Mistress by Marriage Read online

  He took down a heretofore unexplored volume but lost interest after the first few pages. He was proficient enough to have penned the manual himself. There were only so many ways humans could interlock in that age-old puzzle. Perhaps he should rustle up a bit of cheese and bread, go to the communal bathing chamber and have a good soak. He had nothing much to do until tonight, when the Everdeens would expect him to service them again.

  His bed, still unmade from the previous day, called to him instead. Within seconds he was naked beneath the sheets, within minutes fast asleep as only the truly wicked could be. He’d squelched whatever was left of his conscience for later examination and was deep in slumber when rapid knocking roused him. With a curse, he turned, pulling the covers up over his ears. The steady tattoo at the door was impossible to ignore.

  It couldn’t be bill collectors. Old George had been most dependable, settling Andrew’s few accounts per their agreement. Andrew was careful nowadays anyhow. One never knew how long one would go between engagements. His services were not universally recognized or appreciated, but he had quite a little nest egg saved. He planned to spend the winter in Italy, where the weather was milder and the morals somewhat wilder.

  Andrew smiled despite his irritation. If it was that plaguey lawyer of Christie’s again, he deserved everything that was about to come to him. It would teach him to disturb a man two days running before the sun hit its apex. Andrew strutted to the door naked, his most superior expression firmly in place. Let Maclean be so startled he’d lose the gift of speech.

  It was Andrew who was surprised. Edward Christie was on his doorstep, looking much like a wind-blown scarecrow, his clothing wrinkled, his usually slick-backed dark hair disordered, a day’s growth of beard softening his long jaw. For the first time Andrew could understand what Caroline saw in him—untidy, he was altogether delicious. But boring as hell, Andrew reminded himself, as he swept a well-muscled arm toward his chamber.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, Lord Christie,” he said smoothly. “Come in. As you see, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage. Please make yourself comfortable while I find my dressing gown.”

  Christie blanched, looking everywhere about the room save at Andrew’s gloriously naked self, and Andrew couldn’t resist deepening his discomfort. “Tell me. Do you think my exercise regimen has been beneficial?”

  Christie made a choking sound, and Andrew winked one of his bright blue eyes. He was being outrageous, he knew, but the temptation was irresistible. Edward did not look one bit amused, however, so he quickly stepped into his small bedroom and retrieved his robe from where he’d tossed it days ago. He’d have to clean up a bit before his charwoman came, but on the whole he was relatively satisfied with his abode. It wasn’t as if he entertained there, although the interview with Edward Christie might prove entertaining.

  Andrew found him standing like a marble statue over the abandoned book. If the baron had picked it up out of curiosity, he’d put it down in a hurry. Andrew chose the most comfortable chair and sat. “Now then. Do sit down. How may I help you?”

  Christie remained upright, his countenance rather fearsome if one were to pay close attention. “Sir William Maclean came to see you at my behest yesterday.”

  “Yes, he did. I’m afraid I did not answer his questions in precisely the manner he hoped for. Have you come to try your hand at the inquisition?” He reached for the brandy bottle and splashed some into his used glass. “I don’t expect you’d like to join me in a drink.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Oh, save the curling lip for someone who cares. You can’t shame me, Christie. I’m beyond all that nonsense.” He took a swallow, hoping the warm golden liquid would steady him. Despite his bold words, having Christie stand in his modest parlor was disconcerting. “Make your case and then get out. I’ll listen for a while.”

  He leaned back, watching as Edward twisted his long fingers nervously. The room was dim and still, the heavy curtains shutting out the light and London noise. After an age, Edward lowered himself to the sofa.

  “Five years ago, I found you with my wife. You said some things—” His face looked pained.

  Andrew couldn’t quite remember everything he’d said, but was sure he’d said too much. Or not enough, depending on one’s viewpoint.

  “You want to know if I fucked her. Yes, I did.” Andrew felt triumphant as Christie’s pale face paled further. “But not that day. Not, in fact, any day since she married you. And not the year or three before that, when she was under the thumb of that wretched cousin of hers and his wife. Terrible people. I believe we can agree on that at least. It was no wonder she jumped at your offer to marry her. You saved her, Christie, even if you didn’t set her world on fire. She was going mad, you know. Imagine a girl like Caroline, buried alive with those horrible people in the middle of nowhere. At least when Nicky was still with us we tried to make it amusing for her.” He swallowed more brandy. Christie’s face might have been carved of stone, impervious to insult. Despite his robe, Andrew shivered at the palpable cold leaching across the room.

  “So you see, if you are to abide by strict legalities—cross all those Ts and dot all those Is your barrister friend Maclean seems so fond of—you haven’t really got a case for adultery. It looked bad, I admit. If I’d had a few more minutes to persuade her, I have no doubt I would have been successful. She was incredibly unhappy, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Andrew could barely hear the admission or see Christie’s chiseled lips move. The man had a fine mouth, but seemed entirely passionless. Poor Caro. “So you understand my reluctance to lie and assist you with your divorce petition.”

  “You want more money.”

  Andrew waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t insult me, sir. Even men like me have their standards. I’m very fond of Caro, for old times’ sake if nothing else. If it’s in her best interests to unshackle herself from you, then I’ll cooperate. But I’d need to hear it from her.”

  “You’re not to go near her.” There was no mistaking the passion in his voice. Christie looked like a mad prophet rising from the sofa, his fists bunched.

  “Sit down, man. The time to hit me is five years past. I have no interest in you breaking my nose. My face is my fortune, you know.” Andrew hoped he sounded nonchalant, but the reality of it was that he was extremely sorry he ever opened his door. Christie stood over him, radiating fury. “Let’s discuss this as gentlemen. Surely you have talked to your wife about all this. I fail to see why you’re here.”

  “There is more to it than what she has said—or what you have said. I want to hear the whole of it.”

  Andrew picked at a loose thread on his cuff. “I don’t believe you do. Let it rest, Christie. Your wife and I were lovers when we were very young. She didn’t deserve my ill-treatment of her then, nor yours now. But if you mean to divorce her, you’ll have to do it without me.” He raised his eyes to Christie’s green glare. “I still have the slightest shred of honor left. Tell Caro hello, and that she has nothing to fear from me.”

  Christie looked on the verge of saying something, but turned on his heel and left.

  Andrew exhaled the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Perhaps it was time to leave for Italy a bit sooner than he planned. Another week or two with the Everdeens and he could free himself from obligation. They were relentlessly insipid anyway, believing themselves to be naughty when all the while they were just mired in a ridiculous quest for the succession of a baronetcy. It wasn’t as if poor George was a duke, after all. If the child was a girl, they’d have to find another stud. Andrew was done.

  He poured another few fingers of brandy into his glass and drank it down. Yes, it was time to leave for hillsides covered with flowers and balmy ocean breezes. Alessandro and his wife would be happy to receive him ahead of schedule. Andrew would see how much his golden-haired son had grown. Giulietta was anxious for a daughter, and Alessandro’s letters were ever more urgent, both for his wife’s ne
eds and his own. The portly Alessandro was, quite simply, hopelessly in love with Andrew’s lean perfection and no one else would do.

  He would write to them this very day, removing himself from any danger that Christie could conjure. Andrew was never anything less than practical when it came to his affairs, save that one time when he lost his soul.

  Edward had visited friends in the Albany for years, it being the premier place for gentlemen who didn’t want the bother of a house in town, yet wanted amenities galore. There was a dining room, luxurious communal baths; even Angelo had his fabled fencing studio there. On the whole, the place was far too grand for scum like Andrew Rossiter, who had sprung up from who knows where. But today’s visit with the man had surprised him, so at odds with what Edward thought he once knew.

  Edward had succumbed to the investigation Will had urged upon him five years ago. Rossiter and Caroline’s brother had been school chums, partners in the sex hotel scheme they ran when they were little more than schoolboys. His origins were completely obscured; his tuition was paid for by some Scottish industrialist, likely his natural father. The man had died and the source of Rossiter’s funds dried up. When Nicky Parker offered him a home, he’d been quick to agree, and their house parties became legendary. But once Parker died, Rossiter had moved with remarkable ease across England and the Continent as if he belonged in the finest drawing rooms, leaving Caroline to fend for herself with the new viscount.

  It was not really surprising to see Rossiter come to the door bare naked, a Grecian statue come to golden life. It was absurd. Obscene. But entirely expected from a man like Rossiter, leering and winking at him from the doorway. If what he said was true after he’d donned his paisley robe, Edward had done Caroline a grave injustice. Five years of banishment for nothing.

  No, not nothing. She’d admitted she’d sinned, then and now, and her choice to write all those wretched books had only confirmed she was a dissolute woman.

  He should never have married her. Caroline had never fit easily into his routine. He had felt smothered by her affectionate attention, appalled by her artless conversation, her endless schemes, her temper. She had no place in his carefully constructed Christie world.

  Except in bed.

  The sooner he went home to the calm and comfort of his own house, the sooner he could work out what he’d heard. Caroline. Will. Rossiter. Each of them one side of the triangle whose sharp corners pierced his consciousness.

  Stumbling into the street, he hailed his third cab of the day, grateful he still had some pocket change. But it would take more than money to solve his problem, if it was even possible to solve.

  Chapter 10

  The flames licked each corner of the letter until nothing was left but the lingering loss in Lucinda’s heart.

  —The Orphan Princess

  Caroline had a serious case of the blue devils. She had made her unwanted confession and sent Edward away. She couldn’t write—couldn’t eat.

  But she could read, and was in the mood to torture herself even further. Shoving some papers aside, she felt for the tiny indentation on the back panel of her desk drawer and popped it. A plain brass key lay alone in the hidden compartment. She weighed it her hand a few minutes before going into her dressing room. A small black trunk awaited, filled with the remnants of her girlhood—her diaries. And Nicky’s.

  It had been a revelation after his death to find her brother had been just as scrupulous as she recording their madcap existence, only he was the superior speller. She often read both sets, comparing their observations. Learning her falsehoods. Learning his truths. Some of the passages brought a smile to her face. Most broke her heart, as she had broken Nicky’s without ever trying.

  She knew which volume to pick up—1806. Fourteen years ago. The spring Andrew came to them. Prior to that, her life had been unexceptional, although she supposed she had been granted far more freedom than most girls her age. In fact, her father ignored her most assiduously. But it wasn’t until Andrew’s arrival that she felt truly alive.

  Even in her own hand, she had tried to fool herself about what he was to her.

  Nicky’s friend Andrew Rossiter has come to stay. He is, I suppose, what one might call handsome—lots of yellow curls like a slipped halo. So now Mary and I have two people to cook for and clean up after. They do nothing but amuse each other at our expense.

  Caroline smiled. She had been in the throes of calf-love. Andrew was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. How careful she’d been to limit her praise and not gush even to herself on the pages of the diary. She thought of the night when she prepared yet another dreadful meal. The night Andrew changed their lives.

  “Jesus God, Caro.” Nicky spat a mouthful right onto the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Caroline had taken pains, going so far as to polish the candelabra which halfheartedly shone beneath the candle stubs. The flickering light from the fire in the hearth did nothing to make the gray mess on the plates appealing, and now it had been proven that its looks were definitely not deceiving. She burst into tears.

  “Nick, have a heart. She slaved away the whole day.” Andrew passed his crumpled linen napkin to Caroline, who abandoned all pretense at ladylike demeanor and blew her nose into it soundly.

  “I can’t h-help it,” Caroline hiccupped. “Mrs. Revere took her cookery books with her. Mary’s r-run away. I don’t kn-know how to do anything!”

  Andrew gifted her with one of his beatific smiles. “Rubbish. It’s not your fault you don’t know how to cook. A viscount’s sister is not expected to be proficient at the stove.”

  “All the years I was at school, Caro—did you never hang about here? Watch the water boil? Mrs. Revere wasn’t such a bad old trout.”

  Caroline sniffed. She had hung about. There was nothing better to do with Nicky away. It had always looked so simple when Mrs. Revere set the stewpot over the fire. “She said I was ham-handed. A hoyden. A h-hell-cat.”

  “Alliterative, was she?” Andrew murmured. “Don’t cry, Caro. You’ll turn your eyes as red as your hair.”

  Caroline pushed the long braids behind her ears. She was far too old for such a hairstyle, but with Mary gone, no maid to help her dress and all the housework to do, there was no choice. Nicky and Andrew spent their days jogging about the countryside on the last two horses trying to cadge a free meal with the distant neighbors. Goodness, the horses ate better than they did.

  Nicky got up to warm himself near the fire. Although it was June, the house was damp and cold. Caroline had hoped dinner cooked in the fireplace would accomplish two things—feed them and take the chill off the gloomy kitchen. She was wrong, as usual. Her brother’s ginger hair glowed brighter than her candlestick, but she saw where she’d missed a spot when she barbered him last week. He kicked back a loose coal. “I’ve shut up most of the house. I don’t see what else I can do. No one will work here. The wretched state of the Parker finances is known by every unlettered urchin in the vicinity. It’s not as if we can offer free room and board. The roof caved in on the servant’s wing.”

  “Where is our beloved guardian? Why cannot he be found to help us?” Caroline asked bitterly.

  Nicky snorted. “As if a friend of Father’s could be at all useful.” He paused, rubbing his hands. “Caro, Andrew and I have made inquiries. I didn’t want to worry you—I know how hard you’ve tried. According to a reputable source, Gossler took everything we had and was bound for the West Indies. I hope the boat sinks.”

  That was the first Caroline had heard of it. What else had her brother and his friend withheld from her in their efforts to protect her? Despondent, she pushed her plate away.

  “I’ll make some tea,” Andrew offered in his soft Scottish burr.

  “There isn’t any.”

  “None at all? Not even a few flakes? You’d be surprised what I can do with the bare minimum.” Andrew smiled again. He was always so kind to her. He’d been orphaned too, at a much earlier age. If it hadn’t been for his Uncle Donal, he
never would have had the advantages he did. But when his uncle died, there had been a mix-up in his will. Andrew was even poorer than they were, happy to accept Nicky’s invitation to throw his lot in with them. He and Nicky were so close they sometimes knew what the other was thinking without ever uttering a word. Caroline had been jealous of their friendship at first, but Andrew was too nice—and too beautiful—to dislike.

  She knew she was beautiful too, even in her patched dress and her unraveling braids, like a Cumberland Cinderella. But unlike Cinderella, there was no ball to attend to attract a prince. She was seventeen years old and doomed to a life of spinsterhood with her impoverished brother and his friend in a decaying country house. She cried a bit harder.

  “Oh, give way, Caro. It’s only supper,” Nicky said impatiently. “Andrew can try his hand at it tomorrow night.”

  “The-there’s plenty of vegetables in the garden.” Caroline had one domestic talent at least—her garden was thriving. She would have preferred to grow flowers instead of vegetables, but was at least practical enough to plant carrots and turnips and potatoes. Onions and beets and four kinds of lettuce, too. They’d eaten every asparagus stalk this spring along with the strawberries in the raised beds Andrew built for her. The beans were running up the poles Andrew had helped her set, and she hadn’t ruined the bright green peas that sat in a cracked white bowl on the table. She reached for them and put some on her plate, being careful to edge them away from the goo that was meant to be mutton stew.

  “Peas,” grumbled Nicky, returning to the table. “You know I don’t like them.” He spooned a large amount on his plate, made a face and dug in.