Three Little Secrets (3 page)

“We shall see how things go on,” he lied, sketching her a neat bow. “I thank you, Lady MacLachlan, for the invitation.”

Esmée smiled, but just then, the Marquess of Devellyn passed by, seizing Esmée’s face in both his big paws and kissing her, quite shamelessly and loudly, on each cheek. “My dear child!” he said, elbowing Alasdair in the ribs. “Saddled with this dreadful old roué! How old are you? Seventeen? And this one is what? Five-and-forty if he’s a day! I swear, fate has done you an appalling injustice.”

Esmée’s cheeks flamed with pink. Though she hardly looked it, the chit was almost three-and-twenty, and Devellyn surely knew it. Beside the marquess, his wife began to scold him and to cluck at Esmée sympathetically.

Merrick took the opportunity to slip away and vanish into the crowd. At least, that was the plan. But by the time he arrived at Lady Tatton’s town house, one of Merrick’s few friends amongst the
ton,
the Earl of Wynwood, caught up with him.

“Where is your lovely wife?” Merrick asked Wynwood as the crowd swarmed around them.

Lord Wynwood grinned and jerked his head toward the stairway. “Vivie’s stuck in the midst of that mob,” he said, “receiving the accolades of her many admirers.”

Merrick twisted his mouth wryly. “I am not at all sure I should wish to be married to a famous Italian soprano.”

Wynwood shook his head. “I spent too many years, my friend,
not
being married to Vivie,” he returned. “Better her fame than my misery. Besides,
you
do not wish to be married to anyone at all, famous or otherw—” Then, as if realizing what he’d just said, his face fell. “Ah, sorry about that, old chap!” He set a warm hand between Merrick’s shoulder blades. “Look, might we talk business for a moment? Vivie and I need your help.”

“What sort of help?”

“We want a new house,” said Wynwood. “We are in quite desperate straits, truth to tell.”

Merrick was surprised. “You wish to leave Mayfair?”

“Oh, you know Vivie! She doesn’t give a fig for Mayfair. It is space we need, and to get it, we’ll have to move out of town just a bit. I thought Walham Green might be perfect.” He flashed Merrick a shameless grin. “You do mean to level the whole village, do you not? Be so obliging as to save a couple of hectares for us.”

Merrick smiled tightly. “Contrary to the darkening rumors, I will be plowing down only what the good citizens of Walham wish to lease or sell.”

“Yes, but your money’s awfully green, isn’t it?” said Wynwood. “And there’s a vast deal of it, too.”

Merrick shrugged. “I pay a fair price.”

Wynwood laughed so loud he drew stares. “Oh, a Scot never paid a fair price for anything!” he answered. “But will you do it, Merrick? Will you design something for us? And have it built somewhere near Chelsea?”

“Why me, Quin?” Merrick’s voice was soft. “I have a dozen fine young architects on my staff. Indeed, I’ve scarce taken up my drawing pencil these last ten years.”

“We need something special,” said Wynwood. “And you are said to be not just a financial genius, but an architectural genius as well.”

“Aye?” Merrick made a snorting sound. “By whom?”

Wynwood shifted a little uncomfortably. “Well, those fancy plaques and awards you have covering three walls of your study say so,” he responded. “And those—those academic things from St. Andrews and such which are hanging between the windows.”

“Things?” said Merrick archly.

“Look, I did not go to university,” grumbled Wynwood. “I scarcely know what they are, but I know what I hear. Now, I need a house—a bloody big one—and I want top quality.”

“What of Cubitt? His group still has one or two houses for sale in Belgrave Square.”

Wynwood shook his head. “I’ve looked Belgravia up and down, and it just doesn’t suit me. Everything is beautiful, but it all looks alike—which just goes to show that he is a fine builder, yet not an architect. You were acclaimed as a genius before you’d built so much as a watchman’s box.”

“All a decade and a half past,” said Merrick. “In the world of architectural design, Wynwood, one must be a starving artist to win such acclaim. Once you are rich, that is thought to be reward enough.”

“Ah!” Wynwood’s tone was disconcertingly insightful. “And is it?”

Merrick hesitated but a heartbeat. “Aye, you’re damned right it is.”

“I see,” said Lord Wynwood. “Then you will have luncheon with me tomorrow at the Walham Arms, and give me a tour of the village?”

“If that is your wish,” said Merrick, casually lifting one shoulder. “Meet me there shortly after one. And Wynwood, if you are serious—”

“I am.”

“Aye, then bring a bank draft. I am, as you say, a Scot.”

Wynwood laughed again and melted into the mob which still surrounded his beautiful new wife.

If ye canna see the bottom,
dinna wade in.

A
fter residing in Walham Green all of a sen’night, Lady Bessett found that late morning in the pretty village had already become her favorite time of day. Shortly after daylight, the busy market garden traffic—the vegetable-laden carts rumbling into the city, the tumbrels heaped with hay, the crates of flapping, squawking poultry—all of it vanished into the fringes of London, leaving the little village on its outskirts blissfully serene.

On this particular morning, the countess sat in the tiny rear garden of her cottage nibbling at tea and toast. She closed her eyes, and listened to the birdsong as she sipped the last of her cup. The scents of spring were redolent in the air—the smell of fresh-turned earth, and the fragrance of the season’s flowers. Yes, she could almost imagine she was back in Yorkshire again.

She really did miss it dreadfully. She opened her eyes, and took in the tiny walled garden with its rosebushes, its neat little path, and the ancient swath of wisteria which rambled up and over the kitchen window. Since coming to this charming place, she had not allowed herself to think about Yorkshire—not until she had been required to explain her circumstances to Lady Treyhern.

The truth was, however, the Yorkshire dales had been her home for just four short years. But in that time, she had come to love the vast, rich, rolling emptiness of the place. And she had come to love the freedom which widowhood had brought her. A newfound sense of self-esteem had slowly settled over her as Loughton Manor came back to life after long years of her husband’s absence and neglect.

Perhaps more importantly, she had come to love Loughton and its people. They would miss her, she thought. Mrs. Pendleton had cried quite shamelessly as she and Geoff had climbed into the carriage for the long trip down to London. Even Simms, the old butler, had twice been compelled to blow his nose. Yes, they would miss her—and they were not pleased to be gaining a new mistress.

The Earl of Bessett, her stepson Alvin, had chosen a wife immediately upon his majority. Unfortunately, he had chosen one of whom the staff was not fond. Miss Edsell was the daughter of a neighboring squire, and had often been a guest at Loughton. She had set her cap at poor Alvin early, and openly. She had made it plain, too, that things would change at Loughton when she became its mistress.

For his part, Alvin wished only for a placid existence of farming and shooting. He was not unkind, but he was a little dull. So far removed was Alvin from the fervent, single-minded scholar his father had been, that people often marveled they were kin at all.

Perhaps a childhood spent roaming through Italy and Campania had made Alvin long to put down roots. He wanted neither adventure nor travel in his life now. “And after all, Cousin Madeleine,” Alvin had said, “why go down to London for a season when a local girl will suit me well enough?”

So he married Miss Edsell. Madeleine had helped Mrs. Pendleton supervise the washing-up after the wedding breakfast. Then she went upstairs to pack.

Oh, Alvin had not asked her to leave. Indeed, he was fond of her—they were first cousins once-removed, and she had been his stepmother since he was eight. Alvin was very fond of Geoff, too. He had never resented the boy, so far as Madeleine could tell.

But Miss Edsell resented them both. Madeleine had seen the look in her eyes often enough to know which way the wind would soon be was blowing. Besides, Geoff needed to be near London. The village doctor had been most insistent. And she—well, she needed a change. A diversion. An adventure or an avocation.
Something
. Something that might jerk her from the clutches of those tenacious little blue-devils which had plagued her these many years.

So London was their home now, for good or ill. And Madeleine felt a little better after having met with Lady Treyhern. She was said to be very knowledgeable about troubled children. Indeed, she had once been thought something of a miracle worker on the Continent.

Just then, Geoff wandered out of the house, stretching as he came, as if his bones had grown an inch during the night and now wanted to be popped loose. Certainly he was eating enough to grow at such a rate.

“Good morning, Mamma,” he said before kissing her on the cheek. “You slept well?”

“Quite well, my dear,” she said. “You look as though you did, too.”

And he did look rather well rested. Madeleine felt a wave of relief as he plopped down on the adjacent garden bench. As a young boy, he had begun to suffer dreadfully from insomnia. She suspected he still did, though at the tender age of twelve, he had learned to hide it from her.

Clara, the new housemaid, bustled out with a breakfast tray, and Geoff set upon it with relish. Madeleine let her eyes drift over him. Dear God, he was going to be handsome. Already, he was but a head shorter than she—and she was quite tall for a woman. But Geoff did not have her pale blond looks. Madeleine looked away and poured him a cup of tea.

“I told Eliza to set out my walking shoes this morning,” she said. “Do you still wish to go out?”

His eyes lit. “Oh, yes, I wish to go see the Chelsea hospital,” he said, his voice cracking with adolescent excitement. “And I want to walk along the Thames as far as possible, and look at all the merchant ships.”

Madeleine laughed at his enthusiasm. “I believe the Thames goes all the way to the sea, my dear,” she said. “And most of the merchant ships will be too far downriver. London is a large city. But we can take the carriage, I daresay?”

Geoff shook his head. “Just the hospital today, then,” he said. “I wish to walk all around it. Mr. Frost says it was built by Sir Christopher Wren—just like St. Paul’s.”

They had visited St. Paul’s Cathedral their first week in Walham Green. Geoff had been awestruck by the soaring roofs and the sheer magnificence of the place. His tutor, Mr. Frost, had filled the boy’s head with all the wonders of London. Consequently, Geoff was obsessed with drinking in all the history, commerce, and architecture which surrounded them.

Madeleine finished her tea and rose. “In fifteen minutes, then,” she said as she headed toward the door. “Will you be ready?”

Their walking tour of Chelsea presented little challenge to a pair accustomed to hiking the dales. They spent a good two hours enjoying the landscaped grounds of the hospital, and the feel of the sun’s warmth on their faces. Afterward, they strolled back along Cheyne Walk, admiring the views of the Thames, and lovely houses which lined it.

“Look, Mamma,” said Geoff, when they reached the foot of Oakley Street. “Look at this wrought-iron gate. Mr. Frost says the houses of Chelsea are famous for their magnificent ironwork. I know! Perhaps we could buy a house here? I should like to see the river every day.”

Madeleine laughed. “We have already bought a house, Geoff,” she replied. “Or promised to do so, which is quite the same thing. And you shall have a view of the river from upstairs.”

“Shall I?”

“I can show you this afternoon,” she suggested. “I am going by to have a look around, and dream about paint and draperies.”

His nose wrinkled. “No, thank you, Mamma!”

Madeleine smiled indulgently. “Very well, then,” she said. “As punishment, I shall paint your room puce. Or purple. Or pumpkin, perhaps? Now, it is almost time for luncheon. How shall we walk home? Look, up ahead is Beaufort Street. I believe it will take us up to the King’s Highway. That might be pleasant.”

“That way, then,” Geoff agreed good-naturedly. “But hurry, Mamma. Now that I think on it, I
am
getting hungry again.”

They set off arm in arm, pausing once or twice to look into shop windows or admire a house which caught Geoff’s eye. They were but halfway up the street, however, when Madeleine sensed the child’s mood begin to shift. His arm slipped from hers. His boyish chatter ceased, and his pace began to flag. Suddenly, he stopped on the pavement, his expression stark yet stubborn. Madeleine turned to look at him.

“Geoff, what is wrong?”

“I want—I want to go back, Mamma.”

Madeleine knew the signs. Dear God, not now. “Geoff, we need to go home,” she cajoled. “Come along, now. We are blocking the pavement.”

“But I don’t wish to go!” cried the boy. “I want to go back.”

Exasperation told in her voice. “Go back where?”

A man in a brown greatcoat pushed past them, scowling over his shoulder. “Bloody tourists!” he muttered beneath his breath.

Geoff stared right through him. Madeleine could feel the strange terror taking the boy into its grip. “Back—back to Cheyne Walk,” he rasped. “Back to the river.”

“Geoff, darling, that makes no sense.”

“Whatever you wish, then.” His jaw hardened, and his face began to darken. “I just do not wish to go any farther.”

“On Beaufort Street, do you mean?” Madeleine exhaled sharply. “Then which way do you wish to go, pray?”

“How should I know?” he choked. “Not this way. But I do not know another way.
Please
, Mamma, just
do it.
” The boy was staring at his feet and visibly trembling. His hands were fisted, his knuckles white.

Madeleine knew that if she challenged him, his anxiety would only worsen. Once, during their last year in Campania, he had refused to board a ferry bound for Palermo. He had been but seven years old, and yet he had clung to the gangway railing and screamed incoherently for all of ten minutes, tears streaming down his little face. Madeleine had not possessed the heart to tear him away, and force him onto the boat.

It was not the first time she had given in to his “temper tantrums,” as Bessett had called them. Looking back, perhaps that had been a mistake. Her husband had certainly thought so. Nonetheless, after the ferry departed without them and they had frog-marched Geoff back to the carriage, the child had covered his ears with his hands, and curled himself into a ball on the carriage floor, where he quietly sobbed the entire journey home.

Bessett, of course, had been furious. This time, he had insisted she take the boy upstairs and thrash him—or he would do it for her. She had done it herself, with a green switch to the backs of his legs. It had been one of the most sickening experiences of her life. And it had done not one whit of good. The strange moods and fits had only worsened.

“Which way, then?” she said gently. “Back the way we came?”

Mutely, he nodded, still refusing to look at her. Madeleine took his hand and set off back down the street. Their walk to Chelsea had been warm and companionable. Now she was practically dragging the boy behind her. She was angry, and she was worried. She did not like to see Geoff so frightened, or behaving so irrationally.

She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, but Geoff did not respond. Madeleine bit her lip to keep from crying, then quickened her pace.

The Walham Arms was a fine old public house built of stone the color of a rainy afternoon, and perched right on the edge of the Thames. In its glory days, when the river was London’s main thoroughfare, the Arms had been an upriver watermen’s haunt—and the haunt of a few less reputable fellows, too. Nowadays, it was just a village tavern frequented by merchants and farmers rather than dashing smugglers and highwaymen.

Merrick MacLachlan used it often as a place to meet prospective stonemasons, carpenters, and the like, as the nature of his business required. Such men were not always comfortable in a gentleman’s office, and when it came to his pet projects like Walham Hill, Merrick refused to employ so much as a ditchdigger without eyeing him across a pint of porter or a tot of whisky first.

Merrick was notorious for his insistence on controlling every step of the building process, from the first spade of earth that was turned to the last bit of slate on the roof. Indeed, he did not care to let out any work at all if he could avoid it—even the brick manufacturing, it now seemed, would fall under his purview.

On top of all these more mundane details, Merrick negotiated all the leases and purchases of the land he would build upon. He wined and dined bankers and investors from three continents. And, when it was absolutely unavoidable, he rubbed an elbow or two at a society affair. Those were few and far between, thank God, since most of London’s upper-crust hostesses seemed to fear that Merrick MacLachlan might carry mud in on his boots—or might, God help him, smell of an honest day’s work.

Inside the cool, shadowy interior of the Arms’ taproom, Merrick wasn’t sweating at all. Instead, he was leaned back in his chair, impatiently drumming his fingers on the ancient trestle table. Already he had waved off the serving girl twice. Where the devil was Wynwood, anyway? Merrick hated irresponsibility in any form, and believed tardiness to be its worst incarnation. Then abruptly, he checked himself. He was being unreasonable again. It was not like Wynwood to be late.

Just then, Merrick heard the sounds of a small conveyance pulling up in the Arms’ yard. He got up and peered through a window to see Wynwood leap down from his curricle, toss a coin to the ostler, then start toward the door.

“You are late,” said Merrick, when his friend sat down. “Did no one ever tell you that time is money?”

“Terribly sorry.” The earl was looking, Merrick realized, just a little unwell. “Be a good fellow and send for a bottle of brandy, won’t you?”

“It’s dashed early for that.” But Merrick waved down the serving girl and did so anyway. “Are you perfectly all right?”

He watched as Wynwood’s throat moved up and down. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said. “I came upon an accident near Drayton Gardens. A young girl, plowed down by some lunatic in a phaeton. I think—I think she was trying to cross the road.”

“Dear God! What did you do?”

Lord Wynwood looked into the depths of the public house. “I leapt down, and tried to help,” he said quietly. “But there was no helping her. Her pale blue dress—the blood—it was ghastly. The King’s Road is straight as a stick, Merrick! How could anyone be so careless?”

“I can guess.” Merrick gritted out the words. “Another of our fine Mayfair whips headed out on a lark.”