“I cannot stay here,” she cried, her face even paler than his. “I am not your wife anymore, Nicholas—or have you forgotten?”
The pain was unbearable. “Jane, I told you, we will work it out.”
“Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “There is certainly a solution! An obvious one.” Tears filled her eyes. “But regardless, she is your wife, and I cannot remain here.”
“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely.
“Think! Think about the children! We cannot immerse them in another scandal, my God!” And her mouth crumbled as the tears fell freely now.
If it were only him, he would not care about another scandal. But now he had Jane and the children to think about, to protect. It would be the height of indecency and immorality should she remain in his household with Patricia back from the dead. Still, it did not make it any easier to bear—it did not ease the godawful pain.
“I—I had better go,” Jane said into the raw silence.
The earl said nothing. He watched her move away, wondering at the magnitude of heartache he was feeling. But then he consoled himself—she was only going to Gloucester Street, and as she had said, there was an obvious solution. Where the hell was his lawyer?
Nick strode outside after her. Jane was ascending into the carriage, Molly and Nicole already within. He caught her from behind and turned her for a fierce, searing kiss, one of possession. She did not respond, as if numb and shocked.
“I will come to you tomorrow,” he promised her.
Her eyes teared again. “Good-bye, Nicholas.”
“Tomorrow, Jane,” he said firmly, then watched as the carriage rolled down the drive, through the iron gates, and into Tavistock Square.
His lawyer, Henry Felding, was a tall, thin, somewhat nervous man. However, he was quite brilliant. He arrived a quarter hour later. “Where have you been?” Nick ground out.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but the traffic is nigh on impossible at this hour. How is your wife?” Felding asked politely.
“My wife, damn her soul, has come back from the dead!”
Felding was openly shocked.
“My first wife,” Nick said through gritted teeth. “Patricia Weston Shelton. She is alive, and in London.”
Felding sat down. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“Oh, dear is damn right.” The earl pulled a chair up and sat, leaning forward aggressively. “Am I still legally married to her? She disappeared six years ago and was assumed dead, as you well know.”
Felding wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Yes, I recall all that hoopla. And yes, she is still your wife, both legally and in the eyes of the church.”
Nick cursed savagely.
Felding blushed.
“And where, pray tell, does that leave Jane?” “I am afraid Jane has no status, not legally, that is.”
“I want a divorce.”
“An annulment would be a matter of course,” Felding said, brightening now. “As the Lady Patricia is still alive, the church will readily annul your marriage to Jane.”
“No. I want to divorce that faithless, selfish bitch—Patricia. Start the proceedings now!”
Felding gasped. Divorce was not just rare, among the upper classes it was almost unheard of and certainly a last, dire resort. Worse, it was immoral and scandalous. “Are you certain?”
“One hundred percent. How long will it take?”
“Usually there is a bit of a wait, nigh on a year.”
“Damn.”
