Her Husband's Harlot (11 page)

"It
is not the amount that concerns me, but the pattern," Jibotts was saying.

Nicholas
pulled himself back to the present. "What pattern?"

"In
the past two months, I have noticed similar discrepancies. On three separate
occasions, small items have gone missing—minor enough that it would be
overlooked by most."

Nicholas
felt his lips twitch. "By most, but not by you, eh Jibotts?"

The steward
calmly wiped his spectacles on a handkerchief. "I do believe in keeping
the house in precise order, my lord."

"You
are to be commended on your precision, of course," Nicholas said. He meant
it. Rare indeed was the steward who could keep track of a missing sack or two in
a busy warehouse—and rarer still the one who wasn't filching the said sack
himself. Jibotts was as honest as he was particular.

"Thank
you, my lord. How would you like me to proceed?"

"An
inside job, I presume?"

"Yes.
This isn't the work of mud larks or petty thieves. The goods go missing after
they arrive. There are no signs of entry, forced or otherwise."

"A
porter with sticky fingers, then." Nicholas drummed his fingers on the
desk. "We cannot allow that to continue. We will have to ferret him out."

"Yes,
sir. Shall I contact Mr. Ambrose Kent?"

Nicholas
frowned. A well-regarded member of the Thames River Police, Ambrose Kent was a
man to be trusted in situations such as these. Kent had proven helpful once
before, when goods had mysteriously gone missing from a guarded vessel. Kent
had run surveillance on the ship and within three days captured the gang of
villains involved. Unbeknownst to the guards, their coffee had been laced with
a sleeping draught—they had dreamed away blissfully while the thieves made off
with the cargo.

Despite
Kent's considerable skills, Nicholas hesitated. Because of his history, he had
no liking for Charleys, thief takers, or others who sought to enforce the law
for profit. There was something about Kent that made him uneasy; likely it was
the zealous, single-minded determination to see justice through. Those pale
eyes seemed to miss nothing, seemed to pierce into the recesses of one's soul
...

He
shuddered. God help him if Kent was to discover the crimes in his past.

"Lord
Harteford?"

Nicholas
shook off his fanciful imaginings. Kent had no other-worldly powers; he was
just a man who did his job well. In this circumstance, competence was something
to be respected, not feared. "Yes, get in touch with Kent and set up a meeting. I would like to speak with him personally. In the meantime, keep an eye
on Isaac Bragg."

"My
lord?"

"I
saw him earlier on the docks. I haven't any proof, but my gut tells me the man
is up to mischief. See that he is carefully monitored."

"Of
course. I will see to it personally." Jibotts scratched into his notebook.
He adjusted his spectacles and looked expectantly at Nicholas. "Is there
anything else, my lord?"

Nicholas
paused, picking up the paperweight on his desk. It had become a habit, hefting
the smooth dome between his palms. Inside the clear glass, brightly twisted
ropes of colored glass had been cut cross-wise, the effect resembling a field
of tiny wildflowers frozen in time.
Millefiori
, Helena had called it, some
sort of glass-making technique. He remembered her shy smile as she'd presented the
weight to him at their wedding breakfast.

He
heard himself saying, "There is one thing."

"Yes?"
Quill poised above the notebook, Jibotts cocked his head.

"I
would like your opinion on a matter."

"Of
course, my lord."

"You
have been married for some time, have you not?"

The
steward's quill quivered. "I beg your pardon?"

"I
take it there has been a Mrs. Jibotts for many years," Nicholas said
impatiently.

Jibotts
gave an uncertain nod.

"So
you must, therefore, have some experience with the workings of the female mind."

"Oh,
sir, I wouldn't say that," Jibotts protested.

"In
your experience, why does a woman change her mind?"

Nicholas
had never seen Jibotts flummoxed before. The man was as straight as a stick
pin, always direct to the point. But now the steward was looking at him, his
mouth hanging slightly open, but no words emerging.

"You
have been married for some time," Nicholas repeated. "Surely there
have been occasions when Mrs. Jibotts experiences a sudden change of heart,
with no logical explanation whatsoever?"

It
took a moment for Jibotts to recover himself. He carefully closed his notebook
and put away the pen. "You are asking about my personal experience, sir?
Within the matrimonial realm."

"Precisely,"
Nicholas said, feeling the reddening of his cheekbones. Thank God the man
finally caught on. He did not know how much longer he could continue with this
line of discussion. It was damned uncomfortable.

"In
my twenty years of marriage, I have come to the conclusion that a woman's mind
does not work like a man's," Jibotts said.

"You
are hardly blowing the gaff on that one," Nicholas muttered.

"However,"
Jibotts continued, holding up a finger, "it is a mind to be reckoned with
nonetheless. Take Mrs. Jibotts, for example. A mild-mannered lady who never
raises her voice. In fact, her genteel disposition was one of the reasons why I
married her."

"How
fortunate for you," Nicholas said.

Jibotts
shook his head, clearly warming to his subject. "Alas, one can never
predict a woman's fancy. Gentle as Mrs. Jibotts may seem, when she decides upon
a thing, it will be done. Last year, she took it to her head that the parlor
needed redecorating. It was a perfectly fine parlor, mind you. But there was no
peace to be had until she had spent twenty pounds—
twenty pounds
, by God—changing
this thing and that. Now I dine amidst chartreuse brocade and oriental birds."

"Chartreuse?"

"A
shade of green," Jibotts clarified glumly. "The color of a seaman's
face before he casts up his accounts."

Nicholas
could not think of what to say for a moment. This is what he had to look
forward to—furniture the color of nausea? "Surely there must be a way to dissuade
one's wife from, ah, irrational behavior."

"None
whatsoever. And in matters of a domestic nature, I caution you not to try."

"There
must be some remedy," Nicholas insisted, "some strategy that you have
gainfully employed."

A
strange expression passed over the steward's face, which suddenly turned pink.
Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

"So
there is something to be done," Nicholas said with some relief. "Well,
spit it out, man."

Jibotts
hesitated, his flush deepening. "It is not so much something to
do
,
sir ..."

"Yes?"

"But
more
when
not to do it. A Fabian tactic, if you will."

"What
the hell is that?"

"A
delaying maneuver." Jibotts' spectacles were beginning to fog. For once
the steward lost his perfect posture—he was slouching low in the chair, as if
he wished he could find a way to slip out of the conversation altogether. "I
have found it best in my interactions with Mrs. Jibotts to avoid certain times
when the
irrationality
as you so delicately put it is particularly
evident."

"You
are not making an ounce of sense," Nicholas said.

"It
is prudent, shall we say, to avoid discussion altogether during certain, ahem,
times?"

Nicholas'
brows knitted together. "I don't understand. To what times do you refer?"

"Blimey."
Jibotts expelled a sigh. "Certain times, of the ... 
month
?"

All
at once, the steward's meaning became clear. Nicholas felt his neck burn beneath
his collar.

"I
see," he said. An awkward silence followed. "Well, er, thank you for
your input, Jibotts."

The
other man mopped his brow. "You are welcome, my lord. If there's nothing
else, I will attend to my duties."

Nicholas
watched the steward's rapid retreat with some relief. At least some of Helena's
behavior now made sense. Helena's momentary insanity was due to her ... womanly
constitution. Why didn't he think of it himself? He frowned, realizing there
was a perfectly good reason why: he had never had to deal so intimately with a
female before. While he had visited women in the past—at his convenience and
theirs—he had never kept a regular mistress. He preferred his affairs simple. Rarely
did he stay the night, and never did he have to manage conversation over
breakfast the next morning.

But
now he was
living
with a woman, for Christ's sake. Though he planned to
minimize his interactions with his wife, he knew he couldn't avoid her entirely.
At least, not without the risk of hurting her feelings, and that was the last
thing he wanted. It struck him that if he wished to have any semblance of peace
in his life, he would have to establish the kind of marriage valued amongst the
ton
. One that was civil yet cool. Sophisticated and bloodless.

One
that was the very opposite of what he yearned for.

It
was, however, the logical solution for the time being. Logic further dictated
that if Helena's volatile behavior was due to her monthly flux, then
after
the blasted time had passed, surely she would return to the demure lady he had
married. His brow eased. Of course. It was but a temporary madness. Likely, she
was even now feeling sorry for what she had put him through over the silly
party. Poor little thing probably felt mortified over the way she had taken him
to task.

Feeling
somewhat better, Nicholas decided he could take the high road in this instance.
He would attend the musicale at the end of week and play the dutiful husband. Perhaps
if his wife wasn't feeling too indisposed because of her condition, he might solicit
a dance. He had never enjoyed dancing, but he knew she did. He would make it a
priority to restore their relationship to its previous state of courteous equilibrium.

He
heaved a sigh. Given his shortcomings, it was the least he could do.

"Cecily
has quite outdone herself this year, don't you agree Helena? She tells me the
champagne fountain is quite
en vogue
in Paris this year, which is why
her chef—French, you know—insisted upon it. He added crushed strawberries to
color the champagne pink. Is that not the cleverest thing you have ever heard?"

Seated
on a settee next to her mother, Helena nodded absent-mindedly. Guests eddied around
them, chatting and laughing, enjoying the intermission between dinner and the
impending musical entertainments. Her attention was on the receiving line. The
butler had announced a flurry of names, not one of them Nicholas'. Where was
he? Had he decided to stay away from the musicale after all? He had promised to
come, but perhaps he had said so only to placate her. Perhaps he was angry at
her for insisting on his presence.

She
felt the tremor of a headache at her temples.

"I
have always admired the design of Cecily's house. So very convenient for
entertaining," her mama enthused. "Why, with all the doors folded
back and the rooms flowing into one another, it is as large as one of the
fields at Vauxhall!"

Helena
forced a smile.

Why
oh why had she railed at Nicholas like a termagant? Ever since the confrontation
in the drawing room, she had berated herself over her most indecorous behavior.
No man liked to be taken to task by his wife. Novice to marriage that she was,
even she understood that. If her goal was to win her husband's heart, why had
she acted in so foolish a manner?

Her
fingers twisted in the fringes of her cashmere shawl. Because she had been
angry, that was why. Furious as she had never been in her entire existence. As
if all the failures of her life had hit her at once, and she had been
tired
of
waiting for dreams that never materialized. Anger and desperation had made her
reckless. Now, thanks to her rash behavior, she had made a mull of her marriage
in more ways than one. Bad enough that she had seduced her husband masquerading
as a harlot—now she had managed to enrage him acting as a wife.

Good
heavens, could matters get any worse?

"Whatever
is the matter with you tonight, Helena?" Countess Northgate asked.

Helena
blinked. It was not her mother's habit to take notice of her state of mind.
Growing up, she had daydreamed for hours while her parent chattered on (ironically,
usually about the importance of etiquette). She really must compose herself if
Mama perceived that something was amiss.

"Nothing
is the matter," Helena said, summoning a bright smile. "I was just,
er, thinking about household concerns."

"Now
that you are a married lady, I hasten to remind you that
keen attention
lies at the heart of a happy marriage. However will you learn to please your
husband, if your head remains forever in the clouds?"