Marriage of Lies Read online

  Yes, the women had been in on it. That was why they had watched him closely last night. They had been anticipating this moment.

  Rhys was waiting for Ben to agree not to pursue this any further.

  Ben growled. “I can’t leave it here.”

  “You can and you should,” Rhys said. “Pranks backfire, sooner or later. You’ve both won a round each. Honor is even. Let it lie, Ben.”

  Ben sighed. “I could speak to her. Settle it that way.”

  “Sharla and Wakefield left for the train station twenty minutes ago,” Rhys said. “They’re returning home early.”

  It felt as if he’d taken one of Ott’s blows to the chest. Ben tried to draw breath, to speak. Even though he sipped air, he was mute, while the questions circled in his mind, instead.

  Chief among them was the simplest one. Why? Why had she left? Had he driven her away?

  It was the impact of her departure that told Ben he had done exactly what he had wanted to avoid. Sharla had lodged herself back in his thoughts and his heart once more.

  Had she ever really left?

  Chapter Five

  London, Christmas, 1863

  The big house on Grosvenor Square was a noisy, rabbit-warren structure, with off-shoots and additions added over the years as the number of children grew.

  Ben remembered arriving at the house when he was ten, Sadie’s hand in his. Sadie had only just turned two years old, a sweet child with blonde curls and sad eyes. She was the only family Ben had left.

  Annalies hurried down the stairs to greet them, sinking to her knees to study Sadie and explain that this was their new home. Ben was dumbstruck by their similarities, from the golden hair to the sad look in Annalies’ eyes. Surely, he thought, this must mean they were meant to be here?

  He had lived in this house until he turned twenty-two, when Rhys suggested he try a bachelor’s life to see if it suited him.

  Reluctantly, Ben took abode in a rooming house on Duke Street. The address amused Rhys. Later, Ben learned Rhys had also lived on Duke Street until he had met the Princess.

  Now, though, Ben was glad he had been forced from the nest. It allowed him to come and go unnoticed, to attend fights and linger afterwards. He could stay out all night if he chose. He could return home bloody and bruised and not raise alarm.

  Yet it was good to step back inside the big house on Grosvenor Square, and hear the clamor of people calling to each other across halls and through doors, continuing conversations as if the walls were not there. That friendly noise was missing from his rooms on Duke Street.

  He had arrived late on Christmas Eve. Now it was afternoon on Christmas Day. Everyone gathered in the big drawing room; Annalies was reading, as usual. Rhys was playing whist with Iefan, Morgan and Bronwen. Alice and Catrin were whispering together as they warmed their toes by the fire, their dresses folded out of the way. The only one missing was Sadie. She would be in New York by now, or even farther on in her travels. Sadie was determined to slough off the expectations of society and live her life the way she wanted, regardless of the consequences.

  Ben wished he had Sadie’s courage.

  He sat in the chair by the window where he could observe the iron-gray sky. It looked as though it might snow, which would transform empty and quiet Mayfair into a magical, muffled world of white shapes and mystery.

  The card game ended. Rhys rose and stretched, then came over to the window and settled on the chair next to Ben. He looked out at the street, as Ben finished his brandy.

  “It’s snowing,” Rhys said.

  Ben frowned. He had been watching for over an hour and not spotted a single flake. He peered again, focusing on the dark, narrow lane between the houses across the square. The flakes would be easy to see against that shadow.

  “I’ll be damned,” he breathed, when he saw the tiniest white speck drift downward. Then another. More of them. It was definitely snowing.

  Rhys glanced at him. “Curses come to you easily, these days.”

  “I apologize.”

  Rhys shook his head. “Nothing you say is new to me, but watch how you speak in front of the ladies.”

  “Of course.”

  “The habit of swearing is a working class habit. Have you been spending much time in low company, Ben?” Rhys’ tone was casual, yet the question was penetrating and Ben’s middle jumped, alarm touching him. He moved his hand away from the glass. The burst knuckles told their own story. He slid the hand beneath his knee.

  Rhys shook his head. “Do you think I have not seen them? I’m not a fool, Ben. You’ve been living hard. Too hard, I suspect.”

  Ben’s heart hurried. What would Rhys say if he knew the truth? Would he be disappointed? Would the dark sadness appear in his eyes, the expression that always made Ben squirm and hate himself? For years it had driven him to do the right thing, to work hard, to win the approval of this man who had shaped his life.

  Ben cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. A misunderstanding.” The lie laid heavily, making his chest ache. Only, if Rhys learned how frequently he was fighting, that he been accepting bouts nearly every second evening, often arriving back at his rooms in time to shave and dress before hurrying to the office, Rhys would be appalled. Worse, he would be disappointed.

  “Was the cut over your eye, in October, another misunderstanding?”

  Ben reached for the brandy, baring his knuckles once more. He wanted the liquor now. It gave him an excuse not to answer Rhys.

  Rhys nodded, as if he had answered him. “You’re a good solicitor, Ben. You’re an even better barrister. You’ve been exposed to the greatest legal minds in London and you learned well. That gives you a certain degree of tolerance, but only so much. The partners and clerks have noticed your drifting attention.”

  Ben couldn’t meet Rhys’ gaze. Nothing moved or shifted, yet the chair around Ben felt enormous, as he shriveled into the corner of it.

  “I’ve thought about it a lot,” Rhys murmured, so no one else could hear. “You do the work well enough, yet you have no real purpose and perhaps that is my fault.”

  Ben looked up, startled and horrified. “No, sir, this is not your fault. The problem is mine. I acknowledge that.”

  Rhys nodded again. “I started in the law to earn a living. I quickly learned how satisfying it was to serve the disenfranchised. That is not your calling, though.”

  Ben recalled the poor and needy who drifted through the offices of Davies, Baker & Sutcliffe. Never too many of them, but as many as Rhys’ more endowed clients’ fees would serve.

  “I would be lying if I claimed your purpose is mine,” Ben said. “In truth, I don’t know what my purpose should be. What is the point to life, anyway?”

  “A question that has perplexed scholars since antiquity,” Rhys replied. “Perhaps you should consider marriage and children? It would give you stability, if nothing else.”

  Ben’s heart squeezed. Hard. He shook his head. “Who would have me? I’m a simple commoner, with no lands, no grand estate.”

  “I had less than that,” Rhys reminded him.

  “You at least had your father’s name and family,” Ben pointed out. “Acknowledged or not, everyone knew who you were. I don’t even know who my father was.” The bitterness that emerged surprised even him.

  Anger flickered in Rhys’ eyes. “You may wallow in self-pity if you wish. Do not attempt to draw me into the mire with you. You have the support and respect, even the love, of three of the greatest families in England—and yes, I include this family as one of them. What you do with that embarrassment of riches is up to you. If you do nothing with it, if you discard the connections and the opportunities your upbringing in this family provides, then you are a bigger fool than I supposed you to be.”

  It stung. Rhys had intended it do so. Knowing Rhys was deliberately stirring him did not alleviate the pain of his contempt, though.

  Ben swallowed, feeling small and mean and petty. You do not understand! He wanted to cry. I canno
t have the love I want!

  It was a pathetic excuse, he saw now.

  Rhys relented. The hard glint in his eyes faded. “I think you are lost.” His tone was kind. “It happens to all of us at least once, when we’re young. At this time of year, it can be worse, for London is empty of everyone. However, the Season starts soon, which brings everyone back to London to live in each other’s pockets for half a year. You should throw yourself into the Season, sample every opening, talk to people you rarely speak with and search for a direction. It will come to you, your purpose, if you only watch for it.”

  “It is a thoughtful suggestion. I will consider it,” Ben said. In his heart, he had no intention of accepting a single invitation. The invitations, the requests for his presence arrived every day. Goodness knows why society insisted on inviting him to things.

  Or perhaps he did know. Perhaps the answer was the man sitting across from him, who had supported most of society for decades, now, easing them through legal complications and challenges, while helping the needy. Rhys was a good man, the type of man Ben aspired to be, yet was woefully short of achieving.

  He wasn’t Rhys Davies. He would never be half the man Rhys was. It was of little wonder that Sharla spurned him.

  * * * * *

  It was snowing.

  Sharla watched the fields rolling to the horizon turn into white blankets. Behind her, everyone gathered around the piano to sing carols and accompany Lady Melody, the Dowager Duchess, as she played and sang. Wakefield’s mother was an accomplished player, although her singing voice was foggy. Wakefield was a surprisingly pleasant tenor that drowned out his mother’s singing.

  There was twelve people in the house for Christmas, most of them elderly friends and acquaintances of the Dowager Duchess. Wakefield invited no one and when he asked if there was anyone Sharla cared to share the Yuletide with, she had given no suggestions.

  “It is likely not snowing in Cornwall,” Wakefield said, from close beside her and making Sharla jump. She had not noticed the music end.

  “Cornwall?” she repeated, her heart hurrying.

  “That is what you were thinking of, was it not?” He settled his hips on the broad window sill, facing her. His brocade waistcoat and white silk tie gleamed in the yellow-orange light from the newly installed gaslights. “You did not want to join your family for Christmas?”

  “The Gathering was sufficient for now, thank you.”

  “Is that why you insisted we leave early? Because it was sufficient?”

  “I grew tired of the silliness,” Sharla lied. In fact, she had dreaded confronting Elisa. The longer they stayed, the greater the chance Elisa would insist upon speaking to her.

  “I thought you were rather good at the silliness. If it was necessary to leave early, then you chose the ideal moment to leave. I am sure Benjamin will never forget how you bested him, then stole his chance of retribution. I know I will not.”

  Sharla let her gaze meet his. Wakefield was not angry. He was calm. “You didn’t mind, then?” Before he could answer, she hurried on. “It is such an old thing, something we did as children. I slipped back into the habit and didn’t stop to consider my status as a married woman. I suppose I should apologize—”

  Wakefield held up his hand.

  Sharla forced down the words bubbling up inside. She pressed her lips together.

  “I demand no explanation,” he said.

  “You observed every secret about my family. Explanations are superfluous, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Most explanations are lies. Either you lie to the one you explain to, or you lie to yourself. Truth is a distant cousin.”

  Sharla shivered. “I want only to be a good wife,” she whispered.

  “I know.” His rejoinder was just as quiet. He got to his feet. “Merry Christmas, Sharla.”

  Chapter Six

  The London Opera House, February 1863.

  Ben tugged his white gloves back into place and eased the pointed collar so it did not prick under his chin. A gentleman’s evening clothes were irritating after a long season of wearing nothing more than an undershirt and trousers.

  This was the third week of ceaseless participation at every public function society attended and acceptance of every private invitation he received. His efforts had been in vain. He scanned the boxes and tiers anxiously, for the opera would begin soon, removing his excuse to peer anywhere but the stage. Already the orchestra was scraping and sawing, warming themselves and their instruments.

  This new opera house had only been open for five years. After the fire that had destroyed the second opera house built here in Covent Garden, this third iteration had been built to accommodate the largest possible audience. Five tiers rose to the roof, where the cheapest seats were to be had. That made finding someone among the audience difficult. Wakefield and his family used one of the private boxes, though, with their red velvet walls and chairs. Ben concentrated on the two box levels.

  His seat in the stalls allowed him to scan both sides of the theater, although craning his head to look behind was more difficult.

  “Why do you keep twisting in your seat as you do?” Will demanded in a low whisper.

  “I am not.”

  “You are,” Cian added, on Ben’s other side. “Who are you looking for?”

  “I’m seeing who is here,” Ben lied. “I’ve been invited to three post-performance dinner parties. I am narrowing my choice.”

  “Mother and Raymond are in the box to your right and four back from the orchestra,” Cian replied.

  “Elisa and Vaughn on the left, there,” Will added. “Everyone is with them. Who else do you seek?”

  Ben shook his head. “No one.”

  A wave of applause sounded as the conductor took his place in front of the orchestra. The conductor bowed low and turned to face his players.

  Ben scanned the tiers once more as the auditorium grew silent. There were still empty boxes. Perhaps by the first intermission, they would have their occupants and Ben would have his answer.

  As the curtains drew aside and the soprano warbled her way into the first solo, Ben settled to enjoy the music. Unlike Will, Jack and Cian, Ben liked opera. Chords and melodies sent ripples along his spine and snagged his breath, while the other three suffered through the performances to reach the intermissions, when they would mingle with friends and drink.

  Besides, Sharla most likely would not attend the season opening of the Opera House, either. She had failed to appear at any of the events Ben had been sure she would be invited to, despite being in London for the Season—another first. Ben had confirmed for himself that the Wakefield household were in London by walking past the big, red brick mansion on St. James’s Square.

  Ben recalled Rhys’ suggestion that he immerse himself in the events of the Season and Ben’s repugnance for the idea. Here he was, doing exactly that. He could not stay away. He was a fool.

  He was a sober fool, though. Finding Sharla kept him occupied and away from boxing matches. Although he had merely traded one bad habit for another, he suspected Rhys would tolerate this one with more grace than he would the fighting.

  * * * * *

  Lohengrin was half-way through the first act when they slipped into the family box. The usher held a chair for Sharla while she settled her dress and fan, reticule and wrap. Wakefield’s mother, Melody, took the chair behind Sharla. That left three spare chairs in that row, yet Melody had insisted upon sitting where Sharla’s head obstructed her view.

  Sharla shivered, resentment flaring yet again.

  “Are you well?” Wakefield asked, leaning toward her and whispering.

  “I am cold,” Sharla lied and supported the lie by wrapping the soft wool shawl about her bare shoulders. She turned her head toward the stage. If she feigned interest in the music and singing, she would not have to speak to either of them.

  While she stared blindly at the stage, Sharla sank into the sea of emotions that roiled in her. This was the
first time she had been alone with her thoughts for days. Her bedroom was no longer the mental escape it had once been.

  The intermission arrived far too quickly, thanks to their late arrival. As the curtains closed and applause thundered, Melody tapped Wakefield on the shoulder. “I would like champagne. The waiter takes far too long to reach this box and it is warm by the time he gets here. Please fetch me a glass, Wakefield.”

  He got to his feet.

  “I’ll come with you,” Sharla said.

  “Your family is here,” Wakefield warned her. “You did not notice Elisa, over there?” His nod was small, unnoticeable from far away.

  Sharla didn’t look around. “I know my family’s box,” she assured him. “They will stay on that side. I must move about, so I can be warm.”

  He stepped aside, making room for her to slide through the narrow door into the red-carpeted corridor. There were already many people lingering in the corridor, sipping champagne and moving from group to group to greet each other and talk. Sharla knew most of them.

  “Champagne, Sharla?” Wakefield asked.

  Because of her lie about feeling cold, Sharla was perspiring beneath the shawl. “Yes, please,” she said.

  Wakefield went in search of the waiter who had irked his mother with his tardiness.

  Sharla undid the buttons on the inside wrist of her long opera glove and slipped her hand through it, then tucked the hand of the glove up under the sleeve over her forearm. The silk would stain if it came in contact with moisture of any sort, including the condensation on the outside of a chilled glass of champagne.

  “Sharla.”

  She whirled, a gasp escaping her, for she knew who it was before she saw him. “Ben!” She brought her hand to her bodice, beneath her racing heart.

  He was dashingly handsome in his evening suit, even though his thick black curls were as unruly as ever. His gaze flickered over her, taking in every detail.

  He will notice the new style of gown, her treacherous mind whispered. Neither Wakefield nor his mother had remarked upon her appearance.

  “What are you doing here?” Sharla added.