by Sandra Heath
But he drew back. “No, Amanda, it must be said. You see, there is something you don’t know.”
“Oh?” She paid attention unwillingly.
“Sir Julian is set against me because of his quarrel with my late father. And also because”—Randal allowed his voice to falter—“because he had an affair with my mother.”
Amanda stared.
“I have always made clear my support for my wronged father,” Randal added, his voice choking with emotion.
“I…I heard there had been an affair of some sort, but I didn’t know who was involved. I certainly didn’t hear your mother’s name mentioned!”
“As if a liaison with my mother were not bad enough, Sir Julian disliked my father to the point of threatening to prove to the world that I am not the rightful Earl of Sanderby.” Randal turned away, as if so overcome with the injustice of the situation that he could not bear to meet her startled eyes.
Amanda’s mouth opened and closed; then a new wariness began to creep in. What was this? Was she about to be denied her title after all?
“I am the rightful earl, I hasten to add,” Randal went on quickly, sensing her reaction from her silence, “but there was a time when my mother believed my father already had a wife when he married her. She wrote of this to Sir Julian, telling him that my father’s first wife had a son who was the real earl. Sir Julian saw fit to keep the letter. Now, in order to prevent me from marrying you, he is threatening to make it public. An irksome court case is bound to result, even though I can prove my case.” He turned then, his usually cool features a study of tortured emotion.
Amanda was shaken. A court case? What of her dazzling future? “Tell me you jest…” she began.
“I fear I am in earnest. Litigation is certain.” He watched her. “Of course, if it were not for the letter…” he murmured.
“Are you quite sure it exists?” she asked, although she knew about the secret letter.
“Oh, yes. I have Sir Julian’s word on it. Well, not his word, exactly, more a slip of his tongue. It’s somewhere here at Chelworth, and if we were to find and destroy it—”
“We?” The single word was sharp and guarded.
“Well, it’s in your interest as much as mine to thwart him.”
She drew away. “If there is any doubt at all about your right to your title, I’m afraid….” She let her voice trail away.
“That one letter may be an embarrassment to me, Amanda, but I rather fancy that all those you wrote to me from Constantinople could be just as embarrassing to you. If I were to make them public, you may be certain no other titled husband would come your way. So I fear you are saddled with me.”
She gazed at him. “That is blackmail, sir.”
He put his fingertips lovingly to her chin. “No, my darling. I simply love you too much already to ever part with you. Besides, all we have to do is destroy my mother’s letter to Sir Julian, and all will be well again. You will be my countess and will enjoy all the status, privilege, and respect that accompanies such a fine title.”
She knew that she had no choice but to go along with him, for the last thing she wanted was for her foolish letters to go on public view. She turned away from him. “As it happens, I think I already know where my uncle keeps the letter you require.”
His interest leaped. “You do? Where?”
She told him about the secret compartment in the statue of Isis, and Sir Julian’s reaction when the letter had been taken out. “I did not have a chance to read it, but I did see the address of the sender. It was 16B Grosvenor Square.”
“My town house in London. It belonged to my father before me.” Randal’s fists clenched furiously. “I searched that damned library from floor to ceiling, but found nothing. I didn’t think of the statue!”
“It’s a very clever hiding place. If Mrs. Entwhistle hadn’t come across such a thing before, I wouldn’t know now.”
“Do you think you can open the compartment again?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m not going to do it! I’m not going to risk being caught in anything. If you want to destroy the letter, you must do it yourself. It’s something to do with the beetle thing in the statue’s headdress.”
“The scarab?”
Amanda nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what they’re called. It has to be pushed down somehow; then a flap opens. The letter is in a cavity behind it.” She eyed him suddenly. “You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you? I mean, your mother was wrong about bigamy having been committed?”
“She was a very emotional woman and misunderstood something that was perfectly commonplace. My father had a mistress before his marriage, but he cast her aside as soon as he took his bride. My mother got it into her head that he was actually married to this other woman, who had a son by him. My illegitimate half-brother.”
“And is this, er, commonplace situation applicable in your case as well?” she inquired.
Randal was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have a mistress?”
“No, I do not have a mistress,” he said.
Amanda turned away again, shivering as the sea breeze gusted along the wall, carrying the noise of surf from the bay. “Why have you told me all this?”
“I want no secrets between us.”
She was unsure. Her mind kept harping back to the so-called mistress his father was supposed to have kept. “Your father’s mistress, who was she?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She looked at him. “Because it matters to me.”
“Very well. Her name was Marguerite Kenny.”
Amanda was thunderstruck. “The actress?”
“Yes. What is it? Why are you—?”
The scales were falling from her eyes, and as the truth began to gleam before her, so the balance was tipped. No longer was she taken in by his every clever word; instead she saw right through him. “Did you know there is an injured naval lieutenant here at Chelworth?” she asked.
“Yes, but what has he to do with it?”
Amanda’s eyebrow twitched. “You tell me, sir. You tell me. His name is Martin Ballard, and in a locket around his neck he wears a likeness of Marguerite Kenny. The locket is inscribed ‘To my beloved son, Martin, on his first birthday, 1769.’ That makes him just over a year older than you, does it not? So, is he your illegitimate half-brother by your father’s mistress? Or—much more likely, I fancy—is he the only too legitimate son of your father’s first wife, and therefore the rightful earl?” She paused. “Well, my lord? Have you nothing to say?”
Randal was so shaken that he had to lean a hand on the wall. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to keep a firm hold on his wildly scattered thoughts. His damned half-brother was here! He drew a long, shuddering breath, only too aware that he had to try to keep a hold upon Amanda. After a moment he looked up at her. “Marguerite Kenny was my father’s mistress, not his wife.”
“I don’t believe you. Your mother’s fears were well-grounded, and that is why you are so keen to enlist my aid in this. You are afraid you will be disinherited, so you need a rich wife to support you. Is that not so?”
He began to see how he had underestimated her. “No, it isn’t. Amanda, my mother was the lawful Countess of Sanderby.”
Amanda was never more sure of herself, for even in the darkness the lies were large in his eyes. “You would not be all that concerned about the letter if it contained untruths. Oh, fate has played a very shabby trick, has it not? Depositing your long-lost sibling here, in the very heart of matters.”
Shabby trick? It was downright diabolical! “What do you intend to do?” he asked flatly, for there was nothing to be gained by tiptoeing around things. She had him in her palm, and there was nothing he could do about it. If the letter was made public, he was ruined, and if she did not marry him, he was finished completely.
Amanda said nothing for a moment. Her dismay to realize she was not after all contracted to marry the true
Earl of Sanderby was tempered by her exultation at possessing the ultimate means of punishing Martin Ballard. She had the power to make him Earl of Sanderby, or leave him in obscurity. Well, she knew she stood no chance of becoming Lady Sanderby if he were the earl, so it pleased her to do the latter. She smiled at Randal. “Do? Why we are bound together, Randal.”
“So, our marriage is to proceed?”
“Neither of us has any choice. But I will not help you find and destroy the letter. That you do alone.”
A little later, as she hurried back to the house through the dark, windswept gardens, she did not see the bronze figurine lying on the path. She trod on it once again, but managed not to scream as she tumbled on the path, ruining a second gown in the process. Her eyes grew large as she saw what had tripped her. No, it couldn’t be! But it was. Strange things were happening to her after all, and she didn’t like it one little bit! A primitive alarm swept over her, and she hurled the figurine away, just as she had at Tel el-Osorkon. There was no hollow clatter this tune, just the rustle of one of the topiary sphinxes as the bronze cat fell into its leafy depths.
Then Amanda glimpsed two feline shadows slipping stealthily across the trembling grass between the sphinxes, and her alarm increased. Scrambling to her feet, she hobbled to the house as quickly as she could.
Chapter 25
Liza had walked from Bothenbury to Weymouth, and although it was only a few miles, her feet were sore, it not being her custom to ever wear sensible shoes. No one at Mother Clancy’s wore sensible anything! She was cold, windswept, and tired, and not a little uneasy that Randal might find out what she’d done, guess her destination, and pursue her.
She made her way through the dark streets to a busy coaching inn by the harbor, where inquiries at the ticket office soon elicited the information she needed. The Wareham stagecoach left at daybreak, and it would take her right past the lane that led down to the beach at Chelworth. In the meantime she’d have a fine dinner and then take the best room in the place—all at Lord High-and-Mighty’s expense, of course. She purchased the ticket, then went into the inn, where she gave a false name, and paid handsomely for everyone’s silence regarding the presence of a guest fitting her description. If Randal did happen to come, he would be met with blank expressions and shrugged shoulders.
* * * *
Dinner was over at Chelworth and everyone adjourned to the library. But as they crossed the atrium, Sir Julian detained Tansy, permitting Hermione to go on ahead.
“Tansy, my dear, I feel a little guilty about my contretemps with Amanda earlier. I fear I may have offended you by speaking so harshly to her. If so, I crave your forgiveness. It is just that I fear she would strain the patience of a saint.”
“I was not offended, Uncle, nor is there is anything to forgive. Amanda is not an easy person to get along with.”
“How diplomatic you are, for that is not how I would describe her. If she were mine, she would long since have been over my knee for a sound spanking. Franklyn was ever too soft.”
He wasn’t with me, Tansy thought, glancing away. Amanda’s father may have been lenient to a fault with his own child, but his penniless niece was never allowed any latitude.
Sir Julian watched her face. “You’ve had a difficult time of it, haven’t you, my dear?”
“It would ill become me to complain, Uncle, for there are thousands who are far worse off.”
He smiled a little. “And no doubt you are fearful of what the future may hold for you?”
She lowered her eyes quickly. “I do not deny it.”
“Then be at ease, for Chelworth is your home now, and will remain so for as long as you wish.”
Tansy looked up with swift gratitude. “Do you really mean it, Uncle?”
“Certainly I do. How could I not welcome with open arms a young woman who so adores cats that she brought one with her all the way from Egypt? Ozzy would never forgive me if I ejected you.” Sir Julian chuckled. “Now then, I think we should join Mrs. Entwhistle?”
“Yes, of course.” Tansy smiled. “Hermione is a very interesting lady, Uncle. When I first knew her I thought she only ever thought about crochet, but I could not have been more wrong.”
“Crochet? By gad, what a waste of a good woman!” he declared stoutly; then he cleared his throat. “Er, I notice that you address her by her first name….”
“I like her, Uncle. I like her very much.”
He was quick to reassure. “Oh, do not think I was about to criticize, my dear. On the contrary, I was about to say how pleased I am.”
“Pleased?”
“Yes, for I too approve of her, and if you and she are close, well, that makes it easier for me to know her, does it not?”
Tansy stared at him. “Uncle Julian, am I to understand…?”
“That I like the lady? Yes, my dear, I rather think I do. It is a long time since I found someone with whom I can feel so utterly and completely relaxed. She is not only a delightful and charming person, but she actually understands what I am talking about. When I mention Egypt, that is.”
Tansy smiled. “She shares your interests, Uncle.”
“Yes.” He returned the smile. It was indeed a long time since he had so enjoyed female company—not since Felice, in fact.
Tansy now had tactful second thoughts about accompanying him to the library, so she excused herself, feeling quite sure he and Hermione would both rather be alone together. Oh, how she hoped they would become a couple, for there could not be a more perfect wife than Hermione Entwhistle for a bachelor antiquarian who lived and breathed Ancient Egypt!
But as Tansy ascended the staircase, her cream velvet gown very pale and ghostly in the glow of the few candles still alight, she knew she had another ulterior motive for not joining them in the library—if she didn’t join them, she might be able to see Martin instead. If he was awake. She knew a chaste young lady should not wish to be alone with a gentleman in his bedroom, and that it was one thing to be Martin’s devoted nurse when he’d been so ill, but quite another to go there now that he was recovering. She also knew that with so much unsaid between them, her motives erred on the side of impropriety. As perhaps they had done from the first time she saw him. Would Sir Julian still think so highly of her if he knew what was going on in her mind? He clearly considered her a model niece, but he was comparing her with Amanda. Tansy Richardson was not the sweet, demure little thing he believed, especially where First Lieutenant Martin Ballard of His Majesty’s frigate Lucina was concerned!
Reaching the top of the stairs, she paused, glancing toward Amanda’s room. Should she go to see if her cousin was all right? She didn’t want to; indeed, she had been more than pleased that the future countess had remained in her room since flouncing off so ridiculously before dinner. No, perhaps this was one sleeping dog better left lying, Tansy thought cravenly, for the last thing she felt like now was another dose of Amanda’s cutting sarcasm or airs and graces.
She looked instead toward Martin’s door, and to her surprise it was slightly ajar, revealing the dancing firelight within. To her further surprise, she saw her bronze cat figurine lying on the threshold. How did it come to be there? Curious, she went to pick it up. There was a little mud on it. Now that was quite impossible, for she had polished it with a soft duster.
Martin’s voice spoke from within the room. “Tansy?”
She went in and saw that he wasn’t in the bed, but seated on the floor in front of the fire, with Ozzy and Cleo beside him. He was leaning back against a heavy armchair that looked like a pharaoh’s throne, and was still in his uniform, the gold braiding of which gleamed in the firelight. The bandage lay discarded on a table, and she saw the graze left by the French shot, still red and angry against the drawn pallor of his face. He smiled at her. “I thought you would never come.”
“You…. You have been waiting for me?”
“Of course.” He held out his hand.
Still holding the figurine, she went to him, but then he
sitated about taking his hand, for to do so would change the atmosphere between them forever. There would be no going back. But then he stretched forward and caught her fingers, drawing her down beside him. She sank down so naturally into his arms that she might have been fashioned to fit into them. And it then seemed so natural to kiss him that she no longer hesitated about anything. Their lips came warmly together—no, not just warmly, but passionately.
She felt his fingers curling into her hair, delighted in the sweetness of his kiss and the pressure of his body against hers. There was no laudanum to affect him now, no fever to disguise what was real and what was not, just the candor of open desire. Nor was there any pretence, no nod in the direction of what was right or wrong, just the abandonment of all caution to the winds. The figurine slipped from her fingers into the creamy velvet folds of her gown, where it glinted in the firelight.
At last he drew away, cradled her close, and rested his cheek against her dark curls. “I do believe I love you, Tansy Richardson,” he whispered.
“I know I love you, Martin Ballard. I have known it since Tel el-Osorkon.”
“You have?” He put a finger to her chin and tilted her face to look up at him. Flames were reflected in his eyes as the wind outside blustered around the eaves, and the fire glowed more brightly.
“Yes, but I thought you preferred Amanda.”
“Definitely not. I do not like your cousin in the least.”
“But—”
“Tansy, I was drawn to you from the beginning. I thought she was very lovely, fascinatingly so, considering the real Amanda behind the loveliness, but you I find beautiful in a different way…a way that is beyond words.”
“I know that isn’t true,” she murmured, wishing it was.
He kissed her forehead. “Beauty isn’t all on the outside, Tansy. Your loveliness comes from within, and it makes you glow.”
“Oh, you know the right things to say, sir,” she breathed, moving against his lips and then stretching up to kiss him again.
His arms tightened around her, and she was conscious of her heart pounding. Her body ached for more than just kisses. She loved him so much, craved him so much, that she hardly knew herself. Their lips moved richly together, and his warmth and masculinity seemed to invade her. A wild recklessness swept her along, leaving demureness far, far behind.
