Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,13

Her brother had never understood Henry or what he was capable of.

Kelso, Marissa’s first husband, had incurred Henry’s wrath by ruining Marissa during a ball when she was barely seventeen. A notorious libertine, Kelso had kept a multitude of mistresses and had spent nearly every night in his cups with a whore on each knee. Marissa’s marriage to him and his flagrant affairs had been the talk of London, humiliating her to the point she’d made the mistake of complaining to her father, though he likely already knew.

Henry knew everything.

Kelso died in a brawl soon after, in an alley just a block down from his club. He’d left her a widow with a small son at the age of eighteen.

Cupps-Foster, her third husband, was a hothead. She should never have agreed to wed him. He’d made the mistake of treating her poorly in front of the duke during a dinner party. Barely a week later, Cupps-Foster had found himself challenged to a duel by a mysterious gentleman at White’s over the slightest of insults. The pistol Cupps-Foster had used for the duel backfired, blinding him. His dueling opponent finished the job, then disappeared from London.

Henry had detested Cupps-Foster as had Marissa. She didn’t mourn him.

Only Reggie, her second husband, had truly loved her, but still, she’d never been first in his heart. Fossils. Ore. Nature. Trees. All took precedence over Marissa. But she’d loved him so much she hadn’t cared. Perhaps it had been her youth which had allowed her to lose herself so completely in Reggie. She’d never contemplate such a thing now.

If Reggie was still alive, would we be happy?

Marissa wasn’t sure.

But nothing changed the fact that Reggie had been murdered by his best friend for a mine full of Blue John. Lydia had sat in her parlor at Brushbriar for years surrounded by her wealth, all of it bought with Reggie’s blood. Marissa knew she couldn’t prove who had murdered Reggie, and even if she could, John had died years ago. But she could take the mine. Simon’s career. Lydia’s beloved Blue John and the wealth it provided.

I am my father’s daughter, after all.

4

Marissa smiled indulgently while Arabella prattled on about Lily, as new mothers infatuated with their children were wont to do. She listened absently, systematically reviewing the list of projects before her, mentally checking off each completed task. Marissa prided herself on excellent organization.

Correspondence had been updated. Invitations accepted. A new butler, Greenhouse, had been hired and installed to run her household, though he was a bit staid for her tastes. She’d remodeled several of the upstairs bedrooms, knocking down a wall to create a large guest suite for Brendan and Petra when they arrived for the holidays.

The pair certainly couldn’t stay with Lord and Lady Marsh. Petra still wasn’t speaking to her parents.

A dozen new ballgowns had been ordered from her favorite modiste along with a gorgeous green velvet riding habit with a matching hat. Marissa adored hats.

She’d helped nurse Spencer, her eldest son, from the wound he’d received in an altercation shortly after marrying Lady Elizabeth Reynolds, the details of which she still wasn’t completely clear on. Elizabeth was a delightful girl who didn’t tolerate any of Spencer’s nonsense. Marissa wholeheartedly approved of her new daughter-in-law.

All her ducklings, as she called her two boys, niece and nephew, were now married. Happily. A true rarity in the ton. Four love matches. And they would all be together for the holiday season.

“When Rowan comes home,” Arabella gushed at the mere mention of her husband, “Lily smiles up at him and makes the most delightful gurgling sounds.”

Marissa nodded. Lily was most likely experiencing stomach distress and not actually smiling at Rowan. She was little more than an infant. But Marissa chose not to mention such a thing to Arabella.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. She’d filed the survey map and asked her solicitors to determine validity and challenge Pendleton’s ownership of the Blue John mine.

She didn’t give a fig for the money or the mine, really. But what she did care about was that her request to determine ownership would be tied up in court for years. Requiring thousands of pounds for Pendleton to defend. His solicitors were bleeding him dry already.

“Aunt Maisy?” Arabella touched her knee. “Where have you gone?”

“Only imagining how lovely it will be to have us all together for the holiday season,” she said, dragging her attention back to Arabella. “I know we should escape London, but I find town to be