“But…”
Allegra closed the door on their dispute and crossed Ridley’s drawing room to his bedchamber, cringing as his shouts grew louder and more desperate.
She was met at the open door by Jagat Ram. A fleeting smile crossed his face. “You will help, yes? I am not being able to calm him tonight.” He stepped aside and motioned her into Ridley’s bedchamber. She was almost suffocated by the musky, heavy scent of incense that assailed her nostrils.
Grey Ridley lay on his bed, thrashing wildly. His wrists and ankles were bound with rope, and he roared in frustration and strained at his bonds. “Damn! Bloody hell! For God’s sake, let me free!” His words were slurred and indistinct. He twisted and grimaced, wrenching his body with such force that he would have tumbled over the edge of the bed to the floor but for Jagat Ram.
His valet leapt to his side and restrained him. “Please, Sir Greyston,” he said in his singsong voice, “you must sleep. The Nawab of Behar is wishing to take you hunting for tigers in the morning.”
Ridley stared at him, absorbing his words. A look of peace and serenity slowly spread over his face. He seemed for a moment to be far away, in a different time and a better place. A gentle smile hovered around his mouth.
Then, unexpectedly, his face crumpled into an expression of deep grief. His body began to shake with uncontrollable weeping. Great heaving sobs burst from his chest. “Why did she die?” he cried. “Why did she die? Give me my sword, and let me use it on myself.” He laughed bitterly through his tears. “But I’m the coward of Baniard Hall. Don’t you know that?” He curled himself into a ball of pain and began to moan, a haunted sound that seemed to come from the depths of a dark tomb.
Allegra touched his shoulder. “Milord…” she whispered, fighting back her tears.
As though someone had turned a key, closed a door, he sat up suddenly and glared at her. His eyes were filled with rage. She jumped back in alarm. “Will you mock me?” he shouted. “Will you scorn me? The girl said…” He shook his bound fists in her direction. “Damn you, damn you! Damn you!”
Jagat Ram sighed. “You see? He will not be quieting. Is there some medicine? Some cure?”
She shook her head. She alone knew the torments Grey had suffered today that had pushed him to the edge. Her grief and guilt and pity sat like a sharp thorn in her breast, a pain that would not cease. “No,” she said, “there’s no medicine. The only physic he needs is a human touch.”
Despite Ram’s warnings, she climbed onto the bed and pulled Ridley’s body into her arms. He struggled fiercely, grinding his teeth in fury and bellowing curses at her. For a frightening moment, she thought he would break free and harm her, bound as he was. Then the anger gave way to sadness and he leaned his head against her breast. Fresh tears welled in his eyes and poured down his face.
“Hush, Grey,” she murmured, rocking him back and forth in her arms. She could feel the trembling of his strong body. “Hush, my dear. Hush. Hush.”
He looked at her, his golden eyes unfocused and filled with bewilderment. “Ruth?” he said—an agonized croak of pain. “Ruth? Forgive me, Ruth. Kiss me. Forgive me.”
She hesitated for only a second, then put her lips on his. She kissed him as a mother would. Sweetly, tenderly. His lips, his cheeks, the graceful cleft in his chin. She closed his eyes with gentle fingers and kissed his lids, tasting the bitterness of his tears.
His trembling ceased, but still she rocked him, whispering his name and kissing him over and over again. At last she knew he slept. She laid his head on the pillow and looked at Jagat Ram. “Untie him, Ram,” she begged. It seemed so degrading for a proud man to be bound.
Ram nodded and produced a strange, exotic knife from a hidden pocket in the skirts of his coat. The handle of the blade was shaped like a snake. Crossing to the bed, Ram slashed Grey’s ropes and removed them. Allegra flinched to see the raw lines on Grey’s wrists where the cords had rubbed. He had stripped the bandages off his arms, and the deep marks from the bear’s claws were red and ugly. His violent struggles had started some of the scratches to bleeding again. His clean shirt was spotted with fresh blood.
It was too much for Allegra to bear. So much pain. Her own tears flowed. “I brought a salve,” she said to Jagat Ram, her voice quivering. She pointed to where she had set her crock.
“I shall see that Sir Greyston uses it in the morning.”
She rose from the bed and looked down at Ridley. She was reluctant to leave him. “Will he waken? Will you want a soothing cordial water for him?”
“No. He will sleep until morning.”
“And forget all that happened tonight?”
His mouth curved in a knowing smile. “’Tis what he says. But perhaps ’tis only what he wishes.”
She twisted her fingers together, feeling helpless. “If you should need me…”
“You can do no more. I am watching at his bedside all night. Come.” He indicated the small door in the bedchamber that led to Ridley’s closet. “We will go this way, through Sir Greyston’s closet and dressing room. It is being more private. The maidservants can be unkind with their questions and gossip.”
There was a candle still burning in Ridley’s private closet. It lit up the array of knives and swords on the wall, glinting off burnished gold and glittering steel. After being a witness to that dreadful scene with Batterbee in Ludlow today, Allegra suddenly saw Ridley’s collection in a new and awful way. The coward of Baniard Hall, who trembled at the touch of a blade handle, yet forced himself to dwell each day surrounded by the symbols of his weakness. It was more than just a cruel reminder. It was a punishment, like a flagellant doing penance at some ancient Church rite, tormenting himself without cease. “Oh, alas!” she sobbed, covering her eyes with her hands.
Jagat Ram touched her arm. “I am thinking that you have a good heart. May Allah protect you.”
“Oh, Ram,” she said, lifting her streaming eyes to his. “Tell me about him.”
“’Tis not my place to tell. Nor yours to hear.”
“I know.”
His liquid brown eyes searched her face. “But you have brought a rare light to his eyes. And you would not harm him with your knowledge, I am thinking, as some of the others might.”
She gulped. “I wish to God there was strong enough medicine in my stillroom to cure his affliction.”
“’Twas not always thus,” he began slowly. “If the young Sir Greyston had a flaw, it came from his very perfections. He was a man who was favored by chance in every way. A man who succeeded in all he set out to do, with an ease that other mortals might envy. If he had weaknesses,” he shrugged, “and I suppose he did—a little too much pride, a little arrogance, a certain lack of sympathy for others’ imperfections—they came, I am thinking, from his ignorance of the pain and troubles of the world.” Ram smiled in understanding.
“He led a charmed life. His natural skills and talents opened doors. Good fortune took care of the rest. He had friends at Court, the admiration of his fellows, the respect of all who met him. He was, you understand, simply Greyston Morgan, Esquire, a second son, with few prospects for wealth. His father had left him only a modest legacy. But he so distinguished himself in the fighting in Scotland that the king conferred upon him a knighthood, the Order of the Bath, as well as a large financial reward. With his usual faith in his good luck, Sir Greyston gave the money to his broker to invest, resigned from the Guards, sold his commission, and came to Calcutta as an officer in the East India Company. He was, of course, successful. Both in his business affairs and in the fighting that sometimes became necessary when rebellions arose.”
“And there he employed you as his servant?”
Jagat Ram drew himself up, dark eyes glittering in the light of the candle. Despite his humble station, he clearly had pride to rival his master’s. “I am not employed. I am a prince in my own country,” he said softly. “Sir Greyston saved my life. I owe him a debt. I swore to serve him until that debt was repaid.”
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Allegra stared in astonishment. “But, such a sacrifice…”
“He gave me my life. I made a vow to Allah.”
“How fortunate he is to have you, Ram.” She was grateful that Ridley wasn’t alone in his wretchedness. “Did he grow wealthy because of his work in India?” she continued at last.
Jagat Ram laughed. “No. It was the kiss of fate, as usual. Sir Greyston had meant to stay on in India for some time, making a modest livelihood. My country pleased him.”
“He was happy there?” She didn’t need an answer. The exotic room in which they stood was answer enough. “He finds his serenity here, doesn’t he? In this room. And in the incense, and the reminders of the past you give him.”
“Yes. Often.” Ram sighed. “Or as often as he can find serenity.”
“Then why did he leave?”
“His brother, the viscount, died, leaving him a title, a large fortune, and Morgan House. We came back to England. Sir Greyston felt that a viscount should not be dabbling in chancy ventures. He instructed his broker to sell his stock. This was in the summer of seventeen-twenty.” Ram stopped and searched her face. “Ah, I see by your expression that you are not knowing of what I speak. The South Sea Bubble.”
She shook her head, still mystified. “I was in the Colonies in seventeen-twenty.”
“It was a great investment scheme that ended in ruin for many people. A scandal. Time has proved that there was chicanery in the highest levels of government. But when Sir Greyston innocently sold his holdings, the stock was paying a thousand pounds for every hundred invested. Scarcely a month later, the bubble burst. But Sir Greyston found himself with wealth far beyond his wildest imaginings. A fortune such as a man could not amass in half a dozen lifetimes.”
“It sounds like a tale to dazzle children, with miraculous happenings and good fairies. Was he pleased?”
Ram’s face darkened. “I think he was frightened, for the first time in his life. It had been too much. Too sudden. His brother’s title and estate, and then this. There was an outbreak of plague in London that year. And the South Sea traders were denounced in the press and from the pulpit. Moral decay, they said. The evils of greed. Sir Greyston, I am thinking, had already suffered at the death of his brother, though he bore no blame for it. And now he felt unworthy of his windfall. He would say to me sometimes, ‘Ram, the gods will punish me for my good fortune someday. You mark my words.’”
“But he had no part in any of it!” she cried. “Why should he feel guilt?” It seemed so tragically unnecessary.
“Why should any of us feel guilt when we are blameless? But we do. I shall stay here until I repay his gift of my life. Have you no whisper of guilt in your heart?”
She turned away and stared into the shadows of the room. All unknowing, he had touched her own raw wound. A part of her had always felt that she had no right to be alive. Not when all the other Baniards were dead.
There was a long silence. “But you will be wanting to hear the rest of His Lordship’s story,” said Ram at last. “Yes?”
She turned back to him. Forced herself to suppress her own pain. “Yes.”
“We were in London. He had opened Morgan House. Enlarged it, refurnished it. He entertained in a most gracious way. Great personages were coming to call, writers and painters. Even Sir Robert Walpole, the prime minister. His old friends, Lord Richard Halford and Lord and Lady Mortimer, came from India for a brief visit. It was a pleasure to serve him at that time. He had begun to reconcile himself to his good fortune, and Morgan House was filled with laughter and gaiety. And then he met Mistress Pickering.”
“Ruth?”
He nodded. “A lady of quality. She had come up from Kent with her family. In search of a husband, I am thinking.”
“Was she…” Allegra hesitated. Why did the question catch in her throat? “Was she beautiful?”
“She was a goddess. Fragile, quiet, serene. She had a beauty that turned men’s heads, and a sweet child’s voice. She never raised it in anger. She smiled often. She hung on Sir Greyston’s every word, her eyes shining in perfect devotion. He was captivated. He married her within the month.”
“Did he love her?” she whispered.
“More than any man ever loved a woman, he often said.”
Why did she resent a dead woman? “They must have been gloriously happy together. She sounds as perfect as he.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
She frowned at the odd shift in his tone. “Did you like her?”
His face was a mask. “It was not my place to judge her. She was my master’s wife, and he was devoted to her.”
“But surely you have an opinion…”
“When I return to my country, and choose a wife, I shall not want to be hearing that I have made a mistake. He loved her. That was enough. And when she began to grow large with his child, he would almost weep for joy at sight of her.”
Allegra tried to picture a time when Grey was happy. He smiled so seldom now. But when he did—his golden eyes luminous and sparkling—it warmed her heart. “And then she lost his child,” she said sadly. “Lady Dorothy told me.”
“Not then. There was an older gentleman. A friend of Lady Ridley’s, from her district, who came to visit. He and Sir Greyston quarreled over some trifle. Sharp words passed between them. A glove was thrown, and arrangements were made for a duel of satisfaction. Lady Ridley begged Sir Greyston to forsake the challenge. She wept and clung to him. The man had been her childhood friend. He was like an uncle to her. She feared to see him harmed.”
“And His Lordship persisted in the duel, despite her pleas?”
“Sir Greyston is a proud man, and the gentleman had insulted him grievously. Moreover, he was, in those days, passionate as well as proud, and headstrong sometimes to the point of folly.” Ram studied Allegra, a wise, knowing look in his eyes. “There is about you, miss, something of what he was, scarcely two years ago. I do not think he meant to kill the gentleman in the duel, but…” he gave a shrug of wry acceptance, “these things happen. The will of Allah.”
“And Lady Ridley?”
“She took to her bed, refusing to see Sir Greyston. Within the week, she had lost the child.”
“Merciful heaven.” Allegra bowed her head.
“Her illness grew, and fevers wracked her frail body. Her shrieks of pain rang through the rooms of Morgan House.”
“Oh, alas! How he must have suffered to hear them.”
“Night after night he sat by her bed, nursing her, begging her to live. But when she did not scream, she cursed him. That gentle child’s voice was filled with hatred. She cried out that he had killed her. That your God would never forgive him for what he had done.” Ram shuddered, clearly remembering the horror of those days. “It was a mercy, the day she finally died. And when he came back from the church after he had buried her, he took his sword and snapped it over his knee.”
“Do you…” she brushed at her tears, “do you really think he killed her?”
“There was talk of it. The suddenness of her affliction, her own dying accusations. And there are certain poisons…”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “He couldn’t have.”
“I do not judge. I merely tell you of the rumors at the time. He began to drink heavily then.”
“And the second duel? Where he ran away? Lady Dorothy told me,” she explained.
“A month later. A Pickering cousin, who had helped to spread the rumors of murder. Sir Greyston…” a flush of embarrassment darkened Jagat Ram’s swarthy complexion. “Sir Greyston found himself…unwilling to fight the man. I will say no more, out of loyalty to Sir Greyston.”
“He trembled and paled and dropped the sword, didn’t he? And seemed to be stricken with the ague.” She nodded at the look of surprise on Ram’s face. “I saw it today, in Ludlow. That pig, Crompton, and his vile friends…”
“Ah,” said Ram softly, looking toward Ridley’s bedchamber, “I am understanding now. It has not happened
for a long time. He has contrived to avoid such a scene.”
“Oh, Ram, it was frightening to see!”
“It is frightening to Sir Greyston, as well. He knows not what takes hold of him. He is a man possessed by a demon in those moments, struggling against something in his nature that is beyond his power. He does not like to speak of it. His dread of a challenge. His helplessness. But sometimes, when the gin has loosened his tongue, he tells me that it is just as he foretold. ’Tis his God’s punishment upon him.”
“Can’t he conquer it?”
Ram sighed. “He tried. In London, at first. He would provoke a challenge, hoping to overcome his weakness, his…cowardice, once and for all. But it grew worse. And that was when we came here.”
“Where he seeks a false manhood in gin, and every woman he can seduce into his bed,” she said bitterly.
“I am not being free to tell you,” he said, his voice gently chiding, “but there are other ways in which Sir Greyston hopes to reclaim his pride.”
She pretended not to understand. She wouldn’t betray Mr. Briggs’s confidence. Nor her own knowledge of the almshouse. “Is there nothing you can do to help him?” she said. “You say you owe him a life. But how can you save a man who is bent on his own destruction?”
“He has touched your heart.”
“Of course not,” she answered quickly. Her words sounded forced and strained. “Why should I care? His life is his own. I’m but a servant. I have my own…his troubles are not…” She stopped, gulped back the tears, and closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes,” she whispered at last, “he has touched my heart.”
“And you have helped him.”
She stared in surprise. “I?”
“Since you have come to Baniard Hall, he is smiling sometimes. He is drinking less. Your innocent cordials have kept him from the gin on many a night. And he speaks of you often. And in some detail.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered.
He smiled. It was as sly an expression as she had ever seen on his open face. “You have a…birthmark, I believe.”
Allegra gasped, her face coloring, and put a hand to her breast. It was just a tiny mark. What sort of man would notice?
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