With the force of a bolt of lightning, Gerard knew he couldn’t bear her leaving him, because he loved her.
How didn’t know how he could have fallen so deeply in love on such short acquaintance, but he had. He had the one thing he always wanted, and lost the other. He’d gained life and lost the reason for it.
“Do you believe me? Do you require proof?”
“What do you think?”
“This,” Stretton said, his voice smug, “will be fun. We were gods in Greece and Rome, persecuted as witches more recently and finally we learned that it is best to conceal our nature. We are either persecuted or revered, never left to live in peace. It’s not often I have an opportunity to do this.”
He got to his feet and sauntered to the front of the box, staring down at the mass of humanity crushed in the other boxes and below him. He touched Fordhouse gently on the top of his head. “Sleep,” he said softly. Fordhouse slept, his head slumped against one shoulder.
“Hear this,” Stretton said. It seemed his voice didn’t increase, but the acoustics did. Stretton’s voice seemed to fill the whole house, with a booming resonance any actor would envy.
Over the next minute the house fell completely silent, a miracle in itself. Stretton raised his hand.
Sparks shot from the ends of his fingers to encompass the whole audience in shimmering light, sweeping across the auditorium, the conductor of orchestration and the performers on stage.
Gerard and Faith leaped to their feet. “What have you done?” Faith cried. Her voice echoed around the auditorium in the sudden silence.
Stretton chuckled. “A little performance for your benefit alone. Your brother and his attendant have fallen asleep. The others cannot move until I allow it. They will not remember.”
A man opposite them had his opera glasses trained on their box, but the eyes behind were fixed with horror.
“It takes me back to the old days,” Stretton said. “Not always good old days, though. Power carries too much responsibility and too much fallibility. Power does cruel things to people. It leads others to place all their trust in a few individuals, who only have their talents to commend them.” Turning his back on the terrible, still scene before them, he faced Gerard, his sharp features cast into dramatic light and shadow by the light from the great chandelier overhead and the smaller lights at the back of their box. “When one of our kind dies, his attributes, his special talents, are transferred to an unborn child in the geographical vicinity of his death. A different person is born, but this child is born with our blood, our gifts.”
Gerard nodded. Relief flooded his senses. This was real. There were other people like him; he wasn’t alone. “So we all have attributes. I’ve never noticed anything special about me or what I can do, except for the mind communication.”
“I have my suspicions about your talents, but we won’t know until you can command your full powers. Have you guessed who I am?” Stretton’s stare was steady, as far from the picture of madness as possible. Dressed immaculately in fashionable garments of crimson velvet and cream silk, not a hair out of place, his poise was impeccable. “I have the attributes of Bacchus.” He paused. “I can cause madness. I can also cause madness in myself. My descent to Bedlam wasn’t feigned. I was truly mad, but I had set a limit to it. By the new moon I was sane once more. I can also drink without getting inebriated. In fact, it’s necessary for me to drink alcohol, because the absence of it makes me sick. And insane.”
Gerard’s eyes gleamed when a new thought occurred to him. “Do you have Bacchanals?”
Stretton grinned. “From time to time. I’ll send you an invitation.”
Gerard caught Faith’s hand. “Perhaps not.”
Faith disengaged. Gerard felt bereft. “This is all true? You believe this?” she asked.
“I have little choice.” The explanation fit, but more importantly it made sense. He wanted to believe Stretton, he knew that, but in his heart he felt a sense of rightness. It fit.
The door behind them opened.
Chapter Twelve
The click of the door opening was shockingly loud in this silent place. Eyes stared, but no one moved. They couldn’t. A stranger stood, framed in the light from behind the door, the candlelight making the image shimmer. A man, dressed in shades of grey and silver, the only colour about him the pale face and hands.
He swept a bow to Gerard and Faith. Gerard felt rather than saw Stretton’s stillness, and he sensed danger. “Amidei Masino, Conte d’Argento at your service. You might know me better as Mercury.” His slight accent was difficult to define, but the Italian name placed him more firmly.
Gerard caught his breath. The stories he’d read when he was little were coming to life before his eyes. Mercury. Hermes, messenger of the gods, the patron of doctors, often a doctor himself. Quicksilver.
He stared, then realized he was staring and looked away, hearing d’Argento chuckle. “No matter, my lord. It’s not every day you meet a god. Or enter their world. Welcome to the family.” Before Gerard could duck away, the newcomer took him into his scented arms and gave him a quick hug and a kiss on each cheek, featherlight. Then he turned to Gerard. “Welcome, sir.”
Stretton gripped his arm above the elbow. “You got here quickly.”
“You expected me to dawdle after the message you sent?” A smile glimmered and went. “Well met, my friend.”
“Well met indeed.”
D’Argento swept a bored glance over the audience below them, the spectators massed in the boxes and the circle, the actors, frozen on the stage. “They’ll develop cramps if you don’t release them soon.”
Stretton chuckled. “Come and sit down.” D’Argento moved to a chair behind Faith, and Stretton swept his arm out again.
Reality returned in a burst of sound. The fiddlers scraped, the audience’s chatter seemed like a roar after the unearthly stillness of a moment before. “They won’t remember,” Stretton assured them, and returned to his seat behind Gerard. “The forces gather. Where are you staying, d’Argento?”
“I’ve had my luggage taken to your house.”
“They will be surprised. I’m not there.”
D’Argento tsked. “I have no wish to go hawking for lodgings at this time of night.”
“I’ll send word for them to ready the place. You know what is happening here?”
“I can see for myself. You have found someone. Who is the woman?”
Gerard turned around, determined to do battle with anyone calling his Faith “the woman”. The glittering silver stare only seemed mildly surprised, a fine brow arching over one eye. “She is my betrothed, the woman I will be marrying very soon.”
“Congratulations, my friend.”
Gerard grunted in acknowledgement.
A gentle snore disturbed them, a reminder of Fordhouse’s slumber.
“Well?” Stretton said softly. “Do you believe me?”
“We have no choice,” Faith murmured, not turning her head. Her voice was bland and calm. Gerard had no idea what she thought, and she kept her mind firmly closed to him.
Faith trembled with shock, clasped her hands to stop them shaking. The revelations of the evening left her numb at first, then disbelieving, but now she believed it. Everything Stretton said was true. Gerard was the descendant of gods, had a power he only needed to release. Faith couldn’t be part of all that.
Faith knew she was a red-blooded human being. When Stretton explained that every human on the earth had the power of mind communication, even if they weren’t aware of it, her final hopes lay in the dust. It would be like a lapdog marrying a lion. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. The evening passed in a daze. She no longer responded to Gerard, feeling the unbreachable void between them. Numbly she woke George and his attendant.
If he wanted it, she would have to set him free.
Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, Faith dressed simply and went down to the large library on the first floor. This room was meant mo
re for display than for lingering in. The duke used a study on the ground floor, where he did the work of the estate when in residence, and Gerard had his own study in his suite. Although the room was unused, a fire blazed in the hearth, a guard set before it to protect the furnishing from flying sparks. The leather-bound volumes on the bookshelves held an air of being little used. The armchairs set by the fire were unmarked, with no tell-tale blemishes or dents.
She would write to him, try to explain how she felt. In the one of the drawers of the large mahogany desk, Faith found a sheaf of hand-pressed writing paper, and on its leather top was a standish with a freshly filled pot of ink and a pot of ready sharpened and trimmed quills. She had to use his own paper to tell him what she could never put in words.
Sighing, Faith sat and tried to compose her letter.
Although determined not to waste the paper, it took three tries for her to get it right. She did not dare read it over more than once. As she was finishing, the door opened and in came the duke. “Ah, my dear. The maid said I’d find you in here.”
Faith blinked at being addressed in such a way by her less-than-genial host and went immediately on her guard. Her father only addressed her as “my dear” when he wanted something.
“I just wanted to assure you that the maid who had the effrontery to spread the story about my son and you has been dismissed without a character.”
“Last night at the theatre, it was clear everyone knew. I don’t think the girl did it on her own.” She wished she were in a position to help the girl, after what she’d learned last night.
The duke regarded her through narrowed eyes. “You’re shrewder than I gave you credit for. Is that why you took the steps you did?”
“No.” Faith didn’t pretend to misunderstand. There was little point in it. “He needed it, that’s all.”
“Did you?”
Faith lifted her chin and stared at the duke, daring him to ask it again. He shrugged. “No matter. I came to ask you if you intend to go through with your plan.”
“What plan would that be?” Faith might never become a duchess, but she sounded like one at this moment, haughty, every word precisely articulated.
It didn’t intimidate the duke. “To ensnare my son into marriage. The boy is besotted with you.”
“He is not a boy, sir.”
The duke’s lip curled into a sneer. “You would be a better judge than I about that, my dear.” His voice lowered to a purr, but Faith did not respond, did not even blush. She had nothing to be ashamed of.
“I did not snare your son. He came to his decision himself.”
“That’s as well as may be. You know I’m not entirely in favour of the match? I had Manningtree’s daughter in mind for him.”
“Yes, sir, I know that.” She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she had already decided to release him, should he want it. Let the duke discover it for himself.
“I had a most unpleasant interview with Ellesmere. He has declared that he will choose you over me, that he will, if necessary, become estranged from me. You know I cannot allow that, don’t you?”
Faith would not, she absolutely would not, let this man intimidate her. More subtle than her father, more powerful, he was also infinitely more dangerous, but he shared a lot in common with Lord Pendford. “I know you will do your best to scotch the match. I know Gerard deserves a better bride than me, but it is his choice.”
The duke turned away from her, pretending to study a book on the shelf, but Faith knew as well as he the value of silence. She didn’t speak, knowing he expected her to babble. She understood his low opinion of women after the time she’d spent in his house.
Then, as though talking to the books, he said conversationally, “I will prevent it.” He turned back, meeting Faith’s steady gaze. “Shall we discuss this with no bark on it?” At her nod, he continued. “Your station is not sufficient to support such a union and your father is an ignorant sot. I will not ally myself to him. However, I bear neither you nor your brother ill will, and I will do my best to protect Fordhouse from his father. I own extensive properties, and I can find a comfortable house where your father will not be able to find you, and ensure you are protected.”
Insidious heat pressed against her head, scrambling her thoughts. When she tried to reason with herself, a headache burgeoned, suddenly, out of the blue. The duke was right. She wasn’t worthy of Gerard. She couldn’t be the cause of his death. His Grace’s offer was very generous. She should take it.
Faith gripped her pen until her knuckles turned white. “Until my younger brother Simon comes of age.” Warmth entered her mind with the notion, gentle and soothing, smoothing away her pain. It felt like approval, though from whom or what she didn’t know. If Gerard discovered what she planned, he wouldn’t approve, that was for sure, so it wasn’t him. But the feeling came from the outside, not from her. Stretton, perhaps? Except he’d seemed pleased with Gerard’s decision.
Deeply confused, her mind awhirl, she thought over what the duke had just said. She could see his point, although she might not agree with it.
“I would, of course, appreciate Fordhouse’s support when I need it,” the duke continued smoothly.
Faith wasn’t a fool. She knew what he meant. George would lend his name to the duke’s schemes, perhaps even take one of the pocket boroughs and be a nominal Member of Parliament. “Naturally, your grace, we will do whatever we can. If you help us.” They would have no choice. Whatever cause the duke wished to espouse would have to become their cause, too. Faith hated having her will removed, her brother being used in such a way, but she could see no other way of keeping him safe. “I should tell you that I have already written to Gerard.” The duke’s eyes widened in surprise. That held some satisfaction. “I told him that I would always remain his friend, but perhaps he would wish to reconsider his hasty decision to marry me. I was about to deliver it when you came in, since he is out of the house.”
The flash of surprise, followed by chagrin, had left the duke and he appeared again the picture of bland indifference. Faith knew better. She’d outwitted him, gained more than he needed to give her and, despite her lingering misery, it gave her a warm feeling.
“Then we have an accord, ma’am. You will withdraw from the betrothal as soon as it becomes politic to do so, and I will make sure you and your brother are safe.”
That put it in a nutshell. Faith advanced, hand out, making him shake hands on the arrangement. A handshake was a bond, and Boscobel would see it as such. The brief touch of his cold flesh on hers made her shiver, but she suppressed it. Let him think she honoured and respected him, instead of recognizing him for the cold-blooded power seeker he was. She would hate to set herself against him deliberately and pitied those who did.
She settled to rewriting her letter, and then she would take it upstairs and push it under Gerard’s door. She couldn’t deliver it in person and watch his face as he read it. That would be sheer torture.
Gerard left Faith alone all day, after a note revealed that she had the headache. He didn’t believe it, but the revelations of the evening before left him numb with shock. That morning he had insisted on closeting himself with Stretton, obtaining all the information he could about the new, astonishing facts in his life. Then he went out to his club, after sending Faith a note, assuring her of his love and his anxiety to see her again.
Gerard returned shortly before dinner. They had indicated they’d attend another ball tonight, another opportunity to prove Fordhouse sane, but Gerard was losing the taste for it. He wanted Faith. He wanted her to himself, he wanted to love her, and he wanted the formalities over with.
She appeared for the ball just after dinner, gowned in ice-blue silk with an embroidered white petticoat and stomacher. For Gerard’s money, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but her manner toward him remained distant. Stretton and their new colleague, the Italian d’Argento, were absent while Stretton introduced his friend to the situation
here in England.
After dinner, she claimed to feel unwell. “I can’t shake this headache. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t go to the ball tonight, but went to my room?”
Deborah responded instantly, going to her side and touching the back of her hand to Faith’s forehead. “You do feel a little hot.” She shot a vicious glance to her brother, standing close to Faith. “You’ve been overdoing it. Go and lie down, my dear. We’ll look after Fordhouse for you.”
Gerard felt deeply guilty for his treatment of both women. Deborah was receiving the force of society’s disapproval. He couldn’t allow this to go on any longer.
Easing past Deborah, he took Faith’s hand. Close up, she looked drawn and tired, dark shadows beneath her eyes and lines of tension around the corners of her mouth. “You should have spent this afternoon in bed.” She averted her gaze. “What’s wrong? Should I call for a doctor?” He was concerned now. He sensed more than tiredness in her attitude.
She did meet his gaze then. He saw anxiety, and a determination that broke his heart open with terror. She was afraid. Not of him, dear God, not of him. He must reassure her, somehow. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it right.”
“We can’t.” Her voice, though low, cracked with emotion, uncaring who was listening. Gerard felt the presence of his father and his sister, listening avidly to the exchange. “Didn’t you get my note?”
Something was seriously wrong.
“No.”
Gerard sent for a maid and had her taken to her room. He would not attend the ball. Deborah and James could take care of Fordhouse. Instead, he sent his excuses to his father and Deborah, uncaring now at how things seemed, promising he would join them in a little while. Faith’s reputation could not be blackened any more. He would only go to the ball if she insisted, and he smelled a rat. Something was deeply amiss, more than he knew, more than he could detect, but he could sense it. Learning he was normal for his kind gave him a new confidence, new strength.
Gerard searched around the door to his room, feeling under the rug set before it, and was rewarded by the crackle of crisp paper. She must have pushed it under the door and it lodged underneath by accident. He drew it out. Faith’s note. His heart heavy, he tore it open and read it.
Lightning Unbound: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 1 Page 14