Amanda L.V. Shalaby

by Rhianna

  Brighton.

  Thayne.

  A hazy idea passed through her mind that this would affect her future with him, but she pushed it quickly away. There were other things to take over her thoughts.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she told him honestly. “This is so inconceivable …”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “I may leave unentailed property to whomever I choose, male or not, relation or not.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No … everything … it is all so …” Rhianna choked on her own voice. “Who else … knows … about me?”

  Guilford wet his dry lips. “Besides your mother and me, Mr. and Mrs. Braden, and Mauvreen, obviously, Weathersby is the only other person who knows all. In fact, he is the one who delivered you as a baby to the Bradens one windy night.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell the world you are Rhianna Kingsley, my eldest daughter, but to the world you must remain Rhianna Braden,” he lamented. “I am sure you can never forgive me, but there are no options for illegitimate children.”

  Suddenly, Rhianna’s heart stopped. She could never keep this from Thayne, and once he knew the truth he would never marry her. Marrying a governess was beneath him as it was, but a bastard was something else altogether. Devastation was slowly creeping up on her.

  “I realize it will be impossible for you to continue here once my will is read,” he acknowledged, “not to mention what Desmond has done. I have contacted a family — friends of mine — named Bridgeford. Lord Bridgeford and his wife live about thirty miles or so northwest of here and their daughter Emily is in need of a governess. They are hoping to hear you are available.”

  Lord Kingsley, in this one action, showed more affection toward her than the curate had in nearly a decade. All this, arranged for her in advance! It helped to push aside her other thoughts, that just when she believed her days as a governess were behind her, she would be off to live with another family, working with a new child, one that was not …

  Her half-sister Audra.

  “Lord Kingsley,” she began, “Father …” The word sounded strange in her mouth. “I want you to know how much I truly appreciate … everything. I have no doubt that you love me. You have not neglected me, all these years, making sure I was cared for, that I received education, that I had a home. I can see that.”

  For the first time since the room had cleared of all other persons, Guilford Kingsley was silent. Rhianna’s small speech was not delivered without emotion, and that she did not reject him seemed to ease him.

  “That is all I could ever hope for.”

  “I understand perfectly,” she finished, exhaling as she spoke the words. “And … I harbor no resentment. In fact, I feel … happy.” The surprise of this revelation reflected in her voice. “I always felt I belonged here. It all makes sense.”

  “I expect nothing from you, Rhianna,” he assured her quickly.

  “I forgive you.”

  A peaceful look fell upon his face and, in that moment, Rhianna was sure she would have nothing to regret upon Guilford Kingsley’s passing.

  “My mother, Catherine, lived here at Kingsley Manor during her later years,” he struggled. Rhianna could see his energy was failing him. “I have stored some of my personal items in her old bedroom and keep it locked at all times.” Rhianna knew the room at once, the only locked door in the house. “Weathersby has a key,” he told her. “I have instructed him to give it only to you.”

  “To me?”

  “In the upper drawer of the corner dresser you will find the address of the Bridgefords.”

  She nodded, as if accepting her fate.

  “And Rhianna …” he smiled, “… uncover the portrait over the fireplace.”

  A knock rapped on the door and Henry entered. “Lord Brighton,” he announced, and Thayne stepped around him.

  “Forgive me, am I intruding?” Thayne asked.

  “No, no,” Guilford assured him.

  Rhianna was expecting Audra to rush in behind him, but she did not appear.

  Thayne must have read her thoughts, for he answered them, saying, “Audra fell asleep.”

  Rhianna suddenly remembered there was a world outside of Lord Kingsley’s bedroom. “I’ll go check on her,” she told him, rising. “It is only fair that you have your time with Lord Kingsley.”

  Thayne shot her a worried glance. “Why do we not go together? I won’t be long.”

  “Desmond Kingsley is not returning to the manor for the time being,” she assured him.

  With a look at her father, she smiled and took leave before Thayne could object further.

  • • •

  With the door to Guilford’s bedroom closed behind her, Rhianna noted that the servants had been shooed away. Only Weathersby remained, and she turned to him.

  “Mr. Weathersby, I …”

  “Miss Braden.”

  He held out his clenched hand to her. Her eyes lowered to the fingers that held the key to Catherine Kingsley’s room and the hallway around her began to swirl. She blinked, held out her own hand, and felt the key drop into it. She closed her fingers quickly around it.

  “Thank you.”

  His thin lips pulled a little to the sides, but his expression was stiff. It was clear he cared for Guilford deeply and the worry that consumed him could be read on every part of his face.

  Rhianna looked beyond him to the hallway, knowing exactly where to find Catherine Kingsley’s room. The thought of unveiling its contents sent a mild thrill up her spine and, suddenly, she was torn. She wanted to look into Audra’s eyes with the knowledge she now had of their true relationship. Indeed, it overcame almost every emotion in her.

  On the other hand, once Thayne left Guilford’s room, he would likely not leave her side and she so wanted Catherine’s room to herself …

  She followed the L-shaped hall down to the end, made the right turn and, passing door after door, followed it to the northeast side of the manor. Hardly had the door to Catherine’s room appeared than she pushed the key into the lock and turned.

  The click as it unlocked pierced her and Rhianna’s fingers trembled as she mustered up the courage to turn the handle. So many secrets, so much of the past lay behind that door. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder before entering. The thought of Lydia Kingsley happening upon her crossed her mind and Rhianna imagined her response to the truth of her identity and inheritance. Indubitably, she thought, Lydia would lock her in the room with the ghosts of the past and take the key away with her.

  With a burst of energy, she walked through the open door and closed it behind her. She coughed. A thin ray of sunlight shone through the thin, white sheets that covered the windows. Rainbow-colored dust particles sparkled in the air, revealing a thick cloud that enveloped the room. It was clear no one had been here for some time. Rhianna knocked a spider from her wrist and watched as it scurried away under the high bed before her, also covered in white sheets, as was the rest of the furniture. A long rectangular dresser stood silently to her right and the chest of drawers in the far corner. The fireplace, long without warmth, its embers black and cold, watched her as if surprised to see a living, breathing human being again. The room as a whole did not seem indifferent to her being there; rather, despite its cold, dusty appearance, Rhianna felt welcomed.

  She walked a few more steps into the room, which was not unlike her own rose bedroom. The same high ceiling, the same tall windows, the same creaky wood floor gave it a familiar feel. She peeked under the white sheet of the long dresser. Beneath it, golden handles could be lifted to open mahogany drawers. She imagined the gowns that might still exist there, the berets Catherine would have clipped in her hair, the gloves that would have decorated her hands …

  Rhianna couldn’t resist pulling the top middle drawer toward her, but The Last Will and Testament of Guilford Kingsley met her as the only item. Disappointed not to find some exquisite article of silk, she began to shut the drawer, but stopped midway. She examined the cover for
some time, before lifting the will from its resting place and considering whether she would review its contents. She carried it with her as she continued to walk toward the center of the room. Distracted, Rhianna allowed her fingers to run along the edge of the bed and she imagined the indistinct image of a woman lying there …

  Guilford’s mother.

  Her grandmother.

  “. . . uncover the painting over the fireplace …”

  Guilford’s instructions resounded so clearly in her mind, it seemed as if he spoke them aloud to her at that very moment. Reflectively, she obeyed, dropping the will to the bed and moving spellbound toward the fireplace. Brushing away the spider webs that had woven their way between the sheet and the mantel, she took the corner of the fabric and tugged. It fluttered to the corner of the fireplace.

  And there she was.

  Herself.

  The room around her disappeared. Rhianna stumbled back. She looked upon the old portrait, her breath stolen from her. The green eyes, the red hair, the fair skin, and the same peach dress that now rested upon Rhianna’s shoulders — the bottom inscription read Catherine Kingsley, but it might as well have read Rhianna. The likeness between them was astonishing, almost as if it were a mirror’s reflection.

  Her thoughts raced as she fingered the tear in the fabric of her sleeve. For the first time since Guilford had explained everything to her, it suddenly felt real. Nothing in her life was what it had seemed. Those she thought were her family were not. Who she believed she was, she was not. No longer was she the daughter of a curate with parents who did not love her, and no longer was she governess to the daughter of a wealthy family. She was Rhianna Kingsley, a stranger, an heiress, with a father and a sister she hardly knew, and a fiancé she could not marry. She could not but brace herself against the bedpost for support, as her knees grew unsteady beneath her.

  Then, vaguely she became aware of someone standing in the doorway.

  “Rhianna?”

  The tone was warm, gentle, and crushing all at once. Rhianna’s eyes and mind were locked on the portrait, but she managed to wonder how many more times she would hear Thayne’s voice.

  She heard him begin to approach. Then, he stopped. Surely, he had seen the portrait and she was grateful not to have to explain. Now, he knew.

  “How did you know where I was?” she asked in a whisper.

  He explained quickly, sounding a bit out of breath. “Weathersby pointed me in the right direction. There was a Desmond sighting in the manor. I have been searching all the rooms of this hallway for you, nearly frantic.” He added, “I was close to this room when I heard you gasp. I would ask why, but it seems unnecessary.”

  She hadn’t remembered gasping audibly. Rhianna turned to him; Thayne’s hand that had gestured toward the portrait fell to his side.

  “I didn’t know,” she told him. “Until today, I had no idea.”

  Rhianna folded her arms around herself, as if holding her body together. It seemed it might fall apart at any moment. Thayne looked at her, but she watched as his eyes rose to the portrait. He took a few steps forward, until he was beside her.

  “Catherine Kingsley?” he read.

  His voice was inflectionless, his words just barely a question. It sounded more as if he were stating a fact.

  She nodded.

  Thayne gently reached his hand under her chin and examined her features, then the portrait, and back again. “Lydia?”

  This is it, she thought. I shall never see him again after this day.

  “No,” she mouthed.

  Illegitimate.

  The word sounded in her mind, over and over again. She thought she read it in his eyes as he did the calculations. Guilford, after all, had been married to Lydia for thirty years. Rhianna came from no previous, legal union.

  Quickly, she drank in his features, burning them vividly into her memory. His dark hair and lashes. His blue eyes. His straight nose. His square jaw. His full lips. His broad shoulders. His soft fingers that brushed suddenly against her cheek, catching a tear in their wake.

  “Desmond?” he asked, his face at once contorted.

  She hesitated to speak, knowing every word drew them closer to their last exchange.

  Finally, bowing her head, she resigned. “He is Pierson’s.”

  Without warning, Thayne looked relieved and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Well, thank God for that! I cannot imagine having him as a brother-in-law, even a halfblooded one.”

  Then, he smiled.

  “How can you even jest?” she cried with a weak voice, easing him away from her. “I did not think you capable of cruelty, but you clearly wish to torment me!”

  Thayne frowned. “I’m sorry. This is rather incredible, isn’t it? I should have been more sensitive. Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right!” she returned, watching her hopes of not explaining fly out the tall, sheet-covered windows. “I don’t know who I am anymore and everything has fallen apart.”

  Her last several words were barely audible, and although Thayne did not seem to grasp her meaning, he was quick to comfort her.

  “You are my soon-to-be Rhianna Brighton,” he answered, his voice calm and reassuring, “and whatever you think is going to fall apart, we will figure out together.”

  He took her hands in his and she rejected them.

  “As if we could still be married!”

  Rhianna nearly choked on the words as she spoke them. Her heart, no longer racing, ached with every beat. Her involuntary movements of breathing and blinking were a chore she had no power for. Standing took all her strength.

  “Well, why on Earth wouldn’t we be?” he returned at once. This time, Thayne was taken aback. The alarm finally inflected in his voice.

  “I hardly have to spell it out for you. Illegitimate children cannot be legally married. It is impossible!”

  At this, he pulled her to his chest and held her tightly, rocking gently from side to side. A rush of his scent and the warmth of his body engulfed her. Swallowed by grief, she ceased to resist him.

  “Rhianna,” he soothed, “my dear, sweet, lovely Rhianna. Listen to me.” She felt his hand wrap around her head, his cheek pressed against her hair. “There is not a man or woman in England who suspects this. The parish register has a Miss Braden listed as the very legitimate child of a respectable family. That is the woman I fell in love with and that is the woman I am going to marry.”

  As she registered this, she said nothing.

  “Do you still wish to marry me?” he asked her, easing back and looking into her eyes.

  “That should be my question to you.”

  “Nothing has changed for me, Rhianna. Do you still wish to marry me?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  Thayne’s lips at once besieged hers, finalizing the matter. Rhianna’s fears began to melt slowly away. The emotions swirling within her were powerful and would not easily abate, but that she had nothing to worry about Thayne was fully convincing. His passionate kiss quickly persuaded her to believe he not only still wanted her, but that nothing could change his mind.

  For some time, Rhianna allowed him to continue to persuade her thus, partly for the reassurance of his affection, partly for the lack of energy to refuse, and mostly for the desire that he awakened in her. Thayne made little effort to hide his own longings, and excepting a single pause to meet her gaze, he showed himself in no particular rush to convince her of his unending love.

  • • •

  Rhianna recognized the voices in the hallway at once.

  “Is he not mortal? I do not understand!”

  Pierson’s frustration was evident, as Lydia tried to satisfy him. “He is strong, cousin. He survives what no other man would.”

  Pierson tapped his foot anxiously against the floor. “Neither you nor Desmond have been able to get to him to give him the final dose.”

  Persuading him to calm himself, and persuasion was her greatest skill, Lydia said, “You can
not hurry these things. Everything will end perfectly. You can be sure I’ll see to that myself.”

  It had little effect on him. “Hurry? This should have been finished a year and a half ago!”

  Rhianna covered her own mouth and looked at Thayne, who himself looked intently toward the door of Catherine Kingsley’s room, his arms still wrapped tightly around her.

  “Time is running out for me, Lydia,” Pierson continued. “If you cannot get this done tonight, I will have to leave England … and you.”

  “My love, if you can but give me a few days …”

  “You have had your time! You are not able to do it,” he accused.

  “I want nothing but for it to be done,” she assured him. “Is not everyone convinced he has been ill for some time of natural causes? They are all expecting his death at any moment.”

  “You think me a fool! Prove your commitment. If Guilford Kingsley is not dead by midnight, you and I are through.”

  Pierson could be heard walking around the corner and down the east hall. Lydia appeared to chase after him.

  “I will find a way …” her voice faded.

  Rhianna was shaking her head. “The final dose? They are poisoning him? They are poisoning Lord Kingsley!”

  “I have to admit,” Thayne told her, “I did not think them capable of this.”

  “Thayne,” she hurried, a wave of revulsion shooting through her, “they are after the money from the Irish estate. They do not realize Lord Kingsley has left it to Audra and myself. Who is to say when they find out that they will not attempt to kill us, as well?”

  Suddenly, she recalled a certain late night meeting between Pierson, Lydia, and Desmond and she knew a murder had already been attempted, and not against Lord Kingsley only.

  “What if they have tried this before?” she told him, as her thoughts raced from one to another. “I have heard Lord Kingsley was sick before I arrived. What if they were poisoning him then? I overheard Pierson say that ‘when she arrived, everything was undone.’ Oh, Thayne! What if he was referring to me? He accused Lydia of having doubts and giving excuses not to follow through on some scheme. Only now, I think he must have been referring to this — killing Lord Kingsley! Imagine, Thayne, if Pierson thought me interfering in some way, a man already with murderous intent. Perhaps he and Desmond were the persons in the woods that day at Ravensleigh. Perhaps Pierson did have something to do with my accident. Why wouldn’t he try to get rid of me? If Lydia truly has had doubts about the murder and used me as an excuse to delay this terrible scheme, Pierson might have been quite determined.” Thayne stood stiff, as she concluded, “Now, time has run out. Lydia must choose between Lord Kingsley and Pierson, and it appears she has made her decision.”