Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "Brett!" she chided as he kissed her cheek and turned to leave. "I'll admit Lady Margaret may have warranted such epithets in the past, but she's been so thoughtful and sweet lately. The least we can do is respond in kind. She's really just a poor, lonely old woman deserving of some kindness, you know."

  "Sorry, love." He grinned. "I'll try to mind my tongue in the future. Well, I'm off. See you at the Manor. Hurry, or you'll miss the boat." He gave her an affectionate swat on the buttocks and left.

  A few minutes later he found his mother in the library.

  "Brett, dear," she said after accepting his kiss on her cheek, "I realize I'd asked you to drive me to the party, but the children are planning a pageant to present at Cloverhill Manor before the ball—in honor of our birthday lady—and Aldo asked if I couldn't remain to supervise a final rehearsal before leaving. I can have one of the grooms drive me over in the barouche in a short while. Do you mind?"

  "No, of course not." Brett grinned. "Those little ones certainly adore Ashleigh, don't they?"

  "We all do," she said.

  Not quite all, was the ominous thought that crossed his mind, but he pushed it away as he glanced at Mary who was looking beautiful in a turquoise voile Empire day gown that brought out the turquoise flecks in her eyes. "You look lovely, Mother," he murmured appreciatively.

  "Thank you, caro." She smiled. "Now, run along, and do not worry about me. I shall make the festivities in plenty of time, and, from what I understand, Elizabeth needs you."

  Brett reflected on the note that had arrived yesterday, begging him to arrive early and help Elizabeth keep her father sober so that he wouldn't "spoil our fun." His mouth straightened into a grim line as he pondered the task that lay ahead of him. Perhaps he'd just assign a couple of footmen to lock the blighter in his room and keep him there until the festivities were over!

  When Brett had gone, Mary rushed up to the schoolroom on the third floor and witnessed a perfectly executed pageant in which Alessandra and Georgio were decked out as the king and queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania—Aldo had just finished reading Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. The two were meant to represent Ashleigh and Brett. Alessandra had black hair and blue eyes and wore a replica of one of the duchess's gowns while Georgio, the only one of the boys with chestnut-colored hair, did his best to emulate the duke as he postured with a bold, masculine stride he hoped all would recognize.

  Praising them for their work, Mary told them she would see them all at seven that evening, when Old Henry and one of the grooms would drive them to Cloverhill Manor. Then she hurried downstairs to summon the barouche.

  But as she arrived at the foot of the staircase leading to the front hall, she spied a solitary, gray-clad figure standing there. At first glance, she didn't recognize the woman, but then the footman on duty came forward from his post—where he'd been hidden by one of a pair of tall Jacobean chests that flanked the entryway.

  "Lady Jane Hastings to see Her Grace, mum. I told her Her Grace was not at home, but—"

  "Why, Lady Jane! Of course!" exclaimed Mary. "How do you do, my dear?"

  Jane Hastings looked frightened for a moment. She stood there in the richly appointed hallway, wearing a somber gray frock that appeared to have been made for a fashion that had passed out of date thirty years earlier. In her hands she clutched a carved ivory casket that was about the size of a breadbox.

  "Lady Jane?" Mary questioned. "I'm Mary... ah, Westmont. Don't you know me?"

  Hazel eyes met hers, but whereas Mary's were bright and gaily flecked with shards that matched her dress, Jane's were somber and apprehensive.

  Finally the drably dressed little woman spoke. "Mary... yes... I remember... you were kind to me once...." Suddenly her eyes flashed a hint of emotion. "But they weren't kind to you! They weren't kind to you... either."

  "You wished to see my daughter-in-law, did you?" Mary questioned. She smiled at the woman she had pitied many years ago, hoping to dispel the fear that still lurked in her eyes. "I'm afraid Ashleigh has gone on ahead... ah, to the party. You'll see her back at the Manor if you hurry." She glanced over Jane's shoulder, to the windows beside the door, and thought she saw a carriage waiting in the drive.

  "Oh, dear!" said Jane. "Oh, no! Oh, that might be too late!" She glanced down at the ivory box she now clutched to her ample bosom, then back at Mary. "I... have this gift for her, you see." She glanced furtively in the direction of the footman who had returned to his post, then added in a whisper, "It could save her life!"

  Mary made an effort to quell the grip of terror that clutched at her heart. Brett had taken her into his confidence regarding the attempts on Ashleigh's life after the riding accident, but made her promise not to tell Ashleigh, stating his well-pondered reasons, and Mary had reluctantly agreed. She'd privately felt her daughter-in-law was more than up to dealing with such information; she had watched her grow in strength and maturity herself, after all, and she was not inclined to underestimate Ashleigh's fortitude. But Brett had insisted, and she'd been forced to agree. The last thing she wanted to be was a meddling mother-in-law!

  But now, as she heard Lady Jane's fearfully whispered words, she wondered if she might help in another way.

  "Lady Jane, is there something in that box that the duchess should be aware of?" she ventured cautiously.

  The hazel eyes searched her own for a long moment. Then Jane nodded, before thrusting the casket toward the woman she remembered as one who'd befriended her years ago. "Here," she stated emphatically. "You might know how to help her... you... were a lot like her in those days."

  Mary accepted the box, then watched Jane spin about and scurry toward the door. When she reached it, she glanced back at her over her shoulder. "Read them," she said fearfully. "Read them, quickly!"

  Mary watched her go, then glanced at the ivory casket. Deciding time was of importance here, she hurried into the nearby drawing room, satisfied herself that no one was about, and sat down on a sofa to open the box.

  The hinges on the box creaked, indicating it had probably seen little recent use. Inside, she spied a pile of what appeared to be some very old letters, their stale-smelling musty pages indicating years of disuse. She took the first in her hand and began to read....

  * * * * *

  Brett stood on the terrace behind the Hastings's E-shaped Elizabethan manor house and watched as an elegantly coiffed and begowned Elizabeth fussed with an arrangement of summer flowers in a vase on one of the nearby tables. Yes, Elizabeth certainly was beautiful, he mused, as his eyes ran over her ice-blue gown fashioned in the latest mode, but cold... haughtily and distantly cold. He stifled a shudder as he thanked Heaven for the turn of events that had brought Ashleigh into his life and saved him from a life shared with this winter.

  "It's not like you to be nervous over hostessing some simple country celebrations, Elizabeth," he said. "Even something as elaborate as what I'm sure you've planned for today." He gestured at the array of perfectly decorated outdoor tables on the terrace, each of them covered by a snow-white damask tablecloth and set up for luncheon with matching, paper-thin china, ornate silverware and sparkling Waterford crystal.

  Elizabeth frowned at the bouquet she'd rearranged a dozen times, then pulled her hands away and forced a smile. She chastised herself for forgetting that her former fiance was a man who rarely missed anything that went on about him. She'd have to be more careful. Auntie Meg had been very particular about the necessity of keeping Brett busy here at the Manor, and she had no wish to foil her godmother in carrying out those instructions.

  Of course, as to why she was to do this, Elizabeth had no idea. Margaret had simply stated that it was imperative that Brett be kept away from his own estate, and the dowager's cottage in particular, today. But she'd hinted at the fact that, once the day was over, the duke might yet again become free to marry in the future, and that was enough for Elizabeth; despite his betrayal, she still longed to be Brett's duchess. Indeed, hardly a night went by whe
n she didn't dream of it, though the dreams more closely resembled nightmares since he'd returned to England with that little usurper!

  But it had also been part of some secret plan of Margaret's that they pretend to befriend the little black-haired bitch, and Elizabeth had gone along with this. If Auntie Meg had a need to keep secrets, there was likely good reason for it. Auntie Meg was clever; in fact, they didn't come any more clever than her godmother. If she had a plan to deliver Brett into her hands again, Elizabeth had no doubt that it would work and she would obey her unquestioningly, even blindly, to see it effected.

  Now, as she smiled at Brett, her mind fastened on the need to keep him from suspecting anything. "Oh, Brett, darling, it's just like you to read me like a book. But I have every reason to be a trifle nervous. I've never given a fete for a duchess before. And besides, you know why you're here. I'd simply die if father were to imbibe too many spirits and pass out in the middle of things!"

  Brett grimaced in distaste. "Yes, well, speaking of his rum-loving lordship, where is he?"

  "Ah, upstairs in the library," she answered quickly. "Shall I take you to him?"

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh thanked the groom who'd driven her to the dowager's cottage and watched him turn the team of matched grays and head back to the Hall. She saw Jonathan Busby and Tom Blecker working on the picket fence that enclosed the front garden.

  "Good morning to you, Mr. Blecker, Jonathan!" she called.

  Both men paused in their work, old Tom pulling on his forelock in the old fashioned gesture of respect while young Jonathan merely gave a slight bow, then grinned and waved.

  At that moment the cottage's front door opened, and Lady Margaret came out. She was followed by her abigail, who carried a tray in her hands; the tray bore a pair of tankards.

  "Good morning, my dear," said Margaret. "I see you're on time, as usual. Promptness is a virtue I applaud, you know. I'm so pleased to note your adherence to it. So many of your generation seem to have forgotten the old standards."

  "Well—" Ashleigh smiled "—it's really just a matter of common courtesy, as I see it. I wouldn't dream of making someone wait for me." She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling at her recollection of what had almost made her late this morning, for after her morning lovemaking with her husband, she'd had to race through her toilette to be here on time!

  Margaret was mumbling something about there being nothing common about the thing called courtesy as she gestured with a loftily pointed finger for her abigail to carry the tray with the tankards to the men working on the fence. "A cooling drink of my special chilled herb tea for you, gentlemen," she called to the perspiring workmen. "Do pause a moment and refresh yourselves."

  Tom and Jonathan each pulled on their forelocks this time, Ashleigh noted, then set down their tools to accept the drinks.

  "Dora," Margaret continued to her abigail, "collect the tankards immediately they're finished and scrub them thoroughly before you go out to the rear garden to cut those flowers. I want a fresh bouquet in each room before you leave for your half day, is that clear?"

  Dora bobbed a curtsy, murmured, "Yes, m'lady," and stood attentively beside the fence, watching young Jonathan and old Tom quench their thirst.

  Margaret chuckled to herself as she joined Ashleigh and nodded in the direction of the lake where the skiff awaited them. "She'll grab those tankards the second they're empty, if I know her! And the flowers will be cut and arranged in record time, too! The lazy slut never fails to do her work in half the time it usually takes her when it precedes her time off. I guarantee she'll reap herself an extra hour today. Ah, servants! They're such a trial!"

  Ashleigh refrained from commenting, for her private assessment of Dora's lot was that she was one of the hardest working servants at Ravensford Hall—and the unhappiest. The poor girl ran and fetched for Margaret day and night, and Ashleigh had never once seen her smile.

  But, as they neared the little skiff and she was forced to pay heed to Margaret's instructions for entering it, Ashleigh thrust these thoughts aside. After all, Margaret was making every effort to be kind to her, and she felt it was hardly right for her own thoughts to wax ungenerous toward the woman in return.

  * * * * *

  Mary sat in disbelieving silence as she allowed her eyes to scan once more the letter she'd just read. It wasn't possible! It just wasn't possible!

  But even as her mind attempted to deny what she'd read, she knew it was the truth. The letter was signed by Margaret Westmont and had been penned to "My dearest love, Andrew," in the year 1766. Mary held it in her trembling hands as she digested the words:

  My dearest love, Andrew,

  We were fortunate, indeed, that my brother's extended stay at his estate in Surrey helped us keep my pregnancy a secret. But your news that Jane bore you a stillborn daughter, though unfortunate, must also be seen as welcome. Of course, I share your grief at the loss of the child, but take heart, my dearest! In a matter of hours—for, yes, I have begun to labor, even as I write you this letter—I shall be bearing you a child which it will now be infinitely easier to place in your home as your legitimate offspring! I pray it will be a son, and if what you've been telling me is true, we should have little trouble placing it in your befuddled, grief-stricken wife's empty cradle and convincing her it is hers.

  The letter had left off here, then began anew:

  Wonderful news, my love! Between the hours of seven and eight last evening I bore you twins! The elder is a boy, and I have named him David as we agreed on, for a male child; the second twin, a girl, I've named Caroline, our choice of a feminine name. As we also agreed, I've arranged for the midwife we brought down from Glasgow to be driven home; she leaves just as soon as that deaf-mute girl from the village is brought to attend me. No one must discover what we've done....

  Mary dropped the letter onto her lap, almost too stunned to think. David... Caroline... why, those were the Hastings twins who— Caroline! Caroline had married Edward after the divorce! But—but that meant that Margaret had stood by and watched—no, encouraged—Edward to wed his own first cousin!

  In an unbelievable web of plotting, she and her lover, Lord Andrew Hastings, had substituted their illegitimate offspring for Lady Jane's stillborn child and kept it a secret all these years!

  A secret from all except Jane Hastings, that is. The poor, wretched woman had been kept befuddled through the use of certain drugs—for the letter went on to caution Andrew not to stop administering these to his wife for a while yet—"our herbal brews," Margaret called them. They'd thought her wits clouded sufficiently that she'd not notice what they did. But somewhere along the line, Jane did discover the truth, the proof evident in her possession of these letters. Had she come across them after her husband's death? Hastily, Mary thrust the letter aside and went on to read the next....

  * * * * *

  Brett uttered a sigh of disgust as he viewed the unconscious figure of Lord Hastings sprawled in an easy chair in the library, an empty decanter of spirits on the floor near his feet.

  "Well, Elizabeth, it seems your father won't be requiring my chaperonage after all. I'd say he's tucked himself neatly away and out of your hair for the day."

  "Oh, Brett, why must you be so flippant over what is clearly a disaster?" Elizabeth's perfect pink lips twisted in distaste. "Oh, why did he have to go and do this?" A cool rage settled into her gray eyes, turning them into silver slits. "The Hastings men have ever been weak! My father—" she spoke the word as if it were a curse "—my grandfather before him... Auntie Meg always said it would be up to the women in our family to—" She gave a mirthless laugh. "Ah, but I do ramble! And if I'm not mistaken, that's a carriage I hear on the drive. Guests are arriving."

  "I suggest you see to your guests, then, Elizabeth. I'll summon a couple of footmen to carry m'lord to his bed." Brett threw a final disgusted glance at his host and turned toward the door. "After that, I think I'll go down to the lake and watch for Ashleigh and your godmother
. You certainly won't be needing me around here for—"

  "Oh, but you cannot!" Elizabeth exclaimed, clutching his sleeve. Auntie Meg had been adamant about the need to keep the duke busy here, to keep him away from his wife at all costs, and the thought of failing Margaret in so simple a task momentarily filled Elizabeth with dread. It had shown in her tone of voice and, too late, she sought to cover her error. "Ah, it's just that I'm so apprehensive about the day being a success, Brett," she said, recovering herself. "I really need you here to give me moral support."

  Brett studied her face intently for a moment, wondering what had given rise to the alarm in her voice. Elizabeth, in need of moral support for a social gathering? Not bloody likely! But if it wasn't the festivities she was worried about, what was it?

  He decided to test her. "I'm sure that's my mother's carriage coming up the drive. She assured me she'd be arriving shortly after me. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to lend you the, ah, moral support you need, Elizabeth. I'll ask her for you, if you like."

  Elizabeth had sensed his doubts and fought the panic that threatened as she sought to allay them. They had left the library now, and she hurried to keep up with his long strides, saying, "But Brett, my chief worry is that Ashleigh will arrive too soon—before we've had a chance to settle everyone sufficiently, to make our surprise effective. If she spies you waiting for her across the lake, she may wish to hurry across, and that would spoil our timing. We really ought to leave her in Lady Margaret's capable hands, don't you think?"

  Brett paused a moment. He turned and looked at her. Margaret's capable hands? Why did that phrase cause chills to run up his spine? Suddenly he realized that it was imperative, for far more than a satisfaction of his curiosity, that he discover what Elizabeth was up to. Or perhaps what Elizabeth and Margaret were up to!