Cressida's Dilemma

we wed. He was always too handsome for me—you remember we overheard Mrs. Dooley saying it at our engagement ball?”

Cressida knew Catherine’s wounding had been close to mortal all those years ago. Six, she recalled, wondering if by Catherine’s calculations, Cressida should consider herself lucky for having retained her husband’s loyalty for this long.

Shrugging, as if the matter were no longer of importance, Catherine went on, “James and now Justin are simply conforming to the prescribed role of husbands by doing what society condones within the limits of money and discretion and, like me, you should accept the situation and direct your energies toward the children. Though perhaps in your case—not wishing to criticize—I wonder if that is not at the root of your problem. You dote on those babies and seem to forget Justin has his needs, too. When were you last seen at his side?”

Cressida blinked like one dazed by blinding light. Catherine, whose lack of insight and sympathy was on a par with her lack of tactfulness, had come too close to the bone.

Seeming not to register Cressida’s stricken look, her cousin went on. “I mean, have you looked at yourself lately, Cressida? Yes, at twenty-six, you still have that girlish, sleepy-eyed charm that won him over, but must you appear quite so naïve after all those children? As I said, tonight is the first time you’ve torn yourself from the nursery to accompany Justin anywhere, and whom do you choose to masquerade as? A shepherdess, for God’s sake!”

Plucking the black lace of her own daring décolletage, Catherine straightened majestically. “Justin has been your loyal husband for all these years and he loves you. But if you want to win him back from the arms of Madame Zirelli—and yes, I have it on good authority that Madame Zirelli is his new mistress—you’d do yourself more favors parading as something less”—her lip curled—“insipid.”

Cressida had experienced Catherine’s propensity to lash out when she was feeling vulnerable. Not that this lessened her own devastation. “On whose good authority?” she whispered. “One of your snake-tongued society friends, or someone serving on the Home for Orphans committee?”

Catherine glared at the inherent criticism before saying, “If you must know, it was Annabelle Luscombe—”

“Annabelle!” Cressida’s hands flew to her face, and she had to force her knuckles into her mouth to stop the sob. “Annabelle wouldn’t say a word to injure anyone. What did she say about Justin?” With an effort, she pushed back her shoulders and directed a challenging look at her cousin. “That Justin had taken a mistress?”

Catherine had the grace to look ashamed. “Annabelle wasn’t gossiping, Cressida, and no, of course she didn’t say that.” She cleared her throat. “Well, not in so many words.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Catherine sighed. “I’d really rather not elaborate, Cressy. Clearly, you’ll just get upset and—”

“You’ve said too much already, Catherine. And I can see you’re dying to tell me.”

Catherine appeared to consider the situation. Then she shrugged. “Actually, the information came as quite a shock. I was in conversation with Annabelle, who was waxing lyrical over Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville when her husband, who is not known for his tact after three champagnes, joined us, saying he’d just left Justin, who was marveling over Madame Zirelli’s excellent rendering of Rosina’s part. When Reggie had gone, Annabelle looked shocked, asking if Justin hadn’t been known for his high regard for Madame Zirelli in the days before his marriage.”

Cressida was beginning to feel marginally better. Catherine was simply making wild suppositions. Relaxing, she managed a smile. “And that is the only basis for these cruel rumors and gossip? The fact that Justin has been praising another woman? For her singing?” Relief surged through her.

That was, until Catherine’s viper-direct response, “Surely you must know that Madame Zirelli was Justin’s mistress until five minutes before he married you?” Catherine’s shock was apparently unfeigned. For a moment, she simply stared at Cressida, as if she couldn’t believe her cousin could be so ignorant. Then a sly look crossed her face. “Oh, my poor Cressida,” she whispered. “How awful to be the last to know what is common knowledge. And how I wish it had not fallen to me to tell you the sordid details.”

Cressida put up at hand, as if to ward off the evil she knew was about to pour from Catherine’s insincere lips. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to know. “What Justin did before we were married is of no account—”

“But don’t you see? Justin all but admitted that once again, he’s been consorting with Madame Zirelli through his remark about having so recently enjoyed her voice.” Catherine cleared her throat as she settled back against the squabs, the self-satisfaction upon her face a look with which Cressida was painfully familiar. Catherine not only liked to deliver her barbs like a skilled marksman, she savored the kill. She clicked her tongue, adding in an undertone, “And let us hope that’s all he was enjoying when he paid a visit to Mrs. Plumb’s notorious salon.”

“That’s…that’s just cruel,” Cressida managed faintly, her mind consumed with images too dreadful to dwell on for more than a moment. But she couldn’t help herself for all that she’d promised herself only seconds before to turn a blind eye. “Who is this Madame Plumb? Why would Justin visit such an establishment?”

Catherine fanned herself and adopted an air of nonchalance, as if what she was about to say was of no account. “You really don’t know? Well, I am surprised, for Madame Plumb was notorious in her day and continued to cause scandal when most scarlet women would have been content to fade into obscurity.” She leaned forward, locking her eyes upon Cressida’s. “My poor cousin, it pains me to say it, but Mrs. Plumb was an opera singer and actress before Lord Layton set her up. She and Madame Zirelli are great friends, and after Lord Layton moved on, and with Mrs. Plumb’s looks too faded to snare another of his ilk, she’s now set up a house, where she’s invited Madame Zirelli to live, and which has become famous for its Wednesday salons. People attend in masquerade, supposedly to listen to the music, but really it’s just a meeting place for—” She stopped at Cressida’s gasp, saying instead, in gentler tones, “It seems Justin has been a regular patron of Madame Plumb’s, and in view of his…close relationship…with Madame Zirelli, one can only assume the reason for his visits.”

“Justin loves music,” Cressida said, dully, trying to equate Justin sneaking off in masquerade to some house of ill repute after bidding her his standard, tender farewell for the evening. She forced herself to remain calm, her fingernails biting into her palms as she whispered, “I can’t believe, though, that Annabelle would condone anything that suggested that Justin were being”—she gulped the word—“unfaithful. Annabelle is so—”

“Kind?” Catherine supplied, her tone sharp at Cressida’s implication that she was not. “Perhaps she was distracted, for she has had much to occupy her with organizing her sister- in-law’s wedding—Madeleine Hardwicke, if you recall…the dark, Castilian-looking creature who looked so down in the mouth when you congratulated her on her impending marriage to Lord Slitherton this evening. You remarked upon her unusual looks when she came out last year.”

“Yes, a handsome girl. Poor Miss Hardwicke,” Cressida murmured, distracted for the moment. “Lord Slitherton is old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Well, her father, at any rate. But he’s rich and titled, and that’s all that counts. All men—even those who are handsome or loving at the start—” Catherine added, pointedly, “—stray. Oh my goodness, Cressy, you’ve snapped your fan!”

It was all Cressida could do not to slap her cousin with the poor, destroyed ivory accessory Justin had given her for her last birthday. Instead, she muttered, ignoring the feigned concern over her fan, “Not Justin.”

“Oh, he’ll deny it.” Catherine sounded as if she had much experience of such exchanges. “You must make the most of his discomfort, though. I suggest you order three fine, expensive gowns, confront him with everything you’ve heard, then present him with the bill. I promise you, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”

Cressida said nothing. That was not how she intended approaching matters. Though just exactly what she planned to do, she wasn’t quite sure. Quitting the carriage and putting as much distance as she could between herself and her poisonous cousin was a good start, though.

Changing the subject was the second best alternative. “I’m sorry for Miss Hardwicke. She and Mr. Pendleton looked so in love, and Justin was saying only the other day that he’d marked Mr. Pendleton out for great things. That is, once the young man’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. Apparently, he’s very clever.”

“That might be, but he has no money.” Catherine sniffed as if that sealed the matter. “Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year and, as Miss Hardwicke’s mother is very ill and wants to see her only daughter settled, she’s obviously prepared to overlook Lord Slitherton’s age, just as she’s overlooked Mr. Pendleton’s candidacy on account of his impecuniousness. You forget how lucky you were, Cressy, that you were able to follow your heart, marry money and that you retained your husband’s interest for so long.” Her tone dripped false sympathy. “Just because Justin has taken a mistress doesn’t mean you are less to him than you ever were. He just wants more. Like most men.”

Cressida glared at her cousin while nevertheless resorting to her handkerchief to dab her eyes. There were still another few minutes to endure in the carriage together, so she might as well be as armed with as much information as Catherine knew or suspected. Surely the more Catherine said, the greater the chance Cressida had of finding a hole in her theory. Justin would never take a mistress. Not if he loved Cressida. “Tell me about this Madame Zirelli. I’ve never heard of her.” She was encou