Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage

CHAPTER 23

Wearing a spring-green gown, Kate slid into the chair next to James at the dinner table that night. He’d left earlier. Stalked out of the library just after he’d made that amazing statement about knowing what it was like to be innocent and accused of killing someone. He hadn’t given her a chance to ask any questions. The accusation couldn’t have been public knowledge. She would have read about it in the papers. There’d be whispers. Rumors. Lady Mary would have mentioned it. His reputation wouldn’t have been so pristine—well, prior to his association with her at least. No, there hadn’t been a hint of scandal around the man. He was obviously harboring a secret, however. What was it?

She took a sip from her wine glass and cast her glance over the beautifully set table. She traded the solitude of her room for his company at dinner. Their meals together had become the bright spots of her day. She’d been enjoying their interludes, looking forward to them. That thought scared her more than she cared to examine. But she refused to leave here tonight without learning what James had meant by his cryptic statement in the library earlier.

A toasty fire crackled in the hearth while the cold wind whistled against the windows outside. The smell of the burning logs and roasted meat permeated the air. It was positively cozy in the dining room tonight. Would it be the last time she’d ever feel cozy?

Kate salivated when the footmen served roasted beef with watercress. The dinners James’s French chef cooked were absolutely delightful, so much better than the meals at her husband’s estate. She took up her fork and knife and began with relish.

James glanced at her. “How did the writing go today?”

Kate bit her lip. Apparently, they would begin with innocuous conversation. Very well. But she was loath to tell him that she was nearly finished with the pamphlet. She would never be so sneaky as to lie and tell him it wasn’t done when it was, but she had to admit, despite her vow to finish as quickly as possible, she’d been procrastinating and daydreaming a bit when she should have been writing. She glanced away. She’d been dreaming of him, actually. But she wasn’t about to tell him so. Her heart ached. James was the sort of man she might have fallen in love with ten years ago, had circumstances been entirely different. Of course the circumstances were not different, but it didn’t hurt to daydream, did it?

“Very well, actually,” she answered noncommittally, taking a bite of the delectable beef from the plate in front of her.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He smiled at her.

Oh God, if only he knew what she’d been thinking. She glanced down at her plate and stabbed her fork into her watercress.

Two hours later when the dinner plates had been cleared, Kate pushed out her chair and stood to go. She dropped her napkin onto her chair. Somehow they’d managed to spend an entire evening together, and she hadn’t been able to summon the courage to ask James what he’d meant earlier. And now she was about to leave him. This was always the most melancholy time of the evening. James usually went back to his study to read or work, and she went back to her room or the library to write and to do her best to forget how lonely she felt, how awful things were.

“Thank you for yet another lovely dinner,” she said with a weak smile, turning toward the door.

“Kate.” The tone of his voice stopped her. There was something about it. Something different.

She turned back toward him. “Yes?”

“Would you … would you care to have a drink with me, in the study?”

“Would I…? Why, yes I would!” She smiled at him brightly.

“Excellent.” He extended his arm toward her and she moved forward and took it, so happy to have a reprieve from her maddening thoughts for one evening at least.

They walked down the hall discussing their very favorite parts of the meal they’d just enjoyed. James stopped in front of the doors to the study and pushed them open with one hand. “My lady.” He bowed, allowing her to precede him into the room.

“Thank you,” she answered, laughing.

The room was dark, save for a brace of candles resting on an end table. James saw her settled on the sofa before striding to the sideboard and pouring two glasses of Madeira. He returned to the settee, sat next to her, and handed her one.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass from his strong, warm hand. “It’s been an age since I drank Madeira.”

“Me too, actually.” He winked at her.

She took a long draught and closed her eyes, letting the wine play across her tongue. Madeira. The fine Portuguese wine so popular during the war with France when French wine had been in short supply. She’d savor it. It might well be the last time she’d ever drink it. Live. Live. Live. The words scattered across her brain. They used to comfort her, but now they haunted her. James’s town house would still be standing if she hadn’t tried to live, live, live.

James expelled his breath. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said. “About the case, I mean.”

She snapped open her eyes. “Worry?”

“I could tell you were upset when Abernathy was here. Horton is the best Bow Street has to offer. He’ll discover the truth.”

She took another small sip of wine. “I wish that could comfort me.”

“I know it must be difficult, Kate.”

She met his gaze. “Even if he discovers the identity of the murderer, he’ll have to prove it.”

James nodded. “He will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I have confidence.”

She reached out and touched his sleeve. “Thank you, James. For your faith in me. You don’t know what it means.”

“No need to thank me.”

It would be the perfect time to ask him about his statement from earlier. She met his gaze. She opened her mouth. Oh, her blasted nerves failed her again. Perhaps because she didn’t really want to know. She trembled and looked away at a portrait on the wall near the fireplace. She couldn’t discuss her case anymore. Courage. Courage. Courage. Those were her new favorite words. She’d repeated them over and over to herself, but what was she now? A coward. Disgusted with her own inability to ask the man in front of her a simple question, she had to change the subject. “Who is that man?” she asked, pointing to the portrait.

“My father.”

Kate took another look at the picture, basing her opinion of the man on what Mrs. Hartsmeade had told her about him. He was handsome, to be sure, but there was something angry and cold about him. He looked like the kind of man who would chastise a little boy for marring his schoolwork with a speck of ink. He was all dark cold eyes and grim countenance.

“When did he … die?” she asked haltingly.

James’s voice was flat. “Over ten years ago now.”

“Around the time I got married,” she murmured, raising her glass to her lips again.

He cocked his head to the side. “I suppose so.”

“You were young when you inherited your title,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Were you very sad, to see your father die?” Ugh. She winced. Why had she asked that? She pinched her arm. “I’m sorry, James,” she hurriedly added. “Of course you were. It’s just that—”

“The answer is no,” he replied quietly. “And I just realized that you’re one of the only people in the world to whom I can admit that.”

Her mouth formed an O. “What do you mean?”

“You know what it’s like to feel as if you’re supposed to mourn someone when you don’t.”

She glanced away, rolling the wine glass between her palms. “Your father treated you badly?”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. He always hated me, though.”

Kate gasped. One hand flew to her throat. “No. You don’t mean that.”

He nodded grimly. “I’m afraid I do. But don’t worry. He had good reason to hate me.”

Her brow furrowed, Kate searched his face. “How can you say that? He was your father.”

Setting his wine glass aside, James stretched his long legs in front of him and braced his elbows on the settee behind him. “I have learned in my life that those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

“Why did he hate you?” The words slipped from her dry throat.

He paused, then sat up and took a long draught of his wine. “Because I killed my mother.” His voice was sadly matter-of-fact, tinged with a hint of guilt.

Kate nearly dropped her glass. That was it. What he’d been referring to earlier. “No! James! What do you mean?”

He smiled a humorless smile. “The occasion of my advent into this world was the same as my mother’s exit. My birth caused her death.”

Tears filled Kate’s eyes. “Surely your father didn’t blame a baby—”

A wry smile touched his lips. “Officially, of course not. But I felt it in everything he ever said to me, every word, every deed. He loved my mother very much and … I killed her.”

Kate set her glass aside. She wanted to reach out and touch James, comfort him. Instead, she dug her fingertips into the flesh of her palm. “But that’s insane.”

He sighed. “I won’t argue that point.”

“He was hard on you.”

“He demanded perfection from me. And that’s exactly what he got.” His voice trailed off. Another draught of wine. “Lord Perfect.”

“You wish you were different?” she asked hesitantly.

“On the contrary, I am never happier than when everything is perfectly in its place. I was always an excellent student.” His voice was without irony but was traced with anger.

Kate eyed him carefully. “Would your father have approved of your printing press?”

James raised his brows. “Why, Lady Kate, you surprise me. You’ve uncovered my secret.”

She furrowed her brow. “It’s no secret. I always knew you had a printing press.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the secret. Not the real one at any rate.”

“What’s the real one?” she asked, holding her breath.

He stared off beyond the brace of candles into the shadowy darkness of the room. “The real secret is that my printing press is my only form of rebellion. To answer your question, my father would absolutely hate it.”

“Rebellion? I don’t understand. Your father’s not even here to see it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” James affected a mock voice. “A gentleman makes money from his land management. A gentleman does not go into common business. And a gentleman, at all times, under all circumstances, distances himself from even the hint of scandal.”

“Your father hated scandal?”

He raised his wine glass. “Precisely.”

“And that’s why you own a printing press?”

“Not just any printing press. A wildly successful one. Wildly successful because of the content I publish. Very, very scandalous content.”

She smiled. “When I first met you, I wondered if you did it to make money.”

He gazed at the ceiling. “Ha. Money’s easy. I have money.”

“I’ve come to realize that.” She glanced around at the fine furnishings that adorned the room in which they sat.

“I do it because my father would hate it.” James tipped back his glass and drained it in one final maneuver. “But I’m not sure I even want that anymore.”

“So you never made amends with your father? Before he died, I mean?” Kate asked carefully.

James shook his head. “We came to a peaceable understanding, I suppose. But we were never close. He never once told me he was proud of me.”

“Oh, James, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replied. “It’s been a great many years now and I’ve learned to live with it.”

Her heart fluttering in her throat, Kate turned to face him. “You said you thought I was the only one who understood what it’s like to not mourn someone when you should.”

“Aren’t you?” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

She glanced away, tears filling her eyes. “It’s true. When I think about George I’m sad, yes. He didn’t deserve to be murdered no matter what the reason. But I’m not sad because I miss him. I’m sad because of what my life became after I married him. I’m awful to admit it, but I’m sad … for myself.”

James set his empty glass on the table next to him and moved closer to her. “I admire your honesty, Kate.”

She shook her head frantically. “You shouldn’t. It’s perfectly horrendous to feel the way I do. I’m sorry for myself, not my dead husband.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

She met his gaze, the tears spilling from her eyes, her voice catching. “Do you really believe that, James? Do you?”

He groaned. “Kate, if I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have hired the runner.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. She gingerly wiped away the tears on her cheeks. “Tell me something, James. What do you want? What do you really want?”

He ran a shaking hand over his face. “Kate, I thought you knew by now. What I want, what I really want … is to fix everything.”