The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  “Are Father and Henry here?” Christopher asked. “I wish to explain how Lady Merial came to be in the condition she is in. And Mother, she has just the clothes on her back.”

  The Duchess clicked her tongue. “You poor dear. Come with me. If you have been on that monstrosity of a ship, you surely want for a bath. I believe I have clothes to fit you. Heavens, you are so thin. Did my son never feed you?”

  Christopher watched them climb the stairs to the upper chambers, talking of rooms and a maid to attend Merial’s every need. He glanced at Owen, who gazed down at the happy cat as though wishing Henry would find someone else to leave hairs on.

  “Where might I find my father and my brother?” he asked.

  “His Grace is in the library, My Lord,” Owen replied, his tone dolorous. “Your brother is in the city, but should return by dinner.”

  “Thank you. Henry, come along.”

  With Henry at his heels, his tail high, Christopher made his way across the house to the big library where he had read books and came to fall in love with the sea. He knocked, and upon hearing his father call for him to enter, he went in.

  Maxwell Buckthorn, the Duke of Heyerdahl, sat in his favorite chair by the window, an open book in his hand. He was nearly as tall as Christopher when standing, and had the same ice blue eyes. Those eyes took in Christopher’s presence in the door, and grinned even as Henry crossed the distance in a flash and leaped into his lap.

  “Christopher.”

  Christopher bowed. “Father.”

  “Come in, boy, come in. Close the door. I had not expected you so soon.”

  He took a comfortable armchair near his father as the Duke stroked Henry’s thick fur, smiling at the cat. “He has not changed a bit, has he?” the Duke asked with a chuckle. “Does he still bring you luck and fair winds, boy?”

  “Very much so, Father.”

  The Duke beckoned a waiting footman. “Brandy?” he asked Christopher. “Or wine?”

  “Brandy, thank you.”

  Neither spoke while the footman poured their brandy, then the Duke said, “Wait outside, please.”

  The footman bowed and departed, and Christopher knew his father had read his tense expression correctly. The Duke sipped his brandy, the purring cat shedding on his fine clothes, his eyes on Christopher. “What happened?”

  “We found a survivor of a ship attacked by pirates,” Christopher began slowly. “She is the daughter of the Earl of Dorsten.”

  Henry leaped off the Duke’s lap as he choked on his sip of brandy, and Christopher knew instantly something terrible indeed had happened to her parents. Merial’s nightmares were her memories trying to come out, to speak, to live again.

  “I suspect by your reaction that her family is dead?” Christopher asked, then took a sip of his own brandy.

  “By a violent means. And so is she by all accounts,” the Duke replied, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. “But before I tell you what I know, you speak first.”

  As Henry, deeming it safe, jumped back into the Duke’s lap, Christopher recounted finding Merial in the dinghy, the wooden coffer with her, and all that had happened aboard the Valkyrie in the last few weeks. His father listened in shock, stroking Henry’s fur, as Christopher ended with Daunger and Benson leaping overboard after trying to kill Merial.

  “Mother has taken her upstairs,” Christopher continued. “She has no memory of what happened to her, or her family. Only nightmares of fire, and leaving someone behind to die.”

  “Good God.” The Duke drank his brandy, staring blankly into space.

  “So what happened, Father?” Christopher asked. “Something as big as the deaths of the Earl of Dorsten and his family must have been talked about.”

  “It was,” his father agreed. “Dorsten had taken his Countess and daughter to an inn, although their home was but a few miles away. No one knows why. They say the fire was an accident.”

  “So her nightmares of a fire were true,” Christopher murmured.

  “Nothing was found of the daughter,” the Duke continued, “but all assumed she had also died there. However, Lord Rockston, the Marquess of Saxonshire, believes the fire was intentionally set, and the Earl and his family were murdered. Along with his steward, and the steward’s assistant.”

  Christopher gazed at him sharply. “Were the bodies of the servants found?”

  “From what I am told, no. Why?”

  “Someone knew that the coffer with Merial was important enough to save it along with her when the pirates attacked the Atlantica. We have not been able to open it, but what if the servants got her on board the Atlantica? What if it was the servants who sacrificed their lives when it was sinking to get Merial and that box to safety?”

  Maxwell Buckthorn stared down at the now sleeping Henry in his lap. “And she has no memory of what happened?”

  “None. Only the nightmares.”

  “So if Saxonshire is right, and the Earl and his Countess were murdered in that fire, then young Lady Merial is in grave danger. No doubt, she has knowledge deep inside her head that could put her father’s killers on Tower Hill.”

  “I know little of current society, Father,” Christopher said. “Does she have family?”

  The Duke nodded slowly. “Her father’s younger brother, Edward. He inherited the mantle of Dorsten. He no doubt will be glad to know his niece survived.”

  “Are there any suspects at all, according to Saxonshire?”

  “Rumors of a business deal gone bad,” his father replied. “No one has seen the partner since the Earl died. The Bow Street Runners are busy looking for him.”

  “Perhaps he is the chief suspect, then,” Christopher said slowly. “Bad deals gone wrong can be the motive for murder. Revenge.”

  “Perhaps. I do not know what Saxonshire has uncovered thus far, as our paths have not crossed. Perhaps I may arrange an introduction.”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that. I should like to talk to him. But, Father.” Christopher gazed at the Duke. “We must not tell Merial all this, not yet. Hearing talk that her parents may have been murdered and she herself thought dead all this time may upset her.”

  The Duke eyed him with speculation. “What else are you not telling me?”

  Christopher chuckled, feeling his face heat. “We fell in love, Father. I asked her to marry me.”

  “Well, now.” The elder Buckthorn gazed into space, speculating. “An excellent match, I should think. She is of an impeccable family, and, until all this happened, her reputation was flawless.”

  “We both behaved with honor, Father,” Christopher said, his tone sharp. “I did not touch her save for what is acceptable.”

  The Duke laughed. “My apologies. I did not mean it that way, boy. I meant until she was considered dead. My, you are touchy where she is concerned.”

  “She saved my life,” Christopher answered, staring into space. “She has courage, and good sense as well as being the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  “Well,” the Duke said, grinning. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

  * * *

  Merial’s presence in the dining room a few hours later stunned not just his father and brother, but shocked Christopher into speechlessness. Bathed, her jet hair coiled into a coiffure that accented her high cheekbones, she wore a pale green gown trimmed in dark gold. Her hazel eyes sparkled as he led her to the place of honor at the table.

  “You are—beautiful,” he stuttered, his tongue tripping over itself.

  Merial lowered her full lashes. “And look at you, my handsome Lord Captain,” she murmured. “Your brother cannot hold a candle to you.”

  Henry, the Marquess of Sundale, gazed at Merial like one transfixed, his mouth open. Until the Duke nudged his elbow, and he cleared his throat to smile, and bow over Merial’s hand. “Welcome to our home, Lady Merial.”

  Though his brother did not know everything, Christopher had hissed a warning to not talk about her family, or her memory loss on their wa
y to the formal dining room. “I will tell you more later, but do not, for the love of God, tell her that her family may have been murdered. I have informed her she has an uncle, but little more than that.”

  Henry slapped him on the arm in a friendly fashion. “I will follow your lead, brother.”

  Merial ate her meal with the manners and grace of a well-bred lady, and Christopher could hardly take his eyes off of her. The talk at the table was of the voyage, Henry the cat’s warnings, the pirates, the storms, and the superstitions that led to the sailors from the White Gull to try to kill her.

  “My arm has yet to heal,” Merial said with a tiny smile, her injured arm concealed in the belled sleeve of green silk. “But the sharks took them to Davy Jones Locker.”

  The Duke guffawed. “Christopher, you scoundrel. You taught her to talk like a sailor.”

  “At least she does not curse like one,” Christopher replied with a grin, seeing Merial blush.

  Henry the cat leaped onto the table in search of tidbits, and, at his mother’s scowl, Christopher hastily set him on the floor. “Owen, milk for my friend here.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Christopher thought the butler rolled his eyes at the request, but he could not be sure. Even after Henry lapped up the milk, he kept the cat fed with bits of food to keep him from leaping onto the table again. Apparently satisfied, Henry jumped into his lap under the table, and his loud purr brought grins to everyone’s faces except the Duchess’s.

  “From now on,” she said severely, “he stays out of the dining room while we are eating. I will not tolerate him on the table.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Christopher aimed for meekness in his agreement, but by her expression, he knew she was not fooled.

  “Your Grace,” Merial said, tentative, her eyes on the Duke. “Christopher says my uncle is now the Earl of Dorsten.”

  “Yes, he is. Your father’s younger brother, Edward. A man of sterling reputation, I understand. If you wish it, I will have Christopher conduct you to his residence.”

  As she never lacked courage, Merial glanced at Christopher before addressing the Duke again. “I should like that. Perhaps in a day or two, I will return. I trust he resides in my family home?”

  Christopher held his breath as his father took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes on Merial. “Yes, he does. He does not yet know you survived the fire that killed your parents. Would you like me to send a message to him?”

  Merial shook her head slightly. “No, thank you, Your Grace. I think I will present myself to him without forewarning. He was told I had perished alongside my father and mother. He will only believe what he can lay eyes upon.”

  The Duke studied her. “And you have no memories at all of what happened, Lady Hanrahan?”

  “None, Your Grace.” Merial took in a visible breath, then smiled. “Though I feel they will return to me soon.”

  “I do so hope you are right, Lady Hanrahan,” the Duke continued with a friendly smile. “For your memories can shine many a light upon the mystery of what truly happened that night.”

  Chapter 28

  “I want you to keep the coffer,” Merial said to Christopher. “It is in the room I stayed in.’

  He frowned slightly. “Are you sure? It belongs to you.”

  “I know.” Merial paused on the stairs to rest her hand on his arm. “Call it a hunch, but I feel it would be safer here.”

  “Surely it would be safe enough with you at your uncle’s home,” he said.

  “Please do not argue with me,” she said, her lips thinned. “You taught me to trust my gut, so I am.”

  She eyed him sidelong as he shrugged. “I will look after it,” he replied. “Are you ready to go now?”

  Merial had stayed in the magnificent home of the Duke of Heyerdahl for two days before deciding it was time to return home. She had no real idea why she procrastinated, only that she had the feeling her memories would return once she stepped through the door. And that prospect also filled her with dread.

  “Yes,” she answered, and wondered if she lied.

  Wearing a gown borrowed from the Duchess, her hair bound atop her head in a proper coif, Merial permitted Christopher to assist her into the ducal carriage. As he climbed in to sit beside her, one of the Duchess’s maids acting as a chaperone, Merial gazed at the stone lions, and fervently wished she could stay behind those doors indefinitely.

  Christopher took her hand as the driver cracked his whip over the horses, the carriage setting off down the quiet street. “Your face is pale,” he observed.

  Merial tried to smile. “Perhaps I am not as ready for this as I thought.”

  “I will stay with you for as long as you like,” he replied. “And if you are not comfortable in remaining there, you can always come back with me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, relief sweeping through her. “That is reassuring.”

  “I can understand why this may be intimidating to you,” he went on, his voice soft, soothing. “You are about to see your only living relative as though he were a stranger, and perhaps regain some very terrible memories.”

  Merial nibbled her lower lip, pensive, as she watched the luxurious homes of Mayfair roll past. “I feel as though I will walk into my home, and be suddenly inundated with all that I have lost.” She chuckled without humor. “Then there is the fear I will never remember what happened, and my uncle will forever be a stranger.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Christopher said firmly. “You will remember. It is only a matter of time.”

  The home of the Earl of Dorsten stood only a few miles from Christopher’s family home on a beautiful lane lined with sprawling oak trees. It sat back from the road with neatly trimmed lawns, flower gardens and hedges, and the sight of it stirred nothing in Merial’s memories. It was like looking at a place she had never seen before.

  The driver rolled the carriage up the long curving drive, and reined in the team in front of the massive doors. Merial, her mouth dry, stared up at the big house as Christopher climbed out. His hand in hers assisted her down, and held onto it tightly as they walked together up the steps toward the pair of footmen standing to either side of the door.

  “Lord Buckthorn and Lady Merial Hanrahan to see the Earl,” Christopher told them.

  They bowed, then swung the door open, and an unfamiliar butler stared out at them. Then his stern visage widened into a welcoming smile, and he bowed. “My Lady,” he said, his voice warm, “welcome home.”

  As he opened the door wider, Merial hesitated, licking her lips, and wondering what to say. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Stepping through the doors with Christopher behind her, she gazed around at the elegant home, seeing nothing familiar. Her memories did not suddenly snap back upon entering her own house as she had both hoped and feared. The butler, still smiling, closed the door behind them.

  “All have believed you dead, My Lady,” the butler went on. “My Lord, your uncle, will be most pleased to find you alive and well after all.”

  “People—think I am dead?” she asked, her heart hammering, disbelieving. “What happened to my parents?”

  The butler’s smile faded. “You do not know, My Lady?”

  Instantly, Christopher stepped up to her side, and squeezed her hand. “Perhaps you should hear the story from your uncle, Merial. Is he in residence?”

  Merial saw him glance at the butler, who answered, “Indeed, he is in the parlor. I will conduct you to him. Might I ask your name, My Lord, so that I may announce you?”

  “Lord Christopher Buckthorn, son of the Duke of Heyerdahl.”

  Inwardly trembling, Merial followed the butler, glad of Christopher’s strong presence at her side.

  They think I am dead. How can that be? What happened in the fire that plagues my dreams?

  Even as she walked, she frantically tried to remember this place, her home, the staff she encountered who smiled even as they paid their respects.

  The butler, with Merial wis
hing she could recall his name, knocked on the door. He opened it, and stood to the side to announce them. “My Lord, may I present the Lady Merial Hanrahan, your niece, and Lord Buckthorn, the son of the Duke of Heyerdahl.”

  Merial entered the parlor, her gaze on the man who slowly stood up from an armchair, his expression stunned, incredulous.

  This is my father’s brother, and I do not know him. Dear God, help me to remember.

  He had the same hazel eyes as she did, yet his hair was russet, not black, with the stocky build of a wrestler.