by Robyn Carr
“You must live with this quietly, my love,” he warned. “You may not speak of your stolen virtue unless it is your wish to see me gelded and nailed to the wall of this old keep.”
“At the moment, Captain, that is a very promising idea.”
“You will be still about what has passed between us.”
Although she wished to crumble into sobbing grief, she lifted her chin and smiled scornfully. “You once said a king’s ransom could be mine for what I would yield to love. Have you changed your mind about that?”
“Vieve,” he warned, the anger seeping back into his eyes. “It is done. The secret is not mine, but ours. Do not defy me.”
“Your secret is safe with me, mon cher,” she said with no small amount of sarcasm.
“You test my temper, wench...”
“Good God,” she whispered. “As if my humiliation is not enough, do you think I would boast about the fact?”
“If you speak you know what will happen. I don’t think it will be pleasant for you to live with my blood on your conscience.”
She gave her head an angry toss. “How will it be for you, Captain, to live with my blood on yours?”
“I shall manage as best I can. I would have your word on your silence.”
“Do not worry,” she said wearily.
She tried to turn away from him again, but again he drew her back. He held her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I did not intend to hurt you. I meant to give you pleasure. Come, I will take you home.”
She shook her head in dismay. He obviously wished for a convenient lover, a woman whose purity was not an issue, or he would be on his knees begging for her forgiveness. How very nice it must have been for him to think of the pleasant affair he could engage in while visiting Chappington.
“Please,” she implored, placing a firm hand against his chest. “Let me ride home alone. It will be better if we’re not seen together now.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded in agreement. “But I will be close behind, to be sure your journey is a safe one.”
She wished privacy along the Chappington road so that he would not witness the tears she believed would consume her. She knew that once she was in her bedroom again, with Harriet’s close perusal, any weeping that she might indulge in would not be ignored. There were few things one could hide from a close personal maid. Harriet would have many questions; Vieve thought she knew each one already.
Unfortunately, she could not think of one answer.
Chapter Six
As Vieve dismounted by the stable, the sun was sitting low in the sky. She entrusted Tristan’s care to the groom, and in turning toward the hall, she noticed that her father had just emerged from the back of the manse. He stood there in wait for her, and she took a deep, bolstering breath, knowing better than to flee from his sight. The closer she came to him, the more suspicious was the narrowing of his eyes. By the time she paused before him he was frowning and his face had reddened.
She could read his mind. Although she had managed to tuck the torn corner of her jacket into the other side, the ripped seam was still obvious. Her hair was tangled with dirt and straw, her hat missing, and her cream-colored habit patterned with gray streaks from the ground. She might have passed off her disheveled appearance with some invented excuse if it were not for the way her tears had cut neat paths down her dusty cheeks.
Before Lord Ridgley said a word, he looked past her and stared. She followed his gaze and found that true to his word, Tyson had followed behind her. He was just about to dismount so that his stallion could be taken into the stable. She touched her father’s arm to draw his eyes back to her face. “Papa, it was Andrew who would have dishonored me against my will, and it was Captain Gervais who intervened.”
Her father’s scowl deepened. “And he did not ride back with you?” he growled in question.
“Please, Papa,” she implored. “Leave it alone.”
“Go in, child,” he told her.
“Papa, please promise me that you will not—”
He looked down at her, and she could read the pain in his eyes. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I am not hurt, Papa. Please, let me...”
“I have left this to you long enough. I am not a fool.”
“But, my lord—”
“You may stay or go. The choice is yours.”
His focus settled on Tyson Gervais as he approached. Vieve could not bring herself to endure their meeting. She was afraid she would crumble into a heap of cowardly tears if she allowed herself to stand between them. These were the two men who could best pull unwanted emotion to the surface. She knew that if she remained she would betray everything, if only with her eyes.
She fled into the house, eager for the solace of Harriet’s interference.
Boris kept his arms still at his sides as Tyson came closer to him. He tried to read the captain’s face, but found that the younger man’s features were as unyielding as his own. None of Boris’s questions were answered by looking at Tyson. But Vieve’s appearance burned in his mind, and he had learned more than he wished to know from one look at her. The baron’s suspicion peaked. His spirited daughter, he reasoned, would have met him in a high-blown rage had she been attacked. But crying when she had been rescued? Tears were unusual for her; she was not given to sniveling and weeping over minor misfortunes or near scrapes.
Tyson stopped before the baron, his face an implacable visage that would tell nothing. He waited, his silver eyes glowing with either apprehension or anger.
“I wonder if you can even imagine my dilemma,” Boris began. “My daughter rode out with one man, returned with another, and her condition is deplorable. She has been crying, although she says she is not hurt.”
“I concede your predicament is a large one,” Tyson agreed.
“The prospect of questioning my daughter further does not hold much appeal. I know more than I like by one look at her. You are a guest in my house, Captain. We are partners in business. Although you have comported yourself well, I am not too old to notice how you have regarded my daughter.”
Tyson slowly nodded. “I know whose hospitality indulges me. I am fully aware of my disadvantage, regardless of what the lady would say upon questioning.” He paused and clenched his fists at his sides. “I am willing to have a discussion of terms.”
“For marriage?” Boris asked.
Tyson slowly nodded. “It is the lesser of many evils.”
“Which evil will you name? My daughter’s reputation? Your ability to withstand the angry reprisal of an English noble? The possible loss of your very large investment in a land that does not exactly welcome you?”
“Those carry great weight, my lord,” Tyson said smoothly. “But considering your daughter’s distress, perhaps it would be best to confine ourselves to a discussion of terms and let her accept an honorable proposal. It puts me in a better light, and prevents her further humiliation.”
“That is nearly an admission,” Boris stated.
“There will be none of that,” Tyson angrily replied. “I know only too well what you can do to me, regardless of my guilt or innocence.” He smiled cynically. “You could secure a fortune by putting me away, but I warn you, my family will not sit quietly for it.”
“Is it to be a discussion of terms or a battle, Captain? Do not complicate your case by fighting with me. I, too, am aware of your disadvantage.”
“Then unless you have an eye on a fast fortune, let us negotiate.”
Boris struggled with the urge to go to Vieve, demand the details, and behave as an enraged father should. But with effort, he suppressed the temptation. “I will listen to your offer tonight. Consider your terms carefully, for my daughter’s approval is among my requirements.”
Tyson nodded and walked toward the rear door. His hand was on the latch when Boris halted him. “She told me that Shelby assaulted her.” Slowly Tyson turned back toward the baron. “What did you do to him?”
The flare of new violence
throbbed in his temples, though Tyson’s features remained composed. “Rest easy, my lord. I somehow stopped myself before I killed him.”
Without another word, Tyson entered the house and was out of sight. Lord Ridgley stood and considered his daughter’s plea, Tyson’s angry benevolence, and the vast amount of information he must just assume, without confirmation from either of them. Curiosity gnawed at him, but if Tyson were to come forth with a proposal and Vieve were to accept it, he knew that it would be better for them to begin their life together without the added burden of having their secrets divulged. He had seen the way they looked at each other; he shrewdly deduced that they had been drawn together, and under these conditions, theirs would begin as a stormy alliance.
Captain Gervais considered himself a clever and worldly man. But had Lord Ridgley not already considered this marriage, the Captain would never have regained entrance to the house.
Evelyn sat in the drawing room in the Dumere manse, crafting small articles of clothing for a baby. Although she was not quite sure, she had already alerted Paul to the possibility that she had conceived. She set aside her sewing as he came into the room. This was the part of the day she treasured most. As the sun lowered and savory smells from the cookery filled the house, Paul left his chores to join her before dinner.
He dropped a light, husbandly kiss on her brow. “My work goes well, darling,” he said, making his way to the cabinet that held his decanter of brandy. “I see little reason for you to fret any further about our future.”
“I don’t fret,” she claimed, but her embarrassed laugh gave her away. She had worried ceaselessly about the failing Dumere estate and the problems at Chappington. She was afraid the price of their love was too high.
“Fie on you, madam. I am the one to know best how little you slept during the first days of our marriage.”
A light flush marked her cheeks, but her eyes were aglow. “Yes, I know you were aware. You, my love, were the one who most often denied me my sleep.”
“I have checked and rechecked my figures, and my ciphering shows me that the harvest was a good one. One or two more generous plantings, then what is left of this stricken farm will be standing tall again.”
“Wonderful. And Chappington?”
“By the profits of trade, the family demesne will survive. Captain Gervais was quick to put in his money for the rebuilding, which created an embarrassing situation. Father and I had no money to contribute our half. But Tyson relieved that discomfort quickly by paying the commission on four ships in advance to allow the building to begin.”
“How does he dare so much? He enters into a partnership in which the investment is almost entirely his own, except for the land under the ruined warehouses?”
Paul shrugged. “There are few options for an American with money to advance in British trading; he could not come by property easily, and he was quick to see how the other merchants with warehouse space would cheat him. And putting in the money gives him a great advantage, for until the sum is repaid by ships returning to port with their bellies full of his tobacco and cotton, he actually can claim ownership of the warehouses. We all believe that the king will soon open up trade between our countries, and even now His Majesty tries to look the other way, for the trade goes on in spite of embargoes. Gervais has a mind for good business, even if it temporarily lightens his purse a bit.”
“But Paul, doesn’t he worry that Lord Ridgley might cheat him? If your father simply took the money and did not build as he promised to do, would the captain have a chance of claiming ownership of the warehouse property? Lord Ridgley has tremendous influence here. The risk is so great.”
He gave her hand a pat. “Do not delude yourself that it is a matter of trust. The Gervaises and Ridgleys are bound by want of trade; to rob the captain of his investment would not help us with any future income. The captain is very rich, Evelyn. He did not amass a fortune by playing it safe. Rest assured, Father would be willing to take like risks in America.”
“He seems an honest. ..” Evelyn’s words trailed off as she heard the front door open and close. “Andrew?”
“Yes,” Paul said, rising from her side. “He went to Chappington to beg a moment of my sister’s time. A long moment, it would seem,” Paul laughed, going to the drawing room door to open it. “Although he said he would be back for dinner, I thought perhaps... Andrew?” Paul said as he looked into the foyer. Paul backed away from the drawing room door to allow Andrew to enter.
Evelyn gasped at the sight of him. A purplish lump had begun to rise on his cheek, and his lip was split and bleeding. He had his hat in his hand and a scowl on his battered face.
“That bloody colonial bastard,” he growled.
“Tyson did this to you?” Paul asked. “At Chappington?”
“The son of a bitch came upon me while I was out with your sister, and he beat me half to death,” Andrew declared. “The man is a raving lunatic.”
Evelyn slowly rose, her brow furrowed in an angry frown. Anger was a rare emotion for her, but there was no mistaking the fury that grew in her brown eyes as she approached Andrew. She went to stand at her husband’s side, looping her arm through his.
Andrew’s features visibly softened in his effort to control his rage. He looked apologetically at Evelyn. “I’m sorry for my language, Evelyn, it’s just that I’m so furious I could kill someone.”
“No doubt,” Paul agreed heartily. “I can’t believe...”
“Where...” Evelyn said abruptly, cutting off her husband’s speech. Even Paul looked at her strangely. Evelyn’s manners were usually flawless. “Where exactly were you when Captain Gervais struck you?”
“We were at the old keep,” Andrew said. “We’d gone for a short ride, and I was showing her where it was that Paul and I had hidden from our parents when we were boys.”
“And he beat you for that?” Evelyn asked, her lips pinched in a white line. “I find that rather hard to believe.”
“Oh, do you?” Andrew said, his anger blossoming anew. “Well, I assure you that the man is little more than a beast. What can be expected from a yeoman clod from the colonies? He’s a presumptuous, blackhearted son of a—”
“And you were doing nothing to cause Captain Gervais to think his intervention was necessary?” she demanded, raising one finely arched brow.
“I was kissing my betrothed,” Andrew shot back defensively.
Evelyn’s anger was so great, and the effort it took to keep from adding to Andrew’s already generous supply of bruises was so difficult to control, her arm tightened around Paul’s. He looked down at his wife’s fury in amazement.
“There has been no betrothal,” Evelyn said very slowly.
“Vieve and I were working out our differences and—”
“I think you had better leave, Andrew,” she said. “Get your things together. Cook will give you something to take with you.”
“Evelyn?” Paul questioned.
She looked up at her husband. “If you think about this for just a moment, Paul, you will realize that it is not a good idea for us to extend our hospitality to Andrew any further. There is no question in my mind that Captain Gervais would not abuse him to this degree unless Andrew did something to deserve it.” She looked back at Andrew. “I only hope that Vieve is all right.”
“So,” Andrew laughed. “You think you know him so well? His money is so damned precious to you all that you’d even throw an old friend to the dogs and take his side.”
“It is not the captain we defend, but Vieve,” Evelyn said with determination.
“Paul?” Andrew questioned. “I’ve been your friend for years. Has the man with the money come to remove me?”
“Family,” Paul said slowly, “takes loyalty before friendship or money, Andrew. If you’ve wronged my sister, you are not my friend.”
Andrew turned toward the stairs. “I can see of what the two of you are made,” he said bitterly. “You’d have some bumpkin from the colonies in your kind r
egard rather than a friend of many years. Someday you’ll regret this betrayal. It’s a good thing I found out about your meager loyalty before I actually believed you had any honor.”
“Andrew,” Evelyn said, stopping him before he went upstairs. “Did you leave Vieve with the captain?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, my dear. I’m certain they had a very pleasurable afternoon.”
Evelyn slowly smiled. “Then I rest easier,” she said with no small amount of sarcasm. She turned abruptly away from both men and went back into the drawing room.
Paul entered behind her, slowly closing the doors and looking at her in astonishment. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you behave in such a way,” he said.
“I don’t know that I can contain myself long enough for Andrew to get safely out of my house,” she said with a trembling tongue.
“Evelyn, are you so sure that Andrew is to blame?”
As she looked at her husband she had to shake her head in wonder of her own. “Do you really doubt it? Your sister told you about Andrew, yet you tried to dispel her worry, passing him off as some spurned young lover who’d temporarily lost his head. She has rejected him. Andrew must have given her good cause. Vieve is not a skittish girl.”
As he thought about what Evelyn was saying, there remained a certain confusion in his eyes. He did not have to form his next question, for she answered that as well. “Would an American sea captain trespass against a young noblewoman in her own country and take his chances in our courts? Would he flee Lord Ridgley’s reprisal, leaving behind such grand sums of invested money? No, Paul, Andrew has abused our friendship. I imagine you owe the captain your thanks. Undoubtedly, he saved your sister from some dreadful circumstance.” She sighed and looked away from Paul. “I hope he saved her. I hope the captain did not do his damage to Andrew when it was too late for Vieve.”
Paul sank into the nearest available chair, considering his wife’s conclusions very carefully. There was a great deal of emotion accompanying her statements, and Evelyn was not flighty or given to outbursts.