Lady Sharpe urged her horse nearer. “Have a care, sir, in that millpond,” she warned. “The stream is quite fast just now, and the current runs deep. Indeed, I am not at all sure my husband would approve.”
He turned his attention to her, his eyes sweeping over her with a certain dark efficiency. She had the feeling he summed up all his adversaries just so; one swift, all-seeing gaze. Just then, something in his face shifted, and Lady Sharpe felt a sudden stab of recognition.
He approached, and extended his hand upward. “Lady Sharpe,” he said, his voice softening unexpectedly. “You…you do not remember me?”
“Oh, my God!” said Lady Sharpe, leaning down to take his hand.“Justin?”
He gave a muted smile. “In the flesh, ma’am,” he agreed. “Damp though it may be.”
Lady Sharpe shook her head. “I…why, I had no idea you had come home,” she said. “No idea at all! What in heaven’s name are you doing, swimming in October?”
Now that he had stepped near, his bloodshot eyes were unmistakable, as was his heavy shadow of beard. “Afraid I had rather a long night,” he answered. “And the hair of the dog which bit me did not seem quite the thing this morning.”
“I hope you will not catch your death instead,” she murmured. “Good Lord, Justin. You look so very different.”
“I am different,” he said quietly.
Lady Sharpe managed to smile. “I meant only that you look so much older,” she clarified. “And…well, I remember you as such a willowy young man. Sharpe thought that perhaps you meant to remain in Paris. But I forget—you are St. Vrain now. You have obligations.”
Beside her, Christine cleared her throat sharply. St. Vrain let his hand slip from Lady Sharpe’s glove. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “How rude I am. This is Sharpe’s sister, Mrs. Ambrose. Christine, this is Lord St. Vrain, our near neighbor who owns the land beyond the millpond. Have the two of you never met?”
“No,” said Christine softly. “And more’s the pity.”
St. Vrain let his eyes run down her. “A pleasure, Mrs. Ambrose,” he said, the almost taunting smile slowly curling his mouth again. “I begin to believe I lingered too long in Paris. You and Mr. Ambrose are visiting your brother?”
Christine returned the smile. “I am a widow,” she said. “I just put off my black, and I am making my home with Reggie and Pamela for a while.”
“How fortunate they are,” he said. “But I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ambrose.”
Lady Sharpe reined her mount back a step. “As we are sorry for yours, my lord,” she interjected. “Sharpe sent our condolences. I hope that you received his letter?”
St. Vrain inclined his head. “It would have been hard to miss, ma’am,” he murmured. “As one might imagine, there was no surfeit of sympathy notes on my desk.”
Lady Sharpe’s unease was deepening. She did not like the hardened edge time had given St. Vrain, and she liked even less the avaricious look on her sister-inlaw’s face. She touched her crop to her hat brim, and wheeled Zeus around. “We ought to go, Christine,” she said. “I am sure Lord St. Vrain will wish to dress.”
“Yet another pity,” said Christine, not quite sotto voce.
Her face coloring furiously, Lady Sharpe tried to ignore Christine. “We must bid you good day, my lord,” she said. “All of us at Highwood welcome you home. It has been too long.”
Christine cast one last, lingering look over her shoulder, even as she wheeled her mount back toward the stream. “Good day, my lord,” she purred. “I do hope you don’t take pneumonia.”
St. Vrain’s shameless grin returned. “I’ve always been a hard one to kill, Mrs. Ambrose,” he remarked. “Or so my enemies say. Good day to you. I shall look forward to receiving my punishment—at your earliest convenience.”
The ladies rode side by side as they went back up the brook. “Really, Christine,” fumed Lady Sharpe when her temper eased slightly. “Howcould you?”
“How could I what?” Christine smiled like a cat with at least one paw in the cream pot. “Ignore your good advice? Never!”
“Myadvice?” echoed Lady Sharpe. “Whatever can you mean?”
Christine lifted one thin, arched eyebrow. “Did you not just say that I should find something with which to amuse myself?” she asked. “Well, I have found it.”
Patience fled. “Oh, for God’s sake, Christine!” she snapped. “NotSt. Vrain.”
Christine lifted her chin. “Why not St. Vrain?” she returned. “He is quite wickedly handsome.”
“He is a troubled man,” warned Lady Sharpe. Then the devil gigged her just a bit. “Besides, my dear, you will not show to good advantage on his arm. He is somuch younger than you.”
Christine laughed. “Oh, younger in years, perhaps,” she said. “But not in his soul.”
Lady Sharpe could not argue with that. She resorted to begging. “Christine, please. I implore you.”
Christine stuck out her lower lip. “Must you always spoil my fun, Pam? St. Vrain will make for a pleasant diversion. Indeed, Reggie should invite him to dine with us tonight.”
Lady Sharpe pursed her lips. “I am not at all sure Reggie will oblige you this time, Christine,” she warned. “St. Vrain is not received.”
“Not received?” Christine sounded intrigued. “But did you not just say he and Reggie corresponded?”
“The man’s father died,” said Lady Sharpe flatly. “Reggie sent a letter of condolence. What else, pray, was he to do when the father lived but a stone’s throw from us, and St. Vrain was his heir, much as his father might have wished otherwise?”
Christine’s eyes lit with an unholy glee. “Oh, Lord!” she said. “You are speaking of the young man who ran away with his stepmother, are you not? What a tawdry little scandal that was!”
“Yes, quite.”
“Well, that is reassuring,” said Christine, rather too cheerfully.
Lady Sharpe looked at her askance. “What, pray, is reassuring about it?”
Christine lifted one delicate shoulder. “Well, at least we know he has a penchant for older women.”
One
A Room with a View
Lord Rothewell’s heavy traveling coach lurched right, turning onto the stone bridge which arched over the languid River Witham and drawing ever nearer the estate of Highwood. The baron himself seemed oblivious to the sway of the carriage. His gaze seemed eternally fixed on the baize account book over which he had been poring since they had taken luncheon at an inn north of Sleaford.
An account book, or a brandy glass,thought Martinique. In the six weeks since their dispassionate reunion, she had seen her guardian with little else in hand.
Beside her, Aunt Xanthia gave a little shiver. “Dear God, does the sun never warm this wretched place?”
At last, Rothewell looked up. “Thisis warm, Zee,” he said coolly. “Or as warm as it ever gets in December. Life in the West Indies has thinned your blood, that is all.”
Martinique covered her aunt’s gloved hand with her own. “You shall grow accustomed to it, Xanthia,” she assured her, giving her aunt’s stiff fingers a squeeze. “In a few weeks’ time, you will not think it cold at all.”
Xanthia smiled wanly. “Already I long for Barbados.” She turned to her brother. “How much further, Kieran?”
Again, Rothewell looked up, his expression detached. “Another two miles, by Pamela’s instruction,” he said. “There will be a good fire, Zee. You will be warm soon enough.”
But Aunt Xanthia still looked fretful. “Really, Kieran,” she said, “do you remember these people at all? I feel most awkward.”
“I remember Pamela,” he said. “We played together as toddlers. And she came out to Barbados once with Aunt Olivia. Do you not recall it?”
Aunt Xanthia shook her head. “I should rather not think of our childhood.”
Rothewell tore his gaze away, and turned his attention to the pastoral scenery beyond the carriage window. Martinique did the same. Alre
ady she knew this conversation was at an end. The Nevilles were well-practiced in the art of the unspoken; a family of quiet rage and restrained grief, or so she had often thought. Or perhaps it was just English despair. All she knew with certainty was that she, with her Creole temper and Gallic passion, would ever be a stranger to them.
She focused instead on the gently rolling countryside. Even in December, this land looked rich. A pity one could not grow cane here. Despite her bitterness at having been sent away, Martinique had learned to love England. She longed for Barbados, yes. She particularly longed for the memories of her mother. But they seemed to fade with time and distance, no matter how hard she tried to hold on to them.
It was almost as if her aunt read her mind. Xanthia cleared her throat a little sharply. When her brother did not notice, she gave his knee a little jostle. He looked up from his account book, his brows drawn together. “We are almost there,” said Xanthia. “Was there not something you wished to do before we arrived?”
“Ah, yes.” Rothewell’s expression seemed to darken, as if that were possible. But he reached into the floor of the carriage, and took up the strange leather case which had sat there every day since their departure from London. He settled it on his knee, and slid a hand almost lovingly over the top, as if to brush away the dust, though there was none.
“Your aunt and I brought this from Bridgetown,” he said, his eyes suddenly soft. Yet he was gazing not at her, but at the case. “Xanthia thought it was time you had it.”
He passed it across the carriage, and set it gently in Martinique’s lap. The thing was rather like a small dressing case. Curious, Martinique drew open one of the drawers. A long strand of pink-white pearls lay nestled in a bed of blue velvet. A second drawer revealed an ornate emerald pendant with a matching pair of long, elaborately fashioned earbobs.
“Those are still too old for you,” Aunt Xanthia warned. “But the pearls and some of the other things you may wear now, if you wish.”
Stunned, Martinique lifted the lid. Compartments of brooches and earbobs winked back at her. One of them, a simple gold pin set with seed pearls, was instantly familiar.“Maman,” she whispered on a sudden surge of longing. “These are hers, are they not?”
Xanthia set one hand over hers. “Some were gifts from your natural father before…well, before she came to Barbados. But most of the pieces my brother Luke bought her after they were married. You were too young to remember.”
“And now they are mine?”
Xanthia nodded. Martinique looked across the carriage at Rothewell, but already his gaze had returned to the window. Tears pressed hotly against her eyes, and an almost overwhelming swell of grief and gratitude tugged at her heart. And yet there was pain, too. Pain, and a deep sense of inadequacy. Just as her birth father had never wanted her, Rothewell had not wanted her. Perhaps her stepfather had not really wanted her, either? Perhaps he had been merely kind, to please her mother? It was her deepest, most secret fear.
But unlike his dead brother, Rothewell’s disdain was apparent, and Martinique wished desperately to knowwhy. Why was she unlovable? What was wrong with her? But if Rothewell noticed her distress, one could not discern it. He might as well have handed her a pair of old shoes. “My lord?” she said. “Doyou wish me to have them?”
He turned again from the window, and without truly looking at her, gave a small, dismissive gesture with the back of his hand. “If it pleases you,” he said. “But if there are pieces you do not care for, we can sell them.”
Sell them?Sell her mother’s jewels? Martinique should rather have sold Rothewell—not that anyone in their right mind would have wanted him. Or would they? Mrs. Harris always said there was no accounting for taste. Martinique let her eyes run over her guardian’s figure, which was, admittedly, imposing and muscular. He was tall, too, with long-fingered, well-callused hands and shoulders which looked strong and work-hardened. And to her shock, he wasyoung.
Martinique had been sent away on her thirteenth birthday, scarcely six months after her parents’ deaths. Then, she had believed Rothewell old and obdurate. Only now did she realize he was still a very young man. Rothewell was dark: his hair, his eyes, and yes, even his complexion. The years of hard work in the Bajan sun had left him with skin far darker than her own, and a set of fine lines at the corners of his eyes. But the darkest thing about her guardian was his personality. No, despite his wealth, no one was apt to want Rothewell.
But on that score, apparently, she was to be proven wrong.
“Kieran!” Martinique heard the call ring out even before their coach drew to a halt.
She looked out to see a young woman coming swiftly down the front steps of a fine brick mansion. She looked a little past thirty, with smiling eyes and a wide, good-humored mouth.
“Cousin Pamela,” Rothewell murmured to his sister. Then he pushed open the door, and stepped out.
The lady rushed forward to take his hand before he had a chance to help Xanthia from the carriage. Soon, however, they all stood on the graveled carriage drive, and Lady Sharpe was hugging Xanthia.
“Just look at you!” She set her away, eyes shining. “I am sure, Zee, that you scarcely remember me. But I remember you.”
Xanthia returned the smile. “It is such a pleasure to be here.”
Lady Sharpe turned her attention to Martinique, and extended her hand. “And Martinique, welcome. Cousin Luke wrote often of you, and with great affection.”
Just then, there was a sharpclack clack of wood on stone. Martinique looked up to see an elderly woman coming down the elegant front steps, a gold-knobbed stick in her hand. She was a tall, big-boned woman, her shoulders barely stooped with age.
“Aunt Olivia.” Rothewell went up the steps to take her elbow.
She shook him off almost irritably. “I can go down a dozen stairs without help, Kieran,” she bristled. “Good Lord, boy, what the devil’s happened to your skin?”
Lady Sharpe hastened forward. “Kieran is not mollycoddling, Mother,” she scolded. “He is being a gentleman—a gentleman whom you’ve not yet cowed. Now come greet Xanthia, and meet Martinique.”
“Well, little Xanthia,” said the old woman, offering her wrinkled cheek to be kissed. “You grew up, girl—and you have your mother’s lovely eyes.”
“Thank you, Aunt Olivia,” said Xanthia.
The old woman turned a beady eye on Martinique. “And so you’re Luke’s adopted chit, eh?” she said. “Come, child, and let me have a look at you.”
Martinique stepped forward, but at that moment, a striking woman with pale blond hair came out of the house. She was clinging to the arm of a dark, dashing gentleman who could only have been described as beautiful, for the wordhandsome did not do him justice. Across the distance, his gaze caught Martinique’s, and for an instant, her breath hitched. He looked not at Rothewell, nor at Xanthia, but directly ather, mesmerizing her with his intense, dark eyes.
Then the blond woman spoke, severing the strange spell. “Heavens, Pamela!” she said, abandoning her attractive companion to hasten down the steps. “Surely this is not Rothewell?”
Lady Sharpe blushed, and swiftly introduced her husband’s half-sister, Mrs. Ambrose. “Christine is making her home with us at present,” she explained. “And this is our neighbor, Lord St. Vrain.”
The dark young man came down the steps with a polished grace, and bowed deeply. “It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said in a rich, soft baritone. But as he straightened, his eyes met Martinique’s again, and inexplicably, a frisson of sensual awareness ran down her spine.
But Mrs. Ambrose had eyes only for Rothewell. “My lord, I have heard so much of you from dear Pamela,” she cooed, slipping her arm through his. “Come, let us all go into the house for refreshment. You must tell me all about the exotic life you lead in the West Indies. Have you slaves? Are they frightfully dangerous? I have always wished to go there, you know. And to Boston as well. Perhaps I shall do both, and pay you a call one d
ay.”
“Boston and Barbados are some two thousand miles apart, Christine,” said Lady Sharpe.
Mrs. Ambrose, however, was already halfway up the steps. “Are they indeed?” she said, glancing almost dismissively over her shoulder. “Why, it could not have been but an inch or two on Reggie’s atlas.”
The old woman’s face had taken on an almost disdainful expression. “Come along, Xanthia,” she said, starting up the steps, her cane busily clacking. “You, too, girl. Christine’s going to embarrass herself. You shan’t wish to miss it.”
Once inside, however, Lady Sharpe gently overruled Mrs. Ambrose, and insisted upon seeing her guests to their rooms so that they might freshen up. “Mother, Christine, will the two of you please take St. Vrain into the drawing room and ring for tea whilst I get everyone settled? And where is Reggie? Faversham, kindly go and fetch Lord Sharpe, if you please. And tell Miss Pendle to bring the children down.”
The butler hastened away to do his mistress’s bidding, and St. Vrain offered the old woman his arm. Together, they vanished up the elegantly curving staircase. But Mrs. Ambrose was still clinging like a vine to Rothewell.
“Lord Rothewell is to have the blue suite which overlooks the lake,” said Lady Sharpe to one of the footmen who was balancing a trunk neatly on one shoulder. “I recall, Kieran, how much you like a water view.”
Aunt Xanthia leaned nearer to her cousin. “Would it be frightfully difficult, Pamela, for Martinique and I to room near one another?” she asked. “We are like giddy schoolgirls getting reacquainted.”
Xanthia was just being kind. Martinique was finding this first foray into society a little daunting, and Xanthia was playing the mother hen. Lady Sharpe seemed to understand at once. “Actually, we have a pair of connecting bedchambers,” she said, her brows knotting. “But Christine already occupies one.”
The School for Heiresses Page 10