Tiger's Eye

by Karen Robards

  “What I’m telling you about Paddy is true, so you can just leave Isabella out of this,” Alec began, nettled, when Pearl, with an enraged cry, managed to throw him off her with a single mighty heave. She bounced to her feet beside the bed, and turned on him like a spitting fury.

  “It is ’er!” she hissed. “I knew it! You’ve lost your bloody fool ’ead over ’er, ’aven’t you, you bloody idiot? So protective you are! ‘Just leave Isabella out of this,’ “ she mimicked nastily. Her sneer changed to an expression of utter rage. “ ’Tis in love with ’er you think you are, don’t you, you great fool? Well, mark my words, she’ll never ’ave you, not for nothin’ more than a stud, and after this, I won’t either! You can get down on bended knee to me in future, and you won’t get me into your bed again!”

  “Pearl …” Alec came off the bed and approached her, knowing that he had handled her badly but helpless to think of a way to retrieve the situation. Reaching out, he caught both her hands and tried to pull her to him.

  “You can just keep your ’ands bloody well off me!” she cried, jerking them free and jumping back out of reach. Then, to Alec’s horror, Pearl burst into a torrent of tears. Good Christ, how much more could a man take in a single day?

  “Aw, Pearl, sweetheart, won’t you just—”

  “You’re so full of shit you stink, Alec Tyron!” Pearl shrieked, the suddenness of it making him jump. “I ’ate you, do you ’ear? I ’ate you! And I ’ate that bloody scrawny bag of bones you’re doin’ it to, too! By God, I do!”

  With that she ran to the door, jerked it open, and fled along the corridor, her nightdress billowing behind her like a shimmering golden cloud. Alec followed her as far as the door, then hesitated, watching thoughtfully as she disappeared down the stairs.

  Perhaps this was something that Pearl was best left to work out alone. He knew that once she was herself again, she would hate the idea that he had made her cry. Pearl was a proud woman, independent, feisty. Alec suddenly threw up his hands, shut the door, propped a precautionary chair beneath the knob, and went to bed, thanking God that it was Paddy who had to sort this particular female out, and not himself.

  The next morning, neither Pearl nor Paddy put in an appearance at breakfast. With a mental shrug—perhaps Paddy was at that very moment taking his advice—Alec ate a light meal, then, with only one stop in town, drove back to Amberwood in a natty high-perch phaeton. He’d bought it before all the attempts on his life, and had scarcely had a chance to drive it. He thought exploring the countryside in it might tickle Isabella’s fancy. As he neared Horsham he patted the securely wrapped package in his pocket and whipped up his horses, absurdly anxious to see her again. He shook his head at his own foolishness. At near enough to thirty as to make no matter, he was behaving like a green lad in the throes of his first infatuation. But he had to admit, it felt good.

  Grinning, he imagined Isabella running down the steps of Amberwood to greet him, imagined enfolding her in his arms, presenting her with her present, and carrying her off to bed. Later, they’d laugh at how she had cried when he’d left, and she would model the necklace of a dozen robin’s-egg-sized amethysts set in silver he’d bought her, along with matching earbobs. At the thought that he might be able to cajole her into wearing just the jewelry and nothing else for him, his heart speeded up. God, he’d missed her a ridiculous amount just to have been absent from her for less than two days. But making up for lost time together might have definite rewards.…

  As he pictured Isabella, with her soft mouth and softer body, her eyes almost exactly the color of the stones in his pocket, his grin dimmed somewhat. Something about that delectable picture was bothering him. He thought of Isabella and he felt …

  His blood ran cold as he realized that what he was feeling was that omniscient tingle of danger again.

  LV

  Isabella walked into the inn at Tunbridge Wells with Bernard right behind her. She was cold with fear, but clearheaded too. If he was taking her into a public inn, he could not mean to murder her out of hand. Could he?

  This inn was called the Pelican. It was a fashionable establishment, outfitted with crystal chandeliers and soft carpets, obviously used to catering to members of the quality. Upon their entrance the innkeep hurried up to Bernard, obsequious as he inquired if he could help my lord in any way. Bernard waved him away with an impatient look.

  The taproom was all but deserted at this hour in the afternoon. Bernard, with a heavy hand on her elbow, escorted Isabella to a private parlor that he must have previously reserved. The knowledge that there would be few people within earshot should she be in trouble heightened the panic that she was fighting hard to control. If Bernard had schemed to have her murdered, and the evidence said he had, what were the odds that he would try again? Surely, if he had tracked her down merely to kill her, he would already have dispatched her in the carriage. If he was squeamish about doing the deed himself, the cretin accompanying him, who obviously had been hired as muscle, could have done the deed. The man looked capable of any violence, and stupid to boot. So perhaps she was safe, at lease for the nonce. Then again, maybe she was not.

  The contrast between the Pelican and the Traveler’s Rest could not have been greater. The Traveler’s Rest had been squalid, malodorous and downright dangerous. But Isabella would have exchanged her present elegant surroundings for it in a heartbeat, if she could have exchanged her present escort for her previous one at the same time.

  Alec, She clung to the image of him arriving to rescue her as to a lifeline. Alec would be returning to Amberwood soon, she knew. He would miss her, of course, almost immediately, and start to search. But had anyone seen the coach, and her abduction? Would he even know where to begin to look? Would he guess that Bernard had found her? Or would his initial assumption be that she had suffered an accident or some such mishap?

  She had to face the fact that it could be hours, or even days, before Alec managed to track her down. At the realization, she cast an apprehensive look at her stone-faced husband.

  So far Bernard had spoken not one word after he had identified her to the thug accompanying him as his wife. Isabella, too, had remained silent out of a mixture of prudence and fear. After all, what was there to say between an adulterous wife and the husband who had in all likelihood paid to have her killed?

  In a ridiculously incongruous gesture under the circumstances, Bernard opened the door to the private parlor and then courteously stood back to let her precede him into the room. Even if he planned to kill her, Bernard, a gentleman to his fingertips, would observe the courtesies to the end, she knew. Before she bowed to the inevitable and entered, Isabella cast a despairing eye back down the corridor. Should she scream for help now, before he got her alone?

  But then, she had to remember that Bernard could not know that she knew that he had planned to have her killed. It was possible that he might suspect that she had some inkling of his plans—and then again he might not, because his opinion of her intellect had never been strong—but he could not know for certain that she knew. Safety lay in pretending ignorance of his intentions until she could get away, or until someone came along to rescue her.

  Isabella took a deep breath, entered the room, and crossed to the unlit hearth (the weather had continued unseasonably warm). Then, schooling her features so as not to show the fear that made her nervous as a bird around a cat, she turned to face her husband.

  For the first time in almost a year, they were alone together. Bernard had closed the door, and as she watched him, he locked it. Then he turned to look at her, his hands still resting behind him on the knob, his back leaning against the door.

  Had she ever thought him handsome? Isabella wondered, marvelling at herself as her eyes swept him. The lowering answer was, yes, she had. She had once found his tall, slender elegance admirable. His face was thin and clever, with aquiline features and an olive complexion. Lines scored it from nose to mouth and, to a lesser extent, around his eyes. But never until this
moment had she thought to wonder if those lines had resulted from too many nights of dissipation. His hair was black, with distinguishing wings of gray above either ear. His eyes were rather slanted, and dark brown. On this day, as on every other occasion that she had seen him, he was elegantly turned out, in a coat of blue superfine and biscuit-colored breeches. His Hessians gleamed like mirrors, and sported white tops and tassels. His linen was immaculate. Whatever else he was, Bernard St. Just was every inch a gentleman.

  “Now, wife. Now you may tell me where, and with whom, you’ve been.”

  He made no move toward her, but his eyes glittered with malice. Isabella had never in all the years she had been wed to him heard him raise his voice, and he did not now. But there was an icy note underlying his words that warned of rage barely suppressed. She was reminded again that he had wanted her dead, and with difficulty held back a shiver. But she had to brave it out. Her life might very well depend on it.

  “I … I was kidnapped. Surely you know that.”

  “You were kidnapped, yes. Unless, of course, you staged the whole thing, which I never, until I received word that you were living incognito with your lover, considered. But even allowing that the kidnapping was genuine, that does not answer the question of where, and with whom, you have been for nigh on three months. The ransom was paid, in full, less than a week after you vanished. You never appeared. We—your father and I—feared you were dead. You father had Bow Street Runners searching for you. Indeed, Alpin, who accompanied me in the carriage, is a Runner. When I came upon you, you were clearly not being held against your will. You were free to return home anytime you wished. Yet you did not. If you do not wish to feel the full force of my wrath, you will explain yourself, madame, and quickly.”

  His voice was silky, but the very silkiness of it frightened her. He sounded capable of any violence.…

  “Well?” He rapped out the word when she didn’t reply at once. Isabella jumped at the sharpness of it.

  “I …” she began, desperately searching for an excuse. Would he believe that her dreadful experience had addled her brain, so that she had forgotten who she was? Not likely. But she could not tell him about Alec, or that the reason she had not returned home when she could have was that she feared he would try again to kill her. Quickly, quickly, she must think of some other, reasonable, excuse.

  “Don’t bother trying to think up a lie,” he snarled, coming away from the door with a lunge and crossing the room with two long strides to grab her by her upper arms and give her a shake. “I know where you’ve been: you’ve been with a lover. Who is he? By God, you’ll tell me that!”

  He spat the last words in her face, holding her on tiptoe so that her face was only a few inches below his.

  Terrified by the white fury that blazed from him, she said nothing.

  “Who is he? Who is he?” he hissed. “By God, to think that I’ve been cuckolded by a gray little mouse of a chit who never had two words to say for herself! I—”

  There was a knock at the door. Isabella had never been so glad of an interruption in her life. As Bernard looked toward the solid portal, Isabella made up her mind there and then that, whoever it was, she must ask for help. Bernard was beside himself with rage. She felt herself in terrible danger.…

  “What is it?”

  “Bernard? You in there? Let me in!”

  “Charles!”

  Isabella’s mouth closed with a snap. She knew that voice.

  “Papa!” she cried, her knees weakening with relief. Her father had never cared for her overmuch, but he would not stand by and see her murdered in cold blood. She need no longer draw each breath in fear of her life.…

  Bernard, shooting her one last murderous look, released his grip on her arms by shoving her away from him so hard that she stumbled backwards. He strode to the door. As he turned the key in the lock, Isabella steadied herself by holding on to the corner of a table. The best way to safeguard herself would be to lay the whole story before her father, who would know how to protect her. Perhaps the marriage could be dissolved.…

  “Papa!” she said again as he stepped into the room. Hurrying forward, smiling at him with relief and affection, she would have thrown herself into his arms. But the expression that came over his face as he beheld her made her falter and stop while she was still some feet away. Crossing his arms over his chest, her father fixed her with a look of utter loathing.

  “So it was true,” the Duke of Portland said bitterly. “That a daughter of mine could so disgrace our name—I cannot credit it. I would not have believed it did not my own eyes give me the evidence.” His eyes shifted to Bernard. “I make you my apologies, Bernard. The gel wasn’t raised to be a whore.”

  “Papa …” She addressed him almost piteously. Both men ignored her as completely as if she weren’t even present.

  “I take it that you, too, received a letter informing you of where, and in what circumstances, our prodigal could be found.” The violence had left Bernard’s face, to be replaced by nothing more threatening than cool good breeding as he looked at the duke.

  “Indeed I did! I didn’t believe it, of course, but it was strange, arriving out of the blue like that when I’d just brought Sarah up to London. So I took it around to your place only to have your man tell me you’d left this morning for the Pelican in Tunbridge Wells. Figured you must have got something of the same, because Tunbridge Wells is too close to Horsham for it to be a coincidence. Figured if you took it seriously enough to travel here out of season, I should come along too. Not that I expected there to be anything to it, of course. Isabella’s never been much to look at, but she was a good, biddable gel. Who would have thought she’d bring this disgrace upon us all? I suppose it was true? She was with a man?”

  Bernard nodded. “At least, I never saw the man—not that I don’t mean to; I’ll call the whoreson out for dishonoring my wife—but I wanted to get Isabella out of it first, without any trouble. I didn’t really expect to find her, you see, so I wasn’t armed. But there she was, right where my anonymous correspondent said she’d be, walking as merrily as you please along a lane outside a place called Amberwood. Rothersham’s seat, you know, sold to a Cit or some such a few years ago.” Bernard deigned to look at her, his eyes dark with anger. “Don’t tell me you’ve sunk so low as to take a Cit as a lover. Gad, I can’t even call the fellow out! Take a horsewhip to him, more like.”

  “Papa!” Isabella clasped her hands in front of her, ignoring Bernard’s slander as she looked at her father beseechingly. “Papa, you must listen. I—”

  “Be silent,” the duke said coldly, hardly bothering to glance at her. “Now that you’ve got her back, what do plan to do with her?”

  “I see no recourse to a bill of divorcement.…”

  The duke had a round, rather florid face topped by a shoulder-length fall of crisp, snow white curls. Hearing that, his face went almost as pale as his hair.

  “I would greatly oppose any such action. A divorce is unthinkable! The scandal would ruin us all! I know the gel deserves to be ruined, but you would be tarred with the same brush. So would we all, Sarah and my innocent children included.”

  Bernard’s eyes took on a sudden gleam that Isabella, watching him with growing horror, thought might be described as cunning. She had never considered the possibility that her father might refuse to hear her side.

  “I’ll not keep a wife who’s played me false. Why, she might be with child! A bastard child, to be foisted off as my heir! We’ve been cronies a long time, Charles, and I’m sorry for it, but you must understand when I tell you that I can’t keep an adulteress as my countess. Every feeling is offended.”

  “Papa—”

  The duke shushed her with an impatient gesture. “I know it’s a hard thing I’m asking, but I’m willing to pay to get what I want. You keep my gel as wife, and help me hush up any scandal, and I’ll make you settlement enough to keep you in funds for the rest of your life. I’m prepared to be generous about
this, Bernard.”

  “Well …” Bernard pretended to consider. Isabella knew it was pretense because she had at last been able to put a name to the gleam in his eyes: it was greed, pure and simple. But her father could not, or would not, see. His vision of Bernard was forever clouded by what he thought a gentleman born and bred should be. Desperate, she walked up to her father, and shook his sleeve determinedly.

  “Papa, he was behind my kidnapping. He paid a gang of men to kidnap me, hold me for ransom, and then, when it was collected, kill me. He meant to have me murdered in cold blood! He’s had losses at the gaming table, huge losses, and he used what was left of my marriage settlement to cover them. With the money gone, I wasn’t worth anything to him anymore, so he decided to kill me and wed another heiress. I’m sure he already had someone in mind.”

  Isabella repeated the story that Molly had told her, and Alec had amplified on, coldly, clearly, her eyes steady on her father’s frowning face. She was rewarded by the sudden riveting of both men’s attention on her.

  Bernard recovered first. His face, which had gone white, crimsoned. “Why, you lying little … So that’s how you think to cover up your fornicating! Pray don’t think your father—or anyone else!—is fool enough to swallow such a tale as that!”

  Isabella’s eyes never left her father. “It’s true, Papa. I swear on my mother’s soul it’s true!”

  The duke’s mouth tightened, and his pale blue eyes glittered icily. Before Isabella knew what he was about, he lifted a hand and slapped her hard across the face.