Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  She poured out her heart on the paper, assuring him that she would love him forever, and begging him to forgive himself and find happiness again in his life. Her tears flowed as she wrote, dropping to the page and nearly blurring some of the words. She sanded the letter, folded it, and found a stick of wax to seal it closed. “Lord Ridley,” she wrote on the outside, in her formal hand. Grey, my love, was what she longed to write.

  Numb with pain, she groped her way through the dark passages to her room. Only there did she realize that she’d carried the letter away from Grey’s closet. It would be folly to return to his rooms. If she continued to move around the Hall in this fashion, it would take but one light sleeper to raise the hue and cry.

  Instead, she propped the letter against the seat of her chair. One of the girls would find it and give it to Grey. She tied on her hat, tucked her bundle under her arm, and picked up the crock of meat.

  The dogs succumbed to the narcotic in no time. Allegra was soon hurrying away from the Hall. Just before she disappeared into the darkness of the trees that would lead her to the front gate, she turned and looked back. Through a blur of tears, she could just make out the candlelight from Grey’s closet. Her heart twisted in grief. The candles would burn low and sputter. Would he waken to the sound and find her gone?

  “Sleep in peace, my love,” she whispered. “God knows, if I were free to love you all my life, I would.”

  She sighed and plunged resolutely on. If she was about to take a life in London, she prayed that she had at least helped to restore a life at Baniard Hall. A life for a life.

  It was small comfort to her breaking heart.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He refused to open his eyes too soon.

  Grey Ridley lay in his bed, grinning. He resisted the urge to stretch, to make any movement that might disturb her. He would wait until the desire to look at her sweet face overcame him; only then would he open his eyes. For now, it was pleasant just to lie there, drifting in that hazy world between waking and sleeping, and recall last night.

  Had he ever known such pleasure with a woman before? The encounters with whores and tavern wenches, the fleeting liaisons with easy women in the Court—had they ever been much more than temporary release for his frustrations, his unhappiness, his sense of unworthiness?

  It had never even been as good with Ruth. At least not the physical part of their love. She had been so frail and delicate. He’d always felt as though he would crush her beneath him if he weren’t careful. Of course, that was what had made him love her so much—that fragility, that gentle helplessness. Women like Ruth needed to be pampered and petted, to be worshipped, not overpowered by a man’s strength. It had always seemed right, to love her that way. To protect her and care for her, and receive clinging devotion in return.

  But Allegra, with her burning intensity…it was as difficult to imagine her passive and languid in his bed—as Ruth had been—as it was to imagine Ruth’s hands touching him with Allegra’s intimacy. Ruth responding with Allegra’s fiery kisses. Allegra’s passionate cries of pleasure. He felt like a man this morning; it was a feeling that he’d almost forgotten in the year and a half since Ruth’s death.

  A man? There was that grin again, spreading across his face without his willing it. A man? My God, he felt like a giant!

  And that delicious minx, with her bold kisses and caresses. An inexperienced virgin, no less! He felt himself growing warm just imagining the lusty romps they would share as she learned the ways of passion. What a joy it would be to teach her!

  He allowed himself a few moments to savor the sweet daydream, then realized his folly. To think of her was to feel his body growing tense with desire, to be helpless as his loins stirred with need. To think of her was to want her. Desperately.

  Perhaps he’d open his eyes after all. See the time by the ebony clock on the mantel. If it was still early, he didn’t think that Allegra would need much persuasion to linger in his bed for another quarter of an hour or so. He turned his head to where he knew she would be, and opened his eyes.

  He sat up with a jerk and swore aloud. Gone, damn it! Where the devil was she? He felt disappointment and unreasoning anger in equal measure. How dare she abandon his bed? Had he given her leave? One night scarcely entitled her to such independence!

  He shook his head and began to laugh, suddenly aware of his own absurdity. The sun was streaming through the windows and the clock showed nearly eight. It was later than he thought. Ram would be coming soon with his breakfast. Allegra had her duties. And her modesty. He could scarcely blame her for wanting to be discreet. The gossip in the Hall could be cruel. And that harpy, Rutledge, was only looking for an excuse to upbraid the girl.

  He climbed out of bed and retrieved his nightshirt from the floor; he slipped it over his head, searched and found slippers and morning gown. He smoothed his hair and retied his ribbon, glancing over at the bed as he did so. If he could do nothing about its disheveled state, at least the master of Baniard Hall could look orderly.

  And still the grin persisted. What was it about Allegra that so captivated him? It was more than just her passion. More than just the deep intensity of her soul that excited him. He had poured out his heart to her last night, telling her things he’d never spoken of before. Not even Ram had been privy to such an intimate confession. He should be regretting his indiscretion. But instead he felt light and free, as though the secret of Ruth’s terrible ordeal had weighed like a heavy crime upon his soul.

  Why had he told Allegra? He had wept last night, felt pain, passion, the awakening of emotions long buried. And all because of her. It was as though the fire of her own life force had warmed his moribund heart and stirred it back to life.

  He went to the window and gazed out at the expanse of sun-filled lawn. It would be a fine morning. The first of September already. The raspberries would be ripe on the bushes, and the sheep would be fat and lazy on the hillsides. How should he spend such a glorious day? He couldn’t wait for tonight to make love to her again. Perhaps he’d send for her. Invent some excuse—he needed her advice at the apothecary’s in Newton—and spirit her away in his carriage for the whole day. He chuckled softly. He hadn’t made love in a carriage since the reckless days of his soldiering.

  And then he’d buy her a gown. He wanted to see her in something beautiful, something that did justice to her loveliness. Something low cut, but modest enough to hide that charming birthmark just above the nipple. Like a little half-moon, fawn-colored against the pale flesh of her breast. He felt unexpectedly proprietary about that birthmark; it was for him to see, and no one else.

  If he admitted it to himself, he felt proprietary about the girl as well. Torn between giving her her freedom—the only decent thing to do—and keeping her with him for always. She’d leave for London the minute her bond contract was terminated. He had no doubt of that. But he wanted her to stay, and not only for his own sake. He wanted to keep her from seeking out Ellsmere and ruining her life. Perhaps now that they had become lovers, he could persuade her to confide in him. To tell him the why of the dark hatred that drove her. If she was willing to confess that she loved him, surely she’d trust him with her secrets.

  He shook his head. Love. Who would have thought that any woman would ever again find him lovable? He felt a glow of satisfaction and gratitude, wondering how he could repay such devotion. Such a dear gift. Not with his own heart, surely. He wasn’t ready to love again. Perhaps he was no longer capable of it. Still, that sweet creature…

  “Christ’s blood,” he muttered aloud. It was absurd. He was an addlepated fool! Had it been so long since a woman had excited his desire that he could possibly imagine it was love?

  He heard a sharp rap. “Good morning, Sir Greyston.” Ram stood in the doorway, holding his usual breakfast tray, complete with its bottle of gin.

  He smiled in pleasure. His appetite was keen this morning. “I’ll breakfast in my drawing room,” he said. After last night, his bedchamber see
med too private, too intimate, for an invasion of servants.

  He settled into a comfortable armchair in his drawing room and patted a small table beside him. “Set your tray here, Ram,” he said, “and pour me a cup of that chocolate. And then go and tell Mrs. Rutledge that I wish Allegra to attend me here.”

  “Chocolate?” Ram looked pleased.

  “Chocolate. And bring me a chop or two to go with that bread and butter, on your way back. I’m famished.” And grinning like an idiot again, he thought, struggling to suppress his smile. Though it was probably ridiculous to try to hide anything from Ram. He wondered how long it would take his valet to fathom what had happened here last night. Or any of the servants, for that matter.

  Briggs came into the drawing room as Ram was leaving. He looked worried and distracted. “Your pardon for this disturbance so early, milord. But I think it were best to take a man with you if you plan to stroll in the park this morning.”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Briggs?” he said impatiently. “I’m perfectly sober, as you can see. I don’t plan to fall down.” He saw the pained look on Briggs’s face, and remembered Allegra’s words. “You have concern for my safety?” he asked, making an effort to sound civil.

  “Yes, milord. Andrew found his dogs drugged this morning. Sleeping like kittens. There may be villains lurking in the park. The gardeners are out searching now, and Andrew has gone down to the dovecote to see if any birds are missing.”

  He frowned. “And my horses?”

  “Hale and sound, and every one of them in his stall.”

  “The manor house?”

  “I don’t think anyone broke into the Hall. If they’re still about, they’re on the grounds.”

  “But how the devil could anyone have gotten into the park? The wall…?”

  Briggs shook his head. “I myself saw to every inch of its repairs in June. And, since then, one of the gardeners inspects it by the week.”

  “Then how could the villains get in?”

  The unpleasant voice of Mrs. Rutledge interrupted from the doorway. “Not ‘villain,’ Your Lordship,” she purred. “‘Villainess.’ As to the ‘how’ of it, Humphrey was not at his post last night. He abandoned his lodge for a doxy. And so the creature was able to make her escape.”

  He felt the first cold stirrings of dread. “Escape? What creature?”

  Mrs. Rutledge was enjoying her triumph. “Why, Allegra, of course,” she crowed. “I myself went to her room to fetch her, when Cook noticed her missing at breakfast. Her room was empty. Her belongings are gone. I even sent Verity to look in the stillroom before I came to disturb you with the news of her disappearance. I’ve just now learned of the dogs. And Humphrey’s dereliction that made the girl’s flight possible.” She smirked at Briggs. “Humphrey was your responsibility, Mr. Briggs!”

  Grey rose angrily to his feet and glared at Mrs. Rutledge. He pounded his fist on the mantel beside him. “And you will answer for the girl’s disappearance!”

  The woman’s fleshy lower lip quivered. “I’m well aware of my responsibilities, Your Lordship. If the girl chose to leave, I couldn’t keep her from going. But I’ve already set the footmen on a search of the Hall, from top to bottom. If the jade has stolen anything, we’ll soon know of it.”

  He muttered a dark oath. She was right, of course. A servant had a right to leave a master’s employ. And unless anything was missing, dissatisfaction with the employment wasn’t a crime. Nor was hasty flight. Not unless Grey wished to broadcast the fact that Allegra was a bond servant. He waved the housekeeper from the room. “Go about your business.”

  She curtsied and backed toward the door. “Good riddance, I say,” she sniffed. “Miss High-and-mighty.” She was out the door before he could explode.

  He took out his anger on Briggs instead. “A pox on you! Do I pay you to be careless? What kind of useless fools do you hire? I want Humphrey sacked.”

  “It will be my pleasure, milord,” Briggs answered grimly. He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “By your leave, I’ll call off the gardeners’ search. One can assume that the girl made a clean escape. If she was clever enough to feed a narcotic to the dogs, she would have planned everything with care. But there is the matter of her indenture contract…Do you wish to have it known? She can, of course, be hunted down for a runaway.”

  Her contract, he thought, his heart curdling with bitterness. They had made love twice. Perhaps, by her reckoning, each coupling was worth six months. He had begun by treating last night as a business affair. Why should he be surprised when the little baggage did the same?

  “Tear up her contract, Briggs,” he said savagely. “She bought off the remainder of her term last night.”

  The steward could scarcely conceal his surprise. “Bought off?”

  “You heard me,” he snarled. “I let her go.”

  Briggs sighed. “She was a fine stillroom maid. And a young woman of intelligence. I regret her leaving.”

  “Then you may mourn her. I’ll not.” Why did Briggs stand there as though he had lost a boon companion? She was just a chit of a girl, and not worth anyone’s grief! He regained his chair and picked up his chocolate cup. Let the man see that he didn’t give a damn!

  “Your pardon, Sir Greyston.” Jagat Ram emerged from his closet, his brow wrinkled with concern. “That blade…from the Nawab of Behar…the one with the rubies…”

  Was he to be bedeviled by everyone this morning? “Yes, yes! I know the one. What of it?”

  “’Tis gone, Sir Greyston. It was there last evening, when I left you for bed. I am always noticing your collection when I pass through your closet.”

  Damn her! Not content with betraying him, she had to steal from him as well? “Those stones will fetch a king’s ransom,” he muttered.

  Briggs pressed his lips together in disapproval. “By your leave, milord, I’ll have a warrant sworn out for the girl’s arrest. For thievery. It shouldn’t go unpunished. At the least, we should demand the return of the blade.” He frowned. “That would explain her haste in leaving. I didn’t think the girl was capable of it.”

  He laughed sardonically. “She’s capable of attempted murder, or have you forgot? But let her go. I’m well rid of the minx. If it cost me a knife…” He shrugged off Briggs’s protests. “She’ll be bound for London, of course. To kill Lord Ellsmere. If I knew where the man was, I’d send him warning. A-a-ah!” He threw up his hands in disgust. “Why the devil should I care? If it makes her happy to see him dead…”

  Briggs nodded in resignation. “As you wish, milord.”

  “Leave me now. Both of you. I’ll ring for you when I want to dress, Ram.”

  He watched them file out of the room; then he lifted his cup and saucer and hurled them into the cold fireplace. The thick, dark chocolate oozed down the brass of the andirons. Damn her forever! Lies! All of it! The gentle warmth and understanding that had wormed from him his darkest secrets, the words of love, the intense sincerity in her eyes. All false. And the passion? Had that been pretense as well? Merely dutiful payment for her liberty?

  Bah! He was the coward of Baniard Hall. He was the dupe of Baniard Hall. He had sunk so low in his own eyes that the hussy had found it simple to flatter his masculine pride, to gull him into thinking that she cared for him. A sly scheme to win her freedom, and nothing more.

  He hesitated, then reached for the bottle of gin at his elbow. It burned in his mouth and his throat, hot and astringent. But it couldn’t burn away the sweet taste of her lips. And, no matter how frantically he drank, head thrown back and gulping great mouthfuls like a rum-soaked tippler, it couldn’t numb his brain to the memory of her face.

  He slammed down the half-filled bottle, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

  Grey Ridley held his candlestick next to the dark-green brocade that covered the walls along the great staircase. He shook his head and frowned. What an unpleasing color. What had possessed him to move into Baniard Hall without first changing the
decorations? It was clear that old Baron Ellsmere had had neither the funds nor the taste to do justice to the fine architecture of the building. Odd that it had never troubled him before.

  Perhaps, as Ram kept trying to tell him, he was regaining his sense of balance. Emerging from the cold darkness that had nearly destroyed him. Noticing things that had escaped him when he’d come to the Hall a short year ago.

  He laughed bitterly. Or perhaps his sudden discontent with Baniard Hall had more to do with his present state of mind. The place had never felt like a lonely prison until…until she was no longer here to brighten its rooms. Perhaps that was why he now found it ugly.

  He sighed and made his way slowly down the dim staircase, shielding his candle on the way. He crossed the entrance hall, opened a door, and descended another staircase to the lower ground floor. The kitchens were quiet. The servants’ hall was dark. And Mrs. Rutledge’s room. Only Briggs’s office still showed a light beneath the door. He shook his head. The man was a glutton for work.

  He sighed again. Nearly a week since she’d gone. And he was going mad. He could snap at his servants, as before. Pretend apathy, as before. Drink himself into insensibility and pray for a dreamless sleep. Just as before.

  Yet everything was changed. He had worked like a dog in the almshouse and found no peace. He had engaged a whore for a night to help him forget, and had ended by sending her away in disgust. He had cringed as never before at the whispers of his servants, wondering if they knew how Allegra had made a fool of him.

  He had even put aside his gin after the third day. Strangely, he had lost his taste for it. It was as though there was no room in him for anything but seething rage. It had purged his need for drink, burnt away the layers of indifference that had protected him, until he felt as though he had been thrust into a great furnace and melted down into one pure element: pain.

  And beyond that, nothing but emptiness.