Simply Wicked

22

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jones, really I am.” To Marguerite’s dismay, Mrs. Jones continued to flap around her as she tried to climb the stairs. “I’m just fatigued by the journey.”

She entered her bedroom and tried to shut the door behind herself, but she wasn’t quick enough to evict her companion, who was still eying her with every appearance of concern. Marguerite took off her bonnet and rubbed her aching temples. Rather than drive back with Anthony, she’d begged a ride from one of the other couples. Unfortunately, the couple she’d chosen hadn’t enjoyed their weekend together, and she’d been the unwilling witness to a fine display of marital disharmony for the entire three hours of the journey.

“I’ll get them to send you up some tea, shall I?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“That would be nice, and perhaps a tisane for my headache.” She managed to smile. “Thank you, Lily.”

“It’s nothing, my dear.” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “Even though you’ve taken to jaunting off around the countryside without me, I am supposed to be your companion.”

“Indeed you are.” Marguerite closed her eyes as her maid pulled off her boots and unbuttoned her pelisse. “I think I’ll drink my tea and go to bed for a while.”

In truth, she couldn’t wait to be alone in her own bed, to find shelter in the familiar. To try to pretend that she hadn’t been engaged in a torrid affair with the son of a marquis but had simply dreamed it all.

It felt like she had barely closed her eyes before there was a commotion outside her door and a familiar voice demanding to see her. Even though she knew it was no use, she rolled into the far corner of the bed and put her pillow over her head.

“Marguerite, I know you’re in there.”

She opened one eye to glare at her sister Lisette. “I’m asleep. Didn’t Mrs. Jones tell you?”

Lisette sat on the side of the bed, making the mattress dip and bounce Marguerite toward her.

“She did, but I want to know what happened this weekend.”

Marguerite sat up and eyed her sister. “I thought you weren’t talking to me. And how do you know what I did this weekend anyway?”

Lisette smiled. “I have my sources. In truth, the whole family knows you went to Charles Lockwood’s country house with Anthony Sokorvsky.” She leaned forward. “How was it?”

“None of your business.”

“Marguerite! You have to tell me something.” Lisette folded her arms. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

Marguerite grabbed her cream silk dressing gown from where it lay at the foot of her bed and put it on. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, knew she looked like a pale ghost next to Lisette’s liveliness and golden beauty.

“I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

“But Mrs. Jones said you returned without Anthony. So something must have happened.”

Marguerite closed her eyes. “Lisette, will you just go away?”

There was silence, and then she felt Lisette’s hands close over hers. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

Her sister’s suddenly gentle tone was enough to start Marguerite crying again. God, she was sick of crying over men and the ruin of her reputation.

“Marguerite . . .”

“I can’t tell you.” She managed to choke out the words. “It’s too complicated.”

“Did Anthony Sokorvsky hurt you?”

The steel in Lisette’s voice almost amused Marguerite. Despite her sister’s deliberately frivolous exterior, she was as sharp and protective as their mother.

“No, he was the perfect gentleman. He was . . .” She shook her head. “It wasn’t him, it was me. I’m the one who ran away.”

Lisette drew Marguerite closer, put one arm around her shaking shoulders and held her tight. She lapsed into the colloquial French they’d grown up using. “Ssh . . . you are perfect, you are my big sister, you deserve the best man in the world, and if Anthony Sokorvsky isn’t good enough for you, then so be it.”

“He is good enough,” Marguerite said fiercely. “I’m not good enough for him.”

“I doubt that.” Lisette handed Marguerite her handkerchief. “Please don’t cry. Come home and talk to Maman, and we’ll sort everything out.”

Marguerite took the handkerchief and wiped at her tears, looking her sister in the face for the first time. “Non, Lisette. I don’t think even Maman can fix this.”

After she finally got rid of Lisette, Marguerite’s day dragged on interminably. She’d spoken to her housekeeper, dined with Mrs. Jones and retired to her sitting room to contemplate the fire and supposedly embroider a set of handkerchiefs for Philip’s upcoming birthday. When she was sure she was alone, she took out the package Lord Minshom had left her and put it on her lap.

Her fingers shook when she attempted to untie the blue ribbon. Did she really believe this was Harry’s account of the events surrounding the duel, or was the whole thing merely a fabrication, another twist in Minshom’s plan to blacken her name? It was also possible that Minshom hadn’t intended her to have the information at all and had left it at the cottage by mistake. She tugged uselessly at the knotted ribbon, and then used her embroidery scissors to saw through the silk.

She unfolded the pages; the top piece was written in a different handwriting than the rest—Minshom’s hand. She whispered the words he’d written into the stillness.

“Sir Harry is staying at the Jugged Hare Inn by Saint Katherine’s dock until Tuesday morning when he will take a ship back to France. I suggest you go and meet him. Yours, Minshom.”

She glanced at the clock. It was already seven o’clock and dark outside. Could she persuade Christian to come to the inn with her? Sir Harry would be gone by the next morning, and she could hardly expect Anthony to oblige her. She placed her hand flat over the page, felt the rough edge of the ink from Minshom’s flashy signature under her palm. Why would Minshom choose to help her now? Did the man have a conscience after all?

“Anthony?”

Anthony looked up to see Valentin standing in the shadows at the door to his office. He stacked the pages left on his desk into a neat pile and closed the last ledger.

“Good evening, Val.”

Valentin strolled farther into the office, his keen violet gaze assessing both his brother and the contents of his desk.

“You’re here very late. It’s almost seven.”

Anthony gave him a brief smile. “I know, and I also know I’m not supposed to be here at all.”

“As to that,” Valentin said, “perhaps I was a little hasty. I never meant to imply that your work here wasn’t appreciated.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Val? I’ve never heard you sound so conciliatory.”

His brother shrugged. “Maybe I’ve learned my lesson and decided not to meddle anymore.”

Anthony sighed. “I’m glad that you did. I realized there was some truth in what you said. That I needed to assert myself, to decide what I wanted out of life, rather than forever seeing myself as a victim.”

“Did I really say all that? I thought I just told you to find a new job.” Val sat down in the chair in front of Anthony’s desk and studied the toes of his well-polished black boots.

“You know it was much more than that.” Anthony let out his breath. “And I’ve decided to do what you suggested. I’ll talk to Father; see if I can lift some of the burden of the estate from his shoulders.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Val frowned. “You were right: that was an incredibly selfish suggestion of mine.” He winced. “Sara and Peter haven’t let me forget it.”

“Val, I am seriously worried about you. Since when have you ever cared what anyone else thought?”

Val got up and walked across to the grimy window, his expression obscured by the gathering shadows in the ill-lit room. “Since I realized that despite my doubts, my son might not thank me for repudiating his heritage, for denying him his rank and place in society.”

Anthony could only stare at Valentin’s rigid back and marvel at the change in his brother. If that was what loving someone did to a person, he was all for it. He cleared his throat.

“I’m quite happy to help deliver that inheritance to Alexis, even if you don’t want it. After all, that’s what family is for.”

“Damnation, I should be doing it, but I’m not ready.”

Anthony smiled at his brother’s halting admission, knowing that he was being asked for help and that for once he was able to provide it.

“I’m delighted to oblige, and I promise not to skim off too much money from the estate in my role as dastardly poor relation.”

Valentin swung around and stared at Anthony. “I know you won’t.”

Anthony found it hard to look away from his brother. For the first time, he felt they were equals, that by conquering his demons he was able to see his brother more clearly. Not as the man who’d returned to steal Anthony’s place in his father’s affections, but as a man who felt as uncertain of his place as Anthony did.

“I’ve finished with Minshom.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Does he understand that too?”

Anthony glanced down at his bruised knuckles. “I believe he does.”

“Good, and how goes your affair with the beautiful Lady Justin Lockwood?”

“What affair would that be?”

Valentin returned to his seat, his smile superior. “The one that everyone is talking about.”

“Minshom told her that the only sex I enjoyed involved pain and humiliation.”

“Ah, and how did she react to that?”

“She defended me, said she didn’t care.”

“A remarkable woman, then.”

It was Anthony’s turn to pace the room. “She is, but, the thing is, I do have peculiar sexual tastes. Sometimes I like to be tied up, to be dominated, to . . .”

“And you don’t think she will be able to tolerate such behavior or provide you with those things?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you asked her?”

Anthony ran his hand through his hair. “No, it’s complicated. She has secrets of her own, and there are reasons why she doesn’t want to see me again.”

“And you’re going to let her do that to you? Let her get away without being honest with her?”

Anthony stared long and hard at Valentin. “No. You’re right. I’m not going to let her walk away from me with things so unsettled.”

Val got to his feet. “Bravo, little brother.” He paused. “Sara lets me be myself. She knows that I need a little variation in my sex life. She understands and even enjoys the occasions when Peter and sometimes Abigail join us. So there are women who can understand, if they love you. I’m proof of that.”

He frowned as he reached the door. “And if you share that information with anyone, I’ll not only deny it, but I’ll take great pleasure in beating you to a pulp. Good night, Anthony. I’ll make sure your wages are sent on to you. I know where you live.”

“Good night, Val.” Anthony picked up the papers from his desk and placed them on top of the heavy accounting book. “I’ve finished all my work and left instructions for Taggart to clear up anything else that comes up.”

When he heard the outer door bang, he realized he’d been talking to himself. Clearly uncomfortable in his role of confidant and mentor, Valentin had already left. Anthony hefted the pile of papers into his arms and walked through into the main office. He carefully deposited the stack on Taggart’s neat desk and took a last long look around the shipping office. He’d learned a lot, but it was definitely time to move on and create something for himself.

He took a deep breath, inhaled the familiar smell of ink and spices and slowly let it out again. Time to talk things through with his father and then see if Marguerite would ever listen to him again.

“You want me to take you where?”

Marguerite tried to conceal her irritation as Christian slowly put his spoon down and stared at her across the kitchen table. He was working his way through a large bowl of chicken soup; the fragrant smell made Marguerite feel sick.

“To the Jugged Hare Inn.”

“Why would I want to do that? Don’t you have a perfectly good house of your own to get drunk in?”

With a thump, Marguerite sat down in the seat opposite Christian and tried not to glare at him. He’d taken off his coat and sat at his ease in his silver waistcoat and shirtsleeves. She glanced at Madame Dubois, who was busy stirring something on the stove and lowered her voice.

“Christian, could you stop being sarcastic and simply help me?”

He regarded her for a long minute as he continued to chew his food. “Does this have something to do with Anthony Sokorvsky?”

“Why do you ask me that?”

“Because I’ve heard that the Jugged Hare is a haven for men who prefer the more extreme sexual practices or like to dress up as women.”

“And you assume Anthony would want to meet me there.”

Christian leaned forward, his expression darkening. “If you don’t know about Sokorvsky’s sexual tastes by now, you don’t know him at all.”

“I know what he’s been forced to do. I know he wants to change.” Marguerite met Christian’s glare full on. “And this conversation isn’t about him anyway.”

“God, I wish I’d never introduced you to him.”

“Then why did you? I’ve wondered that myself.”

“Because I knew about Justin’s particular tastes, and I reckoned after he died, that you were concealing what you knew about him as well.”

“So you introduced me to another man who likes men?”

“I introduced you to a man struggling to overcome his demons, a man I hoped would help you discover what you really wanted in a mate as well.” Christian put his elbows on the table and pushed his hands through his thick blond hair. “Look, both of you seemed unsure of what you needed. I hoped you might work it out together.”

Marguerite studied her younger brother with close attention. In his ability to gauge the sexual tastes of the members of the pleasure house, he was even more like their mother than Lisette. Was he right? Had he seen something in her and Anthony that would bring them together? She couldn’t think about that now; all her attention had to be on her meeting with Sir Harry.

“But truly, this isn’t about Anthony. This is about the past, about Justin.”

Christian sat up straight. “Why do you need to meddle with the past? What about your future with Sokorvsky?”

Marguerite looked down at her clenched hands. “There is no future with Anthony. He thinks he knows what happened with Justin and Harry and . . . me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him nothing. Lord Minshom took care of that.”

“Merde.” Christian rose to his feet, determination etched on his handsome features. “Of course I’ll take you. I’ll just get my cloak.”