by Gayle Buck
“There is no bride!” exclaimed Bastion Sandidge.
“Of course there is. There she sits,” said Philip. He pointed a wavering finger at Verity. He lowered his head, staring at her as though he had difficulty bringing her into full focus. Then he smiled loosely again.
Bastion smashed a fist down on the table, causing some of the silver to jump. “Listen to me, you imbecile!”
“It is useless, dear uncle. He is not in a coherent state,” interposed Harold. He had leaned back in his chair, an amused expression on his face. His long fingers played with the beribboned fob at his waist. “I have given some thought to the dilemma posed by Miss Worth. If you are adamantly opposed to Philip’s surprising declaration, perhaps my own solution might be worthy of consideration.”
At his nephew’s soft words, Bastion abandoned his smouldering contemplation of his son. He narrowed his cold gaze onto Harold. “Well, what is it?”
“Deportation, dear uncle. The penal colonies are so distressingly short of good labor, one hears,” said Harold.
Bastion stared at his nephew. “Deportation,” he repeated slowly. His expression became increasingly thoughtful. “Many do not survive the harsh voyage. Those who do, never return. A trumped-up charge, a few pounds changing hands, and the thing is done. Very neat, indeed. It is a good thought, Harold. I might even say, one of brilliance.”
Harold bent his head in ironic acknowledgement.
“I shall put it to Forde in the morning,” said Bastion decisively. He rose from the table, tossing aside his napkin. “It is growing late. You there, put my son to bed. I shall myself escort Miss Worth upstairs.”
The burly footman nodded. He bent to help the languishing Philip to his feet. Philip laughed and draped a heavy arm across the man’s shoulders. “To bed, to bed, heigh-ho!” he chanted. His weight made the footman stagger as the two started out of the dining room.
Bastion mouthed his disgust. He held out a peremptory hand to Verity, who had also risen from the table. “Come, Miss Worth! I regret the necessity, but I must lock you in for the night.”
“Pray do not put yourself to so much trouble, Mr. Sandidge. I can assure you that I do not walk in my sleep,” retorted Verity, sweeping past him, her head held high.
Harold laughed quietly. He held open the door for her. “Ah, Miss Worth! I truly suspect that I shall miss you.”
“The feeling is scarcely mutual, I assure you,” said Verity.
She stepped into the wide hall, Bastion Sandidge coming immediately behind her. She saw that the footman was struggling to direct Philip’s faltering steps up the stairs, while that young gentleman was bellowing a popular ballad. Verity felt a sinking of her spirits. Surely there could be no hope of rescue from that quarter, after all.
Verity felt a clutching hand close on her elbow. She whirled herself free, her eyes blazing at a startled Bastion Sandidge. “Do not dare to touch me!”
“Bravo, Miss Worth! Your fate is not your own and yet you meet it magnificently.”
The ironic words had scarcely left Harold’s mouth when the hall was shattered by a booming report.
* * *
Chapter 28
Philip straightened and, with lightning-quick fists, dispatched the burly footman to unconsciousness. The servant slumped against the wall and slid down to sprawl awkwardly on the stairs.
Verity saw her brother seemingly materialize out of nowhere, smoking pistol in hand. She gave a glad cry. “Charles!”
He did not answer. Dropping the discharged pistol, he leaped forward, and with a savage twist, whipped Harold Sandidge’s arm up behind his back. The dandy bit off a yelp of pain.
Bastion Sandidge uttered a sharp cry of rage. “No!” He spun round, his clawed hand snaking out.
“Verity!
An iron arm whipped about Verity’s waist, yanking her out of Bastion’s reach. She felt a hard male chest against her back, reassuringly warm and solid. A long-barreled pistol was leveled in a steady hand from beside her shoulder, pointing straight at the top button of Bastion Sandidge’s tasteful waistcoat.
Hatred twisted the man’s face. He took a hasty step toward Verity.
“Give me the excuse!” grated Lord Rathbone in a wrathful voice above Verity’s head.
Bastion seemed to rock back on his heels. His eyes looked upon the viscount’s savage visage and his expression altered to fear. His hands rose, palm outward, as though to ward off the threat.
Philip leaped down the stairs. Laughter spilled out of him and blazed in his eyes. “Well done, George! I knew that you would come!” He thrust out his hand.
The arm loosened from about Verity and slid away. She was suddenly conscious of a sharp sense of loss.
Lord Rathbone stepped forward to meet his cousin’s hearty grasp. But the pistol in his other hand remained trained on Bastion Sandidge. “I am indebted to you, Philip. If it had not been for your quick action, I do not like to think what might have happened to Verity.”
Lord Rathbone returned his arm to its former place. Its reassuring weight was welcome to Verity, and she relaxed into the tight embrace. For this moment, at least, she felt supremely cherished.
Bastion stared incredulously at his son. Malevolence flared in his eyes. Deliberately he turned his head, his profile flint-hard. “You are no longer a son of mine!”
“That is the greatest gift you could give me, sir! My freedom!” declared Philip, his lean face flushed with anger.
“You bastard! You bastard!”
As one, those in the hall looked up. They were startled and shocked by what they saw.
Upon hearing the commotion Forde Sandidge had somehow pulled himself along the floor from his bedroom. Somehow he had forced himself up onto his weakened legs. Braced against the stanchion at the top of the banister, he raised a pistol to his shoulder. Deadly intent burned fiercely in his craggy features.
Sir Charles whipped a second pistol free from his coat pocket.
The firearms bellowed. Acrid smoke burnt the air.
Forde Sandidge gave a choked cry, flinging up his arms. The pistol flew to one side as he toppled forward.
Verity watched, horrified, as Forde Sandidge’s fall gathered momentum. He tumbled and rolled and crashed down the long stand of stairs.
At last he came to rest on the parquet floor. His head lay at a queer angle and his open, empty eyes glared impotently at the ceiling.
Verity hid her face against Lord Rathbone’s shoulder.
Harold, who had been freed by Sir Charles in the excitement of the moment, walked forward to look down at his father. “The ball creased his skull. You are to be congratulated, sir. The wound will be attributed to the fall.” His voice was detached. There was a singular smile on his face.
Harold raised his head. He looked slowly about the high-ceilinged hall without appearing to see any of the frozen company. His gaze lighted and focused on the footman. The servant had straightened, cradling his head. Harold’s voice snapped out. All traces of the foppish gentleman were gone. “You! I am now the master of this cursed place. Take my father’s body up to his bed. Then go for the justice of the peace.”
The servant obediently got to his feet, shaking his rattled head. He staggered down the stairs and bent to take hold of the body. Grunting, he lifted it over his shoulders and proceeded to stump heavily up the stairs.
Harold turned then to look thoughtfully at a pasty-faced Bastion Sandidge. Harold’s eyes glittered. The queer smile was still in place. “As for you, dear uncle, you have but a quarter hour. I forbid you to blacken my door for the extent of your lifetime. I shall make exception for my benighted aunt and my cousins, however.”
In a wooden voice, Bastion Rathbone said, “I shall see to my belongings.” He took a jerky step toward the stairs. He was stopped by Sir Charles’s ringing voice.
“You, sir! If ever I discover that you have interfered again in my sister’s life, I shall hunt you down and shoot you like the damnable cur yo
u are.”
Bastion Sandidge did not look around. He climbed the stairs, his shoulders hunched as though he was a broken man.
Lord Rathbone turned Verity toward him, his hands sliding up her arms to grasp her shoulders. In an urgent voice, he asked, “Are you quite all right?”
Verity nodded, a bubble of hope and happiness beginning to grow inside her. She had never before seen that look in his lordship’s eyes. She liked it; she liked it very much. “I am perfectly well. Oh, I am so glad that you and Charles came! You cannot conceive how glad I am!”
Sir Charles regarded his sister’s face and read in her expression all of the trauma that she had undergone. He swung menacingly around on Harold Sandidge. “As for you, I shall cut out your liver if you dare—”
Harold threw up his hand. “Spare me, sir. I have not the least desire in the world to interfere with Miss Worth. I am completely indifferent to the lady.”
“You would have let her die!” exclaimed Philip, glaring.
“That is a possibility, of course,” agreed Harold without emotion. “However, I prefer to think that my suggestion of deportation would have delayed matters long enough that our hell-born cousin could ride to the rescue. As he has done. I congratulate you, my lord. Er . . . how did you manage to make your appearance so quickly?”
“It was my doing. I shot off a message from the inn. The boy met George enroute and brought him and Sir Charles straight to me,” said Philip. “When I returned here, I left the front door open. All I had to do then was to pretend to be three sheets to the wind.”
Harold looked at his cousin from under drooping lids. “Your enterprise astonishes me, Philip. I am all admiration, believe me. Since my uncle has cast you off, I suppose I am obligated to offer to support you.”
Philip shook his head. “I mean to go into the army.”
Harold shrugged. “As you will.” He turned his head to regard the viscount and his lady, who seemed to have become rather absorbed in one another’s faces. “It seems that you have us at a disastrous disadvantage, my lord. Under the circumstances, we could not withstand criminal prosecution. What will be your pleasure?”
“Quite frankly, the matter does not interest me. I shall leave the decision in Sir Charles’s capable hands, whilst I seize the opportunity to speak privately with Miss Worth,” said Lord Rathbone.
Without further ado, Lord Rathbone pulled Verity into the drawing room and shut the door. He looked down at her silently.
Verity regarded his face, her heart pounding. “My lord, I—”
She was snatched into his lordship’s arms and his mouth claimed hers.
Lord Rathbone kissed her with such ruthless abandon that she was made breathless. When his lips moved to her eyes, her neck, her hair, Verity’s one coherent thought was that she was unbearably happy.
At last Lord Rathbone had satisfied his immediate hunger and he rested his cheek against her soft hair. His voice came harsh on her ear. “Do you know—can you possibly understand—the agony of suspense that I have suffered, knowing that you were in the hands of my enemies?”
“I did not know before that you had enemies,” said Verity breathlessly. She clung to his lapel with one hand while her cheek nestled against his broad shoulder.
“My uncles have wished death upon me from the moment of my birth,” said Lord Rathbone coolly.
“Yes, so I was given to understand,” agreed Verity.
His head lifted and his hand came up to tilt her chin so that she met his eyes. “I never dreamed that you would be threatened, dearest Verity. I would have cut out my own heart rather than see you hurt. My dear girl, I know that I have been sunk below reproach in your eyes. But I must tell you! I never believed it possible to love a woman so deeply that her pain became mine. Verity, I want you for my wife in truth. I want to love you with everything in me. Can you accept me on those terms?”
Verity looked up into his grave face. The waiting, almost apprehensive, expression in his brilliant blue eyes smote her to the heart, excising all of the pain and disillusionment that had once haunted her. Tender laughter sprang into her own eyes. “My dear George, you quite succeeded with me, for I formed a passion for you weeks ago!”
A blazing light transformed Lord Rathbone’s face. He caught her up in a kiss that threatened to crack her ribs—but Verity didn’t care. She wrapped her arms about the viscount’s neck and gave back passion for passion.
She had at last found the gentleman who was meant for her.
About the Author
Gayle Buck doesn't ever want to stop writing. "I decided when I was in the fifth grade that I wanted to write stories that would make people laugh and cry. I haven't even scratched the surface yet," she admits with a grin.
A Kansas-bred Texan (and proud of it), Gayle says, "Let's just say that I like independence and survival in my characters and in my life." She has two sons that she is enormously proud of. They are both native-born Texans. "But I'm sure they have a few of those prairie pioneer genes, too."
Gayle has published 26 Regencies, an inspirational and a how-to book. She has some new book ideas; right now, she's not saying much about them. "But I'm going to have a whole lot of fun for the foreseeable future."
Gayle Buck has a degree in journalism and has written for every media known except film. She thinks about it for a minute. "Oh, yeah. That's goin' to change."
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1994 by Gayle Buck
Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451181573)
Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.