Three Little Secrets (8 page)

“What is your name?” he asked the boy.

“Geoff,” he answered. “Geoffrey Archard.”

Merrick offered his hand. “And I am Mr. MacLachlan.”

Geoffrey looked up at him earnestly. “Do you make anything besides houses, Mr. MacLachlan?”

Merrick lifted both eyebrows. “Well, I own a civil engineering concern which makes roads and lays pavements,” he said. “And a business which makes copper piping. A large ironmongers. And I recently came into possession of a brickyard. I could go on, but that isn’t quite what you meant, is it?”

The lad was shaking his head. “No, I mean do you
build
other things? Like churches, or banks, or—or palaces, perhaps?”

Merrick grinned. “Never a palace, no,” he confessed. “But when I was a young man, I designed some fine public buildings like guildhalls, and a great many country houses. Some of them were as big as palaces.”

But the boy’s face had gone suddenly pale. His lively green eyes had taken on a flat, vacant look, as if he were no longer listening. For an instant, Merrick feared an epileptic fit. “Geoffrey?” He touched the child lightly on the shoulder. “Geoffrey, what is it?”

The boy swallowed hard, and looked up. A sudden emotion sketched across his face. Fear? Guilt? “The crane, sir,” he rasped. “The crane. One of the pulleys—it is giving way.”

“What?” Merrick squatted down to look him in the eyes. “Geoffrey, what do you mean?”

The boy pushed past him, and ran to the edge of the weeds, staring fixedly at the construction. “It is coming loose!” he repeated. “The men—t-tell them—tell them to
get away now
!”

Merrick was on his heels. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder and spun him around to see a look of stark panic. “Geoffrey, what are you saying? How do you know?”

For an instant, the boy’s eyebrows knotted. “I…I saw it in the opera glasses!” he cried. “I forgot. I forgot to say. Please! Please! Make them move!”

Merrick did not consider it further. He bolted across the road at a run, shouting at Kelly, his site foreman. “Out of the way!” he called. “Kelly, clear! Clear the ground! Run!”

Kelly was looking at Merrick as if he’d lost his mind, but he was trained to be blindly obedient. He pushed the man nearest him away, and shouted for the others to follow. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The screech of chain and metal rent the air, and a long, hollow groan followed. The container of slate tiles, swinging some fifty feet above, jerked once, twice, and then came crashing down. It clipped the edge of the roof, sending chips of slate and copper flashing flying. Ropes, chains, and chunks of fascia and soffit followed, all of it falling in on the rubble as if the earth beneath had collapsed.

His heart in his throat, Merrick reached Kelly’s side. “Mither o’ God!” whispered the foreman, swiftly crossing himself.

Merrick seized his shoulder. “Everyone accounted for?”

Kelly’s eyes flicked over the handful of men. “Aye, ’tis everyone.” Relief was plain in his voice. “Mither o’ God! What happened?”

“Something in the mechanism gave way,” said Merrick. He jerked his head toward the vacant lot. “The boy there saw it through a pair of opera glasses.”

Kelly looked at him blankly. “Go on!”

Suddenly, Horton clapped a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. “Aye, the boy, was it?” he rasped. “And ter think, Mr. MacLachlan, that yer meant ter send ’im packin’!” This was followed by either a wheezy laugh or a consumptive cough; Merrick was never sure which.

Above, the roofers had crawled to the splintered edge of the eave, and were peering down, their faces white. Below, the men charged with operating the crane and loading the slate had removed their caps and were staring at the rubble heap as if one of their own lay buried beneath it. But no one did. And for that, they had the boy to thank.

Merrick turned around, and started back toward the old well, but the lad was gone.

One of the men digging the adjacent cellar popped up his head. “’E left, sir,” said the worker. “White as a sheet, he were, and headin’ towards the village at a right sharp clip.”

“Ah.” Merrick stood at the edge of the road now. “I see. Thank you.”

He went to the well anyway. For a few moments, he simply stood there, staring down into its stone depths and pinching the bridge of his nose in thought. He was grateful to the lad, yes. But why had the boy not told him sooner? His panic had been obvious, so he must have comprehended the magnitude of what he had seen.

On a sigh, Merrick turned to go, but the toe of his shoe struck something hard. He looked down to see the opera glasses lying in a patch of sheep’s sorrel. On impulse, Merrick bent down and picked them up. They were expensive, he realized, balancing their weight in his hand. Experimentally, he held them to his eyes, and turned to face the construction site. He scanned the crowd, able to easily recognize all of his men. But to see the tackle on the crane at this distance…

Well. Merrick lowered the glasses. The lad had bloody fine eyesight, that much was certain. As for his part, Merrick reluctantly accepted the truth. At the tender age of just five-and-thirty, it was time he embraced the dreaded scourge of middle age, and bought himself a pair of spectacles.

He returned to the scene of the accident, and instructed Walters to bring down the crane and begin a thorough inspection. If someone had failed to do his job properly, Merrick meant to know who. Walters agreed with relish. Three of the men were already picking through the slate to see how much of it could be salvaged. Above, the broken fascia board was already being pried away. The men would have it replaced by dark, most likely.

There was nothing more to be done here. It had been a bloody close call, but now it was time to move on. He and Evans had a meeting with a land speculator from Greenwich. Time and tide—not to mention business—waited for no man.

There never was ebb
without flood following.

M
adeleine’s new coachman was twice obliged to stop and ask directions to Merrick MacLachlan’s office. Eventually, they drew up before a wide, imposing town house which looked like a larger version of her own, but was situated on the opposite end of the village.

Inside, the ground floor swarmed with clerks and copyists scurrying from room to room, and up and down the broad staircase. The place smelled of fresh ink and, strangely, of newly sawn lumber. No one seemed to know quite what to do with Madeleine. Mr. MacLachlan, it seemed, was not in the habit of dealing directly with his buyers. That was left to Rosenberg.

In the end, a man who looked like a butler decided that Madeleine should be shown upstairs to Mr. MacLachlan’s office. She followed him up two flights of stairs. Men were at work in every nook and cranny, as best Madeleine could see. Some appeared to be draughtsmen, for they were perched on tall stools at drawing tables. Others sat at what looked like a dining table, with stacks of ledgers everywhere. In one of the corridors lay a pile of unpainted dentil molding, and beside it, a bushel basket held an assortment of delicately carved corbels. It seemed so very odd, for Madeleine had never actually seen the
pieces
of houses before.

She was left to wait in a large, wood-paneled office which was fitted with fine mahogany furnishings, including a desk which seemed to stretch into infinity. An inlaid longcase clock stood against one wall, ratcheting up Madeleine’s nerves with every doleful
tick-tock
of its mechanism.

After a while, she grew intolerably restless and leapt from her chair to roam about the room, picking through the bookcases and peering at the paintings. Most of the latter were very old, and very fine. Dutch and Italian, she thought. On the sideboard, a heavy silver tray held an exquisitely cut decanter encircled by a half dozen matching glasses—Murano crystal, unmistakably. Madeleine’s mouth curled with bitterness. Merrick had always had an eye for the very best, and the most beautiful. And at last, it seemed, he could afford it.

There was a narrow door to the left of the desk. On impulse, Madeleine opened it and peered inside. The room was warm, the air yet redolent with the scents of masculinity. Madeleine closed her eyes, drew her breath deep, and let the memories assail her. The scents of soap, chestnut, and a sharp spicy tang teased her nostrils. And underneath it all, Merrick’s unique scent, almost undetectable. But she knew it. Yes, she knew it, now and always. Oh, the cruelty of one’s memory, keen as the tip of a dagger.

For an instant, she was tempted to go to the narrow, rather ordinary bed and throw back the covers so that she might draw in the fragrance of his bed linen. That, too, was a well-remembered scent. At the memory, heat flooded her face. Angry with herself, she slammed the door shut, and leaned back against it, pressing both hands to the warm wood surface.

He chose that ill-timed moment to enter unannounced, taking her breath away. For a moment, he did not see her. He approached the desk and tossed down a black portfolio stuffed to bursting with untidy papers. As if he were undecided about something momentous, he stared down at the folio, and dragged one of his elegant, long-fingered hands through his hair, his ever-present signet ring catching the sun which sliced through the window.

Madeleine cleared her throat, and at once, his head swiveled around. The expression on his face when he saw her was incomprehensible. Relief? Pleasure? Whatever it was, it was short-lived, and followed just as swiftly by a black glower.

“Madeleine,” he said quietly. “What in God’s name?”

She went to the desk, and quietly laid down the deed of conveyance which Rosenberg had given her. “What, indeed?” she murmured. “Your Mr. Rosenberg gave me this today.”

Merrick lifted one of his slashing black eyebrows. “Yes, he is nothing if not reliable.”

In the face of his cool disdain, Madeleine began to tremble with rage again. “How dare you, Mr. MacLachlan?” she demanded, her voice low and tremulous. “How dare you interfere in my personal affairs? Take that back. I won’t have it, do you hear?”

He had the audacity to smile, but his eyes were hard. “Mr. MacLachlan, is it?” he said. “Come now, Madeleine! We are alone. You may put away your little artifice.”

“You are nothing to me now,” she said. “You have no right to go round telling people that you are.”

“I am your husband,” he retorted. “Though I did not mention that little fact to Rosenberg. And so long as we are wed, the law requires me to provide for you, whether I wish it or not.”

“You are
not
my husband!” she cried. “My husband is dead, do you hear? Stop tormenting me.”

He circled from behind the desk to stand over her. “Oh, you have no idea what true torment is, Madeleine.” His voice was dangerously quiet. “And whatever Lord Bessett may have been to you, he assuredly was not your husband.”

Madeleine’s hands were shaking now. He was too close. Too large. Too supremely
male
. “We made a mistake, Merrick,” she whispered. “We did something rash and foolish, and then we regretted it. Please, let it stay in the past. I have a family—a child—to think of now.”

His handsome mouth curled into a sneer. “You were ashamed of me, Madeleine?” he asked. “Is that it? You grew older and wiser in rather a hurry, did you not? It took you all of what—ten days?—to regret throwing in your lot with a penurious Scotsman.”

“By God, how dare you?” Madeleine did not even realize she had swung at him with her open hand until he seized hold of her wrist.

He pulled her hard, almost fully against him. She could smell the heat of his skin. “Oh, I dare, madam,” he gritted, his mouth just inches from hers. “I dare because it is my right! I bought and paid for it with the blood you wrung out of my heart.”

“What heart?” she cried. “You have none!”

He dragged her to him, chest to chest, banding the arm about her even tighter. “Aye, so I keep hearing,” he answered, one hand fisting in her skirts as if he might draw them up. “But I do have a wife. Account yourself fortunate, my dear, that I don’t drag you bodily into that bedchamber this very moment, and vent thirteen years of frustration between those long, beautiful legs of yours.”

“Just try it!” she hissed. “I shall scream, and everyone in this house will hear me.”

“Aye, and they’ll do not a damned thing about it, for they know better.”

She looked at him and swallowed hard. Dear Lord, he meant it. His hot blue gaze was running over her face, his nostrils wide, his breathing unaccountably rough. A faint beard already shadowed his lean cheeks and the hard bones of his face. And there was something else; that firm, unmistakable sign of masculine arousal, pressed against her belly, growing harder with his every breath. Her eyes must have widened.

“Oh, aye, Madeleine, I lust for you,” he admitted. “Does it please you? Are you happy I still suffer? What do you say, my dear? The bed or no? You used to beg me for it. D’ye not remember?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Dear God, she
did
remember. With every fiber of her traitorous body, she remembered. As if to further tempt her, his free hand slid up to gently massage her hip, slowly and inexorably searing her skin. Beneath the taut fabric of his trousers, she felt his erection throb; felt the strength in his arms and the hunger in his touch, and for a moment—for one wild, heated, insane moment, she actually considered it.

No. No, she could not possibly be that foolish. “Take your hands off me, Merrick,” she whispered. “I am no longer yours to touch.”

His sneer deepened, and he shoved her away. “No, I wouldn’t have you if you were the last woman on earth,” he said. “I wouldna’ give you the pleasure, you backstabbing vixen.”

She backed away, and wondered if she had lost her mind. “I do
not
want you,” she said as if to convince herself. “I do
not.
You are not my husband.”

He half turned and casually lifted one shoulder. “Aye, well, if you wish to maintain your facade for society, so be it,” he said. “I’ve never gainsaid your lies, and I never will. But know this, Madeleine—you are my wife. In the eyes of God, and in the eyes of the law, you are my wife, and you ever shall be.”

Her eyes were still fixed on his beautiful, sneering mouth. “Oh, you have ever been one to use the law when it was to your benefit!” she returned. “And you were quick enough to cast me aside when there was a profit to be made.”

He slowly turned to face her, his visage suddenly stark. “I never cast you aside, Madeleine,” he rasped. “Never. What are you talking about?”

Madeleine blinked uncertainly. “The—the annulment,” she said. “And the money. My dowry.”

Slowly, almost warily, he shook his head. “There is no annulment,” he said. “I know nothing of any money.”

“Lies!” Madeleine’s heart was pounding again.

He stepped back another inch. “Lies, yes,” he said. “I’ve no doubt of it. But they are your father’s lies, I’ll wager, Madeleine. Not mine.”

If he was a liar, he was a good one. Madeleine felt unsteady, as if the ground had just shifted beneath her feet. “Then you are telling me—” She sucked in a deep breath. “You are claiming that you did not annul our marriage?”

Merrick stared at her. “How in God’s name could I?” he asked. “Madeleine, we spoke our vows. We sealed them with our bodies. Faith, woman, you weren’t even a virgin before the wedding! We certainly had no grounds for annulment after. One of us would have to be insane—or worse.”

“I begin to wonder if you aren’t.” Desperately, she shook her head. “I do not believe you.”

“And I do not believe
you
!” he snapped. “What kind of crackbrained gudgeon would believe such a thing possible? An annulment, after all we had done together? Do you think me ten times a fool?”

Dear Lord, he was almost convincing. Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face. There was a leather settee by the hearth. She grasped the back with one hand, and made her way gingerly around it. She felt his hand, steady and strong, come out to grasp her arm as she slid onto the seat.

What kind of crackbrained gudgeon indeed?

God. Oh, holy God. This could not be happening. The room was going dark around the edges. Merrick knelt before her, and began to chafe one of her hands in his with a touch that was not unkind. She could sense something inside him had shifted, dispelling the anger, and turning it to an altogether different emotion.

“Madeleine, what did he tell you?” He seemed to choke out the words. “Jessup—what did he say against me?”

She stared blindly at the wall. “No, I saw them,” she said hollowly. “I—I saw the papers. Your signature.”

“What papers?” He clasped her face between his long, elegant fingers and forced her to look at him. “What papers, Madeleine?”

“The—the annulment,” she said. “Two or three pages, with a seal. Rolled up and tied with ribbon. And you had signed it, Merrick. Papa showed me.”

He narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. “Madeleine, what does my signature look like?”

“I—I cannot remember.”

“You cannot remember, because you saw it but once,” he answered. “You saw me sign the marriage register at Gretna Green. Did you watch me? Did you remember it?”

She swallowed hard. “I—I was so nervous,” she admitted. “No, I don’t remember. Did we sign something? I daresay we must have done. But Papa had it undone. He said it was what you wanted.”

He still held both her hands, and gave them a hard squeeze. “Madeleine, was it what you wanted?”

Mutely, she nodded, tears pooling in her eyes. “I made a mistake, Merrick,” she whispered. “I was so young, barely seventeen. I did not understand quite how the world worked.”

Merrick felt the fight go out of him. He felt eviscerated again. Empty. Oh, he was not surprised by Jessup’s perfidy. That, he knew intimately. No, what had always surprised him was Madeleine’s utter lack of resolve. He had never believed life—or Madeleine’s father—would go easy on them. Had she believed it? Apparently, she had. Apparently she had been ill prepared to stand with him and fight the good fight.

“We are still married, Madeleine.” He spoke the words with resignation in his heart. “We will be so until the day we die. There is no undoing it. Not then, and not now.”

Madeleine jerked her hands from his, a look of horror twisting her beautiful face. “Don’t say that!” she cried. “No, I can’t bear it! I gave up…
everything
, Merrick. My life…all those years…and for what?”

He tried to take her hands again, but she shoved at him. “No!” she said. “I—I have a child, Merrick. He is all that I have lived for. He is everything to me. I cannot believe—no, I won’t believe—that I am a—a what? An
adulteress
? Is that what you are claiming?”

“Madeleine, calm down.”

“No. I shan’t. This is an outrage. You are saying that my father—that he lied to me. About everything. I do not believe you. I am not your wife. I should sooner die.”

“It does not matter, Madeleine, whether you believe me or not,” he said sadly. “It changes nothing.”

“It changes
everything.
” There was an edge of madness in her voice now, and a feverish desperation in her face. “He paid you, he said. He paid you to go away. The equivalent of my dowry, he said. Thirty thousand pounds—the price you asked to give me up. You wished to be in business for yourself, Merrick, and you saw a way to do it.”

Madeleine was beyond coherence now. He stood, and began to pace the room. There was no point in arguing with her, or in denying her father’s lies. Merrick felt nothing now; not even that which he deserved to feel. Wrath. Pain. Righteous indignation. There was just that cold, numb sensation in his chest where his heart should have been. It was better, he supposed, that the jolt of raw lust he had felt upon seeing her in his office.

But beyond all the lies and the lust and the grief, one thing was profoundly clear. Whether or not she had ever loved him, he horrified her now. “I am sorry, Madeleine,” he said hollowly. “I would that we had never laid eyes on one another. Life would have been much less empty. And I wish you had not come back to London. But there was no annulment, Madeleine. There was no money. When you can bring yourself to think on it, you will know the truth.”