by Lisa Bingham
Beatrice Sutherland found her grandson much later. He sat upon a simple stone bench that was embedded in the foliage of the garden. When he would have risen upon her arrival, she waved him down and took a seat beside his own sprawled frame.
“The rain leaves such a wealth of scents, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. He sat brooding in the darkness, his legs spread out in front of him, one elbow resting on the bench’s support as he unconsciously traced the lower curve of his lip.
Biddy sighed, realizing there was no sense beating the bush for birds. Best to march right in and catch them herself.
“You’ve had a quarrel,” she stated. To her ultimate satisfaction, he didn’t avoid the issue, didn’t pretend not to know what she was speaking about.
“Yes.”
“You’ve hurt her, you know.”
“Yes.”
Biddy fluffed a bit of lace at her sleeve. “Would you like to discuss it with me?”
His visage grew dark and inscrutable. “A gentleman does not tell tales about a lady.”
“Ahh.” Her lips split in a smile. “I see that my son did educate you, then, on a man’s code of conduct.”
He dipped his head in concurrence.
“What if I talk and you simply listen?”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t refuse.
“I sense that your relationship with your … governess has become much more personal.”
Not so much as a flicker of an eyelash betrayed his true thoughts, but Biddy knew she’d hit the nail squarely.
“She’s not of your station, of course. She was not nobly born. It would be entirely shocking for her to inherit such a title as you will someday possess.” When he opened his mouth to retort, she waved him into silence. “Twenty, thirty years ago, such things would have mattered. If you were my son, I would have forbidden such an alliance.” She tapped her cane on the stones beneath her feet in emphasis. “I would have locked you in your room, cut off your inheritance, publicly shunned you if necessary.”
She searched the darkness, her memories. “But I have since learned that such petty differences are not worth the time or the energy. Especially where matters of the heart are concerned.”
She patted his knee with obvious affection. How like her husband he looked. How like her son. It was as if the Sutherland blood took control, stamping out near facsimiles from generation to generation.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” Biddy noted.
“Thank you.”
“I did not want your father to marry Julie. Did you know that?”
He nodded.
“Yes, Richard Albert would have told you. His father and I had intended for him to marry her sister, Estella Perry.”
“The current Lady Sutherland.”
“Yes.” She shifted slightly in her seat, seeking comfort on the hard stone bench where none could be found for joints tormented by rheumatism. “I asked Lord and Lady Perry to visit for the summer and to bring their daughters. Estella was so lovely—blond, petite, vivacious—that I felt sure your father would fall under her spell. I never even considered Julie as a match. At sixteen, she was too young, too childlike for such things.” She chuckled. “I had not counted on the powers of love. My son caught sight of Julie—little, brown-haired, green-eyed, giggling Julie—and his heart was no longer his to give.”
“But you eventually allowed them to marry.”
“I didn’t really have much choice in the matter. Your father refused to give Estella the time of day. He came into breakfast one morning, proclaiming he’d compromised Julie in the heat of passion and the fog of inebriation and they must be married. Of course, I was quite certain that his protestations were not completely true.”
She watched her grandson, noting the subtle nuances of his expression, and decided that he had discovered the real events quite some time ago.
“You were?”
“Richard, I am not a stupid woman. Nor was I ever a sloppy hostess. I am quite aware when one of my guests is skulking through the halls seeking an assignation. I am also quite aware when several bottles of wine mysteriously disappear.” She sniffed. “I caught her in the passageway one evening.”
“Who?”
“Estella, of course. She had arranged her hair to appear like Julie’s riotous locks, worn one of her gowns, a bit of her scent—my son was drunk enough and desperate enough to think it was Julie.”
“What did you do?”
“I meant to send the chit packing! But she eloped with cousin Nigel before I could do much of anything. When your father came to me and ‘confessed,’ I did not disabuse him of the notion that it was Julie he had compromised. Julie was willing to have him by hook or by crook and didn’t say a thing to stop the nuptials. I knew they were in love, and time would unmask the truth.” She made a tsking sound with her tongue. “What a muddle. What a complicated, nasty muddle. If I had known that we were setting such a terrifying series of events into motion, I would have …”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’ve wondered the same thing a thousand times, but I really see no way we could have prevented what happened. Nigel was so young at the time—I didn’t think he could prove to be such a foe. I suppose it just goes to show that even baby adders possess a powerful poison.”
She touched Richard’s cheek. “Be very wary of him, Richard. He can be so charming, so friendly, so civil. Then he’ll slide a knife between your ribs without your even being aware of it. More alarmingly, he has cultivated a good many powerful friends.”
“Friends who can become even more powerful enemies.”
She pursed her lips. “I sense that you know nearly as much as I do about this man.”
“My father was away for some time. But his memory never dimmed.”
“What of you, Richard? When this is all over, what will you remember of your time here in Britain?”
She saw the way his gaze lifted to the upper windows of the cottage. Chelsea’s windows.
She lapped both hands over her walking stick and tamped down her smile of pleasure. “Go to her.”
At Richard’s grunt of surprise, she chuckled.
“As I stated once before, Richard, I am not a stupid woman. Nor was I ever a sloppy hostess. I am quite aware when one of my guests is skulking through the halls seeking an assignation. I am also quite aware when several bottles of wine mysteriously disappear.”
“We never took any wi—”
She chuckled in honest delight at his chagrined expression. “No, not yet I’ve placed them on the sideboard in the kitchen for your convenience.”
“Grandmama—”
She held up a hand to halt his protests even as she sighed in pleasure, closing her lashes as if savoring what he’d said. “How I love to hear you call me that. You must call me that at least a dozen times a day.”
She peered up at the same windows he’d studied earlier. A glow appeared in their depths, deepened, signaling that Chelsea had lighted a pair of candles. Her lithe shadow passed in front of one French panel, then another.
“She was once terrified of the dark, did you know that?”
Richard’s gaze bounced from the cottage to Beatrice.
“Yes, it’s true. She seems so strong, so secure, so blasted British at times, but it’s true.”
“She was Nigel’s ward. She lived with him.”
“Your father could not have known such a thing. So how did you come to such a conclusion?”
“I guessed as much this afternoon.”
“I suppose it is only a matter of time before you will begin to demand answers about the rest.” His expression grew so black, so stormy, Biddy knew she was right.
“What did he do to her?” He glared at the panes of glass where Biddy could see the shape of Chelsea Wickersham muted by the lace of the curtains. She was lifting her arms, plucking at the pins binding her hair. Then she took her brush and began to
groom the riotous strands. From seemingly a million miles away, Biddy heard the soft strains of the tune she sang.
My lover’s eyes …
“She’s forever misquoting that sonnet, you know. How a woman so well educated could make an error with Shakespeare, of all things, I’ll never know.”
Are nothing like the sun …
“What did Nigel do to her, Beatrice?”
If lips be red …
“I cannot betray a confidence. But I think you know.”
Then her lips …
“Will you never tell me the truth?”
“No. She must tell you herself.”
My lover’s eyes …
“Go to her, Richard. She fears for your safety—and she has a right to be afraid. The next few days will be dangerous times for us all. Nigel knows you are here. He will not rest until one of you is destroyed.” She gripped his hand. “If I thought sending you back home would stop him, I would beat you into unconsciousness myself and spirit you away this very night. But matters have come full circle in a way we had never anticipated when we first arranged to bring you home. The only avenue left is an open confrontation. The world must see that Nigel Sutherland is not fit for the title of man, let alone that of an earl. I only pray that we are all strong enough to see the challenge through.”
She clung to him, testing his strength, his innate goodness, then she smiled. “But tomorrow is soon enough to worry about such things. Tonight, see if you can’t steal some happiness.”
He stood and took a few steps forward, then stopped. “I sense that you approve of our … alliance.”
“No. Not entirely. I would have hoped that circumstances were different and you would have wooed her, married her, then bedded her. But I understand that extraordinary situations often dictate extraordinary measures. Right now, I think she needs you, needs you desperately.” She lifted a warning finger. “But hear this, Richard Albert Sutherland. I do expect you to make an honest woman of her. She deserves that much, at least.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Grandmama,” he amended, bending to kiss her cheek, then touch her gnarled hand. “Do not stay out here in this damp long.”
“No. I’ll simply sit for a while and enjoy the cool breeze. The summers seem to grow shorter as the years roll on, and I am much afraid that winter will o’ertake me before I’m ready.”
Sullivan discerned the dual interpretation to her words, and they struck him with the force of a blow. He’d just discovered this woman, learned to love her. Pray God, he would have her company for many years to come.
“Once this is over, we’ll keep the winter at bay together, Grandmama. You’ll come home with me where the sun is always warm, the winds kind. Then you’ll never be without family again.”
Chapter 19
Nigel Sutherland’s guests were snugly ensconced in the salon, enjoying an evening of games and conversation, when two shapes crept out of the night. They let themselves into the house through the rear servants’ entrance and hurried down the dark passageway to a secret door hidden in the wall next to the coat pegs. The clacking of boot heels coming from the kitchen caused them to fumble in their task, but the panel slid shut just as one of the stable hands appeared from the scullery and marched out of doors.
“Whew!” Smee breathed, leaning against the cool wall. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest. The beads of sweat shimmering on his bald pate came into sharp focus as his companion struck a flint and lit a candle. “That was as close as whiskers on a cat.”
“Nonsense,” Greyson chided, gesturing for his companion to follow.
It had been nearly forty years since Greyson had traversed these secret channels. Richard Albert, Biddy’s son, had taught him the tangled network. As an only child, Richard Albert had often enlisted the servants to play in his elaborate games of Dickie Dark—a made-up version of Robin Hood Perhaps it was at that point Greyson had unconsciously developed a flair for the life of crime.
“You have the list?”
“Indeed I do.” Smee pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “First, the cards.”
Greyson led them toward what he hoped was the study, backtracked twice, then finally found the door leading to the gloomy room. The hinges made no sound as the men peered into the chamber, conveying quite eloquently to Greyson that he and Smee weren’t the only characters who had played Dickie Dark in the last forty years. He’d wager that Nigel Sutherland had done his fair share of skulking since obtaining the house.
The two men went about their business quickly, locating Nigel’s gaming table and unearthing his supply of gambling paraphernalia.
“Cards,” Greyson snapped out, extending his palm like a practiced surgeon waiting for tools. His eyes glittered purposefully behind his mask.
Smee dug into the carpet bag he held. “What color?” he asked, indicating the design stamped on the backs. To ensure the success of their operation, they had “lifted” every variety possible from a store in Addlebury mere hours ago.
“Green and gilt.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“They’ve been subtly marked?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Very well.” Smee slapped the containers into Greyson’s hand. Greyson exchanged them for the unopened packets on the table and gave Lord Sutherland’s decks to Smee, who tucked them in his valise.
“What is the next item on our list?”
“Invitations.”
“Very good.”
Greyson and Smee searched the pristine study to no avail and sighed in frustration. Then, as if both were struck by the same bolt of lightning, they whispered, “Reginald!”
Clambering into the secret passageway, they made their way to the office kept for Reginald’s use.
Despite the man’s fastidious appearance, the narrow cubicle was a mess, filled with empty brandy bottles, overflowing ash trays, and discarded correspondence. An opium pipe lay on the desk and a sickly sweet odor permeated the air, revealing that the hookah had been recently used.
Smee’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Greyson stoically ignored such evidence of vice as he rummaged through the desk.
“Aha!” He held up a stack of clean vellum invitations. “Evidently, the good Lord Sutherland’s list of attendees was so exclusive, even the printer was unaware of the exact number that would attend.”
“Merely adding to our good fortune.”
“Quite.”
Smee took the invitations, stashed them in his bag, then swiped a length of sealing wax from the desk and added it to his booty for good measure.
“Anything else on the list?”
“Not for this evening’s adventures.”
“Very well, let us return.”
The two men hurried into the passage. Greyson had already sent word to those servants he thought were loyal to their cause about the meeting with Richard Sutherland later that night, but it would not do to be caught in the meantime.
They peeked out into the corridor.
“Clear?”
“Clear.”
The Avengers tiptoed out. Greyson was about to step into the balmy night when a gasp erupted behind them, followed by the clash of dishes.
Whirling, they found a portly woman, jaw slack, her mouth opening in preparation for a scream. Smee, without thought, without pause, dashed forward, wrapped his arms around her ample girth, and dipped her backward, planting a long, passionate kiss on her lips.
When he righted the woman, she blinked in surprise and pleasure, touching her mouth as if amazed.
Before she could gather her wits, the two masked men darted into the evening, hopped and grunted and mounted their steeds, then rode into the blackness. Only after they had charged out of sight did Greyson slow their pace and throw his companion a wide smile.
“Why, Smee! I never knew you had it in you.”
“It seemed the thing to do.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.”
“And my form?”
“Flawless.”
“Execution?”
“Impeccable.”
“Thank you, Greyson.”
“No, Smee. Thank you.”
Gregory Cane stepped into the salon of Lindon Manor, his steps sure, his posture proud. He searched carefully, judging each face, each form, until he found the tall, distinguished gentleman standing framed in the opening of the huge guillotine window leading into the garden.
Nigel.
For the first time, it was not grief that stabbed. It was anger. A deep, burning, omnipresent anger. At what this man had done, the lies he’d told, the lives he’d destroyed.
Sullivan had been right. Hours earlier, his brother had burst into the inn. Rather than welcoming him, he’d chastised him. Gregory had been irritated at the scolding, then furious, then ashamed. Every word Sullivan had uttered had been true. Gregory had wallowed in self-pity. He had used his sorrow to shield him from the world. He had buried himself with his wife and adopted the role of a coward, shielding himself from the pleasure and pain to be found in his continued existence.
But all that was about to change.
Gregory remembered his mother well enough to know how to make an entrance. He stood poised in the doorway, masked his true thoughts, and waited. Sure enough, within seconds, the heads began to swivel, one, two, then a half-dozen. Women first, then men. A hush lapped over the salon in ever-widening waves until the one man’s attention he sought flickered, held.
He knew in an instant that Nigel had surmised he was the mysterious guest who had come once before. He could see it in the way he measured the quality of his clothes, the golden brown color of his hair, the strength of his build. Nigel was careful, Gregory had to give him that. He waited long enough to approach him so that he appeared only slightly interested. But the buried greed in his manner and the purposeful negligence of his attention gave him away.
“Mr. Cane?”
“Yes.”
Nigel extended his hand. Cool, dry, like the cast-off skin of a snake.
“My secretary told me you’d come once before.” His sweeping gesture indicated the candle-studded room populated with beautiful women and just as beautiful men. “Would you care to join us?”