by Emma Wildes
Thanks to Alex Ramsey, she was all too familiar with disappointment in the sense of the honor among males she once thought noble and deserving of her trust and love.
Hauling her trunk along with smarting arms, she walked toward home.
* * * *
His shoulder was killing him. Alex leaned back and closed his eyes against the lurching of the carriage, massaging the half-healed wound with his fingers. He wished he could ride outside and enjoy the fall afternoon, but it jarred a little too much for comfort to be in the saddle for any significant distance. Marcus had kindly insisted on sending down the family carriage for his journey home.
Life was sometimes incredibly ironic, he couldn’t help but think. He’d wanted no more than to just go home and rest awhile. Actually, he hadn’t even requested that. He’d been ordered home. Somehow he’d ended up with a house of his own, quite a bit of land, and more responsibility than ever before in his life. The stopover in London had ended up being very fruitful.
And it felt good.
He’d always wondered what he would do after the war. Having the solution handed to him so neatly seemed like a dream. Marcus would be pleased—he was pleased himself. He might even resign his commission, perhaps not right away, for they needed him on the front as Wellington was poised to cross the French border, but eventually. Enough years of his life had been spent on Bonaparte. He was ready for laughter and music and the elegant sophistication of the ton. To think of beautiful women, soft beds and food that tasted like something other than sawdust was a relief from the harshness of war.
And he oddly enough had Robert Roweland, of all people, to thank for his improved fortunes.
* * * *
Jessica stared in dismay at the wide, tangled expanse of lawn. The grass was at least two feet high and the bushes so overgrown she hardly recognized the place. It was dusk, and she felt a shiver of apprehension as she gazed at the facade of what had been her home all her life.
Braidwood Manor rose from the neglected grounds like a specter from a moldy grave. The windows were utterly dark. Pitch black holes stared like blank eyes from sightless walls. The tall structure seemed a little ominous in the encroaching dark, the ivy gnarled and drying like a clinging disease to the venerable walls, slate tiles missing from the roof, the wide and once beautiful front entry dusty and shuttered.
Robert was probably in London; perhaps that’s why he’d forgotten to send for her. However, she pondered uneasily, it was only early evening. Surely there would be staff in residence and therefore lights. But not a glimmer of illumination shone against the thickening dusk.
Maybe it was a good thing, she thought as she lugged her trunk across the weedy gravel toward the front door, she had such a meager wardrobe at the moment. Otherwise she would have had to abandon her belongings. Considering that Robert had been very remiss in sending her allowance, she was lucky that Rebecca had shared her clothing so generously and that she and Jessica were about the same size.
Though Jessica loved her lighthearted brother, it was a little hard to understand and forgive his neglect, both of her and the estate. Their father had been dedicated and hard working and increased the fortune he inherited, not squandered it. Robert acted as if the money would last forever. She abandoned her trunk at the foot of the steps and ran up them lightly.
The massive front door was locked, not answering to her efforts to open it. This was the country, she thought, utterly shocked. They rarely locked their doors at Braidwood, not even when everyone was asleep.
Lifting the doorknocker, she let it fall. The sound echoed hollowly.
She waited. Nothing.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Jessica pounded on the wood, lightly at first and then frantically with both fists, calling out.
No lights, no movement, no answer. It seemed no one was home. A rising tide of panic clogged her throat.
Now what am I going to do?
The day had already been long and awful, and this final blow made her eyes sting with tears. As she sank down wearily on the front steps, she let the warm trickle turn into a flood, sobbing into her hands for a good five minutes before she sat up, wiped her damp face with the back of her hands, and swallowed hard as she stiffened her spine.
This was the time to weigh her options or she would spend the night sitting there on the steps like some abandoned orphan.
Which she essentially was. That thought brought a few more tears, which she blinked away.
She could walk over to Grayston Hall. There was no question of it, the duke and duchess would welcome her with open arms and she dearly loved their children. The only problem was that Grayston was a few miles away and she was already exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Also, the possibility existed that they, as well as Robert, were not in residence and she would have to walk back. In her tired and emotional state, she wasn’t sure she could make it both ways. Not to mention it was getting quite dark. It was one thing to ride over on horseback, but if Braidwood was so obviously deserted, she doubted there would be any horses in the stables and she would have to walk.
The other option was to break into the house and spend the night in her warm bed. Even if she was alone, at least she’d be home. Then in the morning she could go to Grayston and see if the Ramseys were there and could help get word to her irresponsible brother.
As a plan of action, it made the greater amount of sense.
Resolute, she got to her feet and went around to the back of the house, growing ever more horrified by the sight of the gardens, once her mother’s pride and joy, now solidly choked with weeds and sadly overgrown.
The servants’ entrance too, was locked.
So was every window she tried. Library, study, billiards room, formal parlor…
Tilting her head, she looked upward to where the window of her own bedroom faintly reflected the growing starlight. The latch didn’t catch well, she knew this, and she’d often climbed down to sneak out for a moonlit ride using the ivy that clung in limpet vines to the brick of the house.
Those days were past.
Long past. Sweet days, before her parents had both succumbed to the mysterious fever that had swept upon them so suddenly, when Robert had been careless and charming and his lack of character hadn’t mattered because he wasn’t entrusted with a fortune and responsibility for another human being.
He was the male, but it had occurred to her more than once that it would have been better if she had been left the fortune, and her brother was dependent. In British society it didn’t happen that way, but she was far more practical.
The breeze brushed by, rustling the leaves in an unearthly sound. The stars had brightened, scattered like diamonds over an ebony sky. Jessica shivered and glanced around. Familiar shapes took on eerie proportions in the darkness. Suddenly she no longer wanted to be there standing alone.
With steely resolve, she grasped the vines, hiked up her skirts and began to climb.
Nearly as old as the house itself, the vines were thick, some as big around as her wrist, but in places they still pulled away from the wall under her weight, making her scramble for a better hold. Using every foothold possible, she managed the ascent and finally grasped the edge of her window, pulling at the casement.
It lifted easily under her imploring fingers. Praising God for one stroke of good luck in the one hundred bad moments of this day, Jessica hauled herself over the sill and dropped on the floor.
Her thudding feet echoed loudly.
Silence followed. The drift of dust filled her nostrils. It was darker inside the house without the benefit of the stars, and her eyes took a moment to adjust. She gasped as the room came into focus.
It was empty.
Completely empty. A cavern of space without even a rug on the floor.
So much for a night in her warm bed. Gone was the carved bedstead, the polished armoire, the dainty dressing table her mother had given her. The unreality of the moment made her swallow hard and she t
urned slowly around in a circle, not able to believe her eyes. The curtains were even gone from her window. It was…impossible.
No, she was wrong. Knowing her brother as she did, it was very possible.
Part of this was her fault.
In her stomach the certainty curled that she had been a fool. She had accepted Rebecca’s initial invitation to spend her holidays with the Greenes out of the selfish wish to be with a family again, any family. To experience laughter, to dine at a crowded table noisy with conversation—even to hear the occasional raised voices in argument. She’d gone back time and again because it had been wonderful to forget her own loneliness and because of Nathaniel and his flattering attentions. It was pointless now to lie to herself and say that she hadn’t sensed Robert was in trouble of some kind. She had abandoned him, and he had not protested or requested her presence at home in more than a year. The trouble must be deep indeed.
But this? Surely he would tell me?
Jessica raced across the room and flung open the door to go out into the hallway. She stumbled through the darkness, opening door after door. All the rooms except the master bedroom were similarly plundered. Paintings were gone in the hallways, tables were missing, her father’s prized antique tapestry was no longer in the gallery.
The house was nothing but a ghost from the past. An empty shell of a life that had been but was now gone.
Where on earth was Robert? Surely he would sell the London townhouse before desecrating the furnishings of their parents’ country estate? The house had been in their family for so long the Roweland history at Braidwood went back centuries.
Her mind spinning, Jessica walked woodenly down the main stairs like a woman in a trance. She found very much the same situation downstairs. Robert had left his study intact but everything else was gone. She couldn’t even unlock the front door and bring in her trunk because the keys were apparently all missing.
She was locked in, she was alone, and she was hungry. Not even bothering to check the kitchen for any food because she was certain there would be none, she fumbled slowly up the stairs in the dark and went into the bedroom that once been her parents’ and was now her brother’s.
Robert was never one to ignore his own comfort. She surveyed the luxury of the room. The huge bed remained untouched, hung with velvet drapes and covered in satin sheets. The carpeting underfoot was soft and thick, and she recognized it as a valuable imported piece her father had purchased in the Orient. Several of the more precious paintings from downstairs hung on the walls and two elegant wing chairs were arranged before the fireplace. No, her brother might have pillaged the rest of the place, but he refused to live in less-than-perfect style for as long as possible.
Well, he wasn’t there. She was.
Slowly unbuttoning her gown, she then slipped it off and tossed it over the back of one of the chairs. She removed her petticoats and shoes and stockings, and discarded them also. Clad only in her chemise, her stomach aching from lack of food, she pulled back the coverlet and sheets and fell into the bed.
At least she could get a good night of sleep undisturbed and decide how to handle this in the morning.
* * * *
Marcus had exaggerated nothing.
Even in the darkness, Alex could see the elegant country house had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. The once trim lawn was thick with weeds run wild, the drive choked with overgrowth, the high arched windows staring blankly into the night. As the carriage slowed and came to a halt, he realized wryly that he would have a job ahead making Braidwood back into the beautiful estate he remembered.
A task he relished, he told himself. After years of deprivation and war, the undertaking seemed to beckon. He would rebuild and repair and return the mansion to its former grace.
The Rowelands had been their neighbors for his entire lifetime. He liked to think Robert’s parents would appreciate what he done so far and what he intended to do.
Opening the door of the carriage to step out, he accepted a small bag from the driver. “Tell my brother I’ll be over tomorrow later, after the staff I hired arrives from London. I’ll need a horse brought over, if you can see to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Paul, grizzled and elderly, nodded. “If you pardon me saying so, they’ll miss you tonight, Lord Alex. I believe they were expecting you at the Hall.”
“Explain to them I want this first night alone here. They know me, so they’ll understand.”
“Of course, sir.”
Alex turned toward the house. “Sir?”
Turning back around, Alex looked at the man sitting on the box of his family’s very elegant carriage. Paul cleared his throat and touched his cap. “It’s quite good to have you back. That’s all.”
“Thank you.” Alex grinned. “I have to say it’s good to be back.”
Paul lifted the reins and hesitated. “Tell me we’ll whip that bloody little Corsican, will we?”
“We’re sure as the devil trying.”
“Very good, sir.”
The carriage rattled away.
Alex moved again toward the house. He headed for the steps, tripping over something heavy and bulky in the darkness and breaking out in a sweat over the resulting twinge in his shoulder as he caught himself. He went up the steps carefully, ever mindful of the itching of his flesh underneath his bandages. The wound was well on its way to being healed, but he’d had a minor infection that had set him back, and his leg and hand had mended much quicker.
He needed, he thought as he produced the wad of keys from his coat, a whiskey and a bed. He’d been nodding off ever since they’d stopped at an inn for dinner. Years of war had honed him to discomfort, but then again, he was also bone-deep tired.
Finally finding the right key in the dark, he unlocked the front door.
Deep gloom. He stumbled again in the front hall, cursing out loud. He was very familiar with the house—he’d been a guest there countless times—but he’d never trod along the foyer in the pitch darkness.
Odd, to think of this place as his home.
In amazement, he gaped at the changes around him as shapes came to view in the dim, dim light. Or more literally, a lack of shapes. He groped in his pocket, producing a tinderbox. In the brief flare, he saw enough.
The place had been stripped.
He knew Robert had been in dire straits, but it was still appalling to think the once gracious house had been so raped of all the treasures collected by the Roweland family for centuries. Damn you, Rob, he thought with weary condemnation, not caring so much for the loss as the desecration. Robert had always been frivolous and a bit irresponsible. His father would have done better to leave everything to Jessica. At least she had some sense.
Only, it was an insidious thought, she didn’t need anything. She was engaged to be married, or so Marcus had written. To Nathaniel Greene, no less, whose family had both social status and fortune.
He shouldn’t be surprised. A lovely child, she’d no doubt turned into a stunning woman. He had always expected it would happen.
Surely there was at least a lamp left somewhere?
Groping along, he found nothing, solidly stubbing his toe on a doorframe and uttering another loud oath. Robert certainly hadn’t lied when he said he’d done everything possible to rectify his debts.
Alex sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have sent Paul away so quickly. A long walk to Grayston Hall with his aching shoulder didn’t hold much appeal.
Grasping the banister, Alex started up the sweeping grace of the main staircase. His booted feet sounded loud in the echoing emptiness of the great hall. And to think, he mused ruefully as he slowly climbed, he could have had all the whiskey in the world, a soft, comfortable bed, and his family around him if he’d just gone on to Grayston…
The movement caught his eye and instincts honed by years of combat made him turn at just the right second and throw up his right arm to deflect the assault. The blow was solid
and hurt, but he twisted away enough to refract most of it, and he used the advantage to grasp the object that had come slamming out of the darkness and jerk hard.
He heard a soft cry and a gasp.
A slim figure in white flew past him, like a specter out of the darkness. A flesh-and-blood person, he realized as he caught the elusive scent of lilacs. In a reflexive action, he grasped at the flailing figure before it tumbled down the steps, hearing the betraying rip of cloth that signaled he caught it. A body crashed into his as he tried to swing it back to the top of the stairs.
He lost his balance and they both fell down. Hard. Right across the top step.
Alex quickly realized one thing, landing on top of his would-be assassin was definitely his pleasure.
The body underneath his was most assuredly, deliciously female. In the inadequate light, flesh gleamed ivory and satin, and his assailant lay very still now that they were sprawled together in a heap on the second story landing just above the steps. He caught the arms of his attacker and pinned them down ruthlessly above her head to prevent another attack.
There were windows at either end of the gallery, giving some faint illumination to the scene.
She wasn’t breathing.
An oval face was framed by waves of dark, lustrous hair. Long, dark lashes touched ashen cheeks, and her soft lips were parted. Levering up on his good arm, Alex frowned in concern and confusion as he stared at the woman beneath him. One of his thighs pressed over her slim hips.
Where the hell had she come from?
A whistling, gasping sound suddenly escaped her lips, and her chest heaved, moving her breasts against his chest. Slowly, her lashes lifted. Eyes of shimmering gray, almost silver, started upward. And widened in either shock or horror.
“Alex.” It was a croak.
Oh my God, he thought dimly, Jessica?
It could be no one else. Even in near darkness, that remarkable shade of eye color was hers alone.
