BEHIND
YOUR
EYES
Copyright ©2011 by Lisa S Cox
Dedications:
For my family. I love you all.
And for Ben. Because I can.
PROLOGUE
ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, LONDON, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER, 1810
“You know, son, I love you and your brother very much.”
-The Seventh Earl of Redbridge to his son, Alex
The Earl would have liked to fall on his knees and weep openly in the church. His beloved brother lay in the wooden box before him, dressed spectacularly to meet his Maker. Come on, Phillip, he silently pleaded. Open your eyes and start laughing. Assure your little brother this is all a joke. But Phillip Montgomery, the eighth Earl of Redbridge, never moved. Not even a breath.
The new Earl knew what he had to do. He had to bury his dead brother. The mourners and well-wishers were coming and he had to greet them. It was his place. He was no longer just Alexander Montgomery, he was now the ninth Earl of Redbridge. Now he had to be the responsible one. He pushed his emotions so far down he might choke on them.
Stepping out into the cold drizzle, Alex noted that winter seemed fast approaching, although it was just early September. Wanting to curl into a ball, he forced himself to maintain a stiff posture. He had to remember the honorable tradition of his father and brother. He would do their memories proud today, no matter how scared he was.
He greeted the unfamiliar faces, thanking God for the man at his side. His best friend, Christopher Taylor, was there, silently providing the support he so desperately needed. He was clinging to that one comfort. Christopher would see that he got deep enough into his cups tonight to forget his cares. But first, he had to lay his brother to rest.
They all filed past, offering condolences that fell empty on Alex's ears. Some truly meant well, but they did not know Alex's sorrow; couldn't imagine the depths of his grief. He spotted a few acquaintances among the throng. He saw Charles, his other best friend, but this was no time to catch up with his old army companion. Charles quietly murmured his regrets as he stepped into the Church. A parade of more unknowns passed. Then the line faded as the Church had filled up.
Alex swallowed hard two, three times to stop the threatening tears. It was going to be a long funeral.
Seven hours later Alex was only tipsy and his mood had not improved. He and Christopher were sitting in Philip's study in his Mayfair townhouse.
“I feel as if I am borrowing my brother's life. His title, his house, his brandy...,” Alex said, reaching for the decanter. Sitting back and propping his feet up, he poured another generous glass.
Veering the subject back to the point, Christopher asked, “How much did Phillip know?”
“I told him all of it when I came home.”
“Did anything seem amiss when you arrived?”
“No. We are so far removed from the West Indies here in London, I assumed there would be no danger.”
Christopher nodded his sandy blond head in agreement and continued, “So what now? I guess we are at a dead end.”
“No, we are not. I refuse to give up. Especially since I know Phillip was murdered.”
Christopher spit out the brandy and coughed, his chocolate brown eyes watering.
“Murdered? I thought it was bad salmon?”
“No,” Alex said, shaking his head, “His food was poisoned.”
“That means someone on the inside.”
“I released the staff and hired new people. I didn't think Barnsley's arm reached this far. I know he is a Duke, but he lives in Louisiana. It does not seem possible that he hired someone to kill my brother when he could have killed me. I think he just likes seeing me suffer.”
“I thought he only wanted part of your island. I didn't think he'd want anyone dead. Well, anyone of the peerage, anyway.”
“I cannot prove it was him, and I do lack real motive. He could get land in the Caribbean without killing me or Phillip. But he has proven to be ruthless in the past....” Alex shook his head as he trailed off again.
“You two were very close, weren't you?” Chris asked, shifting subjects again.
“Yes. I owe Phillip a lot.” Alex looked away, mentally tallying his debt to his sibling.
“You told me he was very protective of you when you two were younger.”
“Yes, even though I am a bastard.” Alex wasn't sure why he had said that. He must be tipsier than he thought.
Christopher coughed again, amusing Alex.
“How did you find out?”
“My father told me before I went to India,” Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat, took a healthy sip of brandy, then sprang from his chair to pace.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Phillip knew. But my father never told anyone. They assume my parents were married in Spain, like I did.”
Alex walked restlessly to the door, turned, and retraced his route to the fireplace. He rubbed the mantle, as if that would help him think. He kept his mind moving, never staying still on his brother.
“Barnsley has to know that we will come after him. He knows we are too smart not to suspect him. Especially after he attacked our ship last year,” Alex reasoned out, trying to keep the conversation on course.
“All this over sugar,” Christopher shook his head.
“There are several other sugar plantations in Louisiana and the Caribbean. Why us? We are very successful, but so are the others. I am beginning to wonder if this is personal.”
Christopher shrugged, obviously deep enough into his cups that he no longer cared to think on the matter.
“I want you in New Orleans, Christopher.”
“What?” Christopher looked at Alex with bleary eyes and lazy grin.
“Go to New Orleans and watch him. Every move. I want to know what he is doing at all times.”
“Okay,” Christopher shrugged again.
Maybe Christopher could find proof. At this point, the only thing mattered was what they could prove. And right now, that wasn't much. Barnsley hadn't left a trail for them to follow. If it was, indeed, Barnsley.
Alex vowed, then and there, even if it meant his own death, he would avenge his brother. He owed Phillip. He buried his brother today. Next, he would bury his murderer.
CHAPTER ONE
NORTHWOOD COTTAGE
THE COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND
EARLY MARCH 1811
“I do regret that you and your brother never knew the love of a mother.”
Anne Stafford had never been a spirited girl. Indeed, she was agreeable, loyal, and obedient. In short: a spaniel. She had, on occasion in her youth, tried to be independent; and failed miserably. She could not bring herself to do anything contrary. Climbing trees and splashing in mud puddles were her first efforts to establishing a free spirit. These were always met with disappointing glares. Desperately wanting to please her parents, Anne had trained herself into a lapdog.
And so, possessing the qualities of a reliable canine, she had resigned herself to a quiet existence at her family home of Westwood Cottage.
It wasn't as if she was unhappy. She had her mother, her younger sister, and most of all, her drawing. That which she loved above all else in life. Frequently she came to her favorite room in the house, the parlor, and drew for hours. The room, though small and sparsely furnished, was cozy. The large fireplace fueled the warm and welcoming atmosphere.
The desk at which she was currently sitting was given to her on her sixteenth birthday. It was a proper ladies' desk that held her correspondence, her drawing paper, and pencils.
On a normal day, she was allowed to draw for hours uninterrupted by anyone. On a normal day. But today was no ordinary day. Today her so
litude was disrupted by her little sister's whiny declarations.
“He’s a pirate,” Jane demanded, her chin set.
“No, he’s not,” Anne replied calmly. Although she new nothing of the Earl of Redbridge, he was suddenly her intended. His name had been in the gossip columns of late, and Janey was all atwitter with the excitement of it all. Janey was trying to convince Anne that he carried dark secrets.
“Of course he’s a pirate,” Janey continued emphatically, “the Crown is after his head. Why do you think he lives in the Indies? Only pirates live there.”
“Oh, Janey,” Anne let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s not as if he lives in a cave. He owns a sugar plantation. And he is an Earl. Rich men are not pirates.”
Janey's blue eyes, almost a mirror of her own, flared in frustrated anger. Anne smiled, wanting to indulge her younger sister but unwilling to give into this absurdity. Instead, she tried reasoning it out with her.
“Janey, how do you know any of this for fact?”
“It’s in all the papers.”
“Which papers? The news or the gossip columns?”
“The gossip columns only print the truth,” Janey nodded as if that settled the matter.
Anne was not ready to concede. “The gossips print the truth according to them. Besides, his father and brother were members of the House of Lords. Do you think with credentials like that a man would turn to piracy? Poor men turn to piracy in desperation. He is not a pirate.”
“How do you think he became rich? Because he is a pirate!” Janey wailed.
Anne shook her head and focused her attention on her picture, ending her part of the conversation.
Sophia Stafford, the girls' mother, interrupted just then.
“What is all this fuss about?”
Anne spoke up first.
“Janey is convinced the Earl of Redbridge is a pirate.”
Janey walked out of the room with a huff, stamping her feet, her raven hair flying behind her.
With a slight backward glance, Sofia declined to comment on her youngest child's mood.
“I will speak with her later, Anne. In the meantime, I will need your help. Your cousin Charles, is coming to visit us in a sennight. He is to escort us to London. We need to begin preparing. There is much to be done.” Sophia patted her perfectly pinned raven hair.
Anne nodded. She knew her mother counted on her to assist with the supervision of the household staff, small though it was at this time.
As Sophia turned to leave the room, Anne stopped her with a hand on her wrist and looked into her mother's storm cloud colored eyes.
“Mother, I believe Janey to be jealous. I think that my sudden betrothal has hurt her.”
Sofia nodded, softening her voice, “I know this engagement was brought about quickly. It will be a big adjustment for all of us. I am just grateful that Charles' friend agreed. Your father's illness cost you precious years. I thought a season in London would be a waste of your time.”
Anne smiled, unsure what to think or how to respond. How could she tell her mother she was disappointed she would never have a season? Could she possibly blurt out that she had no wish to marry a complete stranger? No, she would smile and nod and do what her mother told her to do. Just like she had done for twenty years. Listen to your governess; sit up straight; act like a lady, ladies do not climb trees. Then, after her father took ill: dismiss half the household staff, we can no longer afford them all. Tell the upstairs maid she needs to air my wardrobe once a day or she will be relieved of her post.
Anne had done it all and more, always acting the lady of the manor when she was still in her early teenage years. She had done it graciously, helping her mother at every turn. Knowing her mother was in grief about her father's lengthy illness and eventual death, she had taken it all upon herself. So how could she possible rebel now? There was no way she would.
Anne said nothing, letting her mother believe she was happy. Sophia turned to leave
again and Anne was left, gratefully, alone. Gathering her nerves and thoughts, she began
to draw the stranger she was set to marry.
What sort of man is he? Maybe he has a bit of mystery to him. Yes, some intrigue.
Drawing slowly, methodically, she lost herself in the art.
It was no wonder her mother decided to marry her off. She would have had a debut
if her father hadn't taken ill when she was just thirteen. He had pulled through, but the
illness had left him weak and unable to care for himself. Sadly, he was not well enough
to escort the Stafford women to London for Anne to make a debut when she was
seventeen. Shortly thereafter, his heart finally gave out, leaving them to mourn.
When he had passed two years ago, their cousin, Charles, had inherited the title of
Viscount Tranmere and everything that went with it. That included brokering marriage
for Anne. To a man she had never met.
Anne shivered and wrapped her shawl tighter around her. The normally warm
cottage seemed to cool with every thought of the new life that lay ahead. The country
had been a fine place to live and she dreaded leaving it. To compound her worries,
she could end up living on a sugar plantation far away from England.
The picture she was drawing slowly came into focus. It was a man's face hidden in
shadows.
*****************
While Anne was preparing for bed, Janey tapped lightly on her door then peeked in, a question on her face.
“It is alright, come in.” Motioning her little sister to come it, Anne brushed her long brown hair once more, put her hairbrush down and turned on her vanity seat.
“I want to apologize for calling your betrothed a pirate.”
Laughing, Anne forgave her sister.
“I guess I tend to exaggerate a bit on occasion,” a blush creeping up Janey's cheeks told Anne she was really sorry.
Janey, being all of sixteen, was still stuck in the perceived romanticism of life. And why shouldn't she be?
“Janey, this sudden engagement is difficult for me too. I don't know this man I am to marry. I still do not think he is a pirate; Charles would never marry me off to a pirate. Indeed, I believe he has made a solid match. But how can I marry a man I have never met?” Tears threatened but Anne held them back for Janey's sake. She could never let her little sister know she was terrified.
Innocent eyes met Anne's in a naïve attempt to comfort. Turning back to her mirror, Anne broke the contact, feeling the weakness coming on again.
Janey moved away from the vanity, shuffled toward the bed, and flopped, stomach down, on top of it. She silently watched Anne brush her hair for a few minutes.
“Why did you agree to marry if if you do not want to?” It was an innocent enough question and Anne had only one real answer.
“Mother and Charles told me to.”
“I do think it is terribly romantic,” this said with a wistful sigh.
“It is business,” Anne stated flatly, checking for imaginary blemishes on her face in the mirror.
“How can you be so cold about your marriage?”
“How shall I be?” Anne asked with a calm she didn't feel. “I don't know him but I was not given the choice. How would you respond?”
Sighing and rolling onto her back, Janey reflected a moment.
“I would be excited. Nervous, of course, but terribly excited. It would be such an adventure! Just think of it, I could live on a sugar plantation halfway around the world! Isn't that enough for you? And this Earl must be handsome as the devil and very dashing! Oh, Anne, I cannot possible see how your blood does not heat at the mere thought of it all!” Janey finished dramatically.
Shrugging, Anne turned to look at Janey again. Janey was hardly practical. To live in a place she knew nothing about, married to a man that was probably ugly as sin and reclusive at that was a hideous thought to her future. Jane
y could never understand.
“I suppose I just wanted to make my own choice for once,” Anne finally whispered.
The gravity of the words weighed heavily in the room, silencing Janey and her enthusiasm.
CHAPTER TWO
“I did the best I could to raise you two properly. I tried to instill the importance of
virtues, especially honor. There are those of our class who would disregard the
virtuous path.”
Willard, the Duke of Barnsley was a very powerful man. He had a title, well-connected friends, and a wardrobe that spoke of wealth and good taste. He was tall and handsome, despite his softened stomach and thinning hair. All in all, he was still considered one of the most well-favored men in the world. In England, he belonged to White's, he attended Almack's regularly, and he was welcome in every ballroom and salon in London. He owned a very fashionable townhouse in the heart of Mayfair, he owned a vast estate in West Riding, an estate in Lancaster (won in a card game), and a sugar plantation in Louisiana. For this sugar plantation, he had left all of his English comforts behind to start a new life just outside of New Orleans. He had relatives in France set up a sugar refinery for him so he could ship his sugarcane there without the competition of manufacturing it in England. Then the damned French had started a revolution and his investments had gone down the tubes.
Barnsley was going broke, there was no other way to say it. He had rented out his lovely Mayfair townhouse and sold his Lancaster estate to keep the plantation going but none of that mattered. No one in France was currently importing sugar. They couldn't. With the blockade of Napoleon, the French were growing sugar beet domestically and that meant that Barnsely would have to set up a factory in England if he wanted to make a profit. Right now, he could hardly afford it. Luckily, he had been able to convince some creditors to extend his loans until he could come up with a way to recover his investments. Anything he could think of, he tried. Even went so far as to attempt to rent or buy more land. And nothing. Nevertheless, he had to try.
Behind Your Eyes Page 1