Page 13 of Marry in Secret
Thomas had been given no opportunity to speak with Rose. She’d been hustled away in a carriage by the Rutherford ladies. Lord Ashendon had declared that they—meaning he, Thomas and the third gentleman, who seemed to be some sort of family connection—would follow on foot.
In other words, he wanted to interrogate Thomas in private, without Rose or any of the other ladies present. Or perhaps to dispose of him down a dark alley, Thomas thought grimly. He could try.
Ollie scribbled on the back of another card and handed it to Thomas. “M’lodgings, Thomas. Welcome to stay until you get something sorted out.”
Thomas thanked him. He hadn’t given any thought as to where he might sleep the night. Everything had happened in such a rush.
Ollie hailed a passing hackney and climbed nimbly into it.
Thomas watched him leave. Ollie, at least, hadn’t let him down.
Thomas hadn’t expected to find Rose the day he arrived. His immediate concern had been to make his official report to the navy, make arrangements for the return of his men and then set out to find her. He’d expected to go to Bath, where he’d left her, presumably in the house of her aunt. The nice one.
Apparently women didn’t stay where you put them.
“This way,” Ashendon said, and they began to walk. It was spring, and a fine, cloudless day, but the pallid sun barely warmed Thomas’s skin. Hard to believe it was the same sun, the harsh, pitiless orb under which he’d toiled for the past four years.
He’d thought of Rose every single day.
Had she thought of him? He had to wonder, now.
He’d expected his first day back in England to be one of surprise, but also of welcome, of celebration; instead the day had been one shock after another. Bad enough that the navy had kept insisting he must be dead because their records said so, but not only did Rose also think he was dead—she’d never told a soul she’d even been his wife.
And yet his uncle and his cousinknewhe was alive, knew he’d survived the shipwreck and had made it to what passed for civilization in that part of the world. They’d made no effort to bring him home—worse, they’d denied all knowledge of his very existence, he had no idea why—and in doing so had condemned him to an unimaginably brutal existence.
But that was a betrayal he’d confront another day. Revenge, they said, was a dish best served cold. He’d had four years to prepare for that.
Today was all about Rose, the woman who’d put Thomas behind her to marry a duke.
He’d imagined a joyful reunion. He’d expected her to throw herself into his arms. Instead she’d pushed at hischest and asked to be put down. And had said barely a word since.
One more illusion shattered.
Ashendon’s sidelong glance was knowing. “Having second thoughts, Beresford? Regrets, already? Because you can leave now if you wish.”
Thomas gave him a hard look. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They turned a corner and crossed a busy street lined with prosperous-looking shops. He was aware of Ashendon’s continued sidelong scrutiny, the suspicion, the waves of silent hostility emanating from him.
Thomas didn’t much like the man, but he couldn’t entirely blame him for his hostility. He’d feel much the same if some scruffy fellow had appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be married to his beautiful sister—a marriage he’d never heard of until today.
If that was even true.
Marriage to a duke was nothing to be sneezed at; it would be a social and economic coup, even for the daughter of an earl.
“You really didn’t know? She never told you?” He knew he was repeating himself but he still couldn’t make sense of it.
“About this so-called marriage? No, not a word. And she still hasn’t confirmed it to my satisfaction. That nod could have meant anything. So we’ve only got your word that it took place at all.”
And Ollie’s, but Thomas had no intention of arguing his case. He knew he was married. He knew why they’d married in secret. The question was, why was it still a secret?
They walked on.
“I’ll give you a hundred pounds to disappear,” Ashendon said.
Thomas stiffened but kept walking. He wasn’t even going to dignify that with a response—no, on second thoughts he would. He gave a contemptuous snort. “Is that all?”
Now it was Ashendon’s turn to stiffen.
