Sanguinet's Crown
Page 35
Mitchell muttered something under his breath.
“My God!” whispered Charity. “How savage he was!”
Guy said quietly, “And so it go on, and I am made to stay because I have the head for figures and detail and am useful to Claude. Only when I learn he have deceive your sister, little one, and means to force her to wed him so as to have the highly born English wife, I tell him—no more! Grandmère and I, we will survive, somehow! But then…” He paused, a little pulse beginning to twitch beside his mouth.
“Never mind, Guy,” said Mitchell. “I had no right to upset you. It is of no importance and—”
Guy lifted his hand. “I am all right. You will hear it all, and you may not then, I hope, despise me so badly. Claude told me, you see, that contrary to my grandmère’s beliefs, my father had never married Mama. He knew how proud Grandmère was, how deeply religious she was, and that such news would break her heart and her spirit.” He put a trembling hand across his eyes and because he was still far from well, his voice broke. “I—could not, you see. I just—could not…”
Appalled, Mitchell stared at him.
Charity knelt beside Guy’s chair and clasped his hand. “Is—is your dear grandmama still living?” she asked.
“No. She went to be with Mama some months ago. Claude did not tell me of it.”
Pressing his thin hand to her cheek, Charity murmured, “My dear, oh, my dear! I am so sorry. But how could you think we despised you? Always, Rachel and I thought you kind and honourable. Always, we knew that whatever the hold Claude had over you, it must be something very strong indeed, to keep you bound to him.”
“Merci. Merci, ma chérie.” Guy kissed her hand and with a rather shaken laugh added, “You will not call me out, Mitchell, for speaking so to your lovely wife? I know you are the very dangerous duellist.”
Mitchell stood and helped Charity to her feet. “My duelling days are done, friend. This little rascal”—he tugged one of Charity’s bright curls—“would have my ears did I dare think of such a thing!”
They left soon afterwards, Mitchell tossing Charity into her saddle, then swinging astride his big bay, and both of them turning at the top of the drivepath to wave at the man who sat there in his chair, waving gaily, bravely, back at them.
As they watched, a small tricolour shape tore from the house, raced three times around the chair, then flung itself onto the man’s lap and ran to butt a small head against his chin.
Epilogue
The sunset was glorious, painting the river scarlet as it meandered past the beautiful old half-timbered structure that was Moiré Grange and brightening the blush on Charity’s cheeks. She lay in her husband’s arms on top of the hill, shivering deliciously because of the kisses that, having progressed down her throat, were now moving lower, and— “Mitchell!” she gasped, slapping his hand.
“What’s this?” he demanded, persisting.
“Oh! How naughty you are! And our wedding day yet a month away!”
“I wonder you did not remind me of that fact last night,” he murmured, drawing the golden chain from her bosom.
Her blush deepened and her lashes drooped before his adoring gaze. “Wicked, wicked rake! How ungallant in you to remind me of my … disgraceful abandonment.”
“Your glorious abandonment,” he corrected, bending to kiss her soft lips and then add wickedly, “In the event, beloved, that you very logically present me with un petit paquet, we may have to offer considerable explanations some time next March…” And laughing into her shy eyes, he said, “Good God! Why do you keep this miserable thing?”
Her fingers at once clamped over the old wedding ring he had bought for her in Carlisle. “Do not dare to steal it from me, sir!”
“Devil I won’t! I shall buy you a far more suitable ring when—”
“No! Please, darling, no ring in the world could be more suitable than this one.…” Kissing the little ring and tucking it back under her bodice, she added saucily, “Even though you did trick me into wearing it.”
Mitchell forgot the ring, leaning to her worshipfully, and Charity reached to pull down his dark head, whispering, just as his lips claimed hers, “Oh, Mitchell … my love … my—”
“Enough of that, my girl!” exclaimed Mitchell, sitting up abruptly after a heavenly interval and running what he mistakenly believed to be a tidying hand through his rumpled locks. “I’ll not be responsible, else! To the more mundane aspects—what do you think of Moiré? Now that Harry has deeded it over to me, we should live here, eh?”
“But of course,” she said, rearranging her dress with rather belated propriety. “You love it, and I think it a delightful old house.”
He sighed. “Trouble is, the old place is so large. Costs a veritable fortune to keep up, you know. And we”—he hesitated—“well, we’re not exactly poor, but—”
“Poor! But you are Baron Redmond of Moiré, and—”
“And that’s the sum total of it.” He nodded glumly. “Prinny gave me the title, but there are no funds or additional lands or whatever! En effet, I am baron of my own estate. Sorry, love.”
She stared at him, then gave a ripple of laughter. “Oh, but how very ridiculous! Well, we can live at the Hall, then. Justin has often told me it is mine when I marry, and you do not object to the house, do you, love?”
“Object to it! I think it a splendid old place. But there’s not a great deal to choose between them for size.”
Charity smiled and, refraining from pointing out that she was a considerable heiress, said, “But then you have married a lady who knows how to hold household, my lord.”
Dismayed, he said, “I must get used to that form of address, I collect. Perhaps we can keep the title secret so they’ll not know.”
“So who will not know?”
“Why, my tutor and the fellows up at Oxford. They’re sure to give me the very devil if—” He saw that she was staring at him in a shocked way. It had been a sly means of breaking it to her, and he said repentantly, “My beloved, shall you mind very much? I really would like to go back and try for a fellowship.”
“Well! If ever I heard the like! So I’m to be married to some stuffy professor of ancient history and live surrounded by musty old tomes and bothersome students, am I?”
He said, eyeing her askance, “Not if you really object, of course. Only I thought— Well, you love history too, and—and—”
She chuckled and snuggled closer against him. “Foolish creature.”
Relieved, he hugged her. “Poor girl, such a life you will lead. When I begin to study again, you will find me to be a most irritating fellow, apt to forget everything but my research, and always with my head stuck in a book.”
She drew back and looked up at him. The acid twist to the fine mouth was gone. The hauteur in the grey eyes was replaced by a warm tenderness that made her heart beat faster. She thought, “How blessed I am,” and said, “My consolation will be to dream of seeing you take your seat in the House.”
Mitchell gave a start. “By Jove! You’re right.” He gazed at the distant Home Wood and murmured thoughtfully, “I’ll have a say in how the old homeland is run.… I wonder…”
Charity reached up and began to twist a strand of his hair into an elf lock. When he remained silent, she probed curiously, “Wonder what, dear?”
“Well…” He glanced at her rather diffidently. “You know how I feel about the Black Country. Do you suppose—I mean, if I stood up and spoke like a sensible man—do you think they might … listen to me?”
“Oh, Mitch! I think it a superb notion! Why not? You might be able to stop the factory owners from so wounding the land. And the people. Or at least—try!”
“I shall!” he said, his eyes glinting. “By God! This is a heaven-sent opportunity! If I could start them to thinking about the decent people now so abused and exploited; about the helpless children…”
She saw the spark of anger return to his eyes, and she knew that he would fight. “They will
hate him for it,” she thought. And that very thought deepened her love and her pride.
Glancing down at her, the visionary light faded from Mitchell’s eyes. “My main task in life must be to make you happy, my most valiant love,” he said tenderly.
She smiled and said on a sigh, “There is just one difficulty, my dearest dear…”
“No—what is it?” he asked, holding her ever nearer.
“I cannot but wonder,” said Charity demurely, “whether an ignorant warthog with tall feet could possibly find happiness with … a fieldmouse.…”
Lord Mitchell Redmond, ex-rake and duellist, promptly bent his full and not inconsiderable expertise to convincing his bride that this most unlikely union could be a very happy one indeed.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan:
The Lord and the Gypsy
Love’s Duet
Mistress of Willowvale
Nanette
Some Brief Folly
Feather Castles
Married Past Redemption
The Noblest Frailty
The Wagered Widow
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Part I: The Capture
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part II: The Race
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
SANGUINET’S CROWN. Copyright © 1985 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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ISBN 0-312-69922-0
First Edition
eISBN 9781250101389
First eBook edition: September 2015