Chapter Three #2
Not that she knew he was to become her husband then—he was just an old man who was a friend of Papa’s. She didn’t much like the way he stroked her hand and sat rather too close. And his breath stank. But she’d learned to be polite and to hide her discomfort.
The day Papa informed her, with tears in his eyes, that bad men were after him, threatening to kill him—slowly and painfully—unless he could pay them the money he owed, she’d been so distressed and frightened on his behalf.
Foolish, gullible child.
And then a few days later, after she’d lain awake through several nights, tossing and turning, conjuring up schemes to save him—wild, impossible schemes—he’d come to her and told her that old Lord Holgrave was willing to give him the money that would save his life. She’d been so relieved. Even grateful.
Until she heard Lord Holgrave’s condition for the gift.
Marriage.
The thought had horrified her, and she’d refused and refused. But Papa and Edgar were adamant: if she didn’t marry Lord Holgrave, her father would be murdered. Violently and painfully. What sort of daughter would put her own silly, childish female preferences before her father’s life?
And so she’d gritted her teeth and done it.
And it had not been so very dreadful. He hadn’t beaten her, at least. She’d learned to endure the marriage bed, and apart from that, Lord Holgrave had been an indulgent husband, buying her jewels and other pretty baubles, treating her like a little doll.
Not that she cared for such things. Papa usually took the jewels for safekeeping, saying she was a careless chit—which she had to admit she was. She had no interest in jewels.
Then Papa had collapsed and died in bed—no bad men involved—and from then on, Edgar had looked after her jewels for her. And not long after Papa’s death, Lord Holgrave had died, and she’d thought she was free, at last.
But then the bad men came after Edgar, and marriage to another wealthy old man was his solution. She’d refused, of course—once was enough—and she’d felt so guilty, because she didn’t love Edgar the way she’d loved Papa.
But somehow—she still wasn’t clear quite how it had happened—she’d found herself married to Lord Hewitt.
What was that expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
She’d even been about to fall for the lies a third time. So what did that make her? A stupid, naive, trusting fool. Worse.
Well, no longer. The scales had well and truly fallen from her eyes now, and she wasn’t shamed—she was furious. And the moment Edgar returned, she was going to confront him.
#
“DID YOU ENJOY YOUR house party?” Tessa asked her brother shortly after he’d arrived home. They were seated in the drawing room. She was sipping tea, he, brandy.
“Yes, it was very pleasant. Now, I was speaking to Sir Henry Lester and—”
She cut him off. “Lose much money?”
He shrugged indifferently. “Won some, lost some. Now about Sir Henry—”
She could tell from his expression that the losses greatly outweighed the wins. Had he come away flush with his winnings, he’d be crowing about it.
“No bad men confronting you about your debts?”
“No, what bad—Oh, them. No, thankfully they’ve agreed to wait until after your wedding.”
“In that case, they’ll be waiting forever,” she said calmly. Inside she was fuming. He hadn’t even bothered to get his story straight—that it was the mortgages needing to be paid, not bad men after his gambling debts.
He caught himself up. “Besides, it’s not my debts that are the problem, remember? It’s the mortgage arrears. And the mortgage holder is pushing very hard for payment.”
“No he’s not.”
His brows snapped together. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“There is no mortgage on Ferndale.”
“There damned well is. I should know. What does a chit like you know about mortgages anyway?” His tone was an uneasy mix of cajolery and contempt.
“Not a lot,” she said. Though that would change. Never again would she trust her security to her brother—or to any man.
“Exactly. You have no idea—”
She continued, “But I do know that when you’ve sold a property you no longer have a mortgage to pay.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘sold a property’?”
“Don’t bother denying it, Edgar. Ferndale was sold two years ago.”
“Who told you that piece of nonsense?” he blustered. “I tell you—”
“I’ve been there.”
His jaw dropped. “You’ve—”
“Been there, yes, to Ferndale. While you were away. Seen it with my very own eyes, seen how money has been poured into it to bring it back to—”
“Well of course, I authorized repairs.”
She snorted. “You’ve never spent a penny on Ferndale, so don’t lie to me. Neither you, nor Papa, for as long as I’ve been alive.”
He opened his mouth to argue, and she added, “Besides I’ve met the people living there now—which they have for the last two years.”
He stared at her. She could see he was trying to come up with a story to placate her. Another set of lies he would expect her to tamely swallow.
But she wasn’t the naive fool she had been.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t bother, Edgar.
You’ve been lying to me all along, I know that now.
Papa too, I have no doubt,” she added bitterly.
“So there will be no more marriages to wealthy old men for me, no more marriages at all, in fact. From now on, brother dear, you and your debts are on your own.”
He drained his glass of brandy, poured himself another one, drank it down in one go and leaned back in his chair, eyeing her with a brooding expression.
“There’s no need to look so smug, sister dear. My problems are your problems.”
“Not any more.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Believe that if you like. But I ask you— what do you intend to do? Because unless you marry Sir Henry Lester, you’ll be destitute.”
She frowned.
Edgar continued. “We are behind in the rent on this house—if we don’t pay up by the end of the month, we’ll be out in the street. And you needn’t look at me like that—I don’t have any money—not a bean. As you so rightly pointed out, all I have are debts.”
“What about my jewels?” she asked hopelessly, knowing better.
He huffed a laugh. “Sold ten minutes after you handed them over.”
She’d guessed as much. “Lord Hewitt left me a substantial sum—I know it is true because he told me.” It was her last hope.
Edgar shook his head. “By the time Hewitt breathed his last he had barely a penny to leave. And we—all right, I then—sold everything after his death, and if you’re thinking there’s money left over, I can assure you there isn’t, not so much as a groat.”
Her stomach sank. “You stripped him of everything?”
“Indeed.” Edgar inclined his head in ironic assent. “So you see, you haven’t a choice. It’s Sir Henry Lester or debtors’ prison. Think about it, my pretty sister—do you really want your next address to be ‘care of The Marshalsea’?”
She shuddered. She didn’t know much about The Marshalsea except that it was a notorious prison for debtors. “I won’t marry Sir Henry, and I won’t be going to The Marshalsea,” she told her brother.
He gave a cynical snort. “How are you going to support yourself then? Sell yourself in the streets? Because you haven’t a penny to your name and believe me, if you don’t marry Sir Henry, it will come to that.”
She could tell from his expression that he believed she still had no choice but to fall in with his plans. She didn’t know what she could do—yet—but she’d think of something.
She rose from her chair. “I suggest instead of concerning yourself with my future, you give some thought to how you will support yourself. For the first time in your life.”
He rose, and came toward her with an ugly look on his face. “You will marry Sir Henry Lester, if I have to drag you to the altar!”
“You wouldn’t dare! And anyway, I would refuse! You cannot force me. Or trick me. I’m not a child any longer.”
“You said that about marrying Hewitt, remember? And yet you did, despite your little brainstorm.” He gave a nasty laugh. “So save your arguments, little sister—you’ll marry whoever I tell you to.”
Tessa stared at him, frustrated and angry. She did remember the arguments, and refusing to marry Lord Hewitt . . .
She’d never understood how it happened. She had no memory of the wedding—the loss was the result of a brainstorm, the doctor had told her.
But she was irrevocably married—they even showed her the marriage certificate with her own signature—shaky but definitely hers—and she’d had no choice but to accept it.
Edgar sat there smirking.
“You are despicable! And I still refuse.”
“How will you support yourself then?” Edgar sneered. “Become a courtesan? Sell your lush little body at Covent Garden?” She gasped, but he went on, his voice harsh, “Because that’s all you’re fit for. At least with marriage you’ll have security.”
“Oh yes, I can see that,” she said sarcastically.
“That’s why I’ve made two marriages and have not a penny to my name—and now even my own home is lost to me!
” Furious, shaking with helpless rage, and feeling her eyes prickling with tears—which she refused to let him see—she swept out the door, brushing past Mrs Thracknell, who was loitering outside, doubtless waiting to report Tessa’s unsanctioned absence to Edgar at the earliest opportunity.
Good luck with that, Tessa thought as she ran up the stairs to her bedchamber. No point shutting the stable door after the horse was out, and Tessa was well and truly out from under Edgar’s thumb—mentally, at least. She had her own future to consider now.
She threw herself onto her bed, shaking.
Any feeling of triumph at her rebellion had drained away after that last exchange.
That comment about her brainstorm had rattled her.
Edgar sounded so sure that a wedding to Sir Henry would happen, quite as if her strongest objections were irrelevant—even mildly amusing. It was more than unsettling.