“Sir Alexander will kill him.” She swallowed. “For all his impenetrable exterior, Ruel is a gentle, kind man at heart. Lacking his mother’s love, he has become both hardened and vulnerable at the same time. No one knows the chinks in Ruel’s armor better than his brother.” Her fingers tightened on her shawl as she thought about what might happen. “Even if I arrive in time to caution him, he may not believe what I tell him.”
Charles Locke regarded her for a moment without speaking. Then he took her hand. “Lady Blackthorne, do you love your husband as you vowed you did?”
“At first the marriage was nothing more than an arrangement between us. I thought of it as another of his games. He called it a bargain.” She looked away. “I learned to love Ruel. These past months . . . thinking him dead . . . have been unbearable. The truth is, I care nothing about where we live or what his properties and connections in the ton may be. I love him. I love Ruel, and if . . . if I lose him again—”
“You must make him believe in your love,” Prudence said. “Anne, he will trust you.”
“I agree with Miss Watson,” Charles said. “Nothing but the most profound assurance of your own devotion may convince him of his brother’s evil wishes.”
By the time the carriage arrived at Tiverton in Devon, Anne had completely restored the panel of lace she had removed from her bloodied blue gown. Prudence had changed her mind a hundred times—glad she had chosen to accompany Anne to Devon, and then despising herself for abandoning her sisters when Mary’s husband had grown so ill.
Prudence peppered Anne with questions that had no answers. Would Mr. Walker be glad to see her? Might he want to continue working at his smithy in Tiverton for the rest of his life? Could she possibly live so far from her dear sisters? Would he be willing to move to London to be near her? Did Anne believe he would consider marrying Prudence despite her youth? Ought she to set her sights on some other man instead?
Anne knew little beyond her own fear and constant preoccupation with prayer for Ruel’s safety. As the carriage horses were watered at an inn in Tiverton, Charles Locke learned that Alexander Chouteau had passed through only hours before.
Carriages were prone to breaking down, Anne knew, and horses sometimed pulled up lame or lost a shoe. Might she catch up to Sir Alexander? Might she stop him? She brushed aside Prudence’s suggestion that they stop at the blacksmith’s cottage. The smithy appeared deserted as they drove past it on their way through Tiverton.
Never had Anne known such apprehension. Prudence twisted her gloves until they began to shred, and even Mr. Locke could not stop drumming his fingers on the carriage seat.
“Do you think they will both be here, Anne?” Prudence asked. “Your husband and Mr. Walker, I mean?”
Anne took Prudence’s gloves away and dropped them into her own reticule. “It is the presence of Sir Alexander that troubles me the most,” she said. “We shall know everything soon enough.”
The carriage finally drew up to the front of the imposing stone house. Mr. Locke helped Anne and Prudence step down while the footman unloaded their trunks. In moments, they were standing at the door.
“Yes, sir?” The servant who answered their knock ignored Anne and Prudence and looked questioningly at Mr. Locke.
“The Marquess of Blackthorne?” Charles asked. “Is he here?”
“And Mr. Walker?” Prudence put in. “Where are they?”
“Have you a calling card, sir?” He continued to address Charles.
“Tell the marquess that his wife, the Marchioness of Blackthorne, has just arrived.”
The footman finally noticed Anne, and his eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. Will you not come in?” He stepped aside and ushered the women into the cool entry hall before starting up the long staircase.
Anne’s heart leapt for the first time since she had heard the duke read from Ruel’s letter. She was not too late! He was here! Would he want her? Would he recognize her? Oh, she looked terrible.
“Prudence, my hair. Is it—”
“Anne?”
She looked to the top of the stairs. He stood outlined in the morning sun, tall, raven-haired, magnificent. White shirt, black trousers. Leather boots. A pen dropped from his fingers to the carpeted landing.
“Anne?” he repeated.
All these hours, and she had not planned what to say. Had not imagined how it would be to actually see him again.
“I am here, Ruel,” she said. “I have come from France.”
Nostrils flaring, he gripped the banister as he started down the stairs. His gray eyes burned silver. “Anne, is it really you?”
She left Prudence’s side. “I thought you had died at Waterloo—”
“But it was you—”
“No, I was alive. I . . . we went to France and—”
“You are not dead?”
“No, but I thought you were until the duke—”
“Thank God!” He leapt down the last five steps, tore across the hall, caught her up in his arms, and swung her around and around. “This is a miracle! Anne! Dear Lord, You have brought her to me!”
Laughing, crying, she clung to him. “I cannot believe it! You are alive!”
“God has given you back to me! A second chance!”
“Ruel, I was certain I should never see you again. So many weeks—”
“An eternity.” He let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. Searching her eyes, he shook his head. “You are beautiful.”
She thought of the miles she had come, the wrinkles in her dress and tangles in her hair, and none of it mattered. To him she was beautiful. Beautiful!
“I believed I could never hold you in my arms again,” he murmured. “I saw you dead on that battlefield. Your blue dress was drenched in blood. You lay lifeless, as did your friend. The horses were mangled and the cart badly damaged. How many times I have recalled the scene in my mind. Your mouth open . . . your eyes rolled back. . . . You were dead, Anne.”
She shook her head. “Prudence and I lay unconscious for many hours. It was night when we became sensible again, and the battle still raged. Our ears had been deafened by the blast of the cannonball, but we could see the fallen men lying all around us. We had no doubt you and Mr. Walker were among the dead at Waterloo.”
“You were mistaken. After finding your bodies there on the front line, we knew we had no choice but to flee the battleground. Walker insisted we run. He said otherwise we would be killed, too.” He gripped her shoulders. “Anne, I have grieved you more than you can know.”
“And I you. Prudence and I concluded that you and Mr. Walker had been killed, for we thought surely you would not have abandoned us.” She turned, seeking her friend.
“Where is Mr. Walker?” Prudence asked as she stepped forward.
“He has been living in Tiverton at his cottage,” Ruel said.
“He has forgotten me. Oh, Anne, I knew it!”
Anne gathered her friend close. “Ruel, I beg you to send for Mr. Walker. He must be told that Prudence lives.”
Nodding, Ruel summoned a footman. As he gave instructions for a rider to take a message to the blacksmith in Tiverton, he paused and turned to gaze at Anne.
Her arms around Prudence, Anne looked into his eyes and saw what she had never imagined possible. He loved her. Wholly, without the slightest hint of hesitancy, he loved her. And how very dearly she loved him, too.
Still in a daze of disbelief, Ruel followed the footman to the front door. A horse was brought quickly from the stable and a rider dispatched with a message Ruel had scrawled out. As he watched the horse’s hooves send up a line of dust along the road, his mind still struggled with the realization. Anne! Anne had come back from the dead. She was inside the house. How could that be?
He had been haunted by her memory. Though certain that he loved her, he had failed to tell her at Waterloo. Then she had been killed on the battlefield. Killed. He had been so sure of it. Every mile he had crossed in his journey back to England had been
etched with his agony. Regret. Anger. Disbelief. Sorrow. Self-contempt. Fury. Rage. Tears.
How many tears had he wept over her? When he thought back on his life, he could not recall shedding a single tear about anything. Ever. Grieving Anne had torn the edges of his heart.
Once in Devon, he had hidden himself away at Slocombe House. Feeling dead inside, despairing of hope, he had found his only comfort in God. There were no cathedrals or abbeys like the ones he had known in London, so he sought strength in the Bible he found in the library. But Ruel could hardly accept that God’s grace, His free gift of love, could reach down and touch his own life so profoundly. The most undeserving of men, he had been remiss in too many ways. As the dark days passed, Ruel had repented, vowed to change his life, surrendered his own will to God’s leading. Yet he could not break free from the sorrow and regret that had held him in chains of anguish.
But now God had brought Anne to him. Feeling like a young colt set free in a spring pasture, he bounded back across the foyer.
“My wife,” he said proudly to the footman. In a clear breach of every rule of etiquette, he slipped his arm around Anne and drew her close. With a laugh, he kissed her cheek.
“So pleased to meet you, Lady Blackthorne.” The footman made a deep bow. “We were given to believe you had perished.”
“And we are all happily wrong.” Ruel turned to Anne. “You must be exhausted from your journey. I shall take you to our chambers at once, and Mr. Locke and Miss Watson must be shown to the guest rooms as well. Simmons, see that hot water is sent upstairs directly. And the trunks, of course. Let us plan to gather for tea at four o’clock in the drawing room.”
“I welcome the opportunity to refresh myself,” Anne said softly. “But first I must request a tête-à-tête with Sir Alexander.”
“Alex?” Ruel said. “Alex is not here. He prepares his wedding in London.”
“But he was ahead of us.”
“Alex is coming to Slocombe?”
“Your family had no idea you were alive, sir,” Charles Locke spoke up. “Your letter from France arrived at Marston House only two days ago.”
“Two days? Impossible! I sent it weeks ago.”
“It is true,” Anne confirmed. “Your parents summoned me the moment they received the news, for of course I had written to tell them you were dead. The moment Sir Alexander heard you were alive, he abandoned his wedding plans to come to you at once. He arrived in Tiverton last night. Surely he is here already.”
“Evidently you outpaced him.” Ruel’s grin broadened. “But this is excellent news! My brother is on his way. Alex is coming. What a splendid reunion we shall have!”
Nineteen
Teatime came but Anne could not tear herself from the bliss of Ruel’s arms. As the party sat together in the drawing room, the sun drifted down toward the horizon casting lacy shadows from the oak trees outside the window. Anne tried to think about important things. Prudence. The duchess. Sir Alexander.
All she knew was this man whose warm embrace folded her in security and love. He was just as she had remembered him. And different, too. The scar on his cheek made a fitting emblem for the new man. His pain was more open now, more easily revealed. But so was his love. He had been wounded by loss. But she sensed that he had healed into a more compassionate human being.
Ruel had not moved from Anne’s side, and even now he kept one arm firmly around her shoulder as if he could not bear to be separated from her for even a moment.
“Calais,” he said to her as a maid poured tea into empty cups. “I can scarcely believe that you and Miss Watson were there all the time.”
Anne shifted at the mention of France. “Ruel, I must tell you what became of your lace machine.”
“Never mind the loom. I am now considering an offer my brother made to me some time ago. Mr. Locke, I understand that you have had a letter from Henry Carlyle, your partner with Sir Alexander in Locke & Son Tea Company.”
“Several letters, in fact,” Charles replied. “Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, writes to say he is safely arrived in China, and he is successfully negotiating a large shipment of the finest tea that country has to offer. Locke & Son may expect to turn a handsome profit when he returns to England. Lord Black-thorne, you are more than welcome to join your brother, Lord Delacroix, and me in this venture. Indeed, I am sure we should all be most grateful for your influence.”
“I thank you, sir. Like my brother, I am deeply committed to the financial well-being of the duchy of Marston. I should very much like to learn more about the tea trade.”
“But what about lace?” Anne spoke up. “Monsieur Robidoux is doing so well in Calais.”
Ruel turned to her. “Robidoux? You know him?”
She glanced at Prudence for reassurance before continuing. “Prudence and I took your machine into France, and Monsieur Robidoux met us at Douai. Hezekiah Cutts has been a great success. You are the owner of a growing lace industry in Calais—with a lace school and a clever manager. Monsieur Robidoux is a most competent businessman.”
Throwing his head back, Ruel laughed heartily. “You took my machine to France? You set it up? My little Luddite?”
“How could I not, sir?” she asked softly. “It was your dream.”
Sobering, he shook his head. “Thank you, Anne. I know it was a great sacrifice. Your father—”
“I trust you will continue to work toward his freedom.”
“Of course. Your mother and the others are well, I am sure, for I commissioned my steward to take the best possible care of them.”
“You are too good.” Embarrassed at the public exchange of emotion between herself and Ruel, Anne knew she must move quickly to other matters. “I must address an issue of great import. It has to do with the attempt on your life in Brussels.”
“Give Droughtmoor no thought, I beg you. The man is of little consequence and—”
“But I speak of Sir Alexander,” she cut in. “He may have been the assailant.”
Ruel scowled. “My brother?”
“Sir, you stand between him and the duchy.” She sucked in a breath, trying to force herself to tell him what had occurred when the duke had read aloud his letter. “Upon hearing news of your presence in Devon, your brother departed London at once, leaving his bride-to-be in the lurch. The duchess was . . . distraught.”
“In a snit, no doubt. I long ago heard the rumor that she is not my true mother—though I assure you no one in the family gave credit to such vile gossip. All the same, I have ruined her plans more than once. Anne, you must understand how the duchess views her life. I am not the first child whose mother rejected him in favor of a sibling, nor shall I be the last.” He paused, searching her face. “My mother, Drought-moor, Society—nothing in the past can have importance now. But you do. Will you stay with me, dear lady? Can you make Slocombe and Marston your home?”
Forgetting all about Sir Alexander, Anne slipped her arms around his neck. “Oh, Ruel, I am at home already.”
“My home is in your heart,” he whispered.
“Ahem!” The footman cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Lord Blackthorne. Mr. Walker is here at your request.”
As the tall figure slipped into the room, Prudence gasped and leapt to her feet. “Mr. Walker!”
Before she could rush to him, the man stiffened. “Miss Watson? I . . . but we thought—”
“Excuse me,” the footman interrupted again. “Alexander Chouteau has arrived. May I present your brother?”
“Of course!” Ruel stood. “Show him in at once.”
Sir Alexander strode into the room. “Ruel, how surprised I was to learn you are alive and well,” he began. “I bring warm greetings from our parents.”
“Alex, upon my word, I cannot credit the notion that you thought me dead!” Ruel crossed the room to embrace his brother. “I wrote to you from France. I told you all I was coming here to Slocombe.”
“Your letter was waylaid, and in the meantime, Lady Blackthorne
gave us to believe that you had perished in France.” Sir Alexander spotted Anne, and his face darkened. “Are you aware, brother, that your wife betrothed herself to a wealthy French merchant—merely weeks from our parting at Waterloo?”
Her heart hammering, Anne gripped the arm of the settee and pushed herself to her feet. “Sir Alexander, this is a private matter, and I have not had time to speak to my husband about it.”
“Anne?” Ruel turned from his brother. “Is this true?”
“Monsieur Robidoux can hardly be considered wealthy.”
“Robidoux?” Ruel’s face softened. “Do you speak of Pierre Robidoux of Douai?”
Anne relaxed a little at the quizzical smile that tipped one corner of his mouth. The short Frenchman with his large nose was something less than a romantic rival. Ruel knew that, and so did Anne. But Alex clearly did not.
“Believing you had been killed at Waterloo,” Anne told her husband, “Monsieur Robidoux asked for my hand. He had come to consider me an asset to the lace industry in Calais. I knew I could not rely upon the largesse of the Chouteau family, for they had ignored my communications.”
“Lies!” Sir Alexander burst out. “She cannot claim we ignored her. For all we knew, she was dead, too.”
“Sir, it is quite impossible that none of my letters reached you in Paris. You never troubled yourself to respond. And your parents knew of my situation. As you just stated, they received the letter I wrote to inform them that I believed their son had perished.”
“Never mind that, Anne.” Ruel took her hand. “Do you hold any affection for Robidoux?”
“Nothing more than a business arrangement ever passed between us. Prudence can attest to that, as will Monsieur Robidoux himself. Ruel, please, you must believe me.”
Pulling Anne protectively against him, he made no answer. Instead, he faced his brother. “Alex, why have you come to Devon? What brings you to Slocombe House when all London is abuzz with preparations for your wedding?”
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