by Henke, Shirl
“I've become a vacillating coward,” she murmured to herself as she stood in front of her easel and rubbed her aching back one sunny day in mid-March. In the past she had always worked standing, but that was no longer possible owing to her condition. To keep to the rigorous schedule she'd set herself, she had resorted to using a high kitchen stool, a suggestion of Martha, who was most sympathetic, having carried six children while working in the scullery at Barton Manor.
The cook and housekeeper had become her friends—outside of Donita, the only companions she had. The forbidding Lloyd Harris refused to allow his master's recalcitrant wife to leave the grounds. He kept the entire outside staff away from her with the exception of old Miller, the gardener, who, with the approach of spring, was mucking about in the rain, preparing the rose beds. Harris had hired Miller from the village to begin restoring the neglected grounds to their former glory. Beth worked with the gardener, who loved to tell stories about the exploits of “those wild Jamison boys.”
How sad that her best insights of Derrick were gleaned from an elderly gardener. But Beth quickly shook off her self-pity, pacing across the studio floor to look out the window. Faint hints of green dusted the rolling hillsides and the short, straggly trees were starting to fatten with buds. The sky itself grew brighter. Spring was indeed coming, and with it, her baby.
About to return to a dark and brooding portrait of old Fatima instructing odalisques, Beth paused and squinted down the lane. A coach was approaching! Her first visitor since the holidays. Could it be Derrick?
Do not be foolish, she chided herself. He had been informed explicitly by the physician in London that the child would not be born for several weeks yet. Of course, he could be here because of the seraglio paintings. She walked slowly downstairs with her heart in her throat. When Bertie climbed clumsily from the carriage and assisted Annabella down, Beth did not know whether to feel relief at the appearance of company or disappointment that it was not Derrick.
“Heigh ho, we've come to celebrate your success,” Bertie called out cheerfully.
“My success?” she echoed.
“My, yes,the mysterious artist who signs her work with a black thorn has become the toast of London,” Annabella practically gushed.
For a woman who had given her the cut direct when her fate as an Algerine captive became known at Lady Westover's ball, Annabella was behaving oddly. Doubtless she was titillated by her sister-in-law's sudden fame. Smiling, Beth simply said, ”I hoped by using only a symbol taken from my maiden name, I might save the Jamisons embarrassment.”
“Even if the truth comes out, 'twill be but a flea bite compared to Byron's latest,” Bertie said with a dismissive shrug.
As they walked into the hall Annabella proceeded to detail for Beth the latest scandals involving the lost and brooding George Gordon. Beth identified with his isolation and felt a stab of pity in spite of his sins. Or perhaps because of them. When she could get in a word, she inquired about Connie and was told the child had been left in London with her nurse.
Her sister-in-law felt not the slightest concern over being separated from her daughter. How can she do it?
* * * *
It took him a month after he was brought to the house from hospital to be able to walk across his room. After the long confinement in bed, his muscles were weak, and the doctors clucked about his taking a fall and breaking open the stitches in his chest, abdomen and arm. He ignored them, walking supported by his good arm around Peggie's sturdy shoulders.
The plucky nurse had saved his life, and in return he intended to fulfill her life's dream—installing her in her own infirmary in the East End, among the poorest of the poor. He'd arranged to purchase a building and sufficient medical supplies for the staff she would hire. In the meanwhile, Peggie nursed him with love-struck devotion. Her infatuation was a bit discomfiting, but she possessed great common sense and experience when it came to convalescence.
“There now, 'ow—er, how does that feel?” she said, carefully correcting her speech as she inspected the long pink scar running down his right arm while he flexed the muscles, clenching and unclenching his fist.
“Better, much better,” he replied. “Twill be good to be able to write legibly again. The solicitors have been most unhappy about deciphering my scribbling.”
He stood up and strode across the library to his desk, where a mountain of papers had been deposited during his disappearance and then the long convalescence after his rescue. He came downstairs now each morning after exercising. Even though busy setting up her infirmary, Peggie had popped in to check on his progress, something she did every day at noon, when he was brought his luncheon tray.
“Be certain ye eats—you eat the beef and barley soup. I made it me—myself. 'Tis good for building strength,” she finished, pleased with the turn of phrase.
“I shall do so, Peggie,'' he replied with a smile as he rolled down his shirtsleeve.
She'd been listening to the servants who worked at the earl's elegant house and wanted to fit in with them. All her life she had striven to rise above the dreadful circumstances of her birth, and now she'd been given an opportunity to learn proper English.
Peggie Halloran looked forward to her new project with decidedly mixed emotions. When that wonderful day arrived she would have to bid farewell to the earl. If only he were not so lonely. What must his American wife be like that she never replied to any of his lordship's letters? Peggie had seen how he searched the mail brought into his library each morning, hoping for word from her. Letters from his overseer at the great manor house arrived regularly, but not a single line from the cruel countess.
Although he never spoke of his wife, Peggie had listened to servants' gossip since she came to work for the earl. The woman was apparently a libertine, used to the debauchery of the Italians and, even more scandalous, she had actually lived in some heathen seraglio! Whyever had a fine honorable man such as the earl wed such a wanton?
She knew that the main reason the earl was so desperate to recover his strength was so that he could ride to Lynden Hall in time for the birth of his heir. Although he never said so, she could tell that he was still in love with his wife. A man as well-favored as he could have his pick of paramours—from the highest ladies of the peerage to the fanciest of the Covent Garden bits-o-muslin.
Yet he remained faithful to his Beth.
* * * *
The scandal spread from one end of London to the other. That mysterious painter of harem life was none other than the Earl of Lynden's American wife, who had actually been one of those decadently lounging nudes. No one dared to mention this in front of the earl, of course. He learned about the debacle from his highly embarrassed solicitors, who informed him of the astronomical sums the Quality as well as the Cits were paying for his wife's work. It was rumored that even the Regent himself had one of the paintings hanging in his bedroom.
The name of Elizabeth Blackthorne Jamison, the Countess of Lynden, was on everyone's lips. Even though Derrick's finances were certainly on the mend, he could not afford to buy up all the paintings to get them out of circulation. What he could do was ride at once to the Hall, destroy what she was currently working on and take away her paints.
It would be tantamount to taking the breath from her body.
“Ah, puss, what a fine tangle we have made,” he murmured sadly, staring at the erotic and lovely work of art, the last of the new arrivals on display at a gallery on Berkeley Square.
“Her use of light is quite extraordinary,” Ralph High-tower, the gallery owner, said hesitantly as he approached the earl. “She is almost the equal of Mr. Turner.”
“She studied with him in Naples last year,” Derrick replied, still staring intently at the haunted expression in the eyes of the woman being perfumed and powdered in the painting. She bore no physical resemblance to Beth, but he knew his wife had put a part of her soul into the work.
He bought the painting and extracted an oath from the dealer to bring
any more of the countess's work to him. After arriving home with the canvas, he locked himself in the study with orders not to disturb him until further notice. Sitting before the picture, he then proceeded to empty a bottle of brandy as he stared into the fathomless eyes of the odalisque.
Chapter Twenty-six
Evon Bourdin had waited for the perfect opportunity since his disastrously failed attempt on Derrick's life the past December. No more hiring cheap, ineffective thugs to waylay Derrick on public streets. The Frenchman composed a note very carefully and had it delivered to Derrick's house late in the afternoon, just as a light spring rain began to fall.
Derrick read the message. The Count d'Artois requested the pleasure of his company this evening to discuss a matter of some delicacy. He had come into possession of a most shocking painting done by the earl's wife. The note suggested that the work far surpassed the others in the nature of erotic detail.
Derrick's first impulse had been to throw the sly missive into the fire and watch the Frenchman's spidery script turn to ashes. But something stayed his hand. Could she have painted something so lascivious that a jaded old roue such as the count would be titillated sufficiently to attempt blackmail? Her other works were exquisitely rendered, haunting and far more sad than titillating. He had spent hours studying the one he'd purchased and felt as if he had looked into Beth's tortured soul. It was an expression of genuine art, not the sort of erotica about which the count hinted.
Does she hate me so much that she'd paint such a thing as d'Artois describes?
The question haunted him as he rode Dancer through the gathering darkness to the count's current lodgings. The stallion had been returned to him when the thief attempted to sell him at Tattersalls. Derrick had one of the Bow Street Runners riding with him, posing as a groom. Both men were alert for assassins. Either Bourdin or Quinn could be lurking around the next corner.
Derrick was ushered into the narrow foyer by a grim-faced servant who merely pointed toward the sitting room door, which stood ajar. The old itch was back. Something did not feel right. The moment he stepped into the room and saw the count lying on the floor, he knew his instincts were still good. D'Artois had been shot through his heart. An ugly red stain stood out starkly on the gold satin waistcoat stretched across his belly. He was stone cold dead.
“I’ll simply place the count's weapon in his hand after I shoot you with it. You, sadly, will already have shot poor d'Artois,” Evon Bourdin purred as he stepped from behind the heavy velvet draperies at the window with a fancy new LePage percussion lock pistol leveled at Derrick.
* * * *
Beth had worked all day in her studio to escape from Annabella's cloying presence. Frankly, she preferred her sister-in-law's snide hostility to false solicitude. “Listening to her go on at the dinner table makes my head ache almost as much as my back,” she groused to Percy who barked agreement. He had been banished from the dining room for the duration of the family visit as he terrified Annabella into fits of the vapors.
Beth rubbed the persistent pain low in her back that had been plaguing her for the past several days. Small wonder. She was large as a sow about to birth a dozen piglets. There was no help for it but to dress for dinner. Perhaps she could prevail upon Annabella to torture the pianoforte. Even though she was a wretched musician, it was better than listening to her prattle. After ringing for Donita and ordering a bath, she sank into the big tub.
The little maid startled her, saying in Italian, “The master will be here soon.”
Beth stiffened. Donita had never spoken of the tense situation between her and Derrick before. “What would make you think that?” she asked guardedly. If this had been any other of the servants but her longtime maid, Beth would never have tolerated the comment.
“The babe has dropped. Your time is coming soon, and I know he will wish to be here to see his child born.”
“The physician Derrick engaged from Carlisle insists I have several weeks to go yet. What makes you think it will be sooner?” Beth wondered why the girl seemed so certain that the earl cared enough to come for the birth, but she did not ask.
“My mother was a midwife. I assisted her at many births. If you would like...I would be with you during your time,” she said shyly. “I do not believe that fancy doctor knows as much as he thinks he does. Women know how to care for women—men do not,” Donita sniffed.
“I would like that very much, Donita. Thank you,” Beth replied.
As she walked down the hall toward the stairs, Beth mulled over Donita's remarks. Was her time nearer than she had been told? And would Derrick come in any event? Money had been pouring in from the sale of her seraglio paintings and she could not believe he had taken no measures to stop her work. He must be making arrangements for a divorce that would disinherit her child. That was the only reason he would ignore her transgressions this way, she decided bleakly.
Her troubled thoughts were broken when she heard Bertie's voice coming from Annabella's quarters at the head of the stairs. Even if they were cousins by marriage, it was hardly proper for him to be there. A draft from the open window at the end of the hall must have pushed the heavy door ajar just a tiny crack. She could hear their angry exchange quite clearly as she approached the room.
“We must wait until the child is born, my love. If 'tis a boy, then we will let that Irishman take her, but if 'tis naught but a girl, she can pose no threat.”
“No!” Annabella responded to Bertie's wheedling tone. “I want that loathsome American baggage gone. I can endure not another day of feigning civility to a...a seraglio harlot. Why, look at those paintings she's doing! How will we ever live it down if she remains in England? I simply won't have it, Bertie, do you hear me, I won't have it! I want her sent back to that dreadful dey.”
“Now, now, Bella, don't work yourself into a pet. I shall have to send word to Quinn in any event, and that will take time...”
As he continued on, Beth backed away from the door, robbed of breath by the horror of what she'd overheard. Quinn! Here in the north, ready to abduct her and return her to Algiers! Her head reeled with the terror of it—and the treachery. Was there no one in this accursed place whom she could trust?
Harris! She would go to Lloyd Harris and tell him what she had overheard. Derrick had utter faith in the man. She turned to flee down the stairs when a sudden stabbing pain ripped through her abdomen, wrenching a sharp gasp from her as she doubled over, holding her belly.
The baby was coming! Donita had been right. She forced herself to straighten up and head for the stairs, but Bertie had heard the sound and noted the crack in the door. With a muttered curse he flung it open. Moving with amazing speed and grace, he seized her by one wrist and yanked her to his side. Had his cow-handedness also been an act?
As Beth looked into the cold, implacable depths of his gray eyes, she knew that the fumbling, kindly personality certainly had been. She opened her mouth to scream, but another contraction tore through her, once again robbing her of breath as he dragged her into the sitting room and closed the door.
“We need something to bind her with,” he said to Annabella. “The drapery cords will do,” he instructed as he extracted a white linen handkerchief from his waistcoat, preparing to stuff it in Beth's mouth.
“Why, Bertie? Why are you doing this?” Beth asked.
He looked at her with what appeared to be a touch of genuine regret. “Why, to be the next Earl of Lynden, m'dear. My darling Bella quite enjoyed being the countess and will be again after we're wed.”
The expression on his face reminded her of Liam Quinn's that night at Lady Holland's salon and she felt chilled to the bone. “You plan to kill Derrick,” she said with dread choking her.
“Your precious husband will soon be dead,” Annabella said with all the venom of a woman scorned. “He made far too many enemies while he ran about Europe as a spy, I fear. Evon Bourdin salivates to kill him.” A sly smile curved her tiny bow mouth.
“No! ” Beth c
ried out, wrenching away from Bertie's grip when he reached for the bindings. Using strength born of utter desperation, she shoved Annabella against Bertie and. lunged for the door. He was after her in a flash, capturing her just as she pulled it open—and felt the terrible agony of another contraction. She screamed through it as Bertie cursed and tried to haul her back into the room before any servants chanced to hear her cries.
But Beth held on to the doorknob with a white-knuckled grip while Bertie hissed to Annabella, “My pistol's in your bedroom. Get it!”
“You can't hold the entire staff of the manor at bay, Bertie. Release me and I'll let you go,” Beth said as Annabella dashed into the adjoining room. They had been sleeping together here in the manor! “Can't you see, she's just using you to regain her title.”
“Perhaps,” he said in that oddly regretful voice. “But I adore her; have ever since we were children. Sad to say, I'm only a baron, and my gel has her heart set on wedding an earl.”
Annabella dashed back into the room, holding the pistol in front of her awkwardly. It was apparent that she had never shot a gun in her life. Beth released her hold on the doorframe suddenly, throwing Bertie off balance as she lunged awkwardly against him. Her hand shot out toward Annabella. She tried to seize the double-barreled Manton pistol.
“Ah, no you don't,” Bertie said, grabbing the gun dexterously and swinging it around to her breast.
Just then a loud bark sounded as Percy burst into the room. Bertie's eyes shifted for an instant to the dog, and Beth seized his gun hand in hers, raising the pistol overhead as they struggled with it. He started to slap her with his left hand, but the dog sank his teeth into his leg before he could connect. The searing pain in his hamstring brought forth a torrent of curses as he kicked at the dog and yelled at Annabella, “Demme, give some help here!”