by Mary Balogh
“You are going to play, sir?” Strickland asked, sliding a spare pillow beneath Alleyne’s knee and giving him instant ease. “Are you sure you remember how?”
“Memory loss is a strange thing,” Alleyne said. “At least my memory loss is. All appears to have remained to me except the details relating to my personal identity.”
“And you was lucky in cards, was you, sir?” the sergeant asked him.
“I have no idea,” Alleyne admitted. “But I must hope so. If not, it is going to be a horribly impoverished gentleman and his wife who will be arriving at Chesbury Park a short while from now. And I am going to be embarrassingly deep in your debt as well as that of the ladies here.”
“You have been lucky in love, though,” the sergeant said cheerfully, apparently determined to believe that the marriage was soon to be real and a love match to boot. “We will take that as a good omen, sir. I will find out which establishment is the best for you to go to. Things may have changed a bit since the battle. I’ll even go with you if I may, sir. To keep an eye on you, like, in case anyone should try some rough stuff, which I don’t in no way expect. And to try my own luck too.”
“Done,” Alleyne said. “I am to be consigned to darkness and sleep this early, am I?”
The sergeant was blowing out the candles and preparing to leave the room.
“You are tired, sir,” Strickland told him. “Miss York told me so, though I would have known it for myself.”
And so he was stranded in bed and in darkness at an hour when he supposed most of his peers were just sallying forth for an evening’s revelries, Alleyne thought. He wished he could remember just one occasion when he had done so. He wished he could tease just one memory past that heavy curtain that hung so relentlessly in front of his mind. Just one—and then they would all come flooding out, he was sure.
But having no memories with which to regale himself while he sought sleep, he found his mind slipping back over the past few hours.
Soon he was chuckling softly to himself.
CHAPTER X
RACHEL DOUBTED SHE WOULD RECOGNIZE her uncle when she finally saw him again. She had not seen him since she was six years old. At the time he had seemed tall and broad and rock solid, dependable and good humored. But those memories had soon grown sour.
The carriage jolted through a rut in the road, sending up a spray of mud though the rain had stopped an hour ago, and one of her knees touched one of Jonathan Smith’s across the small space between their seats. It was the knee of his good leg, fortunately, though the other one had healed rapidly during the two and a half weeks since he had acquired crutches. He was able to put some weight on it now, though he still made use of a stout cane when he walked.
She moved her own leg hastily, and her eyes met his before moving away on the pretense that she was interested in the scenery beyond the window. They had both lived up to the agreement they had made the evening after he had suggested this masquerade. They had scarcely touched each other, scarcely been alone together, scarcely exchanged a private word with each other.
As a result, far from being more comfortable in his presence, she was quite the opposite. She kept feeling incredulous about the events of that infamous evening. It could not possibly have happened. She must have dreamed it. But then she would have vivid and lurid images of herself, of him, of them, and she would want to go and jump into the nearest pond to hide herself and cool her cheeks.
It did not help that every day he was stronger and more healthy and more handsome and more masculine and more—oh, and more everything.
In a million years, she thought, catching hold of the leather strap above her shoulder as the carriage swayed over another rut, she could not have predicted that her life would take this turn. It was just too, too bizarre.
The jolting had woken Bridget from a doze. She sat up and straightened her bonnet.
“I almost fell asleep,” she said.
“I do like the way you look, Bridget,” Rachel told her.
“It’s because I resemble a staid matron, my love,” Bridget said ruefully.
“It is because you look like my beloved nurse again.” Rachel squeezed her arm.
Flossie, Phyllis, and Geraldine were riding in the carriage behind with Sergeant Strickland. All four ladies had shed their bright plumage before leaving Brussels and were dressed with almost comical respectability. Bridget, her face shiny with cleanliness, her hair a suspiciously uniform shade of mouse, looked like her dear old self. She also looked younger, though she probably would not have admitted as much herself.
Jonathan was also looking smarter and more elegant than any gentleman had a right to look. He had expensive new clothes. He had money.
Where he had acquired it she did not know, though of course it did not take any great intellectual effort to guess how he had got it. He had gone out a couple of times with Sergeant Strickland, and the second time he had come back with a new trunk and new clothes and boots and a cane—as well as with lavish amounts of food for the house. He had even paid for his own passage to England and hers too, though she had every intention of paying him back once she had her jewels and had sold a few of them. And he was the one who had hired the carriages and horses here in England.
If he had been a gambler in his past life, he obviously had lost none of his touch. He must have won a vast sum.
If there was one class of gentleman Rachel despised more than any other, it was the gamer. Her father had been one. It was a very good thing she had not conceived a passion for Jonathan Smith and that their marriage was not a real one. Gamers did not make responsible husbands or providers—and that was a colossal understatement. There were moments of overflowing plenty and giddy extravagance, but there were weeks and months and even years of scrounging poverty and skulking debt.
He had other weaknesses of character too, of course. What other gentleman would have dreamed up and actually implemented a scheme like this? Or thrown himself into it with such enthusiasm? He had discussed details for hours with her and her friends, and he had always looked as if he were enjoying himself enormously.
His eyes were handsome enough as they were, she thought resentfully, without the twinkle and the roguish gleam that so often set them alight. She looked at those eyes now to find that they were focused upon her.
“We should be there soon,” he said.
At the last change of horses they had been assured that another would not be necessary. For a moment Rachel wished she were anywhere else on earth but close to Chesbury Park. Her stomach seemed intent upon turning a complete somersault inside her and she felt a few moments of raw panic.
What on earth was she doing?
But she was only going to get what was hers, what her mother had left for her. Anyway, it was too late to change the plan now, though from the way Jonathan was looking at her, she suspected that he knew she was very close to doing just that. His eyes smiled at her. And that was something else she resented. How could he make his eyes smile when the rest of his face did not? He must know how very attractive the expression made him look.
“Does the countryside look at all familiar to you?” she asked him.
“It is England,” he said with a shrug. “I have not forgotten the country, Rachel, only my own place in it.”
But she scarcely heard his answer. The carriage was turning between high wrought iron gates, and she realized that they had arrived at Chesbury Park.
A gravel driveway beyond the gates wound its way through a forest of old oak and chestnut trees. It all looked alarmingly huge and stately to Rachel. The audacity of what they were all doing struck her anew.
And then, gradually, there were glimpses through the trees of an imposing gray stone mansion, far grander than anything she had expected. This was where her mama had grown up? Where she had belonged? There were spacious, tree-dotted lawns about the house beyond the woods, she could see, and a large lake to the stable side of it. There was a long parterre garden stretching across the
front of the house.
It was only as the carriage wheels crunched over the driveway while it proceeded along beside the lake and then turned sharply before the stable block and rumbled across the terrace that separated the house from the parterres that Rachel had the sudden thought that perhaps her uncle was from home.
What a dash to all their expectations that would be! She almost hoped that it would happen, except that they would all then find themselves stranded in the middle of Wiltshire, virtually penniless and without a plan.
Jonathan had leaned forward in his seat to set a hand on her knee.
“Steady,” he said. “All will be well.”
But she jumped with awareness and felt anything but steady.
The carriage rolled to a halt at the foot of a wide flight of stone steps that led up to the double front doors. They were fast shut, and no one came running outside to investigate the arrival of two strange traveling carriages. No groom came running from the stables. The coachman jumped down from the box, opened the door, and set down the steps. Warm, fresh summer air flooded the rather stuffy interior. Jonathan descended carefully and then braced his weight on his cane as he handed Rachel down.
The others were alighting from the second carriage, she could see. Geraldine and Sergeant Strickland stayed back beside the conveyance. Despite her plain gray dress and cloak and the voluminous cap she wore beneath a plain bonnet, Geraldine still looked like a voluptuous Italian actress. She also looked like someone other female servants would resent on sight and all their male counterparts would come to fisticuffs over. Sergeant Strickland, a black patch covering his empty eye socket, his facial bruises faded to a motley blend of sickly yellow and a pale gray, did indeed look like the ferocious pirate of Geraldine’s predictions.
The other two came forward along the terrace while Jonathan was helping Bridget to alight. Phyllis looked like a complacent young matron who had never in her life entertained a naughty thought. Flossie, her blond hair tamed beneath her neat black bonnet, her shapely person encased in decent black, looked fragile and pretty and as respectable as a parson’s wife.
“I still can’t accustom myself to not having to squint every time I look at your hair, Bridge,” Phyllis said.
“Pinch your cheeks, Rachel,” Flossie advised. “You look as pale as a ghost.”
Jonathan made her jump again then by taking her hand in his and drawing it through his arm. He smiled at her, his eyes warm and adoring.
“Let the game begin,” he murmured.
“Yes.” She smiled dazzlingly back at him.
He led her up the steps and rapped on one of the doors with the head of his cane. A whole minute passed—or so it seemed—before an elderly servant answered the knock. He looked from one to the other of them as if they had two heads apiece.
“Mrs. Streat, Mrs. Leavey, Miss Clover, and Sir Jonathan and Lady Smith, formerly Miss Rachel York, to wait upon Baron Weston,” Jonathan said briskly, handing the man a calling card. “He is at home?”
“I will see, sir,” the servant said noncommittally. But he did stand aside to admit them to the house.
Jonathan had even remembered to have calling cards made.
Rows of tall fluted columns soared upward from a checkered floor to fan outward in support of the floor above. The celling was gilded and painted with what appeared to be angels and cherubs. Marble busts on stone pedestals gazed with stern, sightless eyes from their wall niches. A grand, wide staircase opposite the doors led upward and divided at the first landing into two curving branches. A great chandelier hung down over the staircase.
It was a hall designed to awe the visitor, Rachel thought. It certainly succeeded with her.
The servant disappeared up the stairs.
Rachel had always imagined Chesbury Park as a sizable manor surrounded by sizable gardens. She had not expected a great mansion or—despite its name—a vast park. For the first time she understood the enormity of her mother’s defiance in insisting upon marrying Papa despite Uncle Richard’s opposition. She had gone from this to the dark, crowded rooms they had usually rented in London.
“It is enormous,” Phyllis said in a whisper.
They were all gazing about them with open awe—except for Jonathan, Rachel noticed. There was a look of interest on his face, but he appeared to be perfectly at his ease. Did that mean he was accustomed to such surroundings?
After what seemed like forever, the servant returned and invited them to follow him. He led them up the left branch of the grand staircase to the second landing, from which wide corridors led in both directions. But they did not proceed along either one. Instead, they were ushered through the tall double doors directly ahead of them into a drawing room. Its wine-colored brocaded walls were hung with portraits and landscape paintings in heavy gilded frames, its coved ceiling was lavishly painted with scenes from classical mythology, and its long windows were hung with rich velvet. A Persian carpet covered most of the floor, and the heavy gilded furniture was arranged in conversation groupings, the dominant one being about the high, ornately carved marble fireplace and mantel.
There was a gentleman standing before the fireplace, his back to it. He was not very elderly, though he appeared to be at first glance. He was thin and gray—even his complexion seemed to be gray-tinged—and stoop-shouldered. But even had he stood upright, he would have been no taller than medium height. Rachel had not seen her uncle for sixteen years and looked intently at him now. He was very different from the man she remembered. Could it be he?
He looked back at her from keen eyes beneath bushy gray eyebrows as she stepped toward him ahead of the others and curtsied with deep formality. And she recognized him at last. She remembered those eyes, which had always looked very directly at her. So many adults did not really see children at all.
“Uncle Richard?” She wondered if she ought to close the rest of the distance between them and kiss his cheek, but she hesitated a moment too long, and then it was impossible to do. Besides, he was a stranger to her even if he was her only known relative.
“Rachel?” He kept his hands behind his back as he inclined his head courteously but quite impersonally. “You resemble your mother. So you have married, have you?”
“I have,” she said. “Just last week in Brussels, where I went before the Battle of Waterloo.” She turned her head and smiled warmly as Jonathan appeared at her side. “May I present Sir Jonathan Smith to you, Uncle Richard? Baron Weston, Jonathan.”
The two men exchanged bows.
“I was living with dear friends in Brussels before my marriage,” Rachel said, “and since they were also returning to England this week, they were kind enough to give us their company here. May I have the pleasure of introducing them? Mrs. Streat, Mrs. Leavey, her sister-in-law, and Miss Clover, who was kind enough to act as my chaperon after I left Lady Flatley’s service.”
Bows and curtsies were exchanged.
“Phyllis and I positively insisted upon accompanying our young friend to your very door before proceeding on our way,” Flossie explained, “though of course it was unnecessary to do so when she is now wed to Sir Jonathan and when she has dear Bridget to keep her company. But such is our fondness for her.” Somehow she succeeded in looking both picturesque and weary to the bone, as if coming here had been a great ordeal and a noble sacrifice.
“We assured dear Rachel that Baron Weston would be vexed with us if we abandoned her as soon as we came to England’s shores,” Phyllis added with a gracious smile, like a queen conferring her notice upon a commoner. “Though I daresay you would not have been too vexed, since she is now a married lady. It is still hard even for us to believe, is it not, Floss— Flora? Such a whirlwind courtship and such an affecting nuptial service.”
“Do have a seat, ladies,” Rachel’s uncle offered. “And you too, Smith. The tea tray will be arriving in a moment. I will have rooms made up for all of you. It is out of the question for you to continue on your way until you are well rested after you
r journey.”
“That is extraordinarily kind of you, my lord,” Flossie said. “I am not a great traveler and confess to being quite exhausted after a few days of being on the move.”
“And I retch most miserably whenever only the flimsy boards of a ship stand between me and the deep blue depths,” Phyllis said. “I suppose vomit would be a more genteel word, would it? But I am famous for my plain speaking, am I not, Flora?”
Rachel seated herself on a settee and Jonathan sat beside her. Their eyes met, a slight grimace in her own, a hint of laughter in his, though he had played the part of dignified gentleman very well so far. She hoped Flossie and Phyllis would not talk too much.
But she soon turned her attention back to her uncle. She gazed at him with troubled eyes. This was the tall, robust, laughing uncle of her childhood memory? Even given the fact that she had been very young and had regarded him from a child’s perspective, he had surely changed considerably in sixteen years. He seemed ill. No, there was no doubt about it. He was gaunt and weary-looking.
She had expected that she was coming here to pit her wits against a robust, blustering, stubborn man—against someone she would feel justified in deceiving and defying. She resented the fact that he looked frail.
She was also disturbed by it, even a little frightened by it.
He was, as far as she knew, her only living relative, the only person who kept her from being all alone in the world. It was an absurd concern when her only contacts with him in twenty-two years had been those few days when she was six, and two letters since then, both of them denying her what she had asked for.
But she felt upset.
ALLEYNE WAS HAPPY TO BE IN ENGLAND. IT FELT LIKE home, even though he had no idea to which specific part of it he belonged. He also felt perfectly comfortable in his present surroundings, though they looked quite unfamiliar to him. So did Lord Weston, though he had wondered if perhaps the baron would recognize him. Matters would have been hopelessly complicated if he had, of course.