After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  Maybe he was a little late getting to the Braddock house party, but Alastair was not scheduled to join them until the middle of the week. He had planned to explain everything the instant Alastair arrived at Somersville Manor. Obviously, his brother had come ahead of schedule and discovered the twins missing.

  Marcus muttered an oath. He had no one to blame but himself for this debacle. He was the fool who had decided Miss Sheringham could not get to London on her own. After what he had seen, she could have managed fine. And he would not now be facing an irate brother, whose wrath, so far as Marcus could see, was entirely unjustifiable.

  Marcus bit back the placating words he had been about to say and greeted his brother with a voice as cold as the one that had greeted him.

  “What brings you to London, Alastair?”

  “I have been looking for you, scoundrel! Miscreant! Villain!”

  Marcus had been called worse. But never by his brother. He fought back the fury that rose in him, and the pride that demanded blood for an insult. “I trust there is some good reason you have decided to flay me with words.”

  “I would rather have flayed you with Beastslayer! I am trying to remember you are my brother, Marcus, but I want answers. Now. Why did you take my children and disappear without a word? Where are you keeping Regina and Rebecca?”

  “Griggs—”

  “I did not find them where Griggs said they would be,” Alastair snarled. “If you are attempting to steal them from me—” His voice was choked with rage and pain. He gritted his teeth until he regained control.

  In a hard, implacable voice he continued, “They are my daughters, Marcus. No matter who fathered them, they are mine. I have no intention of giving them up. If you—”

  “Good God, Alastair! What do you take me for? There is a simple explanation for everything, I promise you.”

  “I am listening.”

  Marcus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling obscenities. When he was calm enough not to shout he said, “I left Reggie and Becky at the Bull and Bear with my batman, Griggs, to watch over them.”

  “They are not there now.” Alastair’s voice bristled with anger and suspicion. “What are you doing in London, Marcus? Why did you bring them here?”

  “There was nothing nefarious in our detour,” he snapped back.

  Alastair lifted a disdainful, disbelieving brow. “Where is the lady in gentleman’s disguise who has been traveling with you? Have you seduced her? Have you convinced her to run away with you and take along my children?”

  “Bloody hell, Alastair! I have reached the limit of my patience with you. I have half a mind not to tell you where they are!”

  Alastair grabbed for the hilt of Beastslayer.

  Marcus made no move to save himself. Penthia’s poison had been slow to work, but ultimately quite deadly. It would be better if Alastair killed him than to live with such enmity between them. He waited for the sound of steel on steel.

  It did not come.

  Alastair replaced his right hand carefully on his thigh and said, “I do not understand why you waited this long to take them, Marcus. If you wanted them, why not claim them at birth?”

  Marcus clenched his teeth. His brother must already know the answer to that question in his heart. If he would only allow his heart to speak to him. But Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne, no longer had a heart. His wife had turned it to stone.

  Clearly, however, Alastair was not invulnerable to pain. His eyes brimmed with tears.

  Marcus was not immune, either. He waited for the ache in his throat to ease before he said, “I left Reggie and Becky with Griggs while I—”

  “I tell you Griggs does not have them!”

  “You’ve been to the Bull and Bear?”

  “I tracked you that far without difficulty. Griggs was willing to die rather than tell me where you had gone or the identity of the ‘gentleman’ with you.”

  Bless Griggs for his loyalty, Marcus thought. But his batman had obviously made things much worse.

  “If you saw Griggs, you must have seen the twins. Griggs had charge of them. He would never have let them go anywhere by themselves.”

  “They snuck out through an upstairs window while they were supposed to be napping,” Alastair snapped.

  Marcus stared at his brother with incredulous eyes. “How did they manage that?”

  Alastair slammed a gloved, fisted hand against his rock-hard thigh. “Knotted sheets. They did the same thing once at Blackthorne Abbey. I thought I had cured them of it, but apparently not. I concluded their escapade had been prearranged, that you had told them to meet you somewhere in secret.”

  Marcus’s heart began to thud. It was inconceivable that his brother could have concocted such an unbelievable tale of corruption from such flimsy evidence. It showed how little Alastair knew him.

  Did his brother really think he would encourage the twins to make a dangerous climb from a second-story window on knotted sheets? Did he not realize Marcus would have had to include Griggs in any kidnapping plan he made? Did Alastair really think Marcus would steal away children who had grown up calling Alastair “Father” even if they had been his?

  It dawned on him the twins were truly lost. “Are you telling me that Reggie and Becky are wandering the streets of London alone?”

  “You do not have them?” Alastair asked, his eyes bleak.

  Marcus shook his head, his expression grim. “We must find them.” He looked at the lowering sun. “Before dark.”

  They exchanged a look of concern, not daring to reveal, even to each other, the terror for the girls’ well-being that lay barely beneath the surface.

  “We will find them,” Marcus assured his brother.

  “Griggs is looking to the south, away from Town, on the chance they went that way,” Alastair said. “We can follow the main road north, searching the side roads and alleys east and west. I suggest we meet on the main road at various points to compare information.”

  They said nothing more, but began the search. They asked everyone they met about the twins, but offered no reward for information, afraid of putting the girls in even greater danger from someone who might think to hold them for ransom.

  “I will keep them in their rooms on bread and water for a month,” Alastair muttered when they met for the fourth time on the main road.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “You don’t,” Alastair retorted. “They are my daughters, not yours. I am their father. It is up to me to correct them.”

  “Alex—” A giant knot had formed in Marcus’s throat, making it impossible to speak. He had not called his brother Alex in years. It brought back memories of a time when they had been so close they could read each others thoughts.

  He looked into Alastair’s anguished eyes and saw the suffering his brother normally kept hidden behind a stony facade. He wished he could wipe away his brother’s agony. He wished he had killed Penthia for her wickedness the first time she offered her bared breasts to him.

  Grief settled like a rain-soaked, many-layered greatcoat on Marcus’s shoulders. A stone of regret sank in his stomach. He should have spoken to Alastair long ago, whether his brother wanted to listen or not.

  There were things he could say to ease Alastair’s torment. But he must do it now, because he was not sure when, or if, he would ever have the chance again.

  “I would never take Reggie or Becky from you, Alex. They love you. You are their father. My only role in their lives is that of doting uncle. I want no other.”

  Too late Marcus realized he had not actually denied paternity. He started to say the words and realized that if he did, Alastair would only think he was lying.

  Alastair swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He seemed subdued, thoughtful, his brow etched with fretful lines that did nothing to reveal whether he believed Marcus or not.

  They rode together in silence for perhaps a minute before a commotion on the n
ext street corner drew Marcus’s attention. He put out a hand to stop Alastair.

  A white-haired man and a middle-aged woman were struggling to move something they held upright between them, covered by a red shawl. The woman suddenly let out a howl and grabbed her shin, shifting sideways enough for Marcus to identify what was sticking out from beneath the shawl’s fringe—four legs clad in white stockings and patent leather half boots!

  Marcus exchanged a look with Alastair and saw the duke had realized, just as he had, what booty the couple were shoving along between them.

  “The twins,” Alastair said in a voice that was, at the same time reverent, remorseful, and wrathful.

  Marcus was appalled to see the woman raise her fist and aim it at the bundle, apparently in retribution.

  “Hey, you there! Stop where you are!” Marcus shouted, spurring his horse toward her.

  Alastair stayed with him stride for stride on Blanca.

  The woman shot Marcus a smug look of defiance, yelled an angry epithet when she shifted her gaze to Alastair, and as Marcus stared in helpless disbelief, punched out hard with her fist at the wriggling mass beneath the shawl.

  His stomach clenched when one of the girls cried out in pain.

  Alastair let out a roar of rage and drew Beastslayer from its sheath.

  The woman blanched, stood frozen in place for an instant, then disappeared into an alley too narrow for either of them to follow on horseback.

  The man was not nearly so smart as his partner. He tried to make his escape with one of the girls, grabbing her around the waist—thereby pulling the shawl completely off the other child—and throwing her over his shoulder.

  The twin left behind on the ground did not, as one might have expected, stay safely where she was. Though she was bent over in obvious pain, she reached out and grabbed the trailing edge of the red shawl that was still wrapped around the captive twin, then sat down and hung on like a bulldog with a new bone.

  The old man scurried back into view from the alley where he had followed after the woman, seeking to free his burden from whatever had snagged it. When he saw the child, he levered his foot to kick her away.

  By then Marcus and Alastair were on the ground, not more than two strides from him.

  “If you kick that child, you will lose your leg,” Alastair threatened in a deadly voice.

  Sweat popped out on the old man’s brow. Slowly, carefully, he replanted his foot on the ground. “Now, guv’. Don’t be wavin’ that ’ellish sticker ’round ol’ Georgie. Me and me sis was only makin’ sure these wee darlin’s was safe from ’arm.”

  While the point of Beastslayer kept the old man frozen in place, Marcus crossed to the child on the ground and bent down on one knee to check her condition. “Reggie, are you all right?”

  Her eyes were wide with fright. Her gaze darted from her father, holding the sword, to the old man who had captured her and her sister.

  “Are you hurt?” Alastair demanded of his daughter, as Marcus lifted Reggie into his arms. “What did he do to you?”

  In a terrified voice, the old man cried out, “Tell ’im we ain’t ’armed ye, ye blasted nincompoop!”

  Alastair snarled and raised the sword for a killing blow, but by then Marcus had stepped between his brother and the old man, who was pale as parchment. Alastair deftly changed the angle of the sword to avoid slicing Marcus and Reggie in two.

  “Are you all right, Regina?” Alastair demanded, his anger at the old man harshening his voice.

  “I am fine, Father,” Reggie gasped. But her face was waxy, and she held tight to her stomach, where the old woman’s blow had apparently landed.

  Recovering quickly, the old man piped up, “See there, guv’. Right as rain, the both of ’em. I see why a man’d wanta keep ’em,” the old man said, easing the burden from his shoulder. “Like as peas in a pod, they are.”

  Beastslayer came up again as the old man started to let Becky drop the last foot to the ground. “Careful,” Alastair warned.

  The old man held his breath as he eased Becky onto her feet and let go. Without additional support, her legs gave way and she slumped toward the ground.

  When Alastair let the sword clatter to the cobblestones and grabbed for her with both hands, the old man saw his chance and ran.

  “He’s getting away!” Reggie cried.

  “I will make sure he is found,” Alastair said. “And punished.”

  Marcus felt Reggie stiffen at the deadly fury in her father’s voice, the ice in his eyes. His face was set in stone, no mercy to be found for the villains. Or for his daughters, either.

  Alastair braced Becky in one arm while he dragged the shawl away from her face with the opposite hand.

  Marcus caught his breath. Becky’s eyes were closed, her face as pale as death. “God, please, no,” he murmured.

  Marcus watched as Alastair gently smoothed the sweat-dampened curls away from Becky’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. He rested his fingers across her bowed lips beneath her nose, testing for a breath of life. When Alastair’s shoulders relaxed slightly, Marcus knew the girl must still be alive. He blinked back the stinging tears of joy and relief and hugged Reggie tighter.

  His attention was momentarily distracted when Reggie complained she could not breathe. He lifted his gaze in time to catch Alastair kissing Becky on the forehead. It was the first time Marcus had seen his brother touch one of his daughters with tenderness since the day Penthia had first made her awful accusation.

  Marcus had never known whether Alastair loved Regina and Rebecca, unsure as he was that they were his. Now he knew. And felt a huge sense of relief. Even if he never returned to Blackthorne Abbey, the twins would be all right. They would be loved by Alastair as a father should love them.

  A moment later, Becky’s eyes blinked open. Though still groggy, she grabbed at Alastair’s neck cloth and cried, “Father! You must find Reggie. She has been—”

  “I am here safe, Becky,” Reggie said from Marcus’s arms. Marcus crossed so the two girls could see each other and watched as they reached out to clasp hands.

  “You are both safe,” Alastair said in harsh tones, “but not yet out of danger.”

  “Please, Father, do not blame Becky,” Reggie pleaded. “It was my idea to see the sights unchaperoned. I am the one who should be punished.”

  “I was the one who thought of knotting the sheets together, Father. I should be whipped, not Reggie.”

  “I will make sure you both pay dearly enough for your part in this incident that you are never tempted to repeat it,” Alastair said. “We will go directly home, so you will have the time and solitude to appreciate the folly of your behavior.”

  “But we will miss the Duke of Braddock’s house party!” Reggie protested.

  “Not another word,” Alastair said. “You have created enough havoc for one day. I will send your excuses to the duke and duchess. You will not be allowed in company again until I know you can behave properly.”

  “Uncle Marcus—” Reggie and Becky said in unison.

  “I am your father,” Alastair interrupted sharply. “My word is final.”

  Giant teardrops spilled from the twins’ blue eyes, turning them into dark ponds of despair. Marcus’s heart went out to them. He bit his tongue to keep from interfering as he wished to do. Now that his brother was willing to accept the role, Marcus had to step back and let Alastair be their father.

  Besides, this time the twins had gone too far. They needed to realize the seriousness of what they had done, so there would be no repeat of this near-tragedy.

  “Take heart, poppets,” Marcus said, gently thumbing away the tears on each girl’s face. “There will be other parties.”

  “A thousand years from now, when we are seventeen and have our come-outs,” Reggie muttered rebelliously.

  “Only if you have learned obedience by then,” Alastair replied grimly.

  The joy of knowing Reggie and Becky were safe and loved was bittersweet. Marcus exchanged
a look of regret and remorse with Alastair. The blood bond that had been unraveling for years had finally been cleaved in two. Marcus had lost something even more precious to him than his time with Reggie and Becky. He had lost his brother’s trust.

  Penthia had won at last.

  Chapter 9

  “What do you think?” Charlotte asked, eyeing the crowd of brilliantly gowned ladies and splendidly dressed gentlemen gathered in the ballroom at Somersville Manor.

  “Of what?” Eliza replied.

  “You know perfectly well what I am asking, Eliza. There must be at least eight eligible suitors in this room. I have not seen you do more than nod to any one of them. Smile. Or at least take the frown from your face.”

  Eliza lifted the corners of her mouth, but she knew the expression-fell far short of genuine. She had nothing to smile about.

  Julian had refused to marry her. Oh, he had couched his refusal in noble terms: he did not want to leave her a widow if he was killed in battle. But his answer was no.

  She felt absolutely ill watching him smile indulgently at another young lady flirting behind her fan. Miss Whitcomb could not be a year older than her, but was obviously a diamond of the first water—petite and pretty and demure.

  Three things Eliza would never—could never be.

  Julian had signed Eliza’s dance card for the dance after supper, thereby ensuring they would not spend the supper hour together. At a guess, she would say he was purposely avoiding her. And no wonder.

  She had embarrassed herself and him with that unwanted proposal. The scene in Julian’s rooms replayed painfully in her mind, as it had a hundred times since she had endured it four days ago.

  “I want you to marry me,” she had said, throwing her arms around Julian’s neck.

  She had felt his body stiffen, felt the rejection without words being spoken. He had reached up to grasp her wrists and remove her hands, then held them securely before him. After a long pause, during which he studied the toes of his Hessians, he had looked into her eyes and said with gentle humor, “It is the gentleman who usually proposes, my dear.”