Margaret Moore (27 page)

“My son is in his bedchamber. He is far too young to keep such late hours,” Elissa replied.

She knew she sounded pert and petulant, but she told herself she didn’t care what these people thought of her.

Lord Cheddersby sighed as if his life were a vale of tears. “I tell you, Richard, there has not been a decent play since you have left London—and I am not the only one who says so.”

“You flatter me, Foz.”

“No, I don’t! They are all lacking wit, or humor, or anything entertaining.”

“You mean no one has realized that for a play to be popular, there must be an excuse for an actress to display her legs?”

Lord Farrington chuckled. “I seem to recall you wrote one play without that requirement.”

“And a dismal failure it was, too.”

“I feel so responsible for that!” Lady Farrington said with a sigh.

She smiled at Elissa. “Did he tell you about his failed tragedy? Sadly, I understand I was his inspiration. Perhaps you will prove a better one.”

“I think not.”

Richard cleared his throat. “I have given up writing.”

“Foz told me some such nonsense,” Lord Farrington replied, “but I couldn’t believe it.”

“If so, I do think that would be a pity,” Lady Farrington said.

“You’ve only seen one of my plays,” Richard said to her.

“It was very amusing.”

“You didn’t think so at the time.”

As Elissa listened to their conversation indicating an acquaintance of long duration and some mtimacy, another cold, frightening, dreadful thought crept into her mind.

Just how intimate had Richard been with these people, especially Lady Farrington, for whom he had written a play?

Elissa rose abruptly, shoving her chair back so hard, it audibly scraped the floor. “Since it is growing late and I have never been to the
theater, I think I had better make sure that Will is safely in bed.”

As she marched from the room, his obviously confused friends simultaneously turned to regard Richard.

Richard knew full well that his guests suspected there was trouble between himself and his bride. Zounds, how could they not? Elissa had certainly made it plain enough. Even Foz now sensed the tension between them, just as surely as Will would tomorrow. The old pattern was repeating itself, something he had vowed to avoid at all costs.

As the awkward silence continued, he felt compelled to speak. “She is a very concerned mother,” he said, not willing to reveal anything of his true feelings, even to them.

“I knew that the first day, too!” Foz cried triumphantly.

“When is the baby due?”

Shocked and not quite comprehending, Richard stared at Arabella. “What did you say?”

Arabella flushed and glanced at her husband. “I thought from her glowing complexion … I assumed she was with child.”

Richard recovered himself sufficiently to speak with a measure of calm. “You are mistaken. She has not said anything of that to me.

“Oh, well, I must be wrong, then,” Arabella replied with a weak smile. “Perhaps it is only
that I want the two of you to be as happy as Neville and I.”

“Since this marriage came about by the king’s command and not through any mutual desire, you surely cannot expect such felicity here.”

“No, but we had hoped to find it nonetheless,” Neville said quietly.

Arabella rose. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, it has been a tiring day. I believe I should retire, too.”

“I’ll go with you,” her husband said, also standing. “Good night, Richard. No need to see us off in the morning, for I think we shall leave very early.”

Richard slowly got to his feet. He would hide how upset their obvious sadness and disappointment made him, just as he had always hidden his past, his hopes, and his dream of having a home full of love, respect, and happiness instead of hatred, immorality, and hypocrisy.

“It is not as if I keep London hours here,” he said, trying to achieve his usual sardonic tone. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” the couple bade him, and they left the room.

“Yes, well, I suppose I had better retire, too,” Foz muttered, toying with the lace on his cuff as he, too, got to his feet.

“What, no more gossip to share over a glass of wine?” Richard said, determined to act as if
all were well. “I have missed the scandalous doings of the court.”

Foz shrugged. “It’s only more of the same. Squabbles between the king and Lady Castlemaine, the queen is not yet pregnant, the Dutch are making trouble … you know. I, um, I am very tired, Richard. I think I should go to bed.”

“Good night,” Richard said evenly. Foz started toward the door, then hesitated and turned back. “Richard?” “What is it?”

“You recall my particular forte?”

For a moment, a wild surge of hope seemed to burst into Richard’s heart. “I recall that is unrequited love.”

Foz nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you see evidence of that here?” he asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

“No.”

Disappointment—stupid, childish, utterly ridiculous disappointment—momentarily possessed him.

“But there is something between you and your wife.” Foz rubbed his forehead. “If I were not such a dolt, I could describe it.”

“Would you call it animosity?”

“Ods bodikins, no!”

“Then give me your closest approximation.”

Foz frowned. “I don’t think you will agree.”

“Tell me.”

“I think you are both afraid.”

“What?” Richard scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Me, afraid of a woman?”

“Of
that
woman,” Foz said quietly.

“Why?”

Foz sighed and this time, rubbed his chin. “I think you care very much about her, and her opinion of you.”

“I have never given a fig for anybody’s opinion of me!”

“Perhaps not—until now,” Foz answered quietly.

“You’re mad!”

“No, I’m not.” Foz came closer and regarded his friend with pensive, sincere concern. “And I think she’s afraid of you.”

“That is the most insane thing of all! Why would she be afraid of me? I would never hurt a woman!”

“Of course I don’t mean you would ever lay a hand on her. It’s something … something quite different.”

“If this nonsense is all you have to say, I give you good night!”

Foz shook his head, then silently left the room.

T
he next morning, after waving farewell to his friends and watching their coach wend its way down the drive, Richard marched to the bedchamber.

He had not slept—or done anything—with Elissa last night, of course. Instead, he had made his bed on one of the settles in the withdrawing room, and a most uncomfortable bed it had been.

His visage grim and fiercely determined, he shoved open the door.

Elissa, who was in bed but not asleep, sat up, drawing the bedclothes up to her neck as she eyed her husband warily.

He said not a word, but went to his chest and threw open the lid. Still wordlessly, he pulled off his wrinkled jacket and tossed it over the nearby chair. He removed his linen shirt and threw it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Elissa demanded,
staring at his naked, muscular back.

“I am changing my clothes,” he said, beginning to root about in the chest.

“Where were you last night?”

“What is that to you?”

“You are my husband.”

He gave her a scornful glance. “To your eternal regret, I am sure.”

He pulled out a clean white shirt. “Nevertheless, I might have expected you to respect me, or my friends. I’faith, it seemed even mere politeness was too much for you.”

“It was hardly polite of them to come without an invitation.”

Richard’s lips turned down into a petulant frown. “I invited Foz before we left London.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“They are my friends, and that should have been enough to ensure them some courtesy. But take heart, Elissa. You shall not have to put up with me or my friends any longer. I am going back to London.”

The part of her rational mind that believed he could conceivably have a hand in a plot to take control of the estate told her she should be relieved, yet she was not. His words were like a dagger in her heart. “To London?”

He pulled the fresh shirt over his head. Then he started tossing his personal belongings into the chest, including the discarded shirt. “I grew up in a house of hate, and I will not live in one again.”

Hate? He hated her? She put her hand to her throat as if stifling her anguish.

How could he speak of hate after what they had shared—unless he had never loved, or even liked her.

Unless he had deceived her even more cruelly than William Longbourne had.

“I shall return to where I belong. Where I am appreciated. Where I should have stayed.”

“I believe you are right. You do belong back in that hellhole with your lascivious theatrical cronies,” she said as she got out of bed. “Then there will be no need to write so many letters, or have them do any favors for you.”

“I have not written any letters,” he muttered.

She ignored the shock of the cold bare floor beneath her feet as she wrapped her arms around herself, and not just for warmth. “Tell me, will Lady Farrington be waiting for you there? Or your other
close
friends? Of course, one can only speculate
how
close.”

He went as still as a stone, then slowly wheeled around to face her. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you must have had a very special friendship with Lady Farrington if she inspired you to write a play,” she said, determined to show nothing of her pain, a lesson she had learned from one husband and that stood her in good stead now.

“She is my friend’s wife.”

“And that is supposed to reassure me? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Do you honestly believe me capable of betraying one of my oldest and dearest friends for a few fleeting moments of passion?”

“I am afraid that you are capable of anything to get what you want. Is selfishness not the way of the fashionable world, of the court?”

“It is not my way and has never been my way.”

“Oh, spare me your righteous protests!” Elissa cried. “I can only wonder what other weeping, wailing, brokenhearted woman will come looking for you when you are gone. Antonia? Or maybe there will be more than one woman who has sported with you in the Banqueting House after receiving a passionate note?”

His face flushed.

“Oh, now you display some small hint of shame? I compliment you on your acting skills. Perhaps I am stupid after all, for you certainly had me fooled into believing that you cared about me as something more than a companion for your bed.”

He crossed the floor in an instant and grabbed her by the arms, glaring into her face with blatant hostility. “You think I have been meeting with women in that cursed place?”

“Why else would you leave our bed so often?”

“How dare you accuse me of such behavior!”

“I dare because of who you are! I dare because of your past! I dare because someone has paid Mr. Mollipont for copies of my marriage settlements and my late husband’s will. I dare because I want my son to be safe!”

His hands fell to his sides and he stared at her, his brow furrowed both with animosity and confusion. “I know you think I am as lecherous as the worst rogue at the king’s court, but what is this about marriage settlements and wills? And what the devil has Mr. Mollipont to do with anything?”

“He has made copies of certain papers at someone’s behest,” she said, fighting to maintain her rapidly diminishing self-control, “papers concerning what will happen to this estate if Will were to die before me.”

His face turned ashen. “You think that I could want Will dead in order to have back this estate?”

“Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you give anything for that? You were willing to marry a stranger for it. Why not kill her child, too?”

He staggered back as if she had struck him. “My God!” he gasped. “My God!
This
is what you think of me? That I could …”

“I don’t know what to think!” she wailed helplessly, suddenly fearful her suspicions were based on unfounded and utterly unsupported speculations. That her imagination had
run rampant with disastrous results.

Then Richard shuddered as if a bolt of lightning shot through him, and he assumed an air she well remembered from the first day she had set eyes upon him, an air of arrogant invincibility. “Bloody hell, madam, I think it is a good thing I am going. Send my things to London. I will not bide here another instant.”

He went to the door, then paused and looked back at her, his lip curling with disdain. “The king himself told me of that provision before we were married, and as I told him, this estate would never be worth a child’s fife.”

He marched out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Elissa sank slowly to the floor and covered her face with her trembling hands.

She didn’t know what to do. Who to believe. Who to trust.

Mr. Mollipont’s crimes, the missing writing materials, Richard’s late-night sojurns … were they linked? Should she listen to Mr. Harding’s warning, or trust in her husband?

How could she, when she couldn’t even trust herself?

She had misjudged a man once before and followed her foolish heart. If she made the wrong choice this time, she might pay for it with more than her own pain and suffering.

She might pay for it with her son’s life.

*   *   *

The news that Lord Dovercourt had ridden off to London spread through Owston as quickly as such news could, giving rise to avid speculation and rampant rumors.

And in one case, triumphal joy.

Two days later, Elissa raised her eyes from the neat columns written in Richard’s familiar hand. She was not surprised to see Alfred Sedgemore come like a vulture to pick over the ruins of her life. Indeed, she had expected him before this, but that did not make his appearance any more acceptable.

She wanted to be left alone, for she was still trying to decide what to do. Her heart urged her to go to London after Richard, yet what if Mr. Harding was right to suspect him? What if Richard had tricked her? Just because she thought she loved him didn’t mean that he reciprocated and that he was worthy of her trust.