A Husband's Wicked Ways (4 page)

Aurelia sat by the fire in her bedchamber, the open letter lying on her lap. Her eyes gazed unseeing into the flickering flames in the hearth. The house was quiet around her, Morecombe and his wife and sister-in-law retired to their own apartments, the rest of the household gone to their beds. Franny was asleep in the night nursery, Daisy in her own little chamber next door, the adjoining door left ajar in case the child awoke in the night.

Aurelia picked up the letter again. She had read it three times already, and while she began to think she knew it almost by heart, she still couldn’t make sense
of it. Oh, the words were easy enough to understand, but not the man who had written them. That Frederick Farnham was not the man whom she had married, the man whose child she had borne. She remembered how overjoyed he’d been at Franny’s birth, how he’d paced the corridor outside the chamber while his wife had labored throughout that eternal night. She saw again how he’d held his baby, his eyes wet with tears as he’d gazed down at the bundle in his arms with such awe and wonder. Surely that man could not have given it all up, cast his wife and child aside, without a second thought.

Aurelia watched her tears drop to the paper, smudging the ink. For a moment, there was satisfaction in the thought that her tears could obliterate the words, make them vanish as thoroughly as her husband had vanished from her life. Frederick had shed no tears for her. He had done what he chose to do, accepted the consequences for himself, but totally without consideration for anyone else affected by his choice. And then abruptly she snatched the letter aside, laying it in safety on the small, round table at her side.

She stood up and paced around the softly lit chamber, holding her elbows, her tears flowing unrestrained, but they were tears of anger now. Patriotism was all very well, particularly in wartime. She had accepted Frederick’s death in battle. But this…this was too hard to accept. What would have happened if he hadn’t died? Would he have calmly come back to her at the end of the war? Shown up on her doorstep, all smiles, the prodigal husband returned, ready to take up his roles as husband and father…until he became bored…“stifled” was the word he’d used…and decided to go off adventuring again?

How could she possibly accept such a thing? What if she had followed Cornelia’s example and married again? What part would Frederick have played then in her life?

Oh, it was too absurd, too utterly
insulting
to think she had been duped in that dastardly fashion.

What power could that man Greville Falconer have
held over Frederick that he could compel him to behave in such a fashion…so alien to his character, to the open, honest, honorable man she had known him to be? There had to be a reason for Frederick’s going so meekly to the slaughter. Had this Falconer blackmailed him with some shameful truth? Bribed him with something…no, no, that was unthinkable.

She leaned a hand on the mantelpiece and stared down into the fire as if the answer would somehow become manifest in the dancing flames. And slowly she came to accept that Frederick had given the explanation, incredible though it was. Greville Falconer had sowed his seed in fertile ground. Presumably he had been trained to recognize such ground, and in Frederick he’d seen the potential. He had seen what no one else had seen…what Aurelia still couldn’t glean from her knowledge and memories of the man who had been her husband. And presumably this Greville Falconer had persuasive talents that she herself had not discerned in their brief meeting that afternoon.

His face seemed to form itself in the blue-tinged, orange-red glow of the fire. She was transfixed again by the straight gaze from the dark gray eyes beneath thick, black eyebrows. Nothing ordinary about his countenance. Not easily forgotten. And then there was the sheer force of his personality. It was as powerful as his physical presence. She would not admit that he had intimidated her on her own ground, but she had certainly found herself following his script. Had Frederick
felt the same thing when the colonel had recruited him?

Well, she would not seek Greville Falconer out in a hurry. Presumably his business with her was completed with the safe delivery of whatever he had taken away with him.

But then Aurelia remembered his last words. She had told him she never wished to see him again, and he had replied,
I hope, ma’am, that you will change your mind.

Just what did
that
mean? He’d told her he would return in the morning. She could not be obliged, compelled, to meet anyone she didn’t wish to. She could deny him entrance. It was her house…for the duration, at least. Her house, her castle, and she could pull up the drawbridge.

But if she were to do that, she would be denying herself all possibility of understanding Frederick…of what had caused him to make this extraordinary sacrifice.

Carefully Aurelia folded her husband’s letter and locked it away in her jewel casket. She was convinced it contained secrets she had not yet discovered. She snuffed the candles on the mantelpiece and climbed into bed, propping herself up against the lace-edged pillows at her back. Leaning sideways she blew out the bedside candle and lay back watching the firelight flicker on the ceiling. She felt lonelier than she had ever felt…lonelier even than when she had first been informed of her husband’s death at the Battle of Trafalgar. That had been a shared grief. She and Cornelia
had faced and accepted that together. If she honored Frederick’s request, she could not share any of this with her dearest friend. There was no one now with whom she could share this double grief: the renewed loss of her husband, but also the loss of her belief in him, and in the life they’d led together.

A
T SIX O’CLOCK THE
following morning Greville was riding alone in the park. Apart from a few gardeners moving in desultory fashion among the shrubs, it was deserted, and he gave his rented hack free rein along the tan, the wide strip of sandy soil that ran parallel to the paved carriageway around the circuit.

He’d spent the previous evening reviving his lapsed memberships of the clubs of St. James’s. It hadn’t proved particularly difficult to remind the voting members of White’s and Watier’s that he was back in town and to let it be known that he intended to be around for the foreseeable future. He’d been elected to the clubs as a youngster fresh down from Oxford with a cornetcy in the Guards in the wings. No one questioned his frequent absences from town life during the war years. The cornet had become a colonel, and as such he was as welcome at the social well now as he had been in his youth. It had been a long and expensive
evening however. While he could play a fair hand at whist, he had never been interested in gambling, and his inexperience showed. He’d lost heavily last night, but having shown his face at the tables, he would in the future be able to avoid serious gambling without drawing too much attention.

Next he needed to establish himself in suitable lodgings and set up his stables in a modest fashion. He corrected a sideways lunge of his mount with an exasperated sigh. Hired hacks developed bad habits without a consistent rider, and he definitely needed a riding horse of his own. He would need a carriage, too. A curricle, probably, with a decent pair. They wouldn’t have to be top drawer at Tattersalls, but they’d need to make a respectable showing on the park circuit. He had no aspirations to the sporting world of the Corinthians. His fighting skills were rather more underhand than straightforward boxing and fencing. But in combat, when it mattered, he would back himself anytime. His lip curled in derision. Of all the assignments Simon could have given him, this was the least acceptable.

After an hour, when the first riders, showing off their prowess after a night of dissolution, began to appear in the park, Greville rode his horse back to Brook Street. The livery stable’s groom took charge of the hack, and Greville went into the house to be greeted by the butler, who wore an air of some urgency.

“Ah, Sir Greville, her ladyship awaits you in the morning room,” he announced with some portentous
ness. “She’s been waiting for half an hour or more,” he added, disapproval evident.

“What ails her ladyship, Seymour? She doesn’t usually stir from her room until noon,” Greville observed, handing over his crop, removing his hat, and drawing off his gloves.

“Nothing ails Lady Broughton, sir,” the butler declared, gathering up Greville’s discarded possessions and passing them to an attendant footman. “I understand she is anxious to talk with you. Breakfast will be served immediately.”

Greville contemplated saying that he would like to change his dress, but it was a mischievous impulse, designed only to discomfit the disapproving butler, and as such not worth pursuing. He nodded acceptance and strode to the back of the house.

“Greville, my dear nephew, have you had a pleasant ride?” Aunt Agatha beamed at him from the far side of the round table. Her beauty had been legendary in her youth, and while that beauty had faded somewhat, she was still a handsome woman. She was swathed in Indian silks, her hair concealed beneath an impressive turban, and she was engaged in dipping fingers of toast into a bowl of tea.

“Pleasantly quiet, ma’am,” he said, pulling out a chair opposite. “This is an ungodly hour for you, is it not?” He smiled as he raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“I own I would prefer to be taking tea in bed, but I wish to talk with you, Greville, and I knew once I
missed you today, I would never find the opportunity.” She dabbed at her lips with a snowy napkin. “So energetic, you are. You’re never still for a minute.”

Greville laughed gently. “I am always at your service, Aunt Agatha. You have only to summon me.”

She regarded him across the table with narrowed eyes. “If I believed that, Nephew, I’d be as blind as your poor mother…may she rest in peace,” she added piously.

Greville was saved from an immediate response by the entrance of two footmen bearing chafing dishes and a tankard of ale.

“Deviled kidneys, sir, and fried trout,” one of them announced, removing the lids from the dishes as the other set the tankard at Greville’s elbow. “Cook says there’s coddled eggs and lamb chops if you’d like.”

“I would,” Greville said with enthusiasm. “I’ll help myself, thank you.”

“I’ll bring the eggs an’ the chops then, sir.”

The footmen disappeared, and Greville took a deep draft of his ale before going to the sideboard to help himself from the chafing dishes. He brought a laden plate to the table, sat down, shook out his napkin, and addressed his aunt. “So, ma’am, what is so urgent that it gets you from your bed betimes?” He forked a kidney into his mouth.

Before responding, Aunt Agatha dipped another finger of toast into her tea. “You said you would be staying in town for a while, and I have it in mind to give a
small party in your honor…no, no, hear me out, dear boy.” She raised her free hand imperatively, and Greville stilled his tongue.

“You have spent so little time in town over the years. It’s why you have no wife…now, forgive me if this is a sensitive subject, but you do owe it to the family, dear boy. If your mother were alive, she would be telling you the same thing. You were little more than a child when your father died, and no one expected you to assume family responsibilities for some years. But, dear boy, you need a wife, and you need an heir. And I don’t see how you’re to acquire either gallivanting around Europe on the heels of that tyrant. But now you’re to be settled for a while at least, I intend to go to work.”

Greville waited until the returning footman had placed the fresh dishes on the sideboard before he spoke. “I appreciate your concern, Aunt Agatha, although I doubt I shall be in town long enough to settle down in any permanent fashion.” A humorous smile accompanied his pleasant tone. “I don’t intend to be a charge upon you, my dear ma’am. I have it in my mind to find suitable lodgings and set up my own establishment.”

“What nonsense…whatever for?” the lady demanded, her plump features creasing ominously. “This house is a mausoleum, far too big for me alone. You can have an entire wing to yourself if you wish a separate establishment.”

Greville’s smile didn’t waver. “You are too generous, ma’am, but I couldn’t possibly impose upon you in such
fashion.” Deftly he filleted the trout on his plate as he spoke.

Lady Broughton’s frown transformed her amiable countenance, drawing her carefully plucked eyebrows together, narrowing her pale blue eyes. Her mouth took a downturn, and she fixed him with a glare.

Greville ignored the glare. He knew his aunt of old. She had been spoiled by a fond and indulgent husband and detested being thwarted in the most minor matters. He savored a mouthful of trout and allowed the glowering silence full rein.

Her ladyship broke first, as he knew she would. A disgusted snort prefaced her statement. “Well, you must please yourself, I suppose, as you always do. Your poor mother never could see how you twisted her around your little finger, even in short coats.”

Greville contented himself with a sardonic twitch of his eyebrows. To his certain knowledge he had never twisted his mother around any finger, little or otherwise. She had barely laid eyes on him during his childhood, spending her time shut away in a wing of the ancient, creaky house, leaving her only child to the sometimes haphazard care of a series of nursemaids, until he’d been packed off to school at the age of eight. His father had died when he was twelve, but had been a shadowy figure in his son’s life at best. Only his aunt Agatha had shown any interest in her sister’s son, and that had been, while generous, fairly infrequent.

He sipped his ale. “Of course, ma’am, if you are seri
ously minded to give a small party for me, I would be most grateful.”

The sun emerged from the clouds, and Aunt Agatha smiled again. She adored entertaining. “I’ll prepare a guest list this morning…a rout party, I think. I haven’t given one since last season, and it would be most suitable for such a purpose. A little dancing, not a big orchestra, but a few strings, a piano…and pink champagne…I’m sure we have plenty in the cellar…I’ll check with Seymour.” She tapped her teeth with a fingernail, her earlier disappointment forgotten, her good humor restored.

Greville laughed and pushed back his chair. “I’m sure, as always, Aunt, that you’ll know what is best. Let me know when to present myself, and I’ll be there in fine fig.”

“Yes…yes…well, I have a lot to do.” She waved him away and reached for the little silver bell beside her. “I’ll discuss matters with Seymour at once.”

Greville bowed and left her happily contemplating her wide circle of acquaintances and the prospect of giving a party that would be the talk of the town. He was perfectly happy to be the guest of honor at such a gathering, it would give him a head start in the business of reintroducing himself to society. Once one invitation was issued, the rest would flood in, and he could begin to play Simon Grant’s game. He went upstairs to change from riding dress into something more suitable for paying morning calls.

Would Aurelia receive him?

A good question, but he was hoping that Frederick’s letter would have had a softening effect on the lady. He had no idea what Frederick had written, but he knew he would have spoken well of his comrade, if he’d mentioned him at all. But it was difficult to imagine a letter in such circumstances that failed to mention Colonel Falconer.

Critically, he examined his image in the long mirror. He’d been away from the social circuit, apart from flying visits to London, for close to fifteen years, and he suspected the tailoring of his present garments was somewhat outmoded. He rarely gave thought to his dress; most of the time he was either in uniform or dressed for some activity that bore no relation to morning calls, rout parties, or Almack’s Assembly Rooms. He’d clearly have to update his wardrobe, but for the moment he could find little to object to in his dark gray coat and buckskin britches. They’d been made for a younger man, but good tailoring will always tell, and the coat still fitted him well across the shoulders. He had tied his linen cravat in a modest but perfectly acceptable knot, and his top boots, while not cleaned with champagne, had a respectable shimmer to them.

He took up his beaver hat and gloves and hefted the slender, silver-knobbed cane he always carried, weighing it in his hand, feeling the delicate balance. The stick was transformed at the touch of a spring into a wickedly sharp sword and had proved indispensable on many occasions. Not that he expected to need it on the streets of
London during a cool March-morning stroll. But one never knew in his business.

“Mama…mama…why are you taking me to Stevie’s?” Franny tugged at her mother’s arm. “Why isn’t Daisy taking me?”

Aurelia looked down at her prancing daughter with a slightly distracted smile. “In a minute, Franny. I’m talking to Morecombe.”

“Yes, but
why
?” the little girl demanded, but with less urgency in her tone; it was more a matter of form.

“Prince Prokov’s wine merchant usually calls on the third Thursday of the month, Morecombe. When he comes today, if I’m not back, could you make sure he understands that this month’s delivery is to be shipped to the country?” Aurelia drew on her gloves as she spoke. “And the prince is most insistent that two cases of the vintage champagne be included in the delivery.”

“Oh, aye,” Morecombe said. “That’ll be for Lady Livia’s confinement, I daresay.”

“Yes…well, perhaps not the confinement itself but its results,” Aurelia said with a smile. “Only another three weeks to go.”

“Aye, well, we wishes her all the best fer a safe delivery,” the old man declared. “Our Mavis an’ our Ada ’ave been knittin’ away for months now. There’s bootees, an’ caps, and whatnot all over the ’ouse.”

Aurelia laughed. “They’ll be well appreciated, Morecombe…. All right, Franny. We’re going now.”

“I’ll be late,” Franny announced with a note of satisfaction. “And Miss Alison will be cross.”

“No, she won’t,” her mother returned. “You won’t be late anyway, it’s barely a quarter to nine.” She took her daughter’s hand and hurried her out of the house.

“But why are you taking me an’ not Daisy?” Franny repeated her unanswered question.

“Oh, I wanted to see Aunt Nell about something,” Aurelia said vaguely. In truth, even though she knew she must honor Frederick’s request that she say nothing about the extraordinary situation, she was driven to seek her friend’s company this morning because she needed its familiarity, a return to a sense of normality that she hoped the easy comfort of Nell’s presence would give her.

Franny was prattling in her inconsequential fashion as they walked briskly along the quiet streets. It was a chilly morning, a fresh March wind gusting around the corners, and they swung hands to keep themselves warm. Aurelia offered an occasional comment, an encouraging murmur now and again, and it seemed all that Franny needed to keep up her monologue. They reached Mount Street and the Bonhams’ establishment just as Harry descended from a hackney carriage at the door.

“Good morning, Harry.” Aurelia greeted his disheveled and weary appearance without surprise. “You don’t look as if you’ve been home in a day or two.”

“And so I haven’t,” he said with tired sigh. “Good
morning, Franny.” He dropped a kiss on the child’s upturned brow as she launched into a minute description of a goldfish she and Stevie were keeping in a bowl in the schoolroom.

He accompanied them into the house, producing all the right sounds of astonishment and appreciation at the antics of the goldfish.

“Run along upstairs, Franny,” Aurelia said, mercifully interrupting the flow. “Stevie and Miss Alison will be waiting for you.” She bent to kiss her, unbuttoning the child’s coat as she did so. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”