Three Little Secrets (2 page)

“By no means.”

“He otherwise functions well in the world? He learns? He comprehends?”

“Geoff’s tutor says he is brilliant.”

“Has there been any childhood trauma?”

For an instant, Lady Bessett hesitated. “No, not…not trauma.”

The governess lifted her eyebrows again, and opened her mouth as if to speak. But just then, a lovely girl with blond hair came twirling through the doorway in what could only be described as a fashionable dinner gown.

“Mamma, it is finished!” she cried, craning her head over her shoulder to look at her heels. “What do you think? Is the hem right? Does it make my derriere look too—”

“My dear, we have a guest,” chided the governess—who was, it now appeared,
not
the governess after all. “This is Lady Bessett. Lady Bessett, my stepdaughter, Lady Ariane Rutledge.”

The girl was already flushing deeply. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, ma’am!” She curtsied, and excused herself at once.

“I say!” murmured Lady Bessett, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Who was—I mean—was that…?”

“Lord Treyhern’s poor little girl who was so dreadfully ill,” said her hostess. “Yes, that is what I have been trying to tell you, Lady Bessett. We were married, he and I. And Ariane, as you see, is quite a normal young lady now. We have three other children as well, so my work nowadays consists of little more than giving the odd bit of advice to a friend or relation.”

“Oh.” Lady Bessett’s shoulders fell. “Oh, dear. You are Lady Treyhern now! And I—well, I do not know what I shall do.”

Her hostess leaned across the distance, and set her hand on Lady Bessett’s. “My dear, you are very young,” she said. “Younger, I think, even than I?”

“I am thirty,” she whispered. “And I feel as though I am twice that.” Then, to her undying embarrassment, a tear rolled down Lady Bessett’s cheek.

Lady Treyhern handed her a freshly starched handkerchief. “Thirty is still rather young,” she went on. “You must trust me when I say that children
do
outgrow such things.”

“Do you think so?” Lady Bessett sniffled. “I just wish I could be sure. Geoffrey is my life. We have only one another now.”

“I see,” said Lady Treyhern. “And how long are you in London, my dear?”

Lady Bessett lifted her sorrowful gaze. “Forever,” she replied. “I am the dowager countess and my stepson is newly wed. Tomorrow I am contracting to purchase a house nearby.”

“Are you?” Lady Treyhern smiled. “How very exciting.”

Lady Bessett shrugged. “Our village doctor thought it best for Geoff that we be close to London. He said he had no notion what to do for the boy.”

Lady Treyhern patted her hand comfortingly. “You must take your time and settle in, my dear,” she advised. “And when you have done so, you must bring young Geoff to tea. We will begin to get acquainted.”

“You…you will help us, then?”

“I shall try,” said Lady Treyhern. “His symptoms are indeed mysterious—but I am not at all convinced it is a disorder.”

“Are you not? Thank God.”

“Even if it were, my dear, there are a few physicians in London who have been attending to the events unfolding in Vienna and Paris,” said her hostess. “Forays
are
being made into the field of mental diseases—psychology, they call it. They are not all uninformed nitwits, Lady Bessett.”

“Mental diseases!” Lady Bessett shuddered. “I cannot bear even to think of it!”

“I rather doubt you shall have to,” said Lady Treyhern.

“Now I shall ring for coffee, and you must tell me all about this new house of yours. Where is it, pray?”

“Near Chelsea,” said Lady Bessett quietly. “In a village called Walham Green. I have taken a cottage there until the house is complete, but that will be some weeks yet.”

“Well, then, you are but a short drive from town,” said Lady Treyhern as she rose and rang the bell. “I confess, I do not know a great many people in London myself. Nonetheless, you must allow me to help you with introductions.”

Again, Lady Bessett felt her face heat. “I fear I have been very little in society,” she admitted. “I know almost no one.”

“Well, my dear, now you know me,” said her hostess. “So, what of this new house? I daresay it has all the modern conveniences. And of course you will be buying a great many new furnishings, I am sure. How very exciting that will be!”

Better half-hanged than ill-married.

T
he bell-ringers at St. George’s Hanover Square were already milling about on the portico when MacLachlan’s carriage arrived in the early-morning haze. With a curt bark, he ordered his driver to wait for him in Three Kings Yard, then stepped down onto the pavement. In another hour, the corner would be choked with traffic, and he’d no wish to become ensnared in it.

On the church portico, one of the ringers shot him a faintly curious look. A second was rubbing at a callus on his hand as if contemplating the task before him, whilst another complained none too quietly about the late-spring damp. Just then, an arm draped in flowing vestments pushed one of the doors open. One by one, the bell-ringers vanished into the church. Soon he could hear them treading one after the other up the twisting steps into to the bell tower.

MacLachlan was grateful. He saw no point in striking up idle chitchat with people he did not know. Certainly he had no wish to go inside the church until it was unavoidable. With restless energy, he paced up and down the street, admiring St. George’s fine Flemish glass and classical columns, but in a vague, almost clinical sort of way. He was never comfortable anywhere near this bastion of the English upper crust. Certainly he had never thought to come here for a wedding—well, not in more years than he could count, at any rate.

But today was to be his elder brother’s wedding day. Today, MacLachlan had no choice. He turned and paced the length of the pavement again. Phipps had tied his cravat too tight, blast it. MacLachlan ran his finger around his collar and forced it to loosen.

Traffic along St. George Street was picking up now. Damn. He had no wish to keep pacing back and forth like some caged creature. But neither could he bring himself to actually go inside the place. Abruptly, he turned and paced down the shadowy little passageway adjacent to the old edifice. It was not the first time he had slipped away into the shadows of St. George’s. Here, the air was thick with the smell of mossy stone and damp earth. The smell of crypts and catacombs and cold, dead things. The sepulchre, perhaps, of a man’s hopes and dreams.

It had been a mistake to come here. To this church. To this passageway. He looked up to see the sun dappling through some greenery beyond, the movement somehow disorienting. He shut his eyes. The clamor and rattle of street traffic quieted, then faded away.

“Kiss me, Maddie.” His voice was rough in the gloom.

“Merrick, my aunt!” She flashed a coy look, and set the heel of one hand against his shoulder. “She’ll scold if we linger behind the others.”

He set a finger to her lips. “Shush, Maddie,” he returned. “They’ve not even noticed we’re gone.” He bent his head, and lightly brushed his lips over hers. But as it always did, the kiss burst at once into flames. He took her deeply, his tongue surging inside her mouth, their hands roaming urgently over one another.

His head swam with the scent of her. He could feel the silk of her dress beneath his fingers, the swell of her buttock, firm and promising against his palm. Maddie’s breathing ratcheted up until it came in sweet, delightful pants. She had the good sense to push him away.

“Merrick, this is a church!”

He smiled down at her. “Aye, lass, so it is,” he agreed. “But there’s naught sinful about my feelings for you. They are good and pure in the eyes of God.”

She lowered her lashes, and looked away, her face flushing petal pink. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to touch her the way a man ought when a woman was to be his. But he dared not risk it here. Instead, he set his temple to hers, and felt her shoulders relax against the cold stone church wall.

“Maddie.” He whispered her name into her hair, and gathered her against him with both arms.

“What?”

“Is this where you Mayfair folk are wed?”

“I’m not Mayfair folk,” she whispered back. “Not really. But yes, it is.”

“Then I’m going to marry you here, Maddie,” he vowed, his voice tight with emotion. “At the end of the season, before all these fine people, I swear to God, I am.”

“Will…will they let us, Merrick?”

He forgot sometimes how young she was. “They cannot stop us,” he rasped. “No one, Maddie, can stop true love.”

But her aunt’s tread was heavy on the pavement beyond…

“Good God, there you are!” The footsteps stopped.

Merrick turned on the narrow pathway, blinking his eyes against the morning light.

“It is half past the hour.” Sir Alasdair MacLachlan’s voice was a near growl. “Are you coming inside or not?”

“Aye, presently.”

“No,
now,
” said the groom-to-be. “You agreed to this, Merrick. And it cannot be as bad as all that. You’ve only to stand up with me, not get a tooth extracted.”

Merrick collected his wits as he walked slowly back along the side of the church. He hoped his agitation did not show. “You are right, of course,” he said, stepping from the shadows into the sun. “I beg your pardon. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Your mind was where it always is, I’d wager,” snapped his brother. “On your blasted account books.” As he spoke, an open landau passed along the church’s columned portico, then jerked suddenly left and drew to the curb. A portly man leapt out and came stalking up the pavement toward the MacLachlan brothers, one hand balled into a tight fist.

“Who the devil?” said Alasdair under his breath.

Coolly, Merrick lifted his hat. “Good morning, Chutley.”

The man looked apoplectic, and reeked of spirits. “You may well say so!” he answered accusingly. “’Tis pure providence, my running into you, is it not?”

“I could not say,” Merrick responded. “May I introduce my brother, Sir Alas—”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the portly man snarled. “I had a visit last night, MacLachlan, from one of your Threadneedle thugs.”

Merrick lifted one eyebrow. “One of my solicitors from the City, do you mean?”

“Call them what you will,” snapped the man. “Do I understand this aright, MacLachlan? You mean to call in my note? After all that we agreed to?”

Alasdair cleared his throat sharply, but Merrick carried on. “You agreed to pay back the loan in quarterly installments, Chutley.”

“Good God, man! This is still May!”

“Aye, barely, but the loan was made on February 2,” Merrick countered. “Payment was due ninety days hence.”

“Gentlemen, must we have this discussion now?” Alasdair hissed. “We are standing in front of a church, for pity’s sake.”

The two men spared him not a glance. “But everyone knows that quarterly means June 24!” Chutley protested. “
That
is the next quarter day!”

Merrick lifted both eyebrows. “Is it indeed?” he murmured. “By that reckoning, then, I should have had the first payment on Lady Day. I begin to think, Chutley, that you did not read the fine print. Rest assured, the payment was due weeks ago.”

Chutley faltered. “But—but I haven’t got it, MacLachlan!” he said, his voice low. “You’ll put my brickworks under, damn you! Is that what you want?
Is
it?”

“Then at least I shall have some bricks for my trouble,” Merrick retorted. “If I must own the bloody brickyard to get the job done, so be it.”

Alasdair touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Really, Merrick, this is beyond bourgeois.”

His brother’s head whipped around for an instant. “Aye, ’tis
business
,” he returned. “Chutley, my superintendent tells me you’ve run us a fortnight late on our last three ventures. I cannot build without bricks, man, and I did not make you that loan out of the kindness of my heart—”

“No, for you haven’t any!” interjected the man.

“Aye, and you’d do well to remember it,” Merrick advised. “The loan was made so that Chutley Brickworks might upgrade their equipment and get me my bloody building materials on time. Now, I need bricks, Chutley, and you’ve got a yard full of them. I know, for I saw them yesterday.”

Chutley’s color deepened. “But that inventory is promised to Fortnoy!”

“Then unpromise it, damn you!” said Merrick. “Did Fortnoy loan you ten thousand pounds? No, I thought not. Good day to you, Chutley. I shall expect a dozen cart-loads of bricks in Walham Green before nightfall, and the rest before the week is out.”

The man was shaking with rage, and looking very much as if he might fall dead on the pavement. Without another word, he turned on one heel and returned to his waiting landau.

“Oh, thank you, Merrick,” said his brother coldly. “Thank you for making this day so very special for me.”

Merrick turned, and looked at Alasdair blankly. Abruptly, his mind cleared, and he recalled where he was. By now, a small crowd of wedding guests were lingering at the opposite end of the portico, averting their eyes, and speaking in hushed tones. He realized at once that they must have overheard at least the tenor of the quarrel, if not the words.

He felt his own face flush with heat. The groom’s brother grinding some small-minded merchant beneath his bootheel on the portico of St. George’s—yes, that was just what Merrick’s reputation wanted. Ordinarily, he would not give a damn. But his brother had waited almost thirty-seven long years before going to the altar, and he was very happy now to be doing so. Alasdair had met the woman of his dreams. And unlike Merrick’s, Alasdair’s dreams appeared destined to come true. He was not apt, thank God, to trip over their rotting remains in some moldering old churchyard one day when he least expected it.

Somehow, he found the presence of mind to put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. He had often envied Alasdair’s blithe charm and golden beauty, but never had he wished him ill. “I am sorry, Alasdair,” he said quietly. “This
is
a special day. Come, let us go in, and get down to the business of making Esmée a part of this family.”

As with most duties one thoroughly dreads, this one did not amount to much. The ceremony itself was soon over, and Merrick’s obligation finished—or so he thought. The crowd spilt out of St. George’s to the resounding peals of the bell-ringers at their most jubilant.

With the clamor echoing off the high brick walls of Mayfair, the wedding party began to trickle toward nearby Grosvenor Square, where the wedding breakfast was to be held at the home of Lady Tatton, one of society’s most upright matrons—and now Alasdair’s aunt by marriage.

At the corner of the church, Esmée caught up with him. She looked radiant today. “May I have your arm, Merrick?” she asked. “You are my brother now, you know.”

He offered it, of course. Alasdair was accepting the congratulations of some of his more disreputable friends. He stood beside Esmée, shaking their hands in turn, and wearing that vaguely stunned expression so common to men newly wed.

“You will remain a while at Aunt’s house, I hope?” Esmée enquired.

Merrick hesitated. “I had not thought to stay,” he confessed. “You will forgive me?”

“No, I shan’t,” she answered flatly. “Where is your carriage? Why must you go?”

“At the Three Kings,” he said. “And I have an architectural meeting this afternoon. My staff will be waiting.”

“The afternoon is some time away,” said Esmée. “And if you mean to go to the Three Kings, you may as well go but a few yards farther, Merrick, and drink us a toast, at the very least?”

It seemed such a small thing to ask. “You are Alasdair’s only relation in London,” she chided. “Society will expect you to attend.”

Merrick did not much give a damn what society expected. Society had done nothing for him, and precious little for his brother. A moderately endowed Scottish baronet did not carry much weight this far south, and his younger brother, even less—especially when he dared actually
work
for a living. Alasdair had met and fallen in love with Esmée by a pure twist of fate, and much to her aunt’s disapprobation.

No one, Maddie, can stop true love.

Well. At least Merrick had been proven right on this occasion. Alasdair and Esmée loved one another unreservedly. No one had been able to talk them out of this marriage. It was a union which would last forever, Merrick had become increasingly certain. Now, for his new sister’s sake, he forced a tight smile.

“Society expects it, eh?” he said. “Well, God knows I shouldn’t wish to disappoint them.”

Esmée’s green eyes danced with laughter. Merrick searched for something affable to say. “You are looking forward to your wedding trip, I hope? Alasdair’s estate will be beautiful this time of year.”

Esmée’s expression softened. “Oh, it will be like going home again!” she said wistfully. “I have longed for Scotland ever since leaving it. I only hope that…”

“Hope what?” Merrick pressed.

“I only hope that your grandmother will not feel uncomfortable,” she said. “I know that Castle Kerr is her domain, and that Alasdair has left her to run it as she sees fit. I hope that I can convince her nothing need change.”

“Then you must simply say so,” Merrick advised. “Granny MacGregor speaks her mind, and expects others to do the same.”

“Well,
that
seems to be a family trait.” Esmée teased him with her eyes. “Look, Merrick, why do you not come with us? It is, after all, your childhood home, too.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Come along on your wedding trip?” he answered. “No, Alasdair would not thank me for that.”

“Merrick, Alasdair loves you,” she said quietly. “Sometimes, yes, he even envies you. As I think you envy him, perhaps? But you are his brother, and you mean the world to him.”

“Our brotherly competition is in the past, Esmée,” he answered. “We are very different people, and we have accepted that. But to go north with you? No, I think not.”

“Then join us later,” she persisted. “We mean to stay through the autumn, if not the year. Come at any time. Your grandmother would be so pleased.
I
would be so pleased.”

She sounded as if she meant it. Merrick didn’t know why. He had not been especially kind to Esmée early on. She had every reason to dislike him.