Corbett disappeared into the night. And Roscoe decided not to go back to bed.
He had a lot of thinking to do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Corbett grumbled because Clarice had given him so much to do. He liked to relax before a big party, not help with preparations. She had also given him the responsibility of keeping an eye on Danny, because his mammy had been recruited to help decorate the ballroom.
But Danny was no trouble, Corbett thought, smiling as his son happily chased a butterfly across the lawn.
He had always wanted a large family, but after Danny was born, Clarice had said she would never endure such anguish again. She had not allowed him in her bed since. Consequently he took his pleasure with any willing woman he took a fancy to. If Clarice ever suspected, she never said anything.
“Corbett, bring Danny to eat his lunch.”
He turned to see Clarice waving from the front porch. She looked beyond him and pointed. “Somebody’s coming up the road.”
Sending Danny inside, Corbett went to meet the man on horseback. His beard was gray, and his face was lined with wrinkles. His clothing was old and worn, and he wasn’t wearing a gun. Corbett decided he had nothing to fear from the stranger and greeted, “Welcome to BelleRose. What can I do for you?”
The man shifted in the saddle, obviously weary from a long ride. “I’m lookin’ for Mr. Tremayne.”
“Which one?”
“Mr. Corbett Tremayne. I got a letter for him. The postmaster in Richmond asked me to bring it out. He said Mr. Tremayne’s been askin’ had it come yet. It’s all the way from France.”
Excitement surged. “I’m Corbett Tremayne. Give it to me.” He held out his hand.
The man just sat there looking down at him. “Well, sir, I didn’t ride all the way out here for nothin’. The postmaster, he said you were so anxious to get this here letter that you’d pay me for my trouble.”
Impatience made him grind his teeth. “Yes, yes, of course.” He fished in his pocket but found no money. Gesturing helplessly he offered, “How about if I pay you the next time I’m in town?”
The man chuckled. “I might not be around, and I need the money now or I wouldn’t have agreed to bring it out here. I’ll just wait till you go find some.”
Exasperated, Corbett snapped, “All right. But can I have the letter now? It’s important, and—”
“Afraid not. You might go in that big house of your’n and not come back out, and then what will I do? And I’m hungry, too. I could use a bite to eat.”
Afraid if he made the old geezer angry he would just ride away without handing over the letter, Corbett ran all the way to the house.
He found Clarice in the family dining room with Danny. “Who was that man riding up?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you later. Give me some money.”
“What for?”
Forgetting Danny was sitting there, all ears, Corbett yelled, “Get me the money, goddamnit, and hurry up.”
Stunned, she pushed back from the table. “I’ll see what I have.”
Danny began to bang on his plate with his spoon, chanting, “Money goddamnit—money goddamnit.”
“Danny, stop that this instant!” Corbett roared.
“And you stop yelling at him,” Clarice snapped as she came back into the room. “It’s your fault. He repeats everything. Here.” She thrust some coins into his outstretched hand. “This will have to do, but what’s it for?”
“I don’t have time to explain.” He counted the coins, hoped they would be enough, then glanced down at the plate Clarice had just been served. Fried chicken, boiled corn, hot biscuits, and tomatoes. He snatched it up and rushed out.
“Where do you think you’re going with my lunch?” Clarice called after him. “You come back here this instant.”
He kept on going, rushing across the lawn to where the man had dismounted and was standing in the shade beneath a sprawling oak.
“Here.” He handed him the coins, then the plate. “It’s the best I can do. Now, give me the letter.”
“Mind if I sit here and eat?”
Corbett could not risk Ryan seeing him and asking questions. If the letter contained no useful information, then he didn’t want him knowing he had used what money he had left in Paris to pay someone to send it to him. But if, on the other hand, there was something he could use against Angele, he wanted to wait till the right moment to present it. “Actually, I do mind,” he said in as polite a tone as he could manage in his eagerness to get his hands on the letter. “We’re expecting guests, and it doesn’t look proper for someone to be sitting on the ground eating. So if you’d just ride on down the road…”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What about the plate? What’ll I do with the plate?”
“Leave it on the road. Someone will get it later. It doesn’t matter. Just give me the letter.” His voice rose.
The delicious smell of the chicken made the old man anxious to eat. “All right. Don’t be so danged impatient.” He went to his saddlebag, took out a crumpled envelope, and before he could give it to him, Corbett snatched it from his hand and hurried away.
He didn’t look back to see if the man left, because he had already dismissed him from his mind.
He waited until he was in his room before reading the letter, then, with each line, his heart beat faster. By the time he finished, he was trembling from head to toe.
It was exactly what he had hoped for—information that would prove Angele had lied about herself from the very beginning.
He ran to find Clarice. She was still in the dining room. She didn’t argue about getting up from the table to go with him, curious over why he was so excited.
At last, when they were alone, he showed her the letter. As she read, he said, “Remember I told you about paying someone to find out who was buried in that grave Angele was visiting in Paris when I was spying on her? And how she later told Ryan it was her mother? Well, this letter is from that man, and what he’s got to say is very interesting. Read on.”
“I’m trying to,” she said, annoyed. “But I can’t with you blathering.”
Corbett was silent for a moment, then could stand it no longer. “I know who Angele really is. On the ship there was a woman from England, and she told us the same thing that’s in that letter, how Angele and her mother had run away. She didn’t know their names, but they were the women she was talking about. She said a rich man was offering a reward for anyone who could tell him where they were.” He smacked his fists together. “I can’t wait to tell Ryan.”
Clarice looked at him menacingly. “You aren’t going to do that.”
He blinked. “And why not? This letter proves she’s half English. It explains her understanding the language, knowing about horses, everything. She lied by making him think both her parents were French to get him to marry her. She tricked him. And when he finds out, he’ll divorce her and marry Denise. This is what I’ve been waiting for, hoping for—something to use against her and make Ryan see he’s got to get rid of her.”
“You idiot.” She shook the letter in his face. “Didn’t you wake me up last night to tell me Ryan told you he loves her?”
He had done so after returning from his talk with Roscoe. “Yes, but—”
“Don’t you see? If he loves her, it’s not going to make any difference. He’ll accept that lie just like he’s accepted all the others he’s caught her in. I wonder if it would even matter to Uncle Roussel, she’s got him so bewitched. And if you do tell Ryan about it, he’ll be angry with you for interfering.”
Corbett looked confused. “Then what do we do? We can’t keep it a secret she isn’t French.”
“Of course we can, because it is not, ultimately, going to matter. Just keep on with your plan to have Roscoe follow her till we find something else that will completely turn Ryan against her. If need be, we’ll make him think she’s sleeping with Roscoe.”
“I still say—”
“Corbett,
listen to me. I’m just as upset and angry about this as you are, because it proves what a little conniver she really is. But we have to stay calm and think things through so that when it’s all over with and she’s gone, Ryan won’t blame us for any of it. Understand?”
He nodded reluctantly. He would like nothing better than to march right in to Ryan that very minute and show him the letter.
“Besides,” Clarice continued, “we have to wait till after this weekend to do anything, so our guests won’t suspect anything is wrong.”
“All right. But are you absolutely sure we shouldn’t just go ahead and let Ryan know the truth?”
“If you hadn’t told me what you did last night, I would say so, but now that he’s gone and fallen in love with her, it would take more than finding out her father was English to change how he feels.”
Corbett took the letter and scanned it once more, then gloated, “I’ll wager they ran away from Angele’s uncle because he caught them stealing from him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Now, I’ve got to finish my lunch, so I can take a nap before getting dressed for tonight.”
She started for the door, then hesitated. “But there is one person I have to take into our confidence.”
He knew without having to ask.
Her smile was wicked. “I just can’t wait to tell Denise.”
Angele stirred and moaned as Selma pulled the cord to open the drapes, flooding the room with light. “Not yet,” she pleaded. “Let me sleep a little longer.”
“Missy, you can’t.” Selma plumped the pillows behind her as she groggily sat up. “It’s soon gonna be time to start gettin’ dressed for the ball. You’ve slept most of the day away. I fixed you some eggs and toast and tea. You eat while I get your bath ready.”
Angele took one look at the plate of scrambled eggs and gagged. “Just tea and toast,” she said. “My stomach is still upset from the dumplings last night. All that butter and brown sugar didn’t agree with me.”
Selma wasn’t listening. “What are you gonna wear tonight? I’ll get everything ready. You’ve got to, hurry. Miz Denise is already here.”
Angele’s hand, on the way to her mouth with a piece of toast, froze in midair. “Already? Why is she so early?”
“She’s stayin’ the weekend and needs to get settled in. They’re unloadin’ her trunks now.”
Angele pushed the tray away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Did you say she’s going to be here all weekend?”
“Yes’m. I heard Miz Clarice tell Mammy Lou to get one of the guest rooms ready for her ’cause she’s gonna be here for a few days.”
Angele felt a wave of nausea and wondered if it was her upset stomach or vexation. Whatever the cause, she was determined to get through the festivities with head held high.
After she finished her bath, Selma coiffed her hair in ringlets. Held at her crown by a glittering diamond-and-ruby comb, the ringlets brushed her shoulders, a few stray curls saucily wisping about her face.
Angele was still bothered by what she had seen the night before, and, as Selma worked, she mentioned again the incident of the reported drowning. “Are you sure you didn’t hear about it? I distinctly understood that—”
“No, ma’am,” Selma cut her off. “If it happened, I don’t know about it.”
The conversation reached a dead end, and Angele gave up. Something was wrong, but Selma wasn’t going to talk about it.
When she was finished, Selma stepped back to admire what she had done. “You’re gonna be the most beautiful lady at the ball. Now, I’ll help you with your dress.”
Looking at the gown she had planned to wear that Selma had laid on the bed, Angele declared, “I’ve changed my mind.” She went to her wardrobe and moved hangers aside till she found what she was looking for. “I’m wearing this instead.”
Selma’s eyes rounded. “It’s red as blood, Miz Angele, but it sure is pretty. I’ve never seen one like it.”
“Red has always been my favorite color. Ryan hasn’t seen this gown. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
Selma helped her into it, commenting on how the velvet material clung to her every curve. “And you don’t even have to wear those new-type corsets Mammy Lou told me about that Miz Clarice bought in Richmond. It looks like it was made with you wearing it.”
Angele turned in front of the full-length, gilt-edged mirror. Actually, she had almost been sewn into it, because the dressmaker in Paris had made it fit like a glove. The bodice, however, seemed tighter than when she had tried it on months ago. Her breasts were all but pouring out of it, and she wondered if she was gaining weight.
She turned sideways.
No, her figure was still trim. Only her bosom seemed larger. She smiled at herself to think that was not a bad thing. Maybe Ryan would pay special attention to her tonight if he saw other men looking at her.
The dress was a stunning creation by virtue of its simplicity. Tiny corded straps of matching red velvet cut to the bodice, which hung in drapes before tapering to the narrow waist. The skirt fell straight to the floor and had a slit up one side similar to the one in the dress she had worn to Clarice’s little tea. But this time it went all the way up her thigh, exposing most of her leg.
Diamond-and-ruby earbobs and necklace matched her hair comb.
She stepped into red velvet slippers, then turned in front of the mirror again, pleased with the final results.
Hesitantly, Selma murmured, “I just ain’t never seen a skirt torn like that… Are you sure you want to wear it?”
Angele laughed. “The only reason the other ladies won’t be wearing one just like it is because they haven’t got here from Paris yet. And the skirt isn’t torn, Selma. It’s called a slit, it’s very fashionable, and, yes, I am sure I want to wear it.”
She had eaten the toast, drunk two cups of tea, and her stomach finally seemed to be settling. She was ready for the evening, and it was a good thing, because Ryan knocked on the door and told her everyone was waiting for her.
Responding that she would be right down, her pulses were racing.
She was about to meet Richmond society…and the woman everyone thought Ryan would marry.
Ryan was waiting for her in the parlor. When she came out of her room, his mouth fell open. “My God…” he breathed hoarsely. “My God—” he repeated. “Angele, you are gorgeous.”
Demurely, she countered by complimenting, “And you’re quite handsome, yourself.” He wore a simple dark blue frock coat, cut away in front, with tails. A madras cravat adorned his white shirt, and his well-fitting trousers were a few shades lighter than his coat.
He couldn’t help himself. Slipping his arm about her waist, he pulled her against him as his mouth came to hers. He held tight, deepening the kiss amidst hunger and heat, passion and desire.
She clung to him, wanting more, wishing there were no party to go to, wishing there were no guests to meet…that they could answer the hunger that was surging like a mountain stream run wild.
Forcing himself to release her, he stood back, shaken. “We’d better join the others. Roussel is anxious to introduce you to everyone.”
As he continued to ravish her with his eyes, she took his arm and they made their way to the top of the grand spiral staircase. The banister had been draped in white satin ribbons and adorned with yellow roses.
Everyone had crowded into the foyer and clustered in the doorways to the parlor and the ballroom. When Angele came into view, a murmur rippled through the air like a cresting wave.
“They think you’re beautiful, too,” Ryan whispered.
At the bottom of the stairs, Roussel came forward to offer his arm to Angele. Graciously she took it, and the crowd parted as he escorted her into the center of the ballroom.
At his signal, the musicians ceased to play. He then cleared his throat and declared with flourish, “I present to you the new mistress of BelleRose, my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Ryan Tremayne.”
; The applause was nearly deafening.
Angele glanced about shyly, appreciatively—and that was when her gaze fell on Clarice. She was standing not too far away, lovely in a demure gown of brown taffeta. Her mouth was frozen in a smile that could only be forced.
But it was the woman beside her that made little pinpricks of alarm dance up and down her spine.
It had to be Denise.
Her hair was the color of silver, swept up high and caught with a garnet-encrusted band. She wore huge diamond earrings that sparkled to compete with the glitter of the dazzling crystal chandeliers overhead. Her gown was the color of bright, spring grass, the low-cut bodice crusted in shimmering garnets.
Angele could easily see why Ryan had wanted to marry her. Not only was she lovely, but she stood poised like royalty.
And no one but Angele noticed how the corners of her lips twitched in the hint of an arrogant, confident smirk.
“My son, the proud groom,” Roussel was saying, waving to Ryan to join them, then putting his arm about his shoulders.
“Now everyone in Richmond knows how I feel about my heritage, and—” he went on to boast.
“You mean everyone in the whole state of Virginia,” someone shouted.
Laughter erupted.
Roussel grinned, continuing. “And I’m happy to know my grandchildren will also be French and confident they will treasure their lineage like their ancestors.”
There was more applause, and then a receiving line formed as everyone pushed forward to personally be introduced to Angele. By the time the crush ended, the musicians had begun to play once more and Ryan had been swallowed by the crowd.
Clarice suddenly appeared at Angele’s side. “I know you’re hungry, dear,” she said, drawing her away and through the archway into the formal dining room.
Angele saw the tables offering cakes, berry cobblers, fruit pies, and creamy puddings. She felt another roll of queasiness and could not bear the thought of eating anything rich and sweet. Then she saw a tray of bread and moved toward that.
Clarice stayed right beside her, and as soon as no one else was around, hissed in her ear, “You look like a whore in that dress. How dare you shame the family this way?”
Ryan's Bride Page 26