Mistress By Marriage Part 9

"No, no. I mean the house is an a.s.set," interrupted Andrew.

"May I remind you it's missing part of a roof?"

"Yes, but it's a lovely old place. Plenty big, and the grounds are beautiful. You're doing wonders with the gardens, Caro."

"Th-thank you, Andrew." Caroline was pleased he noticed. Her brother didn't seem to give her credit for anything except not burning the kitchen down. She examined her work-roughened hands, wondering if they'd ever be soft again.

"What if we cleaned it up as best we could, and held house parties here?"

Nicky put the wine bottle down with a clunk. "Are you insane? Invite a bunch of people to eat and drink us to death? Who would cook? Caroline? I say, Andrew, you've had too much wine."

"You misunderstand. They would pay their way for a week or two. Pay a lot."

"You mean turn this dump into some sort of a hotel? Only Bedlamites would pay to stay here."

Andrew pushed the curls from his forehead. "We could attract the right people if we offered the right amus.e.m.e.nts. Privacy. Privilege."

Nicky knit his bronze brows. "You mean a club of some sort. I don't think that's at all wise, Andrew."

"A man needs to escape from the strictures of society now and then. A woman, too," he nodded at Caroline. "We could sell subscriptions, use the money to do some fixing up and have plenty left over. Offer unlimited-everything. For a very hefty price. You know as well as I do, we could succeed in this."

"I don't quite understand," said Caroline.

"You're not meant to," Nicky replied, rising from the table. "Let's take a walk, Andrew. I want you to tell me more."

Caroline watched in disgust as they went out the kitchen door, leaving her with the cleaning up. Again. If they thought to turn her into some drudge catering for silly society people, they could think again.

But perhaps some young buck would arrive on the doorstep and sweep her away from the ashes. Caroline closed her eyes and let her imagination run wild. He would be tall. Golden-haired. And bear a very suspicious resemblance to Andrew Rossiter.

That had been the beginning of the downfall. The three of them spent the next few months scrounging for cash and connections, fixing up the house as best they could. Andrew had gone to London to have the subscription offers printed, coming back with half of them sold. Caroline didn't know how he'd done it then, but now she had a fair idea of just exactly what he'd offered. Their Christmas debut was a wild success. No one thought to go to the midnight service, although for their souls' sake, they should have considered it.

Caroline lived a nearly normal life the other three weeks of the month. As normal as can be when one is falling headlong in love with a young man who had been bent to sin at an early age. Her diary entries became shorter-she didn't dare put into words what was happening, in fear that Nicky might find her journal and despise her.

If only he had.

She flipped ahead. There was a date, and just two words. Cherry pie.

Caroline heard the lock tumble. Andrew slipped into the room balancing a plate on his palm.

"It's very late," Caroline scolded. "I thought you weren't coming." She pushed the covers off, revealing every inch of her marble-white skin.

"It's a madhouse out there. Here, I saved you some dessert. Tarte aux cerises."

Yum. Her favorite. There was someone else to cook now, a wizened French chef who treated them like dirt but was masterful in the kitchen. He gloried in the week of debauchery, preparing the most elegant, expensive dishes. The rest of the time, Andrew and the Parkers were as likely to get a bowl of cold oatmeal and a burnt m.u.f.fin-which was economical. They didn't profit so much from the scheme as they hoped. Their guests were ever more demanding. Apparently one could never be bad enough, and badness was costly.

Caroline opened her mouth, waiting for Andrew to spear a chunk of sweet dough and tart cherries and feed her.

"Ah. No. You're going to have to work for this, Caro."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see." He put the plate on the dresser and stripped himself of his evening clothes. Caroline was well acquainted with his body, but he never ceased to awe her with his perfection. They had not discussed marriage, but she was hopeful Nicky could be persuaded to agree to let her marry a man with no background and no money. After all, Andrew was his best friend and business partner. She and Andrew could continue to live and work at Parker Hall.

Raising a family there would be tricky, however. They took every precaution and position to prevent her getting with child. But if by some miracle she became pregnant, her brother would have no choice but to give his blessing.

Andrew padded across the bare wood floor with the pie. Caroline's mouth dropped open when she saw where he put it. He lifted a golden eyebrow. "Hungry?"

Yes, she was, She would always be hungry for him.

Even after all the years, Caroline flushed in embarra.s.sment remembering. Andrew had used that night to taunt Edward, to prove he had more sway over Caroline than her husband ever would. Andrew was wrong. As much as Caroline the girl had loved Andrew, Caroline the woman loved Edward more. She'd learned a bit about honor and betrayal, discovered that character mattered. Whatever one said about Edward Christie, his character was beyond reproach-which was all the more reason for her to give him up for good. She was damaged, and seemed to damage everyone she loved.

She dropped the red leather journal back into the chest and looked for Nicky's last volume. She needed to remind herself just why her marriage had been doomed from the start despite her nearly manic effort to be continuously gay during the first months of it.

Pushing the darkness away had been a temporary solution. In the end, all she'd done was annoy Edward and ruin her life.

She weighed Nicky's book in her hand. She'd read it one last time, then burn the lot. It was time to put an end to it all.

Despite her misery, she smiled. She sounded like a gothic heroine. She wouldn't do away with herself quite yet-she'd bought those gorgeous new red dresses and hadn't even worn them all. People like Lizzie depended on her. If she was to put the past behind her-her guilt, her marriage, all of it-getting rid of the diaries would ensure she not be tempted to dwell on what could never be changed. The future would consist of clean white pages yet to be written.

The diary fell open to Nicky's last entry. She began to read.

March 11, 1810 It's agony. I watch my sister and my lover entwined, knowing that every second I spend at the peephole I come closer to losing my resolve. The devil of it is that Andrew knows I sit here and goes to her anyway, daring me to come in and put a stop to it. Or join in. G.o.d help me but I have considered it.

Somehow the power between us has shifted over the past few years. All those midnight confessions have caught up with me and are taking a toll. He's no longer the grateful cub who'd been corrupted and maltreated, but a sleek young entrepreneur responsible for recovery of my birthright-not that we've a fortune. But life is better now. The house parties are a wild success, with an ever-increasing number of people who seek membership in our little secret society. Most of the debts have been repaid and the curtains rehung and the furniture recovered. The whole house looks perfectly reputable and our disreputable clientele never leaves unsatisfied. Caro has surprised me with an unerring eye for cheap comfort and beauty. How could she not notice Andrew?

I haven't even bothered with a gla.s.s tonight. No one is here to see me drink my brandy directly from the bottle. I'm exhausted but can't sleep despite ever-increasing doses of laudanum and whatever else I can get my hands on. No drug-induced hallucinations could be worse than the nightmare vision before me.

I am losing Andrew; we both know it. Oh, he knows what to do to make me happy, but serves me more out of duty than desire. It is Caro who captures him now, beautiful Caro who is every bit as wicked as Andrew and I are combined.

I've been blind to it for too long, preoccupied with the business, too proud to imagine Andrew would ever seek comfort elsewhere. Andrew flirts with everything that walks, but it never meant anything before. It is I who am naturally unnatural. Andrew simply bent out of necessity.

I can't go on this way much longer. I should cut Andrew loose-throw him out. Throw Caro out, too. The pair of them can find somebody else to torment.

I see that I have dropped my bottle. It has slipped from my fingers, rolling harmlessly on the carpet. Not a drop wasted. It was empty. Time to head to the cellar for more to blot out the ivory and gold lovers' knot beyond the wall.

I don't blame Caro. Andrew is irresistible, growing more angelic by the day while I bloat from drink and pale from drugs. If I'm not careful, I might fall to my death on the cellar stairs and I'm much too young to die.

But truly, would that be so bad a fate? My life is purposeless without Andrew in it. Even if he comes to me later tonight, I will smell Caro's jasmine perfume on his skin.

There is a young footman in the hall. It still isn't easy retaining servants, despite the fact there is money now to pay them. The demands of the house parties are more than most will agree to. This boy-Harry, is it?-was hired off the streets because he will do most anything without a blush. Much like Andrew when we first met.

If I ask him, will he come? Will there be a flicker of disgust on Harry's face? No matter. I am lord and master here, and if the boy wants to eat, he'll do as he's told.

Caroline closed the book gently. Her brother had been a tortured soul, hanging by a frayed thread. When she'd confronted him, he cut that thread, spreading his misery to the two people he loved the most. There was no pretending that everything would be all right. That they could go on together. So Caroline had become a drudge for her cousins and Andrew debased himself whenever and wherever he could.

Lizzie would think it odd to make a roaring fire in summer. Caroline started it in her bedroom hearth herself. The heat of it scorched her cheeks and dampened her hairline. One by one, she fed the books into the flames, inhaling the noxious aroma of burning glue and leather and ink. She opened the windows, but the scent of despair lingered.

Chapter 11.

Twas nothing but midnight madness. Mischief. Yet somehow the words hung in the air like tattered sheets on a clothesline.

-Whispers in the Dark.

Hard as it was, Andrew sat half asleep on the secluded stone bench. He'd come out to the garden to escape the Everdeens' soiree, the stench of human sweat, and the vain attempts to conceal it with heavy French perfume. The air outside was little better-London in the summer was a miasma of evil, and those left in town equally repugnant. Except, of course, for the peers deciding Queen Caroline's fate, and they were certainly not to be found within the infamous walls of Sir George Everdeen's town house. The party was a dead bore because of its too-conscious attempt at wickedness, but then everything bored him lately.

Thank G.o.d in a few days he would leave the city for the sunny climes of Italy. Some wine and pasta and palm trees would perk him up, not to mention seeing his little son. Andrew knew perfectly well that the child was being raised with all the advantages he'd never had and would inherit Alessandro's t.i.tle besides, but a part of him felt proprietary. Territorial. Marco was his son, his image. Thank heavens that Giulietta was blond as well, or else the creme of Savona society would question his parentage. Andrew knew what it was like to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and wished that fate upon no one.

He took his pocket watch out, calculating how much longer before he'd be celebrating the Everdeens' social triumph in their bed. Hours yet. Disgusted, he leaned back again and closed his eyes but opened them quickly when he heard footsteps on the brick path beyond the hedge. If George was coming out for an appetizer, he had better be prepared to wait until the last guest left. Andrew had no intention of getting caught in the bushes with his pants down.

"It's a brilliant plan, I tell you," came the slurred words.

Not George. Not anyone he recognized. But someone nearly as drunk.

There was a silence, then a grudging "Perhaps."

"We'll hold her for ransom until Christie pays and puts a stop to it. Or better yet-the b.i.t.c.h disappears for good."

Andrew was instantly alert, craning his neck to catch each incriminating word. Unfortunately, the two plotters decided to lower their voices, and raucous laughter from the ballroom's open windows above drowned out any subsequent sounds. By the time he rose from the bench and rounded the hedge, he saw only two shadowy forms heading up the garden stairs through the French doors in the wavering torchlight.

Blast. He sprinted up the steps, once inside nearly sliding on the polished parquet floor. The room was filled with a motley a.s.sortment of lower-tier ton. If the stratification of society were a house, those people would be relegated to a subterranean vault beneath the cellars with the rats. There were actually a few peers among them, tarnished though by a scandal-or several. For a minute Andrew questioned why he had chosen to accede to the Everdeens' wishes, but it was too late for regrets. What he needed to do instead of feeling sorry for himself was find those men. He only knew that one of them was conspicuously drunk, and that would describe at least three-quarters of the people in the room. Cheeks and noses were raddled with red patches, laughter was too loud, not-quite-ladies' bosoms were virtually bared to the leering glances of not-quite-gentlemen. The scene resembled one of those h.e.l.lish paintings by that fellow Bosch.

Andrew circulated, holding on to a gla.s.s but not drinking, attentive to the sounds around him. But he never heard the voices again. When he could stand it no longer, he whispered into Laura Everdeen's ear that he was feeling unwell and had to leave. She was so tipsy he thought she might not remember, but would surely notice his absence when she fell into her bed alone.

He walked home quickly, formulating his plan. He could write a letter, but it was better by far to appear in person and warn Christie of what he'd heard, unpleasant as that prospect was. Baron Christie had left no doubt he considered Andrew no better than a bug beneath his shoe. Well, the bug was about to fly up and buzz in his ear. What Christie would do with the information was up to him.

Edward put his napkin down carefully. It was all he could do to keep his composure. His butler would be shocked if Lord Christie ever behaved in an untoward manner, but Andrew Rossiter's presence in his foyer was circ.u.mstance enough to throw the breakfast dishes. Edward was convinced he'd seen the last of the man a few weeks ago. Perhaps he'd changed his mind about the money and would cooperate with the divorce proceedings. Even though Edward had shelved the whole process for the time being, he had cut himself off from Caroline anyway. He didn't dare contact her in his unsettled state, and she had indicated she had no further interest in him. For all he knew she had become some man's mistress as she'd threatened.

He really didn't know. He'd not pumped old Hazlett for information, not wanting to torture himself. Something needed to be done, but Edward had no idea what at present. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he'd left Caroline's bed and quite simply couldn't think straight.

"Put Mr. Rossiter in my study. I'll join him there shortly." Edward picked up his coffee cup, but his roiling stomach objected to its bitterness too much to bring it to his lips. There was no point in delaying. The sooner he concluded the interview with Rossiter the better.

Edward found the man perusing an atlas, seeming as tired as Edward felt. Even Rossiter's famous curls were limp. He looked up and met Edward's eyes.

"Good morning. Thank you for seeing me."

"I take it you've changed your mind."

"No! Not at all," Rossiter said, surprised. "Whatever your plans are for Caro, they cannot in good conscience include me. I have a somewhat mysterious matter I need to discuss with you before I leave for the Continent. I overheard something that may affect you."

Edward sat down behind his desk. "I suppose you want money for this information."

Rossiter laughed. "You do hold me in utter contempt, don't you? No, Lord Christie, this information is free and without strings of any kind. What you choose to do with it is your business. But I cannot sit back and do nothing when Caro's safety may be compromised."

"What the devil do you mean?"

Rossiter eased his long form onto a chair. "There was a party last night at the Everdeens'. Not at all the sort of thing that would interest you, or even me, for that matter. I was half asleep when I heard two men talking in the garden." He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes as if replicating his pose. "Let me see. I haven't got the exact words, but it went something like this. One man, very drunk he was, said 'I've got a good plan.' The other said, 'Perhaps.' I woke up for the next sentence. 'We'll hold her for ransom until Christie pays and puts a stop to it. Or maybe the b.i.t.c.h should disappear forever.'"

Edward's stomach roiled again. "Who were they?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea. I followed them, but they vanished into the crowd."

Edward gritted his teeth.

"I did try to find them, so stop growling at me. I wandered about as long as I could stand to, listening for a familiar voice. Nothing. I went home, didn't sleep, and am, as you see, here at the crack of dawn to warn you."

"They didn't mention Caroline by name."

Rossiter shook his head. "I suppose not. What other females are under your protection?"

"My daughter. My sister."

"Not precisely b.i.t.c.hes, I take it."

Edward rose and began pacing. "A while back I had a visit from Lord Pope and Lord Dougla.s.s. Were they present at this party?"

Rossiter's forehead wrinkled. "I'm not sure. It was a dreadful crush. Pope is known to me and I usually avoid him at all costs. I don't remember seeing him there, but it's possible that he was. I'm not acquainted with the other."

"Caroline has written about both of them. And not in a flattering way."

"Ah." Rossiter had the audacity to smile. "Did she kill them off as gruesomely as she's killed you off? If I recall correctly, you've been swept off an alp by a frozen mountain goat and drowned in a serpent-infested moat."

"I don't read such rubbish," Edward snapped.

"Well, you should. Caro's writing is singularly edifying. Everyone reads her books, from chambermaids to d.u.c.h.esses."

"I don't! I suppose I should thank you for the warning, Rossiter." Edward expected the man to get up and leave, but watched as Rossiter steepled his fingers in thought.

"I'm quite hurt that I haven't ever recognized myself as the hero or the villain in any of the dozen books I've read."

Edward couldn't resist the taunt. "Maybe you were never that important to her."

Rather than take offense, Rossiter grinned again like a naughty angel. "I believe you must be right. Thank you for that insight-my conscience is much relieved. I do have one, you know, rusty and feeble as it is. I never meant to harm Caro. I loved her as much as I was able. I imagine I love her still. Please watch out for her."

Speechless, Edward watched Rossiter saunter out the door, his notion of the man forever altered. If what Rossiter overheard was true, what should he do? There wasn't much to go on; he might not even be the Christie in question, although he couldn't see Ned at the center of some nefarious plot. He'd already spoken to Caroline about Pope and Dougla.s.s, and she'd dismissed the matter out of hand. But if they, or someone like them, intended violence to either her, his sister, or Allie, he couldn't sit idly by in his study and curse Andrew Rossiter.

Beth and the children were already in Kent. A quick word to his bailiff to beef up protection around the house was a simple matter. Ned and Jack could feel useful and manly protecting their aunt and little sister.

Expecting Hazlett to act as a security guard on Jane Street was not logical, however. Loyal as the butler was to Caroline, he was nearing seventy if not actually past it. Edward had a brief image of Hazlett clocking Pope with his bunch of keys and smiled despite the seriousness of the situation.

There was only one thing to be done. Convincing Caroline to agree to it would be a challenge.

Caroline pinched at the sleeve of a new red dress. Either Madame Dulac was stingy with the fabric, or Caroline was continuing to gain weight. Her upper arms were turning wobblier by the day. Of course it didn't help that she'd just indulged herself at one of her Thursday teas in the shade of her fragrant garden. Mrs. Hazlett had outdone herself with honey buns studded with candied violets, lemon curd tarts, ginger curls, and a cherry cake, not to mention the tiny savory sandwiches stacked upon a silver platter. Caroline's courtesan neighbors had rolled home to work off their excesses by vigorous bedsport. However, Caroline did not face that energetic prospect. She would have only her cat Harold's company, and he was even more sedentary than she.