The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  “What sort of entertainment?” Drake’s voice was deadly quiet.

  “What he called games of passion. I’m sure you can surmise what that means.”

  The matron put another pair of overflowing mugs on the table and then stood by, waiting. Drake frowned at her. “What do you want?” he asked tersely. “I’ll settle the bill when we’re done here.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that, sir,” she replied, smiling and arching her heavy brows.

  “Then what?”

  “Just wonderin’, sir, if ’e’ll be stayin’ the night. Are ’e in need of a room or some other comfort?” Encouraged when Drake didn’t reply, she continued in a smug, soft voice, “Will ’e be wantin’ to see the young ladies now, or would ’e like me to select one for ’e?”

  “Be off!” Drake roared. “Leave us alone or I’ll bring in the constable and have you shut down! Away with you!” When the matron scurried away, Drake turned back to Collins. “Go on,” he said soberly. “Finish.”

  The sensitive Mr. Collins forced himself to take up the story again. “He drugged her repeatedly to force her compliance. On that last night, he thought the physician—his friend and traveling companion—had given her too much. She wouldn’t awaken. He instructed the servant, Joseph, to get rid of her, and when Joseph found her alive, he got help for her. He looked at it as a miracle and told me it changed him completely. He took her to a convent just outside Rome and has dedicated himself to the church.”

  “That’s very touching. Where is my sister now?”

  “With the nuns at St. Augustine’s. She was ill and in such a state that she could not even remember her own name. The nuns have christened her Mignon.”

  “I’ll go to her immediately.”

  “I spoke at length with the Mother Superior. Your sister has been at the convent for seven years now, Mr. Stoneham. And she has not uttered one word in all that time. Mother Superior says they can’t be sure how much she remembers. All they know of her is what Joseph related to them, which was most cruel indeed. The poor girl is given to nightmares and daytime terrors. There’s a chance she’ll never recover.”

  “She will. I shall see to it. And the man who kept her prisoner?”

  “The name he used at the hotel, and in leasing the apartment in Rome, led nowhere. There is no such person.”

  “There is. And he’d better pray I never know his real identity.”

  So Drake had gone to Rome, to St. Augustine’s, to meet his sister. She was hauntingly beautiful, tall and slender with dark hair and eyes and a look of their mother about her. Mignon refused to speak and while she seemed glad to know she had a brother, she had no interest in leaving the convent. Drake gave the Mother Superior a sizeable donation and instructed her to waste no expense in obtaining anything his sister needed. He would, he informed the Mother, take Mignon to London to live with him when his residence was completed. He instructed Mr. Collins to return to London and take up his duties there, but to also continue his investigation into the identity of the nobleman who had so cruelly used Mignon.

  When Drake returned to Newcastle, he’d found the balance of his wardrobe waiting for him at the hotel. Congratulating himself on having the foresight to arrange that it be shipped directly from his place in Monte Carlo, he’d removed two shirts from one of the huge trunks and sent everything else on by coach to the Eagle’s Head Inn.

  When the infernal papers were signed at last, he had but to pack a few things in his saddlebags, and he was again on the road. Drake had been away from his new holdings too long, and he was so anxious to get back that he’d paused in his journey only long enough to water his horse and allow him a few minutes rest while he chewed on a piece of hard bread. It had been impossible during his stay in Newcastle, and his brief trip to Italy, to erase Cleome Parker from his mind; and that mental aberration, so uncommon as it was to him, annoyed him considerably. He had known and bedded countless women, but few had commanded his thoughts when he was not actually enjoying the sweet delights they provided. Not one of them had branded herself so ruthlessly in his memory, and he had yet to sample the caresses of this gentle, lovely creature who shuddered visibly when called upon to endure his presence.

  He hardly recognized her. In only two weeks, she had grown considerably thinner and much too pale. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which lacked the spark he’d seen in them the night she’d laughed with Garnett Easton before Drake stripped her of her home. On seeing him, Cleome paused on the stairs a moment; then she walked to him with a resolve he’d never witnessed in one so young. He had expected to find her still in bed recuperating from the blow of her grandfather’s death, and the Eagle’s Head shrouded in mourning; but the place hummed with activity under her direction, carrying on the business of any prosperous inn.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stoneham.” She greeted him pleasantly. “I expect you are hungry after your travels.”

  “A bear waking from his winter retreat could not be more so, mademoiselle.”

  He washed up in the kitchen and then Cleome ushered him into the private breakfast room, leaving him to enjoy the feast that had been set out for him. Later, when he put down his fork and pushed his chair away from the table, she returned. It was as if she had been watching from some hidden corner, he thought.

  “A bath has been prepared in your room, Mr. Stoneham,” she announced softly, her head bowed in the manner of a servant, her eyes appropriately downcast. She seemed completely devoid of the fire he had first seen in her.

  The temperature of the water was perfect; and not once was it allowed to become less so, for the lad from the stables had been set to stand by with buckets of hot water. Drake was required only to bask in contentment as his travel-stiffened muscles relaxed in the sybaritic comfort provided by the brass and porcelain tub. The experience, he thought, would have been considerably more pleasant if the vessel were larger; but he was not one to complain about shortcomings in luxuries he had neither ordered nor expected, even if his feet did hang over the end of the elegant bathtub.

  He was astonished at the changes in the master bedroom, which he had first seen when he and Young Sam had placed William Desmond’s body there. At that time, it had held only the most essential necessities, and Drake could hardly believe the transformation Cleome had wrought. He knew she was after something and that it had everything to do with securing her position at the inn. Drake was puzzled by her methods, though, for most members of her gentle sex would have employed tears, tantrums, or more simply, an exchange of favors. She had chosen instead to prove her value with work. Considering her father’s fortitude and temperament, Drake realized it should not have come as a surprise.

  Jimmy Parker’s own child. Drake shifted his long limbs and settled them again in the steaming water. When he’d had his first glimpse of Cleome galloping down the lane on the back of the colt, her hair flying about in all directions like some kind of virgin Medusa, he had most assuredly had designs on her, but the pattern was to be one of slow seduction and pure pleasure, without the responsibility that came with commitment. When she had revealed the name of the pathetic female kneeling on the stable floor, it had placed the matter in a different light.

  His first inclination was to defy the Providence that had led him to his comrade’s widow and take Cleome anyway. But he could not. It was a cruel fate that had brought him to William Desmond’s door and allowed him to deprive an old man of his life, and the wife and child of the only true friend Drake had ever known of their only provision. Drake owed Jimmy Parker far better than that. He refused to assume any guilt for winning the inn, for it had been a fair game. But Drake could not deny the obligation he now felt towards Cleome and her mother.

  The shell that struck Jimmy down would have caught Drake if the older man had not pushed him aside, heedless of his own safety. Jimmy’s friendship had been offered freely to a young runaway who was scarcely old enough to drink or smoke or whore or kill a man—or any of the other things he was doing. Jimmy had counseled h
im, laughed with him, cried with him, starved with him and protected him. And on one freezing night, he had given Drake his own cloak and woolen neck scarf. Drake had felt the burning pride of any youth bent on affirming his manhood, but he’d been too cold to argue.

  As if chilled by the recollection, Drake now motioned for Mickey to pour more hot water into his bath. If he was to do his duty by Cleome, he certainly could not turn her out of her home but neither could he pursue his first inclination. The sudden recollection of her small, graceful figure assaulted him. He’d never seen anything like the innocent alarm in her wide blue eyes . . . how they had reflected the candlelight as she’d shown him around his new home, and the only one she’d ever known. But, he told himself, the problem was easily resolved.

  With the marriage certificate Drake had tucked away inside the music box Jimmy had intended as a gift for his bride, Cleome’s birthright to a certain position in the community would be unquestioned. It would give her a name, make her fit company for the young men hereabout. It would make her acceptable chattel for some eager lad to enslave somewhere on a farm or above a village shop. She could get a husband and he could enjoy his winnings with a clear conscience.

  He scooped up the rough sponge and scrubbed himself, lathering his chest with suds. Then pulling himself up out of the tub, he motioned for Mickey to pour more hot water over him. He should be greatly relieved if some young fool would come along and marry the beautiful Cleome, for then he’d be excused from this troublesome duty. There were plenty of available women hereabouts, and damned few of them were immune to his charm. The last thing he wanted was to find himself besotted with an innocent country lass scarcely old enough to leave home.

  “If ’e please, sir,” Mickey said, handing him a towel. “Miss Cleome would like a word. That is, soon’s you’re finished with your bath, sir.”

  “Indeed?” Drake asked, his curiosity aroused. “Very well. Go and tell her I’ll receive her shortly. In say—quarter of an hour.”

  “Where shall I tell ’er to come, sir?”

  “Here.”

  “Here, sir?”

  “Here,” Drake repeated firmly. “I’ve had a day behind me, and I do not intend to stir from this room. Now, wipe the indignation off your face and hand me my dressing gown. Go and tell her, or I’ll not be able to make myself decent in fifteen minutes.”

  Mickey grabbed the robe from its hook on the wall, and trailing the sash in a puddle of soapy water, he threw it at Drake before he plodded through the door. Drake chuckled. He was a fine stable boy, but a valet he would never make.

  **

  Cleome doubted the reliability of her hearing when Mickey told her the master would receive her in his bedroom, in his dressing gown, or not a’tall, take it or leave it.

  “He said that?” she asked, a touch of crimson flooding her face.

  “Well, miss. It was words to them effect or some’at,” Mickey replied with righteous consternation, adding protectively, “Would ’e like me to come along, Miss Cleome, and watch out for ’e?”

  “Thank you, Mickey,” she answered kindly. “I appreciate your concern, but Old Sam needs you in the yard. Get on with you, now. I’ll be all right.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  He touched his forelock and went out the back door, leaving her to smile after him. Little good his boyish muscles would do against a man like Drake Stoneham. For weeks, she had been preparing for the inevitable confrontation with him, and the time had come. Her mother was stronger but had not spoken one word, except in delirium, since the night of the storm, and Mary and Cleome still had to coax her to take enough nourishment to sustain her tenuous hold on life. Cleome knew she had to be strong. If they were turned out onto the road, the invalid would not last one week.

  Cleome went to her room to freshen up, still not sure how to approach the stranger who had taken her home and her sense of security. She knew what she needed to say, but she was at a loss how to say it. Her first inclination was to wear her prettiest dress, arrange her hair in a more sophisticated style, tuck a heavily scented handkerchief into her bosom, and count on her youth and whatever charm she could manufacture from her limited experience to carry her through the ordeal. She decided against that approach, however; for the results it could initiate frightened her. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t forget the sensuality he had awakened in her when he’d leaned over and whispered in her ear. Recalling it now prompted a rush of heated longing within her, a longing she didn’t understand, and certainly did not welcome.

  For this interview, she chose a simple gray dress with a modest white collar and cuffs. It did nothing to enhance her figure or complexion but it was clean and had never been patched. She tried brushing her hair into the simple, severe lines she had seen worn by governesses accompanying their charges on the journeys that required them to stop at the Eagle’s Head, but it was no use. Her auburn curls sprang away from her fingers in protest; so to save time, she gave up and pulled them back with a black ribbon. She decided to forego the cologne, but she quickly leaned over the washbowl and splashed her face with refreshing rainwater that she collected and saved for that purpose. Giving herself a final, approving glance in the glass, she drew her shawl carefully about her and made her way down the hall to his room.

  She tapped lightly on the door, and when no response came, she thought he hadn’t heard. As she raised her small fist to knock again, the door swung open, and the tall, powerful form of Drake Stoneham loomed above her.

  “So,” he said, a smile playing about his lips. “You have come to beat down the walls of Jericho, have you?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Stoneham,” she replied, her voice steadier than her courage. “I have no wish to disturb you—”

  “Wish it or not,” he interrupted, opening the door wider and stepping aside to allow her entry, “you have removed my person from a delightfully hot bath with your request for an audience. Well, then. Please, come in.”

  She was glad to find him clad in well-tailored, doeskin breeches and a white linen shirt instead of his dressing gown, as Mickey had reported. When she stepped into the room, he closed the door behind her and went to stand before the fireplace. He held out his hands to the flames and as she surveyed his back, a feeling of confusion and misery descended upon her. He turned to face her, inquiry in his eyes.

  “There is yet a chill in the air,” he said at last when she did not speak. “I fear summer will be late in coming.”

  She had not been alone with him since the night her grandfather lost the tavern house and ended his life, and the little speech she had rehearsed now seemed frozen to the roof of her mouth. If he had any concern regarding how she and her mother were to be provided for, he did not let on; he was merely curious about her request for an audience and making conversation to put her at ease. Perhaps she was mistaken in thinking he would allow her to remain at the Eagle’s Head. A sudden image of her grandfather swinging from the rafters in the old barn flashed through her mind but she dismissed it. She would grieve for him later, after she had secured a position for herself in what was now Drake Stoneham’s busy inn. If she had only herself to worry about, she would leave his house and his aggravating, confident presence.

  Instead, she ventured, “I trust your room is comfortable and to your liking.”

  “It will do nicely,” he said, turning his back to her again and staring into the fire.

  “Further,” she went on when it was obvious he had no praise to offer for her efforts, “I hope that the changes I have made in your absence meet with your approval.”

  “Especially,” he said, slowly turning to look her in the eye, “since I left strict orders that the inn was to be shut and nothing done here until my return.”

  The heat of indignation swept over her and surfaced briefly in her cheeks. He was insufferable, but she knew she must keep her head for her mother’s sake. She could not allow him to make her so angry that it would jeopardize any chance they had to stay where they we
re, at least until her mother was well enough to travel.

  “Mr. Stoneham, I beg your pardon if I was presumptuous. But I couldn’t see how an empty inn would be of any benefit to you.”

  “Part of my concern, Miss Parker, was for you in your hour of grief,” he responded brusquely. “I’ve no intention of suffering your ruined health upon my conscience. There’s quite enough resting there as it is, I assure you.”

  Indeed, she wanted to scream at him. But carefully keeping her voice modulated, she replied, “Running the inn has been my task for a few years. And your conscience aside, sir, hard work seemed the best medicine for my grief. I am not one to remain idle, especially when my heart is heavy.” She believed she had won a point with that, for he considered her thoughtfully for a moment.

  “I see,” he answered. “Well, you look exhausted, Miss Parker. I fear you have greatly overdone it.”

  “Not at all, sir. It was for myself I chose to keep busy. Since the object of my handiwork is your property, it is natural to hope it would meet with your approval.”

  “And this is the purpose of our meeting today?”

  “No, sir.” She paused, and an almost imperceptible change came over his hard features. He pulled the oak rocking chair closer to the fire.

  “Be seated, then, if you please. Tell me what you came to say.”

  He sprawled nearby in the regal-looking easy chair, which bore the eagle’s head insignia on each of its massive arms. Pleading her case would be more difficult than Cleome first thought, with him sitting so close to her, the firelight reflecting off his hair. He had shaved again and once more his dark appeal assaulted her senses. Heavy brows accented his wide forehead and arched above large hazel eyes. A little smile, as if he were humoring a small child, played at his lips as he gazed at her.

  “Pray,” he continued more gently. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Miss Parker. I promise I’ll not bite you or harm you in any way.”