by Karen Ranney
His life had been given over to Margaret’s care sometime when he was not looking. Not to patterns, nor ciphers, nor puzzles, but to Margaret. She had awakened in him something he had not before known. Sensuality, and an eagerness to explore his mind’s imaginings. He’d known companionship with her, a most definite clash of wills coupled with amusement, tenderness, and wonder.
The only thing marring his happiness was the mystery of the Journals.
Light from the gas lamps around the square pooled on the cobbled streets, illuminated the doorway. But Smytheton didn’t silently open the door as Michael walked up the steps. Nor did he stand there, stiff as a sergeant-major. Michael found that odd, since his majordomo often anticipated him. What concerned him even more was the fact that the door was ajar.
He called out a greeting, but silence was the only response. Lighting a candle from the sideboard, he took the stairs two at a time. Margaret wasn’t in their chamber. He called out her name, but there was no answer. No smiling presence.
No Margaret. And no Smytheton.
He walked down the stairs again, entered his library. Perhaps she had become involved in a book and had not heard him. But she wasn’t in this room, either.
It was then that he saw the letter. He bent and picked it up, a sense of dread spreading through him as he opened and read the words. He was a man unused to fear; it was an emotion he’d felt little of in his lifetime. But he experienced it now as he flicked open the red ducal seal and read the words:
Your wife is my guest. If you wish to see her, bring the Journals of Augustin X with you.
Margaret, in exchange for the Journals. The Duke of Tarrant. They had been correct, then. He folded the note slowly, slipped it inside his waistcoat. He walked to his desk, lit a branch of candles, and retrieved the Journals from the bookcase, slipping them into an empty dispatch case, all his actions done in a silent kind of fog.
He found Smytheton in the kitchen, leaning weakly against a wall. The blood from his head wound streaked his face and pooled on the floor. Michael bent and helped him to his feet, walked with him to the table. The older man sat heavily, his hand pressed on his still bleeding wound.
“Can you tell me what happened, Smytheton?”
“I only had a chance to see him, my lord, before he hit me with the butt end of his pistol. More than that I don’t know.”
“How long ago?”
“I was getting ready to prepare dinner, my lord. An hour? Perhaps a little more.”
An hour gone.
“I need your help, Smytheton.”
The old soldier’s training came to the fore. Smytheton neither whined nor offered his injury as excuse. He simply straightened his shoulders. “What can I do, my lord?”
“We must get word to Robert,” Michael said, and related the information he needed to convey.
“I will, my lord,” Smytheton said, and almost saluted him.
Michael left the front of the house, grateful to discover that his carriage had not yet been taken to the stables. He signaled James, gave him directions before climbing into the vehicle.
The journey seemed achingly slow to Michael, as if the horses’ hooves were mired in mud. He had never been to Wickhampton. But all he knew was that it was taking too long to travel there. Each rotation of the wheels seemed to resound with a curious warning.
Not soon enough. Not soon enough. Not soon enough.
An eternity later, the carriage turned into the broad iron gates that led to Wickhampton. A mile further and the road finally curved in front of the structure. Darkness favored the great house. It was so enormous it seemed to block out the moon. The drive was covered with crushed stone that glittered in the moonlight. The carriage slowed, then halted before the tall front steps.
The structure that faced him was less home than monument. The original building, topped incongruously by a tower that seemed medieval in origin, was flanked by two wings. They jutted toward the front of the house as if to embrace a visitor.
He mounted the set of wide steps that led to the tall front doors.
His knock was answered almost immediately by a man of exceedingly large stature. He opened one of the enormous double doors without any seeming effort and stood aside as Michael entered.
The foyer was the size of his library, brightly lit, the task being performed by a white-gloved footman attired in blue-and-gold livery. Wickhampton was impressive, if not for its size, then for the floor-to-ceiling works of art being illuminated one by one. Right at the moment, however, Michael didn’t give a flying farthing for Tarrant’s taste in Italian artists.
He was led to the duke’s study without a word by another silent footman. An indication that Tarrant cared little that his actions were witnessed by his servants. It should have reassured Michael as to his safety and Margaret’s fate. Strangely enough, it didn’t.
The chamber Michael entered was dark, lit only by one branch of candles mounted on a tall stand. A tall, hulking man stood in front of a desk, his face heavily scarred. It looked as if he’d been badly beaten many times and the bones in his face had never healed properly.
But it was the other man who drew his attention. Tall and almost unnaturally thin, he had a narrow ascetic’s face. His eyes were dark and penetrating, his smile thin lipped. Almost as if he mocked the gesture, but made it nonetheless.
“Tarrant?”
How odd, that he had never met the man. The ton was not large, their greatest complaint the boredom fostered by meeting the same people repeatedly. But then, most of his time was spent immersed in codes.
“Alan Stilton, at your service.” The duke’s palm pressed against his chest as he bowed. A courtly gesture, one reminiscent of a hundred years earlier. “I have, of course, the privilege of addressing the Earl of Montraine.”
“Where is my wife?” Michael asked curtly, in no mood for pleasantries.
His question obviously surprised the duke. His smile thinned even more. “So you married her? The woman holds a decided fascination for you, Montraine. My brother felt the same. Pity she never interested me.”
“Where is Margaret?”
Instead of answering him, the duke turned and spoke to his companion.
“That will be all, Peter,” he said. “You must take care of that other matter we discussed.”
“Where is my wife?” Michael said again. Louder.
He stood, feet braced, opposite the desk. In his right hand he held the dispatch case. His left was clenched tightly as he measured the distance to Tarrant. The rage he felt was so dark and disturbing that he easily defined it. He was capable of killing this man.
“You have a decidedly limited repertoire of questions, don’t you?”
“Where is Margaret?”
Tarrant ignored his question, nodded instead at the dispatch case in his hand. “Are those the books?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Did you solve the code?” The duke looked up at him, smiled again. “But of course you did.”
Tarrant’s hand stretched out, but Michael only shook his head. “Not until I see my wife.”
“Lovers united?” The duke’s thin lips curved.
Michael remained silent.
“I regret I can’t accede to your request,” Tarrant said. “But then, you can’t imagine it to have been this easy. The man who just left this room has gone to kill her.”
The candlelight illuminated the duke’s pale face, rendering it a caricature. One of an evil monk, or a zealot. “And when he’s finished, he will come back and kill you.”
Margaret heard a noise in the corridor. A man’s shout, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps. Finally, muted thunder. A pistol?
She stood behind the door, watching as the handle turned slowly. She was trembling, but she still gripped the bedwarmer tightly between her hands. The door creaked open. She clenched her eyes shut, prayed, and swung as hard as she could.
The weapon was halted in mid-swing.
She op
ened her eyes, blinked several times, but the vision did not change. The smile was warm, the brown eyes friendly. Robert stood there, both hands firmly gripping the handle of her impromptu weapon.
“I do not believe, Robert,” she said, almost reduced to tears, “that I have ever been so happy to see anyone.”
“I am happy to oblige, Margaret.”
“Michael is in danger, Robert,” she said frantically, feeling as if time itself were an enemy. “We must get word to him.”
“Not to fear, Margaret,” he said, smiling at her in a brotherly fashion. “Reinforcements have arrived.”
They both heard the noise. Michael knew the sound well enough: a pistol being shot in close quarters.
Michael hurled the books at the branch of candles. The room was instantly catapulted into darkness. He threw himself at the duke, skidding across the desk, the impact so hard that his shoulder lifted the other man a few inches off the floor. When Tarrant fell, Michael was on top of him.
The rage Michael felt made him someone else. A primitive man lost in grief and betrayal, and an anger so fierce that he wanted to choke the man with his bare hands. He needed to feel the moment his death occurred. Slowly. In agony.
Someone lit a candle, and suddenly the room was filled with people.
“Let him go, Michael,” a voice said. He glanced up. Robert.
The glow illuminated the duke’s contorted face, but he didn’t release his grip on the man’s throat. Instead, he tightened his hands, watching in satisfaction as Tarrant struggled for air.
“She’s alive, Michael.”
“He shot her,” he said hoarsely.
“It wasn’t Margaret who died, but his servant. We caught him just as he was entering her room.”
He heard the words from far away. But the heels of both hands still pressed hard against the duke’s neck.
“But he won’t be alive much longer if you don’t let him go.” Michael felt his arms being grabbed, but he pulled away easily. His strength seemed greater and more deadly than that of any two men.
“She’s alive, Michael.” Robert’s voice again. “I’ve seen her myself.”
Slowly, he eased the pressure of his hands. The duke sputtered and coughed beneath him.
Another candle was lit. He glanced up. People were entering the room. Not liveried servants, but Robert’s men.
“Michael?”
He stared at the apparition in the doorway. Margaret. The candlelight seemed to render her almost ethereal. Or perhaps it was simply his mind, illogical and wishing she was here.
He stumbled to his feet just as she ran to him. He closed his eyes and held her tight, inhaling great gulps of air as if he’d held his breath from the moment he’d read Tarrant’s note.
She was safe. Alive and safe.
Finally he pulled back, still holding her close. Margaret surveyed the clutter of the room, the fallen candles, the scorched carpet, the Journals lying on the floor.
“Have you been throwing things again, Montraine?”
“Just so,” he said, amused.
“A very touching scene,” Tarrant rasped, being helped from the floor. He massaged his throat and glared at them.
“The man is a traitor, Robert,” Michael said, and proceeded to tell his friend about the code.
“You fool,” Tarrant said bitterly. “I worked on England’s behalf. If Napoleon had been left to molder at Elba, he would have become the focus of a rallying cry. A martyr for the cause of French independence. He was defeated soon enough.”
“How many English soldiers died at Waterloo because of your treason?” Michael asked bluntly.
“They were casualties of war,” Tarrant spat out.
“As easy as that? Thousands upon thousands die and you can’t even see your own complicity? You must have felt some guilt, Tarrant. Otherwise you would not have been so secretive about your participation.”
“I knew the world would not understand.”
“Why keep the books, if they held such a dangerous secret?” He answered his own question as he stared at the duke. “An act of pride. One that you have had time to regret, no doubt.”
“How was I to know that that fool bastard brother of mine would steal them from me?” Tarrant sneered. “I thought he came to borrow money. I should have suspected something when he looked too damn cheerful at my refusal.”
“You killed him, didn’t you?” Margaret asked softly. Michael could feel her tremble beneath his arm. But she took one step forward and glared at the duke.
“An apt punishment,” Tarrant said tersely. “A thief should expect no less.”
“And the bookshop? You set fire to that as well?”
He only sneered at her.
“There’s nothing noble about your nobility, Tarrant,” she said angrily. “You’re depraved.”
“Now is not the time to express your disdain of the peerage, my love,” he whispered, pulling her back.
Tarrant suddenly moved, so quickly that the two men standing in front of him were unprepared for his action. Picking up a pistol hidden beneath a sheaf of papers on his desk, he pointed it deliberately at Margaret. “You always were insolent.”
Michael shoved her behind him.
“How protective you are, Montraine. Is she worth dying for?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
From here Tarrant could not miss. This time there would be no doubt of the assailant nor the victim. But the other man surprised him. He smiled and slowly raised the pistol, placing the end of the barrel against his temple.
Michael turned and pulled Margaret through the doorway. He didn’t flinch, nor did he turn back at the sound of the shot. He didn’t care about the Duke of Tarrant or his self-imposed fate.
Only three things mattered to Michael Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine. The woman beside him, the child she carried, and their future together.
Epilogue
A happy and joyous life depends upon
conjugal harmony.
The Journals of Augustin X
"There is a spot on your shirt,” Margaret said, amused. He stood in the morning room, the picture of sartorial elegance. Except, of course, for that coin-sized stain on the front of his white shirt.
He plucked the offending material out with two fingers and stared at it. “Veronica was excessively vigorous.”
“I suspect it was her father,” Margaret said, smiling. “You mustn’t jostle her so soon after her feeding.”
“Nonsense,” he said in his own defense. “She thoroughly enjoys it.”
“As much as when you recite code patterns and numbers to her?” Her look teased him. “She’s much too young to understand.”
Margaret had fixed in her mind what type of father he might be. He would take some interest in the rearing of his child, she’d decided. But she had honestly not thought he would be so doting. He was in the nursery so often that the nurserymaid had complained. The baby, too, seemed enraptured at the sound of his voice. The sight of them, father and daughter, was enough to bring tears to Margaret’s eyes.
“She’s an exceptionally intelligent child,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her.
“She’s only three months old.”
“Not too young for her superior abilities to be measured,” he said proudly.
Margaret stifled her smile.
Sometimes, in deciphering a code, Michael was in the middle of it before the beginning was revealed clearly. He needed to test various patterns before discerning which one made more sense.
It occurred to him that his life had been like that.
He was a man who’d been familiar with a solitary schedule, one he’d devised for his peace of mind. Silence had been a necessity. Now laughter, and crooning, and the sound of a lullaby, filled the air most times, along with soft footfalls upon the stairs and a sweet voice. He found himself stopping to listen for all the various noises of his world, then returning to his tasks with a smile on his face.
The past year had s
een many other changes.
His valet had left his employ in a huff a month earlier, declaring that he’d been hired away by another man, a toff, a gentleman with a great care for his wardrobe and his person. One that did not—and here Harrison had sniffed at him—smell so much of infant.
Now his sleeping schedule rotated around not his ciphers but his daughter. He hadn’t been boxing for weeks, and he doubted his horses would recognize him lately. His entire life centered on two individuals, Margaret and Veronica. Yet, instead of his world narrowing, it seemed to expand.
His thoughts, heretofore engaged in a routine and predictable pattern, now seemed fixated on the concept of happiness as a goal, in addition to furnishing his wife with smiles.
The enchantment that had settled over his house was not limited solely to his person, either. The nurserymaid hummed constantly, Molly smiled, and even Smytheton did not look quite so fierce lately.
The only thing disconcerting about his world was today.
“It’s them,” he said, hearing the knock on the door. “Do we have to do this?”
She brushed a piece of lint off his coat. “It’s better to get it over with,” she said, smiling.
“I don’t see why.”
“Because families should not be parted by unkind words,” she said. “And it’s time we healed the breach. There’s Veronica, after all.”
“Remember that I warned you,” he said, walking into the foyer beside her.
Smytheton reached the door, opened it.
The Dowager Countess of Montraine sailed into the house like a barque in a strong wind.
“I received your note, Michael. I am glad to see that you have come to your senses after all this time,” she said, removing her bonnet with one hand and gesturing for her daughters to similarly divest themselves of their outer garments. One by one they did so, layering Smytheton’s arms so heavily that the poor man looked to be dropping from the weight.
