Mistress by Marriage Page 12

  “At least there’s wine, Nick old man,” Andrew said heartily, tipping the bottle. He gave Caroline a wink. “You deserve some, too, after your kitchen drudgery, Caro. Pass me your glass.”

  Her papa had kept a good cellar at least. What was left of the Parker family fortune was stored below in the cool dark vault. She rose to add some water from the jug at the sink but Andrew stopped her.

  “Water this wine? Heresy! You’re old enough to drink it straight with us, Caro.”

  “Old enough to marry,” said Nicky through a mouthful of peas. “Why can’t you snag a rich husband who can set this place to rights?”

  Caroline felt her face grow hot. “And where am I to meet this man? Why don’t you find a rich girl? I thought that’s what you and Andrew did all day, riding all over to take tea with the ladies. What about Bessie Abernathy?”

  Andrew made a choking sound. Caroline knew why. Bessie Abernathy was twenty-five if she was a day and plain as a scuffed boot, but her father owned half of Cumberland.

  “Her father would think me a fortune hunter.”

  “Well, you are.” Caroline swallowed more wine, enjoying the warm rush to her tongue. No wonder gentlemen were constantly in their cups. It was delicious.

  “I’m too young to marry. Isn’t that right, Andrew?”

  “Much.” A look passed between them that Caroline didn’t understand. Young men were a mystery, and at the rate she was going she’d never solve it.

  “What we need is an industry,” Nicky said, putting his fork down. “Perhaps there’s a coal seam on the property. Or tin.”

  Caroline laughed, although the thought of ripping up their beautiful acreage was not amusing at all. “Don’t you think Papa investigated all that? I was forever tripping over some engineer lured up here by one of his crazed schemes. We’ve nothing but rocks and grass.”

  “Sheep then.”

  “And what money will you use to buy them? Don’t you remember, Papa tried sheep when we were little. They all caught some disease and died, poor things. I can hardly see you and Andrew with your sleeves rolled up shearing and lambing.”

  Glum, Nicky poured himself more wine. Andrew cleared his throat. “Let’s be logical. List assets and debits.”

  “Ha. Don’t bring up the estates’ debts—I’ll never live long enough to pay them all.”

  “What about the house?” Andrew asked.

  “You know it’s entailed. I can’t sell it. It will all go to some fifth cousin twice removed.”

  “You’ll marry, Nicky. Someday. Your son will live here and I’ll be the dotty aunt in the attic.”

  “No, no. I mean the house is an asset,” 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 amusements. 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 muffin—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 embarrassment 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. God 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 glass 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 God 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 title 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 crème of Savona society would question his parentage. Andrew knew what it was like to be a bastard, 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 bitch 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 assortment 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 n
oses 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 hellish paintings by that fellow Bosch.

  Andrew circulated, holding on to a glass 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 circumstance 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.