“Stop staring down at me like Satan himself. Sit down, my boy. I have enough idiots in my own household without adding you to their numbers.”
The marquess curbed his impatience and his rising temper and lowered his lean body into a leather chair facing the earl. He looked closely at the crippled old man and for the first time felt a stab of alarm. He’d aged years since the last time Richard had seen him. His eyes seemed sunken in his face and his shoulders drooped. Something had happened, something awful.
“Very well. I’m seated. Tell me what’s happened to Sabrina.”
“She’s gone, Clarendon, with but a note to me. My men are scouring the area within a twelve-mile circle, but as yet there is no sign of her.”
The marquess waved an elegant hand impatiently. “Yes, I know that. Elizabeth told me of the letter Sabrina wrote to you. The letter said she’d gone to her aunt Barresford in London.”
The earl’s voice was flat, almost emotionless. “Yes, that damned letter. No one of Sabrina’s description has left from the posting house in Borhamwood. She’s well known in the village. No one has seen her.”
“Then she’s staying with friends near here.”
“I’m sorry, Richard, but no.”
The marquess bounded from his chair. He began his pacing again, back and forth in front of the earl. “Of course she’s nearby. The people she’s with are simply protecting her. From what? Well, I can easily imagine Elizabeth and Trevor dishing out more misery than she could endure. She left simply because she couldn’t bear to stay.”
“She would have come to me if that had been the case. She would have told me. She would have known that I’d deal with Trevor and Elizabeth. No, that isn’t what happened.”
“Damnation, this is bloody ridiculous!” The marquess leaned over the earl’s chair and placed a hand on each arm. “Why, sir? Why did she leave?”
“What did Elizabeth tell you?”
“Elizabeth?” The marquess shrugged, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “She told me some nonsense about Sabrina running away because I was coming to see her.”
A travesty of a smile crossed the old earl’s face, quickly to be gone. “It appears that Elizabeth is playing off all her stories. In a way, my boy, I wish I could believe that, but you must know the truth of it—to the best of my knowledge, Sabrina didn’t remember that you were coming. You have been singularly unsuitorlike these past months, Clarendon, for a man who professes to care for my granddaughter.”
Richard drew back, his dark eyes narrowing. “If you will recall, my lord, I agreed to leave Sabrina be until she reached her eighteenth birthday. Her birthday was two weeks ago. It would appear that you have not much encouraged my suit with her.”
To the marquess’s appalled surprise, a long tear fell from the old earl’s eye, falling crookedly down his wizened cheek. He pounded his fist against the arm of his chair. “Don’t you understand what I’ve been telling you? She’s gone. She’s very likely dead by now. Her horse returned, lame, and we have had no sign of her. The blizzard blew hard for nearly three days—no one could have survived it. No one.”
The marquess curbed a shaft of fear that tore through him, then he quashed it. “Sabrina is young, my lord, but she isn’t a fool. She’s safe, somewhere, she must be. Dammit, sir, do you have any idea why she left in the first place?”
The earl forced himself to think about his nephew and heir. Trevor Eversleigh would not make much of an earl, but at least he was an Eversleigh and the line would not die out. He knew that if he told Clarendon the story Elizabeth and Trevor had foisted upon him, the marquess would likely kill Trevor without a second thought.
“I’ll not have you yelling at me, Richard. I’m sorry, but I simply don’t know.”
At the incredulous look on the marquess’s face, the earl added, his voice hard and laced with pain, “The grief is more mine than yours, my boy. I have lost my granddaughter.”
“I don’t accept your answers, old man,” the marquess said, his voice colder than the icicles hanging from the roof. “Sabrina isn’t dead.”
The earl turned his bony hand palm up in a helpless gesture.
The marquess strode quickly to the door. His hand was on the doorknob when he turned back suddenly. “Where is your nephew, my lord? I would like to meet the fellow.”
The earl couldn’t manage to hide a frisson of distaste as he said, “Trevor is in his bedchamber, nursing a chill. He was leading the search when he was overcome by the cold.”
The marquess didn’t try to hide his contempt. “Are you certain this idiot is of your blood?”
It made the earl smile. “I’m certain. I suppose the explanation is logical enough. Trevor lived all of his life in Italy. Thus he isn’t used to the harshness of our winters.”
The marquess looked as if he would puke. “Will you send for the fellow, my lord, or shall I visit him in his sickroom?”
The earl saw there was no hope for it, and nodded slowly. “Fetch us both a glass of sherry, Richard. I will see if Trevor is well enough to see you.” He raised his hand and tugged the gold tassel on the bell cord.
Trevor pulled open his dressing gown. The maid, Mary, lay on her back, her legs parted, her skirts and petticoats bunched up about her waist. She was still wearing her stout work boots and thick woolen stockings, fastened above her knees with black bands. “Please, sir, won’t you come to me now?” She stretched out her arms to bring him down upon her.
Trevor slowly slid his fingers along the inside of her thighs. She moaned as he caressed her, and pushed her hips upward toward him.
“Such a slut you are, my girl,” he said, his voice low and thick. He felt her tremble and quickly straddled her. She tried to clasp her arms about him to bring his mouth down to hers, but he struck them down. He pushed her skirts higher, until they were covering her face, then he dug his fingers into her flesh.
She cried out. He thrust deep and she moaned. Was it from pain or from pleasure? He didn’t care. “Yes, Mary. You adore the pain, don’t you? The pain and pleasure together move you, don’t they?”
Trevor brought his hand up, riffled his way through all her petticoats and closed his fingers over her breast. He kneaded her as he spoke low to her, telling her how she pleased him, telling her she was a slut and he would give her what she craved. He smiled when he felt her stiffen beneath him. He leaned down and bit her, even as he went so deep it must hurt her. Even as she cried out in pain, she fell into spasms of pleasure. She loved it and hated herself for loving it. She knew with all the clarity of someone who rarely looked deeply into herself that he had recognized this weakness in her, this sinfulness, this perversion, yes, he’d recognized it and he’d come to her, calling to her as a master would to his dog. And she’d come.
Trevor tensed, then let his own release take him. He gave a shout of satisfaction. He called her a whore once again and she welcomed it for she knew it was only the truth. He lay beside her now, his face on the counterpane. Then suddenly he rolled off the bed and stood there, his dressing gown open, his fists clenched, cursing. Damn Sabrina. She was a slut like the rest of them, yet she’d denied him. Now she was dead and he would never have her. He gazed at Mary, who was lying on her side now, her clothes still frothed around her like icing on a cake. She was so easy, coming to him with scarce a backward glance or thought of her mistress, Elizabeth. She’d been easily had. She wasn’t Sabrina. He wanted to hurt her because she was here and Sabrina wasn’t, but he knew it wouldn’t be wise. After the old man was dead, then he could do just as he pleased, but until that cherished day arrived, he would have to moderate his actions.
There was a knock on the bedchamber door. Mary’s eyes flew open to look at him in consternation.
“Cover yourself, quickly.” She jumped from the bed, frantically straightening her clothes. Trevor straightened the covers, and pulled his dressing gown closed. He motioned Mary behind the screen in the corner of the room.
“Who is it?” h
e called, his voice querulous, an invalid’s voice.
“It’s Jesperson, sir. His lordship wishes to speak with you in the library.”
“A moment. I must dress. Are you certain this is important? What does his lordship want?”
“There is someone he wishes you to meet, sir.”
“Very well. Send me my valet.” He turned to Mary. “You might as well do something useful while you are here.” He pointed to the chamber pot. “I will call you when I require you again.”
She made a silent vow in that moment that she would never again come near him, but just as she thought it, she knew she probably would. She took the chamber pot and left the bedchamber. She knew he forgot about her the moment she was out of his sight. She also knew that when the old earl died, Monmouth Abbey would become a very different place. She thought of Lady Elizabeth. She hadn’t much liking for that bitter young woman, but still, she knew Trevor would make her life a misery once he was the undisputed master here.
When she reached the door, she looked back at him over her shoulder. He had shucked off his dressing gown and stood naked by the fireplace. His body was not as beautifully formed as his face. He appeared soft and white, almost like a woman. But he wasn’t anything like a woman. The pain he’d inflicted still remained, but it seemed only to heighten the memory of the ferocious pleasure he had given her as well. She passed his valet in the long corridor. The man knew she’d been with his master. He looked straight through her.
Trevor walked into the library some twenty-five minutes later.
It was about time, the earl thought, looking at him with as little dislike as possible showing on his face. “Ah, here you are, Trevor. This is the Marquess of Arysdale. Richard, my nephew, Trevor Eversleigh.”
Trevor stretched out his beringed fingers and winced as the dark, powerfully built man mangled them in a strong handshake.
“My lord,” he said in a soft, smooth voice, “it is an honor.” He turned an emerald ring on his finger, away from the bitten skin that had been crushed by the marquess’s large hand.
The marquess saw this gesture, took in Trevor’s fobs, high shirt points, and lavender waistcoat, and instinctively drew back. God, he thought, disgusted, the man was a vain coxcomb. He hoped to heaven that he wasn’t also a pederast. That would do no good at all for the Eversleigh line.
“Trevor, the marquess is here because of Sabrina. He is gravely concerned, just as we are, about her disappearance.”
Trevor drew a lace handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and daubed his forehead. “It is a tragedy, my lord. My poor Elizabeth is prostrate with grief. There has been no sign of Sabrina, nothing at all to help us find her.”
The marquess wondered, dispassionately, if Elizabeth were still a virgin. He prayed not. He said pleasantly, although it was difficult faced with this vain idiot, “I’m to marry Sabrina, sir, and am looking for a logical explanation for her leaving.”
A furious pulse beat in Trevor’s neck. He wasn’t, however, stupid. “I fear, my lord,” he said, his voice high and lisping now, “that I can’t be of assistance to you. Of course, my sister-in-law’s precipitous departure has come as a great shock. No one has any idea why she left.”
The marquess turned away, unable to hide his contempt, and quickly drew on his gloves. “I won’t trouble you further,” he said to the earl.
“What do you intend to do, Richard?”
“Scour the damned county for Sabrina, my lord. Good day, sir,” he said to Trevor, and strode from the library.
Trevor looked after the marquess. “You didn’t tell me that Sabrina was to wed that man.”
“She hadn’t as yet accepted him.”
“I see,” Trevor said. He began slowly and precisely to turn the gold fob on his waistcoat. “Such a brute of a fellow he is. Surely he is too large, too demanding, to wed a child like Sabrina.”
“He is a man. Go back and nurse your chill, Trevor, I wish to think.”
A slight sneer crossed Trevor’s face. “I believe, my lord, that my chill has been sufficiently attended to. I shall speak with my poor Elizabeth now.”
The earl’s voice halted him at the door. “I would suggest, nephew, that your so-called reason for Sabrina’s running away not reach the marquess’s ears. He is not an understanding man and he would kill you with his bare hands. If you have ever exercised caution in your life, now is the time.”
“I’ve been very cautious since I’ve come here to England.” Trevor then shuddered delicately. “Did you say he would kill me with his bare hands? He does have very large hands, doesn’t he?” He left the library, his footstep soft as his breath.
14
“No, tell me, Phillip, what happened next? Stop teasing me. Tell me.”
“Very well. Without so much as flinching or batting an eyelid, Nell ordered him to drop his trousers. Then she marched him in front of her back to camp, naked as the day he was born, and said to the colonel, ‘The lout tried to rape me, sir. I trust that you will see him hanged.’ She handed the colonel the pistol and pulled the papers the fellow had stolen from her bodice. ‘If attacking a defenseless woman isn’t enough cause, sir,’ she said, ‘I trust these documents detailing the English strategy will settle the matter.’ The colonel looked at Nell, then at the naked fellow, and dropped his monocle.”
“Oh, goodness, that really didn’t happen, did it?”
“Yes, indeed. After that, the colonel gave Nell the rank of corporal. To this day, she marches with the men and is always referred to as Corporal Nell.”
Suddenly the laughter fell from her face, leaving it blank. Then fear took over. “He tried to rape her but she managed to save herself. She did it, Phillip. I wasn’t strong enough. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
He started to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to tell her that he would never let anyone hurt her again. But he knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. He didn’t question why he was so certain, he just accepted that he was. He looked down at his fingernails. “You know, Sabrina, you don’t have to be at a man’s mercy.”
She raised her face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I can teach you how to fight. If ever again in the future a man tries to hurt you, you’ll know how to defend yourself. You’ll know how to hurt the man.”
“That’s truly possible? You’re not just saying that so that I won’t weep about it anymore?”
“No. When you’re well again, I’ll give you your first lesson.”
Her eyes were shining. “I could kill him if he ever tried to rape me again. I could kill him.”
“Yes, but think if you didn’t kill him, if, instead, you caused him exquisite agony. Then every time he looked at you he would be reminded of the god-awful pain you inflicted on him. Wouldn’t that be a far better punishment than just simple death?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, her voice more intense than any voice he’d ever heard. “Yes, I want to do it.” And then, she said to herself, “I’ll go home.”
“I heard from another military friend of mind that Corporal Nell quit the army last year. She’s now the madam of a very fancy bordello in Brussels.”
“How could she do that? She knew what men were like, what they do to women if they’re but given the chance.”
“I hear that she and all the other ladies are becoming quite rich off the men. Don’t feel sorry for them, Sabrina. Can you imagine any man ever trying to take advantage of a girl who worked for Corporal Nell?”
“Well, maybe no, but I still don’t like it. I don’t think I could ever do something like that.”
“No,” he said, and that was all he said.
He leaned forward then, smiling, and lightly patted her cheek. Instead of drawing back, she said, “You’ve had so many adventures, seen so many exciting places. Of course you could have been killed, but still, you weren’t, and now you have wonderful memories for the rest of your life.”
“They’re by no means all wonderful, Sabrina. Too many men,
brave and loyal men like your father, died and are still dying. That’s why all wars should be pronounced illegal by every government of the world. Can you begin to imagine a world that had no more fighting?”
She thought of all the books she’d read about the great military leaders in history. She said slowly, smiling just a bit now. “There wouldn’t be as many books written if there weren’t wars. Then there wouldn’t be any more heroes.”
“Oh yes, there would. A man doesn’t have to kill people to be a hero.” Again, he remembered Scotland; the experience, he knew, had changed the fundamental way he looked at life, and at death.
“Perhaps, but still, you’re here and you’re real and you’ve had some adventures that were wonderful. I’ve done nothing but ride, attend boring parties, learn how to manage serv—” Her voice disappeared. She looked down at her toes, wiggling beneath the covers.
He said smoothly, “How very enterprising of you, Sabrina, to be an accomplished horsewoman in London, particularly in Fleet Street.”
She had no idea what Fleet Street was. “I would ride in Hyde Park. No one took anything amiss.”
“There is excellent racing there, isn’t that true? All along Rotten Row, so many people riding as fast as the wind.”
“Oh yes, I loved it. That’s how I became such a good horsewoman.”
He just looked at her, shaking his head at himself, not her. If a lady dared to race in Hyde Park, she’d be ostracized, but fast. He said then, smiling, “Do you know that Wellington is famed for his strategic retreats?”
“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing in particular.” He rose. “It’s just that right this moment, I’m retreating because I hope to return to win a final victory.”
“It looks to me as if you can’t get out of my room fast enough. Have I perhaps routed you?”
He stopped at the door. “I’m off to get you a bathtub. I think you’re strong enough to have a proper bath. What do you say?”
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