by Olivia Drake
Excitement rolled through Juliet as she recalled the blond woman in the sketch. William Deverell’s former mistress would know the history of the feud. Raising her eyes to Ravi, she said, “I’ll join Miss Hutton today.”
“Come,” he said, turning. “I will show you the way.”
The directive needled Juliet. “I’ll freshen up first,” she countered. “You may call for me in half an hour.”
No emotion marred his lean, dusky features. “As Your Grace commands.” Bowing again, he glided silently down a dim corridor.
She found the forest green gown hanging cleaned and pressed in her dressing room. Gratefully discarding the frivolous pink frock, Juliet donned her own gown and tidied her hair. Primping before the age-spotted mirror revitalized her, imbued her with the outer trappings of confidence and the inner resolution to do battle for Kent’s heart.
As she joined Ravi in the hall and they started down the worn steps, a thought occurred to her. He must know the particulars of the quarrel, too.
“You served Kent’s father, did you not?”
“Yes, memsahib. Since I was sold to him as a boy.”
“Sold!” Appalled, Juliet stopped, a hand braced on the rough stone wall. “You mean you were his slave?”
He shrugged. “So it would seem. The old duke offered me a chance to learn to read and write, to serve as his scribe.”
As they exited the gloomy staircase, she tried to fathom his loyalty to the Deverells. “Didn’t you resent being owned by another man?”
“We are all owned in one way or another, memsahib.”
Juliet pondered the statement. Certainly she had obligations to people, had sworn marriage vows to Kent, yet he didn’t own her. Or did he? Did love bind her to him with silken chains? “Surely Kent has granted you your freedom.”
“Of course.”
“Then why do you not return to India?”
“Perhaps I shall someday. But England is my home for now. I am happy to serve His Grace.”
Their footsteps echoed through the great hall; then they entered a corridor Juliet had not yet explored. Rusted shields and musty tapestries adorned the walls. “How did William purchase you?” she asked. “Wasn’t slavery against the law?”
“Perhaps. Yet I begged him to become my master. He owed me that debt because I hid him in the great Mutiny, when many English were slain by my countrymen.”
Startled, she met his impassive gaze. “How did you manage to conceal him?’”
“In a well, near Cawnpore, where he was visiting friends. Then I helped him flee in disguise to Darjeeling.”
“Was Kent in India at the time?”
Ravi shook his head. “The Mutiny raged over thirty years ago, before His Grace’s birth.”
“Why did you wish to be purchased?”
“I was the eldest of eleven children. My family had little to eat, only rags to wear. That sort of life must be difficult for a lady of your birth to comprehend.”
His disdainful look reminded Juliet of his animosity toward Emmett Carleton. Her steps slowed as she asked, “Have you ever met my father?”
He cast her a stony glance. “Yes, memsahib.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He is not for me to judge.”
Frustrated, she said, “I want to understand this hatred toward my family. How did it start?”
“I am not the one to whom you should address your questions.”
Opening a door, he waved her up a flight of winding stairs. He lowered his eyes and assumed the meek demeanor of a servant who could offer no further insight.
Gritting her teeth, she took hold of her skirts and preceded him up the steps.
Around a curve in the staircase loomed a carved mahogany door. Ravi knocked; the panel swung open and Chantal Hutton stood there, limned by sunlight. Fine age lines enhanced her alabaster complexion. She wore her cornsilk hair piled atop her head, adding to her regal height. A white gown swathed her willowy figure and drew attention to her magnificent bosom.
William Deverell’s drawing hadn’t done justice to his mistress’s golden beauty, Juliet thought. Chantal Hutton, the woman who had dared flout society by bearing two bastard daughters, possessed a queenly aspect that no canvas could capture.
“So you are the new duchess,” said Chantal, her husky soft voice edged by formality. She looked keenly at Juliet. “I saw you alight from the landau yesterday— you’re even prettier close up. Please come inside so that we may get acquainted.”
“Thank you,” Juliet murmured.
A strange look passed between Chantal and Ravi; Juliet wondered briefly if he waited upon Chantal, too. The servant bowed, then retreated down the stairs.
The small sitting room had high arched windows set in stone and a dramatic decor that gave the effect of an exotic bazaar. Cloth in patterns of crimson and black cloaked the walls, while cane furniture and ivory screens abounded. Before the cold fireplace, a maidenhair fern draped a table with antelope horn legs.
Juliet wandered to a window and peered down at the courtyard. What thoughts had Chantal harbored as she’d stood here, watching the woman who had taken her daughter’s place as duchess?
“Your apartment is lovely,” Juliet said. “This is one of the towers, isn’t it?”
“The north tower, sometimes known as the Mortimer Tower.” Chantal fluttered her elegant fingers. “I don’t recall how the name originated. No doubt Rose could tell you.”
“Where is your daughter today?”
“Probably ensconced in a cubbyhole somewhere, with her nose in a dusty book.” A frown creased her patrician forehead; then Chantal made a lavish gesture, her bracelets chiming. “She promised to join us, but we won’t let our tea grow cold. She has no sense of time or obligation. Please sit down, Your Grace.”
As she swept toward a silver tea service, Juliet settled into a bamboo chair and studied Chantal. The fair coloring and high cheekbones brought a haunting reminder of Emily, yet this woman was no demure violet. Chantal Hutton was an extravagant white water lily.
A fresh scent pervaded the air, a contrast to the mustiness in the rest of the castle. “Sweet woodruff,” Juliet said, breathing the distinctive aroma. “And a trace of chamomile.’
“Mixing sachets is a pastime of mine,” Chantal said, gliding over the Turkish rug to hand Juliet a cup. “Have you an interest in herbs, Your Grace?”
“In all types of plants. I’m a botanist.”
“Fancy that! Even so far from London, we’ve heard of your mother’s reputation as a hostess. I’d expected you to be conventional.”
Blue eyes narrowed, Chantal paused with one hand poised over her majestic bosom. Could the unorthodox woman disapprove of a lady scientist? A poignant understanding took root in Juliet’s mind. Of course, Emily’s mother would be shocked that Kent had chosen a wife so different from his demure first love.
She took a sip of tea to allay the dryness in her throat. “Botany is what first drew Kent and me together. We share an interest in growing plants.”
“I see.” Chantal arranged herself on a cane chair, the back as tall and curved as a throne, the dark wood like a tiara framing her blond hair. “Pardon my ill bred manners in speaking so plainly, but Kent took all of us by surprise with the suddenness of this marriage.”
The speculative look in those celestial eyes told Juliet that her presence greatly disturbed Chantal. “Then you know who my father is.”
“Rose told me.” She studied Juliet over the porcelain cup. “May I ask what else Kent has said about me?”
Frankness might encourage a like response. “That you and his father had had a romance; that you’re also the mother of his first wife.”
“I see. Is that all?”
By that probing scrutiny, Juliet had the impression the woman was hiding something. “Is there something he left out?”
Chantal lowered her gaze to her lap. “I thought perhaps you might wonder why I’m still living at the castle.”
>
A seed of sympathy flourished in Juliet. Chantal must fear that a Carleton would cruelly thrust out William Deverell’s former mistress. Setting down her cup, she leaned forward. “You’re here because Kent and I wish it. This feud has nothing to do with me. As far as I’m concerned, you’ll have a home at Radcliffe for as long as you like.”
That lovely mouth formed a faintly bitter line. “That’s generous of you, Your Grace.”
“Please, call me Juliet.”
“Thank you, Juliet.” She paused in contemplative silence. “Did you know I once played Shakespeare’s Juliet?”
“Played? You mean in school?”
Chantal shook her head, stirring the tendrils crowning her brow. “Many years ago, I was the toast of the London theater. I wasn’t much older than you when my acting career reached its zenith.”
Now Juliet understood the showy gestures, the sense of drama enveloping Chantal Hutton. Perhaps this was the opening to glean more information. ‘Was that when you met William Deverell?”
“Yes. But he and I didn’t become... involved until a few years later, in India.”
“What made you leave England?”
The blue eyes clouded. “I couldn’t bear to stay, so I joined a troupe of traveling players.” Rising, Chantal glided to a window. “I’d suffered a broken love affair, you see.”
Sunshine silhouetted the sadness on that proud profile. Juliet tried to imagine the pain of losing Kent before ever winning his heart. What awful emptiness she would suffer. “Was he... Emily’s father?
“Yes.”
Unwilling to pry further into a stranger’s sorrow, she said, “Is the heat in India really as oppressive as I’ve heard?”
The grief fled Chantal’s face, as if she were an actress switching roles. Arms outstretched, she laughed. “So hot I longed to peel off my skin and sit in just my bones. During the worst of the summer, most women retired to the hills. Although I, of course, stayed behind.”
“Why?”
“Because those elegant ladies cut me dead. I am considered a fallen woman, you know.”
“Why did you and William never marry?”
Chantal shrugged. “He would wed only money or position.”
Her voice held a hint of caustic pain. A sense of injustice gripped Juliet as she recalled Kent’s description of his father: He held an unshakable conviction about class differences. He believed a man born to the dukedom was superior to other men... A duke would never bestow the honor of his name on an actress, a woman who had already borne another man’s bastard child.
With a twist of guilt, Juliet reflected that she herself had been raised to scorn such females. She could well imagine Mama’s horror if she knew her daughter was taking tea with Chantal.
She studied Chantal’s elegant form. How could such a proud woman stomach being kept? “You bore William a daughter,” she said. “Surely he owed you something for that.”
“He gave me a home,” said Chantal, with a wave of her hand. A secretive smile touched her lips. “William wanted me close by. Possessive fellows, these Deverell men.”
Juliet recalled the quarrel. Yes, Kent was possessive, too. In that respect, he was like his father...
Skirt swishing, Chatal walked briskly back to her chair. “Shall I pour more tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Picking up the silver pot, she bent closer, her attention half on Juliet and half on pouring the steaming tea. “Fancy us, sitting here together, speaking so candidly.”
Juliet tensed. “You mean because I’m a Carleton?”
“Carleton. I’ve heard William speak that name often enough. No, not because of that... because you’re a lady. Yet you look at a person directly, without all that silly modesty so many women affect.” Chantal tilted her head. “You have the most unusual eyes, too,” she went on, her voice soft, meditative. “Green rimmed with gold. A stunning combination.”
“I’ve been told I have my father’s eyes.”
Chantal turned away to freshen her own cup. “Is that so? What a trick of nature that God would grace a man with such lovely, long lashed eyes.”
A thread of emotion wove through the trifling comment, an emotion that eluded Juliet. Staring at that lissome back, she wondered if Chantal had shared her lover’s hatred for the Carletons. “Have you ever met my father?”
“Is he coming here?” spoke a girlish voice from the door. Rose bustled into the room. Windblown sable hair tumbled down the back of her mauve gown, and her cheeks bloomed with color. “Hullo,” she said, her voice breathless, as if she’d raced up the stairs. “Well, is he?”
“Most certainly not,” Chantal said, setting down the pot with a sharp click.
“A pity. I’d like to meet the man Father talked so much about.”
Chantal arched a fine eyebrow. “You’re late. I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost in the dungeon again.”
“Oh, Mama. I’m hardly ten years old anymore.” Brown eyes sparkling, she looked from Chantal to Juliet. “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. You can hear all about my brilliant idea. I’m going to write a play.”
Startled, Juliet said, “I thought you were compiling a family chronicle.”
“That’s the beauty of it—it’s a play about the Deverells. Capturing all the drama of a noble dynasty.” Rose twirled closer, ink-smudged hands clasped to her bosom. “Perhaps someday my work shall even be performed at the Drury Lane Theatre.”
“An admirable dream, darling,” said Chantal, her smile indulgent. “It should prove a challenge to make the dry pages of history appeal to a jaded cosmopolitan audience.”
Rose waved the comment away. “My heritage is bound to enthrall even the harshest of critics, Mama. Why, the story of you and Father alone would—”
“Absolutely not, young miss,” Chantal said, stiffening. “My private life will not be fodder for public appetite.”
Rose hung her head, her eyes suddenly sheened with tears. “But I wouldn’t have to use your real names.”
Sighing, Chantal folded her daughter in a hug. “Oh, darling. Do you really suppose your father would have approved of such a project?”
“Of course you’re right, Mama.” A sly gleam in Rose’s eye told Juliet she hadn’t abandoned the idea. “I wasn’t thinking, that’s all. I’ve plenty of other illustrious ancestors.”
Chantal nodded. “I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
“Thank you.” Rose plopped onto a crimson hassock and regarded Juliet. “I stopped by your room this morning, to take you on a tour of the castle, but you’d gone out with Augusta.”
“Yes, she took me to Wyecote and introduced me to some of the villagers.”
Rose wrinkled her dainty nose. “How could you bear to spend so many hours alone with that harridan?”
“Rose!” chided Chantal, delivering a cup to her daughter. “Augusta has helped many people in the district.”
“Yes, Mama. I can admire her without liking her. But still, she doesn’t make it easy to warm up to her cross nature... her and that dreadful yapping dog.”
Though Juliet half agreed, she said, “Maybe Punjab gives Augusta something to love, since she hasn’t any children.”
Eyes contemplative, Rose sipped her tea. “Perhaps so. I never saw her in quite that light.”
“We all have secret longings,” Chantal murmured. “Emotions we’re afraid to share. If you’re to write a play, darling, you must learn to look below the surface of your characters.”
Sympathy unfurled inside Juliet’s heart. Did Chantal lead a lonely life in this tower? Did she miss the comfort of William Deverell’s embrace, spin dreams about her lost first love?
Juliet set aside her cup. “I thought it indelicate to ask this of Augusta. What’s wrong with Gordon’s hands?”
“Rheumatism,” Chantal said. “He’s suffered from the affliction since boyhood.”
“Is there any cure?”
Chantal shook her head. “The doctor prescribes medication
for the pain.”
Eyes conspiratorial, Rose perched her elbows on her knees. “That tonic is why he always seems to have his head in the clouds. Lots of times when I’ve gone into the library for a research book, I’ve found him nodding off in his chair.”
Another use for her dowry, Juliet thought. A London specialist might be able to treat Gordon’s illness. Surely Kent couldn’t object to accepting money that would help his cousin.
“If you’d like, Juliet,” Rose said, “I’ll show you around the castle tomorrow. We have ever so many fascinating heirlooms. Did you know that in the south tower we still have the bed that Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn slept in?”
As the girl chattered on, Juliet saw no polite way to divert the discussion back to the feud. Questions churned inside her, making her restless, impatient. Tonight, she reminded herself.
Tonight Kent would provide the answers.
Chapter 12
It was the only answer. Deep in numbing thought and warm water, Kent leaned against the back of the copper tub and soaked his work weary muscles. After travels through Turkey, his great-grandfather had converted a guest bedroom into this richly appointed bath with the white marble floor and mahogany framed tub so enormous, it required the approach of two steps. That renovation had, of course, occurred before the decline of the Radcliffe fortune.
Before the clash of Deverell and Carleton.
Oh, Christ, it was the only answer.
Willing the tremor from his hand, Kent picked up the glass from the ledge beside the tub and took a swallow. Brandy seared his throat, but instead of easing his anxiety, the liquor nourished the glow burning inside him. The glow that had scorched him ever since that afternoon, when Juliet had ridden out to the fields in the company of that goddamned skirt chaser, Hammond-Gore. Even now, Kent felt a throb of blinding jealousy, the urge to smash his fist into another man’s face.
God help him, he’d fallen in love with Juliet.
It was the only explanation for this awesome ache inside him, this insatiable hunger to possess her, this softhearted desire to hold her close for an eternity.
He set down the brandy glass. Nonsense. He craved Juliet only because she was Emmett Carleton’s daughter.
