by Brenda Hiatt
“The man doesn’t know who he is,” she pointed out. “We had to tell him his own name. He has no past, or none he’ll admit to. No family either.”
Max shrugged. “At least he won’t come trailing any derelict relations for me to support.”
There was some expression playing in his eyes. Irony? Amusement? No, Vayle told himself. Max wouldn’t be amused, not with his sister ruined and vociferously objecting to the obvious solution. Unless he was playing some deep game of his own, of course.
Just in case, Vayle hurried to enlist himself on Gwen’s side. “I hesitate to bring this up, having already been found wanting on several counts by Miss Sevaric. But ’struth, I’ve no way to support her.”
“Not to mention,” Gwen put in helpfully, “any skills of note. None likely to earn you a decent income, at any rate.”
“Thank you.” His mock-humility was rewarded by his beloved’s quiet chuckle. “I cannot support your sister, not in Sevaric fashion. And you cannot honorably send her to virtual exile in a hovel with me.”
Max drew back, as if considering his countermove. “I don’t know about that,” he said slowly. “You’re handy enough with the cards and dice. Besides, Gwen’s got dowry enough for four brides. Everything I won from the Caines—except this house, of course, which is Dorie’s—goes to her.”
Vayle mentally totted up what that was likely to be and gave a long low whistle. “That casts a whole new light on the situation. A fortune, you say?” With an amused glance at Gwen, he bowed to Sevaric. “All my objections are silenced—brother-in-law.”
“I rather expected you’d come around,” Max said. Now there was no mistaking his irony.
Gwen planted herself between them. “Wait just a minute! I have nothing to say about this?”
“No,” Max and Vayle said together.
Just then Dorie came in, and with a single glance took in the situation. Linking arms with Gwen, she established a feminine barricade and turned a smile to Max and Vayle in turn. “Exactly right, my dear. The final decision is your own, and this pair of muttonheads will not bully you into a marriage with a man who does not please.” She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I must confess, however, that Vayle certainly appears to be worth any amount of trouble. But looks are often deceiving, and if he failed to please you, nothing more need be said. Now about breakfast—”
Gwen detached her arm from Dorie’s. “I didn’t precisely say Mr. Vayle failed to please me.”
“Indeed? But why then are you not eager for a return engagement? That you don’t mean to keep him does, well, rather indicate disappointment.”
“Now just one moment!” Vayle fixed her with a stern look, then turned in time to see Max hiding a laugh behind his hand. Just who was playing games with whom? he wondered. It began to appear all four of them had pretended to be at odds, even that straightest of arrows Lord Sevaric.
He felt a surge of elation. For Gwen he’d have endured a troop of sober-sided nitwits when relations gathered for holidays, and schooled himself to conceal his impatience for her sake. But this, he realized gratefully, was a family he wanted very much to join.
Thank God, they appeared to want him, too, even though he came to them without title, fortune, profession, or even the name that died with him a hundred years ago. But they trusted Gwen, who would never give herself to a man without love in her heart.
Jocelyn Vayle loved Gwen Sevaric. And they knew it, Max and Dorie both. They opened their arms to him, with sly wit and outrageous cunning, to ease his discomfort at being found in Gwen’s bedroom on Christmas morning.
Not that he was in the least embarrassed, of course. Well, not terribly, now that he’d twigged to their jest. And now that he’d found his balance again, with the threat of another duel lifted, and another death. Max would not have required an ill-placed rock to aim his bullet home.
He looked up to see everyone staring at him, and remembered he was the one who called for their attention. What was it he had meant to say? Ah yes. “Can it be my imagination, Miss Sevaric, or do I sense a conspiracy here?”
“Several, I believe. Is it not shameful, my own family turning on me like wolves in the fold? I’m almost of a mind to deny them their pleasure.”
His mouth opened to protest and closed again. From Dorie’s calm expression, he thought she had matters well enough in hand.
She crossed to her husband’s post, looking up at him with a secret smile. “That would be a terrible sacrifice on the altar of pride, Gwen. You might even discover pleasure for yourself, if you wed.”
Vayle looked to Gwen for her reaction and was pleased to see crimson rise to her cheeks. Last night she had found pleasure again and again, no wedding required.
“It’s agreed then,” Max said briskly, with an expression on his face that dared anyone to correct him. “We can make use of that worthless brother of yours, Dorie, and send him off for a special license. He needs the exercise—pasty-looking fellow. Spends too much time in gaming hells. Do you know he’s still abed, and with no good reason to keep him there?”
“Darling, he’ll not find a special license today! It’s Christmas, and bishops are otherwise occupied. The wedding will have to wait until tomorrow.”
Vayle thought it past time to wrest back his life from these two. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not wait another day, no, not another minute, to make my intentions clear.”
He took Gwen’s hand and dropped to one knee before her, speaking in a low voice only she could hear. “Will you have me, fair one? I’ve waited a century to find you. And I want above all things, even Heaven itself, to spend the next century making myself worthy of your love.”
Gwen’s eyes were glowing golden as she gazed down at him. But all she said was, “I expect I should like that.” Then she tugged him to his feet and came into his arms.
Max was a decent fellow, all things considered, and gave them a minute or two before intervening again. “There’s still the matter of tonight. You’ll have to find another bed, Vayle, for you shouldn’t be making merry unless you’re married. Last night was all well and good—”
Vayle looked at him in surprise. “Do you mean to say you condone my… er, our… that is—”
Max waved a dismissive hand. “It was clear enough that you two were smelling of April and May. Well, it wasn’t clear to me, but Dorie noticed. And knowing my sister’s willfulness, I suspect you hadn’t much of a chance to refuse.” He granted them both an understanding smile. “You hadn’t the benefit of army training, Vayle, so you can’t truly be blamed. It takes military discipline to fend off an importunate female.”
“Time for breakfast!” Dorie announced before Max could elaborate.
Robin was summoned, and joined the others in the dining room, still rumpled from his bed but looking ruddier already in the fresh country air.
When informed of the impromptu betrothal, he regarded Vayle with admiration. “I never imagined, and you won her so quick!” He shook his head, then recalled himself and pumped Vayle’s hand vigorously. Finally, his eyes downcast, he turned to Gwen. “Vayle is a fortunate man. May I wish you happy?”
“Thank you.” She gave him a warm smile. “And truly, I am the fortunate one.” Under the table, she squeezed Vayle’s knee.
He put his hand over hers, humbled by her words. It had to be true, for Gwen never lied, and his heart soared in response.
After breakfast, they trooped back to the parlor to burn the Yule log and exchange gifts. As he settled next to Gwen, he rather wished his redemption hadn’t taken quite so well. Virtue was burden indeed for a man who wanted to forget all about Christmas and take this passionate woman straight back to bed.
The perfect hostess, Dorie had a gift for each of them, a bonnet for Gwen, initialed handkerchiefs for Robin and Vayle, and, for Max, a framed sampler embroidered with his regiment’s bugle insignia. After handing all these out, she sat on the floor at her husband’s knee, beaming with their reflected pleasure.
Max admired his sampler for a while, then, as if in afterthought, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flagon.
“Here.” He dropped it into Dorie’s lap.
Slowly she raised the crystal bottle and held it to the light. “It’s my mother’s.”
“Unstop it,” Max commanded.
She pulled off the top and brought the bottle to her face, breathing in the scent. “It’s the same perfume! But it’s no longer made! How did you—”
“I had the perfumer in Croydon match it. Took him a week to get it right. It is right, I hope?”
Dorie dabbed a bit on her wrist and held it up for him to test. “What do you think?”
Max wasn’t one to ignore such an advantage, and enjoyed a few kisses before he admitted the perfumer had done a good job. “See,” he added obscurely, “you were right to trust me.”
“Yes, I was right to trust you.” With a smile, Dorie stoppered the flagon and put it away in her pocket. Then she gazed expectantly around her. “Is everyone hungry for luncheon now? I have a lovely plum pudding.”
“Good lord, wife! We just left the table.”
The others agreed that lunch would be de trop so soon after breakfast, and the talk turned to what the bridal couple meant to do with the future. Vayle looked at Gwen, perched on the arm of his chair, for an answer. But she no more than he had planned for a future neither thought to share.
“Feel free to use the London house as long as you like,” Max offered. “We mean to rusticate for a bit.”
Robin glanced dubiously at his sister’s parlor, scarcely large enough to contain a man, much less a family. “Here?”
“Heavens, no. We’ll move over to Sevaric Hall.” Dorie looked suspiciously demure. “It’s so much safer there for Max.”
To Vayle’s amazement, Max laughed and held up his hand with its four bandaged appendages. “It wasn’t easy, but I have convinced my wife how unsporting we have been, denying honest carpenters a chance to make a living. In future, more adept laborers will restore Greenbriar while we reside in comfort at Sevaric.”
Gwen nodded, a smile playing about her lips. “Thank you, Max. I do think Vayle more suited to London than the country. Indeed, I rather suspect he is already longing for a night on the town.”
“Not so,” Vayle said, offended. “With you to entertain me, I daresay all my evenings will be spent at home.”
That declaration was greeted with skeptical looks.
“You can’t mean to stop gaming!” Robin blurted. When four pairs of narrowed eyes turned to him, he waved a hand. “I know, I know. But it’s different for me. I’ve the sickness and will not play again. What’s more, I was never any good at it. But Vayle is a true gambler, ever in control of the game and of himself. He plays with skill, sniffs luck when it’s on him, and has an uncanny sense of when to take a risk. His talent must not go to waste.”
Vayle acknowledged the compliment with a nod before turning a smile on his bride, who looked a bit concerned. “’Struth, cards and dice are little challenge compared to the gamble I took last night. And no victory will ever be so complete, my love, nor any prize so treasured.”
Gwen was shy yet, at least in public, and only pressed his hand. But her eyes promised more later, and when she bent to whisper in his ear, he readied himself for a detailed description of what that “more” might be.
So low that no one else could hear, she said, “You have just reminded me. What about the treasure? The other one, I mean.”
He sighed. Once again, that damned pile of stones was making a nuisance of itself. But Gwen was right, so he cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Last night, I chanced upon—”
Just then his gaze fell on Robin, standing apart by the fire, shoulders hunched, the odd man out in a room glowing with other people’s happiness. Robin Caine needed a victory of his own.
Smoothly he finished, “—that snuffbox you lent me, Robin. Come up with me and I’ll return it before I forget.”
Robin began to protest that he had meant it as a gift, but Vayle took his arm and towed him into the passageway. He’d every intention of keeping the snuffbox, of course. It was engraved with his monogram—his original monogram—and he took delight in this souvenir of his former life. For the moment, though, it served as a ruse to get Robin out of the parlor.
Near the staircase, a few feet from the hidden priest hole, Vayle glanced up at the landing, hoping to see Francis there to give him one last miracle. Instead he saw only Max’s boot, sticking up to mark the hole in the floor, and a ladder turned over on its side. In a flash, it came to him what must have happened last night… what he had not been able to make out in the dim light of his single candle.
When it fell, the ladder punched a hole in the wood of the landing. And when he took care to examine it on his search for the priest hole, the secret of the house was finally revealed.
Without another thought, he pretended to stumble on the uneven floor and pitched headlong toward the wall under the staircase. With a mighty effort, he scraped his fingers along the wainscoting as if trying to break his fall. There! He had it, and the panel slid an inch or so sideways. Then he let himself crash to the floor.
Ignoring a stab in his knee, he bounded to his feet before Robin tried to play nursemaid. “I’m not hurt,” he declared, bravely suppressing a wince. “But I seem to have damaged the wall.”
As he had hoped, Robin bent to examine the wainscoting. “That’s odd. There’s a gap here.” Gingerly he slipped his fingers inside and edged the panel open another foot. A musty odor leaked out. “It’s a door! A secret door!”
The others were emerging from the parlor, drawn by the crash. Quickly, Vayle seized the low-burning lamp from the hall table and thrust it into Robin’s hands. “You’ve found a priest hole, I’ll wager. Go in and look.”
From the doorway, Max objected that he was the man of experience, the one who knew how to scout and evaluate. He should be the one to investigate the discovery.
Vayle swore under his breath. Just what he needed, eagle-eyed Max spotting fresh footprints in the hundred-year layer of dust. “But consider the spiders,” he warned.
Max hesitated just long enough for Robin to crouch down and insert himself through the opening.
“I’m not afraid of spiders,” Max declared belatedly.
“Shush!” Gwen slipped past her brother and bent to peer into the priest hole. “What do you see?”
Robin’s voice echoed slightly in the empty space. “Spider-webs. Nothing else. Wait. There’s something—Good God!”
Max dropped to his knees beside his sister and looked in. “What is it, Lynton? A skeleton?”
“Oooh,” Dorie exclaimed. “A skeleton!”
“Not a skeleton,” Robin called back. “Something else. Sevaric, let me out.”
They all fell back so that Robin could emerge and straighten up. With one hand he brushed at a cobweb trailing from his nose. In the other hand he held—
“The Caine treasure,” Dorie said in an awed voice. “Robin, what else could it be?”
The stones clicked as he shook the dust off the necklace. “It looks like it, right enough. Do you remember, Dorie? The portrait at Caine Manor, with Lady What’s-er-name wearing the Elizabethan jewels?”
Vayle almost confirmed it. He had been there when the portrait of his mother was painted, four years old then, making as much noise as he could to annoy the artist. This time he held his silence while the young Caines drew together to buff at the necklace and marvel.
Finally Robin raised his head. “I expect we owe you an apology, Sevaric. It’s obvious no one has touched this in decades.”
“A century perhaps,” Gwen put in with a mischievous glance at Vayle. “Not since that wastrel Valerian Caine prowled these halls with his mistress.”
“But how did it wind up in the priest hole?” Max took the lamp and bent to peer again into the darkness. “Did you know this place existed, Dorie?”
“No, of course not. I would have cleaned it up and stored painting supplies here. I wonder—do you think Valerian Caine really did bring the treasure to the lodge? Perhaps he stole it from his brother, intending to sell the gems.” She bounced with excitement, caught up in her story. “Then Richard Sevaric found him hiding in the priest hole, and took him out and shot him, and got shot, too, and so the treasure lay hidden for a hundred years.”
This Vayle couldn’t allow, even as speculation. “A fanciful tale, but I expect the truth is somewhat more pedestrian. More likely it was the lady Blanche who put the jewels in the priest hole while the men were fighting.”
Gwen picked up her cue. “Very like. From all accounts, she was both greedy and concerned only for herself. But she died not long after the feud, and never had a chance to reclaim the treasure.” When Dorie gave her a quizzical look, she shrugged. “Under my father’s command, I became somewhat expert at tracing the history of our families. By the way, wasn’t there also a ring?”
Robin shoved the jewels in Dorie’s hands, dove back in and scrabbled around. “Found it!” he crowed, returning with the ring on his little finger. “Now let me see that necklace again.” He wrapped it around his hand. “Just look at those diamonds! This must be worth a fortune now.”
The glitter in his eyes faded, and slowly he untangled himself from the twist of gold and diamonds and sapphires. “I suppose it’s yours, isn’t it, Sevaric? We found it in your house.”
“As my wife keeps reminding me,” Max said, “it’s her house, not mine. But I imagine a solicitor would tell you that even after a century, the treasure belongs to the Caines and is a legacy to the nearest heir. That’s you, I believe.”
“Yes.” With a look of resolve, Robin turned to his sister and held out the necklace. “Are you sure you don’t want this, Dorie? The bracelet and other stuff, too. You could wear them.”
She looked down at the wealth she was already holding and shook her head. “Thank you, Robin, but my tastes are rather more simple. The necklace alone is positively garish, and this tiara would give me the headache.”
