Still, there was something wrong here, the duchess thought, feeling a slight frisson of fear. She was not a woman given to flights of fancy, but she could almost feel a vortex of emotional undercurrents swirling around her.
Her cool eyes narrowed. Every instinct told her that Ravenhurst needed her help and the exasperating boy would have it, whether he liked the idea or not.
Meanwhile, he was a fool if he did more than amuse himself with the imperious blonde, and the Duchess of Cranford well knew that Viscount Ravenhurst had been a fool only once in his life. It was not a mistake he would ever repeat.
* * * * *
At a table near the window, the room's third occupant delicately buttered a wonderfully airy pastry and nibbled a piece appreciatively, sensuously flicking a tiny crumb from the corner of her full lower lip.
The Angel's chef must be French, of a certainty, the woman decided, taking another bite. Bien sur, no one but a Frenchman could do such justice to patisserie.
For a moment the woman's perfectly sculpted brow creased in a frown.
Par Dieu, this place was not at all as she had expected. The staff were most superior, the rooms comfortable and elegant. Fresh flowers decorated her mantel each morning, and spotless white napkins her table.
And what of the so elusive owner Danielle had glimpsed striding down the hall only minutes before?
Quite lovely, the Frenchwoman conceded — in a farouche sort of way, of course.
Yes, Mademoiselle Leighton was a force to be reckoned with, Danielle decided. She was fire in ice, a woman who could be made to burn with rare passion.
In the hands of the right man, of course.
But the English viscount must not be allowed to become that man.
Danielle could not wait forever, after all. She had been careful with her money, managing to save up a tidy sum, but her resources were not so great as to permit more than a week's time here.
But she had invested too much to give up just yet, the emerald-eyed beauty decided. For her virile English lover was most certainly worth a gamble, Danielle reminded herself, moistening her crimson lips as she recalled some of their more passionate encounters in London.
Nor did the amount of money involved escape her.
Abruptly her lips curved in a slow, sensuous smile.
Oh, yes, Danielle would snare Ravenhurst and soon. Her methods could not fail. She hoped the viscount enjoyed his remaining days of freedom.
They would be very few.
* * * * *
Unaware of her place in these various ruminations, the Angel's owner sped up the rear stairs toward her private rooms, thankful that she had not been waylaid en route.
Her eyes were blurry, her head throbbing when she sank down onto her bed and pulled off the old, frayed bonnet she had worn from Fairleigh. Not that anyone had blinked an eye to see her in a hat so demode. She was, after all, the eccentric Miss Leighton.
Tess's lips tightened, her eyes straying to the distant blue line of the Channel. With you it might have been different, Andre, she thought bleakly. With you I might have pulled up my sandy skirts and gone hunting for oysters along the rock-strewn coast. With you I might have donned breeches and climbed to the top of the highest rigging. And one day, a small head, soft with curling silken hair, might have rested against my breast.
Our child.
Tess caught back a sob. She must not think of that, for the thought of her loss would be too painful to bear. Brushing away the tears that leaped to her eyes, she dug deep into her pocket and pulled out the Frenchman's sculpture. Quickly, as if the touch burned her, she pushed the object to the back of her writing table, where she could not see its haunting beauty.
Not yet. Not until the hurting stopped. Which, Tess thought bleakly, would probably be never.
From the hall came the muffled thump of feet, followed by a burst of laughter quickly stilled.
Someone tapped sharply on the door.
Tess sighed, wishing only to be alone. She was not yet strong enough to begin dissembling, hiding her pain.
Once again the tapping echoed in the quiet corridor.
"Who is it?"
"Only your most faithful admirer, Contessa."
Tess's heart lurched. Gasping softly, she ran to the door and threw it open. "Ashley? Is it truly you, you rogue?"
She could not believe it. The young man standing before her in a maroon satin waistcoat and bottle-green jacket seemed too tall and elegant to be her brother.
With a swift, warning smile, Ashley pushed her back inside and eased the door shut. "Wouldn't want to trumpet it about that you're seeing me for the first time, now would we? Not when Hobhouse has been at such pains to make everyone think you spent the last two weeks up at Oxford with me." His pale green eyes narrowed. "But why —"
Tess interrupted, pulling him to a chair beside her desk. "First you must tell me everything, Ash. Are your quarters comfortable? Have you found amiable comrades? And what of your studies?"
The young man laughed shortly, his eyes darkening. "What sort of interrogation is this?" Seeing his sister's brow furrow, he shrugged. "All well enough, Contessa, so stop fretting over nothing. I'm no sort of scholar, but I suppose you had no expectation of my being that. My fellows are a good enough sort. As to my quarters — I see them seldom, so their lack of comfort bothers me little. But I mean to know what you've been up to, Tess. I warn you, none of these tactics will deter me; I know you too well, my dear. I confess I could not believe it when Hobhouse told me you were still at your wild masquerades."
Tess turned and began to toy with a letter opener on her desk, her eyes carefully averted. "What exactly did Hobhouse tell you?"
For a moment Ashley's delicate features tightened. "Damned little, as a matter of fact. Only that you'd been engaged in some business of a clandestine nature, received an injury, and were rusticating somewhere while you recovered." His voice turned dry. "Odd, you look the very picture of health to me."
For a moment Tess could not speak. "It — it was my eyes, you see. I lost my sight after a — a fall. It all happened so suddenly that ..." She was babbling, Tess knew. Taking a deep breath, she tried for calm. "It sounds fantastical, I know, but up until last night I could see nothing. Then it was as if a veil were pulled from my eyes." She gave a shaky laugh. "I can still hardly believe it myself."
Ashley studied her intently, his legs crossed as he sat in a little damask armchair. "There's more to it than you're telling me, Contessa," he said softly. "I know you too well to be put off the scent. What really happened while you were away? And with whom did you pass those leisure hours — recuperating, that is?"
"It is better that you do not ask, Ash. There are dangers — so many questions, still. Believe me, I would tell you if I could."
The elegant young man before her looked unconvinced. "Tell me at least who took care of you. I hardly see the Fox in the role of nursemaid."
With a ragged little cry, Tess spun about, one pale hand flung across her mouth. Her eyes, when she finally turned back to her brother, were gray-green pools of pain. "Don't ask me anything more, my love. I — I cannot talk of it. Not yet, while the scars are still fresh. Perhaps not — not ever."
Her brother's lips curved in a thin, self-mocking smile. "It never changes, does it, Contessa? Always you must be the strong, silent guardian, and always I the weak, foolish schoolboy, to be coddled and protected at all costs. Well, I'm bloody tired of my juvenile role, do you hear? Just for once, why don't you let me grow up? By God, I've enemies who treat me with more respect than you do!" He pushed unsteadily to his feet, shoving his fists into his waistcoat pockets. "When you can see me for what I am — a man, Tess, not a little boy — then I'll be happy to talk further. Until then, just — just don't bother to look for me!"
Without a backward look, he turned and flung himself from the room, leaving a stricken, white-faced Tess to stare after him.
Was it true? Had her brother grown up without her noticing? Her eyes fi
xed on the empty corridor, Tess asked herself how she could have made such a terrible muddle of things, when all she had meant to do was be kind.
* * * * *
"Her Grace, the Duchess of Cranford." Peale's face was a lesson in impassivity as he opened the door of Lord Ravenhurst's study.
Behind him stood a frail, white-haired lady, her bearing stiff and regal. Her gloved fingers tightened on a fold of gray, watered silk. Motionless and silent, the two people stood studying one another.
"My dear boy," the duchess whispered finally, fierce joy lighting her pale face. Even as she spoke, her hands reached out to him.
"Aunt Victoria," Ravenhurst murmured, moving to grip her slim fingers and lead her to a chair. "What are you doing here in Rye? The last time I saw you, you were caught up in the whirl of the season, with barely enough time left for your various charities."
"What am I doing here, indeed?" the old woman chided, her dark eyes keen on his face.
"Tending to your nephew?" There was a hint of resignation in Ravenhurst's voice.
"Tending to my nephew."
Dane's dark eyes studied her lined face fondly, if exasperatedly. "With no more marriageable females in tow, I devoutly pray."
The duchess made what sounded very close to a snort. "One fete at Ranelagh and you never let me forget it. I suppose an old woman can see to the well-being of her only surviving relation without being called an interfering old harridan!"
Ravenhurst's face broke into a smile, which had the immediate effect of softening the hard, chiseled lines of his jaw. "Ah, but I was so very careful not to call you an, er, interfering old harridan, Aunt." An irrepressible light of mischief gleamed in his lapis eyes. "Would it do the slightest good if I did?"
The duchess only glared. "Not an iota, and well you know it."
"So then a truce it must be. We shall have tea and then you may tell me all that has happened in London since my departure."
"I rather hoped we might talk of you," the duchess said, briskly smoothing her skirts. "At least you've put on some weight since I last saw you. But you've not been sleeping well — I can see it in the lines about your eyes."
Ravenhurst threw up protesting hands. "Come, Aunt. I am nearly six and thirty. You must know I'm past praying for."
"No one is ever past praying for," the woman said sharply. Her eyes probed his face. "Is it very dangerous, then?" she asked softly.
Ravenhurst stiffened. "Overseeing the Royal Military Canal is a great nuisance, but the terrain can hardly be called dangerous, Aunt."
"Bosh. I'm talking about your real purpose in Rye."
Ravenhurst's eyes were fathomless. "And what mission would that be, my dear old dragon?"
"Don't flummox me, boy." The duchess's face was hard with challenge. "I've my own friends at the Admiralty, don't forget. You're no more here to inspect the fortifications than I am —"
"To see the quaint sights of Rye," Ravenhurst finished darkly. "Although I would, of course, be more than happy to show them to you."
"You are a practiced liar, my boy. Yes, you've inherited your father's wit and your mother's charm, and that woman could charm a miser out of his gold, I think. In you it is a deadly combination, I fear."
Ravenhurst's eyes darkened as bitter memories swept over him. But the emotion disappeared almost as fast as it had come, and his mask of lazy indifference dropped back in place. He made the duchess a slight, cool bow. "Such praise is unlike you, Aunt. I quake to imagine what will come next."
The duchess paused in tugging off her long kid gloves. "If I asked for the truth, would you give it to me?"
Ravenhurst's lips tightened.
"I was afraid of that. But, like a fool, I knew I must ask." The duchess's brow creased in annoyance. "Bah, if a woman cannot grow loose-tongued in old age, then what value is there in living so long?" Her fingers freed, she folded her gloves and studied Dane fixedly, one white eyebrow raised in an imperious slant. "When am I to meet her?"
"Her?"
"This woman with whom your name is eternally being linked."
A muscle tensed at Ravenhurst's jaw. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to enlighten me, Your Grace. I am lamentably behind in the season's gossip, I fear."
"Lady Patricia Lennox, of course. Lady Jersey would have it that the banns are to be posted any day." The duchess smiled, not missing the irritation that flared in Ravenhurst's face. More and more intriguing, she thought.
"Of course — Lady Patricia Lennox. How remiss of me not to realize immediately."
"Really, Dane, whom else could I have been speaking of? Never tell me you are dangling after more than one female!"
"Come, Aunt, surely I cannot be held responsible for the sidewalk prattle of idle people with small minds and large tongues." His lips twisted in self-mockery for a moment. "After all, I am the Devil of Trafalgar. Without me, the ton would find little to gossip about. In fact, I rather think I am entitled to some sort of remuneration for all the amusement I provide them."
The duchess's slim fingers rose as if to reach out for him, then fell, tightly laced. "Wretched, exasperating creature!"
"I might say the same of you, madam." Ravenhurst's eyes narrowed, faintly mocking.
"So you mean to tell me nothing at all?"
"Absolutely nothing. 'Twould destroy all your pleasure in ferreting out the truth for yourself."
As he spoke, the duchess's eyes began to sparkle with a faint, wicked gleam. "Yes, I rather believe it would, you rascally creature."
Chapter Thirty-Six
The sun glowed molten fuchsia over the dark crest of the distant Wealden hills as Tess climbed the steps leading to the priory's crumbling stone towers late that afternoon. In her hands she held two silver epees, which had belonged to her maternal grandfather, their chased silver hilts glistening like fire in the light of the setting sun.
So few things she had left. So few things her father had not taken from her. These, at least, Tess had not allowed him to find and pawn to pay for a night's pleasures with one of his drunken whores.
Her eyes burning with jade fires, she tightened her grip on the cold metal.
Defiantly she tucked the foils under her arm, climbing the last steps that took her to the half-ruined parapets. At the corner tower she stopped, leaning upon a pillar of sun-warmed granite while she stared out over the sweeping green lawn and woods of Fairleigh.
As far as the eye could see, all was Leighton land, fertile, emerald acres running down to an azure cove. Her land, or at least her land to care for until Ashley was able to care for it, for everything had gone to her brother, of course. Tess realized now that her brother was closer to being able to shoulder that responsibility than she had known. Perhaps it was only her own obstinacy that had delayed the process.
What would she do then? she wondered. Dwindle into lonely old age, her energies devoted to tending the Angel? Arrange charity functions for wounded soldiers back from the war?
Her expression turned bleak for a moment. There might have been more, so much more. A different world glimpsed, a future lost — not once but twice.
A moment later her chin rose defiantly and she swept back the long auburn strands coiling about her face. At the least she would see the Angel made into the very finest, and the most expensive, hostelry in the south of England. At the very most —
Suddenly her breath checked, her grand schemes forgotten as she watched a tall shadow slip through the thick tangle of trees near the white garden. Jack, she thought, hoping he might have some answers, for she seemed to have only questions.
And then something else caught Tess's attention, a low, muffled drumming coming from the opposite direction. Frowning, she turned to the south, her eyes sweeping across the distant spires of Rye and the lush fields crisscrossed by canals glinting crimson in the sun's last fiery rays.
She tensed, seeing faint puffs of dust float up over the serpentine ribbon of the Winchelsea road.
It was a solitary figure on horseback, co
ming fast.
One of Hawkins's men?
He was nearly at the Fairleigh turning, reining in his mount for a moment, before surging forward up the graveled drive.
Coming directly toward her.
Dear God, what if it were Hawkins? Jack would be emerging from the trees at any moment!
With a sharp cry of alarm, Tess spun about, her foils clutched tightly as she darted back down the way she had come, scattering gravel in her flight. She took the steps two at a time, still carrying the foils beneath her arm.
Too late she saw the erect bearing of the solitary, dark-clad rider, too late the broad sweep of his shoulders.
The white wing of hair glinting at his temple.
The one man more dangerous to the Fox than Amos Hawkins, Tess thought wildly.
Viscount Ravenhurst. Her lover. Her betrayer.
Then that lean, hard-angled visage was before her, his eyes heavy lidded as he scrutinized her face. A crisp fall of white linen gleamed at his throat, pristine against the form-fitting lines of his emerald coat.
A face from her dreams. Nay, from her nightmares!
No time! Tess told herself desperately. Jack would be out of the safety of the coppice at any second.
Her face fierce with challenge, Tess raised her glistening foil. "Take yourself off, blackguard! I've known enough of your villainy." She made her voice shrill, hoping it would carry a warning up the slope to Jack.
Dane's eyes returned the fire of her gaze, all lapis and smoke. "So rumor was right, for once. You have indeed returned. Looking every bit the hoyden, as usual. Your stay — in Oxford, wasn't it? — did little to tame your wildness, I see." His eyes scoured her face, and Tess had the odd feeling he was plumbing her very soul, noting her panic as well as her attempts to conceal that emotion.
"Turn around and go back the way you came, my lord. Thomas is just over the hill, and his pistol will soon bring you to your senses, if my foil does not!"
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