“Thank you,” his host said.
“And do you keep the best of your imports for yourself, Pelham? I can imagine many of your clients are unable to discern a fine French wine from something more mediocre.”
Anne gave a little huff, betraying her exasperation at Dexter’s attempt to change the subject.
“I was told your wife was not at home,” she continued. Her husband shot her a warning look, which she ignored. “But she was. I saw her watching me from the parlor window. Had you told her not to admit me?”
“No,” Dexter replied.
“Or had you refused her permission to receive visitors?”
“Of course not!”
“Perhaps she felt ashamed,” she continued. “After all, she’s guilty of the crime of being the wrong Alderley sister.”
“Anne, please!” Pelham admonished. “This is hardly the subject for the dinner table. Hart’s here to mark the occasion of Delilah’s marriage, not be criticized for his.”
“Forgive me.” She resumed her attention to her meal.
But she’d struck a nerve. The day after Margaret had left for the country, Dexter had found Mrs. Pelham’s card in the parlor. Charles had been forthcoming enough to explain that when Mrs. Pelham had come calling, he’d ‘happened upon the mistress hiding behind the curtain.’
The meal concluded, the gentlemen rose to take their port in Pelham’s study, while Mrs. Pelham retired with a glass of Madeira to the drawing room.
Pelham picked up a decanter containing a straw-colored liquid.
“I thought it was fitting to have a glass of whisky in honor of your new brother-in-law,” he said.
Dexter could hardly refuse, though he loathed the stuff.
Pelham handed him a glass, and he wrinkled his nose at the smell, which evoked a memory—a sting on his palm, and his wife’s eyes, full of compassion as she knelt before him and tended to his injury.
The wound still itched, but it had faded to a pale scar.
He took a mouthful of whisky and almost choked as it rasped against his throat.
“Not to your taste, Hart?” Pelham laughed. “Your new brother-in-law will be most offended.”
“I doubt it,” Dexter replied, “given that my bank’s his biggest creditor.”
“And Alderley’s biggest,” Pelham said. He drained his glass and picked up the decanter. “Another?”
“Not unless you want me to expel the ragout on this rug.”
Pelham chuckled and poured himself a glass. “I don’t envy Alderley his next meeting with his banker, given that you’re now his son-in-law.”
“I doubt that old bastard will sully his hands by dealing with me,” Dexter replied. “He’ll send his steward, who, at least, seems a sensible fellow. He might avoid bankruptcy, provided Alderley keeps his spending in check.”
“Which will be a challenge given that the Honorable Elizabeth is still his responsibility,” Pelham laughed. “At least she’s not your responsibility. I wonder if Alderley realizes the mistake he made?”
“His mistake?”
“A by-blow’s cheaper to maintain than a legitimate daughter,” Pelham said. “Alderley sold you the wrong one.”
Dexter bristled at his friend’s casual reference to his wife’s circumstances. The poor girl couldn’t help her origins. He set his glass on the table with a smart thud. “Elizabeth would have been a disastrous wife, but she would have stepped into the role of hostess with ease.”
“She wouldn’t have gained you many friends,” Pelham said. “My Anne can’t stand her. And a man doesn’t just need a wife for society parties. He needs a companion. In that respect, at least, I must agree with Anne’s opinion that sending your wife away was a mistake.”
“It’s easy for you to judge,” Dexter said. “You married a viscount’s daughter.”
“So did you,” Pelham replied. “I don’t love Anne for her lineage. I love her because she’s generous and caring. She’ll do anything I ask of her. Not because she vowed obedience—but because she wants to. You may think you’re in need of no one, my friend, but have you never wondered what it might be like to place your trust—your heart—into the hands of another? The time may also come when you understand the fulfillment of being able to provide comfort to another, such that they might trust you completely.”
“Trust only leads to betrayal,” Dexter said.
“Only if you place your faith in the wrong person. My Anne didn’t trust me when we first married, but I have seen her grow to trust me completely over the years. You will never understand what a gift that is, my friend, until you’ve experienced it.”
Pelham made a dismissive gesture. “The qualities Elizabeth possesses—manners, fine speech, and ladylike deportment—can be taught. But do you know what can never be taught, no matter how hard you try?”
“What?” Dexter asked.
“Kindness,” Pelham replied. “Goodness. It’s either there or it’s not. If a woman’s soul is rotten to the core, there’s nothing to be done.”
“You don’t believe in redemption?”
Pelham shook his head. “Redemption is merely the process by which a man gains a greater understanding and appreciation of the world around him. He can only change if he wishes it.”
“What the devil are you trying to say, Pelham?” Dexter asked.
“That you shouldn’t judge your wife by whether she knows the exact position of a fork on a dining table. You should judge her by whether she has a good heart—by her innocence if you like.”
“My wife came to the marriage bed impure,” Dexter said.
“And? Anne was married before.”
“Married, yes,” Dexter said. “My wife was not.”
“And is she in love with the fellow?”
Dexter remembered the look of fear in his wife’s eyes.
“No,” he said. “I got the impression she’d rather forget.”
“Then forget it,” Pelham said. “You’re affronted because another man got there before you. You’ve hardly lived a chaste life.”
“Ye gods, Pelham, you sound like my wife.”
“What did she say when you confronted her about it?” Pelham asked.
Her response had been a tearful confession, followed by a plea that he not hurt her.
Pelham had spoken of trust. Dexter’s little wife, though frightened and anticipating pain, had given him her trust.
And a woman such as her—with no title, no fortune, no name—her trust was all she had to give.
Dexter lifted his gaze to see his friend looking directly at him, understanding in his eyes.
“Come on, my friend,” Pelham said. “I think we ought to join Anne before I do something unforgivable, such as unearth your conscience.”
As soon as they entered the drawing room, Anne Pelham rose from her seat.
“Coffee, Mr. Hart?”
“I can help myself, Mrs. Pelham,” he said. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”
She glanced at her husband. “Mr. Hart,” she said, “I didn’t mean to criticize you this evening. Though I hope you see me as a friend, I’ve no right to tell you how to behave in your marriage.”