Page 2 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Mallon de Wolfe,Viscount Wulverton, drew out his hipflask and called to the driver to get a move on. He’d been fortunate in finding a cab waiting at the Marseille dock, and had promised double fare if they reached the train station before ten o’clock. Mallon had a first-class sleeping compartment booked and intended to make good use of it.
It had been a damnable day, a damnable week, and a damnable journey. With no berths available on the only passenger liner departing Constantinople, he’d been obliged to join a cargo ship. Not that he’d cared about the lack of comforts—nor the stench of sweat and latrines—but the vessel had barely been seaworthy.
They’d crossed the Sea of Marmara, past the Greek islands and the toe of Italy, before the water sloshing onto the lower deck required all hands—his included—to take shifts at the bilge pump. They might havediverted to Corsica for repairs, but he’d insisted they press on. Between them, their crew had been capable of keeping the boat afloat, and he’d been eager to press on.
A few more days delay on top of twenty-three years might have seemed irrelevant, but Mallon was a man of sudden moods, and his mind was set upon reaching the country he’d left so long ago.
In some respects, he’d welcomed the physical effort, rather enjoying rolling up his shirt sleeves. He’d a great deal more brawn than most men of his age, thanks to his soldiering days. Before long, he’d dispensed with his shirt altogether and applied himself like the rest, taking turns perspiring in that furnace-of-an-engine room to keep the boat from sinking them to Neptune’s embrace.
The journey had reminded him of his army days, when he’d been hunkered around the mess table, sharing whoever’s cigarettes were dry, and eating sausages hot from the pan, paired with the standard ration of dry biscuit and a tot of rum.
Not that he indulged in nostalgia. After all those years serving with Her Majesty’s Kabul-Kandahar Field Force, he’d nothing to show for it but a shoulder that ached every day! They’d gotten most of the shrapnel out, but something remained—a souvenir as unwanted as the memories that went with it.
Much good it had done him to be mentioned in dispatches for ‘outstanding courage under fire’. The accolade didn’t bring back those who’d fallen beside him. He’d watched men’s bones shatter and watched them bleed and die. As for bravery, he’d done nothingmore than keep himself alive—and others as best he could.
Mallon swigged down the last of his flask, wincing as the liquor hit the back of his throat, then rested his head against the coolness of the window, looking out at the streetlamps as the coach clattered up the rise of the Boulevard Voltaire.
The past decade had been a shabby excuse for a life. It had been hard at times, in Constantinople, but the city offered anonymity. There, he was no one and nothing, and it was easy to find oblivion in the opium rooms, seeking escape from his regret and anger.
Now, all that was going to change.
He was going to change.
His father’s death had seen to that. News of his passing, like that of his brother Edward over two years before, had come too late for Mallon to attend any funerals. He might have returned sooner, to pay his respects at Edward’s grave, but his pride had stopped him from making the journey.
The wounds of his estrangement from his father remained raw but, despite the moor’s tormenting associations, it was his home. He’d commitments to fulfil and wrongs to put right.
How could he live with himself if he refused to face those challenges?
He was a de Wolfe, after all. Like his ancestors, he’d experienced the hell of the battlefield. He’d stared down death to serve his country.
With his father gone, the only demons left to face were thoselurking within himself.
Mallon wished to make himself anew, like moorland gorse awakening after winter’s long frost. Perhaps he was fooling himself, but the pull of the place to which he truly belonged was too strong to ignore.
As for mourning his father, Mallon’s grief was tinged strongly with resentment. The late viscount had never been the same after losing his wife—had retreated into his anguish too deeply to see that his sons needed their father’s love. They’d needed it more than ever after their mother’s death. Edward had been too young to be aware of much, but Mallon had known from the outset that something was wrong.
His mother had been perfectly well just the day before. Afterward, all trace of her vanished. Within a few days, every piece of the viscountess’s clothing had been removed from the house. It was as if she’d never been. When Mallon had attempted to speak to his father of her, it had elicited the sternest of reprimands.
And then, Mallon had heard the servants’ whispers.
She’d had a lover and ran away. At first, Mallon’s heart had surged with hope. If she’d gone away, then she might come back. It had been a mistake to leave him behind.
Except that she couldn’t return. She’d meant to start a new life, far from Wulverton Hall, but had reached no further than the deadly mire, just below Fox Tor.
The man who’d waited for her had raised the alarm, but they’d never found her body.
Mallon hadn’t been allowed to attend the burial, but he’d watched from one of the upper windows of the hall. The coffin was taken on a simple cart to the chapel,with only the priest in attendance. A coffin that was empty. His father had, at least, permitted a headstone, tucked in the far corner of the graveyard.
Mallon’s mother hadn’t loved him enough to stay.
His father had barely known how to love at all.
Mallon couldn’t remember the viscount showing any physical affection for him, nor for Edward. He’d rarely tolerated having them in the same room. That pain lingered, whatever distraction he attempted.
As soon as he’d been able, he’d sought to escape, making his life far from the moor and those anguished memories. He’d sought a new home with the army, and had succeeded in finding some measure of peace—at least for a while.
“Nous sommes arrivés, monsieur!” The driver pulled the horses to a standstill and jumped down. There was no baggage to bother with, Mallon having brought only a travelling portmanteau he could carry easily himself. It was just as well, since the train departed in twenty minutes and the ticket still needed collecting.
