Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  Jeanette nodded to the footman. “Fawkes, please bring my sketchbook.”

  A ripple of amusement threaded through the men. Charlotte let out a snort, disguising it by sipping her tea.

  “Forgive my wife,” Lord Almondbury said, “she spoke out of turn.”

  “Of course,” Jeanette replied. Mouth set in a straight line, she cast her gaze across the company, issuing a silent challenge to each guest. Her gaze lingered on Henry, and heat rushed into his cheeks. He should have defended the boy.

  “I’m sure no malice was intended,” she said. “A simple misunderstanding which I trust I’ve resolved.” Her voice hardened, and she threw the gauntlet at her guests’ feet. “And I expect not to hear a certain word uttered in my son’s presence. I believe you know enough of my reputation to appreciate I shall not take such insults lightly.”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Ah, Edward, dear. Come sit by me.”

  The boy stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Dressed in fresh breeches and a jacket, his face pink and clean, Henry would not have known him save for the expression in his eyes. The very look which had given him a jolt of recognition the moment he’d first laid eyes on the child.

  The boy turned his large eyes to Henry, his lower lip trembling.

  Henry nodded to his son. “Go sit by your mama, sir.”

  Edward took Jeanette’s outstretched hand and slipped into the place beside her. His eyes widened into saucers as the footman ladled food onto his plate. He shoveled food into his mouth with his fingers, the frantic motions of one who must take what he can because the next meal might never arrive.

  Rather than show disgust, Jeanette placed a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder and waved the footman over.

  “Fawkes, when our guests have returned to their rooms, would you be so kind as to send for Mrs. Barnes to help Master Edward?”

  Henry rose from his seat and addressed the guests. “Come, mes amis, the day waits for no one.”

  After dispatching the guests to their rooms to change for the day’s excursion on the estate, he returned to the breakfast room. Mrs. Barnes knelt beside the boy, helping him to eat while Jeanette showed him the array of utensils on the table, explaining the purpose of each.

  “But it’s so silly!” the boy exclaimed. “Why not have one fork for everything? Why must they all be different?”

  Jeanette laughed. “I asked my papa the same question, and do you know what he said? The idle rich, having nothing worthwhile to occupy their time, must fill it with useless rituals to convince themselves of their superiority over the rest of the world.”

  The housekeeper snorted.

  “Mrs. Barnes,” Jeanette said, “when Master Edward has finished, would you send Mr. Barnes to see me later?”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  The housekeeper took her leave. When she spotted Henry, he placed a finger to his lips and moved into the room to watch his wife and son unobserved.

  Jeanette tucked a stray lock of hair behind the boy’s ear. “Did you enjoy your breakfast, Edward?”

  “No, missus. None of them lords and ladies liked me.”

  She took his hand. “I’ll tell you a secret. Nobody likes me either. But, as they’re our guests, they have to be polite. I must admit a certain wickedness in taking pleasure from watching them struggle to maintain civility.”

  “I’m afraid of them. I’ve seen that lady before. She keeps watching me.”

  “Take no notice of Lady Anne! If you fear them, I have a little trick you can use.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Picture them in their undergarments. The men in frilly drawers, preferably pink ones.”

  “I find Papa frightening.”

  “Maybe not as much in pink drawers?”

  The boy giggled. “I’ll do my best, missus.”

  Jeanette took him in her arms. “It’s ‘Mama’ now, Edward. I can never replace your mother, but I’ll do my best to look after you if you’ll let me.”

  The boy leaned into her embrace. Unwilling to spoil the tender moment, Henry stepped back and knocked a side table. Jeanette looked up; their eyes met.

  She patted the boy’s hand. “Run along, Edward. Mrs. Pratt said something about packing sweet buns for the picnic, and I’m sure she’ll let you taste them before we set off. Can you remember the way to the kitchen?”

  “Yes, Mama.” The boy scrambled off his chair and disappeared.

  Jeanette rose from her seat. “If you’ll excuse me, husband…”

  “Stay.”

  Her body stilled at his soft command. He moved closer and caught the scent of her. The floral notes of lavender combined with the earthy undertones of her desire which, last night, had driven him almost mad with the need to brand her as his.

  He took her hand, and his skin tightened, the ache building in his breeches once more as his manhood stirred at the memory of being inside her.

  “You’re mistaken,” he whispered.

  The spark in her eyes dulled, and she turned her head away. “Does my husband find fault in his wife’s behavior?”

  He lifted a hand to her face and traced a curve across her forehead before following a line down her cheek and along her jaw. His fingertip outlined her mouth, and he cupped her chin and drew her to him. Her lips parted, her breath sweet and warm against his mouth.

  “No,” he replied, brushing his lips against hers. “You were mistaken when you said no one likes you. There’s one here who likes you. Very much.”

  He claimed her in a lingering kiss. With a soft cry, she responded, her tongue entwining with his. He slipped his hand inside her gown to find she was ready for him.

  “Henry…”

  Good God, what was he doing? He’d already treated her badly, and now he was about to rut her over the breakfast table when his house was milling with guests.

  She deserved better. Releasing her, he stepped back. “Forgive me. I must be going.”

  “Going?”

  “Back to London.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice thin with hurt. “Why do you keep doing this? Do you take pleasure in torturing those you deem to be inferior?”

  “No, but I would ask you to trust me.”

  Her shoulders slumped with defeat. “Do what you want, Henry. Nothing I say will make a difference.”

  He couldn’t risk telling her his business in London, not with her inquisitive nature. Better she hate him than spoil his plans and place herself in danger. He sighed and left the room, turning his back on his wife.

  If he stayed, he was in danger of succumbing to the inner voice telling him he was in love with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The men disappeared to enjoy a morning’s shooting, leaving the women to picnic in the grounds. Edward, who had been trailing the men from behind, joined Jeanette and Charlotte who sat apart from the other ladies.

  “Come, sit by me.” Swallowing a brief wave of nausea, Jeanette held out her hand.

  “Charlotte, I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced to my son.”

  Charlotte held out her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  The boy stiffened.

  Jeanette nudged him. “Edward, shake hands.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Come on, Edward,” Jeanette said, “if you’re to become a gentleman like your papa, you must learn your manners. Lady Charlotte is someone worth befriending.”

  The boy took Charlotte’s hand, and she curled her fingers around his. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, perhaps looking for the family resemblance.

  “I’ve seen you before, missus.”

  Charlotte dropped his hand and laughed. “I doubt it, young man.”

  “I’m no liar.” The boy’s tone grew sulky.

  “Edward! Charlotte isn’t accusing you of anything,” Jeanette chided.

  “No matter,” Charlotte said. “All ladies must look the same to him, as all guttersnipes look the same
to me.”

  Edward continued to sit close to Jeanette until the picnic finished. After, he disappeared into the house as soon as Jeanette gave him leave to go.

  “Forgive him, Charlotte, he has much to learn.”

  “I’ve quite forgotten, I assure you.” Charlotte smiled. “I admire you taking him in, considering his background.”

  “I wonder why he thought he knew you.”

  Charlotte’s smile slipped. “He’s mistaken.”

  “He grew up in a bawdyhouse. Perhaps someone there bought some of your silks?”

  “What nonsense! Daniel would never trade with those creatures.” Hatred laced Charlotte’s voice.

  Jeanette took her friend’s hand. “Surely your background enables you to understand them?”

  “No.” Charlotte snatched her hand free. “I had no choice. They willingly sell themselves. They’re content to service men who are governed by lust.”

  She lowered her voice. “Tread carefully with that child, Jeanette. He’s known the very worst of society. For your own sake, you must take no heed of what he says. Teach him to be a gentleman and banish all memories of the whorehouse.”

  She linked her arm through Jeanette’s. “I counsel you as a friend. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at Henry. Turn his son into a gentleman and remove all traces of the London streets from the boy, and Henry cannot fail to fall in love with you.”

  *

  In the weeks following, the winter clutched the landscape with icy fingers. Edward showed progress with his studies, but almost every morning Mrs. Barnes told Jeanette the chambermaids had discovered his bedsheets to be soaked. Some nights she woke to hear him crying. But when he accompanied her as she posed for Mr. Davie in the music room, he grew calm, sitting cross-legged beside the fireplace, watching the artist as he applied paint to the canvas, bringing her image to life.

  She wrote to Henry regularly with news of Edward’s progress. Each time her hand hovered over the page, poised to express her concerns for the boy. But would Henry care? The soulless words in his brief, infrequent responses spoke of a man who’d abandoned them both. Each time he sent a reply, she tore it open, hope fueling her until she read the terse words. It seemed he was too occupied in London to spare her more than a few written words, let alone a visit.

  In one aspect, he seemed pleased. The estate accounts forecasted a profit next quarter-day. Robert Milton had paid his rent arrears and many of the once-empty houses were occupied with the prospect of an increase in rental income for the first time in eight years. Henry’s letters to Mr. Barnes were full of praise for the steward’s talents.

  As quarter-day approached, Henry wrote asking if there were sufficient funds to make a large withdrawal. The shame-faced steward confirmed Jeanette’s suspicions that sums of such a size typically signified the patronage of a new mistress.

  *

  As winter progressed, Jeanette began to suffer bouts of fainting. Her courses had not come since the house party; since the night Henry had taken her over her dressing table in a wild, frenzied mating. Her body burned with shame at the memory of her cries of pleasure. She had relished it.

  And now she was expecting his child.

  December marched on, and the artist finished Jeanette’s portrait. Skilled with a paintbrush, he’d captured the image of the woman she yearned to be. The woman in the portrait glowed with contentment, her skin pink and healthy compared to the gray pallor which confronted Jeanette in the mirror each morning. The emerald in the portrait winked at her. Jeanette lifted her hand and rotated it. The sunlight caught the facets which glowed with a flame from within, as if it possessed a soul.

  “I always swore that emerald was alive.”

  Jeanette turned to face the owner of the voice. The duchess stood at the parlor door.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”

  “Mr. Davie tells me the portrait is finished. I’m anxious to see whether his skill matches that of his father, and to learn more about the subject.”

  “I thought you’d made it clear you had no wish to acquaint yourself with me.”

  “I may have been hasty.” The duchess’ mouth curled into a smile. “Mr. Barnes approached my steward last month to discuss several propositions regarding Henry’s tenants. Given it’s the first time he’s done so, I suspected another hand on the reins.” She lifted her hand at Jeanette’s protest. “No need to worry, my dear. I’ve said nothing to Mr. Barnes, and will say nothing to my grandson. I’m not so old as to be devoid of understanding. You fear Henry will be angry if he knows his wife meddles in the affairs of his estate.”

  The duchess approached Jeanette and took her hands. The papery skin and protruding blue veins belied the steel within her grasp. But her handshake was one of cordiality.

  “My dear, I can only apologize for my earlier rudeness. Perhaps now I understand why my grandson chose you among that ocean of fortune hunters.”

  “Well, I can’t,” Jeanette said. “He’s told me repeatedly I lack the attributes of a lady.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wealth and breeding.”

  The duchess snorted. “Do you want Henry to value you for what you were born with or for what you do?”

  “Why would you care what he thought of me?”

  The duchess nodded toward her portrait. “Fifty years ago, the daughter of a country squire was not expected to secure the attentions of a duke. Edward adored me, but I spent the first years of my married life trying to fit into a society that despised me for what I was. I valued their opinion too much. I tempered my behavior and schooled my own daughter into the perfect society lady so that she would never have to endure their contempt.”

  “I see,” Jeanette said.

  “What should have been my greatest triumph was my biggest regret. My child was a debutante to be proud of but incapable of tenderness, toward my son-in-law or my grandson. Forgive me, it has made me overly protective of Henry, which means I must ensure he always has what he needs, even if it’s not what he thinks he wants. So, if my grandson is foolish enough not to appreciate what he has, it’s time we taught him the error of his ways. As I have seen the error of mine. If you’ll be so obliging as to accommodate me, might I suggest we indulge in a small sherry while we discuss the matter further?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “And we can stop that nonsense,” she said. “I insist you call me Augusta.”

  Jeanette had to smile. The woman’s sharp-worded mannerisms hid her guilt well. She was offering the hand of friendship. The tap-tap of Augusta’s cane tattooed across the floor, and Jeanette followed in her wake. She stopped at the morning room door and brandished her cane at Jeanette.

  “Where’s my great-grandson? Don’t deny it; Henry has never been good at hiding his indiscretions from me.”

  “He’s with his tutor.”

  “Good. You can tell me about him over sherry.”

  Breezing past her, the formidable old woman tap-tapped her way to the morning room. As Jeanette sat beside her, Augusta frowned.

  “Are you all right, my dear? You look dreadfully pale.”

  “I’m quite well.”

  “How long have you been pregnant?”

  Did her bluntness know no bounds?

  Augusta’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I’ve not given birth to seven children without recognizing the signs. Does my grandson know?”

  “He’s much too occupied in London.”

  Augusta clicked her tongue. “Infuriating boy! But you must tell him. He has a right to know you’re carrying his heir.”

  “He takes little heed of my letters.”

  “Then go to London and tell him in person. He can hardly turn you away.”

  Augusta was right. Jeanette must confront her husband. But in one aspect she was wrong. If Jeanette went to London, there was every chance Henry would refuse to admit her.

  But she had to try.

  *

  Henry leaned back in the
chair. The letter lay on the desk in front of him, his wife’s bold, even hand filling the pages with bland words about Edward’s progress with his tutor, minutiae about his mathematical abilities. A whole page had been dedicated to an account of the portrait, an overly descriptive detail of colors and tones.

  But behind the words was distant notes of pain. Jeanette wasn’t the type to fill empty spaces with mere remarks. The words she spoke came from the heart, each one to be valued and cherished. The desperation lingering among the mass of triviality in her letter would be unnoticeable except to those who knew her well, as if she wanted to fill the page with any piece of information in the hope it might elicit a response from him.

  He jumped at a knock on the door and called out. Sanderson slipped through and closed the door behind him, body heaving with exertion, his face red.

  “You’re late.”

  “Be thankful I’m here at all,” Sanderson panted. “I had to take a detour via Holborn.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Sanderson gestured to a chair, and Henry nodded. The servant sat and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “I was followed, all the way back from the docks. I’d heard of a house where women were being held before they were sold.”

  “A breakthrough! Do you have an address?

  Sanderson shook his head. “Only a description. But before I could find it, I spotted two men watching me, so I left, thinking I’d come back when it was dark. But they followed me. I wasn’t going to lead them here, so I went to the Holborn house. But someone was watching the door.”

  Henry shook his head. “Dear Lord.”

  “It’s time we gave up,” Sanderson said, his voice grave. “The danger’s too great. Leave it to the Runners. Or Guy Chantry. He has political influence and a conscience, not qualities often seen in the same man. Let him deal with it.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve.”

  “Not at all, sir, but consider what might have happened had I led them here? We already know they’ll not stop at murder to silence those who ask too many questions.”

  “So you think I’ve lost my nerve?” Henry asked.

  “No, I know you don’t mind risking your own neck, sir, but what about those close to you? Do you think Lydia’s murder was a coincidence?” Sanderson looked to one side, but not quickly enough to conceal the glint of grief in his eyes. Lydia had been strangled like the others, but unlike them, the coroner’s report told of other damage. Before she died, each of her fingers had been dislocated.