by Jaimey Grant
She was surrounded by beauty, Leandra mused, a touch of dismal self-pity swirling through her mind. Her sisters and her husband’s cousins all boasted the trait, a trait Leandra had never envied until that moment.
Leandra shook her head fiercely. Stop it! It doesn’t matter. You will never be beautiful and you have lived nearly twenty-one years without it, why do you need it now?
Giving her head a little nod of agreement, Leandra ceased staring out the window and tried to concentrate on her book. Normally, Miss Austen could hold her attention through anything. But Persuasion was not going to do it today, she realized after she’d read the same sentence four times without the least idea of what she’d read.
Giving up on Miss Austen’s work, Leandra reached for another book. Ivanhoe. Perhaps this story would capture her interest and stop her thinking such unworthy thoughts. Why did Walter Scott not just step forward and claim the work as his own? Everyone knew it was he who wrote the novel.
A knock sounded on the door. Leandra called for the person to enter, thinking it was Michaella, who sometimes sought her out in her sanctuary to chat and, most likely, to avoid the family as well.
It was not Michaella, however. Stark opened the door with something approaching a smile on his lined countenance.
“What is it?” she asked.
With a bow, Stark announced, “The Earl and Countess of Greville have arrived, your grace.”
Her delicately arched eyebrows rose. “You did not put them in the drawing room?” she asked the butler, a slight tremor of fear coloring her tone.
“I did not, your grace. Would you like me to show them in here?”
“Yes, Stark, please do.”
Leandra rose to her feet and waited for her invited guests to put in their appearance. It would be the first time, other than Michaella, that she would allow anyone in her sanctuary. And this was on blind faith.
She had no idea what these people were like. She only knew her husband called them friends. And when he mentioned Lady Greville, admiration was clear in his voice.
The lady entered first, not dressed in the latest fashion but fashionably dressed nonetheless. Blond curls were swept up into a becoming style, giving her the look of a sprite, beautiful, ethereal, and as small in stature as Leandra. She carried a little boy with dark hair and blue eyes, while nudging a little girl ahead of her into the room. The little girl was the very image of her mother with glorious blond curls and great big blue eyes. Except her mother’s eyes were the most extraordinary shade of turquoise.
Lord Greville, quite simply, was huge. He wasn’t as tall as Derringer, Leandra could tell that right away, but his arms and legs were as big as tree trunks. Her eyes widened as he turned ever so slightly to fit through the door.
“Who is she?” whispered the little girl. She glanced at her father and reached up. The earl swung her up into his arms.
He smiled at Leandra and extended his free hand. “I am Greville. My wife, Aurora. You, I assume, are Hart’s new, unannounced, bride?”
Leandra shook her head slightly to break herself from the stupor their appearance had caused and approached her guests, accepting the hand he held out. “I am sorry Hart did not inform you of our marriage. It was... unexpected,” she admitted, not entirely sure why she did so. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Leandra. I know Hart would prefer it, as would I.”
Greville smiled a boyishly charming smile and nodded. “Then I am Levi. This mischievous little cherub is Rhiannon.” The child in his arms giggled and bestowed a smacking kiss on his cheek.
Aurora smiled at them and introduced their small son.
A pang of longing struck Leandra near her heart. “You have such beautiful children.”
The look shared between the married couple caused an embarrassed tremor to course through Leandra’s slight frame. It was apparent they’d heard the catch in her voice and wondered at it.
“Spend more than a few minutes with them and you just might change your mind,” the earl replied dryly.
“I am sure these two are wonderful for hours at a time,” Leandra said with some feeling. She was able to tell just by looking at them that they were not like the spoiled miscreants she called niece or nephew.
Aurora grinned, her maternal pride very apparent. “You must call me Rory. I have a feeling we are to be very good friends.”
Leandra studied the young woman. Her eyes narrowed. She wanted to question her about calling the duke Lord Heartless, but Aurora asked if there was somewhere that they could put the children.
“Oh, yes, forgive me.” She walked to the door, pulled it open, and smiled at Jem, the first footman. He was an oddity with his missing arm, but had proven vastly efficient in his duties. “Jem, can you escort the children to the nursery, please? Tell Martha and Meg to keep an eye on the others to be sure no one is mistreated. And have Mrs. Stark bring the tea tray.”
“Others?” inquired Aurora as she relinquished her hold of the children to the footman and a young maid who arrived to lend him aid with the baby.
Leandra turned and favored her with a bright smile. “Yes. My family is here with my nieces and nephews and Hart’s aunt and cousin arrived with his three little cousins. We have quite a full house at the moment.”
Aurora’s remarkable eyes widened. “Is Hart here?”
“He is not. He is in France at the moment.”
Greville’s eyes almost popped from his head at this, but he said nothing.
“Please sit,” Leandra offered with a gesture toward the sofa. “I have ordered a tea tray but if you would rather rest before dinner, that can be arranged.”
“Tea sounds lovely,” Lady Greville smiled.
The duchess sat in a chair opposite the little sofa where the Grevilles perched. She eyed Aurora Greville for a moment, her hands twisting in her lap. Aurora threw a confused look at her husband, who shrugged and returned his dark brown eyes to their hostess.
Leandra opened her mouth, then closed it again. She sighed and then blurted, “I don’t quite know how else to ask you this, Lady Greville, but I have to know. And I have found that it is usually easiest, if not always best, to come right out and say it, though that’s hardly polite.” Leandra took a deep breath. “Why did you call my husband Lord Heartless?”
Aurora laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was the last thing she expected to hear. She saw the look of anger start in her hostess’s face and quickly apologized. “I am sorry, Leandra, but you have to understand that I had very nearly forgotten that incident. It was over two years ago, you see, and I am so used to being asked other, more… personal questions that I had not even anticipated that it would not be the same here. And I had not thought that Hart even remembered that. Why he would tell you of it, I can’t begin to guess.”
“He didn’t exactly volunteer the information. We were discussing what I was to call him and he suggested I call him Lord Heartless since that was what everybody called him. He told me that you were the only one who ever called him that to his face.”
“And so I did,” nodded Aurora. “I regret that I did, although at the time, I believed it.”
“But what did he do to make you think that? I know Hart very little and I want to understand why he is so accepting of such an appellation.”
She knew him very little? Aurora looked at her husband and he gazed back with the same confused expression. As one, their eyes returned to Leandra.
Aurora leaned close, squeezing Leandra’s hand. “I will explain the situation and then I think, my dear, that you should tell us your story. Perhaps we can help.”
15
Derringer returned to his yacht’s cabin where he had placed his insensate relative and sat down on a hard chair to think. Gabriel had changed drastically. He was missing an arm, for one thing, but even worse, he seemed to be in some sort of trouble. Derringer had not the least idea what that trouble might be but Gabriel had muttered something about D’Arcy right before he lost consciousness.
“Hart.”
The duke shot out of his seat at the whispered word and crouched next to his bunk. “I’m here, Gabe. What is it?”
Gabriel St. Clair grimaced slightly. “Where the devil are we?” he asked hoarsely. “And why does my head hurt?”
“I imagine your head hurts because you struck it when you fainted. As to where we are, we are aboard The Merry Belle. We will be home soon. Don’t try to speak.” He gently lifted his cousin and held a glass of water to his lips.
Gabriel swallowed the clear liquid, sputtered a bit, then complained, “Haven’t you anything stronger, Hart?”
Chuckling softly, Derringer rose to fetch a brandy decanter from a locked cupboard on one wall. He removed two glasses and filled them both, then returned to the bed, unaffected by the slight rise and fall of the floor beneath his feet.
“Here,” he said as he handed Gabriel one glass and, pulling the chair closer to the bunk, sat down with the other.
“Much better,” Gabriel sighed as he sipped at the brandy. He gazed up at his cousin. “How did you find me?”
Derringer shrugged. “Never stopped looking. Everyone thought me mad, I know, but something told me you were not dead. Something here,” he told him as he dramatically struck his breast. A self-deprecating smile fluttered on his lips. “A trifle melodramatic, I admit, but true nonetheless.”
“I know what you mean, Hart,” Gabriel admitted. He shifted on the bed, a faint groan rising to his throat. “Though I wondered time and time again if each day would be my last, I knew you would appear eventually.”
“And when you learned it was me, you behaved as though I were your enemy. Why?”
Gabriel shrugged. “I trust no one since Waterloo.”
It was said with such finality that Derringer wondered at it. “What happened at Waterloo?” He settled back in his hard chair, expecting quite a tale of derring-do. He was more than surprised by his cousin’s response.
“Someone tried to kill me.”
Derringer snorted a laugh. He couldn’t help it. “You were in a war, Gabe. Many men were trying to kill you.”
“No, someone was trying to kill me and it wasn’t a Frog.”
That made Derringer pause. Someone was trying to kill him? It was something Derringer knew all to well.
“Explain.”
“It wasn’t just the French, Hart. One of my own men attacked me. Had I been a more disagreeable fellow—like you—I’d have not thought much of it. But me? Who would want to kill me?”
Derringer had nothing to say. His cousin may have sounded a mite conceited but it was nothing but truth. No one would want him dead... unless they were French.
“I didn’t know who to trust.”
“Thus, you distrusted me?”
“I’m sorry.”
Derringer chuckled, waving a hand at Gabriel. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t trust anyone either.”
Silence fell. Derringer watched his cousin, saw him wince when he moved his missing arm, and wondered at his fidgety movements. It all became clear when Gabriel continued.
“How is Martin? And Mama?”
The duke leaned back in his chair. “Martin is well and working as my secretary. Your mother is well as far as I know. I haven’t seen her since you disappeared. Kathryn is lovely, married, and has three boys. I wrote to you about the oldest. She’s had two more since then.”
“And you, Hart? How are you?”
“I am married,” Derringer told him reluctantly.
Gabriel tried to sit up and get a better look at his cousin. “You…you are married?”
“I had to according to the old duke’s will. I was told seven days before my birthday that I had to marry before I was thirty. I saw Merri at an inn in Maidstone and asked her to marry me. She really had no choice. She was on her own because her father died and she had no money and no prospects.”
“You married a girl you happened to meet just to get your inheritance?”
“I… uh, yes. I suppose I did.”
Gabriel regarded him from wide blue eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts. “How could you?” he finally stated after what seemed like an eternity.
Derringer stood and paced the confines of the tiny cabin. He shoved one hand through his loose hair, a sigh dragging from his chest. He stopped, placed his hands on his hips, swung around, and sighed again.
“How couldn’t I?” he finally retorted. “How could I just walk away and leave her there to fend for herself? How could I look into those glorious eyes of hers, see the laughter bubbling there, and just turn around and leave her? I couldn’t do it. I denied any altruistic motives at the time but I did it more for her than for me.”
“Dear God, Hart, you’re in love with this girl,” Gabriel accused with an awestruck expression.
“In love with her? No, I’m not, Gabe. I married her because I felt sorry for her. I do not love her.”
“Would it be so wrong to love her?” Gabriel asked softly.
Derringer stared at him a moment. “Yes, Gabe, it would. You have not been there enough to notice, but everyone I care about, everyone that cares for me has been cursed with misfortunes of some kind.” He held up his hand, ticking off his woes. “Mama died. Uncle David died. Old Sam lost his leg. You disappeared. Rhiannon was kidnapped. Rory was shot. Levi was plagued by worry over his family. Then, Rory almost died in childbirth.”
“Unless you caused her pregnancy, I fail to see how that last has anything to do with you at all, Hart.”
The duke grunted. “Perhaps not.”
“Your mama’s death was not your fault. Uncle David was a traitor to England no matter how much he cared about us. Old Sam was a drunk and bound to fall into trouble whether he knew you or not. I don’t know who Rhiannon, Rory, and Levi are, but I’m sure you cannot be blamed for their woes. And you most certainly did not cause my disappearance.”
A shake of his dark head revealed Derringer’s disbelief of this claim. “I couldn’t bear to think that Merri should suffer just because I care.”
Gabriel wisely held his tongue. He just watched his cousin move around in obvious agitation and pondered the oddity of his childhood playmate falling in love with… his own wife. It was ludicrous.
“Tell me why you muttered D’Arcy’s name when you realized it was me,” commanded Derringer suddenly. He stopped pacing and stared down at Gabriel.
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
He was hiding something, Derringer was sure of it. “Come, Gabe, you’ve never been able to hide things from me. Tell me what’s amiss.”
Gabriel turned stubborn blue eyes on the duke. “It doesn’t concern you, Hart. It is my problem.”
“The devil it is! I have searched for you for five years. I think I have some right to get you out of whatever mess you’ve landed in.”
“No, you don’t. You’re not my keeper, Hart. You’re my cousin.”
“Yes,” snapped the duke, “I am your cousin. The same cousin who pulled you out of the briers on too many occasions to count. The same cousin who defended you more than once when your father tried to beat some sense into your thick skull. The same bloody cousin who sent you off to war and nearly got you killed in the process!”
Shock sucked the air from Gabriel’s lungs. “You blame yourself, Hart? Because I enlisted?” The duke’s self-conscious shrug was his only answer. “I was army-mad, Hart. I would have gone if I’d had to take the King’s shilling to do it. You know that. There was never anyone closer to me than you. You know, Hart.”
Derringer stood and went to the one porthole in the cabin. He stared out into the night at the myriad stars hanging in the heavens. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to be free of th
e blame. Deep down, he knew he was responsible. He was responsible and no one else.
“You are not my keeper,” Gabriel repeated emphatically. “I made my choice and now I must live with the consequences.”
Derringer didn’t turn around. “How did you lose your arm, Gabe?”
Gabriel glanced down at the missing appendage, then laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Waterloo,” he said. “Shrapnel lodged in too many places to be easily removed. Infection.” He threw his remaining hand up with a flourish, intoning dramatically, “Goodbye, arm.”
The hand he waved was, naturally, the one that held the thick brandy glass. Thankfully, it was empty. It did, however, fly from his hand to land with a thwack against the door of the cabin. Derringer jumped at the sound and swung around to see his cousin doubled over. He rushed over, fearing the worst, and was astonished to realize Gabriel was laughing.
“What the devil!” he exploded.
“I am s-sorry, H-Hart,” sputtered Gabriel, holding his side with his one arm. “It w-was just s-so f-f-funny!” And he succumbed to another round of hearty laughter.
Derringer slumped into his chair and watched his cousin in amazement. How could he find the loss of his arm amusing?
Then Derringer felt his own lips twitch upward. He tried not to, but his own long-dormant sense of humor rose to the fore and he found himself giving in to his cousin’s infectious laughter.
16
The breakfast room at Derringer Crescent sat on the east side of the castle so as to catch the early morning rays of sunlight all year. That would have been the case, too, had not this particular autumn day started out overcast and blustery. But a cheery fire blazed in the hearth and thanks to the new mistress, none of the fireplaces smoked like they used to.
Leandra entered the room late that morning, a warm wool gown of dark green making her eyes sparkle like gems behind her spectacles. She surveyed the gathered company and pasted a determined smile on her face. She felt pretty, she felt confident, and she was determined not to let these people take that away from her.