The Chadwick Ring Read online

  “She did what?”

  Chadwick smiled grimly. “A remarkable woman, my mother. Instead of suffering during her exile, she acquired another title. She is not only the Dowager Marchioness of Chadwick, but also the Comtesse d’Alembert, and twice as rich as before.”

  “And you resent that?” Ginevra asked.

  Chadwick looked surprised. “Resent what, that she was able to manage so well under difficult conditions? No, of course not. I’m glad she and her comte—he died some three years ago—were happy together. But I was very young then, not much older than you, and I suppose it hurt to think that she didn’t need me.”

  It still hurts, Ginevra thought, but she kept silent. She tried to envision Chadwick’s mother and failed. She suspected that the lady had a personality quite as strong as that of her son, and the thought of meeting her was unsettling.

  They rode on in silence for several miles, and then the marquess said, “As you grow older, Ginevra, you will find that life is not always as uncomplicated as you think now. Appearances can be deceptive, and people are often vindictive and unkind. That was one reason I invited none of my acquaintances to our nuptials.” He brushed long fingers over the lapels of his grey coat of half-mourning. “Also there would be certain social restrictions imposed on a large ceremony so soon after...” He sighed. “You must not think I regret you in any way. I did hope to spare you the kind of people who would have descended upon us like a flock of magpies had they guessed what we were about. Unfortunately, you will of necessity meet most of them soon enough, and I might as well warn you now that not all of them will be ... courteous.” He paused before adding dryly, “Certain mamas of eligible daughters have been hanging out for me for some time, and they will not take kindly to the knowledge that you have conspired to filch me from their avid clutches.”

  Ginevra gasped, “But ... but I...”

  Chadwick’s expression warmed. “Oh, child, don’t you know when you are being teased?”

  She turned away stiffly and peered out the window of the coach again, determined to admire the lush green undulating hills. The road was smoother here, built over the remains of the old Roman highway from Silchester to Basingstoke. Behind her she heard her husband say, “I do fear that your adjustment to London society will be difficult, and I wish I could delay your return there until you have had time to gain confidence as my wife.” At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she reluctantly looked at him again. He seemed unusually serious. “Were the choice mine, I should have liked to go abroad for our honeymoon and introduce you to some of the world you have yet to see. Barring that, I would prefer more than the bare week we may spend at Queenshaven.” He smiled ironically. “Perhaps in future we shall have time to travel, but for the moment I must remain at Castlereagh’s beck and call. The situation in Europe is explosive, and he seems to think I can be of some small service.” He observed her obvious puzzlement. “Didn’t you know I dabble in diplomacy?”

  Ginevra shook her head. “I know so little about you.”

  He studied her pale, intent face. He smoothed back an errant curl from her forehead, and his blue eyes lit up as he murmured, “We shall change that soon enough, little Ginnie,” and brushed his lips lightly across hers.

  Lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the well-sprung carriage, Ginevra dozed through the rest of the journey. When her husband roused her, she mumbled groggily, “Where ... where are we?” and sat up, her gold eyes cloudy with bewilderment. Her cheeks colored as she realized she had been sleeping with her head on his shoulder.

  Chadwick smiled at her confusion. “We are approaching Queenshaven. Don’t you recognize the countryside?”

  “It’s been so long,” she said as she looked out the window. She could see that the low chalk hills of the South Downs were behind them now, and they were traversing the heavily wooded plain of the Weald. She surveyed the countryside with the increasing delight of acquaintance renewed. She pointed to a side road just ahead which wound off into the forest. “Isn’t that the turn to Dowerwood?” Chadwick nodded, and she craned her neck to gaze hungrily down the road, following in her mind’s eye the familiar route leading to the small but lovely estate where she had spent her childhood summers. Her face was glowing when she declared, “I was so happy there.” Chadwick said, “I pray you will be equally happy at Queenshaven.”

  Ginevra blinked. “Yes, yes, of course,” she muttered, subsiding into the corner. She cursed herself for her foolishness. Dowerwood was not her home. Her residence in Surrey would not be the house she had loved as a child; rather she was to be mistress of Queenshaven, the impressive but gloomy Tudor mansion begun by a long-dead Glover to honor young Catherine Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, who fell to the headsman’s ax before the building was completed.

  The marquess watched the emotions play across the girl’s face, and he said quietly, “I fear you would find Dowerwood sadly changed from your memories of it. Your father had to dismiss most of the staff, and with only a caretaker in charge, the estate has fallen into disrepair. Would you like to ride over there one day this week? We could assess the damage and perhaps make a start of amending it.”

  “I should like that very much,” Ginevra replied, “but I don’t ride.”

  “Not at all? Surely I hold in my mind an image of a little girl with long honey-colored plaits, her skirts askew, who galloped a fat pony through a flock of sheep?”

  Ginevra stared at him, then laughed merrily. “Oh, dear, I had forgotten that. What a bumble-broth it was! Tom—no, I think it was Bysshe, it sounds more like him—dared me, you know. He said no girl could ride bareback, so of course I had to accept the challenge. I couldn’t control the pony, and I was terrified the sheep wouldn’t scatter, but somehow I managed to stay on. When my mother found out, she gave me a very stern lecture on why I was too old for such disgraceful escapades, but Papa soothed her by promising to get me a sidesaddle so that I could learn to ride like a lady.” Her laughter faded. “He never did. That was ... that was the last summer we spent at Dowerwood.”

  After a pause Chadwick said briskly, “Well, you shall have your saddle now—and a horse as well. There is a little chestnut mare, sired by Giaour, my stallion, but her dam was a docile creature. She is spirited but ... governable, and I think she would suit you very well.” He glanced at Ginevra. “That is, of course, if you wish me to teach you to ride?”

  “I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”

  “Good. We’ll see to it in a day or two.”

  The carriage passed the stone gatehouse and lumbered up the long drive to Queenshaven. Ginevra picked up her bonnet “I’d better get ready,” she said lightly, to mask her increasing agitation.

  Chadwick patted her hand. “Compose yourself, my dear. No one is going to—” He stopped abruptly, staring out the window, and his hand tightened cruelly over hers. He swore viciously.

  “My lord!” Ginevra yelped in pain, and he released her bruised fingers.

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you.” He spoke absently, still scowling in the direction of the main entrance. “It appears we have ... guests.”

  “Guests?” Ginevra echoed. “Today?” She peeked over his shoulder and saw a trim curricle with yellow lacquered wheels pulled up in front of the steps. A small man in a smart livery stood beside the vehicle, talking to a servant who wore the distinctive grey-and-red uniform of the Chadwick household. He gesticulated with every other word, but the Queenshaven footman remained impassive. The small man jerked around at the sound of the carriage pulling to a halt behind him.

  Chadwick’s face was thunderous. Shyly Ginevra asked, “Is that someone you know?”

  The marquess said, “Yes. His name is Ferris. He waits upon ... an acquaintance of mine.”

  “But what is he doing here?”

  “God knows.” Chadwick reached for the door handle. “Remain here, and I’ll get rid of him.”

  Impulsively she touched Chadwick’s arm, suddenly certain that the stranger mea
nt them no good. “Please be careful.”

  “Of Ferris?” he asked. “Ferris is not the problem.” Just for a second his long fingers curled protectively over hers; then he descended from the coach.

  Ginevra watched from behind the russet window curtain as Lord Chadwick strode across the drive to the man waiting by the curricle. He dismissed his own servant with a nod; then he demanded, “Well, Ferris, to what do I owe this intrusion?”

  Ferris smiled uneasily. “My lord, I ... I bring a message from my mistress.”

  “Indeed.” He waited impatiently. “Well, hand it over.”

  Ferris mumbled, “The message is not written, my lord. Madame de Villeneuve asked me to deliver it personally.” He hesitated, glancing sidelong at the wedding coach; then he blurted, “Madame instructed me to tell you most humbly that she regrets the incident at Vauxhall Gardens Tuesday last and she hopes that you will forgive her her ill temper and will not allow it to affect your ... your relationship.”

  The marquess regarded him enigmatically. “A most ... intimate message to be carried by a third party. I wonder why Amalie did not choose to write it.”

  Even Ginevra could have advised Ferris that when the marquess’s voice became quiet, too quiet, it was prudent to avoid taxing him further, but she no longer monitored the men’s conversation. She had sunk back against the squabs, her face as colorless as the bleached straw of her bonnet. Amalie de Villeneuve—who was she? No, no, better not to ask. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to think about this London lady who pursued Lord Chadwick, who wanted him not for a debutante daughter but for herself. Who had already had him.

  Ginevra felt sick. Ever since that world-shattering moment earlier in the day when her husband kissed her, she had moved in a daze, flattered by his attention, hypnotized by his charm. He enticed her with every glance from those compelling blue eyes, and she succumbed, forgetting completely the sort of man he was. He was a rake, a libertine, a practitioner of the seductive arts since before she was born. Against him a green girl like herself was utterly defenseless. She shivered with disgust at the incipient tenderness she had left for him, the childish hope that they might be “friends.” How could she overlook the fact that he had married her to acquire a piece of property? He cared nothing for her personally. He hadn’t bothered to invite anyone to the ceremony, and he intended to spend no more than the minimum acceptable time alone with her in the country. With his deceitful tongue he wove poignant images of a man forced to curtail his honeymoon out of duty to his sovereign, but in truth he was probably anxious to return to London to the arms of his mistress, the one he had flaunted publicly not a week before the wedding.

  Chadwick’s voice, thick with cynical amusement, penetrated Ginevra’s brown study. “Why do I have the suspicion that Amalie sent you to spy upon my bride?”

  The small man stammered, “My lord, forgive me, I ... I beg y-you! Madame was most insistent, and I ... I dared not contravene her. When she becomes angry—”

  “Yes, I know what Amalie is like,” Chadwick said dryly. “I do not blame you for fearing her, but I am afraid I cannot let you accede to her orders. My wife is not to be ogled like an animal in a zoo. I think yon had better be on your way, Ferris.”

  “M-my lord—”

  “Ferris, I said go!” The marquess’s voice was cold and implacable. “If Amalie is cross with you, tell her I said to remember who pays your salary—and her rent.”

  The man snapped to a salute. “Yes, my lord!” He jumped into the curricle and whipped the horses to a gallop, spraying gravel as the light vehicle careened down the driveway.

  Chadwick returned to the carriage. He smiled and said, “Forgive the delay, my dear. I know you must be anxious to go inside.”

  Ginevra blinked. Was this all there was to be, a casual dismissal and nothing more? He must know she had heard some of his conversation with the other man. Would he not offer some explanation of why his name was coupled with that of another woman even after the banns had been called?

  Chadwick said, “Ginevra, are you coming?”

  She looked down, and her eyes were caught by the flash of sunlight on her rings. Of course there would be no explanation—for there would be no inquiry. She was Lord Chadwick’s wife now, and wives did not ask such questions. If a man pursued his lightskirts even after marriage, his wife must pretend ignorance of his activities. She was expected to console herself with the protection of his name and perhaps even be grateful that other women diverted his unwelcome attentions from her person. She looked up again. “Of course, my lord, I am ready when you are.” She laid her small hand in Chadwick’s, and as he assisted her down from the coach, he glanced at her sharply, wondering why she suddenly seemed so much older.

  When she glanced back over her shoulder, the yellow curricle was just disappearing down the drive, and the footman returned to stand stolidly by the front door. Chadwick gave Ginevra his arm and escorted her into the welcome coolness of the vast and obscure entry hall. He patted her hand as he turned to address the manservant. “Her ladyship is tired from the journey, and I think we’ll postpone any tour of the house until tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Timmons to show her to her apartment and send up someone to attend her there until the coach with her own abigail arrives.” The footman quickly left in search of the housekeeper, and Chadwick made as if to go.

  “But ... but, my lord ...” Ginevra stammered, suddenly clinging to him as the one familiar object in this strange new world.

  He smiled down at her, his dark face lined with fatigue or anxiety, she wasn’t sure which. “Go on, little Ginnie,” he urged softly. “Rest awhile. I’ll tell Mrs. Timmons to have our supper sent up to your room later, and we’ll talk then.” He raised her hand to his lips; then he turned and strode away, his heels echoing on the stone floor.

  “Good night, Miss Gin ... my lady.” The dull thud of the sitting-room door as it shut behind Emma echoed through Ginevra, a reverberation of her own unease. She dug her fingers into the dark velvet upholstery of the Queen Anne wing chair whose back she leaned against, clinging to it in an effort to prevent herself from running after the maid, begging her not to abandon her to the man who would come soon, soon... Ginevra sighed. She could not recall Emma now. She must face what was to come alone.

  She sank into the chair, and the gossamer silk of her white negligee fluffed up over her knees, weightless as thistledown. She smoothed down the fabric nervously while she glanced around. She did not like this tenebrous room. The light from candles in a massive floor sconce was absorbed by the dark furnishings. The only bright spots anywhere were the reflections on the silver covers of the supper dishes spread on a low table beside her. A draft caused the yellow flames to flicker, casting distorted, oscillant shadows on the obscure hangings, the drab furniture, the portrait of some dour female Glover over the mantel. It was Lord Chadwick’s fault that she was in this awful place, she thought resentfully. Like Pluto carrying Persephone off to the underworld, he had abducted her from her bower of sunlight and flowers to bring her to this dreary, lifeless chamber that looked as if it had not seen daylight in a century. Oh, certainly the antique furniture was of excellent quality, the very best, and the practical side of Ginevra’s mind did note with mild satisfaction that under the housekeeper’s direction the room had been meticulously aired and dusted. But it was all so dark, so gloomy and ominous, and she hated it, she hated it. She wanted to go home.

  Tired and agitated, Ginevra bowed her head in despair. Her thick gold tresses tumbled loose over her shoulders, flowing in gleaming waves almost to her waist. Home. Now home was wherever her husband chose it to be, whether Queenshaven or London. She pondered the choice, trying to cheer herself. Queenshaven she detested, but London might not be so dreadful. She had never been there, her father had never permitted her to accompany him on his business trips, but she was sure the city had much to commend it. She could frequent the parks, the lending libraries, and perhaps Lord Chadwick would occasionally take her to a thea
tre on the Tottenham Court Road or to a concert in Vauxhall Gardens...

  Vauxhall. Where he liked to go with his mistress.

  Ginevra shuddered. For hours she had curbed her thoughts, refused to contemplate the exchange she had overheard between the marquess and the intruder, but now her imagination was loose, racing unrestrained over parlous paths she had tried to avoid. Her husband had a mistress, some Frenchwoman, probably the latest of a long line. Exactly how many women had there been altogether in his life? How many compliant females had basked in the hot glow of his blue eyes, quivered under his caressing fingers? Scores, hundreds? He was a father at seventeen, a widower before he came of age, and God alone knew the number who had succumbed to his practiced charms since then. To his credit, not all the running was on his part, he was a man women would never ignore. His looks guaranteed that, if not his title and wealth. When he called on her father, Ginevra noticed how one of the Bryant housemaids, a buxom wench not long in service, eyed him appreciatively. Ginevra reluctantly conceded that as far as she knew, the marquess had not accepted the girl’s blatant invitation. Most men would have done, and not only when the girl was willing. A merchant from Leeds who once visited Sir Charles ordered tea to be brought to his room at midnight, and nine months later Ginevra helped deliver the result of that late summons. A young farmer married the unfortunate mother in time to save her from public disgrace, but Ginevra resented the way the man responsible had escaped. When she complained to her father, he seemed unconcerned even though the incident took place under his roof. These things happened, he shrugged, it was the way of the world. A lady like Ginevra would do well to pretend ignorance of such matters.

  But how could she pretend ignorance when any moment now her husband, a virtual stranger to her, was going to walk into her bedroom and demand her submission?

  As if in answer to her thoughts, Ginevra heard the connecting door from Lord Chadwick’s suite open, followed by the sound of his footsteps striding purposefully across her bedroom to the sitting room where she waited, rigid with apprehension. In the doorway he paused.