A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 5

  “Uncle, please have a seat. I’ll bring refreshment.”

  “Henrietta, I think of you as a daughter, but this is too much for me to bear.” Caldwell collapsed onto the upholstered chair beside the fireplace. He rubbed his eyes as if he’d grown weary from the visit. “You should not be alone here.”

  “I’m not alone. I’m hardly ever alone.” She swept her hand toward Mouse in the kitchen. Her uncle scowled.

  “And now you have a strange man living here.”

  Henrietta’s temper sparked. “I’m fine. I trust Mr. Aurelius to act a gentleman. He’s from a good family. I’ve known him most of my life. Besides, he cannot take advantage of me as he can hardly move on his own.”

  “Don’t patronize me, gel. He’s probably a spy sent to ferret out our secrets.”

  “I don’t have secrets, Uncle. I’m not part of this war.”

  “You don’t get to take yourself out of the equation just because you don’t don a uniform. You are as much a part of it as I am.”

  Marcus watched as Henrietta swallowed what looked like a mouthful of opinions.

  “Listen to me.” Caldwell’s tone softened. Marcus recognized this manipulative charade from his own father. “I’ve never steered you wrong, have I? I’ll take care of this. One of my men shall stay with you. He’ll make sure you are safe.”

  Henrietta leaped to her feet, her face pale and frantic. It was like watching a drowning victim grab hold of a slippery rock. “Uncle, please—”

  “Henrietta.”

  She closed her mouth.

  “I shall not allow the family name to fall to ruin because you’re busy playing nursemaid to any man who walks through your door.”

  Her face went from colorless to a vibrant shade of red. A murderous shade. “I’m more discerning than that, Uncle. You insult me.”

  “She does not ponder the path of life,” Caldwell quoted with a drone, though Marcus didn’t know from what. “Her ways wander, and she does not know it.”

  Mouse entered the parlor with a tray laden with cookies, iced buns, boiled eggs, small biscuits stuffed with cheese, a pot of tea, and a set of teacups.

  Henrietta’s voice sharpened. “I don’t want a soldier here. This is my home, not a barracks.”

  “You forget, dear,” Caldwell drawled, pushing himself up from the chair, “this is my home. You are here at my pleasure.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes. When you married Sam, I gave him this house. It is still in my name, and the land it sits upon. If I want a soldier in residence to protect what is mine, I shall leverage my right.”

  Mouse deposited the tray with a clatter. She went about pouring, clanking the teacups and saucers, spilling tea on the tray. Her hands were shaking.

  “I haven’t room for another guest. As I said, Mr. Aurelius is unfit to leave.”

  “Do not waste your breath with lies. I know full well the layout of this house and the attributes within. You have no servants, therefore the attic is available to this… this… laborer. My soldier shall stay in the second bedroom.”

  Henrietta never mentioned a second bedroom. She’d only offered the attic. Did she view him the way Caldwell did? Then he saw the desolation in her eyes, how much smaller she appeared, and a whole new host of emotions formed inside of him. She’d held something back from him. Whatever that reason, her uncle was bent on exposing it and using it to his advantage at her expense.

  “He can’t.”

  “Come now.” Caldwell raised his bushy gray brows. “A soldier in this home shall do you good. It shall give you purpose. No more days waxing away in grief.” Her uncle smiled smugly.

  The column of Henrietta’s throat rose and fell as she swallowed. “I cannot agree to this.” Her voice broke under the weight of his demands.

  Marcus wanted nothing more than to fix whatever it was hurting her. If he was good at anything, it was fixing things.

  “You shall, Henrietta. You shall. For if you do not, I shall cut off your allowance and remove you from this house.”

  Henrietta swayed. Marcus’s anger swelled. Mouse’s jaw twitched from holding her tongue. He wanted to protect Henrietta, but he also knew the less he said, the better. He was in no position to insert himself into this dynamic. This couldn’t have been the first time Caldwell pressed his control over her by virtue of allowance and housing. The solid woman who gave him no quarter crumbled before him.

  “Hear me now.” Caldwell advanced on her. “You shall take in my soldier or I shall have you sent out, penniless, and I shall not care where you go. I shall brush my hands of you once and for all.” After too long of a rabid-eyed stare, he retreated from the room.

  As his heavy steps reached the front door, they were countered by a light rapping. The door’s hinges creaked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Caldwell rumbled.

  “No one the fuck you need to know,” came a familiar voice.

  A loud thunk preceded a wolfish snarl.

  Marcus let a rush of breath out and pinched the bridge of his nose, picturing Sissy, with her black mask and thick body sitting on alert beside Augie, also massive and dark, staring down Caldwell without knowing who he was. Marcus would have laughed if he weren’t so damn frustrated.

  Henrietta hurried into the hallway. “Uncle, I’m sorry.”

  Mouse turned to Marcus with blazing eyes. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

  He blinked. It never failed to surprise him how capable Mouse was when one of her cubs was threatened.

  “I imagine if he were at all easy to kill, he’d be dead by now. A man like him collects enemies, not allies.”

  Mouse frowned, looking every bit her age. “And you?” She came to his side and brushed her hand down his arm.

  “I’m infinitely easier to kill. I’m a sitting duck.”

  Augie appeared in the doorway alone, frowning. “Not at all what I was expecting.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his brow. “Mouse?”

  She passed Marcus an iced cake. “I arrived yesterday for my reading club. A neighbor of Henrietta’s is a dear friend.”

  Marcus swiped his finger through the icing and licked it off. “The minx or the Quaker?”

  Mouse proffered a pitying look. “She’s a lonely widow.” After crossing the room, she gave Augie an expansive hug. “He’s terrible, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, since falling out of the stupid tree.” Augie hugged her back, screwing up his face at Marcus like a sibling getting preferential treatment.

  “Where’s Sissy?” Marcus bit into the cake and held in a moan as the icing dissolved on his tongue. He was ravenous.

  “Sent her to find your Dick.”

  If he hadn’t been straining his ears to listen for Henrietta, he might have choked.

  Caldwell rumbled a final word, but Henrietta’s response was drummed out by the damn clock.

  Chapter 6

  Henrietta flopped into the chair her uncle vacated. “I need to get married.” Marriage would solve her housing and financial problems and get her far away from Uncle Caldwell.

  “Sorry, Hetty Betty. Can’t walk down the aisle right now.” Marcus winked.

  The scents of pine and moss filled her nose as the memory of kissing him rushed back. He’d allegedly kissed many girls, his taste running from maids to their charges. He couldn’t possibly have had a reason to reject her. And yet he did. He was a year older than she, twenty-nine now, and never married. She doubted he intended to, not with his charm and chiseled jaw. Why would he want to?

  “I didn’t mean you. Someone kind and undemanding. My husband is dead and his family is still controlling me.” Her mouth twitched. “Not that you’re not kind.”

  Marcus stared at her like she’d grown another head. “Those are th
e worst reasons I’ve ever heard for getting married.”

  “Can’t be helped. I have no other options.” She picked up her forgotten sewing and worked the needle through the fabric. Both her parents were dead. Her one brother, Caleb, lived in Boston with a prolific wife who popped out a baby Smith annually. There were nine nieces and nephews by now. Nine too many for Henrietta to bear to be around.

  “You could go live with one of your friends. Offer to care for their children or grandchildren.”

  Henrietta pricked her finger. A bead of blood balled at the tip. She sucked it clean, soothing it. He wouldn’t understand if she told him. “I can’t.” Shame made her duck her head. This was why she needed to marry. She didn’t want to be around anyone well-intentioned, nor did she want to be around anyone cruel. Someone who didn’t invest would be lovely.

  “I see I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. He treated you badly in front of your friends, and there was nothing any of us could do. Except Augie. He landed a grenade on your uncle as soon as the door opened.”

  Henrietta couldn’t stop the tug on her lip from becoming a smile. No one spoke to her uncle that way. She envied the man.

  Augie and Mrs. Moskowitz returned from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea. He dipped a slab of a cookie into his tea, making the teacup look miniature in his massive hands. He took a bite, and golden crumbs scattered on his lips. “This is delicious.”

  Mrs. Moskowitz beamed. “It’s my grandmother’s receipt for mandelbrot.”

  Marcus received a cup of tea from Mrs. Moskowitz and a mandelbrot balanced on the saucer. “Hen was telling me she needs to get married.”

  Henrietta spluttered. She hadn’t meant for that to become public information. She needed her fan. She needed a stronger drink. Marcus needed a muzzle.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Moskowitz filled her own teacup. “You’re getting married? To whom?”

  Henrietta needed to reassess her friendships. Starting with Marcus. She didn’t know many eligible men, and even less willing to marry a widow with nothing to offer. In fact, she hadn’t been looking at all. Her original comment was said in frustration. Not with any real desire.

  “Someone without a tongue.” Henrietta stared down Marcus as she dipped her mandelbrot in her tea. A silent, civil man with a decent job. Certainly not a man like Marcus. He was too . . . much. Too garrulous. Too potent. Too tempting. Her marriage hadn’t been intimate, and a man like Marcus invited intimacy. Intimacy wasn’t for her.

  Augie laughed, a deep-throated scuffing. “Not you, brother.”

  Not him, either. Though Augie had a beautiful face when he laughed, and a body built to protect her from anything life threw her way, he intimidated her with his big, booming voice. He would diminish her in her own home. She knew what that was like, and it was frightening.

  “Old Man Rufus.” Marcus’s eyes twinkled. “Lives by the waterfront. Maybe you’ve seen him? Story is, Barbary pirates kidnapped him as a boy, and he ended up a slave. Had his tongue cut out for—well, the reason isn’t clear. You can ask him. And if you marry him, you might get used to the hand signs he uses to communicate. Then you can tell all of us because we’re dying to know.”

  Henrietta’s elbow slipped off her knee. “I didn’t mean—” She turned to Mrs. Moskowitz for help. The older woman sat tight-lipped, watching the interplay.

  “You both seem to be doing fine. I’m going to visit Frances now. See if she’s had the baby. Mr. Middleton, if you would be so kind?” She rose and shook out her skirts.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll walk you.” He winked at Henrietta. Was he flirting with her? Did he want her to consider him?

  “Augie—you’re not leaving yet, are you?” Marcus said.

  “Nah. Be right back.”

  “Good. I have a better chance of survival if you carry me above stairs than if Hen does it.”

  Once alone, Henrietta couldn’t make herself look at Marcus. The flush on her face traveled down her body, seeping into her tingling limbs. She was scorchingly aware of his presence. The heat she felt might have been his heat, for all that he was across the room.

  It didn’t matter. He wasn’t for her. He came from a finer family. She was the tutor’s daughter, and he the wild son of unrepentant intellectuals—her father’s words. And didn’t that sum them up? She was bookish, and he’d rather climb on a roof, risk life and limb, than join his family’s publishing business safely on the ground.

  The Marcus she remembered was everyone’s friend. If someone needed defending, he stepped up. She found out the hard way his gallantry didn’t extend to mousy girls trying to kiss him.

  She would never forget the look on his face. It was more than surprise. There was a second of torment, a split second of disinterest. She swore to never lay her heart bare again. Perhaps that was why she agreed to marry Sam. She didn’t think she’d have to offer her heart. She couldn’t have known what it meant to be a mother.

  An option occurred to her. “Dr. Nealy is unmarried.”

  Marcus made a crude noise, though she couldn’t be certain what part of him made it.

  What was wrong with Dr. Nealy? He was competent, his sharp features spoke of intelligence, and he didn’t suffer fools. She had plenty of practice keeping her opinions to herself. That settled, Henrietta took a sip of tea to wet her parched throat.

  “You need a longer list.”

  Henrietta sighed. She never had a season and as an older, widowed woman the thought of one was preposterous. What else could she do? Go from tavern to tavern meeting unmarried men? Absolutely not. “Shall I include you? What about Mr. Middleton?”

  “What about him?”

  Henrietta set down her tea, managing not to spill it. “He’s not what I expected.”

  Marcus reached for another piece of cake from the tray. “Because he’s not white?”

  She studied him to figure out if he was purposefully trying to provoke her. “No. I meant, he sounded frightful at first, but he’s practically a gentleman.”

  “There’s no practically about it. He’s a better man than most. I wouldn’t be half as forgiving to the world were I him.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Darkness pressed on the walls of the attic, and yet Marcus heard stirrings below. More brandy helped numb the edges of pain, but it hadn’t offered the healing sleep he needed.

  He’d chosen the cot with the most stuffing. It did little to keep the hard ropes of the frame from digging into his back. He missed Sissy snoring in the corner, occasionally waking to shake and dropping with a thud on her bedding again.

  The attic ran the length of one portion of the house, under the gambrel roof, or over the parlor and study. A window opened to the starry night. A fitful breeze tapped the curtains. Below, the herb garden scented the air with subtle hints of lavender.

  If only he could go below stairs on his own. He couldn’t pace in this prison. When Augie came next, he’d insist he toss him in the back of Slow Dick’s cart and bring him home. Pain and deformities be damned. He couldn’t stay another five weeks and five days. He’d go mad, for sure.

  On the small bedside table was a flint and steel striker, a candle, a deck of playing cards, and a pile of books. Marcus lit the candle. The attic glowed and danced with shadows.

  He was wide awake. There was nothing to do. Christ, he was sure he heard the damned clock ticking below. How did she put up with it?

  He picked up a book and hefted its weight. Fanning the pages brought a whisper of dust to his nose and he sneezed. Putting down the book, he picked up another. Opening it to the center where the spine gave easily, the text marched across the page like ants stealing crumbs at a picnic. Marcus closed his eyes. Opened one. The ants slowed their regimental march, but not enough for him to grasp a single word.

  He slammed the book shut and tossed it across the room wi
thout thinking. It struck against the floorboards. If there was a way to call it back, use some such magic to erase the noise, he’d do it in an instant.

  The house held its breath, or maybe it was Marcus. Nothing but the clock made noise. And then he heard it. The tap-tap-tap up the stairs, followed by a rap at the attic door.

  “Marcus? I’m coming in.”

  The door swung open, and Henrietta, bathed in a halo of candlelight, her plait of blonde hair flopped over her shoulder, searched the room. Her brown eyes were wide and wild. She spotted the book on the floor and Marcus in bed.

  “I thought you might have fallen.” Concern etched deep on her delicate features. Gold tendrils escaped her plait. If she’d slept at all, it was restlessly. With a candleholder in one hand, the other held her bed-gown closed at the neck with a sash tied at her waist. Maybe it was his boredom, maybe it was the book, but the sight of her closed up like a clam felt like a challenge.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He was sorry, even if his motives had shifted. He was still agitated, but he’d feel less so with her in his bed. Not this bed. This was a narrow, straw-filled nightmare. He wanted to waste the interminable hours before dawn exploring her body, curve by rounded curve.

  She had to go. Not that he could jump from the bed and take her in his arms, but he wasn’t opposed to asking. Come lie beside me, he wanted to say. The words pressed against his tongue. I’ll kiss you back this time.

  Being near his lascivious thoughts was no place for a respectable widow.

  “I see all is well. I should go.”

  She lingered.

  “I promise not to throw another book.”

  Her teeth raked across her lip. “Did it offend you? Was it the attack on Common Sense? I wasn’t sure if you’d find it amusing or insulting.”

  Marcus squinted at the spine across the floor. Impossible to read in the low light. As if that were the problem. “I never got that far.”