Was that grim satisfaction she saw on her cousin’s face?
It wasn’t until she’d gained the darkness of the vehicle that Cressida broke her tense silence. She could barely force out the words, but she would not have Catherine secretly gloating over something Cressida was apparently the last to know about.
“I’d thank you to tell me everything you told Mrs. Browne.” Sinking back against the squabs of her husband’s plush equipage, she hid her disquiet beneath a veneer of dignified anger. “If she is under the impression Justin has taken a mistress, you apparently did little to disabuse her of that notion, when I know very well it is not true. I’d like to know the source of your information.”
Catherine shifted beside her, and although Cressida could not see her face, she could tell she was uncomfortable. “No need to get on your high ropes, Cressy,” she muttered, and Cressida could imagine the proud, defiant tilt to Catherine’s pointed chin as she defended her actions, just as she had done all through her impish childhood and spirited adolescence. “Like you say, I’m sure there’s nothing to it.”
Cressida was not about to assume her normally pliant role in order to appease her cousin. Not when her happiness was at stake, and not when it concerned her husband. He was her light, her moon. In steely tones, she asked, “I would like to know, Catherine, how you gained the impression Justin has taken a mistress.” This was too important for the tears to which Cressida was sometimes prone, especially lately. With her back pressed stiffly against the carriage seat in the darkness, she felt, ironically, as if some of her own youthful confidence had returned. Justin was the axis of her existence. If her happiness was at risk—though she was sure it was not—she needed to know so she could act.
“Justin appears just as loving toward you as he ever did, my dear,” Catherine hedged. “Why, only last week when James and I dined with you, he remarked to me—”
“Obviously, you must have heard something specific. I’m sure you’d not repeat hurtful gossip.”
“Really, Cressida, I think you are making too much of this.” Catherine halted in the middle of her response, paused, then added in clipped tones, as if she were angry with her cousin, “All right then, if you must know, and since you’ve all but accused me of being a gossiping jade—though I had hoped to spare you—I’ll tell you what whispers are buzzing around the salons in London.” In the gloom, her expression was combative. “Justin has been a regular visitor to Mrs. Plumb’s Wednesday salons.” She gave a self-righteous sniff. “And if you’ve never heard of her, James says Mrs. Plumb is an actress with literary pretensions. A very vulgar woman, I believe, who paints her face.”
Now was not the time to remind Catherine that she herself was not averse to resorting to artifice to enhance her natural charms. Cressida gripped her reticule with trembling fingers and stared fiercely at her cousin. “I take it this Madame Zirelli is also a regular at Mrs. Plumb’s. Is it on this flimsy basis that the rumors are circulating regarding Justin’s…extramarital amours?” Hurt and anger banished Cressida’s propensity to soften life’s harsh realities. She rarely spoke so directly to anyone—certainly not to Catherine, who’d taunted Cressida since they’d been children for being ‘churchyard poor’, but whose respect Cressida had thought she’d gained through her glittering match with Justin. Now, Catherine had seized on the first opportunity to knock Cressida down to size. With dignity, she asked her cousin, “On what grounds am I to believe this? Come, Catherine, it is not like you to be anything but direct.”
“If you prefer directness, Cressida,” Catherine responded with an air of injury, “do you not think it perfectly reasonable that Justin, like most men after eight years of marriage, feels the need to seek diversion? Is it not perfectly understandable that after so long, you are no longer everything to him? What woman ever is?” she added bitterly.
Cressida gasped as if she had been struck, but her cousin went on, her green eyes glittering as the carriage passed beneath a lamppost. “He is no different from every other man, but you fail to consider your good fortune, Cressy, for at least Justin is discreet.”
“How can you say that?” Deflated, Cressida slumped into the corner, glad of the dimness so she could hurriedly wipe away her tears. Catherine would enjoy her weakness. “You speak as if I am the last to know and that I’ve brought this upon myself. How would you feel if James—” A sudden illumination stopped her mid-sentence, and she put out her hand, saying before she could stop herself, “James has strayed again? Oh, Catherine, I’m so sorry.”
“Save your sympathy for yourself, Cressy.” Catherine drew away, as if Cressida’s outstretched hand were as welcome as a snake. “I was under no illusions as to James’ likely fidelity from the day we wed. He was always too handsome for me—you remember we overheard Mrs. Dooley saying it at our engagement ball?”
Cressida knew Catherine’s wounding had been close to mortal all those years ago. Six, she recalled, wondering if by Catherine’s calculations, Cressida should consider herself lucky for having retained her husband’s loyalty for this long.
Shrugging, as if the matter were no longer of importance, Catherine went on, “James and now Justin are simply conforming to the prescribed role of husbands by doing what society condones within the limits of money and discretion and, like me, you should accept the situation and direct your energies toward the children. Though perhaps in your case—not wishing to criticize—I wonder if that is not at the root of your problem. You dote on those babies and seem to forget Justin has his needs, too. When were you last seen at his side?”
Cressida blinked like one dazed by blinding light. Catherine, whose lack of insight and sympathy was on a par with her lack of tactfulness, had come too close to the bone.
Seeming not to register Cressida’s stricken look, her cousin went on. “I mean, have you looked at yourself lately, Cressida? Yes, at twenty-six, you still have that girlish, sleepy-eyed charm that won him over, but must you appear quite so naïve after all those children? As I said, tonight is the first time you’ve torn yourself from the nursery to accompany Justin anywhere, and whom do you choose to masquerade as? A shepherdess, for God’s sake!”
Plucking the black lace of her own daring décolletage, Catherine straightened majestically. “Justin has been your loyal husband for all these years and he loves you. But if you want to win him back from the arms of Madame Zirelli—and yes, I have it on good authority that Madame Zirelli is his new mistress—you’d do yourself more favors parading as something less”—her lip curled—“insipid.”
Cressida had experienced Catherine’s propensity to lash out when she was feeling vulnerable. Not that this lessened her own devastation. “On whose good authority?” she whispered. “One of your snake-tongued society friends, or someone serving on the Home for Orphans committee?”
Catherine glared at the inherent criticism before saying, “If you must know, it was Annabelle Luscombe—”
“Annabelle!” Cressida’s hands flew to her face, and she had to force her knuckles into her mouth to stop the sob. “Annabelle wouldn’t say a word to injure anyone. What did she say about Justin?” With an effort, she pushed back her shoulders and directed a challenging look at her cousin. “That Justin had taken a mistress?”
Catherine had the grace to look ashamed. “Annabelle wasn’t gossiping, Cressida, and no, of course she didn’t say that.” She cleared her throat. “Well, not in so many words.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Catherine sighed. “I’d really rather not elaborate, Cressy. Clearly, you’ll just get upset and—”
“You’ve said too much already, Catherine. And I can see you’re dying to tell me.”
Catherine appeared to consider the situation. Then she shrugged. “Actually, the information came as quite a shock. I was in conversation with Annabelle, who was waxing lyrical over Rossini’s opera
The Barber of Seville
when her husband, who is not known for his tact after three champagnes, joined us, saying he’d just left Justin, who was marveling over Madame Zirelli’s excellent rendering of Rosina’s part. When Reggie had gone, Annabelle looked shocked, asking if Justin hadn’t been known for his high regard for Madame Zirelli in the days before his marriage.”
Cressida was beginning to feel marginally better. Catherine was simply making wild suppositions. Relaxing, she managed a smile. “And that is the only basis for these cruel rumors and gossip? The fact that Justin has been praising another woman? For her singing?” Relief surged through her.
That was, until Catherine’s viper-direct response, “Surely you must know that Madame Zirelli was Justin’s mistress until five minutes before he married you?” Catherine’s shock was apparently unfeigned. For a moment, she simply stared at Cressida, as if she couldn’t believe her cousin could be so ignorant. Then a sly look crossed her face. “Oh, my poor Cressida,” she whispered. “How awful to be the last to know what is common knowledge. And how I wish it had not fallen to me to tell you the sordid details.”
Cressida put up at hand, as if to ward off the evil she knew was about to pour from Catherine’s insincere lips. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t
want
to know. “What Justin did before we were married is of no account—”
“But don’t you
see
? Justin all but admitted that once again, he’s been consorting with Madame Zirelli through his remark about having so recently enjoyed her voice.” Catherine cleared her throat as she settled back against the squabs, the self-satisfaction upon her face a look with which Cressida was painfully familiar. Catherine not only liked to deliver her barbs like a skilled marksman, she savored the kill. She clicked her tongue, adding in an undertone, “And let us hope that’s all he was enjoying when he paid a visit to Mrs. Plumb’s notorious salon.”
“That’s…that’s just cruel,” Cressida managed faintly, her mind consumed with images too dreadful to dwell on for more than a moment. But she couldn’t help herself for all that she’d promised herself only seconds before to turn a blind eye. “Who
is
this Madame Plumb? Why would Justin visit such an establishment?”
Catherine fanned herself and adopted an air of nonchalance, as if what she was about to say was of no account. “You really don’t know? Well, I am surprised, for Madame Plumb was notorious in her day and continued to cause scandal when most scarlet women would have been content to fade into obscurity.” She leaned forward, locking her eyes upon Cressida’s. “My poor cousin, it pains me to say it, but Mrs. Plumb was an opera singer and actress before Lord Layton set her up. She and Madame Zirelli are great friends, and after Lord Layton moved on, and with Mrs. Plumb’s looks too faded to snare another of his ilk, she’s now set up a house, where she’s invited Madame Zirelli to live, and which has become famous for its Wednesday salons. People attend in masquerade, supposedly to listen to the music, but really it’s just a meeting place for—” She stopped at Cressida’s gasp, saying instead, in gentler tones, “It seems Justin has been a regular patron of Madame Plumb’s, and in view of his…close relationship…with Madame Zirelli, one can only assume the reason for his visits.”
“Justin loves music,” Cressida said, dully, trying to equate Justin sneaking off in masquerade to some house of ill repute after bidding her his standard, tender farewell for the evening. She forced herself to remain calm, her fingernails biting into her palms as she whispered, “I can’t believe, though, that Annabelle would condone anything that suggested that Justin were being”—she gulped the word—“unfaithful. Annabelle is so—”
“Kind?” Catherine supplied, her tone sharp at Cressida’s implication that she was not. “Perhaps she was distracted, for she has had much to occupy her with organizing her sister- in-law’s wedding—Madeleine Hardwicke, if you recall…the dark, Castilian-looking creature who looked so down in the mouth when you congratulated her on her impending marriage to Lord Slitherton this evening. You remarked upon her unusual looks when she came out last year.”
“Yes, a handsome girl. Poor Miss Hardwicke,” Cressida murmured, distracted for the moment. “Lord Slitherton is old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Well, her father, at any rate. But he’s rich and titled, and that’s all that counts. All men—even those who are handsome or loving at the start—” Catherine added, pointedly, “—stray. Oh my goodness, Cressy, you’ve snapped your fan!”
It was all Cressida could do not to slap her cousin with the poor, destroyed ivory accessory Justin had given her for her last birthday. Instead, she muttered, ignoring the feigned concern over her fan, “Not Justin.”
“Oh, he’ll deny it.” Catherine sounded as if she had much experience of such exchanges. “You must make the most of his discomfort, though. I suggest you order three fine, expensive gowns, confront him with everything you’ve heard, then present him with the bill. I promise you, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”
Cressida said nothing. That was not how she intended approaching matters. Though just exactly what she planned to do, she wasn’t quite sure. Quitting the carriage and putting as much distance as she could between herself and her poisonous cousin was a good start, though.
Changing the subject was the second best alternative. “I’m sorry for Miss Hardwicke. She and Mr. Pendleton looked so in love, and Justin was saying only the other day that he’d marked Mr. Pendleton out for great things. That is, once the young man’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. Apparently, he’s very clever.”
“That might be, but he has no money.” Catherine sniffed as if that sealed the matter. “Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year and, as Miss Hardwicke’s mother is very ill and wants to see her only daughter settled, she’s obviously prepared to overlook Lord Slitherton’s age, just as she’s overlooked Mr. Pendleton’s candidacy on account of his impecuniousness. You forget how lucky you were, Cressy, that you were able to follow your heart, marry money and that you retained your husband’s interest for so long.” Her tone dripped false sympathy. “Just because Justin has taken a mistress doesn’t mean you are less to him than you ever were. He just wants more. Like most men.”