by Fran Baker
“Now, Father,” Vincent drawled, “you shall have your explanation.” He lightly rested a hand upon Antiqua shoulder as with a great many interruptions and an even greater show of patience, he related the full story of the events which led up to William Allen’s death.
At the tale’s end, Mme. Tallien heaved a large sigh. “But you have had, ma petite, a very grand adventure, non?’
“Oh, yes, Tante Yvonne, it’s been splendid,” Antiqua replied somewhat distractedly. “But now Jack—I mean, Mr. Vincent—must leave quickly for the continent before he is arrested for killing the Viscount.”
“I don’t think, my dear, that you can have been attending to me,” Vincent said gently. “Possibly it is the effect of your wound. I am not going to be leaving England just yet. In fact, I intend to be making only one journey in the weeks to come.”
“But Jack,” she objected, forgetting the formalities in her worry, “you must go! You cannot just wait for the authorities to come and take you away!”
“No one will arrest the son of the Duke of Sedgwick!” his Grace bellowed. “I’d like to see them try!”
“I believe, sir,” said Winthrop, “that such a worry need not concern us. His nation has cause to be grateful to Vincent for what he’s done to end the Bonapartist plot and to insure that at least one agent shall not go about his traitorous business again.”
“M’granddaughter ought to be recognized for the part she played in seeing that rascal Boney was not set loose upon the world to make mischief again,” Sir Arthur put in.
Antiqua scarcely paid heed to the proud note in her grandfather’s voice. “I did little, sir. It is Thomas Allen who should be honored.” Then, fixing her gaze upon Sir Giles, she asked, “Are you quite, quite sure that he will be safe?”
“Quite sure, Miss Greybill.”
“Giles always knows about these things, my dear,” Lady Julianne assured her. “If he says Jack is safe in England, you may depend upon it.”
“Then you need not go?” Antiqua asked again, still unable to believe the happy truth.
“I told you, my sweet,” Vincent said, “I am contemplating only one journey in the near future. And that most certainly will not take me out of England.”
Something in his light tone caught her breath, and she inquired hesitantly, “W-what trip is that, Jack?”
“Our wedding journey, of course.”
She thought perhaps it was delirium from having been shot, or possibly the effects of that burning Blue Ruin, but whatever the cause, Antiqua knew such happiness could not be real. She must be imagining that loving look Jack was focusing upon her, the cheerful tumult his simple reply had created.
“Wedding!” “Are you saying?” and “Congratulations!” rang out all at once.
But as often before, Mme. Tallien’s booming voice outrang them all. “Tiens! I knew how it would be when I first saw him!” she proclaimed with immense, if less than truthful, satisfaction.
“My dears, I am so very happy, I cannot tell you.” Lady Julianne wiped a tear from her eye and gave them each a little kiss.
“And now, I rather think we ought to be leaving,” Vincent said.
With all the maneuverings of a general at war, he dispersed them all, sending the two bound henchmen and the Viscount’s corpse off with Sir Giles and his father in one carriage, while the ladies were escorted by Archie and Sir Arthur in another. With Fawkes to stand behind them, Vincent drove Antiqua in his curricle, for on this point, she had been quite adamant.
His cloak draped securely about her shoulders, his closeness warming her soul, Antiqua nestled contentedly against him. After a time, she stirred and said sleepily, “I was such a mutton-head. How could I have been such a mutton-head?”
“I love you, Brown-eyes,” he murmured in tender reply.
A thrill shot through her, rousing her. He loved her, despite her distrust. A need to explain filled her. She straightened a bit and said, “It was the warning, you see, that misled me. It plagues me constantly.”
“What exactly did Allen say to you?”
“I asked him to whom I should take the packet and who had shot him. I rather think I asked both things at once, you see. And he said his brother. Then he went on to say, ‘Beware Vi—’ That’s as far as he managed. I thought he’d answered both my questions, but now I realize he must have answered only the one.”
“Perhaps he was trying to say ‘Beware Viscount Balstone’ though, of course, we’ll never know.” Vincent glanced at her profile, and then resolutely stared ahead into the dark road. “I don’t blame you for having cast me in such a villainous mold, my love. My behavior when we first met was unforgivable.”
“Oh, but what you must have thought when you saw me coming out of Allen’s room! You looked at me in such a way!” she reminisced with a soft laugh. “Did you know Thomas was staying there?”
“No, how could I? If I had . . .” Vincent let the fruitless wish go unsaid. “The landlord had told me another Englishman, a tutor, had taken the room across from mine. When I saw you come out of that room, I assumed . . .” His shrug explained his thought.
They both laughed, warm, close laughter.
Antiqua thought she could never again be so happy, for despite the throb in her arm and the weariness of her body, she felt as fulfilled as she thought she could ever be. A part of her wished it could always be just as it was at this moment, with the night breeze caressing her cheeks, the moonlight guiding their way, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves making music in the nocturnal air. She wanted to hold onto her adventure, to never let it end.
Chapter 20
The short paragraph in the Gazette which announced the marriage of Mr. Jack Vincent and Miss Antiqua Greybill passed by almost unremarked, for the recent royal wedding of Her Royal Highness Princess Charlotte and His Royal Highness Prince Leopold of Saxe Cogburg quite overshadowed every other wedding that May, even one as unexpected, as ripe for speculation, as that of Jack Vincent.
Though only an intimate family gathering, Antiqua thought her wedding nothing less than a huge success. Her grandfather, puffing with pride, gave her away. For both, it was a gesture of peace, a time to heal past wounds. Tears flowed like champagne from Tante Yvonne and Lady Julianne while Lucy sniffed loudly throughout the brief, joyful ceremony and even old Oliver Fawkes was forced to clear his throat on more than one occasion.
Afterwards, Sedgwick hammered upon Sir Arthur’s back with all the vigor of a blacksmith at his anvil, declaring himself as pleased as the day his finest thoroughbred raced first at Newmarket Heath.
Rosewarren pronounced his relief that Antiqua had indeed brought Jack up to scratch. “For the thing is, Antiqua, I shouldn’t have enjoyed being leg-shackled to you above half!” he confided as he escorted her to a small room at the back of the church.
She took no offense, but vigorously agreed they’d both been saved from a horrifying fate.
Some time later, Antiqua emerged ready to travel in a long-sleeved muslin day dress of damask rose with a front panel of embroidered silk and an embroidered hem. Over this she wore a dark grey silk spencer and atop her chestnut curls, a plumed bonnet to match. Her only jewelry, her pride, was a shining band of gold upon her left hand.
Morning had dissolved into afternoon when the chaise turned from a main road and drove down a long, straight graveled drive, edged with tall trees. Suddenly, out of a clearing, Sedgwick Abbey rose in majestic splendor. Antiqua’s first view of the Abbey held her speechless. One hand lay lightly in Vincent’s as she craned her head to peer out the opened window of the lozenged coach.
She saw an enormous stone house, built on direct classical lines. Symmetrical squares of windows softened the severity of the façade, and an ornately carved roof top accented the Abbey’s austere beauty. Rays of the sun splayed across the beige stone, warming it, welcoming them.
Jack leaned back, watching stray tendrils brush against her neck as she strained to see everything at once. Her glowing exci
tement brought a warm light to his blue eyes and a tender lift to his lips. His smile widened as they descended to stand before the house. Soft awe spread across Antiqua’s face as she stood gaping. She scarcely heard her husband explain that the house was originally a fourteenth century Abbey, but had been rebuilt and added to several times, the last major work having been done in the seventeenth century by the famous Indigo Jones.
She was swept inside to be greeted by a multitude of servants, standing in parallel rows in a vast chamber whose high vaulted ceilings first captured her attention. Then her gaze canvassed the richly paneled walls and intricately inlaid parquetry floor, all gleaming with fresh polish. Each servant, from the somber-faced butler to the giggling scullery maid, bent a leg and made an introduction with dizzying rapidity.
When she and Jack later followed the butler into the drawing room, she whispered anxiously, “I shall never remember all their names!”
His answering laugh erased the concern from her eyes.
“Are all the rooms in the Abbey so vast?” she asked, surveying the large, yet somehow cozy room they had entered. Prismatic reflections from the rock-cut chandelier pirouetted over the gold leaf which embellished the carved moldings defining each door, edging the ceiling and highlighting the mantel of a wide fireplace.
Her gaze flew over the iron and brass fire basket, passed a tip-top table and focused upon a pair of arched fanlight windows hung with yellow damask. Through them she saw a panoramic view of neat geometrical lawns and enticingly well-manicured gardens.
“Oh, Jack,” she breathed, casting her bonnet unseen onto a satinwood settee. “It’s lovely!”
“Would you like to take a brief walk before changing for supper?” he asked, his voice deep with pleasure over her patent joy.
“I should like it above all things,” she told him.
The windows proved to be doors and Jack led her through them out onto a stone terrace which gave onto the grounds of Sedgwick Abbey. Everywhere the touch of natural beauty had been enhanced by a landscaper’s craftsmanship. Stone statuary, sculpted hedges and graveled paths made the formal gardens a delight. There was even a maze which Jack firmly guided his protesting bride past.
“But, dear husband—”
“There will be plenty of time for that, my love. For now I desire to show you one of my favorite sites,” he said.
His coaxing tone ended her argumentations. She listened avidly as he continued to point out items of interest while they strolled beyond the gardens and the house. As they walked hand-in-hand, her happiness welled up within her and Antiqua felt compelled to confide to her husband that life as Mrs. Vincent was already thoroughly delightful.
Sunlight glossed his hair to blue-black as his head tilted back. He laughed, relaxed and truly happy for the first time in recent memory. “Oh, Brown-eyes,” he said finally. “How I love you! As I knew I would that night.”
“When was that, Jack?” she asked shyly.
“The night you ran away from me. I was murderously angry that day—you must know that few have ever defied me—and fearful that I’d led you into mortal danger by using you as bait. Then when I found you—”
“That was when I called you—” she broke in, pain dimming the loving glow in her eyes. “But I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
“Hush, dearest,” he said, softly brushing a fingertip against her lips. “You could not know. Even had you known the facts of my birth, you couldn’t have supposed how easily I am stung by it.”
Though he spoke lightly, she could feel the tension rise in him. She clasped his hand with her own and caressed it with her lips. “Tell me, my love. Share it with me.”
Her hair shone in the afternoon sun. The silkiness of it tickled his hand as she bent her head to kiss it. Her love soothed away the pain and he found himself telling her what he had never told another soul. He told her how deeply it hurt to be the Duke’s eldest son, his best-loved son, yet never his heir, never his rightful son. To love Sedgwick and all that his blood laid claim to, but which he never could. To know, from his earliest years, that he was tainted by illegitimacy.
Jack told his new wife all this and when he had done, she kissed him, not with passion, but with comfort, and said again she was sorry to have ever stung him so with her sharp tongue.
He smiled. “It was that night, you know, that I learned I loved you.”
“Loved me? I thought you found me contemptible!” she said on a shaky laugh, still too moved to speak steadily.
“Never, not even in my deepest anger, Brown-eyes.” Framing her face, he gazed at her with his heart shining in his blue eyes. “Despite my all-consuming wrath, you, sweetest, made me laugh that night. I thought I had forgotten the joy of laughter; certainly no other woman ever made me laugh so. I knew then I could not live without you.”
He gave her a quick kiss, then took her hand and for a time they continued on in companionable silence, each thinking of the other, of the joys and sorrows to be shared. At length, they crossed an arched stone bridge that spanned a looking-glass lake. Jack sat and then pulled her down beside him on a grassy knoll which crested the mirrored water. Leaning back against a tree, he laid his arm across her shoulder and idly wrapped a lock of her hair about his finger as they watched swans glide by, shattering the lake’s crystalline surface.
“Do you know, Antiqua dearest, I have all my life loved and resented this place?” He let her hair slip from his finger as she turned to face him. “It’s felt like home, yet I knew it could never truly be mine.”
Her heart ached for him once again, for the little boy who must have so often felt shut out, and for the man who had shut himself away from others.
“But now,” he murmured, “now I have discovered the one place that is truly mine, the one place I can never do without.”
“Where is that?” she asked, distracted by the sudden drop in his voice, the smile that heated his eyes.
Taking hold of her shoulders, Jack pressed her gently down into the grass. “By your side, my Brown-eyes.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, touched his lips there and began kissing his way toward her mouth. “Only by your side.”
Antiqua knew then her adventure would never end.
Copyright © 2012 by Fran Baker
Originally published by Delphi Books
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
