Mistress by Marriage (12 page)
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
C
aroline 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.
aroline 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.
“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.
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