No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  "But what is this?" he said, bewildered. Taking one look at her terrified visage, he uttered, "Of course! Of course!" Stop­ping a passing hackney, he helped her inside and firmly shut the door behind them. "Where to, my lady? Back to The Cres­cent?"

  "No!" she gasped before she could stop herself. She forced herself to calm down and remind herself that the earl no longer held claim to Number One. She took several deep breaths, and wondered if her father had come to Bath unin­formed of his loss. Thinking more rationally, she said, "Yes. I'm afraid I was mistaken. I suppose I should go back to The Crescent."

  When she was safe inside the kitchen of Number One, drinking a beaker full of warm milk, Brienne asked Ralph, "How does it feel to have made your offer to a coward?"

  "A woman need not be brave, especially when she has been so terribly frightened." Ralph bent down to her, concern hardening his beautiful, Romanesque face.

  In the background Brienne heard the comforting squeal of whirring iron as the dog-wheel spit went around and around, powered by a small, gray-muzzled mongrel that Cook pam­pered and called "my precious."

  "What has made you so frightened, princess?" Ralph asked sharply.

  "Please, I cannot tell you." She looked away; terror rose in her violet eyes.

  "Then get away from here!" With a look of exasperation on his face, he turned and looked around the kitchen. "You de­serve better than this, Brienne. You deserve protection and a fine home. I have wonderful homes in London and Bristol, and I vex myself every day that you are not mistress of them." '

  "Please, just give me some more time," she pleaded.

  "And what do you need all this time for?" Gently, he lifted her chin.

  "I don't know." She looked into the fire; misery shone bright on her face.

  There was a long, soul-wretching silence as he pondered her. Finally he said in a bleak voice, "You don't love me, do you?"

  "It's not that!" She denied it, but she could see he didn't believe her.

  "I suppose I'd guessed as much." He stood up, angered, and yet for the time being resigned. "You don't have to an­swer me right away. But when you do, princess, you know where I live. Call for me at any time. I mean that." He tilted her head up and kissed her passionately on her mouth. "I'd make you love me. Know that."

  "I think you could," she answered truthfully. "Just give me a few more days. I'm sure I'll give you the answer you want then."

  After his departure, Brienne sat on the kitchen bench and watched the mongrel run its wheel, around and around. Cook had told her of dogs that had been forced to run by having the pads of their feet burned. They ran the wheel in hope of find­ing relief from the pain. But of course, "my precious" wasn't the type to run away on slaughter day, not having undergone such mistreatment. But as Brienne watched the dog perform its arduous task—a mongrel of less than two stone roasted a side of beef that was near five—she couldn't help but note similarities between the mongrel's situation and her own. Both of them had arduous tasks to perform. Around and around in her mind spun the questions, what should she do now that the earl was in Bath? How could she stop him from carrying out his nefarious schemes?

  When the body was found, the servants at Number One indulged in all sorts of morbid speculation. Mrs. Whitsome sent the footman out at dawn to get the edition of The Bath Chronicle that held die details of the gruesome murder and the description of the unknown body.

  It seemed that the mysterious girl had common enough fea­tures, a large, full figure, and indistinct coloring. There were unusual markings on the body—a cluster of three black moles of various sizes on the girl's upper lip. A sickening sensation came over Brienne as she read about the body's brutal rape with a harness tanner's knife.

  Completely subdued, she gave the paper back to the other curious servants and left for her room, now knowing the ugly truth. All she could think about was Annie back at Osterley, when she had wickedly thrust herself into the pink polonaise. The maid's upper lip had twitched sensuously when she talked; Brienne recalled how proud Annie was of the fact that she required no patches to look lusty. Annie possessed natural markings that created the effect—three moles.

  Brienne bit her upper lip, thinking hard. Perhaps she should write to Avenel. He could handle the situation. But her head started to pound when she seriously considered the possibility, and she knew she wouldn't do it. She remembered the scars that the earl had viciously produced on him, and suddenly a fierce protectiveness came over her. Hardly believing it her­self, she pictured Avenel actually vulnerable when put up against such unholy evil as her father. No, she would not ask him to come. She would not involve him.

  She now knew she had to find a way of dealing with her father before he sought his revenge on the new owner of Osterley. As much as the idea of being the earl's spawn re­pulsed her, she felt that if she could put him away, perhaps it would absolve her of her heritage. But the only way to do that was to go to a man more powerful than the earl himself. She would have to go to the Duke of Degarre.

  That had been no easy task, she told herself several days later. First she had had to convince the coachman to take her to Castle Coombe, where the duke lived. Then she'd had to convince Mrs. Whitsome of the necessity of the trip without alarming her. Finally she had claimed that the entire outing was a rendezvous with Mr. Harcourt, so she had been allowed to go. It was Brienne's luck that the housekeeper was so busy that she couldn't serve as chaperone and sent a young serving maid in her place.

  Now riding in the carriage, as a spring rain began to let up, Brienne felt as nervous as she had the day she left Tenby,

  perhaps even more so. For this was a nasty business. She looked out the rain-washed window and saw the first towers of the aged castle. Before she knew it, she was gathering her cloak about her to descend to the ground, not bothering to awaken the tiny maid who had drifted off to sleep before they'd left The Crescent.

  Swallowing her fear and then her pride, she walked up to the huge medieval door and knocked on it loudly enough to awaken the dead. "I have come to see the duke," she said to the silver-haired footman who answered the door.

  "The duke?" The tall, thin man opened the door wider, allowing her to enter.

  "He is in?"

  The man cocked his head and smirked at her.

  "I realize this must seem extraordinary. But I must have an appearance—"

  "No explanations are necessary. The duke resides in the morning room at this hour. Follow me."

  She followed him through the maze of dusty halls and steep, crumbling stone stairways and finally was let into a large room with high, soot-stained gothic windows and dingy tapestries. The first thing she noticed about the room, however, wasn't the duke himself nor its cathedral atmosphere; rather, it was the sickly sweet odor of the room. It made her want to retch right there on the stone floor. But she swallowed her bile as she walked toward the thronelike chair on which the duke was seated, praying that his action against her father would be swift and her trip worth the risk.

  "Your Grace, my name is Brienne M-Morrow," she stut­tered, suddenly fearing the large bulky man who was the Duke of Degarre. She was surprised that he appeared so un­kempt and lifeless—and dirty. His knee breeches had yellow egg stains dried upon them, and his hair—or what was left of it —was shiny and greasy. He certainly didn't look like a man with much authority, and when she finally met his faraway gaze, her hopes sunk into a quagmire of despair.

  "Morrow, speak to me of the young Morrow," the duke mumbled incoherently. His eyes wandered across her face.

  "Your Grace, you must help. Oliver Morrow has—" she began.

  "The Younger will help. Speak to me of Morrow."

  "I shall speak to you of Morrow," she said, her voice trem­bling with hopelessness and anger. This man could hardly hear her words, much less understand them. No wonder the foot­man had looked upon her with such ridicule. She continued, "It is because of you that he has been able to commit these heinous crimes unchecked. I know now
why. It is all because of you—all because of you and your vile Chinese drug."

  "Who are you?" he asked, only half aware. Then he ad­justed his fat, wavering belly, which was covered with matted velvet and looked like the underside of a cur. He seemed to want to stand up but his drugged body could not complete the motion.

  "I am Brienne Morrow! I am the daughter of the Earl of Laborde!" She raised her voice, despite the man's high rank in the peerage. "I have come here in hopes of stopping my fa­ther. I had hoped that you would be able to . . . Damn you!" She fought back tears of misery. "You worthless man! You probably can't even stand up by yourself, let alone control your dukedom!"

  "Speak to me of Morrow. The Younger will save us all. Then my guilt will be assuaged," he whispered euphorically.

  "You want me to speak of Morrow? Then so be it. The Earl of Laborde is the devil. He is a murderous, evil Satan. And he will be stopped from his mad desires, even if I have to be the one to do it." As she turned to leave, she knew the trip had been a failure. But then, she should have known. Her father had had free rein to perform his evil deeds, and now, glancing back at the slothful, drugged duke, she knew why.

  "You've not spoken of Morrow!" The man laughed mildly at her fleeing back. "Come back, wench! Tell me who you are!"

  "I am Brienne Morrow!" she screamed at him futilely. "The daughter of the Earl of Laborde!"

  "Nay, nay!" He snickered in his delusions. "The earl has no daughters!"

  She stopped in her tracks. No daughters! Was the man tell­ing her something about her past? In his drugged state, would he make some grand revelation—perhaps that she was illegiti­mate after all? Her interest piqued, she paused at the door and said, "The Earl of Laborde—Oliver Morrow—is not my fa­ther, then?"

  "The earl? Your father?" he whispered, now inexplicably coherent. He smiled with almost painful regret, and then he disclosed something she had never expected. "How could he be, wench? Lord Oliver Morrow has been dead longer than you've been alive."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  "Are you contemplating pay­ing a visit to Degarre?" Cumberland coughed into his hand as he watched Avenel greet a flurry of new faces. They had been to seven soirees in less than five nights, and the hectic pace was beginning to wear on both of them—especially Avenel, who was developing a sharp edge in his already intimidating coun­tenance. He did not look as if he were enjoying London soci­ety, and at times Cumberland wondered why they socialized at all. But then when he was reminded of who Avenel was, he ceased wondering.

  "And what for? To watch a child being entranced by a poppy plant? Twould be more than useless," Avenel sneered.

  "I daresay the old addict has caused a mound, of trouble through the years. Sometimes I wonder what would have hap­pened if the old bird had been different. You know—"

  "Have you seen her?" A woman rushed up to a small group nearby, her excited voice carrying over to the two men.

  "Seen who?" a young man in the group interjected.

  "The painting! In the library! They say she's an unknown. Oh! But to be so beautiful! It just isn't fair!"

  "Whatever is the commotion? I haven't seen these people so excited since the Princesse de Lambelle was rumored to have visited," Cumberland said a little contemptuously. "You know, Slane, I must admit that they are a dull bunch. So proper and witty, they could put you to sleep in mere seconds. And now—who was it, a Mrs. Montagu or somebody—want­ing you to join her poetry group? The man who took the daughter of the last Maryland governor, and right underneath his very nose practically—"

  "Enough said." Avenel's face twitched with suppressed laughter. "Who knows? Maybe Mrs. Montagu will find me a poetic gentleman after all."

  "Poetic, maybe. A gentleman? Never!" Both men laughed until certain dignified ladies peered at them over their fans, quietly demanding that they stop.

  "Let's have a look at the old gal, shall we?"

  "The painting?" Avenel laughed again. "Another pastoral scene of a young miss who looks vaguely like a brown Guern­sey? No, thank you."

  "I suppose you've hit the nail on the head. I'm afraid the evening may be a long one, so let's have some more spirits."

  "Amen to that." Avenel led the way.

  It was a long evening. Both men willingly imbibed too much. Although it was unusual for them to do so, neither seemed to want to stop. Dinner was interminably long, and they were grateful when it was time to retire to the viscount's library. Walking ahead of the party after dinner, Avenel went straight to the marble-topped mixing table and poured another couple of brandies. He turned and deposited one in his friend's hand; he himself had already taken his in two long gulps.

  "Easy, old boy," Cumberland said to him, noticing that the drink was taking some of the sharpness out of the younger man. He also noticed how miserable Avenel was. Perhaps it was time they returned home; perhaps they should be back at Osterley.

  "And now what do we talk about? Another session against the Colonies? Or do we trample the French this time?"

  "Look, Slane, we don't have to do this. These social events won't make as much difference in your final acceptance as we thought. Truly, to look at these people now, all they really judge is one's purse—and yours is lined with gold and silver. You have nothing to prove." Cumberland noticed that men were wandering into the library and gathering about a large painting over the blazing marble fireplace.

  "I'm beginning to believe that." Avenel palmed his empty glass in his hand and looked up. "But we've just got to do everything right. It has taken so long, and we've tried so—"

  Cumberland waited for him to finish, but Avenel's words never came. When Cumberland looked up at Avenel's face, he was awed by the powerful display of emotion that he saw there. Relief, joy, and even love could be seen, but Cumber­land also saw a foundation of red-hot anger that seared each of these passions. Confused, he followed Avenel's shocked gaze to the place over the mantel. There he found a typical pastoral painting of a girl. But then he, too, felt the sudden jolt of surprise. Although weeks had passed since she'd left, he had yet to forget that face. Dressed in an ill-fitting gown and poised in unbelievably idealized surroundings was the beauti­ful face of Brienne Morrow. Everything was hers, from the wind-touseled locks of deepest auburn hair to the haunted blue-violet eyes; she was as real in the painting as she had been the last time both of them had seen her.

  "You say it's by a man named Gainsborough?" Cumberland said thoughtfully over his teacup. "You're quite sure?"

  "Oh, yes, the viscount said so himself " The pigeon-breasted viscountess sipped from her cup. "I must say, I find it strange that you haven't heard of the man. He has made quite a name for himself since his days in Bath. Have you been away to the Continent, perhaps?" She peered at him, and for a second Cumberland actually thought she would coo.

  "Ah, no. I mean—yes! The Continent, of course."

  "I had rather guessed, you see. I'd have known if you'd been in England. Especially since you have such a handsome companion." She blushed deeply.

  "Yes. Of course."

  "Not that you aren't, mind you."

  "Aren't what, my lady?" Cumberland asked distractedly.

  "Handsome! Perhaps a little on the small side, but alto­gether you do make up a fine figure." She pulled her fauteuil closer to him.

  "How thoughtful you are, my lady." He stood up in a flash. He knew he was being rude, but he was bent on self-preservation. "If this will suffice for the picture, I am afraid I must be off." He tossed a heavy purse of gold on the inlaid tea table.

  "So soon! But you must stay for breakfast! I had thought that when you left your card with my footman this morning, wanting to see me, you would—"

  "All true, all true, my lady." He coughed. "But I am afraid I've an unexpected appointment with Master Slane."

  "Yes, that one," the viscountess said slyly. "Perhaps you could give him my regards?" She narrowed her eyes meaning­fully, and he did not lose her message.

  "Of course, and I am sur
e he will be utterly flattered." Cumberland was unspeakably relieved to see the viscountess stand.

  "I do hope so. I am of the peerage, as you know. You must make it clear to Master Slane that it will do him well to have friends in high places. Remember, one cannot buy good bloodlines."

  "No, my lady."

  "My footman will show you to the library. The viscount will be furious when he discovers that I have sold his painting, but I say good riddance! The chit is rather attractive, and it doesn't do having her grab all the attention, now does it?"

  He furiously nodded his head in agreement and kissed one of the woman's pudgy hands. Then he was finally free to go to the library down the hall and retrieve the canvas from its frame.

  Thank God that's over, he thought as he was led to' the front door, canvas in hand. It was a good thing he had come. If Avenel had been the one to do this job, he might have been eaten alive!

  "Here she is." Cumberland stepped into the waiting car­riage and handed Avenel the roiled canvas.

  "Did the viscountess know anything about the model?"

  "No, only that the girl was making her exceedingly jeal­ous." Cumberland swallowed hard. "But she does send her fondest regards, Slane. And when I say fondest, I do mean it!"

  Avenel laughed as he hadn't in weeks.' Cumberland noted that it was a deep and joyful laugh, quite a change from the dark, brooding grunts that had been the man's response to every question or problem that had arisen since Brienne had run away.

  "I've already told the driver to take us to the painter's house. He's apparently quite well known, which is a blessing. Name's Gainsborough."

  "Does he live far away?" Avenel questioned anxiously.

  "Again you're in luck." Cumberland sat back satisfied. "Did you get the package?"

  "The rider delivered it near daybreak" was all he could say before the carriage stopped at its destination.