by Deana James
"Listen, milord. You'd best drink this and forget about everything. You can't help them."
"Beddoes?"
"Jack won't keep that rendezvous. I talked to one who's headed back as fast as he can fly. He told me Beddoes's was shot and killed."
"Killed?" Piers choked.
"I wouldn't count it," Watkins said wearily. "Only the good die young."
Again Piers groaned. "God's mercy."
"Drink, milord."
"Yes." Piers allowed the valet to hold the cup to his lips. It was hot and powerful. It tasted like heaven to his sore throat. When he had drained it, he lay back.
His eyes were already closing as the bricks began to heat the bed. But he roused. "I owe you my life."
"Don't think about it."
"But I do. And I promise you ..." He faltered. "I promise you. This foul business... Over and done with. Forever." His voice strengthened for a moment. “I’ll have no more of it. Forever."
"Yes, milord." The little man nodded. "Now go to sleep."
-No!"
"Milord Piers, there is nothing you can do tonight. The horses can go no farther, and I have no money to hire more. Sleep is the best thing for you, milord. Besides, we can't go home for a time."
Rousing, Piers rolled his head on the pillow. "Why not?"
"Your horse, milord. The Riding Officers caught it. They think it's Romany Prince and he's a very famous stallion. They'll be waiting for you if you go home wounded and sick. We have to hide until your father throws them off the scent. When they approached me early yesterday morning, I told them that you were spending a discreet time with a certain lady and would not return for some several days. Then I cleared out after they'd gone."
Piers groaned in anger and apprehension. "You are the most loyal of men, Watkins. I shall never be able to repay you." He coughed and the sound tore through his raw throat. "We will never go again," he promised. "1 swear."
"Yes, milord," Watkins replied wearily. "Here's a bit of quinine for the fever."
Obediently, lifting his head, Piers swallowed the bitter stuff. As Watkins supported the wine-dark head back onto the pillow, the Viscount Polwycke flung his good left forearm over his eyes. A sob broke from his throat.
Chapter 20
"I am highly insulted that you should come here with vile accusations, Captain MacPherson." The Earl of Larnaervon's voice was icy with affront. "My son has gone to Scotland to take care of some estate business thcre for his new wife. Isn't that so, my dear?"
Vivian felt a thrill of fear trickle down her spine. Two weeks. More than two, closer to three had passed without a word from Piers. While the earl said nothing about his absence at the dinner table, Millard had told her that he had sent a rider out with instructions to follow certain roads and ask questions of certain people.
"Lady Polwycke?" Rory MacPherson prompted softly.
She nodded hastily. On her pad she wrote. "Scotland."
"Then how does it happen that his horse, the famous Romany Prince, was found wounded in a field where a smuggling operation was foiled?"
"I don't know anything about horses," the earl growled. "A horse did the damage you see today. I can't abide the beasts. If a horse is missing from the stable, he undoubtedly was stolen in my son's absence. Don't you agree, Vivian?"
She put on what she hoped was her most gracious smile as she wrote. "Romany Prince was in the stable this morning. I rode him."
MacPherson read the note, his face disbelieving. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lady Polwycke."
She shook her head emphatically.
"The way to solve the problem is to call for the damned horse," the earl suggested in a bored tone. "Then you'll be satisfied and can be on your way finding who the horse you have in your possession really belongs to. How you hope to do that I have no idea," he added nastily. "One horse looks remarkably like another."
"But—”
"See here, sir. I’ll send for the horse immediately." He waved his cane toward the door. Millard bowed and left.
"Smugglers?" Vivian wrote.
"Yes, a large band of the scurvy fellows. Quite a few killed, several wounded. Not many escaped, I'm proud to say. Although the leader did manage to elude us. But he was badly wounded." His eyes never left the earl, gauging his reaction. "Probably crawled off to die somewhere."
Vivian could feel the color draining from her face. Quickly she bowed her head over her note pad, trying to think of something intelligent to write.
"And so he should," Larne enjoined loudly regarding the leader of the smugglers. "Damned scoundrels every one of them. Create unemployment for good workmen here in this country. Refuse to pay their lawful taxes. Every one of them should be shot or hanged."
"Oh, you can be sure those whom we captured will be," MacPherson told him. "We caught them with the goods. Their contraband in wagons waiting to be traded.''
"And how did you happen to be there at the right time?''
MacPherson looked uncomfortable. He shot a glance at Vivian. "An informant among them. Sometimes the government has to resort to bribes in the right places."
"Fight fire with fire," she wrote.
He smiled, his humor restored. "I'm glad you see it that way."
"The horse has been brought up, milord," Millard informed them from the doorway.
"Take the captain and show the animal to him," Larne ordered Vivian. "Can't stand the damned beasts myself. Never want to be near one again."
Together they went down the steps to the drive. There Tyler held Romany- Prince, who whickered softly at the sight of her. When she came down to him, he pressed his nose into her hand for a treat.
"You’ve quite ruined that horse, milady," the weasel-faced groom remarked. He cast the captain a long-suffering look. "Every morning she brings him a treat."
Tilting her head on one side, Vivian looked inquiringly at the man as Romany Prince thrust his black nose insistently into her hand snuffling gently.
With his cheeky grin, he informed MacPherson. “ ‘Tisn't right to be always bringing sugar. Makes him fretful when she doesn't come. Now he's got his mouth all set for more and he's disappointed." And indeed the horse tossed his head up and down, jingling the halter rings.
Vivian stroked the blue-black face and smoothed the forelock.
"He certainly seems to know Lady Polwycke," MacPherson remarked weakly.
"Knows her and loves her. When Lord Piers gets back from Scotland, he'll have a time climbing onto this black devil's back. As it is he gets fractious under anyone else who tries to ride him. Milady, he thinks he's your horse and nobody else's."
Enjoying the fantasy, Vivian patted the blue-black arched neck. Romany Prince nuzzled his velvet nose against her shoulder and pricked his ears forward.
MacPherson's neck was quite red. "Obviously, the horse we found must belong to someone else. I do apologize for bursting in here with wild stories. Still this horse looks enough like the one we have to be his own brother. I wouldn't have thought there was another one in the country."
Vivian nodded graciously. She cupped her pad in her hand and wrote, "You must do your duty."
"I thank you for your understanding."
Tyler tugged at his cap. "Shall I take the horse back to the stable, milady?"
She gave Romany Prince a final pat and nodded.
"When do you expect your husband to return?" MacPherson asked as they watched the horse being led away.
Vivian shrugged. "When business is finished."
"And you are satisfied that he is taking care of your best interests?"
She looked away toward the door of the big, brooding, gray house. A curtain moved at a window. She was sure that behind it her father-in-law spied upon her. Or perhaps Emma Felders? She heaved a sigh.
"Milady?"
She flashed him a brilliant smile and offered him her hand.
He took it between his two and lifted it to his lips. "I am not convinced, milady," he murmured. "I, too, see the curtain
s moving. Why won't you trust me?"
She drew back quickly.
He sighed. "Then, milady, I’ll wish you greetings of the season and a Happy New Year."
She started.
He regarded her sadly. "You did not remember that it's the day before Christmas. Then I am more than pleased to wish you joy." He bowed formally. "I bid you good day."
With a sinking feeling, she watched him walk away.
************************************
At the end of Christmas Day, she sat staring exhausted into the flames flickering in her grate. She was alone as she had been every Christmas for the last ten years and as in the past ten years she felt the familiar depression of loneliness. Added to this was her concern for Piers. Where was he? Had he been wounded and perhaps lay dying somewhere? Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to put the thought away quickly.
Watkins had been equally silent. But what if Watkins had been among the men killed? More tears.
Stop! She pressed her hands against her temples. Thoughts like those would drive her insane.
A light tap sounded at the door. While she was considering ignoring it, the door opened. Millard entered, bearing a tray with a silver cover, a crystal wineglass, and bottle of wine wrapped in a heavy white napkin.
"I do not wish to disturb you, Lady Vivian," he intoned respectfully, "but the staff, that is, Cook and myself, thought you would enjoy a bit of dessert. He has baked a plum pudding especially for you in honor of the season."
Vivian turned her head to wipe at her cheeks. When she turned back it was with a brilliant smile.
"We are all aware," Millard continued, "of how hard you have worked to set things to right. Likewise, we have noticed that you have not always had the cooperation you should have had."
Maintaining an impersonal facade, he set the tray on the table and unwrapped the bottle, revealing the gold foil top of a bumper of champagne.
"We thought you should enjoy a bit of a celebration," he explained, "since the house looks more as it should than we can remember it. We look forward to your redecorating in the new year when you shall have time to order new papers and materials."
She stared at him as if she could not believe her eyes nor her ears. The champagne cork popped into the fireplace. In her gratitude she could not stop more tears that left shining paths down her cheek.
The pale gold liquid foamed into the glass. Millard presented it to her. With a flourish he removed the cover from the pudding. He thrust a straw into the fireplace and with another flourish the rum blazed up. When it had died, the butler served a piece and set it on the small table at her right hand.
"Now, milady, you buck up your spirits. We below stairs wish you a Merry Christmas and the very happiest of New Years. And may you have many more pleasant evenings in your new home."
With a smile he bowed respectfully and left.
Sipping the delicious cool sweet wine, Vivian was left to smile at the thoughtfulness of her friends.
************************************
The viscountess curled her feet beneath her and stared out her bedroom window at the last of grim January on the terrace below. Between the gray flagstones, snow collected in the fissures. Frozen and twice frozen moisture made treacherous patches in low places in the granite.
She thought of the gardens at Stone Glenn. Had they been allowed to run back as those beyond the terrace? Here a boxwood garden surrounded what must surely have been rosebeds. Over the seasons the roses had gone wild, and their canes were a tangle overgrown with high brown volunteer grasses. As for the boxwood, it had been allowed to stand untrimmed until its shapes had been obscured.
Sighing, she turned her face away and gazed around her sunlit room with pardonable pride. Her eyes rested on the newly upholstered blue velvet chaise lounge before the fireplace. Above the freshly cleaned mantel an antique mirror removed from the late countess's suite reflected the room and its furnishings. Only in this haven did she feel secure away from the conflicts and unhappiness of the lower house.
She looked again at the mirror. If she had sought to remove it one day later, she would not have been given permission to do so. On that day she had awakened to discover that she had not conceived the earl's grandson. Her condition would have been impossible to conceal from Emma Felders even if she had tried.
The housekeeper had seized upon the news and run to the earl with it. His disappointment had been keen. Be had not appeared at lunch. At dinner his eyes had bored into her belly, stripping away her clothing, her very skin, seeking a reason for what he deemed her failure to conceive.
Since that night he had seldom spoken. His drinking had increased at dinner where he habitually muttered to himself. But he would not allow her to dine in her room, so the unpleasant interlude marred her days.
Resting her chin on her hand, she gazed out the window again. When the weather warmed a bit more, she would do some things with the garden below. The roses could be easily pruned, the grasses weeded out from around their roots and fresh soil piled up. The boxwood could be trimmed into a simple hedge.
But she did not really want to oversee any of the work. She was tired of working with this huge gray pile of rock with its filthy and neglected furnishings, tired of working where her labors went unappreciated by most and resented by some. She longed for her own home to expend her energy on.
Piers had promised that they would go to Stone Glenn in the spring. When he returned— She shook her head. If he returned—for no word of him had come. For almost eight weeks despite the earl's inquiries, nothing had been heard of the Viscount Polwycke. He might have dropped off the face of the earth.
Loneliness made her sigh softly. Piers had just begun to be important in her life when he had gone on that doomed smuggling expedition. Who knew what accord they might have come to had they more than one ride together, more than one night of fiery passion?
A blush stole into her cheeks at the thought of their lovemaking. Not since her mother's death had she been held against another warm body. Starved as she was for human companionship, for touching and holding, kisses and caresses had turned her into an animal. An adoring creature who clung with all her secret heart to the possibility that her new husband might treat her well, even come to like her.
What was more, she wanted him again. She wanted him to return to her as soon as might be. She had even been disappointed when her monthly courses had begun. The prospect of a baby, even the earl's grandson—she grimaced at the thought of Larnaervon—to shower with affection was not without its attractions.
Nervously, she sprang up and began to pace the length of the room clasping her arms about her body. The passion she had felt had racked her, too. Cravings she had never felt had come to her in moments of solitude. Fantasies had woven themselves into her dreams around the terrific explosion of feeling she had experienced in Piers's bed.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sultry. She longed for her husband, a lawbreaker, a criminal, a smuggler. She shook her head ruefully. The Christian teachings of the abbey seemed to have been totally cast aside.
A knock at the door spun her around. Excited and smiling, Addie burst into the room. "Oh, milady, I ran all the way up the stairs to tell you." She paused, placing her hand over her bosom to suppress its heaving. "He's home! He's downstairs now in the hallway. Lord Piers!"
Vivian felt a spurt of wild excitement; her face flushed with color. She had been standing here wanting him and he had come. She whirled and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
"Come, milady, let me tidy your hair and slip you into something with a bit more color just to make him feel like he's really home." The little maid's voice was shrill with excitement. "My mum always says that a man loves a woman to look pretty."
Vivian shook her head. Intuitively, she knew she should go down the stairs to meet him immediately. She gave her silver-gilt hair a quick pat, and bit her lips to heighten the color which had already flooded them.
"Oh, please sit down, Milady Vivian," Addie fluttered behind her.
But Vivian was already hurrying from the apartment. The hall at the foot of the stairs was empty, but she could hear the sounds of Lord Alexander's voice raised in anger in the library.
Running swiftly down the stairs, she caught Mrs. Felders stooped over, her ear close to the keyhole of the library door. So intent was the housekeeper on her eavesdropping that she neither saw nor heard her mistress's approach. Angrily, Vivian dropped her hand onto the black-clad shoulder.
The woman bobbed up as if she had been stabbed and swung around. Her startled expression quickly changed to sullen embarrassment.
Eyes cold with disapproval, the viscountess stared the woman up and down.
The housekeeper dropped her eyes. A hot flush mottled her neck and cheeks.
With a fierce peremptory gesture, Vivian dismissed her. Unable to offer any excuse, Felders scuttled off down the hall, ducked behind the great staircase and vanished into the shadows.
Through the library door the earl's voice raved on and on. One particularly loud bellow stayed Vivian's hand where it poised above the paneling to knock. She dropped her hands to her side and stepped back.
Larnaervon was furiously angry. Did she dare interrupt the harangue? Yet her husband was behind that door and, from the sounds of it, would welcome her interruption. Her courage coupled with avid curiosity triumphed over her fear. Wiping moist palms on the sides of her skirt, she took a deep breath and rapped on the heavy oak door.