The Golden Season (36 page)

The only respite from melancholy had been those times when “what if” had caught her off guard and she’d envisioned a baby with auburn curls, tiny fingers, and a rosebud mouth. Then panic crashed in through the door her imagination left open. Her heart would race, her vision blur, and she could not catch her breath, she could not breathe, until something interrupted the terrible escalating hysteria.

Something like stealing.

She had no idea why taking other people’s little fribbles should afford relief. She didn’t care. She would have done anything to stop that nameless sense of being trapped, cornered, imprisoned in a dark hole and buried alive.

But not long after she’d discovered the relief stealing could give her, Cod discovered her penchant, too. He’d had her committed. And right afterward, he’d gone away. And then she’d heard he’d died.

Dead. He was
dead
, not in the morning room talking to Lydia. She was dreaming. Another nightmare. Because this couldn’t be real. It wasn’t fair. It had taken so long to piece herself together. It had taken effort and practice and Lydia.

She should go in there, step through the door, and confront her nightmare. But she couldn’t. Because she knew he was real and she couldn’t bear to look at him. Not after what he’d done to her.

But she could listen to him.

Emily crept back across the hallway and pressed her ear to the door.

“The reports were that you’d died,” Lydia said coldly.

“You fell overboard off a ship.”

This was the vermin that had committed Emily to an insane asylum. She stared down at him, willing him to shrivel under her disgust like a leech dosed with salt. But he was immune to her attitude.

“It wasn’t me—it was some Belgian. But it was convenient,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “It made it possible for me to take his name and begin a new life.

“You see, people had begun asking uncomfortable questions about my banking practices, in spite of the fact that my initial investors had made a tidy sum. In fact, they all recommended me to their friends.” He sounded pleased, even flattered. “Alas, subsequent investors were not so fortunate. If only they had given me more time to convince a third wave of investors to subsidize me, I could have gone on for some time. But they wouldn’t and so, well, my demise was best for all.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lydia bit out the words.

“Because I want you to understand why you are going to pay me fifty thousand pounds.”

“
What
?”

“I recently returned to England after a . . . misfortune abroad. Alas, imagine my disappointment when I realized that my former clients have long memories. I’m very much afraid I have already been recognized. In spite of my new name.”

He sighed at the unfairness of it, then continued. “Lately, I have been thinking how well my old investment strategies worked and that it is high time I founded a new bank in a new country, where I will not be recognized. But these things need seed money and that’s what you shall provide.”

“No.”

He ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “I have already booked passage on a ship leaving Portsmouth tomorrow evening. I intend to be on board with the fifty thousand pounds you will secure for me by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. A draft from the Bank of England will do.”

“You must be mad.” She’d had enough of Bernie Cod. She turned to ring for the footman. The only one left. He was a strapping lad and she would take great delight in giving him instruction to bodily remove this filth.

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, if I were you,” Cod said, his voice growing dark.

His tone was such that Lydia hesitated despite herself.

“I believe you are forgetting about my wife. She
is
still my wife, you know, my legal responsibility. I must say, I was quite amazed to discover that you’d adopted her as your pet.”

“Emily is not a pet. She is my companion,” Lydia said, but her hand did not tug the bellpull.

“How gratifying to hear how fond you are of her. Otherwise, I would be forced to commit her again. This time to Bedlam.”

“Emily stays with me,” Lydia snapped, but alarm had begun to build inside of her.

“As long as I allow it,” he agreed. “And I shan’t allow it unless you get me that money.”

“You can’t do that.”

“But I can.” He did not sound angry, merely impatient.

“I shall tell everyone who you are. You will end in debtor’s prison,” Lydia declared.

“You know,” Cod mused, “I anticipated this reaction, but I still cannot help but be disappointed. I heard you were intelligent.”

She did not reply, only stood rigid, caught between horror and fury.

“Pray, think, ma’am. My legal problems have no effect on my rights as Emily’s husband. I can still have her committed.” At her continued silence, he went on. “The
ton
is filled with stories of Emily’s bizarre and uncontrolled light-fingered way. I’ve asked around. She’s quite notorious. No one is going to oppose her commitment. If you send for the authorities, I may end up in jail, but so will Emily. Of a different sort.”

“You cannot be so evil.”

“I am not evil. I am a businessman. This is a simple transaction and one where you get as good as I.” He sounded so practical, so reasonable. “You give me the money and I leave. And lest you think I will only impose on you again at some future date, consider this. I would be a fool to risk my freedom by returning to England now that I realize how long my enemies will hold a grudge. I am no fool and I can hardly commit dear Emily from halfway across the world.”

Lydia stared at the man, trying to sort out what to do, how to alleviate the threat posed by this man. Ned was gone and she’d awoken to a nightmare. “I don’t have the money,” she said hoarsely.

“Now
that
is even more than disappointing and it only raises my ire, indeed it does.” All traces of feigned equanimity evaporated from his voice. Lydia shivered. “How stupid do you think I am? You are one of the wealthiest women in the
ton
. Now listen to me, Lady Lydia.” His voice grew thick. “I need that money. I owe money to people besides the ones here in England. People from other countries. Countries with barbarous practices, if you take my meaning. And these chaps have far worse punishments for those they catch up with than prison. Indeed, I’d sooner take my chances in an English prison than encounter one of them without having the wherewithal to pay them off. Do I make myself clear?’

“Yes. But I am telling you, my fortune is gone. All of it.”

Cod snickered. “Gammon me another, Lady Lydia. I saw the jeweled gown you wore at that masquerade ball, the gold mask, the gems in your hair. The
ton
is talking of nothing else. And I know it was you. I saw you. I was at the gate when you and Emily drove out.”

“It is window-dressing.” Lydia’s voice rose in desperation. “I spent everything on making myself unforgettable. In order to . . .”

She faltered. She had been so careful not to let the news of her impoverishment leak. Her friends and Terwilliger had been the souls of discretion. But if she had to lay her pride on the floor before this monster, she would. “It was all a ploy to make myself irresistible to a certain sort of man, a rich man, so he would offer for me.”

Cod looked up at that and Lydia held her breath, praying that Cod would believe her. But he wasn’t listening.

“Right, then.” With a grunt, he rose to his feet, dusting off his hat. “Have Emily make sure her bags are packed. On the other hand, there’s really no need. They only take away everything they bring with them.”

“No!” Lydia cried out. She could not risk having Emily sent back to an asylum. It would kill her. And she knew Cod would do it, even if it meant staying in England and going to prison himself. He said he’d rather be in an English prison than meet the men he owed without the wherewithal to pay his debts to them. “No, wait. I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we can ask in life, isn’t it, Lady Lydia? That we try and be prepared for the consequences if we fail.” His tone was once more smooth and conciliatory. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper with writing on it. “Meet me here tomorrow by four o’clock.”

She stared at his hand, unable to bring herself to draw nearer to him. He understood and it amused him. With a snicker, he dropped the paper to the floor. He tipped his head and donned his hat. “Tomorrow, then.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Lydia sank down to the chair. She bent over and picked up the paper, noting an address down near the docks.

Four o’clock tomorrow.

She didn’t even consider trusting to the courts to sort out if Emily Cod was mad and who would determine her future. Because she already knew. Husbands, even criminal ones, held their wives’ and children’s welfare hostage in the palm of their hand, or center of their fist, to be sheltered or crushed as they wanted.

Yes, there were laws to protect a woman from being physically broken too badly, but her person, her property, and in most ways her freedom, were her husband’s to do with as he saw fit. He could take her children, as had Sarah’s, or her money. He could abandon her, exile her, or commit her to an asylum with little cause.

The worst of it was that Cod knew he held the trump card; Emily’s peculiarities provided more than enough reason to have her committed. In truth, there was enough evidence against her to have her arrested, convicted, and even transported should someone bring suit. The law could send a boy to Australia for lifting a handkerchief. It could certainly do as much to a woman known to pilfer regularly. Of course, as long as Emily was with Lydia, she’d been safe. No one would gainsay Lady Lydia Eastlake.

She leaned forward, her forehead falling into her hand, and closed her eyes, trying to think through this horror.

Ned.

She could send for Ned.

But the rush of comfort thought of him inspired evaporated before grim realities. What good could Ned do?

He had no more money than she and far less chance of finding it in so short a time. Even if she could get a message to him at Josten Hall and he could return by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon—and she did not know how that would be humanly possible—nothing he could do would alter the situation shy of his killing Cod. And he would.

He would challenge him to a duel and if Cod refused, he would kill him outright. Then he would stand trial for killing Cod. And if Cod did accept, Ned could be hurt or even killed himself. She would not sacrifice Ned to save Emily. She couldn’t.

She considered taking Emily and running away, but what good would that do other than buy some time? As long as Cod was in England, in jail or not, Emily could be wrenched from her and sent to Bedlam.

She had friends, powerful friends that she knew she might convince to take up Emily’s cause should she be committed. But the laws that deeded a man rights over his wife were ones most men would not like trifling with. The effects of bringing a successful suit against Cod and his rights to determine Emily’s fate would have long-ranging effects that she was not certain her friends would want to see come to pass. Even if she did convince them, there was no saying they would be successful. And in the meantime, Emily would languish in Bedlam. The thought of that place, the horror stories told about the treatment of the inmates there, made her shake.

Fifty thousand pounds was an immense sum of money. Almost impossible to come up with in so short a time. But there was one man she knew who could do so.

She knew what she must do; she must ask Childe Smyth to loan her the money. She also knew that there was scant chance he would make such a loan knowing she had no way to repay it. Childe had proved himself a pragmatist above all.

She drew a shaky breath. She had one thing Childe might consider taking in payment: her hand in marriage. And that meant giving up Ned. She closed her eyes briefly and a tear leaked out the corner and trickled down her cheek. What else could she do? She had not been the friend she should have been to Sarah. She could not do the same to Emily. Perhaps a month or two ago she would have railed and cried but ultimately failed to make such a sacrifice for Emily. But she was not that person anymore. She had changed. Ned had reawakened her deepest sense of honor and commitment.

She would never be able to live with herself if she did. She would know for a fact that all she amounted to was a pretty, hollow shell without substance or loyalty or compassion. Ned would hate such a mannequin.
She
would hate such a mannequin. She was better than that.

She stood up and walked to her small writing desk and, without sitting down, picked up a pen and hastily wrote a few terse lines. She tugged the bellpull and while she waited sealed the note. When the maid entered, she said, “I want this message delivered to Mr. Childe Smyth at once. Have the boy await a reply.”

 

Emily Cod heard Lydia’s command and knew at once that Lydia was seeking from Mr. Smyth the means to ransom her. The older woman knotted her hands together fretfully, wondering what to do. Lydia might ask for a loan, but Emily knew Childe Smyth and his situation. He would demand something in return: Lydia’s hand in marriage. And Lydia would agree.

If Lydia didn’t, Cod would send Emily to the asylum. He was vicious enough to do so. He’d been vicious enough to push her down the stairs when she was pregnant because he didn’t want to provide for “her brat.”

She didn’t want to go to Bedlam. The thought of such a place, endless mutter of the mad, the stench of incontinence, the howling and giggling, but worse, the vacant eyes of those who had entered there not mad, but over time had retreated deep within, never to be recalled again. No. She couldn’t.

She thought of all the things she had said to Eleanor to convince her that Lydia ought to marry Captain Lockton. But that was yesterday, before Cod. Now . . .