One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  “And what will William’s letter say?”

  “It will demand that the exchange be made in the village plaza. Being fairly certain the exchange would occur in Portugal, I’ve taken the liberty of studying all the coastal towns. Figueria, like most Portuguese towns, is possessed of a central plaza.”

  “You’re worried about William?”

  “As you are worried about Randolph. I have no desire for William to be robbed and killed in some remote mountain area. His letter will explain that he’ll have the money in a wagon in the plaza for the captors to examine before turning over your brother. The letter will warn them that until the time of the exchange—the time to be set by the captors—the wagon will be guarded by heavily armed men day and night. At the time of the exchange our men who are manning the bell tower of the plaza’s church will disperse.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Heavily armed men?”

  Nick nodded. “The Birminghams are used to conveying large sums of money across the continent. We have our own small, well-trained, well-armed guards. A dozen experienced men will travel with Will.”

  She slumped. “I’m afraid the captors won’t comply. Why should they allow you to make the decisions? Won’t they fear being ambushed upon entering the city?”

  “An ambush would only result in your brother’s death. I’d much rather have him than the twenty-five thousand guineas. The letter will convey that Lord Agar’s safety is our first concern.”

  “How will they know that after Randy’s turned over, your men won’t massacre them?”

  “Because—as the letter will convey—our men will lay down their arms before Lord Agar can be freed.”

  She closed her eyes and spoke in a fragile voice. “It’s all so terrifying.”

  He set a sturdy hand over hers. “I know.”

  She knew he was as terrified for his own brother’s safety as she was for Randy’s.

  “How can William be sure the released man is my brother?”

  “Have you a likeness of him?”

  A gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I have the miniature he had made for Mama, but it’s quite outdated. It was painted nearly ten years ago, when he first reached his majority.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my reticule. I carry it with me wherever I go.”

  Nick stood over her bed, looking down at her. “You miss him that much?”

  “All I have left are my two brothers.”

  “You have me,” he murmured.

  She understood that Nick’s assurances had not been made out of jealousy toward her brothers but out of consideration for her, to let her know there was one more person now in her family who cared about her. And even though she knew he didn’t love her, she was beginning to believe he would have the same loyalty toward her that he had for his mother and Verity and his brothers. “You’ve been an enormous comfort to me,” she said. “I cannot bear to contemplate what would have become of Randy or me had you not come into my life.”

  A smile curved his lips. “You would have married some old peer who wouldn’t have pleasured you in bed as I have.”

  “Nicholas Birmingham! How can you speak of that at a time like this?”

  Chuckling to himself, he crossed the room and found her reticule. “Is this where you keep your brother’s miniature?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it.”

  He shot an amused glance at her. “You don’t want me sifting through your reticule?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t!”

  He brought her the beaded bag, and she removed her brother’s likeness and gave it to him. That she carried a vinaigrette—which she never had occasion to use—embarrassed her. She did not wish for Nick to think her some weakling prone to fainting fits.

  Before he left, he bent down to press a kiss to her forehead. His masculine scent was a blend of sandalwood and exotic tobacco. “You’re not to move at all while I’m gone,” he cautioned.

  After he left she became more acutely aware of the throbbing pain in her leg but decided she would see if she could go without the laudanum—at least until Nick returned. Her eyes shut tightly against the pain, she settled back into the mound of pillows. Were she to break all her limbs, the suffering could not compare to the agony of losing her brother. She hoped to God Nick was dealing with Randy’s captors in the right way—if there could ever be a right way to deal with criminals like the brutes who had abducted Randy.

  Randy’s admission that his captors had abused him disturbed her deeply. Had he suffered any broken bones? Were they starving him? Her chest tight, her stomach tumbling, she did not know how she could stand it until her brother returned safely. She lay there for a long time, steeped in gloom, then she finally forced herself to use the bell Nick had left on her bedside table to ring for a servant.

  Biddles came. “Yes, madame?”

  “I wish to speak with the governess. What is her name?”

  “Miss Beckham.”

  Ten minutes later a woman who was a few years older than Fiona hesitantly entered the room. Fiona was immediately relieved that the governess was not even tolerably pretty. The notion of Nick living under the same roof with a pretty unmarried woman—before he was married—had caused Fiona considerable trepidation. Why anything that happened before they were wed should matter to her, Fiona could not understand. Nevertheless, her jealousy was a fact.

  She perused the woman for a moment. Dressed quite properly in gray bombazine, Miss Beckham presented a most tidy figure. Her black hair was swept back so tightly that not a single strand dared stray loose. She was rather taller than average and rather thinner than average, with a somewhat gaunt face which had as its only distinguishing feature a pair of brilliant blue eyes. “Mrs. Birmingham?” the governess said tentatively.

  “Please sit in the chair by my bed,” Fiona said. “Forgive me for not sitting. You’ve heard the particulars of my foolish accident, have you not?”

  “I have, madame, and I’m very sorry for your misfortune.”

  Miss Beckham’s voice was genteel, and her manners were all that could be expected. After she sat, Fiona asked, “I wish for you to tell me all about your pupil.”

  Not replying for a moment, Miss Beckham seemed taken aback. “Miss Emmie,” she finally replied, “is not as enamored of books as I would have liked, though she is a most capable reader. I’ve found that she learns more quickly than other pupils I’ve taught in the past. Her greatest talent is in mathematics—and she seems to love working with sums.”

  “Like her father,” Fiona said with affection. “What of the more feminine pursuits you’ve been instructing her in?”

  “She’s coming along nicely at the pianoforte, and her French is tolerable—for one who’s studied it but for two years. Her penmanship and artistic talent, I’m afraid to say, are quite deplorable.”

  Fiona laughed. “I daresay she should have been a boy.”

  “Miss Emmie, I think, would rather have been a boy. She’s happiest in the country. She loves being outdoors, and she loves riding and being around animals.”

  It was no surprise to Fiona that the child loved animals. After all she had neither siblings nor intercourse with other children. She’s probably lonely, Fiona thought with a flicker of pity.

  Fiona wondered if the child ever rode with her father. “Does the young lady, my stepdaughter,” she managed in a wobbly voice, surprising herself that she would even consider accepting the child of a whore as her very own stepdaughter, “ever ride with her father?”

  “Oh, yes, madame. Often. He taught her to ride himself.”

  The image of Nick patiently riding alongside the child warmed her. His heart was so big, with room enough for all the people who mattered to him. “Would you say Miss Emmie is fond of her father?”

  “I would say she thinks he hung the stars in the sky.”

  For the briefest of seconds, Fiona wondered if Miss Beckham might share her pupil’s admiration for Nick. He was so devilishly hands
ome. And he was nice, too. She wondered if he was nice to Miss Beckham. “Does Miss Emmie have any friends?”

  “No, madame.”

  A child without friends? How unfortunate. Then Fiona realized even in the country, the child’s only neighbor would be her own grandmother, who abhorred the child. Since none of Nick’s siblings had wed, there were not even any cousins with whom the little girl could play. “Poor Emmie.”

  “Miss Emmie is certainly not a poor little girl. I’ve never seen a child as indulged as she. I daresay no little girl in the kingdom is possessed of more lovely dresses or dolls than she.”

  Things money could buy, not things the child truly needed, things like friends—or a mother. “I suppose it’s her lack of a mother that has made her a bit of a tomboy,” Fiona said.

  Miss Beckham shrugged. “She’s always been cared for by women. First, her nurse, Winnie, whose marriage resulted in my hiring.”

  “Do you think the girl was attached to her nurse?”

  The governess’s face turned hard, her mouth thinning with disapproval. “She was far too attached to that Winnie.”

  Was Miss Beckham jealous? “Does she still see her nurse?”

  Miss Beckham’s stiff posture reminded Fiona of her own governess, who had unfailingly instructed Fiona to pretend there was a pole fused to her spine. “No, madame,” the governess replied. “Winnie returned to her village and has never returned to London, having her own babes to care for now—though she corresponds with Miss Emmie, and Miss Emmie eagerly looks forward to receiving her letters.”

  I suppose those are the only letters the child has ever received. Poor child.

  Fiona sighed. “Thank you, Miss Beckham, for answering my questions. You are, no doubt, aware that we will be moving in the near future?”

  “Oh, yes, madame. I’ve seen the new house from the outside. It’s magnificent.”

  Fiona, having developed an affinity for the place where she and Nick would officially begin their married life, swelled with pride. “Your chambers there,” Fiona said, “will, quite naturally, be larger than what you have here. Is there any particular request you wish to make for furnishings?”

  “The furnishings in my chambers at present are quite adequate, but I thank you for inquiring,” Miss Beckham said as she moved to get up.

  After she was gone Fiona pondered the child, the child she had just claimed as her stepdaughter, the child Nick obviously cared about. How could Fiona not accept the little girl when Nick had been so generous to her and her family? After all, it wasn’t as if she had to appear in public with the little girl. Nick had obviously married a viscount’s daughter in order to heighten his station in life, and trotting out an illegitimate child would threaten the shaky foundation of that newfound station.

  Fiona considered summoning Emmie but decided to wait until her leg began to heal. Were the child to see her now, she might be frightened, or she might develop the impression that her new stepmother was frail, neither prospect acceptable to Fiona.

  As they sped to the Thames dock where Nick’s yacht was harbored, Nick imparted his instructions to his younger brother. “Your letter must stress three things: first, that Lord Agar’s safe return is your uppermost concern; second, that the exchange must take place in the plaza; and third, the wagon with the money will be guarded around the clock until the time set by the captors for the exchange, at which time your men will disperse from their stations and lay down their arms.”

  “Then I’ll need another contingent of men to guard the other twenty-five thousand guineas you’re making me bring for the purchase of francs,” William said.

  “I’ve already thought of that. Instead of the usual eight, you’ll find twelve men waiting at the Athena. Is the money concealed at present below the false bottom of the storage space beneath your coach seats?”

  William nodded. “Yes, under the false bottom of the seats. It has been guarded around the clock since the day before your wedding. By the way, felicitations on your wife. She’s remarkably beautiful.” His green eyes flashing good-naturedly, William inched back and directed an amused glance at his brother. “How are you recommending matrimony?”

  “Zealously,” Nick said with a chuckle.

  It was dark when they reached the dock. Nick got out of his coach and, bracing against the cold wind, stood on the weathered dock to watch as Will’s coach was brought aboard the Athena. His glance flicked to his little brother, who was dressed for traveling in Hessians, buff breeches, and brown topcoat, his carelessly tied cravat a stark contrast to his tanned face. As his glance trailed over William’s muscular body, Nick was dismayed that this capable man was his baby brother. Heaven help Nick if anything ever happened to the lad.

  Once everything was loaded onto the ship, William turned to Nick, smiling cheerfully.

  “Take care,” Nick said, a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach.

  “I always do.”

  Long after William boarded the vessel, Nick stood beneath the lantern light and somberly watched as the yacht began to power down the Thames.

  Chapter 11

  Fiona was feeling decidedly sorry for herself. It had been two weeks since she had broken her leg, and she was coming to think of Nick’s house as her prison. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly nice house. The rooms were well appointed and relatively spacious, and since the first week she had not been confined to just her bedchamber, or, rather, Verity’s bedchamber. The servants carried her in a sedan chair to any room she desired. But she was getting devilishly tired of the same set of rooms and the same set of faces—mostly servants, except for Nick and Trevor, both of whom were exceedingly solicitous of her.

  Trevor had been an enormous help in readying the new house. He’d brought her catalogues and assisted her in making selections. And because her husband’s pockets were deep, they had been able to jump over the cabinetmaker’s waiting list and been assured they could procure all the furnishings they desired within the next six weeks.

  She hoped her leg would be entirely mended in six weeks. As much as she hated the forced inactivity, she hated even more the ugly leather sheath she wore from the base of her hips to her ankle. Even though her dresses covered the ugly brown leather of the surgeon’s bonesetting apparatus, Nick viewed it nightly when he helped her dress for bed. She felt less than attractive.

  But her husband did not seem to find her unattractive at all. After the first week they had resumed intimacies—not the same intimacies as before, for Nick refused to mount her. But oh how he pleasured her! Using only his wondrously deft hands, he had brought her to climax more times than she could count. He had paid homage to her body, reverently kissing along its pulsepoints, precisely where the erotic effect was greatest.

  And she had often curled her greedy hand around his stiff shaft and pulsed it until she brought him to his deliciously groaning release.

  The resumption of his normal business activity kept Nick away from the house until nightfall and left her irritable in his absence.

  Being irritable was not the way she wished to be when she met her stepdaughter. Though Fiona would rather have waited until she was completely mended to meet the child, she knew that delaying the meeting would send the wrong message to Emmie. The little girl would be sure to think the woman her papa had married had no interest in her, which was far from the truth.

  So this morning Fiona had instructed Miss Beckham that she wished to have a private nuncheon with Emmie, then remembering how fond children were of sweets and suspecting that Miss Beckham was unlikely to indulge that particular appetite, Fiona ordered that a tray with a variety of sweetmeats be brought. When the time for the nuncheon drew close, Fiona was carried downstairs to the gold dining room, which was flooded with light from a half-dozen tall casements, and she tucked herself up to the table, hoping the child would not notice her use of the invalid’s chair.

  She had requested that Miss Emmie have a demitasse cup, which turned out to be identical to Fiona’s eggshell-thin c
up in every way except its smaller size.

  Fiona found herself growing nervous as she waited for Emmie. If she were this nervous, how must the poor child feel? Really, she cautioned herself, she must quit using the word poor when thinking of Emmie.

  The dining room door creaked halfway open. Fiona looked up to see Emmie standing there, half in the room, half out, a somber look on her lovely little face. She wore a freshly starched, white muslin dress that stopped just above her pale blue satin slippers and was caught below the bodice with ribbands in the same shade of blue as her slippers. Her clothes were so scrupulously elegant she looked like a miniature lady of the ton.

  She was an extremely pretty child with fair skin, a dusting of light freckles across her nose, and long curls the light brown Fiona imagined would result from blending her father’s dark hair with that of a blond woman. In Emmie, Nick’s and his mother’s high cheekbones had found their way to still another generation, and eyes the same shade of green as Dolina Birmingham’s shone from Emmie’s worried little face. How could Nick’s mother not embrace this child?

  “Good afternoon, Emmie,” Fiona said cheerfully. “Won’t you please come sit by me?”

  Not removing her frightened gaze from Fiona, the child crept closer.

  “Here, love,” Fiona said, patting the chair at her right. Why, Fiona wondered, had she gone and called the child love? They had never even met before. But something in the little girl’s petrified demeanor had coaxed the tender word.

  Fiona suddenly recalled a distant memory of herself as a frightened seven-year-old shipped off to a stern aunt while her mother experienced a difficult breeding. It had been years since she had thought of that terrifying feeling of isolation.

  Emmie climbed up on the chair beside Fiona and folded tiny hands in her lap. Despite that her father was tall, Emmie seemed small for a child of eight. Had Fiona not known her age, she would have guessed the child no more than six.