Almost - Almost A Bride Part 2

She turned to face him and he saw with confused astonishment that she was convulsed with laughter, her eyes glowing like topaz. "Clearly," she said on a choke of merriment, "you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Lady Alsop."

He shook his head, a gleam of responding amus.e.m.e.nt in his own eyes now, although he had no idea what he could have said to produce such a reaction from her. "No, I have not had that pleasure. What am I missing here?"

"Lady Alsop is the wife of Viscount Alsop of Alsop Manor," Arabella intoned solemnly. "She is a lady of some considerable consequence and most unbending morality, generally considered to be the arbiter of fashion and social conduct for some twenty miles around. One does not risk her displeasure lightly."

Jack nodded slowly, the gleam in his eye intensifying. "I detect a note of disapproval in your tone, madam. Is the lady in question perhaps a little too aware of her great consequence?"

"You have it precisely. Lavinia Alsop was the daughter of a country solicitor, but she generally manages to disguise her less than aristocratic origins with an overweening self-importance. By sheer bullying and browbeating she has established herself as the bear leader of our county Society." Arabella now sounded more contemptuous than amused. "Once she hears of Frederick's death and your arrival at Lacey Court, she'll descend upon me within minutes. I can expect a visit from her by tomorrow morning at the very latest."

"I look forward to meeting her and explaining the situation," Jack said gravely.

Arabella couldn't help herself. She had always had a heightened sense of the ridiculous, and usually at the most inopportune moments. This was probably one of them but she couldn't resist the image. She alone was more than a match for Lavinia Alsop, but to combine forces with the duke of St. Jules . . . now that would be a battle royal.

"You know," she said with a reluctant grin, "I'd almost be willing to fall in with your plan just to see her face when you explain that there is no real difference between a lone woman sharing a house under the protection of her brother and sharing a house under the protection of a strange man."

"Well?" He opened his hands in invitation.

She hesitated as reality came crowding in. She had no desire to leave her home, her garden, her orchids, at least not without preparation. The orchids required daily attention, although Weaver, the head gardener, would follow her instructions, just not with the kind of loving attention to detail that helped them thrive. She knew she would always be welcome at the Barratts'. Meg Barratt had been her dearest friend since childhood and Sir Mark and Lady Barratt treated Arabella like another daughter. But it could only be a temporary solution. Their resources were stretched thin enough as it was. And there was always the vicarage. David and his wife would welcome her with open arms for a short while, but with six children underfoot they had little enough room for visitors. Besides, the idea of trailing around her friends, asking for charity, was anathema.

Brutal honesty forced her to acknowledge that the search for a permanent solution to her sudden loss of hearth and home would take some time and would inevitably involve compromises. She had some distant relatives of her mother's in Cornwall but they'd had only the briefest of formal contact since her mother's death. Letters would have to be written . . . begging letters, she thought with a grimace.

Jack leaned his broad shoulders against the mantel, watching her deliberations. She had a very mobile face and it wasn't difficult to follow the progression of her thoughts. He had expected her to bear some physical resemblance to Frederick, but he could see nothing that would betray their blood connection. He had half hoped that the resemblance would be striking. It would have made it so much easier to have kept his distance, to have maintained the purely pragmatic parameters of the relationship he had proposed. But he was aware more of relief than dismay at her complete dissimilarity to her half brother. And that, he reflected, was not the most sensible reaction.

The reflection prompted him to a rather sharp interjection. "Well?" he said again.

She looked up from her deliberations, slightly startled by the suddenness of the reminder. There was a shadow across his face now, the light in his eyes quenched so that they were more like pewter, flat and rather cold, and uncomfortably penetrating. And then, almost as if he was aware that she had caught him in an expression that wasn't useful for his purposes, his countenance was transformed. He smiled and his eyes gleamed again.

"Come, Arabella, let us rout this Lady Alsop together. You know that what I propose is not totally without precedent. If I were your guardian, there would be no question of impropriety. And you have chaperones aplenty in the house. Housekeepers, personal maids, an old nurse-retainer maybe?"

"I am well past the age for guardians, or even chaperones, Duke," she reminded him. "I'm eight and twenty, almost in my dotage, and most certainly on the shelf."

She sounded so satisfied with this description that he couldn't help laughing. "Then, by definition, my dear, you are able to make your own decisions. If you decide there is no impropriety in these arrangements, then who's to gainsay you?"

"Lady Alsop," she said swiftly, adding with a considering frown, "but since I am, as I say, well past marriageable age, my reputation is not a matter for concern." She made up her mind abruptly. It was an unconventional solution but she had never been a slavish follower of convention-witness her spinster condition-and the house was large enough to accommodate two people without their having to set eyes on each other if they so chose. She could simply do what she'd done during Frederick's visitations and keep to her own apartments.

She said with an accepting shrug, "Let the cats gossip as they may. But you may rest a.s.sured, my lord duke, that I will not trespa.s.s on your time or your attention. I'll begin to make other arrangements immediately. It just might take a few weeks, the post being as slow as it is."

She turned towards the door and then thought of a minor nuisance resulting from her present situation. There would be many of them in the next weeks as she came to terms with the realities, she reflected ruefully. "Since my brother is no longer . . . well, would you be so good as to frank my letters, your grace?"

"In any way I can be of service you may count on me."

"Thank you," she said, and meant it. She laid a hand on the door latch, the dogs expectantly at her heels.

"But may I trespa.s.s on your time a little longer?" Jack asked, arresting her as she opened the door.

She turned, her hand still on the latch of the opened door. "How so, sir?"

He replied with a return to a formality that matched her own. "I am not familiar with the house, madam. Perhaps you could show me my apartments. My horses need to be stabled, my grooms and coachmen shown their quarters, my valet introduced to the housekeeper and the steward."

"I'm sure your horses will have been unsaddled and baited, Duke," Arabella said. "My household runs . . ." She paused, corrected herself with careful emphasis, "The household runs at the bidding of Franklin and Mrs. Elliot. I don't think you will find cause for complaint."

"I wasn't looking for any," he protested mildly. "Merely requesting a tour of the house. And perhaps this afternoon you would accompany me on a ride around the estate."

These plans didn't fit with her image of two people sharing a house at a distance. Matters needed to be made clear from the outset. She said coolly, "Mrs. Elliot will show you the house and Franklin will send a message to Peter Bailey, the agent, to come around this afternoon. He'll show you the books and will escort you and be able to tell you anything you need to know."

"I see." He pushed himself away from the mantel. "I a.s.sume, then, that you know little of how the estate is managed." As he expected, the comment brought a tinge of pink to her high cheekbones.

"On the contrary," she said. "My brother had no interest in the business side of the estate. I work closely with Peter-" She stopped, realizing the trap he'd sprung so neatly. "I'm sure you'll find that Peter will give you all the information. I have rather a lot to do this afternoon . . . planning my departure."

"Ah, yes." He nodded as if in agreement. "But perhaps you could spare a few minutes now to show me the house, take me to my apartments . . ."

Arabella wanted to refuse, but she couldn't bring herself to be so ungracious. Had she been his hostess it would have been perfectly natural, but there was something uncomfortable about the idea of showing the new owner around the home she'd lived in all her life and after her father's death had always considered to be primarily hers, despite Frederick's official ownership. And yet it was not an unreasonable request, even if she questioned his motives for making it. He seemed to be trying to persuade her that he had her best interests at heart, but she couldn't banish the suspicion that the truth was quite the opposite. The duke of St. Jules had no intention of doing her any favors.

Doubt a.s.sailed her. Was she playing with fire here? But even if she was, she told herself firmly, she was clever enough to keep from burning her fingers. Besides, what real choice did she have?

She offered a distant smile and said, "By all means, sir. Follow me," and left the library, the dogs keeping pace at her side.

The square-beamed hall was deserted, although she had the feeling there were hidden watchers. There was an almost palpable sense of portent in the air and every member of the household would be curious as to what was happening. She would talk with Franklin and Mrs. Elliot after she'd performed this unpleasant task of welcoming the new owner of Lacey Court. She set a foot on the first step of the staircase, and became aware that the duke was not behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. He was standing in the open front door in a yellow beam of sunlight that fell across the waxed oak floor.

"It seems my entourage has been attended to," he observed, turning back to the hall.

"Did you doubt it?" she demanded with a snap. "I a.s.sured you that would be the case."

"Yes, so you did," he agreed with a careless smile. "But I always prefer to verify things for myself."

At this rate she was going to run into the arms of the relatives in Cornwall with cries of delight, Arabella reflected dourly. "I a.s.sume you'll be taking my brother's apartments, Duke?" she said, striving for a neutral tone as if the subject was of no particular interest.

"They belong to the master of the house?"

"Yes," she said through set lips.

"Then that would appear to be the most suitable disposition for the master of the house," he observed pleasantly, crossing the hall towards the staircase with a quick, loose-limbed stride that reminded her of a stalking jaguar-not that she'd ever seen a stalking jaguar, but she imagined the big cat would have something of the same rippling muscularity and deceptively relaxed posture of the duke of St. Jules. And there was that indefinable blade of menace that flashed now and again behind the gray eyes . . . the jaguar stretching out his claws as he yawned to reveal the strong white teeth- A discreet cough came from the shadows beneath the stairs and Arabella impatiently dismissed her fanciful train of thought as Franklin emerged into the barred sunlight of the hall. "My lady, I understand from his grace's servant that his grace intends to remain at Lacey Court overnight. The man wished me to direct the duke's party to suitable accommodation." Every line of Franklin's lean frame expressed both offense and anxiety. His encounter with the duke's manservant had obviously ruffled his feathers and his sense of what was right and proper would be outraged by the idea of a strange man sleeping in the house without the sanctioning presence of the earl of Dunston.

"Yes, that is so, Franklin," Arabella said calmly. "I'm sure you'll know just how to make the duke's attendants comfortable." Her hand rested on the newel post, and its smooth familiar roundness helped to ground her as she continued in the same level tones, "Lord Dunston died a few days ago in London. His grace now owns Lacey Court. I'm sure he'll wish to talk with the household at the earliest opportunity, to explain matters fully." She looked at the duke for confirmation.

Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment and said civilly, "I would be grateful, Franklin, if you and-Mrs. Elliot, isn't it?-would come to the library at three o'clock this afternoon. We can discuss then what changes, if any, I will want made in the running of the household."

Franklin stared at Arabella, his expression stricken, his mouth slightly open. "Lord Dunston dead?" he murmured.

"Yes," Arabella said.

"Mourning," Franklin said in the same dazed tone. As always in moments of crisis, he found solace in practical details. "Hatchments . . . put up over the door immediately. The household must go into mourning . . . you'll receive visits of condolence, my lady . . . the funeral? Will it be here or in London?"

Arabella took a deep breath. In the morning's turmoil she hadn't given thought to any of the conventional rites that must be followed. How was Frederick's death to be accounted for? A suicide couldn't be buried in hallowed ground. The truth would bring utter disgrace on the family name, but how was it to be hidden?

The duke cleared his throat and she turned questioningly towards him. "Your brother . . . Lord Dunston . . . left me, as his heir, clear instructions as to funeral and mourning arrangements, Lady Arabella. He didn't wish you to bear any of the burden. He desired a private burial to take place immediately upon his death and I saw to that in London before I came here. It was his dying wish that there should be no period of official mourning and I'm sure you would want to honor his deathbed request."

Franklin gazed in bewilderment at the new owner of Lacey Court. "How did his lordship die, your grace?"

"A duel," Jack said promptly. "He died of his wounds. And he was most explicit about the arrangements for his funeral."

"I see," the steward said, frowning down at the floor. He and Mrs. Elliot had often predicted just such a death for the earl, but the proprieties should still be observed. He shook his head. "It's most irregular, my lady."

"Indeed, Franklin, but one must honor Lord Dunston's last requests," she said, aware of a wash of relief. Of course Frederick had made no such request but she wasn't about to argue with the duke's extremely convenient fabrication.

Franklin didn't seem convinced and his gaze now returned to the duke, but whatever he was about to say he thought better of, and bowed instead. "Welcome to Lacey Court, your grace." His tone was wooden.

"Thank you, Franklin." Then Jack added gently, "I do a.s.sure you that my position here is entirely within the bounds of the law and that no one in this house need be afraid for their livelihood. Pray convey that to your staff when you explain the situation to them."

Franklin bowed again, visibly relieved. "Mrs. Elliot and I will wait upon you at three o'clock, your grace."

Jack nodded, then set foot on the stairs behind Arabella. He placed an encouraging hand at her waist and her skin jumped at the appalling familiarity of the contact. What was he doing . . . thinking? Her doubts came rushing back and she almost ran ahead of him up to the landing at the head of the stairs. He was still following in leisurely fashion as she hurried down the corridor leading to the east wing. "Frederick's apartments are here, your grace." She opened the double doors at the end and then stepped back into the pa.s.sage. "I hope you'll be comfortable."

"After you," he said with a courteous gesture that she should precede him.

"I imagine you can find your own way around a bedchamber," she stated, then wished she'd found another way of expressing herself. "If you need anything, there's a bell by the fireplace. I'll have your servant sent up to you with your bags."

"Tell me," he said conversationally as he entered the bedchamber, "do you think your brother's deathbed requests will be accepted by Lady Alsop and her like?"

Arabella remained in the doorway. This was a safe topic discussed at a safe distance and her heart resumed its normal rate. "No," she said, "but then, there's little she can do about it except gossip, and she's going to have a field day anyway."

He gave her a rather wicked smile. "But we're going to enjoy stirring that little pot, aren't we?"

"I have no wish for the gossip to follow me to Cornwall," she declared, refusing to respond to the conspiratorial smile as the conviction grew that the duke's charm was merely a mask. He was dangerous. As dangerous as the rapier at his side. She would resist that charm as vigorously as she rejected his inappropriate familiarities.

"Cornwall?" He sounded satisfactorily startled.

"My mother's family," she said distantly. "I'll go to them as soon as I've arranged matters." She managed to sound as if it was a settled matter.

"Sounds rather dull," he observed, strolling around the chamber. "Wouldn't you rather be in London? There's plenty of excitement in Town, plenty to hone your wits on."

"I can hardly afford to live in London," she pointed out. "Certainly not now."

"As my wife you could live anywhere you pleased and in whatever manner you chose."

"Thank you, but I think Cornwall will suit me better," she declared. "The climate is better suited to the growing of orchids."

"You could have a hothouse in London," he said, turning from his scrutiny of the garden beyond his window. But the doorway was empty. He shrugged, pursing his lips slightly. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated such opposition from Frederick's sister. He'd had every reason to believe that she'd jump at his proposal whether she liked the idea or not. What other options did she have? How many women, let alone a penniless spinster, would reject the hand of a duke . . . one of the richest men in the country, to boot?

Cornwall indeed. His lip curled. What a waste that would be. London, his London, would be the perfect foil for such an unusual woman. Somewhere where her quick wits and unconventional looks would shine to full advantage.

What the h.e.l.l was he thinking? He shook his head incredulously. Seeing Arabella Lacey shine in Society was the last thing he'd had in mind. Acquiring her was merely his means to an end, the final closing of the circle of vengeance. He had intended to wed a dull, plain spinster who would stay out of his way in rural Kent because it suited her husband and would perform her marital duties without question when it also suited him, and with luck and due diligence give him an heir. He certainly hadn't intended to give her any particular pleasure in the arrangement and hadn't expected to receive any from it himself, except the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken the very last possession of Frederick Lacey's, something that only the dead man's sister could bring him.

So why on earth was he offering additional enticements to a proposal that she would soon see she had no choice but to accept? He had no need to offer anything.

It was hot in the room and he flung open the cas.e.m.e.nt, then shrugged out of his black velvet coat and pulled loose the lace-edged cravat at his neck before unbuckling his sword belt. He laid the rapier in its sheath carefully on the window seat and looked out across the garden to the orchards that stretched into the distance. The garden of England, they called this county, and it was certainly fertile, the trees bowed down with fruit, the fields beyond gold and green with ripening corn.

Charlotte had loved the countryside . . . much preferred it to Town. The rolling hills of Burgundy had suited her gentle, easygoing nature, but her husband, the comte de Villefranche, had his place at the Court of Louis XVI, and Charlotte perforce had taken her own place in the household around the Queen, Marie Antoinette.

Villefranche had ridden in the same tumbrel as the duke of Orleans when the time came to keep their appointment with Madame Guillotine, and Frederick Lacey had ensured that Charlotte followed her husband in death.

Jack flung himself down on the bed, linking his hands behind his head. When the memories and the rage came upon him, he knew to let them run their course, otherwise the black mood kept a stranglehold and he was unable to think clearly or to act with any purpose. He closed his eyes and let the images of that hot-afternoon crowd in as he relived it, feeding his vengeance, strengthening his resolve.

The mob were baying for blood, crowding around the tumbrels as they rattled over the cobbles to the guillotine in Place de la Bastille. The old prison itself was now a heap of rubble and the yelling throng climbed upon it to get a better view of the killings. The steady sound of the blade dropping, the sickening thud as it sliced through bone, the soft thump as the severed head dropped into the waiting basket could be heard only by those standing close to the bloodstained platform.

Jack was in the street clothes of the sansculottes, the tricolor pinned to his cap, as he pushed his way through the press, away from the guillotine, towards the edge of the square. No one paid him any attention, no one realized that this sansculottes was an Englishman who every day came to the guillotine to mark the deaths of friends and acquaintances, to take the lists back to anxious relatives and friends in England waiting desperately for news. He was indistinguishable from the mob as he fought his way through, away from the reek of blood. At the edge of the crowd he drew breath. The air was thick with sweat, onions, stale wine, but he could no longer smell the blood.

His gaze fell on three members of the securite standing in a knot in one corner of the square. And on the man with them, a man dressed in the height of fashion, but he was no longer immaculate-his powdered wig was askew, the lace at his wrists was torn, and his ruffled cravat had been ripped from his neck. It was easy to see why. One of the securite was holding up an emerald pin and laughing with his colleagues as they pushed and jostled the man towards the guillotine platform.

Jack watched the scene for a minute, his expression blank, but the hilt of the small sword concealed beneath his grubby waistcoat was rea.s.suring beneath his hand. The prisoner was an Englishman, not the usual target for the securite. But most Englishmen in Paris in these desperate times behaved with discretion, kept themselves away from the streets. They didn't flaunt their emeralds and silks and lace. Only a fool, an utterly arrogant fool, would expose himself to such danger. And Frederick Lacey, Earl of Dunston, was and always had been an utterly arrogant fool, and whatever business he had in Paris, he was up to no good.

If Jack went to the rescue of the prisoner he would surely die with him, he reflected with a cold abstraction, and while there would be a certain irony to it, what virtue was to be gained by both their deaths? He took a step towards the group, and the prisoner, wild-eyed, looked straight at him. Recognition darted across his eyes. Not surprising, Jack thought. A man would always recognize one who, however well disguised, had once all but killed him.

Dunston twisted in his captors' hold and began babbling, waving his arm frantically. He seemed to have caught their attention, because they stopped in their forced march towards the platform and began to fire questions at the prisoner. Then, still gripping him tightly by the elbows, they turned and hustled him out of the square.

Jack slipped quietly into a nearby alley. Whatever Dunston had said, it had achieved at least a reprieve, and he himself still had work to do elsewhere in the city.

At dusk he returned to the Marais and the narrow alley where the wine merchant had his store. The door was locked and barred, the windows shuttered. He stood for a moment, gazing at the front of the shop, dread a cold hand on his heart, then he glanced upwards to the tiny window of the loft. It too was shuttered. A door banged on the opposite side of the alley and he spun around. An old woman in the rusty black garments of a widow stood watching him. He approached her slowly and she slid through the narrow doorway of the house. He followed her into the dim pa.s.sage.

"Madame, qu'est-ce qui se pa.s.se?"

She twisted her gnarled hands as she told him of the securite who had come to the wine merchant's shop, of the man with them, of how they had taken everyone away. Including the woman.

Jack opened his eyes again as the scenes faded and the reek of blood, such a strong memory it was almost palpable, receded. But he could still feel the cold dread that had gripped him as he looked up at the shuttered windows of the attic in the Marais.

He had been so close to getting Charlotte out of Paris. Two more days and the Cornish fishing boat would have arrived on the wild, rocky coast of Brittany. All was in place for their escape from Paris, they had only to wait one more day.

While they waited, they were safest in the center of the vipers' nest, living in the little attic above the wine merchant's store in the heart of the Marais, to all appearances merely Citoyen and Citoyenne Franche, loyal sansculottes, active members of the people's revolution, as eager as any to dance around the tumbrels, jeering at the aristos riding with their hands bound, the women in nothing but their shifts, the men with their shirts open, baring the neck to the blade's path.

And then on that last afternoon of waiting, while Jack was out gathering information about the ident.i.ties of the latest purge of prisoners in the Chatelet, the securite had come to the wine merchant's shop. They knew whom they wanted and where to find her. When Jack returned, Charlotte was gone. He had tracked her to the prison of La Force, but that same dreadful September night the guards had turned on their prisoners and ma.s.sacred them. The courtyard, piled high with the mutilated, raped bodies of the slain, ran with blood.

Jack fought to push from him the scene that was burned forever on his internal vision. Frantically he had searched for Charlotte's body amid the carnage, ever more desperately calling her name, until an old crone, one of the tricoteuse who reveled in the daily slaughter, had told him with undisguised delight about the woman with the startling lock of white hair who had been one of the first dragged from the prison to her death beneath the knives of the prison guards.

Jack would have killed the woman with his own knife if his friends, at great risk to themselves, had not dragged him away. He had little memory of his escape from Paris, the cross-country journey, the fishing boat that had delivered him to the sh.o.r.es of Cornwall. But he knew who had betrayed Charlotte to the securite. Frederick Lacey. Lacey had saved his own skin at the expense of Charlotte's, and in doing so had avenged the long-ago dishonor Jack had inflicted upon him.

But Lacey had paid the price. All but one thing that he had owned now belonged to his enemy. Lacey had taken Charlotte's life, and deprived Jack of a beloved sister. Jack would acquire Lacey's sister and she would bring him the one remaining thing he wanted to complete her half brother's destruction. Frederick Lacey would be turning on a spit in h.e.l.l, but all h.e.l.l's fires and fury would be as nothing to the knowledge of his total annihilation at the hands of the man he had loathed for the better part of his miserable existence on earth.

As always, the prospect gave Jack a savage satisfaction. Arabella Lacey was not what he had expected, but how could he possibly have guessed that the reclusive, countrified spinster would be so bold and confident, so sure of herself? So combative. Not that it made any difference. He would marry her one way or another.

He was a patient man when it suited his purposes.

Chapter 3.