nodded. ‘Then if you snap and grumble, I shall not blame myself for it.’
‘You needn’t. It is my problem, not yours,’ he said. He thought back to his suspicions of the previous day and wondered if that was true. If she was the one keeping secrets, he would be quite justified in blaming her. But to look at her now, fresh and pretty in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed churlish to find fault with her.
He took a bit of cold salmon and a swallow of wine, and admired her over the rim of his wine glass.
She was nibbling on a bit of roll and glanced up to catch him staring at her. She put it down and spoke. ‘Now that you are home, what are your plans? I assume that I am not oppressing you by enquiring.’ There was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth and he wondered if she meant to be amusing.
It was rather amusing to think of her attention as a heavy burden. She seemed to work at being unobtrusive. Beautiful to look at, but quiet as a ghost, she hovered barely noticed on the fringe of any conversation. When he needed her, she came just close enough to help, then disappeared again, like a sprite. Perhaps that was why he had married her. To find a woman willing to fit herself seamlessly into his life was a rare piece of good fortune.
She was enquiring after his plans. What were they? Many of the activities he might have favoured were quite beyond him, until he regained his strength. ‘I don’t have any,’ he admitted.
‘Then might I trouble you to show me around your home?’ she said. ‘The housekeeper will do it, if you do not wish to. But I suspect it would be more interesting to hear the details of the place from you. It is many hours before you mean to bed me. We must find some way to pass the afternoon.’
He choked on his next swallow of wine. When he could compose himself to look at her again, there was no sign that she had been laughing. But he was quite sure she had been. It was a promising sign.
He would enjoy walking the halls of his own home, again. And to show it to one of the few women in England who seemed to appreciate its design. Even Penny, who had few strong opinions about anything outside of her books had proclaimed the place an eyesore and suggested that he tear it down and rebuild from the foundation up.
Perhaps Adam had been right all along and he had simply married a woman who suited his character. It would be interesting to see if her opinions matched his on the interior. For though the decoration was not the current style, he liked it very well. He might regain some of his strength as they walked from room to room and pause to rest as needed, under the guise of telling her old family stories.
And why did he suspect that she knew just that and had found a perfect way to preserve his dignity while encouraging him to exercise his wasted legs? ‘A tour sounds like an excellent idea,’ he agreed. ‘Let us finish our meal and we can begin.’ Perhaps if he spent the day with her, he would learn something of her as well.
* * *
But, after an afternoon of walking the house, he knew no more about her than when they began. She was an attentive audience and he took pleasure in regaling her with childhood tales about growing up in the old manor. But she offered no similar details of her own youth. It was nearly time to dress for supper and the sum total of his knowledge was no greater than when they had begun. She was beautiful. She was Belgian. She was an orphan. She had impeccable manners and made lace, though he had never seen her wear any. And she was most grateful to be married to him and eager to see to his comfort in all things.
As they walked, she seemed to sense when he was tiring and took his arm, as though she was too shy to walk alone. When she suspected that they had gone too long without a break, she claimed exhaustion and requested they sit for a time, in the conservatory, or the music room, which she had guessed were his favourites. In all things she supported him, while persuading him that he was, in fact, supporting her.
She was the perfect wife.
Or nearly perfect. Should it be so disquieting to have such a devoted helpmeet? He could not find fault with her looks. She was quite the loveliest woman he could imagine. But it was as if a painting had come to life, or a statue. There was no passion in her. Her red-gold hair was contained beneath a cloth cap. Her shapely body hid beneath a modest gown. At the table, she had shocked him with her frank acceptance of tonight’s possible activities. But once they were in bed, would she be an enthusiastic lover? Or would she be as mild as she was here in the drawing room, listening intently as he described the family members in the portraits and the history of each ornament on the shelves? Did she truly have no character other than the one she assumed he wished to see?
He was sure his married brother could explain to him the dangers of a wife who wished to be contrary. But to have found one that was nothing more than a mirror reflection of his own opinions was not as pleasant as it sounded.
They had walked nearly back to the bedrooms, now, and were standing in front of the nursery. He paused, strangely unwilling to open the door. ‘We needn’t bother with this,’ he said, stepping back from it. ‘There is nothing within but old playthings. But you will find the rooms to be most sensible, when we need them for our children.’
‘Of course,’ she said. And just as strangely, she stepped away as well.
‘Now that Adam has started his family, we can be reasonably sure of the succession,’ he remarked. ‘The need for a son is not pressing.’
‘We needn’t rush,’ she agreed. ‘Unless, that is what you wish,’ she added hurriedly. Once again, there was the slight, acquiescent bow of the head, as though she would try to produce an entire family for him, right now, should that be his desire.
As if he wished to raise children with a stranger. Despite her looks, he was not even sure he truly wanted to bed her. There would be no joy in it if her response was apathetic acceptance of the act. What was the point of marrying a beautiful woman, if one had to find an equally pretty mistress who would at least feign enthusiasm for his lovemaking?
Then he looked forward, into the nursery again, remembered the reason for wives and retreated. ‘We will discuss such matters again when I am fully recovered.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, turning away to return to her room.
* * *
Justine did her best to maintain her composure in the hours that followed, but her new husband made it more challenging than she’d expected. When she’d first hit upon this scheme, she had not thought that such an evening was in her future. Though she would do her best to save him, William Felkirk was going to die.
She had been sure of it. She’d felt terror mixed with pity at the sight of his bleeding head and Mr Montague’s dispassionate expression as he raised the poker for a second blow. Before he could strike, she’d hurried to convince him that the man would be better off in the bosom of his family than as a corpse on the floor of their salon. What would happen if the Duke of Bellston appeared in Bath, enquiring after his missing brother?
Worse yet, suppose he sent the law? There was no question that they would both hang for murder. Margot would be left alone, with nothing but the scandalously false broadsheet confession of Montague’s mistress: the salacious details of a good woman brought low by her own depravity.
She had insisted that further violence against William Felkirk was unnecessary. If the blow did not kill him, the trip north likely would. If he survived that? Then she would linger for a time, until she had discovered the diamonds and could disappear.
But now he was across the dinner table from
