Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (47 page)

*****

It was time for Mervin to leave. His time here was done. As far as his mother was concerned, he would be returning with news that he had ruined his uncle’s widow, to that he had fallen in love with her and bedded her. Dolores ascended the stairs to his bedroom and knocked twice. He opened the door and quickly ushered her inside. She could see by his room that he hadn’t started packing. The desk was full of his things, and his clothes lay scattered about the room.

“I thought you were going,” she said, confused. “You mentioned that you would leave, make your excuses, and then return here when it was convenient for you.”

“I did,” he said. “But I don’t want to leave you, and so I have decided on another course instead.”

“Oh?” Dolores said. “What course might that be?”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. A warm imprint upon her skin. “I have decided to marry you, instead,” he said. “That is, if you will have me.”

“Mervin!” Dolores gasped. “You must know what this would mean, for the both of us. The rumors will fly like arrows, and you will be impaled just as much as I.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am aware of that. I am also aware that it would mean breaking with my family. By my family I mean my mother, and her two sisters, all of whom treat me with disdain because I returned from the war with scars instead of riches. They look upon me as a nuisance, anyway. And it will mean that your family will cast you out, of course, but as far as I can tell—”

“They have done that already,” Dolores finished. “Yes, that is true.”

So this is the choice,
Dolores thought.
A life of widowhood and loneliness, with nominal connections to a family that has no interest in me, or a lifetime of dishonor with the man I love. A lifetime of rumors and ruin.A lifetime of joy and happiness.A lifetime of contentment. A lifetime of waking up next to the best man I have ever met.

“What do you say?” Mervin said, uncertainty suddenly flickering across his face. “Are you going to say no?”

Dolores laughed. I was a strange sound, even to her own ear. She was still getting used to it. It had been an awfully long while since she laughed like that. “I will marry you, Mervin!” she cried, hugging him close to her. “Oh, you silly man, of course I will marry you! But promise me that you will always be this man. Of course, time changes all. But remember the man you are now, and always carry a piece of his essence with you as the years trundle along.”

“I promise that my love for you will always remain, Dolores,” Mervin said, stroking her cheek. “I promise you that I will never stop loving you, no matter what happens. I promise you that no amount of rumors, or hatred, or ignoble whispers will make me change my opinion of you. I love you. That is a fact that cannot – and will not – change. I promise you that. Is that enough, my sweet love?”

“It is,” Dolores said. “Yes, Mervin, it is.”

He kissed her deeply and for so long that Dolores began to feel as though they were one person, bound by pleasure.

*****

1819.

Dolores, Mervin, and little Harry sat in the drawing-room around a blazing fire that fought off the winter cold. Mervin bobbed Harry up and down on his knee, and Harry squealed in delight. Wind battered Brickwall Manor, but no cold, no icy bite, entered this room. This was a happy room, a happy moment. Nothing could ruin it. Dolores had been wondering of late if it was all worth it, if Father and Mother’s silence, Mervin’s family’s hatred, the high-society whispers and the malicious rumors—if they had all been worth it.

Sitting in this room with her child and her husband, her body warmed by the dancing flames, smiles fixed upon all of their faces, she knew the answer.

Yes, it was worth it.

Zita Cross – she still did not think of herself as sharing her husband’s name – sat beside the old, snoring man in the drawing room and sighed heavily. The old, snoring man who shouted more than he spoke, and who took pleasure in making others feel small. Zita laid her novel aside as he woke, leaned up, and reached across and pinched her knee. “Were you watching me sleep, you hussy?” he spat, his jowls quivering with the words. “I bet you were.”

“I was not, husband,” she said. “I was reading.”

“Eh, yes, of course you were. Some awful novel no doubt. Women, all you can do is read tripe. And then you wonder why nobody respects you.”

Zita took this placidly, as she took everything Maynard Bagstock, Duke of Bainmore, her husband, said. She couldn’t speak back to him. There was no point. He might slap her. He’d done it before, when she’d dared to ask to walk the gardens. He’d said he wasn’t in the mood. Well, she was. And then his hand had cracked across her jaw. The memory of that strike – casual, offhand, painful – still haunted her. Still made her flinch.He was six-and-sixty this year, thirty years her senior, and she had been married to him for one year. Her parents, dear old Mother and Father, had carted her off to this man without a thought. He was, after all, a Duke. There was no way they were going to refuse him, nevermind that he was old, sick, and revolting. Depraved, too.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said, with downcast eyes. It was a title she did not owe him, but one she used for the sake of survival.

“Good,” he grunted. He lit a
hip
pipe and suckled on it between raspy, unhealthy breaths. “My nephew, Lord Saul Cartwright, will be here soon enough. And the last thing I want him seeing is some disrespectful little slut making me look like a fool. I am a Duke, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Obviously I haven’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t have honored you with the title. You fat, stupid oaf.
She didn’t say this, of course. She could never have said something like this aloud. But it was nice to think it every now and again.

“Go and find a servant,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m hungry.”

Dinner would be served in less than an hour, but that wouldn’t stop him stuffing his face with lemon cakes and sausages until then, and then eating an entire banquet on top, and afterward more lemon cakes and other delicacies. She nodded, happy for the chance to retreat, and fled from the drawing room.

It was a woman’s lot, Mother had said, to be married when she reached a certain age. One could not remain alone forever. Whilst Zita did not massively disagree with this reasoning, she did wonder if one had to marry such a horrid man. He was a Duke; that was the only reason. But that meant less to her than the year of depression. A year in which he had slowly stripped away her sense of self until she no longer recognized the scared woman in the mirror. A year in which she had fell from a proud woman who laughed often to a woman for whom the sound of laughter was alien.

She found the servant and ordered him some food, and then returned to the drawing room. He turned away and leant over some old book, his eyes narrowed, pipe smoke pluming and curling around the room. She focused on the novel, which was a Spanish novel about knights and ladies. She lost herself in this, and imagined—imagined she was somebody else, somewhere else. Away from the Duke.Away from his awful demands.Away from his grasping hands and sickening leer.

On the morrow, Lord Saul Cartwright would be here. Zita shivered. It was always worst when visitors came, for she had to pretend that she simply adored her husband. She had to pretend that he was the nicest man God had ever created, lest he
grow
angry. The necessity for it made her queasy. But if this year had taught Zita Cross anything, it was survival.

So she steeled herself against the humiliation, readied herself for the lies that would pass her lips, and adopted an air of civility as though donning a suit of armor.

*****

Maynard Bagstock was a fat, old man. His wrinkles, deep and lined, folded over and developed wrinkles of their own. His jowls were huge and sagging. His eyes were deep-set and bordered with deep black pits. The bags were thick and black. His hands were mottled and his face was one mass of old flesh. He never smiled. He only leered. In his eyes there was the capacity for hatred. The love of hatred.

His nephew, Saul Cartwright, was
the opposite
in every way. He was young, perhaps two or three years older than Zita. His face was strong and smooth. His jaw was square and strong. His eyes were ocean-blue, a blue so pale they were almost clear white, and he was a well-built man. Maynard
look
as though he was always on the verge of toppling over; Saul looked as though it would take many men to make him fall. Zita liked his hair. It was cute. Brown, mid-length, and curly.

Maynard struggled from his chair when Saul entered the drawing room. “Nephew,” he grimaced. “Good to see you.”

“And you, uncle,” Saul said. He looked at Zita and then bowed. “And you must be Zita Bagstock. Your Grace, Zita Bagstock.”

“You give her the title and not me?” Maynard coughed. “Just call her Zita; she doesn’t deserve the title. Married into it, she did. It’s mad, that a woman can just marry a man and steal what he has. They don’t even have to give much in return, but open
their
—”

“Uncle,” Saul said hurriedly. “I am sure you do not mean that.”

“Did you come here to tell me what I do and do not mean?”

“I came here to visit.” Saul inclined his head. “I am sorry if I gave offence.”

There was a long silence, in which Saul’s face twisted with anxiety. Then Maynard let out a booming laugh. “Give me offense! No, I’m too old for that. Look at my wife, my boy! Look at her. The smooth skin, the beautiful smile. Go on, Zita, smile for the man.”

Zita blushed fiercely. This was his favorite thing to do when company visited. Making her smile as though she was happy. As though she didn’t lie awake every night wishing she was somewhere else.

“I am sorry, uncle,” Saul said. “I am tired from the journey. Would it be possible to bathe and rest, and continue this later?”

“Sure, fine,” Maynard said.

He’d already lost interest in his nephew. He turned back into the drawing room and slumped down on his chair. He waved a hand. “Zita, go and show my nephew to his room.”

“Uncle, that won’t be necessary,” Saul said. “Surely a servant can—”

“This is my house!” Maynard snapped. “We do things
my
way. Zita.Now.”

Zita walked to the door with as much dignity as she was able. “This way, my lord,” she muttered, and left the room, Saul at her side.

She walked through the winding corridors of Bainmore Castle and kept her eyes on the ground. She even walked like a servant these days. It was almost impressive what one year of sustained verbal and physical abuse could do to a woman. She reached the rooms, and finally looked at Saul. “You can stay here, my lord,” she said. “If it is not to your pleasing, we can find you different rooms.”

“It’ll be fine,” Saul said. “You don’t have to call me lord. You’re far above me in
station
?”

Am I? So why does it feel like I’m smaller than a dormouse these days?

“As you say, Saul.”

“Can I use your name?”

“Sure.” She just wanted the conversation to end.

“Thank you, Zita.”

Zita made to leave. Saul cleared his throat. Zita could have kept walking, could have ignored him. She needed to get back to Maynard. If she wasn’t back soon, he would begin to get angry. And then angrier and angrier. Until he finally burst and did something awful and violent.But she turned. She was curious.

“He’s a brute,” Saul said. “I know it. You don’t have to say anything. I know it would be dangerous for you. But you should know that I know. He was a brute before you married him, and he’s still a brute. I am sorry, Zita. I wish there was something I could do. I am sure you were not always like this. I am sure you still remember happiness.”

Zita almost agreed with him. But this could easily have been a trick. Maynard could have put his nephew up to this, made him say it to trap her. She held her head up. The perfect picture of a proud Duchess defending her husband’s name. “My husband is not a brute,” she said, the words like acid on her lips. “He is a fine, upstanding man.”

A small smile touched Saul’s lips. “My mistake,” he said.

Zita turned and walked away from him as quickly as she could. His eyes were on her as she walked. She could feel them. But it didn’t make her uncomfortable.

It made her curious again.

*****

Saul had business to conduct in Wells. He had a stake in a silk business which had a base of operation in Wells, which was only a few miles from Bainmore Castle. In the mornings, he would ride to Wells and conduct his business. He would return just after luncheon, and then spend the rest of the day in the library. This routine kept for around two months. Two months in which the hell continued, in which Maynard used her, hit her, called her names. In which Maynard was, in fact, an awful, despicable man. Sometimes, Zita would imagine ways to end his life. Push him down the stairs. Lay a pillow over his old, drunken face. Feed him lemon cakes until his body exploded.

But she would never do any of this. She wasn’t a killer. She didn’t have it in her. But she didn’t need to do anything. It was April, and spring had just begun. The trees were turning green again and birds sat in the gardens and tweeted in the mornings. A servant came to Zita’s room and asked if she would join her husband. She couldn’t refuse this, even though she knew that at the end of the walk there would be some horror.

She was wrong. His Grace was dying.

He sat propped up in his bed, his fat tongue lolling from his mouth like a diseased dog. Sweat covered every part of him. The physician from Wells sat beside the bed, taking measurements, and then left the room to talk with Saul. Saul stood at the doorway, watching. Zita knew what she was expected to do. She was expected to let out a cry of anguish and run to her husband’s bedside.

The cry was convincing, she thought, and she ran to the side of the bed and slumped down in a chair. “Husband,” she said, hating the anguish in her voice. “Are you sick? Oh, please do not tell me you are sick!”
Perhaps a tad melodramatic, Zita
.

“They’ve poisoned me,” he coughed. His voice was a raspy whisper. “The bastards’ve poisoned me.”

“Who has, my love?”

My love. Never were falser words spoken.

“Them.” His fingers fidgeted. Zita got the sense that he wanted to wave a hand over the room. But he was too weak. “All of them. They’ve always been jealous of me.”

“Of course they have. You are an impressive man.”

An impressively evil man, and I’m not sad a bit that you’re dying.

He soiled himself shortly after. Zita fled the room and found the nurse standing outside. “My husband needs you,” she said. Saul was standing alone just outside the door. The nurse went into the room, and Saul closed the door after her. “Where is the physician?” she said.

“Gone,” Saul said. “There’s nothing he can do. He’s instructed the nurse how to make him most comfortable. He smoked too much. That’s what the physician thinks.”

“He did,” Zita confirmed. “He did everything in excess.”

“You don’t seem sad,” Saul said. He moved closer to her.

“Oh, I am.”

No, I’m not. In fact, it’s taking a substantial amount of effort to keep a smile from my face.

Saul glanced at the door, and then leaned close to Zita. “Walk with me, Zita,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to speak to you.The real you.Where people cannot overhear us.”

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” Saul said. “And you know that
I
know. Please, let’s not play this game.”

Zita looked into his eyes and tried to gauge what sort of man he was. What kind of game
he
was playing. Perhaps Maynard had asked him, even on his deathbed, to make sure that Zita was faithful. Perhaps this was a trap. But there was another consideration. Zita hungered for human companionship that wasn’t Maynard’s. She couldn’t exactly talk to the servants. She nodded briefly. She would go on a short walk. But nothing more.

Saul led her through the corridors
to
the library. He closed the door behind them. Zita sat on one of the chairs at the desk, and Saul took the other. He leaned his forearms on his elbows. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” Zita raised her eyebrows. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I am sorry that we live in this world. That so often our hands are tied. I am sorry that you had to marry a depraved old man. And I am sorry that I couldn’t do anything about it. I’m sorry for it all, Zita.”

“You hardly know me, sir,” Zita said. “Don’t you think you’re being presumptuous?”

“Tell me to leave, then,” Saul said. “Look inside yourself. And if you want me to leave, I will. No questions. I will leave the Castle this very night. My business in Wells was concluded two weeks ago, anyway.”

“Then why are you still here?” Zita asked.

He looked at the ground. His hands worried each other. A brush crept into his cheeks. “I was trying to get the courage to do this, what I’m doing right now. Speak to you, that is. Tell you that I understand. That you’re not alone. Uncle was a horrid man. It’s okay, nowhere else is here but us.”

Zita wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that whatever she said would be just between them, but it was difficult. This past year had taught her to become an amazing actress; it wasn’t simple to cast aside her role. She took a deep breath. “You could be lying,” she said simply. “You could be an agent of my husband’s. He is dying, and he wants to reassure himself that I love him, so he has sent you to find out.” She swallowed, and made herself go on. “I love him very much. He is the best man I have ever met.”

Saul shook his head slowly. “I hate the man, too, Zita,” he said. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I won’t say that I’m lying.”

“That’s not an outright denial.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“Then we are getting somewhere.”

“If you say so.” She paused, and took a deep breath. This man made her nervous. But not in the same way that Maynard made her nervous. There was no fear in it. There was excitement. “Why do you care, anyway? Why do you care if I do or do not love my husband?”

“Because you deserve better,” he said. “Every woman who marries a wretched, abusive man deserves better. And it is a sign of the shame of England that so few of you ever have the chance to experience anything other than a man’s wont.”

“Very pretty words,” Zita said. “But you will be gone soon. And I will still be here.”

“Oh, no,” Saul said. “I am not leaving until . . .” He smiled to himself. It was a faraway smile, as though he was looking at something in the distance.

“Until what?”

He turned the smile on her. “Until I know the real you.Meet me here, on the morrow.”

“That would look incredibly bad,” Zita said. “I would have to attend to my husband.”

“Attend to him, then,” the young, handsome man said. “And then come here. I know you must keep up appearances, but do you not deserve a little relief?”

“Who says you are a
relief
?”

“Your smile.”

Zita had not even known she was smiling. Only once he said it, she felt the smile on her face. It felt strange, a twisting of the lips which she hadn’t felt for so long. And there was a warm glow in her stomach, and a vibrant energy moving around her body. It took her a moment to identify it as fun.

She rose to her feet. “I will be here on the morrow,” she said, “after luncheon, after I have attended to my husband.”

Saul nodded. “I will see you there, Zita.”

“Very well, Saul. I will see you there.”

That night, as she lay awake, she didn’t think of Maynard or her sadness. She thought, instead, of Saul’s handsome face, his energetic voice, his strong body, his square jaw. She thought about his ocean-blue eyes and the way in which he had looked at her. Like she was a real person.And not just something to be ordered around.Like she really mattered.

She kept telling herself that it could be a trick, but became harder and harder to believe. And when she finally slept, she dreamt of Saul.

*****

Thankfully, Maynard was so ill that he was unable to talk, or touch her, or do any of the horrid things which normally brought him pleasure. Zita supposed it was wrong of a wife to be so pleased with her husband’s ill health. But she was pleased. And she wouldn’t denyherself that. Seeing this evil torturer on his back, moaning in pain, unable to move or speak, brought her relief. She knew she should feel bad about it, should question herself, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel the need to. This man had hurt her; let him suffer.