by Candice Hern
Beatrice followed him downstairs to the housekeeper's sitting room, where the two strangers had asked to wait. She walked in to find a tall, dark, striking young man standing at attention by the hearth. A pretty young girl of about twelve or thirteen with enormous dark eyes sat at a table. And most extraordinary of all, Charlotte sat across from her.
"Mama! You'll never guess. These people are from India! They have come from Lord Thayne's house. That is Mr. Ramesh, and this is his sister, Chitra."
Chitra. A little girl no older, and probably younger than Charlotte. Beatrice's heart sank. Another enormous mistake was about to be revealed to her, she was sure.
Both the man and his sister were dressed in ordinary English-looking clothes. But he wore an elaborately twisted saffron-colored turban, and the girl wore a scarf covering her glossy long hair.
"Mr. Ramesh, Chitra. I am pleased to meet you. I am told you wish to speak to me."
"We are here to tell you a truth, my lady Somerfield,” Mr. Ramesh said. "To right a wrong." He had a delightfully musical voice, and though his English was good, his accent was very pronounced.
"Well, then," she said, and took a seat on the housekeeper's sofa. "What is it you wish to tell me?"
"It is about how we came to know my Lord Thayne."
And he proceeded to tell a tale that brought tears to her eyes, but not for the reasons they might have thought. No, it was because she had listened to gossip from a source with no right to be trusted, and had deliberately used that dreadful lie to inflict pain when she'd known in her heart it could not be true. She had used what she knew in her heart to be a lie to push Gabriel out of her life forever.
Mr. Ramesh told of how he and his entire family had been taken into slavery by some Indian prince with a long name. After a time, they had been bought from the prince by Dutch traders, who packed them onto a ship carrying hundreds of other slaves to southern Africa. It had been a harrowing trip, and at least half the slaves died from disease before reaching the Cape. Ramesh and Chitra were the only members of their family to survive the trip. He had been a boy of seventeen; Chitra had been only five years old.
Ramesh never knew all the details of what happened next, and what little he did know he learned much later, apparently from Jeremy Burnett. Their Dutch slave ship had arrived at the Cape at the same time Gabriel had arrived from England as a very young man. He had witnessed the herding of the slaves from the ship to the place where they would be sold again, primarily to white farmers in Africa. Ramesh remembered actually catching the eye of the young man on the docks who seemed so moved by their misery. Gabriel bought the entire lot of them from the Dutch trader. Then, with the help of an East India Company clerk on his way to Calcutta, Gabriel had created emancipation papers for every one of them. Many of them, including Ramesh and Chitra, returned to India on the same ship as Thayne. Ramesh had sought out their savior, and pledged his life to him. By the time they reached Bombay, he had managed to secure a position for himself in Gabriel's employ.
Gabriel had provided education for both Ramesh and Chitra as well as the protection afforded his rank and position. Although Gabriel had moved about India the entire time he was there, never establishing a home base in any one city for longer than a year, Ramesh and Chitra had traveled with him, along with a larger staff he had collected over the years. Ramesh was a paid member of that staff, helping out in whatever way he could. When Gabriel had announced his plans to return home to England, Ramesh had pleaded for him to take him and Chitra along. The group of slaves Gabriel was purported to have brought home with him consisted of two individuals only, one who became his valet, and one who was given work in the kitchens at Doncaster House.
And the slaves on Ramesh's ship were not the only ones Gabriel had bought and freed. He despised the Dutch and had made it his business to interfere in their slave trafficking. Gabriel or his agents bought shipload after shipload of slaves from India, often intercepting the ships before they reached the Cape, and sent them back home or provided the freed slaves with papers in order to find legitimate employment in Africa or Madagascar or whatever port they were near. By the time Gabriel and his two companions had passed through the Cape on their way back to England, the trade in slaves from India and Southeast Asia had almost completely dried up. Thanks in large part to Gabriel's efforts.
"Neither I nor my sister are slaves, my lady Somerfield. We are paid handsomely to work for my lord Thayne. He is good to us, and we would give our lives for him."
Beatrice sat stunned and silent. Charlotte, too, had been affected. She wore a look of confusion and anger, and reached shyly across the table to touch Chitra's hand.
"I believe," Ramesh continued, "that you have been told another story about my lord Thayne that paints a different picture. It is not true. You must know this. My sister and I, we are—what is the word?—testament to the truth. We are proof of his goodness."
"Yes," Beatrice said, "you certainly are. Thank you for telling me."
"Your pardon, my lady." One of the housemaids had stepped into the room and bobbed a curtsy. "Mr. Cheevers asked me to tell you that a guest has arrived and awaits you in the drawing room."
A guest? It was her afternoon at home, so it should not surprise her, though no one but the Merry Widows had deigned to make an appearance lately. Perhaps it was Grace. She had been absent earlier.
Beatrice rose from the couch. "Thank you again for coming, Mr. Ramesh. I appreciate what you have told me. And it was lovely to meet you, Chitra."
"May Chitra stay a while, Mama?" Charlotte asked. "Perhaps she would play a game of jackstraws with me. And tell me all about the interesting bracelet she is wearing."
Beatrice looked to Mr. Ramesh. "May your sister be spared from her work for a few more minutes?"
"Only a few minutes," Mr. Ramesh said. "Mr. Bernier, the chef, will be wanting her back soon."
"Do not keep her long, then, Charlotte."
Beatrice returned back upstairs with a heavy heart. She had done a terrible thing, to accuse Gabriel of owning slaves when he had done so much to stop the slave trade. It was too late to redeem herself with Gabriel, but by the time she had climbed the stairs to the drawing room, Beatrice had made a firm decision to locate the couple that had been on the ship with Gabriel—the Padgetts?—and make certain that they never again spread such lies about him.
She walked through the open drawing room door and said, "I am so sorry to have— Your Grace!" Beatrice came to a halt, brought up short by the sight of the Duchess of Doncaster standing tall and straight reside one of the windows. She was fashionably attired in a high-necked white muslin dress sprigged with yellow and green flowers, and a green mantle of the latest Pyrenean style gathered in a graceful fold on one shoulder. Her hands rested on the end of a long-handled parasol.
"I thought I had recalled correctly," she said, "that this was your afternoon at home, Lady Somerfield. I seem to have been mistaken."
Beatrice collected her scattered wits, dipped a curtsy, and walked across the room. She gestured for the duchess to take a chair. "You are not mistaken," she said, and waited for the duchess to be seated before taking her own chair. "I am afraid that I no longer receive many visitors, Your Grace."
"Because of that beastly business over Thayne, I presume."
Beatrice offered a small shrug, but did not confirm the statement.
"Well, it is for the best in this case," the duchess said "for I wish to speak with you privately." She sat very straight, her back never touching the chair, and kept one hand propped on the handle of her parasol, the tip of which was jabbed hard into the carpet. "I shall get straight to the point. I want you reconsider my son's offer of marriage."
Beatrice blinked. "I beg your pardon."
"You have refused him, rather publicly, I might add, which is of no great consequence to a man of such strong character. Nor is it to me. That is not why I wish you to reconsider. I want his betrothal announced at your Widows Fund masquerade on Saturday,
and he will not commit to any particular girl. No, he wants you. But he thinks he cannot have you and has therefore asked me to choose his bride. I am doing so. I want you to marry him, Lady Somerfield."
Beatrice gave a rueful smile. "I have no reason to believe the offer is still open, Your Grace. In fact, I suspect your son wishes me to the devil. I said some rather hateful things to him."
"Yes, I know." Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. "That idiotic business about little Chitra. I would certainly love to know where you heard such a vile story. It is not true, you know."
"I know. I have just now heard the real story from Ramesh. He and Chitra are downstairs in my housekeeper's sitting room at this moment."
The duchess lifted her brows in surprise. "How extraordinary. That young man is very devoted to Thayne. I will confess, though, to being rather shocked that Thayne would send him."
"I don't believe he did. I had the impression that he came on his own initiative."
"Ah. He must have overheard my conversation with Thayne. He came to put a halt to any such stories about his employer. Or about his sister. Pretty little thing, is she not? Such eyes! But hardly a ... a concubine." She spit out the word in disgust.
Beatrice flushed that she had dared to suggest such a thing to Gabriel. "I know she is neither a concubine nor a slave. And I have every intention of confronting the persons spreading that unsavory tale and putting a stop to it."
"Do that," the duchess said. "Now, back to my original point. You said you do not believe Thayne's offer is still open to you. What if it were?"
Beatrice felt her heart begin to race. "I don't understand."
"Don't be obtuse. I have no time to dance around the subject. Would you accept if he offered again?"
Beatrice had been fantasizing about just such an occurrence and had no hesitation in giving an answer. "Yes."
"Then why in heaven," the duchess said, punctuating each word with a stab of the parasol on the carpet, "did you not accept him the first time?"
"I thought I was all wrong for him. I am older. I have had my family. I am too stubborn and would not be a biddable wife. A thousand stupid reasons."
"All of which you are now ready to dismiss?"
"Yes."
"Why? What changed your mind?"
Beatrice grinned and said, "He told me he loved me. That changed everything."
"That's it? That's all it took? A declaration of love?"
"Yes. I have never had one, you see. It was rather devastating. And allowed me to put matters into better perspective. All of my earlier concerns still exist. I have not grown younger or more biddable. But I realize now that when there is love, any obstacle can be faced."
The duchess gazed at her intently for a long while, and then smiled. "You will make a fine wife for my son. Lady Somerfield. I can see why he has been so indifferent to all those young misses I have trotted out for his inspection. A docile, complaisant bride would bore him to death over time and ultimately make his life a misery. Thayne is not the sort of man to thrive with a woman who jumps when he says to jump. A woman like you, more self-assured, is precisely what he needs. I ought to have known that. You will challenge him, Lady Somerfield, and make him a better man."
"Thank you for saying so, Your Grace. I would like to believe you are right. But the fact is, Lord Thayne may not make me another offer. He is very angry with me."
"Was I not clear on the matter?" Her Grace said, leaning forward and putting her weight on the parasol handle. "I am offering on Thayne's behalf. He abdicated to me his right to choose a bride. I have made my choice. And, if I understood you correctly, you are willing to accept my offer as his proxy."
"I am." Beatrice smiled broadly as her heart filled with joy. Was it really going to happen? So easily? "But are you certain, Your Grace, that he will not want to murder us both for pulling such a trick on him?"
"I do not care how loudly he roars. He has vowed to accept my decision and he will do so. But in the end, he will thank me for this. Now, I have devised a little plan. Here is what I want you to do. ..."
Chapter 19
Thayne took another swallow of claret. Though he would like nothing more than to get roaring drunk, he really must take care not to imbibe too heavily. It would not do to approach his future bride on unsteady legs, nor to slur his offer. Even so, he needed fortification to face the ordeal.
There would be a great deal less anxiety if only his mother had told him which young lady she had selected for him. The single hint she would give him was that he had met her on more than one occasion and had not found her offensive, which narrowed it down to only about several dozen or so girls.
He did not understand all the secrecy. It made no sense. He could have more properly prepared a speech if he at least knew the girl's name. And if he had known her identity even as late as yesterday, he could at least have met with the young lady in his normal attire as a gentleman. Instead, he was to make his offer while in full costume for the masquerade. His only hope was that the girl would at least be unmasked when he met her. It would be just like his mother, in her current playful mood, to have him make an offer to a masked stranger, only to reveal her identity at midnight when the masks were removed and his announcement was to be made. No, he would not allow the duchess to take her game that far. He would insist on seeing the young lady's face when he made his offer.
And so here he was, dressed in all his Punjabi finery—just as he had done on one other memorable occasion—waiting for his mother to come and take him to his bride. She had insisted that he wait here in his own sitting room until the girl's arrival. It was all very mysterious, and yet Thayne was still unable to conjure up more than a modicum of interest in the whole business. He just wanted it over and done with so he could move on with his life. A life without the only woman he had ever wanted.
Knowing she was probably downstairs at this very moment, standing in the receiving line with the other Benevolent Widows Fund patronesses, added fuel to his surly mood. Thayne had no wish to face Beatrice tonight. His anger and disappointment were still too raw, the marks of her claws too deep on his heart. Parading his new bride in her face would give him no joy.
And yet, if he had never proposed marriage to her, if their affair had simply proceeded in the normal way of such things, tonight would have been the end of it. She had told him often enough that she would not continue as his lover once he committed himself to another woman, and he'd accepted that decision. It was bound to have been an awkward evening at best, with both lover and bride in attendance, and his ending the affair and announcing his betrothal at the same time. As it happened, the break with Beatrice had come sooner, which should have made it easier to get through the evening.
Yet somehow, it was much worse.
He stood at the window and watched the hustle and bustle in the courtyard below as carriage after carriage pulled through the entry gates and guests in all manner of costume spilled out and approached the front doors. Was one of those masked figures his future bride?
Damn the duchess for making him wait like this.
Thayne eyed the hookah and considered firing it up, but the decanter of claret required less effort and so he poured himself another glass. He knocked back the wine in a single swallow. If his mother did not arrive soon, he would indeed be foxed by the time he met his future bride.
He sank onto the sofa, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his face into his hands. A bone-deep weariness settled on him, and he heaved a sigh.
And finally. The sound of the sitting room door opening. It was time to meet his bride. Before he could summon the energy to lift his head, there was an odd thwack and then a whistling whoosh of air as something passed by his shoulder. Thayne jerked to a start in that instant, just as a small golden arrow pierced the cushion at his side.
He stared incredulously at it, then turned sharply to face the door.
"I've been practicing that for days. Nice shot, eh?"
Artemis.
She walked into the room looking as beautiful as ever, wearing the same costume she'd worn the first time he ever saw her, except that her hair was its natural red and not powdered. She held the miniature bow in her hand. Yellow pleated silk clung to every curve as she moved, and his groin tightened at the sight.
He stood, glanced down at the little arrow, and said, "That depends. If you meant to shoot me, it fell a bit wide of the mark."
"No, I did not intend to shoot you. I have, I fear, inflicted too many wounds already, with all the barbs I have flung at you lately." She tossed the bow onto the couch and stood straight and tall before him.
Lord, she looked glorious. His eyes feasted on her; he wanted her as much as ever. Why had she come? Was she here simply to torment him while he waited for his bride? To remind him of what he could not have?
"Why are you here, Beatrice? Shouldn't you be downstairs welcoming the guests?"