The Husband Plot Read online

  Lisbeth. Collapsed on the pavement with a turned ankle, perhaps. Caught in a building fire and crying out for help. Or worse – sliced by a footpad, or kidnapped for ransom, or squashed beneath the wheels of an errant carriage.

  He’d considered them all as he traced Suzy’s steps, his mind tumbling faster than his feet, and his heart the whole time in the background squeezing with a cold, terrible fright.

  In hindsight, the crisis had been much more in character of his wife.

  He should be angry, Adrian admonished himself as he watched the barouche carry Lisbeth safely toward Upper Norton Street. Someone could have witnessed Lisbeth’s tantrum. The watch could have come after all and trundled his wife through the shopping crowd like some sort of criminal. He should be seething, screaming, perhaps even annulling.

  Instead, he was grinning. Still. Even as he turned back to New Bond Street, and from there onto St James’s Place. He was grinning like some silly love-struck fool.

  Perhaps he should have taken a lover before marriage after all, so that he wouldn’t fall into such foolish puppy love over the first woman to kiss him.

  And now Lisbeth had kissed him twice.

  Adrian arrived to White’s all too soon. The gentleman’s club was the bastion for most of London’s fashionable men, their refuge from mothers, wives, and daughters. It frowned at the rest of the street with dark wood paneling and bowed, warped windows where dandies sat with their drinks, judging whomever passed by.

  It had once been one of London’s great coffeehouses, where servant and master alike could purchase a cup of Turkish coffee and talk as peers. The reign of Charles II had been tempered by merchants rumbling for their rights within coffeehouses; the great works of Alexander Pope and Joseph Addison had been sharpened by criticism of their peers at Button’s on Russell Street; White’s had simply been one of many, known primarily for attracting the fashionable set.

  But now it was just a club. An exclusive club that charged outrageous fees so one could hide from the world in smoky rooms and pretend that one had power.

  Adrian corrected himself: the men in the club did have power. What they pretended was that they used it responsibly.

  Needless to say, Adrian was not a member. He’d never spent enough time in London to seriously consider petitioning for membership, and even then, he wasn’t sure he would do it, knowing how easily he could be blackballed. He would surely never spend his time there, watching men who should be finding ways to lower the price of bread instead discuss how to spend their fortunes building another decorative folly on their country estates.

  Robert, however, did keep a membership, and it was because of him that Adrian could walk through the doors. Adrian nodded now to the butler and presented his card, as if the man didn’t recognize him. He waited the requisite five minutes, designed to make a man contemplate his inferiority from every angle, then followed the butler to the private room where Robert and the others were waiting.

  “Hathorne, we had just about given up on you!” Robert exclaimed by way of greeting, rising to clap Adrian’s shoulder and make room for him at the table.

  Adrian executed short bows to the other men, Lords Everly and Brabourne. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was unexpectedly delayed on my way.”

  “London grows more unpredictable every day,” Brabourne said, waving Adrian into a seat. He used an air of familiarity with Adrian, one that was both justified – because they had known each other their whole lives as neighboring Jamaican plantation families – and chilling.

  Of all the people Adrian would disappoint upon inheriting, he felt the least guilty for deceiving Lord Brabourne. In his most honest moments, he might even admit to himself he looked forward to going from Brabourne’s close ally to sworn enemy.

  But now was not that time. Today, he had to stay on his father’s mission to earn both Lord Everly and Lord Brabourne’s investments in Hathorne Shipping so they could expand to East Indian trade, as well.

  “We have all but settled everything,” Lord Everly said, his dark eyes resting on Adrian as if expecting a reaction. As if savoring a reaction. “By the by, I sent a note to Mr. Ricketts this morning relaying my expectation that he will hear your privilege bill. Once this business arrangement is settled and you have returned to Kingston, I imagine you will be the designated heir to all the Jamaican Hathorne fortunes.”

  “Good thing I have my own fortune this side of the Atlantic,” Robert joked.

  Adrian sat between Robert and Brabourne and accepted a glass of brandy from a passing footman. They didn’t require – no, they didn’t even desire – a response from him, so he only bowed his head obsequiously and stayed silent.

  The conversation descended into details of the partnership, derailed as always by Lord Everly pontificating on the best way to manage a brigade of ships and by Lord Brabourne complaining of how the world had changed in the last four years and by Robert making jokes that no one really appreciated. Adrian took careful notes in his journal so he could faithfully report on the conversation to his father in his next letter and otherwise stayed as quiet as possible.

  He had learned early on that Lords Everly and Brabourne considered Robert the only Hathorne necessary for negotiations.

  “One last detail,” Lord Brabourne said, when Robert started claiming another appointment. “In order to deliver our sugar commitment, we will need another ten hands. We cannot afford that investment at this point, so I would request that Inglewilde provide them.”

  Adrian’s heart skipped, but he steeled his every muscle not to react. He had two hundred and nineteen souls awaiting him at Inglewilde; he would not let a single one slip away.

  “Ah,” Robert said, catching Adrian’s stillness. “Does that need to be formalized? If you need extra hands at harvest, surely neighbors lend each other a hand as necessary.”

  “It is not only at harvest time. We need ten more hands permanently.” Brabourne’s blue eyes fairly glittered as they landed on Adrian. “Do we have a deal?”

  What was going unsaid was why Brabourne wanted them from Inglewilde; the Hathornes famously treated their slaves well, which meant they were healthier, happier, and lived longer. Adrian had always been proud of that, even bragged about it at school, until sometime around the age of twelve he realized they shouldn’t be enslaved at all.

  “I cannot commit to such an agreement without my father’s approval,” Adrian said slowly, spreading his lips in that odious complacent smile that these men seemed to expect. “I’m sure you can understand, my lord.”

  Brabourne flushed red to the top of his head. “It is not a large commitment. Only ten men of sound body.”

  “All the same, I am not at liberty to sell off even one man.” Adrian could feel Robert watching him, could practically hear his cousin trying to read his thoughts, but he focused only on remaining pleasant and frozen and calm.

  “Write to Hathorne, then,” Lord Everly said, leaning forward to resolve the issue. “We’ll hear back before you leave for Jamaica. Perhaps in the meantime, you’ll reconsider how firm a grasp your father has on your balls.”

  This he accompanied with a loud laugh, which Brabourne was quick to join in. Adrian chuckled, too, as if he didn’t understand that he was being admonished for even daring to speak at the meeting.

  “Speaking of which,” Everly continued, “Lady Everly is hosting a ball tomorrow night. Bring Mrs. Hathorne, won’t you? We can all play a round of faro and whisper sweet nothings into pretty ears.”

  Adrian blinked. He had never been to a private ball in London before, and he didn’t trust Lord Everly’s invitation as far as he could throw it. Yet he couldn’t see what trap the man was laying. He tried to measure his words, but it seemed the only answer was, “You are very kind. We shall look forward to it.”

  At least he could please Lisbeth with a night out.

  They said facetious farewells, and then Robert and Adrian left together. Robert strode silently for all of three steps before sayin
g, “What was all that about? You’ve negotiated far larger terms than the cost of ten men without needing your father’s approval.”

  Adrian glanced at his cousin. They had never discussed slavery, not once in all the years they had lived side by side. It had gotten to a point that Adrian was afraid to. There was nothing Robert could say that would not injure Adrian, not after they had both spent the last five years learning exactly how their family afforded fancy carriages and gilded windows.

  “He doesn’t need ten men,” Adrian said. “He’s lying to get a little bit more out of us. Maybe we’ll give him three, in the end, but certainly not ten.”

  “Ah.” For a moment, Robert glanced down, and Adrian almost thought he looked disappointed. Then he smiled, carefree and jovial again. “My cousin, the negotiator. Remind me never to be on the opposing side.”

  Adrian smiled, as best he could. But he was tired, and he felt a little singe of anger remaining across his skin.

  He wished he could go back to the bookshop, if only to be Lisbeth’s hero again.

  Thirteen

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lisbeth wished they weren’t committed to dining with her parents.

  She would far rather have a quiet evening with Adrian. They could order their supper served on trays in the upper sitting room by the fire and drink goblets of wine while laughing at the little man who had been so afraid to sell her a book. She could wear one of Aunt Vivienne’s gowns and let the cloth droop past her shoulders, showing more skin than was decent. She could steal another kiss, or maybe two or three, and watch Adrian’s eyes flare with a delicious sparkle.

  Alas, her parents expected them at Frampton Square. The plans had been set since before the wedding, almost as soon as the betrothal had been suggested. The newlywed couple would have three days to get to know each other, and then Lisbeth’s parents would see them to make sure their daughter was well.

  Adrian dressed carefully for the occasion, though it was perhaps only obvious to Lisbeth, who was learning his patterns. His waistcoat was a pale, sky blue to match her evening gown; his boots gleamed; and his jacket looked new, closely fitted to show off the muscles rippling down his arms.

  Lisbeth had never paid much attention to the muscles of a gentleman’s arm before. Now, however, all she could think was of those arms closing around her, making her feel as if she had the tiniest waist in the world.

  Lady Cecilia fell upon them as soon as Hobbes admitted them into the parlor. Pulling Lisbeth into a decidedly indecorous embrace, she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s ear and whispered, “Tell me you are happy.”

  When so ordered, it was easy to lie through the jumble that was Lisbeth’s feelings. “I’m happy,” Lisbeth whispered back.

  Lady Cecilia moved on to Adrian, clasping his hands in hers and beaming. “What a pleasure to have a new son to welcome home.”

  To all the world, Adrian looked cool and calm, not a muscle twitching in response to her mother. But Lisbeth could see from a little glimmer in his eyes that he was happy and surprised by Lady Cecilia’s greeting.

  Let him see, then, that not all of London was out to shame him.

  “I meant to keep this intimate among family,” Lady Cecilia said, leading them into the sitting room, “however Lord Dawes does insist on bringing fascinating people home to dinner. Tonight we are joined by a pair of painters, Mr. Nadin and Mr. Levi.”

  They were quickly introduced to the guests. Mr. Levi was all soft, round shapes, with gray hair flopping over a friendly face and brown eyes that seemed in perpetual apology. Mr. Nadin, on the other hand, was young, slim, and sharp angles. He spoke with a slight accent that Lisbeth couldn’t quite place until he explained he’d been raised in Calcutta. Suddenly both his speech and the faint brown hue of his skin made sense.

  Lisbeth liked them both immediately.

  Her eldest brother was there, too, and monopolized the conversation, asking after particulars of both men’s biographies, as if it mattered whether they had gone to any grammar schools or not. Adrian asked after their travels, which had taken them both to the Continent. Lisbeth ached to ask what they painted, how they chose what to paint, how long it took them to complete a painting, who they worshipped as the great masters of the art, whether light was as powerful off the canvas as it was on it.

  She waited her turn, which came when they moved to the table and she discovered her thoughtful mother had placed her between the two painters. Seeing her to the seat, Adrian smiled to the men, “I hope you are prepared for the delight of speaking to a true lover of fine art.”

  He might as well have stroked his finger across her bare neck; Lisbeth’s every nerve lit up at his words.

  Mr. Levi smiled. “There is no better dinner companion to have.”

  Adrian moved away, taking his seat between Lisbeth’s parents, and she tried to tamp down her reaction. She could feel her heart trying to cling to his every gesture, as if to prove to herself that he was as excited by her as she was by him. He had been so perfect all evening, but that didn’t mean anything other than that he was well-behaved at a dinner party.

  Mr. Levi painted portraits for a living, so he had a whole host of amusing stories about lords and ladies who couldn’t sit still. Mr. Nadin was more circumspect, but when he did speak, he spoke directly to Lisbeth’s heart about how he moved through the world as an artist, always seeing opportunities for paintings in the smallest moments, like a little boy eating an apple off the street or an old woman bending over the washing tub.

  “You must tell me how I can buy your paintings,” she said to the men as everyone stood to withdraw after the meal. “I aim to start a collection of my own, now that I’m married, and yours shall be my first purchases.”

  Her father raised an eyebrow. “I promised you gents a patroness, after all.”

  The gentlemen opted out of a full round of cigars on their own, so they soon rejoined Lisbeth and Lady Cecilia in the drawing room for after-dinner conversation. “The Marchioness of Leighstor told me she saw you shopping on New Bond Street today,” Lady Cecilia said to Lisbeth. “You were with someone she didn’t recognize.”

  “That was Miss Hathorne,” Lisbeth replied, hoping the lady in question hadn’t witnessed anything in the alleys off of New Bond Street. The Marchioness of Leighstor was an infamous gossip, especially when one dared to stray away from the strictest interpretations of polite behavior. “She was kind enough to invite me to join her.”

  “Ah. Are you quaking in your boots yet, Mr. Hathorne? Your sister and your wife are conspiring together.” Lady Cecilia twinkled this joke at Adrian.

  “It gives me great pleasure to see it,” he replied.

  “Did you stop in at Hatchard’s?” Lord Dawes asked Lisbeth. “They have a new edition of Ovid that I asked them to set aside for you.”

  “No, we didn’t get that far.” Lisbeth stole a glance at Adrian, who had his emotionless mask on, before adding, “We did come across Hartley’s. Have you heard of it?”

  Her father frowned. “Isn’t that a gentlemen’s club?”

  Her brother piped up, “A nasty one, at that. Full of the worst peers in England, if you ask me, all of them scheming how to get more money without doing a lick of good for anyone but themselves.”

  “I thought it was a bookstore, so I went in and tried to buy a book, but the man said he refused to sell to a woman. Can you believe such a thing?”

  The looks around the room answered a resounding, depressing yes.

  Mr. Nadin said, “I can believe such a thing, but I don’t believe that you would let that stop you from buying the book.”

  Lisbeth grinned. How wonderful to create such a reputation for herself after just one dinner conversation. Across the room, she thought she detected a quiver of something in Adrian’s expression, but she couldn’t tell if it was chagrin or something better. To Mr. Nadin she responded, “You’re quite right. In the end, I prevailed, and I have one more book in my library.”

  “Shall I ca
ll there tomorrow to mop up the blood of the poor soul you vanquished?” Lord Dawes smiled.

  “You may call there tomorrow to inform them of your displeasure, but I don’t believe you’ll find any souls within that store, living or not.”

  Lady Cecilia touched her fan to Adrian’s arm. “Only three days in, and I’m afraid you’ve discovered our secret about Lisbeth: she is absolutely tenacious.”

  Lisbeth’s heart tripped as all eyes turned to Adrian. Her tenacity was the one reason Adrian might agree to an annulment. And here her mother threw it in his face.

  Of course, Lisbeth realized at the moment Adrian smiled at her mother, he is performing as the perfect husband. How long had it been before she saw his first smile, and now he had it on for the world to see? It was no different than the reserve he usually wore: a disguise so the world would only see what they wanted. His eyes even danced across the room, as if to laugh with his wife, when he responded, “I beg to disagree, Madam. It took me only one day to discover, not three.”

  Lisbeth tried to match his performance with a throaty titter as the rest of the room laughed. But suddenly, she couldn’t focus on the people in front of her. Her mind got caught reliving every moment from the past day and night, guessing at what Adrian must have thought. When she declared herself an abolitionist; when he found her glaring down the shopkeeper at Hartley’s; when she lost herself in interrogating Mr. Nadin and Mr. Levi. She was the opposite of what Adrian could want in a wife. Rash, opinionated, and not afraid of scandal.

  Surely he must be realizing in this moment, just as she was, that the annulment wasn’t a solution for her. It was the only way he could live life the perfect, scandal-free way he wanted to.

  Lisbeth’s whole body went cold with the thought.

  The party broke up soon after that. Lisbeth stretched out her farewells—extracting promises form Mr. Nadin and Mr. Levi that they would call on her soon, slipping in a final chat about books with her father, clinging to her mother in another indecorous embrace—the better to delay facing Adrian.