He couldn’t find a word, and Vinnie smoothly said, “This old curmudgeon? Crazy old Bedlamite?”
“Cursed sodding bastard.”
The Ram didn’t move, didn’t change expression. He said to Rafael, “You won’t be smiling much longer, Captain.”
Rafael froze for an instant at the squire’s very soft, taunting voice. “What the hell do you mean?”
The squire shook his head. He said nothing.
Rafael and Flash were both elated and weary. They rode side by side to the Drago Hall stables. “I wonder if Damien succeeded in fooling my wife.”
It was a rhetorical question and Flash said nothing.
“I threatened him, you know. The only way she would question his identity is if he touched her. He swore he wouldn’t, swore he would be the soul of honor, that his new leaf was well turned over, as of tonight. Well, we will soon see, won’t we?”
Rafael took his leave of Flash and walked toward the Hall. “Good sport, Cap’n,” Flash called after him. “Aye, excellent sport.”
Rafael grinned as he walked toward the Hall. It was late, very late, yet all the windows still blazed with light. He frowned. He suddenly remembered the squire’s words, and broke into a run.
He flung the oak front doors open. “Ligger. What the hell is going on?”
Ligger stood gape-mouthed, mute with distress.
“Out with it, man.” Rafael stepped quickly forward and grasped the butler’s narrow shoulders. “What happened, Ligger?”
Ligger stared up at him, finally managing, “Are you the baron or Captain Rafael?”
“I’m me, Rafael.”
Ligger moaned softly. “Someone shot the baron. We thought it was you, sir. Your wife, well, she—”
“Is my brother dead?”
Ligger shook his head. “Dr. Ludcott is with him, but . . .”
Rafael didn’t wait a moment longer. He took the stairs two at a time. He ran down the long eastern corridor toward the master suite, realized his mistake, and turned back toward the Pewter Room.
He was still some distance down the corridor when he saw Victoria standing beside the closed door, leaning against the wall, her head bowed. She looked unutterably weary. Softly he called, “Victoria.”
Her eyes flew open. “Damien. Thank God you’re back. He’s hurt badly and I—”
“Victoria, love.”
She grew very still, her eyes wide and haunted on his face. He was striding toward her.
“Damien, I don’t under—”
“Hush, love. Hush, it’s I.” He drew her into his arms.
“Rafael?” Her voice was a thin cry.
“Yes.” She threw herself into him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could about his back, burrowing her face against his shoulder.
“I’m all right, love,” he said over and over. “Tell me about Damien.”
“I thought he was you. So did Elaine. So did everyone. Oh, God, I can’t bear it.” She stopped and drew in a deep breath. “Dr. Ludcott sent me out. He’s digging out the bullet, it’s deep in Damien’s shoulder. He’s unconscious, thank the Lord, but I just don’t know.”
Rafael gently shook her shoulders. “Listen to me, Victoria. I want you to go speak to Elaine and tell her what’s happened. I will see to Damien. Are you all right? Can you manage?”
She nodded, gave him another fierce hug, and picking up her skirts, dashed down the corridor toward the master suite.
Rafael quietly let himself into the Pewter Room. Dr. Ludcott looked up, his expression grim and strained. “Baron, you’re back. Your brother, I’m relieved to say, is a vital, very strong man. He will survive this.”
“I’m Rafael Carstairs. This is the baron.”
The doctor looked from the unconscious man on the bed to Rafael. “Amazing,” he said, and shook his head.
“I took a young girl to your house. She was to have been raped by the Hellfire Club. It’s over now, all of it.”
Dr. Ludcott merely stared at him, silent for many moments. “I’m relieved,” he said at last. “There’s a lot you will not tell me, if I read you aright, Captain.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
There was a moan from Damien. At that moment Elaine came into the bedchamber, her face as white as January snow, her belly huge, molded closely by her fitted dressing gown.
“Now, now, my lady,” Dr. Ludcott said quickly, striding toward her. “Your husband will survive this. He will. You must stay calm, for the child’s sake. You must.”
“He was playing you, Rafael,” she said, her fingers stroking her husband’s hand.
“Yes, this time I knew exactly what he was doing, Elaine. Neither of us guessed that something like this would happen. I’m sorry, so very sorry.”
“Why?” she asked helplessly.
Damien opened his eyes at that moment to see his wife staring down at him. “Hello,” he said. “Where is Rafael?”
“I’m here. All is taken care of. All of it.”
“Good,” said Damien. “We succeeded.” He closed his eyes, but his fingers tightened on his wife’s hand. “I’ll be all right,” he said, then fell into a stupor.
Victoria tugged at Rafael’s sleeve. “Tell me,” she said.
“Elaine, would you like to remain with him?”
“Yes,” she said. She gave Rafael one long look, then turned to speak to Dr. Ludcott.
Rafael and Victoria walked silently, side by side, down the corridor. “Why did you do it?”
“To protect you,” he said simply, hearing the anger in her voice, understanding the awful fear she must have experienced, and sorry for it. “I had to make you believe I was here and not away. I knew you would do everything, move heaven and hell, to help me, otherwise. I wasn’t about to take a chance with your safety, Victoria.”
“And that is that?”
“Yes, it is. The Ram—you will never guess who he is.”
“No, since I wasn’t allowed to help draw the curtain down on this intrigue, I couldn’t possibly guess.”
“Squire Esterbridge.”
That silenced her. She stared up at him, incredulous. “And David?”
“No part of the filthy little group. His father evidently wouldn’t let him join. He knew David would recognize him sooner or later.”
“You and Damien planned this, then?”
“Yes.”
Victoria stopped suddenly, grabbed his arm, and pulled him about to face her. “I have never been so frightened in my entire life. The bullet . . . it slammed you—rather, Damien—against the wall. I was useless. I screamed and cried. You’re probably right to have kept me from your plans. I would have ruined everything.”
He grinned, that heart-pounding, white-toothed grin that made her want to kiss his face again and again. “You love me,” he said. “You proved that you can’t live without me.”
She gave him a look of acute dislike. “You, or Damien, as it turns out, made an awful mess. That was probably what scared me so much. All that ghastly blood."’
He frowned at that. “Hmmm.”
She poked him hard in the stomach. “What did you do with the squire?”
“Nothing. It’s his choice. If he isn’t too batty, he will leave England immediately, but he’s floundering mentally.”
“Poor David.”
“Poor David, ha. That callous little bully doesn’t deserve any kind words from you, love. But I do. Just look at me, Victoria. A weary but triumphant warrior returned to you from the wars. I need succoring at your soft breast, and you could—”
“Make you a cup of tea, perhaps?”
“That’s all you’re offering to a hero?” he said, and that damned smile of his was hovering, ready to burst forth in full force and do her in.
“I can put brandy in your tea.”
“Is that so? You know what I was just thinking, Victoria? We have brought the Ram to a kind of justice. Now, about this fellow who’s called the Bishop, you know, that smuggler. What do you say we journ
ey to Axmouth again, and use you for bait, and try to find out . . . Hey, where are you going?”
“To see Flash. I propose to leave you and go to the Seawitch. I plan to get more herbs from Blick. Particularly more of the one that ensures clean innards.”
He grabbed his belly. “I don’t feel well already. I need succor now.”
Victoria looked at him, her hands on her hips. His smile broke through, showering her fully, and she couldn’t help herself. She cursed, even as she grinned back at him. “I don’t know, you wretched creature, I just don’t know.”
I feel the same way. Come here, Victoria. We’ll succor together.”
EPILOGUE
Carstairs Manor, Cornwall, England, January 1814
It is not enough to conquer; one must know how to seduce.
—SHAKESPEARE
“Our table will collapse under the weight of all this fowl and collective consequence. Mrs. Beel’s delicious stuffed quail will be buried beneath these noxious-looking brussels sprouts.”
Victoria laughed at her husband’s words and looked around at their guests. “Rafael is quite right, you know. We’ve never been so coroneted and peered.”
Hawk, the Earl of Rothermere, said in a pensive voice to his wife, Frances, “I think that if Victoria wishes to be condescended to properly, we should immediately write to my father. He and Lucia together, with Didier in their wake, could out-consequence the Regent.”
Diana Ashton, Countess of Saint Leven, swallowed a bite of her artichoke bottom, then shook her head ruefully. “I’m still reeling from the shock. Lucia marrying the marquess.”
“My father,” said Hawk, “informed me that Lucia reads aloud her gothic novels to him. At night. In bed.”
Frances giggled, unable to help herself.
“All right, I’ll tell them the rest of it,” Hawk said. “My father also let slip that Lucia is marvelously inventive. If the plot of the novel doesn’t suit her purposes, in other words, if it isn’t sufficiently wicked, she alters it without my father even realizing it.”
“Then everyone is content,” Frances said. “No, no, Hawk, don’t you dare say another word. You’ve already gone beyond what is acceptable dinner conversation.”
“She’s turning boring and proper on me in her old age,” said Hawk. “Where’s that wild Scottish girl I dragged into the tackroom and—”
“Hawk. Philip. Whoever you are, stop now.”
Hawk raised a hand. “I apologize. I am now a pious fellow, nearly a Methodist. Please pass me some of that delicious plum pudding, Diana. Frances, my love, your face is a charming shade of red.”
Frances, ignoring this aside, said in a meditative voice, “I wonder about Lucia’s tatting since she married the marquess.”
Rafael said, “I want to know what you, Diana, do when you wish to punish yourself. Do you tat with as much energy and determination as Lucia?”
Diana was grinning shamelessly into her own plum pudding, and Rafael added, “I was good enough to bring Victoria to Lucia as a replacement penance, so to speak. Victoria came into the drawing room and the tatting went underneath Lucia’s chair for the duration, so Didier told me.”
“I have a feeling that Victoria will serve you up for that remark, Rafael,” Diana said. “As for what I do for a penance, let me see—”
“She makes me do her penance,” said Lyon Ashton, Earl of Saint Leven. “The rounder her belly becomes, the more outrageous the demands she makes. ‘Lyon, darling, would you please fetch me just one small strawberry tart? And perhaps just a tiny bit of whipped cream on top of it? It’s only three o’clock in the morning, Lyon dear. Please? I have three more months of this.”’
Hawk leaned forward, waving his fork. “Lyon, that’s nothing at all. Let me tell you what Frances did that scared the very devil out of me this past August. She dressed up like a boy and actually rode in a race at Newmarket. Another jockey didn’t like the fact that he was losing, and thus took his whip to her. She very nearly fell, and, well, if anyone had discovered the truth, she would have been roundly ostracized.”
“Ha. Your father thought it a marvelous lark.” Frances added in a wistful voice, “I always wanted to ride Flying Davie, in a real race where it really counted. It was worth pulling the proverbial wool over your eyes, my lord. As for that other jockey—Dorking was his miserable name—you forgot to mention that he received just enough desserts.”
“What did you do?” Victoria asked, all eyes and interest.
Hawk said, “She didn’t recruit any former mistresses to help her, thank God.”
Frances said, “I didn’t waste an instant. I brought my whip down across his miserable face. He howled and pulled away fast enough, let me tell you.”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “Then he sent three bully-boys around our stables to beat up the jockey who had struck him.”
“I know what happened,” said Lyon. “The jockey had disappeared. No doubt he was once again wearing a lovely gown and flirting with the Earl of Rothermere.”
“Exactly,” said Frances, sitting back and looking quite pleased with herself. “And Flying Davie won.”
“Bravo.” shouted the three ladies.
To Lyon’s delight, strawberry tarts were served for dessert. “Enough whipped cream for you, sweetheart? Perhaps just a little bit more to cover any late-night cravings you just might develop?”
Diana said slowly, “You know, Lyon, even with the whipped cream, it simply doesn’t look appetizing to me anymore.”
Lyon groaned loudly. “Show me the shortest route to your kitchen, Victoria. I shall probably be roaming about during the night.”
The gentlemen didn’t linger over their port, but soon joined the ladies in the drawing room.
Victoria was soon telling them about the very old castle ruins. “We considered naming the manor Wolfeton, after the old castle, but since Rafael wants to begin his own dynasty, we decided Carstairs Manor was more fitting.”
Rafael smiled at her. “Victoria would give about anything to have a medieval ghost lurking about. I’m even willing to build her a fake abbey, blight it enough to give it an eerie look on foggy nights, and then put out an invitation to all monkly ghosts to come for a visit.”
“Your two wonderful little joys would like that, Hawk,” said Frances. “Our children,” she added.
“The little pestilences would probably scare any promising spirit across the Channel.”
“He’s a doting father,” said Frances.
“You have done wonderfully with the house,” said Diana. “Everything is so light and cheerful, even in January.”
“There was enough ivy removed to cover all the colleges at Oxford,” said Rafael. “Next, though, our project is to begin the Carstairs dynasty, as my demanding wife said. She has set her mind on producing enough progeny to outlast the Demoreton line.”
“Do recall,” said Hawk, “that Frances and I have two absolutely wonderful children. Anyone interested in marriage contracts?”
“Hmmm,” said Lyon, eyeing his wife’s belly. “I have my mind made up for a little girl. Is your Charles a promising pestilence, Hawk?”
“He is the very image of me,” said Hawk. “Do you know what my father said? He said I was getting my comeuppance through Charles. He’s right. I found a gray hair just last week.”
“I think we should wait until Diana brings her daughter into the world,” said Frances. “Then we will see. Now, Rafael, please do finish telling us about this Hellfire Club and your twin brother.”
“Well, there’s really not much more after what I’ve already told you. The Ram—Squire Esterbridge, surprisingly enough—left the country. None of us expected him to, for he’d grown really quite unbalanced. But one morning, not even a week later, he was gone, his man Deevers with him. To his son’s fury, he also took every bit of money he could get his hands on.
“As for my identical twin, Damien, well, he isn’t any longer.”
“What do you mean?” Hawk asked.
> Victoria said, “It’s fascinating, really. After Damien recovered from the gunshot wound, a shock of white hair suddenly appeared. Now there is no more confusion, nor,” Victoria said in a lowered voice to her husband, “will you ever again be able to fool me and go off on your own.”
“No more need of that,” said Rafael easily. “Behold a man whose energies all go to his tin mines and to the constant satisfaction of his wife.”
“Rafael.”
“I forgot to add that as of nearly a month ago, I am again an uncle. My brother’s wife gave him his heir. Who knows? Maybe Damien, with his wicked streak of white hair, will become the model father and landlord. Now. Frances, would you please play the piano-forte for us?”
Scottish ballads demanded by everyone, Frances seated herself gracefully at the pianoforte. She played until teatime, to everyone’s delight.
“To think,” said Hawk, shaking his head as he looked at his wife, “that once I believed she played so badly all the crystal would break in self-defense.”
“I think,” Diana announced suddenly, “that I am developing a craving for marrow pudding. Lyon, my dearest sweetheart?”
Lyon shuddered. “That’s disgusting.”
“With perhaps some whipped cream?”
Hawk moaned and held his stomach.
Diana clapped her hands. “I’ve got it—a dash of ginger. Yes, that’s it, ginger.”
Rafael said to Victoria, “I think we’re coming very close to clean innards here.”
“No, not ginger. A gooseberry sauce.”
“Oh, my God,” said Lyon, and collapsed in a heap, his head on his wife’s bountiful lap.
“Now, Lyon, if that offends you, then I will simply make do with . . . let me see . . .”
“My dearest wife,” said Rafael, “I’m taking you upstairs. Give poor Lyon here a map of the kitchen. His distress bothers me. I can’t bear to witness it further. I wish to begin on our dynasty this very night.”
“Your turn will come,” Lyon shouted after them. “Just you wait, Rafael.” To Diana he said fondly, “Now, my dearest, why not some parsnips with some delicious onion sauce?”