Three Little Secrets (4 page)

Wynwood leaned intently across the table. “Do you understand now, Merrick, why I worry about the children? London has grown too dangerous.”

“Aye, it has that.” The brandy came, and Merrick poured then pushed one in Wynwood’s direction. “Drink it. It will settle your nerves.”

Wynwood was silent for a long moment. “I want you to build us a big house, Merrick,” he finally said. “Quickly. A house where the children can still see the trees, and aren’t apt to get mown down by a mail coach. A place where Vivie can have a little peace.”

“Your wife is feeling the strain of her career?” asked Merrick.

Wynwood smiled wryly. “No, to be honest, my wife is feeling the strain of being with child,” he confessed. “But yes, the opera is wearing her thin, too.”

Merrick’s eyes widened. “Congratulations, old chap!”

“We are thrilled, of course,” Wynwood went on. “Her morning sickness has almost passed. But everything else is going wrong. Her lead soprano quit in a temper last week and went back to Milan. Unfortunately, the understudy sounds like a choirboy fending off puberty. Now Vivie’s half-afraid she’s going to have to sing the lead herself—which is what Signor Bergonzi wanted all along anyway.”

“Ah, Bergonzi!” said Merrick. “I rather like your new father-in-law, Wynwood. He is so politely ruthless.”

“I like him, too,” said Wynwood. “But he is a part of the problem.”

“Aye? In what way?”

“He needs space,” said Wynwood. “Music rooms! Parlors! Pianofortes! Merrick, the man has stuffed my smoking parlor full of cellos and violas, and there is an old harpsichord standing on end in the butler’s pantry. Worse, the children have nearly burst the seams of the schoolroom—”

“Schoolroom?” Merrick interjected. “I did not know you had one.”

“Well, it was my billiards room,” Wynwood admitted glumly. “And I should like to have it back
someday.
”

“Forget it, old chap. That same misfortune once befell Alasdair.”

Wynwood did not look consoled. “Now Mamma, Henry, and my sister Alice have come down for the season with her three children. Alice is as big as a house herself, and they say she’s likely having twins this time. Merrick, I’m desperate, and in a dreadful rush. Can you not simply knock out a wall between a couple of those terraced houses near the river? I’ll just buy two of the bloody things.”

“That is not a bad notion,” said Merrick. “Why do we not go have a look? You seem to have lost your appetite.”

“What of you?”

“I never had one,” Merrick admitted. “I never eat during the day.”

Wynwood grinned. “Alasdair claims you never eat at all unless you can do so in
his
dining room,” he said. “But that will be hard to do, old boy, with the bride and groom gone back to Scotland.”

“I finally built myself a house,” Merrick reminded him. “I do have servants.”

“You built a house and stuffed all your employees into it,” Wynwood corrected. “It is not at all the same thing. Alasdair, you do not even
have
a dining room, last I saw.”

“My draughtsmen have need of it,” Merrick complained.

“I can eat off a tray at my desk. Now, do you mean to come along and look at these bloody houses or not?”

Wynwood shut his mouth, and they set off.

The walk along the river was not a long one, and the breeze blowing in off the Thames helped clear Merrick’s head. The sun was unseasonably warm, and both gentlemen were compelled to loosen their neckcloths. Soon they reached an area of excavation where six sweat-stained men were assiduously digging out a cellar. Adjacent, three masons were mortaring the stone foundation of a second house, and beyond that, carpenters were framing up the skeleton of yet a third. Running up the street beyond them were another ten terraced houses, the next nearer completion than the one before it.

“Good Lord,” said Wynwood, surveying the scene. “This is like a mill without walls—except that you are churning out houses instead of stockings.”

“Just so,” said Merrick. “And therein lies a part of the cost savings—or perhaps I should say profit. Now, do you wish a corner house?”

“I should prefer it, yes.”

“Well, the topmost house has been spoken for,” said Merrick. “Rosenberg sent the papers last week. You will have to wait on these two at the bottom of the hill.”

Wynwood’s face fell. “Blast!” he said. “That house above is perfect.”

“It will take the wind coming off the river,” Merrick warned. “So will be more expensive to heat. Besides, a widow from Yorkshire has already contracted for it.”

Wynwood winked. “Contracted—but not yet taken title, eh?” he said. “Come, Merrick, we are old friends. The heating means nothing to me.”

“Aye, spoken like an Englishman!”

“Besides, you do not even know this woman. What if I paid the costs associated with breaking the contract?”

“My word is my bond,” said Merrick coldly. “Choose another, my friend. Or go back to Belgravia and buy one of those white monstrosities from Tom Cubitt. It is neither here nor there to me.”

“Yes, yes, you are right, of course,” Wynwood had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am just desperate to please my wife. These lower houses are lovely. But they are not even. One will sit a little higher up the hill, will it not?”

“Yes, and I shall use it to good advantage,” said Merrick. “If they are connected by short flights of stairs in the public rooms, it will have the feel of two houses, but there will be a measure of privacy on the upper floors. I can design it such that musical rooms and Bergonzi’s parlor are on one side, and the schoolroom and nursery needs are confined to the other. Two dining rooms, even, if you wish.”

“That sounds perfect.” Wynwood scrubbed a hand thoughtfully along his jaw. “Now, what will the interior look like? I must give Vivie a full report.”

“I can show you the house at the top of the hill.” Merrick extracted a ring of keys from his coat pocket. “Your interior, of course, will be designed to meet your family’s needs. But the millwork, the joinery, the floors and ceilings, all that will be similar unless you wish otherwise.”

There were no workmen near the top of the hill, and the din of construction faded into the distance as they walked. Still, Merrick could hear a muffled banging noise from within the topmost house as they went up the steps. How very odd.

Wynwood turned to Merrick with a quizzical look. “Someone is inside.”

“They damned well oughtn’t be,” said Merrick. “The first coat of paint went on yesterday and has scarce had time to dry.”

The banging did not relent. Merrick twisted the key and went in. Sun glared through the large, undraped windows, leaving the air stifling hot and rendering the smell of paint almost intolerable. At once, he and Wynwood started toward the racket—a side parlor which opened halfway along the central corridor. A tall, slender woman with cornsilk-colored hair stood with her back to them, banging at one of the window frames with the heels of her hands.

Merrick looked at Wynwood. “Excuse me,” he said tightly. “The buyer, I presume.”

“I shall just wander upstairs,” said Wynwood, starting up the staircase. “I wish to size up the bedchambers.”

“Oh, bloody damned hell!” said the woman in the parlor.

Merrick strode into the room. “Good God, stop banging on the windows!”

The woman shrieked, and clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, my!” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You nearly gave me heart failure!”

“It would be a less painful end than bleeding to death, I daresay.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, turning from the window. She was looking not at him, but at the empty paint containers. She gave one a dismissive nudge with the toe of her slipper. But he could see her face now, and inexplicably, his breath hitched.

No. No, he was mistaken.

“The paint sticks the windows shut,” he managed to continue. “They must be razored open, ma’am. And if you persist in pounding at the sash, you’re apt to get a gashed wrist for your trouble.”

“Indeed?” Her eyebrows went up a little haughtily as she tossed him another dismissing glance. For a moment, he could not get his lungs to work. Dear God in heaven.

No. No, it could not be
.

Merrick’s thoughts went skittering like marbles. There must be some mistake. That damned wedding yesterday—that trip to the church—it had disordered his mind.

“Well, I shall keep your brilliant advice in mind,” she finally went on. “Now, this room was to be hung with yellow silk, not painted.” She waved her arm about expansively. “Dare I hope that you are someone who can get that fixed?”

“Perhaps.” Merrick stepped from the shadows and into the room. “I am the owner of this house.”

“Oh, I think not,” she said, her voice low and certain. “I contracted for its purchase on Wednesday last.”

“Yes, from my solicitors, perhaps,” said Merrick.
Good God, surely…surely he was wrong.
For the first time in a decade, he felt truly unnerved. “I—er, I employ Mr. Rosenberg’s firm to handle such transactions,” he managed to continue. “Pray look closely at your contract. You will see that the seller is MacGregor & Company.”

At last, she turned to fully look at him. Suddenly, her expression of haughty disdain melted into one of grave misgiving. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “And…and so you would be Mr. MacGregor, then?” she asked breathlessly.

There was more than a question in her words. There was a pleading; a wish to avoid the unavoidable. Her clear green eyes slid down the scar which curved the length of his face.
She was not sure.
But oh God, he was.

“You look…familiar,” she went on, but her voice was no longer steady. “I am Lady Bessett. Tell me, have—have we met?”

Dear God! Had they met? A sort of nausea was roiling in his stomach now. He could feel the perspiration breaking on his brow. He opened his mouth with no notion of what he was to say. Just then, Wynwood came thundering down the stairs.

“Eight bedchambers, old chap!” The earl’s shouting echoed through the empty house. “So a double would have sixteen, am I right?” He strode into the room, then stopped abruptly. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said, his eyes running over the woman. “My new neighbor, I collect? Pray introduce me.”

Merrick felt as if all his limbs had gone numb. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He lifted one hand by way of introduction. “May I present to you, ma’am, the Earl of Wynwood. Wynwood, this is…this is…” The hand fell in resignation. “This is Madeleine, Quin. This is…my wife.”

The woman’s face had drained of all color. She made a strange little choking sound, and in a blind, desperate gesture, her hand lashed out as if to steady herself. She grasped at nothing but air. Then her knees gave, and she crumpled to the floor in a pool of dark green silk.

“Christ Jesus!” said Wynwood. He knelt, and began to pat at her cheek. “Ma’am, are you all right? Ma’am?”

“No, she is not all right,” said Merrick tightly. “She can’t get her breath. This air—the paint—it must be stifling her. Quick, get back. We must get her air.”

As if she were weightless, Merrick slid an arm under Madeleine’s knees, then scooped her into his arms. A few short strides, and they were outside in the dazzling daylight.

“Put her in the grass,” Wynwood advised. “Good God, Merrick! Your
wife
? I thought—thought she was dead! Or—or gone off to India! Or some damned thing!”

“Rome, I believe,” said Merrick. “Apparently, she has come back.”

Gently, he settled Madeleine in the small patch of newly sprouted grass. She was coming around now. His heart was in his throat, his mind racing with questions. Wynwood held one of her hands and was patting at it vigorously. On his knees in the grass, Merrick set one hand on his thigh and dropped his head as if to pray.

But there was little to pray for now.

He had prayed never to see Madeleine again. God had obviously denied him that one small mercy. He pinched his nose between two fingers, as if the pain might force away the memories.

Madeleine had managed to struggle up onto her elbows.

“I say, ma’am.” Wynwood was babbling now. “So sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you perfectly all right? Haven’t seen old Merrick in a while, I collect? A shock, I’m sure. Yes, yes, a shock.”

“Shut up, Quin,” said Merrick.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed. “I shan’t say a word. Daresay you two have lots to catch up on. I—I should go, perhaps? Or stay? Or—no, I have it! Perhaps Mrs. MacLachlan would like me to fetch some brandy?”

On this, the lady gave a withering cry, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.

“Do
shut up
, Quin,” said Merrick again.

His eyes widened. “Yes, yes, I meant to do.”

Madeleine was struggling to her feet now. Her heavy blond hair was tumbling from its arrangement. “Let me up,” she insisted. “Stand aside, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t get up,” Wynwood warned. “Your head is apt to be swimming still.”

But Madeleine had eyes only for Merrick—and they were blazing with hot green rage. “I do not know,” she hissed, “what manner of ill-thought joke this is, sir. But you—you are
not
my husband.”

“Now is hardly the time to discuss it, Madeleine,” Merrick growled. “Let me summon my carriage and see you safely to your lodgings.”

But Madeleine was already backing away, her face a mask of horror. “No,” she choked. “Absolutely not. You—you are quite mad. And cruel, too. Very cruel. You always were. I came to see it, you know. I
did.
Now stay away from me! Stay away! Do you hear?”

It was the closest she came to acknowledging she even knew him. And then she turned and hastened up the hill on legs which were obviously unsteady.

A gentleman would have followed her at a distance, just to be sure she really was capable of walking. Merrick no longer felt like a gentleman. He felt…eviscerated. Gutted like a fish and left to rot in the heat of his wife’s hatred.

Lord Wynwood watched her go, his hand shielding his eyes as they squinted into the sun. “You know, I don’t think she much cares for you, old chap,” he said, when Madeleine’s skirts had swished around the corner and out of sight.