Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  Ashleigh glanced down and saw that the woman's hands held a small saucer filled with cream, and they were trembling. A closer inspection of the small, plump face revealed a creamy white "mustache" lining her upper lip.

  With a smile Ashleigh shook her head. "Not if you don't wish me to." She stepped forward a pace and held out her hand. "I'm Ashleigh Sinclair. I'm His Grace's official hostess and, also, his ward."

  The gray curls bobbed again, but their owner made no move to release the saucer of cream. "Yes... yes, Sinclair... Oh, yes, I've heard all about you! David told me." Suddenly the hazel eyes widened. "Oh, but my dear! You must get yourself away from here—at once! They'll never allow you to stay, you know." Another furtive glance at the door to the kitchen. "Once they're crossed, there's only trouble, you know.... yes... I know all about the trouble she can cause...."

  "Trouble? But who...?"

  "Elizabeth doesn't like you at all, you see. Oh, but you must know that. And she..." The hazel eyes flickered and then seemed to go blank.

  "Elizabeth!" Ashleigh exclaimed. "I... see. Oh, but look here, madam, I hardly think—oh, I don't even know your name."

  "My name... oh, yes, I have a name, of course. How silly of me! I'm Lady Hastings. But you may call me Jane. Everyone does."

  "Lady Hastings! Why, you must be Lady Elizabeth's grandmother!"

  A ghost of a smile broke over the old woman's face. "So they tell me," she murmured.

  Her words had a faintly cryptic ring to them, and Ashleigh was just about to question her when the door to the kitchen flew open, and a tall figure in black stepped into the chamber.

  "So there you are, Jane!" exclaimed Lady Margaret. "I might have known you'd be into the cream again. For shame! Now, come along with me or I shall be forced to—" The steely blue gaze fell on Ashleigh. "And what are you doing here, miss?"

  "Well, I was just—"

  "Your abigail's been searching for you for some time. I suggest you go to her." Margaret turned toward Lady Hastings. "And, as for you, little Jane, I think it is high time you were taking your nap. You know you cannot go about all afternoon without it. It worsens your behavior. And your theft of this cream proves it!"

  With a swift movement, Margaret reached for the saucer in Jane's hands, but the small woman saw the action coming and sought to forestall it by backing away, at the same time raising the saucer toward her mouth with a half frightened, half willful look in her eyes.

  "Oh, no, my dear!" Margaret's words bit into the air as she closed the gap between them, causing Lady Hastings to start. In a split second the saucer fell to the floor, sending cream and shards of porcelain in all directions across its stony surface.

  "Now look what you've done, you foolish creature!" snapped Margaret. "Haven't you learned yet not to defy those who know better?"

  Jane Hastings hung her head, totally cowed by the sharp tones—not to mention, thought Ashleigh, the condemning look in Margaret's eyes. Then, blubbering softly, she raised her head a fraction and murmured, "Y-yes, Margaret."

  "Very well, and see that you don't forget it so easily. Now come along." Margaret sidestepped the mess on the floor and fastened a bony hand about Jane's wrist, then, as if remembering a detail at the last second, glanced at Ashleigh. "You will call someone to clean up this accident, please, Miss Sinclair."

  Ashleigh watched as Margaret then proceeded to lead Lady Hastings from the chamber. She felt a sharp twinge of sympathy as she saw the small woman in the dove-gray dress cast a last, longing look at the cream on the floor before she was whisked briskly out of sight.

  * * * * *

  Patrick St. Clare sat in the humble caretaker's cottage on the grounds of what used to be his family's estate and held the yellowed pages of the letter he'd just read with trembling fingers. Then he glanced up at the old man sitting across from him.

  "Jemmy," he said, "why, in heaven's name, when I was down here a few months ago, didn't Martha tell me there was a letter?"

  The old man glanced at his wife who sat near the window beside a huge wheel, spinning. "'Cause she didn't know of it, sir," he replied matter-of-factly. "Th' lady only give it t' me t' keep fer ye, said I was t' trust no one else wi' it." Jemmy nodded, as if that settled the matter.

  Patrick smiled, for he well remembered the literal single-mindedness with which Jemmy Stokes would keep anything entrusted to his care. It was one of the chief reasons his parents had relied on him and only one or two others to help them carry out their clandestine involvement in the free-trading operation they'd engaged in during Patrick's youth.

  Of course, in this instance, it had almost backfired where he was concerned. When he'd at last returned to Kent, back in May, Jemmy had been absent, visiting a sick brother who lived many miles away, and it was only Martha he'd spoken to in his search for details of his family. If fortune hadn't decided to smile on him by allowing him this second chance visit, he'd never have come across the contessa's letter.

  Patrick scraped back his chair from the table that stood between him and the old man and rose to his feet. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a sheaf of five-pound notes and placed them on the table. "I'm deeply grateful, Jemmy," he said.

  "Now, then, sir, ye needn't be doin' that. Ye were gen'rous enough th' last time ye come down. Me Martha—"

  "Please accept it," said Patrick. "It's little enough, considering how you helped our family years ago, and the information in this—" Patrick indicated the letter he was still holding "—is more valuable than gold to me, old friend. Please, take the money, and all I'll ask is that you drink a draught or two to me when you spend a bit of it at the pub in the village tonight."

  Jemmy smiled a gap-toothed smile before glancing briefly at his wife and then back at Patrick. "Aye, that I will, young sir, but th' rest goes fer boots fer th' lads and a new Sunday dress fer Martha."

  For the first time since Patrick's arrival at the cottage, the old woman by the window stopped her spinning and focused on the men. A wide smile graced her plain features as she nodded at the two, then she bent back over her wheel and continued spinning.

  "Well, I'll be on my way, then," said Patrick as he moved toward the cottage's single door. "I'll be staying at Ravensford Hall for a few days if anyone needs to find me. After that, well, that piece of paper I gave you has my London address as well as that of my home in America... er, do any of your lads read?"

  Jemmy shook his head. "No, sir, but th' vicar can do us th' service if we've a need fer some'n wi' letters."

  "Good," said Patrick. "Well, I'm off—no need to see me out. Farewell, my friends, and again, my thanks."

  When he had gone from the cottage and mounted his horse, Patrick took a final look about the place where he'd spent many happy hours as a boy and then turned his horse's head in the direction of Ravensford Hall. Only then did he allow the flood of elated tears to wash his rugged face as he let the full import of what he'd learned move him.

  Ashleigh was alive! Somehow he'd felt all along she hadn't perished in the fire, and now he had proof of it. He refused to consider the fact that it had been twelve long years since then and that death, or God only knew what else, could still have befallen her in that time. The little one lived, he was sure of it, and now all he had to do was find her!

  Slowing his horse to a walk, he brushed the moisture from his cheeks with an impatient hand and reached for the letter in the pocket where he'd stashed it. Quickly, he unfolded the sheets of yellowed parchment and scanned their contents again.

  My Dear Patrick,

  I have no idea when this letter will reach you, or if indeed it will at all. It is over two months since the fire, and my husband's people tell me your ship is long overdue from its western voyage, and there are rumors it went down in a storm with all hands lost. Of course, the mere fact that I am taking this chance to return to England one more time to personally deliver this missive into our good friend's keeping, says all that is necessary about my hopes that it did not perish or, at le
ast, that you were not among those who were lost if it did. I say 'one more time' because this is the last time I shall return to the country where I grew up. It has become entirely too dangerous for me to do so, and by this I do not mean to indicate the hazards of wartime Europe or even of the free trading I was happy to assist your family with in exchange for your many kindnesses toward me, for how should I have had those cheering glimpses and other heartening news of my son without your help? The danger I speak of has to do with something far more pernicious than threats from governments abroad or at home; it has to do with an evil I feel to be close at hand, although if you ask me how I know this, I could not tell you—but I feel it, Patrick, and I am as certain as I am of my breathing that it is real.

  The fire that took your parents' lives was, I am sure, deliberately set, and the fact that it began in my chamber leads me to believe it was intended to destroy me, and not the innocents it took. The only reason I escaped, along with your sister and her nursemaid, Maud, was that I was in the nursery that night. Little Ashleigh had had one of her nightmares about that poor horse she'd seen mistreated and I was singing her to sleep with one of my little Italian canti. The nursery being a distance away from the other sleeping quarters, as you know, it was a good while before the fire reached us, and even then, we three barely escaped with our lives. Alas, by then, too, the rest of the house was a blazing torch, with no hope of rescuing those inside.

  The grooms and stable men and others who slept apart from the main house spoke of first seeing the flames shooting from the windows of my guestchamber, and when I heard this, I determined that evil work was afoot and the chance could not be taken that further harm might come to those who were lucky enough to survive. In the confusion and noise that ensued from those vain attempts to put out the fire, I removed some rings from my hands and pressed them into Maud's while urging her to the stables with Ashleigh. Once there, I told her of my fears and made her promise to take your sister to a place of safety—a sister's she'd spoken of in London—and not to tell anyone until she heard from your family's solicitors, whom I would contact, and whom she must also contact after a reasonably safe amount of time had passed.

  Alas, dear Patrick—and this brings me to the primary objective of this letter—I regret that now, even after all these weeks, your solicitors have received no word from Maud, and I fear for her whereabouts, not to mention the little one's. The only vehicle I was able to manage for them that terrible night was little Ashleigh's pony cart, for Maud was no driver, and it was only through Ashleigh's pluck and bravery that we were able to use that. The child drove it! I had no wish to endanger them further by going with them, you see, for I could not be certain that whoever had set the fire was not yet watching... and waiting. So the last I saw of Maud and her charge was the little cloud of dust they left by moonlight as I turned my horse's head and made for the road to the Dover coast.

  So if this letter should reach you, Patrick, and I pray it does, I beg of you, if you have not done so already, go to London and begin the search for your sister. She must be found!

  As for the rest, you know where to reach me, and I pray you do, in person, with your dear little sister by your side. My husband, as you know, is a wealthy man, and if this tragedy has left your family without means—as I have reasons to suspect it has—you must know that you and the little one can always find a home with us—Gregorio has said as much, and it is the least we can do for all your family's kindnesses over the years.

  Praying this will come to pass, I am

  Your dear friend,

  Maria,

  Contessa di Montefiori

  Patrick's hands went limp as he finished rereading the letter. Maria... Mary... formerly Viscountess Westmont... since then, many years happily remarried to the son of a family friend in the country where she'd been born. He knew her story well. The daughter of an Italian prince and an English opera singer, she'd accompanied her homesick mother back to England to live when but a child, and had been raised there with the best that wealth could buy, for her father had died and left his fortune to his wife and daughter. Then she'd met Lord Edward Westmont, Brett Westmont's father, and, against the wishes of John Westmont, the duke, married him in a runaway love match. All had gone well for a time, and she'd borne him an heir—Brett. But a few years later, something had gone very wrong, according to the tale Mary had given his parents and which they'd told Patrick later.

  Someone had deliberately set about planting false evidence to make it appear that Mary had taken a lover, and when John, the duke, heard about it, things happened very swiftly. Within a week, in which she was given no chance to explain or vindicate herself, she was dismissed from Ravensford Hall, put aboard a ship and sent to her father's family in Italy with notice that a divorce would ensue. Her son, of course, remained with his father, and no amount of pleading or reasoning was able to prevail against the old duke's mind.

  The rest, Patrick knew from firsthand experience. Before too much more time passed, Edward remarried. Several years later, he and his second wife and son were killed in a carriage accident. Then Brett was sent to sea, and Patrick along with him, as a companion cabin boy.

  When they returned, Patrick and his parents had a surprise visit from the woman they had known as Mary Westmont, Brett's mother. It had been a shock more than a surprise, for one night, her face blackened with soot, and dressed in the clothes of an Italian seaman, she had turned up quite unannounced in the company of Jemmy Stokes, already a participant in the business many enterprising Englishmen engaged in: smuggling items that were outrageously taxed into a country that would have had its people financially crippled if they were to pay the tariffs on goods that were a necessary part of their life-styles. In a network that ran the length of the English coastline, and from there inland, thousands of otherwise fine upstanding subjects of the king had, for decades, been risking their freedom and their lives to bring to the rest of his subjects items such as tea, soap, spices, tobacco, brandy, and linens at prices that were affordable, thanks to the bypassing of customs.

  The smuggling had become an entire industry and England, particularly in wartime, depended on it. Indeed, as Patrick had been told by his parents as soon as he was old enough and could participate himself, if it weren't for the free traders, many a legitimate industry or business could not have survived. Without smuggled madder for the dyers, for example, how could the textile industry have continued? Without the gin, wines and brandies, what inn or public house would not have perished? And the purveyors of fashion! How would their businesses have fared without the silks and laces from abroad?

  So, largely because they were having trouble keeping their own financial heads above water, Patrick's parents had sought out a couple of local people they'd had good reason to suspect were involved in free trading, and had joined in, and Patrick, once he returned from his stint at sea, went along with them.

  But he could still remember the look of astonishment on all their faces the night Mary Westmont had appeared on the arm of Jemmy Stokes, ready to take their contraband to its hiding place in the cellar beneath the stables. Of course, what had been more astonishing was her reason for doing so, in lieu of any monies she might have accepted for her part. She had prevailed upon her adoring Italian husband to set up this liaison for her through one of his many shipping connections so that she might smuggle herself into the country where her desperately missed son still resided, so that she might occasionally have firsthand word of the lad and even, when she was lucky, a fleeting, distant glimpse.

  After hearing her story, Patrick's parents, always ready to help a friend, had readily agreed to let her stay with them during these brief visits. They had been inordinately fond of Mary Westmont as a neighbor during the time she'd lived at Ravensford Hall—and just as unenamored of the cold duke, her father-in-law, and his even colder sister; to hear what had befallen the woman at those uncaring hands had stirred their outraged sympathies. Mary had found a means of watching over her son.r />
  Of course, Patrick himself had been sworn to secrecy, especially where Brett Westmont was concerned. Fearing reprisals should word of these doings reach the elder Westmonts, Mary had decided it best not to involve her son. Moreover, from what she learned of the lad's tutored attitude toward her and women in general, she was not very sanguine about reestablishing any kind of personal relationship with Brett during those years. She sometimes hinted of dreams that she might one day meet with him and heal the breach, but for the time, she was content with the knowledge that he was well.

  Patrick made a gesture of impatience as he thought of the tragedy of Mary—Maria, now, he amended—and the Westmonts. Such a waste of years... such a terrible schism... to separate a loving mother from her son. And who, he wondered, not for the first time in all these years, had been responsible for it? Who was it who had blackened Maria's name all those long years ago?

  But suddenly Patrick's thoughts had no more room for ancient mysteries. A far more personal mystery had been cleared up, thanks to the contessa. Ashleigh was alive, and now, for the first time in months, he could truly go about a search for her! Tonight he would take advantage of Brett's invitation to stay at the Hall. Then, tomorrow, he would begin his search in earnest—and this time, by God, he would find her!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ashleigh threaded her way through the clusters of conversing guests in the drawing room, stopping for a moment here and there to listen or smile politely as a remark was thrown her way. From time to time she gave quiet directions to efficiently moving footmen when she saw the need for a gentleman's glass to be refilled or a tray of refreshments that required replenishing. This, she thought, was the easy part of being a hostess. All one had to do was imagine oneself as one of the guests, and the rest followed as a matter of course.