by Jane Feather
And mercifully it came, after the sun rose and the household began its day’s business. The last dose of laudanum stayed in his stomach, spread through his veins, and brought unconsciousness.
It was midday when Elinor decided she could no longer respect the earl’s orders as relayed to Foster. He hadn’t been seen for thirty-six hours. No one had entered his bedchamber since Henry’s departure, and all kinds of sinister explanations ran rampant in her imagination. Was he a drunkard? Or addicted to some unnatural practices that kept him secluded for days at a time? If this man was to marry her daughter, there could be no such mysteries.
She knocked softly, and when there was no answer, quietly lifted the latch, slipping into the room, closing the door behind her, feeling she must respect the earl’s privacy this far at least.
The reek of suffering hung heavy in the darkened room, and heavy, stertorous breathing came from behind the drawn bed curtains.
On tiptoe she approached the bed, drawing aside the hangings by the carved headboard. It was so dark, it was hard to make out more than the white smudge of the earl’s face on the pillow, but as her eyes grew accustomed, she saw the lines of endurance etched deep around his mouth and eyes, the dark stubble along his jaw. She recognized from her father-in law’s illness the drugged quality of his breathing, and her eye fell on the empty bottle of laudanum on the side table beside the bowl he’d been using for the last harrowing hours.
What was this mysterious sickness? A legacy of the war, perhaps? There were many men across the continent crippled by such legacies.
She picked up the fetid bowl, covered it with a cloth from the washstand, and carried it away, leaving the room as quietly as she’d entered it.
Theo was coming up the stairs as her mother descended them. “Has Stoneridge come out of his room yet, Mama?”
“No, and I don’t believe he will do so for some time,” Elinor said. “He’s sleeping at the moment.”
“But what’s the matter with him?” Theo exclaimed in frustration. “How could he just disappear like that for two days?”
“I expect it’s something to do with his war injury,” Elinor replied matter-of-factly. “Nothing to do with any of us.” She continued past her daughter, taking the bowl into the kitchens.
Theo chewed her lip. Then she ran up the stairs to the earl’s door. Her hand lifted to knock, but something held her back. Some overpowering sense of intrusion.
Her hand fell and she turned away. He couldn’t stay there forever, but neither could she spend another day pacing the house, checkmated.
There was always work to do and she’d bury her frustration in fresh air, exercise, and useful business.
Thus she wasn’t in the house when Henry returned in the late afternoon. He was tired, having ridden since early morning, changing horses frequently to maintain his pace. But the roads were good, and he’d made excellent time. Tucked in his pocket was a copy of the Gazette, snatched at dawn from a vendor with the ink barely dry.
He left his horse in the stable and hastened into the house, wondering if the earl was still abed, or whether the attack had been a short one. They were very rarely short, but they’d never lasted more than two days.
Foster greeted him with the lofty condescension of an old retainer not yet prepared to accept a newcomer. “His lordship remains in his bedchamber, Henry.”
“I see. Then he’ll be wanting some tea, no doubt,” Henry said briskly, not in the least put out by Foster’s attitude. “Do us a favor and ask them in the kitchen to brew a pot. And hot water for his lordship’s bath. I’ll be down to fetch it when I’ve seen how he’s doing.”
Without waiting to see how his request was received, he hurried up the stairs, entering his lordship’s chamber without ceremony.
The curtains were still drawn at the windows but had been pulled back around the bed.
“Ah, Henry, good man. You succeeded?”
The earl’s voice was strong, and Henry stepped over to the bed, knowing what he would see. Stoneridge smiled at him, his eyes clear, his complexion, despite the stubble, pale but healthy. He exuded an aura of peace, as if some hideous demon had been exorcised.
“Aye, my lord, I have it here.” He handed the paper to his employer. “I’ll fetch you up some tea and toast, if you’d like.”
“Mmmm, thanks,” Sylvester said absently, his eyes scanning the announcements. “I’m hungry as a hunter.” He nodded with satisfaction at the brief notice of his engagement. It would require a lot more than vague reluctance or simple indecision on his fiancée’s part to undo that announcement. He never thought he’d be thankful for an attack, but that one might well have proved timely.
“You’ll be wanting a bath, too, sir.”
“God, yes, I’m rank,” the earl declared, folding the newspaper, running his hand over his chin with a grimace of distaste. “I must reek to high heaven.”
Henry grinned with relief. “Not that you’d notice, sir. But I’ll see to it right away.”
Two hours later the earl examined his reflection in the cheval glass with a nod of satisfaction. His tasseled Hessians glimmered in the fading sunlight, olive pantaloons molded his calves and thighs, and his coat of dark-brown superfine outlined the muscles of his shoulders as if it had been made on him.
His close-cropped hair had a luster to it, his skin bore the glow of health and well-being, and he was filled with the euphoria that always followed the hell. His young cousin wasn’t going to be able to present him with any insuperable difficulties. He picked up the Gazette, tapping it against the palm of his hand. No, that hotheaded gypsy was going to come sweetly to heel.
He left his bedroom, strolling toward the stairs. He heard Theo’s voice in the hall, talking to Foster with that breathless catch that meant she knew she was late. He glanced at his fob watch. It was almost six o’clock, and he’d lay any odds she’d only just come in from the fields.
He stepped into a deep window embrasure as he heard her booted feet racing up the magnificent wooden staircase.
“Late again, cousin.” He stepped out of the shadows just as she came abreast of him. His eyes teased her, his smile told her that his scolding tone wasn’t in earnest.
“Oh, you startled me!” She stopped dead. “You’re always doing that, Stoneridge.”
“I beg your pardon, gypsy.” He caught her wrist, pulling her into the embrasure with him. “I’ve missed you.” His hand cupped her chin.
“Where’ve you been? What’s been the matter with you?” she demanded in bewildered frustration, trying to pull back from his hold.
“Just an old war wound,” he said with a dismissive head shake, his fingers closing over her chin.
“I have to talk—” The rest was lost under his mouth, and the familiar tingling began as her blood heated. His hand ran down her back, curved over her bottom in a lingering caress. Warning bells jangled, but she could barely hear them through the pounding blood in her ears. She reached against him, her own hands lifting to encircle his neck, flattening against his nape, holding him much more strongly than he was holding her. The taste and the smell of him sent all her senses reeling, and the whirlpool beckoned like the sirens’ song….
Until he reached behind him to untwine her hands from his neck and the bells crashed their warning with renewed force. But he gave her no chance to speak. His thumb flattened on her reddened lips, his-eyes smiled, but his voice was cool and collected.
“Make haste and change, Theo. We don’t want any more unpleasantness over the dinner table.” As if in reinforcement, the long case clock in the hall chimed six.
“But I—”
“Hurry,” he said, increasing the pressure of his thumb. “You can’t keep everyone waiting while dinner spoils.”
Her eyes darkened with frustration, but he read acceptance in them also. Removing his thumb, he bent and kissed her eyelids, then, chuckling, pinched the tip of her nose and strode off toward the stairs.
“Hell and the devil,” Th
eo muttered, wringing her hands, not knowing whether she wanted to strangle him or hold him so tightly he would never break free.
She stood in the embrasure wasting precious minutes until Clarissa came running up the staircase. “Theo … oh, there you are. What are you doing? Lord Stoneridge asked me to help you dress. He said you were going to be very late otherwise.”
Theo glanced at her hands. She wanted to strangle him … that was all. He’d outmaneuvered her, and the damn man was still giving the orders.
Clarissa was urging her down the corridor, and with a sigh, she yielded. There was nothing to be done at the moment. After dinner she’d have her discussion. He’d have to under stand that his indisposition … or whatever it was … was responsible for the delay.
“Which gown?” Clarissa demanded, flinging open the armoire. “The sprig muslin with the green ribbon knots is pretty.”
“I’m not interested in pretty, Clarry. Just clean and tidy,” Theo stated repressively, flinging off her riding habit. “Pass me the green linen.”
“But that’s so plain!” Clarissa bemoaned.
“It’s clean and tidy,” Theo articulated carefully, lifting the ewer to pour water into the basin.
“But you’re dining with your flaneé….”
“I am not!” She splashed water vigorously over her face. “In the name of goodness, Clarry, stop this romantic twaddle. I am not marrying Stoneridge. It’s as simple as that.”
Clarissa knew that mulish turn to her sister’s mouth and knew better than to persevere. She handed her the despised green linen dress and brushed out Theo’s hair. The blue-black waves sprang out from each brush stroke. Only Theo had their father’s dramatic coloring; the others took after Elinor, with their soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes.
“Shall I put it up in a knot on your neck?” she asked tentatively. “You know how it suits you.”
“Plait it,” her sister said shortly.
Clarissa sighed and did as she was asked.
“Good … thank you.” Theo thrust her feet into a pair of openwork sandals, more suited to an afternoon’s wandering through the garden than the dinner table. She glanced up at the pretty marquetry clock on the mantelshelf. It was barely six-twenty.
“Come, let’s go downstairs.” She smiled at her sister, hugging her briefly. “You’re an angel, Clarry. I’m sorry if I was snappish.”
“You were,” Clarissa responded with a resigned sigh. Her volatile sister could always dispel lingering resentments with her smile.
They went downstairs and entered the drawing room arm in arm.
It was immediately apparent to both of them that something was afoot. Foster was delicately edging the cork out of a bottle of the late earl’s supply of vintage champagne.
Theo instantly froze. Who had had the gall to instruct Foster to broach such a precious bottle? Not her mother, surely? Her mother didn’t know the first thing about what was in the cellars. Theo’s eyes flickered to the Earl of Stoneridge, who was in his customary position by the empty fireplace, resting his elbow along the mantel shelf. Of course, she thought bitterly, the Earl of Stoneridge had the right to drink any bottle he chose, even though he’d put no effort, knowledge, or funds into its acquisition.
“Come,” he said, extending his hand toward her. “We were waiting for you.”
She looked round the room. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, her embroidery in her lap. Emily held a copy of the Gazette in her hand, and it was she who spoke.
“Oh, Theo, love, it’s so exciting. See, here’s the notice of your engagement.”
“What?” The blood drained from her face and then flooded back in an angry tide. “Show me that.” She almost snatched the paper from Emily.
The simple statement set the fact in stone, rendered indecision merely ashes in the wind.
Clarissa read the announcement over her shoulder. Her sister was quivering, and she laid a steadying hand on Theo’s shoulder. She didn’t know why Theo was having such difficulties, but since she was, she’d offer what silent support she could. Theo would do the same for her, whether she agreed with her or not.
“Pray accept my heartfelt congratulations, Lady Theo,” Foster said. The cork slid out between his finger and thumb with barely a pop, and he poured the straw-colored bubbles without losing a drop.
“Stoneridge, could we—”
“After dinner,” he said smoothly. “If you’d like to walk a little, I’m sure your mama would permit it.”
Manipulative devil! After what had passed between them, what had her mother’s permission to do with anything? Theo felt like a drowning man clinging to a weed-encrusted rock. Everytime she grasped a tendril, the slimy fronds slithered through her fingers.
Elinor took a glass from the tray Foster presented. “Theo, dear, you and Lord Stoneridge will discuss whatever you feel necessary after dinner. He will listen to you as you will listen to him.”
Theo waited angrily for her mother to offer a toast to the happy couple, but Elinor didn’t abandon her quite so completely. She raised her glass, took a considered sip, and said, “A happy thought, Stoneridge.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment and sipped his own wine. The girls exchanged comprehending looks and followed suit.
No point wasting vintage champagne, Theo thought, regarding her for-the-present established betrothed over the lip of her glass. He looked remarkably well for a man who’d been indisposed for two days. Had it been a trick? Had he anticipated her morning-after change of mind? Surely not? Not even a Gilbraith could be that devious … or could he?
THE BLACK DOG in Spitalfields was an unwholesome establishment, generally frequented by cutpurses and villains of various trades. It was well-known to the Bow Street Runners, who, more often than not, were indistinguishable in appearance from their quarry on the other side of the law.
On the evening of the day the Gazette carried the news of Sylvester Gilbraith’s engagement to Theodora Belmont, a man stepped out of a hackney carriage outside the tavern and stood on the mired cobbles, his aquiline nose twitching at the stench of rotten garbage and human waste flowing in the open kennels running alongside the filthy lane.
A ragged urchin seemed to stumble against him, but before he could regain his footing, Captain Neil Gerard of His Majesty’s Third Dragoons had collared him. The lad, no more than seven or eight, stared in wild-eyed terror at his captor, who pried open the boy’s clenched fist with fingers of steel.
“Thief!” the captain declared with cold dispassion as he retrieved his watch from the grimy palm. He raised his silver-handled cane as the child screamed. No one took any notice of the scene or the child’s cries as he fell to his knees beneath the relentless blows. Such violence was relatively mild by the standards of this part of London, and even the urchin knew, as he lay sniveling in the gutter, that he’d escaped lightly. If the gent had handed him over the beadles, he’d have faced the hangman’s noose in Newgate Yard or the transportation hulks lying in the Thames estuary.
Captain Gerard kicked at the skinny huddled body by way of parting and strode into the inn, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.
His eyes streamed from the thick smoke rising from a dozen clay pipes and the noxious stench of the sea coal burning in the great hearth, despite the warm summer evening. Men glanced up from their tankards or their dice and then looked down again. Jud’s tavern was a flash house—a place where a man could do business of a certain kind without drawing attention to himself. A man could find a prizefighter, a murderer, an arsonist, a lock breaker, a highwayman, if he knew who and how to ask and had the right currency.
The man behind the bar counter had the brutally disfigured countenance of one who lived by violence. A scarlet cicatrix slashed his cheek where a French sword had cut to the bone, his nose had been broken in so many fights that he could no longer breathe through it, and his mouth was permanently open, revealing one black front tooth. A stained patch covered the empty socket of his left eye.
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“Well, well, if it ain’t the cap’n.” He greeted the newcomer with what might have been a smile but was more of a sneer. “It’s that day agin, is it? Amazin’ ’ow the time passes.” He drew a tankard of ale and drank deeply, wiping the froth off his mouth with the back of a filthy hand.
“What can I offer ye, then, sir?” His sneer broadened. He knew the captain wouldn’t touch anything in this house.
Captain Gerard didn’t deign to reply. This weekly ordeal of humiliation grew harder each occasion, but he had no choice. And most particularly not now. He drew a heavy leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it onto the counter with a clunk.
“Oh, what ’ave we ’ere, then?” Jud opened the pouch and shook the golden guineas onto the counter, where they gleamed dully against the stained planking.
“Only four, sir?” His voice took on a mocking whine. “An’ there was I thinkin’ we’d agreed on a bit extra now … just ’cause me memory’s gettin’ better by the day…. Unusual that, innit?” He wiped the counter with his sleeve, his one eye glittering with malice. “Most people forgets things as they get on … but not me … not Jud O’Flannery.”
Neil Gerard felt the familiar fury mingling with the humiliation of his helplessness. This man had him. He held in the palm of one massive filthy hand the captain’s reputation, his social standing, possibly even his life—a firing squad was the penalty for cowardice in the face of the enemy.
“That Major Gilbraith, now, ’e was a good sort,” Jud mused. “A brave man … everyone says as ’ow ’e was one o’ the best officers they ’ad in the Peninsula. Even old Nosey thought so.”