Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Considering the expression on Ian Blackheath’s face, Lucy figured she should have spent the rest of the night in the tree.

  “Why, Papa,” she said, excruciatingly aware that her guileless expression was being undermined by the garish makeup covering her face, “what a surprise.”

  Ian snorted. “I would imagine so. All this time I thought you had excused yourself because you were bored with our chatter about John Wilkes’s diplomatic mission to London. But no. You just slipped off to run wild through the night. Most fathers of twenty-year-old girls would question their daughters about lovers and trysts and elopements in such a case. But I suppose I can hardly hope you’ve been out trying to captivate some young buck.”

  “No, Papa. I’ve been out haunting.”

  Ian sighed. “Terrorizing the neighborhood again?”

  “It was a very selective haunting this time, I promise. Those fish-headed Baumgarten bastards have been tormenting Cotton Wells for weeks, so I dressed up as one of his dead sons and told them I didn’t appreciate their treatment of my father.”

  She could see the corner of Ian’s mouth twitch, but he lowered his brows even more ominously to compensate.

  “Lucy, you must stop flinging out the word ‘bastard’ as if it is no more potent than ‘by your leave.’ A young lady—”

  Lucy sashayed to the washstand and wrapped her hair in a towel. “A young lady is supposed to mince about, hiding behind her fan and fainting at the first sign of danger. But every time I faint I bruise my tender places, and ‘bastard’ is a deliciously chewy sort of word. Quite perfect, in fact, when I’m in a temper.”

  She dampened the corner of another cloth and went to work scrubbing away her makeup. “I’m very sorry, Papa. I know what a horrible disappointment I am to you.”

  It was a long-cherished joke between father and daughter, one that brought a bark of laughter from Ian. He crossed the room with a limp caused by a British musket ball still lodged in his right hip—his personal barometer for foretelling tempests of two kinds, he always claimed: vagaries in the weather and those in his eldest daughter’s formidable temper.

  “Impertinent baggage,” he said, taking the towel from her fingers and tipping her face up to the firelight the way he had when she was small. He began dabbing at her cheek. “I thought we had come to an agreement regarding these late-night adventures you are so fond of. Your mama worries dreadfully—”

  “You didn’t tell her?” Lucy demanded, alarmed. The fierce protectiveness both Lucy and Ian felt toward the woman who had made them a family was yet another trait they shared.

  “No, I didn’t tell her. Though if I had an ounce of sense, I’d drag you down to the drawing room by the scruff of your neck right now and show her what mischief you’ve been up to tonight. Unfortunately, that would be a trifle awkward at the moment, with John and Claree Wilkes still lingering about, singing the praises of my so charming, so talented daughter. I wonder what they would say if I told them about the more unconventional talents you possess, in addition to your magnificence on the pianoforte.”

  Ian grimaced and paced to the window, closing it against the rain. He peered toward the dark tangle of branches beyond the pane. “Your mother has begged me for years to saw off that damnable branch in an effort to keep you tucked up safe inside your room. The only reason I don’t is because I know it wouldn’t put a hitch in your escapades. You would just make some sort of ladder out of sheets and break your neck trying to climb down another way.”

  “What can you expect from the Raider’s daughter?” Lucy asked with a toss of her head. “You know what Vicar Dobbins always sermonizes: The sins of the fathers will be visited on the sons. What’s bred in the bones will come out in the blood.”

  “I had nothing to do with your breeding, Madame Impudence. You were dumped on my doorstep half grown. But all of Virginia holds me responsible for your disgraceful antics.” The teasing was softened by the deep bond that shone in Ian’s eyes. For just an instant, Lucy felt a rare twinge of sentimentality.

  Even though the Blackheath cradle had been filled three times since Ian had married Lucy’s mother twelve years before, Lucy had always known she had a special portion of her adoptive father’s generous heart.

  Lucy had always been astonished that she was so little like her beloved mother, yet had so many of the traits that belonged to the men who’d played the role of her father. From Alexander d’Autrecourt, the young English nobleman she barely remembered, Lucy had inherited the love of music that flowed like a fiery spell from her fingertips. While Ian Blackheath had bequeathed her a thirst for adventure, a restlessness of spirit, and a keen sense of loyalty and justice that got her into trouble more often than her mother’s nerves could stand.

  Lucy shrugged out of the soaked regimental coat and slipped a pistol from the waistband of her breeches, laying it on the chair. The instant Ian’s eyes locked on the weapon and darkened, she regretted her action.

  “Lucy, there are times I fear that you’re going to put yourself in real danger. What if the Baumgartens hadn’t been taken in by your masquerade? What if they had fired shots at you or given chase?”

  “It would only have made it more amusing.” Lucy sighed. “Oh, Papa. I can’t explain it. When the war was going on, there was always an adventure. I could dash out to visit you when your troops were near and listen to the stories your men told around the campfire. But now, with everything peaceful, I get so jittery inside that I have to play abominable pranks just to stir things up. I can’t help it. There’s this fire in my blood that keeps pulsing and pulsing.”

  There was a twinge of sadness in Ian Blackheath’s smile. “Maybe if you paid more attention to the beaux that hover around you like a honey pot, you would find the source of that fire.”

  “I’d find nothing but trouble,” Lucy scoffed. “The love you and Mama share is wonderful. And maybe when I am old and gray and doddering about, I’d like it too. But the moment a woman slips a wedding ring on her finger, her life becomes so boring. I can hardly imagine some ox-brained husband letting me play ghost or ride in a storm. And besides, every stupid boy I know runs around puffing up with pride as if they are so much stronger and smarter than me when they’re really absolute blockheads. Just the other day, Wesley Mabley criticized the way I was carrying the reins when all Virginia knows he’s so cow-handed he’s ruined the mouth of every horse in his father’s stable. Of course, he was probably still mad because I pointed out the cards he had tucked beneath his lace at the Grays’ house party three weeks ago.”

  Ian chuckled. “It’s hard for a man to admit that a slip of a girl like you can beat him at every pastime there is—riding, shooting, gaming.”

  “You aren’t like that, Papa. I’ve not met a man who can hold a candle to you. Perhaps if I do, I’ll consider hearts and flowers. Until then I shall stick to playing ghost, thank you very much. Now, if you’re finished lecturing, you can kiss me on the cheek and carry yourself off to Mama. I know you can’t bear to spend ten minutes away from her when she’s in a family way.”

  “Actually, I came to your chamber for a purpose other than helping you climb through the window, my dear. Tony Gray stopped by. He’d been to Williamsburg on some goose chase for his own brood of daughters, and he discovered this package waiting to be delivered to you. A mysterious package, I might add. I tried to peek inside it myself, but your mother rapped my knuckles with her fan and sent me to carry it upstairs.”

  For the first time Lucy noticed the parcel setting on the piecrust table. Pleasure set her a-tingle. “It’s from England, Papa! Mama ordered the music I wanted, and it’s finally come!”

  Lucy raced over and tore open the wrappings as enthusiastically as a child. She hesitated, confused, when she discovered no music. But, rather, a sealed letter tucked atop a jumble of strange objects, the message penned in an unfamiliar hand.

  A sliver of unease pierced Lucy’s excitement. Prodded by some instinct she didn’t understand, she turned away f
rom the perceptive gaze of her father and held the missive to the light.

  The package had been addressed to “Miss Lucinda Blackheath,” but the name inscribed on the outside of this letter was “Jenny.”

  Lucy stared at the name as if it were a ghost from another world. Maybe it was.

  Jenny d’Autrecourt—the name Lucy had been christened with in far-off England, by the father she remembered only through the hauntingly lovely music he had left behind.

  The name she had forgotten during the five years she had been cruelly separated from her mother.

  A rebellious waif known as Lucy Dubbonet had been left in Jenny d’Autrecourt’s place. A child lost in anger and darkness that the love of Ian and Emily had healed.

  Lucy’s hand trembled.

  “Lucy? Is there something amiss?”

  Her father’s voice jerked Lucy back to the present with a force that made her heart stumble. For a moment, she was tempted to hand the letter to her father, but the worried expression on his features stopped her.

  In spite of twelve years of happiness, Lucy knew her parents still mourned what had happened to her as a child and that both, in their own way, blamed themselves for some portion of her pain.

  Lucy stuffed the note back in the box and forced her face into an expression of displeasure. “No wonder we trounced the English in the war. They can’t even get a simple order for music right.”

  “There was a mistake?” Ian moved to peer into the box, but Lucy swept it out of the way.

  “This music will do well enough, I suppose. It’s just that there was a particular piece I was looking forward to and it’s not here. You won’t tell Mama, will you? I don’t want her to think the surprise was spoiled.”

  “Of course I won’t tell her.” Ian moved to cup Lucy’s chin in his hand. “But I am sorry you’re disappointed, angel. Why don’t you mop yourself up and come downstairs again? John has spent half the night chuckling over your opinion of the king. And Claree is so delighted with your company that I think she would tuck you in her pocket and carry you away with her if she could. As much as they adore children, it’s a pity that the Wilkeses cannot have their own brood—” Ian stopped and cleared his throat. Lucy knew it was a gruff attempt to change the subject from something so indelicate as the wound that had cost John Wilkes his ability to have a family.

  “They’ll be gone for several years, you know,” Ian said. “You’ll probably be terrorizing your own husband and have a nursery full of babes by the time they return.” There was a certain sadness in her father’s eyes, along with resignation.

  “Not me, Papa. You’re going to be saddled with me forever. I’m going to be the Mad Spinster of Blackheath Hall and set the whole parish on its ear with the scandals I stir up.” Lucy attempted to tease, but her heart wasn’t in it. It was as if the box in the corner were a living thing, lying in wait for her.

  Ian kissed her on the cheek. “You’re far too much like me to escape that easily, my child. I predict that you’ll careen into love the way that I did: like a runaway carriage hurtling over the edge of a cliff. Before you know what’s happening, it’ll be too late to stop it.”

  Lucy chuckled in spite of herself. “I’m sure Mama will love to hear that description. I was there when the two of you met, if you remember, sir. And I was old enough to see that you were on the path straight to hell before you fell in love with her. She was the one who turned you back from the edge just in time.”

  “She did at that, bless my poor beleaguered angel. Now I’d best get back to her. I wouldn’t want her lifting anything heavy.”

  “Like her teacup?”

  Ian looked a little sheepish. Lucy went to him and laid a hand on her father’s arm. “Mama will be fine, Papa. She’ll go through hours of agony, then look like an angel when she lays a beautiful babe in your arms. She’ll be beaming and bonny, and you’ll spend three weeks recovering, as if you were the one who had gone through childbirth.”

  “I just wish that I could help her through it. It’s not easy, this being a woman.” Those eyes that could be so bright and teasing and tender were more than a little sad. He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, moppet.”

  “I love you too, Papa. So much.”

  He chucked her under the chin, then turned and walked out the door. Lucy hesitated until she heard the uneven tread of his boot soles on the stairs, then she hurried to the box. Collapsing before the fire, she picked up the sealed letter.

  The skin on her arms crawled as she stared once again at the inscription. Lucy shuddered, hastily shoving the vellum aside. Her young sisters feared monsters hiding beneath the staircase or underneath their beds. Lucy’s childhood monsters had been terrifyingly real.

  It had always chilled her blood—the knowledge that in England there was a grave with her christened name inscribed on the headstone, a tomb with a tiny empty coffin buried beneath the earth. Jenny d’Autrecourt’s false death had been orchestrated with sinister perfection.

  For five years Emily d’Autrecourt had grieved for her three-year-old daughter, believing the fever that had taken her young husband had also stolen her child. For five years Lucy had been neglected and frightened and alone.

  From the first moment Lucy heard the story of her abduction, she had cast her grandparents, the duke and duchess of Avonstea, in the role of scurrilous monsters.

  They were aristocratic beasts who had developed a sadistic plan to rid themselves forever of the wife and child that were a reminder of their son’s shameful alliance with a simple vicar’s daughter.

  Only a handful of people had ever known the truth about what the duke and duchess had done, and most of those were dead now. Lucy had been content to let Jenny rest in peace, while Ian Blackheath had let it be known that any further attempts to harm mother or child would result in his publishing the d’Autrecourts’ entire villainous scheme in the London Gazette.

  Thirteen years had passed since the confrontation between Pendragon and Avonstea. Years of silence when that other life had seemed like nothing but a dream. But now someone was turning up a spade-full of that grave, releasing a thousand buried questions and nameless fears.

  Lucy’s eyes fixed on the box as if it were waiting to poison her. Maybe it already had, filling her with sick trepidation and dizzying doubts. Hazy memories and terrors that still whispered to her in nightmares.

  She peeked over the edge of the box. A jumble of objects had been packed in straw to preserve them on their journey: a rag-stuffed doll that must have belonged to Jenny long before, a gold watch engraved with Alexander d’Autrecourt’s name. An odd shiver worked through Lucy as she cupped the latter in her hand. It was the first time she ever touched anything that had belonged to the young musician who had sired her.

  Emily d’Autrecourt hadn’t been able to save a single keepsake from the life she’d known in England. Even her wedding ring had been pawned to keep the family from debtors’ prison.

  As Lucy fingered her father’s watch, it was as if the ghostly man she’d idealized as a young god of music were taking on substance, an aura of reality both intriguing and unnerving.

  She reached into the box again, her fingers closing on another sheet of vellum, its edges crumbling with age. Musical staffs were ruled across it with precision, inked notes rambling across them. Her eyes skimmed the notes, the music playing in her mind, as if it were her father’s voice beckoning her from the realm of the dead. She glanced at the blotted inscription at the bottom of the page: “For Master St. Cyr on the occasion of his twelfth birthday, Harlestone Castle. Lord Alexander d’Autrecourt.”

  A birthday gift? Written for another child? An odd sense of hurt streaked through Lucy. She had always cherished the fact that her father had composed the “Night Song” for her alone. It was a part of him that only she could possess. Some shared secret, a special bond. Never once had she considered that he might have written melodies for his students as well, rewarding them for their work the way many music masters di
d.

  It shouldn’t have bothered her so much, but as Lucy set the pages aside, she realized that it did.

  The knot in her throat tightened as she reached into the box for the last object, a jeweled miniature suspended from a faded black ribbon.

  Lucy took the case gingerly in her hand. A folded scrap of vellum had been slipped between the gold frame and the porcelain.

  Lucy tugged the bit of paper free and let it fall to her lap. Then she held the miniature to the fire, eyeing the image of her birth father with an inner hunger that astonished her.

  Light danced across the features of a youth who looked seventeen. He was dressed in stiff aristocratic splendor, but his face was that of a poet, framed in an aura of soft gold hair. His lips curved in an uncertain smile that was far too sensitive for the harsh reality of the world, but his eyes brimmed with dreams, dreams that had been woven in the music he had written. Dreams he had passed to his daughter, along with the blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair.

  Lucy stared into those features, trying desperately to conjure up her own memories of the man, but there was only the music, a silken web of mystery, magic, that spoke to her heart in a language far more eloquent than words.

  The St. Cyr boy for whom her father had written the birthday song would have memories of Alexander d’Autrecourt, Lucy thought bitterly. The boy would remember Alexander’s face, eyes, the way his voice had sounded. She felt a swift stab of animosity toward this boy she had never met.

  “I don’t remember you, Papa,” Lucy whispered to the painted image. “It isn’t fair.”

  She felt a quick jolt of anger at herself, a sense that she was being disloyal to Ian Blackheath, the man who had loved her and taken care of her for the past twelve years. The father she adored more than anyone on earth.

  She should just stuff the things back into the box and shove them into the fire, obliterating them along with the gnawing feeling that she had been waiting a lifetime for this box to arrive.