Dark Fires (18 page)

33

It was only natural that he would tell his best friend that he was getting married. Nick entered an exclusive men’s club on St. James’s Street. His membership at White’s had survived the trial because of Lindley’s firm patronage, support, and, Nick suspected, generous bribery. Inside it was all dark wood and even darker carpets. He found Lindley sitting with two men, a baron and a viscount. Lindley spotted him. “Shelton! Come join us.”

“Thank you.” The earl dropped down into a big padded leather chair. A white-coated waiter materialized, and Nick ordered his usual Scotch whiskey.

He was bitter and angry and he knew it. His emotions roiled like hot lava in a volcano. The dialogue he’d just had with Jane—his wife-to-be— was fresh in his mind. “A toast,” he said, smiling, lifting his glass. The three men joined him. “To the actress, London’s Little Angel—soon to be my wife.”

A shocked silence greeted this. The baron looked at the viscount. Nick laughed, imagining their gossip already. The Lord of Darkness (who had killed his wife) was marrying the Little Angel —the actress! Weston’s bastard granddaughter!

And soon Nicole and his relationship to her would be no secret. More scandal was inevitable. He did not care. Not for himself, at any rate, and certainly not for that witch, Jane. (Separate bedrooms—hah! As if he’d touch her with a ten-foot pole!) He cared only about Nicole, and by the time she was old enough to understand it would have long since faded into oblivion.

Lindley was white. “Is this a joke?”

The earl drained his glass, thumped it down. “What’s the matter, Jon? You thinking of marrying belowstairs?”

Lindley just sat and stared.

“I say, old boy,” the baron said, attempting a smile, “this is quite the trick!”

“I’m sure,” Nick said dryly. He suffered their falsely meant congratulations, except for Lindley, who said nothing. The baron and viscount finally left—no doubt to impart what they had just learned. Nick looked at his friend. “What? No handshake, no smile, no joy to equal my own?” The words came out terribly twisted.

“It’s because of Nicole,” Lindley said heavily. “Isn’t it?”

Nick looked at him. “How in hell—”

“I found out recently. She made me promise not to tell you. I’m sorry, Nick, but she twisted me around her finger, and once I gave her my word I couldn’t go back on it.”

“You son of a bitch,” the earl managed, shocked. “You weren’t going to tell me I had a daughter? You? My only goddamn friend?”

Lindley rubbed his face. “I was going to try to persuade Jane to tell you herself,” he said.

That eased some of the pain, but a bitter residue was left nonetheless.

“You don’t have to marry her,” Lindley said. “You don’t have to go that far. She … wants to marry you?” His tone was fearful.

The earl felt a soaring jealousy and suddenly disliked his friend intensely. “I am marrying her. I am adopting Nicole and raising her in my household. And no, Jane does not want to marry me, so you can relax. She hates the very idea.”

Relief was visible on Lindley’s features. “But if she isn’t willing—”

“She is my ward. I gave her no choice.”

Lindley was horrified. “Surely you won’t marry her against her will!”

“No?” Nick laughed. “Try me, damn it, just try me.” He lunged to his feet. “Tell me something, Lindley. Am I marrying your mistress?” His lips were twisted in a parody of a smile.

Lindley just stared up at him, then finally shook his head. “No. No.”

The earl turned away abruptly. For the first time in his life, he did not trust Lindley. He doubted him and was sure that he was lying. He wanted to smash something. Preferably her.

She didn’t want him.

As he waited for his coach to be brought round, he was assailed with the inescapable fact. She didn’t want him. Like Patricia, she despised him. Like Patricia, she had left him. Like Patricia, she had hurt him. And once again, he was entering the shackles of marriage to a hate-filled spouse.

But this time he did not love his wife. This time he despised her too.

34

They went directly from the wedding ceremony, attended only by Molly and Lindley, Nicole and Chad and Governess Randall, to the house on Tavistock Square. All of Jane and Nicole’s belongings had been packed that week and sent over earlier that day. In deference to Jane, who was Anglican, a minister had presided at the ceremony. Jane was too numb and weary from the past week, too filled with anxiety and frustration, too bitter, to even consider this small display of sensitivity on her groom’s part.

Now Jane held Nicole tightly and stood in the hallway upstairs in the master wing of the town house. Her husband, who had not smiled even once, who even now appeared angry and glowering, was beside her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. One of the servants was moving a final trunk into her rooms. Jane ignored the earl, although she felt his gaze upon her, and stepped within her sitting room.

It was large and luxuriously appointed, not that she had doubted it would be anything less. There were two doors leading from it, one on either side of the room. Her apprehension was great. Jane moved across the thick Persian carpet to open one, which led to her bedroom, dominated by a damask-canopied bed. With a quick glance around, she stepped back into the sitting room, where her husband now stood, frozen like a statue. She ignored him, although her heart was beating mercilessly, and found that the other door opened onto a marble-floored water closet complete with pedestal tub and running water. Where was his bedroom? Surely he remembered their arrangement?

“Satisfied?” he queried sarcastically.

She faced him squarely. “Where are your rooms?”

He smiled mockingly. “Changing your mind already, Jane?”

She lifted her nose in the air. “To the contrary. I want to make sure the door between us is locked.”

His gray eyes flashed. Without a word, he turned and strode out, slamming the door behind him. Nicole started to cry.

“Hush,” Jane said, caressing her hair. “It’s all right. He isn’t mad at you.” She was stricken with remorse for her cruelty and wished she had a heart of iron to fortify herself with.

That afternoon she took dinner alone, her husband having disappeared. Jane was too proud even to ask Thomas where he had gone to, and told herself she did not care. She ran into him in the hallway that evening after her bath. She was in a dressing gown, getting ready to go to the theater for the night’s performance. She needed a glass of milk to settle her stomach. She was always nervous before a performance, but never had her nerves been so taut. She told herself it was because of this past week—attendance was dropping at the Criterion every night. The play had only been running six weeks, and this was not a good sign. Only once last week had the house been nearly full. Robert had told her he was afraid the show had peaked and was on its last legs.

Jane was not ready to finish the run. Never had she been so good in her role. Although the critics had not seemed to notice her improvement—in fact, they had barely mentioned her all week, and only to compare her beauty to her mother’s. Worse, she had an agreement with her husband— if the performance closed down, she would have to go to Dragmore for the next three months. This she absolutely dreaded.

They met on the stairs, she going up, a glass of milk in hand, he coming down. At first they were both startled to see each other. Then he nodded; she nodded. They passed without touching, making an obvious effort not to, and without a word. He was dressed elegantly for an evening out. It was tense and awkward between them. Jane did not feel like a wife, not like the mistress of the house. She felt like an unwanted guest, an intruder. She wondered where he was going— worse, with whom?

That night she had never been better—but she played to only half a house.

Afterward Robert consoled her in her dressing room. “Jane, you are growing dramatically as an actress. I can see you improving with each performance.”

“Then how come nobody is coming?” She was tired and she slumped in front of her dressing mirror. She did not want to go home to the earl’s house. She wished she was going home to her own cozy house on Gloucester Street.

“Every show has a life of its own,” Gordon said. “Don’t worry, we can find you another role as soon as this closes.”

Jane just looked at him. She was too weary to explain to him she would have to take a three-month “holiday.”

That evening Jane gave Gordon a lift home in the Dragmore carriage with its black-and-gold crest. Before exiting, he leaned to her. “Is everything all right, Jane?”

She knew to what, and to whom, he referred. She managed a smile. “I suppose so.”

“If you need anything,” he said earnestly, “don’t hesitate.”

Gratitude flooded her. She was so lucky to have a real friend whom she could rely on. “Thank you.”

Shortly after, Thomas let her in, impeccable despite the hour, which was just short of midnight. While he served her a light supper, Jane had to casually ask if the earl was asleep. Thomas’s expression was carefully blank. “No, my lady.”

Jane was careful to stare down at her carrots as she forked them. “He is in the library, then?” Not that she cared where he was.

“He is still out,” Thomas said.

Jane was very tired, but decided to read for a while after checking on Nicole. She sat on a chintz-covered chaise in her sitting room, the door slightly ajar. She had learned that afternoon that his apartments were just down the hall from hers, and it would be impossible not to hear him when he returned, for he would have to pass her rooms. Of course, she was not waiting up for him, nor did she care when he came in. She found herself listening to the night, however, not reading. And there were no footsteps upon the stairs, no carriage wheels spinning on the gravel outside. Annoyed, Jane snapped her book shut and glanced at the malachite-framed clock. It was 2
A.M
.

Yet when she finally heard the carriage, the horses, and voices outside her window, which was open, she reached for the clock and brought it close to gaze at it in the starlight. She could dimly make out its face—it was four-thirty.

She rolled onto her stomach, feeling an acute stabbing that was distinctly hurtful. Of course he had mistresses, of course he would see them. It was not her business. Indeed, she had given him her permission to do as he chose. But why, oh why, did it have to hurt so much?

Jane never slept late despite her vocation and usually arose around eight. She did not expect to see the earl, recalling how at Dragmore he was up with the sun and gone shortly thereafter. Of course, in Sussex he was not out all night long with paramours. Therefore, it should not have stopped her in her tracks to see him sitting at the big gilt dining table with the London
Times.

Her heart skipped a few beats. He barely glanced at her. There were two other settings on the table, one used and abandoned. With a start, Jane realized Chad must take breakfast with his father. She had seen him yesterday to say hello, and had been stunned at the difference two years could make. He was quite the seven-year-old imp now, and he had been delighted to see her and thrilled to have her marrying his father. At least one member of the family was happy with the circumstances, Jane thought grimly.

She sat on the earl’s right. He said nothing, just cracked his paper once. To not even exchange civil good mornings was too much as far as Jane was concerned. “Good morning,” she said, not looking at him and pouring herself coffee from a silver pot.

He grunted.

Jane helped herself to a croissant. As she buttered it, not looking at him, she said, perversely, “Did you have a pleasant time last evening?”

“Very.”

Bastard, she thought, buttering the bread with vigor now. He laid aside his paper and penetrated her with a look. “And you?”

“Just wonderful,” she said calmly. “May I?” She gestured to the
Times.

He leaned back indolently in his chair, which reminded Jane of a throne with its high scrolled back and clawed arms. Jane took the paper and searched for the theater reviews. A headline in the social column screamed out at her: LORD OF DARKNESS WEDS LONDON’S ANGEL! She gasped, fixing him with big blue eyes.

He smiled. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you used to notoriety by now?”

His tone was hurtful. Deliberately, calmly, she closed the paper and set it back where it had come from, near his right hand. “Exactly what are you insinuating?”

“Am I insinuating anything?”

“I think so.”

“You tell me.”

“I think, sir, that you are a boor.”

He laughed. His teeth were so very white. “So I’ve been told.” He rose abruptly to his feet.
“Bon appetit
, Jane.”