The Pursuit of Pleasure (28 page)

“As I still have the stink of Dartmouth Gaol about me, I’m sure I’m less than delightful, but I find myself in the unhappy state of not understanding my present finances and … I’ve come to hear the bad facts, as it were. I need to know if I have any money left. Enough to get me a room, a bath, and a decent meal for the night.”

“My dear Mrs. Marlowe.” Mr. Harris’s pale face registered deep concern as he offered her a chair. “It is all quite secure. Just as it should be. I made sure of that while you were pressed with this unfortunate business. Mr. Benchley indicated you were to be set free of all charges. I must say on behalf of Harris, Harris, and Harris, we are most pleased by your triumph. Such a dreadful business. Indeed, I think your husband must have had a premonition about his death. He most especially wanted to make sure, as his relic, you would be left quite secure.”

“So I do have money?”

“Yes, of course, madam.”

A vague feeling of relief lightened the tense set of her shoulders. “May I see the figures?”

“Certainly.” He went to one of the honeycombed cabinets, opened one of the locked little doors, and drew out a ledger. “Murchison, fetch Mrs. Marlowe a dish of tea.”

She looked at the books. It was all as Jamie had promised her. All of it, every last penny was accounted for. She looked again and again. To convince herself it was no sham.

It was so hard to conceive. Jamie was not actually dead. But legally he was dead, and this money, all of it, was hers. Still. The file held a number of copies of his will and of the legal transfer of all Jameson Marlowe’s worldly goods and chattelsto his relic, Elizabeth Genevieve Paxton Marlowe. There it was on ink and paper.

Remarkable. Alarming. And so … contradictory.

No other man of her acquaintance, no husband of any of her friends or relations, no father she’d ever come across, would have let her have complete and total control over so much money. And yet Jamie had.

Why? Why did he do this one thing, when all the rest were lies? He wasn’t dead and yet he wanted everyone to think so. And he must have had help. Lieutenant McAlden and certainly the Tuppers. And perhaps the Admiralty.

She hated being a pawn. Hated the feeling of being used without her consent or understanding. The way men always treated women. As if they were all especially stupid children.

Well, if he wanted to be dead, then let him be.

“It is all my money?” She wanted to be very sure.

“Yes, Mrs. Marlowe. All quite secure.” He smiled in encouragement.

“And the house?”

“The deed is quite secure, madam. I have a copy right here. Is there a difficulty?”

“No. No, it’s just. I am rather in shock.”

“How so?”

Because her husband was a liar. A bloody, charming, accomplished liar. That’s what Jamie was. She’d bought everything he’d said without for a moment doubting his word. And all the while he’d been a faithless blackguard. And she was a stupid, gullible idiot.

Except, he had left her all his money.

Her mind boggled.

“Madame? If I may broach a rather delicate subject, I would advise you to make out your own will. Your husband was very particular about the disposal of his estate to you and I should so hate for anything to … go awry.”

“Yes, one would so hate that.” And things were, to her certain knowledge, bound to go very much further awry, once she’d sorted Jamie out. But in the meantime, there was no need to take it out of the helpful Mr. Harris’s hide. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Harris. Let us commence at once in preparing a draft.”

Phineas Maguire was waiting for her at the back entrance to the brokers, lounging under the eaves as dry as a toad.

“Why, Mr. Maguire. How do you do?” She wasn’t sure why she used the formal address with Maguire, especially as they were clearly alone in the alleyway. Perhaps it had to do with her newfound descent in society. She needed to treat any friends she still had with as much care as she could muster.

“Ma’am.” He doffed his cap.

“What might I do for you?”

“Got it arsy-varsy, you have, ma’am. I come to do for you.”

He made no sense. “For me?”

He crossed to the mews and led out two horses, Serendipity and a respectable but much less flashy black mare. “I’m going with ye. I’ve a mind to see what it’s like out there at Redlap.”

Lizzie didn’t argue. However astonished she might be, she was grateful. It would be nice to have someone watching her back. In reality, she had no one else left to trust.

Even with the rain pouring down, they walked the horses. Lizzie wanted to go slowly and let the cold, clean rain wash over her, rinsing away the worst of the stench and grime before she made it back to her house. It seemed somehow important.

The house looked just as inviting, just as peaceful and embracing as it always had. It was the clouds beyond, gray and roiling at the edge of the sea, that made it look sinister and foreboding. And she was worried about her welcome.

The stables were more populated. The hunter Jamie hadridden out to Glass Cottage so many weeks ago was still there. And Mr. Tupper’s horse, a decent sturdy mount—no bloodlines to speak of, but still a good-looking, steady animal. And another pair, a matched set of high-blooded horses. A carriage pair. Curious.

“Do you think perhaps you could see to the stable, Mr. Maguire? There are rooms above. I could arrange it with my steward, if the job’s to your liking.”

“Right. There’s a lad I know, right good with horses. I’ll have him to help. You leave it to me.”

Lizzie knew she was going to have to question it all later, but for now, she was too weary, wet, and cold to care to think about anything but the prospect of a hot, hot bath and some peace and quiet.

She walked around to the front door of Glass Cottage, just as she had that first day with Jamie. It seemed so long ago.

She let herself in, and the scent of lemon and beeswax flowed over her like a balm, a benediction. She stood still in the entry hall, marveling at the beauty built into the lines of the stairwell and walls. She may have come to hate him, but she still had this beautiful house because of Jamie.

There was a sound from the music room, well lit by all the long windows even with the gray drizzle. Good Lord. Wroxham was there. Reading the London newspaper, lounging sideways with his feet over the arm of one of the lovely bergère armchairs she had ordered with the lemony silk cushions.

“Get off my armchair with your boots!” She slapped his legs off. “What are you doing here?”

“Gad,” he exclaimed. “How did … When did you arrive? You’ve been released?”

“As you see.” She rubbed her temples, but it brought no relief, only the smell of her filthy hands closer to her nostrils. Here in this lovely, clean, fresh house the amalgamation of her grime overpowered her.

“Why have you come? Go away. Take yourself home.” She shooed him away as she headed for the stairs. “I’m not at home to anyone right now.”

She went immediately upstairs, completely out of charity with everyone, especially Mrs. Tupper. Had she been entertaining guests while Lizzie was in gaol?

And it was worse when she opened the door to her bedchamber.

She looked around the room. It was scattered with the evidence of masculine attire and living: a bootjack near the dressing room, a shaving stand nearer to the windows. For a long moment she was too confused. Had Jamie come back to live here? Without her?

But then the smell of a different eau de cologne drifted out from the dressing room. Sandalwood. Wroxham’s scent. The bastard had taken up residence. In her bedroom.

“Mrs. Tupper!” she bawled at the top of her lungs. She was behaving like a fishwife, but she hardly cared. She yanked viciously on the bellpull.

A man appeared from the dressing room.

“Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“Get out!” Another screech that left her throat feeling raw.

One look at her and he fled, just as Mrs. Tupper came bustling in.

“Mrs. Tupper, what is that bounder doing in my room?”

“Mr. Wroxham’s valet?”

“Neither Mr. Wroxham nor his valet is welcome to move into my home. And into my chamber. How long has he been here?”

“Since you were taken, ma’am. Mr. Tupper thought it best to keep an eye on him. I’m sorry he’s upset you.”

As she had said to Lord deHavilland, she wasn’t mad, she was livid. “Well, he is to leave. Now.” She stormed into her dressing room. The evidence of his residence was everywhere. “I’d like a bath brought in here, while my bedchamber is cleaned and all of Lord Wroxham’s possessions packed up. A very hot bath, Mrs. Tupper. And a metal comb. I have any number of stowaways from Dartmouth Gaol.” She grimaced and scratched her head.

“Yes of course, ma’am. Right away. I have just the preparation. Something I brought back from the Antipodes. I’ll get everything prepared right away.”

Even tired, her brain latched on to the words.

“Antipodes, really? Did you actually sail there during your tenure at sea? With Captain Marlowe?”

“Yes, ma’am. Only he was Lieutenant then.”

“Ah, so he’d already been to the Antipodes. How nice he was able to give his lies some flavor of truth.”

“Ma’am?”

“Your master Captain Marlowe is a liar. But I’m sure you were well aware of that, as you’ve been in personal contact with him. Now, I’ve had a rather trying day, a trying month if you will, which was rather capped off by Mr. Wroxham’s unwelcome presence downstairs upon my arrival. But I find myself in very great need of that bath.”

Mrs. Tupper pursed her mouth up tight. “I am sorry, ma’am. Mr. Wroxham, said he was here at your, or rather Captain Marlowe’s, behest. I … I am very glad you’re back with us, ma’am.”

Lizzie wasn’t sure she believed her, but she kept her civility anyway. “Thank you, Mrs. Tupper. The bath, if you will. I’ll also need a fire. A wood fire, a roaring one. I mean to burn these clothes. To save you the trouble of soaking them in lye. I do believe I mean to purchase new ones anyway.”

It took over an hour to convincingly wash off the accumulated filth of several weeks of incarceration. Mrs. Tupper had to change the bathwater twice.

The worst was her hair. Lizzie washed it over and over, and then combed it relentlessly, until Mrs. Tupper stopped her.

“You’ll wear it to shreds like that, ma’am. It’s clean. You can leave it be.”

And since Lizzie had tolerated her assistance, the housekeeper must have felt herself safe to fuss. “Let me bring you something to eat, ma’am. A proper hot meal. A nice lobster soup. And then you can rest.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tupper,” Lizzie relented, if only to stop her fussing. Despite her divided loyalties, Mrs. Tupper had always treated her with respect and even affection. And Lizzie would catch more flies, and learn more information, with honey than with vinegar. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me. Really I do. But you can stop fussing now.”

When she was finally alone, after Mrs. Tupper had retreated with the empty plates, Lizzie could feel herself break down like a worn-out racehorse she had seen once. She made it as far as the bed, sat down, and was confronted by the stars on her ceiling, when her chest began to feel hot and achy. Her throat closed like a fist and her knees crumpled. She fell sideways back onto the bed and lay in a huddled heap.

Tears, the tears she had ruthlessly hidden away the whole time she spent in gaol, began to plummet down her cheeks.

It was awful, this tight, poisonous feeling of betrayal. It was worse than thinking he was dead. At least then she had been able to think of him as she wished, with a sort of rosy fondness. But now, the joy of finding him alive had faded into the cold steel gray of his betrayal.

C
HAPTER 17

I
t was worse than the last time he had abandoned her, when he’d gone off to sea all those years ago, without so much as a word or a note. He had been there one day and gone the next. He had been her best friend, the only one she’d trusted implicitly, and she had been entirely unprepared to be without him. She had been bereft. As she was now.

But this was worse. Because she knew this time, he’d abandoned her on purpose. He had kissed her mouth, looked her in the eye, and abandoned her to her fate.

Jamie was like a stone she had swallowed. A painful lump she could not dislodge from her throat no matter how she tried. Her only hope was that in time she could grow accustomed to the pain.

And she would, by God. She would get over him. She would recover from his betrayal. She would become herself again.

And she would begin immediately, with an end to her widowhood.

There was no fire laid in her bedchamber or sitting room—the day was too mild. So Lizzie collected up her widow’s weeds in bundles and threw them down over the balustrade to the floor of the foyer below. Perhaps a bonfire in the yard was the order of the day.

“Ma’am?” Mrs. Tupper’s brow was puckered with anxiety as she watched Lizzie descend. “Is something amiss?”

“Mrs. Tupper, is there a fire laid anywhere today?”

“In the kitchen, ma’am.”

Not as dramatic as a bonfire perhaps, but just as functional. “Lovely. Let’s have this lot into the kitchen, then.”

“Ma’am, is there a problem with the laundry? I’ve taken great care to launder all the clothes you wore when—”

“No, not at all,” Lizzie cut her off. “I am simply done with widowhood.” She took the first offending garment, the beautiful black silk she had worn to Jamie’s burial, and cast it onto the fire. The flames danced and changed color and consumed the fabric greedily.

And on she went with all of them. Yards and yards of hideously dark cotton and silk. All tossed into the flames. Gone.

“There. And you can take down the crepe from the windows and the knocker, as well, Mrs. Tupper. We all know he’s not dead. We’ve all spoken to him. Perhaps you even spoke to him right here, in this kitchen, and so I, for one, have absolutely no interest in continuing the strange fiction of his death.”

Mrs. Tupper kept her face carefully blank. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

“Now then, have you and the others made the acquaintance of our new stable master, Mr. Maguire? No? Hasn’t he been in for a meal? I wonder what the poor man’s been eating? Well, he’s resourceful,” she reasoned. “Why don’t you get Mr. Tupper and the rest of the staff, so I can make introductions all around.”