A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  Even now, his house might be overrun by giggling creatures in white gowns and colorful ribbons. He shuddered.

  “Tell me there aren’t more of you,” he said. “Does my house have an infestation of sisters?”

  “Only me, for now.”

  “For now!”

  “I mean to strengthen relations with my grandmother and—”

  “Not the duchess!”

  “You see, my sister—”

  “No.”

  “Because my mother—”

  “No.”

  “My other sister—”

  “No.”

  “Then my father.”

  She lifted her chin, with a hard look, proving that amiable did not mean soft.

  “I had a debt to your father,” he said after a moment. “I discharged that debt by marrying you, ensuring your inheritance, and providing for your family’s material needs.”

  “And we are all very grateful. But—”

  “The agreement was that I get married to you. It was not to be married to you.”

  “Unfortunately, one does tend to follow the other.”

  “We can be married at a distance,” he said. “Our marriage has been highly satisfactory so far.”

  “Mr. DeWitt. That will not do.” Now she was all stern and matronly. “My sister must make her debut, and I must persuade my grandmother to accommodate her. You need not be involved. I am more than happy that we lead separate lives. I only ask that you do not obstruct me or engage in behavior that will adversely affect her social position. Once this is done, I shall return to Sunne Park and you can go back to doing what you do best. Which, as I understand it, involves making money, offending people, and cuckolding lords.”

  Joshua’s mind did a rare thing: It went blank. Only for the blink of an eye, but nevertheless. Then the thoughts came rushing back in.

  Honesty: What a surprise. Politeness and honesty tended to be mutually exclusive, and Cassandra appeared to be the epitome of politeness. He loathed politeness, the way people went around ignoring the truth when it made them uncomfortable. Pretending that if they couched something unpleasant in delicate language, then it was no longer unpleasant.

  Yet here she was, mentioning things that the polite did not mention.

  It almost made her interesting.

  He leaned back and stretched out his legs so that his boots flirted with her skirts. The blush on her cheeks had deepened but she met his eyes with calm defiance.

  “Are you saying I have your permission, Mrs. DeWitt?” he said. “To conduct affairs, that is.”

  “What you have, sir, is my complete indifference. I ask only that you be discreet, as your behavior reflects on my sisters and me. We have sufficient disadvantages, in the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “A series of minor scandals in my family. And your…birth.”

  “Nothing wrong with my birth,” he snapped. “I have it on good authority that I came out in the usual way, with lots of blood and screaming.” He leaned forward and took a childish delight when she straightened her already straight shoulders. “I think what you meant to say is that I’m the bastard son of a bigamist earl and that kind of thing tends to upset people.” He threw himself back against the squabs. “The ‘bastard son’ part of it, I mean. They’re all fine with the ‘bigamist earl’ part.”

  Her lips tightened, which was a shame, because they were rather lovely full lips, on a rather lovely wide mouth.

  “If you’d like to put it like that,” she said.

  But why discuss his father? This affairs business was much more intriguing.

  “So you truly don’t mind if I take a lover?”

  “It is not a wife’s position to mind. Ours is not the model of a faithful, loving marriage that my parents demonstrated, but—”

  “Faithful! Your parents. Ha!”

  A slew of emotions chased each other across her face: Shock? Disbelief? Sorrow? Fear? Then her features settled into cool dignity, her demeanor a reminder that she was the granddaughter of a duke, thank you very much.

  “You will not pollute my memory of my parents’ marriage with your own sordid views,” she said. “Fidelity was a cornerstone of their relationship and of our family.”

  The truth writhed inside him but he held it in. The naive darling truly believed her father had been faithful to her mother. Ah, well. No need to rob her of her illusions. It hardly mattered anymore.

  “As for your own behavior, Mr. DeWitt: I do not believe you have been celibate since our wedding day and either way, it is of no concern to me. I’m sure your self-regard will not be diminished if I point out that you are no more to me than a stranger who pays the bills. For which, I say again, we are all grateful. Besides, I’d much rather you bother other men’s wives, if it means you leave me alone.”

  Excellent: She didn’t want him; he didn’t want her. Finally they agreed on something. Their wedding night had been nothing short of awful, however necessary. His first wedding night, now: That had been marvelous. He had been nineteen, then, and touching a woman for the first time and he was very, very enthusiastic. And Rachel had some experience and was not shy in telling him what she liked and what to do, and they were already friends. But with this wife, Cassandra…

  No. What was done was done, and it was best that way.

  “That was not my best performance,” he said, sounding gruff and stilted to his own ears.

  “I hadn’t realized one scored points.”

  “We had a duty. I discharged my duty like a gentleman and you bore yours like a lady.”

  “England must be very proud.”

  Perhaps he should have been more tender with her. Talked to her or something. But he had been as gentle as he could, and talking was a trap. It led to intimacy, which led to affection, which led to attachments, which led to trouble, and he did not need more trouble. Other men’s wives made the best lovers, because they already knew what they wanted and they always went home to someone else. And she’d just given him carte blanche to do as he pleased. Which meant he could drop a note to Lady Yardley after all.

  Except that it felt all wrong.

  Curse Treyford and his wretched bigamy. Had his bigamy never been discovered, had his marriage to Joshua’s mother not been dissolved, had Joshua not been disinherited—well, Joshua would have become a fully-fledged aristocrat with all the morals of a dockside cat. As it was, by going off at fourteen to work in Birmingham, he had made middle-class friends and married a middle-class woman and developed inconvenient middle-class values. Like raising one’s own children and being proud of hard work and staying faithful to one’s spouse.

  Mercifully, the hackney jerked to a stop, putting an end to this torture. The cabin swayed and men outside exchanged yells.

  “Never mind,” he muttered. “I hardly even remember it.”

  “You probably don’t even remember my name.”

  “Of course I do. It’s Clarissa, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, well done, Josiah.”

  The door opened and she allowed herself to be assisted gracefully to the footpath. Joshua jumped down and scowled at her. Blasted woman had to stop saying things like that, or he would find himself liking her rather more than was wise.

  “Mrs. DeWitt,” he said. “You will leave here tomorrow.”

  “I am willing to do whatever you ask, Mr. DeWitt.”

  “Good.”

  “So long as you do not ask anything that I am not willing to do.”

  With this astounding display of insubordination, she swept up the steps of his house and through the door without a backward glance.

  Joshua paid off the driver and bounded up the steps, through the door, and into his entrance hall, only to skid to a halt at the sight of Filby and Thomas, one holding the stupid bonnet and parasol, the other holding a green pelisse, both blinking at him with surprise. He went to fling his hat onto the hall table but—

  He stopped short, staring at the table.
/>   “What in blazes is that?”

  The butler and footman exchanged a glance and did not answer. Joshua prowled around to study the alien object from a different angle. He sneezed and the two servants jumped.

  Das appeared in the doorway. “Those colorful, fragrant things are known as ‘flowers’,” Das said. “The vessel that holds them is called a ‘vase’.”

  “A vase? Why would I even own such a useless thing?”

  He glared at the butler, who summed up the situation in two ominous words: “Mrs. DeWitt.”

  Joshua flicked the head of a fat pink flower—devil knew what it was called—and it bobbed cheerfully. The whole exuberant arrangement stood a good two feet tall and was nearly as wide.

  “This is a colonization, Das. That woman is colonizing my house. Do you know what that means?”

  “Years of bloodshed, oppression, and exploitation, perhaps?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Joshua turned back to Filby, who had thankfully rid himself of the bonnet, and tossed the roll of paper at him. “Put that in the study. Is Newell here too?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. DeWitt requested that he be treated like a guest.”

  “Guest? Ha! If I see him, I’ll fire him. Tell him to make arrangements for that woman to go back home.”

  “You mean your wife?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Mrs. DeWitt seems very charming,” Das said.

  “We are not discussing Mrs. DeWitt.” Joshua glared at the table. Flowers. In a vase. All pretty and useless and taking up space, except the square occupied by the silver salver.

  On which sat a letter. Addressed to him.

  He couldn’t put his hat there now, could he, so he put it back on his head.

  “Das, we have work to do.”

  He pivoted again, made for the door, but Filby darted in front of him, brandishing that salver.

  “Your brother Mr. Isaac called again, sir,” the butler said. “He left another letter. We were going to send it after you to Liverpool.”

  “Send it wherever you please. Come along, Das. Not a moment to waste.”

  Back outside, Joshua headed toward St. James. Before long, Das was by his side, reading something as he walked.

  Isaac’s letter.

  “Send him more money,” Joshua said.

  “He has not asked for money. He points out that he didn’t ask for money last time either.” Das’s voice had taken on a provokingly judgmental tone. “He has made progress in his search for your mother and sister. He wants to see you.”

  The image of Isaac swam in his mind, as he had been the last time Joshua saw him. Ten years old—Fast legs—Scraped knees—Chattering faster than a magpie. Isaac, eyes bright at the thought of going to sea and not having to go back to school, pointing out that he was intended for the Navy anyway, so being demoted from the Earl of Treyford’s legitimate third son to illegitimate third son made no difference, and he might as well go immediately if Lord Charles could find a position. And now—kicked out of the Navy with a bad leg, at a loose end, young enough to think finding their mother was the answer, but too young to understand that their mother didn’t want to be found. A family reunion was a stupid idea; if they couldn’t hold together fourteen years ago, they were not going to do it now.

  “Tell him I’m busy. Send him some money or find him a job or…Tell him that…”

  “Perhaps you should write to him yourself,” Das said.

  “I never write letters. I hire you and a dozen other secretaries to write letters. If I went around writing letters, I’d be wasting my time and you’d all be out of a job and nothing would get done and we’d all be miserable.”

  “But Mr. Isaac is your brother.”

  Joshua glared at his secretary, who didn’t flinch. “Do I detect a tone of disapproval, Das?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do I pay you to disapprove of me, Das?”

  “No, sir. I provide the disapproval for free.”

  “Remind me to bloody thank you some time.”

  He should have just gone to Liverpool, never mind that the trip promised to be dull. Or back home to Birmingham. No inconvenient family members ambushed him there.

  “Mr. Isaac also warns you about Lord Bolderwood,” Das added. “Apparently, his lordship is upset over the money lost on the Baltic investment.”

  “Everyone lost money on that one. I told him it was speculation.”

  “He reports that Bolderwood claims you swindled him and he is plotting revenge.”

  “If Isaac wants drama, he can go to Covent Garden,” Joshua said. “Bolderwood is as frightening as a three-legged calf.”

  The young viscount was about as useful and sensible as one as well, curse him.

  “Is his situation very bad?” he finally asked. “Bolderwood, I mean.”

  Das folded Isaac’s letter. “Rumor is he borrowed the money for that investment. From a moneylender.”

  “What?” Joshua skidded to a stop. “I told him only to risk what he could afford to lose.”

  “I believe he remained optimistic.”

  “The devil save us from optimists. Idiots, the lot of them.” He moved on again. “Send Cosway or someone to make discreet inquiries. Not that I want to bail that clown out. These young lords. Receive an estate as their birthright and they give it as much respect as they give their breakfast. To think that could have been me.”

  He twirled the signet ring on his little finger. Would he have been like that? If his father’s first wife, Lady Susan Lightwell, had in fact died when Treyford said she had and hadn’t turned out to be living in an Irish convent all those years—if Treyford’s bigamous marriage to Joshua’s mother hadn’t been dissolved—if Joshua was still heir to the earldom as he had been for the first fourteen years of his life…Treyford was in excellent health, promising to be a blight on society for years yet, so would Joshua have been like Bolderwood? Fashionable, profligate, and utterly useless.

  And also utterly bored.

  What a waste.

  “Bolderwood jilted Mrs. DeWitt, you know,” he said, and enjoyed that he had surprised Das. “Three weeks before their wedding. Which is why her father asked me to marry her.”

  “Interesting.”

  “No, actually. Not interesting at all.”

  Das waved Isaac’s letter. “In that, Lord Bolderwood also claims you flirted with his wife.”

  “I what?” Joshua’s memory offered the image of a pale woman who kept tittering at him at Lady Featherstone’s card party and ruined his enjoyment of the game. As he recalled, he’d been rude to her. Clearly not rude enough. “Wives,” he said. “They disrupt everything. Never get one, Das.”

  “I already have one.”

  “You what? This a recent acquisition?”

  “We’ve been married nearly five years.”

  “You’ve worked for me for four years.” He considered this a moment. “Huh. Devoted woman. To follow you all the way to Britain.”

  “Coming here was Mrs. Das’s idea, actually,” Das said. “There was some family opposition to our marriage, and I had a, ah, disagreement with a senior official in the East India Company, so it seemed prudent to make a home elsewhere. Padma thought Britain would suit us well enough, as the British had been interfering with my family for generations. She has an odd sense of humor, my wife.”

  Joshua’s brain buzzed with questions but he shut them down. He did not want to know about Das and his wife, and why they wanted to be married so badly they left their whole life behind, and how Das had annoyed the East India Company and, no, no, he did not want to know. He knew nothing about his secretaries. They did their jobs and went home so he could forget about them.

  “Huh,” was all Joshua said.

  “Mr. Newell has a wife too, as well as six children.”

  “That many.”

  “Mr. Putney has a wife, as does Mr. Allan. And Mr. Cosway is courting Miss Sampson.”

  Joshua rubbed his neck, aghast. H
is secretaries had seemed so sensible and reliable, when the whole time they’d been going around getting married behind his back.

  “Work, Das,” he said, returning to more productive topics of conversation, as they strode into St. James Park. “We need a contract, patents, investors. We need to make the most of this finding. Electrical power!”

  “It is exciting, but the inventor himself admits he sees no immediate practical application,” Das said. “This will not make any money.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Joshua stopped short, startled by his own words. He stared at Das, who stared back at him.

  “I don’t care,” he said again, wonderingly. He looked away from Das, at the sky, at the gardens, at the horses and birds and people. “How would you say I make money, Das?”

  “You observe what people will want in the near future and you act fast to invest in those things.”

  “When Dammerton blathers on about penal reform, he says it’s not about whether forgers should be hanged, but what the whole country will look like in fifty years. I have money, Das.” He pivoted, saw the world anew. “If I stopped working now, the money would keep rolling in.”

  “Indeed.” Das was watching him cautiously. “You could spend time in the countryside with your charming wife, start a family, and—”

  “What the blazes? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Your life revolves around your work.”

  “Which is precisely how I like it.”

  “I think—”

  “Do I pay you to think, Das?”

  “Yes, sir. You do.”

  Joshua paced over to a tree, paced back to Das, back to the tree, back to Das. He had wanted to be rich; now he was rich. That had not been enough. He had wanted high society to receive him; now they did. That was not enough.

  Now he wanted, he wanted…

  He thought about his factories, turning out millions of metal objects a year: buckles and buttons and bobbins. His barges, carrying those metal objects through the canals he’d helped build. His ships, exporting them all over the world. His mines. His furnaces. His warehouses. His bank.