Wayward Widow

‘If you would be so good, sir…Miss Elizabeth has been having so many nightmares lately and I am sure she will sleep better if you tuck her up.’

Down in the hall Mrs Lane was still watching him with a look of cupidity in her sharp grey eyes. Her expression reminded Martin of a hunting cat closing in on the kill. He felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He turned away deliberately, pressing a kiss on Daisy’s tumbled fair curls.

‘Come along then, sweetheart. I will tell you the story about the Princess and the Pea.’

Daisy snuggled up to him. Her warmth comforted him. When the terrible news of their parents’ death had reached him the previous year, he had been stunned and appalled. The late Mr and Mrs Davencourt lived for most of the time in a state of armed neutrality towards each other, barely spending any time together. It had been ironic in the extreme that they had died together in a fire at their London house. Philip Davencourt had been a staunch Tory who had deplored his son’s Whiggish tendencies, but for all their political disagreements, father and son had had a healthy respect for each other and Martin knew that his father had been proud of him when he had been appointed to Castlereagh’s delegation at the Congress of Vienna. The only thing that his father had disapproved of was Martin’s failure to marry.

Perhaps his father had had a point, Martin thought ruefully, as he carried Daisy back to the nursery. A man who had seven younger half-brothers and half-sisters to care for needed help and a far more permanent relationship than the transient affairs that he had been accustomed to in the past. Not only that, but in future he would need a wife to act as political hostess as well.

He held Daisy close. His sister Araminta, the only other child of his father’s first marriage, had argued that the younger girls should go to live with her when their parents had died. Martin had been tempted, but in the end he had decided against it. He might only be thirty-one years old, he might have no wife to support him, but that was as nothing compared to the powerful sympathy he felt towards his younger siblings. They had endured enough misery over the death of their parents and he would not be responsible for separating them now. They stayed with him and he did the best he could for them. But he needed a wife.

Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched the play of shadows across the wall. The house was completely silent. Even in the daytime there were no children to spoil the peace and nothing to disrupt the almost sepulchral silence. Juliana lived entirely alone, with no companion to give her countenance and to quell the tongues of the gossips. She had chosen it that way, declaring that to live with some tedious poor relation would make her run mad.

Juliana rolled over on to her side and pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She felt hot with the effort of repressing her tears and angry because she did not understand why she wanted to cry, except that it had something to do with Martin Davencourt. She thumped her pillow. How maudlin could a person be? She had everything she could possibly want, so there was no reason to be sad.

Remembering a game she had played when she was a child, Juliana tried to enumerate the reasons why she should be happy.

One. She had money—enough money to buy anything she wanted and to gamble the rest away. Her father, whilst deploring her behaviour, was quick enough to spare her financial embarrassment, so she need never worry that she would go without.

Two. Tomorrow Andrew Brookes was marrying Eustacia Havard and she was invited to the wedding. That gave her a purpose, something to do, a reason to get out of bed. She would not be bored tomorrow. She would not even be lonely, for she would be surrounded by people. Juliana felt slightly better at the thought. Her misery receded slightly. This was a good game.

Three. She was beautiful and she could have any man that she wanted. Juliana frowned. Instead of making her feel better, the thought engendered a slight chill. Firstly she had not met any man that she genuinely wanted. Armitage, Brookes, Colling…they were at her beck and call, as were countless others. But the truth was that she did not want to call them. Since the end of her disastrous marriage to Clive Massingham, she had been wary of love. She would not let it make a fool of her again.

Then there was Martin Davencourt. His stern face was before her still. Severe, upright, steady. She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see if she could corrupt virtue.

Juliana rolled over on to her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. She hoped that that was the reason. God forbid that she should suddenly and inexplicably be attracted to an honest man. That would ruin her bad reputation once and for all.

‘We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child…’

Martin Davencourt’s words had struck a vague chord of memory. Generally Juliana tried not to remember her childhood because it had not been a particularly happy time. Now, however, she deliberately tried to recall that summer. There had been a pool under the willows, where she would sometimes run away and hide from her governess when the days glowed with sunlight and the schoolroom was intolerably stuffy. She had lain in the long grass and watched the sky through the shifting branches of the trees, and listened to the splash of the ducks on the still water. It had been her secret place, but one day—one summer when she had been about fourteen or so—there had been someone else there; a boy, all straw-coloured hair and gangling limbs, reading some dry tome of philosophy…

Juliana sat bolt upright. Martin Davencourt. Of course. He always seemed to have his nose in a book, or to be fiddling with some sort of mechanical invention. He had had no interest in her girlish chatter about the Season and balls and parties and the eligible gentlemen that she would meet when she made her debut…

They had made some childish pact that summer. Juliana wrinkled up her nose, trying to remember. She had been fretting that she would never meet a man to marry and Martin had looked up from trying to fix the arm of a catapult or some such tiresome invention, and had said that he would marry her himself if they were both still unwed at thirty. She had laughed at him and his chivalrous impulses.

Juliana had laughed then and she laughed now. It had been very sweet of Martin, but of course she had gone to London and had fallen head over heels in love with Edwin Myfleet and had married him instead. She had not seen Martin Davencourt from that day to this.

Juliana pulled her knees up to her chest and sat there, curled against her pillows. It had been a sunlit summer even though Martin, with his bumbling ways and obsession with his books, had been a bit of a bore. She smiled. Some things did not change. He had been dull then and he was dreary now. His looks had improved considerably, but that was the best thing that she could say for him.

Juliana paused. She knew that that was not strictly true. Somehow—and Juliana was not quite sure how it had happened—Martin Davencourt had managed to get under her skin like a sharp thorn. His observations were acute, his gaze far too perceptive. There was something decidedly disturbing about him, and about the treacherous sense of familiarity she felt in his company.

Juliana realised that Martin would be at Andrew Brookes’s wedding on the following day and her heart missed a beat with a mixture of anticipation and something approaching shame. She felt vaguely embarrassed about confronting him again after their encounter that evening. She did not understand why. Her exploits at Emma’s party had only been in jest and it was not for Martin Davencourt to approve or disapprove.

Juliana lay down, and then sat up in bed again. She knew she would not sleep, for her mind was too active. But if she did not sleep, she would look like a hag at the wedding and no one would admire her. That was inconceivable. She reached over to light her candle, then trod barefoot across to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. The box of pills was at the back of the top drawer, beneath her silk stockings. She took two laudanum tablets quickly, washing them down with a draught of water from the jug on the nightstand. That was better. She could almost feel the tiredness creeping up on her already. Now she would sleep and when she woke it would be the morning and there would be things to do and people to see, and everything would be well. Within five minutes she was asleep.

Chapter Two

‘We are relying on you, Martin.’ Davinia Havard, mother of the bride, fixed her nephew with a menacing look. Over her shoulder, Martin could see his sister Araminta, pulling an apologetic face at him. Now Araminta was gesturing widely to indicate that she had tried to calm their aunt, but to no avail. Martin grinned back sympathetically. He and Araminta had always been close. The only children of Philip Davencourt’s first marriage, they had been natural allies, and Martin was grateful for Araminta’s uncomplicated support and affection.

They were in church and there were only ten minutes to go before Eustacia’s wedding service began. The conversation was therefore being conducted in discreet hisses from Mrs Havard and polite whispers from Martin in reply. Mrs Havard had penned her nephew in a pew and was leaning over him, keeping him in his place by her sheer bulk and force of personality. Martin shifted, crossing one leg over the other in an assumption of ease and wishing his aunt would back away a little. She smelled very strongly of camphor and it always made his nose itch.

‘I am at your service, of course, Aunt Davinia,’ he whispered politely, ‘but I am a little at a loss. Precisely what task do you wish me to perform?’

Davinia Havard gave a long sigh. ‘I am depending on you, Martin—’ she stabbed him in the chest with one stubby finger in emphasis ‘—depending on you to prevent that appalling woman Juliana Myfleet from ruining Eustacia’s wedding. I knew it was a mistake to permit her to attend! Lady Lestrange has just told me what she did last night at the dinner given for Andrew Brookes. Have you heard?’

‘Heard?’ Martin murmured. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I fear I saw what happened rather than merely heard about it!’

There was a sharp intake of breath from both his listeners. Araminta, his staunch supporter, looked both reproachful and amused. She leaned forward and added her own hissing whisper to the conversation.

‘Martin! Surely you were not at one of Emma Wren’s orgies? How could you have had such poor taste?’

‘I left before the actual orgy,’ Martin whispered, giving his sister the ghost of a grin. ‘I merely stayed for the hors d’oeuvres. I made the mistake of thinking that “stimulating”, when applied to Mrs Wren’s dinners, meant that the conversation would be good.’

Araminta stifled a laugh. Davinia Havard looked disgusted. Martin immediately regretted the impulse that had led him to joke. Unlike Araminta, their aunt had no sense of humour.

‘Then you know what that Myfleet creature is capable of, Martin! I am sure that she will do something unspeakably vulgar and my poor little Eustacia will be humiliated on her wedding day!’

Martin grimaced. To his surprise he felt a strong surge of irritation to hear Juliana referred to as ‘that Myfleet creature’ in so disparaging a way. He struggled with his annoyance.

‘I am sure that you are letting your imagination run away with you, Aunt Davinia,’ he said coolly. ‘I am persuaded Lady Juliana intends no such thing.’

His aunt gave him a darkling look. ‘I will remind you of that when she disrupts the proceedings and makes us a laughing-stock! Martin…’ Her voice dropped even further in an attempt at conciliation. ‘Perhaps it is fortunate that you are a man of the world. I know I can rely on you to deal with the creature, should anything untoward arise.’

By now almost every member of the congregation was studying them with ill-concealed curiosity as they craned their necks to try and eavesdrop the conversation. Andrew Brookes was sitting across the aisle, looking thoroughly sick and jaded, and Martin felt a sharp stab of anger followed by resignation. At least the man had turned up for the wedding, even if he was still warm from a courtesan’s bed.

Martin took his aunt’s arm and shepherded her firmly into her own pew. He bent close to her ear.

‘It may be that your fears are all for nothing, Aunt Davinia, for I do not see Lady Juliana amongst the congregation. Nevertheless, should the situation arise, I shall do what I can.’

Mrs Havard collapsed nervelessly into her seat. ‘Thank you, Martin dear. There is so much to worry about at a time like this.’

Martin pressed her hand, feeling a rush of affection. ‘Do not worry. Eustacia will be here in a moment and then everything will progress smoothly, I have no doubt.’

Mrs Havard groped in her reticule for her smelling salts. Somewhere in the congregation, someone tittered at the sight of the mother of the bride in such a state. Martin, deploring the fashionable and malicious crowd who had gathered to see his cousin wed, made a mental note that if and when he married, it would be in the most private ceremony imaginable. This public show was a sick mockery. Most of the people there cared little for Eustacia’s happiness and were only present for the entertainment. He strode back to his sister’s side, a heavy frown on his face.

‘I cannot believe that any of Aunt Davinia’s fears are like to materialise, Minta,’ he complained.

Araminta put a soothing hand on his arm. ‘Martin, surely you know that with Aunt Davinia, it is simply easier to agree? Then, in the unlikely event of Lady Juliana Myfleet…um…unveiling herself in the church, we shall all be confident that you will handle the situation!’

Martin groaned, resisting the temptation to put his head in his hands and garner even more public attention. For a moment, his mind boggled at the thought of Lady Juliana Myfleet slowly peeling off her clothes before the altar. He boggled even more at the idea of physically grappling with a nude woman in a place of worship. If she chose to display herself as she had done the previous night, the entire congregation would be riveted…

‘Martin!’ Araminta said sharply.

Martin sighed. ‘Minta, I have four children here to keep an eye on. It is asking too much to expect me to act as nursemaid to Lady Juliana Myfleet as well. I do not know why she was even invited if she is Andrew Brookes’s mistress. It seems the most shocking insult to Eustacia.’

Araminta sighed and edged closer to him along the pew. ‘I suspect that tells us what sort of a man Andrew Brookes is.’

‘Surely you knew that already!’