Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (25 page)

Blushing furiously, Lisette waited until her
grandmother dismissed
the abigail, then expostulated, "Really, Grandmama! I wish you would
not say such things in front of your woman! And I most certainly do not
'look down my nose' at Strand. He has—has been more than good."

"More than good my mother's knickers!" rasped the old lady,
delighting in her granddaughter's horrified gasp. "I have never yet
succeeded in keeping a secret from the servants, and had you lived in
my
day, Lizzie—"

"Oh! Has he taught
you
that odious
nickname? The man—"

"Is kept at arms' length, I do not doubt! Just as rumour
says!" Lady
Bayes-Copeland leaned forward and, having caught her bedevilled
granddaughter as offstride as she'd intended, demanded keenly, "Is it
truth?
Is
your marriage a farce?"

"Dear heaven…! How— Who—"

"Need you ask? How could you have been so addlebrained as to
confide
in Beatrice? The girl's got a tongue like a washerwoman, and for some
reason loathes Strand. I put the fear of God into her, I can tell you!
I hope I may not have been too late. If the clubs get hold of it,
you'll have made that fine boy into the jest of London!"

Sudden tears stung Lisette's eyes, and she sank her head into
her hands. "My God! How
could
she?"

"It is truth, then! You must be feather-witted! Do you not
know that—"

"It is not true!" Lisette flared, lifting a stricken face.
"Not now, at all events. But if it was, it would be
his
fault, not mine! You are quick to condemn me, ma'am, but precious
little you know of it! And if you fancy Strand abused—what of
me?
Do you know what it is like to be married to a man who—who has never
uttered a word of tenderness or—or passion? Who sees me as nothing save
a social symbol to salvage his confounded— stupid name?"

Inwardly pleased by her granddaughter's spirited departure
from her
customary poise, the old lady snapped, "No, I do not. Your husband may
not be clever with words, Lisette. He is, I venture to suspect, better
with actions. And vastly more worthy than you warrant, madam! Now give
me your arm. I trust you ; have an adequate chef, for I can scarce wait
for my dinner."

Fortunately, her trust was not misplaced. The chef had
out-|done
himself and after two excellent removes and several hearty laughs as a
result of being given more details of her grandchildren's starvation,
Lady Bayes-Copeland was in a mellow mood. By contrast, Lisette was
unusually silent. She was filled with apprehension lest her sister's
love of gossip should have tragic consequences. The very suggestion of
criticism was sufficient to arouse Beatrice's animosity, and the fact
that Strand had dared to interfere with her choice of a bridal frock
for Judith and then been praised for
his
choice
was quite
enough to win her enmity. She tended to brood over real or fancied
slights and might very well take revenge by scandalmongering, or—

"Wake up! Wake up!" cried my lady irritably.

With a gasp, Lisette saw that all eyes were on her. Murmuring
her
apologies, she stood and led the ladies to the drawing room. Here, the
dowager saw fit to rhapsodize over Brutus and chatter with Judith about
the forthcoming jaunt to Town, but she was becoming impatient when the
door opened and Norman stuck his head in to announce that Strand was
ready now, and that the pianoforte had been carried to the "blue salon."

"Fustian!" grumbled my lady. "The word is 'saloon,' boy, not
that
Frenchified fal-lal! Fetch my shawl, Judith, it's likely freezing
whether it be misnamed or no! Great draughty place!"

A fire had been lighted some time since, however, and the
saloon was
quite comfortable. Strand had spread the music out on a sideboard, and
Lisette leafed through it while he settled Lady Bayes-Copeland into a
chair beside the fire. Lisette selected several songs, none of which
appeared to dismay her husband. His rendition of the introduction to
the first of these, however, caused her ladyship to throw up her hands
and utter shrieks of mirthful consternation. "For heaven's sake, boy!"
she chided. "It is a love song—not a military march! Must you always go
at such a pace?" Strand took the criticism in good part and moderated
his tempo. Lisette had a charming, if not powerful voice, and aside
from launching into the fourth melody in the wrong key, Strand played
quite well. Unfortunately, they were soon joined by another performer.
Brutus, apparently feeling obliged to contribute to the evening, sat up
and joined in, howling sonorously and reducing Judith and Norman to
muffled hysteria. Strand struggled to preserve his countenance, and
Lisette tried to finish her song, but the dog's full-throated
accompaniment, plus the smothered giggles, conspired to defeat them.
Strand collapsed over the keys with a shout of laughter. Equally
overcome, Lisette leaned against the piano, and my lady, cackling
hilariously, consoled Brutus with the outrageous falsehood that he
"sang beautifully."

London
was grey and chilly and, as usual,
bustling. Best
threaded the carriage with nice precision through the heavy traffic to
Portland Place, where Judith and Norman were to stay, and Lisette went
inside with them to greet the staff and hug her loved Sanders. "Might
just as well have come down to you, miss," the abigail sniffed, much
affected, "had I known the missus would be away for so long."

"We none of us knew, Sandy. Has there been any late word?"

"Mr. Powers got a letter this morning saying that Sir Ian has
been
took better. The master says if this keeps up another week, he'll come
home. It seems like the weather's been a touch bleak, and he's got some
chilblains, poor man."

Thoroughly conversant with her father's dislike of extreme
cold,
Lisette had no doubt but that they would soon be able to restore Judith
and Norman to the bosom of the family, and she hurried back to the
carriage to relay this information to Strand. He did not seem
especially delighted to hear it, saying that he'd a project in mind
that he was sure would keep Norman busily occupied for as long as he
was able to stay in Sussex.

They proceeded to the house Strand rented in Sackville Street.
Lisette had never visited this establishment. She thought it
comfortable but austere, the furnishings a uniform mahogany and the
colours of the upholstery and draperies rather sombre. Reading her
expression aright, Strand said cheerfully that they would search for a
more suitable house when his lease expired at the beginning of
September. "Might as well purchase a town-house," he said. "We'll
likely spend the Season here if— Well, I'll be dashed!"

He had opened the door of a small bookroom, where sprawled a
gentleman, fast asleep in a wing chair.

Amused, Lisette said, "Why, it's Lord Bolster!"

Strand beckoned the footman who hovered nearby. "Has his
lordship been here long?"

The footman cast Bolster a shocked glance but was unable to
shed any
light on the situation. The butler, being summoned, gave a little leap
of dismay when he saw that softly snoring figure and exclaimed, "Good
gracious! I'd no idea he was still here, sir. His lordship called last
evening and said he would leave you a note, but I thought he had left."

"Good God! Do you not check the rooms before you retire?"

Reddening, the butler affected the air of a maligned deity and
imparted that every room in the house was checked whenever the master
was in residence, but since, to his knowledge, no one had used the book
room yesterday, he had not felt it necessary to go in there.
Furthermore, the note Lord Bolster had left was even now on Mr.
Justin's desk in the study, wherefore—

His lordship snorted and stirred. Strand waved a dismissal to
the
butler and walked over to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Wake
up, old man," he said, gently shaking him. "What a dreadful host you
must think me, that you were abandoned here all night."

Bolster blinked up at him. His yellow hair was rumpled and
untidy,
he was badly in need of a shave, his garments were dishevelled, and
there was about him a strong aroma of cognac. His bewildered gaze
drifted from Strand's smiling features, to Lisette, watching him
anxiously. Becoming red as fire, Bolster lunged to his feet, bowed,
tried to speak and, failing, stood in quaking misery.

"Come along upstairs, Jeremy," said Strand kindly. "You can
shave
and refresh yourself in my room. Matter of fact, I think we may kidnap
you back to Sussex with us. What d'you say, ma'am?"

"Why, that would be delightful," Lisette answered warmly, and
then
hurried out, well aware that his lordship's disrupted nerves would be
better able to recover if spared her alarming female presence.

In the hall, a prim, tidy little woman was waiting. She
identified
herself as the housekeeper and presented two maids, a lackey, and the
footman to their new mistress. Next, Lisette was shown to her suite, a
spacious bedchamber, small parlour, and dressing room on the second
floor, where Denise was already busily unpacking.

Bolster, meanwhile, allowing himself to be commandeered by his
energetic host, was allowed small chance for comment even had he been
capable at that point of making one. His rumpled clothing was whisked
away, hot water was carried up for a bath, breakfast—despite his
shuddering aversion—was ordered, and an hour later, feeling comfortably
relaxed, the crick in his neck much eased, and his power of speech
restored, he lounged on his host's bed, clad in a borrowed dressing
gown and sipping gratefully at a cup of hot chocolate.

"D-dashed decent of you, Strand," he acknowledged. "Don't know
wh-what you m-m-m- will be thinking. Your wife must fancy me to-totally
looby."

"My wife," said Strand easily, "has taken a deep liking to
you, Jerry. In fact, were I not assured she is madly in love with
me,
I'd be tempted to call you out."

He had spoken lightly, but to his surprise the expected laugh
was
not forthcoming; his lordship's eyes slid away and the ready colour
surged into the pleasant face.

With an uneasy premonition of trouble, Strand asked, "Jeremy?
Is something amiss?"

Bolster's hand twitched. "M-matter of fact," he gulped,
nervously,
"I th-thought—that is—well, the r-r-reason I c-came—" But here he
became so inarticulate that Strand deftly changed the subject, then
pleaded to be excused so that he might glance at his correspondence,
and departed, leaving behind a guest both grateful for the reprieve and
guilty that his warning had gone unuttered.

A small pile of letters lay on the desk in Strand's study. He
identified two as being from friends in India, and several others of a
business nature that he would peruse later. There was a short letter
from Lord Leith and a longer one from Rachel, some statements that
could be handled by Connaught, a cluster of invitations that he would
go over with Lisette, a notice that the bracelet he had ordered was now
completed, and at last, somehow having found its way to the bottom of
the pile, the note from Bolster. The fact that this had been sealed and
his lordship's crest imprinted in not one but four places along the
fold, caused Strand to suspect Jeremy of having been well over the oar
when he wrote it. The handwriting was, as usual, a disaster. The
message, brief and to the point, drove the amusement from Strand's
eyes. He read:

My Dear Strand
—

You have always been a good friend and your Lovely
Wife is very kind. Especially to Amanda. I must repay you
in
a
way I Abomminate. There is some ugly Roumours about. Nothing to
Dredfull but please do not rush of half cocked untill you have Talked
to,

Yr. affecsionite and ever gratefull,

Bolster

His frowning gaze lingering on those four seals, Strand
refolded the
note automatically. Bolster, he thought, his mouth settling into a grim
line, had been wise in his caution, after all. What kind of rumours?
More of poor Rachel and that bastard Sanguinet, perhaps. He wandered
into the corridor, paused, staring blindly at the black and white
marble squares of the entrance hall, and thus became aware of his
wife's voice, very low, in the small saloon. His frown deepened. If the
gabblemongers were at work, he had best caution Lisette. The last thing
he wished was to involve her in more scandal, yet…

His musings were abruptly severed as he entered the saloon.
James
Garvey, resplendent in a primrose jacket that clung lovingly to his
fine shoulders, fawn pantaloons that accentuated his shapely legs, and
a waistcoat of striped primrose and cream brocaded satin, was clasping
Lisette's hand while she smiled up into his face. "You did get my note,
then?" Garvey was murmuring. "When you did not answer, I—"

"Forgive me, James. It was so very beautiful. But you should
not have come here!"

"Yes, yes. I know we must be very careful, but—"

The revelation that a clandestine love affair had been
conducted
under his nose was like a dash of icewater in Strand's face. Emerging
from that staggering shock, he said, "My love, I would not disturb you
while you—ah—entertain, but—"

Garvey spun around, his expression malevolent. Lisette,
deathly
pale, managed to say calmly, "We are no sooner in Town, Strand, than we
have callers. Is it not delightful? Two gentlemen already, and—"

"Oh, I don't know," murmured Strand, slipping Bolster's note
into his pocket.

Lisette gave a gasp. Garvey, yearning for an excuse to face
this man across twenty yards of turf, purred, "Your pardon, sir?"

Ignoring him, Strand went on smoothly, "I cannot think of

Jeremy as a mere 'caller,' ma'am. He will, I trust, be with us
for
some time. It was kind in you to call, Garvey. May I be of some
assistance to you?"