He stared at his hands, white-knuckled from where they dug into his thighs, then looked up to see the half dozen passengers around them staring. Lifting a hand, he gave a stiff smile. “My apologies,” he said before dropping his voice and turning back to Marigold. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, then spoke with the tone she recalled from the party, one that was low and soothing. “I don’t want your boys to go through anything painful either, but the reality is they already have. Trying to keep the divorce from them will only push a wedge between you.”
She remembered how he’d spoken of his father that night, the pain palpable in his words, and wondered if he had wished his mother had taken different actions to protect him all those years ago. “I couldn’t protect them from what he said,” she said, hating that it was the truth. “The marquess never kept his opinions to himself. Called me simple, Reggie an imbecile and far worse.”
“Why did he callyousimple?”
His incredulity made a smile pull at her lips, but she resisted it. “The way I sp-speak. If I cannot say words p-properly, I must be incompetentin all things.”
Archie chuckled darkly and crossed his arms over his wide chest. “That’s a load of hogwash. You’re a bloody bee-tamer. You can do anything!”
A burst of laughter escaped, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to avoid any further displays of emotion. “I appreciate the sentiment, b-but I’ve d-d-done nothing of importance.”
“That’s changing today. We’ll find the mistress, get your letters.” He exhaled and put his hand back in his lap. She hadn’t realized he’d reached out to touch her. “I will get your divorce, I promise.”
Her smile was weak, but she was pleased she could do it. “I believe you.”
Chapter 10
Marigoldreleasedthedoorknocker—a hideous depiction of a lion with a colossal brass ring hanging from its nose—and waited, shifting on her feet. Sweat unrelated to the afternoon heat stuck her dress to her lower back. How odd to be made to wait at what should be her home, and she felt like her skin was going to crawl off her body, some insidiouswrongness climbing up her spine.
Of course, she’d insisted she would be fine without Archie’s assistance. Bringing an unknown man to her husband’s ancestral dwelling would only cause aggravation among the staff. But she missed him now, the steady presence that challenged and soothed her in equal parts.
Best she not think of him too fondly. Archie was clear that theirs was a professional relationship, nothing more, nor could it be for the sake of her children. But her body remembered his, how he drew pleasure from her as easily as breathing. More and moreoften, she found herself returning to those golden moments they’d shared to pull herself out of the swirling anxiety that consumed her.
She rapped on the knocker again to ground herself in the moment. They’d spent the hack ride from King’s Crossing to Mayfair planning their next steps. Marigold would gather the letters from the marquess, and then Archie would track down the mind doctor he’d mentioned could help them. She didn’t understand this portion of the case, but she trusted his expertise, even as it wound her anxiety into a tighter ball beneath her sternum.
Just as she reached for the lion for the third time, the door swung open. Mrs. Graney stared down her long nose at Marigold as though the mistress of the house were a beggar seeking kitchen scraps. “Milady,” she said, her voice pinched. “We weren’t expecting you today.”
Of course not. She hadn’t set foot on this doorstep in nearly three years. She’d hated the dark interiors covered with portraits of her husband’s scowling ancestors, spindly furniture that wouldn’t withstand Matthew’s rough play, bedrooms so cold she spent her nights curled in a ball praying for dawn to come.
And worst of all, her husband passed most of his time there.
“I won’t st-stay long,” Marigold managed as she moved to cross the threshold, but the housekeeper scowled and shifted to her left, blocking Marigold’s progress.
“His lordship isn’t here, milady,” she said.
Precisely. Archie had deployed a small army of teenage sentinels he’d found near the train station, armed with shiny pound coinsand a description of her husband. No less than a quarter hour later, they received word that the marquess was taking a long luncheon at White’s.
Marigold lifted her chin. “I have some items I need for the country.”
The housekeeper shifted, threw a quick glance over her shoulder, and the knot of tension seemed to pulse.
“Of course, milady,” Mrs. Graney finally said, the three words lacking all hospitality, then stepped aside.
Marigold hurried past her, shivering as her heels clicked on the marble flooring. She refused the tea tray Mrs. Graney offered, her knees shaking as she mounted the curved staircase towards her bedroom.
“The room isn’t made up, milady!”
But she’d already shut the door, sliding the lock in place. She leaned her back against the solid wood, her pulse racing and breath sawing in and out. Opening her eyes, she saw her bed first. Certainly a layer of dust covered it now. The romantic, gauzy canopy she’d thought was exquisite when she’d been a virgin bride now seemed funereal, as though it were to be laid over a corpse before burial. Appropriate, as her hopes of a loving marriage had died there on her wedding night, when her husband declared he couldn’t couple with her until she learned to manage her stammer so she wouldn’t embarrass him.
She shook her head. There would be plenty of time to mourn her girlish dreams of romance once she became a free woman, and that would never happen unless she found the letters.
Her writing desk was one of the few aspects of Croydon House she missed, a gift from her mother and father that she’d put beneath a wide window overlooking the mews behind the townhouse. She had spent hours of her early married days staring over the mercilessly pruned gardens, wishing for the lush green of Oxfordshire and her family home at Boar’s Hill.
When she was divorced, she’d pay whatever it cost to take this desk with her to start her new life in America. Fueled by this resolve, she opened the small drawers and withdrew the stack of correspondence from her husband, tied with a piece of faded yellow ribbon, and shoved it in her reticule. Every letter was brief, a carelessly scrawled reply to some request of hers, typically a refusal. Missed birthdays, Christmases, promises broken again and again.
After the letters, she opened her wardrobe and the drawer stuffed full of jewelry. She winced at the sight, remembering the perturbation of their weight on her ears and neck, the discomfiting scratch of hard, cold metal and gemstones against her flesh. Yet every year, a new piece arrived at the end of December, wrapped in pretty paper with a handwritten note wishing her the happiest of Christmases.
The notes were never in his hand. Nor had she worn any of the pieces he’d given her in years. But now, they could pay for Archie’s fee.
