Salt Hendon Omnibus 01 to 03

by Lucinda Brant

  And when Caroline’s mouth grazed his, when the soft cushion of her full lips and her warm sweet breath caressed his mouth in invitation, how could he refuse her? It was a barely-there touch, but is was enough to rekindle his senses, and when she murmured the words proper kiss, as she slid her arms about his neck and opened her mouth on his, it was all the permission he needed to stoop and kiss her without restraint.

  They gave themselves up to a long, lingering kiss full of mutual yearning and feverish promise. A kiss that threatened to engulf them in impropriety if not for the scintilla of awareness of the world provided by Peter the Macaw’s intermittent calls and a noise, Antony wasn’t quite sure what and couldn’t care less, similar to the teeth-shuddering screech of fabric being rent in two. The bird’s distress hammered in his ears, but he did not want the kiss to end. He had waited such a long time to kiss Caroline that he was damned if he would allow a jealous raging feathered fiend to interrupt the exquisite pleasure of tasting the sweet moistness of her mouth.

  Before they knew what they were about, the couple had scattered chairs in their wake as they clung to each other, lost in the passionate moment.

  Peter the Macaw shrieked as if he were being attacked, caught in the silken folds of a torn damask curtain, and the two footmen standing sentry at the book room double doors so far forget themselves to see their noble employer’s sister engaging in a passionate kiss with an unknown gentleman that they gingerly crept down half the length of the room, contemplating if they should take matters into their own hands, or run from the room in ignorance.

  Into this dramatic scene walked the butler.

  MILLER STRODE INTO the anteroom from the hall, having exited the book room via an internal servant door. He was across the threshold and apologizing to Sir Antony that his lordship was unable to grant his request for an interview when the anteroom came into focus. Peter the Macaw’s loud screeches of alarm had his head snapping about in the direction of the windows, and there was the large bird half way up the curtain, flapping his bright blue feathers and hanging by his black claws in the tattered remnants of the silken damask, shredded in mischief by his large black beak. By the damage done, Peter had been left to his own devices for quite some time.

  If this weren’t enough to set the butler’s bottom lip wobbling in shocked outrage, the two footmen not at their posts but transfixed in the middle of the room like a couple of inanimate companions, were all that was needed for him to lose his composure completely. He forgot his manners. He forgot his exalted position within a great and noble household. And he so far forgot himself as to bellow, so there was every chance it was his booming voice as well as Peter the Macaw’s screeches for attention that penetrated the gilded double doors leading into the book room.

  His mannered apology to Sir Antony was swallowed whole as he exploded with anger.

  “God Almighty! I’ll wring that bloody bird’s neck myself, if his lordship don’t break down those doors and do the deed! And I’ll damned well wring your necks as well! What the hell are you two playing at, aye? Want to be mucking out the stables? You! Fetch a couple of the lads from the hallway. And, you! Find the Lady Caroline. No one else can get within a foot of that bloody bird without losing a finger, more’s the pity! I’d wring its neck myself otherwise. What? Well! Don’t both stand there gaping at me like you’ve seen a ghost! Her ladyship’s not going to appear before me like some bloody apparition!”

  “I’m here, Miller,” Lady Caroline responded as calmly as she could, face flushed and a hand to her mussed hair, standing at the butler’s back. She couldn’t suppress a smile when Miller’s feet left the ground and he swirled about to face her with a terrified expression, as if she were indeed a ghost. “I won’t need any assistance with Peter, thank you. Best see to those chairs, and see to it the doors to the book room remain closed. Lord Salt and Sir Antony are not to be disturbed.”

  Miller’s gaze flashed in direction of the Earl’s book room. One of the paneled doors was wide, allowing uninvited access. He grimaced. Shock gave way to frustration. He had failed in his mission. Amidst the uproar, the macaw’s incessant screeching for attention and his own explosive outcry, he had inadvertently allowed Sir Antony Templestowe to quietly slip into the inner sanctum of the Earl of Salt Hendon’s book room, unannounced and unbidden.

  FOURTEEN

  THE LAST TIME Sir Antony was in the Earl of Salt Hendon’s sumptuous book room he was drunk, barely able to stand upright, and had received a ruthless dressing-down from his noble cousin—justifiably so. It had immediately followed his outrageous behavior at the recital, where he had not only made a complete ass of himself, broken Caroline’s heart, shocked and embarrassed the Countess, heavily pregnant with her first child, and everyone in attendance, but also lost the respect and friendship of the Earl. At the time, he was too crippled with drink and cloaked in self-loathing to fully appreciate how his behavior had affected the people he most loved in the world. Sobriety and somber reflection in Russia gave him an appreciation of the devastating effect his words must have had on the Earl and Countess, and he realized with a heavy heart that it was unlikely he would ever regain their good opinion.

  At the Salt House recital four years before, while in heated argument with Caroline, he revealed visiting the Countess in her boudoir alone, she in nothing more than her nightdress. Of course he did not mention that he had gone there uninvited, seeking the Countess’s reassurance that Caroline was not about to become engaged to another. He was ill from a night of heavy drinking and lay prostrate on her chaise longue, head pounding and eyes shut tight to the morning light, while the Countess remained seated at her dressing table, offering him advice and reassurance. It was all innocent and very much a brother seeking the advice of a sister in a heart-to-heart. But he did not say that. Nor did he mention the Earl not only knew all about his trespass, and while furious to find him in the Countess’s boudoir, had forgiven him, knowing the circumstances behind it.

  Sir Antony had held up his visit to the Countess’s boudoir at Caroline like some shield, to counter the arrows of her childish goading about her imminent engagement to Captain “Big-Boots” Beresford; that the war hero from the Hanover campaign was more of a man than he ever could be. Which, when he thought about it once sober, was not an unfair accusation given that a side effect of his constant inebriation in the months following his sister’s incarceration was impotency. It hit a raw nerve and so he had countered with the Countess as the epitome of female perfection, and he would know that as well as her husband because he’d been privileged enough to see her in her nightgown.

  Such a startling and most shocking revelation before an audience of fifty was the best source of fuel for the gossipmonger fire. The juicy morsel was swallowed whole, without a second thought to its authenticity and with no regard to the circumstances in which the revelation was uttered. By morning, Society had turned the morsel into a three-course banquet of lust, furtive frolics and dynastic self-preservation. What had been whispered behind fluttering fans and muttered behind outstretched newssheets by the Earl’s political enemies, yet dismissed as mere muckraking by the majority, had, with Sir Antony’s very public jaw-dropping revelations, become fact by morning. Society’s female fraternity were openly discussing it with their relatives over their buttered bread and hot chocolate, while their gentlemen folk sniggered to each other across the table at their preferred coffee house.

  Lady Salt’s pregnancy so soon after marriage, her husband’s nonchalant attitude to his beautiful wife’s close friendship with his cousin Antony, and Diana St. John’s surprise departure for the Continent almost to the day of the announcement that the Countess of Salt Hendon was expecting the Earl’s first child, was more than enough evidence to confirm the rumor Diana St. John had been weakly denying—as a loyal sister should—just before her abrupt departure for foreign climes.

  The rumor everyone knew but dared not say out loud was that Sir Antony Templestowe, not the Earl of Salt Hendon, had si
red the child the Countess carried—an heir for the earldom.

  Sir Antony’s outlandish confession made perfect sense!

  For a nobleman of four-and-thirty, who had odds at White’s of a hundred to one of ever producing an heir because a fall from a horse had left him infertile, to then get his Countess with child on their wedding night was as if a bolt of lightning had struck Polite Society. How could this be when it was a known fact the Earl couldn’t even get a whore with child, and not through want of trying? The question continued to swirl in an undercurrent through drawing rooms well into the Countess’s pregnancy. And then, with only two months to the birth of an heir, Sir Antony’s outburst provided Society with confirmation of what they believed had to be the answer: Sir Antony Templestowe had fathered the Countess’s unborn child.

  Well, that was cousinly love for you! Who wouldn’t want to offer his services to provide the Earl with a son when it meant sharing the bed of celebrated beauty Jane, Countess of Salt Hendon? Was it any wonder Sir Antony had riled at Lady Caroline’s inferences about his manhood when he had tupped a countess and got her with child upon first mount! One wondered how the Earl tolerated sharing his bride with another. Yet, all knew the Earl to be an astute politician, single-minded and hard-hearted when it came to making decisions for the good of the Kingdom. It made sense he would be the same where his own kingdom was concerned. His earldom needed an heir and if he could not provide one, then let his closest living male relative provide one for him.

  Nothing to wonder at then why Diana St. John had departed for the Continent. It was common knowledge Diana was in love with the Earl. She was also heavily involved in his political life, so it was no stretch of the imagination to believe her instrumental in furthering the Earl’s dynastic ambitions by offering up her brother as stallion for the Earl’s broodmare. Jealous of the Countess and knowing too much, perhaps she had threatened the Earl to reveal his dirty little secret to the world? Diana St. John was made to disappear, for her health, so it was put about. But who believed that ruse?

  Underscoring why his sister was made to disappear from good society, for his sordid behavior at the recital in breaking Lady Caroline’s heart and airing the family dirty laundry in public, Sir Antony Templestowe was banished by the Earl to the icy wastelands of the diplomatic service: St. Petersburg.

  If there was a backwater for an English diplomat’s career, the Russian Imperial Court was it. That Sir Antony was sent to such a diplomatic dump, the social stagnation pool of the Foreign Department, was indication enough he was no longer on speaking terms with his noble cousin. And with his unique services as a sire no longer required, his presence in London would only be an embarrassment for the noble couple, as well as a constant reminder of the Earl’s inadequacy to fulfill his dynastic duty by the House of Sinclair and the Earldom of Salt Hendon.

  That the Earl and Countess went on to have two more healthy children in quick succession after the birth of a longed-for son and heir was not thought relevant by the Earl’s political enemies and those of a weak-minded persuasion. Two more children did much to quell any further undercurrent of doubt as to their true sire, but what mattered, and where the muck stuck like wet hay to the red heel of the noble buckled shoe, was the iffy circumstances surrounding the conception of the Earl’s firstborn. And for that, Sir Antony knew, he would never be forgiven.

  He leaned his head against the book room’s closed paneled doors, to gather his thoughts and to catch his breath, heady from the passionate kiss shared with Caroline. There was something indefinable about their kiss and it left him giddy. A few deep breaths, and he trod silently down the length of the long book lined room, not unlike he imagined a mutineer walked the plank of a ship to his demise, staying close to the bookshelves, his attention fixed on the massive double sided mahogany work table with its elaborate gold standish holding quills, pounce pot, ink and pencils, its surface covered in well-ordered piles of paper.

  The Earl sat behind his desk, engrossed in reading a document.

  Occasionally, he put the sheaf of papers to the work surface of the desk, picked up his quill, dipped it in ink and added his remarks in the left hand margin. Very occasionally, his attention wandered from the document and he would drop his chin to look over his gold-rimmed reading spectacles to the second fireplace. It was then a transformation took place and Sir Antony saw his friend of old. The Earl’s features softened, the deep indent between his brows smoothed, and the grim set to his mouth disappeared, replaced by a smile that split his face. His smile lingered in that direction in some sort of dazed wonderment, and then, as if remembering the task at hand, he would bring his gaze back to the desk and continue reading.

  When the Earl smiled, so did Sir Antony. He had never seen his friend looking so well and more content with life. Physically he was still the same bear-sized man of four years ago, still as healthy and, no doubt, as well exercised as he had ever been. He was the same as the day he had turned his back on him, except in his apparel.

  At this hour, Sir Antony was surprised to find the Earl in undress. Always a stickler for correct attire at the appropriate time, whether at home or away from the house, Salt dressed immaculately, more often than not in a matching suit of frock coat, waistcoat and breeches, richly embroidered, that would not look out of place at the Opera. And he always wore powder when in town. Perhaps his cousin had employed a new valet? But that could not account for the lack of powder in the sandy shoulder-length hair tied back with a black riband, or that a deep blue silk banyan was thrown negligently over a crisp white shirt and cravat. No doubt his stockinged feet were encased in red Moroccan leather mules, which would put the finishing touch to the Earl’s at-home attire. In such undress, Sir Antony knew well enough that his cousin was in no fit state to receive visitors, and thus no one but immediate family would be permitted into his presence.

  The Earl’s undress did not bode well for Sir Antony’s trespass. Small wonder the doors to his book room remained closed. With a depressing sigh, he took this as a sign that he was no longer considered family, and thus an audience had been out of the question. Still, it did not deter him from his purpose and he put his trust in the Earl’s smile. It was the only indication his noble cousin was in a benevolent mood. Yet, the Earl’s mood and his opinion of him were of little importance. What mattered was coming to an agreement regarding how best to handle Diana’s incarceration while minimizing scandal and averting tragedy. Keeping these thoughts uppermost, he walked straight up to the front of the massive mahogany desk and bowed respectfully to his noble cousin.

  The Earl sensed a presence but did not look up.

  “No means no, Miller,” he said flatly, setting aside the page he was reading and removing his eyeglasses. He put a hand flat to the stack of papers that made up the document. “Take this to Mr. Ellis. Tell him to read my annotations and then to come and see me in—about an hour’s time. Place the tea tray on the low table. The bottle of claret you can leave here.”

  “Salt.”

  The Earl’s head jerked up. The dark eyes widened in surprise and the nobleman half rose out of his chair, a smile of recognition softening his handsome face. Sir Antony returned the smile, relief coursing through his veins, and stuck out his hand in greeting. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his cousin how well he looked and how overjoyed he was to see him, when the light died in the Earl’s dark eyes, the smile dropped into a thin, uncompromising frown, and he resettled on his chair, pulling the silk banyan tighter about his shoulders. Reaction had given way to memory, and with a small sigh Sir Antony dropped his hand to catch the riband about his neck that secured his quizzing glass.

  “You look well,” the Earl stated. He fiddled with his eyeglasses but kept his gaze on Sir Antony’s face. “I can’t see you now. Didn’t Miller tell you I—”

  “You’re looking well, too,” Sir Antony interrupted, keeping his feelings well in check.

  “Now the niceties are done, have the decency to end your intrusion an
d take yourself off—”

  “Miller had no opportunity to tell me anything; he has his hands full with a recalcitrant bird. I won’t take up much of your time, but we need to talk about—”

  “It can wait.”

  So it had come to this—talking at one another as if mere nodding acquaintances. There was a time when a day hadn’t gone by that they didn’t spend some part of it in each other’s company. Sir Antony noted the Earl’s fidgeting and it offered him a glimmer that his granite exterior encased a softer center.

  “No. It cannot wait. You know it cannot; reason for my trespass; reason I am in England and not in ’Petersburg. It is the reason we need to talk about—”

  “Not now,” Salt said through his teeth.

  Sir Antony frowned. By the Earl’s action of cutting him off so quickly before he could even utter his sister’s name, it was obvious he was well aware Diana had escaped her confinement. Was he that sensitive, that intractable to hearing the truth out loud? Did he hope that by ignoring her, she would just disappear? He could not believe it. Or perhaps his cousin meant to keep him ignorant of how he was going to deal with his mad sister? That he would not allow. If Salt’s lack of enthusiasm at this forced reunion had wounded his feelings, his implacable arrogance angered him to the point of sarcastic bluntness.