Family Scandals (3 page)

“Hold on now, Waring,” Bromley’s voice stopped him.

Marcus shook his head and blinked, bringing the room into focus. Francis Teatherton stood beside Colonel Bromley, doubled over, clutching his stomach. His pale, weasel-like features were twisted in pain.

Colonel Bromley stood over him, his hand on Marcus’s chest, restraining him from further violence.

“What the hell are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded. “Who let you in?”

The colonel folded thick arms over a massive scarlet-covered chest and regarded him through eyes the same shade as obsidian. Having been the subject of the colonel’s censure before, Marcus ignored him, concentrating on the unwelcome presence of Lieutenant Teatherton.

“How did you get in?” he demanded again. “And don’t tell me Barnes let you in. He knows better.”

“He did, Major,” the colonel answered. “I insisted. And now I know you are alive and well, I shall save the conduct of my interview for a better location.” He looked to the young lieutenant and gestured toward the door. Still obviously in some discomfort, the young man straightened and turned toward the door. “Wait for me downstairs,” the colonel ordered.

Marcus watched him leave through narrowed eyes. Lieutenant Francis Teatherton had been a thorn in Marcus’s side since his arrival in Calcutta in January. Young, brash, and too full of himself, he tried to ingratiate himself with his superiors by becoming a tattler. Not many of the junior officers trusted him, but he quickly became Colonel Warner’s right-hand man. Thankfully, Colonel Bromley was Marcus’s superior officer and seemed to have little to do with the weasel. So, what were they doing in his rooms together?

The colonel waited until Teatherton’s footsteps faded before pinning Marcus with his dark gaze. “One hour. My office,” he snapped. Turning on his heel, he headed for the door, and threw over his shoulder, “Don’t be late.”

Then he was gone, and Marcus was left sitting in the middle of a soaking wet bed.

A few moments later, Barnes, his valet, hurried into the room.

“What do you mean, letting that scum Teatherton in here?” Marcus demanded, peeling the wet sheet away from his bare skin. Uncaring of his nakedness, he stood and dropped the wet material back onto the bed.

“I didn’t let him in. The colonel did,” Barnes defended himself. “I let the colonel in, but when I tried to keep the lieutenant out, the colonel overrode me. Said they were together.”

“Hmmph,” Marcus snorted. Going over to the washstand, he grabbed his brush and razor. Looking in the mirror, he noted more than his usual growth of stubble. “How long was I out this time?” he asked.

“Two days,” Barnes replied, laying out his small clothes, then retrieving a clean uniform from the armoire. “That woman left the next morning, but I made sure she left with exactly what she came with.”

Marcus grimaced as he shaved. Looking in the mirror, he wondered if anyone who knew him in London would recognize him. He had grown so thin, he looked almost gaunt. His face was a study in angles and planes, sun browned and weathered. His nose stood out on his face, as bold as that of the Sphinx, but sharper, situated between wide-spaced, dark brown eyes under dark brown brows. The Indian sun had lightened his coffee-colored hair and added golden streaks to it, reminding him of his brother and sister.

“She was none too happy,” Barnes continued. “Said when she was mistress, I would be the first to go.”

“And did she say when that would be?”

“Hmmph.” It was Barnes’s turn to snort. “
I
told
her
that would never happen.”

Marcus chuckled. He could see the little valet, who was as much friend as he was servant, telling his latest paramour she was whistling in the wind thinking that he, Marcus, would marry her.

But that was neither here nor there. Right now, he had to come up with an adequate explanation for Colonel Bromley to explain away the last two days. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have allowed Anjeh to talk him into taking the opium again. She insisted his performance in bed was incredible when he took it, but the last couple of times she had talked him into it, he had awakened more than a day later, unable to remember anything that passed between them. It was a feeling he didn’t like.

One of these days he wasn’t going to wake up. He had seen too many good men waste away to nothingness to allow himself to do that. But it seemed harmless enough to do every so often, except it was becoming more frequent. Perhaps he needed to give Barnes strict orders not to let him take the stuff again, but that made him feel as if he couldn’t control himself. And he was a better man than that.

Wasn’t he?

His stomach growled as Barnes carried in a tray. Steaming black coffee washed down the eggs and toast, appeasing him for the moment.

Exactly one hour later, washed, shaved, dressed, and with a full stomach, he was staring at Colonel Bromley in shock.

“Go home? But, why?”

Colonel Bromley sat behind a massive ebony desk with intricately carved sides depicting jungle scenes. The side Marcus sat facing showed a tiger in a tree, a hunter directly below about to fire the lethal shot. He knew how that tiger felt.

“You have been in India for how long? Eight years?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with it?”

“It’s time,” Bromley told him. “As I remember it, you have some unfinished business to attend to.”

Marcus blinked. Bromley picked up a glass and took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid. His dark hair was combed back from a wide forehead which was now creased with concern. A slightly bulbous nose dominated a clean-shaven face.

“That’s been waiting for eight years. What’s the hurry now?” He knew to what the colonel referred. His family situation wasn’t settled. He had left both parents very much alive in England eight years ago, only to be informed they had both died within months of his departure. He had known his father wasn’t well when he left, but his mother had been in perfect health and he suspected her death hadn’t been due to natural causes.

The first letter he received after arriving in India had been a posthumous one from his father. It had been written in anticipation of his death and instructed Marcus bluntly that he was not to return to England unless his brother or the family solicitor wrote to him. There had been no explanation of why, but Marcus had developed his own reasons for his father’s dictates. The letter from his sister informing him of his mother’s death had shaken him, but there was little he could do about it in India.

Letters to his brother and sister on the subject of his mother’s death remained unanswered, although they corresponded about other things. His brother was overseeing the estate he had been left by his father, and Marcus had his own intuition concerning his mother’s sudden demise, but knew he’d find no answers until he returned to England. Despite his curiosity, he had no real interest in returning to England. There was little enough for him to return to.

The colonel sat back in his chair and regarded the young man on the other side of the desk thoughtfully. One of his best officers, Major, then Captain, Waring had been devastated at the loss of his friend and fellow officer, Captain Camden, five years ago. He had nearly sent the captain home then, but he’d insisted he would be fine. And he had seemed so, for about a year.

Over the last four years, however, he had changed. Even being promoted to Major and receiving extra responsibilities hadn’t stopped the slow downward slide Colonel Bromley could now look back on and see had actually begun with Camden’s death. Then Lord Mayo had been murdered earlier this year on a trip to the Andaman Islands.

Not only had Major Waring been a strong supporter and right-hand man of Lord Mayo, but he had been there that fateful day in February. It had been Captain Camden all over again, and the similarities were too close for comfort. This time the effect had been immediate and obvious. Major Waring had descended into a depression. The regimental doctor had prescribed a local tonic for him. It seemed to help, but lately the major seemed to be taking more risks and walking a little too close to the edge.

The situation with his latest paramour was the final straw. Anjeh Daskarit was a lovely young widow. In England she would never have been accepted by the strata of society Major Waring moved in, but in Calcutta things were different, and as the widow of a minor Punjab officer, she was considered acceptable. Although she was well known, the colonel could not ever remember hearing her name linked with anyone’s until she became involved with Major Waring. And, if his sources were right, and they usually were, she was out to snare an English husband.

Major Lord Marcus Waring was perfect. He was still young, handsome, well-liked, rich, the brother of a duke, and, above all, titled and landed. It was no secret he was also unattached. His weakness was that he was soft-hearted when it came to women, and Anjeh had swiftly exploited that weakness.

“I realize, sir, you could simply order me home, but I thought we were beyond that,” Marcus said now. “Why don’t you just tell me what is going on.”

“Very little,” the colonel responded, “which is why I feel comfortable letting you go.” Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the polished surface of the desk, he stared at Marcus for a moment longer, then said, “And Madame Daskarit is beginning to make things a mite uncomfortable.”

“Anjeh?” A warning bell went off in Marcus’s head. What had Barnes said?
Said when she was mistress, I would be the first one to go.

“She’s claiming you are to be married.”

Marcus put his head in his hands. He wished dearly he could remember what happened between him and Anjeh two nights ago. Had they just had sex, or had he been beyond foolish? He wouldn’t marry her, at any rate. He had told her so at the outset of their affair. That she hadn’t believed him was not his concern, except now she was trying to force his hand. Well, he refused be forced.

Looking up at the colonel, he smiled humorlessly. “That’s highly unlikely, as I’m already married.”

Bromley’s mouth dropped open for a second before he snapped it shut. Marcus could see the speculation in his superior’s eyes before he shuttered them, too.

“What? But…but, when? Who?”

“It’s a long story, but the short of it is that Douglas Camden was my brother-in-law, as well as friend. I suppose some might call me a coward, but I couldn’t bear to return to England and face Amy after his death.”

“But that was five years ago!” the colonel exploded. “Don’t tell me you have been afraid to face a woman for that long. I won’t believe it.”

Marcus laughed. “No. I suppose the truth is that time has just slipped by, and I have let it.”

“Then you won’t let it slip by any longer,” Bromley said firmly. Opening the top drawer of his desk, he rummaged around for a moment, coming up with a sheet of paper. “Ah, here it is. Perfect.” Fixing Marcus with a stern look that brooked no opposition, he spoke as if pronouncing sentence. “There is a ship leaving for England at the end of the week. I will notify the captain you will be on it.”

Marcus recognized the tone. There was no gainsaying the colonel in this. It was time for him to leave India. Barnes, at least, would be ecstatic.

Why had he lied?

What made him make such a claim? Beyond the obvious reason of diverting Anjeh’s attention, that is.

Had he, unconsciously, wanted the colonel to send him packing?

Perhaps he had. He knew he was losing control. The blackouts had been increasing ever since he’d been seeing Anjeh. He had no doubt she was giving him more, and stronger, stuff. Perhaps she thought that in one of his stupors she might have convinced him to marry her. He smiled to himself. That was all water under the bridge now.

Walking back to his rooms, he was oblivious of the oppressive heat. It was something he had become used to. Would he re-acclimate himself to England as easily as he had become used to India? At least he would be near the sea.

His brother Brand was the Duke of Warringham and overseeing his estate on the Cornwall coast. St. Ayers. While he had known of its existence, he had never been there. Looking back, he realized it was the only part of the ducal holdings his father always traveled to alone. Even his mother had been left behind when his father visited that particular estate. And his father had left it to him.

The ducal holdings were vast enough that the loss of St. Ayers had probably not affected the income. And, according to Brand, it was self-supporting. Perhaps he would retire there and see if he could get his life back together.

Then, maybe, he would find himself a wife. He nearly laughed out loud as he remembered Colonel Bromley’s expression when he had told him he was already married. It had only been sort of true—five years ago.

Douglas Camden had been his best friend. The only one who understood he had never shared his mother’s aspirations of a ducal coronet for him. All he’d ever wanted was a commission. As the third son of a duke, it should have been obtainable. But it had been derailed by the disappearance of his two older brothers when he was still a baby. When his oldest brother, Bertrand, nicknamed Brand, had reappeared, so had his dreams, and his father had wasted no time in acquiring the commission he had so dearly wanted.

The sharp, pungent smell of curry and saffron wafted on the light breeze. He’d enjoyed the local cuisine while he was there, but he wouldn’t miss it when he returned home. There had been times when he would have given anything for a plain pudding.