Authors: Teresa Grant

His Spanish Bride (8 page)

BOOK: His Spanish Bride

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“Yes. No.” She lifted her head to look down at him, qualms driven out by the needs of the investigation. “Darling, I hate to agree with Edward Linford, but I think he’s right that William Haddon didn’t send the blackmail letter.”

Malcolm’s gaze locked on her own. Talk about revealing. She’d just speculated about the investigation moments after making love to her husband. She saw surprise flicker through his gaze, followed by consideration, and then something that might have been appreciation. His shoulders shook, and he began to laugh.

“M
rs. Rannoch. What a lovely surprise.” Charlotte Haddon got to her feet as the footman showed Suzanne into her drawing room. She held a little girl of about two or so (Suzanne wasn’t used to judging) in her arms. A boy a year or so older clung to her skirts. “My daughter Jane and my son Liam.” Charlotte’s face was softer and more animated than usual as she looked at the children.

Liam made a bow. Jane buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, then peeped out at Suzanne. Six more months, Suzanne realized, shaking Liam’s proffered hand and smiling at Jane. Six more months and the child growing inside her would not be just a source of concern, an unknown quantity that was part of the equation of the future, but a small person in his or her own right. How on earth was she going to manage? And how rather wonderful that she was going to have the opportunity to try.

Liam gave her a considering look. “My mama and papa went to your wedding. You married Mr. Rannoch.”

“So I did.”

“He’s nice. He made me a paper boat.”

Suzanne blinked at the picture that formed in her mind, Malcolm bending over not Liam but a shadowy child who was not yet born. “I learn new things about my husband every day.”

Liam grinned. The nurse came in a few moments later to whisk the children off to the nursery.

“They’re delightful,” Suzanne said as the door closed behind nurse and children.

“They’re one of the compensations of marriage,” Charlotte said, with a smile that was less ironic than usual. She regarded Suzanne for a moment. “I know we both deplore clichés, but in truth you still have the glow of a happy bride.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I don’t say things to be kind. I’m much too cynical. Do sit down.” Charlotte waved a hand toward the sofa and shield-back chairs that stood before the fireplace. They seated themselves and went through the time-consuming rituals of aristocratic life to which Suzanne was learning to accustom herself. Removing gloves. Waiting for the footman to bring in a tea tray and for Charlotte to fill translucent porcelain cups and offer milk or lemon. All the while making polite conversation. Charlotte Haddon might be a cynic and a bit of a rebel, but she observed the forms.

“Mrs. Haddon.” Suzanne stirred milk into her tea. All the fussing with the tea things did give one something useful to do with one’s hands. “You perhaps know that my husband sometimes undertakes certain . . . errands . . . beyond the usual diplomatic line.”

“You mean he’s a spy?” Charlotte took a sip from her own cup. “Yes, it’s one of the things that make him interesting.”

“Recently Charles Stuart charged Malcolm with recovering a certain letter that he feared could cause no end of repercussions.”

Porcelain clattered as Charlotte returned her cup to its saucer. “Your husband trusts you a great deal.”

“I rather stumbled into the middle of this.”

Charlotte stared at the tea that had sloshed into her saucer. “How much do you know?”

“For a certainty? Very little. But I can tell you what I surmise.”

Charlotte lifted her cup with an iron grip and took a determined sip. “Do, pray, enlighten me.”

“You took the letter—perhaps you stumbled upon it. You saw a chance to protect your own reputation and to make Edward Linford pay for his faithlessness. You tried to get him to exchange the letter for the book in which he records his amorous conquests.”

Charlotte gave a harsh laugh. “It wasn’t just my own reputation—though I confess I have a healthy sense of self-preservation. It’s appalling, the risk at which he puts his lovers by keeping such a record.” She splashed more tea into her cup. “It makes me ill now to think I ever let him touch me.”

“And yet what better way to pay your husband back.”

Charlotte set the teapot down, rattling the china. “It chips away at you. You look at him over the eggs and kippered herring and realize he isn’t quite the fairy-tale print you imagined. You glance across a ballroom two months into your marriage and see him flirting with another woman. You smell a perfume on him that isn’t your own. Glimpse a trace of lip rouge on his cravat. See him slip out onto the terrace with one of your childhood friends. And you realize you’ve stopped counting the number of infidelities. A little piece of yourself goes with each. Until one day you find you don’t much like the person who’s left. And when you’ve lost your self-respect, what does it matter taking a lover you can’t respect, either?”

Suzanne swallowed. It wasn’t her life at all. Save for that bit about pieces of oneself being chipped away. That resonated. “Is that when you learned about the notebook?” she asked.

“No. That was after our affair ended. I overheard two of my husband’s fellow officers talking. I realized the risk at which the notebook put me. And other women.” Charlotte picked up her cup and blew on the steam. “Then I went into the library at an embassy rout to escape the sight of my husband and his latest conquest and saw a corner of paper peeping out from a book on a table. I opened the book to look at it because I was seeking distraction. When I realized what it was, I snatched it up because it seemed all too likely to fall into other hands. I meant to return it to Isabella with a warning about trusting herself to a man like Linford. I thought I would let her know about his notebook. Then I thought more about the book and what use I could put the letter to.” She took a sip of tea. “Isabella must have been distressed. I’m sorry for that.”

“And the man you sent to retrieve the book? You must have trusted him a great deal.”

Charlotte pulled the folds of her paisley shawl about her. “My husband’s cousin. He’s recently bought a commission. He’s stationed in Lisbon this winter and is staying with us.”

“I presume you have reason to believe he’s more loyal to you than to your husband?”

“Yes.”

Suzanne reached for her silver teaspoon. “I’m glad you’ve found loyalty. I hope you find more.”

A faint smile curved Charlotte’s mouth and drove some of the discontent from her eyes. “One must learn to snatch happiness where it can be found. I confess I find I dislike myself rather less when I’m with him.” She set down her cup and regarded Suzanne. “What now?”

“If you understand the threat that book contains, you understand Isabella Flores needs her letter back. But I think we can both agree the book should be destroyed.”

“You think you can persuade Linford of that?”

“I think we can leave that to Malcolm. My husband is very resourceful.”

“The letter’s gone.”

Edward Linford stared at Malcolm across the attachés’ sitting room in the British embassy. “Who—”

“Never mind, Linford. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. More to the point, Isabella Flores doesn’t have to worry about it. Did you bring the book?”

“Er—yes.” Linford reached beneath his coat. “But I don’t see—”

“Thank you.” Malcolm twitched the notebook from Linford’s fingers, crossed the room in two strides, and dropped the book into the fire.

“What the devil—” Linford lunged forward.

Malcolm grabbed his arm. “I won’t waste breath telling you to stop your rutting ways, Linford. But so help me, if you endanger British security, not to mention the reputations of your lovers, with any more foolish records, I’ll make sure Wellington knows every damned one of your indiscretions and precisely how you put your country’s interests at risk.”

“Don’t preach morality at me.”

“I’m not.” Malcolm grabbed the poker and jabbed it into the charred remnants of Linford’s catalogue. “I’m preaching common sense.”

Malcolm stepped into the sitting room in his lodgings to find Suzanne—his wife—holding a print of Lisbon Harbor up against the wall. Cool winter sunlight spilled over the floorboards and nestled into the dove gray folds of her gown. The breath stopped in his throat. Three days married, and it still shook him to the core simply to look across the room at her. Especially in his lodgings, where he confronted the wondrous and terrifying fact that he was no longer alone.

Suzanne turned round and met his gaze, hugging the framed print against her chest. “Well?”

He closed the door and grinned at her. For some reason he was reminded of the time he and his friend David Mallinson had outwitted one of the chief bullies at Harrow without raising a fist. “So much in life is gray and uncertain. It’s very satisfying to face an enemy one can vanquish with unqualified satisfaction.”

She set down the print and walked toward him with a smile. Dear God, would he ever get used to her smiles? “Are you sure you should dignify Linford by calling him an enemy?” she asked.

“Given his mood when I left him just now, I think that’s how he’d characterize me.”

Suzanne stopped in front of him. A bit of sheer muslin was tucked into the neck of her gown to frame her face. Bits of dark hair escaped their simple knot and fell over her forehead. She had a smudge on her cheek. “You can’t be sure Linford won’t start another journal.”

“We can’t be sure of anything.” He tugged the glove off his right hand and wiped the smudge from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I might have worked it out on my own that Charlotte had taken the paper. I like to think I’d have done. But even if I had I doubt I could have got her to confess the whole.”

Suzanne’s gaze flickered over his face. “What are you saying?”

He set his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. This woman to whom he had bound his life, still a stranger in so many ways, yet with an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. His mouth was dry, but somehow the words came out with surprising ease. “That I need you.”

She swallowed. Her eyes looked even more luminous than usual. “Thank you.”

He kissed her nose. “I’m the one who owes you my thanks, sweetheart.” For any number of things. Most of which he couldn’t put into words. Could scarcely even articulate to himself. But they were there on the edge of his consciousness. Dangerous possibilities. He tore his gaze from her and glanced round the room. Two more prints leaned against the bookcase. “You’ve been shopping.”

“Addison helped me find a printshop. It’s quite a nice room, but I thought the walls were a bit bare.” She stepped back and scanned his face. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t? I didn’t think—I should have checked with you first—”

“On the contrary. I told you to do as you wished.”

“It’s your home. I don’t want to change—”

“It’s our home.” He glanced at the bare walls of the rooms he had inhabited for the past four years, then looked back at his wife. “And it could use a change.”

S
uzanne knelt before the altar in the chapel of San Juan and crossed herself. She might be quite without religious feeling, but one couldn’t help but feel the beauty of the altar table. The deep carnelian of the cornices, the gleaming lapis lazuli of the front piece, the sparkle of the central surface of jasper inlaid with porphyry and amethyst. Very different from the oak table before which she had taken her wedding vows only four days before. She got to her feet, the folds of her mantilla shadowing her face, and moved aside to make room for a party of English officers who had entered the chapel, tour books in hand. The chapel of San Juan, all mosaic save for the altar table, was considered one of the wonders of Lisbon. She moved into the shadows to the side, beneath a mosaic of the Pentecost.

A few moments later another party of tourists came into the chapel. A greatcoated figure, who had at first appeared part of the group, detached himself from their wake and moved into the shadows beside her.

“We have the letter back,” Suzanne said. “Linford’s useless hide is saved. More to the point, Isabella Flores and his other lovers are protected from his thoughtlessness.”

“My compliments,” Raoul said.

“It was at least half Malcolm’s work.”

“You evidently make a good team.”

She drew a breath of the cool, still air. Her throat had turned raw. “Irony of ironies.”

“And other developments?” Raoul asked in a quiet voice.

“The wedding came off smoothly.”

“And?” Raoul said. She could feel his gaze on her in the shadows.

The English officers were arguing loudly over the orthography of the Church of St. Roque in which the chapel of San Juan stood. She drew another breath. “It isn’t at all as I suspected. It—it means more to him than I realized.”

“It?”

“Marriage.” She realized her gloved fingers had curled into knots against the corded lustring of her gown. She forced them to relax.

“So you can’t remain as detached as you anticipated?”

She could feel the weight of Malcolm’s arms round her last night, the way his fingers tangled in her hair, the way he’d turn his head to kiss her temple on waking. Not that any of that was anything she could go into with Raoul. Not that it could matter. “I’ll be all right. It was bound to be an adjustment.”

“If you have qualms—”

“You can’t think I’d run now.” She could feel a betraying pressure behind her eyes. Tears. Damnation. She forced a smile to her face. “It’s just getting interesting.”

“Querida—”

“I’m fine.”
Her hands locked together so tight she could feel the scrape of bone against bone through her gloves. She forced them to unclench, put up a hand to smooth the lace at the neck of her gown, and palmed the paper tucked into her corset. “I think you’ll find this of interest.” She slipped the paper, her notes from the discussion about troop disposition over dinner the night of their wedding, into his hand. “Any new instructions?” She managed to keep her voice level.

“Simply to keep your ears open. You need time to settle in.”

“I need to keep busy.” She gathered up her skirts, then turned back to him. “Raoul?” It would have been far safer not to speak, but somehow the words spilled from her lips. “Did you know Malcolm played the pianoforte?”

Raoul was silent for the length of a measure of music. “Yes. Very well as I recall. Though as with much about him, I don’t think it’s something he shares easily.”

“It isn’t easy to share things.”

“No. But then what in life that matters is?” He lifted a hand in the shadows, then let it fall to his side. “Take care of yourself,
querida
.”

The band was blaring “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” outside the embassy. The sound filled the drawing room where a log fire crackled in the grate, bows of greenery hung on the walls, and the smell of spiced wine drifted in the air. The hallmarks of an English Christmas. For a moment Suzanne was standing in the passage outside the attachés’ sitting room again, looking up into Malcolm’s gray gaze, leaning in for his kiss. She found herself smiling as the sound took her back to her betrothal. Damnation. Was she actually being sentimental about the day she had agreed to be Malcolm’s wife? It was all very well to try to find the reality in a part, but surely this was taking it too far. Surely—

“Mrs. Rannoch.”

Isabella Flores dropped down beside her in a swirl of dark green silk. “I wanted to thank you. For everything you and your husband did. I know how very foolish I was.”

Suzanne smiled at the other woman. The hunted look was gone from Isabella’s eyes. “I’m glad everything worked out.”

Isabella cast a quick glance across the room. “I don’t know—That is—” Her gaze focused on her husband, who stood next to the fireplace talking to Stuart. Flores turned his head and met her gaze for a moment. A smile crossed his face. Isabella echoed the smile, then turned back to Suzanne with a flush like a schoolgirl. “My husband has been very kind these past few days. No, more than that. He’s always kind. These past days he’s been attentive.”

Suzanne pictured Malcolm pulling out a book he thought she might like, bringing her a cup of coffee in the morning, putting a cool cloth on the back of her neck when the baby made her queasy. “Attention can mean a great deal.”

Isabella nodded. “He suggested we dine at home last week, just the two of us. I thought it would be ghastly—I couldn’t imagine what we’d find to say to even get us through the fish course. But he began by asking me about my day and I don’t how it happened precisely, but there we were chatting about music and the theatre and poetry—which it seems he likes as much as I do. Well, he claims Lord Byron is a pretentious poseur. He met him when he was in Lisbon—Byron, that is. It was just before I came to Lisbon to my endless regret. But in any case I had quite a lively time trying to argue him out of his opinion. We agreed we’d have to read some of Byron’s poems together. Before I knew it, the footmen were setting out cheese and oranges.”

Suzanne smoothed her hands over the claret velvet of her skirt. “Sometimes one has to talk to a person to see what’s beneath the surface.”

“Yes. We haven’t had an evening alone since then, but even our brief snatches of conversation are more interesting. He brought me flowers yesterday.” Isabella tucked a ringlet behind her ear. “It almost feels like being courted.”

“For the first time?”

“Well, yes. He never really did court me. Simply asked my father for my hand.”

Suzanne’s gaze drifted toward her own husband, who had just strolled through the door with Fitzroy Somerset. Ten to one Fitzroy had found him in the library. “Marriages can change.”

“Yes, I used to think marriage was an ending. Now I’m thinking perhaps it could be a beginning.” Isabella’s hands curled inward. “Oh, I was a fool ever to look twice at—”

“Don’t look back.” Suzanne laid a hand over Isabella’s own. “That way lies madness. This is the time to look forward.”

Isabella bit her lip. “Sometimes I’m almost happy, and then I feel this dreadful guilt welling up. Sometimes I think I owe it to him to tell him—”

“No.” Suzanne’s fingers tightened over Isabella’s gloved wrist. “All you would do is destroy him and yourself and your child.”

“But I’ve wronged—”

“You have a chance at happiness.”

“But I’m not sure that I deserve—”

“Your husband does.”

Uncertainty flickered through Isabella’s gaze. “When I look at him, I remember—”

“It will get easier.” And perhaps it would. Isabella’s betrayal of her husband was in the past.

Unlike Suzanne’s own.

Suzanne found Malcolm—her husband—standing by the windows with Fitzroy Somerset.

“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch,” Fitzroy said.

“Happy Christmas, Lord Fitzroy.” Suzanne smiled at him. He was secretary to the commander of the British forces, son of an English duke. The antithesis of everything she was fighting against. And a very thoughtful man.

“Must be off. Before Wellington left for Cádiz he left me with strict instructions about whom to keep happy. Enjoy your first English Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch. Don’t forget your promise, Malcolm.”

“What promise is that?” Suzanne said, watching Fitzroy move off.

“Just Fitzroy’s teasing.”

“I like him,” Suzanne said.

“Yes, Fitzroy’s a good man. Very tolerant of my eccentricities.”

Suzanne flashed a smile up at her husband and tucked her arm through his own. “There’s one good thing to come out of all this. Isabella Flores has realized her husband’s a much better man than Edward Linford. Which of course has brought on an upwelling of guilt.”

“I hope you’ve talked her out of the urge to confess.”

“I think I’ve convinced her some secrets are better left secrets.” She found herself pressing her face against Malcolm’s shoulder. “It’s comforting to know some marriages can change for the better.”

“I don’t think any marriage is static, for better or worse.” He glanced across the room. Charlotte Haddon was laughing with Lieutenant Sanderson, her husband’s cousin. “Charlotte seems happier since her husband’s been sent to Freneda.”

“Yes, she does.” Suzanne tilted her head back to look at him. “You wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with him being transferred, would you?”

“Before Wellington left for Cádiz, I might possibly have mentioned to him that Lisbon would be more peaceful with Haddon and Linford out of it.”

“You’re wonderful, Malcolm.”

“You’re biased.”

“Well, I am your wife.” The words still sounded strange, yet they came out with surprising ease.

Malcolm grinned and drew her forward. “Come on. I need your help.”

“To do what?”

“My promise to Fitzroy. I said I’d play the piano.”

“And you want me to turn the pages?”

“Oh no.” He turned to her with a smile that from him was as intimate as a kiss. “I thought we could play a duet.”

BOOK: His Spanish Bride

5.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub