Rhiannon, on the other side of the room, had lifted her chin proudly.
“Ruin?” Carr, his back still to Rhiannon, snickered. “Such vanity. I’ll tell you a secret: Ladies love to be ruined and in truth are quite peevish if you stop at their reputations. Witness Miss Russell’s ire.”
“What of it?” Ash asked in bored tones. “I’m more interested in my fee.”
Carr’s humor evaporated. He stepped back. “I’ll see you’re paid by day’s end,” he said, “then you can go wherever it is you go.”
“No hurry,” Ash replied, fervently pleading with a deity he no longer believed in that Carr would not send him away from Wanton’s Blush—and Rhiannon. He would do whatever necessary to stay here and watch Rhiannon until he knew what Carr planned for her.
“I’ve seen your guests, Carr,” Ash said. “Fat purse, rabid appetites. High stakes tables, I should imagine.”
“You’re a vile drunk, Ash. And a violent one. You could embarrass me or my guests.”
Ash laughed humorlessly. “Your guests, Carr? Your guests would pay in gold for the titillation of my company. Their sort is so often drawn to the sordid for their entertainment.”
Rhiannon flinched as though his words hurt her. Impossible. He was imagining things.
Carr considered him through narrowed eyes. “True,” he finally murmured. “All right. You may stay. But for God’s sake, find something decent to wear. I won’t have you offending my eyes looking like that.”
“Of course,” Ash said.
“Now leave us,” Carr said. “Miss Russell and I have much to discuss.”
To hesitate now would be disastrous.
Ash walked out of the room smoothly and easily, without looking at Rhiannon.
“My dear Miss Russell,” Carr said, “please be seated. Where are my manners?”
The young woman hesitated a second before taking the seat Carr had indicated and settling her dress about her. She was clearly unused to such extravagant skirts.
But having no experience in society did not mean she should be underestimated. Indeed, the sharp glances he’d already received from her were indicative of a keen perception.
“Sherry, m’dear?”
She nodded, watching him doubtfully. “Please.”
In his youth such suspiciousness would have presented an irresistible challenge. To succeed in seducing a woman already on her guard would have been high entertainment. He busied himself pouring two glasses of sherry.
Unfortunately he was no longer so easily diverted. Even the piquant pleasure of bedding a girl his son wanted wasn’t incentive enough to woo this girl. Not that he wouldn’t do it at some future point if it profited him.
He’d seen the glimmer of possessiveness in Ash’s eyes. The girl might be useful in manipulating his recalcitrant eldest son. But for right now, seducing the chit wasn’t necessary, and he allowed finally, his mouth flattening, he was no longer so young that the idea roused him.
Only one thing still had the same power over him that it had always had: his ambition to return in full glory to his former position in society—a position from which he’d been exiled over twenty-five years ago. But if he didn’t return soon he’d be too old to enjoy his triumph.
He handed the girl her glass. She accepted it with a mumbled thanks and took a delicate sip of the sherry; a flicker of appreciation appeared in her hazel eyes. Thank God they were not sherry-colored.
As hers had been.
Knowing Rhiannon shared McClairen blood, even diluted by half a dozen generations, Carr had been … anxious that she might have the McClairen eyes. Like Janet.
Thank God, Fia did not have her mother’s eyes. He didn’t think he could stand it. And Ash, too, cold as his eyes were, had little of Janet in him. Only the other boy, Raine, carried his mother’s stamp in feature and character.
The thought brought with it a ripple of sentimentality, and for a brief moment Carr indulged it. Some, he knew, said he had no heart. If they only knew how still, to this day, he grieved for his first wife. If they only knew the truth about Raine’s incarceration, they would not slander him so.
It was his younger son’s resemblance to his mother and not his father’s greed, as was widely reported, that kept Carr from ransoming Raine. Well, honesty forced him to admit, perhaps Raine’s usefulness in bringing Ash to heel also contributed to his continued incarceration—but mostly it was his resemblance to Janet.
Was not that romantic? Was that not indicative of the power of his passion, that he let his son rot in jail because the look of him was too painful to bear?
Janet would think so. She was the only one who’d ever truly understood him. He gazed out the window at the lawns spread below. All the rooms he occupied and entertained in faced front. He disliked looking out over the cliffs where Janet had fallen. Indeed, he could barely bring himself to venture into those sea-facing rooms. Once, just before the break of dawn, when all his guests slept, he’d found himself in the back library overlooking the terraced gardens. He’d thought he’d heard Janet singing, her voice soft and light—
“Sir?”
He looked around. The girl—Rhiannon—was regarding him as though she’d spoken several times.
He pulled his thoughts together. He had other matters to consider. Like this girl. This Rhiannon who might, if things did not go as they needed to go, prove troublesome.
“Your son is wrong in his estimate of my situation,” she said. “I am sure Mrs. Fraiser will not deny me the home I have known for over ten years.”
She waited, her body angled forward in entreaty. He steepled his fingertips before his lips, regarding her intently, thinking.
He wanted to believe her. But if Ash had destroyed the girl’s reputation to return her to Fair Badden and the stigma of being used and abandoned could only be seen as an act of cruelty. The Prime Minister’s letter, ostensibly written to express his condolences on the death of his third wife, had made it clear that Carr dare not be delinquent toward this or any woman.
He remembered the pertinent parts by heart:
His Majesty has watched in amazement and deep grief as three of his subjects, all well endowed in feature, form, and fact, have died whilst in your care, Lord Carr. There are some who have suggested to His Majesty that your series of sorrows have benefited you materially. His Majesty is wroth with such slanderous talk. He is certain that no woman shall ever again come to grief or be caused sorrow while under your care. Indeed, he is most adamant.
He glanced at Rhiannon, doing little to disguise the dislike in his eyes. Not only could he not return her to Fair Badden, he must make certain that while she was here she enjoyed only the best of health. That meant keeping her from his guests who were apt to see her fresh innocence as part of the entertainment.
As for the other matter—that would have to wait. He had some time yet. Something would occur to him. It always did.
He slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet.
Rhiannon blinked at his sudden movement. “Lord Carr?”
“No, Miss Russell. I must, for your own sake, refuse you. You will stay here.”
“But—”
“Perhaps later you can return to this place. I will think carefully on it, consider the ramifications of your return and the alternatives.”
“Alternatives? Please!” She threw out a hand. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t belong here!”
“Miss Russell,” Carr took her hand and patted it, a gesture that seemed both awkward and unnatural, “the best I can do is to assure you, you will not be here too long.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Ash must look quite like one of the Russian vampirs,” Fia said. As had become her custom in the nine days since Rhiannon had arrived at Wanton’s Blush, Fia had arrived in Rhiannon’s room just before dawn and perched herself on the edge of the bed Rhiannon had recently vacated.
Rhiannon faced the young girl with a carefully bland express
ion. Fia’s beautiful, still face was as cream in the half-light, her immodest, sumptuous gowns wilted by a night of carousal. Yet, fatigued though she must be, each day before retiring she appeared in Rhiannon’s room to relate the evening’s exploits and debauches. Too often they involved Ash.
“I have never heard the term,” Rhiannon said now.
Fia’s rare smile flashed and disappeared. “It’s a folk legend of the Russian people. A count came to Wanton’s Blush last year. He grew … fond of me and being uncertain whether I would be more beguiled by fairy tales or salacious palace intrigue, he amused me by alternating the two.” She leaned over, a spark of mischief in her dark eyes. “I preferred the fables. The Russians are quite savages, you know.”
“Yes?” Rhiannon asked. “What exactly is this vampir you compare your brother to?”
“A vampir, my dear Miss Russell,” Fia instructed, sitting back, “is a dead creature that rises at night to dine on the blood of the living.”
“Disgusting,” Rhiannon said coldly. She shed her nightgown and drew on a chemise and petticoats. It would do no good to order Fia from the room while she dressed. She would simply ignore the order and none of the servants would dare put hand to her. Besides, Fia was the only person with whom Rhiannon spoke, Carr having abandoned her whilst he “pondered” what to do with her, and Ash, besides stalking her with his gaze, having kept his distance.
Fia shrugged. “I simply report what is told me and make the observation that Ash could be a model for these creatures.”
Rhiannon hesitated. She didn’t want to ask. “Why do you say that?”
“Because,” Fia raised her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling for inspiration, “because he looks like such a predator. And seeing him night after night hunt through Carr’s guests, I must own he is a predator. Not that the ladies mind. I think any number of them would like to be mauled by my brother.”
Rhiannon ignored this statement, though she had no doubt it was true. She’d seen the type of woman who visited Wanton’s Blush. Rapacious, hungry. Eyeing Ash with the same expression she’d once seen in him regarding her a lifetime ago. It had thrilled her then. God help her, it still might.
“He looks … I don’t know,” Fia continued thoughtfully. “His eyes …” she made a circular motion in front of her own face. “They’re barren, empty, as though he simply moves by instinct rather than sentient purpose. He drinks too much. He rarely eats.”
Rhiannon inhaled sharply. It wasn’t that she cared for him; it was just that she so hated a waste.
“He’ll be a corpse in truth if he continues on his current path,” Fia said glibly. “He burns from within. ’Tis quite a spectacle. You ought to come down from this tower of yours, Miss Russell, if only to witness Ash’s last bright hours.”
“Don’t say that!” Rhiannon snapped, startling the young girl. “What sort of unnatural creature are you that you can speak so of your own brother?”
“Ach, Miss Fia, Miss Russell be right!” The reproach came from the doorway where Gunna stood. Fia turned to face her onetime nanny “Ye shouldna speak so. Miss Russell does not understand the ways of yer family.”
“How could she?” Fia asked calmly, but the color was high in her smooth cheeks. “I don’t understand them myself. You should have seen her, Gunna. She all but bit my head off simply because I told her what Ash was getting up to—”
“I don’t wish to speak about him,” Rhiannon said, trying to drive the image of Ash, burning and spent, from her mind.
“Then we won’t,” Gunna declared, crossing the room to the tall chest on which lay a comb and brush.
“Ye’ll be going for yer morning walk as usual, Miss Russell?”
“Yes,” Rhiannon answered gratefully.
“Then best let me comb out that tangle. And best ye be in bed, Miss Fia,” she said pointedly. “Yer lookin’ none too well yerself.”
This news did not hasten Fia on her way. If nothing else, the girl was wholly lacking in vanity. She cared less for her looks than anyone Rhiannon knew, and in many ways even abused her beauty.
“Go on, Fia,” Gunna urged more gently. “Ye can come back and talk to Miss Russell this evening, before ye go down.”
“Oh, all right,” Fia agreed, dropping lightly to her feet and sliding gracefully across the room. She did not turn at the door, nor did she give any gesture of farewell when she left.
Gunna watched her go and Rhiannon studied the old woman curiously. Gunna was genuinely fond of the unnatural witchling.
“She hasn’t had yer advantages, miss,” Gunna murmured, her eyes still on the door through which Fia had departed. “She canna be anythin’ other than what she is and that’s better than anyone has the right to expect, or anyone has the imagination to see.”
Immediately Rhiannon felt ashamed of her lack of charity. Who knew what she would have become had she been raised in this odd, displaced pleasure palace?
“You shame me, Gunna. It is only that Fia seems not to feel any pain for … another and I find that unnatural.”
“She feels pain, mark me she does,” Gunna muttered and then turned her one good eye on Rhiannon. “As do you, miss. Fer his sake.”
Rhiannon shook her head in violent denial. “I would have as much care for a mad dog.”
“Tenderhearted are ye?” Gunna asked and cackled. “Then ye must have learned that trick in that wee small hamlet of yours fer no Russell I knew of was ever accused of being softhearted.”
“You knew the Russells well enough to have marked their character?” Rhiannon seized on the change of topic, glad of the diversion.
“A bit,” Gunna replied.
Several times now Gunna had made a casual mention of Rhiannon’s family, and with each remark Rhiannon found her interest sharpening. A surname would sometimes bring with it an image from her childhood: Ross of Tilbridge with his great shelf of eyebrows; Jamie Culhane, an old man with impossibly red hair; and Lady Urquardt, a thin lady whom everyone knew by her retinue of wee spaniels.
Piece by piece, Rhiannon fit together a past she’d denied and a history she’d never been told.
“My father.” The words slipped unthinkingly from Rhiannon’s mouth.
“What of him?” Gunna asked combing out her hair.
“Did you … did you know him?” She heard the caution in her own voice.
“I knew of him.”
“What was he like?”
“A fine, decent man,” Gunna said shortly, frustrating Rhiannon.
The old woman shuffled over to the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and opened the lid. She rummaged inside a second before withdrawing a pale blue wool gown. “This may keep ye warm on yer walk, miss. Though it be cold this morning. Ye should ask Miss Fia fer a cloak to wear if ye must go traipsin’ out by the sea.” She gave a little shiver. “Canna see what draws ye there.”
Rhiannon stood up and let Gunna slip the bodice about her and fasten the ties. “What was he like? I don’t remember much of him.”
“Yer father?” Gunna asked. “I thought ye dinna want to remember. Any of it. That’s what ye told me the morning after ye come here and that’s more than a week gone by.”
“I won’t be remembering,” Rhiannon whispered. “I dinna … I mean I do not think I ever knew him enough to remember him.”
Faintly now, every now and again, she could hear a trace of her mother’s soft rolling burr in her own voice. It disconcerted her. She belonged in Fair Badden, not here. Yet slowly, day by day, she felt her former self slipping away and a new creature emerging to take her place, a bold creature with a Highland accent and, if Fia Merrick were to be trusted—which she was not—a direct, impervious expression.
“Oh, then that’s different,” Gunna said mockingly, holding out her hand to support Rhiannon as she stepped into the pooled circle of wool on the floor.
“Gunna, please,” Rhiannon said as the old woman drew the skirts up and over stiff petticoats, since Rhiannon eschewed hoops.
&n
bsp; The old woman sighed heavily. “He was an honorable man and a loyal one, Miss Russell. When the McClairen called, yer dad came forthwith and brought with him such men as he could muster.”
“But what was he like?” Rhiannon urged.
“I dinna know him.” Gunna shook her head.
It was no more than she’d expected. Where would an old serving woman become intimate with a minor Highland chieftain?
“Is there anyone here, anyone at Wanton’s Blush who might remember him or my mother or brother? Anyone who could tell me some stories?”
Gunna shook her head. “This wasn’t Russell land, dear. ’Twas McClairen.”
Rhiannon caught Gunna’s hand. “But my family was loyal to the McClairen. Perhaps there is a McClairen hereabouts who might have known my family?”
Gunna hesitated.
“Gunna? Please. I thought when I came here that I would be haunted by the souls of those murdered in the reprisals. But if there are ghosts here, they’re a timid lot and must be lured from hiding to tell their tales.”
“The McClairens are an outlawed breed, miss,” Gunna said, gently pulling her hand free of Rhiannon’s light clasp.
“I just want to hear the stories, Gunna.” When had this become so important to her? “The stories my mother never had the chance to tell me.”
Gunna stared at her a second then cleared her throat. “Will ye be walking with Mr. Donne this morning?”
Rhiannon’s gaze fell in disappointment. Apparently Gunna had decided she was not to be trusted. She would have sworn that the old woman knew a McClairen or two. Well, the only way to win her trust was not to force her confidences.
“No,” she said. “Not today.”
Thomas Donne had made it his habit to meet her after an early breakfast and escort her on her turn about the back garden. He was handsome, urbane, and his attentions were warm with consideration. But today she wouldn’t be satisfied with a walk in the seaside gardens. Today she wanted to follow the path she’d spied from the far gate, a thin line that skirted the cliff tops.
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