An Unexpected Gentleman (31 page)

I
f Adelaide’s wedding night had been a whirlwind of discovery, the first week of marriage was an education.

The day after the Wards’ arrival, Connor took all but Wolfgang—who chose to remain in his chambers—into town so Adelaide could fulfill her wish of spoiling her nephew and sister with sweets and art supplies. As Adelaide had predicted, George fell asleep before he could make himself ill. Isobel took her paint and easel outside and, for the next six days, spent every hour of sunlight in the garden, hunting for blooms to paint.

Adelaide found pleasure in her own hobbies. She began the delightful task of planning her own garden, and in a moment of rare spontaneity, she asked the stable master to teach her how to ride. But with so many other duties requiring her attention, it wasn’t often she found time for herself.

Major repairs on the house had been completed, but there was still some work to be done, and the decorator seemed to need her approval for every new drape and scrap of wallpaper he wished to order. The staff required the more mundane, but no less time-consuming, sort of directions always needed for the daily management of a large home. New clothes had to be purchased for the entire family. Letters had to be written to Lilly and Winnefred. A nanny had to be found for George, and she’d hoped to draw Wolfgang out of his bad temper by involving him in the process, but he demonstrated a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the task.

“What the devil do I know of nannies?” was his response. They were, in fact, the only words he spoke to Adelaide in the course of the week. He kept to his chambers in the day, and the town’s tavern at night.

At Connor’s urging, she let the matter go without argument. If Wolfgang wished to lick his wounded pride with a bitter tongue, he was welcome to do it alone.

And really, George didn’t need a nanny right this moment. He was thriving in his new home, and there was no shortage of people willing, even eager, to watch over him in the interim.

The staff and residents of Ashbury Hall were enamored with the child, none more so than Michael, Gregory, and Graham. They lavished attention on the boy and seemed especially fond of picking him up and tossing him in the air like a sack of flour. Adelaide nearly fainted the first time Gregory did this, but the old man caught George without so much as a grunt for the effort, proving he was stronger and quicker than he appeared.

It was strange sharing a house with grown men to whom she was not related, and who were neither staff nor guests. Connor treated Michael and Gregory like family, but while Adelaide came to enjoy the men’s easy smiles and gentle bickering, she still didn’t fully trust them.

The air of secrecy surrounded them. And Connor. And a good portion of everything they did.

Connor spent hours every day behind the closed doors of his study. Sometimes he preferred his own council, but typically he met with his men and the low murmur of male voices would drift into the hall and down into the front parlor. For reasons she neither understood nor cared to examine too closely, Adelaide found the sound agreeable and often created excuses to sit in the parlor when the men were above stairs. Though their words were unintelligible, it was easy to distinguish who was speaking when. She listened for the distinct and familiar cadence of Connor’s deep voice.

Adelaide wondered if she would not be so inclined to listen for the sound of him if only he were more readily available in the flesh. And by that, she did not mean available for concerns of the flesh. Connor was certainly accessible for that. Every night, as it happened. And every morning. She was fairly sure he’d become available during the day given half the provocation. He was, in that regard—and to her unqualified delight—unfailingly attentive.

In fact, he was attentive in all regards . . . when he was around. He rarely missed breakfast or dinner, but often the noon meal and tea. If she stopped him in the hall to ask a question, or brought a concern to his attention before bed, he listened carefully and offered thoughtful answers or sound advice. If she wanted to ask him a question while he was with his men, however, she had to wait. Connor didn’t expressly ban her from his study, nor forbid her from interrupting, but given his tremendous need for revenge, she imagined any disruption would be poorly received.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the arrangement. She had no reason for complaint. Connor wasn’t neglecting his duties as a husband, and yet she couldn’t help but feel a sliver of discontent every time he disappeared into his study with his men. And the grim smiles of satisfaction she saw on his face when he emerged again only increased her unease. Because, really, “grim” was not a word that should be applicable to any aspect of a marriage in its first week.

But more than that, she was afraid for him, of what risks he might be taking. How far was he willing to go in his hunt for revenge, and what if the search led him back to prison or, God forbid, to the gallows? What if it led to nothing at all? How long would he dedicate his life to vengeance, to the exclusion of nearly everything else . . . including her?

She tried reminding herself that she’d known from the start where Connor’s priorities lay. She’d entered into marriage knowing full well what to expect. But none of these were effective in softening the troubling truth.

For the first time, in a very long time, she hoped for something more.

 

M
arriage to Adelaide was all that he had hoped.

Connor arrived at this conclusion as he walked down the second floor of the family wing.

In fact, marriage was more than he had hoped. He’d imagined it would be a pleasant and satisfying state of affairs. What he’d not expected was the sheer convenience of it all.

What color fabric did he want for the sitting room drapes? Ask my wife.

Should it be lamb or beef for dinner? Ask my wife.

A dispute between the maids? A problem with the gardener? A yen for a beautiful woman in his arms? They were all issues Adelaide was available to address at a moment’s notice.

Bloody brilliant institution, marriage.

In truth, his one and only disappointment was that Adelaide’s accessibility had failed to improve his ability to concentrate. He needed only to catch a hint of her scent in a room or hear the lilt of her laugh through a wall and his thoughts veered toward the extra hour he’d enjoyed in bed with her that morning, or the delights of the night to come, or the possibility of an afternoon steeped in pleasure—he’d not tried that particular convenience as yet, but he did like thinking about it.

He began to think of it now, and had just arrived at the particularly agreeable bit in which Adelaide crooked a finger at him, when a soft sniffle and small movement in an open doorway caught his attention. Turning, Connor spied George sitting on the floor in one of the extra family bedchambers. His eyes and nose were red, and fat tears slid down his cheeks.

Something akin to fear skittered up Connor’s spine. He ruthlessly shoved it aside. Children cried. It was just something they did. There was no reason for panic. No reason at all, he silently repeated as he stepped forward, then back, then forward again. And he repeated it yet again after he finally managed to cross the room, only to stand and stare helplessly at the top of the boy’s head like a towering idiot.

“Don’t do that.”

In deference to the child’s age, Connor issued the order in what he measured to be a gentle tone of voice. Evidently, the child did not agree. George looked up, widened his eyes, and burst into an earsplitting wail.

“Good God.” Connor wiggled his jaw, half expecting his ears to pop. “Don’t do that either.”

He crouched down, which seemed to have a calming effect on George, who traded his wails for sobs. Emboldened by the small victory, Connor took a deep breath, reached out, and gave the boy a bolstering pat on the arm.

George slumped to the floor like a deflated soufflé.

Now there was reason for panic. He gripped George by the shoulders and quickly tried to right him again. George crumpled back to the floor.

He tried again with the same results. “Bloody hell. Sit up.”

Wincing, he berated himself for the slip of tongue. First he’d knocked the child to the ground. Now he was swearing at him. Well done.

Where the devil was his staff? Where the devil was Adelaide?

“Stop this . . . George . . . This is no way to behave. Do you want the maids to think you’re an infant?”

The sobbing came to an abrupt stop. Slowly, and to Connor’s considerable relief, George pushed himself into a sitting position and sniffled loudly. “Not infant.”

“Certainly not,” Connor was quick to assure him. In truth, he was prepared to agree with anything the boy cared to say. Anything at all. So long as it kept the crying at bay. He put his hand out to pat the child, then quickly snatched it back. “Not an infant.”

George sniffed loudly and tilted his head in a quizzical manner. “Naughty.”

“Are you referring to me or yourself?” He shook his head at George’s blank stare. Odds were he meant the swearing, and the sooner that was forgotten, the better. “Never mind. What’s put you in such a state?”

When that failed to produce an answer, Connor tried rephrasing. “What’s wrong, George? . . . What is the matter?”

Nothing. The child just sat there, staring at him with big, wet eyes, sopping cheeks, and an objectionable amount of fluid leaking from his nose.

Connor tried enunciating each word slowly and carefully as he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped George’s face. “Why . . . are . . . you . . . ?” He stopped, a disturbing thought occurring to him. “You haven’t . . . You’re not still in nappies, are you?”

“Ouch,” George said all of sudden. He threw his elbow up, nearly catching Connor in the chin, and pointed to a patch of skin on his forearm.

Connor pulled back and stared at the spot. He couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with it, which left him guessing at what he was supposed to do next. But at least it wasn’t a dirty nappy.

“I see,” he lied.

Oh, hell. Was he supposed to kiss it? He hoped,
fervently
hoped, he would not have to kiss it.

“Kiss.”

“It appears to be a mild injury, George. Why don’t we find your aunt—?”

George’s lips trembled.
“Kiss.”

Connor kissed it and was rewarded with a wide grin from George.

Well . . . there you go, he thought. That wasn’t so difficult. Nothing to it, really. And since no one had been about to witness the moment, nothing lost.

“Well done, Connor.”

He turned, slowly, and found Adelaide standing in the doorway, her soft brown eyes laughing.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long.”

But long enough, he imagined, to have spared him the indignity of playing nursemaid. “You might have said something.”

“Yes.” Her lips curved up. “I might have.”

Gaining his feet, he sent her a surly look. “Am I this irritating when I’m being smug?”

“Twice as,” she assured him.

“Excellent.”

Adelaide laughed softly and crossed the room to George. She scooped him up, planted a kiss on his arguably injured elbow, and then gave him a reprimanding scowl. “Do you know why you have an ouch, darling? Because you were poking about in here instead of sleeping in the nursery as you were told.”

Connor doubted the boy fully understood what was being said. But the word “sleep” seemed to hit a chord.

“No! Down!” He squirmed in Adelaide’s arms, but to no avail.

“Oh, yes. Down.”

Ignoring the new round of wails that followed, she walked over and tugged on a bellpull. Connor glowered at the rope. Why the devil hadn’t he thought of the bellpull?

He was still glowering a moment later when a maid answered and relieved Adelaide of her loud burden.

“You’re still not entirely comfortable with him, are you?” Adelaide asked after the maid left.

The comment made him feel unaccountably defensive. “I am fond of him.”

“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean it as a criticism.” She walked over to the bed and leaned against one of the posters. “Merely an observation. Didn’t they have small children in Boston?”

“Yes.” He wanted to roll the sudden tension out of his shoulders. “But they were different. They weren’t quite so . . .”

“Quite so what?” Adelaide prompted.

His, he thought. They weren’t quite so
his
. “Innocent.”

“All children are innocent.”

“You’ve not been to the back alleys of Boston.”

“All children,” she repeated, and then studied him with a quiet intensity that made him uneasy. “It must have been hard for you there. You were hardly more than a boy yourself.”

The tension grew, pulling taut. “I was a teenager, not a child.”

“Debatable,” she murmured. “How old were you when you met Gregory and Michael?”

She asked the question casually, but he knew she was pressing for information about his past. “Still a teenager.”

“You don’t remember, exactly?”

He remembered; he just didn’t want to encourage the line of questioning.

“I was nine months past my fifteenth birthday when I escaped the ship,” he replied stiffly, hoping a quick response would put an end to the topic. “And four months past sixteen when I met Gregory and Michael. Life before them was difficult, but life after was not. I had food, shelter, and two savvy adults looking out for my welfare.”

“Will you tell me what it was like in the press-gang?”

“No.”
Hell, no.

“Why not?”

“Because you can imagine it for yourself.” The hardships and deprivations impressed sailors experienced were hardly secret. There was no shortage of other men who were willing to speak of the constant hunger, the brutal cold of winter and stomach-churning heat of summer, the endless hours of hard labor, and the biting humiliation of knowing you were as expendable as the powder stuffed into the cannons. If she wanted specifics, she could find them somewhere else.