Marriage of Lies Page 4

  Sharla swore to herself she would be a model of propriety from now on. There were five more days to get through before she could return to Wakefield Manor and put this behind her. She must stay alert and cautious lest her temper get the better of her and she said something revealing.

  Instead of sitting in corners and out of the way, Sharla rose the next morning and involved herself in every activity available. She sat with Jenny at the breakfast table and did not ask her where she had been yesterday afternoon, or if Jack had anything to do with her absence. Instead, she asked Jenny about friends they had in common, whom Sharla had not seen since her wedding, for Wakefield did not like attending the London Season.

  A few simple questions prodded Jenny into recollections and gossip. Listening to her happy chatter gave Sharla an excuse to keep her head averted from the rest of the big breakfast table.

  After breakfast, Lilly gathered ‘her girls’—Jenny, Sharla, Blanche and Emma. They took a long walk through Dunstall Woods, around Truro and back again. Sharla relaxed, for no one stared at her or asked questions she couldn’t answer. Instead, they spoke of innocuous matters, small things only of interest to the family.

  Blanche was fourteen now and ready to turn down her hems, even though Elisa refused to consider it for another two years at least, a delay Blanche considered intolerable.

  “Enjoy the delay,” Lilly told Blanche, pressing the tip of her finger to Blanche’s upturned nose. “I came out at fourteen and I regret that I did. I knew nothing of the world and believed I knew everything. The humiliation and pain I suffered is something I would have you avoid.”

  Jenny had long ago whispered to Sharla the facts about Lilly’s withdrawal from society in her first year out and the reasons for it. No one spoke of the matter aloud. Yet, after Lilly’s marriage to the commoner, Jasper Thomsett, the whispers confirmed she had been shamed by a man whom Jasper had dealt with, on her behalf. The dark facts were sketchy, yet there was enough detail for Sharla to fill in the gaps.

  “Lilly is right,” Sharla told Blanche. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up. It isn’t as glamorous as it seems from afar.”

  Blanche pouted. Emma, now ten and growing into a slender, tall girl, picked up her hand. “I don’t want you to leave me behind, either.”

  Blanche’s pout vanished. She smiled at Emma. “You are a darling, sweet one. Thank you.”

  They returned to the Innesford estate in time for lunch. Cian arranged a buffet service. It made for a noisy and casual meal and let Sharla sit between Bronwen and the twins, with Neil and Morgan on the floor in front of them. It was a loud and cheerful group, with many challenges over who would win the croquet that afternoon.

  Morgan lifted his sharp nose. “You were once unbeatable, Sharla,” he said in his deep voice.

  “Once?” Sharla repeated. “You make me sound like an old, crotchety woman, huddled in a rocking chair.”

  “You haven’t been here for years and years,” Neil pointed out, as he gnawed a chicken leg.

  “That doesn’t mean I cannot win again.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Mairin asked.

  “Oh, ho!” Morgan said. “Miss Mairin is threatened!”

  “Mairin has won most of the games, the last two years,” Bridget added, with a proud smile.

  Sharla’s competitive spirit flared. She looked at Mairin. “I will beat you, every match.”

  “Oh, no, you will not!” Mairin cried.

  “Done,” Morgan said, slapping the floor. “The game is on!”

  As soon as the meal was over, the six of them hurried out to the croquet court. The sun was out, the breeze had not yet settled in for the afternoon—although Sharla would not have cared if it did. She could play well no matter the conditions and she had grown up playing croquet on this wild and windy coast.

  The old, scratched mallet she had always played with was still in the barrel with the others. She gripped the handle, feeling the familiar bumps and grooves in the rubber.

  She was still wearing her walking dress, which had a shortened hem. She tucked the hem up, anyway, revealing the lace of her petticoat beneath. Then she moved onto the rolled grass to the balls and the starting peg, her spirits lifting.

  The first game ranged Morgan and Mairin against her and Neil. Neil was a competent player, Morgan was better. It didn’t matter. If played correctly, it was possible for one player to dominate the field and control the game. Sharla drove her ball around the court, through the hoops and to the other end in the minimal number of strokes possible, although Mairin dogged her heels all the way.

  Several of the family stood about the edges of the court, or sat in the lounge chairs, to watch the challenge. Ben was among them. While everyone else was smiling, he did not.

  At the last hoop, Mairin’s red ball rolled to a stop between Sharla’s blue ball and the hoop. It was a masterful stroke and Sharla stared at the impossible arrangement as everyone else groaned or laughed.

  “There,” Mairin said, with a little laugh. Morgan grinned.

  Losing was unthinkable. Sharla would not tolerate it. She rested the handle of the mallet against her hoops and unbuttoned her sleeves, then rolled them up.

  “Oh dear, you’ve made Sharla mad, now,” Natasha called out, bouncing her two-year-old son on her hip, making her hoops sway.

  The Princess Annalies, who stood with Natasha’s daughter, the fourteen-year-old Annalies—that everyone called Lisa Grace to avoid confusion—laughed and clapped. “Oh, it’s been so long since I saw a superb game like this. You must win, Sharla! Show them how it is done!”

  “She cannot make the hoop,” Jasper said, with the tone of a marksman judging the odds.

  “Two pounds says she does,” Lilly said.

  “Two pounds?” Natasha cried, horrified by the sum.

  “My darling wife, you are betting with your heart,” Jasper told Lilly.

  “I’ll take that wager,” Annalies said. “Five pounds says she will make the hoop.”

  “Done,” Morgan called.

  “You can’t wager. You’re playing,” Bridget protested. She spun to face the Princess. “I’ll take that bet, though.”

  “Bridget Bronte Williams,” Natasha said. “Five pounds is too rich a bet to be sensible.”

  “I know she can’t make it,” Bridget said, her chin up. “Mairin has made sure of it. How is it not sensible?”

  Sharla bit her lip. Seven pounds riding on the outcome of her next stroke? She finished rolling up her sleeves and setting them, her pulse jumping. She would demonstrate Lilly’s and Natasha’s faith in her.

  Grimly, she picked up the mallet again and lined herself up to make the stroke, taking careful aim. There was only one way she could make the hoop and it required fine judgement. If she hit hard enough, she could cannon her ball against Mairin’s and send Mairin’s ball across the court, while hers bounced off and rolled through the hoop. It would leave her one last stroke to peg out and win, while Mairin would take many strokes to reach the hoop once more.

  Everyone grew silent as Sharla settled to take the stroke. There was only the sound of the wind in the treetops beyond the house and the distant thunder of surf. Even the cricket players had paused.

  The flap of the tent snapped, then grew still.

  Sharla could feel in her bones that the shot was a good one. She had not played for three years, yet her instincts were still sharp. With a puff of heavy breath, she swung the mallet hard, to get the necessary power.

  The mallet jerked in her hands. The solid head flew off, flipping over and over in a high arc that soared above the cricket players, who ducked.

  Momentum brought the headless mallet back down to whack against the ball. The ball trickled forward and stopped, six inches from Mairin’s red ball.

  For a moment, the silence held.

  Then Morgan snorted. A smothered laugh.

  As Sharla watched the heavy mallet head drop into the salt bushes at the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea, more la
ughter sounded around her.

  She spun to face them, instinctively searching out Ben.

  Ben, who had been her tormentor for years, delighting in beating her at croquet and any other endeavor. Ben had something to do with this, she knew it.

  He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. He brought his hand up to his chest. A finger touched it and he raised his brow.

  Me?

  Neil took the mallet handle from Sharla’s numb fingers and examined the end. “Yes. Someone has filed down the end, just enough to loosen it, so it would fly off with enough force applied.”

  Morgan stepped over. “Everyone knows how Sharla gets mad and belts the ball at the end of a game.”

  “Especially if she thinks she might lose,” Mairin added.

  Sharla kept her gaze on Ben. He had known she suspected him, before anyone even knew the mallet had been tampered with.

  Yes, it had been him.

  * * * * *

  That night after supper, Cian and Will and Jack gathered Ben up and told him he was coming with them for a drink at the Rose & Crown in Truro.

  As heading to the village for ale was a Gathering tradition for the four of them, Ben fell in with them. He was surprised when Jasper Thomsett joined them in the big carriage.

  “Someone has to make sure you get home safely,” Jasper said in response to Ben’s startled expression.

  “We could always walk. Done that before,” Will said.

  Jack laughed, although his laugh sounded strained. There was tension about his eyes that had been there most of the day, Ben realized.

  “It didn’t feel right, just the three of us, the last two years,” Cian said, next to Ben. “Besides, Jasper can drink us all to a stand-still, when he’s in the mood.”

  Jasper just smiled. He didn’t drink that night, although he told steadily more outrageous tales of his company’s exploits while on campaign and even at the home barracks. Jasper’s men had been likely lads and typical soldiers, in favor of drink and women in equal portions.

  It was the first time Ben had spoken at length with the man. The facts and hints that emerged told him Jasper Thomsett was only a handful of years older than Ben, who was twenty-eight. Even so, Jasper had seen far more of the world and seemed far older and wiser than Ben. It was an unsettling thought.

  The conversation returned to the afternoon’s croquet game and Sharla’s spectacular loss.

  “Jasper won seven pounds on that call,” Will pointed out.

  “It was luck, pure and simple,” Cian replied.

  “Even I could not have predicted the mallet falling apart,” Jasper admitted.

  “Are you going to collect on the wager?” Jack asked. “It wasn’t a proper loss, after all.”

  Ben watched Jasper, curious to know the answer.

  Jasper shrugged. “I may excuse the ladies, although I will insist my wife honor her debt, one way or another.”

  They laughed.

  Jasper met Ben’s gaze. “Did you doctor the mallet?”

  The direct, unexpected question made Ben sit back. “Me?”

  “Lilly thought it was you. She said you used to like getting Sharla mad, so she would lose games and stomp off.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Ben said.

  “You did? Or you didn’t?” Will asked, his big hand curled around his tankard, the other resting on his knee, for he had one heel on the bench.

  Ben kept his teeth together.

  Jack nudged him. “He grew sullen while he was away.”

  “There’s more entertainment in wondering,” Jasper said. “Leave him alone, Jack. Let’s wait and see who Sharla thinks it was.”

  “What do you mean?” Cian demanded, his deep voice reverberating as he raised his ale to his lips.

  “I saw Lady Patricia’s face this afternoon,” Jasper said. “She won’t let the insult lie. Not for long.”

  The next day turned hot and still, a last lingering taste of summer, after two days of intermittent rain. The romping and sports-playing lulled in the afternoon as the heat drained everyone’s energy. The women waved fans, the men stripped to their shirts and rolled their sleeves up. Even Wakefield joined the disrobing, displaying informality and daring of which Ben hadn’t thought him capable.

  The most activity they could summon was to walk to the cliff edge and watch a cutter at full sail as it moved across the mouth of the bay.

  “Soon, there won’t be any of them left,” Rhys said, leaning on the railing, with sadness in his eyes. “Everything will be driven by steam.”

  “Not everything,” Vaughn said. “There will be a few traditionalists like you, insisting upon the old ways.”

  “For sport, perhaps,” Raymond said. “Entertainment and idle moments, when speed isn’t a factor. It is hard to argue with a ship that can move through the water faster than a sail ship, no matter what the weather may be. That reliability will spell the end of commercial sailing ships.”

  “Is that why you’re buying up steam company stocks?” Ben asked Raymond, for he was overseeing Raymond’s investments and knew the details of his transactions.

  “You’d do well to sink your money into steam, too,” Raymond told him. “Consider the north, with all the industry there. It isn’t just mills that will change. Everything will be affected.”

  “Not a bad idea for any of you,” Jasper said. “Those of you with funds not tied up in land, I mean.”

  “Speaks the perfect example,” Raymond said. “A surfeit of money opens doors.”

  Not the doors I want opened, Ben thought to himself. He stayed silent, though.

  When the ship disappeared around the head of the bay, slipping behind the lighthouse and the village on the peninsula, they returned to the tent. The ladies inclined on their chairs, their fans waving and a button or two loosened at their throats. They wore the lightest muslin dresses and Ben wondered if anyone besides Bronwen had slipped off their boots beneath their skirts, too.

  Ben returned to his chair, where he had left a full snifter of brandy.

  The snifter was still there, only not how he had left it. While he was gone, someone had turned the glass upside down. Inside the big balloon-shaped snifter, balanced precariously on the upturned base of a shot glass, was his pocket watch, the gold chain piled on top of the case. The watch had been in his waistcoat pocket. His waistcoat hung over the back of the chair with his jacket.

  The chain was arranged so it would not hang over the edges, for the bottom of the brandy snifter was swimming in two-and-a-half inches of brandy. The only thing keeping the brandy contained was the edges of the overturned snifter against the smooth surface of the highly polished serving tray on which it was sitting.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Raymond said, drawing everyone’s attention to Ben’s predicament.

  Jasper came up and looked at the arrangement. He clapped Ben on the shoulder. “This means Lady Sharla believes you’re to blame for the mallet.”

  Ben looked up at the ladies at the other end of the table. They were standing, now, to see what the fuss was. Sharla was the only one still sitting. She waved her fan, her face devoid of expression.

  Wakefield put his hands on his hips, chuckling, as he looked from his wife, to the overturned brandy glass. “That’s a fair mess you’re in.” He sat in front of his own port glass.

  “Use the tray to hold the brandy inside the glass and turn all of it over,” Neil said.

  “Then his watch will drop into the brandy,” Will replied. “It won’t work after that. He’ll have to lift the glass.”

  “That’s Belgian linen beneath the tray, Ben,” Natasha said. “You’ll ruin the entire tablecloth.”

  Ben crossed his arms and tugged at his lip. “I’m afraid I might have to ruin the tablecloth. It’s either that, or a broken watch, and watches are a touch more valuable.”

  “That Belgian linen? You might be surprised,” Natasha replied.

  “I can’t see a way around it,” Cian said. “You have to lift t
he glass to get your watch back.”

  Ben glanced at Sharla one more time. Her gaze was steady. She gave away nothing.

  With a sigh, he lifted the brandy balloon. The golden liquid splashed and ran, dripping onto the grass and spreading a dark stain across the white cloth beneath the tray. He plucked his watch from atop the shot glass and returned it to his waistcoat pocket.

  “Now you’re even,” Jack declared.

  “Not quite,” Cian said. “Someone has to tell Travers why the tablecloth is in that state. I won’t.”

  “Coward,” Natasha chided him. “Travers is five years younger than you.”

  “He has that butler frown down pat,” Cian shot back. “Ben, this mess is your fault. You tell him.” He sat and crossed his arms.

  Ben sighed and found Travers to tell him what had happened.

  Cian was right. Travers had the same disapproving frown butlers the world over inherited the moment they stepped into their roles.

  Chapter Four

  It was possibly the sea air, or simply that she was among family once more. Whatever the reason, Sharla slept more deeply than she had for months. Even the bed felt familiar and comforting, even though she had never before used this room.

  It was a shock when the bell rang by her ear. The sound was muffled, yet sharp and high.

  Sharla jerked awake and sat up. Outside, it was still dark. She could see the late moon shining on the sea, while everything else was in shadow. The ringing continued, still muffled.

  It was coming from the chair in the corner, by the window.

  Sharla pulled the cushion aside.

  There was a small clock sitting on the chair. It had a bell at the top and the bell was madly ringing. With the cushion removed, the ringing jumped in pitch and volume.

  Sharla picked up the clock and turned it over. The ringing continued.

  There were dials and controls on the back of the clock. She prodded them. Nothing worked. She grabbed the little bell at the top. It vibrated in her hand, still ringing, only muffled once more.

  There was a tiny switch at the bottom of the clock. She pushed it with the tip of her finger and the clock fell mercifully silent.