Nicola Cornick Collection

by Nicola Cornick

  Tess reached absent-mindedly for the chocolate-flavoured bonbons that Joanna kept in a silver box on the table nearby. The box was empty. With a sigh Tess replaced it. She had dismissed Corwen for the time being but she knew that he would be back, in one shape or form or another, with his greedy eyes and his repellent demands. He wanted Sybil and he would be determined to have her. And Tess understood all about the driving need a man like Corwen felt to take something so fresh and sweet as Sybil Darent and despoil it.

  She could keep Sybil physically safe but she could not protect her reputation. Tess had no doubt that if Corwen could not have Sybil, then he would ruin her another way. And the hateful truth was that Corwen was right—a whisper of scandal could kill any debutante’s good name and future prospects regardless of whether or not it was based on truth. Sybil’s aunt was the most irreproachably respectable chaperone in the whole of London, but Tess was still the girl’s stepmother, and her own blemished reputation could do her stepdaughter nothing but damage. She wondered that she had not thought of it before. Corwen would drop a subtle word here and there, poisoning the ton against Sybil for no better reason than that he lusted after her and could not have her.

  Tess shivered, her fingers digging into the richly embroidered arm of the sofa. Damn Corwen to hell and back for his callous determination to indulge his most base vices on the body of her stepdaughter. It was unbearable. And damn him to the next level of hell for threatening to foreclose on the loan as well, thereby forcing her to decimate Julius’s inheritance in order to pay him off.

  She could stall him, but it was only a matter of time.

  With a muffled cry of frustration she leapt to her feet and walked over to the window, where a grey cloud stretched from horizon to horizon now, spilling inky darkness over the city. The faint autumn sunlight had been banished and it was a cold, wintry scene.

  There was no escape for Julius or Sybil, and yet she had to do something to help them. Their father had entrusted them to her care. She could not fail them.

  There was no way out.

  Unless …

  Unless she married again.? …

  The thought slid into her mind with all the sinuous temptation of the snake in Eden. Tess screwed her eyes up tightly. She had been widowed for two years and she had promised her sister Joanna that she would make no more marriages. Joanna, Tess suspected, was embarrassed to have a much-married marchioness as a sister. But Joanna had also forgotten quite how vulnerable a widow could be.

  What she needed was a marriage in name only to a man who had sufficient power and authority to tell Corwen to go hang and to provide the protection of his name for both herself and her stepchildren. Then, once she was irreproachably wed, she would need to transform herself into a reputable matron. No more climbing out of brothel windows. No more gambling. No more Jupiter Club.

  No more satirical cartoons.

  It would undo all her good work to be clapped in gaol. That was a position from which there really was no return.

  Tess pulled a face. The thought of denying her talent for art, of deliberately turning away from the cartoons, the one thing that gave her life such passionate meaning, was almost unbearable. She had been drawing since she was a child, pouring her feelings into her sketches as a means of expression and escape. Sorrow, joy, fear and frustration had all been expressed through her pen.

  Yet she could see that now she had no choice. She would have to abandon political satire and choose something blameless like watercolours or sketching, perhaps. Ladies were forever setting up their easels and capturing some idyllic rural scene. She would do the same. Drawing and painting were amongst the few feminine accomplishments she possessed.

  A respectable marriage would also offer her the camouflage she needed should Lord Sidmouth’s investigators prove efficient enough as to suspect her of sedition. She needed a smoke screen, an elderly, impotent smoke screen. She needed to find a fourth husband and she needed to find him fast.

  She crossed the room to the rosewood desk, took out a thick volume, settled herself again on the gold brocade sofa and started to read.

  A half hour later she was still engrossed when Joanna came in accompanied by a footman with the tea tray.

  “What is that you are reading?” Joanna asked, seating herself beside Tess. “The Lady’s Magazine?”

  “No.” Tess felt a little shiver of apprehension. Joanna’s disapproval was not something she sought. She tilted the cover of her book towards her sister so that Joanna could see the title. “It is the new edition of The Gazetteer.”

  As Tess had anticipated, vivid disappointment registered on Joanna’s face. “Oh, Tess, no!” Joanna exclaimed. “Tell me you are not planning on marrying again! When you came to stay here you promised—” Joanna broke off, biting her lip. Her tone changed. It was cool now, though still indicative of her feelings. “It is your decision, I suppose,” she said.

  “I have a natural affinity with marriage,” Tess said. She could hear the apology in her tone. She did not want to remind Joanna just how insecure her situation was. Her sister knew nothing of her life, least of all her secret political affiliation to the reformers. Nor did she want to tell Joanna of Lord Corwen’s threats. Such a discussion would hold too many painful parallels with her marriage to Brokeby. She set her lips stubbornly and tried to ride down Joanna’s disapproval.

  “On the contrary,” her elder sister corrected her sharply, clearly unable to keep quiet for more than a couple of seconds. “There is nothing natural about it. Your marriages have all without exception been most unnatural.”

  Tess could not really dispute that. She knew that Joanna was one of the few people who had realised that she was afraid—terrified—of true intimacy, though her sister did not know the reason. Joanna had tried to discuss it with her in the past, but Tess had always refused to talk. Clothes, shoes, hats, gloves, scarves … They could chat about fashion for hours and it gave their relationship a veneer of closeness, but when Joanna tried to get Tess to talk about her marriages, Tess would feel the familiar cold horror spread through her veins like poison and she would turn Joanna’s questions away with trivial answers. She knew Joanna was asking not out of prurient curiosity but out of a real concern, and that made her feel even sadder. But there was nothing Joanna could do to help her. The damage wrought by Charles Brokeby had been done years ago and could not be undone now.

  “Not everyone has the sort of marriage that you share with Alex,” she said. The words came out more harshly than she had intended, perhaps because whilst she was terrified by any thought of intimacy herself, she did at times feel a fierce jealousy of both the physical and emotional bond that Joanna and Alex shared. In public she might scorn such an unfashionable concept as a happy marriage but in reality the warmth and intimacy and shared experience was something she craved.

  “Most people,” she added, “want no more than a position in society, enough money to sustain it and the promise that they will not need to see their spouse above half a dozen times a year and, if they do, that they need not speak with them above once.”

  Joanna’s pretty face wrinkled into a grimace of distaste. She put down her teacup with a crack that made the delicate china shiver. “Very amusing, Tess. You forget you are talking to your sister and not to one of your casual acquaintances.” She flicked The Gazetteer with a contemptuous finger. “You hope to find such a husband in here?”

  “It is the most marvellous book,” Tess said, pressing on although she could feel Joanna’s fearsome disapproval. “It gives the rank, fortune and address of every bachelor and widower in the country. It is the perfect husband-hunting guide.”

  “It does not record whether or not the men are impotent,” Joanna said very drily. “That, surely, is your most important criteria.”

  There was a painful silence. “It gives their ages,” Tess said at last, almost managing to conceal the crack in her voice. “That should be a fair guide.”

  “But not an infallible one.�
� Joanna’s voice had softened into pity. She put a hand on Tess’s tensely clasped ones and Tess tried not to shudder, not from Joanna’s offered comfort but from the cold pain she felt inside.

  “Tess,” Joanna said. “What happened to you? What is it that you are afraid of?”

  “Nothing!” Tess said. The word seemed to come out slightly too loud. The pain twisted within her like the turn of a screw.

  “Then why do you only marry sickly boys and old men?” Joanna persisted. “Robert Barstow, James Darent—”

  “There was only one of each,” Tess protested, “and to be fair I did not know that Robert was going to die so young.”

  “With Robert you married your best friend,” Joanna said. “There was as little passion there as in your last marriage.”

  Once again the silence was taut and painful. Neither of them had mentioned her marriage to Brokeby but Tess could see the question in Joanna’s eyes. Her sister had guessed that Brokeby had hurt her; she wanted Tess to confide. Tess knew Joanna’s concern was only to help her but she did not want that help. There was nothing Joanna could do to set right the past or undo the horrific experiences she had suffered at Brokeby’s hands. There was nothing that she could do except blot out those memories and make sure that such horrors never happened again.

  “If you have a fear of physical intimacy,” Joanna said suddenly, “I do not understand this obsession you have with marrying.”

  “You refine too much upon it,” Tess snapped, her patience breaking under the strain. “I find myself short of funds, that is all. Marriage is the easiest way to address the deficit.” She spread her hands wide in a gesture of exasperation. “For me, marriage is a business option only, preferable to a trip to the moneylenders.”

  “So you are in debt?” Joanna’s exquisitely plucked brows rose disbelievingly. “I don’t believe you. You have a fortune to eclipse every other widow in society.”

  “Clothes,” Tess said vaguely. “They are so monstrously expensive.”

  “That is one matter on which you cannot gammon me,” Joanna said robustly. “I know all there is to know about the cost of fashion and not even you could spend all your substance on it!”

  They stared at one another defiantly. Tess wondered what on earth Joanna would say if she confessed that her money was in fact mainly spent on charitable causes and radical politics. No doubt she would be more shocked than if Tess had confessed to spending it all on sex with handsome young men. There were political hostesses, of course, formidable matrons who supported the Whig or the Tory cause and gave smart dinners to promote their husbands’ careers. Reforming politics was a different matter, too extreme, dangerous and inappropriate, with its emphasis on improving the conditions of the working classes. No one in society should concern themselves with such matters. Charity was one thing; political reform quite another.

  “My gambling debts are enormous,” Tess said, reaching for an excuse that never failed, “and perhaps I may catch myself a rich duke this time. I have no wish to go down the social scale rather than up.”

  “Then you truly are limiting your options,” Joanna said sarcastically. To Tess’s relief she seemed to have swallowed this explanation. “Let me see,” her sister continued. “We need to find you a duke or a prince, old enough to die within a year or two so that his continued existence does not inconvenience you, sickly enough not to be interested in his marital rights and rich enough to increase your fortune! How very romantic!”

  “I do not require romance from marriage,” Tess said.

  “So I have observed.” Her sister sprang to her feet. “I do not believe that even The Gazetteer will be able to furnish you with the direction of such a nobleman.”

  “I have whittled it down to a list of a few possibilities,” Tess said. “There is one duke, Feversham—”

  “He died two weeks ago,” Joanna said.

  “Oh. Well, what about the Marquis of Raymond?”

  “Also very nearly dead.”

  “Then there might still be time to catch him—”

  Joanna glared. “Tess, no!”

  “Lord Grace?”

  “He is in the Fleet.” Joanna smiled sweetly. “You could have adjoining cells.”

  Tess pulled a face. “Lord Pettifer?”

  Joanna shook her head. “He is in Bedlam.”

  Tess deflated. “Then there is no one,” she said.

  “I told you so,” Joanna said, not unkindly.

  After Joanna had gone, closing the door with exaggerated quiet behind her, Tess finished her cold tea and picked up The Gazetteer once again, flicking listlessly through the pages. Joanna was correct, unfortunately. The list, whilst giving the details of many eligible gentlemen, did not also come with a guarantee that they would see marriage in the same idiosyncratic light that she did. Not many men, when it came down to it, wanted a marriage of no more than convenience. Many wanted an heir, of course. Some wanted to sleep with their wives occasionally if they could not get a better offer. Many thought that a marriage should suit their convenience—that that was what the phrase meant. Tess had no intention of being available to service the needs of her husband. That would not suit her convenience. And so her choice was limited to the ancient, the infirm, the impotent or those who were attracted to their own sex rather than hers.

  With a sigh, she put the book back in the drawer, retrieved one by Voltaire instead and wandered out into the hall.

  Tess liked living with Joanna’s family in Bedford Square. The house was elegantly appointed and filled with the warmth and laughter of a happy family. It gave Tess a spurious sense of belonging to stay there. She had never had a home of her own, or at least not one she chose to live in. Her various marriage portions had given her a scattering of houses on estates across the country, but any of these would have been under the disapproving eye of her relatives by marriage, not a tempting option. Besides, she hated the country. It was dull and intensified her sense of loneliness. Only in London was there diversion enough to keep solitude at bay.

  Tess knew that Joanna would never evict her but she had from time to time thought that she should purchase her own London house. It was embarrassing to be hanging on her family coattails at her age. The idea of living alone did not appeal, however. It made the cold chill in her heart solidify further.

  In a sudden fit of irritation, Tess tweaked the bud off the stem of one of the hothouse roses displayed in a wide shallow bowl on the hall table. There. She had completely spoiled Joanna’s beautiful arrangement.

  The door of the library opened abruptly. Two men came out, deep in conversation: Tess’s brother-in-law Alex and Viscount Rothbury. Tess jumped out of sheer surprise. Rothbury was, if not a frequent visitor to Bedford Square, then a regular one. He had even dined here on several occasions. It was no great surprise to see him here. Tess realised that it was simply that he had been in her mind, lurking behind her preoccupation with finding a new husband, the memory of the previous night catching at her heels.

  In the daylight Rothbury looked every inch the viscount, elegant in buff pantaloons and a jacket cut with supreme skill, his boots with a mirror polish, his cravat tied in a complicated waterfall of pristine white. Then Tess met his eyes and saw behind the man of fashion the same dangerous challenge she had recognised the night before. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, an adventurer dressed as a dandy. She had made a good decision in the past to steer clear of him. A pity then that now she had come to his notice, for he showed every sign of paying her a great deal of attention.

  Tess realised that she was staring, like a schoolroom miss transfixed by the sight of a handsome gentleman. She saw Rothbury raise his brows in faint quizzical amusement, and she blushed. That was even worse. No man had the power to make her blush. It was not something she did.

  Rothbury exchanged a quick word with Alex, who shook him by the hand and went back into the library. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The house was suddenly quiet, the hallway temporarily devo
id of servants. Rothbury started walking towards Tess across the broad expanse of chequered tile. She felt a curious urge to turn tail and run away. She shoved the book by Voltaire behind the flower arrangement. It really would not do to be caught reading philosophy, not when she was supposed to be a featherbrain.

  “Lady Darent.” Rothbury was bowing before her. “Good morning. I trust that you have recovered from your experiences of last night?”

  “I trust that you have forgotten them,” Tess said. “A gentleman would surely make no reference to our last meeting.”

  A wicked smile lit Rothbury’s face. It deepened the crease he had down one tanned cheek. “Ah, but there you have the problem,” he drawled. “Surely you have heard that I am no gentleman, merely a Yankee sea captain?”

  “I’ve heard you called many things,” Tess agreed smoothly.

  He laughed. “And none of them flattering, I’ll wager.” He kept his eyes on her face. The intentness of his expression flustered her. “I am glad I saw you this morning,” he continued. He put a hand into the pocket of the elegant coat. “I have something here I think must be yours.”

  Tess’s heart did a sickening little skip. She had wondered about the loss of the cartoons. She had wondered about them all the way home and for the best part of the night. She had not thought Rothbury had them, for surely he would have asked her about them if he had found them in her purse. Now, though, it seemed she might be proven wrong. For a moment her mind spun dizzily, then with a fierce sense of relief she saw that it was not the drawings he held in his hand but the thistle knife.

  “My dagger,” she said. “How kind of you to reunite me with it.”

  She saw a flash of surprise in Rothbury’s eyes. Perhaps he had expected her to deny it belonged to her. But the thistle knife had been Robert’s and was of great sentimental value to her if of no real worth. Tess was not going to sacrifice it.

  “Did you find anything else of mine?” she asked, very politely.