by Candace Camp
“Ah, Bryan, there you are. I was beginning to worry about you,” Ranleigh said.
John took another step toward the man, saying calmly, “Hello, Father.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FATHER?
Priscilla watched, mouth open, as John Wolfe strode across the floor of the ballroom without hesitation. The Duke of Ranleigh threw his arms around John, and the two of them laughed and clapped each other on the back. John knew who he was, Priscilla thought in amazement—and that person was the son of the Duke of Ranleigh.
Anger swept over Priscilla. It was obvious that he had known all along who he was. He had answered the man easily, promptly, without hesitation or stumbling. He had lied to her, deceived her. Priscilla thought of her earnest efforts to find out his identity; she remembered the ingenuous way he had asked about the long-lost heir to Ranleigh and the way she had repeated the local gossip to him. And all the while they had been talking about his father! He had encouraged her to make a fool of herself in front of him!
Fury and bitter shame swelled in Priscilla’s chest in equal parts. She did not know why John had acted out that charade of losing his memory—whether he had been acting as a scout for his father, to check out the locale and the people before the Duke himself actually arrived, or he had been afraid to admit who he was after he had been attacked. That was reasonable, she supposed. But he could at least have told her! He could have trusted her enough to let her know who he really was. Instead, he had treated her like a stranger. She felt an utter fool.
Priscilla glanced at Mr. Rutherford. He, too, was leaving them without a word, walking toward the Duke as if in a trance.
“Sebastian!” Ranleigh called out heartily. “Is that you? Come here and let me see you.”
Priscilla turned to Anne and said abruptly, “I have to leave.” She noticed then that Anne looked the color of parchment. “Anne? Are you all right?”
Anne shook her head. “I never thought…” She gazed at Priscilla, her eyes huge in her face. “It has been thirty years. I thought—I was sure he was long since dead.”
“As was everyone else,” Priscilla commented dryly. Anne seemed terribly shaken by the Duke’s arrival. She didn’t understand why it should affect her so, but she was too upset herself right now to try to delve into Anne’s actions. “I’m sorry; you must excuse me. I have to leave.”
“But why? Where?”
“I am going home.” Priscilla’s voice was grim, and her jaw was set. She could not bear to see John turn and smile at her, to hear him laugh and say that he was sorry, that it had all been in a good cause. “I cannot stay here.”
She started toward the door so rapidly that Anne, following her, almost had to run. “Wait!”
Priscilla turned. Color was high in her face, and her eyes were overly bright.
“I am leaving, too. Let me offer you a ride.”
Priscilla nodded, relieved. She had come in the general’s big, antiquated coach, and she hated to make all the others leave the party early, simply because she was miserable. “Yes, thank you. Just let me tell my father where I am going.”
It took her some time to track down Florian, but at last she found him downstairs, near the refreshments table, with Dr. Hightower, busily scribbling away on the tablecloth. “Yes, but look, Reginald, the equation can’t be right. It breaks down when you get to—”
“Papa!” Priscilla looked down in exasperation at the once sparklingly white cloth. “You’ve ruined the tablecloth!”
“What? There you are, my dear. Having a good time?”
Dr. Hightower gazed in some dismay at the tablecloth. “Oh, I say. I didn’t even notice.”
“No paper, you see,” Florian explained, then frowned. “Damned nuisance to write on— Wouldn’t you think people would have paper around?”
Priscilla’s lips twitched, but she refused to smile. “Not at a ball, usually.”
“I daresay it will wash out,” Dr. Hightower put in reassuringly.
“I am going home now, Papa. Lady Chalcomb kindly offered to take me.”
“Are you?” Florian’s face lit up. “Excellent! The doctor and I shall accompany you. It will be far easier to show him what I am talking about in my own study.”
Florian rose to his feet, and the doctor followed more slowly. Florian saw nothing odd in his daughter’s wanting to leave a dance early, but the doctor frowned in concern.
“But, Priscilla, dear girl, isn’t it rather early to be leaving a ball?”
“Nonsense,” Florian told him. “Deady dull thing, anyway. I can’t think why we ever came.”
“Young girls usually enjoy them, Flo,” Dr. Hightower pointed out. “They like to dance, and that sort of thing. Dress up, you know.”
“Yes, I daresay.” Florian tightened his lips grimly. “Not just young ones, either, I find. Miss Pennybaker was making a cake of herself on the dance floor tonight.”
“Papa!” Priscilla cried at this injustice. “She was not. She was merely dancing. I thought she and the general looked quite good together.”
“Too old for that sort of thing. Both of them,” Florian grumbled.
“You are never too old to dance. You ought to try it sometime. Perhaps then Miss Pennybaker wouldn’t resort to going out on the floor with the General.”
“Me? What nonsense. Besides, what do I care whether she dances with that old fool?”
Priscilla shrugged. “I am sure I don’t know, Papa. You were the one who was complaining about it.”
Her father glowered at her for a moment, then started away, saying, “What are we standing here for? Let’s join Lady Chalcomb.”
When they got outside, they found that Lady Chalcomb had not brought the cumbersome old coach that her husband had been wont to rattle around in, but merely a light trap pulled by two horses.
“I’m sorry,” she said apologetically as they all squeezed into the small conveyance, clearly not meant for more than two or three people, and certainly none with the bulk of Dr. Hightower. “I am afraid I haven’t the team any longer for Lord Harry’s coach.”
A blush rushed into her cheeks; she knew that everyone was aware of her straitened circumstances, but that scarcely made them less embarrassing. She had sold all her husband’s expensive horses and hunting dogs after his death, as well as the best artworks at Chalcomb Hall, in order to pay off the bulk of his debts. Even to one as unknowledgeable as Priscilla, it was obvious that these two horses, not a matched pair, would have been gone, as well, except that they were too old for anyone to want.
“No problem,” Florian told her cheerfully. “I shall stand on this step here.” He followed his words with action, standing on the small metal stepup and hanging on to the pole supporting the right side of the trap. “That way, I will counterbalance the doctor. It should ride better that way, too.”
So off they went in the shabby little trap behind the aging horses, Florian hanging off the side like a schoolboy hitching a ride on a delivery wagon. Their progress was little faster than walking on foot would have been, but none of them seemed to mind. Anne and Priscilla were silent with their thoughts, and Florian and the doctor continued their discussion of equations.
Finally, about halfway back to Evermere Cottage, the doctor and Florian decided to postpone the conversation until they had adequate paper and pencil. For a few moments, they rode in utter silence. The doctor looked from Anne to Priscilla and back again, then up at Florian. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Florian simply shook his head. He had never attempted to understand his children’s moods, and especially not his daughter’s.
“Interesting, wasn’t it, about Lynden showing up?” the doctor said, making a stab at conversation.
Anne’s hands tightened on the reins, and the horses came to a dead stop. Priscilla shot him a look, as if he had said something indelicate.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Florian replied. “What for? The Marquess coming back? I mean the D
uke, I suppose, now.”
“How did you know about it?” Priscilla asked stiffly. “You two were downstairs.”
“We saw him when he came in—before old Oaksworth saw him and started crying. I recognized him, of course, though it took a moment. He was only a stripling when he ran off, tall, but thin. He’s fleshed out a good bit since then. And browned, of course. Been out in the sun in the New World. Wonder if he killed that girl. Never seemed the sort to me, really.”
“Of course he did not,” Anne said in a strangely choked voice.
Everyone glanced at her, surprised at her vehemence. She blushed again and said, “He was not the sort. He wouldn’t have killed a woman. He wouldn’t even have been dangling after a woman like that.”
“Well, uh, that’s not the sort of thing one would tell a lady,” Dr. Hightower pointed out mildly, looking a trifle red-faced himself.
“True,” Florian agreed, though he himself rarely paid attention to what one should or should not tell a delicate female. “Still, he always seemed a good enough lad. No doubt he sowed a few wild oats at school. But that’s hardly the same as strangling a girl. I am inclined to agree with Lady Chalcomb.”
“John Wolfe is his son,” Priscilla said flatly. Her words were followed by a stunned silence.
“Who? Oh! Wolfe, yes, of course.” Florian frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm, well, yes, now that you mention it, I can see it. Has the same sort of build, you know, though more muscled than his father was as a lad. Darker, too. But then, that’s the sun in the colonies.”
“John Wolfe?” the doctor repeated, confused. “The lad who doesn’t know who he is? How can he be Ranleigh’s son?”
“He claimed he could not remember his name or his past.”
“Why do you say ‘he claimed’ like that, Pris? You think he was only pretending not to remember?”
“He recalled his past quickly enough tonight. The minute the Duke walked in, he called him ‘Father.’ There was no hesitation. No confusion. He walked right toward him.” And away from her.
Florian nodded. “I can see the wisdom of keeping it quiet. He may have been attacked because of who he was, in fact. He wouldn’t have known for certain that he could trust us. Smart to keep his knowledge to himself.”
“He is crafty enough,” Priscilla agreed bitterly.
“Don’t be hard on the lad,” Florian advised her. “He had his reasons, I’m sure. He’s not a bad sort.”
Priscilla had some difficulty agreeing with her father’s assessment. All she could think of was the fact that she had given herself to John, body and soul, not caring that he had no name, that he did not know who or what he was, even whether or not he was married or engaged. She had loved him for himself alone.
And now he turned out to be a marquess! Not a rankless American, not an adventurer, but a member of the nobility. It had been easy enough for her to disregard his lack of rank, but it was far more difficult when the opposite was true. He was no one whom she could possibly marry; he was a future duke, and he would have to marry accordingly. In one instant, he had passed beyond her, out of her reach forever.
She was certain he had known about it—though perhaps not when he first arrived at their house. That might have been a legitimate reaction, a moment of stunned confusion and memory loss. But sometime, somewhere along the way, the truth had settled in on him. It was no wonder he had been so interested in Alex and the Duchess, or in the story of why the Marquess had fled the country! He had probably been waiting for his father to make his grand entrance at the party tonight before he revealed his identity.
And while he was waiting, lying low and pretending he was a nobody, had he decided to amuse himself by seducing a country girl? The thought burned through her. If she had known that he was the heir to Ranleigh, she would have been more on guard with him. She would have realized that there was no future for them. She would have done her best to hold on to her heart and not to give it where it could never be returned. Could he have been so selfish and heartless, to use his ruse to win her body?
Priscilla could not bear to think so. She reminded herself that during the past few days he had held back from taking her, even when she had more or less thrown herself at him. He had been the one to resist, and she had been the insistent one. It had not always been that way. When he first came to the house, he had kissed her eagerly, caressed her, wanted her. Then, at some point, he had changed. Now she realized that it was probably because he had remembered who he was. He had realized that a future duke could not get entangled with a nobody. No wonder he had regretted bedding her. No doubt when Penny was talking about her reputation he had been struck with fear, thinking that she might try to force him to marry her because of the night they had spent together. As if she would do such a thing! She would not marry him for love nor money, Priscilla told herself.
When the trap reached their house, Priscilla got out quickly and hurried inside. She ran up the stairs and into her bedroom. All the way home, her chest had felt as if it were swelling with anguish, filling up until she was about to burst. Now, finally, she was alone. She threw herself on her bed and let the bitter tears flood out.
BRYAN AYLESWORTH STEPPED BACK from his father and looked at him. He felt stunned, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. His memory had rushed back in on him in an instant. He had seen his father, and suddenly he had known who he was. It left him feeling faintly dizzy and sick, as if he had been whirled around wildly. Added to that strange feeling was the fact that, though he suddenly knew who he was, his father seemed to have become an entirely different person.
“Where have you been, lad?” his father was saying. “I didn’t know what to make of it when I arrived at the inn in Elverton and they said they had seen no sign of you. I was beginning to worry. I knew you had reached London before I did. That sobersides lawyer told me you had come to his office, just as I’d told you to, and he had given you the information about Elverton and the inn and all.” He made a vague gesture around him.
“I—I was delayed.” Bryan glanced around him. “Priscilla? Where is she? She was right here a moment ago.”
“Who was?”
His son grinned. “A woman. Priscilla Hamilton. Your future daughter-in-law, I believe.”
The Duke’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking. Are you serious? You have been caught at last? Is that what delayed you?”
“Not exactly. I shall explain it all to you in a moment.” His brows drew together darkly. “We have quite a number of things to discuss, in fact. But first I have to find Priscilla. I have to tell her who I am.”
“You have to what?” Ranleigh repeated in astonishment, but Bryan had already turned and was walking away, searching all around him.
It took him a good fifteen minutes of fruitless searching before he found someone who remembered seeing Priscilla and Lady Chalcomb going down the stairs right after the new duke walked in. He headed downstairs, as well, only to find no trace of either of the two women. Finally he went outside, where a footman told him that Miss Hamilton and her father had left the party with Lady Chalcomb and Dr. Hightower.
“What the devil—?” Bryan murmured, confused. Why would Priscilla have left so suddenly? Especially after the strange and startling things that had occurred?
He stood for a moment, gazing out into the dark night, faintly troubled. He could not understand Priscilla’s disappearance, and he wanted to go running after her. But if she was with her father and Lady Chalcomb, surely she would be all right…and, first, he had a mystery right here that needed to be resolved. He turned around and went back to the party, looking for his father.
It was not hard to find him. There was a huge knot of people clustered around him, all eager to reacquaint themselves with the new Duke of Ranleigh. His father was chatting happily with Mr. Rutherford. The man who had saved him from being a suspect, Bryan realized with some amazement. He found it hard to connect his father with the lad Priscilla had said had run off years ago, under suspicion o
f murder.
Bryan, taller than most of the people surrounding his father, was able to look over their heads and catch his father’s eye. He jerked his head emphatically, indicating that they should leave the room, and Ranleigh, with a knowing grin, nodded back and began to make his way through the crowd around him. Bryan waited impatiently for him by the door. Even after Damon had succeeded in working his way free of the clot of well-wishers and curiosity-seekers, he could not seem to take a step without someone else coming forward to greet him.
Finally he reached Bryan and took his elbow, saying, “Come along. I know where we can escape them all.”
He led his son quickly out into the same hall that Bryan and Priscilla had taken earlier. However, he took Bryan past the room where they had eavesdropped on the Duchess and down a set of stairs to a large room. In the dim light cast by the wall sconces in the hall, Bryan could see that it was a library, with shelves of books lining the walls and a massive desk squatting in the center of the room. The wall opposite the door was a bank of windows, their drapes now drawn against the night.
Ranleigh went to the desk and lit a lamp, and the room was suffused with a golden glow. Bryan watched his father as he looked slowly around the room. The older man shook his head. “Exactly the same,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He cleared his throat. “Father always was one for tradition. I remember he sulked for a month when my mother redecorated the dining room.”
He turned back to Bryan, who was watching him, arms crossed over his chest. “I presume you have some questions for me.”
“A few,” his son retorted sarcastically. “Mainly, when in the hell did you become a duke?”
“When my father died, a year or so ago,” his father replied calmly, and walked over to a large wingback chair by the fireplace, motioning to Bryan to sit in the chair across from it.
Bryan sat down with ill grace. “Then you really are the Duke of Ranleigh?”
