by Pearl Wolf
Epilogue
Egypt, The Arabian Desert—April Fool’s Day, 1817
That fateful night back in November, when Olivia had read the letter from Viscount Sidmouth, she felt as if Sebastian had taken her heart and made it his own. It wasn’t so much the coveted prize he had won for her. It was the fact that he’d fought the home secretary long and hard, knowing that he risked his own career. But he had prevailed after all. Her Sebastian had won her the right to be a spy. He could not have given her a more wondrous gift.
Never again would she have reason to doubt his love for her. Never again would she have reason to mistrust him. Never again would she have reason to doubt his devotion, for he had done this magnificent thing. The one thing she yearned for most. He had made her dream come true. He had placed her deepest longings well before his own. How odd, she thought, struck by the strangeness of her thoughts. To fight for one’s right to die for another isn’t love at all, but mere heroism. But to fight for another’s right to be! Sebastian had come to understand what being meant to her. Ah, that indeed is love in its most selfless guise.
For them, there would be no fancy balls or routs or musicales, but that was just fine. Instead they would travel the world. Instead they would win the respect of the intelligence network in England for the quality of their work. That would be more than enough for a lifetime.
They were in the Arabian Desert, where jagged plateaus led down to the sea and up to volcanic mountains. The arid land held a few small villages, all struggling to survive. It lay between the Mediterranean Sea, the Gulf of Aqaba and the Gulf of Suez, the latter being of strategic interest to England. The Egyptians had excavated a canal across the Isthmus as early as the thirteenth century BC. Neglected since the eighth century AD, it fell into disrepair. The French vied with the English for the right to cut a new canal—and to control it. It would shorten the journey for merchant ships plying their trade between Europe, Asia and Africa.
Olivia and Sebastian lay side by side in the sand. They wore Arabian djellabahs that covered them from head to toe. Kefayas wrapped around their heads protected them from the sun, the wind and the sand. Their eyes were trained on binoculars through which they spied a caravan of camels carrying large bundles, moving along single file. Were they nomads or were they rebels carrying guns and ammunition meant to aid the enemy? It was hard to tell at this distance.
Olivia spit the sand from her mouth and said, “Sebastian?”
He put his lips to her ear and whispered. “Shhh. Sound carries in the desert. What is it, my love?”
In answer, she rolled on her back and reached for his hand. Eager to repay his precious gift with one of her own, she covered his hand and pressed it gently on her stomach.
With a bewildered expression, he mouthed one word: What?
It took only a moment for his hand to experience a remarkable sensation. A slight quiver made it tingle. Knowledge dawned when he began to feel a delicate ballet under his palm, very like a tiny fish swimming across a gentle pond. He drew in his breath. It took him less than a moment to realize that the sensation he was privileged to feel was the feathery movement of his son—or daughter—who would one day soon emerge from the womb to meet its parents.
“Oh my God!” he said aloud, heedless of the echo of his words reverberating across the desert. His fingers tugged his wife’s kefaya only low enough to kiss her lips without allowing so much as a kernel of sand to vandalize her cherished mouth.
He said softly, a sly smile on his face, “I wonder, my darling helpmate. Does this put an end to your career as a spy?”
A wicked twinkle did a jig in her eyes. She crossed her fingers to deny the lie she was about to utter to the man she loved.
“Yes, dear.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I read Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, they make me feel as though I am living in the world of the Regency era (1811–1820) in England. Many readers must feel as I do, for there are enough historical romances and scholarly books written about this colorful period to fill a library and the list keeps growing.
This novel includes a key character of the times, “The Right Honorable” Henry Addington (1757–1844) 1st Viscount Sidmouth* who became prime minister of England (1801–1804) after William Pitt the Younger resigned. He botched things with the Treaty of Amiens, causing a lull in the war with France. Sidmouth was succeeded by the same prime minister he replaced three years earlier.
As secretary of the home office charged with the safety of the country (1812–1822), Sidmouth used his power to crush the opposition. He suspended habeas corpus (1817) and helped pass repressive legislation. In spite of this abuse of power, Sidmouth managed to remain active in government until his death.
The Lost (in 1914) Gardens of Heligan* also appears in this work. The gardens were developed by the owners, the Tremayne family, famous botanists and horticulturists. They are located near Mevagissy in North Cornwall. Featured in a TV series in 1970, the gardens are open to visitors year round.
Historical fiction is meant to reflect the times in which an author sets the characters. It enriches our lives. I hope you share this view with me. Happy reading!
—Pearl Wolf
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Pearl Wolf’s next historical romance,
TOO HOT FOR A RAKE,
coming in 2010!
London, April Fools’ Day, 1818
Lady Helena Fairchild shivered in anticipation as she stole across the lawn. The night was misted in fog. Only the dim glow of the street lamps pierced the gloom. She paused under the familiar oak tree and stopped to listen. When she heard no sounds from within, she gathered her silk gown, tucked it into her pantalets, turned and climbed the tree.
With customary ease, she slithered along a sturdy branch that led to the balcony. Her hands and feet found purchase on the ornate grillwork and she let go of the tree limb. It snapped back with such a loud crack, she froze, waited a heart stopping moment, and then eased herself over the balustrade. The door was ajar. She stepped into Darlington’s chamber and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
She followed the sound of gentle snores coming from the bed a few steps away. The bed curtains weren’t drawn, for the night was warm, one of those rare April nights that made the air feel as if it were already the middle of May. Her fingers trembled as she loosened the ribbons of her bodice. She pushed both sleeves off her shoulders and shifted her gown to undo the back buttons until it slipped from her hips and fell to the floor. She removed her chemise and her pantalets. A shock of cold air brushed her nude body. A small, irregular mountain of discarded clothing, rested on the Aubusson rug.
There was no turning back now. She lifted the quilt and climbed into his bed. A small smile curved her lips when she noted that he favored the right side of the bed when he slept. That was a good sign, for she favored the left.
Though the erratic pounding of her heart seemed too loud to her ears, Chris didn’t stir. She touched him. His arm was strong and warm and firm. How muscular he had become since she’d seen him last. Was it only a year? His brawny body filled her with wonder. He turned again, pulling the quilt with him. It slid to the floor on his side of the bed. Her eyes widened in astonishment, for he wore nothing. Where was his nightshirt?
She hesitated, trapped between panic and curiosity. Curiosity won. She dared to stroke his back with a feathery touch. Her hand trailed down to his buttocks and came to rest on one dimpled cheek. He sighed. She pulled her hand away, caught between fear of waking him and hope. She waited a few seconds and touched again, astonished at her own boldness.
She hadn’t anticipated the spark of electricity that tore through her. When a beam of moonlight fell across him, she raised herself on one elbow and rested her chin on her hand to examine his body. She could not believe her good fortune. Once scrawny, the boy she’d fallen in love with when she was still in the schoolroom had grown into a powerfully built man.
Darl
ington turned and flung an arm across her chest, sending her flat on her back. His hand came to rest on one breast, which caused her nipples to pucker. When the rhythm of his breathing gentled and her heart ceased its knocking, she lifted his wrist and placed his arm by his side. The moon skittered behind a cloud, plunging the room into darkness.
Helena dared to spread her fingers through the crisp hairs on his chest, trailing down to the indentation in his navel. She steeled herself to explore further. Her hand traveled down to the mound of hair below his waist. He sighed in his sleep and threw one leg over her thighs, pinning her to the bed. She touched something soft and allowed herself a tiny smile. When his manhood began to engorge, she jerked away, but his hand shot out and kept hers where it was. If he woke now, surely he would willingly seduce…
A blinding light transformed the chamber into bright daylight when the door to the hallway flew open. Chris would have to marry her now. She had but a moment’s regret that they hadn’t had time to complete their love making.
“What’s wrong, Waverley? I heard noise. Are you awake?”
Chris? But who’s this in his bed? Helena burrowed her head under the pillow.
A voice fogged in sleep, said, “That you Darlington?”
Chris banged the door shut behind him and set the candelabra down. “Have you lost your senses, Waverley? How dare you seduce one of my maids? I never dreamed a guest in my home would behave in such a fashion.”
Desmond sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Maid? What maid?”
“Get out of bed, lass, and return to your room at once.”
She whimpered at the anger in his voice.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t cry. Do as I say. I promise not to sack you.”
Christopher Darlington wore his dressing gown, having had no time for proper attire in the middle of the night. His blond hair was uncombed and lay limp, a few strands pasted to his forehead. Myopic gray eyes squinted at the bed’s inhabitants.
Helena drew in her breath, lifted one corner of the pillow and said meekly, “I’m not a maid, Chris. It’s me.”
His hand shook as he fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles. When he jammed them on his nose, he found his voice and said, “Helena? What are you doing here? Cover yourself, for heaven’s sake!”
Darlington’s guest felt as if he were a spectator watching a melodrama whose leading lady had the body and the face of an angel. When she spoke, her eyes shone like two obsidians and her hair bounced in a crown of burnished curls.
“Um. I can explain.” Her head swiveled as she searched for the quilt, but it wasn’t there.
Waverley reached for the fallen cover and threw it over them both. His eyes met hers with a questioning intensity that made her turn red. “I await your, er…explanation with interest, ma’am.”
Helena sat up and clutched the quilt to her bosom. Distracted by the sight of his wavy black hair and startling blue eyes, she managed to glare at him. “I thought that he was you, Chris. What’s this…rake doing in your bed?”
Waverley managed to turn his laugh into a cough.
Chris ignored her question. “Collect your clothing and get dressed at once, Helena.”
She swung her legs off the bed and attempted to yank the cover with her, but Waverley held his end in a firm grip. “Oh no you don’t. Not before my host hands me my dressing gown.”
Darlington glanced around him, found Waverley’s robe on the back of a chair and launched it toward the bed as if it were the main sail of a ship.
Without warning, Waverley let go of the quilt and Helena fell off the bed, quilt and all.
“Cur,” she grumbled as she wrapped the quilt around her. “Turn your head!” She held the cover with one hand, gathered her clothing with the other and side-stepped across the room toward the dressing screen.
When she emerged a few moments later, she turned her head from Chris to Waverley and back to Chris. She jutted her chin out. “How is it that this rake is occupying your chamber?”
“You chose the wrong chamber,” growled Darlington. “This is the guest chamber. The Marquis of Waverley is my guest.”
Oh dear! Was I in bed with a marquis? Her heart sank at the mortification.
“You owe me an apology, Darlington,” Waverley drawled, examining his fingernails. “The young lady is not a maid who woke me from a deep sleep.” He turned to Helena and added, “You needn’t blush, ma’am. I merely supposed I was in the midst of a delightful dream.” He stretched, yawned and ran his fingers through his hair.
“A nightmare, more like!” she said bitterly.
His eyes danced with amusement. “Allow me to assure you, ma’ am, that nothing drastic occurred. You were not violated, ma’am. Not by me, in any event.”
Nothing drastic occurred? What of your engorgement? What of the heat that seared my loins? You call that nothing? “Why is the marquis here, Chris?”
Waverley took a step toward her, picked up her hand and kissed it. “Darlington was kind enough to invite me, ma’am.”
“Don’t touch me.” She drew her hand away.
Darlington stepped between them. “How did you get in here, Helena?”
She glanced at the open door to the balcony.
“You climbed the oak tree? You’re not a child anymore. You might have fallen and broken your neck this time.”
“Would you care to make the introduction, Darlington?”
“Sorry. This is Lady Fairchild, my betro…my next door neighbor.”
“Lady Fairchild.” Waverley made an exaggerated leg.
Helena cast her eyes down. “How do you do, Lord Waverley,” she murmured, appalled at what she’d done to this man, at the embarrassing places her hands had explored, at how readily he had responded. At how much she took pleasure in it.
“It isn’t polite to stare,” said Waverley, his eyes filled with amusement.
“My apologies, sir. For…for calling you a rake.”
“Accepted, ma’am.”
Chris interrupted. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Helena.”
“Nothing happened, Darlington,” repeated the marquis.
“He’s right, Chris. I haven’t been compromised.”
“I beg to differ. The mere act of being in bed with a naked man is enough to be deemed a compromise.”
“Is it indeed?” she challenged. “The fault is yours then, for having driven me to this desperate act.” She paused, her breath coming in anguished bursts. “We need to talk, Chris. In private.”
“Lord Waverley will excuse us, I’m sure.”
Waverley held the door open for them. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Before Helena could make some biting retort, Darlington grabbed her by the elbow and attempted to push her toward the door, but she refused to budge.
“No, Chris. The servants…”
“They’ve all gone to bed. We’ll finish this in the library.”
They spoke not a word as he led her downstairs, but once inside, Helena broke the silence. “Tonight was nothing more than a horrid mistake. I wanted to welcome you on the night of your return home, Chris. Besides, what difference can it possibly make? Are we not to be married soon?”
Chris paced back and forth, hands clasped behind him. “Do you know what you’ve done? You don’t even know who the marquis is, do you?”
“If he’s a peer, he’s a gentleman. He won’t breathe a word of this.”
“Oh, won’t he? Waverley’s bounced around Europe for years. Do you know what they call him there? No. How could you?”
Helena recoiled at his fury. “You needn’t shout at me. Well? What do they call him?”
“I found him in Paris at Madame Z’s salon. When I asked for Lord Waverley, she laughed and said, ‘Ah, oui. Le roue’ Anglais.’ I had to wait for him to finish his assignation before I could inform him that his father died and he was the new Marquis of Waverley, summoned home by order of the Regent.”
“He’s known as the English
rake in Europe? I’ve never heard of him. Perhaps his reputation isn’t known here.”
“If it isn’t, it will be. Rumors travel like waves across the channel. If it becomes known that you have been in bed with him, your reputation is ruined.”
“Then we ought to marry at once. Make it right. You know I love you, Chris.”
“Marry you? No. We’re finished.”
“Finished? Am I to understand that you no longer wish to marry me?”
Chris forced a laugh. “How can I marry a woman who disgusts me? You destroyed all hope for our happiness when I saw you naked in bed with Waverley. You knew I hoped to become an ambassador for England one day. Your brash conduct has shown me that you can never be a proper wife for a diplomat.”
Had he battered her with a cudgel, he could not have wounded her more. She turned ashen and said, “What a pretty speech. How noble of you to think of England first, before the woman who has loved you all these years.”
He ignored her words and said, “In spite of what you may think of me, I’m a man of honor. I’ll call on your father in the morning to inform him of my decision. I don’t intend to tell him why. Perhaps that will salvage your reputation. The duke is free to announce that it was you who cried off. That way, you may still marry.”
“No, Chris. I shan’t ever marry. I won’t put myself through the pain of loving and losing again, I promise you that.”
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*In addition to historical works, the Internet was my research tool.