Sweet Deception (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "The coach was held up. Gavin was grazed by a musket shot, but no one was seriously hurt." She walked to the cold fireplace and sat down heavily in a cushioned chair. She rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger. "Have we some claret? My head is pounding."

  Richard came to her and went down on one knee. He took her hand and turned it in his. "Ellen, look at me."

  She lifted her dark lashes to meet his gaze. Heavens, but he's a handsome man, she thought idly. Why could he not be the one that makes me tremble as Gavin does? It would be so much easier. So much more fair to all of us.

  "You've been with him. Tell me the truth, because I'll find out, anyway. You've made a cuckold out of me, haven't you?"

  With an incredulous laugh, she threw aside his hand and leaped up. "Made a cuckold of you! How in God's name could I make a cuckold out of you when you haven't the ability to even take my virginity?"

  The moment she said the words Ellen was sorry, so deathly sorry. Richard looked as if she had slapped him in the face.

  A heavy moment of silence hung between them.

  "Oh, Richard!" She ran to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It's just that I—" She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her head on his broad chest. "I didn't tell you about Gavin because I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't tell you because nothing has come of it."

  "You've been seeing him for a long time, haven't you?" He held his body stiffly, not returning her embrace but not withdrawing.

  "No, no, Richard." She touched his clean-shaven face with her palm. "I haven't. It's only been a few weeks. We're just friends. He's not laid a finger on me. I vow it!"

  "And you expect me to believe that?" His blue eyes narrowed."A woman of your beauty. A man with that swagger. You think me a fool that I didn't see the way he looked at you?"

  "Richard—"

  "If he's not found his way beneath your petticoats, I should think it would not be for want of trying!"

  Ellen's lip trembled and she lowered her gaze. She could feel a lump rising in her throat. Her eyes stung as she fought back tears. She had thought her tears were spent when she'd rid herself of that abhorrent husband of hers and the albino, Hunt.

  Ellen swallowed hard. "Please try to understand, Richard. Gavin came to the theater. He was nice to me. We had supper a few times, that's all."

  "The parrot. He gave him to you . . . Sir Gavin. It's no wonder you're so fond of the cursed thing."

  "He's leaving for the American colonies soon. Nothing can come of it."

  "It's not safe, Ellen." He rested a hand on her hip, searching her eyes for understanding. "You know nothing of him. What is he, some lord's son?"

  "He owns ships. He has land in the American Colonies."

  "What if Hunt sent him to spy on you? Or kidnap you?"

  She backed away, throwing up her arms, her anger rising again. "We've not seen Hunt. I've changed my name, my hair color. He'll never find me. You said so yourself."

  Richard shook his head, going to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantel. "It's too soon. You know nothing of this Merrick. It's just not safe to make acquaintances of strangers."

  Ellen looked him square in the eye. "Why have you suddenly become so possessive of me? You always said I would be free to go when the time came."

  Richard looked away. Ellen thought she detected a tear in the corner of his eye. "Is that what you want? To be free to marry him?"

  She laughed without humor. "No. No, that's not it at all. Gavin's made no such proposition. Besides, I told you I would never marry again."

  "So what is the point of your words?"

  "My point is that I like him. He makes me laugh. What harm could there be in that?"

  Richard lifted a decanter from the mantel and poured two generous portions. "I've not kept you from making friends. I've never forbade you to go anywhere or to see anyone. Anything I said or did was only for your protection."

  She rose and took her glass from his hand, letting her fingertips brush his. "I know. I know that, Richard. You've been so good to me, and for that I will always be grateful. For that you will always hold a very special place in my heart. But you're being too protective." She took a long sip of the heady wine. "It's I who killed my husband, not you. And ultimately, I must take responsibility for that."

  He swirled the claret in his own glass, watching the tiny whirlpool it made. "What? You're going to turn yourself in? Confess your crime?"

  "No. I'm not."

  He thought for a moment before he spoke again. Ellen could tell by the light of the many candles in the room that he was wrestling with his own emotions. "If you want to move out of here, I'll put you up in your own apartment."

  She smiled tenderly. "I don't want to move. I don't want to leave you, Richard."

  "A man who is not a man," he said thoughtfully. "I can't say that I'd blame you." He forced himself to look at her lovely face. "You told him about me, I suppose? About my inadequacy as a man?"

  "No!" She stared at him as if he were a madman. "No, of course not. I would never tell anyone. You know that."

  "Yet he knew you lived with me . . ."

  "I told him there were special circumstances." She drank the last of her claret and rose to set the empty glass on the carved mahogany mantel. "I told him I loved you, Richard, and that I wouldn't hurt you."

  "So Gavin Merrick is a man content to take another man's woman, if only on loan?"

  "It wasn't like that. I told him I wouldn't bed him. That he could take my friendship or take his attentions elsewhere."

  "And he still wants to see you? Then it is serious."

  She shook her head, arguing as much with herself as with Richard. "No. No, it isn't. It's just been two friends enjoying a meal together. We just talk."

  Richard reached out and caught a lock of her red hair. "I knew you wouldn't be mine forever. I knew it, Ellen, but I didn't expect to lose you so soon. I didn't—"

  "I won't see him anymore if you wish."

  "That would be wise." He let go of her lock of hair and watched it swing to her breast. "But only because I think it would be dangerous. If you wish for the company of a man, choose one of our friends. Someone I know you'll be safe with."

  She stared at the flickering flame of a candle on the mantel. "I never wanted to see anyone before I met Gavin. I haven't wanted to be with anyone but you." She glanced up. "But you're right about Gavin. I truly don't know much about him." She folded her hands in resignation. "I'll send him a message not to call on me again."

  , "Do what you think is right, Ellen, not what I think is right."

  She rubbed her shoulder. Her entire body was sore, from the struggle with Billy Bulbo the highwayman, no doubt. "I think I'll bathe and go to bed. Could you call Rose?"

  "It's her evening off, remember? She went to see her sister who's just lain-in." Richard turned Ellen around and began to work on the long row of buttons on her gown. "I'll help you out of your clothes and have bath water brought up."

  She leaned against him for a moment, thankful for his touch. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Richard," she said softly. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

  He kissed the back of her head. "I know you didn't. Now let's get you into bed. We'll forget Gavin Merrick and this silly quarrel."

  She squeezed her eyes shut. I only hope that I can forget him, she thought wishfully. I only hope that I can . . .

  Gavin studied the artwork that lined the seemingly endless stucco wall of the narrow gallery running along the length of the gardens below. The Earl of Hunt had a keen eye for art, though his taste was not to Gavin's liking. Hunt had paintings from the brush and palette of the finest Italian, Flemish, and English artists in the world. But he tended to choose those canvases that were dark and foreboding, pictures that left Gavin with an ill taste in his mouth. There were also several pieces of sculpture on pedestals throughout the gallery—an armless Greek statue, an ebony bust from the Far East, even several ancien
t works of pottery—but they, too, all seemed to hold some tragic secret.

  "Viscount Merrick?" a timid voice questioned from the doorway.

  "Yes?" Gavin turned. He provided one of his father's lesser titles, when necessary, to give his family name some credence without having to use the title he had inherited upon his brother's death.

  "The Duke of Hunt," the duke's secretary announced.

  For a moment Gavin was shocked into silence as the duke made an entrance into the room. He had not been warned that Hunt was an albino. Gavin had seen a dead one once on a Dutch ship, but still he was unprepared. The Duke of Hunt had a startling shock of white hair, translucent skin, and inhuman pink eyes.

  "Quite all right, Merrick," Hunt said, sweeping into the room. "Most have the same reaction when first they see me."

  "My apologies, sir." Gavin swept off his feathered hat and bowed deeply. "I'm pleased that you were able to see me on such short notice."

  "Yes, well, I've just had the house opened upon my returning from France, so it's as mad as bedlam. You understand?"

  Gavin noticed that not only was Hunt dressed in clothing worthy of the king but also that both his hands were laden with jeweled rings. He was obviously a man of great station at court. "I won't take but a moment of your time."

  Hunt tucked his hands behind his back and strode down the gallery, studying the artwork that hung on the wall. "What do you think?" He stopped before a stark swirling nude portrait of a deformed woman who had three breasts. "I brought the piece back with me from France just this week. Buckingham will be green when he sees it."

  Gavin nodded, coming to stand beside the duke. "Quite interesting, Your Grace." He wasn't certain what else he could say. Sick was the word that came to mind, but he held his tongue.

  Hunt nodded. "I saw the piece in an Italian's villa and I had to have it." He looked hard at Gavin with his rodent pink eyes. "Do you know what price a woman with three breasts brings?"

  "No, no, I can't say that I do."

  The duke smiled an odd smile. "More than perhaps you've seen in a lifetime."

  Gavin glanced at the portrait for a moment, then back at Hunt. He made him uneasy, but this was his only lead. If he were to find any information on the Lady Waxton, it would be here. "I came to ask about my brother, Waldron."

  "Your brother?" Hunt turned inquisitively.

  "Yes, the Earl of Waxton. I understand you were friends."

  Hunt scrutinized Gavin. "You're not Viscount Merrick, then?"

  "'Twas one of my father's lesser titles. I've just returned from the American Colonies, news of my brother's death was delayed in coming. Upon my arrival, I decided not to accept my brother's title quite yet."

  His attention immediately captured, the duke smiled as if the two shared some sinister secret. "You seek the courtesan?"

  "I seek my brother's wife."

  "Well, well." Hunt made a clicking sound between his teeth. "How very provocative. And might I ask why you seek her? You have your brother's title and wealth. The trollop is nowhere to be found. What makes you pursue this avenue?"

  "It is my understanding that my brother was murdered in cold blood. If this is indeed a fact—and the facts are sketchy—I will see justice done. I will see the woman hang for her crime."

  Hunt crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Gavin, and well built for a man in his mid-fifties. "The fact is true enough that she killed him. But so is the fact that she has not been seen since that night."

  "I understand that you were there that night, Your Grace. Is that true?"

  "Did you know her?" Hunt glanced at the three-breasted portrait. "Thomasina?"

  "I did not, which is why I have come to you. I understand you did know her."

  Hunt walked across the narrow gallery to the windows and stared down at the lush gardens below. "Know her I did, too well, I'm ashamed to say."

  Gavin stood still, watching Hunt's freakish reflection in the wavy glass of the windows. "Sir?"

  "Though your brother and I were friends, I fear that I committed a severe indiscretion with his wife, for which I am greatly sorry."

  "You slept with my brother's wife?"

  "Many times. She was a temptress and I a weak man, unable to resist her charm or abilities."

  "You think this is why they fought that night in the laboratory? I'm told there were obvious signs of struggle."

  "Quite possibly. I was not the only man who cuckolded your brother. But he never held it against any of us. He knew of Thomasina's wiles. He knew her to be a pathological liar, always weaving extraordinary tales. But Waldron himself was once bewitched by her . . . before he grew to learn of her true treacherous nature. It was the reason he married her in the first place."

  Gavin took in this new information, carefully sorting it in his mind. "Have you any idea where I might find her?"

  Hunt laughed, tracing a pattern in the glass with his finger. "If I did, I can assure you I would have had her taken into custody immediately."

  "Have you no clue?

  He shook his head slowly, as if considering his response. "None." He turned to face Gavin. "But I've been gone a long time. I left, in fact, shortly after your brother's death. But"—he held up a finger—"I would be most interested in speaking with her before you turn her over, should you find her."

  "Do you know of any friends or relations she might have here in London?"

  "You think she's in London, Merrick—I shall call you Merrick to aid you in your cover."

  Gavin nodded. "'Twould be appreciated, sir. And yes . . . yes, I believe she is here. I have no proof, of course, but where would you try to hide if you had committed such a heinous crime? What better place to lose one's self than London Town?"

  "You are clever, Merrick." Hunt nodded his approval. "Much like your brother, I should say."

  "Waldron was a good man. He didn't deserve to die thusly."

  "Indeed he did not."

  Gavin toyed with the feather of his wool hat. "Should I have any questions concerning my brother or Lady Waxton, could I call on you again, Duke?"

  "You're more than welcome. In fact, I should like you to keep me abreast"—he chuckled at his own boyish pun—"of any information you might discover"

  "That I will." Gavin paused. "Well," he bowed, "I'll not keep you any longer, sir."

  Hunt gave a curt nod. "Come again when I've unpacked the remainder of my art treasures. I'm certain you'll find them most intriguing. Your brother and I always shared a love of finer things. He'd have been quite green with jealousy over my latest acquisition."

  Gavin's forehead creased. Surely they weren't talking about the same man. His elder brother had been a man of outstanding propriety. Such crude, twisted excuses for art would never have interested him. "Waldron?"

  The duke nodded, a smile crossing his pale face. "Shocked, are you, young man?" He seemed immensely pleased.

  Gavin lifted his gaze to meet the duke's. He didn't smile. "Not shocked, just surprised." He paused for a moment's time. "Well, I thank you, sir. Good day." He replaced his hat and started out the room, but when he reached the doorway, he turned to address the duke one last time. "Sir?"

  Hunt had returned to the portrait of the deformed woman. He looked up. "Merrick?"

  "Would you recognize her?"

  "Thomasina?"

  "Yes. I can find no portrait but one from my brother's chambers and it doesn't reveal her face. Besides, it occurred to me that she may have changed her looks, gained weight, suffered the pox . . . who knows."

  Hunt broke into an eerie grin, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with an odd sense of finality. "I would recognize Thomasina anywhere."

  Gavin paused for a moment, looking directly into the duke's face. What was it about this man that made him so uncomfortable? Gavin couldn't quite place his finger on it; he wasn't a man easily unsettled, but Hunt repelled him. Hunt sent up flags of caution in every recess of Gavin's mind.

&
nbsp; "Good day to you." Gavin touched his cavalier's hat and walked out of the gallery.

  "Good day, indeed," Hunt whispered, turning his attention back to the three-breasted woman. He ran a finger along the gilded frame thoughtfully as he listened to the sound of his secretary, Robards, letting Merrick out the front door . . .

  So, your brother has returned to seek vengeance, has he, Waldron? I didn't even know you had a brother. How very interesting. The important question of course being, Does he know of the letter the bitch stole? A pity you didn't live a moment or two longer so that you could have given me the entire story, Waldron.

  But tell me, was your little brother's name on the letter? You never told me who our conspirators were, Waldron, only that they lay in and out of the country. Is that the true reason why the boy travels under an assumed name and seeks your wife with such determination? Is it more than honor he must defend, but his own life as well? Does he fear his neck will stretch in the tower beside mine if Thomasina shows the letter to anyone?

  Hunt moved on to the next painting, one of a man and woman obviously copulating, though beneath a veil of linen sheets. The woman's hands were tied above her head, her face grimaced in pain or ecstasy, Hunt had not decided which. He folded his hands over his chest, studying the Oriental painting.

  You are out there, aren't you, Thomasina, my little harlot? Your brother-in-law believes it, too. He smiled, pleased with the turn of events.

  The Duke of Hunt had left the country immediately upon the death of the Earl of Waxton, leaving spies behind to listen for word of whether or not Thomasina reached anyone with her condemning information. Only after more than two years of silence from the jade had he thought it safe to return to London.

  Of course, he knew he had to find little Thomasina the virgin. Hunt felt his palms go warm and damp, and he grew hard beneath his breeches at the thought of her. He had to have the condemning letter, and then, of course, she could not live with the knowledge of having seen the letter. But there was no sense wasting a life without a taste of it first. Hunt smiled as flashes of sexual fantasies passed before his eyes. Yes, he would enjoy her, and then he would kill her. Of course, this would have to be carefully orchestrated. King Charles or his cronies could not get wind of it. Hunt had worked too hard to reach his position at Court.