by Jane Feather
“That whore you call wife did her work well,” Philip said. “Where did you find her? She’s a little more delicate than one usually finds in the stews.”
Rupert spun on his heel, and Philip took an involuntary step back at the power of the contemptuous rage in the icy gray eyes.
“You refer to Octavia in such terms again, brother, and I will cut out your tongue.” His voice was cold and deadly as venom.
Philip touched his lips and there was fear on his face. The fear Rupert recognized from their boyhood, when, goaded beyond endurance, beyond fear of punishment, young Cullum had finally attacked his twin with his own greater physical strength.
Rupert waited for a minute, allowing his words to set-de in the hot, stagnant air. There was no other sound, not even the buzz of a bee or the faintest chirp of bird song.
Then he said, “If you choose to contest my claim—”
“Choose to?” Philip spat. “Who do you think you are? Of course I’ll contest it. I’ll challenge you in every court in the land. If you think I’ll give up everything for you, Cullum, you are moon mad. You think you can leap into my life and simply walk off with the title, with the manor, with Wyndham House. By God, man, you’re even more stupid than I thought you.”
Rupert raised his hand and slapped his brother with his open palm. “No more insults, Philip,” he said gently. “I’d had a lifetime’s worth from you before I was twelve. There’ll be no more.”
Philip stepped back, his hand touching the raised mark on his face, his eyes wide with shock. “You dare to strike me!” he whispered.
“Now I do,” his twin said with a casual shrug. “But only in response to unendurable provocation, my dear brother. You have nothing to fear from me if you put a bridle on your tongue.”
Philip hissed through his teeth, and something small and silver appeared in his hand. He lunged, his face a rictus of fear and loathing.
The knife cut upward in a movement that would have ripped Rupert’s guts from his belly had he not leaped sideways, deflecting the point on one of the silver buttons of his coat. The knife slashed through his shirt and grazed his ribs as he spun again on the balls of his feet. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, but Philip was on him again, his mouth contorted, his eyes frenzied with the madness of one who faced the unfaceable.
Too late, Rupert remembered how his brother had loved playing with knives. How, lighter on his feet than his sturdier twin, he had danced rings around Cullum, playing … always playing … but there’d been a dangerous edge of reality to the game, and Cullum had always in the end retired from the fray, mortified by his own inability to match his twin in this vicious, deadly ballet.
But now this was no game. The blade tore through Rupert’s sleeve. He grabbed for his brother’s wrist, but Philip danced backward with the graceful agility that had been his mark throughout his life. Rupert had his sword half out of the sheath when he dodged the plunging knife yet again.
And his foot caught in a root.
He fell to one knee, shielding his face with his arm, as the mask that was his brother’s face blazed above him, the point of the knife glittered, pointed at his throat. He flung his arm sideways against Philip’s wrist, but the angle was wrong, and he had not sufficient force to throw the weapon off course.
Philip was beyond reason. His hatred and purpose were all-consuming. He had no thought for consequences, only for the fact that out of the blue his world was in jeopardy. And no one and nothing could be permitted to destroy the edifice he had so painstakingly constructed.
Rupert looked into his twin’s eyes and he looked into his own death. For what seemed an eternity, he gazed mesmerized into the dark pools reflecting a twisted soul.
The twisted side of his own soul?
And then his mind tore itself free, and he flung himself sideways the instant before Philip, with a strange sighing sound, fell forward, pinning his brother’s turned shoulder. The knife slipped from his grasp.
“Dear God in heaven.” Octavia’s voice broke the astonishing quiet. “Letitia!”
Philip’s wife stood above her husband, her fine emerald eyes filled with loathing. She stared wordlessly at the large stone in her hand.
Rupert eased his brother off him and got to his feet. He bowed to Letitia. “You have my undying gratitude, ma’am.”
Letitia looked down at her husband. “When your wife told me what was happening … I … I knew he would try to kill you. I know him, you see.”
“I thought I did,” Rupert said ruefully. “I didn’t believe he would lose control. It was never his way. He always chose his own time and place to make trouble and would never risk being implicated himself. I believed I could out-think his every move this time.”
Philip groaned, stirred. Slowly, he pushed himself onto his knees, shaking his head like a hurt and bewildered animal. He struggled to his feet and looked at his wife, at the stone in her hand. Gingerly, he touched the swelling on the back of his head and stared at her in utter incredulity.
“I’m leaving you,” she said in a flat voice devoid of all expression. “I’m going to Wyndham Manor to collect Susannah, and then I’m going back to my father. And if he won’t take me, then I’ll find some way of managing on my own.”
“You tried to kill me,” Philip said, the same bewildered disbelief in his eyes. “Pathetic little worm, you tried to kill me.”
“Worms turn,” Letitia said in the same flat voice. “I don’t care what you do, Philip. I don’t care what you tell people. You can divorce me, in fact I wish you would. But you’ll not keep my child from me.”
She opened her hand and the stone fell to the ground. Then she turned and walked away, her back straight, her head up, and for the first time, the dumpy little figure with the ostrich plumes in her overlarge coiffure had an air of quiet dignity.
Octavia bent and picked up the knife. Its blade of tempered steel was thin enough to slide between a man’s ribs leaving barely a puncture mark. It was an assassin’s weapon.
“I have it in mind to make my announcement on the terrace,” Rupert said evenly, smoothing down his coat, adjusting the disordered lace at his neck. “Do you care to accompany me, Philip, and lend your congratulations to the rest? Or do you prefer to challenge my claim? The latter course will provide society with a much better story. I dare swear they’ll find such a course of events infinitely more entertaining than the joyful reunion of long-lost brothers.”
“You’ll not win,” Philip spat at him, but there was uncertainty in his eyes.
“Oh, yes, I will. The lawyers have already acknowledged me. Old Doctor Mayberry has welcomed me like the prodigal son. He has an intimate knowledge of the body of Cullum Wyndham.” Rupert’s smile was serene. “Oh, yes, Philip. I can prove my identity beyond question, and if you contest it, you’ll look a fool. And we know you’re not that.” The mockery in his smile taunted his brother. “Ger-vase’s murderer, certainly, but no fool,” he added softly.
“Damn you, Cullum. I should have drowned you myself.” Philip turned on his heel and pushed his way through the bushes, away from the terrace.
Octavia shivered. “If Letitia hadn’t … I was two minutes behind her, I would have been too late …” She gazed up at him, the full horror of what might have been only now sinking in.
“I would never have believed she was capable—” She shook her head in astonishment.
“There’s always the last straw,” Rupert said.
“We must look after her … and the child.”
“Of course.”
He reached for her, and she came into his arms with another convulsive little shiver. “Is it really over, my love?”
“Bar the shouting,” he said, stroking the back of her neck. “And a loose end or two with Digby and Lacross … and, more important, a visit to the bishop with a special license.”
“What’ll we tell Papa?”
“The truth?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Yes, perhaps that wo
uld be simplest. He’ll find it no stranger than anything else these last months.”
She leaned into him. “I feel very peculiar, as if I’ve been swimming against a tidal wave and suddenly I’ve been dropped into a mill pond.”
“Do you think you could settle for the quiet life, sweeting?” He smiled down at her.
She shook her head. “No. Could you?”
“No.”
He stroked her cheek with a slender ringer. “We’ll just have to create another earthquake to produce a tidal wave.”
“There’s one way we could be certain to make the earth move,” she suggested mischievously. “On that bench over there.”
Rupert glanced over his shoulder at the stone bench. “Discreetly?” he queried.
“You like taking risks,” she reminded him with a grin. “And besides, my skirts are so voluminous, they could conceal a multitude of sins.”
She took his hand. “Shall we try it? Before you go and drop your bombshell on the terrace?”
“Start as we mean to go on?”
“Or continue as we’ve already started, my lord Wyndham.”
He laughed softly, sitting on the bench, drawing her down astride his lap, one hand deftly unfastening his britches. She raised her skirts and settled them in a rich taffeta puff around them. The sound of voices came from the terrace, the strains of a violin from the musicians entertaining Their Majesties’ guests.
“Shall we make a baby?” Octavia whispered as he slid deep within her.
“I think I might enjoy that.” Rupert smiled, letting his head fall back with a sigh of pleasure. A ray of sunshine touched his face, and the warmth of happiness seeped slowly into his blood. Octavia’s face hung over his, her lambent eyes aglow, her face transfigured with her own happiness.
Finally, he unloosed the long chain of hurts and anger and bitterness and watched it float away from him.
“I don’t know,” he murmured languidly, reaching up to touch her face, “but I think there’s something to be said for the mill pond, after all.”
Octavia smiled and turned her mouth to kiss the palm of his hand. “There’s a time and a place for everything, my lord.”
Epilogue
Philip Wyndham walked through the queen’s drawing room, and for all the notice anyone took of him, he could have been invisible. As he passed Margaret Drayton, she drew back with an ostentatious movement, twitching her turquoise skirts to one side. A rustle of whispers followed him, a burst of laughter, hastily moderated, and he heard someone say, “A climbing boy, would you believe. No … no, I had it on the best authority … soot everywhere.” The laughter rose to a gale, and the hairs on his nape prickled as his rage burned deep and futile.
He glanced across the room to where Octavia, the Countess of Wyndham, stood talking to the Prince of Wales. Her eyes met his and she dropped a half curtsy, a mocking smile curving her mouth.
The story of the climbing boy’s inconvenient appearance had hit the town a week before, and it was still the joke of the season. Only Octavia could have told the tale, but it seemed that no one knew the identity of the lady in question, although it was a subject for constant speculation. But on no one’s lips had Philip heard the Countess of Wyndham’s name mentioned.
Philip forced himself to continue his progress through the room. The Duke of Gosford offered a chilly bow when his son-in-law greeted him with a punctilious courtesy that the duke was unaccustomed to meeting from that quarter. Letitia and Susannah remained safely ensconced at Wyndham Manor, the permanent guests of the Earl and Countess of Wyndham. And speculation as to the reason why she should have sought the protection of her brother-in-law rivaled that of the identity of the woman in the climbing-boy debacle.
Philip Wyndham was providing society with more delicious entertainment than it had enjoyed in years.
His gaze sought his brother. The Earl of Wyndham, in black silk and silver lace, was engaged in an animated conversation in the circle surrounding the king. He stood in the sunlight, and for the first time in his life, his twin skulked in the shadows.
From his earliest memories Philip had striven to push his brother into the darkness. He had basked in the golden glow of parental love and approval, and in adulthood had gathered into his hands the reins of a far-reaching power and influence. His vanity had fed greedily on the supplications of other men, the eager submission of their women, the flattering attentions of the most influential courtiers. And now it was all gone—replaced in this fickle society with a mockery and contempt that seared his gut like acid.
And Cullum was responsible. Cullum had won in the end. Philip had always feared his twin. Even when he believed him dead, the fear had lurked in the dark reaches of his mind. He had always known that Cullum was the stronger and that his only chance to defeat him was to exploit his one fatal weakness. Cullum, like Gervase, was incapable of malice or deceit. In the hands of their younger brother, they were clay. And Philip had removed them both and enjoyed the sun alone.
But now Cullum stood in the sun.
The earl’s slate-gray eyes met his twin’s. The earl was smiling but his eyes burned with contempt. And Philip knew he could expect no mercy from his brother. Cullum would continue to hound him with innuendo and mockery, would continue to use the power and influence he now held to reduce his brother to a nonentity. He would continue until he’d driven him away. Just as he, Philip, had hounded Cullum eighteen years ago.
Unable to bear his brother’s steady stare, Philip turned on his heel and pushed his way out of the reception.
Cullum watched him go; then he looked down at the signet ring he still wore. Philip had forfeited his ring when he had betrayed the trust and commitment it embodied. He had betrayed the honor of the Wyndhams with every action he’d taken since childhood. If the child Octavia carried should be a son, he would bear the name of his dead uncle and he would wear his father’s ring. Then Cullum would destroy the ring Philip had dishonored.
The earl moved discreetly out of the royal circle and crossed the room to his wife’s side. As discreetly, she edged her way out of the prince’s vicinity.
“It shouldn’t be long before Their Majesties take their leave,” he said in a low voice, resting his hand on her bare shoulder.
“Thank God,” Octavia murmured. “This is such a poxy tedious way to spend an evening.”
“It’ll be the last for some months,” he said. “In a couple of weeks you’ll be enjoying a peaceful summer with your father in the Northumberland countryside.”
“I can’t wait to show you Hartridge Folly.” Octavia inched backward toward a curtained window embrasure. “I want to share all my childhood memories with you. Show you all my special places.”
“I thought I knew them all,” her husband said with a grin.
“Far from it,” Octavia replied loftily. “You should know, husband, that I have enough mysteries to keep you guessing for a lifetime.”
“Oh, I do know that,” he responded, his gaze now running in a leisurely caress from the top of her powdered coiffure to the toes of her satin slippers. “Enough for this lifetime and the next, my love. But you will unfold them all for me, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. The buzzing room around them disappeared into the mist, and she quivered under the familiar hot and surging wave of lust, “Piece by piece, layer by layer, until it’s all laid out before you.”
Cullum twitched the heavy crimson curtain aside and stepped back into the narrow embrasure, drawing Octavia with him. The curtain fell again over the archway, enclosing them in their own velvet darkness.
About the Author
JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over five million copies
of her books in print.
Don’t miss Jane Feather’s next captivating romance, The Widow’s Kiss, a Bantam hardcover on sale in January 2001. Read on for a preview….
DERBYSHIRE, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER 1536
THE WOMAN STOOD by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.
She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy, lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.
The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.
“By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.
The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.
For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt, he bellowed in drunken rage.
As he reached her, one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes, she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.
