“You are the principal client, sir, and I spend most of my time on the affairs of the Graywood estate. I need to speak to the justice of the peace in your Hereford estate, for instance. You have some boundary disputes that may turn uncomfortable if we do not attend to them now.”
He showed Roker none of his irritation at the way Roker was talking down to him. “Thank you. I would prefer to go over the books with you, as soon as possible. In a matter of weeks my wife and I will be engaged in the season and too busy to spare the time.
We should make ourselves acceptable as soon as we may, don’t you agree?”
Roker agreed smoothly. “However, we must make every effort to discover an heir.” He coughed. “May I be frank?”
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John waved a hand, tacitly giving him permission.
John watched the red colour tinge Roker’s cheekbones. “Sir, your wife is not in the first flush of youth, and I believe you said she married before?”
Why the question? Surely he’d had the sense to research Faith?
“For five years, and yes, I know what you’re about to say. There was no issue.”
“I see. I do not wish to disparage the woman you choose to take as wife, but—“
John sighed. “I have no reason to assume the fault was on her side, if that’s what you want to know. I married her shortly before Waterloo.” A fair question, if intrusive. He paused. “If you recall, the army began to move the previous evening, when the Duke called the muster at the Duchess of Drayton’s ball. My wife and I had no opportunity—since we have reconciled, we must wait on events. However I would prefer to discover more heirs to the title. I don’t wish to give her that burden. Women too concerned with conceiving sometimes fail because of their very worry.” He’d read that somewhere, he couldn’t think where at the moment, but it sounded good to him. It would also keep the lawyer from bothering them overmuch. He’d try to discover where he’d read it and bring the matter to Faith’s attention.
Roker bowed his head. “I regret having to bring up such a delicate matter. I will continue as you suggest. Although when I initiated a search on the death of the fourth earl, I found no one.”
“Keep looking.”
Roker cleared his throat again. “My lord, there is another matter.”
“Indeed.” He should probably hear it, even though he wanted to get back to his books. Have a peaceful hour to compose his thoughts and consider coolly what to do about Cockfosters. He leaned back, pasting a pleasant expression on to his face, as if every word Roker spoke was a delight. He still didn’t like the man, but he
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didn’t ask to like everyone he worked with. If Roker proved competent and honest, that would serve him well.
“Your wife. I understand you married on the field of battle?”
“More or less.” He lost the smile. “Why?”
“Did you obtain the correct licenses?”
Now he allowed some steel to show. He hardened his jaw. “Do you doubt it?”
“Other people will.” A pause. “Other people are.”
“What?” As anger rose to eclipse his rationality, he snapped the word.
Roker lowered his chin as if he didn’t want to meet John’s direct stare. “London society is very select at the top. News of your accession has, of course, reached its ears and people are talking.
They are questioning the validity of your marriage. I’m sorry my lord, but I thought you needed to know.”
Brave of him to convey the news, John supposed. “You need have no concerns on that score. As soon as I have the paperwork, I will let you have a copy.”
“My lord.” Roker cleared his throat. “The concerns of the earldom must be paramount, don’t you agree?” John favoured him with a sharp nod. “If the marriage was indeed irregular, there might be grounds...” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air.
Anger turned to fury in a seething, boiling rage. John shoved back his heavy chair, heedless of the crash as it hit the wall behind him. “Out.” He gripped the edge of the desk. “Never mention this again, do you hear me?”
Roker scrambled to his feet. “Indeed, m-my lord.” Almost stumbling in his haste, he hurried to the door, fumbled with the handle and let himself out, closing it reverentially behind him.
John stood completely still, letting the rage work its way through him, not daring to release his death grip on the desk until his temper had abated somewhat. How did Roker find the nerve to confront him about such a question. The man had seemed
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positively timid at dinner the other night.
Fury seeped out of him, replaced by simmering anger and then, finally, puzzlement.
John retook his seat and swallowed his brandy in one gulp. He put down the tumbler with exaggerated care, so it hardly made a sound when it finally made contact with the table.
As always when something had disturbed him, he went over the events of the meeting.
Roker had interrupted him, and seemed annoyed about John’s intrusion into his offices. He’d expected that. Then Roker had showed unexpected tactlessness, ignoring John’s desire not to discuss his marriage and Faith’s childlessness. Almost as if—no.
He retraced his steps, thought it through again.
Almost as if Roker wanted John to eject him, or at least, deny his desire to end his marriage.
If his marriage was invalid, then he might have grounds to declare an annulment. Which would give him the chance to marry again and produce an heir.
When he thought of doing that to Faith, his blood heated all over again. Under the desk he clenched his fist until his short nails dug into his palm. What kind of man would he be to do that to a woman? To a woman like Faith? However bravely she behaved, he knew she’d never survive his rejection. But neither would he.
While he understood the importance of the earldom, sometimes other matters prevailed, like honour and—dammit, personal considerations. He didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Faith.
Shock arced through him in a white-hot sweep, scouring everything else out of its way. Truth, pure and simple stared him in the face. The last obstacle had gone. He knew her secret and found her reasoning sound. But even without that, he’d want her.
When he had the paper in his hands, then John would tell him that he’d had his doubts, too, but he’d put them to rest with the new marriage. One he intended to urge Faith to enter as soon as he
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could arrange it.
When John crept into Faith’s room later that night, she had fallen asleep. He left her and went to his own bed, feeling strangely bereft, considering he could count the times he’d actually slept with a woman on the fingers of one hand. Hell, he’d bivouacked with colleagues more often.
Not that he felt for them what he felt for the woman sleeping in her room. He couldn’t remember feeling this way about anyone, for that matter. Warmth, protection, a desperate need to touch her, get inside her body, all that and more. While he was busy persuading himself that he wanted a friend and companion, a partner to help with the stressful position of Earl and Countess of Graywood, his body was protesting otherwise.
Patience had served him well in the past. He had to exert extreme self-control to make it do the same for him now.
The next days passed by in a flurry of activity, as if gaining momentum before speeding up. He saw Faith in passing, had a few conversations of a practical nature with her. Nothing else. That evening, they ate with the family, and arranged for attending church in the morning. He managed his own businesses, put up with the dowager’s admonitions about attending to his own concerns, rather than working completely through agents. He even managed a genial smile when she told him he wouldn’t have time for
trade
once the season started.
Oh yes he would. But telling her would achieve nothing except increasing her antagonism, if she felt that, and he was far from sure
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of it. He still hadn’t fathomed the dowager, not entirely. Obviously she had a strong sense of family. But he wanted to know the
why
, and she was unlikely to tell him if she disliked him or felt she was working against him.
Faith seemed subdued, but the ordeal in the Exchange, she had every right to feel that way. After a period of reflection he decided to track Cockfosters down and trap him in his own nest, but seek information first. That was better than striding into a rookery, sword in hand, and getting murdered for his pains. The rookeries were filthy, impenetrable places. For him to venture there unprepared and alone would mean suicide.
Consequently he set a few enquiries in train, but didn’t expect results for a while. He knew people, and those people knew others who could help. The workers on the docks, ex-soldiers he’d kept in contact with, he wrote to them and made the request. Surely not many men called themselves Cockfosters, even in London.
He went into her room that night but again she was asleep, or pretending. Despite what they’d done together, he didn’t feel he could intrude, although he wanted to wake her and lose himself in her. Longed for it, especially when he saw her in her nightclothes, without her armour, so to speak. Needed to hold her, to rouse her and take her with the passion built up over a long day. The fear that she’d reject him that didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to disturb her, or upset her.
She’d tolerated years of less than satisfactory sexual relations. He wasn’t about to start her on another path of the same. They would travel together, something he had every intention of doing.
Before he left, he slipped into her powder room and frowned to see the old bag set on the floor. He didn’t have to test the weight to know she’d left it packed and he understood the impulse. Not that he’d let her leave alone and unprotected. Without him, she’d subject herself to a life of drudgery and stress. Even if he had to stay out of her bed for a long time to come, he wouldn’t allow her to go.
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If that was the price, he’d pay it.
If she was feigning sleep, that meant she didn’t want him. He’d best leave her alone. He told himself that as he went to find his lonely bed.
* * * * *
Yesterday he’d occupied himself with business.
When her new wardrobe arrived, she’d shut herself in her room and gloated over the beautiful clothes she found herself the shocked owner of. Even if they were blacks, greys, lavenders, whites, suitable for mourning. They suited her, but she did wish for a few blues and reds, but she appreciated that the whites were closer to ivory, the blacks deep, the lavenders nearer to blue than pink. Later. If she appeared in public in red, they’d know what to call her and she’d never lose the epithet “Scarlet woman.” Too easy to gain a nickname, too hard to lose it.
She chose the black she’d worn on her ill-fated shopping expedition, which had been expertly cleaned and repaired.
Robinson laced and hooked but chatted so much she threatened to give Faith a headache. While Faith had tolerated her chatter many times in the past, she almost snapped this morning. Nerves tightened, tingled, because this would be the first time society would get to see her. Or as many as visited St. George’s. From her perusal of the magazines and gossip sheets, she knew a fair number would attend. Perhaps more since they might expect a glance of the new Earl and Countess of Graywood.
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Appalling thought. Her tension grew. Although she tried to breathe deep and regain some composure, her heart was drumming hard as she went down to the hall to find John. He was also attired in black. She took her time, lest she trip and fall.
“How are you?” he asked once she’d reached his side.
“Better for the sleep,” she said, managing to smile. Not too difficult, for he filled her with pleasure, the sight of him, the way he turned all his attention to her whenever she entered his presence.
Because she wanted to be as honest with him as she could, she murmured,
sotto voce,
“Nervous.”
He hugged a laugh. “So am I.”
The dowager countess arrived in short order, her daughters in her wake, wearing unrelieved mourning, and bonnets with veils covering their faces. Faith had a moment of doubt. Should she have worn a veil? The suggestion of one clouded her bonnet, but it wouldn’t cover her face. No, she decided. The spectators would think she had something to hide, and to mourn people she barely knew and who were not related to her at all would appear ostentatiously vulgar. At least, they’d say so. If she didn’t show enough respect, they’d call her brazen and ignorant.
Any excuse to castigate her. They’d have known the dead brothers, would have expected so much from them. Now hopes had gone and people they didn’t know now intruded themselves into their company.
They reached the church on foot. Many took carriages, but Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, and taking carriages to church were looked on as an indulgence by some, especially the high sticklers. Since Lady Graywood graciously accepted the walk, they made a procession of it with two footmen and attendant maids.
Faith leaned towards John, who bent his head so she could speak to him quietly. “Perhaps we should persuade the attendants to circle us like satellites. Then we could form our own solar system.”
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Gratified, she heard a low rumble of a chuckle although his features showed nothing except that the corners of his eyes creased a little. “Behave yourself, my lady, or I shall make them do it.”
Her turn to suppress a laugh. She knew people were watching, not obviously, but from behind curtains and out of the corners of their eyes as they too made their way to service.
“Which reminds me,” he went on. “Your grand new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow. She’ll turn you out in fine style. My man, Kelly, is from Canada, but well used to serving me. I fear I’ll never shift him now.”