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  AN INCONVENIENT WIFE

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © Constance Hussey, 2012

  ISBN# 978-0-938257-37-7

  Cover Art ® 2011 by Winterheart Design

  Edited by Mary K. Wilson

  Electronic Publication Date: October 2012

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Jupiter Gardens Press, Jupiter Gardens, LLC., PO Box 191, Grimes, IA 50111

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  Additional Books By the Author

  A Deceitful Widow (writing as part of the duo: Diana Hussey)

  The Angel & St. Clair (writing as part of the duo: Diana Hussey)

  An Inconvenient Wife

  Constance Hussey

  Chapter One

  Hampshire, England, 1804

  “No!”

  Nicholas Blackwell, Viscount Westcott, scowled at his closest friend and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Why not? I need you; England needs you. And this child needs you.”

  Devlin St. Clair’s look of weary patience fueled Westcott’s anger and he slammed both hands down on his desk. “Dammit, Dev. Don’t spout that rubbish at me. You know very well I have a child right here that needs me and you are perfectly capable of carrying out this mission alone.”

  St. Clair rose, walked across the room, and braced one hip against the desk. “Perhaps I can, but it will be far safer and go much faster with your knowledge and contacts,” he said in a quiet tone at odds with the grim set of his face. “I don’t want Juliette put to additional risk. Surely you can understand that.” He laid a hand on Westcott’s arm. “Three weeks, Nick. That’s all I ask. Sarah can come to Lynton and stay with my mother.”

  Westcott stared at the broad fingers resting so lightly on his arm and thought about the invisible weight that strong hand carried. A friendship that went back to childhood, a staunch ally through boyish adventures, a steady presence during the nightmare of Camille’s death and Sarah’s terrifying illness.

  “I will think about it.” Even so little a concession was difficult to get out. He would think about it—he was no liar, blast it—but whether he could step out of the safe fortress he had erected around his daughter was uncertain.

  St. Clair’s mouth pulled back in a wry smile. “That’s all I ask.” His fingers tightened around Blackwell’s arm before he released him and straightened. “Thank you.” His smile broadened into genuine humour. “I know the way out.” The earl strolled to the door and paused. “You might consider that a change of scene may be good for Sarah.” The door closed behind him with a quiet snick.

  Westcott dropped into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He did not want to leave Westhorp, leave Sarah; step back into the world. It had proven to be a hazardous place which he wanted no part of. He had obligations here.

  And that gives you the right to ignore everything else? Westcott raised his head, stood, and shoved back his chair with enough force to flip it backwards onto the floor with a muted thud. A few quick strides to the French doors leading to the terrace and he stepped out into the chill air. The garden below was a bleak landscape of leafless trees and shrubs under gray, leaden skies that held the threat of bad weather. Months yet to go before spring, when he could push Sarah’s chair along the flagged paths so she could enjoy the flowers—and birds, butterflies and any other living creature they might stumble upon. For a moment, the picture of his daughter giggling at the antics of the squirrels lightened his mood. Sarah enjoyed new experiences. Maybe St. Clair’s suggestion had some merit.

  Westcott clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. Do you keep her too close, as St. Clair has implied more than once? Are you so caught in your own fear of hurting her that you are being selfish? But he couldn’t bear…and what does she bear, every day of her life because of your stupidity?

  “You are an idiot, Westcott.” He stopped in mid-stride at the sound of his voice and grimaced. Now he was talking to himself—and damned unlikely to get a response!

  But Portugal? In March? He hadn’t been there for years, and he hated sailing. Even St. Clair was a better sailor than he was.

  Unsettled by the thought of leaving Westhorp, leaving his daughter, Westcott stomped out of the room. He had to speak to Sarah before he made a decision.

  ~* * *~

  Sarah was deeply engrossed in a book when Westcott reached her bedchamber, and he halted at the door to watch her, something he never tired of doing. Her fair hair, so unlike his deep brown, was tied up in a blue ribbon and cascaded over her slender shoulders. She took after Camille in that respect, along with the straight little nose and rosebud lips. But not her eyes; they were all Blackwell, a changeable hazel with a curious little fold at the corner of the eyelid that gave her face a look of innocence. That same hint of naiveté, while more subtle on his adult face, had often been to his advantage.

  She was sitting in her wheeled chair today, near the deep-set window that bowed out to allow a view of the garden and terrace below. A poor substitute for being outdoors as she preferred; winters were difficult for her.

  Every day is difficult for her.

  Alerted by some small movement, Sarah looked up and smiled. “Papa!”

  “Hello, muffin. How are you feeling today?” Westcott strolled across the room, bent to place a kiss on her forehead, and sat on the wide window seat. He picked up her discarded book and turned it to look at the cover. “What is this you are reading? I don’t remember seeing it before.”

  She giggled and patted his hand. “Because Uncle Devlin gave it to me just today when he came to visit. It is a very good book and not stuffy at all.”

  “And have you been reading stuffy books?” Westcott put on an expression of astonishment.

  Sarah covered her mouth to hide her grin, but her eyes were bright with laughter. “I try not to, Papa, but sometimes it cannot be helped. Mr. Sloan does bring the dreariest sermons for me to read.”

  He laughed and tugged at a wayward curl. “And you are too kind-hearted to put him off.”

  “I daresay it is good for me,” she said with a sigh, and then took the book from his hand and opened it to one of the drawings. “But I much prefer stories such as this. You cannot imagine what marvelous adventures Mr. Crusoe had! It looks a wonderful island, doesn’t it?”

  “I am pleased you are enjoying it.” Westcott put the book aside and tucked her hair behind her ears. “You look as if you are ready for a rest. Shall I take you back to bed?” He slipped a hand beneath her legs and gathered her into his arms. “Where is Nur
se, by the way?”

  “She went to find her knitting.” Sarah wrapped her hands around his neck. “Do you suppose the headhunters are still there? Perhaps we can go there someday, Papa.”

  He settled her against the propped up pillows on the bed and laid a blanket over her legs. “I believe it somewhat far to travel. Perhaps we can visit an island closer to home.”

  “Really? I would like to go somewhere.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, with such a wistful expression on her face his heart ached. She should be going everywhere she wanted, not tied to this bed and a pushchair. It might be that Sarah would benefit from a change of scene. He could at least ask her.

  Westcott sat on the side of the bed and took her hands in his. “It isn’t an island, but what say you to spending a few weeks at Lynton Hall with Uncle Devlin’s mama? He has asked me to go to Portugal with him and Aunt Juliette to take care of some business.”

  Sarah’s eyelids sprang open and she sat up. “Really, Papa? You’ve never wanted me to go away before.”

  “You haven’t been almost nine years old before and quite grown up,” Westcott said with a smile. “But if you wish, this time you may go.”

  Sarah sighed loudly, flopped back onto the pillows, and beamed at him. “I do wish to go. When? When will it be?”

  Westcott pulled his brows together in a mock frown. “You are altogether too pleased to escape me, I think.”

  She patted his cheek. “I don’t want to escape you, silly Papa. I’m sure I shall miss you terribly. But this will be my own little adventure, just like Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Not quite like that intrepid gentleman, who had some difficult times if I remember correctly.” Westcott stood and smoothed the bedcover around her. “In a fortnight or so. It hasn’t been settled as yet.” He looked up at the entrance of a pleasant-faced woman of middle age. “Now here is Nurse to scold me for keeping you from your nap.”

  “As if I ever would, my lord,” Nurse chided, but humour gleamed in her eyes.

  “I’m sure you should,” he said lightly, and then looked at his daughter. “I will be back to take supper with you, muffin.” Not expecting an answer, as this was routine for them, he stepped out, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, shaken by the realization his darling child was so eager for new surroundings.

  You wanted to keep her safe, protected from reminders that she was crippled, but might you have created a prison? Perhaps St. Clair was right, damn him. If so, you owe the earl yet another thing for opening your eyes. Disturbed, Westcott shoved away from the door and traversed the passageway in swift, angry strides, reminded of the long hours Devlin had spent with him at Sarah’s bedside. A time when they were not sure she would survive, and then when the crisis passed, coaxing her back to health and some semblance of the high-spirited, active child she had been before the accident that had taken her mother’s life.

  It is Sarah’s happiness that is important, not what you prefer, and what of this other child, a girl not all that much older than Sarah, who may be unhappy or even in peril? Can you live with that on your conscience, knowing you might have helped her?

  Guilt riding his shoulder like some sharp-clawed nemesis, Westcott ran down the stairs and slammed out of the house. Blast it, he would go to Portugal, if for no other reason than to give Sarah her little adventure. But he’d be damned if he’d enjoy a minute of it.

  Chapter Two

  Portugal

  Anne McKenzie eyed the row of fat, smug cabbages with disdain and quickened her step. No need for that ubiquitous vegetable today, not when she had money in her pocket. Not much, perhaps, but enough for some carrots, leeks, and a nice piece of beef Maggie could use to make one of her excellent stews. With no cabbage! She was so tired of eating cabbage. They all were, and she vowed it would never be on her menu again once she reached England.

  The busy marketplace was familiar to her after several months of almost daily visits. Sometimes Maggie or Bill did the marketing, if she was fortunate enough to have a music student, but Anne enjoyed the hubbub and greeted the stallholders she knew with a cheerful “Olá”. Her limited knowledge of Portuguese enabled her to shop and most of the vendors were patient with her halting conversation.

  The residents of Oporto were a friendly people who accepted her with a polite curiosity that did not allow for questions to be asked about the Englishwoman in their midst. She in turn, did her best to fit in, adopting the fashions of the housewives struggling to raise their large families. Not that she had any choice, since virtually all her clothing was still in Gibraltar. Besides, who would suspect Miss Anne McKenzie of wandering around a market with a native woman’s headscarf covering her hair?

  Oddly enough, Anne had grown to like it. She pushed the fabric a bit higher atop her head and looked around for Maggie. Her sturdy companion was not so enamored of wearing the heavy black skirts and scarf, but if anyone understood the importance of blending in, it was Maggie.

  Spying her at the herb sellers, Anne slipped through the crowd to join her. The fresh herbs heaped on the table in generous bunches were a feast for the eyes, as well as the nose, and Anne sniffed the aromatic air with pleasure. “Have you decided what you want? We can afford several, since they are so cheap. Perhaps some fennel?”

  “Fennel will be welcome, Miss Anne. A bit of thyme and rosemary, too.” Maggie nodded in approval. “Did you get some onion?”

  Anne smiled. “Not yet. We pass that stall on the way out and I did not want everything smelling of onion before we get home.”

  “Can’t see it matters much, when it’s all going in the same pot,” Maggie said with a shrug, turning back to make her selection, “but it suits me fine.” She pointed to the herbs she wanted, her language skills being even less than Anne’s, and watched the elderly woman behind the table wrap each bunch in paper and place them in her basket.

  A chorus of “obrigido, obrigido,” ensued and they began to wend their way through the busy swarm of shoppers. They had reached the bins of onions when Anne’s attention was caught by the sharp yips of a frightened dog. Dogs were not uncommon in the area, but they were usually sly thieves too smart to draw attention to their predations. Certainly not the type of non-descript mongrel that careened around the corner, dashed between Anne and Maggie, and scurried under one of the bins. Startled, Anne stepped back, directly into the path of the young boy in pursuit.

  “Oomph!” Anne’s basket flew into the air, and down she went, the child tumbling atop her.

  “I am so sorry!”

  Anne felt the boy’s weight lift from her chest and looked up to see a girl leaning over her with such a horrified expression on her face that Anne wondered if more than her pride was injured. But she was soon helped to her feet by the shocked onion seller, and with Maggie’s assistance put her clothing to rights, all the while aware of the girl hovering at the front of the crowd that had gathered.

  “Are you hurt? It is my fault the dog escaped. My brother is not to blame. We are sorry, mam’selle,” the girl apologized in a rush of words.

  “I am not hurt.” Anne held her hands against her eyes for a moment and then looked around for her basket. It would be just her bad luck to have someone run off with her precious beef, but Maggie was already scooping up the spilled foodstuffs. Anne breathed a sigh of relief and summoned a faint smile, which had the welcome effect of stopping the profuse litany of apologies.

  Seeming more settled now she saw Anne was uninjured, the girl gestured at the lad, who appeared rooted to the ground with such a look of terror on his boyish face that Anne took a step toward him.

  “Get Bonnie. Quickly now, before he comes.”

  The child paled even further at the girl’s hissed order, which Anne would have doubted was even possible, and ran over to coax the dog from its lair.

  “It is quite all right,” Anne said in as gentle a voice as she could manage at the moment, considering her headscarf was askew, her skirts coated with dust, and the sc
rape on her hand beginning to smart. “It was an accident.”

  She glanced at Maggie and at her unspoken agreement, put a hand on the girl’s arm and guided her to the side of the stall where they were somewhat out of the way. The boy, who appeared to be about seven or eight, had the dog now, clutched in his thin arms. He straightened and went to stand beside the girl, who put her arm around his shoulders protectively.

  “There is no harm done.” Anne lifted her hands in an attempt to reassure the children, who looked frightened well beyond this little happenstance, forgetting that her palm was scraped and raw.

  “You are hurt!”

  Reminded by the girl’s shocked gasp, Anne looked at her hand. “It is just a scrape, and will soon mend.” She smiled at the pair standing so stiffly before her. “I am Anne McKenzie and this is Mrs. Fenton.” She indicated Maggie with a tip of her head. “Might I know your names? Are you lost?” Why else would two French children, which you have to assume they are, since this entire conversation is in French, be wandering around a market, not in the best part of town, without a governess or manservant?

  “Danielle Durant, and my brother Guy,” the older child disclosed with obvious reluctance. “And we are not lost. Our stepfather is here—somewhere.” Her words were barely audible and Anne stepped closer.

  “I see. Perhaps we can be of some assistance, Miss Durant, and escort you home.”

  “Oh, no.” Both heads shook fiercely and they exchanged a worried look before edging away.

  “Rascals! Miscreants! I warned you about that cur.”

  The shout of a florid-faced man coming toward them bellowed over the heads of the throng and Anne unconsciously moved closer to the children, who had stopped in their tracks at the first sound of the man’s voice. Taking an instant dislike to the stranger shoving aside the shoppers with his cane, Anne stiffened and lifted her chin. But he looked right past her and jabbed his cane toward Danielle.