Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  At the end, Bryn couldn’t help himself. The Caradoc temper was legendary, although he’d learned to control it the same way he mastered the vices that destroyed his father. But it coiled inside him, always, and broke loose with one vicious swipe of his cane across Landry’s jaw.

  Jumping from the carriage, he looked back at the lump curled on the bench, moaning in pain. “Bon voyage.” he said, tossing him a pouch filled with sovereigns. “And take heed, Landry. The next time I’ll not be so indulgent.”

  10

  It was well past midnight when the hack delivered Bryn to Ernestine’s house, where he found Lacey and Isabella pacing the salon.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Lacey demanded.

  “Is he dead?” Isabella inquired at the same time, sounding hopeful.

  “In a minute, both of you. I need a drink.” Bryn’s gaze swept the room, looking for Clare. She wasn’t there, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask about her. While Isabella poured him some cognac, he sank onto a sofa and closed his eyes. “How is Elizabeth?”

  Lacey pulled up a chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the back. “Asleep, we hope. Clare is with her.”

  “Wonderful. Just what I wanted to hear.” Gratefully, Bryn swallowed a long draught, feeling the warmth course down his throat. For the first time in years he wanted to get stinking drunk. “Landry is on his way to Dover, and from there to a less-than-grand tour from which he will not return for several months. I hit him once, hard. He’s damned lucky to be alive.”

  “I’d have clawed his eyes out,” Isabella said flatly.

  “I should have threatened to hand him over to you. Might have shut him up. When he gave me the story about Elizabeth tripping on the carpet I was sure I’d kill him. Took me all night to find the cockroach. He was playing dice at White’s like nothing ever happened.”

  “That sort thinks nothing of beating a woman,” Lacey said with a scowl. “And the law backs him up, at least in practice. Whoever said England was a civilized country?”

  “Right.” Bryn drained the snifter and gave it to Izzy for a refill. One more, and he’d ask about Clare. The odd thing was, in all this mess, it was Clare he worried about. His selfishness, and the determination not to let anything interfere with his plans for her, was not something he liked about himself. But it made no difference. One way or another, Clare was first. Robert and Isabella could deal with Elizabeth, while he concentrated on what mattered most to him.

  Before Landry came back three months from now, he would decide whether or not to marry the Landry girl. By then, Clare would either be established as his mistress or gone. Even the thought of the latter made him wince. He studied the amber brandy, warming it between the palms of his hands.

  Isabella perched herself on the arm of his chair, the lavender satin of her skirt spilling across his thigh. “Beth will come home with me, I expect. Unless you have other plans for her?”

  “Not at the moment. She needs a chance to recover from all this. God, what she must have been through without anybody knowing. Show her a good time, Izzy. Take her to all the best places and introduce her to every decent man with enough money to buy her father off.” Bryn’s shoulders hunched. “Maybe we can have everything sewed up before he comes back. At the very least, you can give her a season to remember.”

  “Meaning,” Isabella said slowly, “you are ruling yourself out? Who could I find for her that would do better than you?”

  “Someone nearer her age, for one,” he said wearily. “I can’t cope with this right now, Dizzy. If I have to marry her myself, I will. Maybe, in a few months, I’ll want to. One way or another, I’ll make sure she doesn’t wind up under Landry’s fist again. But if she ends up marrying me, I’d rather she did so freely and not because she had no other choice.” His gaze lifted. “Should she fall in love with a man who can’t provide a settlement, I’ll provide it. Don’t tell her that, but keep your eyes open. The last thing I need is a wife eating her heart out for someone else.”

  Lacey roused himself from a brown study. “You aren’t too old for her.”

  Glancing up in surprise, Bryn wondered what brought that on. “I had the distinct feeling, the one time we met, that Elizabeth regarded me as something of a kindly uncle. We are almost two decades apart, Lace.”

  “Thirty-five ain’t old,” the viscount protested from the position of a man only one year younger. “And you won’t find a virgin bride much beyond seventeen or eighteen unless she’s an antidote.”

  “I know you already have me leg-shackled to Beth Landry,” Bryn said in a voice raspy with fatigue. “Just don’t plant the idea in her head, because I’ve no intention of considering a wife, any wife, until things are settled with Clare. Do you have the slightest idea how awkward this situation is for me?”

  Isabella grinned. “I do. And you deserve it. Everybody dances to your fiddle, and you are more spoiled than last week’s mutton. It’s past time you were set on your ear, Bryndle. But you needn’t worry about Clare, because tonight she has taken charge of everything. Lace and I were driving Beth mad with questions because we were so furious about what happened to her. But Clare took her up to bed, fed her soup and a bit of wine, and finally threw the both of us out of the room. In any case, you can leave Beth in my hands. Tomorrow, if she’s up to it, we’ll move her to my house.”

  He smiled. “Try not to be too outrageous for a while, Dizzy. With Landry for a father, Elizabeth can’t afford any more scandal.”

  “Behold a pattern card of virtue,” she said with a laugh. “That will set the ton on its ear.”

  Lacey, ominously quiet for several minutes, roused himself. “I’ll sleep here tonight, in case I’m needed.”

  Swiping his fingers through his hair, Bryn leaned back against the chair. “I’d rather you go home, Robert. Landry is halfway to Dover by now, and I want to see Clare alone.”

  Brother and sister shot each other a knowing glance, mutually agreeing to do as he said. After thirty years of friendship, they recognized when Bryn’s mood had gone dangerous.

  WITH ISABELLA AND Lacey out of his hair, Bryn finished his drink and made his way upstairs.

  One of the doors along the hall was ajar. He moved into the room and saw Clare seated on a hard-backed chair, a spill of white over her lap. She rose at his entrance, her embroidery dangling from one hand.

  A single candle illuminated the bed where Elizabeth Landry was sleeping. Easing to her side, he watched the flickering light play across her bruised, swollen cheek. Dark splotches the shape of fingers stood out against the pale skin of her throat. She looked fragile as gauze. When she turned slightly, moaning in her sleep, his head went back in a gesture of raw fury. Had he seen her first, like this, Landry would be dead.

  As he reached to brush Elizabeth’s tangled hair from her eyes, a hand settled on his shoulder.

  “Let her sleep,” Clare whispered. She led him into the hall, closing the door soundlessly. “We finally had to give her a bit of laudanum because she was so restless. But she ought not be left alone, in case she wakes up or has bad dreams.”

  Bryn leaned his shoulders against the wall. “Can you find someone else to stay with her for a while? I want to talk to you.”

  “Amy is in the kitchen.” She began to fold the square of linen. “I’ll fetch her.”

  Bryn recognized a man’s handkerchief and snatched it from her hand, looking for an embroidered initial. “May I hope you are sewing this for me?” Her gaze lowered, and he knew she was not. Suddenly his temper, barely leashed for hours, focused on that swatch of linen. He wanted to rip it to shreds.

  “Watch for the needle,” she said as he balled the cloth in his fist.

  Her warning came too late. With an oath, he sucked at the pad of his thumb. “This has been,” he muttered, “a very bad day.”

  “Indeed, my lord. I’ll send Amy to sit with Elizabeth and join you downstairs.” With a slight curtsy, she headed for the back stairs.

  Feeling dis
missed, Bryn removed the needle and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. Damned if she’d hem linens for another man. This one, and all the others, would be his.

  A FEW MINUTES later, Clare came into the salon carrying a tray with two mugs of strong hot tea. Bryn accepted one and added what was left of the glass of brandy he’d been nursing. “I didn’t mean to jump on you about the handkerchief,” he said, gesturing to the spot next to him on the settee. “Please, sit here with me.”

  Carefully placing her tea on the low black-lacquered table where his legs were crossed at the ankles, she settled next to him at an angle. He saw she was again wearing the gloves she’d taken off for sewing. Lifting one of her hands, he stroked the palm with his thumb. Even through the soft leather, the scars were unmistakable.

  “Is that what happened to you, Clare? Were you beaten for no reason, like Elizabeth?”

  She shook her head. “You have asked me this before. I was punished for disobedience and impertinence, and for a temper it took me years to control. I told you the truth.”

  “All of it?” He stared moodily at their clenched hands, her glove starkly white against the sprinkling of dark hair on his wrist. “Elizabeth lied to protect her father. I cannot help but wonder—”

  “Don’t.” Pulling her hand free, she reached for her mug of tea. “What purpose can there be in speaking ill of the dead? Events that took place years ago cannot concern you, my lord.”

  Everything about her concerned him. Someday, he wanted Clare to begin with the first thing she could remember from childhood and describe every detail of her life. He could sit for hours listening to her soft voice, edged with sharp intelligence and sparked by glints of wry humor. At this moment, he could imagine nothing he wanted more, not even making love to her. Only her voice, calm and soothing, talking of normal things like her favorite pet or what kind of music she liked.

  He leaned back, resting his neck on the sofa. “Call me Bryn. When you start my lording me, I suspect you are annoyed.” He smiled wearily at the ceiling. “Are you?”

  She sipped at her tea, letting his question hang in the air.

  He shot her a sideways glance. “Are you?” he repeated. “I’ve already apologized for the outburst upstairs. Did I leave anything out?”

  “We are both on edge,” she said after a moment. “Will you tell me what you have been about? Robert said you intended to speak with Elizabeth’s father.”

  “So I did.” He swallowed his reaction at hearing her call Lacey by his first name. “The baron has decided to enjoy an extended holiday on the continent. We won’t see him again before the end of July.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “Only once, if you don’t count a hard jab at his stomach with my cane. I expect he’d have fared worse in a closed carriage with you.”

  “Pieces of him,” she said in a chilling voice, “would be scattered from here to Greenwich. I told you I’m cursed with a temper.”

  “It cannot be worse than my own. When everything around me is frantic, I remain cool, which served me well in the army. But sometimes, out of nowhere, something hits me wrong and I explode. Usually with sarcasm,” he hurried to explain, “not a fist. But for a man determined to avoid making scenes, I am generally on the brink of trouble.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  He massaged his temples. “You have seen the worst of me, that is certain. And shown me little of yourself.” When her brow lifted, he groaned. “Ah, Clare, will you never let me forget that pernicious day?”

  Have you?” she inquired archly.

  “I … no,” he said, after a moment. “I could never forget the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But will my offense always lie between us? You could forgive me, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Witch,” he said without rancor. “I admire your discipline and poise, my dear, but sometimes you are positively sheeted with ice.”

  “Will you feel better if we have ourselves a good row? I’ve had the feeling you want to stomp hard on something—figuratively speaking, of course—ever since you arrived. You can have at me, if you wish.”

  He grinned. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m too tired to put up a good fight. Women always seize the advantage and pick a quarrel when a man’s down and senseless.”

  Even as he heard the words come out of his mouth, Bryn regretted the lame attempt at a joke. With Elizabeth lying upstairs, almost senseless from a beating, it was the worst possible thing to say.

  To his astonishment, Clare reclaimed his hand and held it lightly. That she freely touched him at all sent a lump to his throat.

  “Elizabeth will be fine in a few days,” she assured him, “although her arms and stomach are badly bruised. I doubt her father meant to strike her face. The doctor thinks he hit her there only once, but very hard. It would not be in his interest to disfigure her.”

  “If I’d called him out last night, none of this would have happened. So much for the virtue of self-restraint.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You could not have imagined what he would do to Elizabeth. And she is safe now, thanks to you. Robert said you would take care of everything, and so you have, without violence.” She smiled slightly. “Not much, anyway. If it matters, I think you have been splendid through all of this.”

  His head swung to her in surprise. “It matters very much. But I have another thing to confess, Clare. Anyone who knows me will tell you I am the most selfish man alive, and I would never dispute it. Since Lacey woke me with the news, through the hours chasing after Landry and shipping him off, all I could think about was how this would affect you and me.”

  He lifted a hand when she began to speak. “Let me finish. In my mind, it was a damnable nuisance that Landry beat his daughter. It got in the way of what I wanted. I worried more about how you’d react to the situation than I did about Elizabeth, and I wanted to kill Landry to get him out of my way, not hers.

  “Do you still think I’m splendid, lady? I assure you I am not. If any man but Lace had come to me with the story, I’d have dispatched him to take care of the business and washed my hands of it. The thing is,” he added murkily, “Lacey can’t shoot.”

  “And he hadn’t the wisdom, or the funds, to send Landry away.” Clare moved closer, gazing solemnly into his eyes. “You need only tell me what you want, Bryn. Nothing has changed between us because of this, unless you wish to marry Elizabeth now and send me away.”

  He stared back, horrified.

  “I cannot return the money, though. It’s spent, and I’ve no way to repay it. Not for a long time, anyway, and probably never. Your gallantry, it seems, was uncommonly expensive.”

  “Bloody hell, Clare, where did you get the idea I’d send you away? That’s the last thing in the world I want. The chit will spend the next few months with Isabella and, if I know Izzy, the two of them will make an appearance at every important function in London. So far as I’m concerned, the matter of Elizabeth Landry is done with in the foreseeable future.”

  He drained the last of his now-cold brandy-laced tea, aware that several fingers of liquor on an empty stomach had left him mildly foxed. He ought to get up while his legs would still move and make his way home.

  Except that he’d no way to get there. By now his carriage was well on the way to Dover, and no hackneys stood for hire in a quiet residential neighborhood like this. He should have told Izzy to send her coach back for him. “It occurs to me that I am stranded here for the night,” he muttered sourly. “Short of walking, I’ve no way to get home.”

  Rising, Clare gave him a smile. “That is not a problem. I’ll sit with Elizabeth while Amy prepares a room for you. It will take a few minutes, because none of the beds have linens on them.”

  With effort, Bryn lifted his cramped legs from the table and came to his feet. “We don’t need another bed, Clare. I’ll sleep with you.”

  She went pale.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice bitter. “I’m too ti
red, and possibly too drunk, to molest you.” Swinging around, he stared blankly at the wall. “I only wanted to … hold you.”

  He heard the soft swish of her skirts, the brush of her slippers on the thick carpet, and the door clicking open. “Bryn?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Are you coming?”

  Blinking against a sudden moisture in his eyes, he followed her to a tiny room next to the servants’ stairs. It was furnished with a plain wooden table and chair, a narrow wardrobe, and a bed he’d never have agreed to sleep on, except that it was small enough to ensure that Clare would be nestled snugly in his arms. A lamp stood on the nightstand, and he saw a voluminous white flannel nightgown laid out across the spread.

  Five rooms this size would have fitted into the one where Elizabeth now slept, and he nearly protested before realizing Clare had chosen it herself. She felt uneasy in this house and had done her best not to impose on Ernestine’s unwitting hospitality. Without a word, he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots.

  Clare washed her face in the basin on the table, uncomfortably aware of a man unclothing himself a few feet away. How was she to remove her dress without a maid? A long row of satin-covered buttons ran down her back, from the high neckline to below her waist. She began to unhook them, the process growing more clumsy button by button.

  Glancing up, she saw Bryn, shirt open to his waist, regarding her with a quirky smile. He lifted one hand, languidly, and his forefinger beckoned.

  Pretending not to see it, Clare abandoned her struggle with the dress and removed her slippers. It would all be a great deal easier if she could grab her nightgown and finish up in the hall. Turning her back to him, she bent to unroll her stockings, careful not to lift her skirt too high.