The scene in the courtyard was bewildering—as if a house party from London had lost its way and turned up at the manor. Coachboys, outriders, grooms and maids rushed hither and yon, opening carriage doors and setting steps in place, tugging at the straps that secured bags and trunks to the backs and tops of the carriages. A tall, exceedingly elegant gentleman stepped down from the second carriage; he cast a swift glance about the teeming courtyard—his gaze halted, and lingered, on her, before returning to the scene of chaos about the first carriage. Despite his fairer coloring—brown hair, not black—Catriona felt certain the gentleman was another Cynster.
Just as she felt certain the small, dark-and-silver-haired lady he helped down from the first carriage was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives—Helena, Richard’s stepmother. With the brisk energy of a whirlwind, the Dowager waved the elegant gentleman back to his own carriage, where a second lady was waiting to descend. Behind the Dowager, two young ladies, their lowered hoods revealing a wealth of golden curls, were gaily piling out of the first carriage. Claiming the arm of one of her grooms, the Dowager made straight for the front porch, her cloak billowing about her.
She came up the front steps with the force of a military charge. “My dear!”
Catriona only just had time to brace herself; flinging her arms wide, the Dowager enveloped her in a warm embrace.
“Now you may tell me he is better—he is better, is he not? But of course, he is! You would not otherwise be standing here so calmly, welcoming a garrulous old woman!” Green eyes twinkling, the Dowager hugged her again, then released her; holding both her hands wide, she stepped back and, with every evidence of shrewd consideration, quickly looked her over.
“Oh, yes!” Looking up, the Dowager caught Catriona’s eye. “You will do very well for him, I think.” She smiled, brilliantly. “And you will not let him down—you will always be there for him, yes?” For one instant, green and hazel eyes held, and touched, then the Dowager beamed. With Gallic exuberance, she kissed Catriona on both cheeks. “Welcome to the family, my dear.”
Touched to the heart by the profound love that shone from the Dowager’s eyes, Catriona blinked rapidly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Helena,” the Dowager firmly declared. “I am Helena to both my sons’ wives. But tell me—Devil and Honoria have arrived, have they not? And how is Richard—is he eating? Has he risen? Has—”
“Aunt Helena, you’re liable to give poor Catriona a very strange notion of the family.”
Turning, Catriona beheld the elegant gentleman with a graceful lady on his arm. They both smiled warmly; he bowed. “Vane Cynster, my dear—and I assure you we don’t all rattle on so.”
“I am not ‘rattling on,’ ” Helena declared. “I am merely exercising the right of any mother to learn of her son’s health.”
“But he isn’t about to die, is he?” The question came from one of the blonde beauties, now lined up behind the Dowager.
“Surely not Richard?” The second young lady fixed Catriona with huge blue eyes. “But you’re a healer aren’t you? You’d save him.”
There was an element of absolute confidence in that last, uttered with a nod, that touched Catriona anew.
The graceful lady sighed and touched the Dowager’s arm. “Perhaps, Helena, if we move inside—I rather think there’s another snow shower coming.”
Catriona stepped back and gestured the Dowager in; as the Dowager swept majestically across the threshold, the graceful lady touched Catriona’s arm and met her glance with a smile.
“I’m Patience, my dear. Recently married to Vane, another of the family’s reprobates. And these are Amanda and Amelia—and”—she paused to draw breath and met Catriona’s eye—“I’ll explain how it all happened later.”
They followed the Dowager in; the scene in the hall quickly achieved the same degree of chaos that had held sway in the courtyard. Boxes and trunks were ferried in and piled in corners under Henderson’s dour direction. Mrs. Broom looked as stunned as Catriona felt; wide-eyed, the housekeeper struggled to take in her instructions, then rushed off, calling to maids and footmen to open up and air rooms for the latest guests.
A cacophony unlike anything the serene manor had known rose in the hall as the two young ladies checked which bandbox was whose and where the Dowager’s shawl had gone; Vane and both coachmen were in earnest discussion with Irons over where to stable the extra horses. The Dowager had discovered McArdle and was inquiring after his stiff limbs as if she’d known him all his life—and he was responding as if she had. Rushing maids and footmen stopped now here, now there, to put a question, then dashed off about their duties.
Catriona stood just inside the front doors and took it all in, let it wash over her. The noise, the boisterousness, the enormous well of energy that swelled within her hall; it was an immensely powerful force. It was there in the swift, neat movements of the Dowager, in the set of her head as she tilted it the better to consider McArdle’s replies. There in the crisp directions Vane Cynster issued, in the innate grace, redolent of harnessed power, with which he moved. There in the glow that lit the young ladies’ faces and invested their bodies with a taut grace reminiscent of fawns about to spring into flight.
Coming to stand beside her, Patience looked over the hall. “The Cynsters are here—what more need be said?” But she was smiling. She turned to Catriona. “I do apologize for descending on you like this, but as you were going to have to cope with Helena come what may, it’s probably just as well the rest of us are here to help you.”
The clear affection in Patience’s tone, in her eyes, as they returned to the Dowager, stripped her comments of any implied criticism.
“Perhaps,” Catriona murmured, “I’d better take her up to see Richard.” Patience nodded. “Do. It’ll set her mind at rest. Don’t worry about the rest of us.” She smiled at Catriona. “If you don’t mind, I’ll speak directly to your housekeeper if there’s any problem—I rather think you must have enough on your plate.”
Catriona returned her smile. “Please do.” Looking back at the Dowager, she drew in a deep breath. “It’s possible I may be rather busy for a while.”
With that, she stepped boldly into the fray and fetched up by the Dowager’s side. “Helena, if you wish, I’ll take you to see Richard—I’m sure he’ll be anxious to see you.”
The Dowager shot her a shrewd glance. “No, no, ma petite—it is I who am anxious to see him. He”—with a Gallic gesture, she dismissed all males—“is but a man. He does not understand these things.”
As she took the arm Helena offered, Catriona saw two blonde heads lift; two pairs of blue eyes fastened on them.
“Amelia! Amanda!”
Both heads turned; Patience beckoned. With a sigh and a last look, they went.
“Vane, you can see Richard later—I want to get our rooms sorted out first.”
Her gaze on the stairs, Catriona smiled and bore the Dowager upstairs to see her second son.
Richard felt trapped—deserted by Devil and Honoria—left to face his stepmother alone. When the door opened and swung wide, he contemplated groaning and acting much iller than he was, but then he glimpsed his wife’s fiery halo and thought better of any deception.
Only God and Her Lady knew where it might land him.
“Richard!” Helena—she who he’d always known as Maman—came sweeping down upon him.
Smiling reassuringly, he returned her hug, and squirmed when he glimpsed tears in her eyes. To his relief, she blinked quickly and they were gone, and she beamed her brilliant smile at him.
“Bon! You are already much recovered, I can see.”
To his surprise, instead of taking possession of him, his sickbed and his room in short order, she contented herself with taking possession of his hand, and cast a questioning glance at Catriona, standing at the end of the bed.
Catriona inclined her head. “He is much better—he was unconscious for five days, but with Devil’s help, we managed to walk him so the
poison wore off sooner.”
“This poison.” Helena tilted her head, still regarding Catriona. “How was it given him?”
Catriona looked at Richard. “In his morning coffee.”
“And the person who put it there? Will they try again?”
“No.” Steadily, Catriona held Richard’s gaze. “The poisoner is no longer in the manor, or the vale.”
“Ah!” Helena nodded sagely. “They have run to safety, yes?” She looked at Richard, then squeezed his hand. “You will go after them, I know—but not until you are well again, hein?”
“I’ll be perfectly well by tomorrow.” Richard tried to catch Catriona’s eye but failed—she was looking at Helena.
“You will know best, of course,” his impossible stepmother was saying, “but how quickly he recovers will depend on the poison, yes?”
“Indeed.” Looking back at Richard, far too calmly for his liking, Catriona informed him: “You were given wolfsbane, and probably henbane as well. But it’s the wolfsbane that’s the most lingering. It weakens muscles, and it takes far longer than one thinks to release its effect. For the amount you must have taken in, it would generally take weeks for full recovery.”
“Weeks?” Horrified, Richard stared at her.
She smiled reassuringly. “In your case, you have a very robust and . . . er, vigorous constitution. If you remain in bed and eat what Cook sends you until you can stand and walk alone, you may be well enough to leave this room inside of a week.”
“Eh, bien—your wife has spoken. She is the healer here and you must pay attention.” Placing his hand under the sheets, Helena covered it and patted his arm. “You will be good and recover quickly, so that I will not worry, no?”
Richard stared at her, then he looked at Catriona and saw the militant light in her eye.
With a long-suffering groan, he sank back into his pillows. He was rolled up—horse, foot and guns.
“Damn it—why couldn’t you stop her!” Grumpily, Richard mock-glared at Vane.
Who merely grinned. “Me and which army?” Settling on one corner of the bed, his back against the post, Vane raised a resigned brow. “You’ve known what she’s like all your life.”
Richard humphed.
“And if you’d seen what faced us when we arrived at Somersham, you’d be thanking me for managing to leave Mrs. Hull and Webster behind. As it is”—Vane glanced at Devil, similarly ensconced on the other side of the bed—“I’m sure the only reason they consented to remain at Somersham was because Sebastian was there.”
Richard looked at Vane in only partly feigned horror, then shook his head. “What I can’t understand is what you’re all doing here.”
“We,” Vane said, clearly referring to himself and Patience, “were returning from visiting the Beuclaires in Norwich and thought we’d stop by to tell Devil and Honoria our news.”
Devil raised his brows. “What news?”
“The impending extension of our family.”
“Really?” Devil grinned and thumped Vane on the shoulder. “Excellent. Another playmate for Sebastian.”
Both Richard, beaming and shaking hands with Vane, and Vane himself, stopped and turned to stare at Devil.
“Another?” Vane asked.
Devil grinned even more as he resettled his shoulders against the bedpost. “Well, you didn’t think I’d stop at just one, did you?”
They hadn’t, but . . . “When?” Richard asked.
Devil shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometime in summer.”
Richard hesitated, then raised a brow and sank back.
“Sounds like our respective mothers and aunts will be in alt. Nothing they like better than a baby or two.” Or three. But he kept his lips shut on that point and looked at Vane. “So what happened when you got to Somersham?”
“We arrived mid-morning, one hour after Helena and the twins, who she’s been chaperoning about, got in from the Ashfordleighs—we didn’t even get a chance to get out of our coats. Your mother had read Honoria’s note and got the bit well and truly between her teeth even before we arrived. Nothing would do but she must rush north to your side—to your deathbed, as she put it. As usual, it was impossible to gainsay her—and, of course, I couldn’t let her go rushing through the snow with just the twins for escort. Well,” Vane gestured, “you can imagine what it was like. Mrs. Hull on the stairs with Sebastian in her arms declaring you were at death’s door. Webster all but wringing his hands and making unhelpful suggestions as to how best to reach the Lowlands. The twins oohing and aahing and trying not to remember Tolly’s death. And your mother, center stage, vowing she would fight through drifts on her hands and knees to get to your side in time. In time for what, I didn’t ask.”
“To make a long story short, I didn’t stop them because I couldn’t. The push north had gathered so much momentum before we arrived that it was beyond my poor ability to deflect.”
Richard grimaced in exasperated understanding. “Couldn’t you at least have left the twins behind?”
Vane eyed him straitly. “Have you tried recently to turn the twins—independently or in concert?”
Richard blinked at him. “But they’re only girls.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell them—they seem to have different ideas.”
“Humph!” Richard settled deeper into his prison.
“Well, they won’t be able to test their wings here—it’s as quiet as a nunnery.”
An hour later, Catriona presided over the noisiest dinner she could ever recall. It wasn’t that anyone raised their voices, or spoke above the tone of polite conversation. But the sudden injection of Cynster elegance, wit and curiosity had spawned innumerable conversations, both at the main table, where all the guests sat, and at all the tables in the hall, filled by her household.
Everyone was chattering animatedly.
The wash of sound did not give her a headache—not at all. It was comforting, in some ill-defined way. There was warmth in the laughter, in the interest and attention, in the real affection so openly displayed. There was a human element the Cynsters had brought to the vale that, somehow, had been missing before. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but . . .
In her habitual role as head of the household, she kept an eye on the courses, making sure her guests needs were met. Everything ran smoothly—indeed, despite the totally unexpected influx, no serious problem had occurred.
Her gaze, at that instant, resting on the Dowager, Catriona inwardly grinned. Everything had gone right, because nothing dared go wrong, not before the Dowager and Honoria. Patience was less forceful a personality, at least on the surface, but even she could command when she wished. She’d called both the twins and her husband to order very effectively that morning.
Catriona inwardly frowned. Vibrant, effective matriarchs did not fit her earlier vision of what Cynster wives must be like. Recalling what had given rise to that transparently inaccurate view, she waited until Honoria, beside her, was free, then caught her eye. “I know,” she murmured, leaning closer and lowering her voice, “what the bare circumstances of Richard’s birth were. What I can’t quite understand”—her gaze flicked to the Dowager—“is how his acceptance into the family came about.”
Honoria grinned. “It is difficult to see—unless one has previously met Helena. Then . . . anything becomes possible.” She lowered her voice. “Devil told me that when Richard was dumped, a squalling babe of a few months, on the ducal doorstep, Helena heard the ruckus, and before Devil’s father had a chance to hide matters, Helena simply—literally—took Richard out of his hands.” She paused and sent an affectionate glance up the table to the Dowager. “You see, Helena loves children, but after Devil, she couldn’t have any more of her own. The one thing she most yearned for was another—especially another son. So, when Richard arrived, in her inimitable way she decided it was all Providence’s doing and claimed him as her own. The trick was, by then, she was well established as Devil’s father’s duchess—a veritabl
e power within the ton. Quite simply, none had the gall to gainsay her—where was the point? Helena could have socially destroyed most people with nothing more than a raised brow.”
“I’m surprised Devil’s father was so . . . acquiescent.”
“Acquiescent? From all I’ve heard of him, I doubt the term would apply. But he sincerely loved Helena—the accident that resulted in Richard’s birth was more in the way of him comforting Richard’s mother than in any intended infidelity. And so he indulged Helena—he loved her enough to allow her the one thing she asked of him in recompense: he allowed her to claim Richard and bring him up as her own, something which unquestionably gave her great and abiding pleasure.”
Again, Honoria glanced affectionately at the Dowager. Catriona did the same.
“So,” Honoria concluded, “Richard’s birth has been an open secret for thirty years, and, really, no one cares any more. He’s simply Richard Cynster, Devil’s brother—and as the family approve of that, who’s to argue?”
Catriona shared a glance with Honoria, then smiled and touched her arm. “Thank you for telling me.”
Honoria returned the smile, then looked around, alerted by the deep rumble of her spouse’s voice. She promptly called him to order, taking up verbal cudgels in the twins’ defense. The head of their house was dissatisfied with their appearance—in what way he refused to clarify.
Catriona stifled a grin. Cynster wives were definitely not mere cyphers, pretty trophies to be displayed on their husbands’ arms. With three others in the room, she couldn’t escape the conclusion that, for whatever inscrutable male reasons, Cynster men had a soul-deep affinity for strong women.
And, furthermore, despite their occasional comments to the contrary, they wouldn’t have it any other way. They took real delight in indulging their wives; one only needed to catch the look in Devil’s eyes as they rested on Honoria, or in Vane’s as he watched Patience.
Or in Richard’s as he watched her.
The realization stopped her thoughts—something inside her quivered. The reason Cynster men so indulged their wives was there in their eyes. Much indulged their wives might be; much loved they certainly were.
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