In anticipation of the visit to London, Judith and Miss Wallace, Lisette’s rather formidable dresser, put their heads together over periodicals and pattern cards, spending hours closeted together while Judith was instructed as to which fabric might be purchased for which style. Her experience at the wedding with the plain gown Strand had selected and the compliments it had won her had taught her much. Now, with Judith’s figure much improved, Miss Wallace said they could afford to be a little less spartan, and Judith plunged happily into a glorious world of India muslins, cambrics and gauzes, ribbons and frills and laces, French knots and rosettes, and all the delicious accessories for which Strand appeared perfectly willing—as a disgusted Norman phrased it—“to stand the huff.”
Norman, meanwhile, having discovered that Strand was fairly knowledgeable in matters of ships and shipping, buttonholed his brother-in-law to the extent that sometimes an entire day would pass during which Lisette saw neither. One rainy afternoon, having been thus abandoned, she was writing a letter in the book room, with Brutus snoring deafeningly before the fire, when the abrupt cessation of all sound attracted her attention. She glanced around. Brutus was sitting bolt upright, staring out of the low window that gave onto the front drivepath. Even as she watched, he crouched and began to creep backwards in obvious terror. Frightened, Lisette came to her feet. A firm hand touched her shoulder, and she gave a gasp of relief to find Strand beside her. “Thank heaven!” she whispered. “He sees something! Justin—I’m afraid.”
He slipped one arm about her and, with his free hand, slid open a drawer and took up a small brass-mounted pistol. Norman, coming in behind him, said an alarmed, “What is it, sir?”
“I’m not sure,” Strand answered quietly. “Brutus has spotted something. Look at him.”
“By Jupiter! He’s scared to death. What d’you mean to do?”
“There’s been someone hanging about of late, I think. Take care of your sister. I’m going to have a look.” He deposited his trembling wife in her brother’s arms and took a stride towards the window.
“No!” Lisette rushed to throw her arms about him. “Please! Do not!”
Touched, he looked down at the top of her glossy head, pressed against the lapel of his jacket. Then he said, “Better to find out now, love,” and gently detaching her, flung open the window.
A bluster of wind and rain swept the draperies inwards and sent Lisette’s letter fluttering to the rug. She ran forward, but Norman restrained her. Astonished, she glanced up. There was a new purpose to his eyes, a new set to his jaw, and by heaven but he was strong, his hands holding her in a grip there was no escaping. Her eyes flashed to Justin’s straight, lithe figure as he jumped down from the porch and sprinted across the lawn. My God! she thought, he is a perfect target!
The thought had no sooner flashed across her mind than Strand checked, crouched in an attitude of intense concentration, then flung up his arm and fired. She uttered a small shriek of fright and, tearing at her brother’s restraining hand, implored, “Go to him! For pity’s sake! Go to him!”
Norman hesitated. “He’ll have my ears,” he muttered but left her and clambered through the window. He was about to run into the rain when Strand, who had walked towards a clump of aspens, began to hurry back to the house, the smoking pistol in one hand and a small branch in the other. He brushed aside Norman’s anxious enquiries and swung easily through the window.
“Now I shall have to clean the stupid thing,” he remarked, tossing the pistol onto the reference table.
Lisette quavered, “Are you all right? Who was it?”
“I’m perfectly all right.” He shot her a grateful, if wet, smile. “Thank you for being concerned.
She stiffened. “Concerned? What on earth would you expect?”
“Brutus,” called Strand. “You may come out now.”
The only response was a faint whimper from a periodical that the wind had also deposited on the carpet. Brutus, having succeeded in burying his head under this, apparently believed himself securely hidden and made no attempt to come forth. Strand bent down and raised the periodical while Norman and Lisette exchanged baffled glances. Strand held the branch in front of the dog’s craven eyes. “Look,” said he. “It is quite dead.”
Brutus glanced at the “defunct” branch, gave a yelp, and tried to hide under Strand’s shoe. Strand sighed, shrugged, and replaced the periodical.
Grinning from ear to ear, Norman closed the window and chortled, “What the deuce…?”
Strand waved the branch. “He won’t believe it’s dead,” he said solemnly, ignoring his wife’s indignation.
Norman took up the branch. “By thunder, but it is!” He held up one leaf, a bullet hole squarely through the centre. “Look here, Lisette! Jolly fine shooting, Strand. Do you seriously tell us that great leviathan is afraid of leaves?”
“Oh, no. He employs a certain amount of selectivity. Only aspens—when they flutter. And the wind came up, you see. He really is terrified of ’em. That’s why I had to send him to Bolster, in town. Fewer aspens.”
Norman went off into peals of laughter, and Lisette, trying not to smile, said sternly, “I collect you care not that you frightened me—us—to death?”
He looked at her, his eyes dancing. “I tried to tell you about our craven canine after I broke my hand, but I could see you would not believe me. And, as a matter of fact—” he hesitated, then added awkwardly, “I care very much.”
For a moment Lisette could not seem to tear her eyes from his steady blue gaze. Then, a horn summoned imperiously, the sound breaking a hush that seemed to have held them all mute. “You see?” she said. “He did hear something! How you malign that poor animal! If the truth be told, sir—”
“Justin,” he murmured whimsically. “Plain Justin.”
She chuckled, then a familiar voice was upraised in bitter complaint. “It is Grandmama!” she cried joyously, and ran to the front door, Strand following.
Secure in the knowledge that several humans were before him, Brutus boldly left his refuge and rushed into the hall, barking furiously. Norman picked up the periodical and stared down at it unseeingly, his eyes troubled. He had dismissed Judith’s notions as being the babblings of a romantical schoolgirl, but dashed if he wasn’t beginning to think she had the right of the situation. He sighed and put the periodical on the table. “Pity,” he murmured.
* * *
Comfortably settled before the drawing room fire, Lady Bayes-Copeland damned the weather, the deplorable state of England’s roads, and the fact that it had been necessary for her guard to fire a shot over the heads of several unsavoury looking customers who had attempted to stop her coach.
Strand had already noticed that the old lady, despite her usual ferocity, looked rather pale. She had suffered quite a shock, he realized, and therefore said lightly, “A mistake, I fancy, ma’am.”
“Mistake?” she bristled. “What d’ye mean, Strand? They saw my coach, and—”
“And probably thought it was the Royal Mail,” he said with a twinkle.
Norman and Judith laughed, but Lisette regarded her husband apprehensively. Her grandmama did not give him the setdown he justly deserved, however. “You may jest,” she said angrily, “but with all this riffraff littering the country and turning their hands to violence and thievery rather than honest work, we are none of us safe!”
For once, the laughter that invariably lurked at the back of Strand’s eyes disappeared. He said with respect but firmness, “Your pardon, my lady, but that same riffraff fought and died by the thousands for England. That same riffraff has been cut off by an ungrateful government with neither pension nor hope, and how many of the poor devils have died of their wounds in want and misery, I shudder to think. They are the greatest potential resource England has. If the government would offer them work, or—”
“Work!” the old lady snorted ferociously. “Who’s to pay for this work? Who can pay wages for thousands of shiftless vagrants in these bad times?”
“Had Bonaparte invaded as he threatened, ma’am,” he argued quietly, “none of us would have a roof over our heads, and perhaps not a head to cover! They preserved our way of life, yet how many will now lift a hand to help them? And we’ve no guarantee of safety in this little island. There are still fanatical despots willing to plunge us into another bloodbath, as my sister and brother-in-law can attest!”
Lisette turned a startled face to him, and Norman asked, “What’s this, sir? Another Gunpowder Plot?”
“You are not so far wrong,” Strand nodded. “Tristram says little of it. I suspect he’s been ordered to remain silent, but I do know that he and Devenish escaped France by the skin of their teeth. Dev, in fact, will likely limp for the rest of his life by reason of one of Claude Sanguinet’s crossbow bolts.”
“Good heavens!” gasped Lisette. “Was not Claude Sanguinet the gentleman to whom Rachel was betrothed?”
“He was. And a more vicious fanatic has not been born. Leith risked his life to bring Rachel safely away. It has all been kept very quiet, but we’ve not heard the last of Sanguinet, I’ll be bound.”
“Very likely,” said my lady irascibly. “But I did not come all this way to be scared by your tales of some puffed-up Frenchman. I understand you’ve a pianoforte, Strand?”
“Yes, ma’am. But—”
“Do not ‘but’ me, young fella! I have been compelled to leave hearth and home and journey all this way to your ridiculous Grecian atrocity, so as to see my grandchildren. I demand some recompense!”
He hesitated, stood, and crossing to her side, bent to drop a kiss on her withered cheek.
With a cackle of laughter she shook her cane at him. “Naughty rogue! That was not what I meant.”
“Why then, I shall take it back,” he grinned, bending again.
She seized him by both ears, pulled him close, and bussed him heartily. “Lisette,” she said, still smiling up at Strand, “I like your husband. Now, no more excuses, sir. After dinner—I will have music. Do you hear, Lisette?”
Strand glanced at his wife curiously. “You play, my dear?”
“And very prettily,” confirmed Lady Bayes-Copeland. “Though not as well as she sings.”
Lisette said that she would be glad to sing if someone would play for her. “You know what a dunce I am when I try to play and sing at the same time, Grandmama. Perhaps Judith could—?”
Colouring up, that damsel replied that she’d not practised in weeks and there was no use asking her to play poorly in front of everyone.
“I found lots of music in the little garden house,” said Lisette, “but it was rather old, and I doubt you could read it.”
“I’ll tell the men to bring it all to the house,” said Strand. “If there is something you favour, I might be able to help.”
“Famous!” The old lady rapped her cane emphatically on the floor, causing the dozing Brutus to leap into the air with shock.
Lisette murmured a surprised, “You play the pianoforte, Strand?”
He grinned. “One of my numerous accomplishments. I think.”
“Such modesty,” teased Judith. “I expect you play magnificently, Strand.”
“Wait until after dinner,” interposed the old lady, “and you’ll see. Lisette, you may bear me company whilst I change my dress, and tell me how it comes about that Judith and Norman are so remarkably improved in looks.”
Standing respectfully as Strand ushered his wife and Lady Bayes-Copeland into the hall, Norman winked at his sister and muttered, “Wait until dinner, dear Grandmama, and you’ll see!”
* * *
Despite her alleged curiosity regarding her grandchildren, once upstairs her ladyship vouchsafed only a grunt upon hearing the explanation for their svelte figures, and at once launched into a tirade regarding their presence at Strand Hall. “I was never more shocked,” she snorted, raising her chin so that her abigail might pin a snowy white lace fichu to the bodice of her violet silk gown. “I declare Beatrice must be all about in her head to dump two young people on a bridal couple! And what mischief is she up to that they must be hustled off so? I warned Dwyer to beat her! More fool he! She’ll bring disgrace on us all yet, and you’ll have no more cause to look down your nose at that fine husband you’ve caught!”
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 outdone 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?”
“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 tightlipped, 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.