Dunwood’s glance fell upon Garth. With characteristic lack of understanding, Dunwood charged toward him, a smile on his fat face. Garth saw Annette blanch, but on the arm of her husband there was nothing she could do to stop the encounter.
Lord Dunwood pounced upon them with the zest of an eager puppy. Introductions went round, hands were shaken or kissed. Except for Maryann and Dunwood, who knew nothing of Garth and Annette, and except for Raven, who found a perverse humor in this sort of thing, conversation was arctic. Eunice, Lady Wetherby, Mouse and Annette froze into silence. Conversation moved forward with glacial speed.
To Garth’s irritation,Raven took it upon himself to spice things up.
“Lady Annette,” Raven began, “have you heard the happy news? Miss Wetherby and my brother have set the date of their wedding. It’s to be June.”
“How nice,” Annette replied crisply.
Garth threw Raven a murderous look, but Raven missed it. Dunwood whinnied his congratulations, then launched into an extemporaneous homily on the blessings of holy wedlock. He talked on and on, finally finishing by declaring he must dance with the bride-to-be. Overwhelmed by the earl and obviously not knowing how to refuse, Eunice took Dunwood’s arm and went off to dance.
Maryann burst into admiration for Lord Dunwood, and Annette acknowledged the compliments with tight little thank-you’s and “You are so kind to say so.” To Garth’s relief, Maryann seemed to sense she’d waded into deep waters. She retreated by shyly stammering her admiration of the governor’s residence.
“Isn’t it grand? They—they say the estate is three hundred and fifty acres; ten acres of it in formal gardens.” She threw an uncertain, hopeful look at Raven. “Oh, Raven, could we see the gardens now? Before the evening grows too cool to stroll out-of-doors?”
Garth saw his opportunity to be alone with Annette and jumped at it.
“Do indulge your wife, Raven. Perhaps Lady Wetherby and Eunice and Miss Turner would enjoy strolling the gardens along with you and Maryann.”
“Oh, yes, do come along, ladies,” Maryann offered generously.
Garth earned a black look from Raven, but Auntie and Eunice and Mouse accepted with alacrity, visibly relieved to escape Lady Dunwood’s presence. Raven was obliged to exit with a show of good grace, leading the ladies off.
Garth found himself alone with Annette. But only for a moment. Flicking her fan shut with an angry click, she gave him her satin-clad back. She stalked off into the crowd. He was forced to go after her. When he’d bumped into and excused himself to a half-dozen guests, he finally caught her elbow.
“Annette, we must talk.”
She twitched her elbow free of him. Without a word or a glance, she swept onward. McNeil leaped after her, feeling like a fool.
“Annette.”
Nothing.
Garth stopped in his tracks. Her silent rejection cut deep, deeper than could her sharpest word. He flushed, pride counseling retreat; heart vetoing retreat. He went after her.
Sensing his pursuit through the milling crowd, she nimbly fled the length of the ballroom and went into the supper room where glasses of wine and cups of apple cider awaited the first wave of refreshment seekers. The room was empty except for livery-clad Negroes fussing at the tables. At the far end of the room the garden doors stood open, framing the distant fruit trees in blossom.
Annette’s heels clicked across the supper room. She swished up to the wine table and took a glass. Garth followed, taking the glass that had sat next to hers. Vexed, she crossed the room to the table opposite. He followed.
“Damn it, Annette, you might spare me a word. After all we’ve been to each other!”
She whirled around, her eyes blazing.
“And just what have I been to you, McNeil? Tell me! I would be amused to know.”
He set his wineglass down. The Negroes retreated to another table and began fussing at the glassware there. He swallowed hard, stuck for an answer.
“Annette—I—”
His hesitation made her eyes grow bright with angry tears.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispered.
Setting down her wineglass, she uttered a harsh laugh.
“Cry? Don’t flatter yourself, McNeil. I shall never shed another tear over you, never!”
He drew a deep breath. This was harder than he’d imagined. He hated seeing the tears in her eyes, hated her pretending the tears weren’t there.
“Stroll the garden maze with me. The maze is private. We can talk.”
“No! Why should I! Why should I risk anything for you.”
She caught hold of the fan hanging from the ribbon on her wrist and whipped it open, holding it in front of her like a shield. He stared at the fan. It was an ivory one, delicately carved. Yet the way she held the fan, it might have been a barrier of steel. He reached for the fan, fumbling to slowly fold it.
“Don’t do this to us, Annette.”
Her dark eyes blazed with flame
“Me? It’s you. You. What have I ever done to you but love you, McNeil!”
At her confession, she whirled around, giving him her back and dropping her head. He could hear her tears, her anger.
“Damn you,” she hissed. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve made me lose my composure.” She swiped at her eyes.
Footfalls sounded in the supper room as a party of four drifted in toward the wine table. Garth glanced around, then took Annette’s elbow.
“The maze, Annette.”
She hesitated. The supper room began to fill with chatter and laughter.
“Damn you,” she hissed. “The maze, then.”
Avoiding the paths that led to the ornamental boxwood garden, to the falling gardens and to the canal, Garth led Annette north toward the maze. He knew the maze well. Every boy growing up in Williamsburg knew it. Trespassing in the governor’s garden and leading the angry gardener on a merry chase through the maze was a dare every boy took. Selecting the first four right-hand alternatives and the remaining alternatives to the left, he quickly led Annette into the heart of the maze, to the shadowy retreat with its marble bench.
When they were surrounded by the privacy of hedge and the crisp, faintly tangy smell of yew, Annette turned on him like a wounded lioness.
“Why did you betrothe yourself to that—that nothing female? Why, McNeil?”
There was no answer he could give. He stood there, mute as a sheep and feeling as stupid as one.
“It was necessary,” he said lamely.
Annette whirled around at his limp words. She paced the small enclosure, her slippers crunching on the crushed-shell path, her pale blue satin gown shimmering when moonlight struck it.
“Necessary! Bah. Don’t lie to me, McNeil. At least give me that much respect.”
He tried again.
“My betrothal to Eunice is a matter of life and death. More I cannot tell you. If you won’t believe that, then believe whatever in hell you choose.”
She stopped suddenly in her pacing, stopped like a butterfly alighting and resting its blue satin wings for a moment. A startled look captured her face. She shrugged it away.
“Bah! Don’t lie to me. I know you met Eunice Wetherby in Amsterdam. I know you followed her up the Rhine. I know you followed her to Bladensburg.” She began to pace again, then stopped, looked up at the sky as though searching for some sense there. She gave her head an impatient shake.
“Bladensburg, of all places! And after all your trouble with the duke of Tewksbury!” She whirled around and eyed him. “McNeil, does your ancestral tree contain much insanity?”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile.
“I’ve often wondered.”
She ignored his lame attempt at humor, at bringing peace between them. She charged on.
“You might have married me. Me! We’d have been wildly happy, McNeil, and you damn well know it!”
Unbidden, a small halfhearted laugh escaped him.
“And which of us would have ruled in the m
arriage? You’ve a ruling nature, Annette; so have I. Our marriage would’ve been a cat-and-dog fight, a battleground.”
Her lips quivered. Her dark eyes grew shiny in the moonlight.
“You might have at least given us the chance to fail,” she whispered. “It would’ve been a magnificent failure. But you never gave us a chance. And for that—I shall never forgive you.” Her mouth trembled. “Oh, Garth, how could you?”
He stepped toward her, stepped forward to take her in his arms, when voices rang out in the maze. Shoes crunched lightly on the paths.
“Garth? Are you out here, Garth? Garth!”
Recognizing his brother’s voice, McNeil cursed. He drew a quick breath and heard Maryann’s sweet voice sing out, “Perhaps Garth is in the ballroom, Raven.”
Crunching footsteps drew closer.
“No, Maryann. I’m sure I saw him duck into the maze.”
“Alone?”
“With Lady Dunwood.” Raven renewed his efforts. “Garth! Halloo!”
Annette tensed. Garth wanted to murder his brother.
“‘With Lady Dunwood?” Maryann said. “Oh, my.”
“Bosh, Maryann. Entirely proper, I do assure you. Lady Dunwood is—er—a longtime family friend.”
“Oh.”
While Garth seethed, there was a moment of silence. Footsteps crunched the path, drawing closer. Damn Raven! He and Annette had come just a heartbeat short of making up.
“Raven?” Maryann’s voice was just on the other side of the yew hedge now. “How is it you seem to know the maze so well? You told me you had never brought any other girl out here.”
Silence.
Then, “Keen instinct, Maryann,” Raven said. “Unerring navigational ability. All we McNeils have it. Did you know we McNeils are descended from the Vikings?”
“Oh, my! Raven, you are so wonderful.”
Garth gave up. Raven would search until he found him. With an angry sigh, Garth took Annette’s wrist and led her through the maze, colliding at last with Raven and Maryann.
Raven gave him a wicked, knowing grin.
“A message has come for you, Garth,” he said cheerfully. “You are wanted at home.”
Garth tensed, his thoughts flying to Trent. Was Trent ill?
“What’s the matter? Is the house afire?”
Raven smirked at the sarcasm.
“You’ve a visitor, Garth, and a fancy one, at that. The duke of Tewksbury.”
Raven wiggled his eyebrows as though impressed, then turned on his heel, leading Maryann back to the dancing.
“Tewksbury?” Annette whispered.
Garth stood like stone, scarcely breathing as Maryann’s and Raven’s footsteps faded, then disappeared. So it was come . . . this thing that he’d dreaded, this thing that haunted his dreams when he slept. His mind shot out in a hundred directions. He could take Trent and flee the country. A stupid solution, solving nothing. He could brazen it out, sticking with his story that Trent is merely an orphan one of his crew had found. To stick by his story would put the onus of proof upon the duke . . .
“The duke of Tewksbury?” Annette said again. “Surely he’s not journeyed all the way to Virginia to accuse you of stealing more of his jade pieces?”
“No.”
Annette half-laughed, bewildered. “Then what can he want?”
Garth drew a long, shaky breath.
Trent,” he said softly, “I’m afraid the duke wants Trent.”
Leaving Annette standing there, gaping in astonishment, he rushed from the maze, sprinted through the garden and into the supper room. He pushed his way through the crowd, skirted the dancing formation in the main ballroom and made for the antechamber.
“Garth, dear? Where are you going?”
Eunice seized his arm, stopping him in mid-stride. He’d not seen her, so fierce was his concentration. His impulse was to shrug her off, but he reconsidered. He would do himself no good, rushing off half-cocked. He would only play into the duke’s hands. But suppose he arrived home in a leisurely fashion, on the arm of his bride-to-be. That was hardly the action of a guilty man . . . He smiled grimly, determined to outwit the duke.
“Come along, Eunice. We’ve a visitor at home. The duke of Tewksbury.”
She gazed up at him, openmouthed.
“His Grace himself?”
Garth nodded. “You know His Grace?” All the better if she did, he thought grimly.
Eunice smiled. “Yes, of course. The duke was acquainted with my father. I’ve been to Tewksbury Hall several times. I took tea with his last duchess, the one who died of smallpox.” Eunice’s smile retreated into a vain pout. “Some persons thought her pretty. I did not. All that red hair, those too-large eyes. Not ladylike, I’m sure.”
He snapped his jaw shut and propelled her along, excusing his way through the silks and brocades.
“But my chaperone, Garth?”
He took a deep, long breath, trying to stifle the anger that forked through his fear. Criticize Flavia, would she? By God! He had to swallow several times before he was able to reply with a modicum of civility.
“A premarital landau ride is hardly the cardinal sin, Eunice.”
* * * *
A large black-lacquered coach with six horses waited outside his house on York Street, dwarfing his own modest landau and making even his house appear small. A half-dozen attendants and drivers lurked about the coach: big, brutish men with cudgels stuck in their belts. McNeil’s pulse raced. He wished Harrington and Jenkins were here and not miles away in Hampton.
He let himself in without ceremony, drew one last steadying breath of air, then preceded Eunice into the drawing room.
Cloaked in black, the duke stood at the fireplace. A small spring fire had been kindled as a gesture of respect, and refreshments had been brought, but it was obvious His Grace had not touched them. The man was as McNeil remembered: arrogant, pompous and deadly dangerous.
The duke turned as he entered, and McNeil met the icy scornful eyes with casual coolness, his own eyes narrowing. He was alarmed at the fury the man stirred in him. He’d wanted to remain cool, his intelligence and his reflexes on the alert. But he found himself heating. This titled popinjay had had access to Flavia—touching her, bedding her whenever he’d chosen.
It galled him.
Eunice swished into the room behind him, with a pleased chirp.
“Your Grace, what an honor to see you again,” she trilled, tripping across the room and offering her hand. “May I offer you my belated but most sincere condolences, sir. Such a tragedy at Bladensburg.”
The duke seemed momentarily startled at her presence, then recovered himself. With inbred politeness that requires no thought, he bowed over her hand and kissed it.
“Thank you, Miss Wetherby. However, such condolences are no longer necessary. I have reason to believe my son still lives.” Turning from her startled glance, the duke cast scornful eyes on McNeil. Coldly and with matching contempt, McNeil returned the look. Your move, Your Grace. I’ll not tip my hand with needlessly spoken words.
The duke’s glare was icy, frost seeming to rise in his eyes.
“I will speak with you in private, Captain McNeil.”
It was not a request. It was a command. In the foyer, Garth’s mother’s fine old case clock struck the hour. Waiting until it was done, until the echo had faded, he replied, “You will speak with me here and now, or not at all.”
Eunice gasped in horror. “Garth, it’s His Grace! You cannot say such things to His Grace.”
The duke drew himself up, his face darkening. He glanced meaningfully out the window at his waiting coach. McNeil understood and tensed. Trent . . . sleeping innocently upstairs. The bullies could seize him at will. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Mentally, he went to his study. There were weapons there . . .
“I want my son.”
Eunice fluttered in bewilderment. “Your Grace?” she asked, staring at the duke and then at McNeil. Both the duke and Garth i
gnored her.
“I have had you under surveillance, McNeil. Ever since the night of my son’s natal ball when you so freely helped yourself to my—” He paused, spitting out the last word with contempt. “Treasure.”
Eunice gasped.
Garth’s throat tightened in anger. He struggled to remain calm as his temper went on the boil. Some inner sense warned him the duke was not speaking of jade pieces but of Flavia. His mind shot back to the Tewksbury gardens. Vaguely, he recalled Flavia’s alarm when a clay pot had plopped to the greenhouse floor as they had stood talking. Or was the duke bluffing, hoping to entrap him?
Boiling with anger, he held himself in check, saying nothing.
The duke went on. “I obtained a writ for your arrest that very night, and then I instructed my steward to—”
“To plant your damned jade pieces on the Caroline.”
The duke smiled frigidly.
“Yes,” he admitted proudly, airily. “It amused me to use you for another purpose. A double stroke, if you will. I obtained my purpose, and I obtained your humiliation. You dared to touch my duchess that night. No one touches what is mine!”
McNeil clenched his jaw, checking his fury. To hear Flavia spoken of as if she were of no more value than a damned jade piece! He shook with the urge to strangle him.
“I do not understand,” Eunice whispered. “Garth? What is this about?”
The duke ignored her. “I would have seen you rotting in Newgate, McNeil. However, you slipped through my net. Then, Captain McNeil, you sought revenge for the jade, did you not. You went to Germany. To Bladensburg. You stole my son, and you made it appear that my son drowned.”
Eunice uttered a sharp cry.
“Two months ago,” the duke went on, “I received certain information. Two days after my son ‘drowned,’ an orphan was brought aboard the Caroline. He was the same age as my son. He was brought to Virginia, and he lives here—here in this house.”
Eunice gasped. “Do you mean Trent, Your Grace? That cannot be. Trent has no noble blood in him. Trent is as common as a stable hand.”
The duke swung her a cold look.
Eunice sputtered on in bewilderment, “Sir, you must be ill. Ill with grief. Your son drowned. I remember the night, I recall it well because of the bright hunter’s moon. Garth was with me—in Köln.”
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