The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  Shelby rolled his eyes. “No, you cannot. Are you daft?”

  He started down the stairs. Merlin went after him, meaning to ask the groom to saddle the dappled pony on which she’d been taking her riding lessons as a poor second choice. She doubted it could run half as fast as Shelby’s Centurion. Mr. Peale laid a hand on her arm.

  “Your Grace! Your Grace, I beg your indulgence; I don’t mean to detain you, but surely—Lord Shelby is not correct? You don’t actually mean to—to leave Mount Falcon without your husband’s permission?”

  “Not dressed like that,” Shelby advised, swinging up onto the restive bay. “At least find some decent shoes.”

  “No—no, I can’t wait! Saddle my pony, please,” she said to the groom. “As quickly as possible. I have to leave before Ransom wakes up. He won’t let me go, Shelby.”

  “But Your Grace,” Peale spluttered in scandalized accents. “Your Grace! Are you running away? I can’t credit this!”

  The bay shied and pirouetted, anxious to be moving. Shelby reined him in. “You can’t go crying off alone, widgeon. I’ll arrange something.”

  “But I have to hurry.” Her voice rose a little. “I have to.”

  The stallion circled on his forehand. His black tail swirled across flanks that gleamed in the red rays of the sun. He dropped his haunches and bounced off his forefeet a few inches—a strong hint to his rider about what he thought of the delay. “I can’t talk now,” Shelby said in exasperation. “Go pack some reasonable clothes, and don’t go farther than the main gate, Merlin. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I find this utterly appalling,” Mr. Peale exclaimed. “Lord Shelby—the bonds of holy matrimony—you must not... You cannot intend to betray your brother in this way!”

  “Why not, Mr. Peale?” Shelby asked with a mocking curl of his lips. The stallion started to rear in earnest. Shelby leaned forward. The horse dropped, shied, and bucked, and then stood with neck arched and nostrils trembling under his rider’s command. “My brother’s already got half a mind to think I sold Merlin to that damned tinker. What’s one more crime”—he turned the horse—“out of so wonderfully many to my credit?”

  The bay’s hooves sent crushed gravel flying as Shelby let him go. Merlin didn’t wait to see them disappear through the arched gateway; she hurried toward the stable after the groom.

  Mr. Peale strode alongside. “Your Grace, this is most ill-advised. Think a moment. The intimation of the divine will was communicated to the first woman immediately after the Fall. The New Testament says: ‘Let the wife see that she reverence her husband.’” He spread his hands as he walked, supplicating. “And: ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord; for the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church; therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything.’”

  “Poo,” Merlin said.

  “Your Grace, you go against both God and Nature in this rebelliousness. Think on what I myself have said on the subject of female education. ‘Submission and obedience are the lessons of her life, and peace and happiness are her reward!’ You cannot reasonably doubt that under the divine law, faithful and willing compliance is a branch of your connubial duty. And while the obligation is unimpeachable, Your Grace, let not the ends for which it is imposed be misconceived. Man has been furnished by the Creator with powers of investigation and of foresight in a somewhat larger measure than your sex.”

  She stopped and turned on him. “Yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you? I suppose Ransom told you that.”

  “Why, no, Your Grace. It is a universal truth.”

  “Poo.” She started walking again.

  “Your Grace,” he called after her. “I must warn you, I feel it is my duty to report this to your husband as soon as may be.”

  Merlin cast a glance over her shoulder. He was already walking back toward the house, his coattails flying out behind him. She pulled the cloak around her and began to run. There would be no time to wait for Shelby if Mr. Peale went in and woke Ransom now. She had to get away instantly.

  In the stable the grooms were just rubbing down the gray pony. Merlin hovered around, urging them to speed. By the time she mounted, clutching the bandbox in one arm and tucking the crimson dressing gown around the sidesaddle, the sun was well above the horizon. Ransom was probably already awake.

  She kicked the placid pony and sent it cantering down the drive. The broad meadows and woods of Mount Falcon’s park glistened with dew, and ground fog still hung in the hollows. Up ahead, just as the triumphal arch of the main gate came into view, she saw the sun reflect on some pinpoint of a polished surface.

  The reflection came again, and then as she followed the freshly raked drive down into a small valley and up around a sweeping turn, the famous vista on her other side presented the house itself, set like a crown on a bed of velvet green. From somewhere near the house came another pinpointed sun reflection. A flash: once, twice, and then a third time—that almost might, to a vivid imagination, have seemed to answer the one from the gatehouse.

  She hiked the sliding bandbox closer up under her arm and slowed the dappled pony to a trot. As she approached the arch, the keeper emerged, standing beneath the painted and gilded ducal crest wrought in the center of the black iron gates. He turned a broken-toothed smile on her, doffing an old-fashioned tricorne as she came to a halt. He wasn’t wearing the wine-red livery of Mount Falcon. Merlin supposed it was too early in the morning for that kind of faradiddle all the way out at the gate.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you tell me which way to the village?”

  “Aye, miss. But that pony’s workin’ on a loose shoe. Best get down a moment and let me have a look at ’er.”

  She clutched the bandbox and scrambled down, clinging to the saddle of the patient pony. But before she could even turn round again to face the gatekeeper, a hard hand and a handkerchief reeking a familiar, nauseating odor clamped over her mouth and nose.

  Merlin didn’t even bother to struggle.

  Oh, drat it all, she thought, holding tight to the bandbox as her knees went to liquid and the darkness closed in. Not again.

  “Well, she never showed up,” Shelby said. “As I’ve told you five hundred times in the past two days.” Candlelight glinted in his bright hair as he lounged back and tossed off a fourth glass of port in one swallow. He looked at Ransom with insolent blue eyes. “Still aching to find a flaw in my story?”

  “A clue, maybe.” Ransom ignored his brother’s flushed sullenness. He was drawing aimless circles on the side of his glass, past angry desperation and sinking toward black furious despair. One night and two days and no lead, and he felt like howling, like standing up and laying waste to his glass and the decanter and all the furniture he could reach.

  On the fireplace mantel a clock struck, and another across the room echoed it—nine deep-toned peals in tandem. He put his elbows on the tea table that graced the center of the Godolphin Saloon, resting his forehead in his hands. “A hint. One God damned place to start.”

  “Yes, our esteemed friend the major here has been a bit backward in his investigations, hasn’t he?”

  “By the powers,” Quin exclaimed. “Just what do you mean by that, sir?”

  Shelby gave him a malicious, sidelong glance. “Take it any way you please. Sir.”

  “Shelby.” Blythe stood up. She bit her lip and walked in small, agitated steps across the floor. As she came within a few feet of where Quin stood by the bookcase, Mr. Peale stood up in ponderous formality, bowing as she passed. She hesitated, and turned back, putting her hand to her temple. “Shelby, I wish you would not start a quarrel. It gives me the headache.”

  “My profound apologies!” Shelby said unrepentantly.

  Quin took a deep breath. There was a light flush above his collar. “You might be givin’ your sister some support at a difficult time, Your Lordship—if I could be bold enough to suggest it.”
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  “Oh, of course. If you’re bold enough to hang about this house at all, you might as well.”

  Blythe pursed her lips. “Please—”

  “Please what, Blythe?” Shelby flung himself out of his chair. “Please sit here quietly and watch Ransom go to pieces waiting for someone to find his wife’s body at the bottom of a well?”

  “Shelby.” Duchess May’s voice was soft steel. “That’s enough of that.”

  “Is it?” Shelby turned on her. “What are we waiting for? Search parties organized by this—this—” He waved his hand toward Quin in disgust, and then looked at Ransom. “Why O’Shaughnessy, damn it? Some half-pay major–for all we know of it, he’s been cashiered for graft! Why him? I’ve offered. I know the country; I know the men. He can’t find her, Ransom. For God’s sake, let me try.”

  “It doesn’t need your help,” Ransom said. “I’ve organized the search—Quin’s only carried out my orders.”

  “Aye.” There was bitterness in Shelby’s voice. “No orders for me, of course.”

  Ransom looked at his volatile brother. Shelby was primed to go off like a barrel of gunpowder at the least hint of accusation. “And there won’t be,” he said sharply. “There’s something odd in this, Shelby. I don’t want any of the family to venture outside the park.” He lifted his glance briefly to Shelby’s ex-wife where she sat a little distance away with Woodrow, who had adamantly refused to go to bed. “That includes you, Jaqueline.”

  She inclined her head.

  Ransom looked back at Shelby. “And most certainly you.”

  Shelby opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it. He frowned at Ransom. But the resentful set of his mouth softened a little. “I can take care of myself,” he said.

  “This is my failing,” Mr. Peale mourned. “If only God had seen fit to enable me to find the proper words to convince Her Grace of her Christian duty to obey her husband—”

  “One might wish that while He was at it, He’d seen fit to give you a particle of sense,” Shelby snapped. “I don’t doubt it was your sermonizing that drove her off before I could arrange something suitable to placate her!” He jerked his head in contempt. “Any cocklehead could have seen that she was in no mood to obey anything Ransom had to say after she found out he’d burned her flying machine.”

  Ransom stared at the decanter of port in front of him. “This cocklehead didn’t,” he said brutally.

  Shelby picked up the decanter and poured two drinks, shoving one across the table toward Ransom. “So. Give a dog an ill name, and hang him out of the way at once!” He lifted his glass. “Join the ranks of Falconers who can’t seem to hold on to their wives.”

  “Do go to bed, Shelby,” Blythe said. “You make everything worse.”

  He took a swallow of port and sat down at the table, not even bothering to look at Blythe.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Peale said, “we should engage in a period of prayer and meditation to calm our souls.”

  Unenthusiastic silence greeted this suggestion. Ransom barely even heard it. Instead he just sat, brooding in his fear and outrage.

  Finally, the dowager duchess said, “That may be an excellent idea, Mr. Peale. Will you lead us in a prayer?”

  “I would be honored, Your Grace. Most honored.” Mr. Peale cleared his throat. “And if Major O’Shaughnessy would be so kind as to turn to his left and take down a book from the bookcase for me—I believe I know of a text appropriate to this situation. The work of the Reverend Mr. Caldicott…on the third shelf, Major, that thickest tome with the gold spine. No, no—not that one, I’m afraid! To the right—oh!”

  Mr. Peale stood up as the volume Quin had touched slumped over and came crashing down onto the floor, bringing four more along with it. A slip of paper went sailing and landed at Ransom’s feet.

  He picked it up. In the candlelight he glanced at it briefly, started to hand it to Quin, and then held it back. He frowned down at the set of neat letters and numerals.

  5,000£ in gold and 55,000£ in numbered bank notes received of Mr. Alfred Rule and accrued to the balance of Lord Shelby Falconer this twenty-fifth day of July in the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and five. Your humble servant, Richard Corliss, clerk to the Bank of England.

  Ransom stopped breathing. It froze him. He sat there holding the slip and felt his body grow hot and then cold.

  Five thousand in gold. Fifty-five in notes. A date one week old and a betrayal that struck deeper than bright steel through his heart.

  For the first time in his adult memory, he had no inkling of what to do. He just felt blank. Helpless. He lifted his eyes and looked at his brother—a long, stupid, baffled look, and then back down at the receipt.

  “What is it?” Blythe asked.

  Ransom laid the paper on the table. Of a sudden, he did not want to touch it. He stood up. He had to think; he had to get away and think, but Shelby was already leaning across the table to reach for the receipt. With an ugly fascination, Ransom watched his brother lift the slip and glance down to read it.

  For an instant nothing happened. Then Shelby’s face changed, and Ransom could not tell if it was real or a lie when his brother whispered hoarsely, “My God…oh, my God. What is this?”

  He looked up at Ransom. What emotion showed in his own eyes, Ransom did not know, but the blood left his brother’s face. Shelby’s throat worked, as if there were words there that would not come out. He crushed the receipt in his hand and started to stand. Ransom didn’t wait. He found himself an abrupt coward, unable to face this, unready for a confrontation. He shoved his chair back and strode out the door, yanking it closed behind him.

  In the dim corridor, a footman standing in a pool of candlelight came to attention. Ransom hesitated. He had an order to give, but he was afraid that his tongue would not obey him. The stammer hung at the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, gathering himself, trying to collect the pieces of shattered illusion.

  “Wake Mr. Collett,” he said finally. “Tell him that he is to place a”—here Ransom had to pause, to force his tongue around a word that nauseated him—“bodyguard…with Lord Shelby. At all hours. My”—Ransom had to wait again, for the physical mastery of his tongue to speak—“brother,” he managed eventually, “is not to leave the house.”

  The footman bowed, impassive. “Your Grace,” he said, and turned away.

  Ransom walked a few steps down the corridor. Beyond the ring of candlelight, he lost momentum. The shadows beside a marble column made a refuge. Like some mongrel dog he hid in them, leaning his cheek against the stone to suffer a wound that was only just beginning to lose its numbness and turn to agony.

  The saloon door slammed. Shelby’s boot heels set up an echo in the hall. He passed Ransom, saw him, and stopped.

  “It’s not true,” Shelby said.

  Ransom wanted to believe that. He wanted it so badly that he did not trust himself to speak, or move, or think straight. He simply looked at Shelby.

  “I had your bank draft delivered to Rule.” His brother stood stiffly, hands locked behind his back. The faint candlelight picked out his features in perfect profile and turned his hair to sculpted gold. “I got my notes back. I gave them to you. I did what I said I would. This—thing—you saw—” He held up the crumpled receipt. “I don’t know what it is, or whence it came. I’ve taken no money from Rule since you told me what he was. Before God, Ransom.”

  “Yes,” Ransom said softly. “It would be necessary for you to claim so, wouldn’t it?”

  Shelby’s mouth took on a grim curve. “Claim so?”

  “Either way. Traitor or dupe… you have to protest your innocence.”

  The grim curve became murderous. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Shelby.” Ransom let out a slow breath. “I cannot afford to. Not anymore.”

  “Because of this?” Shelby cried viciously. He flung the paper to the floor and stepped forward. “I ought to kill you. I don’t take the lie from man or mortal.”

  Ra
nsom straightened. He was an inch taller than Shelby, and he used it. In a low, snarling voice he said, “You’ll take from me what I hand out, my friend. There’s enough suspicion hung around your neck now to drown an ox. Try to press me, and I’ll forget family honor and do my task like any other of the King’s magistrates—let the evidence swallow you whole.”

  “Family honor!” Shelby hissed. “Since what century have we concerned ourselves with that?”

  Ransom stared into his brother’s furious blue eyes. “You tell me. You tell me, Shelby.”

  His brother’s gaze faltered; rose again. “Do you think I’m in Bonaparte’s pay, then? Do you think for sixty thousand pounds I sold Merlin to that damned Corsican pirate?”

  “He da-da-da…didn’t!” Light poured into the corridor from the saloon’s open door. Woodrow stood in the portal, his small figure throwing a long shadow across the floor. “Ma-ma-ma…my pa-pa-papa wouldn’t da-da-da…do that!”

  “Master Woodrow.” Peale appeared in the doorway behind the boy, sounding flustered. “This won’t be any of your concern, my dear child. Forgive my presumption, Your Grace—but shall I ask the boy’s mother to take him to his chamber?”

  “Unnecessary.” Jaqueline glided into the corridor, taking Woodrow’s hand. Instead of turning away toward the stairs, she drew him with her to Shelby’s side. “I wish to hear, and Woodrow, too, these accusations against his father.”

  Ransom glanced down the hall, where the whole party was crowding now into the cool marble corridor. He swore beneath his breath.

  “It’s none of your affair, ma’am!” Shelby said, equally furious.

  Jaqueline lifted her head, her magnificent violet eyes calm. “It is.”

  “Why?” He moved away from her a step and swept a bow to the others. “Anxious to see me hanged by the neck? State your case, brother—we’ve judge and jury here to try me!”

  “Shelby,” Ransom said in a warning tone.

  “Nay—let’s go at it! I’ll begin myself. The suit is watertight, Your Grace; the evidence is heavy.” Shelby flung out his arm recklessly. “You said so not a moment past! There’s knowledge first—there’s knowing what a muddlehead like Merlin is worth and why you brought her here. There’s—”