The Hourglass (6 page)

To say nothing of his peculiarities, Genie thought, but did not speak aloud. He always wore his cape despite the heat of the day, carried a crow on his shoulder, and often spoke to empty air. He could put a pain-wracked soldier to sleep with a word and a touch, yet he never seemed to sleep himself. Genie chose to ignore the disturbing aspects. She had to, to preserve her own sanity. “I thought you did not care about gossip.”

“For myself, I do not.”

“If you are concerned with my reputation, staying at the same hotel and traveling with you, then we can hold the ceremony in a nearby church here and worry about the particulars later,” she offered, still not certain of her fiancé’s religious beliefs. For all she knew, he could choose to be wedded by a warlock.

“No, everything must be aboveboard, without question. I would have no one doubt the legitimacy of our union. As you said, there will be gossip aplenty without a mourning period, and again when the child is born too early to be of my blood. There would be more if we did not marry. Let no one think either of us is unhappy with the match. I would wed you in London’s grandest cathedral, in front of the king if I could.”

The king was almost as mad as Lord Ardeth.

Fearing that time and distance would let Genie doubt her decision, he kept her busy with visits to the wounded soldiers, calls on the consulate, and dress fittings when he found a seamstress willing to take up her needle again. He bought her gifts, gloves and books and candied sweets—almost like a real betrothal, almost like a man in love. He ignored the scandalized looks, the matrons’ titters, the soldiers’ snickers, so Genie tried to, also.

None of the officers’ wives came to call on Genie, not to offer congratulations or condolences. Everyone wanted to speak with Lord Ardeth. When the earl was consulting with bankers and generals and surgeons and ambassadors, giving his advice and getting their cooperation for the wedding and the return to England, he made sure Genie was not alone. He knew she would fret herself into a panic. That panicked her worse, that he understood her so well, while she understood him not at all.

His man Campbell was full of praise for his lordship, but the sergeant could not explain where his new employer had come from, how he learned his healing techniques, or what a rich nob was doing in the middle of a war. The soldier had met the earl mere hours before Genie had, and Lord Ardeth had helped with the horses, which were Campbell’s first love. Lord Ardeth was arranging Campbell’s discharge from the army, and that was enough—that and a well-paying position and passage back home. He was to be the earl’s man-of-all-work, footman, valet, and groom until they were home. Then he was to be in charge of filling the earl’s stables. Campbell thought he must have died and gone to heaven, the way he kept grinning. Except Lord Ardeth wouldn’t have let his man die, Campbell swore while he accompanied Genie on her way, on his lordship’s orders.

Campbell’s second love after horses, it quickly turned out, was Marie, the French maid Ardeth found to help Genie with her clothes and her hair. She knew all the latest styles, plus the best way to conceal Mrs. Macklin’s growing condition. She also knew a good opportunity when she saw it. Of course she’d rather serve the master than the mistress, but Monsieur
le Comte
was not as generous with his affection as with his money.
C’est la vie.
Marie’s former employer had fled back to France ahead of the advancing armies, so she was alone and without income. Brussels offered no such lucrative post, now that the British were leaving, so she was eager to accept whatever job Monsieur was offering. She was not as eager to accept poor Campbell’s attentions. A mere sergeant turned gentleman’s gentleman was below her standards, but he’d do—until they reached London and Marie could find a better beau.

Genie did not inquire too closely into the nature of her new maid’s last position, but very much feared she was being cared for by a cast-off kept woman.

Besides Campbell and Marie making sure Genie was never alone, the crow was constantly flying overhead or tapping on Genie’s window. The silly bird seemed to be making sure she did not run off rather than marry the earl.

“Alive, keep alive,” she thought the crow cawed whenever the feathered forager dropped coins, buttons, or beads at her feet or on her bed.

“That’s Olive,” she said, trying to teach it. “Can you say Olive? And no, I cannot keep you. You are the earl’s companion.” She did feed the crow bits of fruit
and cheese, occasionally dipping a corner of bread in wine,
which he seemed to like even better.

“I love, I love,” he cooed while she gently stroked his shiny black head.

“That’s right—your name is Olive.”

The night before the wedding, Ardeth escorted Genie to a dinner at the foreign embassy. She was dressed to the nines—in black—with lace and her only jewelry, a strand of pearls. She knew she was in better looks than ever, but not half as stunning as the man at her side. He made sure to introduce her to the dignitaries and their wives as his bride-to-be. One look from him, his hand possessively placed over hers on his arm, stilled any comments or criticisms, even when he muttered, “Shite” when someone spilled wine near her skirt, which stayed dry somehow. She was shown a deference she’d never experienced, not as younger sibling to an acknowledged beauty, nor as Elgin Macklin’s second-choice bride, or his supposed tagalong camp-following sister. It was heady stuff, this being a countess. The effort required for her to act like a great lady, knowing they were all weighing her every word and action, was also terrifying, as if marrying Lord Ardeth weren’t scary enough. She watched the sun rise on her wedding day, too.

*

For her first wedding, Genie had worn a girlish white gown. Her sister, Lorraine, had declared herself old enough to wear bright colors, so her worn muslin had come to Genie. She had carried a drooping bouquet of wildflowers she’d picked herself, a few of their petals dropping as she walked to the village church behind her angry parents. Her father was so disgusted with his younger daughter that he refused to harness his horses for the short distance. According to Squire Hopewell, stealing her sister’s beau, kissing Elgin outside the assembly room, and disgracing his family name were bad enough without Imogene trying to lie and blame dear Lorraine.

The ceremony had been conducted during regular Sunday services at her village church, and the bride was the only one who cried, although the groom looked dismal enough for tears. Elgin’s eyes were bloodshot anyway, most likely from the three weeks of drinking he’d done before shackling himself to his sweetheart’s plain, skinny, redheaded sister. His neckcloth had been askew and his clothes stank of stale wine. Lorraine, who should have been weeping at the loss of her longtime love, was too busy flirting with his older brother, Roger, back from London for the nuptials.

Only the immediate families had returned to the Hopewells’ home for the wedding breakfast, Elgin’s mother sniffing in disapproval of both the Hopewells’ cottage and their conniving to trap Roger, who’d been destined for a duke’s daughter at the least. Now, because the elder Hopewell chit had been denied her promised
parti
,
Roger was forced to wed a nobody. The fathers were closeted to discuss marriage settlements. Imogene, Elgin, and their sorry scandal would be sent out of sight, off to war. The heir and dear Lorraine would take up residence in London after a fancy wedding.

Squire Hopewell had left the book room smiling. His poppet would be a baroness someday. Roger, the future baron, left the wedding breakfast with a serving maid.

What a difference between that miserable event and Genie’s second marriage. Now she wore a stylish black silk gown, but with a white lace mantilla on her head. She carried pure white roses, and she and her maid, Marie,
had arrived in an elegant carriage that was decked in
more roses. The ceremony was held at the British ambassador’s palatial residence, strewn with flowers, a violinist playing softly in the corner. A reception would follow at the hotel. The grand guests—foreign diplomats, generals, and local gentry—would dine inside, but common soldiers and servants, all those who could walk or limp to get there, were going to be served in the stable yard. Ardeth had declared it a day of celebration, of his nuptials and the British victory, a day to set aside the suffering and grieving, if only for an hour or two.

Sergeant Campbell was not the only grizzled veteran to wipe his eyes. Half the ladies present sniffled at the romance of the thing, and in regret that their own husbands did not measure up to Lord Ardeth.

This time Genie’s formidable groom was magnificent, putting every other man—and the bride—in the shade. The earl wore formal dress, black satin knee breeches and tailcoat, with sparkling white neckcloth and waistcoat that set off his black hair and dark eyes. He smelled of spices and woods and scented soap, with a bit of smoke mixed in, most likely from a pipe, Genie guessed. He was tall and well formed—and he was smiling.

Today was also literal and figurative worlds away from Sir Coryn of Ardsley’s first wedding. That one was held at his bride’s father’s drafty, mildewed castle. He’d ridden there in full armor against marauding bands, with his own troop of knights, vassals, and pages. Hot and sweaty, with no opportunity—or inclination, truth be told—to bathe, he’d knelt in the chapel next to his fifteen-year-old bride, who’d sobbed through the ceremony despite the chest of gold and jewels he’d brought as the bride-price. Everyone got drunk after, and a fight broke out among the two factions, instead of the alliance the marriage was supposed to cement. He did not remember what the girl wore. He barely recalled the color of her hair or her name, only that she sobbed throughout the days of their marriage until he rode off to the wars six months later.

What a difference an eon made, give or take a century or two. Today he was dressed in the finest garments money could buy, having bathed in oils from India with steaming hot water, and shaved not once but twice. He’d driven to a well-appointed mansion in a fine carriage behind highbred horses, to be welcomed by powerful, intelligent, unarmed gentlemen and their lady wives.

And his bride was radiant, without a hint of tears.

Too bad this union was not destined to last longer than the last one.

Everything was going well until the vicar asked, “Do you, Imogene Hopewell Macklin, take this man…?”

Silence.

Did she know he was not truly a man? Ardeth shook his head. That was impossible. He had been facing forward, letting his mind wander to his plans for the reception and the coming trip. He hadn’t been listening to the vicar’s droning speech until the lack of it caught his attention. Why should he heed this stranger when he knew the holy vow he was taking, its rights and responsibilities, as well as the cost of forsaking it, better than any collared cleric?

Now he turned to face the bride. He’d thought Genie rapt in attention to the vicar, a slight smile on her lips. Now he recognized that smile for the same kind of frozen rictus he’d seen when he’d done his job, his former job. She wasn’t…? No, of course not. She was simply paralyzed with fear, poor puss, and he had no idea what to do about it, not with all these people watching. She was right to be afraid, by Hades.

He squeezed her hand, bothered that he could not tell how icy hers was through their gloves. His hands were always cold anyway and could not have helped warm her. Damn, he cursed, then prayed that she would not change her mind now. Campbell, beside him, started to gnaw on his lip as the vicar repeated his question.

Marie, on Genie’s other side as her attendant and witness, whispered loudly enough for half the guests to hear, “You’ll never get a better offer,
chérie,
”
which served only to remind Genie that she was gambling with her life and that of her child on a man who moved in the highest circles and moved like a shadow, a man who looked like a paragon and spoke in paradoxes. She had no business being here, in this society, with this silver-tongued stranger.

“Of course you will get a better offer,” Ardeth murmured to her. “You are beautiful and kindhearted. Any man would die to have you as his wife. Well, perhaps not die,” he quickly amended. That was the whole point. “But I hope you will choose me, for I will spend what time I have being a good husband, I swear.” He brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss on her glove. “Do not be afraid, lady. I would never let harm come to you. You believe that, don’t you?”

She wet her lips and nodded. “Yes, I do, I think.”

“And you believe that we are both entitled to the chance at finding some happiness in this life?”

This time she spoke louder, with more conviction. “I do.”

Twenty witnesses let out held breaths, relieved that
there would be no more embarrassing moments. Now no one
would have to solve the awkward problem of that rotter Macklin’s widow. Now no men would have to worry about their wives sighing over the elegant earl.

Ardeth thanked Heaven, Hell, and everywhere in between.

“I do, too,” he whispered.

“Me three,” came the squawk from atop the unlit chandelier, then another, louder squawk from the unfortunate turbaned lady sitting beneath.

Chapter Five

For all the differences, weddings had not changed a great deal. Nor had the wedding nights, except that now no one was expected to hang bloodied sheets out the window, or consummate the union with witnesses present. The male guests at the hotel fete still made raucous, ribald jokes, perhaps more so because the bride was no shy virgin.