“Oh,” Lydia softly exclaimed time after time, as the wrappings fell away to reveal the treasures.
And, “Oh, thank you,” she said at the end, when the wrappings lay strewn about her, on the bed where she sat and on the floor. She had the writing box in her lap, and she opened and closed the tiny drawers and lifted the lids of the compartments and took out their contents and put them back again—like a child enchanted with a new toy.
She felt like a child, truly. There had been gifts, on her birthday and at Christmastime, from Ste and Effie, and pretty ones, too: shoes and frocks and bonnets and sometimes a pair of earbobs or a bracelet.
This was altogether different, for these were the instruments of her trade, and she, who traded in words, found her vocabulary robbed, along with her heart.
“Thank you,” she whispered again, helplessly, while she looked into his handsome face and gave up all hope of ever being sensible again.
Pleasure shone in his green eyes, and his mouth curved into a smile that reduced the mush of her heart to warm syrup. It was a boy’s smile, half mischief, half abashed.
“My humble offerings have pleased Her Majesty, I see,” he said.
She nodded. Even if she could have strung words together at the moment, she didn’t dare try, lest she commence bawling.
“Then I collect you’re sufficiently softened up for the coup de grâce,” he said. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew yet another parcel.
This one he opened himself, turning away, so that she couldn’t see what it was.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “And let go of the damn writing box. I’m not going to steal it back.”
She let go of the box and closed her eyes.
He took her right hand and slid a ring onto her fourth finger. She knew it was a ring, smooth and cool, and she knew her hand was shaking.
“You can look,” he said.
It was a cornflower-blue sapphire, rectangular and simply cut, and so large it would have appeared gaudy on any hand but hers, which was no daintier than the rest of her. Diamonds winked on either side.
She was aware of tears winking from the corners of her eyes. Don’t be a ninny, she told herself.
“It’s…lovely,” she said. “And—and I shan’t say you shouldn’t have, because I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like a princess in a fable.”
He bent and kissed the top of her head.
“I’ll take you to Bedfordshire,” he said.
Chapter 16
Vere sat at his study desk, surrounded by crumpled wads of paper. It was Saturday morning, and he was trying to compose a letter to Lord Mars. That should have been easy enough, but Grenville had warned him to be diplomatic…whatever that meant.
Vere was about to go looking for her, to demand specifics, when she opened the door.
“Lord Mars is here,” she said, “and by the looks of him, it isn’t a social visit.”
Moments later, they were in the library with His Lordship.
He was travel-stained, trembling with fatigue, and unshaven. “They’ve bolted,” he said, as soon as Vere and Lydia entered. “Please, for the love of God, tell me they’re here. Safe. The girls, I mean. Elizabeth and Emily.”
Blank, cold, Vere stared at him.
Grenville hurried to the decanter tray and filled a glass, which she gave to Lord Mars. “Do sit,” she said. “Collect yourself.”
“They’re not here.” His shoulders sagged. He sank into a chair. “I feared as much. Yet I hoped.”
Feared. Hoped. Tell me they’re here. Safe.
The room darkened, shrank, and swelled again. Something swelled within Vere, cold and heavy. “Bloody hell,” he said between his teeth, “You couldn’t keep them safe, either?”
“Safe?” Mars rose, his face white and stiff. “Those children are as dear to me as my own. But my affection, my care, avails nothing, because I am not you.” He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, flung it down. “There. Read for yourself what they have to say. The girls you’ve neglected. Not a word from you. Not a visit. Not so much as a note. They might as well be lying in stone coffins with their brothers and parents, as far as you’re concerned. Yet they left the shelter of my house, where they’ve been loved and cared for—dearly, dearly. They left because their love and loyalty is with you.”
“Please, sir, collect yourself,” said Grenville. “You are overset. Ainswood is, too.” She urged Mars to sit, put the glass back in his hand.
Vere read the note. It was but a few lines, that was all—a few daggers to the heart. He looked at his wife. “They wanted to be at our wedding,” he said.
She took the note from him, quickly read it.
Mars drank a little. His color returned. He went on talking. The girls must have left before daybreak on Monday, he told them. He and his brothers-in-law had set out looking for them by midmorning. Yet despite the mere few hours’ start the girls had had, the men had been unable to discover a trace of them. No one had seen them—at the coaching inns, tollgates. They couldn’t have made it to Liphook, because he’d combed the village and its environs.
Mars took out a pair of miniatures and laid them upon the library table. “They are not ordinary-looking,” he said. “How could anyone fail to notice them?”
Vere stood looking down at the small oval paintings, making no move to pick them up. Shame was acid in his mouth and a cold weight in his chest. He would have recognized them, yes, would have seen Charlie in them. He didn’t know them, though. He would not have known the sound of their voices, because he’d scarcely ever spoken to them, never listened, never paid attention.
Yet they’d run away, from love and protection, to see him wed because, Elizabeth had written, “We must make it clear that we wish him happy, as Papa would have done. Papa would have gone.”
Vere became aware of his wife’s voice. “You will make ready while Lord Mars takes some time to rest,” she told him, “though I know he doesn’t wish to. Send messages to all your cronies. You want as many eyes as you can muster. You will take half the servants; I’ll keep the other half, to help me cover the London vicinity. You must take some maids as well. Women see things differently than men do. I shall contact all my informants.”
She turned back to Lord Mars. “You must send your wife a message, to assure her that matters are in hand. I know you wish to wait until there is good news, but it is dreadful for her to wait and not know anything.”
“You are generous,” Mars told her. “You make me ashamed.”
The duchess lifted her eyebrows.
“We closed ranks against you,” Mars said. “Because you were not highborn. Because of scandal.”
“She’s a Ballister,” Vere said. “Dain’s cousin. You snubbed a Ballister, you pious snob.”
Mars nodded wearily. “That’s what I heard. I thought it was idle gossip. I saw my mistake a little while ago.” He rose, carefully set his empty glass down. His hand trembled. “I’ve slept little. At first I believed my eyes played tricks on me. I thought I was seeing ghosts.” He essayed a smile, not very successfully. “That of the third Marquess of Dain, to be precise. You are remarkably like my old nemesis in the Lords.”
“Yes, well, she’ll be our nemesis if we don’t find those girls,” Vere said shortly. “I’ll take you up to a room. You’d better have a wash, and something to eat, and contrive a nap if you can. I’ll want your brain in working order.”
He took Mars’s arm. “Come along, then. We’ll let Grenville marshal the troops. It’s best to stay out of her way when she’s organizing.”
Athcourt, Devon
“I say, Miss Price, you do have a knack for makin’ yourself scarce, not but what it’s easy enough in this pile. I wonder why Dain don’t keep a post chaise handy to carry the ladies at least from one end of the place to the other. But the truth is, no one would blame a fellow for thinkin’ you was avoidin’ me, which,” Bertie added with a stern look, “ain’t sportin’, especially when he’s ra
ked fore and aft and you knew what I was goin’ to say, didn’t you?”
“Oh, dear,” said she, wringing her hands.
“I know you wasn’t leadin’ me on because you ain’t that sort,” Bertie said. “You ain’t goin’ to tell me you was, and you don’t like me even a little, are you?”
Her face turned cherry pink. “I like you exceedingly,” she said in a disconcertingly saddish sort of way.
“Well, then,” said he, disconcerted but undaunted. “We’d best get shackled, don’t you think?”
She looked helplessly about Athcourt’s music room, where he’d finally cornered her—alone. It was Sunday, and he’d been trying since yesterday, when they arrived. He’d meant to give it one more day, then propose, wherever they were and whoever was about. It was not, after all, as though anything this side of the earth exploding could shock either Dain or Jessica.
“Maybe I should kneel and make a speech of it, do you think, Miss Price?” Bertie grimaced. “I collect I ought to say how devilish fond I am of you, even though it’d be obvious to a blind man and deaf, too.”
Behind the spectacles, her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, please don’t kneel,” she said. “I’m embarrassed enough. I should not be such a coward. The Duchess of Ainswood would be vastly disappointed in me.”
“A coward? By gad, you can’t be afraid of me?”
“No, of course not. How silly I am.” She took off her spectacles, rubbed them on her frock sleeve, and put them back on. “Naturally, you will understand that I did not set out to deceive you. My name is not Price, but Prideaux.” She lifted her chin. “Tamsin Prideaux. I am not an orphan. I have a complete set of parents. In Cornwall. But I was obliged to give up on them, for the situation was intolerable. And so I ran away. Only Her Grace knows the truth.”
“Ah.” He was confused, but he felt obliged to sort things out quickly, because she believed he would understand, and he did not like to disappoint her. “Intolerable, was it? Well, then, what could you do but bolt? I did. There was my Aunt Claire forever bringing one heiress or another to the house, or haulin’ me wherever they was. And I’m sure there weren’t nothin’ wrong with ’em, but either a fellow fancies a gal or he don’t, and I didn’t. And not wantin’ to hurt their feelin’s nor have to listen to Aunt Claire jawin’ forever about it, I made a run for it.”
He frowned. “I never thought of changin’ my name. Weren’t that clever of you?” he added, brightening. “Prideaux. Price. Thomasina. Tamsin. No, other way about. From Tamsin to Thomasina. Now I think on it, I like ‘Tamsin’ better. Sounds like a pixie name, don’t it?”
She gazed at him for a while. Then she smiled, and really, she did look rather like a pixie. A shortsighted one, to be sure, but then, he was happy to stand near enough so that she could see him even without her spectacles.
“Is that a ‘Yes, I will,’ then?” he asked. “Shall we make it ‘Lady Trent’ and never mind the other names?”
“As long as you don’t mind anything else.” She adjusted her spectacles, though they seemed straight enough to him. “Obviously, we can expect nothing from my parents, and even for your sake, I could not accept any dowry or settlement from Her Grace, though she will try to press it upon me, I know. But I am not expensive, Sir Bertram—”
“Bertie,” he said.
She bit her lip. “Bertie,” she said softly.
“Oh, I say, that’s pleasant.” He made matters pleasanter by gathering her up in his arms and kissing her until they were both dizzy.
He would have gone beyond dizziness if he were not acutely aware they weren’t wed yet. Which meant a fellow must behave himself, like it or not. It did not mean, however, that the fellow needed to wait for the preacher a minute longer than absolutely necessary. And so Bertie took his future bride’s hand and went to obtain Dain’s help in making that future near rather than distant.
Though Athcourt was one of England’s largest houses, they did not have to go far, because Dain was looking for them. They met up with him on the landing of the great staircase.
“I say, Dain, Miss P and I want to get shackled,” said Bertie.
“You’ll have to wait,” said Dain. “I’ve had a letter from Ainswood. His wards have gone missing. You must take Miss Price to London to assist my cousin.” After briefly explaining the situation, he turned to Tamsin. “You must pardon the imposition. My wife may not consider her condition ‘delicate,’ but I will not permit her to make two long journeys with almost no rest between. She will be easier in her mind if Lydia has a woman friend with her.”
“Good heavens, where else should I be but with Lydia?” said Tamsin. “I can be packed in under an hour.” She hurried away.
“I wish you happy, Trent,” Dain said. “Though I cannot for the life of me ascertain what she sees in you.” He shrugged. “We haven’t time to ponder that riddle. Ainswood needs help—after which I mean to pound him to a pulp.”
Dain continued up the stairs, talking. “I didn’t know he had any more wards. But Jessica tells me they’ve been living with Mars ever since Charlie died. Curse the lout! I must find out everything secondhand. And there have been so dratted many condolence notes that I hardly know who’s alive and who isn’t. ‘Who in blazes is Elizabeth?’ I ask Jess. ‘The sister of the little boy who died about a year before we were wed,’ she tells me. ‘But she’s dead,’ I insist. ‘It was right after my old friend Wardell was planted. I distinctly remember Mallory—as he was then—rushing from one funeral to the next.’ ‘That was the boy’s mother,’ Jessica tells me. ‘Then who the devil did my secretary send the last condolence note to, on the lad’s account?’ I want to know. The elder sister, it turns out.”
By this time they had turned into the guest wing, where Bertie’s room was.
“And so, not only is the sister not dead, but there’s another one,” Dain went on. “And living with Mars, no less, who has nine children of his own and another on the way, for all his wife is five and forty if she’s a day.”
The marquess pushed open Bertie’s bedchamber door. “Ainswood should have told me.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me nothin’, neither,” Bertie said, following him inside.
“He hardly knows you,” said Dain. He stomped back out into the hall and bellowed for his valet.
When he came back in, he said, “I’ve been wed for six months. I might have gone for those girls at any time and had them to live here. It isn’t as though we’re short of accommodation, is it? And Jessica would like to have female company. Not to mention those are Charlie’s girls. One of the finest fellows I’ve ever known. I should have left Paris posthaste for his funeral had that moron friend of mine thought fit to send me word. But by the time I heard of it, Charlie had been planted for a week.”
He found Bertie’s bag and flung it on the bed.
Andrews arrived then, but Dain chased him away. “I’ll help Trent,” he said. “Go pack for me. Her Ladyship will explain what’s needed.”
Andrews departed.
Dain went to the wardrobe and went on talking while he emptied its contents. “I should have been there when they laid Charlie to rest. I should have been with Ainswood when they lay the boy with his father. A man ought to have his friends with him at such times, and Ainswood had no friend in Charlie’s sisters, I’ll tell you that. Or their husbands.” He threw a heap of clothes on the bed and paused, looking at Bertie. “At least he’s asked this time. For help. Doubtless that’s my cousin’s doing.” He returned to the wardrobe. “You will take Miss Price to her—”
“Actually,” Bertie said, “it’s Miss Prideaux.”
“Whatever.” Dain pulled waistcoats from their wrappings in the drawer. “Your intended. You will take her to London, and stay there, and do precisely as my cousin tells you. Lydia knows London, and she has information sources the Home Secretary could not begin to match.”
“You reckon them gals’ll get to London?” Bertie said. “Seein’ as how they never made it to Liphook,
mebbe they decided to go home.”
“Maybe,” said Dain. “The question is, where is home?”
Vere pushed desperately through a woodland grown as thick as a tropical jungle. Clawlike roots snaked out from nowhere, and he tripped and fell, struggled up, and pushed on. It was cold, bitter cold, and black. Neither moonlight nor starlight could penetrate the tangled boughs above. He couldn’t see where he was going, but blindly followed the sound, the child’s terrified cry.
Icy sweat drenched his shirt.
I’m coming. His mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. The boy couldn’t hear him, wouldn’t know, would think Vere had abandoned him.
It’s not true. I never would. Never, never.
But Vere had abandoned Charlie’s boy, left him to fools and cowards…and worse.
And that was why he was punished now, his voice taken away, suffocated, while the child suffocated…while the foul, killing film of diphtheria spread inside him.
Vere’s hand struck marble. His fingers scrabbled over it, searching for the handle. It wouldn’t move. Locked. He beat on the door, iron, unyielding.
No!
He tore at the lock, wrenched it off. He pulled the massive door open and ran toward the voice, faint and fading now.
A candle burned at each end of the coffin. He pushed the lid off, tore away the shroud, lifted the boy in his arms.
But it was only cold mist he held, a shadow fading, vanishing…gone.
“No. No! Robin!”
Vere’s own cries woke him.
He was on his knees, a pillow clutched to his chest.
His hands were shaking. His skin was clammy. Wetness trickled down his cheeks.
He flung down the pillow and rubbed his hands over his face.
He walked to the window. Beyond was darkness, heavy with the fog that had rolled about them during the last weary miles before they’d reluctantly stopped, for it was late, and the servants hadn’t had their dinner, and they were exhausted. Unlike their masters, they hadn’t guilty consciences and unrelenting anxiety to kill sleep and appetite.