Part 4 (2/2)

”You shall do as I say. You will obey me in everything. And I mean everything.” The baron flexed his long fingers, as though he couldn't wait to have her at his mercy.

”Not while I have breath!” Constance's eyes flashed, her heart beating wildly. Desperately, she dashed to the door.

”It is locked, and only I have the key.”

He advanced toward her, his green eyes glittering like evil gla.s.s.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. Gla.s.s could not be evil, could it? Caroline drew a black line through evil gla.s.s, then struck through the entire pa.s.sage. Her muse had departed rather suddenly and locked her in the room with the baron and Constance. At that moment Caroline didn't care if the baron used his long fingers to strangle Constance. Her private book was not going at all well. The baron, despite his evil gla.s.sy eyes, was really a gentleman at heart. She was very much afraid he was turning into a hopeless hero, not that Constance deserved him. She was simply too stupid to live.

As for Caroline's next heroine, the harlot, she was locked up firmly in a dark drawer, along with her future husband. Her story had degenerated so badly, Garrett would never publish it as is, if she ever finished it. Her deadline was just days away and for the life of her, she couldn't care about the next installment of Courtesan Court. It was as if Edward's shadow fell over her shoulder, blotting out her writing sun.

Caroline closed the notebook, wis.h.i.+ng she could close her thoughts away with such ease. Edward's wretched little schedule was to arrive later. For the next three weeks, he would detail to the hour and the minute when he expected her to be available to him. Probably no two days would be alike-Edward was a busy man with numerous obligations. She was prepared to be perpetually off balance. For a woman who had fought a lengthy battle to wrestle her haphazard life into some order, it was like offering opium to an addict. She'd be in a haze for the foreseeable future.

But perhaps Edward would be similarly afflicted. She could only hope he'd be so befuddled from l.u.s.t and lack of sleep he'd walk in front of a dray cart and be crushed. That had happened to the hero in Love Lane. The heroine had nursed him back to health, but Caroline would do no such thing. It would be preferable to be a widow rather than a divorcee, not that she really wished Edward dead or ever expected to join the ranks of society again. He had seen to that when he moved her to Jane Street, and she'd compounded the problem when she began to write her books.

It was ludicrous that people read them to escape their everyday problems, when her own life was so complicated. She was hardly a relations.h.i.+p expert, and it was by far easier to reform a rake or bring a villain to justice on the page than it was to live with a flesh-and-blood man. Not that Edward had ever been a rake or a villain. It might have gone easier for her if he had.

She put the pen down on its tray and capped the ink. It was pointless to think she'd be able to write anything. Thoughts of Edward and the life she'd lost were swamping her, drowning her, making her feel uncharacteristically sorry for herself. Most days she shrugged off her blues, pinned a jewel to her breast, poured a cup of tea, pulled up a weed, or lent an ear to someone even less fortunate.

Would he understand if she told him everything? She couldn't imagine telling him all her secrets. If he held her in contempt knowing just a fraction of them, she couldn't fathom what he'd feel if he knew the whole. His own green eyes would glitter like evil gla.s.s. She would wind up in court, not for a divorce but for murder.

She glanced at the new clock on the mantel. He might be back tonight. She had the whole day before her to have a long bath and do something, if she could only think what. She'd already planned the menus for the week, filled her unbroken vases with flowers, inspected Harold for fleas. She had no friends to write to, children's clothes to mend, piano to play. Caroline tried to remember what she did to fill her days before Edward stepped back into them, but she was as blank as the page of her ma.n.u.script.

She could go shopping. She would go shopping-to buy red dresses that Edward would hate. She'd pledged to her friend Charlotte she would do so. If Caroline had to endure Edward underfoot, she would make him suffer, at least visually.

She had been wearing a red dress when she met him, a dress the color of ripe cherries designed to make a lasting impression. Its audacity had scandalized her cousin's wife and every other woman in Lady Huntington's ballroom. It had shocked the gentlemen too, but in precisely the way Caroline hoped. There wasn't time or money to flutter about in pasty pastels. Caroline had needed a husband fast.

Once they were married, Edward expected her to hang that red dress in the closet. There were a great many things she'd had to give up to please Edward and his impeccable Christie standards, and the closet got crowded. But she had been eager for change, for structure, for respectability. Perhaps if she'd had a few more months, she could have pounded herself into submission.

Oh, who was she kidding? She was a red dress girl at heart.

”Lizzie! Fetch my bonnet and gloves, and yours too. We're going shopping to find the reddest dress in all of London!”

Edward wore his Christie face. His son had not perfected his own. Ned was a veritable barometer of emotion, his mercury rising and falling, shame-faced one moment, defiant the next. It was all Edward could do to keep himself from reaching across his mahogany desk to throttle the boy.

One was mistaken to a.s.sume Edward had no feelings, but they were kept carefully in check. It was better that way. Slow and steady won the race, although he wondered if the rules might have changed lately while he wasn't looking. He'd always obeyed his parents, firmly convinced they knew what was best for him. They'd not gone wrong with Alice, as comfortable a wife as a man could have. Why, if he hadn't married her, his handsome sullen son and heir would not be sitting in front of him, prattling nonsense about his cousin Amelia, of all things.

Edward interrupted. ”You have explained the reason you sought out my estranged wife, Ned, despite my express, explicit orders forbidding you to contact her. A barely satisfactory explanation, fueled by foolishness and an excess of drink. One must choose one's friends carefully, Ned. A Christie examines the character of an acquaintance, not just the convenience. I am aware Rory Carmichael is a school chum, but I wouldn't choose him as a friend for you.”

”Rory has plenty of character! It's his father who's at fault with a wh.o.r.e on Jane Street. I thought Caro-” Ned flushed, apparently realizing he hadn't thought at all.

”You do realize you put her in an awkward situation, and breached her hospitality most egregiously. I expect you will write her a letter to apologize.”

Ned s.h.i.+fted in his straight-back chair. Edward had purposely told the boy to bring it over to sit on. He wasn't worthy yet of the comfortable leather chair just a few feet away. ”Why can't I apologize in person? Take flowers or something.”

”She already has a garden, Ned. Quite a fine one. Your flowers would be superfluous. You're not to have further contact with her. I forbid it. Again, and this time you will listen.”

Ned looked mulish. ”I don't see why. She's very nice, even if you don't like her.”

”I like her well enough.” Edward looked down at his desk blotter, remembering the morning. How very inadequate the word like was. ”But we don't suit as man and wife. I haven't told anyone yet, but I've resolved to divorce her. You can see why a visit from you would be unwelcome.”

Ned's complexion reverted to yesterday's hangover pallor. ”Divorce! But you can't! A Christie cannot get divorced!”

Edward sat back in his leather chair, surprised at the vehemence of his son. ”I am fully aware of the scandal that will result, which is why I am taking you into my confidence to prepare for it. It will not be easy-for any of us.”

”But Caro-she'll be a complete outcast!”

”Divorce is a mere formality. She is already proscribed from polite society.”

”By you! Because you bought her that d.a.m.n house!”

Edward's hand curled around a gla.s.s paperweight. ”Edward Allerton Christie, do not use that tone with me.”

Ned stood up, shaking. ”Well, it's true! If she was unfaithful, it's because you're the coldest man in creation! And I'll not be saddled with Amelia in two years, because I am not cold. You can tell Uncle Roger that I'd rather marry a Jane Street courtesan than his flat-chested lackwit! Have you ever talked to Cousin Amelia? She's positively insipid!”

Edward stared at his son with icy hauteur. ”I fail to see why you keep inserting Amelia into this conversation. Her father and I have a long-standing arrangement. You will do your duty to the family.”

”Just as you're doing yours by dragging the Christie name through the mud?” Suddenly, Ned grinned. ”Wait a minute! Uncle Roger will be so scandalized he'll break the betrothal contract. He's even higher in the instep than you are! Yes. Get your divorce. You have my blessing. You'll have your freedom, and I'll have mine!” He let out a childish whoop and practically ran out of the study.

”Neddie! Ned! Come back here! We are not finished!” Edward heard the reverberating slam of the front door. h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. He pinched the headache back from between his brows. How had he sired such an impetuous imbecile? If Alice had lived, her children would be circ.u.mspect. Respectful. He'd never caned Ned in his life, and was regretting it. His fingers twitched to do so.

It was Alice's fondest wish that Ned marry her brother's girl. They had talked about it when the children were the merest babes. Amelia was perfectly acceptable. Perhaps not a raving beauty, but she was neat in her appearance and habits and had a handsome dowry, not that the Christies needed an infusion of cash. Edward's investments were conservative. Sound. Lucrative. Amelia expected Ned to marry her when he came of age, just as Alice had expected to marry Edward twenty years ago. The poor girl would be heartbroken.

What kind of husband Ned would make was now in question. Drinking, carousing, showing execrable judgment. Edward flushed. He was not the coldest man in creation, but as warm-blooded as the next man. But he was prudent. Practical. His son had two years to get his education, pull himself together and rise to the occasion. Two years was a long time. Anything could happen, even the reformation of Edward the Younger.

Thinking of time, Edward consulted his appointment book and penned a brief but detailed letter to Caroline, feeling somewhat more in control afterward. Then he negated that by opening his desk drawer and removing the hinged gilt case that held Alice's miniature. It had been some years since he'd talked aloud to his dead wife, but sometimes just looking at her painted pink face eased his heart. Not today. Prying the case open, he didn't see the usual sympathy from her large brown eyes, but an accusatory glare.

”You're right. Everything is all bollixed up. I-I've lost my way, ever since Caroline. Sometimes I wonder if you're in heaven punis.h.i.+ng me for marrying again, but that doesn't seem very heavenly. I couldn't seem to help myself, you know. Caro is-well, I don't think you'd understand her. G.o.d knows, I don't. I'm going to try to set it all to rights-if only I can figure out how.”

Feeling foolish, he snapped the case shut. Next he'd be talking to plants or imaginary friends. Whom he should be talking to was Will Maclean about the divorce. He returned the portrait to the dark of the drawer and headed out to do just that, being careful not to slam the door behind him.

Edward had had a full and frustrating day-his early interlude with Caroline, his aborted interview with Ned, the somewhat alarming appointment with Will Maclean, his appearance for appearance's sake in Parliament late in the afternoon to vote on a bill he hadn't even read. But he knew which way his party expected him to vote, and he did his duty as he always did. He was Baron Christie.

Finally, he was off to be just Edward, to find a few hours of easy, mindless pleasure again in the arms of his soon-to-be ex-wife. Well, not soon. Certainly not soon if Will was to be believed, and Will was as honest and upright as any man in Britain. There had been discussion of formal separation versus divorce, but Edward's mind was made up. Will had thrown every conceivable spanner in the works to test him, raised every possible objection as devil's advocate, but Edward stood firm.

Firm was his watchword. Firm he was. The thought of Caroline's fiery hair across the white linen of her pillow made him as randy as a schoolboy. Perhaps that was Ned's problem-Amelia's mousy blond hair held no similar attraction. Maybe Edward had been too demanding, expecting his son to deny his baser instincts. He would try to talk to him again, when their tempers cooled.

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