Once inside the card-room, Jason halted, dragging in a deep breath. Seeing a footman passing with a loaded tray, he took a glass of brandy. Taking a soothing draught, he calmed himself with the reflection that he was letting his jaundiced view of ton-ish wives colour his expectations. As far as his wife was concerned, there was no evidence to support such a notion.
Was there?
* * *
ONCE SOWN, the seed would simply not die, no matter how hard he struggled to kill it. Five days later, Jason stood, moodily staring out of the windows of his library and, defeated, considered how to put paid to his suspicions. That such thoughts were unworthy—of himself, of Lenore—he was only too well aware. But he was also aware of the dreams—nay, nightmares—that had come to haunt him.
Despite his very real inclination, he had not returned to his wife’s bed. The knowledge that she evinced no real interest in him was depressing; the idea she might yield him his rights out of duty was simply appalling. Sinking into the chair behind his desk, Jason grimaced. Impossible not to admit to a certain measure of cowardice, yet what rake of his extensive experience would not, in the circumstances, feel reticent? Never in his life had a woman turned him down; he had never had to ask for a woman’s favours. That the first woman to find him resistible should be his own wife was undoubtedly fate’s revenge. Demanding his dues was beyond him, a course entirely repugnant. Once they were alone at the Abbey, he would work on her susceptibilities, draw her to him once again, heal the breach that had somehow developed between them. And rekindle the embers that still smouldered into a roaring blaze from which something more permanent than mere passion would emerge.
Until then, he would have to contain his desire and concentrate instead on retaining his sanity. The first step was to convince himself that his ridiculous suspicions were just that. Leaning back in his chair, Jason focused his mind on his task—how to discover with whom his wife spent her time.
Her evenings were accounted for. Despite her full schedule, she had shown no inclination to deviate from the list Compton left on his desk every morning; no danger there. Her luncheon engagements were rather more hazy, yet, from experience, he knew that was not a favoured time for seduction. Empty stomachs had a way of interfering with carnal appetites. Afternoons, on the other hand, were prime time.
And Lenore’s afternoons were veiled in secrecy—at least, from him.
Frowning, Jason reluctantly discarded the obvious solution. He could not set Moggs on her trail, no matter how obsessed he became. Regardless of the truth behind her smiles, regardless of his fears, it would be unforgivable to allow any of his staff to get so much as a whiff of his suspicions.
The steady drum of his fingers on the blotter was interrupted by the click of the door latch.
“Are you receiving?” With a confident air, Frederick entered.
Jason threw him an abstracted smile and waved him to a chair. “What brings you here?”
Subsiding into the chair, Frederick stared at him. “It’s Thursday, remember?”
When Jason continued to look blank, Frederick sighed. “Dashed if I know what’s got into you these days. You’re promised to Hillthorpe and yours truly this afternoon for a round at Manton’s.”
“Ah, yes.” Jason shifted in his chair. “I’ve been somewhat absorbed with another matter—our engagement momentarily slipped my mind.” He flashed Frederick a charming though far from contrite smile and pushed his chair back from the desk. “But I’m only too willing to accommodate you now you’ve jogged my memory.”
“Humph!” As Jason stood and came around the desk, Frede
rick struggled up out of the comforting depths of the armchair. “Perhaps I should mention your wandering wits to your duchess—saw her just now at Lady Chessington’s.”
Jason halted in his progress to the door. “Oh?”
“Yes. Luncheon. She was there, along with the usual crowd. Exhausting. Don’t know how they all do it. Think Lenore went on to Mrs. Applegate’s after that. Gave it a miss, myself.”
“An undoubtedly wise move.” Jason nodded absent-mindedly as his route to salvation clarified in his brain. As Frederick drew level, he clapped him on the shoulder. “How’s Lady Wallace?”
“Amelia? Er…” Trapped, Frederick threw him an irritated glance. At sight of Jason’s wide eyes, he scowled. “Damn it, Jason. It’s nothing like what you’re thinking.”
Abruptly assuming his patriarchal persona, Jason raised his brows. “I certainly hope not. I might remind you that Lady Wallace is now a connection.”
Frederick looked struck. “So she is. Forgot that.”
“Well, I haven’t. So I’ll take it amiss if you’re merely trifling with the lady’s affections, dear chap.”
Frederick narrowed his eyes. “Jason…” he said warningly.
But Jason only laughed. His interest in the day miraculously restored, he waved Frederick through the door. “Come on. Let’s find Hillthorpe. Suddenly, I’m in the mood to take the pips out of the aces.”
* * *
IT SHOULD, in fact, be child’s play to track his wife’s movements through the ton. Buoyed with confidence, Jason strolled through the crowd at Lady Cheswell’s rout, his smile at the ready, his manner easy and urbane, his eyes searching for Mrs. Applegate.
After allowing Frederick to win their round at Manton’s, the least he could do to repay his friend for his help, all unconscious though it had been, he had made a brief foray to the Park. From the high perch of his racing phaeton, scanning the fashionable crowds had been simple enough. Lenore had not been there. Presumably, she had spent the afternoon at the Applegates’ or some similar function. He was quite sure Mrs. Applegate would be able to confirm his duchess’s movements; Lenore had become such a hit, few missed her presence and most, even Frederick, took note of whither she was bound.
The crowd before him shifted, revealing his quarry resplendent in bronzed bombazine. She did not even wait for him to reach her before exclaiming, “Your Grace! What a pleasant surprise.”