Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (26 page)

"I had not intended—" Garvey began, with a sneer.

"To stay longer? But how very polite in you. Thank you, and do
call
again. I shall be very pleased to—er, meet you. At any time."

Blue eyes, suddenly deadly, challenged narrowed green ones.

Her breath fluttering, Lisette extended her hand. "Good day,
Mr. Garvey."

"Allow me to show you out," offered Strand, his teeth gleaming
in a
wide smile. He tugged on the bell rope, and a lackey floated into the
room so instantly that he could only have been waiting by the open door.

"Mr. Garvey's hat and gloves, if you please."

Strand had no sooner spoken the words than a footman appeared,
the
required articles and a cane in his pristine grasp. Strand made no
attempt to restrain his approving grin, though his servants remained
woodenly impassive.

For an instant, Garvey stood there, seething. Then, he bowed
low to
Lisette, marched past Strand without a word, tore his belongings from
the footman, and strode from the house. He had every intention of
flinging open the front door and leaving it wide, but that little
gesture was denied him as the butler hastened to perform the service,
bowing him forth and closing the door gently behind him.

Strand turned to Lisette. She had changed her travelling
clothes for
a gown of beige muslin with brown ribbon fashioned into small fans
around the low neckline and the sleeves, and little brown bows here and
there around the flounce. He wondered if it was possible to find a
dress that did not become her. Her eyes looked enormous and were fixed
upon him. Anxiously, not fondly, as they had been for Garvey.

"I wonder," he mused, "if I erred in coming back to Town. It
is so distressingly filled with—unpleasantness."

"Justin, please do not imagine that—that Garvey and I—that
we-—" She
bit her lip and said a pleading, "Oh, you know what I mean."

"Unfortunately," he conceded, dryly. "A deal sooner than I'd
expected, I admit."

Her cheeks reddened. "Regardless of what you may think, he is
a very dangerous man. You would be—"

One mobile brow arched. He drawled mockingly, "A warning,
ma'am?"

"No!" Her hands clenched. "How could you dare to think such a—"

The door opened. The butler announced, "Lady Hermione Grey,
Miss Smythe-Carrington, and Mrs. Duncan, madam."

Nerves taut and heart pounding, Lisette fought for calm. "Show
them
to the drawing room, if you please." When the man had left, she turned
to Strand. "That was a perfectly
dreadful
thing
to say! You have no right—"

"Nor have we the time to discuss it while your eager callers
wait."
He stepped closer, his eyes bleak. "I fear the gabble merchants gather
before we've had a chance to marshal our defences. If something is said
concerning my sister or Leith, you had best pretend ignorance." He
opened the door again. "As soon as they leave, madam wife, I shall
require a little of your time."

Lisette walked down the hall to the drawing room, her thoughts
churning. How enraged Justin had been to find her with Garvey. And how
dared
he imply that she hoped for a duel when her one thought in coming
downstairs to see the man had been to thank him for his poem and to
somehow make him go away before Strand saw him! What a miserable
coincidence that her husband had walked in just as James uttered those
unfortunate words. Naturally, Justin had read the wrong interpretation
into the remark. She could still see his savage smile and hear the lazy
drawl he employed only when he was very angry indeed. The antagonism
between the two men had been an almost tangible entity, searing across
that room, and the look on Garvey's face had been very clear to read.
He wanted an excuse to call Justin out. And if they went out, he would
kill her husband. With an ache of fear she knew that she did not want
such a duel to take place, that she did not want Strand hurt—much less
slain. It was not that she loved him, for he wasn't a very lovable man.
Except… now and then, when his eyes crinkled at the corners, or when
they twinkled at her, in his wretched teasing way, and, very
occasionally, when she had thought to glimpse a wistfulness in his face
that came and went so swiftly she could never be sure it had been there
at all. As on the evening he had "shot" the tree for Brutus and she had
scolded him, and he'd looked at her and said in his whimsical fashion,
"As a matter of fact—I care very much."

She shook herself mentally. It was all fustian, of course, for
he
did not care. Not a mite. Or he would tell her so. Not once had he even
uttered the words "I love you." Tears stung her eyes. Not once. Not so
much as a tender "darling." He had been gently considerate in his
love-making and had gone so far as to murmur that she was very
beautiful, but his kisses were brief, almost careless, and of passion
or real adoration there had been little trace. If anything, he tended
to tease her even in those intimate moments, so that she was moved to
laughter and her fears much lessened. She tensed. Was that why he never
spoke of love? Did he know how frightened she'd been? Had he thought—

"Are you all right, madam?"

She jumped. A maid was watching her curiously, and small
wonder, for
she must have stood here an age with her forehead pressed to the door
panel. Whatever was wrong with her mind? "Quite all right, thank you,"
she said, managing to smile. "A slight touch of the headache, is all."
And she went inside.

Ten minutes later, aghast, she knew the disaster she had
feared was
upon her. Brenda Smythe-Carrington was the type of gentle, pretty,
kind-hearted girl everybody liked, even Lady Hermione Grey, whose
tongue was only a shade less acid than vitriol. Jemima Duncan was an
inveterate gossip who could be vicious even while smiling fondly upon
her victim. With a giggle here and a scold there, the latter two ladies
welcomed Lisette to the ranks of the wives. Marriage was delightful,
was it not? Even (and a spate of conspiratorial giggles) was it rather
unwanted. Of course, if one really chose to repel a man—even one's
husband—it could be done. Especially (with glittering smiles) by a
really clever lady.

"Do you know, dear Lisette," confided Lady Hermione
breathlessly,
"you may scarce believe it, but I once knew the sweetest girl, quite
one of our beauties at the time, who was all but
sold
into
wedlock with a—rather unfortunate gentleman. Not exactly beyond the
pale, but—" She pursed her lips and, before the stunned Lisette could
comment, turned to Mrs. Duncan. "You remember the case, Jemima," she
said, with a sly wink of the eye that was beyond the range of her
hostess's vision. "I simply cannot recall the poor child's name."

"No more can I, Hermione," purred Mrs. Duncan. "But it was
indeed a
tragic case. One could but hope the sweet girl knew that all London
wept for her." She laid a gentle hand on Lisette's arm and said
cloyingly, "Poor dear, a helpless victim of financial necessity."

"One can but hope," said Lisette, a flush beginning to glow in
her
pale cheeks, "that she was blessed by such true and loyal friends as
you dear ladies."

"Oh, indeed she was," interpolated Miss Smythe-Carrington,
looking genuinely distressed. "Surely she
must
have been, poor thing. What could be more dreadful than to be wed to a
man one did not care for? I should think death infinitely preferable!"

"Oh, infinitely," agreed Lady Hermione. "And apparently the
lady in
question felt the same way, for it was said that for an inordinate
length of time she would not allow her husband in her chamber." She
giggled. "Is that not delicious?"

Mrs. Duncan trilled, "It is! And was the prime
on
dit
for weeks! I doubt anything else has been—I mean
was
—spoken
of for an age!" She glanced mirthfully at her crony, and they both
burst into refined gales of mirth so that at length it became necessary
to dab at tearful eyes with lacy handkerchiefs.

"How jolly it is," observed Lisette with a slightly tigerish
smile,
"to see you so enjoying yourselves. But I fear you must be talked dry.
May I offer you a dish of milk?" Two startled pairs of eyes flashed to
her. "Oh, dear!" she touched her cheek in dismay. "Whatever can I be
thinking of…? I meant
tea,
of course."

After that, the conversation was a trifle less hilarious,
although
it ran along politely. The ladies sipped their tea and talked of
commonplaces, with Lisette inserting an occasional blushful reference
to her "adored" husband, so that when they left, my lady and Mrs.
Duncan were rather tight-lipped, and Miss Smythe-Carrington said with a
melting smile how wonderful it must be to be "so really happy" as her
dear Lisette.

No sooner had the door closed behind them than Lisette all but
flew
to the book room, and thence upstairs in search of Strand. In the upper
hall she nearly collided with his valet, one Oliver Green, a rotund,
merry-eyed little man who looked more like a publican than a valet. He
was carrying a pile of neckcloths and juggled desperately to retain
them. "Oh, I am sorry, Green!" cried Lisette. "I must find my husband.
Is he in his room?"

"No, madam." The valet gave a small gasp of relief as he
steadied
his collection. "The master has stepped out for a short while. I
believe he said he meant to look in at his club." He stood there
uncertainly for a moment, watching Mrs. Strand walk away, and wondering
why her pretty little face had become so very white.

Strand's confrontation with Garvey had left him in no mood to
be
cordial to anyone, wherefore, quite forgetting the presence of Jeremy
Bolster in his house, he donned hat, coat, and gloves, and stamped
outside. It was a drizzly morning, which did not in the least deter him
from walking a considerable distance. Had he been more aware of what
transpired around him, he might have noted many amused looks, and as
many whispered asides, but he responded to hails with nothing more than
an abstracted wave of his cane and strode on, his mind obsessed with
the memory of the fond light in his wife's eyes as she had gazed up at
the revoltingly dandified conniver who went by the name of James Garvey.

From the very beginning of their marriage, things had gone
badly. He
could scarcely have managed a less propitious beginning than to have
been obliged to leave his bride on their wedding night. He could no
more blame her for that than for the fact that on his return he'd
stamped into her bedchamber and tumbled over the leviathan. When he had
at last been able to mend his fences, he'd kept a rigid hold on his
emotions, handling her very gently, afraid of scaring her off by
revealing the depth of his love for her, and hurt because his attempt
to impart his feelings had been coldly ignored. He'd never before been
much in the petticoat line. There'd not been the opportunity. His
father's gambling and spendthrift ways and ultimate folly of cheating
at cards had decided his own fate. His years in India had been
successful beyond his wildest dreams, but success had not come easily.
It had taken backbreaking effort, an unceasing battle that had taken
its toll of his health even as it had resulted in security for his
sisters, and the payment of all his now dead father's bad debts. Having
achieved what he'd set out to do, he had begun to look about for a
bride. He'd hoped to find a lady of good family for whom he might also
feel some affection. He'd not expected to encounter the embodiment of
his every dream, who was also of lineage
sans reproche.

His footsteps slowed, and he stared moodily at a sparrow
hopping on
an iron fence beside him. His courtship had, he acknowledged ruefully,
been clumsy beyond permission. He sighed and, turning into Bond Street,
knew that all his introspection had brought him nothing save the
realization of defeat. His jaw set. However faint his hope of winning
the love of his wife, he would see to one thing, by God! She never
would become the foil of so unprincipled a libertine as Garvey!

Walking on with a resumption of his usual brisk stride, he
entered a
quiet little lane where was a discreet club known as The Madrigal.
Here, as at White's or Watier's, could be found gambling, fine wines,
and excellent dining. Lacking the exclusiveness of the larger clubs,
The Madrigal gained from the membership of some of London's more
successful artists, composers, and poets. Gradually, therefore, it had
acquired a reputation as an interesting spot, where stimulating
conversation crossed all political lines. The club began to thrive and
had of late become the vogue, drawing in some very socially high
ranking gentlemen, so that Strand had once laughingly told Bolster that
had he not joined when he did, they'd now refuse to accept him.

The porter swung the door open with his usual polite, "Good
morning,
sir!" but Strand thought to see a troubled look also and, rather
belatedly reminded of Bolster's note, at once forgot it again in his
consternation that he'd abandoned his guest. In the act of removing his
coat, he started to put it back on, but the horror in the porter's eyes
dissuaded him. If something really ugly was circulating regarding
Rachel and Leith, his abrupt departure must lend weight to it. He
grinned at the porter, vouchsafed a blithe remark to the effect that he
had forgot to collect Lord

Bolster, and allowed himself to be divested of his outer
garments.
The porter looked relieved and promised to tell his lordship Mr. Strand
was here, did he arrive. Strand nodded and went into the ground floor
lounge, where he wandered over to warm his hands at the fire. The room
was not crowded at this hour, and the few gentlemen occupying it were
more interested in their newspapers than in a new arrival. It seemed to
Strand that General Smythe-Carrington stared at him with unusual
intensity before retreating behind
The Times.
Lord Gregory
Hughes, walking through from the stairs leading to the upper regions
where were the card rooms, checked, started to say something to Strand,
then coughed, shook his hand, and went out. A waiter approached, and
Strand accepted the wine he offered, while wondering what was abroad to
result in such obvious consternation.