The Golden Leopard (9 page)

The accustomed, unwelcome impatience itched at Jessica’s skin. “Never mind the conservatory,” she said briskly. “What is in that letter?”

Mariah glanced down at her fisted hand and the paper crunched inside it. “A disappointment. Gerald wishes me to return to Dorset immediately. He doesn’t say when he expects to arrive, but I am to be there when he does. So you see, I must set out this afternoon, in case he has already . . .” Her voice, faltering toward the end, faded altogether.

“Rubbish. Why must you scamper home because he has snapped his fingers? And I should be very much surprised if he has the least intention of joining you there. Not until matters are settled between us.”

“Us? You and Gerald?”

“A question of business, that is all. I intend to put an end to his scheming. For now, simply write him back and say that it is not convenient for you to leave High Tor.”

When there was no response, Jessica returned to the door where Mariah stood with tears streaming down her too-thin face. She made a helpless gesture, her eyes clouded with resignation. Jessica had seen that look before, in the eyes of a lamb caught in the boggy moorlands and slowly sinking to its death. Unable to reach it, she had watched until the ground closed over the lamb’s small head. She had watched a horse die in the same fashion, and a dozen years ago, three escaped prisoners of war had been gulped down only a mile from the house. If you didn’t know where to put your feet, Dartmoor could be lethal.

“It will be all right,” Jessica managed to say, not at all sure how one went about giving comfort. After a moment, she wrapped an arm around her sister’s waist and led her to a small bench. They sank on it together, their skirts billowing.

Long minutes passed. Jessica’s arm grew numb. Then, abruptly, Mariah slid to the edge of the bench and dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. “G-Gerald doesn’t like to be crossed,” she said. “And I did promise, you know, to obey him.”

“What of it?” Jessica waited until Mariah blew her nose. “A promise to the devil need not be kept.
Should
not be kept. Has he struck you?”

“Matters between a husband and wife,” Mariah said after a pause, “must not be discussed with others.”

“Yes, then. He beats you. He has, I know, spent all your dowry and sold everything of value, including your riding horse, Ginger. I remember her. You loved her. Do you love him?”

“What does it matter now?” Mariah clambered to her feet. “I am married to him. And truly, it is always best to do as he says.”

Jessica swallowed her first several responses and carefully disciplined her tone. “You have received no letter. It won’t arrive for several days, if at all. So you see, there is no reason to go home.”

“You would have me
lie
to him? Oh, I could never do that. I am a terrible liar.”

“Then leave it to me. We’ll speak of this later, when I’ve had time to make plans. Promise you won’t do anything foolish.”

Mariah produced a watery laugh. “Do you know, Jessica, I believe I am more afraid of you than of Gerald.”

She hadn’t meant that to hurt, Jessica knew, but surprisingly, it did. Still, she would play the ogre if an ogre was required. She rose, wandered to a patch of lavender, and plucked a spike of blossoms. They were silvery with moisture. “You have not explained how the conservatory came to be restored. Come, walk with me.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mariah, catching her up near a table strewn with potted violets. “I dislike being the one to tell you. This is all the work of Mrs. Bellwood, a widow who lives near Ridington when she is not in residence here. For the past three years, she has been Papa’s mistress.”

The lavender snapped in Jessica’s hand. “Oh, my. Have you met her?”

“Several times. I quite like her. Without raising the slightest fuss, she has brought order to the household. The servants are sworn to secrecy about her existence, of course. You’re not . . . that is, you don’t object?”

“I think it’s marvelous. But why isn’t she here now?”

“That wouldn’t be proper. Whenever Papa has guests, she returns to her cottage.”

“Then you must take me there and introduce us. Perhaps tomorrow, when your eyes are not red and swollen. Why don’t you place cucumber slices over the lids and have a nap before dinner? I can potter about here on my own.”

Mariah, openly relieved to escape, sped to the door.

Jessica went slowly in the other direction, pausing to enjoy the small, neat plots of flowering plants marked out with smooth white stones. Deeper into the conservatory she discovered grapes and pineapples, artichokes, flats for winter cauliflowers, and rows of potted lemon and orange trees, shiny-leaved and heavy with fruit.

When last she entered the conservatory, it had been all to rack and ruin. Her mother, after insisting it be expanded from a small orangery, had quickly lost interest in the project. Jessica remembered broken panes of glass, dead stumps where miniature trees had bloomed, and flourishing weeds crawling with insects. The open garden at the far end had become a pool of mud.

Now, looking ahead of her, she saw a gray-stone wall set with a wide door. It stood open, and she went through to an enclosed garden with a square marble pool at its center. Fish, golden and brindled and dove-white, glided among the lily pads. There was an open-worked pergola threaded with vines, and roses climbed the white trellises behind a pair of wrought-iron benches.

She sat on the lip of the fountain, which was no more than a foot high, and dipped her hand into the cool water. The fish, side fins and tails whisking frantically, fled to the other side of the pool and huddled together in the shadows. Something new and strange had come into their world, bringing chaos. They didn’t want her there.

No one wanted her, not really, and she didn’t care. Not any longer. She had grown up a wild child in a rigid family that still considered her an embarrassment, and since taking residence in London, there had been no opportunity to develop friendships. Only with her capable secretary, Helena, and the sweet-natured Duke of Devonshire could she let down her guard. Perhaps that would change now that her business had staggered onto firmer ground.

In all likelihood, though, she would remain isolated. The ladies of her class viewed her with suspicion and the gentlemen, wedded or otherwise, regarded her as an opportunity waiting to be seized. Her every word and action was marked down, parsed, and pronounced upon by a bored and pitiless society. She felt, sometimes, as if she were closed up in an hourglass, her life sifting slowly away under the critical regard of strangers.

On occasion, and quite seriously, she had given thought to marrying for freedom. By the simple expedient of becoming a wife, she would acquire the gloss of respectability only a husband could provide, along with a degree of liberty that no single woman was permitted to enjoy. But in exchange for those privileges—

And that was where the imagined bargain always collapsed. She had only herself to barter, and could never decide which bits and pieces of Jessica Carville to put on offer.

Only a thin slice of her intelligence, to be sure. Nearly every man she’d ever met was off-put by indications of a working mind inside her pretty little head.

Not a jot of her temper. They would flee like startled grouse.

They wouldn’t like her humor, either, but these days it generally kept itself well concealed, even from herself. Duran used to—

She slapped her palm against the water, sending a spray over her skirts.

What had she been thinking of before he intruded? Oh, yes. Wedding a man willing to provide what she needed while demanding nothing in return. A man who would be satisfied to look upon her without touching. Perhaps a cit with social aspirations. Being the daughter of an earl ought to be of some use, should it not? And she required a man who would permit her to carry on her business and keep the money she earned for herself.

Really, she did not require a husband. Not for very long. She would do much better as a widow.

She stared into the pool, looking beyond her reflection to the fishes cowering among the ornamental grasses. Any one of them had more love in its little heart than she did. Six years ago, she had thrown all of hers into the wind.

Well, that was nothing to the point, was it? Her troubles were hers alone. And now, Mariah’s troubles were hers as well. Some way must be found to separate the poor goose from her husband. Tonight, immediately after dinner, she would recruit her father’s help. He’d always had a soft spot for Mariah, the obedient daughter who never ruffled the household waters.

Unlike his rebellious child, who was now wearing some of the household waters on her bodice and skirts. Across the pond, four carp eyed her morosely.

From the far end of the conservatory came the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the crunch of leather on gravel as someone approached the garden. Her skin began to tingle. Moments later a tall, loose-limbed figure, altogether at ease, arrived at the entrance to the garden.

“I very much wish you had brought
me
a
gun,” she said.

Chuckling, Duran stepped into the courtyard and gave her an overly deferential bow. “Could you have hit me?”

“Oh, eventually. I would have kept trying until I did.”

“Yes, well, if you have it in mind to kill me, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the end of the queue and wait your turn.” His smile became diffident. “Are you angry with me for invading your home? You should have expected it. I warned you not to run away.”

“Did you? I must not have been listening. And did you really expect me to salute and obey?”

After a startled look, he broke out laughing.

“I’m quite serious, Duran. You have no right—”

“I know, I know. And you’re far too serious, my sweet, which is not at all how I remember you.”

“Life is a serious matter, sir, although you do not appear to have noticed. It seems you have taken a vow of perpetual boyhood, with nothing more consequential to do with yourself than drink, game, and carouse with undiscriminating women.”

“A boy could do worse. What would you say if I told you that I have been, for longer than I care to recall, chaste as a monk, peaceful as a Quaker, and sober as the Archbishop of Canterbury? Well, nearly so. And for all I know, the current archbishop tipples like an East India Company clerk. But you take my point.”

“And don’t believe a word of it. What is more,” she said, pleased to hear the stern chord in her voice, “I care nothing for how you choose to behave, so long as your frivolities don’t include me.”

“Ah.” Head tilted, eyes a trifle narrowed, he regarded her from top to toe. “I have been mistaken. What with the advertisement in the news rags and your presence at the auction house, I had assumed you to be precisely what I am looking for—an expert in the business of art and antiquities. But now, and I am sorry for it, I see that you are instead the headmistress of the Academy for Young Women with Pokers Up Their Backsides.”

Astonished and hurt, she nearly toppled into the fishpond. At the same time, she wanted to launch herself at him with fingernails extended. Except that they were clipped short, and what he had said was appallingly close to the truth.

He had meant to pry her off her moral high horse, and by God, he had succeeded. Jessica Carville, spouting moralistic platitudes. Whom had she imagined she was fooling? Not Duran, who knew all too well her rebellious spirit and restless, passion-hungry flesh. What secrets could she withhold from him now? Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

A boot, lightly dusted after a morning in the fields, appeared next to her hip. She regarded it for a few moments, willing the tears to evaporate.

“Ought I to grovel for your pardon?” he asked, not sounding in the least like a man on the verge of groveling.

“No. I was insufferable. I deserved a blistering setdown.”