My Wicked Fantasy Page 6

  Perhaps it was the extravagant fullness of her breasts, the tall line of her that hinted of long, lean leg. She was too curved in a way that could not be totally tamed by whalebone, her mouth too full, too beckoning, the skin unbruised, too alabaster dusted with rose. And her hands should not be a focus for his eyes, should they? He should not note the length of fingers, their callused tips, the half moons shining beneath short nails. Working hands.

  “You were saying, madam? What exactly do you mean, haunted?” How had he pushed the words past his lips? He didn’t know, was only too grateful that he no longer stood gaping at her like a half-wit he’d thought her to be only a moment earlier.

  “I should think it perfectly clear.” She frowned quite nicely, he thought, as if to frame the idiocy of her words.

  “Pretend, if you will, that I am cast adrift on the sea of your logic. Illuminate me, madam. It is my firm belief that Alice is still alive. Therefore, she could not be haunting you. It is indeed a novel game the two of you devised. I do not, however, have the patience for it.”

  “I do not know your wife, St. John. Nor do I think this is amusing,” she said, her gaze as admonitory as the firm set of her lips.

  “Oh, indeed it is, madam. It is a delightful bit of whimsy from a woman who intrigues me, unsettles me, and challenges me to remember that I am a gentleman, after all.”

  “You really must do something about that deplorable habit of speaking about me as if I’m not here.”

  “I am beginning to believe my life would be so much simpler if I had never seen you.”

  “As would mine. If you think I am pleased by your wife’s appearance in my mind, let me assure you, such is not the case. I’ve pressing needs of my own that should be addressed.”

  “And yet you seem to accept being haunted with such grace.”

  “It is not like that at all.”

  “Then, again, pray illuminate me, the better that I can understand.”

  “It’s not as if I can see her.” She looked away, then back at him.

  “No? Does she not parade about with chains, or flit into your chamber window equipped with wings? Pray, the next time this occurs, invite me in, then I would have no reason to doubt your story. Until that time occurs, madam, you will remain here.”

  She was capable of being surprised, he would give her that. Or either she was an accomplished actress. Her eyes seemed to widen with the implication of his words, then just as quickly narrow as she frowned at him.

  “Despite the fact that I have neither husband nor relatives willing to protect me, surely such behavior is not commonplace for earls.”

  “I’ve a near-perfect memory, madam. Shall I recite my Magna Carta? ‘No freeman shall be arrested and imprisoned, or dispossessed, or outlawed, or banished, or in any way molested; nor will we set forth against him, nor send against him, unless by the lawful judgment of his peers, and by the law of the land.’ You will please note that the rights granted by King John were to men. English women, however, are still subject to the whims of their protectors. And until you cease to prattle about ghosts and hauntings and tell me where my wife is, I am very much your protector.”

  He did not believe in specters or fortune-tellers or ghostly apparitions. He believed in things he could feel, the rich earth of Sanderhurst clenched in his fist, a hard ride over fence and through meadow, laughter and port, the small but precious things that marked the days of his life.

  Which meant, of course, that either Mary Kate Bennett was a madwoman, or the greatest actress ever born for the stage. She couldn’t be telling the truth.

  He left her then, locking the door behind him.

  Chapter 10

  It was a quiet meal, but then, breakfast always was. It was the only meal Samuel Moresham truly enjoyed, since his wife rarely rose at dawn.

  Cecily believed the Almighty was interested in every detail of their lives and proceeded to tell Him about it during grace, prattling on until the gravy cooled and the potatoes were near to ice. Breakfast was blessedly free of talk, just he and James sharing a hot meal.

  James was having no trouble putting away his kippers and bacon, but then he always had a ready appetite. Too bad the lad didn’t fill out more than he did.

  Samuel took a large swig from the tankard at his right, thanking Providence that Cecily had not the courage to lecture him about spirits in his own home. Taken on a bit about religion, she had, especially in the last three or four years. She’d always been devout, but lately, she’d been difficult to live with, so much so that he found ways to avoid his wife.

  He couldn’t swear, lest she scrabble for that Bible of hers, to unearth some odd Scripture that seemed to pin his ears in place. Even bedding his wife was out of the question lately; all these mumblings about harlotry, sins of the flesh, seemed too great a price to pay for the doubtful joys of Mrs. Moresham’s participation. He’d rather bed great lovely Betty in the next village, and pay the price for adultery before his Maker. Divine penance would be less severe than anything Cecily might dole out to him.

  James caught his eye again. His hair was streaked by the sun. Almost blond it was. Enough to remind Samuel of the boy’s mother. He’d loved that girl, with all the hot-blooded lust he’d been capable of, but still, it hadn’t been enough, had it? She’d wanted to loll about and enjoy being a baronet’s wife, never mind that the title was hereditary and brought no money with it. She’d tired of all the work a horse farm demanded, had run away with another man, only to be found at Cheapside, near dead of the influenza.

  Still, it was an odd thing that he could mourn her even now. Perhaps it was her way of loving and her hot kisses he remembered, not the fact that she’d left him alone with a small lad of two.

  He remembered the night James was born. It had been too early for her to have gone to her birthing bed and Samuel had feared for the child’s survival. When the large baby had been presented to him, all wrinkled and red from his mother’s womb, he’s said not a word. He’d kept his suspicions to himself, even though there was nothing of the Moreshams about the boy, nothing that reminded Samuel of his own kin.

  He’d never said a word, not even after the day he’d found her, near to death in a cheap room at an inn favored by rough sailors. She’d told him then that she’d always loved him, that it wasn’t her way, though, to remain with just one man. And with his question, she’d only looked into his eyes and then nodded, labeling James a bastard.

  He’d decided, that day, that he’d raise her son as his own and there’d be none to tell him different. So, despite the fact they looked nothing like each other, had none of the same mannerisms, none of the wishes and dreams and hopes father and son sometimes share, Samuel Moresham had taken the child of his wife to son. It had been pride, then, that had labeled James a Moresham.

  Too late, he’d realized what a price James had paid for it.

  His second wife had been fertile in their marriage and none would say there was a doubt of his daughters’ paternity. To the one, they had the Moresham nose, all except Alice. And she had his gestures, she did, and his way of smiling at nothing. He had loved the girl like no other of his children.

  Sometimes it seemed to Samuel that he was cursed to love women who were forever leaving him. Alice had simply gone one day and not a word had come since. It seemed that only he and James grieved for her loss.

  Ever since James was a lad and Alice a baby, there’d been a special bond between the two of them. Alice didn’t talk for the longest time, because James would talk for her. “She wants a biscuit,” he would say, when she pointed to the cupboard in the kitchen, or “she wants an up-up,” when Alice would raise her arms over her head. There was no sillier sight, or one to more cloud the eyes, as when James would hoist the little girl into his arms, her legs wrapped around his torso, her arms wound around his neck. The two of them would walk off like that, clinging to each other as if there was nothing in the world that could keep them apart.

  James and Alice had been c
loser than any members of the family, always laughing, always together with their fair heads close, whispering, talking, sharing with each other.

  Ever since Alice had disappeared, James had seemed subdued, his smiles never quite meeting his eyes, his gaze haunted instead. He appeared almost wan, and had lost flesh.

  “You’ll join me, then, in the north pasture?” Samuel stood, hitched his trousers up, donned his working coat. That was another thing about mornings, no lectures on manners and what was proper to wear to table.

  James nodded, his attention directed at his plate.

  “I’d have a look at the foreleg of that new mare if I were you. It looked swollen.”

  “I’ll do it.” James glanced up at him, a look that slid away as soon as it made contact.

  Samuel wanted to say something, ease the way. But there was nothing he could say, after all. What words would be appropriate? Surely not those of father to son. Nothing fit the moment, no words would pass his lips. If they had been different people, he could have gripped his son’s shoulders, eased him into a hug, wiped his own eyes dry of the grief that had never had a chance to breathe. Instead, he walked away, through the dining room, across the oaken floor to the entrance way and beyond, to the hallway that led to the back, to the stables.

  It was as well, perhaps, that he would be forever mute.

  Instead of sleeping, Archer stood at the window of his library and watched Sanderhurst come alive with morning light. Rest after their night’s journey had been rendered impossible by the Bennett woman’s announcement. So was peace of mind. No, he could not lay that sin upon his reluctant guest’s head. The past year had stripped him of any contentment he might have enjoyed from life.

  His marriage to Alice Moresham had long been doomed, but death was not the agent of separation. Inclination, personality, interests, they had all served their part in dividing what God had joined together.

  Archer needed an heir, a point his favorite uncle had hounded him about until the morning he died, still clutching Archer’s hand and imploring him with a rheumy-eyed gaze.

  Alice was her father’s second-oldest daughter, a pretty thing with blond hair curled in ringlets, a small but perfectly formed mouth that reminded him of a child’s pursed lips. Her nose was slightly too small, but her cheeks were just rosy enough to claim good health. She was a young woman of seemingly delicate constitution, fanatical loyalty to her family, graced with a timid air that had originally charmed Archer. Her speech was so soft, no more than a whisper, that he was required to bend forward at every utterance in order to hear her. In addition, she had a habit of burying her nose in her reticule, eternally inhaling the noxious scent of her lavender water. It seemed to follow her like a cloud, until the very air that surrounded her seemed rife with the odor.

  He had the distinct impression that he frightened the wits out of his new wife, a suspicion that was only reinforced as time passed and Alice seemed no warmer toward him. In fact, she’d taken to clenching her eyes shut and praying whenever he approached her bed, a welcome that had the expected result of rendering him less than willing to complete the marriage act.

  He had attempted to talk to her of books he’d read, but Alice claimed that reading hurt her eyes. She disliked plays, admitting that they either bored her or made her melancholic. She did, however, adore musicales, especially those of an insipid nature that caused his skin to crawl and each separate hair on his head to adopt an independent nature as if one by one they wished to indicate their displeasure of such caterwauling.

  She was, however, good with children. She seemed to have an affinity to them, and they, in turn, adored her. Archer wanted his children loved, not by a succession of paid companions and nurses, but by their parents. He was prepared to adore his progeny. He wanted that single-minded devotion that Alice spared unceasingly on her siblings and their children to be directed to their offspring. Pity she had not wanted a child of his.

  Mary Kate Bennett disturbed him. Why had she entered into Alice’s game?

  He had not, at first, become alarmed at Alice’s failure to return from her visit to her mother. It was a habit of hers to stay as long as she wished at Moresham Farms and advise him later by missive that she was doing so.

  If he found his married life difficult, then hell was defined as being confined with Alice’s relatives. Although he found Alice’s father an amiable man, possessed of a boisterous laugh and the ability to breed the most costly Thoroughbreds in the British Isles, the female side of Alice’s family was enough to make him beg off even the shortest visit. Alice’s sisters were all equipped with a singular braying laugh, like that of an ass. Although they were all personable women, and attractive in their own way, their voices were high pitched, each sentence ending on a questioning tone. It grated at him, but not as much as their coy expressions and simpering smiles. Alice’s mother, however, was the reason he chose to absent himself from the majority of her outings. Her mother was a squat, plump woman with the habit of quoting an endless supply of Bible verses while maintaining the tenacity of a wire terrier while doing so. She was, Archer had realized from his very first courting visit to the Moresham farm, one of those people who, as guests, never know when to leave. He had no doubt she was infinitely effective as a proselytizer. He, himself, would have abjured any religious beliefs but hers if it meant being spared her future presence.

  But when a fortnight had passed without any word, he had left to fetch his wife, irked that Alice’s antipathy for him had extended to blatant disregard of simple courtesy, but not overly distressed at her absence. The Moresham household, however, had disavowed any knowledge of Alice’s visit. His innocent request for his wife’s presence created a storm of such magnificent proportions that even today he felt the wind of it.

  Alice, it seemed, had vanished.

  Archer had, in the first month, alerted their neighbors, the inns that dotted the road to London. He had traveled to the City, calling upon his solicitors, keeping the town house open long after the Season, hoping for word of her.

  After a month had passed and still no word had come, the gossip had begun. It was at that point that he had sent handbills the length and breadth of England, offering a reward for information concerning her person or presence. Ships that had been at port at the time of her disappearance were eagerly boarded on their return docking, only to discover that no one matching Alice’s appearance was to be found. Nor was any word forthcoming.

  He shouldered his burdens in silence, avoiding his wife’s hysterical family, while attempting to repair his own aggrieved honor. The increasingly hostile stares of neighbors and servants made it more difficult each passing week to maintain an appearance of equanimity. It was a sad requiem for his reputation.

  Archer, you ass. There was nothing left of his reputation, not now.

  He found himself like a suicide, whose past was forever wiped clean and rendered invisible by the manner of his parting from this earth. “Oh yes, Richardson, I knew him well. Poor sod, to end it like that.” And so the poor sod is forever to be known as bullet-in-the-brain Richardson, never mind that he was a tolerable husband and a good father, minded his properties well and never pinched the barmaids.

  Poor St. John, murderer, you know. Killed her and buried the body so deep and so well they’d never find it. Whispered about that she’d run away, but we all know he killed her, poor stupid sod. No doubt buried her body in a bog. Either that or boiled her and ate her in a soup.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. And wasn’t that like the devil proclaiming his innocence?

  Archer had never believed it truly possible for someone to simply disappear into nothingness. Yet for a year, that is just what Alice had done. What he wanted very much in his life at this moment was not his wife’s presence as much as proof that he could not have, had not, murdered her.

  Upstairs, in the Dawn Room, slept the only person who might know where Alice was. Who was this woman and what did she want from him? Was she one
of the self-proclaimed mystics who seemed to haunt London’s society parties? Was she a friend of Alice’s? Alice’s affection seemed solely visited upon her family.

  How perfectly he’d fallen into their trap. He’d wondered at her luck in not being more injured; now he knew the accident had all been staged. A ruse to lure him closer, to inveigle her way into his house, his life.

  It was a Machiavellian strategy and one he’d never thought capable of Alice, but then, she must be maddened for money, being unable to tap any of her funds without his approval. That would never be granted until she showed herself at Sanderhurst and took from him the stigma of a man having done away with his wife.

  Alice needn’t go to such extremes. He was quite willing to agree to a bill of divorcement. He frankly didn’t care about the scar upon his name. He had already lived the censure in truth, had he not? For the past year he had been buffeted by rumor, conjecture, and outright suspicion. What was one more disgrace heaped upon his name? At least any social ostracism that resulted would be for divorcing his wife, not murdering her.

  But what if it was only money she was after? What if Alice intended to take his money and never come back? He’d be the last of his line, never able to marry again. The heir he’d needed, the children he wanted, would never be born, at least legitimately.

  In his home sat the one person who knew where Alice was. Mary Kate’s nonsensical story about ghosts and visitations and eerie whispers were just that, a device to lure him into complacency. What was it she wanted?

  Alice had, at least, found someone to tempt him, a woman almost too flashy to be quite proper, with her fulsome figure and alluring face, with her odd habit of stroking her fingers through the tendrils of hair at her nape and a scent as elemental as the sun, as expensive as cinnamon.

  No, he would keep her conspirator friend at Sanderhurst until he could decide what to do. Or until Mary Kate decided to tell him the truth.