Wife Errant Read online

  “Midnight is early, goose. I don’t doubt he went on somewhere else after. The man is an eel. The masquerade was a dead bore. All the ladies were dressed in Oriental garb, thanks to Lord Byron. I was the only lady there without a black wig.”

  Tess soon excused herself from the table.

  Her mother said, “Don’t forget to look at the mail. There is bound to be something from Northbay needing a reply.”

  “I shall have Crimshaw bring the mail to you.”

  “Only the invitations. You can handle the housekeeper’s correspondence.”

  “I am so busy today, Mama, I fear you will have to do it yourself,” Tess said.

  “You call gadding about Milsom Street busy?”

  “Shall I stay home and do the correspondence then?”

  Dulcie set up a wail, and Mrs. Marchant decided the correspondence could wait till the evening.

  The morning on busy Milsom Street with Dulcie was uneventful. With a thought to the new role she was about to undertake, Tess bought a few additions to her toilette, the most noteworthy of which was a new bonnet with an arched rim to frame her face and a clutch of ostrich feathers dyed pink. She “forgot” the slippers at the cobbler’s, but bought the headache powders, as Mama would have ample need for them.

  Mrs. Marchant was quite taken with the bonnet when she clamped her eyes on it. “How exceedingly stylish!” she exclaimed. “Not in your usual mode, Tess. I must have one like it. But you will not want to appear in a bonnet like your mama’s.” She laughed gaily. “You can buy one similar, with a different color of feather.” As she spoke, she took the bonnet to the mirror and arranged it on her head.

  Tess’s first reaction was pleasure that for once she had chosen something that pleased her mama. Her instinct was to hand the bonnet over, but a second thought told her this was the behavior of a martyr. “Don’t you think pink just a trifle lively for an older lady, Mama?”

  Her mother blinked in astonishment. The greater crime was not refusing to hand over the bonnet, but using the word “older.” Mrs. Marchant was accustomed to being taken for Tess’s sister. Tess took the bonnet and left, with an awful feeling of betrayal in her breast.

  “What ails that girl?” Mrs. Marchant complained to Dulcie. “I swear she becomes more selfish by the day. Older lady indeed! Where did she buy the bonnet?”

  “At Madame Jardin’s, on Milsom Street, Mama.”

  “I shall dash out this afternoon. Bother! We have the coiffeur coming. Get the fashion magazines, Dulcie, and let us choose our new hairstyles.”

  After lunch, Tess put on her new bonnet to call on Lady Revel, but it was Lord Revel’s admiration she was looking for. He was the reigning buck of the county at home. She never had any hope—or even any wish—of attaching such a high flyer. In fact she heartily disapproved of his life-style, but like any maiden, she wanted to look her best in front of him.

  The Revels were staying in an absent relative’s house on the elegant Royal Crescent. The Marchants had hired a smaller house on Bartlett Street, midway between their two most favored destinations, the Assembly Rooms and Milsom Street. As she was driven along, Tess had ample opportunity to admire the Palladian architecture of the famous Woods, père and fils, who had done much of the building in Bath. The town spread out below her in tiers of terraces, squares, and crescents, the whole bound around by the Avon.

  Lady Revel held no real terrors for Tess. Despite her title and wealth, she was a plain-looking and plain-spoken country lady. She had lost any interest in her appearance after she had nabbed a husband. Her hair had silvered, and her pale cheeks were always innocent of rouge. It was unlikely that she would be out, or that she would be entertaining company. She came annually to Bath for the waters, declaring, “Anything that tastes this wretched has to be good for you.” Her complaint was rheumatism, which used to bite at her elbows and neck, but had unaccountably flown to her ankles and toes this year.

  Tess found the dame alone before a blazing grate, in a faded gown of blue serge, reading a novel by Fanny Burney and sipping tea.

  “Tess!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you the Good Samaritan, to visit an old ruin like me. Come and tell me all the on-dits. Anthony never tells me anything. Nothing he does is fit to tell, I wager. I daresay he has a new dasher. Have you heard anything about her?”

  Tess took up her seat on the sofa and was handed a cup of tea. “Thank you. No, indeed, Lady Revel. I have not heard he has a ladybird under his protection.”

  “I don’t know that he has, but Figgs tells me he has broken up with his latest one. She was a widow called Esmée, whom, James tells me, is accepted in the less distinguished homes. James would know about less distinguished homes,” she added acidly. “A Flanders mare, in other words. I never trust a woman who calls herself Esmée. It has a whiff of the theater. I wager she was an actress. Lightskirts ought not to make claims to respectability. I much prefer a simple trollop to one who puts on airs.”

  “Esmée! You cannot mean Mrs. Gardener!”

  “Why, yes, I believe that was the name. Why do you stare, child? Is she a gazetted horror? Is she likely to burden us with a paternity suit, or publish her memoirs?”

  “Esmée Gardener is the woman Papa—”

  “You never mean it!” the countess exclaimed, clapping her knee in derision. “I had not heard your papa was on the prowl again. The female has catholic tastes. Good God! I wonder if Anthony knows this. How he will hoot to hear it.”

  “It is about Esmée and Papa—and Mama—that I have come, Lady Revel.”

  The dame patted Tess’s hand and tsked. “It will pass, my dear. Your papa is always taken by a new petticoat, but he soon tires of them and comes home with his tail between his legs. I never paid any heed to my husband’s flirts. I welcomed the respite.”

  “This time it is different,” Tess said. “Mama is carrying on with a gentleman as well.”

  Lady Revel listened and nodded. “Good for her. I don’t see why a wronged wife ought not to enjoy a few discreet delinquencies, if she has a taste for it. A handsome widower, I wager? A widower will always work his way with older ladies.”

  “No, he is not a widower. Mama says she will divorce Papa, and with Dulcie about to make her bows next spring, the scandal will be horrid. Indeed people are already whispering, Lady Revel. Dulcie and I have not been to a single assembly or party since Mama began going about with this gentleman.”

  “Selfish creature! She and Lyle are from the same basket. But the divorce is only a threat, depend upon it. Louise Marchant has always been a pea-goose, but she is not fool enough to try to divorce her husband. Who is the scoundrel she is seeing?”

  “It’s Lord James Drake. That is why I came to you, hoping you would speak to him.”

  Lady Revel drew a long, exasperated sigh. “I might have guessed! They were rolling their eyes at each other when he visited me last summer. The devil of it is, James never pays any heed to me. He would cut up all the harder to spite me. He was the baby of the family, you must know, and was always spoiled rotten.” She furrowed her brow in thought and said, “Who he might listen to is Anthony. There is no point talking morality to James, but if he could be convinced it is bad ton, he would desist.”

  “Is Lord Revel at home?” Tess asked as calmly as she could. She felt a nervous churning to ask for an interview with Revel. She was by no means on those same easy terms with him as with his mama. He spent considerably less time at Revel Hall, and when he was there, he usually brought his company with him. Revel was not such a high stickler that he avoided the local do’s, at which he was sure to stand up with his neighbor, but the Marchants were not invited to his private parties.

  “I didn’t see him go out. I’ll ask Figgs.” She hollered into the hall, as the bell cord required rising from her comfortable sofa.

  A butler who looked strangely like a bulldog in a jacket appeared at the doorway. “You screeched, your ladyship?”

  Lady Revel explained to her guest, “I owe Fi
ggs a guinea. He beat me roundly at faro last night, and is feeling full of himself.” She turned to Figgs, “No, Master Jackanapes, I did not screech. I hollered. Send Lord Revel to me.”

  “His lordship is in the bath, madam. And it was a guinea and tuppence. You promised a tuppence for the use of my cards.”

  “You never pay me tuppence when we use my cards. Haul Anthony out and send him down.”

  “His lordship dislikes to be interrupted at the bath.”

  “This is a matter of urgency, Figgs. And bring us some fresh tea. Bohea, mind. This tastes like dishwater.”

  Figgs picked up the tray and marched from the room. “Figgs might possibly be my cousin Gerald’s by-blow,” Lady Revel explained. “This is Gerald Drake’s house we are using, while Gerald is in London. Figgs was landed on Gerald as a babe. Gerald never knew quite what to do with him. I do not see any trace of the Drakes in him. I believe he was foisted on my cousin in error, or by design. In any case, he is a good cardplayer, but a wretched butler.”

  They chatted about Bath doings until the tea arrived, and close behind it came Lord Revel, wearing a navy flannel dressing gown with a white towel around his neck. His wet hair was all askew, and his feet encased in slippers knitted by his mama.

  “Anthony!” his mama exclaimed. “Good God, is this any way to appear in public? There is a lady present! Did Figgs not tell you?”

  “Figgs used the word ‘Urgent!’ I thought you had set the house afire at least.” He turned to Tess. “My apologies, Miss Marchant. I shall return presently.” He bowed and left, chewing a smile.

  It had been worth the embarrassment to see Tess Marchant’s eyes trotting all over him as if she’d never seen a man not fully clothed before. Very likely she hadn’t, come to that. Her chronic rectitude annoyed him. He knew he ought to admire her many sterling qualities, but frankly, he preferred a little naughtiness in his ladies.

  Lady Revel explained, “I am a virtual hermit here. I so seldom have any callers that Anthony doesn’t care how he walks around the house, but he does not usually come downstairs without his trousers on at least.”

  Tess blushed like a blue cow and said it did not matter in the least. But she knew that when Revel returned, it was she who would be ill at ease with the memory of that glimpse of bare chest, with the patch of black hair showing above the dressing gown.

  Chapter Three

  Some half hour passed; the tea chilled in the pot, and still Lord Revel did not come. Lady Revel was threatening to hobble upstairs after him herself when the sound of languid footsteps heralded his approach. Tess looked to the doorway and felt the wait was well worth it. Lord Revel, fresh from his toilette, was a very pineapple of perfection.

  It was generally agreed, among the few hundred gentlemen who cared for such things, that no figure became Weston’s jackets so well as Lord Revel’s broad shoulders and tapering torso. His cravat was a marvel of pristine intricacy; his biscuit-colored trousers free of either wrinkle or spot; and his Hessians gleamed like black diamonds. His closely cropped hair was brushed forward à la Titus, lending a rakish air to the severity of a straight nose and angular jaw. His lean face was bronzed from riding, and wore such an expression of ennui that one would think he had lived a hundred full lives. Eyes of an unholy blue twinkled mischievously, to belie his air of studied indifference.

  He glided forward, performed an exquisite bow, and said, “A thousand pardons, Miss Marchant. I shall have Figgs thrashed for his dereliction.”

  Tess had collected herself, and betrayed not a jot of the turmoil she was feeling. “One pardon will do, Lord Revel. I am sure a thrashing is not necessary.”

  “Nor possible,” Lady Revel added. “Figgs could darken your daylights, Anthony. Now sit down and stop making a cake of yourself. There is no need to put on airs. It is only Tess Marchant.”

  “Only?” he exclaimed, annoyed at his audience’s cavalier treatment. Miss Marchant ought to be close to swooning by now. He would turn up the charm. “Really, Mama. One does not use ‘only’ in the same sentence as ‘Miss Marchant.’ "He took up a seat on the striped sofa and gracefully threw one leg over the other. “About Figgs’s claim of urgency: How much do you need this time, Miss Marchant? Are we providing coats or candles?”

  “I am not taking subscriptions today, Lord Revel,” she said. “I only do that at home, for the church, you know, or the orphanage.”

  “Money is not urgent, Anthony,” his mama said.

  “That depends very much on the circumstances. But I scent a more interesting story here. Pray proceed, Miss Marchant.” He turned the full blaze of his sapphire orbs on her and smiled his encouragement.

  Before Tess was seduced into admiration, he immediately helped himself to a cup of tea and complained that there were no sandwiches.

  “Figgs can bring you some cucumber sandwiches, if you like,” his mama offered.

  “Where do you get cucumbers at this time of year?” Tess asked.

  “Figgs can get anything,” Lady Revel said categorically.

  Lord Revel declined the offer of a sandwich and turned expectantly to Tess, mildly curious to hear what had brought her. Tess took a deep breath and considered how to phrase her request.

  Impatient, Revel said, “It is Dulcie. Such charming young ladies inevitably fall into a hobble with the gentlemen. Only give me his name and I shall undertake to call him out.”

  “No, it is not that bad, Lord Revel. And it is not Dulcie. It is Mama.”

  “Ah, the other Marchant charmer. But surely your mama has a more likely defender. I refer, of course, to your father.”

  Revel was so busy being clever that he failed to notice for a moment that he had unintentionally slighted his caller. To imply that this dull lump of a lady was one whit less charming than her mother was, no doubt, wounding.

  He smiled easily and added, “They have wisely sent the most charming of the lot to seek my help. What can I do for you, Miss Marchant?”

  His mother said, “You can stop playing off your airs and graces, gudgeon, and listen. Your cousin James is carrying on with Louise. You must speak to him.”

  “Surely your cousin lands in your bailiwick, Mama,” he said, subtly shifting the onus of the relationship to buttress his position.

  “Much attention James would pay to me.”

  “Or to me. Indeed there is some irony in such a tarnished vessel as I calling cousin black.”

  “I am not so foolish as to expect you to preach propriety,” his mother said bluntly. “What you must tell him is that it is bad ton to take advantage of a married lady.”

  “Mmmm. Especially when her esposo is so close to hand, and not a bad shot, either. That is rather raffish of James.”

  “Then tell him so.”

  “He surely knows it.”

  “Yes, but he does not know that Mama is planning to get a divorce,” Tess said.

  “Divorce!” he exclaimed, shocked out of his lethargy. “Surely it would be wise to investigate less ... questionable options before speaking of divorce!”

  “Yes,” Tess agreed, “but you know Mama has a taste for being a dasher. She does not realize the consequences to others.”

  “Nor to herself,” he added. “Propriety apart, the thing will not succeed. A lady will never be given a divorce on such paltry grounds as adultery.”

  “Paltry!” Tess exclaimed, skewering him with a gimlet gaze.

  Revel refused to be subjugated by mere morality. “Adultery is paltry in comparison with divorce,” he insisted.

  “Use your wits,” his mama declared. “It is Mr. Marchant who will end up demanding a divorce, and it is James whose reputation will be sullied as partner in the crim. con.”

  “It would, of course, be a great pity to cast a stain on James’s immaculate reputation,” Revel said ironically, then he subsided into silence, with his eyes closed. Tess thought he had fallen asleep and wanted to strike him.

  Before she succumbed to the urge, his eyes opened and he said, “Y
ou’re right, Mama. It is Mr. Marchant who could hope to win a divorce, but it is Mrs. Marchant who owns Northbay, if memory serves. He will think twice before putting such a fine property at risk. James, on the other hand, is probably working under the misapprehension that Northbay belongs to Mrs. Marchant outright.”

  “Oh, no. It is entailed on Henry,” Tess said.

  “I wager James don’t know that. If the threat of being blackened with a crim. con. don’t provide a large enough stick to beat him into propriety, Northbay’s being entailed will. Consider it done.”

  “I knew you would think of something, Lady Revel,” Tess said. “Thank you so much.”

  Revel looked surprised that the thanks were not delivered to himself. He was too well-bred to display his surprise, and spoke of other things. “I expect you have been to take the waters at the Pump Room, Miss Marchant,” he said, choosing the outing he thought would suit her.

  “We tried the water once, but since then Dulcie and I just promenade to watch the people.”

  “I go faithfully every morning,” Lady Revel said. “I just sit like a lump in the lounge. Promenading is impossible with this demmed toe. It aches worse than a bad tooth.”

  “If thy toe scandalize thee, cut it off,” Revel suggested.

  “Don’t think I have not thought of it. The gout would only fly to my knee or my neck,” she said resignedly.

  Their conversation was interrupted by Figgs, who appeared at the doorway and announced, “He’s here—Lord James.” He turned to Revel and added, “Now is your chance to have a word with him.”

  Tess expected Lord Revel to cut up stiff at this breach of butlering etiquette. He gave a lazy smile and said, “Congratulations, Figgs. Your hearing has improved since you failed to hear my request for brandy last evening. I waited half an hour for it, and finally had to fetch it myself.”

  “The exercise is good for you. Keeps you soople,” Figgs replied.

  “Kind of you to be concerned for my health. Show Lord James into the study. I shall speak to him there.”