Marcus had a tempting vision of being forgiven by Caro and tolerated by Castleton. Of Anne and Caro exerting their joint cousinly persuasion to force their husbands to reconcile. Pure fantasy. It would never happen.
Meanwhile, he had another matter to tackle. “My letter is from Sir William Hamilton. You may recall that I knew him well in Naples. He and Lady Hamilton have returned to England with Nelson and will be spending Christmas with William Beckford at Fonthill, scarcely fifteen miles away. I thought I’d ride over and pay my respects, to Beckford too. I was acquainted with him in Paris.”
What he didn’t mention was that Beckford’s friends were the kind of people who would buy valuable jewelry of doubtful provenance. Perhaps Beckford himself, a collector of fabled wealth, would be interested.
“Lord Nelson! How I would like to meet him.” Apparently Anne shared the nation’s opinion of the celebrated admiral. She looked quite dazzled. “I don’t want to stay here alone.”
He muttered under his breath, cursing himself for mentioning Nelson.
“I’ve also read about the abbey Mr. Beckford is building at Fonthill.”
“I didn’t think you had a taste for the gothic.”
“It’s the tallest tower in England. Couldn’t I come with you? Please?”
He wanted to please her as much as he wanted to go. There was another advantage to them appearing together. “If you come with me the world will soon know. We had better announce our intention to marry.”
“I haven’t the least objection.” She smiled and offered her hand.
“I wouldn’t take you if I thought his party would be disreputable, but I must warn you that Beckford is frowned upon by the ton.”
“Excellent. Morrissey will stop plaguing me and Lord Algernon Tiverton will scurry back to Derbyshire as fast as his horses can run.”
Chapter 24
In reply to Marcus’s letter came an invitation to spend the night at Fonthill House and attend the apogee of the entertainment, a dinner at the uninhabited but almost finished abbey. Sir William Hamilton’s wife agreed to act as Anne’s nominal chaperone.
Lady Hamilton proved a neglectful duenna. Heavily pregnant, all her attentions were fixed on Lord Nelson. From veiled remarks by other guests, Anne gathered that the admiral, rather than her elderly husband, was the father of the child.
With an hour before she needed to change for the evening’s festivities, Marcus having disappeared with some of the gentlemen, Anne found her way to the library. Mr. Beckford’s collection of books was as magnificent as the rest of his holdings and she barely knew where to start. She wandered along the walls, dazzled by the leather and gold bindings and reading the spines for something to take her fancy.
Lost in a wall of recent historical works, she was about to look for the librarian for directions to the antiquities section, when a title caught her eye. A thick quarto lay on a table, among other volumes waiting to be put away. She had tried to set aside the uneasiness that arose whenever she thought of Marcus’s treasure, but the coincidence of finding this volume pricked her conscience. A Treatise on Diamonds and Pearls.
It didn’t take long to confirm that the twin pendants were indeed exceptional stones, both in size and in cut. The second half of the work went from generalities to the history of famous gems. Despite the somewhat crude execution of the engraved illustrations, there was no mistaking the identity of a pair of pendants known as the Stuart Twins. They hadn’t been owned by a queen, but their provenance was indeed royal. They had been a gift of King Charles II to his mistress Mary Swinburne.
As she stared aghast at the page, her sudden chill had nothing to do with the temperature of the well-heated room. She didn’t need to read further. Charles’s son by Mary Swinburne was the first Duke of Castleton. The source of Marcus’s future wealth was the rightful property of Caro’s husband.
It was easy to guess what had happened. Marcus’s rogue of a father had stolen the jewels during that long-ago visit to Castleton when Marcus and the present duke had quarreled over a horse.
Did Marcus know? He’d had nothing to do with the original theft, which happened when he was eleven years old, of that she was certain. She believed he had no idea what he had searched for at Hinton, but he was too canny not to have made the connection.
She prayed she was wrong.
There were other oddities about the affair. Piecing together scraps of information, she was fairly sure Lewis had left England shortly after the theft, having consigned the gems in their strongbox—and his son—to the care of Josiah Hooke. Why had Castleton’s father not pursued Lewis Lithgow? Did he not know the identity of the thief? Was there the faintest chance that Lewis Lithgow had somehow acquired the diamonds by legitimate means?
In that case there was no reason for him to have abandoned them. And however much Anne’s mind explored the possibilities of the tale, probing for excuses like water seeking a crack in a pitcher, one horrible truth could no longer be ignored. Marcus intended to sell stolen jewels. And to her great shame she had condoned it. This was the result of consorting with a scoundrel.
Worst of all, she loved the scoundrel with all her heart.
She looked up to discover the librarian standing beside her table.
“Have you found what you needed, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“An interesting volume. Curious that you are the second person today to consult it. Lord Lithgow was reading it, not an hour ago.”
If Marcus hadn’t known before, he did now. The only question was what he would do with the knowledge.
Chapter 25
Draped in a pall of anxiety, Anne rode to Mr. Beckford’s abbey with three strangers who were too busy gaping to make conversation. As they passed through a gothic arched gate in the vast wall surrounding the abbey woods, the incredible edifice loomed above them in the twilight. Never a follower of the fashion for horrid novels, she couldn’t help being affected by the sight, which matched the tenor of her own spirits. There had been no chance to speak to Marcus before their departure. The fleet of vehicles drew up before a door of gargantuan proportions that struck her as both absurd and awe-inspiring. With the same mixed feelings she joined the procession, led by Nelson and Lady Hamilton, between a double line of uniformed soldiers, into a lofty hall and thence to a vast saloon, one of the longest rooms Anne had ever seen. The party took their places at a table that filled almost the whole length, and they were treated to the oddest meal served on silver platters.
“The food has been prepared according to the custom of the Middle Ages,” explained one of her neighbors. Anne picked at some unidentified meat and hoped it wasn’t a big cat or a bear.
A continuing chorus of astonishment and praise swirled around her at the splendor of the chamber, the lavish service, the profusion of candles illuminating the shadowy vaulted ceiling, and the size of the Christmas fire of cedar and pine cones in the massive hearth. The conflicting sensory stimuli made her dizzy even while her mind wandered from the feast. She couldn’t see Marcus among the dozens seated, but not for a moment was she unaware of his presence.
The interminable meal over, the party retired to a chamber like the nave of a cathedral, well over one hundred feet in length. In keeping with the architecture, the place was filled with papist treasures, including a shrine to St. Anthony and a bishop’s throne at one end. An invisible orchestra played medieval music and, in case the guests hadn’t sufficiently gorged themselves, tables were laden with gold baskets of confectionery and jugs of spiced wine.
At a gentle touch on her arm, she turned to find Marcus grinning at her, setting her pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with the spectacle.
“Did you ever see such a thing?”
“Never imagined it either,” she replied, smiling back in spite of herself. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Beckford must have spent a fortune on this evening alone. The cost of the whole folly is beyond calculatio
n.”
The folly of a host who could well afford to buy a pair of extraordinary diamonds.
Guests milled about. No one could see his hands slither down her arms to take hers in a possessive clasp. His breath warmed her ear. “I miss you, Anne.”
She missed him too. Since Maldon’s return they hadn’t been together, for her maid shared her room, both at Hinton and now at Fonthill. They might never make love again, and she wasn’t sure she could bear it.
“Slip away with me,” he whispered, devil that he was. “Lady Hamilton is about to enact Agrippina inciting the Romans to avenge the death of Germanicus. All eyes will be on her and we can be alone.”
She needed to speak with him, and some corner of the vast abbey might be their best chance at privacy.
Another oversized gothic chamber was deserted save for a footman or two carrying more gilt chargers of food. Behind a hundred yards of red velvet drapery they discovered an alcove whose purpose wasn’t at all clear. Given the extravagance of the abbey’s illuminations there was no need to question the pair of lighted candles in chased silver sconces. Marcus’s proximity overwhelmed her. With her eyes closed she inhaled the human scent beneath the particular soap she knew so well. Light breathing overlaid the distant sound of an ancient carol.
“I miss your hair,” he whispered, his palms feathering over Maldon’s braided confection. “I miss your cheeks, your nose, your chin, the little pulse here.” He kissed each named spot, ending in the niche between her neck and jaw, and lingered there, not moving. He consumed her, inhaled her essence as though it were the breath of life. As never before, she felt his love.
Marcus loved her, as he’d loved no one else in his lonely life. She was humbled and her doubts receded. They did not vanish but she put them away in a box deep inside her as her love for him flowed back. For this short time, in their red velvet haven, she gave herself up to her love for a man whom no one had truly loved for so many years. The only thing she knew was that she needed to give herself to him, to merge their souls. Grasping his shoulders she offered her body without shame, trembling with love as his hand dropped to her skirts.
Take me. Let me take you. No words were spoken, or needed to be. In a rustle of raised skirts and petticoats she was exposed, naked, free of the conventions that her layers of clothing represented. But as she offered herself as a sacrifice to his passion, she felt no inequity in the exchange. He was giving as much as taking. Their minds and bodies were in perfect balance and harmony.
Backed against the wall, she relished the smooth, cold stone on her back and shoulder blades, scarcely protected by her silk gown. His hands dug into her hips as he lifted her to him and she embraced him with all four limbs as she answered his entering thrust. The coupling seemed significant in its clumsiness, the lack of courtly form or comfort stripping away the artificiality of the human dance. His entry drove away the world, leaving only the two of them in a union that was perfect in its simplicity. She allowed herself only to feel because it was a luxury that could not last. She reached her peak almost as he did and fancied they soared off into an endless dark space where only they dwelt, liberated from earthly concerns.
Her feet slipped to the floor but they remained entwined in each other’s arms, exchanging clumsy panting kisses, over and over again because they couldn’t bear to separate and have it end.
He pulled away first, not far, just loosening the bonds of his arms enough to look at her.
His thumb caressed her cheekbone. “You’re crying, Anne.” His voice was hoarse. “Did I hurt you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why?”
“I feel . . .” She couldn’t complete the thought.
“I know,” he said with a heartbreaking smile. “I feel too.”
She laid her head against his waistcoat. She wanted to stay like this, bathing in an ocean of love. But she could no longer remain silent and pretend there wasn’t anything wrong.
“What happened at Castleton?” she asked. “Tell me the whole story.”
The tension in his chest, a barely perceptible intake of breath, lasted only a second. “I told you about the horse that was injured when Thomas, the young marquess as he then was, attempted to jump a hedge beyond the power of his mount.” He spoke lightly, as though he wasn’t sure why she had raised the subject now but he might as well cater to her whim. “He told his father it was my fault. What I didn’t tell you was that the duke ordered us to leave as a result.”
“Is that really what happened?”
He stroked her back in a soothing motion. “Caro says not. Castleton told her we decamped in the night having stolen a miniature painting. I find the story ridiculous. My father would never have left for such paltry gain.”
“Would he have left for a pair of diamond pendants?”
This time the breath was deeper. He pushed her back by the shoulders and faced her, all lightness and pretense vanished. “You know, don’t you?” She nodded. “Did you guess?”
“Not who owned the diamonds, until I read about the Stuart Twins in the library this afternoon. In the same book you consulted earlier. Marcus, you have to give them back to Castleton.”
Time trickled to a halt as she awaited an answer. His features settled into his gaming face, devoid of expression, giving away no secrets. The faint flicker of the candles revealed his watchful stillness. The vulnerability and innate honor she’d grown to love were hidden behind a mask of calculation. She prayed they weren’t buried deep. Misgivings that they’d ever existed brought a lump to her throat.
No, she was sure those qualities had been real. What she doubted was their power to overcome the less benign influences that had ruled most of his life. She left him to his silent deliberation in hope and cold dread.
“Without the diamonds I shall have to sell Hinton,” he said. “I will never have enough to improve the land and do the right thing for the tenants. Unless I do that the estate won’t provide enough income for me, let alone for a wife. For you.”
“We can manage with my pin money.”
He waved aside her objection. “The snuff of a candle. You haven’t a notion what it’s like to live hand to mouth, to perch in poor lodging one step ahead of the poorhouse. I couldn’t ask it of you.”
“And if I persuaded Morrissey to let me have more?”
“I don’t want to live off your money, Anne. I’ve discovered an inconvenient pride. With any other woman it wouldn’t matter, but because I love you I want to come to you with some honor.”
“Can you exchange one kind of honor for another?” she asked softly.
“Castleton doesn’t need the diamonds and I’ve never known Caro to care about jewels. They’ve been missing for fifteen years and Castleton doubtless believes them long lost. His father was duke then.”
She stared at him, waiting to see who would win the argument Marcus waged with himself.
“Let me do this, Anne. Let me have this one thing. I swear to you that after this I’ll lead a life as blameless as a parson.” She continued to say nothing. “I’ve found a buyer for them. Someone who will give me enough to do everything we need. No one will ever know.”
She stood on her toes to give him a last kiss, making it fast lest she prove herself weak again. In the end she didn’t find it hard to walk away. Painful, yes, so painful that her chest ached and her head was clogged with tears. But not for a moment was she tempted to stay. Drawing aside the heavy, bloodred velvet, she looked back.
“You will know, Marcus,” she said. “You will always know.”
Chapter 26
Marcus raged against fate.
He tossed on the fine mattress of his luxurious Fonthill bedchamber, cursing the chance that had led Anne to that one particular volume among all the thousands in Beckford’s library. It was the final bitter proof that luck had deserted him. He had come to count on his father’s “legacy” when he should have known that anything from that source would be tainted.
Fortun
e hunter or thief? Those were his choices now. Or there was the alternative of abandoning his love, his land, and his home and taking to the road again, wandering Europe forever, scraping a living from whatever fools he could lure to the tables.
He could have left Fonthill with a handsome bank draft in his pocket, Anne at his side, their future secure. He’d been nervous about arriving at Castleton for Christmas, but he’d counted on charm, groveling, and Caro’s ancient affection to earn her forgiveness, and Caro’s charm and persuasive powers to bring the Duke of Castleton to a similar, if less enthusiastic, state of acceptance.
Presenting Castleton with his lost family heirloom would doubtless help with the latter goal. It stuck in his gorge to give up his only chance at independent fortune. Yet he knew he had to, or lose Anne forever.
Somewhere in the house a clock struck five. Soon it would be dawn. Monks all over Europe were rising to recite the office of Prime. Perhaps he should turn papist and enter a monastery, a real one, not Beckford’s fantastic folly that lay two miles away. A lifetime of prayer and atonement held a certain appeal in this darkest hour.
He remembered one Christmas at Conduit Street with Caro and Robert Townsend, soon after their marriage. With customary excess, Caro had dragged them out to Richmond Park in the middle of the night to gather illicit greenery, with which she festooned the house with more exuberance than art. Since they were suffering one of their periodic servant shortages, the Townsends’ Christmas feast had come from a bake shop, but none of the young guests crammed into the small house had cared as long as the wine flowed, which chez Townsend always did. It was the happiest Noel he’d ever spent except for faint memories of quieter celebrations with his mother.
This one could have been even better because of Anne’s presence. While Caro had turned respectable on becoming a duchess, she couldn’t have changed that much. The food and decorations would be better prepared and the wine consumed with less abandon. Not even a ducal mansion and its very correct owner could douse Caro’s warmth. He pictured her excitement at being reunited with her dearest cousin, Anne’s joy in Caro’s company. He would be introduced as a future member of the family and, after an interval for charming, groveling etc., accepted as such. Caro would be his cousin twice, through Anne and through Castleton. He would make the acquaintance of Castleton’s sisters, who had been born after his sole disastrous visit to the ducal seat. He and Anne would dance at a ball and exchange stolen kisses under the mistletoe. Under the eyes of their relations they would complete their courtship and plan a wedding with a benign innocence outside his experience.
Miranda Neville Page 24
