When he was gone, Florence crossed her hands over the head of her cane and glared about the room.
“I grew quite fond of French lace before the war,” she explained, though no one asked, “and saw no reason to do without it for twenty years. For that matter, I doubt there is a house anywhere between here and Cornwall that does not have a storage room filled with blackmarket goods of one nature or another. And I would defy you to explore any one of the caves beneath Berry Head and not find evidence of transactions conducted with the garrisoned soldiers. Why, I recall...well, never mind what I recall. It is what Rory recollects--or does not recollect--that is the more pressing concern at the moment. He is much better today compared to yesterday and I’m sure he will improve twofold by tomorrow if we all make the effort to help him remember happier times.”
Anna had not moved from Emory’s side, nor had he taken his hand away from hers. Whether he sensed her watching him, or whether his gaze just happened to stray in her direction, she found herself suddenly looking deeply into the dark eyes. His face wore no expression, betrayed no emotion. She could not have said how she knew what he was thinking, but it came to her as clearly as if her aunt had struck another limb with her cane: He did not plan to be here tomorrow. Regardless if his memory came back or not, he intended to leave Widdicombe House at the first opportunity.
Anna lowered her lashes in an effort to hide her sudden dismay. It made perfect sense, of course, that he should leave before too many people discovered he was here. Lucille Althorpe did not exude a sense of discretion. If anything, she reminded Anna of the scores of women who crowded the ballrooms and assemblies in London, who would raise their fans and in strictest confidence, would tell a complete stranger some twisted piece of ‘truth’ she had heard whispered by some other sworn-to-secrecy source.
And if her aunt was right, if dearest Lucille had grand designs on becoming the next Countess of Hatherleigh, it would only require the right whisper in the right ear to remove one of the barriers standing in her way.
CHAPTER 10
The storm Emory had predicted struck with full force less than two hours later. It came on swift, green-bellied clouds swollen with rain, driven by winds that gusted so hard at times the windows rattled and the trees outside were bent in half. Willerkins was dispatched to gather extra candles and lamps, to stoke the fires in the parlor and bedrooms, and where required, set out buckets and towels to collect the water that dripped from ceilings and ran down walls.
During those same two hours, Stanley monopolized most of the conversation, earnestly convinced it was possible, if he recounted enough events from their youth, to fully restore Emory’s memory before Throckmorton appeared to ring the six o’clock gong. To Annaleah, who found herself an equally rapt listener, it was a tale of a misspent youth, the wild and undisciplined adolescence of a third son who saw no earthly benefit to learning philosophical theories or memorizing long passages of Latin scripts.
Florence had already intimated that Emory had not got on well with his father, that there had been beatings and violent arguments. Most of the former came from stepping in to defend Poor Arthur from the earl’s belief that, if his son’s avian fantasies had been brought on by repeatedly boxing his ears, they could also be cured that way. Stanley speculated it was only because of Poor Arthur that Emory had not run away long before his sixteenth year.
But in that year, the earl died of a burst vein in his head. With their older brother William now the head of the family, Poor Arthur was safe, and within a week of their father’s funeral, Rory was on a ship bound for the Indies. He spent the next six years sailing to parts of the world most people only knew as vague names on a map, and when he returned, he came to Windsea Hall laden with bolts of exotic silk and jars of spices no one could name. He had been to the American colonies, to Mexico and Peru. He had even sailed to the Far East and walked along the great wall. He had brought back tiger skins and Chinese porcelain, and a wondrous curved sword that had belonged to a great Samurai warrior.
For Poor Arthur, he had brought a solid gold cage made in many tiers and layers, containing tiny yellow birds that sang so sweetly they brought tears to his brother’s eyes.
Even though William had welcomed him home, Emory had barely lasted out a month in the quiet countryside before his blood grew restless again. He answered England’s call for experienced seamen and went off to join the war against France. He served as a Lieutenant in Nelson’s fleet, but after the victory at Trafalgar, he parted company with the navy and engaged in several private ventures that eventually won him ownership of the Intrepid. During those same years, Stanley had answered his own calling and been given the parish in Brixham. Three years ago, he had married Lucille; thirteen months ago, William Althorpe had died unexpectedly, leaving Poor Arthur next in line to inherit the titles and estates.
Annaleah had watched Emory’s reactions carefully to see if he responded to anything his brother said, but he might as easily have been listening to a stranger’s mixed tales of woe and adventure. In the end, she abandoned the pretence of studying him for purely clinical reasons and found herself studying the man himself. She had startled herself--and her aunt, she suspected--by rushing so quickly to his side earlier. After the episode on top of the cliffs, she thought she would rather be trampled under a runaway coach than ever have to stand face to face with him again. She had challenged him to do his best, and by heaven, he had done it. He had kissed her with his entire body, not just his mouth, and the smallest flicker of a smile, the slightest warmth in a glance that came her way--and there were many--started that melting feeling all over again.
When Willerkins had fetched the trunk from the vicar’s coach, Althorpe had excused himself to change. The clothes had once been his and had been stored in the attic of the vicarage, even so they were, sadly enough, not much of an improvement. He was no longer the gangly youth who had gone off to sea in search of the Seven Wonders, nor was he the righteous young officer who had stalked off to war. His shoulders were considerably broader and strained the seams of the royal blue velvet jacket Stanley had brought. The high white collar of the linen shirt seemed to constrict his throat, and the buttons on the cream silk waistcoat tested the strength of the embroidery around the holes. The nankeen breeches were a slightly better fit, though his thighs were so taut with muscle, the lightweight fabric molded to them as immodestly as the wet linen drawers that, try as she might to scrub her mind, Annaleah would likely never eradicate from her thoughts.
He looked very much like a pirate. With his gleaming black hair, his weathered complexion, she could easily envision him on the rolling deck of a tall ship, his hands braced on the wheel, his smile as gleamingly ominous as the skull and crossbones flying overhead.
Yet as easily as she could picture him as a pirate, she could not envision him a traitor. If he was a sneaking, conniving, treacherous malfeasant, would not some of that sly cunning show in his eyes? His manners? If he was a cold-blooded murderer, would he not betray some degree of lethal impatience with Lucille Althorpe? Her flirtatious entreaties for him to elaborate on his lightning glimmers of shipboard life had even sent Florence’s hand curling longingly around the silver head of her walking stick on more than one occasion.
By the time Throckmorton appeared to ring the six o’clock gong, the storm was in a full-blown rage. Willerkins reported that the vicar’s coach had been taken to the stables to prevent it being blown into the next parish, also that he had taken the liberty of having an additional bedchamber prepared for overnight guests. Lucille looked aghast at the very notion of having to spend the night at Widdicombe House, but when the wind started to howl and the rain began to pelt the windows like sprays of pigeon shot, her misgivings were replaced by alarmed whimperings.
Out of deference for Florence’s age and established routines supper was served early, at eight. Throughout the meal of boiled chicken, mutton pie, and stewed kidneys, Anna merely pushed her fork around the plate, building a small hillock
out of her food then flattening it again. She kept one eye on the lightning and thunder crashing outside, one eye on Emory Althorpe, and if she had time between she glanced at Stanley who now felt it his duty to point out the fact that Emory had never liked kidneys, was not overly fond of pickled eel, and did not tolerate the gastric effects of cabbage well. Lucille had begun to seriously grate on Anna's nerves, laughing in a high, tinkling falsetto at nearly everything Emory said, or interrupting her husband to add something completely irrelevant to the conversation.
When supper was over, they returned to the parlor, where brandy was brought in on a tray alongside a small teak box. Before Willerkins went to the men, he opened the box for Florence, who helped herself to one of the cigars inside, clipped the end with her teeth, and spat the nub in the general direction of the hearth.
If nothing else, it had the effect of finally rendering Lucille speechless, especially when Emory struck a match and lit it for her, then casually strolled back to his seat and lit one for himself.
Annaleah’s father and brother both indulged in dinner cigars, and while she had never in all her years seen a woman do so, she had heard rumours that the Queen was known to enjoy one on occasion. In polite London society, of course, it would have been considered the height of rudeness for a gentleman to indulge in front of a lady. But they were in a house atop a storm-swept cliff in Devonshire, and because it was a lady herself who had drawn the first puff, that particular rule, like so many others that had been cast upon the wind thus far, seemed a bit absurd.
Anna was almost tempted to take one herself and might have done so had Lucille not clapped her little hands and declared it such fun to be so wicked. Against Stanley’s solemn advice, she entreated Emory to light a cigar for her, and when he did so, she not only coughed herself into a blinding fit of tears, but when the fit passed, her face wavered between ash gray and a rather spectacular shade of green.
Florence and the men were able, after that, to enjoy their brandies and cigars with little interruption save for the ragings of Mother Nature.
“I expect we shall see the kidneys again at breakfast,” Florence remarked as she stubbed out the last smoldering inch. “Mildred is not one to waste good viscera. Lift the crust of a pastry at one meal, you are bound to find remainders of another, usually disguised with mustard or fennel. I cannot remember the last time she was pressed into cooking for more than one guest at a time, however, so there will either be sufficient fare to feed ten in the morning, or barely enough to fill a hole in your tooth.”
“You have already been generous beyond the pale, Dame Widdicombe. I only regret that circumstances force us to make these further intrusions on your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, Vicar. I have not had two such handsome gentlemen staying under my roof in too many years to recount. To that end, I believe I shall retire to my bed and spare all of you the need to look politely at your hands.”
She accepted Emory’s help out of the chair and walked stiffly to the door. “Willerkins will show you to your room, Vicar, when you are ready. He assures me he has prepared one of the more civilized bedchambers for you. As for you, Rory dear, you have been brought down out of the attic and put in a room with a water closet and a real tub for bathing. I trust you’ll not get the two confused,” she added with a wink. “Anna, you may walk me to the stairs then return and take my place as hostess. No, no. Carry on as long as you like. I doubt I shall get much sleep with this thunder crashing all about us, but I have had three brandies and should find my bed well enough with Willerkins help.”
After Florence bid her last good night, Annaleah accompanied her across the hall, carrying a three tined candelabra to augment the light cast by the scattered wall sconces.
“Well?” Florence leaned close to whisper. “What do you make of the evening thus far?”
Anna glanced over her shoulder. “I think Reverend Althorpe is genuinely happy to see his brother. He is trying very hard, at any rate, to help restore some memories. As for Lucille--”
Florence chuckled. “I think if sweet Lucille stares any harder, poor Rory will have scorch marks in his breeches.”
“Auntie!”
“Never you mind, Auntie. I am not too old or dry to appreciate the healthier attributes of a man’s body. Nor should you be playing the gulled innocent with me, young lady. I was not the one duelling with the rogue’s tongue out on the cliffs this afternoon.”
Annaleah stopped cold, letting her aunt walk ahead several paces into the shadows before she found her voice. “You saw us?”
“Good gracious, if I could still see across the room with any clarity, I would not have lively conversations with my coat tree each morning. It was Ethel who saw you. She told Mildred and Mildred told Willerkins and Willerkins--” Florence half turned and raised an eyebrow to where Willerkins hovered in the shadows-- “tells me everything. Not that I would not have guessed something was amiss, young lady, for he has put a fine blush in your cheeks, and it suits you. From the sound of it, I wish I had seen it. Willerkins says you gave your fiancé quite an eyeful.”
“Oh...Auntie... It was not on Mr. Althorpe’s initiative. It was mine. Entirely mine. I was desperate to discourage Lord Barrimore’s proposal and all I could think to do on the moment was--”
“Throw yourself in the arms of another man? And Rory obliged of course, how gallant.” Florence pursed her lips. “I expect if you wanted to discourage the marquis, then you have succeeded. As related by Ethel, the poor man’s back was so stiff with indignation, she heard it crack when he clambered up into his carriage. It is a wonder he did not appear on my doorstep tonight demanding a duel of another sort; lucky for all of us the storm closed in so swiftly. On the other hand, I would not be surprised if, as soon as it departs, your brother is the one appearing on my doorstep--with a warrant to remove you from this house of shameless debauchery.”
Anna groaned softly, for she had never even considered that the repercussions might extend to her aunt. The candelabra seemed to grow inordinately heavy. It tipped and splashed wax on the floor and she would have dropped it had a familiar hand not reached past her shoulder and gently relieved her of the burden. Emory had come up quietly behind them and stood beside her now with his face bathed in the bright yellow glare, his eyes reflecting tiny sparks of light from the flames.
“If blame is being apportioned, ladies, I will bear my share. I believe it takes two to give an eyeful.”
He left Anna gaping after him as he gave the candelabra to Willerkins and walked over to where Florence waited at the bottom of the stairs. She gave him a crinkly smile and rested a gnarled hand on his cheek.
“And such a devilish handsome eyeful you are too,” she whispered. “If I were sixty years younger, or even forty...”
He caught up her hand and pressed it to his lips. “You would likely still be too much for me to handle.”
Her smile held a moment longer then gave way to a slow sigh of resignation. “I do not imagine we shall have the pleasure of your company much longer, will we? But you’ll not leave without saying goodbye?”
“On that you have my word though I am at a loss to know what I could ever do or say to thank you.”
Florence chuckled again. “Would that I were wicked enough to tell you.”
She reclaimed her hand and took Willerkins’ arm, then turned to climb the stairs. Emory stayed by the balustrade until they arrived at the top, then he watched a few seconds more as the bloom thrown by the candlelight wavered away into the darkness.
Anna was standing exactly where he had left her. The white muslin of her dress glowed softly against the shadows; her skin was so pale the circles of color on her cheeks stood out like paint.
“Why would she think you would leave without saying goodbye?”
“Because if I had any sense I would go now and use the storm to my advantage.”
“Advantage? Since when would a soaking and a fever be to anyone’s advantage?”
“When it is at
one’s own risk and exposes no one else to harm.”
His voice was as soft and dusky as the shadows and Anna tried not to notice how his eyes were following the curve of her throat, her shoulder, the low décolletage of her bodice while he spoke. She had changed clothes before dinner and foolishly discarded her first choice of a high necked cotton day dress for a shiny froth of silk that left her breasts no room for error.
“Where will you go? With no memory of who might be a friend and who a foe, how can you possibly travel anywhere with any confidence? Would you not be exposing yourself to the far greater danger of walking blindly into a trap?”
He drew closer. “I am flattered, Miss Fairchilde, that you show so much concern for my wellbeing.”
“I am not concerned,” she protested softly. “I...I am merely attempting to be practical. Do you not think it ludicrous for a man with no memory to be in such a hurry to depart the only place he knows he is safe?”
“No more ludicrous than a young woman inviting scandal upon herself instead of simply refusing a man’s offer of marriage.”
Anna flinched as a particularly loud crack of thunder seemed to shake the foundations underfoot. Her blush had spread down her throat and shivered across her skin, tightening into visible peaks beneath the silk.
“A gentleman,” she whispered, “would not mention the incident again.”
He was close enough to pluck a stray lock of dark hair off her shoulder and let it slip through his fingers. “You have heard what my brother has been saying about me all evening. If nothing else, I think we can safely assume that I am not a gentleman, at least not in any refined sense of the word. As for forgetting the incident--” he caught up the silky strand of hair and started to wind it slowly around his fingers. “I found myself thinking of little else each time I looked at you tonight.”
Swept Away Page 13
