Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife Read online

  They left the room and parted at the top of the stairs, but Harry did not immediately go to his bed, but went to Rosamund’s room. He smiled ruefully as he knocked and entered. The day’s events had given a whole new meaning to his relationship with his wife, though he could not quite put his finger on what it was.

  A little bed had been put up in the adjoining dressing room and Rosamund was sitting on a stool beside it, watching over the child. Annabelle’s white gold hair had been washed and was spread over the pillow. One arm was flung out. He was shocked at how skinny it was. But the disturbing vision of Beth did not return as he dropped down on his knees beside Rosamund; he saw only the child. ‘How is she?’ he whispered.

  ‘The doctor gave her something to end the flux and send her to sleep. She is peaceful. When she wakes she will feel better and we can try to fatten her up a little.’

  ‘Poor little one,’ he murmured. ‘How I have wronged her. I wonder if she will ever forgive me?’

  ‘I am sure she will.’

  He had been gazing at Annabelle, but now turned towards Rosamund and put his hand over hers on the coverlet. ‘And will you forgive me?’

  The pressure of his hand was having a strange effect on her heart. It was beating so hard it was making her breathless. Was he going to talk about what had happened on their wedding night, perhaps explain himself? She tried to sound calm. ‘What is there to forgive?’

  ‘My anger. I should not have taken it out on you. I was angry with myself.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘I am like all my sex, I do not like having my faults pointed out to me. But you were right and I was wrong.’

  She knew how much of an effort that admission had taken even if it was not what she had hoped for. ‘I am often too outspoken,’ she admitted.

  ‘I deserved it.’

  In his present mellow mood she felt bold enough to continue. ‘What I do not understand is why you did not want to bring up your daughter yourself? She is such a pretty little thing. Is she like her mother?’

  ‘A little, but I did not see it then. Babies all look alike, don’t they?’

  She gave a suppressed chuckle and looked at Annabelle as she stirred in her sleep, but she did not wake. ‘That is a typical masculine reply, but she is no longer a baby, my lord. I can see a little of you in her. The eyes and the mouth. I think that could be a stubborn little mouth.’

  He turned to look at the sleeping child. ‘She reminds me of my sister.’

  ‘I did not know you had a sister, my lord.’ There was so much she did not know about this enigmatic man and it seemed today was a day for revelations.

  ‘She died when she was six. The same age as Annabelle is now. I was only eight at the time.’

  ‘An impressionable age.’

  ‘Yes. I did not understand how anyone could be so alive one day and so cold and lifeless the next. It frightened me. It was the same when Beth died.’

  She was slowly beginning to understand. He had loved his wife and had been unable to come to terms with her death. ‘But this little one is not dead, is she?’ she said, refusing to entertain the pang of jealousy that made itself felt.

  ‘No, thank God, but if you had not found her, she might have been.’

  ‘We will not talk of what might have been, my lord, but the future. You will not send her away again, will you?’

  ‘No, with you to watch over her, I would not dare.’ It was said with a touch of ironic humour, which made her smile.

  ‘I think I shall enjoy being a mother,’ she said.

  They both fell silent, reminded of their bargain. No progress had been made in that direction at all. But perhaps now they had established some kind of rapport, the situation might change. She surprised herself with how much she wanted it to.

  She slept fitfully that night, her ears attuned to any sound coming from the dressing room, ready to rush in if Annabelle needed her; consequently she woke later than usual and, dressing in a hurry, went into the next room to find Harry sitting on the stool, watching his sleeping daughter. ‘She looks so peaceful,’ he whispered, standing up. ‘We will not waken her.’

  He took her elbow and guided her back into her bedroom, where Janet was busy. ‘See to the child,’ he told her. She scuttled into the dressing room.

  ‘I have to go back to town,’ he said after the maid had left. ‘I will be as quick as I can and should be back tomorrow. Can you manage?’

  She tried not to let her disappointment show. Nothing had changed, after all. ‘Of course. What about Sir Ashley?’

  ‘He left on horseback half an hour ago. I shall take the coach.’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused, wondering whether to say what was in her mind. ‘Harry, do you trust Sir Ashley?’ she asked.

  ‘Entirely, my dear. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I noticed that the portmanteau he carried with him when he arrived yesterday was remarkably like the one the highwayman took from your carriage, and the horse was identical to the one he rides. Its markings are very distinctive.’

  Harry silently cursed his oversight. Aloud he said. ‘I do not suppose Ash’s is the only horse marked like that. And portmanteaux of that design are manufactured in their hundreds. The idea that Ash is a highwayman is ridiculous. Anyway, why would he rob me? He has his own fortune.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to accuse him, I just thought…’ Her voice tailed away; she was not sure what she had thought. ‘I meant only to point out what I had noticed.’

  ‘Then I thank you, but you need have no fear. Sir Ashley is my friend. I would trust him with my life.’ He bent forwards and kissed her cheek. ‘I must go. I will be back tomorrow.’ He left her rubbing her cheek where his lips had touched it. Was this all there would ever be, a few kind words, a touching of hands, a chaste kiss on the cheek, when she wanted so much more?

  ‘My wife is too observant for comfort, Ash,’ he said with a wry smile, that evening. They were dining at Portman House because they could talk there without being overheard. ‘She recognised your portmanteau and your horse yesterday and came to the conclusion that it was you who had robbed me. I had to explain that your horse is not unique and neither is the bag.’

  ‘Was she satisfied?’

  ‘She seemed to be.’

  ‘Had you thought of telling her the truth?’

  ‘Good God, no! That side of my life is a closed book to everyone but the Piccadilly Gentlemen. It is the only way I can work.’

  ‘Have you made contact with the gang? Did they swallow the story of the hold-up?’

  ‘I think so. O’Keefe said he witnessed it himself. He had followed you and was hiding in some bushes nearby, so I am very glad we worked that ruse.’

  ‘Then he must also have seen Lady Portman.’

  ‘Yes, and that worries me, but as long as he does not connect Lord Portman with Gus Housman, she should be safe enough. It is one reason, and a very compelling one, for not telling her what I am up to.’

  ‘I think I had better dispose of that stallion. It is a pity, he is a good mount, but if her ladyship recognised it, so might others.’

  ‘I am sorry for that,’ Harry said. ‘If it had not been for Rosamund…’

  Ash laughed. ‘If it had not been for your dear lady pointing out our mistakes we might never have thought of them and O’Keefe might have twigged what was happening. Now, at least we can take steps to limit the damage.’

  It was still early when they finished their meal and by common consent they repaired to White’s for a game of cards and to listen to the gossip, most of which centred around who was and who was not going to receive an invitation to the Royal nuptials; where was the best place from which to view the coronation procession; and who had been held up and robbed on his lawful business about the capital. Harry made one or two mental notes for passing on at the meeting of the Piccadilly Gentleman the next day. Then, all being well, he could head back to Rosamund and Annabelle with a clear conscience.

  White’s had a new proprietor since Mr Arthur
had died the previous month. His name was Robert Mackreth. Harry had asked him to be on the lookout for clipped coins, telling him he was making enquiries at the behest of Sir John Fielding without mentioning the Society. People had heard of it, of course, but its purpose and exact membership could only be guessed. He and Ash were enjoying a class of Rhenish wine and settling down to a game of whist, when Mackreth bent to whisper in Harry’s ear, ‘My lord, I would have a private word with you.’

  Harry excused himself and followed him from the room to a small room off the corridor used as an office. ‘My lord, you asked me to let you know if I ever received clipped guineas.’ He held out two coins. ‘I believe these are counterfeit.’

  Harry took them, weighed them in his hand one at a time, then examined the milling. ‘Yes, these have been clipped. Do you know who gave them to you?’

  ‘No, the wine waiter took them, not realising they were not genuine, but I have made a list of everyone who was on the premises at the time.’ He went to a desk and produced a sheet of paper. ‘They are all bone-fide members and their guests.’

  ‘Thank you. I will study it later. They may all be innocent victims, but if you receive any more, make another list. If the same names crop up again, we shall be able to narrow down the suspects. I am sure I do not need to tell you that you should say nothing to anyone.’

  ‘You may rely on me.’

  Harry reimbursed the man for the clipped coins and pocketed them along with the list, and returned to his game. Whoever was passing the coins was becoming bolder, or perhaps more desperate. He was sure it was not Job Smithall because he had no access to White’s. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that some gentleman member, whose gambling debts were more than he was able to honour, had succumbed to temptation.

  In no time Annabelle began to recover and the good food and care she received soon put a little flesh on her bones and roses in her cheeks. Her bed had been removed from Rosamund’s dressing room and she had been given a room of her own a little further down the corridor, and she was soon running about and exploring her surroundings, all of which enthralled her. Rosamund had bespoken clothes for her from a seamstress whom Mrs Rivers knew and other items were obtained from shops in Hounslow and Isleworth.

  ‘When are yer goin’ to send me ‘ome ag’in?’ the child asked Rosamund one day when she had been at Bishop’s Court nearly three months. She was dressed in a white dimity dress with a wide blue sash, white hose and neat black shoes. She was very proud of the shoes; she had only ever worn boots before and those scuffed and worn and several sizes too big, having been handed down from Mrs Chappell’s older children. They had just returned from a walk and Rosamund was removing her bonnet for her.

  ‘Sweetheart, this is your home now. Surely you do not want to go back?’

  ‘No, I like it ’ere, but Mama will be real angry if I’m not there.’

  ‘Why would she be angry?’

  ‘I ’ave to do me chores and ’elp her in the kitchen, or I ’ave to go to bed wivout me supper.’

  That Mrs Chappell expected a child so young to work in the kitchen and, what was worse, to be punished by depriving her of food appalled Rosamund. ‘Annabelle, there is something you must know.’ She paused to gather her thoughts. ‘Mrs Chappell is not your real mama. She is what you call a foster mother.’

  ‘Wha’s tha’?’

  Rosamund explained as gently as she could. ‘Lord Portman is your papa. You were sent to Mrs Chappell because your own mother died when you were born and there was no one to look after you. Now you have me. I am married to your papa and that makes me your stepmama. I will never let you go back there to be ill treated, I promise you.’

  ‘You mean tha’?’ Her eyes lit up with pleasure.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled and kissed the child’s cheek. ‘But you have to learn to be the little lady, so I have arranged for you to have lessons.’ She had already established that Annabelle had not begun to learn to read and write, a fact that had angered Harry, who thought some of his guineas had been spent on tuition for her. It just showed how divorced from reality he had been over his daughter.

  When he was at home, he saw and talked to Annabelle every day, though she was more than a little in awe of him and he found it difficult to unbend, especially as he found her vulgar way of speaking repugnant. ‘Get her some elocution lessons,’ he had told Rosamund. ‘She sounds like a gutter urchin.’ Rosamund, who was beginning to understand his moods, knew the abruptness hid a burgeoning love for his daughter he found difficult to express. He was often away on business, though what that business was she had no idea. He had not seen fit to enlighten her.

  Hearing the sound of a coach and horses on the gravel one afternoon, she thought it was Harry returning, but it was her brother. He was dressed in his usual elegant way: black silk with silver embroidery and a black cravat. ‘Thought I’d pay you a visit to see how you are going along,’ he said, breezing into the small parlour where she was teaching Annabelle her letters.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, instructing the footman who had admitted him to send the parlour maid to her.

  ‘And who is this?’ He beamed at the child, who was staring at him in curiosity.

  ‘This is Annabelle,’ Rosamund said. Then to the child, ‘Run along to the kitchen, sweetheart. Cook will find you something to eat, and then you must find Janet. She will look after you.’ She watched the child leave the room, then turned to her brother. ‘Sit down, Max. Will you drink tea?’

  ‘Tea?’ He dropped on to a sofa opposite her. ‘Have you nothing stronger?’

  ‘Of course, but as it is early in the afternoon, I thought you might prefer the beverage.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well, tea will do.’

  A maid appeared and Rosamund gave the order, then turned back to Max. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I told you. I came to see how you are faring.’

  ‘As you see, I am well.’

  ‘Increasing, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘It is early days.’

  ‘You have been married nigh on three months, time enough, I should have thought. I hope you do not disappoint his lordship in that respect. He will have no compunction about divorcing you an’ you do. It was his whole reason for marrying you.’

  She had no intention of telling him the truth, that if it had been his lordship’s reason, he must have changed his mind. Fortunately a maid arrived with the tea tray and saved her the bother of giving Max a put-down. She dismissed the maid and set about making tea.

  ‘How is Charlotte?’ she asked before he could resume quizzing her.

  ‘As extravagant as ever.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘As demanding as ever. You do not know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she said, and meant it. There was only one cloud on her horizon, but she hoped that might be dispelled with a little patience, not that she would have breathed a word of that to anyone, not even to Janet, who knew most things about her; certainly not to her brother.

  ‘Is Portman about?’ he asked.

  ‘No, he is in town.’ She poured tea and handed him a cup. He took it, then put it on the floor at his side so that he could extract a small flask from his pocket which he emptied into the tea.

  ‘I wish I’d known,’ he said. ‘It would have saved me a journey.’

  ‘You said you came to see me.’

  ‘So I did. Need to see him too.’

  ‘He may be back this evening. You are welcome to stay.’ She sipped her own tea. ‘What do you want to see him about?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘And would the business have anything to do with money?’ He looked discomforted and she added. ‘How much do you want?’

  He brightened. ‘Why, do you have any you can spare?’

  ‘I don’t always spend my pin money. I can let you have two hundred.’

  ‘Two hundred! Not near enough.’

  ‘Max, you seemed to be well up in the
stirrups when Papa died. You and Charlotte were extravagantly dressed and you paid for the wine and the carriage at my wedding.’

  ‘It did not last long.’

  ‘What did not last long? What are you talking about?’

  He looked sheepish. ‘Father’s money.’

  ‘But you said there was none. I had to leave my home and sell all the furniture and—’ She stopped suddenly. ‘You are not talking about that bag of counterfeit guineas, are you?’ His shamefaced expression gave her his answer. ‘Oh, Max…’

  ‘Well, I could not let them go to waste, could I? Father was cheated by whoever gave them to him. They should have been genuine. I did not see why we should be the losers.’

  ‘You said you were going to find out how he came by them. Did you do anything about it? Did you try tracing Mr O’Keefe and the Barnstaple Mining Company?’

  ‘No such man, no such company.’

  She knew from his tone he had not even tried. ‘So instead you decided to pass counterfeit coins. You are a fool.’

  ‘No one knows who passed them, I was very careful.’

  ‘So you say. What if they are traced to you?’

  ‘They won’t be. And even if they are, I can always plead ignorance. It is almost impossible to tell them from genuine ones. You saw them.’

  ‘And now they are all gone, you come here to beg from my husband.’

  ‘He can afford it.’ He paused. ‘You won’t tell him what I have just told you, will you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I do not want to see you hanged. But I am very glad you do not have any more of them.’

  He did not confirm that and in the silence that followed, they heard horses and wheels on the drive, and a few minutes later, Harry came into the room.

  He had been looking forward to an evening with his wife, talking to her about her day and the progress Annabelle was making. Whenever he saw Rosamund and his daughter with their heads together, laughing at some game they were playing, his heart ached with regret that he had missed so much of the child’s growing and a strange longing to take his wife in his arms and make love to her. Really make love, not simply make her with child. His whole reason for marrying her had been turned on its head. All he wanted to do these days was to do his work for the Piccadilly Gentlemen as thoroughly and quickly as he could and come back to Bishop’s Court. He was not altogether pleased to see his brother-in-law, though he made himself sound cheerful. ‘You here, Chalmers,’ he said.