Slightly Sinful

by Mary Balogh

  Looking down at the jewels all heaped together in their heavy box, Rachel felt almost queasy. There were far more of them than she had expected. They must indeed be worth a vast fortune. Then she had a sudden thought and crossed the room until she stood looking down at Nigel Crawley.

  “You did not intend to marry me at all, did you?” she asked him. “You would have found an excuse to wait until after we had gone to Chesbury. You just wanted me to lead you to the jewels.”

  He looked up at her with ill-concealed malice. But it was Miss Crawley who answered.

  “Marry you?” she said with a scornful laugh. “You think that just because you have all that yellow hair and those big, soulful eyes you are God’s answer to every man’s prayer? He wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth. Anyway, he couldn’t. He is married to me.”

  “Oh.” Rachel closed her eyes. “Thank heaven!”

  Bridget tapped Miss Crawley—or Mrs. Crawley or whatever her name was—none too gently on the shoulder.

  “You be quiet now,” she said, “and speak when you are spoken to.”

  It was the moment at which the door crashed open and Sergeant Strickland burst into the room.

  “I got the message,” he said, looking at Geraldine, “and here I am. So this is him, is it?” He bent a stern gaze on Nigel Crawley. “Sitting in the presence of ladies?”

  “What ladies?” Mr. Crawley mumbled.

  “That was not nice, lad,” the sergeant said, stepping closer, “nor wise neither. On your feet, then.”

  “You may go to the devil,” Mr. Crawley told him.

  Sergeant Strickland reached out one massive hand to grasp him by the back collar of his coat, and lifted him to his feet as if he weighed no more than a small sack of potatoes.

  “He called us all whores, Will,” Geraldine told him, “in the middle of the yard outside the Pump Room. Rachel too. And then Sir Jonathan gave him a bloody nose and knocked him down. We all fairly swooned with joy. Jonathan looked as handsome as sin when he was doing it.”

  “That was very unwise, lad.” Sergeant Strickland shook his head sorrowfully as he gazed at a now-cowering Nigel Crawley. “Right, then. Stand at attention.”

  Mr. Crawley gazed at him with uncomprehending eyes.

  “At-ten-SHUN!”

  He snapped to attention.

  “Right, sir,” the sergeant said, addressing Jonathan, “what is to be done with him?”

  “A constable has been sent for,” Jonathan explained. “The ladies’ money has been returned to them, and Miss York’s jewels have been recovered.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Sergeant Strickland said. “I will guard the prisoner until the constable arrives, then, and you and Lord Weston can take the ladies back to the hotel for breakfast. Eyes front, lad.”

  “Oh, Will,” Geraldine said, “you are setting my heart all aflutter. If I had ever followed the drum with you, I would have been in a permanent swoon. I give you fair warning that I am falling in love with you.”

  “You must be a sergeant,” the general said approvingly, “and a damned good one too, if my guess is correct. I would be happy to have you serve in my battalion if I still had one, but Mrs. Sugden persuaded me to retire ten years ago.”

  Sergeant Strickland saluted smartly. “That is all right, sir,” he said. “I was dismissed from the service anyway on account of I lost an eye at Waterloo, but I am a gentleman’s gentleman now—until I can get my feet under me, so to speak. Eyes front, lad, and don’t let me have to tell you again unless you wants to see me in a crotchety mood.”

  Nigel Crawley stood like a soldier on parade, looking remarkably ridiculous. His nose shone like a beacon.

  Rachel looked at Jonathan and found him gazing back at her, laughter and perhaps something a little warmer in his eyes. It had been a turbulent couple of hours, during which they had exchanged scarcely a word or a glance. But in that time he had been her champion. She abhorred violence, being of the opinion that there must always be a peaceful way of solving differences of opinion. Yet she would never forget the thrill of satisfaction she had felt when he drew blood from Nigel Crawley’s nose after that man had called her a whore.

  If she had not already been in love with Jonathan before then, she would have tumbled headlong at that moment.

  But now their association was very nearly at an end. There was nothing to keep her and her uncle in Bath now that Mr. Crawley had been apprehended and her jewels recovered. There was nothing to keep Jonathan from going to London. Today was perhaps all they had left.

  She smiled back at him and felt a tightening of grief in her bosom.

  Two constables arrived soon after that, and there was a great deal of noise and confusion again as several people tried to tell the story at once. But they left again eventually to take the prisoners before a magistrate, General Sugden, Sergeant Strickland, and the four ladies with them. Bridget would have stayed behind, but Rachel could see how wistful she looked and waved her away. She had her uncle to play the part of chaperon.

  He was desperately weary again. He ordered breakfast in his own rooms after they returned to the hotel, and Rachel went with him, unwilling to let him out of her sight until he was settled quietly. Jonathan did not go with them.

  Rachel could only hope that there would be a chance sometime later in the day for a private farewell. He would surely leave tomorrow—or perhaps even later today. She would not be able to bear a public leave-taking.

  But how would she bear a private one either?

  Her uncle was asleep within an hour after their return to the York House Hotel and Rachel got to her feet to leaf idly through the small pile of letters that had been sent on to him from Chesbury.

  THERE WAS NOTHING TO KEEP HIM HERE ANY LONGER, Alleyne realized. The charade was over and so was the chase. The thief who had been the cause of all Rachel’s woes was caught and the money she had felt as a personal debt restored to her friends.

  He could not claim much glory for the happy outcome for her, but it was pleasing anyway to know that she was going to live the life she ought to have been living since her father’s death. She was Miss York of Chesbury Park, she was a considerable heiress, and, best of all, she had an uncle who loved her as a daughter.

  He had nothing to stay for.

  No further excuse.

  By tomorrow night he could be in London. By the next day he might have found someone who recognized him, or he might have tracked down some information about himself. It was an exciting, happy prospect. Surely once he did see a familiar face he would recognize it and everything would come flooding back to him.

  But as he looked out the window of his hotel room onto a street turned wet with a sudden downpour of rain, he felt neither excited nor happy.

  In fact, he felt downright depressed.

  She did not need him any longer. She did not want him. She was with her uncle, as she ought to be, and in time she would marry—how had she phrased it?—the love of her life. She would find such a man too. How could she not? Eligible gentlemen would flock to her side. She could choose whomever she liked.

  He would go outside as soon as the rain stopped, he decided. If Strickland returned soon, perhaps they would even leave Bath today instead of waiting for tomorrow—if the sergeant wished to accompany him, that was. Perhaps he would prefer to stay with Geraldine.

  Where would he begin his search? Alleyne wondered. And what clues did he have already that might lead him to his identity? He had not had any new dreams since the one about the fountain or any new feelings of familiarity like the one he had had after diving into the lake. At least, he did not think he had had either. And yet . . .

  Had he dreamed last night? There was something recent, something that had happened or something he had dreamed. But what was it? He frowned in concentration. Surely his memory of recent events was not about to start playing tricks on him.

  He turned from the window in exasperation after a few minutes. He was going to have to go
outside, rain or no rain. He would go mad if he remained here. But a knock on the door diverted his attention.

  “Come,” he called, expecting that it would be Strickland or perhaps a chambermaid who did not know that he was in.

  But it was Rachel. She came inside and closed the door behind her back.

  “Rachel.” He smiled at her. “I hope this morning’s events did not put too much strain on your uncle’s heart or distress you too much. But you must be very happy that all the stolen property has been recovered and that that husband-and-wife team will not have a chance to rob anyone else for a very long time.”

  “I am.” But she looked decidedly pale, he thought. She did not return his smile as she came toward him, both hands outstretched, but she did look intently at him. “Thank you, Alleyne. Thank you for everything.”

  At first when he took her hands in his he thought the coldness in his head must be caused by the chilliness of her hands. But then there was dizziness too.

  “What?” He gazed blankly at her.

  “Lord Alleyne Bedwyn,” she said softly.

  He gripped her hands as if he were a drowning man and she his only lifeline.

  “What?” he said again.

  “Is the name familiar to you?” she asked him.

  It was not. To his mind it was not. And yet his whole body was reacting to it in strange, uncomfortable ways akin to panic.

  “Where did you hear that name?” He hardly even realized that he was whispering.

  “There was a letter from one of my former neighbors in London,” she said. “It was sent on here from Chesbury with Uncle Richard’s mail. The only missing gentleman she knew of was Lord Alleyne Bedwyn, who died at the Battle of Waterloo, though his body was never found. She knew about it because she happened to be close to St. George’s on Hanover Square when the memorial service the Duke of Bewcastle held for his brother was ending, and she stood watching the crowd leaving the church.”

  Alleyne Bedwyn. Bedwyn. Bedwyn.

  That is the greatest excitement we have seen in Bath since Lady Freyja Bedwyn accused the Marquess of Hallmere right in the middle of the Pump Room of being a debaucher of innocence.

  That was what had been niggling at his mind a few minutes ago . . . Freyja Bedwyn.

  “Are you he?” Rachel asked him.

  He raised his eyes to hers again and stared blankly at her. He knew that he was—he was Alleyne Bedwyn. But only his body knew it. His mind was still a blank.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am Alleyne Bedwyn.”

  “Alleyne.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her upper lip. “It suits you so much better than Jonathan.”

  Alleyne Bedwyn.

  Freyja Bedwyn.

  The Duke of Bewcastle—his brother.

  They were all just words to his mind and churning panic to his body.

  “You must write to the Duke of Bewcastle immediately,” she said, her smile suddenly radiant. “Imagine how happy he will be, Jon— Alleyne. I will run down now and fetch pen and ink. You must—”

  “No!” he said harshly, releasing her hands. He strode away from her to stand beside the bed, his back to her, his hands busily straightening the candlestick on the bedside table.

  “He ought to be informed,” she said. “Let me—”

  “No!” he spun around to glare at her, his eyes blazing. “Leave me. Get out of here.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  “Out!” He pointed at the door. “Leave me.”

  She turned sharply away and hurried to the door. But she did not open it. She stood for a few moments, her head hung low.

  “Alleyne,” she said, “don’t shut me out. Please don’t. Please don’t.”

  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes huge and wounded. And he knew that if she left the room he would go all to pieces. He reached out blindly for her, and they came together in the middle of the room, their arms coming about each other and clinging tightly.

  “Don’t leave me,” he told her. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.” She lifted her face from his shoulder. “I won’t ever leave you.”

  He kissed her, straining her to him as if he would never let her go. And when he stopped kissing her he buried his face against her shoulder and wept. He would have pulled away from her then in horror and embarrassment, but she held him tightly and murmured unintelligible words to him, and he sobbed his heart out in great noisy, undignified gulps until he was spent and exhausted.

  “Well,” he said shakily as he half turned from her in order to use his handkerchief, “now you know what sort of person Lord Alleyne Bedwyn is.”

  “I have always known him,” she said. “I have just not known his name until today. He is a gentleman I like and admire and respect. He is a gentleman for whom I feel a deep affection.”

  He put his handkerchief away in a pocket and raked his fingers through his hair.

  “I always hoped,” he said, “that if one small memory would return everything would come flooding back in an instant. But my worst fears have just been realized. Someone in the abbey yard this morning mentioned the name Lady Freyja Bedwyn and I felt as if I had been jarred by some shock even though I was too busy at the time to pay the feeling any attention. When you spoke the name Lord Alleyne Bedwyn, I knew immediately that it was my own. And I recognized the name of the Duke of Bewcastle. But the curtain has not fallen from my memory, Rachel. Freyja—how is she related to me? I know she is. I know who I am now. I know that I have at least one elder brother. But it is as if I know these things with my body, with a part of me that sits low in my stomach, rather than with my mind. I cannot remember.”

  He was grateful that she did not say anything, did not try to offer comfort or hope in words. She merely stood beside him and set a hand on his arm and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

  He took her to lie on the bed, and they lay there for a long time, his arm about her shoulders, his other hand over his eyes. She lay on her side, curled against him, her head on his shoulder, one arm thrown across his waist.

  He felt infinitely comforted. She was Rachel. His love. His one anchor in a turbulent ocean of seething depths.

  “I suppose there are not many people,” he said, “who can say that they survived their own funeral. I have you to thank for that.” He kissed the top of her head.

  She merely burrowed closer.

  And then he saw the fountain again. But this time he saw it against the background of a great mansion that was a curious but not displeasing mixture of architectural styles, spanning several centuries.

  “Home,” he said. “It is my home.” He could not remember its name, but he could see it. And he described it to her—its outside, that was. He could not remember its inside.

  “It will all come back to you,” she said. “I know it will, Alleyne. Alleyne, Alleyne. I do like your name.”

  “We all have strange names.” He frowned and then shook his head. “I think it was my mother who named us. She was a famous reader of ancient romance and I suppose scorned naming us George or Charles or William—or Jonathan.”

  She kissed his ear.

  BY THE TIME THEY ALL GATHERED FOR DINNER THAT evening, there was a great deal of excitement in the air.

  Nigel Crawley and his wife had been bound over for trial, and the ladies were brimming over with eagerness to recount all the details that the others had missed when they returned to the hotel. Even Sergeant Strickland had found some excuse to be in the room, standing deferentially behind Alleyne’s chair and occasionally unable to resist the temptation to interject a lengthy comment.

  The ladies were also excited about having their money back, one thing they all admitted they had not expected to happen. Now they could declare themselves officially retired from their profession, an announcement that occasioned a toast to which everyone drank. And now they could revive their dream and decide exactly where in England they wished to settle so that they could go there and look about them for a sui
table building in which to set up their boarding house.

  Tomorrow they would leave for London to tie up all loose ends there and make their plans.

  Rachel let them talk until they seemed to have nothing left to say. Then she looked all about the table, her hands clasped to her bosom.

  “I have something to say,” she said.

  Even Uncle Richard did not know yet. He had slept all afternoon. Anyway, she had lain on the bed in Alleyne’s room all afternoon. She had even fallen asleep there. So had he, incredibly.

  “Do you, Rachel?” Bridget said. “We have been talking rather a lot, haven’t we? But it has been a very exciting day, you must admit.”

  “What is it, Rache?” Geraldine asked.

  “I have someone to present to you,” Rachel said, “someone whose acquaintance you have all been longing to make.” She laughed.

  Alleyne was looking at her with bright, almost feverish eyes.

  Rachel indicated him with one hand.

  “May I present Lord Alleyne Bedwyn,” she said, “brother of the Duke of Bewcastle.”

  Flossie whooped inelegantly.

  “God bless you, sir,” Sergeant Strickland said. “I always knew you was a real nob.”

  “Bewcastle?” Uncle Richard said, looking closely at Alleyne. “Of Lindsey Hall in Hampshire? But that is not so very far from Chesbury. I ought to have seen the resemblance.”

  “Lord love us,” Phyllis said, “I am dining with a real live duke’s brother. Catch me while I swoon, if you will, Bridge.”

  “I said that was an aristocratic nose,” Geraldine declared. “Now did I or did I not?”

  “You did, Gerry,” Flossie said. “And you were quite right too.”

  “You know the Duke of Bewcastle and his family, Uncle Richard?” Rachel asked.

  “I am acquainted with him,” her uncle said, “but I cannot say I have met any of the others. There are a few brothers and sisters, I believe, but I do not know their names. But Lord Alleyne will be able to tell you.”

  “My memory has not returned, sir,” Alleyne said. “Only the merest fragments.”