A Suspicious Affair by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online

years of their marriage to cut her off without a farthing if she proved to be barren. But they would manage, Marisol swore. She, Aunt Tess, and the little girl could live in a cottage somewhere on the sale of Marisol’s jewels, those that were not entailed, of course. Arvid had been intent on his duchess presenting the right impression to the ton; she had no say in their selection or when he took which piece from the vault for her to wear, but the gems were hers. If the income was not enough to purchase a pair of colors for Foster, she’d have to let him enlist as a common soldier. That was what he’d begged for this past year, when they both realized Arvid was not going to fulfill his promise. Serving on the line was more dangerous, and beneath the dignity of the Marquis of Laughton, but Foster was brave enough and dedicated enough to rise through the ranks on his own merits. Others had made their own successful careers this harder way. Foster would have to; Marisol vowed that she would not sell herself again.
    Arvid was dead. She tried not to think of what he looked like when they carried him in, all the blood and gore. She recalled instead how he appeared when she first met him, an older, sophisticated man-about-town to her wide-eyed debutante naiveté. He offered a fortune, one of the highest positions in the land outside of royalty, and security—everything people told her she wanted in a husband. That wasn’t quite all Marisol had wanted in a husband, in fact, but those same people told Marisol she’d be a fool to look any further than the polished and poised duke.
    He was patient, he was gratifyingly attentive, and she had no choice.
    Why hadn’t
they
told her he was arrogant and cruel, petty and dishonorable? Likely because she had no choice.
    Arvid planned the wedding; Arvid selected her gown, her attendants, and her lady’s maid. Marisol had not been permitted to make an important decision on her own since her “I do” in church three years ago, until her “I am going home” speech yesterday. And deciding to wear her hair loose today. No man would ever have that power over her again, she vowed. No man would demean her, abuse her, or threaten her family. Arvid really was dead.
    *
    Luncheon was a strained affair, and not just because of the empty chair at the head of the table. Arvid’s brother took a step toward it, and Marisol’s brother growled. Boynton inspected Foster’s thrown-together ensemble and carelessly tied neckcloth through his quizzing glass and offered to recommend a tailor. At which Foster offered to rearrange Boynton’s nose. At which Aunt Tess kicked her nephew under the table and hissed: “You gossoon, he might just be the next duke.”
    At which Marisol asked Mr. Dimm if he had any luck with the papers in the safe.
    Jeremiah put down his spoon. Turtle soup, by George! Wait till he told his sister Cora. “You was right about them gaming slips, Your Grace. His Grace held vouchers from half the gentlemen in London, looks like. Thing is, most times a swell can’t pay his bets he puts a hole through his own brain, not someone else’s.”
    “That’s called honor, my dear sir,” Boynton drawled.
    “How would you know?” Foster demanded from across the table.
    “But you are going to investigate the names, aren’t you?” Marisol wanted to know,
and
wanted to distract her two other male guests. Aunt Tess had recovered sufficiently from her nervous indisposition to join them for the meal, but she was too busy feeding Max tidbits under the table to be of much help, if she even heard.
    Dimm swallowed a mouthful of something that looked like a tadpole swimming upstream through a sea of white paste. Not bad. He thought of the miles he’d have to cover to interview half the names on his list. Not good. “Yes, Your Grace, me or my associates will go have a chat with all of them. Except the prime minister, I reckon.”
    “Good grief, never tell me he owed Arvid money!”
    Jeremiah