by Holt, Cheryl
“Isn’t your father a gambler?”
“Well, yes, he is.”
“Then he should understand that a gambling debt has to be honored.”
“He does understand.”
“Yet you came to Bramble Bay anyway,”Raven mused. “I’m curious as to why you’d accept Mrs. Teasdale’s tale that you’re kin to John. You share a surname, but there are many families in the kingdom who can say the same.”
“Your Mr. Sinclair confided to someone at Bramble Bay that the earl is his father and his mother was Florence Harcourt, Countess of Westwood.”
Annalise swallowed a gasp. He had to have confessed to that pasty-faced witch, Sarah Teasdale, and the notion that Jean Pierre had revealed such a personal detail was infuriating. What else had he told the annoying, indiscreet girl?
Mr. Sinclair paused, expecting the disclosure would loosen Raven’s tongue, but it didn’t.
“Monsieur Sinclair,”Annalise asked, “what are you hoping to achieve by coming here?”
“I simply wanted to see if the rumor is true, to see if he actually is my brother.”
“And if he is?”
“I’d like to invite him to visit our family in London. He has several half-sisters there. They would love to meet him.”
Raven scowled, and he and Annalise exchanged a significant look.
Family meant nothing to Jean Pierre. The fact that he had a father, that he had siblings, was irrelevant. He would never meet them. He would never allow himself to be claimed by them.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair,”Raven ultimately said, “but you’ve been misinformed as to John’s identity.”
“Have I?” Mr. Sinclair’s skepticism was overt.
“John has no kin in London,”Raven insisted, “and the Earl of Trent is not his father.”
“What about Mrs. Teasdale’s letter?”Mr. Sinclair asked.
“She must have been confused by what she was told.”
Mr. Sinclair studied Raven, then he tried a different tactic. “Is Mrs. Teasdale related to Florence Harcourt?”
“I believe they were sisters,”Raven admitted, just to stir the pot.
“Sisters…”Mr. Sinclair murmured to himself. “That explains it.”
He waited, but Raven supplied naught more. Finally, Raven rose and motioned to the door. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Sinclair? We’re busy today. It’s a pity Mrs. Teasdale wasted your time.”
“I appreciate your seeing me.” Mr. Sinclair pushed himself to his feet. “Would you give Jean Pierre a message for me?”
Raven and Annalise held perfectly still, not providing any hint that John was also called Jean Pierre.
“As I do not know anyone named Jean Pierre,”Raven said, “I can’t pass on any message.”
Mr. Sinclair gnawed on his cheek, his perplexity obvious.
He was so much like Jean Pierre. Clearly, he yearned to stomp over to Raven, to force him to spill secrets that Raven would never divulge. But Mr. Sinclair was very smart, and he sensed that Raven couldn’t be intimidated.
Instead, he kept speaking. “Tell him that our father is worried about him. He’s growing too reckless, and we’re afraid he’ll be caught and hanged. Tell him we’ll help him to change his path, and if he ever comes to London, he’ll be welcome in my home.”
He laid his card on a nearby table and left.
Raven and Annalise stood quietly until the front door was shut behind him. Then they went over to the window to watch as he mounted his horse and trotted away.
“What do you make of that?”Annalise asked.
“Odd.”
“He and Jean Pierre are so much alike.”
“That old reprobate, Charles Sinclair, has strong bloodlines. I’ve heard that all his children look exactly the same. Apparently, the stories are true.”
“Poor Mildred,”Annalise crooned. “The earl won’t be riding to her rescue.”
Mr. Sinclair rounded the bend and was swallowed up by the trees, and Annalise swung to face Raven.
“When will Jean Pierre be back?”
“He said a month, but how can I guess with any certainty? He’ll return when he’s ready and not a moment before.”
“Is he setting me aside? What did he tell you?”
“I realize you imagine yourself to be extremely important in his life, but you were not mentioned between us when he departed.”
Raven couldn’t bear to suppose that someone else might get close to Jean Pierre. So Raven had always hated Annalise, and she had always hated him.
He deemed her to be inconsequential and disposable, and he was adept at rattling her. She wished she could rattle him too, but he was incredibly self-possessed. It was impossible to make him feel anything at all.
“What of Sarah Teasdale?”she pressed. “What are his plans for her?”
“Again, I have no idea.”
“Will he replace me with her? Will he keep both of us? I won’t share him with her!”
“You’ll obey his commands,”Raven tersely replied, “and you’ll obey them gladly or you’ll be sent back to Paris.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like whatever makes Jean Pierre happy. You don’t factor into the equation.”
“I make him happy.”
“Do you?”he casually mused.
She studied his eyes, wondering what he meant. What had they discussed? What had they arranged?
Raven could deny all he wanted, but he and Jean Pierre were so attuned, they could read each other’s minds. They were one man in two bodies. If she was to be tossed aside, Raven would already have the separation terms drafted.
Ooh, how she detested being a woman. Because she was female, he and Jean Pierre had never trusted her. They never allowed her into their private circle. They viewed her merely as Jean Pierre’s concubine, and her reduced role was galling.
Well, if they thought she could be shuffled off to Paris, they were in for a surprise. She would not be discounted!
“You spew lies about me to him,”she seethed.
“As I said, Annalise, we never discuss you.”
“He won’t let me go.”
“He lets everyone go—eventually. You have to be prepared for it.”
“If he tries with me, I’ll know you were the cause. You’ll be sorry.”
He snorted with disgust. “Don’t threaten me, Annalise. You sound ridiculous.”
“I’ll make you pay. I swear it!”
She stormed out, fuming that she couldn’t garner the respect she deserved. Raven was so obstinately ignorant over how she could assist Jean Pierre, how she could propel him to ever higher achievements.
She trudged to the stairs and climbed, eager to sulk in her bedchamber. She was bored and on edge, and she loathed Bramble Bay. The food was awful, the servants slothful and rude. With Jean Pierre away, there wasn’t a single interesting person with whom she could occupy her time.
But as she reached the landing, she noticed Hedley on the floor above. He hadn’t returned to London, but had stayed in the country, purportedly to help his mother pack, but he was actually a hindrance for Mildred.
Annalise suspected that the true reason he hadn’t gone to London was because—in the city—he was hounded by creditors. Jean Pierre had spread word that Hedley was destitute, so his lines of credit had been revoked. Debt collectors showed up wherever he went. It was easier to hide at Bramble Bay.
Usually, she avoided him. He was young and imprudent and pathetic, but he was used to the entertainments in town, and he had to be chafing as she was chafing. Plus he was fascinated by her, which was soothing to her bruised ego.
He considered her sophisticated and worldly, and she fueled each of his impressions. He envisioned himself to be an appealing rogue who could win her from Jean Pierre. She wouldn’t tamp down his idiotic expectations.
“Miss Dubois,”he beamed, “how lovely to see you.”
“And you, as well, Monsieur Hedley.”
&n
bsp; “Are you busy?”
“No.”
She joined him, standing so close that her breasts brushed his arm. He grinned, thinking she was smitten, that he could steal her from Jean Pierre.
“A friend sent me a gift from London,”he said.
“Really? What is it?”
“A dozen pictures of people indecently posed.” He raised a brow as if he’d just mentioned the most sordid sin imaginable.
“You like naughty pictures?”she breathlessly asked, pretending to be shocked.
“Oh, yes. Very much.”
She snuggled nearer, giving him a spectacular glimpse of her cleavage.
“May I look at them with you?”she inquired.
“I figured you for the type who would enjoy it.” His lips at her ear, he whispered, “He sent me some opium, too. We could smoke it in my room.”
“I never have before,”she fibbed. “I would be afraid to try it. I might forget myself—and I’d be alone with you. Anything could happen.”
He bit down a smirk, assuming he’d tricked her, that she would become intoxicated and he could ravish her.
Mon dieu! Stupid boy.
“You’ll be safe with me, Miss Dubois.”
She frowned, feigning concern. “If you’re sure, Monsieur Hedley.”
“You’ll be fine.”
As he escorted her down the hall to his suite, she rippled with triumph. At least one man in the blasted house thought she was beautiful. At least one man thought she was worth seducing.
Hedley might be a dunce and a fool, but he could prove to be useful, too.
She had warned Raven as to the position owed her by Jean Pierre. If push came to shove, if Sarah Teasdale returned with Jean Pierre and they seemed too intimately connected, Hedley was her brother and had the authority to split them apart.
Hedley was so malleable. He would behave as Annalise demanded.
She entered his room, shut the door, and spun the key in the lock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sarah climbed the stairs to John’s private quarters. While she wanted to pretend she was forced to dine with him, she would be lying. She couldn’t wait to be with him again.
He was a sorcerer, and with each passing minute, she was more completely under his command and control. He treated her like royalty, spoiled and cosseted her in ways that she could never have imagined to be seductive, but they were.
His tantalizing assault was meant to wear her down, to win her over, and she was disgusted to admit that it was working. He was grace personified, the consummate gentleman—worldly, sophisticated, able to converse on any topic—and she had no defense against the onslaught.
What was she going to do?
Her French hiatus had quickly fallen into a regular routine.
She was a lazy, pampered guest, who slept in and who, upon waking, had her every wish immediately granted. She had only to mention a certain food, and it would be presented to her. She had only to mention a horse ride or a walk on the beach, and a footman arrived to accompany her.
During the day, John was busy, and if she saw him at all, it was through the window of her room. He’d be down on the wharf, chatting with sailors and merchants, or out on his ship, loading it for what appeared to be a long journey.
She never grew tired of spying on him. He was so baffling, so dangerous to her equilibrium. Her mind was relentlessly awhirl as she wondered where he was, what he was doing, and if he ever thought of her—as she constantly thought of him.
Their suppers had become a ritual she relished. In the late afternoon, her maids would hurry in with a magnificent new gown, with new jewels and shoes. They would spend hours primping her so she looked like a princess.
Then she would proceed to John’s suite, to the lovely balcony with the pretty view over the harbor. They would enjoy delicious food and wine, then she’d return to her bedchamber and slumber blissfully until the next morning when it would all begin again.
After that first night, she kept watching the French windows, expecting him to step through. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t understand why.
She should have been glad he stayed away, that his desire had fled, but she wasn’t glad. She was irked and confused and even a tad jealous.
Obviously, his taste ran to trollops like Miss Dubois who knew things about passion that Sarah had never had the chance to learn. She was disgusted to find herself in a competition with Annalise Dubois, and she’d lost. It was humiliating and galling.
She was such a mess! Fretting and envious and detesting women she’d never sought to emulate.
She reached the top of the winding stairs. To her surprise, Akmed wasn’t there to escort her inside.
The door was closed, and she knocked and knocked, but no one answered.
For a moment, she worried that she’d gotten the time wrong or that the meal had been canceled, but no. The maids had prepared her as though it was a typical evening.
She dithered, figuring she should go back to her room, but she couldn’t bear to. Jean Pierre had ensnared her so thoroughly that their nocturnal repast was the highlight of her existence. It would be too cruel to miss it.
She pressed her ear to the wood, but heard no noises on the other side. She spun the knob and peeked in. The place was empty, but a fire burned in the grate. There was no sign of Akmed or John, no appetizing aromas wafting from the balcony.
She could see the table where they usually sat to eat. There was no white linen or fine silver, no crystal goblets or decanter of wine. What could have happened?
Her pulse pounded with dread. Was he delayed? Was he ill? Had there been an accident?
She knew so little about him. A mishap could have occurred and she wouldn’t have been informed. It dawned on her that—should she discover he’d suffered a misfortune—she’d be extremely distressed.
“John, are you here?”she called, but there was no reply.
Suddenly, he appeared in the doorway to his bedchamber. He leaned against the frame, sipping on a glass of liquor and studying her as if he couldn’t remember who she was.
For once, he was disheveled, and the sight actually alarmed her. In all the weeks they’d been acquainted, he’d been impeccably dressed and barbered—even when he was out riding the roads in casual attire.
His hair was loose, and he hadn’t shaved, so dark stubble shadowed his cheeks. His emerald eyes were haunted and bleak.
He was wearing trousers, but his feet were bare, his shirt unbuttoned, the hem untucked, the front dangling open to reveal his smooth, intriguing chest.
The changes were unnerving. He—more than anyone she’d ever met—seemed to glide through life with an uncanny ability to shuck off upset or misery. Nothing bothered him. Nothing daunted him. He was always the same: polite, driven, stubborn, intractable. But never sad. Never despairing.
“There you are.” She forced a smile. “When I couldn’t locate you, I was worried. Are you all right?”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.” She gestured to the balcony, feeling foolish and at a loss. “I guess we’re not having supper. No one told me…”
Her voice trailed off.
She wanted to hold him in her arms, to comfort him—as a friend would do, as a wife would do. But she didn’t precisely grasp her position in the household. Would he allow her to console him? Should she try?
“Well, I should probably be going,”she mumbled.
“You’re especially beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“You went to so much trouble.”
“Your servants did. I just stood and let them pamper me.”
“They’re excellent at that.”
He downed his drink, then flung the glass at the fireplace. It was a soft throw, so it hit the marble, but didn’t break. If he’d been hoping for a satisfying crack, he didn’t receive it.
“What’s wrong?”she asked, taking a hesitant step toward him.
“The afternoon got
away from me,”he said, which wasn’t really an answer. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“You’re upset.”
“No, I’m not,”he claimed, but she didn’t believe him.
“You can tell me. I’m a good listener, and if it’s private, I can keep a secret.”
“Not as good as I can, I’ll bet.”
“You could be right about that. You’re very mysterious.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Teasdale.”
Without a word, he vanished into his bedchamber. She ordered herself to leave, but couldn’t make herself depart.
She tiptoed over and saw him by the window, staring out at the sky. He’d poured himself another drink and was gulping it down. His heavy imbibing was another odd change.
When she dined with him, he would have two servings of wine—one before the meal and one during—but no more than that. It was disconcerting to watch him swilling hard liquor.
She felt as if she was perched at a fork in the road that led to two divergent paths. She could follow one back to the hall and return to her room. Or she could go to him, could be the companion and confidante he definitely needed.
If she did that, she would be crossing a line from which she could never rescue herself. She’d be abandoning the life that represented morality and innocence and spinsterhood where she thought she was content to wallow.
She’d be pitching herself onto a more reckless course that would ally her with him in licentious ways she didn’t comprehend. No doubt it would bring her an enormous amount of happiness, but also an enormous amount of anguish.
She paused, as if saying goodbye to the person she used to be. Then she walked over to him. He heard her come, and he draped an arm over her shoulder and snuggled her to him.
“I’m sorry I forgot about supper,”he told her.
“I forgive you—even though I’m starving and I spent hours getting ready.”
“Poor thing,”he sarcastically murmured. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”
He dipped down and kissed her, and it was so sweet that she sighed with pleasure.
“You’ve become the highlight of my day,”she said. “You can’t just expect me to not eat with you.”
