His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Read online

  “What is that?” asked Oswald, though he did not move a muscle from where he lay.

  “Come for the missus,” said Meldon before correcting himself. “Her ladyship.”

  “For me?” Fenella struggled to disentangle herself and sit up. Oswald Vawdrey made a disgruntled noise, which she ignored.

  “There be a letter too,” said Meldon throwing an opened letter onto the bed.

  Fenella turned it over to see it addressed to Lady F. Thane. The seal which was Ambrose's stag had been broken. She frowned and then opened out the letter which she realized at once was from Orla.

  “Tis from my sister-in-law,” she said slowly.

  “No, it isn't,” said Oswald finally rising from the bed and straightening up to walk toward the hot water pitcher. Fen kept her eyes riveted on the vellum sheet. She would never get used to his casual nudity. “That is not the Cadwallader crest.”

  “Cadwallader crest?”" she repeated in confusion and then broke off. “Oh.” He was referring to the fact her sister-in-law was now the Duchess of Cadwallader. “I meant, it is from my friend Orla Thane,” she corrected herself swiftly. “She writes that she has packed up my clothes, jewelry and personal effects for their own safety, as she noticed that my document chest and dog had both disappeared off the premises. Oh dear,” she said lowering the missive. “I did wonder if Orla might worry when she noticed Bors had gone. I asked her to take particular care of him, you see.”

  Oswald shook the water out of his eyes and reached for one of his dressing robes. The peacock blue one this time. “Well, now we know how your pearls ended up around the wrong throat,” he commented dryly. At her confused look, he gestured to the letter. “The package must have been delivered by mistake to the current Lady Thane.”

  Fen dropped her letter with an exclamation. “And she rifled through my things!” she said indignantly. “And took out what she wanted for herself! Well!” She jumped down from the bed and ran to the pack of clothes which she started unfastening. “At least I will have something to wear at any rate,” she said cheerfully. Oswald sauntered closer and grimaced as she pulled an old grey gown from the pack. “I use this one when tending to my herb garden,” she said quickly.

  “You cannot wear any of these at court, Fenella,” he said firmly.

  “Oh but-!”

  “They are strictly to be worn within the confines of these rooms, though I must confess I would rather you did not.” He eyed a shabby green woolen underdress with disfavor. In truth, it had seen better days but was still serviceable and warm.

  “I was hoping to take Bors for a walk today with Lady Schaeffer,” she said hurriedly. “It has been days since I've had any fresh air, Bors needs walking and I have not been able to check on my horse.”

  “Roland has been walking Bors. And the royal stables will be adequately providing for your steed.”

  Fen's face fell.

  Oswald came over and crouched down beside her, taking her hands in his. “Fenella, if you went abroad in these garments everyone would assume you were Lady Schaeffer's maid. What you fail to understand is that ladies at court are forever parading their wealth and standing.”

  “But surely Lady Schaeffer would not judge me so? She seemed a sensible lady of mature years.”

  “Lady Schaeffer would meet you in furs,” he told her. “She would be most shocked indeed if you showed up in a threadbare gown and a patched cloak.”

  Fen's face flamed. “Sir Ambrose had been away from home these two years past,” she said stiltedly. “I have not felt at liberty to refurbish my garments while I was running the estate.”

  Oswald Vawdrey's fingers tightened over hers. “You are my wife, Fenella. It is my right to provide for you.” He released her hands and glanced disparagingly at the pile of clothes. “If I had my way, these things would be burned.”

  “Burned?” blurted Fen in alarm. “That would be most wasteful,”" she added. “There is still plenty of wear to be had from them. Perhaps I could give them to Meldon's god-daughter?”

  “Who?” Oswald looked completely bewildered for the first time since she'd met him. He straightened up and held his hand out to her to pull her to her feet.

  “Meldon has recommended his god-daughter for my maid,”" she explained as she took his hand. He pulled her upright. “She is married to a cooper and lives in Aphrany.”

  Oswald shook his head slightly. “Someone actually chose Meldon to watch over their child's well-being?” he said. “It almost beggars belief.”

  “Apparently she is thirty or thereabouts and a good capable girl who has held several positions through her life,” rattled off Fenella efficiently. “Shall I look to engage her?” She paused before adding reasonably: “The fact is, if we tried to introduce another maid to your household, Meldon would be sure to take umbrage.”

  “You may have something there,” agreed Oswald with a grimace. “We can only hope she is not related to him by blood.”

  Fen tried to imagine a female version of Meldon and failed. She shook herself. “I said I would give her a trial, so I will tell Meldon you are in agreement.”

  “For your sake, I hope she is satisfactory,” he said, then paused. “Was there anything else? In the letter?”

  Fen looked down at the page of handwriting she still held in her hand. “Orla says she has not yet heard from her brother, but expects to daily. She hopes I am well, and is sure the servants are slacking off as she does not know the plan for preserving the autumn fruits.”

  She looked back to Oswald. “Orla does not take much interest in the running of the Thurrold,” she explained. “She and Cook do not get along either.” Instantly, she felt foolish for confiding as such in Lord Vawdrey. Doubtless he would have little interest in anything so trivial.

  “I see,” he said not looking unduly disgusted, nor overly interested either. “I expect Miss Thane will receive the letter you wrote her any day now, which will explain the change in your circumstances.”

  Fen's expression brightened. “That is true,” she agreed.

  “I will see if I can procure you a cloak,” said Oswald. “Perhaps, if it is sufficiently grand, you could get away with wearing that dress,” he pointed at her very best blue houppelande gown. “Underneath it for your walk. I make no promises however.”

  Fen clasped her hands together. “That would be wonderful,” she breathed. He was heading toward the bedroom door, no doubt to break his fast. For some reason, the sight of him walking away emboldened her to add: “Will you ask Lady Sumner for the loan of a cloak?”

  He paused and looked back over his shoulder with a faint frown. “Is there any reason I should not?”

  “No,” she admitted, twisting her hands. She wasn't even sure why she'd asked. Suddenly it had seemed imperative to know. “It is just, to inconvenience her twice in as many days…” her words trailed off.

  “I'm sure she has a chest stuffed full of cloaks,” replied Oswald.

  “You must be very good friends,” she added lamely.

  “I thought I told you last night, that she was an acquaintance at best.”

  “Oh yes, so you did,” she said brightly.

  “Put on a robe Fenella and join me next door for breakfast,” Oswald said firmly and left the room.

  **

  Oswald arrived in his study some half hour later, feeling decidedly out of sorts. He dashed off a request to Lady Anne Sumner for the loan of a cloak and sent Bryce to deliver it. His assistant gave him a very old-fashioned look when he saw the name on the note.

  “Yes Bryce, you have some comment to make?” asked Oswald testily.

  Bryce sucked in his cheeks. “It's not my place to say, sir.”

  “Bryce, you are aware are you not, that Lady Anne Sumner is in my employ.”

  Bryce bridled. “I am aware of it, my lord,” he conceded.

  Oswald laid down his pen. “Yet you seem to act as though, the fact I am now a married man means I can no longer have a correspondence with my employee
?”

  Bryce sniffed and Oswald regarded him with exasperation. “Just deliver the note, Bryce.” And consider yourself fortunate I do not have the time presently to devote to finding you a replacement! he thought grimly. He could almost forgive Edwards, his predecessor for his act of near-treason, but he would never forgive him for saddling him with Bryce in his stead!

  Bryce shut the door behind him and Oswald sat in thought a moment before making a sudden decision. Pulling out the chain from his tunic that he wore around his neck, he selected a key and unlocked one of the drawers in his desk, retrieving a bundle of letters which had been laboriously copied from Fenella's correspondence during the journey his two agents had taken back from Sitchmarsh. Swiftly untying the string they were bound up with, he smoothed out the pages. Then he picked up the one on the top dated two years ago, settled back in his seat and began to read.

  It was about an hour later that a knock at the door interrupted him and Lady Anne Sumner slipped through it carrying a burgundy cloak over her arm, trimmed with grey fur. She held it up by way of welcome and then draped it over the back of one of his seats.

  “You are very kind,” said Oswald. “But I did not intend for you to bring it in person.”

  “It was no trouble,” said Lady Anne approaching his desk. “Besides, I did not want to give Jenny another opportunity to gossip. That girl is becoming quite incorrigible.” She gave him a sidelong look and Oswald wondered if she suspected that Jenny was also in his employ these days. After all, spies were needed in the servants quarters as well as the banqueting halls.

  “Quite,” he answered. “Though sometimes I wish Bryce would take the trouble to indulge in a little gossip. He would be so much more useful to me then.”

  “I think you will find that Bryce is not the gossiping type,” said Lady Anne. “But then, that is why you employed him after all.”

  “True enough,” agreed Oswald, wondering when she was going to get to the point of her visit. Lady Anne was flitting about his bookshelves now. Clearly she had something she wished to share, but Oswald found himself itching to get back to Fenella's letters. He had reached a crucial part where Ambrose was devoting page after page to a slight cold he had contracted and was bemoaning the inhospitable northern weather for prolonging his suffering. He found there was a sort of horrible fascination to reading Ambrose Thane's private letters to his wife. They were as dry and dusty as if he was writing to his housekeeper. The main body was taken up with complaints about his position as a junior ambassador and the lack of respect with which he felt he was being treated. He perceived slights in the most innocuous of utterings and took umbrage at the drop of a hat. It seemed he expected his wife to enter into his petty feuds, as he spent several paragraphs berating her for suggesting various people meant no insult or harm. His second favorite topic was haranguing her over the accounts she sent him of the household spending. He suspected she was not using the cheapest candles available merely because she did not like the smell of them and he did not think the fact they made her eyes water when she tried to read at night to be a valid argument. With the master away, he saw no need for the household to indulge in roasted meats or pastries. He thought the cook should manage without a full kitchen staff and the same went for the buttery. In fact, he pulled her up with some criticism of almost every line of her inventory. From scanning the dates, it seemed poor Fenella was expected to write to him every month with a full account of the household monies. And she had done this for no less than two years. In fact, Oswald was deriving considerable satisfaction from finding that Ambrose Thane was the most tiresome sort of husband possible. He was a whiner and a tight-fisted domestic tyrant. Only a strong sense of duty could induce a wife to love such a man. And he had sent her no scrap of affection, no word of written praise or encouragement in the whole time he had been away, that Oswald could see. Of course, he only had sight of one side of the correspondence, but it was hard to imagine such letters could inspire much by way of spousal devotion.

  “Someone brings you glad tidings,” said Lady Anne, interrupting his thoughts. She had rounded his desk and was peering archly at the bundle of letters.

  Oswald swept them into his top drawer. “There is something I can help you with, Lady Sumner?” he asked politely.

  She sat in the seat opposite him with a charming smile. “It is rather something that I can do for you, my dear Lord Vawdrey,” she replied.

  He looked at her expectantly. “You are planning a trip, perhaps?”" he prompted. “You mentioned the possibility of travel to your husband's northern estates?”

  She waved a hand airily. “Oh, I have no immediate plans for that,” she said dismissively. “No, it is here at court that I thought to be of service.”

  Oswald's eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

  “With your wife, the Countess Vawdrey. You are doubtless far too busy to introduce her around and about. See that she cultivates the right friendships, that sort of thing. But I, on the other hand, can devote the time to make sure she meets the right sort of people. Take her under my wing, so to speak.”

  Oswald felt himself stiffen. “You are too kind,” he said. “But I will not be too busy to introduce my countess to the company she needs to keep.”

  Lady Anne hesitated and traced a finger across the desktop. “She seems a very sweet, wholesome sort of girl. Wholly unspoiled.”

  “She is twenty-six years of age,” said Oswald dryly. He could tell that Lady Sumner was trying to say Fenella was hopelessly unsophisticated. And while she might have a point, it irritated him that she was making it.

  “The poor dear must have been simply crushed after last night,” began Lady Anne again. “She will need the comfort of friends to cushion her from the consequences of such a social mis-step.”

  “She has her husband to comfort her,” said Oswald brusquely. “And I trust I perform that function adequately. As for friends, I do not doubt that Fenella is equipped to make her own, without an employee of mine fulfilling that function.”

  Lady Anne's face tightened. “You misunderstand, my lord. I did not offer in the role of employee.”

  Oswald looked up at her steadily. “But you have no other role to me, Lady Sumner.”

  She gasped faintly at his bluntness and rose from her seat. “I see I am decidedly in the way this morning. I will take my leave of you now, Lord Vawdrey.” she said, “I hope your wife will find the cloak warm.” With only the shallowest of curtseys, she whirled around to make her exit.

  Oswald stared at the door as it shut behind her. In truth, he was not quite sure why he had been so abrupt with Lady Sumner. She was a very useful person to him at court, and it seemed unlikely he had been rude to her simply because he felt an implied insult toward his wife! He rubbed the side of his jaw and considered this a moment. Up until now, he had imagined that Lady Anne Sumner was the epitome of the perfect polished female courtier. She was discreet, sharply observant, had the knack of being in the right place at the right time and was an extremely efficient spy. Why then, had it rubbed him the wrong way when she had suggested she was the ideally placed person to guide Fenella in her court debut? Something told him he did not wish to look too closely at the answer, so instead he re-opened the drawer and extracted Thane's letters to find out if that gentleman ever did get rid of his putrid sore throat, or if Fenella was ever allowed a decent candle to read by.

  A knock at the door interrupted him just as he was finishing Thane's final letter, dated just over a month ago. He dropped it with a frown onto his desk, and aloud said “Yes?”

  Bryce appeared around the door with a tray of refreshment.

  “Ah Bryce,” he said. “Take a seat a moment. I have some tasks for you to add to your list.”

  Bryce set down the tray and whipped out some parchment and a pen and sat in the seat Lady Sumner had vacated an hour before. Oswald also reached for pen and paper. He dipped his pen and started writing, as he simultaneously gave Bryce his instructions.

  “I want y
ou to have this letter hand-delivered to the steward at Vawdrey Keep. I believe his name is Knowles. On receipt of this letter he will hand over his accounts to be brought straight back and delivered to my wife for her perusal.”

  Bryce made a note, then looked up expectantly.

  Oswald was still writing with a steady hand. “There is a cloak, lying over the chair next to the door. You will deliver it to Lady Vawdrey for her use. You will convey her message to Lady Schaeffer regarding a walk in the palace grounds this afternoon. You will then send word to Harris to have him follow at a discreet distance behind them.”

  Bryce nearly dropped his pen. “You will have them placed under surveillance, my lord?” he asked in horror.

  “My wife does not have an attendant maid or page to accompany her at present, Bryce. Unless you are volunteering for the task?”

  Bryce coughed. “I am not fond of the outdoor pursuits my lord,” he said with dignity.

  “Besides,” said Oswald as if he had not spoken. “It is for her safety. No other reason.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  “And I wish you to send a message to Pezzini, explaining that Fenella's new wardrobe is a matter of the utmost urgency. I want him to send each dress as it is completed rather than waiting for it to be finished in entirety.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Bryce doubtfully.

  “If you need to use an interpreter, speak to Lady Claremont's manservant, Charters. He is a master of languages and can translate for you.”

  Bryce perked up at this. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You will need to tip him generously.” Oswald reached into another draw and drew out a gold coin which he tossed toward Bryce who made no attempt to catch it and simply watched as it rolled under a bookcase.

  “Can you retrieve that Bryce, or do you need another coin?” asked Oswald in exasperation.