On their return the next week, Eleanor had barely discarded her bonnet and sorted through the stack of mail, looking for the package from Lacy Hall, when a knock sounded on the outer door. At the sound of a well-known voice, she rose and hurried into the foyer. A familiar face and form, much like her own, stood there.
“Madeline!”
“Eleanor!”
The women rushed to each other’s arms and hugged, and tears sprang to Eleanor’s eyes at the comfortable scent and feel of her cousin. Drawing back at last, Eleanor asked, “Where have you been? I expected you that whole week before the wedding, and you never came!”
“So you married Mr. Knight anyway?” Impatiently, Madeline shed her pelisse into Bridgeport’s hands. “Eleanor, have you lost your mind? I assure you, Dickie thinks you have.”
“Bring tea, please, Bridgeport. We’ll have it in the library.” Hooking her arm through Madeline’s, Eleanor drew her into a more private place. “I wanted to marry Remington”—she lifted her chin—“so I did.”
Madeline stared at her cousin, jaw dropped open. A slow smile spread over her face. “Well. Eleanor. Timid no more.”
“There’s something about him that makes me…I don’t know…I’m not afraid when he’s around. I do what I want.” Eleanor looked around the library, where she had first seen Remington, and felt a rightness. “He makes me a stronger person.”
“Impossible. You were already the strongest person I’d ever met.” They sat on the sofa, and Madeline surveyed Eleanor with a twinkle in her eyes.
Eleanor wanted to laugh, except Madeline sounded serious. “I’m not strong. I’ve always been such a coward, not like you at all!”
“No. Not like me at all, with all my privileges and the memory of my mother who loved me so dearly and my sweet nanny and my kind governess and my father—who I know you think is unpardonably neglectful—but in his way, he loves me.” Madeline discarded her gloves. “You grew up without any kind of support at all, without a father’s affection or even the memory of your mother’s love.”
“I had a perfectly wonderful governess,” Eleanor reminded her.
“Until you were ten and your father remarried and Lady Shapster sent her away! Lady Shapster is a menace, and you were a lion to defy her as you did! If I had had the difficulties you’ve had, I wouldn’t be bold, I’d be afraid of my own shadow.” Taking Eleanor’s hand, Madeline held it tightly. “No, dear cousin, I remember your serenity in the face of every crisis in our journeys, and I refuse to listen to you call yourself a coward. You’ve overcome obstacles that would have crushed most people. You’re the bravest woman I know, and I’m so proud of you.”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say. She’d never thought of her life that way.
Bridgeport entered with the tea tray while she mulled it over. Slipping into their old ways, Eleanor poured while Madeline selected biscuits and cakes for both of them.
“Now.” Madeline looked around. “Is he here?”
“Remington? No, after his time away, he had business that required attention.” Eleanor nibbled on a lemon tart. “He is in commerce, you know.”
“We won’t tell the snobs about that, will we? When you reenter society and sweep all before you with your beauty and your kindness, we want nothing to mar your triumph.” Madeline sipped her tea. “Since we’ve returned to Town, that is all we’ve heard. How sweet you are, and how much everyone likes you. They tell me that, then they eye me as if to say, why can’t you be more like your cousin?”
Eleanor chuckled. “Madeline, you’re teasing me.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not, and a lowering experience it has been. But never mind that.” Madeline flipped society’s opinion aside. “Confess all that has happened to you.”
“No! You first. Where were you?” Eleanor sat back and looked Madeline over. She saw nothing wrong with her cousin. Madeline looked healthy, with rosy cheeks and a smile that wouldn’t go away. “You said you would come to London in only a few days. Were you injured?”
“My husband was shot.”
Eleanor froze.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Madeline giggled, obviously delighted with Eleanor’s bug-eyed reaction. “Gabriel and I are married.”
“Married? Married? Gabriel?” Eleanor could scarcely stammer. “The earl of Campion? Your former betrothed?”
“Yes, the very same.”
“He was at Rumbelow’s gambling party?”
Madeline frowned. “But my father wasn’t.”
Pleased to be able to speak with authority about something, Eleanor said, “About that, I can reassure you. He was here the day of my wedding. He heard about it—heard you were marrying Remington—and rushed to your aid.”
“Well, bless the old noodle.” Madeline looked thoughtful. “I would have never thought he cared enough.”
“I own, I was surprised. But never mind him. Relate every detail about Gabriel. He was shot? He’s fine, obviously, or you wouldn’t look so blooming.”
“Rumbelow’s party was a scam, and Gabriel was almost killed protecting me.” Madeline’s eyes filled with tears, and Eleanor’s self-confident cousin trembled. “That’s why we couldn’t come when we got your letter. He was wounded, and even if I could have left him, the roads were flooded in that dreadful storm.”
“You must tell me all.”
Madeline sat straight up. “First, you must tell me—are you happy? We came to London as soon as we could, sooner than Gabriel should have traveled, only to find you gone on your honeymoon.”
Eleanor put down her plate. She picked up her neglected needlework. She stared at the design, at the needle threaded with gold thread. Since the last time she’d touched the frame that held the canvas, she’d taken a man to her bed. Her husband—and sometimes she knew him so well. And sometimes he was alien to her. When she woke in the morning, she never knew whom she would meet, the thoughtful husband, the distant stranger, or the passionate lover.
But to discuss him with Madeline, even as close as they were, seemed wrong somehow, so she bent over her embroidery to avoid Madeline’s gaze. “Remington took me to a cottage on the seashore. It was lovely and quiet. The inn had wonderful food, and we enjoyed ourselves.” She could feel her face heating as she spoke.
“Oh, dear.” Madeline sounded dismayed. “He’s angry with you.”
Eleanor peeked up at her. “Yes, for he did very much want to marry you, my dear duchess, and he was rightfully perturbed at my deception.”
“You’re far better than he deserves,” Madeline said angrily, “and if he doesn’t know it, he’s a fool. Is he cruel to you?”
“Do you mean, does he beat me? No. I don’t think he could bear to raise a hand to any woman.” The memory of his sister’s death must haunt him.
“There are other ways for a man to be cruel to his wife.” In a lower tone, Madeline inquired, “Is he mean to you…in bed?”
Eleanor scarcely knew how to reply. She thought about the last week. The walks on the beach, the way he’d hungrily watched her, the times he’d fed her with his fingers, the hours spent in bed, exploring each others’ bodies. She almost laughed. She almost cried. After many tries, she looked Madeline in the eyes and said, “If it is possible for a man to try and kill a woman with pleasure, I believe that is his plan.”
Madeline stared at Eleanor, her blue eyes wide and shocked. Then, gradually, merriment grew in her face and she sputtered with laughter.
Eleanor sputtered with her, embarrassed and almost proud. “I give as good as he does. Everything the concubines taught us, I utilize, and I’ve even made up a few things on my own.”
Madeline leaned back against the sofa and released peals upon peals of mirth, her laughter as pleasant a sound as Eleanor had heard for weeks. “Then I will stop worrying about that.” Wiping her eyes on her napkin, Madeline asked, “When will I meet this husband of yours?”
“Tonight? We’re dining in. He says I’m tired from traveling, although I’ve never felt better.”
Madeline started giggling again. “You are an inspiration to me, dear cousin. You come to London on a mission you much despise, and before a fortnight is out, you’re married to a wealthy man and teaching him to love you.”
Eleanor’s smile faded. “I fear that the latter is not the truth, but I have hopes that someday, he’ll at least tolerate me again.”
With the innate wisdom of a new wife, Madeline asked, “Because you love him, do you not?”
“So much, Madeline. I love him more than I have ever loved another living soul, and even if he never knows, I’m happy.” Because she was honest, Eleanor added, “I am almost perfectly happy.”
As Remington sat alone in his club, whisky in hand, Eleanor’s doubt chewed at him. She was so sure that the villain who had killed his family wasn’t the duke of Magnus.
Could Remington have possibly made a mistake?
But no, it was Magnus’s men who had been investigating his father’s business, and that had led to the fires and the murders. Pervasive evidence, surely.
Yet Remington himself had had doubts when he had met Magnus—doubts Eleanor had called up again. Magnus was either a magnificent actor…or the wrong man. And if he was the wrong man, then someone else had killed Lady Pricilla, and who was that someone? Lord Shapster? Lord Fanthorpe? The old duke of Magnus?
Or, God forbid, a stranger who killed for pleasure.
But no. It was too unlikely, that she would plan to run away with his father on the same night she was killed.
And worse, Remington had to wonder if his doubts about Magnus had surfaced because Eleanor had weakened his resolve. Because it was easier to loll in bed with her than to rise and seek vengeance on the man who had killed his family.
The other men in the great room played cards, rested in great leather armchairs, and gossiped about politics and society. But they skirted around Remington, who was ensconced before the window, shunning him and the aura of menace that surrounded him.
One man stopped and stared.
Remington ignored him, but the stranger didn’t take the hint. Remington glanced at him and saw a man about Remington’s age and height, with his arm in a sling and the drawn look of a recent convalescent. A man apparently indifferent to Remington’s need for solitude, a man Remington had met once before—Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion.
So with a curt nod, Remington acknowledged him. “Campion.”
“Knight.” Gabriel indicated the easy chair across from Remington. “Mind if I join you?”
“Actually—”
“I understand we’re now cousins-in-law.”
Nothing else Gabriel could have said would have startled Remington quite as much as that. “You married the duchess?”
“When you won her, but didn’t come and get her, I decided to settle the matter in my favor.”
So Madeline was no longer single. Remington couldn’t have wed her anyway, and he experienced a great, unacknowledged relief to know that his plan could never have come to fruition anyway. Observing Gabriel’s pale complexion, Remington said, “Sit down, before you fall down.”
“Thank you.” Gabriel subsided in the chair, signaled to the footman, and ordered a brandy. “Madeline just got back from visiting Eleanor. I’m to dine at your house tonight.”
“I’m delighted.”
“No, you’re not. You wish I would go to hell. But you can forget that. We might as well decide we’re best of friends, for our wives are—and nothing will separate them.”
At Gabriel’s blunt speaking, Remington grinned and relaxed. “Truer words were never spoken, and I suspect you’re a good man to have as a friend.”
Gabriel made a seated bow. “Thank you. But there are disadvantages to having our wives be so close. For instance, Madeline sent me out to find and speak to you.” He accepted his drink. “She’s worried about Eleanor. Eleanor doesn’t seem completely happy.”
Remington’s brittle temper snapped. “Not completely happy? Did she tell Madeline that?”
Gabriel snorted. “Do you know Eleanor at all? I’ve never heard the woman utter a word of complaint! Of course she didn’t tell Madeline. As I understand it, Madeline inferred that from a twitch, or some such damned silly feminine thing.”
The two men’s gazes met in perfect understanding. They would never be able to keep a secret for the rest of their lives.
“Eleanor made me a laughingstock,” Remington said.
“The first time we were engaged, Madeline did that with me.” Gabriel took a drink and rested his head on the high back of his chair. “While she was gone, I discovered a few things. The people who’ll laugh to your face are either your friends or your enemies. You can cuff your friends, and as for your enemies—it’s good to know who they are.”
Remington thought back. It was true. Since the wedding, the men he’d come to know, to game with, to drink with, to do business with, had laughed loud and long at his foolishness and still teased him about his precipitous rush into marriage with the wrong woman. But their laughter held no malice.
The men who hated him because he was more handsome, because he had more money, because he outwitted them in cards or business, sneered or made rude comments meant to be overheard, and of those men he had taken note.
But there was one gentleman…Remington had run into him at the club. The gentleman had stopped in his path, pointed a long, slender finger at him, and stared. His short laugh had rung with triumph. And why? Remington knew the gentleman’s name, of course. He knew his name very well. But they had never had dealings of any kind. They had never even spoken.
Remington stared at Gabriel. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Interesting, indeed.”
And the memory of his conversation with Clark popped into his mind.
“Would he have killed Lady Pricilla?”
“Only if he could have had his secretary kill her.”
Lord Fanthorpe.
Grimly, Remington stood. “Excuse me, Gabriel. I’ll see you tonight. Right now, I have business to attend to.”