by Candace Camp
"You ..." Gideon stared at his uncle.
"I loved her," Jasper said simply, and sank down onto the wall beside Irene, resting his elbows on his knees and supporting his head with his hands. "God help me, I loved her. I betrayed my brother. My honor."
"Bloody hell," Gideon said in a low voice and turned to look out over the garden.
"I was mad for her," Jasper went on in a dull voice. "I begged her to leave Cecil, to run away with me. Time and again I begged her. I said we would go to America or the Colonies. I didn't care about giving up my family, my name. Nothing mattered to me except her. She was the most beautiful creature, the most charming and gentlest ... But you do not want to hear the lovesick maunderings of an old man."
He stood up and turned toward Gideon. "I know that she would not have left, because she refused to leave earlier with me. She told me that she could not do that to you. You belonged here, at Radbourne Park. You would be the earl someday, and she would not take that away from you. Nor would she leave without you. So she would remain with Cecil, without love, without hope, because of you. And that is how I know that she would not have run away with her lover, if such a man even existed, and taken you with her. And never, no matter what, would she have abandoned you."
"Is that why you joined the Army?" Irene asked.
Jasper nodded. "Yes. I was in despair. I could not stay here, loving her as I did, and see her daily as his wife. Cecil was not worth a single one of her tears. I hated him because she belonged to him, and because he did not even realize what a treasure he had. I began to realize that if I remained at Radbourne Park, I might someday kill him just to free her from him. So I bought a commission and requested an Indian regiment. I wanted to be as far away as I could be, so that I could not break my vow and return, even for leave." He sighed and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face. "If only I had not been so weak, so impulsive. If only I had stayed here, it would not have happened."
"You must not blame yourself," Irene told him sympathetically. "You could not have known that anything would happen."
"I left because I was too weak," he replied, his voice like iron, and his eyes were filled with a regret that she knew would never leave him. "I could not bear it. And God only knows what happened to her."
"What did happen?" Gideon asked, his voice hard and clipped.
"I don't know." Jasper looked at him. "But I am sure that Selene did not walk away of her own accord."
* * * * *
Irene went down to breakfast the next morning looking composed, if somewhat pale, with nothing to give away the fact that she had spent a restless night. The evening before, after she and Gideon had walked with Jasper back into the house, she had gone upstairs to her room, leaving the two men to talk together.
She did not know what had transpired between them, but she had been unable to fall asleep for a long time, her head full of jumbled thoughts and tangled emotions. She kept thinking of Gideon's mother, alone and in love with a man far away. What had she done? What had happened to her? Irene's mind was filled with frightening possibilities. When she finally slept, she had dreamed, jerking awake time after time, sweating, her heart pounding.
This morning she had come awake from the last jarring dream to find that the early morning sun was slanting through the cracks at the edges of the drapes. She would not, she knew, be able to fall back asleep again, and after the night she had spent, she thought that she would rather not. So she rang for her maid and dressed, then walked down to the dining room. At least, she thought, it would probably be empty this early.
It was, save for one person. Gideon raised his head at the sound of her entrance.
"Irene." He stood up quickly.
"Lord Radbourne." She hesitated, then went to the chair he pulled out for her and sat down, determined to act naturally. "Very little company this morning, I see."
"Yes, it is rather early, and I think everyone was tired from the dancing last night."
A footman came forward to offer her dishes from the sideboard, and for the next few minutes Irene was able to occupy herself with filling her plate and eating. Gideon was already through with his meal, and the servant took away his plate, but Gideon himself remained, sipping a cup of tea.
Irene felt his eyes upon her, but she kept her attention on her food. She felt distinctly uncomfortable. The strain that had grown between them the last few, days was exacerbated by the too-private knowledge his uncle had shared with them the night before. At last the silence grew too awkward, and she set down her fork and looked across the table at him.
"What do you plan to do?" she asked him.
"About what?"
She made a face. "About what your uncle told you last night. Do you not ... wonder what happened?"
"My uncle and I talked at length last night," he admitted. "I had already ascertained from the housekeeper that my father's valet still lives here in the village. I had thought I would talk to him, but then ..." He shrugged. "I told myself that there was little use in it. And I delayed it. Now, however—well, I have to find out what I can. My uncle told me that the woman who was my mother's personal maid also lives there. I am going to see both of them, and I thought ... I would appreciate it if you would go with me."
"Of course," Irene replied without hesitation. "But would you not rather take your friend? Mr. Aldenham?"
"No. I have told Piers nothing of this. He is my friend, but this ..." He shrugged. "It is not the sort of thing we talk about."
"When would you like to leave?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "If you are through with your breakfast, we can go immediately. I will have the carriage brought around."
She did not pause to think the matter over, nor wait to see whether Francesca might have some task that needed doing. She only nodded and went up to her room for her gloves and bonnet, and to throw on a light pelisse to cover her arms and shoulders. When she returned downstairs, she found the carriage waiting in the drive in front of the house and Gideon standing beside it, ready to hand her inside.
Once she was enclosed with him in the carriage, she again felt awkward. She could think of nothing to say that sounded natural, and her brain seemed to hum primarily with thoughts of how close he was to her, how little effort it would take to reach out and touch his arm ... and yet he seemed more remote than ever before.
Finally, stiffly, she said, "You have been quite diligent in getting to know the various young ladies."
"Yes." He glanced at her, his face unreadable, then turned to gaze out the window. "I have talked with each of them. And danced with them."
"I saw." She swallowed the sudden lump that developed in her throat.
"I hope you found my steps acceptable."
"Yes, of course." She was pleased to find that her voice came out light and unconcerned. "You did quite well."
She looked out the other window, and after that silence settled between them. It was a relief when, some minutes later, they reached the outskirts of the village. They turned from the main road and took a twisting lane that led them finally to a comfortable little half-timbered cottage.
A maid in a neat gray dress and white cap answered the door and bobbed a curtsey, then ushered them into the small front parlor.
She left the room, and a moment later they heard her calling out the back window, "Mr. Owenby, sir, you've visitors."
Before long an old man entered the parlor, his gaze going first to Gideon, then to Irene. He was a compact man, not tall, but sturdily built, with close-cropped iron-gray hair. He wore a gray jacket over dark breeches and a plain collarless shirt, and it was clear that he had been out in the yard working. A sheen of perspiration still dotted his forehead.
He bowed his head toward Gideon. "My lord."
"You are Mr. Owenby?" Gideon asked.
"Just Owenby, sir. That is what his lordship always called me."
"My father?"
"Yes."
Gideon introduced Irene, and the other man gestured toward t
he chairs grouped before the small fireplace. "Please, sit down, my lord. My lady. May I bring you a cup of tea? Water?"
"No, thank you. We came here to ask you a few questions about the night my mother and I ... left Radbourne Park."
"Of course, sir. When you were kidnapped."
"Is that what happened?"
"Of course, my lord." He flicked a glance at Irene. "Lord Radbourne got a note asking for that necklace, and he gave to me in a little velvet pouch and told me where to take it. So I did. I left it beneath a pew in the church, and then I went down the road to a certain oak tree and I waited. Only nobody ever came to give you to me."
"Owenby, stop," Gideon said shortly. "There is no need to pretend. My grandmother has already told us that the kidnapping was a hoax, something my father made up to cover up what really happened."
"Did she now? What did she say happened?"
"I'd rather hear it from you," Gideon told him flatly.
The man shrugged. "Lord Radbourne went to Lady Radbourne's chamber, but she was not there. He thought she was downstairs, but he did not find her there, either. He wasn't worried at first. He looked around the house a bit, then in the garden, thinking she had gone for a walk. He asked the servants, but none of them had seen her. Then the governess came down, screeching like a madwoman, saying as how you were gone. Everybody started searching like mad then. And finally, in his study, his lordship found the note she had left for him."
"Did you see this note?" Gideon asked.
"Me, sir? No. He wasn't likely to show a private letter to me. But he told me that she had run away. She'd taken you and gone off with a man." His lips curled contemptuously. "No surprise to me."
"Why not?" Irene asked, rather taken aback by the man's tone.
The man barely spared her a glance. "I could see what kind of woman she was—begging your pardon, sir. Anybody could see, except his lordship."
Irene could not help but be struck by the difference between this man's opinion of Gideon's mother and the one expressed by his uncle. It was unusual for a devoted servant to speak ill of his master's wife—and even more so for him to express such an opinion in front of that woman's son. Clearly Owenby's bitterness toward the countess ran deep.
"And what did my father do after he read the letter?" Gideon asked.
"Sent me after them, that's what," the older man answered simply. "He wasn't one to let her go without a fight, least not at first. He didn't tell anyone else what had happened. I took a horse and rode to the village. His lordship took the road the other way." He shrugged. "We couldn't find anyone who'd seen a woman and child, with or without a man."
"Did she take a horse from the stables? How did she leave?"
"I don't know the answer to that. His lordship questioned the head groom, but he said no horses had been taken. I figured she must have taken the boy and run down to the road to meet her lover. That he was waiting for her with a carriage or horses."
"How long did Lord Cecil search for her?"
The man shrugged. "He didn't search, not after that first morning. He thought she'd see the error of her ways and come back. But he had to tell the servants and the neighbors something, so he came up with that tale of the two of you being kidnapped. He figured nobody would question her being gone a few days and then coming back if she had been taken. Only she didn't. He didn't hear from her. A week or so later, he sent me to try to track them down. But it was useless. The trail was cold. I couldn't find anyone who'd seen them, and I had to be careful not to let the truth get out. I checked some ports. I asked at the docks. Nobody remembered seeing a woman and child or a family, at least not a particular one."
"Then what did you do?"
"I came back. What else could I do? They had done a good job of covering their tracks. We had no way of knowing where they went. I think Lord Radbourne hired another man later to look for you and the lady on the Continent, but he never found aught." His mouth tightened. "His lordship was never the same after that."
"You remained in my father's employ?"
"Of course." The valet nodded. "Until the day he died. I gave him his medicine and brought his food to him, what little he could get down. He was a good man, Lord Cecil, and a good master."
"Less good as a father, it seems to me," Irene offered.
The valet shot her a scornful look. "Begging your pardon, miss, but you didn't know the man. Or the woman. She broke him, she did. He deserved better than that—" he bit off the clearly derogatory remark he had been about to make, casting a quick glance at Gideon, and said instead "—that woman."
"I would think a man would make more of an effort to find his own son," Irene countered.
"He thought the boy was better off with his mother," Owenby shot back. "He didn't know she had let him go in the city to fend for himself."
"How do you know she did?" Gideon asked.
"What? What do you mean?"
"How do you know that she let me go in London?"
"I don't. I just assumed ... I mean, that's where they found you, didn't they? That's what the rumor is, that the duke found you in some gaming hell in London and knew it was you."
Gideon arched his brows. "A little more colorful, perhaps, than the literal truth, but yes, London is where I lived."
"And can you remember nothing else?" Owenby asked. "Nothing about your mother or how you came to London?"
"No. Nothing. I would like very much to find out what happened."
"I wish I could help you, my lord," Owenby said. "But I've told you all I know."
"My father never heard anything from her? No letters? No rumors? No one ever claimed to have seen her?"
"Not that I know of."
That was all they were able to get out of him, though Gideon asked him a few more questions. His reply was always the same: He had told them everything he knew. Gideon's mother had run away with her lover, taking her son with them. It was clear that he was through.
Finally Gideon nodded and bade the man a polite goodbye. Then he and Irene left the cottage.
"Well," Irene commented as they settled into the carriage and drove away from the valet's cottage, "he is certainly consistent in his answers."
"And not inclined to elaborate on them, either," Gideon added. "I cannot help but wonder if he knows more than he is saying."
Chapter Sixteen
Irene glanced at Gideon, surprised. "That sounds ominous."
He shrugged. "I don't know. I am not sure there is anything have-cavey there, but ... some things were odd. He was quite frank in his poor opinion of my mother, for one thing."
"Yes, I noticed. He certainly saw her in a different light than Lord Jasper."
"Which, I wonder, is the true picture?" Gideon mused. "The devoted mother and sweet and charming woman of my uncle's view? Or the callous, deceptive strumpet who Owenby saw?"
Impulsively, Irene reached out to lay her hand upon his arm, sympathy swelling in her chest. "I imagine that the truth lies somewhere between those two. But I think Lord Jasper's opinion of her must be more accurate. Owenby's perception is no doubt colored by his love for and loyalty to your father."
Gideon smiled down at her, his hand coming up to cover hers. "Thank you for your kindness, but I am not hurt by what he said. Whatever my mother was, the truth is that I have no memory of her. And while, God knows, I would prefer to believe that she was not a cold, wicked woman, it would not make any difference in my life if that is true. But I cannot help but be struck by the peculiarity of the man's response. It is true that Owenby was a most devoted servant—he was with Lord Cecil from the time he went off to Eton, so I understand. And in my father's will, he left Owenby a nice retainer for his years of service. Still, in general, I find that servants are reluctant to speak ill of anyone to those of higher station. And people of all sorts are reluctant to speak ill of one's mother."
"Yes. He was ... well ... ruder than I would have expected."
"And another thing—he did not seem to have any particu
lar fondness for me." He looked over at her. "Did you notice?"
"He was not effusive," Irene agreed. "Still, he did not seem a demonstrative sort. And he probably would not have been around you that much as a child. Children generally are relegated to the nursery."
Gideon nodded. "True."
Irene said carefully, "I am sure that had you grown up there, he would have known you better and had fonder remembrances of you."
Gideon glanced at her, and a smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. "Irene, are you trying to soothe my wounded feelings?"
She cocked an eyebrow and replied somewhat testily, "Well, you seemed perturbed about the fact that he did not greet you with enthusiasm."
"Thank you for your concern." He bowed his head toward her, grinning in a way that warmed her. The awkwardness between them was gone for the moment, and she felt a closeness to Gideon that had been missing since their conversation after his grandmother's revelation.
"However," he went on, "I was not hurt by his manner any more than by his words. I merely found it rather odd.
Wouldn't you think, as devoted to my father as he was, that there would have been some expression of relief or pleasure that his father's son had been found safe all these years later? I thought an old family retainer would have been more ..." He trailed off, shrugging.
"'Oh, Master Gideon, thank heaven you've been brought back to us after all these years'?" Irene suggested lightly.
He smiled back at her. "Exactly. Something along those lines. Perhaps you did not notice it, but every time he looked at me, his eyes were cold. Even disdainful." He paused. "Do you think me fanciful?"
"No. I can think of few people I would call less fanciful than you," she answered honestly. "I did not notice any particular coldness toward you, but then, I was not on the receiving end of his gaze. If that is the opinion you formed, I would think you had good reason for it." She hesitated, then went on. "What, then, do you suspect? That Owenby might have ... killed her?"
His expression turned rueful. "It sounds a bit far-fetched."
"Well ... Owenby did seem to dislike her a good deal. Perhaps he discovered her affair with your uncle, and he wanted to rid your father of her. He could have forged the letter. Or perhaps your father knew what he did and helped him conceal the crime. Maybe Lord Cecil did not want to lose the man, no matter what he had done."
