Читать книгу Wicked Wager - Julia Justiss - Страница 8

ACCEPTING THE GROOM’S HAND, Jenna Montague Fairchild stepped down from the sidesaddle and looked with a sigh at Fairchild House. Riding in London’s parks, though better than remaining at home, barely allowed for a decent gallop.

After three days in the metropolis, she was already wishing herself back in Brussels. Or Lisbon or Madras or anywhere near some vast open plain where she might ride for hours and escape the emptiness that echoed through her rooms, in her shattered heart, with Garrett gone.

Four months had dulled the agony of losing him to a barely tolerable pain. Unconsciously her hand slipped down to rest on the swell of her abdomen. Were it not for the child she carried, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to force herself to return to the native land in which she’d lived exactly two months of her life, to reside as custom demanded in the house of her husband’s relations whom she’d met only once, and briefly.

But with most of the casualties from June’s battles either dead of their wounds or gone home to finish recovering, Jenna could no longer use the excuse of nursing duties to justify lingering in Brussels. With the future of Garrett’s heir to consider, she’d been forced to leave the bittersweet comfort of the rooms they’d shared, the bed in which their child had been conceived, the simple grave in the rose-garlanded cemetery on the hill beyond Waterloo where she’d had his remains laid to rest.

Hoping Aunt Hetty had slept late today, so she might avoid the unpleasantness of dealing with the woman until afternoon, Jenna made herself walk up the steps.

The querulous feminine tones that reached her ears as soon as Manson opened the door told her that hope was not likely to be realized. Wishing Garrett had never invited his widowed aunt to move into Fairchild House, she put a finger to her lips to forestall the butler’s greeting.

Silently she handed over her wrap. Perhaps she could creep by the front parlor and reach her room undetected.

But a board creaked as she crossed the landing and a moment later Aunt Hetty called out, “Jenna, is that you? Come in! We are planning Garrett’s memorial service.”

Swallowing her irritation, she bowed to the inevitable and reluctantly entered the parlor. From his seat beside Aunt Hetty, Lane Fairchild, one of the two cousins who had also accepted Garrett’s invitation to reside at the family townhouse, rose at her entrance. The other cousin, Bayard, seated at a distance from his other relations, continued to stare out the window, apparently oblivious to her arrival.

Slighter and darker than his golden-haired first cousin, Bayard wore the abstracted expression that, she’d noted on her previous sojourn with the family, seemed to be his habitual mien whenever he was forced to remain in company. Probably he was mulling over one of the alchemy experiments on which, Cousin Lane had told her with faint contempt, he spent most of his time, hidden away in the basement room he’d converted into a laboratory.

And to which, if the pattern she’d observed held true, he’d soon escape. A privilege that, as Heir Presumptive and supposed head of the family, Aunt Hetty allowed him.

Lucky Bayard, Jenna thought with a sigh.

A thin, older woman wrapped in a quantity of shawls, Aunt Hetty inspected Jenna with disfavor. “About time you returned. I cannot comprehend this penchant for riding! To promenade in the afternoon with the rest of the ton is quite proper, but to hare about at all hours with naught but a groom is simply not suitable in a viscountess.”

“Now, Aunt Hetty, she has been a viscountess for less than a year and a Londoner for but a few days,” Lane said soothingly as he came over to kiss Jenna’s hand. “After a time, she will master the intricacies of ton behavior.”

Giving her fingers a sympathetic squeeze, he continued, “How could anyone object, when the exercise seems to agree so well with you? The roses in your cheeks are as lovely as our Damask’s finest late blooms. Manson, a dish of tea for Lady Fairchild, please.”

“Prettily said, cousin,” she replied, allowing Lane to lead her to a place beside him on the sofa and accepting the steaming cup the butler poured for her.

After the butler bowed himself out, Aunt Hetty sniffed. “Well, I think it’s more than past time that Jenna gave due thought to her condition.”

Stung, Jenna lost her grip on her temper. “I am quite protective of my ‘condition.’ After Waterloo, the doctors assured me most particularly that if riding eased my mind—and it does—I need on no account give it up. Do you really think I would risk Garrett’s child?”

The peevish look on Aunt Hetty’s face faded and Lane’s expression turned shocked. “Do you mean to tell us,” he said slowly, “that…that you are carrying Garrett’s child?”

“Of course that’s what—” she began. Stopping abruptly, she glanced at Bayard, still sitting distracted near the window. “I wrote Cousin Bayard several months ago, as soon as I was certain. He…he didn’t tell you?”

“Aunt Hetty, did you know?” Lane demanded.

“I had no idea!”

“Well, this does put a new complexion on things,” Lane murmured, pacing over to his cousin.

“Bayard,” he said, giving his shoulder a shake, “did Jenna write informing you she was in a delicate condition?”

Bayard flinched, as if unwilling to be brought back to the present. “Oh, that,” he said, jerking away from Lane’s fingers. “Yes, she did. Of what importance is it to you?”

“It’s of importance to any Fairchild! Dammit, man, she might be carrying the next heir!”

“Precisely. But since that eventuality would affect only me, I cannot see why you expected to be informed.”

“Trying to play autocratic head of the family, Bayard? ’Tis a role that don’t suit you.”

“Boys!” Aunt Hetty reproved. “This is excellent news!” she said to Jenna. “After the despair of Garrett’s loss, what a joy that he shall have an heir!”

“A joy indeed, Cousin Jenna,” Lane said, smiling. “Please don’t think that I am not also delighted. ’Twas only—” he threw an aggrieved glance at Bayard “—that it came as somewhat of a shock.”

“The babe could just as easily be a daughter, so it’s quite possible Bayard will still inherit,” Jenna reminded them. “As the child is not due for some months, I would prefer not to make any public announcement just yet. ’Tis…’tis my last link to Garrett and I should prefer to keep it a private matter.”

“We shall respect your wishes, of course,” Lane said. “But you must take special care! Are you certain riding is wise? Bayard, as head of the family—” he imbued the words with a trace of sarcasm “—do you not think you should forbid Jenna to put herself at risk?”

Bayard shrugged. “I expect she knows what’s best.”

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Cousin Bayard’s personal servant. A swarthy bear of a man, he resembled less a manservant, Jenna thought with an inward smile each time she encountered him, than one of the convicts who’d chosen to join Wellington’s army rather than face punishment at home.

The man bowed to the assembled company with a swagger that belied the deferential gesture. “Beggin’ your pardon, your ladyships. Master, the supplies you ordered are being delivered. You need to show me where to stow ’em.”

“Thank you, Frankston. I’ll come at once.”

“Bayard, you cannot leave now! We haven’t yet settled the details of Garrett’s service!” Aunt Hetty protested.

“I’m sure you can arrange something suitable without me,” Bayard said. “I’ve more important work.” Ignoring Hetty’s wail of protest, he strode out the door.

Frowning, Lane watched his cousin leave. “Work more important than upholding the honor of the Fairchild name? Dash it, Jenna, I hope to heaven Garrett’s child is a son!”

“As long as the babe is healthy and safely delivered, I shall be content,” she replied.

“So do we all hope! Finish your tea, cousin. You must keep up your strength now—and we shall have to take special care to see that she does, shall we not, Aunt?”

“Naturally. Now, about the service.” Hetty glanced at Jenna, the frown returning to her face telling Jenna her sojourn in that lady’s good graces had just ended. “It must be something suitably solemn and impressive. Though ’tis scandalous, to be reduced to holding a memorial service for a viscount whose family can trace its roots back to the Conqueror! I can’t imagine why you had Garrett buried in heathenish foreign land, rather than bringing his bones back to rest among his ancestors at Fairland Trace.”

Half-choking on her tea, Jenna swallowed the mouthful in one gulp. Did the woman have no discernment? Given the extent of Garrett’s wounds—knee, thigh, chest, shoulder—did she not realize to what condition his poor lifeless body would have been reduced after the several-day transit in July heat from Brussels to distant Northumberland?

A flash of memory seared her—finding Garrett, after a frantic all-day search, lying among the dead on the Waterloo plain, no more than a valiant spirit stubbornly holding on in a ragged scrap of flesh. Nausea seized her stomach and her throat closed in anguish.

She couldn’t bear to remember. Tea sloshed over the rim as she set her cup down. “It—wasn’t possible.”

Shooting Aunt Hetty a warning look, Cousin Lane took her hands in his and rubbed them gently. “I’m sure it wasn’t. You did everything you could, under the most ghastly of circumstances. We realize that.”

The older woman sniffed. “All the more reason to hold the most impressive of services. St. George’s, Hanover Square, I should think. Prinny and the cabinet will certainly attend, and Wellington, of course. We could have a funeral cortege from the house—”

“No!” Jenna cried. “No funeral. I’ve buried him once. I will not do it again.”

“Now that I am aware of your delicate condition, my dear,” Hetty said with a thin smile, “I will make some allowances, for ladies in your circumstances sometimes take the most peculiar ideas into their heads. But the decision isn’t yours alone. There’s the family’s honor to be considered, and I would be failing in my duty if I allowed Garrett’s passing to be commemorated in less than a fashion befitting a Viscount Fairchild of Fairland Trace.”

“What was being viscount to Garrett?” Jenna exclaimed. “He never expected it, was shocked to learn of the accident that brought him the title. Garrett lived and died a soldier. He’s buried near the field where he fell. Let him rest in peace!”

“Please, ladies, don’t upset yourselves!” Cousin Lane appealed to them. “Surely we can arrange something which will accommodate Jenna’s grief while still upholding the dignity of the family. Aunt Hetty, why do you not plan on a memorial service like the one we discussed? I believe Society would understand if Jenna does not attend, given the recentness of her bereavement. She could receive the mourner’s condolences at the reception here afterward.”

He turned to Jenna. “Do you think you could bear that, Jenna? Just a reception, to honor Garrett and let his friends mourn with you?”

Jenna took a shuddering breath. Could she force herself to nod and shake the hands of the gawking curious, most of them strangers? But at least she’d be spared the torment of a long funeral service lamenting Garrett’s loss and extolling his many virtues.

She had that litany of regret by heart.

Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly weary, tired of tussling with Aunt Hetty over the running of the house, of dealing with her petty criticism of everything Jenna did—or didn’t do—of carrying the crushing burden of grief. Slumping back, she said, “Yes, I suppose I can endure it.”

“You look fatigued, my dear,” Lane said with concern.

“I am, a little,” she admitted.

“Why not go upstairs and rest? Aunt Hetty and I will finish here. I’ll walk Jenna up,” he said to his aunt.

“If you must,” Aunt Hetty said, her tone implying she felt Jenna sadly lacking to shirk so important a duty.

Putting a solicitous hand under her elbow, Lane escorted her from the room. When they reached the hall, he said softly, “Please try to forgive Aunt Hetty’s pettishness. She’d been living in straited circumstances after her husband’s death and was thrilled when Garrett invited her to come here to look after Fairchild House while he remained away with the army. Now that you have arrived, she’s terribly afraid you will supplant her and send her back to her modest lodgings in Bath.”

“If she fears that, I should think she’d be making herself agreeable, rather than crossing me at every turn.”

He smiled wryly. “So one would think. But of course, she adored Garrett, and feels strongly that his demise should be commemorated with all due pomp and ceremony. An aim, I must admit, with which I am entirely in sympathy. All the years I was growing up, Garrett was my hero.”

Jenna felt her eyes filling. “He was mine, too. Do you not think I wish him suitably honored?”

“Of course, and you are being wonderfully brave about all this. ’Tis so difficult, even for me, to accept his loss. I cannot imagine how terrible it must be for you.”

There being no answer to that, Jenna gave none.

As they ascended the stairs, Lane hailed a passing footman. “Tell Lady Fairchild’s maid to bring up tea in an hour.” After the man trotted off, he turned to Jenna. “I’m sorry, that was rather presumptuous. Forgive me?”

Too tired to resent a usurpation of her authority for which, in another life, she would have given him a sharp setdown, she shrugged. “It appears everyone wants to dictate my actions. At least you, cousin, seem to have my welfare at heart.”

They reached the door to her chamber, but when she turned to go in, he retained her hand, halting her. “I’m sorry you must suffer through this all over again. I hope you indeed realize I will do everything within my power to make things as easy as possible for you.”

His kind words brought tears once again to the surface. “Thank you, cousin. I appreciate that.”

Grief and the coming child did exhaust her, for she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She woke an hour later at Sancha’s knock, feeling much refreshed. Before she could decide whether to ride yet again, choose a book from the library downstairs, or take a carriage to inspect the selection at Hatchard’s, a footman knocked to inform her that she had callers below.

She wondered who it might be. Since she had no acquaintance in London beyond her husband’s family, it must be someone from the army who had learned of her return.

Ah, that it might be Major Hartwell or Captain Percy, good friends and two of her late father’s finest subordinates! Feeling a stir of interest for the first time since arriving in England, she instructed the footman to tell the visitors she would be down directly.

But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth’s neighboring brigade.

Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. “Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you’d arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. “Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with—” she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.

“Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he’d turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?”

“Charmed to meet you at last, Lady Fairchild.” Lady Montclare rose from her curtsy to subject Jenna to a penetrating scrutiny. “My sincerest condolences.”

“Oh, yes—such a tragedy!” Mrs. Anderson lamented. “With his ability and your fortune, I expect he should have become a general. Not that he had any need of a military career, once he inherited, of course.”

“Given his responsibilities as the new viscount, after his brother was lost in that storm off Portsmouth, I am surprised Garrett did not immediately resign his commission,” Lady Montclare said.

“After Bonaparte escaped from Elbe, Garrett would not have considered leaving the army, nor, I suspect, would the Duke have permitted it had he asked. With so many Peninsular veterans dispersed from India to the Americas, he needed every battle-tested commander.”

“Given how things turned out, I imagine you now wish Lord Fairchild had not remained with the army,” Lady Montclare observed.

“I would not have had Garrett shirk his duty or disregard his loyalties,” Jenna replied stiffly, “regardless of how ‘things turned out.’”

“Well, ’tis no matter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You must now think to your future—which means carefully evaluating the new contenders for your hand.”

“Contenders for my—?” Jenna gasped. “I hardly think it necessary to concern myself about that yet!”

“I know you were sincerely attached to Garrett,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But a widow with a fortune as vast as yours is not likely to be left to mourn in solitude. As soon as the ton finds out you are established here in London, you can expect all manner of invitations.”

“Your husband’s aunt is charming,” Lady Montclare said, “but I fear she doesn’t move in the first circles. Since you quite rightly wish to pay proper honor to poor Garrett’s memory, ’tis of the utmost importance that you know which invitations to accept, which you should refuse. Ada and I will be happy to assist you.”

“It will be our privilege! The first thing you must do—” Mrs. Anderson cast a pained look at Jenna’s three-year-old gown “—is procure a proper wardrobe.”

Reining in the temper that urged her to demand that the visitors leave immediately, Jenna forced herself to speak politely. “Mrs. Anderson, Lady Montclare, I appreciate your kindness in offering to help, but I haven’t the least interest attracting ‘contenders’ for my hand.”

“Come now, Jenna, you were with the army long enough not to be missish about this,” Mrs. Anderson countered. “You wed Garrett before your papa had been dead a month!”

“That was…different! I couldn’t remain with the army alone, and I loved Garrett.”

“Desire it or not,” Lady Montclare said, “your youth, beauty and wealth—added to the connection you now boast to the ancient name of Fairchild—will catch the interest of every bachelor of the ton on the look for a bride.”

“Since you cannot avoid scrutiny, ’tis only prudent to plan on it,” Mrs. Anderson advised. “Reconnoiter the ground and use it to your advantage, my husband would say! And as one of Lady Jersey’s bosom bows, Persephone stands in perfect position to advise you on the most select entertainments—and most desirable gentlemen.”

Both ladies beamed at her, appearing supremely confident that Jenna must be thrilled at their offering to guide her in her choice of beaux. Appalled by the notion, for a moment Jenna contemplated informing the ladies of her pregnancy. Surely a widow who was increasing would be less appealing to discerning ton courtiers.

But though her condition would soon be obvious, for now she did not wish to share the news of her secret joy with these sisters whose supposed concern for her welfare barely concealed their relish for obtaining a social pawn they might manipulate.

As the mantel clock chimed, signifying the elapse of the requisite half hour, Jenna rose and offered a curtsy. “Ladies, I am quite…overwhelmed by your offer. Please know I will carefully consider it.”

Obligated to rise as well, the sisters returned her curtsy. “I’m staying with Persephone while Walter prepares for his next posting,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Call on us any day—your butler has the card with our direction.”

“Indeed,” Lady Montclare said. “I shall be very happy to take you under my wing, dear Lady Fairchild.”

Stifling the impulse to tell Lady Montclare just what she could do with that wing, Jenna made herself incline her head politely. “Good day, ladies.”

Long after Manson had escorted them out, Jenna stood staring at the closed door, recalling the various ton gentlemen she’d observed during her rides—Dandies and Bucks in skintight coats and trousers, elaborately arranged cravats, ridiculously high shirt collars. She’d found their appearance quite amusing.

The idea of such men calling on her was less amusing.

Men who had remained safely at home while other men fought and bled to protect their liberty. Indolent men with nothing better to do than drink, gamble away their nights—and entice widows of large fortune into marriage.

The handsome face of one such dark-haired, gray-eyed man materialized out of memory, his lips curved in a sardonic smile that was half interest, half disdain. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced the image away.

Cousin Lane seemed thoroughly familiar with the London ton. Perhaps she should ask him whether the sisters’ prediction about the interest she would arouse among its gentlemen was likely to prove true.

For if dealing with reprobates like Lord Anthony Nelthorpe was to be her fate in London, the convention about living with Garrett’s relatives be damned, she would start immediately looking for a residence elsewhere.