A Heart in Jeopardy

by Holly Newman

  Maria blew her nose and dabbed at her reddened eyes. She nodded. "I was only thinking of you," she added timidly.

  "I know, dear, and I am the biggest boor for taking you to task for it. Now, off with you. And while you're downstairs, why don't you ask Cook to bake some of those jam tarts I'm so partial to. I'll wager Chrissy would like them, too."

  "I already have," she said with a watery giggle and another sniff. "They should be done by now."

  Leona laughed and gave her a hug. "What would I ever do without you? I'll be down directly. Just be sure you and Chrissy leave a couple for me!"

  After the door closed behind Maria, the smile Leona maintained for her friend's benefit faded. She sagged back against her dressing table and ran a shaking hand across her throbbing temples. Despite her brave words to the contrary, she knew she was ill. Slowly she turned around to study her reflection in the mirror. Feverish blots of color stood out on her high cheekbones, and her eyes were glassy. She sneezed again.

  "Dear Lord, let me get through this day, then I promise I shall stay abed for a week," she murmured. Then she straightened, a determined expression firming her pale lips. "I know my duty. That comes before all else. And I shall see justice done!" She turned away from the mirror and pulled angrily at her dressing gown, tossing it aside.

  "How long do you think it will take my Uncle Nigel to get here? He can ride like the wind, my uncle can. Nuit— that's his horse; it means night in French. My grandmother's French, you see. Actually, she's not my real grandmamma. My real grandmamma died when Papa was a baby. She came to take care of Papa, but my grandfather fell in love with her and married her. Isn't that romantic?" Chrissy paused to sip her hot chocolate.

  Leona repressed a laugh. Since she'd come downstairs to join Chrissy in the parlor, the child had been talking incessantly, all the while hopping from subject to subject. With her temples throbbing and her head feeling like a block of wood, Leona was hard pressed to follow her young guest's rapid conversation. It was fortunate she was not expected to respond. She inhaled the steam escaping from the herbal tea Maria had prepared. She could not identify the herb. She wondered if Maria simply tossed together all the herbs beginning with the letter C, hoping one would work. Though Maria created wonderfully smelling wet and dry potpourris, she was not an herbalist. Still, it did seem the concoction was beneficial, for Leona's ragged breathing had eased. Guiltily, she raised her head to listen to the child.

  "... one of Nuit's get, but Uncle Nigel says any foal fathered by Nuit would be too big for me. He says he'll get me my own horse when I improve my seat. But how can I improve if I must forever ride Rosebud? She's just a pony!" Disgust curled Chrissy's lips.

  This time laughter escaped Leona. She realized she'd missed part of Chrissy's conversation, however, it was not difficult to fill in the missing pieces. Chrissy was horse mad. Leona could appreciate that, for she remembered herself at Chrissy's age. For her it had been particularly agonizing since her older brothers were given horses of their own at ten while she was relegated to her pony until twelve. She gathered from the bits and pieces of her young guest's monologue she'd been able to string together that Chrissy was an only child without even cousins to compare to. Judging from the conversational tidbits the girl had mentioned, Leona learned that Aunt Lucy, a diamond of the first water, was engaged to be married, and that Uncle Nigel was, to his niece, a hero of every peninsular battle fought, a sportsman par excellence, and not a person to cross. How did Chrissy say it? "When he sort of closes his eyes and looks at you through the slits like, you know you're in trouble!"

  Her grandmother she described as gentle and understanding. She obviously made a point of tucking her into bed at night and singing an old French lullaby to her. It was a ritual that was somehow important to the child and sorely missed. Leona wished she'd known that last night. Though she didn't know any French lullabies, an old English one might have helped soothe the frightened child she'd turned over to Maria's care while she went to the inn.

  Curiously, for all her volubility, Chrissy made no mention of her parents other than the mention of her father last night at Lion's Gate. Leona tried once to question her about her parents, but the sad, haunted expression on the child's face made her quickly change the subject.

  She gathered Lord Nevin was ill. What could his illness be? Consumption? That was typically what sent people to Switzerland for long periods of time. Inwardly Leona shuddered at the thought. Again her heart went out to the delightful, talkative child who sat on the stool before the fire licking jam from her fingertips and jumping like a noisy cricket from subject to subject.

  "Aunt Lucy's getting married this spring to Uncle Nigel's best friend in the whole world. Uncle Nigel tells David he's making a mistake to marry Aunt Lucy, but David just laughs. He says one day Uncle Nigel will fall in love, too. Uncle Nigel then gives David one of those looks like I told you, where his eyes are almost closed, and says Bah! David quietly smiles and ignores him." Her brow furrowed, and her bow-shaped mouth puckered. "Sometimes I don't see how he could be Uncle Nigel's best friend. Uncle Nigel hardly ever laughs or smiles. He is too serious, Grandmamma says. But I think he's sad."

  "Sad?" From all Chrissy said, sad seemed the last word to describe Nigel Deveraux. "Why sad?" Leona asked, curiosity creeping through the dull heaviness in her head.

  "Because of Castle Marin," Chrissy succinctly answered, leaving Leona mired in more confusion.

  "But—"

  "Listen!"

  From outside came the sound of a horse stamping its hooves against crackling ice.

  Chrissy set down her cup and saucer with a loud clatter and ran to the front window. "He's here! He's here!" Clapping her hands, she jumped up and down then twirled around, her young face alight with happiness. She raced for the cottage door.

  "Wait! You don't have any shoes!" Leona struggled to untangle herself from the nest of blankets Maria insisted in swaddling about her.

  "Leona Leonard, you stay right where you are!" Maria ordered from the low parlor entrance. "Chrissy, give him room to come in and close the door. You're letting in a draft, child. Remember Leona!"

  "Oh, piffle, Maria," protested Leona.

  "Uncle Nigel! Uncle Nigel!"

  Chrissy launched herself at the tall dark gentleman who ducked his head under the lintel to enter the cottage. He caught her and lifted her high in his arms. "Chrissy!" his deep voice cried, exalted.

  "I thought I'd never see you again!" Chrissy wailed, and the child who moments before had been laughing and happy now laid her head on his broad shoulder and burst into tears.

  Pain ravaged the gentleman's bluntly carved features. He closed his eyes tight against his own tears and buried his face in Chrissy's hair. "Oh, Chrissy, Chrissy," he moaned against her neck, her name wretched from his soul.

  As Nigel Deveraux had ridden up to the neat thatched cottage situated in the middle of a small glade, he'd been afraid to hope, afraid to believe the three-week-long nightmare might be ending. The only other time in his life he'd felt as helpless was when his brother, Brandon, told him of his disease and his desire to enter a sanitarium in Switzerland to seek a cure. That night Nigel drank until he passed out. When he woke, he repeated the procedure until three days passed into oblivion and his brother came to say goodbye, smilingly confident in Nigel's ability to manage the family.

  The day he learned Chrissy was gone, somehow spirited away into the English countryside, he'd become wild. This time there was no descent into an alcoholic fog. He'd been responsible for her well-being and he'd failed. Duty and responsibility weighed heavily in Deveraux. They always had. The feeling of helplessness clawed at his insides, feeding and growing on fears long buried. The agony twisted deep when he realized that merely paying the ransom was not enough. For some inexplicable reason the kidnappers wanted the money from Brandon's hand. They wanted Brandon to come back to England and die without a drop of blood spilling across their hands. What could anyone have against gentle Brandon
? A more giving and kind man never walked the earth.

  Or was the revenge against himself? The one thing Nigel feared more than his own mortality was that he should live to inherit the earldom.

  But no one knew of that deeply hidden fear. Thankfully it eased as he held Chrissy and let the reality of her safety consume him.

  Tears welled in Leona's eyes. She dashed them away with a handkerchief and pushed the last of the blankets off her legs. She hadn't cried in years, and this was certainly not the time to start again. She stood up shakily. Maria took the gentleman's curly brimmed beaver hat from his fingers and gently pushed him toward the parlor. Instinctively he ducked his head under that lintel as well.

  Leona, not a small woman in her own right was amazed at the gentleman's height. Nothing Chrissy told her in her artless prattle adequately prepared her for the Honorable Mr. Nigel Deveraux. He seemed to fill the entire parlor. His stained and muddy great coat sported only two capes, but given the breadth of his shoulders, any more would have made the man appear wider than he was tall. His face was all harsh planes and angles. Lines of experience bracketed firm lips and an arrogant, square-cut jaw that defied argument. His hair was close-cropped and gleamed softly in the morning light like a rich Chinese black lacquer. It was the only softness discernible in him. When he finally raised his head and looked across the room at Leona, she was gripped by the sweeping, suffocating intensity of emotion she glimpsed on his face. It was a panoply of emotions so swiftly veiled as to deny their very existence if it weren't for the residual watery gleam in his blue eyes. In the next moment, Leona found herself being assessed and weighed by eyes turned gem-hard. Her own eyes flared wide in surprise, then faded back into calculated cool disinterest as she tilted her chin up and invited him with a sweep of her hand to sit down.

  Nigel Deveraux carefully assessed the woman in the parlor. From what Sir Nathan Cruikston said, he gathered this woman was Chrissy's supposed rescuer, a Miss Leonard. His mouth firmed into a grim line. Was this woman really the heroine of the day, or was she somehow involved in the conspiracy? What did she hope to gain? She was neat as wax and simply dressed, but her posture and the arrogant little lift of her chin spoke of another position in life. His eyes narrowed. Why was her color so high, and why that unusual glitter in her large hazel eyes? Eyes that reminded him of forest paths. But now was not perhaps the best time for speculation. Chrissy was the one who needed all of his attention, not some conniving woman.

  He nodded curtly to Leona's unspoken invitation. Carrying his crying niece, he took the chair nearest the fire.

  Maria Sprockett frowned at the pantomime between Leona and Mr. Deveraux, but other than pursing her lips, she said nothing before scurrying off to the kitchen to fetch refreshments.

  For several moments the only sounds to be heard in the parlor were the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the crackle of the fire in the grate, and the gulping sobs of a little girl. The large man helplessly patted and rubbed the child's back until the sobs slowed to an occasional hiccup, and then ceased. Finally Chrissy lifted her head from her uncle's shoulder and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Swiftly Leona pressed a handkerchief into her hand, winning a faint smile from Chrissy.

  "Thank you," she murmured, then sniffed. She looked up into the concerned face of her uncle and then into Leona's. Her lips compressed, then her tongue slipped out to touch her upper lip just as Leona saw it do last night. She slid off her uncle's lap to her feet, carefully shaking out the folds of the old dress of Leona's that Maria had hastily altered for her. "Miss Leonard, I'd like you to meet my uncle, the Honorable Nigel Deveraux," she said slowly and carefully as she'd been taught. "Uncle Nigel, this is Miss Leonard." A proud smile curved up the comers of Nigel Deveraux's lips as he rose to his feet to treat the introduction with all the solemnity his niece endowed it with. Uncomfortable with his towering presence, Leona rose as well.

  "I saw the local magistrate when I stopped at the inn to ask directions. He told me of your actions last evening." His dark voice rumbled along Leona's nerve endings like an approaching thunderstorm. His words were spoken calmly enough, but a wild electricity crackled in the air between them. Leona felt her breath tighten in her chest.

  "She was wonderful, Uncle Nigel," Chrissy enthused. "She melted a candle on the door hinges to keep them from squeaking and made shoes for me out of a woolen cloak. Then we ran through the woods as fast as we could."

  Leona felt color rise in her cheeks. "Chrissy, please! It was nothing. I only did what had to be done."

  Disconcerted, she sat down again and fumbled with her handkerchief to blow her nose, missing the quick frown that came and went from Nigel's face. He sat down again and pulled Chrissy onto his lap, anchoring her firmly against him with a broad, well-defined hand.

  There was something about his manner that unsettled Leona. He was polite enough. Perhaps that was it—he was too polite, too distant toward her, while toward Chrissy there were obviously close bonds of love and affection. Leona had not expected him to show love and affection toward herself, but a modicum of warmth and gratitude toward the person who rescued his niece would surely not be out of place!

  Unless he didn't want her rescued.

  Nonsense. She banished that thought from her head. His feelings for Chrissy were too genuine to desire her abduction. Maybe he was naturally a taciturn man around strangers.

  Or perhaps he thinks me involved with the kidnapping.

  Tensely she admitted to herself that that was not beyond the realm of possibility. Leona's blood ran cold at the thought. Chrissy was held on Leonard property, property heavily encumbered and in need of cash. Furthermore, the Norths had very conveniently managed to escape sometime during the night or early morning hours. The evidence, though circumstantial, could be damning.

  Leona slowly raised her head to stare at Deveraux whispering to his niece and earning giggles in return. He must have sensed her regard for he looked up at her. The rough planes of his face appeared as if they were formed of granite. His black brows pulled together, and his eyes narrowed until only slivers of blue ice gleamed from behind the coal-black fringe of his lashes. Instantly Leona understood what Chrissy meant. Nigel Deveraux would not be a man to cross.

  And he suspected her of wrongdoing!

  The thought numbed Leona. Fragments of questions and suspicions raced through her mind, but complete thoughts remained elusive. For a heartbeat lasting an eternity she simply stared at him.

  She was innocent!

  How could he suspect her? Easily. But if she bristled, he'd likely call that proof. Far better, she decided, to understand him superficially, to avoid the treacherous undercurrents and navigate down the center of the channel. Unfortunately, her rational mind did not hold sway. It was falling before stampeding emotion.

  Never had she felt so condemned. Near hysterical laughter welled up in her throat. She would not let it overwhelm her! Ruthlessly she clamped down on the rising emotional tide. Questions. Commonplaces. They could pull her away from the treacherous waters. She looked up at him brightly, smiling like a Bedlamite as she pulled her scattered senses together, searching through the emotional rocks for a safe harbor.

  "Did you by any chance bring clothes for Chrissy? I'm afraid that sack-like dress she is wearing was the best we could find for her on short notice. Unfortunately we have no shoes that would fit her. Did you bring any shoes? If not, I suppose I could ask Mrs. Thrailwithe. Her daughter, Dorinda, is only two or three years older than Chrissy. She may have shoes or boots to fit."

  Now she was babbling, running on like a fiddlestick! With chagrin, Leona bit down on her lower lip.

  "That won't be necessary, Miss Leonard. I have a portmanteau strapped to my horse. Mother insisted I cool my heels for fifteen minutes while she packed it." A faint smile turned up his lips to compliment his deliberate attempt at humor. "I have every confidence it will contain more than Chrissy requires. Furthermore, my friend Mr. Fitzhugh follows me
to Crawfords Dean in our carriage. It will meet us at the Golden Goose. I have faith it, too, will be loaded with needless amenities." Again that tantalizing ghost of a smile.

  Chrissy squirmed around in his lap to face him. "David's coming?"

  Mr. Deveraux looked down at his niece, smiling. This smile broadened until it lit his eyes, changing them from hard-cut gems to the softness of bluebells. The change unnerved Leona.

  "Could you doubt it, poppet? I vow that if you were ten years older, it would be you he'd marry rather than Lucy."

  Chrissy giggled- "That's silly. He's too old."

  He tickled her ribs. "Old! He's thirty! I'll have you remember, minx, that he and I are of the same age," he growled playfully.

  Leona was surprised to discover his age to be thirty. He had looked far older when he entered the cottage; but now, seeing him play with his niece and seeing some of the tension leave his face, the years visibly fell away revealing a boyish charm.

  "Excuse me."

  "Maria!" Leona said with a hint of embarrassed exasperation at the sight of her companion standing at the entrance to the parlor holding a tray in her hands like a serving maid.

  "I do realize it is early, but I thought Mr. Deveraux could do with a nice glass of port to warm him after his long ride." She came into the room carrying their best silver tray on which rested a decanter of port, a cut crystal wineglass, and the chocolate pot to refill Chrissy's cup.

  "Let me help," begged Chrissy, sliding off her uncle's lap. She cleared a space on a nearby table, retrieved her cup from the floor by the hearth, and handed it to Maria to refill.