by Deana James
appreciate how important your presence was to my dying wife. Yet to arrange for you to be at her bedside required the efforts of my people. Surprising, I must say." |
"Vivian, don't listen to him."
The earl's voice carried a note of triumph. "Imagine my surprise when I was told that you, her guardian, had forbidden her to leave the abbey."
The words were spaced for emphasis. Vivian looked swiftly from the earl to Dawlish, who shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, now, really. That's not so. I wouldn't have said anything like that. They must have misunderstood. You must have misunderstood."
"Perhaps I did," Larnaervon agreed. "Strange. They were so determined that she should not leave. I had to use quite a bit of influence to get permission for her to come. So fortunate that the bishop and I have an understanding."
"The bishop? Ah, the bishop." Dawlish's jowls shook as he nervously cleared his throat. "To be sure. So-er-Vivian, you're-er-looking well."
What had been said, as well as what had not been said, burned in Vivian's mind. She was scarcely conscious that Larnaervon had signaled to a footman. The man hurried forward bearing a tray with glasses of hot mulled wine. Automatically, she accepted the drink.
"My dear, come this way." The earl's velvet-clad shoulder brushed against hers. "I know you must be hungry. Felders, fix a plate for Miss Marleigh. Some of that salmon there. And a slice of bread. Plain food, my dear," he added with a suggestion of an apology, "but filling."
She nodded absently. Forbidden to leave the convent. Imprisoned! Her stomach clenched at the thought of remaining for the rest of her life behind those cold stone walls. She was no nun. Never had she had the slightest intention of taking holy orders.
She had been taken to the sisters as a patient. In the winter of last year, she had been so close to death from double pneumonia that she barely remembered the trip in the coach. She had spent her eighteenth birthday in the convent hospital.
Dawlish had come to see her with some regularity at first as she slowly recovered. Helplessly, she had watched him assume more control over her life. First, he had dismissed her companion explaining that the woman was unnecessary with the nuns to wait on her hand and foot. Then he had decreed an extended stay. Whenever she gave him a note mentioning leaving, he had always made some excuse. In the spring he had informed her that he was having Stone Glenn, the home seat of the Marleighs, redecorated for her return.
But when summer had come, the project was taking longer than necessary. ("Incompetent workmen, my dear. Shocking.") Worse, an epidemic of scarlet fever had broken out in the vicinity. She could not return to such uncomfortable and dangerous conditions.
In the fall? She could not remember what had happened in the fall. Ah, yes. He had been in London and the house was locked up.
The nuns had been very kind to her always treating her with the utmost deference. Why should they not? If she were going to be their paying guest for the rest of her life, they would not stint to make her comfortable.
With clear eyes, she remembered the summons to the Mother Superior's office. No wonder the lady had looked unhappy when she had explained an imaginary emergency situation and asked Vivian to accompany poor Sister Grace. Suddenly, Vivian wondered how much the Mother Superior had known about Dawlish's plans. Had the two conspired to keep her there? She tightened her hand around the glass, taking comfort in its warmth.
The earl led her across the room to a chair beside his son. "I’ll leave you here, Vivian. To eat and think about what you have learned. I must say farewell to my guests, many of whom will want to begin to depart soon. I trust you will think about what has been said."
She looked up into his dark eyes and nodded. Again her inability to communicate frustrated her. She set the plate down on a small table and laid a hand on his wrist.
He looked down at it and smiled coldly. "We will speak later, my dear. Rest assured. And you will have your pad and pencil in hand so that you may ask me any questions you wish. Piers, Miss Marleigh has just received a rather nasty shock."
The wine-dark head turned slowly. The viscount stared at her, his eyes glassy.
Drunk, she diagnosed. He was able to drink enough brandy after all.
A heavy body dropped down in the chair on her other side. "Vivian," Sebastian whispered tugging at her sleeve. "Vivian, I must get you out of here."
She looked him up and down, her outrage obvious.
He pulled his hand back as from a flame. "I know. I know. You are upset. But you mustn't condemn me without hearing me out. Believe me when I say I did what I did for your own good. We’ll straighten all that out later. To your satisfaction. I promise."
Her head snapped around to look straight ahead.
Again he reached out, his fat fingers tugging at her sleeve again. "You don't understand. You are in danger here. Grave danger." He looked beyond her, then leaned forward until his face was only inches from her own. His jowls quivered. "Grave danger."
She swayed away from him, distaste and anger evident in her eyes, in the curl of her mouth. Realizing she was beginning to shake, she raised the wine to her lips. Bitter it might be to her taste, but she craved its steadying effect.
"Vivian." Sebastian would not be put off. He pushed aside the veil so he could put his mouth close to her ear. "You don't understand. You have to let me get you out of here."
"Why?" came a familiar mocking voice. "Why, Sebby, old boy, should she be in danger?"
"Sssh!" Sebastian sprang away from her, his hand pawed the air.
"But really, Sebby."The viscount pushed himself off his chair, listed to one side, but managed to straighten and stand erect. "You know she's in no danger here. You know all about everything, old boy. But what are you going to tell her?"
Vivian looked from one to the other, anger blazing in her pale eyes. Abruptly she rose, pushing the viscount aside. He staggered back with a drunken laugh. What a fool she had been to come down without any means of communication! Never had she dreamed that any of the mourners would speak to her in her nun's habit.
"Vivian," Sebastian called.
"Let her go, Sebastian. I expect she doesn't want to listen to you right now."
On winged feet she fled from the gallery. Tears of anger and frustration were already coursing down her cheeks. She was helpless. Helpless! Outside, she picked up the skirts of her habit and ran.
************************************
"Vivian."
She had locked the door and put a chair m front of it while she tried to think. Hunger was giving her a headache. She had had nothing to eat in nearly twenty-four hours. Before that she had eaten only light meals, trays brought to her room with niggardly portions no doubt spooned up at Mrs. Felder's express orders. She had lost flesh during her stay.
"Vivian!"
Sebastian had locked her up in a nunnery. The words rang stark through every cell in her brain. How had he accounted for her disappearance? What had he told her solicitor? her banker? her friends?
The answer was altogether terrorizing. Her solicitor would have asked no questions so long as Sebastian reported to him. Her banker likewise, since Sebastian's name appeared on the drafts. Her friends? What friends? She had none. How easy it had been for him! She supposed she was lucky that he had not murdered her. Unable to communicate with anyone except on a very limited basis, she was the perfect victim.
Perfect.
How easy to imprison her for the rest of her life while he lived off her money. And she could not speak to defend herself. Fear sank its claws into her heart and belly. Gasping, she crossed her arms about her chest and tried to think. Where could she go? Not with him. She knew without asking that he would take her back to the nunnery. To her own home and barricade herself in. But was it her home? Or had he taken it for his own?
“Vivian!" His voice was near the middle of the door. He must be kneeling at the keyhole. This time he accompanied his call with a light knocking. "Vivian. I know you're in there. A footman pointed out
your room. For God's sake, come out. You don't understand. You're in grave danger."
Hastily, she scribbled on a piece of note paper and passed it under the door.
He picked it up. A tiny silence followed during which time she heard the paper crackle. When he spoke again, his voice had changed, become calmer, more pleading. "Of course, you can see your solicitor, Vivian. I’ll take you directly to London. But you must come with me now."
She wrote again.
"Now, Vivian." He sounded slightly exasperated. "You don't have any need for money. Be sensible. You know I'll provide whatever you need. I promise. At any rate you can't travel unattended. Be reasonable." He paused. "You don't understand what's happening here, my dear. If you'll just let me in, I'll explain everything to you. You don't understand how the earl-damn him-has been lying to you for his own reasons."
She hesitated. Could the earl have purposefully defamed Sebastian? He did not strike her as a particularly honest man. Indeed quite the contrary. Again she sent a note under the door.
"Vivian, I'll tell you everything if you'll just open the door."
She wiped her trembling fingers on her skirt and stared at the doorknob.
"Please, Vivian. You're upset-with reason. But you don't know why I did what I did. I had to do it. to protect you."
Even as her fingers touched the knob, a thump, a cry, and the sound of a scuffle reached her ears. Hastily, she opened it to find Sebastian sprawled on the floor, his hand to his derriere. And standing over the prone body with a smile of malicious pleasure on his face was Piers.
"Sebby," he mocked, "I can't say I'm surprised. Peeking through keyholes does seem a likely way to learn about the opposite sex. But a nun." He made a scolding sound with his tongue. "Not a lot of opportunity there, old boy. Probably wears a lot of wool next to the skin and never takes it off. And besides this one's too skinny." He grinned at Vivian, whose face flamed with embarrassment.
Sebastian scrambled to his feet. "I wasn't peeking through the keyhole, damn it all." His face flushed with anger because he had bothered to deny the accusation. "Why don't you go finish drowning yourself, Piers? There must be some brandy left to drink."
Piers face darkened, but his tone when he spoke remained mocking. "He who is without sin et cetera, Sebby. Just what were you trying to do here?" Piers stooped and picked up a crumpled note from the floor. Spreading it open, he read it. He quirked an eyebrow at Vivian, his smile widening. " 'Money?' Why, Sister, you do surprise me. Somehow I hadn't guessed you were so-er-modern. Perhaps I ought to avail myself of your services."
"Damn you," Sebastian sneered. "That note has nothing to do with that sort of transaction. Your mind's a sewer, Larne."
"At least I don't peek through keyholes at nuns. Was she adjusting a garter, old man? Looks to be completely dressed."
"Damn it! I was not peeking at nuns."
"Ah, but you were, Sebby. Remember I caught you with your whole face practically glued to the paneling." He regarded the oak critically. "Looks as though you left a greasy spot."
Sebastian's face turned puce. He sputtered frantically.
Vivian caught at the door. Exhausted, starved, her head pounding, she could not deal with them and their embarrassing wrangling. Moving carefully as if a sudden movement might shatter her into a thousand fragments, she turned back into her room and closed the door behind her.
"Vivian,*' Sebastian's voice sounded even more muffled than the oak would have accounted for. She tottered toward the bed. Another step. Another. The room seemed much larger than she remembered; the floor, uneven.
She did not make it to the bed.
************************************
"Coming round at last, are you?"
Vivian raised her hand toward her head only to encounter a warm wrist sprinkled with springy hairs. Opening her eyes, she stared up into the face of the viscount. Instantly, she closed her eyes.
"Oh, come now. What is it the Americans say? No playing possum. You've given away that you're awake." A wet cloth stroked her temple and cheek.
She opened her eyes again. He was still there, leaning above her, his face impassive. Not a muscle moved beneath the tanned skin. His eyes mesmerized her. They were velvet brown, so dark they probably appeared black to all but his closest friends. His face was all bones, cleft chin, strong jaw turned upward at a sharp right angle, high cheekbones, the skin stretched tautly over them. His mouth.
It curved into a mocking smile. "Planning to draw me from memory at some later date?"
She turned her face aside. A little color came back into her cheeks as she realized he had caught her staring.
"No need to turn away. I don't mind." He sat back.
The movement made her suddenly aware that he was sitting on the side of her cot. His hip was actually pressed against hers. His presence in her room was bad enough but his presence in her bed alarmed her. She tried to push herself away but found she could not move. He was sitting on her skirt. She tugged harder, but he put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her down.
"Don't start thrashing around," he advised her. "I only despoil nuns on Mondays and Tuesdays. Since this is Wednesday..." He reached behind her and pulled out her pillow, fluffed it up, and doubled it. "Rise up now and I'll put this behind your head. Don't act surprised. I used to do this for M-Mother." His voice wobbled, then went on affecting a bored drawl. "Come on now. Think of me as the old woman who came with you."
She shot him an incredulous look.
He shrugged. One side of his mouth lifted in a mocking grin. "Get yourself set up here and then you can have something to eat."
At that bit of information, she boosted herself up on her elbows. Sure enough. He had brought a plate with a couple of slices of rare beef draped over the top of a small round loaf of bread with a dollop of mustard on the side. Her mouth began to water. Her expression brightened.
"Drink first," he advised her succinctly, holding a tankard to her mouth. It was ale and bitter, and she shuddered as she drank it. "Ah, not to your taste, but you'll find this goes down better." He handed the plate to her and watched her as she ate. "Plain food,' my father says. And Felders sees that he gets what he wants. I doubt he can taste anything anyway. Why not have a bit of pepper now and again?"
He held the tankard for her to drink. "A bit dry?"
She nodded but took another bite.
He stared at her face while she ate. Clear white skin, fine-grained as silk; pale blue eyes with gray smudges of shadow beneath them; lips pink, delicately tinted and shaped; and a firm little chin. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were soft fawn-gray like a baby's. He remembered the color of her hair, silver-gilt. She really was a little beauty. Very, very Anglo-Saxon, without a trace of darker Celt. Unusual so far west in Devon.
She had finished her beef and bread and now looked at him over the top of the tankard.
He cleared his throat. "What do you want to do?" he asked gently. "I'm here to do more than feed you. If you need to go somewhere, I’ll send you."
She set the tankard down and reached for her pad and pencil. She stared at him for a minute and then wrote, "Please put me on a stage for London."
"London?"
She nodded anxiously.
"What will you do in London?"
Back her answer came. "Solicitor."
His expression mocked her. "And how would you find one? Good ones are not thick upon the ground."
"Mine," she wrote.
Piers shook his head. "Probably not a good idea. Sebastian has undoubtedly told him all about you. His version, of course."
The thought chilled her to the bone. Her face twisted. She stared at the pad, then wrote. "Must try."
He rose and went to stoke up the fire. "Have you no relatives? A maiden aunt tucked away somewhere? Surely there's someone with whom you could live."
She shook her head.
Still he hesitated, staring narrow-eyed into the glowing ashes on the hearth. "The earl went to great troubl
e to bring you here. For the life of me, I don’t know why. Perhaps he did it as a joke to intimidate Sebby. I don't believe he had any thought of easing Mother's passing."
She threw him a calculating look.
"Oh, I heard most of what was said. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get drunk enough. And Larne-damn his eyes-wasn't trying to be discreet. Quite the contrary. He pitched his voice so that even the ancestors on the walls could hear.'*
She smiled slightly and swung her legs over the side of the cot. With deft hands she straightened her habit and picked up her bag. The color had returned to her face and with it her determination.
The viscount shrugged. "Wait here. I’ll send Watkins to you in about an hour. Go with him. He's trustworthy. He’ll take you to Exeter. You can catch the Mail. It's a hard journey and long, near two hundred miles. And when you get to London, then what?"
She wrote again. "My solicitor."
He tried once more. "You shouldn't ought to be traveling alone."
She grinned slightly then wrote. "My habit will protect me."
************************************
The offices of Barnstaple and Rowling were on a side street behind the Old Bailey. Vivian was practically staggering when she opened the door. Whitefaced with weariness, she nevertheless had her notes ready. The time sitting in the posting inns had not been spent idly.
The secretary stared at her in disapproval. "We do not allow charitable solicitation in the offices."