Secrets of the Heart (14 page)

Even though they had never had a real marriage, as other people viewed marriage, still Michael was the rock upon which her life was built. She was his wife. Her title, her support, her position in society, even the very clothes on her back, came from him. If she had a problem, she turned to him about it, and even if it was only through letters, he helped her with it. They lived together part of the year; they had shared every Christmas for the last six years—even this past one, when she had been trapped by a snowstorm at Castle Cleybourne, for Michael, worried that she had not arrived at Westhampton, had managed to make his way through the snow to the Castle. That was the sort of man he was—loyal, steadfast, honorable. And she was proud to have him as her husband.

She had never really thought about the matter before, but now, faintly surprised, she realized that it was true—she was proud to be Lady Westhampton. Not because of the wealth or the title, but because of the man that Michael was. The highwayman's assertion and Leona's words had challenged that belief. She felt as if she had been cut loose from her moorings.

As soon as it was possible to leave the party without feeling that she was running away, Rachel did so. She kept up a pleasant, unconcerned conversation with Sylvia until she was able to bid her good-night at her front door. With an inward sigh of relief, she went up the steps and into her house. The smile she gave the footman who took her evening cape was a trifle wobbly, but that did not matter. She was home now, and safe. She only wished that Michael was there for her to talk to. But, of course, that was foolish. He was the very problem she would have liked to talk about.

She dismissed her maid as soon as she had helped her out of the evening gown, with its long line of buttons down the back, and taken down the intricate curls of her upswept hairdo. Rachel put on her nightgown, then sat down to brush out her curls. She was a little surprised to notice midway through the brushing that silent tears were rolling down her face.

She brushed the tears away, angry with herself. It was not the end of the world, she told herself. Her life would go on as always. Why, she did not even know if Leona had told the truth! She wished there was someone she could ask. She could write to Dev or Richard, of course, but it would not be the same as asking them face-to-face; it would be far too easy for them to lie. Besides, they were friends of Michael's, and, moreover, they would probably consider it their duty to protect her even if it meant lying to her. It was the same way with Perry. She could try to pry the truth out of him, but no matter how much he denied it, she would not be able to trust that he was being honest.

She tried to think of someone else who might know the truth about Michael. The only name that came to mind was his sister, Araminta. Rachel grimaced. She did not want to visit Araminta, much less ask her such a personal question. However, social courtesy demanded that she visit her upon her return to town. And Araminta was someone who could be counted on not to sugarcoat the truth for fear of hurting Rachel, as her friends and family could not.

Of course, as his sister, she might not have been told about the rumors any more than Rachel had been. On the other hand, it was a rumor that reflected badly on Rachel, so it was entirely possible that one of Araminta's friends might have told her, knowing how little she liked Rachel.

It would be humiliating, of course, to go to Michael's sister and ask her such a question. On the other hand, it might be well worth the embarrassment to learn the truth. Anything, she thought, would be better than this wondering and worrying.

Rachel made up her mind and changed it countless times as she tossed and turned in her bed that night, unable to sleep. By the next morning, when she got up, she was certain, however, that she must call on Michael's sister if there was any chance that it might put her mind at ease.

That afternoon she dressed in a dark-green silk day dress, its only trim an embroidered flounce around the hem, and went to call on Araminta. She took her carriage, even though Araminta's house was not far, because Araminta had more than once criticized what she felt was Rachel's deplorable tendency not to employ the proper trappings of her station in life.

Araminta's home was a cream-colored abode built in the Queen Anne style, and though it was a graceful and attractive place, Rachel had heard her remark more than once with a faint sigh that it could not compare to Westhampton Place. Rachel was not sure what her purpose was, other than a general dissatisfaction with life, but it always made her feel faintly guilty for living there, another of the many reasons that she usually avoided her sister-in-law.

The butler showed Rachel into the drawing room, and a moment later Araminta entered. Unlike Michael, she was not tall, and her figure had an unfortunate tendency toward stoutness, but her coloring was much like Michael's, blond haired and gray eyed. She was seven years older than Michael and still given to dispensing her advice to him freely. Michael's quiet, courteous nature had in her frozen into a rigid propriety.

She greeted Rachel now with a thin smile, saying, “Rachel. I had heard you had returned to London.”

“Yes. I have been settling in the past few days.” Rachel knew that Araminta's remark was meant to point out that Rachel had been in London for too long without paying her a call.

A small silence fell upon them. Rachel struggled for some way to broach the topic of Lilith Neeley.

“I, um, I stayed at Westhampton longer than I usually do,” she said finally, deciding to try to ease into the matter. “The Duke of Cleybourne married shortly after Christmas, and Michael and I took his ward with us to Westhampton.”

As she had hoped, Araminta warmed up a little at the mention of a duke. She would love to be able to drop details about the new duchess into her next chat with friends. So Rachel described Jessica in detail, as well as some of the startling events that had taken place at the Castle during the snowstorm before Christmas. Here she had to walk a fine line, giving Araminta the pleasantly important sense that she was privy to the life of a duke without getting into the details of the crime that had been committed at the Castle, which Araminta would disapprove of as being “vulgar and scandalous.”

When she was through, Araminta then regaled her with some of the activities in which she had been engaged this winter, during which Rachel had to fight to keep her eyes open and her face set in lines of interest. Rachel tried to work the conversation around to Michael and the family estate at Westhampton, hoping to find some opening to the topic that had brought her here.

However, she could not, and finally, during a lull in their rather stilted conversation, Rachel blurted out, “Have you heard—do you know anything about Lilith Neeley?”

The heat of embarassment flooded her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes from Araminta's face, so she did not see the expression that crossed her sister-in-law's face, but she heard the sharply indrawn gasp that Araminta made. Her gaze snapped back up to Araminta at the sound, and she saw, with a sinking heart, that Araminta was staring at her in horrified surprise.

“Rachel! How can you—I cannot believe that you would bring up such a…a delicate and, frankly, embarassing matter.” Araminta set her mouth primly. “I refuse to discuss a woman like that. And I must say, you are doing yourself a disservice if you go about talking about her. In situations like these, it is much better to keep silent.”

Rachel felt as if her heart had wound up in her toes. So it was true, then. Michael was having an affair.

T
he “prunes and prisms” expression on Araminta's face had told Rachel what she needed to know; her careful words had confirmed it. Araminta had obviously heard the tales about Mrs. Neeley and Michael, and believed them to be true.

“Our father was what he was,” Araminta went on bitterly. “But I never dreamed that Michael would—”

She broke off, rising to her feet, her face closed. “I think it is time that you were going, Rachel.”

Irritation flared in Rachel. One would think from the way Araminta acted that Araminta was the one who had been hurt by Michael's keeping a mistress. She stood up, too, saying with some sarcasm, “I am sorry to upset you, Araminta.”

“Yes, well, I am sure that you cannot help it. Propriety is learned at an early age, I find.”

Rachel had to clamp her teeth together to keep from retorting something rude. Giving Araminta a nod, she managed to get out a clipped goodbye and left the house.

Annoyance at Araminta's set-down distracted her at first, but by the time her carriage let her down in front of her house, Rachel's mind was occupied by nothing but the painful realization that everything Leona Vesey had told her the night before must be true. Michael kept a mistress, had had one for years. And she had not even suspected. What she had feared was true: she did not know her husband at all.

Over the course of that day and the next, she could think of nothing else. Her emotions ran the gamut from hurt to embarassment to anger. She had followed their agreement to the letter—she had not seen or spoken to Anthony since that fateful day, and she had taken the utmost care not to do anything that would bring scandal on Michael and his family. She had been very circumspect in all her dealings with men. Yet he had had no such loyalty to her!

She knew that she had been the one who had first broken trust with him, that she had been foolish and it had killed his love for her. But, she wondered, had she not made up for that long ago? She had been young and in love, and, in fact, she had not actually done anything immoral. She had not given herself to Anthony; she was still as virginal and innocent when she married Michael as she had been the day they were engaged. It seemd to Rachel that Michael could have forgiven her somewhere along the way. Perhaps he might not feel the same way about her that he once had—but why did he dislike her so much that he had sought out another woman?

She was aware that men were apparently driven by stronger desires than women, but she could not understand why he had had to turn to a mistress. Why had he never come to her? In their whole marriage, Michael had never made any advances toward her. Was she so horrible? So undesirable? So unlovable? Had what she had done been so terrible?

Or was it that this other woman was simply so desirable that he could not resist? Perhaps it was because of Lilith Neeley's beauty that he had broken his wedding vows. Rachel wondered what she looked like. Was she a flame-haired beauty like Jessica? A blonde? What manner of face did she have? Was she tall, short, graceful, witty?

Rachel became possessed by a desire to see the woman. She wanted to look at her, talk to her. It would be highly improper, of course, but Rachel did not care. She wanted to meet her, had to meet her.

The problem was that she did not have the slightest idea how to accomplish that. She had no idea where the woman lived, and she felt sure that none of the women she knew would, either. And, frankly, even if they did know, Rachel did not think she could bring herself to talk to any of her friends about it, even Sylvia. And a man, of course, would be horrified by the very notion of her asking about the woman; he would guard the address from her as if it were the most precious secret in the world. Besides, it seemed even more embarrassing to ask a man about the matter.

However, when Perry Overhill came to call on Rachel the following afternoon, it occurred to her that of all the men she knew, he was the one from whom she would most likely be able to wheedle at least an address for Mrs. Neeley. And since he had been with her the other night when Leona broke the news to her, it did not seem quite as embarassing.

“Perry!” Rachel rose and crossed the room, holding out both her hands to him. “You are just the man I wanted to see.”

Overhill looked somewhat taken aback. “I am glad. I think. I—you seem in good spirits.”

“Only because of seeing you, I assure you. I have been thinking of what Leona told me.”

“I was afraid of that. That is exactly why I came by.” Perry's good-natured face drew together in a frown. “You must not fret over anything that vicious Lady Vesey said. She would always like to do you a bad turn if she can.”

“Yes, I know. But I cannot put it aside that easily. I went to see Araminta yesterday.”

“Michael's sister?” Perry looked astonished. “Good Gad, why?”

“Because she was the only one I could think of who might tell me the truth about Lilith Neeley.”

Perry continued to stare at her. “And did she?”

Rachel nodded and looked away, feeling suddenly that she might cry if she continued to look into his eyes. “More or less.” She paused, then said, “Perry, would you take me to see Mrs. Neeley?”

Her friend could not have looked more horrified if she had suggested that he rip off his clothes and run naked down the street. “Rachel! I can't—you—Michael would have my heart for breakfast if I did something like that. 'Twould be most improper, I assure you.”

“I don't care about proper. I want to meet Lilith Neeley.”

“You don't know what you're saying. She is, well, I mean—she runs a gaming establishment. That is where she lives—right next door to it. If Michael did not kill me, your brother would do it. Or Cleybourne. You wouldn't want to be the cause of my demise, would you?”

“No,” Rachel agreed. “But none of them will know. I won't tell them, so long as you keep your lips sealed.”

“I would, I assure you,” Perry said with heartfelt enthusiasm. “But it would get out. If I took you there…” He shuddered at the thought.

“Mmm. Yes, I can see that that would be a problem,” Rachel said reasonably. He had come around to what she preferred. “Why don't you just tell me her address, and then I shall go see her by myself? You won't be involved. Michael will never know.”

“Rachel!” Perry began to splutter, even more agitated than before. “That would never do! A lady going to such a place by herself? Oh, no, no, you cannot do that. I could never—no, absolutely not.” He looked at her in a woebegone way. “Rachel, you are a goddess. The most beautiful woman in London, and you know that I will always be your most faithful admirer. But you cannot ask me to do that.”

Rachel sighed, relenting. “All right. I will not ask you anymore.”

“Thank you.” He nodded, his face relaxing. Then, as he thought about her words, his brow knitted once again, and he leaned forward. “You will not ask someone else to help you, will you?”

“I cannot promise that.”

Perry groaned. “Rachel…you will be the death of me. When did you become so—so—”

“Stubborn?” Rachel suggested, chuckling. “I think perhaps since I met Miranda.”

“The American? I might have known.”

“I think I have depended too much on others all my life. Always the dutiful daughter. The dutiful wife. Perhaps it is time I started taking control of my own destiny.”

“This sounds very dangerous. Michael would be—”

Rachel raised an admonitory finger. “Ah, but Michael will not know. Will he, Perry? Because you are not going to tell him, are you?”

“Rachel…”

“Perry…”

“Oh, all right. I won't tell him. But, please, please, promise me you will not do anything that will get you into any trouble.”

“I will be most circumspect.”

After Perry left, Rachel settled into her chair with a sigh. She knew that her words had held more bravado than truth. She could not think of any gentleman who would be willing to take her to a gaming establishment, let alone give her the address and let her go there by herself. She wished that Miranda or Jessica were there to give her counsel. Miranda would simply have someone in her employ find out. Rachel wondered if one could hire a Bow Street Runner to discover such things; she thought that one probably needed a crime to hire a Runner.

It occurred to her that if she picked one of the younger men, new on the town and probably eager to appear more sophisticated and knowledgeable than he really was, he might be willing to take her there if she pretended that she wanted only to go to see the gambling den. She could wear a domino and mask, so no one would recognize her, and then she would be able to see this Mrs. Neeley, to observe the woman without her knowing. And then, if she still had the courage, she would go up to Mrs. Neeley and ask to talk to her alone. She would reveal who she was and…

Rachel wasn't sure what she would do. She just knew that she had to see her. Had to talk to her. She could not rest easy until she did.

 

Rachel was still pondering the problem the next afternoon, trying to think of the perfect young man to approach, when the butler stepped into the upstairs sitting room, where she was, and announced that she had a visitor.

“It is a Mr. Birkshaw, madam,” Stinson said.

Rachel stared at the butler. His words were so unexpected that it took her a moment to understand what he had said. “Anthony Birkshaw?”

“Yes, my lady. I told him I would see if you were receiving, as I did not recognize the gentleman. He bade me tell you that it was an urgent matter.”

What could Anthony be doing, calling on her after all these years? She had not seen him since the night of their elopement, something that had been made easier by the fact that he married an heiress less than a year after Rachel and Michael were married and moved to her home in York. They had lived there ever since, rarely coming to London. Rachel could not imagine why Anthony would be seeking her out now.

“Well, um, tell him I will be down in a moment.”

“Very well, my lady.” Stinson bowed out the door.

Rachel stood for a moment, her hands clasped to her stomach, wondering if she had done the right thing. She had promised Michael never to speak to Anthony, but it seemed so odd that he would come here after all this time, and she was curious about the reason. She was even more curious to see what he looked like after so many years and what she would feel when she saw him.

She would go down and explain to him that he must not call on her again. That seemed only polite and, while it might be breaking the letter of the vow she had made Michael, it would not violate the spirit of it.
And, of course, Michael had apparently not had any compunctions over breaking
his
marital vows!
It seemed decidedly unfair of him to expect her never to even see or speak to Anthony again, while he conducted a years-long affair with another woman.

Rachel glanced at her image in the mirror, smoothing back her hair and pinching a little color into her cheeks. She hated to think that Anthony would look at her and think how old she had grown. It was vanity, she knew, but she could not help it. She started down the stairs, her heart picking up its beat. She found when she tried to summon up a picture of his face that she could not remember him clearly.

She remembered how at first her heart had felt as if it would break and she had cried herself to sleep every night. She could not remember exactly when the pain had begun to ease or when it had finally slipped away, leaving behind only the bitter memory of her impetuous mistake and the ruination of her marriage.

Anthony was waiting in the formal drawing room, standing before the mantel, his back turned to her. She paused for a moment in the doorway, looking at him. He was dressed in stark black, his coat well cut and of an expensive material. He was shorter and stockier than she remembered; she supposed that she had grown used to Michael's long, lanky frame. His hair was dark and thick, though, as she remembered, curling over his collar.

“Mr. Birkshaw?” Rachel stepped into the room, leaving the door open. She wanted to make sure that there could be no hint of impropriety in their meeting.

He turned at her words. “Hello, Rachel—Lady Westhampton, I should say.”

Rachel simply nodded, carefully not offering him the use of her given name. She gestured toward the sofa. “Won't you sit down?”

She crossed to a chair that stood facing the sofa, a few feet away from it, and sat down. For a long moment they looked at each other. He looked much the same, she thought. Perhaps he had filled out a little, but the soulful dark eyes and dimpled chin, the dark hair casually falling across his forehead—all these were the same. Rachel noticed with some surprise that none of these things affected her at all anymore. He was a handsome man; she could see that. But her heart made no leap within her chest, nor did it ache with remembered love. What she felt when she looked at him, she realized, was almost nothing at all except a sense of awkwardness. How odd, she thought, that she could have loved him so and yet now feel nothing but a faint embarrassment.