Sweet Deception (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Unable to resist her pleas, Gavin lunged deep within her, smothering her moan of pleasure with his lips. This coupling was not to be one of slow, building pleasure, but rather a violent joining of bodies and hearts after too long a separation. Two long, hard strokes, and Ellen felt herself being lifted into the throes of fierce ecstasy. Unable to control her movements, she raised herself up and down to meet his thrusts, crying out his name, clawing at the hard, smooth muscles of his back.

  "Gavin! Gavin!" she cried. And for a moment, she saw a flicker of Waldron's face.

  "Ellen!" he called, as he, too, reached fulfillment.

  But when she opened her eyes, breathless but satisfied, it was Gavin's sharp, handsome jaw she saw. It was his loving green eyes.

  "Ellen," he whispered, his voice once again a gentle caress. "Ellen, I love you."

  She parted her lips to receive his kiss, unwilling yet to move and release him. Perhaps being in this house won't be so bad, she thought, closing her eyes to catch her breath. Perhaps with Gavin at my side here at Havering House, I can chase away the ghosts of my past forever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ellen stood at the door to her old bedchamber in a wing on the third floor. Twice in the last week she had come here and stood in the hall, but both times she'd been unable to go inside. Today was the day she had decided she would do it. Julius would be back with the Maid Marion soon, and then she'd be off to the Colonies to begin yet another life. It was time this old one was settled.

  She laid her hand on the doorknob and turned it. Before she lost her courage, she stepped inside. She took a deep breath, then exhaled with an odd sense of relief.

  What had once been so familiar was now the unfamiliar. As Ellen stood staring at the pale green upholstered furniture, the green filmy draperies, and the dreary oak paneled walls, she felt like a stranger in her own bedchamber. And she was a stranger. This lady's room had belonged to Thomasina Waxton, a battered woman without hope, without strength. She was Ellen Scarlet, a woman who had taken control of her life and fought back against the men who had threatened it.

  As she moved from an elaborate inlaid writing desk to a lacquer cabinet, stroking the wood with the tip of her finger, she thought not of the past and its pain, but of the fact that she had been able to conquer it. Like the steel of a soldier's blade, she had been tempered by fire and had survived it all the stronger.

  Coming to Havering House like this had actually been a blessing rather than a nightmare. Instead of being paralyzed by memories of the past, she found that as she moved from room to room, she felt a cleansing of her spirit. The drunk who had been the caretaker the previous year had been right. Ghosts did lurk here in the shadows of the dusty furniture and damp hallways, her ghosts, but they were fast fading.

  As Ellen had moved from room to room in the last few days, stirring up the memories in her mind, the demons of her past had fled. As she explored the vacant rooms, the sounds of her father's harsh voice, of Hunt and Waldron's laughter, had gradually faded into nothingness. Now there seemed to be naught left in the home but a sad, all-consuming emptiness.

  Ellen opened the ornately carved chest of drawers and fingered the stiff material of a somber mustard-colored gown. Thomasina's gown. It was odd, but she couldn't even remember it now. Where had it come from? When had she worn it?

  She looked down at the smock and gown she had been wearing since she left London. The practical thing to do would be to change into one of these, she thought. But practicality be damned, she'd not so much as carry a handkerchief that had been Thomasina's! She closed the door with a smile, proud of herself, proud of the fact that she could make a decision and be content with it. There had been a time in the house when she hadn't been able to.

  Moving to the writing desk, she pulled down the lid. This was where she had sat that ill-famed night and read the incriminating list of names with which she had thought to blackmail her husband. Paper and a dry inkwell still lay there. The letter, of course, was safe.

  Curious, Ellen began to pull open the tiny drawers of the desk to see what was inside. Sadly, there was almost nothing. . . . No old letters; she had never known anyone to write to, and even if she had, Waldron would never have permitted correspondence. No keepsakes. There was nothing from that time in her life worth keeping. The only things she found, other than dust, were a few copies of leather-bound books never returned to the library. She began to stack them in her arms, to return to where they belonged downstairs.

  "Ellen?"

  She turned around, startled by Gavin's voice in the hallway.

  "I'm in here." She smiled as he came through the door. These last days together had been nearly perfect. Ellen and Gavin had time to talk, to play games, to sit on the floor side by side before the fireplace and talk of their future together. The more Ellen heard about the plantation in the Maryland Colony and the kind of life she would lead there, the more she knew she had made the right decision. The only thing that had marred the gaiety of the last couple of days, as she and Gavin talked of their plans, their hopes, their dreams, was Richard's illness.

  "What are you doing up here?" Gavin was dressed in a pair of Waldron's plain broadcloth breeches and a white linen shirt and lacy cravat. The first time Ellen had seen him in Waldron's clothing it had been a little startling, but now it didn't bother her. This was Gavin, the man she loved, not Waldron, the man she detested. Besides, though Gavin sported a gentleman's clothing, he still wore his colonial boots and his hair pulled back in a savage's braid. Waldron would not have been caught laid out dead in such a breach of fashion.

  Ellen closed the writing desk, her father's dusty volumes still cradled in her arms. "I . . ." She shrugged. "Just looking around."

  "There's some women's clothing in here." He went to the chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer. "I don't know how you'd feel about wearing something belonging to my brother's wife, but—"

  She wrinkled her nose. "Not my taste." She smoothed her own creased smock. "Mrs. Spate said she'd wash out anything I wished. I'd really rather wear my own things."

  He closed the drawer. "Whatever you wish, love. I took the liberty of having Julius pick up some good sturdy clothing for the Colonies for you, in the hopes you'd be coming with me, so once we board the ship, there'll be clean things for you. Still, I want you to know you're welcome to anything in this house. We'll have to travel light to the Maid Marion, but if you see anything you want, stack it downstairs in the library with the books I've set aside on the floor. I thought I'd have some things shipped. The rest will be sold on the auction block."

  Her father's home, the home of the Greenboroughs for hundreds of years, to be sold . . . She didn't even care. "I don't need anything, just you." She brushed his sleeve with her fingertips.

  Gavin looked at her, then looked away. "Ellen . . ." He had a strained tone to his voice.

  Her gaze followed him. "It's Richard."

  He nodded.

  "But I thought he was better. He's seemed stronger." She squeezed his arm. "You've done such a good job of keeping him in bed."

  "That I have, but I owe him a king's ransom in gambling debt."

  She smiled. "So what is it you wanted to tell me about Richard?"

  "He may actually be better—it's hard to tell—but he's still in a lot of pain. There's nothing here to ease it. He's going to have to ride back into London to board the Maid Marion when she comes for us. Even if I can manage to get a coach, the journey's going to be hard on him."

  "We need medicine."

  "Yes."

  "But I thought you said that if we sent for a London surgeon, we'd run the risk of having Hunt find out someone's here." She shook her head. "I don't think we can go against Richard's wishes. He trusts you. Besides, he'd not go against yours."

  "No." He walked to the window and lifted a bit of drapery to peer out at the overgrown garden below. "I know we can't send for a decent surgeon. I don't know that one would make a difference; I was never one for bleed
ing, anyway." He let the filmy green draperies fall and turned back to her. "What I did think we could do was send for the barber down in the village. Surely he would have some powders to ease Richard's pain on the journey. Once we reach the ship, I have medicines there. Some decent concoctions brought back from the Indians in Maryland."

  Ellen hugged the books she still held to her chest. "If you paid the barber well, I imagine he'd keep quiet. Mrs. Spate obviously has."

  "I'm sending her oldest boy today into London to watch for the ship and Julius. I don't think we'll be here much longer, so we'd better do something."

  Ellen thought for a moment, then nodded. "I think you're right. Let's send for the barber."

  That subject suitably settled, Gavin went to the door, then turned back to Ellen. "This was her room, you know." He spoke softly.

  "Her room?" Ellen hoped he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

  "Yes."

  Ellen looked around the room, trying to see it from Gavin's point of view. "How do you feel about it?" She knew she might well be asking for trouble, but she couldn't help herself. She had to know. "About her, I mean?"

  He leaned on the door frame, taking his time in answering. "I don't feel anything. I thought I hated her once. I certainly wanted revenge, but now that I'm here again, I just don't feel anything. So much has happened in the last six months that Lady Thomasina Waxton seems unimportant."

  "You don't want to keep looking for her?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully. "Why should I? Seeing her hang won't bring Waldron back. She'll sure enough get her reward in the fires of hell, won't she? So why should I worry about it?"

  "You sound as if you've nearly forgiven her," Ellen suggested.

  "I think I have. Hate's a heavy burden to carry, sweet, too heavy for me. What's passed has passed for both of us." He grinned a boyish grin. "Our future is in the Colonies. I just hope you love it there as I do."

  She came to the door. "I'm sure I will."

  He traced her chin with the tip of his finger. "I think perhaps you're right. You strike me as a woman who likes an adventure, and the Colonies are just that. Nothing is predictable there. The possibilities change with each sunrise. I think that's what I like best about it. England has just grown too stagnant for me."

  Ellen looped her arm through his and led him out the door, pulling it closed behind her. "Let's go see about that barber, and then I'll play some laterloo with you."

  They walked down the dark hallway arm in arm. "Chambray's already broken me. I can't afford to lose another pound to you two cheating flints, or there'll be no money for planting next year!"

  "So we won't play for coin," she said, looking up at him, a playful grin on her lips.

  "Oh, we won't play for coin, will we? Then what did you have in mind, my lady?"

  She released his arm and hurried down the staircase in front of him. "Sexual favors?" she called over her shoulder.

  His laughter still filled the stairwell when she reached the first floor.

  "What do you mean, there's no sign of them anywhere?" Hunt bellowed, turning away from the glass windows that ran along the wall of his gallery. It was raining outside, the patter of the drops making a steady sound on the rippled panes.

  Robards scuffed his foot on the beaded rug in the doorway. "I mean that after they made that miraculous escape on that barge on the Thames, we weren't able to locate them."

  "Nor were you able to identify the man they traveled with?"

  "No, Your Grace. The men didn't recognize him. All they know is that he had dark hair and that he was riding your horse."

  "My horse . . ." Hunt echoed through clenched teeth. "My prized stallion, the whoreson!"

  "But . . . but we've not giving up looking." Robards tried to sound confident. "My guess is that they escaped into Kent. I have men everywhere questioning farmers and yeomen, innkeepers and such. I . . . I'm certain we're going to find them."

  Hunt clenched his fists, his jaw tightening until the stitches on his cheek stung. "Damned if you won't, Robards, or I'll have your balls! There'll be no dallying with my kitchen help then, will there?"

  "N . . . no, Your Grace."

  The duke turned to the portrait of the three-breasted woman he had brought back from Italy. Sure enough, Buckingham had been green with jealousy when he'd seen it. He'd offered an outrageous sum of money for it, but Hunt had refused to give it up. He figured the portrait might come of some use in the future. Sometimes articles make better bribes than all the gold in the king's coffer.

  Hunt waved his hand absently, not bothering to turn around to look at Robards. "All right. You're dismissed, but I'm warning you: With every day that passes, Chambray and the slut are slipping from my grasp. I told you that it's imperative I have her and her belongings, so see to it, Robards."

  The middle-aged secretary mopped his damp forehead with a lace handkerchief, obviously relieved his interview was over. "Yes, Your Grace." The door closed quietly behind him.

  Left alone in his gallery, Hunt walked its length, enjoying his artworks. This whole thing with Thomasina was beginning to rub his nerves raw. For the hundredth time, he wished he had actually seen Waldron's letter so he would know who was on it rather than having to guess.

  Yesterday he'd been contacted by a representative of one of the men whose name was apparently in the letter. The representative refused to give his employer's name, but the message was clear. The man who had sent the messenger was a person of great importance. Somehow word had leaked out that Waxton's letter still existed. Of course, Hunt didn't know where the leak had come from. Nearly half of the men on that list were now dead, either of natural causes or with a little help from one of Hunt's henchmen. Still, this particular person was extremely unhappy and urged Hunt to make quick work of the letter, Thomasina, and anyone else involved, before he had to take care of the matter himself and Hunt in the process.

  Whoever this mysterious man was, Hunt gathered that he was closer to the king than he himself was, and that his words were not idle threats.

  Hunt ran his finger absently over the silk stitches in his cheek as he turned back toward the windows to watch the rain falling from the sky in angled sheets. Chambray would pay and pay dearly for the injury he had caused him, as would the courtesan. Hunt smiled, admiring his own reflection in the window. Waldron's little slut of a virgin wife had become quite an obsession with him, and now finally after all these years he would have her. A pity she would have to die, but at least he would get some pleasure out of her first.

  "Your Grace! Your Grace!" Robards came bursting through the gallery door, breathless, dragging Hunt from his pleasant thoughts.

  "What is it?" he asked his secretary irritably. "I thought I had dismissed you."

  "Wonderful news, Your Grace. Simply wonderful!"

  Hunt ran a hand through his shock of white hair. "Yes, Robards?"

  The middle-aged man nearly leaped off the polished hardwood floor. "I think I've located them, Your Grace. Yes, I believe I have!"

  The duke's attention was immediately captured. He came away from the windows and started for Robards, his stride long and confident. "Where?"

  The secretary held up his finger. "If you don't mind, Your Grace, I'll have the woman tell you herself. She's quite convincing."

  "The woman?"

  "Mrs. Bockgard, from Essex. Her husband is the barber in a little village in the country somewhere."

  "And she's seen Thomasina and Chambray?"

  "Not her, but her husband. As I said, he's the barber in the village." Robards clasped his hands excitedly. "It seems you may have well mortally injured the gentleman when you parried with him."

  Hunt threw up a hand impatiently. "Well, don't just stand there like a dullard, Robards! Bring her in, bring her in!"

  Robards ran through the doorway and came back a moment later, leading a petite woman dressed in common homespun garb with a scarf tied tightly about her pinched face. "His Lord Grace, the D
uke of Hunt," Robards announced with a formal sweep of his hand.

  The woman had sense enough to dip into a low curtsy. "Your Grace, sir." When she lifted her head, she gawked at the albino duke with fascination, too ignorant to know how impolite it was to stare.

  "Your Grace, Mrs. Bockgard, barber's wife of Havering Village."

  Hunt's pale brow creased with curiosity. "Havering, you say?"

  "Yes, yes, Your Grace. Come all the way from Havering in Essex, alone I did."

  Hunt walked to one of the gilt chairs that lined a wall of the gallery. He dropped into the seat, leaning back with lazy interest. "Please do come sit down, Mrs. Bockgard." He indicated a stool. He didn't normally allow commoners to sit in his presence, but he wanted to gain this woman's confidence. He wanted her to like him, or at least to be in awe of him. "Robards, Mrs. Bockgard and I will have refreshment." He flashed her a gentleman's smile that made her giggle into her woolen handkerchief. "Some white Rhenish for the lady. You know what I like. And something sweet. Pastries will suit, won't they, Mrs. Bockgard?"

  "Yes, yes, Your Grace," she echoed, apparently not certain what pastries were. "Pasties would be good this time of day, wouldn't they?"

  Hunt waited until Robards had taken his leave and then he reached out to take Mrs. Bockgard's hand in his. It was a clean hand, at least, though rough from years of work and harsh lye soaps. "My secretary informs me that you may have some information on my wife."

  "Don't know if she be your wife, Your Grace. "Her hand trembled in Hunt's. "All I know is that my husband was called to Havering House to see a patient."

  "Havering House," he whispered to himself in amazement. The little bold bitch had run to Havering House! He'd never have guessed it! He looked back at the village woman. "Yes, go on."

  "See, the house's been empty 'cept for a housekeeper since the earl burned up and his wife threw him out of the tower. Only all of a sudden my Bobby, he's bein' called with his potion bag to the big house all secret like." She tapped her temple. "Well, I get to thinkin'. Who's up there that needs carin' for? Then Bobby comes back with a handful of coin and he's all secret like. Finally, he tells me there's a redheaded lady, the new Earl of Waxton, and a gentleman that's been run through with a sword up there at the big house."