Three Little Secrets (18 page)

“I did not know you had an interest in children, Mr. MacLachlan.”

“I have an interest in Geoff,” he returned, forcing a civil tone. “He is quite a remarkable boy.”

She turned fully to face him, her eyes widening. “Remarkable?” she echoed. “What do you mean, pray?”

“He has a curious mind,” said Merrick. “And he is quite a gifted artist. He seems quite bright, too, for a lad of his age. By the way, I have been meaning to ask, how old is Geoff? I don’t think he ever said.”

For a long moment, Madeleine seemed to stare straight through him, almost quivering with indignation. “Would you kindly—” She halted, blinked rapidly, and began again. “Would you kindly move your chair leg, Mr. MacLachlan? I believe it is sitting on my hems.”

“Lord, is it?” Instinctively, he lifted the chair a fraction, and gave it a little scoot away from her.

She turned away at once, and resumed her discussion with the gentleman on her right. Merrick was left to stare at the turn of her bare neck yet again.

But he knew better, and so he struck up a conversation with the lady on his left, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty named Frederica Rutledge, the wife of Treyhern’s brother. She was from a family of painters, some of them famous, and was extraordinarily well versed in the world of art. They chatted amiably about the most recent exhibit at the Royal Academy, and about the parallels between art and architecture. He was surprised to find himself actually enjoying the conversation.

Farther down the table, Lady Treyhern was congratulating one of the more elderly guests on his son’s upcoming nuptials. The younger ladies were atwitter with excitement. A society wedding in the works, no doubt.

“And will your son’s marriage require a new house, Mr. Wagstaff?” Lady Treyhern’s almost musical voice drifted down the table. “If so, you must speak with Mr. MacLachlan, and beg for one of his. I am told he has some splendid mansions in Walham.”

Merrick smiled politely. “You are too kind, ma’am. They are very fine town houses, but not quite mansions.”

“Fortunately, my new daughter brings a house with her dowry,” said the gentleman, a portly, prosperous underwriter whom Merrick knew vaguely. “But MacLachlan’s work is known to us all. One could hardly do better.”

Merrick smiled faintly. “I hope not, Mr. Wagstaff. My business depends upon it.”

“A good attitude!” said the portly man, then he turned his attention to Madeleine. “By the way, Lady Bessett, you look dashed familiar. Have we met before?”

“I do not think so, Mr. Wagstaff.”

The red crease on the gentleman’s forehead deepened prodigiously. “Who are your people, my dear? I am struggling mightily to place you.”

Madeleine seemed to falter. “My father was Jessup of Sheffield,” she finally answered. “And my mother was an Archard of West Yorkshire.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” said Wagstaff, stabbing his fish fork in Madeleine’s direction. “I remember your mother from her come-out in ’97. What a pretty thing she was! And I remember
yours
, too, my dear, because you looked just like her.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Madeleine quietly. “I hold that to be high praise indeed.”

Wagstaff’s face was taking on a puckish expression. Outwardly, Madeleine appeared composed, but Merrick could sense her ratcheting anxiety. He could feel his own, too. He did not like the look of this, and Wagstaff was—well, an old wag.

“Yes, Miss Archard was a lovely girl,” the gentleman continued. “Now, I also remember—” His fork pointed at Merrick, then back again to Madeleine, the mischievous look deepening. “Yes, do I not remember…that the two of you…?”

Merrick wanted it over and done with. “That the two of us what, Wagstaff?”

A wide smile followed. “Yes, I can see that I am right, MacLachlan!” said Wagstaff in a teasing tone. “You and this pretty little lady here were quite an item of gossip for a few weeks, as I recall. And there was a little bit of money laid in the betting books round town.”

With an innocent expression, Treyhern’s daughter leaned forward. “What were they betting on, Mr. Wagstaff?”

“Ariane!” said Lady Treyhern sharply.

To his shock, Madeleine’s hand crept into his lap, and her nails dug into his thigh. Wagstaff was still beaming like a jackass.

“Why, they were betting, Lady Ariane, as to whether Lady Madeleine here was going to marry this upstart Scot”—the fork turned on Merrick—“or whether she was holding out for Lord Norting’s boy, Henry.”

Merrick covered Madeleine’s hand with his own, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Whom did you bet on, Wagstaff?” he asked, his voice cold.

The gentleman likely would have blushed, had his complexion permitted it. “I—well, I—put my money on Norting’s lad,” he admitted. “I did not think you’d go the distance, MacLachlan.”

“Then we all three lost, did we not?” Merrick’s voice was arctic now. “The lady was wise enough to quit London and marry at home, where people are doubtless more sensible.”

The fingernails in his thigh relaxed. Madeleine’s hand slid away, leaving nothing but its warmth behind.

“Well, what fun it is to talk about old times!” Lady Treyhern interjected. “Now, would anyone care for crème brulée?”

“
Burnt
cream, Mamma,” interjected Lady Ariane.

“Yes, quite right!” Lady Treyhern began to rattle on.

“We have the loveliest assortment. Cook baked them in a water bath, and burnt them with a hot salamander. There is an orange, and a lemon, and an almond—my favorite—and even a sort of cinnamonish thing with a little pumpkin in it.”

“Pumpkin,” said Madeleine swiftly. “I should like pumpkin.”

And I should like a drink,
thought Merrick.
A big one.

In deference to the chit’s birthday, the gentlemen did not linger long over their port. They returned to the withdrawing room to see that the small ballroom opposite had been opened, and Mrs. Rutledge had taken a seat at the piano. The young people collected about her, rifling through the sheets of music and calling out suggestions.

Soon the dancing was well under way, and the French windows were flung open. Seeing an opportunity, Merrick slipped out into the cool darkness. A narrow terrace ran the length of the house. No lanterns had been lit, and there was only the ambient light of the ballroom to guide him. Just a few feet along was a column surrounded by a collection of tall, potted palms. Merrick situated himself just to the other side of it and withdrew a cheroot from his case. The match flared to life on the first strike.

Through the door adjacent, he could hear the gay laughter and the tinkling of the piano. The footmen were back, this time with trays of champagne. Merrick was not a champagne drinker. Indeed, he would have given a great deal for a glass of good Scotch whisky just then. He could still feel the pressure of Madeleine’s hand on his thigh. Could still feel the heat of her palm, warming his skin through his trousers.

He closed his eyes, and remembered it. He wished she had not turned to him in her moment of distress. And he wished he had not welcomed it. Still, he had done what any proper gentleman would have done under the circumstances. He had cut Wagstaff off sharply and sent him the clear message that his intimations were not wanted.

But the damage was done, and Madeleine would have to answer to the curiosity of others now—or at least to Lady Treyhern. Merrick had not missed her little intake of breath nor the way her eyes had widened.

His musing was ended when a woman’s sharp voice sounded near the ballroom windows. “Bentley,
ma foi
!” she said. “You are hurting my arm.”

Lady Treyhern herself appeared on the terrace, propelled forth by her husband’s brother, who had seized her upper arm in a determined grip. “Helene,” said Rutledge quietly. “I must see you alone.”

“About what, pray? Bentley, I have guests.”

They paused on the other side of the column, beyond the thatch of ornamental trees. Still caught in his own ruminations, Merrick did not make his presence known as he should have done.

“I hear there’s been talk, Helene.” His whispered words were grim. “Talk about Thomas Lowe. Good God. After all these years?”

“Your brother overreacted.” Lady Treyhern’s voice was reassuring. “I ought never have mentioned anything. It was just the Archard boy, teasing Ariane. He meant nothing by it. He knows nothing at all of Lowe.”

“Well, goddamn it, I heard what was said,” replied Treyhern’s brother. “He did not dream it up, Helene. Now, someone has been engaged in idle gossip—very
dangerous
gossip—and we must put a stop to it. One of the servants, I daresay. Who has come with you from Gloucestershire?”

“No one,” said Lady Treyhern, her voice tart. “No one save the governess, and she has been with us but six months. And kindly mind your language!”

“Your pardon,” said Treyhern’s brother tightly. “But I think my distress is understandable, don’t you? Now, this boy, where is he from? What is his age?”

“He is from Yorkshire, and came to Town only last month,” she retorted. “He is but twelve years old—hardly a malicious age—and has lived most of his life abroad. Trust me, it was just a child’s foolishness. The boy is known to have—well, strange notions. And if you insist upon stirring this scandalbroth, you will do naught but make matters worse.”

“Good God!” Rutledge said again, pounding his fist on the brickwork. “Poor Ariane. A slow death is what that bastard Lowe deserved. And if I could but shoot him again, I’d aim a good deal lower to ensure it.”

Merrick had heard enough. Indeed, he had not wished to hear what little he had. He had no notion what they were talking about, but he knew the nature of man well enough to know that Treyhern’s brother was in a black rage.

But it
was
Geoff they were discussing. Bloody hell. It had to be. Merrick did not like to think of the boy’s being in trouble. Then again, it was none of his damned business, was it? After one last draw on his cheroot, Merrick paced stealthily down the terrace as far as he could go, cleared his throat sharply, and tossed the stub onto the lawn. Then he paced back up the terrace, whistling “God Save the King,” and making as much noise as was humanly possible without actually falling over the edge and into the shrubbery.

When he reached Lady Treyhern, he feigned surprise, and shook the hand of her brother-in-law as if he’d never before laid eyes on the gentleman.

“Mr. Rutledge,” said Merrick smoothly. “What a pleasure.”

Lady Treyhern smiled, and made a few aimless remarks regarding the weather. They seemed unconcerned by his presence. After a moment, Merrick bowed to the countess and moved on. Beneath the brilliant chandeliers, a half dozen couples were breaking ranks from a lively country dance, some of them breathing hard, others gaily laughing.

He found Madeleine alone and drifting toward the piano. He caught her lightly by the arm. She turned around, and her expression faltered. Mrs. Rutledge had struck up a waltz.

“Dance with me,” he said.

Fleetingly, she hesitated.

“It is too late, Madeleine,” he said grimly, taking her hand in his. “Our cat is out of the bag now.”

“Yes, and whose fault is that?” she asked, as he hauled her onto the dance floor.

“Not mine, by God,” he gritted. “You are the one who chose to return to Town after all these years.”

“I see,” she said tightly. “And this is your idea of being finished? Of never laying eyes on me again?”

“Madeleine, acting the bitch does not become you,” he answered, pulling her to him. “This is one dinner party. One dance. Had I known you were to be here, I would have stayed away. But I did not, and now we will cause more talk by walking circles round one another than we would if we simply behaved with common civility.”

He sensed it the moment she surrendered. She allowed him to draw her to him, and they waltzed in silence for a time, the silk of her gown brushing his clothing each time they swept into a turn. It had been a long time, Merrick thought, since he had danced with a woman. He remembered none of them save Madeleine. Her hand was small and warm in his, and her scent of soap and jasmine teased at his nostrils as her skin warmed from the exertion.

He wanted, inexplicably, to continue their conversation of the previous week. He wanted to ask her
why
she had given up on them so easily. And as he looked down at her, there was a deep and sudden yearning in his belly, a sort of weakness and an aching sense of loss. He wanted to pull her closer, to set his hand between her shoulder blades, instead of leaving it oh-so-properly at the turn of her waist. He wanted to melt his body to hers. And though it sounded physical, it was not. It was more than that. It was his heart and his body’s remembrance of that sweet, brief time when they had been one.

Thirteen long years. And only to himself could he admit that he had missed her. Even now, knowing that she was not the woman he had once loved, he missed her still. He missed the girl she had been, not the stiff, querulous woman she had become. He missed the hope of a happy life to come and a steadfast partner with whom to share it. And even for that small weakness, he despised himself. Good God, he had to find a way past this, to shut it out, or the pain would eat him alive again.

He forced it away, and returned to his original concern. “I need to talk to you, Madeleine,” he said, his lips near her ear. “It is about Geoffrey.”

She stiffened in his embrace. Only his hand, firm at her waist, kept her from pulling away. “I do not care, Merrick, to discuss my son with you,” she said. “Kindly leave us alone.”

He ignored her. “What did Geoff say, Madeleine, to Treyhern’s daughter?”

Something in her seemed to shift. She cut an apprehensive glance up at him as he whirled her into the next turn. “What are you talking about?”

“I hardly know,” he admitted. “But I hate to think of Geoff in trouble.”

“In…in trouble?” Her grip on his hand tightened, and he felt rather than saw her falter. Her toe caught something. He took her weight against his body, and righted her seamlessly.

“I am sorry,” Merrick said when she was steady again. “I overstate the matter. I chanced to hear a snippet of a conversation between Lady Treyhern and her husband’s brother, that is all. But he did seem distressed about something Geoff had said to the girl. Damned if I know what—or why he should even care. But…but he did. And I just wondered what had been said.”