Mrs. Elliot’s curtsey alerted her that the duke had joined them, and she managed her own curtsey with just a hint of mockery to remind him they would have dispensed with such nonsense at home. His blink of discomfort, quickly gone, rewarded her.

  Even Higgins managed a tolerable bow. Charles’s obvious distaste for him told her he had already met the man and didn’t like what he found. Zambak pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes meekly, just avoiding a grin.

  Mrs. Elliot’s brows drew up in sharp line, and she wrung her hands. “I had hoped we might meet earlier, Your Grace,” she said.

  “My apologies, madam. My wandering took me farther than I anticipated, and I would not have wanted to delay dinner. Perhaps we might speak now? Or over dinner?”

  Zambak puzzled over his “wandering,” looking for a clue to his plans, but quickly chided herself. What is it to me what Charles Murnane does? I won’t let him get in my way. He can run home to my father and report whatever he likes.

  Mrs. Elliot did not appear comforted by the duke’s response, and Zambak suspected she searched for a polite way to tell a duke he wasn’t invited to stay in her home. At least, she hoped that was it.

  Charles led their hostess in to dinner, and Higgins winged his arm toward Zambak who scowled when she put two fingers on it as she was expected to do, but she yanked it back as soon as they entered the room. Conversation over the various removes proceeded in fits and starts. The duke’s efforts to bring up London or the political climate came to nothing. Zambak refused to assist him. Let him employ his storied charm on this company; he didn’t spare any for me today.

  She smiled into her soup and let him flounder. Clara Elliot, born in Haiti and married in the West Indies as well, cared little about her supposed homeland and tended toward complaisance about her four children’s lack of knowledge about it as well, effectively blocking several lines of conversation.

  Dialog picked up when Charles drew their hostess out about her many postings first as a navy wife and then as the wife of a diplomat. She droned on for a bit about their nomadic existence, following her husband from Jamaica to Guiana to Macao, and waxed passionate on climate and the discomforts of travel while showing much less interest in her husband’s actual work, beyond the demands of entertaining as his hostess. It amused Zambak to watch Charles try to appear interested.

  “What brings you to Macao, Your Grace?” the woman asked when they had run out of postings to describe.

  “Visiting the outposts of the Empire, madam. Acquainting myself with bastions of British culture wherever I find them,” the toad said glibly. She had known him far too long to swallow that one. Whatever brought Charles here isn’t idle curiosity. Zambak said nothing and wondered why her hostess didn’t find it odd that a duke had nothing else to do but sail about poking his nose in here and there. Zambak certainly would have.

  The Elliot woman accepted his words at face value, however, and nodded sagely. The pause grew awkward. Zambak moved food about on her plate, one swift glance telling her he puzzled over what to try next.

  Mrs. Elliot jumped into the breach. “It is good to have a gentleman for dinner,” she sai
d.

  The strained smile Charles conjured up seemed to satisfy his hostess. “Isn’t it unpleasant for you when the men desert Macao for Canton for months every year?” he asked.

  The woman chuckled. “I’m a navy wife, Your Grace. Needs must. We grow used to them being gone. Macao is a bit different, but not that much.”

  Zambak kept her ears sharp and her eyes focused on her dinner, hoping to avoid any attempt to involve her in conversation. She doubted he would recount their early confrontation, a conversation that gave neither of them credit, but when he spoke to her, alarms went off.

  “How do you spend your days when the colony is so quiet, Lady Zambak?” the toad asked.

  She wiped her mouth gently and put her serviette in her lap. “As ladies do,” she replied in her best debutant lisp.

  When she murmured nonsensical monosyllables in response to a more probing question, their hostess jumped in. “Lady Zambak spends many days sketching churches and other fine buildings.” Zambak spared a glance from her intense study of her pudding and caught a suspicious glare from the duke. She ducked her eyes down again.

  Mrs. Elliot rose to leave the men to their port after what felt like hours. Zambak stood as well, and Charles rose with them. He didn’t appear prepared to endure a half hour of Higgins, and she feared he meant to follow her.

  “I’ll join you ladies for tea, if you do not mind,” he said.

  “Of course, Your Grace, if that is what you prefer,” his hostess replied.

  Zambak dropped a dramatically low curtsey in his general direction. Unless someone knew she had never curtseyed to him before tonight in her entire life, they might have taken her seriously. “I am afraid the excitement of company has left me weary,” she said. “I will forego the tea and turn in early.”