Simply Wicked

23

His father and mother hadn’t been home and neither, apparently, was Marguerite. Anthony tried not to grind his teeth as all his plans to miraculously sort out his future in one evening evaporated. He’d left the Stratham mansion and now stood staring at Marguerite’s butler—again.

“If her ladyship is out, may I speak to Mrs. Jones?”

“I’ll see, sir.”

Anthony was left fuming on the step, the door firmly closed in his face. Servants always had a way of knowing what was going on upstairs, and Anthony reckoned they already knew he was no longer in favor with their mistress.

“Lord Anthony?”

He nodded at Mrs. Jones, received a warm smile and a burst of gin-laden breath in return.

“Good evening, Mrs. Jones. I was wondering if you could tell me where Lady Justin has gone. I was supposed to meet her here.”

Mrs. Jones frowned. “She seemed settled for the night and then she suddenly came running into the kitchen where I was having a comfortable chat with the cook, demanding an escort to her mother’s place of business. Of course, I don’t go there with her, so she took one of the footmen.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Not so long ago, my lord, probably less than half an hour.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones, you have been most helpful. I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

Before she had even shut the door, he was racing down the slippery steps and toward the main thoroughfare, where he hoped to pick up a hackney cab. Rain skittered sideways across the filthy cobbled street, obscuring his vision. Whatever Marguerite was going to do, his instincts told him it wasn’t good. He flagged down a cab, hopped in and gave the driver Madame Helene’s direction.

Marguerite hadn’t contacted him or asked for his help; she’d chosen to go to her mother instead. But he didn’t care. She might try to back away from him, to push him out of her life, but he wasn’t going to allow it. They’d both broken through their pasts to find themselves, and if he had to drag her into that new future kicking and fighting him, he’d do it, not just for himself but for her.

His knowledge of the layout of the pleasure house exceeded most members’, so after greeting the footman stationed in the hall, he headed straight down the back stairs to the kitchen. He halted at the door, wiping rain drops from his face in a vain attempt to improve his vision.

“Good evening, Anthony.”

“Good evening, Madame.”

Even as he continued to search the busy kitchen for Marguerite, he managed to bow to Helene. She walked toward him, her pale yellow skirts rustling, and effectively blocked his path.

“Are you looking for anyone is particular?”

He met her gaze. “Your daughter. Is she here?”

“Marguerite?” Helene raised her eyebrows. “Now why would you want to see her? I thought she had given you your marching orders.”

“She tried to.”

“And?”

“I refuse to accept them.”

Helene continued to study him, all traces of her usual relaxed smile absent. “I’m not sure whether that is a good thing for either you or Marguerite. Perhaps you can help me decide.”

“She knows the worst of me, and yet she refuses to denounce me. How can I offer her anything less than the same?”

“She told you about her marriage?”

“Some of it, but not, I fear, the whole. I think she believes herself unforgivable.”

“As you do.”

“As I did. Marguerite has helped me realize that there is always hope as long as people who love you believe in you.”

“Marguerite was always a clever woman.”

Anthony leaned his shoulder into the doorframe, needing the support of something solid. “Then help me find her, help me show her that whatever happened in the past, she is still loved.”

He heard his own words, realized he meant them far more personally and profoundly than he had ever meant anything in his life before. Madame Helene stood on tiptoe and kissed his cold wet cheek.

“She has gone out with her brother. I believe they are going to the Jugged Hare Inn at Saint Katherine’s dock.”

“Why in God’s name are they going there? Did Minshom set it up?”

Helene shrugged. “I do not know, but they are to meet someone important there.”

“Sir Harry Jones, I’ll wager.”

“I won’t bet against you this time, my lord.” Helene lightly slapped the side of his face, her expression hard. “But if you make my daughter unhappy, I will make you wish you had never been born, title or no title, influential family or not.”

“I understand, and I will try to avoid such a fate.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I’ll go after them.”

“Tell the footman stationed at the back of the house to give you a horse. There is always one saddled and ready to ride.”

“You think of everything, Madame.”

Helene curtsied. “I try to. Good luck, my friend.”

Anthony crammed his hat back on, brought the horse’s head around and set off again, this time in the direction of the Thames. He’d heard rumors that the Jugged Hare was a Molly house, although he’d never been there himself. Was Sir Harry hiding there? It would be just Minshom’s idea of a joke to host his former acquaintance in a house of such peculiar ill-repute.

Whatever Madame Helene thought, Anthony was sure Minshom was involved somehow. The timing and choice of venue bore his hallmark. It was highly possible that Minshom had sent Marguerite a note sharing Sir Harry’s supposed whereabouts, thus setting her up for a second emotionally disastrous encounter.

He tightened his grip on the reins, urged the horse forward through the deserted streets. He wasn’t going to allow Minshom to dictate what happened this time. With Christian’s help, he would make sure that Marguerite was shielded from the worst Minshom could throw at her.

“How on earth are we supposed to find Sir Harry among this crowd?” Marguerite asked as Christian used his shoulder to create a path through the throng of merrymakers in the public bar of the inn. The air was thick with an acrid mixture of wood smoke, cheap gin and strong perfume.

“We’re not.”

“Then how are we going to find him?”

“We’ll ask the landlord.”

Marguerite sighed; such a prosaic answer and so unexpected from Christian. The scene at the inn was enough to keep her mind occupied. Amongst the loud, colorful throng, it was almost impossible to tell which were real women and which men. From past conversations with her mother, Marguerite knew that apart from the obvious, the size of a person’s feet and hands often gave away their sex. As soon as she dropped her gaze to the floor, she began to make sense of the nature of the relationships around her.

She watched Christian talk to the landlord and wondered if he realized how many of the other customers were staring at his tall elegant form. She had no idea what her brother thought of the lascivious winks and shouted comments. His sexuality remained a mystery to her. According to Lisette, he was willing to sample everything on offer at the pleasure house but seemed to view it all quite dispassionately.

Christian beckoned to her, and she obediently made her way to his side, the hood of her cloak still obscuring her face from the cheerful masses. He bent toward her to be heard above the rising torrent of banter and catcalls.

“He says they have a Jonas Harry staying here in room five but not a Harry Jones.”

Marguerite winced. “Really. Shall we go and check if there is any likelihood of them being the same man?”

“I think we should.”

Christian’s breathtaking smile flashed out. One of the Mollys pretended to swoon, and screeching, fell back into his lover’s arms in a swirl of dirty petticoats. Christian took Marguerite’s hand and stepped around the couple with a deferential bow, which simply provoked more playacting and whooping.

The upstairs landing was narrow and stank of spilled beer and urine, but at least they were alone. Marguerite touched Christian’s arm.

“You don’t have to come in with me.”

He kept walking and knocked loudly on the scarred oak face of the fifth door. “Are you insane? Of course I’m coming with you.”

Marguerite sighed. Her brother’s instinct to protect her had been well-developed in their lonely childhood. She could hardly expect him to abandon her now. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she grabbed at his hand.

“You must promise me not to be shocked by anything you hear, by anything that Sir Harry says . . .”

Christian stared down at her. “Marguerite, you are my sister; nothing you do will change that. I’ll love you regardless; we all will.”

She’d thought she’d lost her family, but she was wrong. They were all around her, supporting her, not judging her, ready to help her if she’d let them. Christian knocked again and this time got a response as the door was unlocked from the inside.

Marguerite held her breath as it opened a scant inch to reveal the haggard face of Sir Harry Jones. Christian smartly stepped to one side so that Harry could see her. The door swung open, and after one last reassuring nod from Christian, Marguerite stepped into the room.

It stank of brandy and cigar smoke and the greasy remains of the badly cooked food piled in half-finished platefuls on the small desk. Clothes hung at random over the backs of the two rickety chairs, along with stockings, waistcoats and under things.

“Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t really expecting visitors.” Sir Harry cleared his throat and started gathering up his belongings and throwing them into an open trunk so that Marguerite could sit down.

“Didn’t Lord Minshom tell you I wanted to speak to you?”

Despite her fears, her voice sounded reassuringly normal. Sir Harry stared at her, one hand smoothing over his unshaven chin. He seemed to have aged ten years since she’d last seen him, all the joy in his face exterminated, all the hope gone.

“I told Minshom I would be quite happy to see you, but I haven’t heard from him in days.”

Marguerite tried not to show her concern. What had happened to Minshom after Anthony had hit him? Had he crawled away somewhere to die? A tap on the door made her jump. Christian produced a pistol from his pocket and motioned for both her and Harry to stay still.

The knock came again and then the door handle slowly turned. Marguerite’s gaze fixed on Harry’s horrified face. Was it Minshom come to complete his revenge, or had the authorities finally caught up with her dead husband’s lover?

“I apologize for turning up late, but Marguerite didn’t tell me the correct time for our appointment.”

Christian sighed and put his pistol away. “Sokorvsky.”

“What are you doing here?” Marguerite stared at Anthony, her heart hammering so loudly she imagined they could all hear it. Despite her fear, she drank in the sight of his disheveled black hair and determined expression.

“Because I deserve to know the truth.”

“You don’t ‘deserve’ anything.” God, she was frightened, so frightened by the intensity of his blue gaze, of the knowledge and supreme confidence burning there, as if he knew her through and through.

He shrugged. “You’re right, I deserve your contempt for what I am, but you don’t hate me do you? So why should I hate you?”

Sir Harry cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Marguerite, but who is this man? And what does he have to do with my relationship with you and Justin?”

Anthony bowed. “I’m Anthony Sokorvsky, a friend of Marguerite and her brother.”

Sir Harry eyed the door, his throat working convulsively. “Delighted, I’m sure, but I’m still none the wiser as to what you are doing here.”

Anthony sat down on the side of the unmade bed, his expression gentle, his gaze fixed on the other man. “I’m trying to understand what makes a man kill his best friend, and what makes a woman lie to protect the men she knew.”

Sir Harry exhaled and sat down suddenly in the other chair facing Marguerite. Christian resumed his position against the door, his gun in one hand.

“I told Minshom everything. I even wrote it down for him.” Harry looked up at Marguerite. “Didn’t he even give you that?”

Marguerite drew out the sheets of closely written parchments and put them on the table. “I haven’t read them yet. I wasn’t sure Minshom could be trusted to tell me the truth.”

Harry laughed, the sound bitter. “Minshom is a complete bastard.”

“That we can all agree on.” She leaned forward, trying to catch Harry’s eye. “Will you tell me the truth?”

He glanced around at Christian and Anthony. “In front of them?”

She nodded. There was nothing left to lose. If Anthony wanted to hear the awful facts of her marriage, she no longer had the energy to prevent him. What happened after that, she would leave in God’s hands.

Harry started to speak, his voice low, his expression uncertain. “I wasn’t surprised when Justin wrote and told me he was getting married.” He sighed. “He’d already told me that he would have to do it for his family’s sake. He was the oldest. I understood that. But I didn’t expect him to marry someone like you.”

He lifted his gaze to Marguerite. “You were not the biddable old spinster Justin had imagined, you were . . . yourself, and he was clearly enamored. I was reluctant to join you on your wedding trip, but Justin insisted. He told me that you would understand, that you had been brought up in France and had a more pragmatic view of marriage and adultery.”

When Harry hesitated, Marguerite nodded to encourage him to go on. She didn’t want to disrupt his story by telling him that she’d dreamed of a handsome man sweeping her off her feet, of true love, or happily ever after, thought she’d found it in Justin. She’d been a fool wanting that, wanting to be normal, to be loved.

“Anyway, the more time I spent in your company, the more I liked you, and the less comfortable I felt with our deception. I told Justin he should tell you the truth—let you decide for yourself, but he was reluctant to disturb the apparent harmony between us all.”

“And then I found you in bed together one afternoon when I was supposed to be on a sightseeing tour.”

Harry nodded. “And you were shocked, and rightly so. Justin, of course, hated being caught in the wrong and handled everything very badly. If it wasn’t for your good sense, things might have turned ugly.” He leaned forward in his seat. “You were magnificent.”

Marguerite shrugged. “I merely told Justin that I understood his needs. There is nothing particularly heroic about that.”

“I beg to disagree, my lady,” Anthony said. “But please continue, Sir Harry.”

Harry’s gaze flicked between Marguerite and Anthony. “Well, she allowed Justin and me to be together, she even stayed and watched, which Justin adored.” He licked his lips. “In truth, I found it difficult to enjoy myself in those circumstances, when I knew I was interfering in a marriage. When we reached Dover, I told Justin I was no longer comfortable being his lover and that I intended to return to London.

“I tried to explain to him that I respected Marguerite too much to want to come between them. Justin lost his temper and accused me of coveting his wife, accused her of allowing my attentions. Nothing was his fault, nothing ever was.” His smile was full of anguish. “So I returned to London and set about requesting a transfer to India, to get me as far away from the Lockwoods as possible.”

Harry got up and walked to the small window, aimlessly peered outside and then sat down again. “Of course, Justin followed me to London and found me at my club. He accused me of sleeping with you in front of everyone and demanded satisfaction.” He buried his face in his hands. “God knows, I tried to persuade him to back down, promised him anything, even that I’d fuck him again if he’d only stop the duel.”

“I always wondered where that rumor came from. I didn’t realize it was Justin who said I was an adulterer.” Marguerite stared down at her hands, gripping them tightly together until her nails dug into her skin. “How could he do that to me?”

“Because he was jealous?” Anthony asked. “Because he had finally realized his true nature and knew how much Harry meant to him? Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of Harry going away?”

“But I told him I didn’t mind, that he could bed Harry as much as he wanted.”

“And did you really mean that?” Anthony said quietly.

“I thought I did. I was willing to accept anything if it meant he stayed with me.” She met Anthony’s compassionate gaze. “But I was a fool, wasn’t I? Trying to save something that didn’t even exist.”

“With all due respect, Marguerite, Justin did love you; he told me so.” Harry swallowed hard. “And if we are being honest, he also knew I was attracted to you, that if we’d stayed together, I would’ve wanted to make love to you myself. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want to share either of us with the other.”

Marguerite stared into Harry’s eyes, feeling Anthony stiffen and shift forward on the bed. “If you had stayed, I would probably have let you.”

“Did you tell Justin that?”

“I tried. On our last night together in London, when I was still trying to work out exactly why you had left so abruptly and why Justin was so angry.”

Silence fell between them until Marguerite lowered her gaze. Now Anthony knew the truth she’d held so close to her heart, her impure thoughts, her responsibility for the tragedy. She’d been prepared to promise anything, to do anything, simply to keep her sham of a marriage alive. He believed he was a coward, but she was far worse.

“I thought it would help bring you back, not result in Justin’s death.”

Harry sighed, “Marguerite, Justin made his own choices that night. I gave him every opportunity to stand down. He chose not to, and we can’t blame ourselves for that.”

“So how did he end up dead and not you?” Marguerite’s sharp question made Harry visibly wince.

“I told Justin I would delope, that I would never shoot at him, that he could kill me if he wanted to. On the morning of the duel, his pistol misfired. I brought my gun down to my side to indicate I wouldn’t take a shot, but he kept coming at me, tried to grab my pistol, tried to kill me with my own gun, said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. In the struggle the pistol went off, and he was hit in the chest.”

Sir Harry stared at the floor. “If there had been another loaded gun there, I would’ve killed myself and covered his body with my own. But I was dragged away by my seconds and taken across the channel before I even knew if he was dead or not.”

He raised his head, and tears glinted in the corners of his brown eyes. “I loved him, Marguerite, for all his selfishness and arrogance, I loved him, and I’ll never forgive myself for what happened until the day I die.”

Marguerite felt answering tears slide down her cheeks. She tried to make sense of what she’d heard, felt every word twisting and turning in her mind until she wanted to scream. Despite everything she’d done, Justin had loved Harry more than he’d loved her, had been prepared to kill him rather than lose him. Whatever she did, she’d always be blamed for the duel because Justin had used her to get what he wanted. Yet again she was irrelevant, second best, pushed out . . .

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“For what? I’m the one who is apologizing; I’m the one who killed your husband.”

“If I hadn’t married Justin, none of this would’ve happened, so I am just as guilty.”

“Marguerite . . .”

She ignored Anthony’s attempt to intervene, fixing her attention on Harry. “Will you give me your address in France? I would like to write to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I think Justin would’ve wanted to know that you were safe.”

Harry scrubbed at his face. “As I said, I’m going to India. That’s why I came back to England. A relative of mine has found me an obscure post with one of the trading companies where I can work hard to redeem myself.”

“Then write to me when you are settled. Please.” Marguerite hesitated. “I want to forgive you, but I need to think about what I’ve heard. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lady.” Harry stood up and bowed. “It’s taken me two years to get to a point where I can accept my responsibility for this tragedy and also accept that Justin wasn’t blameless. I hope you can do the same. I will write to you.”

Marguerite rose as well and curtsied. “I hope your sea voyage is safe and that your new life is everything you want it to be.”

Harry walked across the room and went down on one knee before her, took her hand and kissed it. “I’m sorrier than I can say about Justin. I’ve gone over what happened a thousand times, and I still can’t decide what I could’ve done to change the outcome.”

She patted his shoulder. “I understand, and I know you loved him. I’ll pray for you.”

He looked up, the pain in his face almost unbearable to see. “Thank you.”

Marguerite went toward the door, and Christian opened it for her. She barely noticed Anthony fall in behind her. They reached the ground floor, and the noise of the tavern was even more startling after the quietness of upstairs. A chorus of boos and jeers went up as they headed for the door and didn’t join in the festivities. Marguerite almost smiled. How ludicrous life sometimes was, the blaze of color and laughter down here compared to the stark story of the destruction of a man’s life she’d just heard upstairs.

She gulped in the slightly fresher air, forcing herself to walk to the wall that protected the river down below.

“Are you all right, Marguerite?”

She suddenly became aware of Christian’s calm voice in her ear and Anthony’s firm grasp of her upper arm as the whole river vista swayed and dipped before her eyes.

“Yes, I want to go home.”

“I can take her, Delornay.”

“Non.” Marguerite removed herself from Anthony’s possessive grasp. “I want to go home, to my mother.”

Anthony stepped back and bowed, his face impassive. “Then I’ll come and see you in the pleasure house tomorrow, after you have rested. Good night, my lady, Mr. Delornay.”

She watched him leave, vault on his horse and disappear into the night. She’d have to talk to him at some point, but why did it have to be tomorrow?

“Are you ready to go now, Marguerite?” Christian leaned against the stone wall beside her, arms folded as if he were happy to wait on her all night. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter.

“Yes, and thank you for coming with me.”

He straightened and buttoned up his coat, shoved one hand in his pocket and offered her the other. “Thank you for helping me understand what happened.”

She glanced up at him as he led her back toward the carriage. “Do you still love me?”

He stopped and put both hands on her shoulders. “Sometimes, Marguerite, you ask the most ridiculous questions. You married the wrong man. He made a fool of himself. Why wouldn’t I still love you?” He shook her gently. “It was not your fault or poor Sir Harry’s. You must try to remember that.”

She bit her lip. If it were only that easy. Perhaps it was for Christian, who had never been in love. She nodded and managed a smile.

“It’s freezing out here. Let’s go home.”