“And the two guards?” Lenore pressed. “What of them?”
“They were sleepin’ in the parlor when I come down at break o’ day, mum, an’ when Mr. Sinclair left, he took ’em with him. Besides the chore boy, the cook, an’ meself, that left yer father an’ Mr. Evans comin’ an’ goin’ in the house ’til ye come back ter yer room. I’d say just about anyone could’ve taken ’em, mum.”
“Heaven only knows who has them now. Malcolm has gone, but Mr. Evans will be back later tonight….”
“You’re not going to blame this thieving on my friend either,” Robert declared. “If you ask me, someone else had a hand in this…and had plenty enough time to do the deed while we were in town.” He bestowed a direct stare on Ashton for a short span of a moment, then under that one’s dubious regard he lifted his shoulders. “Then again, Horace might have sent his men to do the handiwork while a few of the miscreants entertained Wingate here. You wore the jewels last night, and so he knew you had them. Whatever the case, ’tis apparent they’re gone now, and not likely to be recovered.”
Lenore carefully raised herself and, with Ashton’s assistance, sat up on the edge of the bed, letting him smooth her skirts as she braced back on her hands and waited for the world to correct its orbit. She ignored the brow her father sharply elevated at this apparent intimacy, and braved a smile for Ashton.
“Are you feeling better now?” he asked in concern.
She gave a slow, cautious nod, thankful that her answer was for the most part true. “I’m much better…except…I’m terribly hungry.”
Meghan chortled and hurried to the door. “I’ll tell the cook ye be feelin’ better now, mum. Ye an’ the mister come down whenever ye like.”
The maid departed, and Robert followed reluctantly to the portal. “I…ah…guess I’ll be going down, too.” He turned a questioning eye toward Ashton, seeming opposed to leaving the pair alone together. “Coming, Mr. Wingate?”
“In a moment,” Ashton replied, pointedly waiting for the man to remove himself from the room and close the door behind him.
Robert vented a low, derisive snort. “Haven’t you caused enough woe to come to this house without makin’ a kept woman of my daughter?”
Ashton’s head came up, and he gave the man a mildly disdaining stare. “Perhaps one of us should leave, Mr. Somerton. We don’t seem to have much to say to each other.”
Robert shot a glance toward his daughter. “Well, I know which of us she’ll want to stay.”
The portal slammed behind the elder, and Lenore watched Ashton as the sound of her father’s angry stride drifted back to them. The twitching muscles in the lean cheeks clearly portrayed his ire, and with a tender smile she slid her arms about his neck and kissed his frowning brow.
“It doesn’t matter what he says,” she whispered. “Whether I am Lierin or Lenore, I still love you.”
His questing mouth found hers, and for a long, pleasurable time they savored the hotly flaring passion that catapulted through them. Clasping her knees, he pulled her toward the edge of the bed and bent to lightly nibble at her ear. “You have too many clothes on.”
A thought struck her, and she leaned back in his arms to probe the smoky eyes. “The tent…?”
Ashton moved his shoulders in a slight, upward motion. “Gone, I fear.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small with disappointment. “It seemed so…nice out there.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “The tent is gone, madam…but we still have what made it nice.” He placed a lightly provocative kiss upon her parted lips as he answered the unspoken question in her eyes. “Each other, my love. We need nothing more than that.”
“I could use some nourishment,” she teased.
He started to laugh, then grimaced and clasped a hand to his side. Smilingly he admonished, “Don’t torture me with your humor, madam.”
Gingerly Lenore pulled aside his bloodied shirt and examined the long gash in the flesh along the side of his ribs. “You need to be tended.”
Ashton rubbed a hand through his hair and caught the whiff of smoke that drifted from it. “I need a bath!”
“That can be arranged, too. I’ll tell Meghan to have one prepared for you right away.” Brushing hard against him, she slid off the bed and, having no place else to put her feet, used the space on either side of his. Her downward movement left the bulk of her skirts wadded between them, and the ever-rutting rake grinned at the opportunities presented him. His hands slipped beneath her petticoats and roamed the delightfully rounded ending of her torso, bringing her warming gaze up to his. “Would you consider delaying that order a moment or two, madam?”
The softly glowing green eyes spoke her answer before she gave one in a barely breathed murmur. “I don’t see where a few moments will matter one way or another.”
Ashton lifted her back to the bed and leaned close against her loins as he plied his talent to unfastening the back of her gown. “I thought you were hungry.”
“Who needs food when there are better things to do?” she asked with a smile flirting at her lips.
It was much later when a properly garbed and freshly bathed Lenore unlocked the hall door leading to the attic and climbed the steep stairs to that lofty area. A small force of men had come from the Gray Eagle, but with assurances that no one had been injured in the fire they had returned to the ship and were instructed to be wary of any curious activity around the house. Ashton was resting in Lenore’s room, having been up most of the night, but she was feeling restless, as if something beyond the barrier wall that held her memory captive was beckoning to her. She now knew what had led to her collision with Ashton’s coach, but there was still the matter of the man’s murder to be dealt with…and the attempt on her own life. It was rather frightening to know that someone whose face she had once seen wanted her dead. If it was only because she had been a witness to a murder, the man was still out there somewhere, waiting for her…and she knew not who it was.
The contained heat in the attic immediately brought a fine dappling of moisture to her skin, but she did not plan to stay. She knew what she had come for. The portrait of the man who had haunted her when she looked at her father. Taking up the framed painting, she removed the cloth sheathing and stared at the square-jawed visage. It did not seem so stern now…for it had become an almost cherished sight in her dreams. She ran a trembling hand over the dried oil, stroking the area of his chin, and in flickering impressions she saw a tiny hand lovingly caress that strong jaw. The man lowered a kiss upon the small auburn head that nestled against his chest, and Lenore blinked back sudden tears as she experienced all the same warm feelings the girl had felt then.
“Robert Somerton?” she whispered the question and, with growing assurance, declared, “You are my father. You are Robert Somerton.”
Her heart leapt for joy, and blinded by a rush of happy tears, she clasped the painting to her and took a step toward the trap door, only to stumble over something large and heavy blocking her path. She moved the portrait aside to see, and stared down with growing perplexity at the huge trunk she had tried to open on her last visit to the attic. She had all but forgotten it was here. Her slender fingers lightly traced the straps that bound it, seeming to call forth an illusion of servants loading the piece in the boot of a carriage as she stood with Malcolm at the door of this very house and bade farewell to departing guests. She was gowned in the pale blue organdy, and it seemed they were being congratulated on their recent nuptials. When the last couple was waved off, Malcolm took her in his arms, and they exchanged a lengthy kiss before they entered the hall, laughing. He strode into the parlor, and in her mind she could see the steps of the stairway before her as she ascended, then the door of her bedroom was being pushed closed. Through a murky haze, she stared at her own image reflected in the mirror of her dressing table. The eyes were slightly wistful, not quite happy, as if yearning for something that could not be. The jaw firmed, and a gleam of determination came into the green eye
s. Straightening, she began to tidy her coiffure, then her heart started racing as her vision lifted to a tall form standing just beyond the open french doors. The face was not handsome, but she knew it well from her tormenting nightmares, except now he was not screaming, nor was he being bludgeoned to death by a poker iron. She felt the same scream building in her lungs which had threatened to burst forth then, but the haze cleared, and she saw the man step quickly forward with an anxious, almost pleading gesture for her to be silent. His eyes were fearful as he glanced nervously about…like a little ferret…then he moved to her dressing table and picked up the folded piece of parchment he had earlier passed to her. He opened it and gave it over into her hands, urging her to read. Lenore sensed the dismay she had experienced then, but she was ignorant of the cause. The man pressed other articles in her hands, and with each her distress deepened until once again her attention was on the man. Raising a hand, he moved backward, bidding her to come…bidding her to come…to come…to come….
Lenore’s eyelids fluttered as the impressions left her and her mind cleared. She glanced down at the trunk and knew with sudden certainty that she must see what was inside. A heavier tool had to be found to pry free the locked flap, and she determined to fetch one soon after removing the landscape from the parlor wall and placing her father’s portrait in its stead.
Taking the painting with her, she made her way carefully down the narrow stairs and entered the lower front room. Once again she dragged a straight chair to the fireplace, took down the wooded scene, and hung the painting of the square-jawed man. She tucked the landscape out of sight and sat down in a wing-backed chair to wait for the one who called himself her sire. It was barely half an hour later when he strolled in with his nose in a book.
“It’s a hot one today,” he observed, loosening his cravat and moping his brow. “Why, the fish are fairly jumping from that big boiling pot out there.”
He chortled at his own humor, but his laughter faded in swift degrees when he looked up and found himself beneath the weight of Lenore’s stoical stare. He cleared his throat as he moved away and, pouring himself a libation, settled on the settee. Raising an arm above his head, he leaned backward, stretching himself, and then froze. His mouth slowly descended to convey his surprise, leaving him gaping at the portrait.
“Good heavens!” he gasped. Sitting forward in a rush, he shot a glance toward her, finding her expression unchanged. His features clouded as a deeply troubled frown creased his brow, and hurriedly he gulped down another unhealthy portion of whiskey before wiping a hand across his mouth.
“Can you tell me one thing?” she asked in a quiet voice.
He took another quick swallow before he asked, “What is it that you want to know, girl?”
“Who are you?”
He bounced in agitation on the seat. “What do you mean, daughter?”
“I…don’t think I am…”
“Am what?” He appeared perplexed.
“Your daughter,” Lenore stated simply.
He stared at her agog. “Why, of course you are!”
She replied with a slow, negative shake of her head. “No, I really don’t think so.”
“What is this? Another lapse of memory?” he questioned almost angrily and gave a short, scornful laugh. “We’ve been through this before, I believe.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but I am beginning to see things clearly now.” She lifted her hand, bringing his attention back to the portrait, but he quickly ducked his head, as if he felt some shame viewing it. “This is my father, isn’t it?”
“Good lord, girl! You’ve lost your mind,” he charged, blustering.
A lovely eyebrow arched queryingly. “Have I? Or am I just beginning to get it back?”
“I don’t know what you mean!” He sprang to his feet and paced the floor restlessly. “What has taken hold of you? That damned Wingate fellow comes into this house and suddenly you cast away all who love you….”
“The name in your book of plays…it’s your name, isn’t it? Edward Gaitling…Shakespearean actor.”
The white-haired man moaned and twisted his hands in deep distress. “Why are you tormenting me like this, girl? Don’t you know that I care for you?”
“Do you?” Her tone was doubting.
“Of course!” He flung a hand about in a wild, frenzied gesture. “I am your father! And I care for my daughter!”
Lenore sprang from the chair with an angry command. “Stop it! You are not my father! You are Edward Gaitling! There is no further reason for your pretense.” She raised a hand to indicate the portrait once again. “This is my father. This…is…Robert Somerton! And I want to know who I am! If I am Lenore Sinclair, why was there need for all this chicanery?”
Edward Gaitling opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, but you are Lenore…and Malcolm is really your husband.”
She shook her head in painful confusion. She had desperately hoped that he would make a different announcement. “Then why all this pretense? Why have you played the part of my father?”
“Don’t you see, girl?” He came toward her holding out a hand in pleading supplication. “With you being in Wingate’s house and believing you were Lierin and his wife…and him strongly declaring it was so, you needed something more than Malcolm’s word to sway the balance.”
“But why couldn’t my real father do that?”
“Because he is in England, girl, and Malcolm was afraid of what would happen between you and Wingate. By the time your father could have been summoned and traveled here…good heavens!…you could have almost borne the man a child!”
His exaggeration made her cringe inwardly, and she was the one now who twisted her hands in dismay. “So Malcolm hired you to perform for me.”
Edward Gaitling seemed unable to manage more than a brief, hesitant glance in her direction. “I guess…that’s the way it happened.”
“You seem particularly loyal to Malcolm,” she observed distantly. “How long have you known him?”
Edward tossed down another swallow, and as he lowered his glass, he gripped it between both hands. “I’ve known him for a long time, I guess.”
“Before we were married?”
“I…ah…I’ve been away…for a long time,” he answered lamely.
“Then you weren’t informed of the wedding?”
“No…I wasn’t…I can’t tell you anything about that.”
“I remember…part of it,” she said.
Edward’s head snapped up. “Oh? But I thought you couldn’t…remember very well.”
A wry smile touched her lips. “I told you…it’s beginning to come back.”
A worried frown flitted across his brow before he hurriedly dropped his gaze. “Malcolm will be happy to hear that.”
“I really don’t see why.”
“Eh?” He peered at her in confusion.
“Even if I were to regain all my memory, it would not change things between us. I don’t know exactly why I married him…but whatever was there between us is there no longer.”
Edward’s shoulders sagged, and he heaved a laborious sigh. “Poor Malcolm. He does love you, you know.”
“I’m not at all sure about that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Will you be going back to Natchez with that Wingate fellow?”
“I don’t see why you need to know my plans.” Lenore released her breath haltingly. “I’d like you to leave the house as soon as you can. There’s no further reason for you to stay.”
Edward Gaitling looked at her in surprise, then his wonder ebbed into a disconcerted frown. Giving a reluctant nod, he set down his glass and moved to the door. He paused another long space to gaze back at her, then slowly made his way from the room. Lenore could hear his footsteps on the stairs, ascending at the same lagging pace, and in the still house, she heard the closing of his door a few, short moments later.
The house grew quiet and still, and in the loneliness of the parlor Lenore
lifted her gaze to the portrait, wondering about the man who was really her father. If she could correctly discern anything from the glimpses she had of him in her memory, he was a man who really loved his daughters. Ashton would be like that, she thought with a wistful smile. He would be a good father. He loved so well. Indeed, she wondered why her sister had not somehow fought to live and claim the happiness he could have given her.
Lenore shook her head, trying to reject the thoughts that came to plague her, but they persisted, and she had to yield her mind to their presence. Had she a right to take her sister’s place? To seize upon Ashton’s devotion for another and selfishly claim it for herself? He had assured her that he would love her whether she was Lierin or Lenore, but was it true? With his dream swept away by tragedy, had he been too eager to grasp at whatever facsimile became available? And was she taking advantage of his love for her sister to fill an emptiness within herself?
She groaned inwardly as a weighty guilt came down upon her. Edward Gaitling had put a name to her. A kept woman! The mistress of her sister’s husband! Adulteress!
A depressing coldness clamped its clammy hands upon her as the heavy lump in the pit of her stomach grew weightier. She had begun to sense that the white-haired man was not her father, and with the suspicion, a hope that she might not be Lenore had begun to form. Still, if she had recognized the facts as being what they were, she would have accepted the fleeting memories of her marriage to Malcolm as truth. The blue gown…the wedding guests…the trunk…
Lenore lifted her head, feeling a burning need to see what the chest contained. She set herself to finding a chisel and hammer and, accomplishing that feat, retrieved the landscape and climbed once more to the attic room. Now in the late afternoon the heat in the closed space was nearly unbearable, but she worked at the lock with a fierce purposefulness, disregarding the mugginess and the gown that began to cling cloyingly close to her dampened skin. Finally, the flap broke free, and she quickly lifted the top. An empty tray met her gaze, and a quick flash of a memory filled it with neatly arranged possessions. In her mind she could visualize her gowns packed beneath the wooden compartment. Almost eagerly she lifted the tray and set it aside. There the images halted…abruptly. Nothing but large stones filled the bottom. She stared down at them, suddenly unsure of herself and more than slightly puzzled. She bent to move one aside, then a strange, sickly sweet odor touched her nostrils, reminding her of something spoiled. Warily she turned her head, and her eyes slowly widened as they settled on the dark reddish brown stains smeared across the inner lining.
Come Love a Stranger Page 42