Marriage of Lies Page 2

  Elisa would be there, however. “My mother…I mean, Elisa…” Sharla began, then fell silent. How could she explain to Wakefield she had cut off all communications with Elisa since before her wedding? Any attempt to explain would bring her to revealing the reason why she had not spoken to Elisa for over two years: Wakefield himself.

  “Your relationship with the Lady Farleigh is not cordial?” Wakefield asked.

  “It is not.”

  “Might that have something to do with your marriage?”

  Sharla looked up at him, too startled to respond.

  His face was rigid, with no expression to tell her what he was thinking or feeling. “All reports from far and wide talk of the deep connections between every member of your family,” he said. “Too deep, some say. I am no judge. If you are experiencing a rift, it can only be because of me. I would leaven that damage, if I can. Write to your mother. Tell her we will attend this year.”

  Sharla shook her head. “My cousin Cian is the host of the Gathering, now.”

  “Then tell your cousin you will be there.” Wakefield pointed to the stack of stationery on her desk. “Do try to produce a legible hand for this letter, hmm?”

  Sharla scowled. Everyone commented on her writing. “I will write, if you insist.”

  “I do. We can attend and both be miserable.”

  “You would be miserable?”

  Wakefield smiled. It was small and wise with self-knowledge, yet it was there. “I have heard stories about your Great Family for years—enough to know I will be judged and most likely found wanting. Your cousins are an exclusive set. Dukedoms do not impress them, while commoners are met with open arms.”

  “Jasper Thomsett might not be a peer, but he is not at all common,” Sharla assured him, picking up her pen. While she dreaded confronting Elisa, her heart was hurrying along a little faster and warmth trickled through her at the idea of seeing everyone. Jenny—oh, she missed Jenny, with her beautiful eyes and her caustic tongue. Will and Jack, Cian and Iefan…Blanche and Emma, too. The twins and little Annalies.

  Ben had buried himself in London, concentrating on his career, they all said. He would not be there. It would be safe enough, if she could avoid Elisa.

  Happily, she bent to write her note to Cian, gnawing her lower lip as she worked to form good, round letters.

  She forgot Wakefield was there until she looked up and saw the room was empty once more. She understood. He had delivered his kindness. They were even.

  How long would it be before he spoke to her again?

  * * * * *

  The only reason Ben let the match linger for five rounds was because Israel Smith had almost begged him not to finish it off too fast. “The boys like a good bit of blood and guts. If you don’t give it to ‘em, they’ll go elsewhere.”

  “They want to see a man fall and not get up again,” Ben corrected him. “What does it matter if it happens in round one or round twenty?”

  Israel shook his mane of silver hair and wiped another glass with his apron. “You know something about bare knuckle boxing, my lad, and nothing about simple human nature. They want to worry and second-guess themselves about their wagers. They want the outcome to be in doubt right up to the end. If you step into that ring and drop the Merseyside champion inside a minute, then they miss out on all that suspense.”

  “You want me to lie to them?”

  “I want you to entertain them!” Israel picked up another ale glass. “It isn’t lying if you give them what they want.”

  “I’ll try,” Ben said heavily.

  Israel seemed to take pity on him. “Look, I know you could drop the champion in a single blow. So does most of London. You won’t besmirch your reputation if you string it out for a while.” He tilted his head. “You like the prize money, don’t you?”

  Ben sighed and agreed, because the money was good. The first time he had climbed into the ring and knocked out the reigning champion, the rush of the fight itself had faded after a few minutes. On the other hand, the dirty, crumbled pile of Sterling notes and the heavy bag of coins Israel Smith shoved at him had extended the glow of achievement for days afterwards.

  Tonight’s match was against the visiting Liverpool champion, Hyram Ott, who stood six foot three and weighed seventeen stone. Ott had won against the best—Jem Mace, Nat Langham, Sam Hurst and Tom King. Israel had been very pleased to secure him even for one night, for a match featuring Ott would fill the yard behind his pub. It would also fill the pub itself long after the match ended.

  Israel was the only boxing promoter to let Ben in the ring. He had coached Ben in the subtleties of boxing as entertainment. Ben owed him a debt that a few extra rounds with the big Liverpudlian would help pay.

  The crowd standing about the roped-off square shouted jeers and insults. They encouraged the man they had wagered would win and screamed at the referee for imagined slights and—only sometimes—for genuine ones. Ott was a clean fighter. He had no need of dirty tricks with his height and weight advantage. Ben had been careful not to let any of his punches land squarely.

  Even so, Ott had split Ben’s brow. The blood still slid down his face. His jaw throbbed and his stomach ached. Ott had also landed one on his kidneys that made his back spasm, too.

  Ben circled around the ring, sizing up Ott for the watchers, even though he already had the measure of him. The man was clumsy. Strong and very fast…and a blunderer. Typical for a man his size. Also, disappointing. Ben had hoped for more out of the match.

  He’d strung the match along for as far as it would go. It was time to win.

  Behind Ott, Ben saw Easton Wash, in his dandy’s clothes and tall top hat. The brocade waistcoat gleamed in the light of the oil drum fires that were illuminating the ring. A fine-looking woman in striped blue satin clung to his arm. She seemed to be as interested in the blood and bruising on display as any of the screaming men standing about the ring.

  What did Easton want here? This was not his match. Neither Ben nor Ott fought for him.

  Ben shook his head to clear it of the distracting thoughts. He didn’t like Easton, although he didn’t know why. He just didn’t trust him, not the way he trusted Israel Smith.

  Israel had his pound of flesh. Time to go home.

  Ben picked up speed, circling around the ring once more. A cold breeze slid over his bare chest and arms, damp and rich with river smells, sending a shiver up his neck.

  Yes, more than time to go home.

  He jumped closer to Ott, surprising him. Ott swung fast, as Ben expected. He ducked around the upper cut and planted his fist deep in Ott’s belly. Ott jerked forward, offering his jaw.

  Ben took the offer. He gave the blow most of his energy and all of his weight. He poured into it the remains of his sour mood and frustration that he couldn’t have done this in the first round and saved himself the bother and petty injuries.

  Ott went down, landing heavily on the cobbles, blood trickling from his mouth.

  Ben straightened up and wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his hand.

  The crowd was screaming at each other now—settling wagers and disputing others. The result was clear, at least. Ben had won.

  Israel Smith lifted the rope for him. Ben ducked under it and took his clothes that Israel handed him. Israel then held out a semi-clean cloth that he waved toward Ben’s eye.

  Ben sopped the last of the blood up with the cloth and handed it back. The cut had stopped running.

  Hands clapped him on the back and the shoulders. People shouted at him. Most of the calls were congratulatory.

  In the ring, four burly men rolled Ott onto his back. They would take the champion to a room upstairs to sleep it off. Ben didn’t feel sorry for the man. If any of his powerful blows had hit Ben squarely, it would be him being carried upstairs.

  He drank deeply from the tankard Israel put on the barrel in front of him and pulled on his undershirt.

  One of Israel’s runners pushed through the crowd and h
anded Israel a bag. Israel added the bag to the top of the barrel, next to the ale. “The odds were against you. A good night.”

  “My thanks,” Ben said. He eyed the size of the purse. Perhaps it was a good night.

  He lifted his gaze. Easton Wash watched him. The slight man touched the brim of his top hat, cane and gloves in his other hand. With a secretive smile, he walked away, the crowd separating for him and his lady as water parted for the prow of a ship.

  Ben finished dressing. He did not linger in the bar as Israel preferred his champions do, to encourage drinking. Instead, he found a cab in front of the public house. He sat with the heavy bag of coins next to him, trying to summon the warm glow he normally felt after a boxing match.

  It wouldn’t form.

  He stared out the cab window, watching London’s dingy, dirty east end roll by and the brighter lights of St. James grow closer. St. James, where the world thought he belonged.

  Where did he belong, anymore?

  There was a single place where the nagging questions about who he was, who he thought he could be and where he belonged in the world, did not bother him.

  Cornwall. The Great Family Gathering, where everyone knew exactly who they were and everyone else accepted it.

  He’d stayed away too long.

  Chapter Two

  The Great Family Gathering. Cornwall, October, 1863.

  Innesford Hall had not changed, not by an inch, even though Cian was now the master of it. Peering through the dirty carriage window and seeing everything as it was when she was here last was reassuring. Sharla’s innards relaxed.

  “A handsome house,” Wakefield murmured, next to her. It was the first time he had spoken since they had changed trains in London.

  Sharla bent to look again. “Natasha’s roses are still blooming—even the black ones! The maze is still there…!”

  “Was there reason to think it might not be?” Wakefield asked.

  “I suppose not,” Sharla said stiffly, sitting back.

  The carriage came to a jolting halt. The driver climbed down to open the door. Sharla thought she recognized him from previous journeys to Cornwall. A Truro man, most likely.

  It was not Corcoran who came forward to welcome them. Travers had been head footman, the last time she had been here.

  “Oh, where is Corcoran, Travers?” She climbed out of the carriage, using Wakefield’s hand to steady herself and not snag any of the twenty-two yards of her worsted wool traveling suit. “Is he well?”

  “Well enough, Lady Patricia,” Travers assured her, his young, thin face earnest. “The master insisted he join the family today. You’ll find him by the croquet court.”

  “Then you are butler, now?” she asked.

  “Going on a year now, my lady.”

  “Congratulations, Travers. That is a smart promotion.”

  “Thank you, my lady. If you and your Grace would like to walk through, the family are settling for lunch.”

  “Thank you, Travers,” Wakefield told him and held out his elbow.

  Sharla slid her fingers beneath it, her heart thudding hard.

  “This way, your Grace.” Travers pushed the big door open and led them through the echoing front hall to the big public rooms beyond. The formal drawing room with its floor to ceiling multi-paned windows and doors was, as ever, a haven of comfort, with many groups of chairs and sofas, cushions and rugs. The doors and windows stood open, despite the mild coolness of the day. Through them came the sound of people murmuring and laughing. High childish voices piped. China clinked.

  Sharla didn’t realize she was squeezing Wakefield’s arm until he patted her fingers with his gloved hand. She worked to relax her grip, although calming her heart and reducing the tightness in her chest was impossible.

  They followed Travers out into the garden. The croquet court lay abandoned, with mallets, hoops and balls scattered everywhere. Next to it was a row of lounging chairs of the type one found at Brighton, their cheerful striped canvas a pleasing note against the backdrop of the formal gardens.

  In the last chair was Corcoran. The old butler’s hair was white and thinning, with liver spots showing beneath it. He was huddled beneath several blankets and was frankly asleep.

  Beyond the croquet court was the informal cricket pitch. There, the men and children and sometimes even the ladies—especially Sadie—would try out their batting and bowling and catching skills.

  The big pavilion sat on the flat grass on the edge of the croquet court. The sides rippled in the soft sea-salt ladened wind. Everyone was inside the tent.

  Travers held the flap open for them, forcing them to step inside.

  Before Travers could do more than clear his throat preparatory to announcing them, multiple cries went up around the big, long U-shaped table. Everyone scrambled to their feet and hurried around the edges of the tent to greet them.

  The first to reach them was Cian. He shook Wakefield’s hand, then hugged Sharla. “You did come,” he said warmly. “Well done.”

  He drew them both to the table, threading around chairs to a spot near the top where there were two empty places. Everyone tried to talk to Sharla at once. She saw Natasha and Raymond and Lilly and Jasper Thomsett’s dark head. Bronwen, too. Bronwen was tall, now. Her hems had been turned down and brushed the grass, yet her hair was loose and flowing, like a girl’s.

  Jenny hugged Sharla, her eyes shining. “We must talk, later!”

  The twins, Mairin and Bridget, waved at her, keeping their seats.

  Rhys and Vaughn both got to their feet as they drew closer and shook Wakefield’s hand with small murmurs of welcome. The gray in Vaughn’s hair was thicker than ever, while Rhys’ temples were silver, the rest of his head a rich Celtic black.

  Cian waved them both to the empty pair of chairs, while Travers slid the chair beneath Sharla as she sat, not catching a single layer of her dress.

  Sharla glanced around the table as everyone returned to their seats. Ben wasn’t there.

  The footmen were serving soup. The broth smelled rich and hot. Sharla’s mouth watered. She had not been hungry for a long time. Now she was ravenous.

  Cian entertained the new guest, asking Wakefield polite questions about their journey from York. He was a considerate host. The hereditary title fit well on his shoulders.

  “Tell me, Cian,” Sharla asked, lifting her voice, for Cian was at the head of the table. “Are you still determined to marry into the family, now you have us perched on your doorstep?”

  Groans sounded around the table.

  “And Sharla is back amongst us once more, with her direct questions,” Lilly said.

  Cian frowned. “I told Lilly that…years ago,” he said.

  “I warned the rest of the family,” Lilly said, with a smile. “Even grouse get to hear the dog when it draws near.”

  Will shook his head. “Marriage and motherhood haven’t softened you, either,” he teased.

  “Thank God,” Jasper added, his hand on Lilly’s shoulder.

  Lilly rested her hand over his, with a warm smile.

  “How is little Seth?” Sharla asked, just now remembering what they had named their son.

  “Pining for brothers,” Jasper said.

  “Which he’ll have before the end of the year,” Lilly added, her hand pressing against her waist.

  The entire pavilion paused for a heartbeat. Then cries of congratulations sounded around the tent. Lilly blushed and pressed her face to Jasper’s shoulder as he laughed and shook hands thrust at him from all directions.

  Sharla caught the glances sent toward her. The speculative expressions. They were wondering why she did not have an announcement of her own. She dropped her gaze to her lap and her twining fingers, as they twisted the corner of the napkin hard enough to make the stitching tear.

  When Travers ladled soup into her bowl, Sharla picked up her spoon with silent thanks, even though her appetite had fled.

  “May I ask, Lord Innesford,” Wakefield said, r
aise his voice above the murmur of a dozen conversations. “Are you still committed to marrying inside the family?”

  Cian’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask, Lord Wakefield?”

  “Oh, Wakefield will do,” he replied. “Especially in this casual environment. I ask, because I am curious to know how many of your extended cousins will be forced to search outside the family for spouses, if everyone is as keen to find a husband or wife from among you.”

  “He has you there,” Princess Annalies said, from the other side of Cian. “Simple mathematics and a calendar prove not everyone can share that wish.”

  With a start, Sharla realized that Elisa was sitting next to the Princess. Sharla tore her gaze away from Annalies and that general area of the table.

  “Not everyone here wants a husband from amongst us,” Lilly said.

  Cian shook his head. “Jasper was nearly family.”

  “We don’t want to marry cousins,” Mairin said, her arched brows lifting even higher.

  Bridget, her twin, and sitting next to her as usual, nodded. “It would be like marrying your brother!”

  “Ugh,” someone whispered.

  With a start of surprise, Sharla noticed the twins were wearing different styles of dress. Mairin’s was blue with black braiding and high in the neck. Bridget wore her hair higher than Mairin and a jacket and skirt over a lovely white lace blouse.

  “There are benefits to marrying someone whom you once thought of in brotherly ways,” Natasha told them.

  “Exactly,” Cian said. “Although, I much prefer a cousin of the sisterly variety, of course.”

  “Which is why I warned everyone,” Lilly added.

  Everybody laughed.

  “Well, I won’t marry you, cousin,” Bronwen called from the far end of the table. “I have no intention of ever getting married.”

  “You will never be asked, if you don’t put up your hair and wear shoes occasionally,” Cian shot back.

  “A corset would help, too,” Annalies added, with a despairing sigh.

  “Sadie doesn’t wear a corset,” Bronwen said, her expression mulish.