Amy Lake (10 page)

Pam’s mouth crooked in an unbidden smile, as she remembered times past. Frederick Tremayne was one of the least complicated men Lady Pamela Sinclair had ever met and, in truth, she had not liked him the less for it.

Movement on the steps of St. Alban’s–   She peered out the carriage window and saw Lady Gastonby and Jodrel de Lancie, and then the earl, Claire on his arm.

She looks beautiful, thought Pam. Her expert eye took in the details of Claire’s dress–the full skirt with its understated train, the nicely fitted bodice with what looked to be embroidered seed pearls–all very elegant, very first stare. Her hair was pulled up, and soft raven curls cascaded from atop her head. Something glittered around Miss de Lancie’s neck, and Pam thought back to the night of the Pembertons’ ball. Had the girl worn jewelry on that occasion?  Lady Pamela didn’t think so, and was satisfied to think that Edward had likely given Claire the necklace.

The distance was too great for her to be sure of Claire’s expression, but she had known the Earl of Ketrick far longer. He has the appearance, thought Pam, greatly amused, of a man who’s just been hit by a runaway hayrack.

Lady Pamela let the drape fall back into place and tapped on the carriage roof. It was time to move on.

* * * *

The new Countess of Ketrick sat up straight and smiled, trying to hide her weariness.  Sheer terror had carried her through the ceremony, but now that she was no longer worried that Sandrick Rutherford would pop up in the middle of St. Alban’s and force her back to Cheltdown Manor, her exhaustion was quickly reasserting itself.

Claire had scarcely had the time to think about her uncle until this morning, but as she entered the church she had suddenly wondered–

What if he found out?

What if he was
here
?

By the time she heard the words “If any man can show just cause, why these two may not lawfully be joined together,” Claire had thought herself close to fainting. But then she felt the earl’s eyes on her, his hand strong under her elbow, and the moment passed.

Another wave of fatigue washed over her, and she turned towards the carriage window, stifling a yawn. When Lord Tremayne had left her bedroom the night before, Claire hadn’t even tried to lie down to sleep. She had changed into a nightdress and then–with a warm shawl draped over her shoulders–sat in a kind of daze at her window. It had rained earlier in the evening, and the pavement shone with puddled water. For once, the city air smelled fresh.  Claire had followed the shadows that crawled across the street below with the rising of the moon until it seemed like an hour or more passed. She had no notion of how long she had sat there, half drowsing, but suddenly the quiet was interrupted by footsteps on the staircase and then the slamming of the front door. She watched the earl–Edward–as he left Tremayne House and strode down the street, disappearing into the London mist.

It was well after midnight, and Claire was sure he was going to Lady Pamela. Her heart thudded, and tears swam in her eyes, but she remained motionless at the window and told herself over and over not to be a fool. Edward Tremayne had promised her nothing –
nothing
–in the way of sentiment or fidelity in their marriage. Theirs was to be a marriage of convenience, and he was behaving in exactly the way he had always assured her he would. That was all.

Besides, despite everything, she liked Edward’s mistress. Claire left the window and went to her bed. Eventually, she slept.

* * * *

The Earl of Ketrick looked at his bride, sitting serenely confident on the well-upholstered cushions of his finest traveling carriage. Edward had not slept at all the night before, but Claire seemed as fresh as ever. He was inclined to resent it.

Lord Tremayne had not gone to see Lady Pamela. He
had
considered a visit, in fact, but–imagining the poor reception he’d receive from his former mistress–had decided to walk over to White’s instead. In the early morning hours the club was at its most crowded and convivial, and he soon found several of Frederick’s old friends. Viscount Chedley, the Alnwick brothers, and Lord Cecil Drere–they clapped Edward on the back and told him that he was a sorry sight–they hadn’t seen him in ages, and what was this about a wedding?  Impossible!  Too dreary!  Every last one of the men was well into his cups and Edward had a yeoman’s work to catch up.

The headache he currently entertained as a result was not improving his mood.

The group had spent the earlier part of the evening at Gaston’s–an overpriced bordello catering to younger members of the
ton
–and Edward was treated to a full description of their exertions.

“Old Pardy’s raised her fees again, but I say it was worth it,” said Teddy Alnwick, a handsome, curly-haired man who was, at least for the moment, the soberest of the lot. Noises of agreement erupted from the other men. “The flexibility that girl had!  It was incredible, old man, just incredible.”

“Sht - stamina. That’s the ticket,” slurred Lord Cecil.

“Indeed,” said Lord Tremayne, taking a gulp of brandy. Gaston’s was not one of his usual haunts, but Teddy had a gift for vivid description, and a visit to the establishment was beginning to exert some appeal. The group launched into a discussion of the relative degrees of pleasure afforded by certain positions, when Alnwick had a sudden thought.

“I say, old man,” he asked Edward, “you wouldn’t be on the lookout for a new mistress, would you?”

His question was greeted with laughter and cries of “Indeed, yes!” and “Capital idea!” from the others.

“Why would I need a new mistress?”   Edward felt irritated, remembering that one thing he had always disliked about Frederick’s friends was their lack of discretion. Lady Pamela–or any other woman he might choose to consort with–was nobody’s affair but his own.

“Man’s got to have a mishtress.”  This was the contribution of Cecil, who belched and slipped down in his chair. Edward looked at him warily. He had firsthand experience that, out of all the intoxicated men sitting there, Lord Drere was by far the most likely to cast up his accounts.

“Well,” said Teddy Alnwick, edging slightly away from Cecil, “Lady Pam was at the Bucklands’ rout last night–you usually attend those sorts of affairs with her, you know, and I thought–”

“
What
did you think?” growled the earl, glaring at the hapless Teddy.

“Ah, well–you know.  She’s so independent. ’Twas surprising enough when the lady . . . ” He trailed off.

“My dear Alnwick, Lady Sinclair’s activities do not concern you one way or the other,” drawled Viscount Chedley. Edward looked at him in surprise. The viscount’s amatory abilities were little short of legendary, but he was generally even more closemouthed than the earl.

“
All
ladies’ activities concern me,” protested Teddy.

“’Shtrue,” added Cecil.

The viscount looked at Edward and shrugged as if to say, “What am I to do with the puppies?”

Teddy Alnwick now  rose unsteadily to his feet. “What is love?” he declaimed loudly, to a burst of guffaws from the neighboring table.

“What is it, Teddy?” someone cried.

“Love,” said Teddy, “is the end of a man’s life.”  There was more laughter as he collapsed into the nearest chair.

The earl frowned at Teddy and cleared his throat. “I may, in fact, be interested in finding a new mistress sometime in the next month or two,” he conceded. The Viscount raised his eyebrows, Alnwick looked pleased, and even Lord Drere sat up a bit straighter.

“Ah, well, that’s quite a different matter,” said Viscount Chedley. He stood and gave Edward a flourish and bow. “You’ve been out of the market for some time. Allow us to assist you.”

* * * *

The earl’s carriage was the most comfortable coach she had ever ridden in, thought Claire, and so it was too bad she couldn’t enjoy their journey more.  She had made a few brief attempts to engage Lord Tremayne–Edward–in conversation, but he answered in monosyllables, and eventually she gave up. But every time Claire glanced his way he was–well, staring at her. She didn’t know quite what to make of it.

The previous evening she had been able to interpret his expressions perfectly. He had wanted to bed her, and rather urgently, if Claire’s limited experience was any judge.   But this–this was different. His look did not seem to be one of dislike, but evinced an odd intensity, as if she represented some problem for him. Claire wasn’t sure what that could be. Perhaps he was regretting the precipitous manner of their courtship–if it could be called such a thing–and marriage.

She turned again to face the window and to the dappled sun shining through the beech and oak trees at the side of the road. As she watched, the carriage passed through a tiny hamlet–no more than a few cottages clustered around the turn-off to an easterly road–and she saw . . .

The hair stood up on the back of her neck as Claire recognized the place. The cottages. The turn-off. The road to the eastern half of Lewisham borough–and the home of her uncle, Sandrick Rutherford.

Claire turned away from the window and resisted the impulse to dive onto the floor of the carriage. She’d known Lewisham was in the direction of Kent; she should have realized they would pass this way. Don’t be such a ninny!  Claire told herself. You’re married now. Your uncle no longer has any power over your life.         

But even the thought of the man sent a chill down her spine. She tried to think back over her first conversation with the earl at the Pembertons’ ball. How much had she told him about her family?  She knew she had been careful not to mention the Rutherford name, but had she said anything to Lord Tremayne about an uncle?  She rather suspected that she had.

Sandrick Rutherford was her guardian, and she had not yet twenty-one years. Surely she should have sought his permission to marry?  And what about her inheritance?  It wasn’t a great deal of money–enough for a small cottage somewhere in the country, perhaps–but she had simply seen no way of getting it out of Lord Rutherford’s hands before she turned twenty-one. And even then, as an unmarried female, her wishes were unlikely to prevail against those of her uncle and his lawyers.

But now she
was
married, and her inheritance, wherever it might be, belonged under the control of the Earl of Ketrick. How on earth was she going to get it to him?

Lord Tremayne was looking at her curiously, and Claire realized that she had been wringing  her lace handkerchief into a twisted knot.

“It is a beautiful day, my lord,” she said, giving him a cheery smile and trying to relax. She would have a splitting headache if this kept up.

“Edward,” said Lord Tremayne. “Indeed it is. Are you comfortable, lady wife?”

“Oh, yes, my–Edward.”

“Good. It seemed you might be feeling somewhat tense.”

“Oh, no . . . Edward.”

“You are sure?  There is an inn just a mile or two from–”

“Oh, no!  I mean, I am quite well, Edward. Truly.”

To Claire’s relief, the earl seemed willing to leave it at that, and she returned to her worries about Sandrick Rutherford. The most perplexing aspect of the entire situation was the question of her uncle’s reputation. Claire had no-one with whom she could discuss the matter, of course. But as she understood it, from hints and whispers, the problem was not so much his preference for men– eccentricities of that sort might be tolerated–as his preference for young boys. There had been some old scandal, mostly hushed up, and her uncle had stayed away from London society for years in consequence. Even his subsequent marriage and the birth of a son–her innocuous, doughy cousin, Harry–had been insufficient to restore his standing in the
ton
.

When Claire’s sights had gone no higher than an elderly baronet, the issue of her mother’s maiden name had seemed unimportant. Who would bother to find out?  Who would care?  But an earl, and one with a name as old and honored as Tremayne, and
now
she
was his countess–oh, why hadn’t she considered all this earlier?  The Earl of Ketrick allied with Sandrick Rutherford’s niece– Edward would be furious with her for not telling him. Claire’s stomach clenched as these thoughts whirled around and around in her mind.

 Still, the rocking of the carriage was hypnotic. It was a marvelously well-sprung vehicle, or a very smooth road, or . . . The accumulated fatigue of days of stress finally overpowered Claire, and her head drooped against the side cushions. She no longer had any idea of  what road they were on or how long they had been traveling. How far away was Wrensmoor?  Would they need to stop for the night?  She should ask Lord Tremayne. . . . Claire was asleep.

* * * *

Edward looked out the carriage window at the verdant hills of Kent rolling by. The hops fields were in full bloom, and oast mills popped up now and then on the horizon. His headache was abominable and he wished once again that he’d had his wits more about him the previous night. He looked at Claire, asleep against the cushions, her hands still knotted together in her lap. His wife . . . ‘Twas a disconcerting thought, that he had a wife–a person for whom he was wholly responsible. He was responsible for his servants, of course, and all the tenants at Wrensmoor Park.  But the care of servants and tenants required–as a rule–only money, and Edward had more than enough of that commodity.

Responsible. Edward found his thoughts returning once again to Green Park–and gunshots. Sandrick Rutherford had seemed the logical suspect, but after Edward’s visit to Cheltdown Manor he was no longer sure. Who else might have wanted to harm one of the de Lancies?  Someone with a grudge?  A distant relation hoping to claim an inheritance?

No, Rutherford was still the obvious choice, but Edward found himself unwilling to leave Claire’s safety to probabilities. He had left explicit instructions for Justin MacKenzie, and if there was any way to discover who had fired at Claire–or Jody–in Green Park, MacKenzie was the man to find it.

His glance strayed back to Claire. As she had walked down the aisle towards him at St. Alban’s, she had looked more beautiful than ever. The carefully arranged curls of glossy black hair framing her face, the jewels he had given her around her neck–and the gown, suggesting the curves of the body underneath even as it covered them. That same–very female–body now rested on the carriage seat across from him, and Edward found his headache receding slightly as he gave scrutiny to Claire . . . Tremayne. His wife.