Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  “Doctor Hill! I hadn’t thought to see you here.”

  “My wife permits me to indulge in my love of Mozart.”

  “She must be very accommodating.”

  “As is your husband. I’ve never had an account settled so quickly.”

  Panic tightened her skin. “Doctor Hill, you should leave. My husband mustn’t know we’ve spoken.”

  “He won’t hear it from me.”

  “Won’t hear what?” Henry stood in the doorway, body shaking with anger.

  “Have you no shame, woman? I leave you five minutes and this is how you behave!”

  “Husband, I…”

  “No, your ladyship,” Doctor Hill interrupted. “My lord, let me explain…”

  “How dare you address me!” In one stride, Henry was upon him and grasped his lapels.

  “Come outside.”

  “Lord Ravenwell, there’s been a mistake.”

  “Be quiet!” Henry pulled him to his feet.

  “Can’t we discuss this like gentlemen?”

  “Gentlemen? Ha!” Henry scoffed “We’ll settle this outside. Now.”

  A handful of onlookers had gathered at the door. By the time Henry manhandled the doctor out of the box, it had turned into a small crowd.

  “Henry, no!” Jeanette cried, but he ignored her, dragging the doctor along the corridor. Pushing past the tittering ladies in the crowd, she followed the two men outside. Doctor Hill’s protests echoed in the night air as Henry pushed him to the ground.

  Ripping off his jacket, Henry drew his hands into fists and adopted a boxing stance.

  “Come on, you coward, fight me like a man!”

  Whispers rippled through the onlookers, mirroring the shame rippling through Jeanette’s body.

  “Henry, please…”

  “Be quiet, woman!”

  The doctor struggled to his feet “Let her explain…”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Henry snarled. “You’ve made a cuckold of me. Clearly children of trade flock together.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” the doctor cried. He gestured toward Jeanette. “Show him, for God’s sake, woman! Show him what I’ve been doing.”

  Henry rushed toward the doctor, fists raised.

  “Henry!”

  He froze at her scream. For a moment, concern flickered across his face before the fury returned.

  “Stop! I’ll show you!” She tugged at the fingers of her glove.

  “What are you doing?” Henry roared. “Good God, does the Holmestead Harlot seek gratification from giving public displays?”

  The nickname cut deep, but she continued to pull her glove off to reveal the bandage on her arm. A dark red stain ran along its length where the wound was, at last, healing cleanly where Doctor Hill had cauterized it with a hot knife.

  *

  Henry stared at his wife as she held out her arm. Pain glistened in her eyes. And humiliation to match his own. How could he have thought the worst of her, that she had lain with another? Was it because he’d wanted it to be true in the hope it might extinguish any feelings he harbored for her?

  Ugly bloodstains marked the bandage on her arm. Henry ached to ease the pain she must be feeling and he reached out to her.

  She flinched from his touch. “Please don’t. It’s still sore.”

  “Of course it is,” the doctor said crisply.

  “What is it?” Henry whispered.

  Jeanette looked away. “My bullet wound. From the duel.”

  Doctor Hill straightened his cravat and issued Henry a hard stare. “It festered. Your wife was lucky not to lose her arm.”

  While Henry had neglected his wife, she’d had to turn to a stranger, even though Henry had vowed to honor and protect her.

  His anger deflated. Henry rubbed his forehead, then addressed the onlookers.

  “You’ve had enough entertainment for tonight. Go back inside.”

  A few of the ladies disappeared, the rest murmuring to each other.

  “Now!”

  At his roar, the rest dispersed.

  Doctor Hill took Jeanette’s hand, and a stab of jealousy tore through Henry. “Have you been taking the draught I prepared for you, Lady Ravenwell?”

  She cast a swift glance toward Henry, then nodded.

  “And bathing it twice a day as I instructed?”

  “Yes.”

  Henry took her other hand. Her fingers were cold. She tried to pull free, but he held her firm. “Why didn’t you tell me, Jeanette? Why were you so damned secretive, letting me think the worst of you?”

  “I wanted to spare you further embarrassment and expense,” she said. “As for why you thought the worst of me, only you can answer that question.”

  The light in her eyes had gone.

  “Doctor Hill,” he said. “I’ll send you something in recognition of the care you’ve taken of my wife thus far, but I’ll employ my own physician from now on.”

  “But…”

  “I’m sure you’re very capable,” Henry interrupted, “but my wife is my responsibility.”

  The doctor’s stance changed as he read the challenge in Henry’s tone. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave your wife in your care.”

  Henry took Jeanette’s arm, careful to avoid the wound. “It’s time we returned home. You’ve had enough excitement for one evening.”

  “Henry, I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t speak of it.”

  He continued to hold her while they waited for the carriage. Not trusting himself to speak lest he reveal the fear for her which had almost crushed him, he remained silent on the journey home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Almost a fortnight after the altercation at the opera, Jeanette stood alone in the hallway, waiting to greet her guests. Henry was nowhere to be seen, having left the house soon after breakfast. Other than providing the guestlist and giving permission that Sir Daniel and Lady Charlotte be included, he’d shown little interest in Jeanette’s dinner party.

  Armed with a new haircut and her red silk dress, she greeted her guests cheerfully as if an absent husband was an everyday occurrence.

  Jenkins, the model of discretion, had already cleared away Henry’s place by the time they entered the dining room. When Jeanette sat at one end, the guests settled in their places along the table, politely ignoring the blank space at the opposite end. To her left sat two members of parliament—Tories Benjamin Green, with his wife Annabel, and Guy Chantry, with his wife Roseanna, together with the Earl of Strathdean. To Jeanette’s right sat Sir Daniel and Charlotte. Oakville sat next to Charlotte, and beyond him, the Countess of Strathdean. Dominic Hartford completed the party.

  Conscious of several pairs of eyes watching her, Jeanette signaled for dinner to begin and the guests began to eat. The complex palette of flavors burst on her tongue with every bite. Mrs. Pratt was indeed a genius in the kitchen.

  “I must congratulate you on your new cook, Lady Ravenwell.”

  She turned to the gentleman on her left. “My cook has been in my husband’s employ for several years, Mister Green.”

  “Then I must commend you, madam, on your choice of menu. I have never tasted a meal at your husband’s table as enjoyable as this.”

  “You flatter me.”

  The politician’s fleshy face puckered into a leer, and he moved his hand toward hers. His gaze drifted over her gown, settling on the green trim at the top of her bodice. “Perhaps I should make him an offer.”

  Jeanette picked up her wine glass, the action pushing the unwelcome hand aside. “I’ll pass your compliments to Mrs. Pratt, but neither she nor I are open to any offer you might make. I’m taking her to Sussex with me when the season is over.”

  “Mrs. Pratt? A woman?”

  “A woman of talent is not such a remote possibility, surely?”

  “We live in a world of men, Lady Ravenwell. Our finest monarchs have been men.”

  “Only because the law, written by men, dictates in favor of mal
e supremacy,” she said. “And I beg to differ. The greatest monarch to rule this country was a woman.”

  “Do you insult the present king, madam, or the Regent?” Wounded male pride rendered his voice thin and reedy.

  “Not at all,” Jeanette laughed. “I’m saying that given the same opportunities as a man, a woman may show merit in equal measure.”

  “Good lord, woman, if I were your husband…”

  “…you’d be ruled by her, and rightly so,” Charlotte interrupted, leaning forward into the candlelight. Her expressive blue eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence. No wonder Henry had once been captivated by her.

  “A man may appear robust,” Charlotte said, “but even the mightiest fortress relies on the foundations upon which it has been built, even if those foundations are overlooked.”

  Charlotte raised her glass and gestured toward Jeanette. “A clever woman is the foundation of a successful marriage,” she continued. “An individual’s quality is not a function of their sex, yet the recognition they achieve is wholly dependent upon it.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Daniel interjected, “and I count myself the most fortunate of husbands.”

  “As is Lord Ravenwell,” Charlotte replied. “Let us toast Lady Ravenwell on what promises to be an excellent evening.”

  The meal concluded and the men disappeared to enjoy their port while Jeanette ushered the ladies into the drawing room. The politicians’ wives, clearly old friends, paired up and moved toward the window, casting furtive glances at Charlotte.

  “How tedious!” Charlotte sat beside Jeanette and sighed. “If my life were forever confined to drawing room gossip, I’d pray for death. I’m glad to have you as a friend. Women who wish to elevate themselves above the status of biddable slaves are rare indeed.”

  Jeanette took a sip of her coffee. “Sir Daniel permits you to speak so freely?”

  “I temper my speech to suit his tastes,” Charlotte said. “The trick to ruling your man is to make him believe he’s in command of the ship and the business.”

  “How do you achieve that?”

  “By steering his mind and ideas in the right direction,” Charlotte said. “Of course, a woman must never be obvious. Her methods should be indirect.”

  “Underhanded?”

  “If you like. A wife can ensure her own ideas are carried out if she’s capable of persuading her husband they’re of his own making. One only need to sow a few seeds, watch them grow in his mind, and nurture them as necessary.”

  Charlotte drained her cup. “Sir Daniel is not without wits, but he sometimes requires a little direction.” Her mouth curled into a smile. “All men can be ruled if the hand on the tiller is skilled enough.”

  “Does that include my husband? Can you rule him?”

  Charlotte’s smile slipped. “Nobody can persuade Henry to do anything he doesn’t want to.” She placed a hand on Jeanette’s arm. “And that includes his decision to marry you. You’re an intelligent woman, Jeanette. I’m sure you’ll learn to rule Henry as effortlessly as I rule Daniel. Ah, here he is!”

  Jeanette’s heart leapt at Charlotte’s exclamation before it deflated just as rapidly as Sir Daniel entered the room with the other gentlemen. The men helped themselves to coffee and distributed themselves among the ladies.

  Sir Daniel joined his wife, and Jeanette rose to leave them, unwilling to look any longer at the devotion in his eyes. Some men loved their wives.

  But not all. Guy Chantry rolled his eyes while he watched his wife tittering with laughter before he joined Jeanette by the fireplace, Oakville in his wake.

  “I must thank you, Lady Ravenwell, for a most interesting evening. I’m sorry your husband was unable to attend.”

  Was he taunting her with Henry’s absence? Did he know Henry was pleasuring another woman?

  “Not at all,” she replied, “given the enormity of my husband’s business, I didn’t expect him until late.”

  Chantry fixed her with a hard stare. “So you know? About all the-the…”

  “All the women?” she said bitterly. “Of course.”

  Chantry shook his head. “Hardly a topic for conversation with one’s wife, murdered whores.”

  Murder? What was he speaking of? Had her idle words, spoken in anger, revealed something more sinister than mere debauchery? Chantry glanced at Oakville.

  Jeanette drained her coffee in an attempt to regain composure. “Whether the victim is a prostitute doesn’t render the crime any less severe. Or do you think such a woman has no worth?”

  “A whore is a whore, Lady Ravenwell.”

  “She serves a purpose, and a man’s needs, Mister Chantry. If some poor soul is willing or desperate enough to service those needs, who are we to judge?”

  Oakville’s mouth twitched into a smile as Chantry’s expression grew uncomfortable.

  “May I ask you a direct question, Mister Chantry?” she asked.

  “Of course.” His expression contradicted his words.

  “Have you partaken of a courtesan’s services?”

  Oakville snorted, and Chantry choked on his coffee.

  “Forgive me,” Jeanette said, “I’m asking for academic reasons. I’m not interested in gossip. It’s my belief that men who enjoy those services have a responsibility to help those who provide them.”

  “Madam, I beg you to be discreet…”

  “Help can be given discreetly,” she interrupted. “These women are human beings, victims of circumstance or birth. Mister Chantry, had God chosen differently I, even you, might have found ourselves in a similar position.”

  “But we’re not,” Oakville interjected.

  “That’s your good fortune, Viscount Oakville. Fate placed you into a life of idle luxury, but you could have been born into poverty, even slavery.”

  “That, as you say, is my good fortune,” Oakville said.

  “Why not put that good fortune to better use? We shouldn’t judge a person by the circumstances of their birth, but what they do with the hand fate dealt them.”

  “If I may be excused,” Chantry said. “I believe my wife wants a word.”

  He scuttled off, a look of nausea on his face.

  Oakville smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, Lady Ravenwell. I’m beginning to understand the enormity of what I lost when I abandoned you.”

  How dare he continue to taunt her with what he’d done!

  “Don’t be friendly toward me, sir. I tolerate your company tonight as my husband’s friend and nothing more.”

  Before he could reply, she clapped her hands and addressed her guests.

  “Time for a little music?”

  Amid murmurs of assent, Oakville led her toward the pianoforte and helped her to sit. He leafed through the sheet music and selected a piece.

  “I haven’t forgotten what you said to me about music. I often think of it.”

  Ignorant fool! As if he’d listened to anything she’d said!

  His smile wavered. “I see you’re skeptical. But you’ve taught me to view the world differently. I remember everything we talked about.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “You prefer music to the written word. You said a musician can put her soul into a recital. And I agree. Depending on how she articulates herself, the same piece of music can be happy and merry, or tragic and melancholy.”

  “Some pieces are meant to be played tragically,” she said, lifting the sheet music he’d selected. Beethoven’s Sonata number fourteen in C-sharp minor.

  She began to play, and the guests murmured among themselves as they recognized the melody. A well-known piece, nevertheless, Oakville’s ability to turn the pages at the right moment was unexpected.

  His proximity grew unsettling. As Jeanette let the music overtake her, the sense of abandonment coursed through her body. Her fingers expressed her desolation at the prospect of a life without love. Oakville’s silent, watchful aid only increased her distress.

  As the first movement drew to a close, his
fingers brushed her shoulder, a gesture of recognition and consolation.

  “Bravo.”

  Strength flowed from her heart and soul into her fingers. She cut her guests’ applause short by continuing with the second movement, a brighter, happier piece, before pausing for breath on the final chord.

  Melancholy morphed into fury. Henry had abandoned her, such that she found herself unwillingly drawing comfort from a man she had determined to hate. Turning the pages with a sharp snap, she threw herself into the final movement. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as months of practice and weeks of neglect forged a union in the fires of her anger.

  Only through music could she withdraw from a world where women were slighted, abandoned, and murdered, and the men ignored it. Henry might despise her, he might have abandoned her to failure and humiliation, but with music, she could express her disgust while these ignorant fools around her listened, oblivious to her emotions.

  Not all. After she played the final chord, Oakville whispered in her ear, “That was exquisite. Tonight, you’ve shown us what true beauty is.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As Henry entered the hallway, music filtered into his mind. A passionate run of notes swelled into a crescendo before the flourish of arpeggios, ending with the final chord as the footman opened the drawing room door.

  He didn’t need to look to identify the pianist. Since he’d first heard her practicing that Beethoven piece, she’d grown in accomplishment.

  He held his hand up to silence the footman who was about to announce him. Transfixed by the music, the guests had not noticed his arrival.

  The woman at the piano was barely recognizable. Since he’d left her that morning, she’d had her hair cut, the sleeker style becoming her. Her gown radiated confidence, the red silk resonating against the color of her eyes. The shockingly low cut of the gown revealed the swell of her breasts. Madame Dupont had surpassed herself. Just the right side of decency the style would likely grace most of London’s ballrooms before the end of the Season.

  Oakville stood behind her. From his vantage point, he’d be able to view much more of her flesh than was acceptable, yet he seemed too spellbound by the music to notice.