Her round, blue eyes moved from her father to Rachel. She silently popped the spoon into her mouth, still eyeing them suspiciously. Then she swallowed. “The storm frightened me.”
He softened, tracing a dark finger down the blonde curls. “I’ve told you before, darling. A host of angels are sent down through the tempest, just to guard your bed. If you listen very closely, you’ll hear their great wings beating in the thunder.”
Fascinated at his softly murmured fable, she saw the quiet adoration in his eyes. All at once, the memory of the meal she’d shared with Lottie came to her.
Both Grey and Emily died in the fire that destroyed Rosalie.
She stared at the winsome child, her unruly curls ruffled from playing with her father, her eyes bright with expectation over her scolding, or perhaps the memory of the storm. A dab of apple butter smudged her pink bow of a mouth. Rachel’s heart unexpectedly swelled at the irresistible sight: a child, too busy with the things of life to marvel over the fleeting fragility of it. And blessedly unaware that her life was supposed to have ended the night before.
A charged excitement melded with humility; she’d put out the fire that was to have killed this child—and this man. She’d never known this feeling—of making a lasting difference. How would the world be changed, with Emily and Grey a part of it?
“Yes, I heard the angels’ wings. But I didn’t know if the angels could find you. The storms only frighten me when you’re at sea.”
With a fond smile, he brushed a knuckle against Emily’s delicate chin. “You’ve no need to fear, poppet. Angels even watch over my ship.”
How did the man find time to sail, running a plantation? Then again, how else could people get around in the eighteenth century? The James River was in their backyard, and they weren’t far from the Chesapeake Bay. And, no doubt he used the ship to sell his tobacco.
“Miss Sheppard, my home is yours, as long as you wish it.” His eyes, still warm with love for his daughter, met Rachel’s. “I owe a debt to you that I can never repay. But if you’ll stay with my daughter and me, I hope you’ll find some measure of happiness.”
How could such an innocent invitation hold such sensual undercurrents? Emily scrambled down from her chair suddenly, darting to throw her arms around her father’s neck. “Oh, I hope she’ll stay forever, Papa. She’s lovely!”
He laughed and hauled her across his lap. “Perhaps she shall, dearest. Now it’s our task to make sure that if she leaves us, she’ll take only happy memories with her.”
The child’s laughter played in her head as she watched them—wishing with all her heart that she could find even one memory as sweet as those Grey had created for Emily in this hour.
Chapter Eight
“Please, Hastings,” Emily cajoled.
“No.”
“But—”
“No. It’s a barbarous sport.”
“The stable boys speak of them—”
His disapproving gaze settled on her. “I suspect they do.”
“Rachel,” Emily implored.
With some effort, Rachel pulled her attention away from the colorful crowd that milled about Duke of Gloucester Street. “What, dear?”
“I want to see the cockfights.”
“Cockfights?”
“Oh, yes!” Emily cast a peevish glance in Hastings’ direction. “My father would let me.”
“More’s the pity,” Hastings remarked.
“Look, Emily.” She pointed to a woman nearby who’d set up a cart. “That lady’s selling little—pastries, or something.”
She peered at the cart. “It’s ginger cakes. Why don’t we buy some and take them to the cockfights?”
Hastings raised his eyebrows at her. Your turn.
“Emily, do you have any idea what happens at cockfights?”
“No. Do you?”
She looked at Hastings. “Perhaps the best cure would be to show her.”
“Even were I so dubiously inspired, we’re due to meet the master. The auctions should be concluded by now.”
“Auctions?”
“Yes. Just across the square.”
“What are all these people doing here?” she asked, noticing the tents set up on Market Square.
“It’s Publick Times, dear. The taverns have men sleeping three to a bed, and many plantations are housing guests as well. The courts convene, and burgesses from throughout the colony descend on the capital, bringing all manner of peddler, merchant, and trader to sell their wares.”
They crossed the square, passing farmers haggling over the price of a pig or a sheep, and merchants hawking everything from fresh fish to hats straight from Paris. “Those might be from Papa’s ship,” Emily said, pointing at the frilly bonnets.
Hastings was busy scanning the crowd. “No. A merchant ship from Europe would have brought those. Your father comes from the West Indies, then travels to England with tobacco.”
Now his travels made sense; he was simply selling his tobacco.
“Ah, there he is now.”
She stopped short, her lips parting in dismay. Half a dozen men and women were being led away. In chains. The midday sun shone down on their black faces, illuminating hopelessness, fear, and desperation. One woman hesitated, her eyes wide with fright as they darted about the square. A sheen of sweat covered her face, and she looked ill. Chained in pairs, they shuffled along in the muddy street.
“Go on, now!” snarled a tall, thin man. He snapped a whip, and the woman cried out as she fell to her knees.
Revulsion roiled within her as she witnessed a transaction whose final accounting would be costly. She grabbed Emily, burying the child’s face against her breast.
Sudden hope rose when she saw Grey. He caught the man’s wrist. “Your cruelty is needless, Mr. Black.”
The man sneered at him. “And what business is it of yours?”
“Their value to you drops with each stroke of the whip.” She thought she heard irony in his voice.
“Mind your own affairs, Trelawney.”
The two men faced each other for a charged moment, and Grey flung the man away from him in disgust. The woman who’d fallen staggered to her feet and stumbled after them.
“Two more were lost,” Grey said quietly to Hastings. His mouth was set in grim lines, his eyes cool in the noon heat.
“Well. The nature of the trade, I suppose.”
“Can’t you stop him?” she asked.
“No. He’s their overseer.”
“But—”
He pinned her with a silencing glance. “’Tis not my business to stop the selling of bondsmen.”
As he swept his daughter into his arms, abruptly dismissing the incident, she was given pause. He turned a blind eye to the slave-trading; yet something stopped her from condemning him. In her own world, did she stop to correct each injustice she witnessed? In her own world, injustices were given polite names that made their dismissal as easy as Grey’s.
And why did she now justify his behavior? She’d seen Camisha suffer a similarly callous treatment more than once, most notably by Rachel’s father. But in the end, this man’s conscience was no business of hers. Even if it were, could she begin to arouse it?
Emily was laughing with Grey, bringing Rachel out of her reverie. “But the stable boys say they’re such fun!”
“Stable boys are filthy ragamuffins amused by the ungodly. I have in mind a much loftier sport.”
“Tell me it isn’t chasing a pig with a soaped tail,” Hastings remarked.
“Would you care to see the pig-chases, Miss Sheppard?”
She smiled at the mischievous gleam in Grey’s eyes.
“Oh, Papa, look! It’s my grandfather!”
His gaze went cold as it flicked reflexively toward the house on the corner. “No, Emily.”
Ignoring him, she darted into the street, followed by Grey. Rachel asked Hastings, “Whose house is that?”
“Peyton Randolph’s. He’s the King’s attorney. An iro
nic liaison for the Trelawney men, considering that Mr. Randolph works with the elder Mr. Trelawney, and counts Lord Windmere as a close friend. Yet the Trelawney men never speak to one another. The man with Mr. Trelawney now is Mr. Randolph’s brother, John.”
“Why did Grey react that way?”
Grey caught Emily, steering her back toward Market Square. “He despises Thomas Trelawney.”
“Why?”
“That, I’m afraid, you’ll have to ask him.”
Her gaze slid to the two men standing under the elm tree in front of the home. Both wore the signs of wealthy men: powdered wigs, elegant suits, and a dignified bearing. Both stared after Grey with unrevealed emotions. The younger man—he couldn’t be older than twenty-five—glanced at his companion, whom she recognized. Though Thomas Trelawney was younger than the man who’d sneered down on Lottie Chesterfield’s dining table, he was unmistakably the same man. Grey strikingly resembled him.
Grey and Emily returned, and he knelt before her, his eyes blazing. “Don’t ever do such a thing again. You could’ve been trampled by a horse.”
“But Papa, his birthday is soon. And he’s my—”
“Who’s been spreading such lies?”
She looked at her slippered toes, peeking from beneath her yellow gown. “Just one of the servants.”
“And do you believe a…scullery maid over your father?”
“But why do we have the same name?”
He exhaled slowly, then touched his daughter’s chin. “How would you like to see the horse races?”
All was forgiven. “Oh, yes!”
As they walked to the carriage, Rachel glanced at the Randolph home. Thomas’s gaze grimly followed his son. Horses clopped along the busy street, throwing clods of drying mud; peddlers hawked their wares; nearby, a man was claiming he’d been cheated; the gay noise added to the festivity of the morning. Yet in the gray eyes that remained locked on the pair beside her, she saw the man’s grieving frustration. Grey’s irrational behavior troubled her; what right had he to deny his daughter a relationship with her grandfather, a man who clearly yearned to love her?
She climbed into the carriage after Emily, settling herself across from Grey. As Emily bounced upon the seat and played with the shade of the window, Rachel saw him watching his daughter. Now, he seemed older, his face clouded by a storm of emotions. Though it wasn’t easy to discern the tumultuous mixture of passions stamped on his face, she understood one indisputable truth: Grey may find some grim satisfaction in denying his daughter a knowledge of her grandfather, but he found no joy in it.
The racetrack lay on a sprawling meadow outside Williamsburg. Men in wigs and silk brocaded coats and waistcoats milled about the circular track, accompanied by ladies in rustling silk taffeta and frilly hats. Their usual parasols were unnecessary, since their hats seemed at least as large as a parasol. Grooms tended the magnificent horses whose coats shone in the perfect afternoon. Even the horses exuded an elegance.
“Perhaps Miss Sheppard and I should remain in the carriage.”
“Don’t be a dolt, Hastings.” He handed Emily and Rachel down from the carriage.
“My lord, the young lady is unescorted,” Hastings pressed.
He gave an impatient frown. “So she is.”
Exchanging a glance with her, Hastings went on, “So it must be explained that her chaperon is—er, indisposed. And replacing her is a task we consider to be of great immediacy.”
A slow smile went over Grey’s face. “Hastings, you’ve a hidden talent for rising to the occasion when it comes to lies.” He extended his arm. “I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my escort, Miss Sheppard. Else I’ll never have any rest from the host of rakes here.”
She smiled. “Are none of them gentlemen?”
Amusement played about his generous mouth, reminding her that a gentleman in 1746 need not be a gentleman. “All are. The finest in the colony. But that shouldn’t stop them.”
He pressed her fingers with a warm, fleeting caress before placing it on his arm. Unnerved by the commonplace touch—perhaps an unseemly one, in this era—she felt the raw strength of him in the callused palm and in the solid, muscular arm. She felt the gentleness of him in the delicate reassurance of his touch. And she felt, beyond it all, the depth of passion in him, in the gaze that moved over her as he rested his hand over hers a moment too long.
Then, as if she’d imagined it all, he turned and escorted her after his daughter, who’d easily found her place in the crowd. Hastings followed, and they arrived to find Emily entertaining an elderly man who watched her in animated pleasure.
“Colonel Byrd,” Grey said as they approached the man. “I see Emily’s handily employed in boring you senseless.”
The other man spoke in soft, cultured tones. “Grey, your daughter is precocious and beautiful, but never boring. And I see you’ve brought a full-grown charmer as comely as Emily.”
“Miss Rachel Sheppard,” Grey began, his hand brushing hers with an odd intimacy, “may I present to you the honorable Colonel William Byrd of Westover.”
The man gave a dignified bow over her hand as his familiar name darted through her mind, searching for a home. In another second it was found—on a billiard table, in an inventive position.
“Does the heat vex you, too, my dear?” Byrd asked. “Your handsome complexion seems flushed.”
She swallowed. “Oh. Well. No, I’m—” The picture of this elegant gentleman, wig askew as he found his pleasure on a pool table, was almost too much. She fought the wild laughter yearning for release, and she caught Hastings’ eye. His apprehensive blue gaze, focused on her as if waiting for a bomb to explode, made it unbearable. “I’m—”
The battle was lost. Darn that Camisha.
Byrd cast a smiling glance in the direction of Grey, who stared at her with expectant, bemused humor. Her laughter bubbled over into a helpless gale of giggles.
Byrd laughed. “I’ve been admired for my wit, but never with so little effort.”
She managed to contain her fit of giggles, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Byrd. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.”
“Evidently.” Byrd sent Grey a smile of approval.
Her unexpected delight at meeting Byrd gave her an equally surprising melancholy.
What Camisha would give to be in her shoes right now!
The thought of Camisha missing this unique slice of history dampened her enjoyment of the afternoon. She’d be able to appreciate this minute more than Rachel ever could.
“Is Traveller racing today?” Grey asked.
“Racing may be a poor choice of word. I lost twenty shillings yesterday.”
“To whom?”
“Donovan Stuart’s Selena.”
Grey chuckled. “Dear God, has the rogue named a horse for Selina Eggleston?”
“At first I thought he’d fallen drunk and entered his mistress in the race. Oh, dear. Hello, Donovan.”
The man materialized out of nowhere; strange, considering his size. Unlike the other men, he wore a frilly white blouse, butternut trousers, and shiny black boots. A riding crop was thrust into one boot, and his blue eyes were lively with energy.
“Mr. Byrd, you wound me. I honored the lady for her more noble traits. A sleek, playful thing, and a pleasure to—”
“Lord Dunraven,” Grey interrupted, “may I present to you Miss Rachel Sheppard? Miss Sheppard, this is Donovan Stuart, the marquis of Dunraven.”
What a bunch of names to keep up with! Donovan turned, resting a startled blue gaze on her. Sun-streaked blond hair was tied in a queue. “My humblest apologies. I had no idea I was in the presence of such a beautiful young lady.”
“Remove the thought from your lecherous mind at this moment.” Grey’s smile glittered with underlying threat.
Donovan bowed over her hand. “I’ve been struck incapable of thought, Grey. The young lady now holds my power of reason, as well as my heart, in the palm of her dainty hand.”
&n
bsp; “I see your flirtations have lost nothing in the way of subtlety,” Grey said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Dunraven.”
Then he knelt beside Emily. “Did you bring me a present from Philadelphia?” she asked, her eyes wide with delight.
He smiled and withdrew a pink ribbon from his pocket, placing it in her greedy hands. “Will you grow up quickly, darling, so I might have the most beautiful bride in the colony?”
“I shall have to discuss it with my papa first.” Emily gravely patted his cheek.
Donovan lay a hand over his heart. “Then all is lost.”
Grey smirked. “Is there no female safe from you?”
Smiling, Donovan rose. “Mr. Byrd, bets are being taken. Shall you persist in your losing streak, or bet on Selina?”
“My faculties may be dwindling, but I suspect I’ve better judgment than your animal’s poor namesake.”
Donovan winced, then turned to her. “And you, dear lady? Will you offer a shilling in faith for my bay mare?”
She looked up at Grey, finding his gaze expectant on her. She shyly tucked her hand over his arm, smiling. “Will you place a bet on Traveller?”
“Mr. Byrd,” he said, brushing his lips against her fingertips, “I believe your luck is about to change.”
Grey disappeared long enough to place her bet. When he returned, they joined the boisterous group of men who lined the track, several of whom greeted Grey and Emily. Most of the ladies clustered together to the side, chatting and complaining about the heat. More than a few cast suspicious glances Rachel’s way.
“Grey, you’ve not introduced us to the young lady.” The man had what she was coming to recognize as a typical colonial portliness, as well as the ornate dress and wig.
“My apologies. Miss Rachel Sheppard, this impatient wretch is Peyton Randolph, our newly appointed attorney general.”
She smiled. “Sworn to uphold justice at the track?”
“Miss Sheppard, you wound me. I’m here to make certain our office-holders don’t lose their silk shirts.” He glanced around. “Governor Gooch is apparently absent today.”
“Resting for the night’s festivities, no doubt,” another man remarked. He bowed to her. “Carter Burwell, at your service. And this young man beside me is George Wythe.”
Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 7