She choked up and tenderly ran her fingers through his tussle of thick chestnut hair and said to his bowed head,
“My dear, dear man… I love you so very much…”
“And I you—beyond words…”
He could not bring himself to tell her the whole truth. Yes, he had worried about the impending birth of their third child. What husband was not terrified of childbirth and all its attendant calamities? He had kept those worries to himself. To his shame and guilt, the dreams that had disturbed his sleep over the past month were not filled with worry about his wife or children at all, but concerned another, a creature he so reviled that he reviled himself for allowing her to invade his thoughts at any time. It was the letter, or the lack of one, that had started the nightmares. He did not need his steward to tell him that the monthly letter from the guardian of the unnamed person of interest was overdue. He waited on those letters, as if with each letter he could breathe easy for another four weeks knowing the creature who had tried to kill his wife and was a murderer of the unborn remained locked up, away from Jane and his children and Ron and Merry; they were safe from harm, safe from evil for another month.
Over the past four years, he had often thought of ending the misery of the crippling apprehension that consumed him. With Diana St. John locked up for the rest of her natural life, stripped of her identity and referred to forever more as the unnamed person of interest, he presumed he would be free of her. He was not. He knew that release would only come with her death. Too many times to count he thought of having her poisoned, or orchestrate for her to have an accident—fall off a turret or break her neck on the stairs. It would be easy to arrange. Yet, that would make him a murderer, too, and no better than she. He could not have her murder on his conscience, for his children to one day discover that the father they loved and respected had been party to such a heinous crime, and against a creature who was clearly insane.
He sat up and mentally shook himself free of such melancholy thoughts. Jane’s blue eyes were so full of concern that he knew himself for a selfish wretch. This should be a happy time, a time for celebration, for carefree laughter, and for family. He owed it to his two children, to the new little life just come into the world, to his extended family and retainers, to those who looked to him for guidance and to set the example, and most of all, he owed it to his wife, to Jane. Jane had not only given him three healthy children he adored, but given him a life worth leading.
He locked the dark thoughts away for another day as he kissed the back of her hand, and was about to offer her a garbled explanation for his frequent bouts of broken sleep over the past few weeks, when she gave him a plausible excuse, one he could readily agree to without the need to lie.
“Your problem is that your mind needs occupation. I don’t mean counting sheep and fixing tenant fences. You need politics, papers and a hundred parliamentary annoyances to keep your thoughts away from petty domestic details. Willis has proved himself a marvelously competent estate steward, so competent that he leaves you little to do but say yes or no to his suggestions and advice.” Jane squeezed his fingers. “Willis can manage the estate without you needing to be here while Parliament is in session. He has proved himself more than capable, what with your frequent visits up to London in recent months on parliamentary business. Ned is in his fourth year. A month of lying-in, and the baby and I can travel. Please. Magnus. If you feel the time is right for you to return to the political arena, you must do so. Four years in the country seeing to your estates is time enough for a man with your abilities, and so the newssheets keep reminding me!”
Salt put up an eyebrow in surprise. “So her ladyship agrees with the editorial hacks who pepper their opinions with cries of “Recall Lord S from the country!” as if I am a salve to be applied and government will heal?”
“I don’t know about you being a political salve,” Jane said bluntly, “but I no longer want the Countess of S-H—not a subtle way of pointing the finger at me, I might add—being accused, in print, of holding you prisoner on your own estate with babies, babble and beauty!” She pouted and squeezed his hand. “Babies and beauty, mayhap, but never babble.”
The Earl grinned and then became serious.
“You would readily return to London and the life of a politician’s wife?”
“I would readily take the children and follow you to the ends of South America if it meant an unbroken night’s sleep!”
At that, Salt gave a shout of laughter and hopped off the bed. He kissed her forehead and then made her an elegant bow.
“So be it, my love. Shall we tell the family the good news? Though, I doubt Caroline will be pleased at our decision to permanently reopen the house in Grosvenor Square. She enjoys living there with only Lady Reanay and Kitty Aldershot for company—”
“—and her menagerie of assorted feathered and furry friends!”
The Earl grinned and shook his head. “I do believe she enjoys their company more than ours.” He frowned on a thought. “Does she mean to continue wallowing in self-recrimination now her mourning is over?”
Jane held his gaze. “There is only one person who has power over that.”
The Earl knew she was referring to Sir Antony Templestowe, but he did not want to discuss his disgraced cousin today. So he refrained from answering her and went to the door, saying brightly, fingers curled about the ornate door handle, “Before I allow the family to descend upon you, and only for the briefest of visits, because you and the baby need to rest and recover, has my lady thought of names for the newest addition to our family?”
“Yes, my lord. Samuel. Sam.”
Salt grinned with boyish pleasure. “Sam? A son, Jane?”
“Yes. Another boy. Your lordship now has an heir and a second. Though we shall never talk of Sam in such terms because he is as dear to us as Ned.”
“Naturally. You know I would have been pleased with whatever you cared to give me, Jane.”
“I know that, dearest,” she replied, though they both knew the birth of a second son was what was needed to secure the earldom’s future. “I hope you will be just as pleased with your son’s second and third names: Antony Hugh.”
This stopped the Earl from opening the door to his children, who could hear him through the slim crack where the door met the jamb and were calling to him, despite a nursery maid’s best efforts to have them hush. He turned a shoulder to the bed, jaw clenched.
“I wish to call our son Samuel Antony Hugh Sinclair,” Jane said placidly. “And for Antony to be Sam’s godfather.”
“When you have had time to rest and recover and reconsider—”
“Magnus, I have had nine months—longer—to consider names for our son. Had matters gone differently before Ned’s birth, Antony would be Ned’s godfather, too. Enough time has passed that not one eyebrow will be raised by such a gesture.”
“And Caroline?” he asked with the raise of an eyebrow, as if highlighting the foolhardiness of her request. “I doubt she will see the matter as you do, my lady.”
Jane sighed and briefly closed her eyes. She was exhausted and all she wanted was to sleep with her newborn son at her breast, but only after she had her husband’s assent to her request. To leave it another day would see her husband and Caroline fanning the flame to each other’s hurt pride, as they continued to be overly sensitive about an incident that had occurred four years ago. More than enough time had passed for brother and sister to put the past behind them and be reconciled to their cousin, Sir Antony Templestowe.
“I cannot refuse you,” he said, after a small heavy silence between them. “I will write and ask him but there is the possibility he will refuse the honor.”
“He won’t. And Caroline cannot refuse to be Sam’s godmother… If you ask her nicely.”
“Jane. Do not play matchmaker. You are destined for disappointment. What’s done cannot now be undone. Caroline has been married and widowed. And from what I hear from others, Antony spends more time between the
sheets pleasuring a plump Russian princess than he does on diplomatic business!”
“Does he? Well, he has his mentor to thank for such diplomatic dexterity.”
“I was his mentor!”
Jane snuggled under the silken coverlet, unable to stifle a giggle. “And what a wonderful mentor you proved to be.”
Salt’s face grew hot.
“Jane! This is no laughing matter! I won’t have a lothario for a brother-in-law.”
Jane did not state the obvious. Her husband had a past littered with beautiful mistresses and yet he was the most faithful and loving of husbands. She believed Sir Antony to be cut from the same uxorious cloth. Nor did she mention that Caroline’s short-lived marriage to the young fortune-hunter Stephen Aldershot had been a disaster from day one, and for reasons she was not about to discuss with her husband; there were matters brothers did not need to know about their sisters. So, she said placidly,
“Of course I would not wish a lothario on Caroline. Now, please, my love, open that door before Ned and Beth scratch the paneling to wood shavings.”
The Earl did as requested. With a beaming smile and lots of fuss, he scooped up his son and daughter, who ran into his open embrace. A nod to those crowded into the sitting room to follow, and he carried his children to the four-poster bed. Soon the bedchamber was overflowing with family and favored retainers. The newest member of the noble Sinclair family, wrapped snugly in his blanket, was put into his mother’s waiting arms and bravely slept through all the fuss.
With the apologetic physician satisfied with the health and wellbeing of both mother and baby, the Earl gave the order for the ringing of the church bells in the family chapel, the parish church, and in every church as far out into the county as his lands extended. The tolling of church bells was a public proclamation that the Countess had provided the earldom with a son—another heir. Jane drifted off to sleep to these pealing bells—the Honorable Samuel Antony Hugh Sinclair nestled at her breast—thoughts not on her newborn son, or her family or even her husband, but on a polite handsome gentleman a thousand miles away.
Had her noble husband been privy to her thoughts, he would have been alarmed and envious to discover the Countess was wondering how she could have Sir Antony Templestowe returned to England. She believed with all her heart that the love Sir Antony had for Caroline was enduring. The fire may appeared to have died, but prod the log, feed the flame, and that love, she was utterly convinced, could be rekindled anew to burn as brightly as it had in the past. The love the Earl had for her was proof of that. She intended to prove the same was true for the two people, beyond her husband and three children, she loved most in the world.
THREE
LONDON, ENGLAND
SIR ANTONY TEMPLESTOWE would have been greatly encouraged had he been privy to the Countess of Salt Hendon’s thoughts. As he was not, he alighted from a dust-covered traveling coach laden with his personal luggage, weary, travel-worn and none the wiser that at least one family member had forgiven him for past indiscretions. He had not realized how much he missed his home city until now, standing on the pavement of South Audley Street looking down the row of Palladian terrace houses to the palace-sized mansions on Grosvenor Square. He stood as a statue for a moment, an ear to the discordant familiar sounds of the largest city in Europe: Horses’ hooves clip-clopping; carriages lumbering over compacted earth; the lilting cadence of barrow sellers shouting out their wares, and loud enough to be heard over the constant din; the endless cacophony of building noise, hammering and banging and the general racket of industry.
He smiled, invigorated by it all, and finally went up the two shallow steps to the front door of his elegant double-fronted townhouse.
The townhouse, once occupied by his sister Diana, Lady St. John, had reverted to his possession upon her incarceration, whereupon he ordered the rooms stripped of every vestige of her existence. While he was in Russia, the rooms were freshly painted, wallpapered and furnished to suit his tastes. He was most looking forward to the Etruscan Saloon. Before his departure for St. Petersburg, he had had only time to consult with the architect and choose colors. From letters he was told the room was now furnished with deep-cushioned gilded sofas and spindle-legged tables, the sash windows draped with velvet curtains in hues of terracotta and chocolate brown to match the classical wallpaper of vases and ancient draped figures. It was the ideal space for his silver samovar and assorted teapots and Imperial tea service.
In his dressing room, there was a niche between the full-length window and the door into his closet, and this is where he would position the enormous Imperial copper bathtub with its canopy of diaphanous curtains to keep in the warmth while he soaked. Brought from Russia with great care and expense, it was a parting gift from his mentor, Prince Mikhail. He wondered if Semper had managed to have it positioned yet, and could think of nothing he wanted to do more than soak in scented water with a nice hot cup of caravan tea, perusing the latest edition of The Gentleman’s Magazine.
He noticed the silver knocker was fixed to the black lacquered front door, signal he was at home to visitors, and reasoned Semper must have reinstated it knowing he was due to arrive any day. His majordomo, contingent of Russian servants, and personal effects he had sent on ahead by sail from Esjberg, while he traveled by carriage from Lubeck to The Hague to deliver diplomatic correspondence too sensitive to be trusted to a courier. More importantly, it allowed him to recover from the sea sickness suffered on the sea voyage from Helsinki to Lubeck. Stepping on to English soil after the final sea crossing, he was green but utterly relieved to be on terra firma.
The door opened and there was Boyle, his rake-thin butler, and behind him a footman who was quick to help him shrug out of his fitted greatcoat and divest him of ornate sword and tan leather kid gloves.
“So good to have you home at last, Sir Antony,” Boyle said with a welcoming smile and short bow. “Mrs. Boyle and I have waited this day for a very long time.” With a wave of a hand, he sent three hovering footmen out into the street to help offload the assortment of portmanteaux and parcels. “And may I say how well you’re looking.”
“You may, Boyle. Thank you. I trust Mr. Semper and my Russians have not disrupted your household routine to any great degree?”
“Not at all, sir,” the butler replied, following Sir Antony into the black and white marble entrance foyer with its elegant Adam staircase.
“Mr. Semper found them all places to perch?”
When his lordship raised an eyebrow and waited, the old retainer said with a knowing smile, “There’s no need for your lordship to concern yourself about the household staff. Mr. Semper has proved himself an excellent majordomo, and Mrs. Boyle couldn’t be happier with the young Mrs. Semper. They are trying their best with a lingua franca, and Mrs. Boyle can’t praise enough a more diligent seamstress and embroiderer as Mrs. Semper. Five of the Russians are quartered in the annex and been given odd jobs, and those who speak Frenchie have been put into footman’s livery as requested. A more polite lot of foreigners I’ve yet to meet.”
“Good.”
At least his household was organized, which left him free of distraction to pursue the matter of getting his personal life in order. The thought of facing his cousin the Earl with the news his mad sister had broken free of her bonds and was lurking somewhere near—he did not doubt that for a moment—brought him out in a cold sweat.
Possibly, the Earl already knew. A month had come and gone since the apothecary’s letter and no news of any kind from Salt. Admittedly, he had been traveling and not told his family of his intention to return, so letters could have crossed. But he did not think so. His sister was mad, that was indisputable, but she was also exceedingly intelligent and mind-bogglingly cunning and would wait the most opportune moment to be reunited with the Earl, at a time and place that best suited her evil intent. As to how he was to find her and confine her before she could inflict harm to those he loved most in the world, he still had no clearer idea
than he did before he set off from St. Petersburg. One thing he was very clear on. Once she was recaptured, he intended to have her transported to the furthest reaches of the Russian empire.
Diana running free was enough to dampen his enthusiasm for returning to the city of his birth, but there were also his strained relations with Lady Caroline Aldershot. If he had the choice between hacking off a limb or seeing her happily married to another, he’d choose the former any day! What was he to say to her? How could he congratulate her husband when he wanted to wring the life out of him? What was he to do…?
The butler repeating his question, a little louder than before, brought Sir Antony out of his reverie and he let go of the mahogany balustrade, suddenly aware he was gripping the polished wood.
“Would you care to change out of your travel clothes before joining the small party in the Saloon?”
Sir Antony stayed his jockey boot on the first step of the elegant staircase. His gaze traveled up the curved wall covered in gilt-framed ancestors and fixed on the first landing. “Small party…?”
“Yes, sir. Afternoon tea is being served in the Saloon before the party heads off to Vauxhall Gardens. I believe there is a recital this evening…”
Sir Antony looked over a shoulder. “Guests?”
“Lady Porter, Lady Dalrymple and a Mrs. Smith. Although, as Lady Dalrymple has come to stay and as Mrs. Smith is her ladyship’s companion, there would in truth be only one guest: Lady Porter.”
Sir Antony turned away from the staircase and faced his butler.
“I beg your pardon, Boyle. My brain is rather tired. All that traveling, you understand. You will need to enlighten me further.”
“Her ladyship has taken to having a regular gathering on Thursdays. This being the third Thursday in a row, I would call it regular.”
“And Lady Dalrymple has come to stay? Here?”
“Yes, sir. At her ladyship’s invitation.”
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