If only something would happen! But all her alert watching and listening gleaned little information for Jims to pass on to Ian. The Squire sought no private meetings with the Count, at least not while she was there. They kept up a cordial, yet casual, relationship with each other, while in company.
Elysia found it hard to believe that the Squire was a smuggler–and a traitor–as she watched him entertain his guests with amusing stories, smiling benignly like a benevolent saint. And the Count–how easily she had fallen for his flattery and sad tale of woe. He continued to seek her out, pressing his attentions upon her more ardently than ever, with Alex's obvious attentions to Lady Woodley keeping the guests gossiping, while he turned a deaf ear and blind eye to the Frenchman's flirting.
They were all living on the edge of a precipice, she thought one evening in particular, as the laughter rang out around the Banqueting Hall, at one of the many stories the Squire regaled them with. His laughter drowned out the other voices. It seemed to Elysia's somewhat cynical gaze, like the last days of Pompeii–the unsuspecting awaiting their ultimate destruction. Only she was aware of their forthcoming doom.
And what would be the end result, the final act in this charade before the curtain fell? The Squire and Count tried for treason, Louisa and Mrs. Blackmore disgraced–what would they do? Where could they possibly go where the notoriety had not spread?
Mrs. Blackmore. How could she possibly survive such a blow? It was obvious for all to see how heavily she leaned upon the Squire–hanging onto his every word and gesture. She sat in her comer of the opulent salon like a meek little mouse in a room full of sleek cats, peering shyly at everyone, her shawl wrapped tightly about her thin shoulders. Try as she would, Elysia could not engage her in conversation, or even the most casual of pleasantries–but then, neither could anyone else. So after awhile they ignored her, her very existence forgotten.
It seemed prophetic that a storm was brewing, Elysia thought as she watched the angry black clouds gathering to the west. There had been clear skies and calm seas for the past couple of days–an uneasy calm had hung in the air like an axe above their heads.
"Devil of a storm brewing," Peter commented laconically, coming up behind Elysia. A distant roll of thunder rumbled a warning as they stood silent for a moment watching the heavy, rain-laden clouds looming larger with their black lacy edges.
"This is why I prefer London during the winter months," Peter said, jumping, as a bolt of lightning Bashed ominously in the distance. "Be awhile yet before it opens up, though. Of course," he added glancing at Elysia's set face, "that storm hasn't a ghost of a chance to beat the one that's been brewing in here. Could cut the air with a knife, it's so thick. What the devil did you do to Alex to put his back up? Never seen him quite so rude and put-offish."
"We had a misunderstanding–a difference of opinion," Elysia answered off-handedly, with little concern in her voice.
"Some difference! I'd hate to be around when you two had a real falling out, if this is an example of a 'difference of opinion:" Peter expostulated disbelievingly. "When you enter a room that he's in, it's like waving a red flag at a raging bull. Alex has been going around with a look as black as thunder. I'm afraid to blink when he's with me–or he'll snap my head off. And you–you've been as aloof and estranged from the world as if you were a nun in a convent. It's none of my business, of course," he continued, despite the uncompromising look on Elysia's face, "and I'm not about to bring a hornet's nest down about my ears by asking Alex–but what happened to put you two at each other's throats?"
"A misunderstanding," Elysia repeated, almost as if talking to herself. "One that I am not at liberty to explain–and until I am, then there is no hope of a reconciliation," Elysia explained in a tight voice.
Peter put his arm about her shoulders and smiled sympathetically. This was indeed a new role for him–playing the learned and wise advisor. Why, he felt suddenly a lifetime older than Elysia, and he was only two years her senior, he thought in dismay, as he said encouragingly, "Alex is a proud devil–too proud by half, but proud as Lucifer he is . . . used to getting his own way, too–always has the last word–and certainly not accustomed to being crossed by a female," he laughed. "You've been giving him back word for word. He's so strong-willed and set in his ways that it must go against his grain to have to accept your independence. Why, I couldn't believe my eyes at some of the things that you've pulled off!”
"I am used to having my own way too–and do not take kindly, or give in meekly, to–his arrogant, self-imposed authority."
"Well, you've managed to get away with more than I ever could! And I've certainly had more than my share of run-ins with big brother, and that may well be the problem. He is so used to playing the role of big brother to me, and being mother and father to me, that he naturally assumes command of everything, and everyone. He's got a little of the dictator in him, and that is why I'm so astounded by what you've been getting away with. Why, he'd have boxed my ears but good!”
"That is because he doesn't seem to care anymore what I do–if indeed, he ever did. More than likely it was just his ego that had been bruised by my willfulness, not concern for my safety or wellbeing," Elysia struggled to say calmly as a tear spilled down her. cheek.
"Doesn't care!” Peter exclaimed incredulously. "That's absurd. He is mad about you. He's got a fiery nature, and in some way you've managed–as no other woman ever has–to strike a spark off it. And believe me, it's kindled into something big. The fire is there, Elysia, smouldering beneath that cold exterior. He didn't acquire his reputation of being a . . . " he paused delicately, a blush spreading over his high cheek bones, ". . . a demon lover for being a cold fish."
"If he is burning, then it is for Lady Woodley, not for me."
"Hell!” Peter swore.
"I beg your pardon?" Elysia looked surprised.
“I said Hell, and I meant exactly that," Peter answered unrepentantly, "and you are not offended–I know you better than to think you'd swoon at ungentlemanly language–within reason of course," he added sheepishly.
"And why do you believe Alex doesn't pine after the widow? He has spent enough time with her these last few days."
"Ruse. Just to make you jealous. Doing it out of pique, that's all. Alex can't stand the Blackmores, or that palace they call a Hall. He's just going over there to avoid being alone with you–too mad, I suppose, to trust himself with you. And he is just using Mariana. If he'd have wanted her for a wife he'd have married her back in London–had plenty of opportunity. And he was glad to finish with her too–doesn't like it when they become too possessive, you know."
"Maybe he has changed his mind–realized he has made a mistake by marrying me," Elysia speculated, knowing why he felt the way he did about her–and knowing it was untrue.
"Nope, impossible. Alex doesn't make mistakes like that. Knows his own mind," Peter said with assurance. "Anyway, how could anyone think they'd made a mistake when they look at you? Have to be thick-skulled to believe that.”
"All good Trevegne marriages are stormy ones, it's the Arab in us, or so they say," he added devilishly, knowing he'd attracted her attention.
"The Arab? Are you funning me, Peter? An Englishman with Arab blood in his veins?" Elysia asked skeptically. "And admitting to it? I would have imagined it to be the family secret–something to be whispered about–the skeleton in the closet. Most families have one or two hidden away. Of course, I realize that it is desirable to be able to trace one's ancestry back hundreds of years, but hardly advantageous to trace it back to an Arab–no matter how civilized that ancient race may be when in London it is considered heathenish by proper society. In fact, any foreigner is outré nowadays."
"Ah, but you forget how society loves mystery and romance. We've already, or at least Alex has, become infamous and rather talked about Can't you imagine how spicy the rumor of an ancestress who was an Arabian princess would shock and delight their fancy?"
"No, as it so happens, it is indeed the truth; and that, my dear sister-in-law, would really shake the ton if they knew it was true–they like it because it adds to the Trevegne legend. It would scare them speechless–which might not be such a bad idea-if they knew all the history of our somewhat adventurous family."
"Well, now that you have succeeded in teasing my interest, it is only fair that you should tell me the story. After all, I can be trusted, since I am a Trevegne, can't I?"
"Ummm, I suppose so, but you're honor-bound now not to breathe a word of our tainted bloodline," a he whispered.
"I promise," Elysia said solemnly, a twinkle of humor replacing the tears that had been in her eyes.
Peter smiled with approval and led her over to a chair and settled her comfortably, while sitting down on the rug before the fire, stretching out his long legs to the warmth, and grinned engagingly up at her. "We've quite an unsavory past, you know."
"Yes, I've heard of the freebooter."
"Oh yes, quite a character that," Peter said proudly. "Wouldn't mind going back to those days of adventure-full of swordplay and daring rescues of M'Ladies fair," he dreamed aloud, picturing himself with a cutlass and tri-cornered hat. "Now, this ancestor of ours was quite an adventurer. Must've sailed around the world several times in his travels–set the pattern for generations to follow."
"Including the freebooter who decorated the Great Hall with his loot?" Elysia teased.
"Set a fine example, eh?"
"A fine example for what, one might wonder?"
"Well, one could say that he opened up new horizons, encouraged expanding our knowledge of other people by traveling to "far off and distant lands," Peter continued dramatically, enjoying his role as storyteller. "So, back to the first Alexander, my brother's namesake, of course,” he grinned.
"Of course. I would have expected nothing less," Elysia agreed.
"He was out exploring when he was engaged in a battle with an Arabian slave ship, riding low with the proceeds from the sale of those poor devils–and with one very special passenger, as yet to have been bargained for–and a very valuable cargo, too–the daughter of a sheik from one of those unbelievably wealthy desert kingdoms. I've heard tell that they live like kings in those tents–put the Prince of Wales to shame it would, what with all their gold and jewels draped about them. These slavers had kidnapped the daughter of one of the desert kings, and was to be ransomed off, and then sold to the highest bidder at auction, no doubt. I'm afraid her fate had been sealed, until my swashbuckling ancestor came long, and claimed her, becoming so enslaved by her dusky hair and golden, desert eyes that he brought her home with him as his bride. That is how we account for the gold eyes which show up every other generation," Peter concluded with satisfaction, feeling like a court storyteller in ancient Baghdad.
"That is quite a story, Peter, yet I doubt in reality that it was as romantic as you have made it sound. Your ancestor was a pirate who took what he wanted, regardless of that poor girl's feelings–she was probably frightened half out of her mind. First, being kidnapped by slavers, and then, by an. English pirate from a land she had undoubtedly never heard of, doomed never to see her family again."
"Could be–he was supposed to be quite a rogue–however, the lady in question had eight sons and three or more daughters, and lived to a ripe old age here at Westerly, surrounded by numerous grandchildren, her husband her devoted slave, his wandering days over."
"Rogues must run in the family," Elysia commented acidly beneath her breath.
“Are you just now finding out how much of a rogue my brother can be?" Peter asked, hearing her muttered words.
"I've known since first we met," Elysia declared in exasperation.
"Oh? I would have thought you'd have avoided him like the plague then," he commented, wondering if what the Joker had said had indeed been the truth? What a wild scene that must have been, he thought with amusement—and these two fiery-tempered hot bloods at each other's throats.
He didn't know what Alex was playing at, but if he weren't careful he'd lose Elysia, and that indeed would be a shame. Devil take him, why the deuce was he playing the ardent lover to Mariana? He'd only been too glad to get rid of her in London—unless that was all just talk, but somehow he doubted that. Alex was just trying to make Elysia jealous—and that must mean that he was really in love with her. He wouldn't bother otherwise—it just wasn't his style. But something was amiss here; and if Alex weren't careful it could just blow up in his face. He didn't trust that little cat Mariana.
Devil take him, he thought, as he watched a fretful frown settle between Elysia's arched brows as she stared into the fire. No doubt wondering what Alex was doing with Mariana.
Elysia stood up abruptly, and picked up the book she'd been trying to read. "I'm going riding—I can't stand this much longer!” she said defiantly, rushing from the room with a flurry of rose-colored skirts flying out behind her.
Peter started to protest, then shrugged as the door slammed before he could utter a word. He got slowly to his feet and walked over to the window, silently cursing his brother. He glanced out, watching thoughtfully the hazy, white mist beginning to swirl about the rocks, masking the sea in an all-enveloping curtain. Fog—God, what a dismal day. He hoped Elysia saw it and had the good sense to come back in. But then she was in such a reckless, devil-may-care mood she might do anything better go make sure she hasn't headed into it—just the thing she'd do too. She was so set in her ways—always taking Ariel, that fantastic horse of hers, out for a ride every afternoon, regardless of the climate. No wonder she and Alex struck sparks off one another. Peter shook his head as he poured himself a hefty swig of brandy before braving the cold and Elysia's wrath.
Elysia pushed the thick volume back between the other books on the shelf, mentally noting its place. She'd have to re-read it. Her mind had been so preoccupied by other thoughts that she could not remember half of what she had spent the morning reading.
"Darling, at last we are alone. Must we always be plagued by unwanted eyes and ears?" a petulant voice complained.
Elysia froze as the door to the library closed, and she heard the rustle of skirts move about the room.
"Oh, Alex. Why in here? You know how I do so hate books! And you seem to have an uncommon quantity here,"
"You desired to be alone, didn't you, Mariana?" Alex answered with speculation in his deep voice.
"Of course I did, and this is why,"
There was-silence in the room. Elysia dared not move. From her position on the loft she could have had a panoramic view of the room below, but she stood rigid, pressed into the comer of the loft, her back against the cold glass of the window. She heard a long, indrawn sigh, and then a low, seductive laugh followed. Elysia pressed her knuckles against her mouth, biting into them as she sought to control the cry of agony she felt rising within her.
"I've missed you, my love," Mariana murmured softly in a whisper that carried, in the silence. "I shall make you pay dearly for leaving London—and marrying that creature."
"And I shall be more than willing to pay whatever price you demand," Alex answered lazily, his voice sending a wave of pain and longing through Elysia as she heard it.
"Ummm, I shall have to think of something fiendishly clever, for that will be the only way I will be able to assuage my hurt feelings. You know you were quite brutal to me, and I really should have nothing at all to do with you, Alex."
"If that is what you desire," Alex said coolly, in a bored voice. "It is your decision."
"You know I can't stay away from you–kiss me!” she commanded huskily. '
The silence that followed was answer enough, to Elysia, of her husband's compliance to Lady Mariana's wish.
"What are we going to do about her?" Mariana finally broke the silence, her voice full of undisguised hate.
"No
thing."
"Nothing? B-but what about us?" Mariana demanded, anger sharpening her voice, its shrillness piercing the quietness of the room like a lance.
"We will continue as before—nothing need alter—we will be in London, and she," he paused as if the thought of Elysia annoyed him, "will remain here. Quite simple, ma chérie."
"You mean she will not be coming to London with you next week?" Mariana asked hopefully, her good humor restored.
"Precisely."
"Well, I suppose it will have to do, but what if she decides to follow you? She could cause trouble–embarrassment," she added, never satisfied until she had caused doubts, making sure her opponent was well out of the running.
"She will not come. I shall leave orders she is to stay here in St. Fleur. If she knows she is not welcome, then I doubt whether even she would care to include herself. Anyway, I think she will be able to 'amuse' herself here—we need not worry about her,'" he said coldly, his tone striking Elysia like a vicious blow.
"I recall telling you that you should not do something in pique–just because we'd had a small insignificant disagreement. If you'd only done as I'd told you, then we'd have been married now–and I'd be wearing those emeralds–not that red-haired wench. I still want them, Alex. Take them away from her. I know an expert jeweler who can change them into a different setting–something more modern." Mariana sighed, "Can't you get rid of her?"
"I hardly think I'm up to murder, my dear." Alex’s laugh cut like a knife through the dull pain pounding in Elysia's temples. "And what of your plans to marry the Duke? Surely you've not forgotten that life-long desire of yours?" He sounded cruel as be added, "Or didn't you dangle the bait long enough, and your noble fish squirmed off the hook?"
"Oh, how horrid–you're so cruel Alex," Mariana reproached him. "I expect the announcement of our engagement shall be in the papers within a fortnight. Lin is quite anxious, as a matter of fact; to marry me. He already calls me his Duchess."
"Good for him—proves he's a man, after all. I wondered if he had any red blood in him at all," Alex commented dryly, apparently unperturbed by her attempt to make him jealous. "Shall we go? It would seem it is going to open up and rain–besides, it looks as though a fog is rolling in."
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