by Nancy Butler
Since the lady would not converse, Bryce had to satisfy himself with watching her, which was not a hardship. She had appeared for dinner wearing a gown of pale gold satin that did wonderful things for her rounded bosom and her elegant white shoulders.
After dinner the men opted to take their port in the drawing room, as Bryce had done the night before. With some skillful navigation, Bryce managed to get Jemima out onto the terrace, leaving Troy to entertain a remarkably subdued Miss Wellesley.
“This is my favorite time of night,” he said, carrying his glass to the stone balustrade. He leaned back on his elbows, keeping a watchful eye on his guest, who was hovering just beyond the light that spilled from the drawing room, “I like to watch the sky turn from blue to gray to black—that slow, velvety letting go of light.”
“You are waxing very lyrical tonight,” Jemima remarked from the shadows. “Maybe you should take up poetry.” Her voice grew clipped. “But then you already have a full-time occupation that leaves you no time for other pursuits.”
“What’s this?” He moved away from his comfortable perch and headed in the direction of her voice. She was standing beneath a clematis vine that had coiled its way up one of the lilacs that overhung the terrace. “What has put you so out of twig?”
He reached out to touch her arm, and she backed away until the stone wall stopped her retreat.
“I—I shouldn’t have come out here,” she said haltingly. “I only wanted to give my brother and Lovelace a chance to mend their fences. They got off to a bad start this morning.”
“Yes, and you and I got off to a rather good start. So what has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm,” he muttered. “When women say ‘nothing’ in that tone of voice, it generally spells trouble.”
“You would know,” she said. “Being such an expert on my sex.”
He moved a little way beyond her, again leaning against the balustrade. In slow increments he decreased the distance between them. Lateral moves, he knew from long experience, were often more effective with skittish creatures then direct ones.
“I’d think you were vexed with me, Jemima,” he said evenly, “but I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve barely said word to your brother either.”
“I’m not vexed with anyone.” She put her chin up, and he had a lovely view of her profile, the straight nose and fine, lush mouth, silhouetted against the indigo sky.
It was odd, he thought. All his banter seemed to have deserted him in the face of her obviously troubled spirit. He could talk most women around his little finger, but with Jemima, for tonight at least, he had no interest in even trying. He didn’t want to charm her, he wanted only to comfort her.
“I had another avocation once,” he said in a musing voice. “Before I dedicated my life to l’amour.”
“I heard you tell Lovelace,” she uttered, “you wanted to be a steeplechase jockey.”
Bryce chuckled. “No, my sweet, that was only to win a bet. I wanted to…now you must promise not to laugh…I wanted nothing more than to enter the church.”
Instead of laughing, she spun to him and cried softly, “Don’t blaspheme, sir. It is not amusing.”
“See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. The fact is, I was studying divinity at Cambridge.”
“Oh?” she drawled waspishly. “Was that before or after you seduced the don’s wife?”
He tsked. “You’ve been listening to gossip, Jemima. And as for the don’s wife, it was quite the other way round, if you must know. Not that I didn’t enjoy it. But it put me right off divinity, I can tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” She swept away from the wall, but he reached out swiftly and caught her by the arm as she passed him. He felt her resist, knew she was longing to slap at his hand where it was clamped on her forearm.
Then she stopped fighting and turned to face him. “All right, I admit it. I am very cross tonight. There now, are you satisfied?”
He slid his hand down to her wrist and let his thumb wander over the pulse point beneath her white glove. “No,” he said. “I want to know why you are cross. It’s my duty as your host to look out for your comfort. Has someone been putting too much starch in your bed linens? Were the crabcakes at lunch a trifle off?” He had a sudden inkling. “You’re angry because Troy and I abandoned you at lunch. That’s it, isn’t? We left you to your own devices with the Wrath of the Wellesleys.”
Jemima shook her head. “Don’t make sport of Lovelace, Bryce. She is just a frightened young girl, who talks too much when she gets nervous. I know she is not very clever, but I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for yourself, is more like.” He overlooked her indrawn gasp. “I don’t like you maudlin, Jemima. Not one bit.”
She tugged back from his hold. “I don’t seek to make you like me sir. That is the very last thing I desire.”
“It’s Troy who’s made this change in you,” he said in a low voice. “I see it clearly now. Before his rather unsteady advent last night, you were quite in charity with me, in your own prickly way. And this morning, driving to Sir Walter’s, you gave as good as you got. I enjoy that in a woman, Jem. You’re not some mealy-mouthed little hypocrite who pretends she doesn’t know apples from pears. But now that you are in company with your brother, you’ve put on your Sunday manners. What, Jemima, afraid that Troy will realize his sister is a flesh-and-blood woman, and not his own personal acolyte?”
She gasped again. “My relationship with Troy is none of your concern. And besides, you like my brother… I know you do. I heard you and Terry talking in the library. Sounding like two old cronies, as a matter of fact.”
“Of course I like him, he’s a decent enough fellow. Except for the way he takes you for granted. I only wish that… Wait a minute— What was that you just said? Exactly when did you hear us talking in the library?”
Jemima bit her lip and closed her eyes. She’d properly let the cat out of the bag now. Bryce was peering at her in the faint light, his brow puckered, as though he were trying to recall exactly what it was he and Troy had been discussing.
“Oh, Lord!” he said after a moment’s reflection. “That was a rather salty conversation for a lady’s ears. My sweet Jemima, did no one ever tell you not to eavesdrop on gentlemen?”
“I was only looking in for a second,” she said primly. “To see if you’d had your lunch.”
“And got your ears scorched for your troubles, I wager. Well, at least you know now that your brother is a flesh-and-blood person.”
She tossed her head. “Terry has always enjoyed the companionship of ladies. But he doesn’t pursue them to the exclusion of all else.
“You are referring to me, of course. I…um, believe you rate the merits of your sex a bit too highly if you think that women alone are enough to fill up a man’s time.”
“Ah, yes. I left out gambling and drinking.”
He turned a little away from her, so that she could no longer see his face. “I don’t make excuses to anyone for the life I lead.”
“Yes,” she said quietly in a voice that was tinged with grudging admiration. “And that is one of the few good points in your character.”
Jemima went back into the drawing room then, and Bryce didn’t try to stop her.
In the far corner of the room, Troy was making Lovelace giggle over a game of piquet.
“Discard now, Sheba. And make it a good one. I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
“Don’t call me that,” she complained, albeit with a trace of laughter in her voice.
“What, then?” he asked. “How about, ‘Fair Cleopatra, temptress of the Nile, who laid antiquity to dust, with just a smile.’ ”
Lovelace cooed, “Did you write that for me?”
Troy chuckled and shook his head. “I wrote that while you were still in leading strings.”
Jemima relaxed somewhat. At least her brother wasn’t intent on seduction. His voice contained nothing more than amused t
olerance, the same tone he’d used as a boy whenever he was teasing their two younger sisters, Penelope and Anne. Which had been often, as she recalled.
She went to the piano and began to play, trying to empty her mind, as her fingers drifted over the keys. She didn’t want to think about anything, not the talented, amiable brother who thought of her as a faithful pet. Not the foolish, abandoned girl, who might be the target of a cold-blooded murderer. And certainly not the tall, harsh-faced man who infuriated her and stirred her into wayward thoughts.
Bryce came in after a time and wandered over to the card table. Jemima watched him from across the room, admiring, in spite of herself, the impressive set of his shoulders. She noted how the fabric of his elegant evening coat stretched over the sloping muscles of his back as he leaned down to whisper a playful comment to Lovelace. His eternally unruly hair had again tumbled over his brow; as he stood upright he brushed it back with one hand. And his eyes met hers.
For the first time since she’d met him, years ago it felt like, though it had been only yesterday, she saw doubt in their gray depths. All his blithe self-assurance had faded away, leaving behind a curious expression of discontent.
Nicely done, Jemima, she congratulated herself scornfully. Your bout of melancholy has now rubbed off on your host. Nicely done, indeed.
* * *
It is said a clean conscience makes for easy slumber, but contrary to the edict, Beecham Bryce rarely passed a poor night. Tonight, however, was an exception. He tossed and turned, pummeling his pillows into submission, and still sleep eluded him. Things were percolating inside his head, and he couldn’t get quit of any of them.
He hadn’t heard from his father since he’d taken ship for Barbados, and even with a swift crossing, it would be weeks before he got word of his safe arrival in the Caribbean colony. He wondered how the old fellow was getting on. The doctors had assured him that six months in a warm climate would clear up his father’s lung ailment, but Bryce had little faith in the medical profession—if such a word could be applied to that lot of quacks. For himself, he’d trust his farrier to prescribe for him before he’d let a London doctor make a diagnosis.
And then there was the unsolved murder to tax his brain. He had an uncanny feeling that he was going to be embroiled in the investigation, and not just because the murder had taken place on his property. He suspected he knew more about the matter than he was able to admit to anyone. Another batch of trouble he could lay at his father’s door, but much more serious than sick cows or sneezing farmers. It was just like the old man to go off, leaving him in possession of half-truths and thinly veiled warnings.
And tomorrow there would be a Runner on the scene. Bryce prayed he could maintain an air of indifferent curiosity and not rouse the fellow’s suspicions. Perhaps the onerous task of questioning Lovelace Wellesley would send the man hying back to Bow Street on the next mail coach.
At least Troy’s presence in his home didn’t look to be much of a problem, excepting the pressure that was placed on a man when he entertained literary royalty. The poet was an engaging youngster, not unlike the men that Bryce consorted with in London—sporting mad, up to all rigs, and overly fond of female company. Except that in Troy’s case, the pursuit of pleasure was combined with the drive to create and the rare talent to make those creations take flight.
There was only one thing about the man that Bryce misliked. It was as he’d told Jemima—Troy hardly gave a thought to his sister. No, it was worse than that. He belittled her. Bryce recalled Troy’s comments with a frown. Past her last prayers. Follows me like a faithful hound. It was to be hoped that Jemima had not been eavesdropping during that part of her brother’s discourse.
And all the gilded poet could think of to remedy his sister’s unhappy state was to throw her into the path of a notorious rake. Believing, no doubt, that Bryce could be counted on not to remove the invaluable Jemima from Troy’s life with an offer of marriage. No, he’d just sully her a bit and send her on her way.
Bryce groaned and burrowed his head into the pillow. He couldn’t do the pretty, to use the poet’s less-than-inspired words, without wanting to do another, less-sanctioned deed. Jemima had gotten into his blood and he had no intention of stopping at mere flirtation. But if he pursued her to his own ends, Troy was sure to be roused from his indifference. Christ, he might even call him out. Still, Bryce reminded himself, Jemima was no simpering schoolgirl who needed her brother’s permission to walk in the park—she was a mature woman, one who could certainly make up her own mind about whether or not she wanted to embark on an affaire de coeur.
But damn Troy for putting him in such a spot. Bryce felt as though he was the only one who gave a thought to Jemima’s honor. If she was his sister, he knew, he wouldn’t let her get within a mile of a bounder like Beecham Bryce. He grinned in the darkness. Maybe if he’d had a sister—a feisty, outspoken, warm-hearted woman like Jemima Vale—he wouldn’t have turned into the licentious care-for-none that the ton disdained and the world-at-large shunned.
The clock was striking one when he crawled from his bed and dragged on his dressing gown. These country hours were killing him. If he’d been in London, his evening would have just been beginning.
He went through the dark, silent house, heading, as he’d done in childhood, for the library. Many were the nights he and Kip would sneak downstairs, light a single candle and place it on the floor, and then proceed to make up vivid stories about the animals who dwelt on those walls. His brother had teased him in more recent years over the fact that Bryce had always favored the gazelle, Delilah, precisely because she was the only one to whom they had given a female name. Kip had seen it as a portent of his brother’s future proclivities. God bless Kip. Wherever he was.
As Bryce opened the door, he thought perhaps his brother was closer at hand than he realized. A single candle burned on the floor, tilted slightly in its silver candlestick, and a slim, robed figure was huddled before it, gazing up at the stuffed tiger that had place of honor over the mantelpiece.
“Oh!” Jemima started to get up.
“No,” Bryce said, moving forward and laying a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let me disturb you. I… I come down here, some nights, when I cannot sleep.”
“Mmm, I couldn’t sleep either.” She wrapped her arms about her knees. “Troy was in my room talking nonstop about his new poem. And after he left, I just couldn’t settle down. It’s all this country air, I expect. A bit too invigorating.”
“Were you looking for a book to read? There’s something for everyone in this library. Poets, playwrights, slumber-inducing sermons.” He forbore to mention his own private collection of erotica, which was locked away in one of the library cabinets.
She shook her head. “You will think me daft,” she said sheepishly. “I was talking to Rajah.”
“Not daft. It’s a Bryce tradition, talking to the animals. My brother and I told them everything.”
“But I am not a Bryce,” she pointed out as she started to nervously pleat the skirt of her robe.
The garment was quite an improvement over what she’d been wearing this morning, he noted appreciatively. Both robe and night rail were made of a delicate lawn, in a creamy shade that glowed in the candlelight. But not quite as richly as her smooth, white skin.
“You are a guest of Bryce Prospect,” he pointed out. “And can make free with our traditions. So what have you been telling the fearsome Rajah?”
“Oh…just that I was sorry I was so disagreeable tonight. Grumbling guests are the very devil, and I know this can’t be easy for you—”
You have no idea, he thought with wry amusement.
“Having three people underfoot, who were strangers to you before yesterday. I had no reason to take my ill-humor out on you, when you’ve been so accommodating.”
“What? Are you going to ring a peal over your brother, then, for giving you a megrim?”
Jemima sighed and splayed her fingers over her knees. “It’s
not Terry, either, who has made me feel this way. He’s no different than he’s ever been.”
Bryce settled himself in the chair that faced the hearth, crossing his legs at the ankles beneath the hem of his long dressing gown. “Let’s not get into another spitting match over Troy. I’d defend my brother against all comers, and I daresay, he’d have done the same for me.”
She gazed up at him. “Why are you here, Bryce?”
“I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”
Her mouth curved into a tiny smile. “No, I mean here at Bryce Prospect. London was all atwitter at your sudden disappearance in May. You must know that the ton tracks you, wherever you go…”
“Like a watchful herd of sheep keeps tabs on a hungry wolf, eh?”
“So you think yourself a predator?”
He shrugged slightly. “It is how I am regarded. Mothers practically drag their daughters into alleyways when I pass them on the street. Which is unnecessary…in most cases.”
There was a long moment of silence in the shadowed room, then Jemima said, “You still haven’t told me why you left London.”
“It’s not important. Why don’t you tell me something of your own life, Jemima.”
She gave a small laugh. “That would put you to sleep. And I’m not going to let you avoid my question. Consider it a guest’s prerogative.”
Bryce hesitated, and then said, “My father has been ill…it’s his lungs, you see. Ever since my brother was killed, the old man hasn’t taken proper care of himself. Laboring in the fields with his workers, riding out to inspect his herds in the worst weather. He and I don’t get on…we haven’t since I left Cambridge fourteen years ago. When I came back here for my brother’s memorial service—Kip’s body was never recovered after he drowned—it was the first time in nearly five years.
Jemima looked puzzled. “But you seem so at home in this house, Bryce. Not like a visitor.”
“I grew up here. And as the eldest son, I was expected to take over the care of the estate. More so since my brother was mad to join the navy. But I had no interest in farming when I was a sprig. No, I wanted to seek after the glories of the Anglican church.”