The Wife the Marquess Left Behind
Author
Ann Lethbridge
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19,3K
Chapters
18
Chapter One
The Lasalle London town house was as familiar to Everett, Marquess of Gore, as his own face, and as strangely foreign as the words running through his head. Familia casa. Home. Or at least one of many homes. Through years of service to the Crown, along with strategic marriages, the marquisate had acquired many holdings. None of which he had set foot in for five years.
The demise of Everett’s older brother, Simon, had come as a shock. Simon had been in the prime of life when Everett had chosen to go to India in a vain attempt to encourage his brother to be more responsible. Disenchanted by his older brother’s reckless behaviour, Everett had decided it was time Simon stood on his own two feet, instead of leaning on Everett to get him out of trouble.
He’d also become jaded by the way some of the marriageable females thought to use him as a stepping stone to the most eligible bachelor in Town, his brother, never minding whether they trampled on his heart to do so.
No, he’d been excited to leave, had been looking forward to carving out his own future and becoming more than the spare for a marquess.
Looking back, he could only shake his head at his younger self’s naivety. Letting his guard down, drinking more than he should have, while he and Simon celebrated his last night in England, had been stupid. He should have guessed Simon was up to something when he dragged Everett along to that ball.
Trusting his brother had led to Everett being duped into marrying a fortune hunter the day before he left for India. Like all the others in Simon’s orbit, the girl hadn’t wanted Everett. She had thought she had done what no other female had managed. She thought she had trapped the heir to the Marquess of Gore.
Instead, she had accosted Everett, who had passed out in the garden. A error that had cost Everett dear on the eve of his departure. He’d been forced to wed the girl the morning before he boarded his ship to India. Hungover and furious, he’d stormed off the moment the knot was tied. He hadn’t seen the woman from that day to this.
Knowing she’d failed in her attempt to trick his brother into marriage had been Everett’s only consolation. Until he’d received word of his brother’s demise.
How happy she must be, to discover that after all these years she was now the marchioness.
And he was stuck with a wife he didn’t know and didn’t want. Had been stuck with her for five years. She had, willy-nilly, put an end to his bachelorhood, never mind how often he had told himself he owed her nothing. Every time he was tempted to forget his vows, he recalled the skinny, blotchy-faced, glowering girl he’d been forced to wed. And for some reason, his stupid sense of honour and duty had stopped him short.
He hoped she’d been equally faithful.
Before his brother died, he had been able to keep his vow he would never see the woman again. Now, he would hold his nose and fulfil his duty to the marquisate and take up the mantle of marriage.
He handed his outer raiment to the grey-haired balding butler who had greeted him at the door. ‘How are you, Potter?’
Potter bowed. ‘In excellent health, my lord. It is good to see you home again, though I regret the need.’
Potter had a mouthful of platitudes for every occasion. ‘Thank you.’
Everett glanced around him. After the exotic surroundings of India, the house seemed austere and exceedingly cold. He shivered. A reaction to England’s chilly climate. Nothing to worry about. To be sure, however, he would take some of the horrible concoction he’d been given by the physician in Calcutta.
‘And Lady Gore?’
Potter looked confused. ‘I...er... Her Ladyship... But, my lord, she died—’
His heart seized. A pair of angry brown eyes set in a narrow angular face with heavy dark brows and pinched lips floated across his vision. Not a pretty face. Was his famous luck at work in this matter also? Was he rid of a wife he never wanted? ‘My wife died? Why was I not informed?’
‘Your w-w-wife, my lord? I thought you were speaking of your grandmother.’
Everett stared at his butler. ‘My grandmother died before I left for India, Potter. You know this as well as I do.’
Potter looked miserable. ‘I forgot you were married, my lord.’
What the devil? Yes, he’d left right after the ceremony, but he had been wed. That was not a figment of the wild dreams he had when the fever took him down. Those imaginings were full of other events. Never of his ‘wife.’
On the other hand, he had treated his ‘wife’ rather badly when he’d realised who had been standing in church beside him. In his drunken haze the night before, he hadn’t realised that rather than the pretty sister who had been in relentless pursuit of Simon for weeks, it was the older sister who had ended up beneath him in the bushes.
Not that he cared which sister it was. He’d been leg-shackled against his will.
No doubt his ungentlemanly behaviour at the altar was why she had not replied to any of his letters these past many years, despite that she had happily been pocketing the small fortune he sent her every month for her keep.
So why was she not here at the town house to greet him? Had she hidden herself away for some reason? Did she fear his reprisal for her trick to catch his brother in marriage? Or might she be ashamed? Did the sort of woman who would dupe a man into marriage have a conscience?
He had been so angry on the morning of his wedding. And so very hungover. He’d stormed off after a few choice words.
Well, his wife, Venetia was her name, though he rarely thought of her as anything but the woman whom he had been forced to marry, was likely thrilled at her elevated status.
‘Someone must know where the devil she is.’
Potter wrung his hands in a rare show of emotion. ‘Perhaps Mr Week, my lord. Your late brother’s man of business. He will know, I am sure.’
‘Week?’ Everett frowned. ‘My grandfather’s man of business was Bucksted, surely?’
‘His late Lordship preferred his own man for some of his business dealings, as I understand it, my lord. After your grandfather’s death, the estate’s business matters were dealt with by Mr Bucksted and those of a more personal nature handled by Mr Week.’
Everett winced. Given some of Simon’s wild excesses, he had likely decided Bucksted’s disapproval would cramp his style. It would be typical of Simon to try to avoid taking responsibility for his misdeeds. Though in the matter of Everett’s wife, he could not see the reason he would hand her care off to this other fellow. But with Simon, one never exactly knew what was going on in his mind.
‘Very well. Locate this Week fellow and arrange for me to meet with him.’
‘Yes, my lord. Will you dine as your grandfather did, at five, or would you prefer a later time?’
In his latter years, his grandfather had preferred the earlier hours of the country for his dinner, no matter where he was in residence. Everett had become accustomed to dining later, in the cool of the Indian evening. ‘I prefer dinner at nine, Potter, but since you were not expecting me until tomorrow, I believe I will dine at White’s this evening.’
Potter bowed his acceptance.
Perhaps that was why his wife was not here to greet him, Everett mused. In his last letter, he had told her to expect his arrival tomorrow, but the ship had docked one day early.
While he certainly did not expect her to welcome him with effusion, he did expect her to be civil. He would bet a pound to a penny she would be in eager anticipation of his arrival, since his brother had passed away some six months before. The Marchioness of Gore had always been a leader in Society and no doubt this one would be champing at the bit to take up her role.
Unlike himself. The last thing he had ever wanted was the title.
Simon had done him one favour by not getting married. There was no widow to console and care for. Though if Everett could have had his way, Simon would have married and produced his own heir and a spare, instead of landing Everett with the title.
‘I will have your carriage brought around at eight, then, my lord.’
‘No need. I will walk.’ The air of London was so different to the heat of Calcutta. He wanted to breathe it in and know he was home. He had not realised just how much he had missed England.
He climbed the stairs to what had once been his grandfather’s chamber and, for a year or two, that of his older brother. Another shiver ran through him.
Dammit he would not be ill.
Venetia, Lady Everett Lasalle, shivered and pulled her shawl closer around her. The fire was dying but she did not dare use up any more of her little store of coal. She had pulled the shabby curtains closed against the draughts that seeped through the ancient windows, but it did little good.
She put her embroidery aside and smiled across at her companion, a blonde pretty young thing reading out loud from Sir Walter Scott’s Waverly.
They used the glow from the fire to augment the light from the candles which were in short supply. ‘It is time to retire, my dear. You will not wish to ruin your eyesight.’
Her companion, Mrs Smith, nodded and set aside the book. The last woman had been called Mrs Brown. And their first names were given as Mary. It was safer for them that Venetia did not know their real names. This new one had been with her for almost two weeks and any day now a messenger would come with the details of her departure for Italy. She would be the second wife Venetia had helped escape from an abusive husband.
Venetia envied the woman her upcoming freedom. Once or twice she had thought of going to Italy herself, dreamed of becoming plain Mrs Smith or Mrs Brown and fleeing to the Continent to live her life out in peace and contentment.
But she was at peace and contented. She had not heard a word from her husband, Lord Everett Lasalle, younger brother of the heir to the Marquess of Gore, for many years. He had taken one look at his new wife and run off to India, leaving his brother to summarily deposit her here at Walsea on their wedding day. She had lived in this draughty old house on a tiny pension ever since, while he no doubt enjoyed the fleshpots of foreign climes.
She had made the best of her situation. It was only in the depths of winter that she found the house and its environs close to untenable. Even that had changed after she took in her first runaway. The company of the other woman made it bearable. The knowledge that she was able to aid another to break free of cruel tyranny gave her a deep sense of satisfaction.
To hell with Everett Lasalle. May he never return.
The fire was almost out. She picked up the poker, intending to make sure it was safe.
Mary Smith shot to her side. ‘Let me do that.’
She let the other woman take her place at the hearth. Venetia tried to ignore the girl’s awkward left-handed wielding of the poker. Her right arm had been dislocated at the shoulder by her husband during their last argument and had not yet healed properly. Grateful for the help she had received, she said it eased her mind to feel as if she was giving something back and tried her best to be helpful. She was a nice young thing and did not deserve the misery she had endured at the hands of her husband.
At a knock on the front door, Mary swung around. From cheerful and confident, Mary’s expression became one of terror. She swallowed. ‘Is it him?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ Venetia said more calmly than she felt, given the hour and the fact that she never had callers at any time of day. ‘But be ready to go to the hiding place I showed you.’
They were prepared for irate husbands or fathers.
Her heart picked up speed. Could it be this Mary’s husband? Had he somehow discovered his wife’s whereabouts? Or worse yet a constable? A man with the power of the law on his side, who could whisk them both off to prison.
John, the young man who served as her man of all purpose, a servant she could ill afford but whom she had discovered she could not manage without, arrived a few moments later bearing a calling card.
Her heart knocked wildly against her ribs. Was this the end of her life? Mary’s stricken expression likely mirrored her own.
‘I told the gentleman how as you wasn’t receiving, my lady,’ John said. ‘The way you said I should.’ He was a son of one of the local farmers and a strong and sensible young man. ‘He insisted I give you this.’
She glanced at the name on the card. The fear roiling in her stomach was replaced by utter astonishment.
Why on earth would the Marquess of Gore come to call? And at this time of night? How very odd. Not one of Lasalle’s relatives had called on her since she arrived here. And she received little news from her own family either. That had not surprised her.
She and her father had never got along. He had been very glad to wash his hands of her. She was far too outspoken and too much of a bluestocking to conform to his view of what a young lady should be. Meek, docile, uncomplaining, like her poor mother. Or pretty and decorative like her younger sister.
She glanced at Mary. ‘All is well. It is my brother-in-law. Show him in, please, John.’
A reflex action made her hands smooth her skirts. As if anything could improve their worn state. She did have a better gown that she wore to church on Sundays, but there was never enough money to waste on new clothes, especially when those who came to her had so little and their need was so much greater than hers. This one had arrived with nothing but what she was wearing.
One thing was certain: she did not want the marquess taking an interest in Mary Smith and, given the time of night and the remoteness of the house, she was bound in duty to offer him a bed for the night. ‘Retire to your room right after I make the necessary introductions. We must avoid any awkward questions. I will do my best to be rid of him in short order.’
So far as Venetia was aware, the marquess remained a bachelor, though she rarely got a glimpse of a newspaper these days. She couldn’t afford a subscription.
Mary stood beside the hearth as if frozen, her eyes wide and scared.
Venetia wanted to reassure her, but it was too late for further conversation. The fair-haired, blue-eyed strikingly handsome marquess strolled in. Thinner than she recalled. Less arrogant. And tanned? He looked about him with a frown.
The low lighting made it difficult to see his features, reminding her of the night she had tried to rescue Florence from causing a scandal and had ended up being the brunt of one instead.
She had been fooled in the dim light in the garden into thinking the man she had come to berate was the Marquess of Gore. Instead, it was the marquess’s younger brother into whose arms she had fallen. It had been like one of those farces that audiences loved to mock when one went to the theatre. Her blood ran hot then cold at the recollection of the events that had changed her life.
The embarrassment. Her husband’s obvious distaste at the sight of his bride. The humiliation as he stalked away. Her chest squeezed painfully.
An odd sensation tickled behind her breastbone.
This was not... This was...her husband? But his card...
His gaze went from Mary to her and back to Mary, no doubt because of the young woman’s beauty. For a moment, he seemed puzzled, then his glance rested firmly on Venetia.
‘Madam,’ he said in icy tones.
Her brain whirled with disbelief and yet she could not doubt the evidence of her eyes. She dipped a curtsey. Mary followed suit. ‘My lord. How can this be? Your brother...’
His eyes widened a fraction. ‘My brother died six months ago. I wrote to you of this. Informing you of my date of arrival.’
Confused, she shook her head. ‘I received no communication. I was unaware...’
He looked at her in obvious disbelief. ‘Someone must have written to you. Not to mention the account of his accident was in all the newspapers.’
The shabby state of her apparel made her want to cringe under that cold stare. She straightened her shoulders. ‘I do not take a newspaper. I care nothing for the doings of others. Why have you come?’
He seemed taken aback by her words. ‘It is time we spoke, do you not think?’
He had not communicated with her for five years—what on earth did they need to speak about now? ‘I cannot say I have given the matter much thought at all.’
He frowned. ‘Nevertheless, talk we will—in the morning. I am too weary for discussions this evening. The road in this area is exceedingly bad.’
A bad road and its nearness to the coast made it ideal for her purposes, as it happened, though she had been horrified by its remoteness from the nearest town on the day she arrived.
‘You will stay the night, then?’
At best she sounded grudging, but he did not seem to notice.
‘I will.’ He rubbed his hands together as if he felt cold.
Well, that was hardly her fault. If she had more money, she would love to have a blazing fire. ‘I will arrange a chamber for you. Give me a few moments, if you please.’ She would have to give him her room and take the only other available bedroom. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Something to eat?’ She inventoried the leftovers in the pantry. ‘Meat pie?’
‘Nothing, thank you. I ate earlier.’
Thank goodness for that. ‘Very well, please make yourself comfortable while I see to your room. I shall be but a few minutes.’
Mary was staring at the marquess with an expression of awe and Venetia hoped her own face did not mirror that expression. Her husband was a far too handsome man to be saddled with such a plain wife, but for that wife to act like a besotted schoolgirl would put her at a terrible disadvantage.
‘Mrs Smith, perhaps you could give me a hand,’ she said with a smile, but at Mary’s little start realised she had spoken with a little more asperity than she had intended.
Outside the room, she turned to the young woman. ‘Go to bed, my dear. I will get John to assist me with preparing a room for the marquess. We shall soon be rid of him, I am sure.’
How she was to accomplish his departure if he decided, for some obscure reason, he preferred to stay, she wasn’t quite sure.
After his wife’s departure from the room, Everett crossed the room to stand near the hearth’s meagre warmth. Since his arrival in England it seemed as if he was always chilled to the bone. Hopefully he would become acclimatised soon. God, he hoped the bedroom they were preparing for him would be warmer than this.
Not only was the fire mean and small, the room itself had seen much better days. The rug needed replacing, the upholstery was worn and patched. The only bright spot was a boldly embroidered cushion on the sofa.
He frowned. First, she had sequestered herself in an out of the way part of the country and then she allowed the place to go to rack and ruin. Very strange.
It did not bode well for the future.
And the other young woman, who was she? For a brief second, he had thought she was his wife’s younger sister. But despite being pretty, the blonde blue-eyed young woman had been nowhere near as lovely as Florence.
And his wife, whom he only recalled seeing once on his wedding day, was as unlike her sister as it was possible to be. He still could not believe the way she had schemed to take her sister’s place. Seeing her blotchy cheeks, her scowling glare, after the ceremony had nigh on sent him to his knees. But it was water under the bridge. They both had to make the best of it.
It was almost a half hour before his wife returned carrying a tray. ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea while we wait for your chamber to be made ready.’
Why was the Marchioness of Gore carrying her own tea tray? And had likely made the tea herself, if he wasn’t mistaken. There was something very wrong here.
He took the tray from her hands and placed it on the table beside one of the chairs.
A brief smile of thanks changed her face entirely.
While her features were angular, her nose prominent, her chin firm, taken as a whole, her face had a stern kind of beauty he had not remembered from their wedding day. But when she smiled, she became radiant, almost beautiful. Or perhaps it was the low light in the room. Or his increasingly fuzzy vision.
Dammit, he was surely not going to experience another bout of fever so soon after the last.
‘Do not go to a great deal of trouble on my account. However, a good fire in my chamber would be most welcome.’ Indeed, it would be a necessity. Even better would be if she invited him to her bed.
He stilled. Where had that thought come from? Well, she was his wife, after all. And he had kept his marriage vows all these many years. A place in her bed was his right. An unwelcome longing caught at his heart.
He scoffed at his foolishness. From her reactions so far, he would bet his considerable personal fortune that no such offer would be forthcoming. Not tonight anyway.
‘John has his instructions.’
‘John?’
‘The fellow who opened the door to you. My man of all work. He has not valeted before, so please be patient with him. I do not receive many visitors.’
No butler, no footman and possibly no maids? Merely a man of all work? What the devil was she doing with all the money he sent? The woman must be shockingly nipfarthing. A penny-pincher.
The idea of years of future discomfort loomed in his mind.
She poured tea and handed him a cup. One taste and he relaxed. Darjeeling and perfectly brewed. He sipped appreciatively as it warmed him through. At least she wasn’t stinting on the tea. Or reusing previously brewed leaves. A horrifying thought, but common practice among those less well-heeled.
‘Will you be here long?’ She winced slightly. ‘I mean, was it your intention to visit for a day? Or more? I would like to know how to plan the household arrangements.’
She sounded as if she wanted to be rid of him. Well, that was not going to happen, but he certainly didn’t want to remain at this ghastly mansion a moment longer than necessary.
What on earth had made her pick such an uncomfortable situation when there were so many more pleasant houses belonging to the estate, he could not imagine. The air here was damp. The countryside, what he had seen of it, flat and unappealing, and according to his map, the North Sea lay only a quarter of a mile away. It seemed to be the last place in England anyone would want to live.
When he’d given Bucksted the address he’d obtained from Week, Walsea House, it had taken the bailiff a half an hour combing the estate records to discover it was located near a village on the coast called St Oswych not far from Colchester.
If he wasn’t so damned exhausted after the journey, he would have liked to converse with her about these matters, but the last bout of fever on board ship had robbed him of stamina. Tomorrow would be soon enough for long discussions.
Hopefully she could be packed up and ready to move back to London in short order. ‘Not more than two days, I should think. I am sure we can organise everything in that length of time.’
An expression of extreme relief passed across her face. A reaction she immediately tried to hide. A reaction he did not understand and needed to get to the bottom of. But not tonight. He put down his cup. ‘Thank you for the tea. If my room is ready, I should like to retire.’
She rose gracefully to her feet. She was above average height for a woman and her slender figure gave her elegance. The first time he had seen her through the haze of too much brandy, courtesy of Simon, he’d thought she looked like a stick, all bony and pointy elbows. If that impression had been correct then, time had softened the angles and filled out the curves somewhat. Thank goodness.
‘Then let me not keep you from your bed,’ she said briskly. ‘I am sure your room is ready.’
Grateful she was not bombarding him with questions, which was something he had expected at this their first meeting in years, he followed her up the stairs. Tomorrow would be soon enough to go into the details of his history. And hers. He definitely needed an explanation of why she was living in such dreadful circumstances. Tomorrow. They would talk tomorrow. Right now, he was simply too weary to think.
The door she led him to was on the first floor, to the right of the landing. She threw it open for him to pass inside.
Thank God. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth. A couple of candelabra filled the room with a soft light. And yet the air had an edge of chill. The fire needed time to do its work.
He looked about him. As was the case downstairs, the furnishings were heavy and old, purchased in a previous century. No doubt the bed ropes would creak every time he moved. He recalled his grandfather unwillingly discarding a similar bed he and Simon had bounced on until it broke.
Still, the covers were drawn down, revealing pristine white sheets. With any luck they would not be damp. His valise had been brought up and placed on a chest at the end of the bed.
‘I hope this will do,’ she said. ‘It is the best I can offer at short notice.’
The strain in her voice tugged at his conscience. He had arrived unannounced and while any wife ought to have expected her husband’s arrival at some point, clearly she had not.
He had come home to England expecting calm and quiet. He certainly needed it after the rough passage from India, but it seemed he had caused quite a deal of consternation in this house.
He put his hands out, intending to take hers in his, to offer her reassurance. ‘Venetia—’
She stepped back, thrusting her hands behind her, looking startled. ‘Ring the bell for John if there is anything you need. I will bid you goodnight, my lord. We will talk more in the morning.’
She sped from the room, leaving his mouth agape.
Devil take it, what on earth was wrong with the woman?
He sank on to the edge of the bed. He frowned at the frayed edge of the carpet.
From the time he had walked in the door she had been treating him like a guest in his own home. He was the head of this household, not some stray she had taken off the streets.
Some old advice he had heard from his grandfather to Simon years ago crept into his mind. ‘When a man takes a wife, he must establish his position as the lord of his domain right away, or he will regret it for the rest of his days.’ He had not done so with his wife. Time had not permitted since his ship for India left the same day as he was wed.
Another adage also arose to guide him. Do not let the sun go down on an argument. It wasn’t quite an argument, but he had the instinct that there was some sort of misunderstanding going on.
He looked about him and saw the odd hint of a female presence. The flowery counterpane, the embroidered stool before the dressing table, the patterned ewer and jug, all hinted at a woman’s taste. Dammit. She had given her room up to him.
Guilt that he had displaced her gave him a little pang. But then she could have stayed, could she not? The fact that she did not want to was not a surprise, even if he did feel an unwelcome sense of disappointment.
What? Had he expected her to welcome him with open arms? Perhaps he had. But he should not be surprised that she had not, he supposed. They didn’t know each other. Apart from the debacle in the garden, something he scarcely recalled at all, they had only met once. On their wedding day. And then only for as long as it took to get the knot tied.
And now he had put her out of her room. A matter he really ought to rectify.
He pushed to his feet and shook off his exhaustion.
