Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  "No! He did marry me! He did!"

  "Perhaps," Justin allowed. "I do not say it is impossible. But I do know, my dear, that your Geoffrey has eloped with this girlthis heiress of noble bloodand he means to marry her."

  "I don't believe you!"

  "I thought you might not. Tell me, would you recognize his handwriting if you saw it?"

  "Yes, but why"

  From his pocket, Justin drew one of Geoffrey's more lurid love letters to Dyanna.

  He had taken pains to obliterate Dyanna's name and address from the letter, but Geoffrey's distinctive handwriting made it proof of Justin's words nonetheless.

  Wordlessly, he handed it to Octavia, and wordlessly she read it. The truth was brought home to her, as her illusions about the man she loved were swiftly stripped from her, and she had to accept Justin's revelations. Shaking, she sank into a chair and raised misty eyes to her visitor.

  "It's true," she whispered. "True. But he promised me he would take me to Summersleigh House. He promised I would one day be Marchioness of Summersleigh." A tear trickled slowly down her cheek. "He told me he loved me."

  "It may be that he does," Justin told her, not believing it himself but loath to see her completely destroyed. "But he is badly in need of moneyyou know that yourself. And this girl is a great heiress. It may be she he intends to dupe."

  Sitting down across from her, Justin leaned closer to the softly weeping young woman. "I want to stop this charade, my dear. It must be stopped, for all our sakes. If you know where he intended to go, you must tell me."

  "He said he was going to PattertonPatterton Park, his country seat. He said he was going to visit his mother, the Dowager Lady Culpepper."

  "Patterton Park. Do you know where it is?"

  "Derbyshire, he said. It is a great estate. And I was to be its mistress." She sighed, bereft, hopeless. "I suppose that was a lie as well."

  "We must wait and see, madam. But now I will take my leave and trouble you no more. Good night."

  Octavia walked beside Justin to the door and dropped him a graceful curtsy as he prepared to leave.

  "I wish you well, madam," Justin told her, seeing in her a pretty young girl duped by a foppish nobleman who wanted only a mistress but could overcome her scruples only with deceit. "I hope this matter turns out as you wish it."

  Octavia murmured her thanks, but the look in her eyes as she closed the door behind him was stark and filled with anguish. The pretty dream she had been living since Geoffrey married her had been shattered and she had awakened to a harsh reality.

  Returning to DeVille House, Justin routed Bertran and ordered horses saddled.

  "We're riding for Derbyshire," he told the valet.

  "Tonight, my lord?" the Swiss servant asked.

  "We've lost enough time. I can only hope Culpepper waits until tomorrow for the wedding. With any luck, he's enough afraid of his mother to wait until she can be present to see her son married. I've heard she is a martinet who kept her husband well in hand. Let us hope she is as overbearing with her son."

  Even as Justin and Bertran rode out from DeVille House to begin a perilous night ride to Derbyshire, the carriage bearing Dyanna and Geoffrey toward their destination passed through the picturesque village of Newington.

  "Look there," Geoffrey said, drawing Dyanna's attention to the ancient church that stood on the outskirts of the village. "In that church we will be married tomorrow."

  Bleakly, Dyanna nodded. She had been so eager when they'd started out from Londonso sure this was the right thing for her to do. But now it seemed she had a misgiving for every mile that separated them from London and the safety of DeVille House.

  "You are fatigued, my darling?" he asked, lifting her hand to his lips.

  "Very much so," she told him, drawing her hand from his and burying it in the folds of her pelisse.

  "Then you must go to bed as soon as we reach Patterton. You will want to be well-rested for tomorrowand tomorrow night."

  The thought of tomorrow nighther wedding nightsent a shudder coursing through Dyanna. Resolutely, she pushed the thought out of her head as the carriage turned from the road onto a narrow, tree-shaded lane.

  "Patterton," Geoffrey whispered, with a hint of awe in his tone.

  Dyanna gazed out the window as they emerged from the trees and started up a long, curving drive that cut through the large park surrounding the house.

  The mansion of Patterton Park was a long, low building of red brick with a low-hipped roof and a proliferation of chimneysmost in dire need of repair. In fact, Dyanna saw nothing awesome about the house, excepting perhaps the size of the investment that would be needed to restore it to something approaching its former elegance.

  "Geoffrey," she said, "why doesn't your grandfather effect some of the repairs?"

  "Dyanna." His tone was stern. "I beg of you, do not mention Grandfather in my mother's presence. They do not . . . they are not fond of one another."

  "But why?"

  "My grandfather, for some reason, blames mother for father's death."

  "He thinks she killed him?"

  "Nagged him to death, actually. He says father simply could not bear to live with her another moment."

  "Oh, Geoffrey, she"

  "Please, say nothing about it," Geoffrey begged as the carriage rolled to a stop before the crumbling steps leading to a front door whose paint was peeling. "Mother is not so bad, but she iswell, strong-willed. Opinionated. But come, see for yourself."

  Geoffrey descended from the carriage, then turned to Dyanna and lifted her down. Together they entered the mansion and were immediately led into the Dowager Lady Culpepper's formidable presence.

  Draped in plum silk, Lavinia Culpepper was a daunting personage indeed. With a bosom like a shelf and three quivering chins rippling beneath her lantern jaw, she sat enthroned on a great gilded chair facing the door, awaiting the arrival of her son and his intended bride with the air of a queen granting an audience.

  "Mother," Geoffrey said, kissing both of her lined, rouged cheeks. "I have brought Dyanna. We are to be married tomorrow."

  "Come here, my dear," the woman ordered, lifting a pair of pearl-encrusted spectacles to her deep-set blue eyes. "Let me look at you."

  Dyanna stood obligingly still as Lavinia examined her. She was polite, but her direct stare made it clear that she was not cowed by the older woman.

  "You are very pretty, very pretty indeed. But then your parents were handsome people. I think you will do quite nicely. You may kiss me."

  Dyanna came to the woman's side and pecked at the quivering cheek she was offered.

  But when Lady Culpepper suggested they get to know one another over a late supper, Dyanna shook her head.

  "Forgive me, madam, but I am very tired. I Would prefer to be shown to my room. After all, we will have years to get to know each other, will we not?"

  Lavinia eyed the girl, as if recognizing in her an adversary worthy of her mettle. Graciously, she inclined her head.

  "As you wish. Geoffrey, show Dyanna to her room, then come back here. I wish to speak with you."

  Meekly, Geoffrey took Dyanna and Charlotte up a long, twisting wooden staircase and along a dark corridor. He showed them into a bedchamber obviously newly cleaned and hung with cheery silk of lemon yellow shot with gold.

  "Tomorrow night, this will be our room," he reminded Dyanna. Bending, he would have kissed her had not his mother's voice reached them from below.

  "Geoffrey!"

  Shamefaced, Geoffrey bade Dyanna goodnight and fled back to his mother's side.

  Dyanna, spurning Charlotte's attempts at conversation, was quickly undressed and changed into her nightgown. Tucked into the high, canopied bed, she dismissed Charlotte and lay back against the enveloping pillows.

  The cavernous room was filled with shadows that seemed to loom above her, taking on ominous shapes and undulating with the play of the moonlight through the silken draperies.

  Lying there, Dyanna
felt like the heroine of one of the Gothick novels she so loved. Caught between a suitor she did not love and a rapacious, uncaring guardian whom she adored, there was no escape. No matter which path she chose, the future stretched ahead bleak and unpromising.

  Rising from the bed, she went to the window. The moon shone down on the tree-shaded lane that led to the entrance of Patterton Park. What wouldn't she give, she thought with a sigh, to be riding along that lane, riding away from Patterton Park, riding back to . . .

  To what? Turning away from the window, she sank onto the slightly musty cushions of the window seat. To Justin? By now he must be in Devonshire, with Caro Naysmith. He didn't know she was missing from DeVille House; he didn't know she was about to marry Geoffrey Culpepper. He didn't even know that she loved him with all of her heart.

  A small, tremulous, self-mocking smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. Would it make any difference to him if he did know? Or was his love for Caro so strong, so firmly entrenched after all their years of intimacy that no one and nothing could threaten Caro's place in Justin's heart?

  Dyanna thought of her favorite heroine, Jenny Flynn. When she'd read that book, she'd thought Jenny's story the most heartwrenching she could imagine. But was not hers even worse? For not only had she fallen into the clutches of a heartless, unfeeling guardian, she'd had the misfortune to fall in love with him.

  Chater Twenty

  The morning dawned grey and overcast, the air heavy with the promise of rain. It was not yet ten when two carriages set out from Patterton Park. One carried Geoffrey and his mother; in the other rode Dyanna and Charlotte. Their destination was the stark, grey stone, fourteenth-century church whose tall, crenellated tower dominated the village of Newington and stood like a sentinel over the churchyard filled with weathered and lichen-covered tombstones carved with names still borne by families in the village.

  ''It's not too late to change your mind," a sly little voice whispered inside Dyanna's head. "It's not too late . . ."

  "No, I can't," she murmured softly. "I must do this. I must! I" Glancing up, she found Charlotte staring at her. A flush bloomed in her cheekS and she turned her eyes toward the bleakness of the grey day outside the carriage window.

  Her gloved fists were clenched in the folds of her flounced gown of ivory silk. It was the nearest thing to a wedding gown she could produce on such short notice, but it was not nearly grand enough to suit Geoffrey's mother. The Dowager Lady Culpepper had treated Dyanna to a harsh, cold stare when she'd descended the stairs that morning, ready to leave for the church. It was obvious that the older woman wondered if Dyanna was truly as rich an heiress as Geoffrey had led her to believe. If so, one certainly could not tell from her apparel.

  The memory of Lady Culpepper's censorious glare sent a shiver of apprehension down Dyanna's spine. After they were married, Geoffrey had decreed, they would live for a while at Patterton Parkwith Lady Culpepper.

  An image, like a scene from one of Dyanna's books, flitted through her mindan image of her and Geoffrey, lost in the dark, cavernous depths of Patterton Park, their days and nights haunted by the grim, disapproving countenance of Lady Culpepper.

  I don't want to do this, she thought. I don't want to live in that drafty, crumbling old house with Geoffrey and that mother of his.

  But what would she do if she refused to marry him? Go back to London? Back to sit in DeVille House while Justin roamed the town courting this beauty or that? Go back to wait in London while he rode off to Devonshire to be with Caro who, no doubt, fulfilled the same function in his life that her mother did for his father? It was folly to love a DeVilleDyanna had learned that for herself. Did not Justin's mother's love for his father drive her to her tragic end? No, the only course open to Dyanna was this marriage.

  She bit her lip as they turned into the lane leading to the church. From her place in the open carriage, Dyanna saw the other carriage stop. Geoffrey, resplendent in sapphire silk and silver brocade, an elaborately curled, white-powdered wig atop his head, leapt out, then turned to help his mother descend. The door of the church opened and the pastor appeared. He was a tall, top-heavy man with thin, bandy legs made all the more noticeable by his knee-breeches and black stockings.

  The moment her feet hit the ground, Lady Culpepper made for the Reverend Mr. Tuttle. She had very definite instructions to impart on how she wished the ceremony performed. Since Mr. Tuttle's living was in the gift of the Culpepper family, he was obliged to honor her wishes to the letter.

  Charlotte stepped down from Dyanna's carriage and moved away as Geoffrey came to help Dyanna down. Steeling herself, Dyanna rose and held out her hands to him.

  "What's that?" Charlotte asked, squinting into the distance at a cloud of dust rising from the rocky roadway just outside the village.

  Dyanna and Geoffrey stared toward it. At first they could make out only two figures on horseback, both galloping hell for leather in their direction.

  "Is it someone you've invit?" Dyanna began. Then, all at once, she knew. "Justin!"

  Geoffrey's face turned as pale as his white wig. Stepping up onto the carriage step, he stared. "It can't be!"

  Something akin to bliss blossomed in Dyanna's breast. She felt as if she were being snatched from the very gates of Hell. "But it is," she breathed. "It is!"

  "How did he know . . . ?" He turned accusing eyes on her. "You told him!"

  "I didn't! I swear it. He was going to Devonshire. He had already left. Somehow he knew. Somehow . . ."

  "He's the Devil! Just like his father! That's how he knew, damn his soul to hell!"

  Jumping onto the carriage, Geoffrey pulled Dyanna down beside him. "Drive on!" he shouted. "Get us out of here!"

  "Geoffrey!" Dyanna protested as she was thrown against him by the wild rocking of the carriage. "Geoffrey, no!"

  "Shut up!" His eyes bored into her. "You're mine, damn you! Mine! DeVille can't have you! He doesn't even need your money!"

  Braced against the wild pitching of the carriage, Dyanna stared at him. "My money! Is that what all this was about? You never really loved me, did you? It was all nothing but playacting so you could get your handson my fortune!" Her rage flared inside her as he merely stared at her. "Damn you!" she screamed. ''Damn you to hell!"

  Careless of the dangerous bucking of the carriage, she pounded at his chest, his arms, his face with her balled fists. Then, without warning, the carriage wheel struck a rock whose sharply pointed surface lay half-concealed in the roadway. Dyanna felt herself falling, being thrown from the flying carriage. Hurtling toward the ground, she screamed, terrified.

  Her shriek ended abruptly. There was a single, sharp pain in her head as her body struck the earth with bone-shattering impact. She moaned, softly, shortly, as the blackness enveloped her.

  Justin reined in his plunging horse near her, throwing the foam-flecked reins to Bertran as he leapt to the ground. He knelt beside her, his hands shaking. A fury burned inside him; he wanted nothing more than to chase down the carriage that had so nearly overturned. But it was even then disappearing into the distance, carrying Geoffrey away. He wanted to kill the man who had taken Dyanna away; he wanted to watch the light of life die in his eyes.

  But for now, there was Dyanna. Justin knelt in the tall weeds near where she lay, still and pale, her eyes closed.

  "Is she hurt, my lord?" Bertran asked, coming to his master's side after tying the horses to a tree.

  "I don't know," Justin whispered. His hands were shaking. He was afraid to turn her overafraid, for he had seen the flecks of crimson staining the jagged rock near her head.

  Together the two men eased Dyanna onto her back. Her head fell to one side. For all that Justin had seen in battles at seahad, in his days as a privateer, seen men wounded by gunfire and swordthrusts and cannon shot; had, on occasion, seen a man lose a limb to the surgeon's sawnothing had ever moved him, frightened him, sickened him like the sight of the crimson blood spattered around the grisly cut near Dyanna's temple.
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  "Go to the village. Find a doctor, an apothecary, anybody!" Justin rasped. "Hurry!"

  Mounting his horse, Bertran galloped off in the direction of Newington, passing the Reverend Mr. Tuttle, who was hurrying up the road.

  "Is she? Merciful heavens!" he cried, turning a delicate shade of green at the sight of the blood marring the ivory flesh of

  Dyanna's face and matting the loose, silvery curls at her temple.

  "Is there somewhere I can take her?" Justin asked. "The church? A rectory?"

  The clergyman lifted his arm and pointed. "There is" The rest of his words were drowned by Charlotte's scream. Having followed Mr. Tuttle, she now saw her mistress for the first time.

  "For Christ's sake!" Justin snarled, drawing a shocked gasp from Mr. Tuttle. "Shut up, woman!"

  "I said, sir, the rectory is just up that path."

  Gently, Justin lifted Dyanna's limp body into his arms. Her head was cradled against his chest, the sticky, thickened blood staining the dark brown cloth of his coat. With the clergyman leading the way, he started up the path.

  "Stay here," he ordered Charlotte over his shoulder. "When Bertran comes with the doctor, bring them to us."

  Tears trickling down her cheeks, Charlotte nodded. She watched as Mr. Tuttle and Justin disappeared behind a tall yew hedge. It was all so confusing. Why had Lord Geoffrey not come back? He must know Dyanna was hurt. He must! And even though Lord DeVille was here, Geoffrey should have returned. If he loved Dyanna . . .

  A cloud of dust and the rumble of carriage wheels seemed to answer her hopes. But it was not to be. The second carriage that roared past and disappeared around the bend carried old Lady Culpepper who, uninterested in the fate of her would-be daughter-in-law, was off in hot pursuit of her fugitive son.

  Mr. Tuttle held open the door as Justin carried Dyanna into the small, homey front parlor of the red brick rectory. As Justin laid her on a daybed near the windows, the reverend brought a coverlet which he draped gently over her. Without waiting to be asked, he disappeared into the depths of the house, returning shortly with a cloth and a bowl of tepid water.