Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

The five men stared at him, lips pursed together in identical expressions of dismay. No, not identical; they turned different colors, ranging from a pale green—that was Port-Morton—to Ellison’s bright red.

“That’s the wager,” Ned said equably. “Any man who seduces Lady Kathleen Carhart and delivers an undergarment as proof collects five thousand pounds.”

Dennis stared at the embroidered cloth. He stared at it for ten full seconds, in dull incomprehension. Finally, he looked up, his eyebrows a mass of confusion. “Carhart,” the man finally said, “you can’t seduce your own wife.”

Ned raised one eyebrow. “Oh? I’m dreadfully sorry to hear that, Dennis. How difficult that must be for you. I would say it was not very hard…but then, given your admission, perhaps that’s the problem, eh?” Ned shrugged apologetically. “You might be doing it wrong. There are physicians who can help with that, you realize.”

Even pond scum recognized when its masculinity was challenged. In fact, it was probably the only thing pond scum recognized. Dennis flushed and shook his head. “I have no notion what you’re talking about. No need for physicians here.” The man hunched, though, as if to protect his groin. “I suppose a man could seduce anyone’s wife. Including his own. All I meant was, it’s no fun if you do it.”

“No fun?” Ned shook his head ruefully. “You are definitely doing it wrong.”

Catcalls rose up at that, and Dennis turned an even brighter red.

“You don’t need five thousand pounds, Carhart,” Port-Morton put in. “What are you going to do with it, anyway?”

Ned shrugged. “I don’t know. Likely I’ll buy my wife something pretty.”

“Jewels?” Ellison asked. “As if she were a mistress? Good God, Carhart. What a waste. What a phenomenal waste.”

“Ellison,” Ned said, “I hate to repeat myself—but you are probably doing it wrong, too. And that, gentlemen, is why you all lost. And why, after three years away, I still won. Close the book on this one. The wager’s over and done.”

They stared up at him still, their eyes wide and unbelieving.

Ned let the smile on his face widen, and he leaned in. “Close the books, or next time it will cost you all a great deal more than money.”

Ellison shook his head, stupid to the end, and gestured next to him. “At least play a hand, give us a chance to win it back.”

Ned shook his head. “I have my wife to get home to.”

LONDON HAD BEEN a dizzying mixture of good and bad and confusing for Kate. The gossip about she and her husband had run high the first few days they had arrived, in no small part due to some stunt Ned had pulled at a gaming hell. But the discussion had been romantic—and it had served only to carry tales of how they spent their time to Harcroft’s ears. And oh, how those tales must have confused him. All of society was talking about how the couple had inquired into passage to France, particularly departing from Dover. Mr. Carhart had then shown a less than subtle interest in minute happenings in Ipswich.

There had been a hundred misdirections.

After the third day of it, Kate’s head pounded. After the fourth day, her entire body ached. Today, a week after they had begun their campaign of confusion, she had seen Harcroft for the first time. He had been in attendance at a party last evening. He’d seen Kate—and had glowered at her across the crowded room before turning away with a smirk.

Smirks, of course, were Harcroft’s peculiar speciality. If self-satisfied expressions had been coins, Harcroft would have generated enough currency to personally sustain the commerce of the entirety of the kingdom of Sardinia. One more shouldn’t have mattered. But this one had got under Kate’s skin. It stayed there, after she and Ned had left the glittering lights of the party behind them. She felt that unease even more now, the back-and-forth swaying of the carriage buffeting her to the point of nausea.

“He’s planning something,” she said aloud.

She didn’t need to say who he was. Next to her, Ned was a warm, solid mass. Their carriage rounded a corner and she lurched against him. He didn’t move, as if he were somehow strong enough to be immune to the effects of inertia.

“He’s started a proceeding in Chancery,” Ned said. “He has been quite secretive about it, of course. But I’ve managed to dredge up a few pieces of information. That, coupled with some comments he made to me when he believed I was in sympathy with him…” Ned sighed; she felt it in the movement of his chest against her shoulder, and she stared ahead into the darkness.

“Well, what does he intend?”

“This is speculation, mind. These sorts of proceedings are usually kept in the strictest of confidence. For reasons that will soon be obvious.”

“What is it, then?”

“I believe he’s filed a petition in Chancery to have Louisa declared a lunatic.” Kate gasped. “He said something about this to me before. At the time, I dismissed it as a token of his emotional overset. If his petition is successful, she won’t be able to testify—not for a divorce, nor in a criminal suit for spousal cruelty.”

Kate felt a chill creep into her, something colder even than the oncoming winter. “He means to flush her out, like a partridge. She’ll have to come to Chancery just to testify on her own behalf. If she doesn’t…”

“She’ll be held incompetent.” Ned set his hand on her knee. “Incompetents have no freedom. He’ll be able to lock her up. Any measures he takes after that, however stringent, will be seen as attempts to cure—or at least subdue—her mental infirmity. If he is made a trustee over her in lunacy, he’ll have even more control over her than a husband has over a wife.”

Kate put her fingers to her temples. “He’s tired of chasing down our little leads, and so he’s begun to attack instead. Well. That makes our course of action clear.”

“We need to communicate with Lady Harcroft, and ascertain her wishes,” Ned said.

“That.” Kate tapped her fingers to her temples. “And we might consider a little bit of an attack ourselves. I think we should talk to Chancery about his claim of lunacy.” She smiled, tightly. “Testify on Louisa’s behalf. And perhaps, I think, we should give the Chancellor some other petitions to consider.”

“Harcroft has some other plan, too,” Ned said. “I haven’t determined what it is yet, but don’t you worry. I’ll keep you safe—you and Lady Harcroft both.”

She nodded solemnly. “And who shall look out for you?”

He snorted, half amusement, half appalled consternation. “I didn’t realize I needed someone to look out for me.”

The Earl of Harcroft had proved vengeful, spiteful and not above using violence to get his way. Kate didn’t imagine the man spared much love for Ned—not after Ned had hurled him bodily across the hall.

“Of course you do.” Her hand slipped to his knee.

She had not realized that the knee could tense so. Yet his did, lifting underneath her hand as if he were unconsciously flexing his feet at her words. His bre

athing stopped.

“I’m not going to be a burden to you,” he growled out.

“A burden? Who said you would be a burden? I just want to help you.”

“I don’t want to be helped. I don’t need to be helped.” She could imagine the stubborn set of his chin as he spoke.

Slowly Kate pulled her hand away. She swallowed back the hurt that encompassed her. She’d thought he was different—that he saw beyond the delicacy of her appearance. That he saw her as strong enough to be trusted.

But of course. He’d taken her a week before, but since that first evening, he’d not spent the night with her again. Instead, he’d made his bed alone in that murderous cold. It was a silent way of pushing her away. He liked her well enough for a few hours, but not enough to trust with his secrets. Not even with something so simple as his sleep.

He took her hand. “No. This is not about you. You have to understand.”

But rather than explaining, he stopped again. Kate waited, wishing for patience.

He let out a breath. “You’re so strong. You can’t imagine.”

She wanted to pull away from him, wanted to curl about the hurt in herself. Instead, she drew in another measured breath. “I can try.”

He blew out a breath and shifted uncomfortably. “Sometimes—this thing happens to me.” He seemed to think that description adequate, because he sat slouched in the carriage next to her.

Heaven save her from uncommunicative men. “Thing is not a very specific word,” she prodded.

“It’s not a very specific…thing, you understand. I’ve never found words for it. It’s not exactly like madness, you see.”