He fell asleep then, thankfully, only to hear Joshua’s voice calling to him.
“Major Lord. Major Lord.”
He felt a slap on his face and tried to turn away from it, to return to the past, to Arielle, but it wasn’t to be.
“Major Lord. Come, you must wake up now. The duke is here to see you.”
“I don’t want to,” said Burke very clearly.
“Well, your commander doesn’t care for your bloody attitude, Ravensworth.”
Burke forced his eyes open. Wellington was standing beside his cot, his smile a bit forced, lines of fatigue about his eyes. His uniform was immaculate, as usual, his black boots clear as mirrors.
“Sir,” he said and tried to raise his hand.
“Lie still, Burke. I have little time, my boy, then I must be off to Paris. I wanted to tell you in person of the waste of it all. Our battle, all the deaths, all for naught. Napoleon has abdicated, had abdicated before we began.”
Burke stared up at him. “You’re jesting,” he said slowly.
“I wish to God I were. It is something I have prayed for, but God saw fit to lose nearly five thousand more of His souls before seeing to it. Well, hurrah I say, but I only wish we had been spared. The doctor tells me that you will mend soon, my boy. You will return to England, Burke. It is over now, at least your part of it.”
Yes, Burke thought later. It was over at last. Arielle was now eighteen years old, nineteen in October he remembered her telling him. Old enough for marriage. Old enough for him. What if she had formed an attachment with another man?
He refused to accept that. Over the past three years he’d received sporadic though informative letters from Lannie. He wondered occasionally if she suspected his motive for asking her so specifically to write about life at Ravensworth and the doings of their neighbors. He knew about Sir Arthur’s death, very sudden and but six months after he had left England, and he’d written Arielle a proper letter of condolence. He’d received no response in return, of course.
What had she been doing since the spring of 1811? Lannie had written of the marriage of every male and female within a fifty-mile radius of Ravensworth. No mention of Arielle. Perhaps she was waiting for him.
It was a notion that pleased him and allowed him to heal more quickly than the doctor had predicted.
Two
RAVENSWORTH ABBEY
JUNE 1814
Burke still felt uncomfortable in his home. He was the eighth Earl of Ravensworth and as absolute a ruler here as the Sun King had been in France more than two centuries before. He was responsible for every soul that drew breath on this estate, and he was responsible for providing another male soul who would carry on after he had passed to the hereafter. He looked about the Golden Drawing Room, intimidating as the devil, he’d always thought, with its array of gold-legged chairs, Italian marble insets, and intricate filigreed ornaments set in their place of honor atop a sixteenth-century marquetry table. He hoped devoutly that the elaborate chair that looked too old to hold anything would bear his weight. Surprisingly to him, it did. As a boy, he’d scarcely been allowed in this, his mother’s favorite room. It held her stamp, he’d been told, but wondered at it. Somehow he couldn’t picture his frail, fading mother in this rich, nearly overpowering chamber.
Burke’s sister-in-law sat opposite him, straightening the sash on Poppet’s dress. Burke said, “They’re beautiful, Lannie. You’ve done well by them, I see.”
Lannie preened a bit, then sharply clapped her hands. Virgie and Poppet’s nanny, Mrs. Mack, duly took each little girl’s hand and towed them from the drawing room.
Poppet turned at the entrance. “Uncle Burke, will you come to play with us later?”
“Certainly, Poppet. I shall look forward to it. What shall we play?”
“Soldiers,” said Virgie. “I want to be your sergeant and fire cannons and kill Frogs.”
“My goodness,” said Burke, somewhat stunned by this. “No tea party? No conversations with dolls?”
That earned him a disgusted look from both girls, and Lannie sighed. “Don’t ask me, Burke. I have no idea why the little urchins are so bloodthirsty. Ever since Montrose died, well—”
“It’s all right, Lannie. I fancy that I have a prayer of winning if we play soldiers.” He waved to his nieces, saying nothing until they’d disappeared from sight.
Lannie picked up a small iced cake and said, “I trust you are home to stay, Burke?”
“Yes, all is finished now. Napoleon will bother us no more, hopefully.”
“I cannot imagine why Wellington simply did not just shoot him. Spending all that money just to send him to his own island—well, I think it is all nonsense.”
Burke merely smiled at his sister-in-law. Perhaps this was where the little girls had gotten their bloodthirsty attitudes. Lannie hadn’t changed, not one whit in the years he’d been gone. Had Arielle changed? Of a certainty she’d had to. She’d become a woman. She would soon become his woman.
Burke regarded Lannie over his steepled fingers, wondering how he could bring Arielle up quickly in the conversation. She was saying in her petulant voice, “Well, I do hope you intend to hire a new steward. Cerlew is a bounder, make no mistake, Burke. Why, the man is forever questioning my expenditures, as if I were some sort of bourgeoise. It is very annoying.”
Good for Cerlew, Burke thought. Actually, the Abbey looked even better than it had during Montrose’s tenure as earl. All was in good repair and clean and polished. Even Joshua approved.
Burke cleared his throat to take the leap, but Lannie forestalled him, saying, “Corinne will doubtless be here to stick her oar in. You did write her, did you not?”
“Actually, I stayed with her and Lloyd in London when I returned from France. Jocelyn, you know, is up at Oxford.”
“Yes, a peculiar boy,” Lannie said about the only son of Lord and Lady Boyle. “I remember all he did was read, simply all of the time.”
“He is a scholar, Lannie. His range of knowledge is awesome.”
“Well, I think—”
Lannie continued to think aloud about Jocelyn and his oddities, the result, doubtless, of Corinne’s overbearing influence, and Burke let his own thoughts wander.
London had been mad with Napoleon’s abdication. Czar Alexander of Russia had arrived in England on June 6th. Now anything Russian was the fashion, from ladies’ gowns to gentlemen’s cravats. Czar Alexander and his sister, Catherine of Oldenburg, were also giving the Regent fits, a happening that didn’t touch Burke one way or the other. It was always the topic of conversation in the Tory Kinnard household and at the several balls Burke had attended as well. He’d smiled and chatted with the ladies, gravely discussed the Battle of Toulouse with the gentlemen, and thought about Arielle. He’d thought to take a mistress that week, but discovered that he simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t want another woman. He wanted Arielle and only Arielle.
“Burke, really. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Well, here is Montague with tea.”
Montague was the epitome of an old revered bishop, Burke thought. He always had been, his full head of stark white hair as thick now as when Burke had been in short coats. “Thank you, Montague,” he said, giving the old retainer a warm smile.
“My lord,” said Montague, “I venture to say that you need a spot of rest this afternoon. I believe Joshua is waiting for you in your chamber.”
“Here I am a civilian again and still I’m getting my marching orders.”
“Yes, Lord Ravensworth is right,” Lannie said to Montague. “You really shouldn’t—”
“I was jesting, Lannie. Yes, Montague, I do feel a bit downpin. Thank you.”
But he wasn’t about to leave his sister-in-law until he knew about Arielle. He took a cup of tea from her, sat back in his chair, and tried to look nonchalant. He sipped his tea. “Tell me of our neighbors,” he said.
Lannie did, to the point of exhaustion. When she finally paused, Burke said, “The Leslies? I
remember you writing me that Arthur Leslie had died.”
“Goodness, that was years ago!”
“Well, not all that many. What happened to the family?”
“You mean Arielle?”
“Yes,” Burke said, and unconsciously, he sat forward, his tea forgotten, his eyes on Lannie.
“I wrote you about it,” she said. “I remember that.”
“Wrote me about what? When?”
“Goodness, as I said, that was years ago. Arielle married.”
The Wedgwood teacup fell to the floor. Burke watched it roll off the Aubusson carpet onto the hard wood. It cracked. He watched the brown liquid seep between the cracks and make puddles on the shining wood. He was too stunned to think.
“Burke? Whatever is the matter? Does your wound hurt?”
“No, no, I’m fine, just clumsy.” Actually, he didn’t think he could breathe. He felt such a bolt of deadening pain. He couldn’t bear it. He moistened his dry lips. “When? To whom?”
“Well, she’s been a widow for some months now, since last year, I believe, though no one ever sees her. She married Paisley Cochrane when she was only sixteen.”
Burke just stared at her. Paisley Cochrane. Good God, that lecherous old satyr had been known for his wickedness when Burke was a boy. Married to Arielle? He shook his head even as he said, “Her father allowed such a thing?”
“Oh, no. Her half brother Evan Goddis, was made her guardian on Sir Arthur’s death. He saw to the wedding. Havey-cavey, all of it, if you asked me, not more than six months after Sir Arthur’s death. And then, of course, old Paisley died so mysteriously—everyone was talking about it, of course.”
But Burke wasn’t listening anymore. “Does she live at Rendel Hall?” Cochrane’s estate lay only some seven miles to the east of Ravensworth.
“Certainly, it’s hers now. She inherited everything. Unlike me, who has had to live on another’s bounty and—”
“That’ll do, Lannie,” Burke said, not unkindly, as he rose.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs for a rest. I will see you at dinner.”
When Joshua finished clucking over him, he lay on his bed and stared up at the naked cherubs that cavorted on the ceiling moldings. She had married Viscount Rendel when she was sixteen years old. God, the man had to have been at least fifty. And he’d touched her and caressed her and—Burke had to stop this. He couldn’t change the past. He had to accept things as they were or forget her. It was really that simple.
And during those years he hadn’t known, hadn’t considered that another man—The one lost letter—it seemed beyond irony. But now she was a widow, so it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except seeing her, courting her, marrying her. He wouldn’t allow the past to intrude.
He’d forgotten to ask Lannie if Arielle had had any children. If she did, he would raise them as his own. He asked at dinner that evening.
“No, she didn’t,” said Lannie. “That was why old Paisley wed her. He was wild for an heir, you know. But there was no issue. Why the interest, Burke?”
“I remember her as being a very nice young girl,” he said, his eyes studiously on the Ravensworth silver. “Did you ever see her after her marriage?”
“No, not once. It was odd, really. She was wed, and then it was as if she were whisked to another country. Not a sight of her. One hears rumors, of course, but I discounted them. This is modern times, after all, not the Middle Ages.”
“What rumors?”
Lannie shrugged. “Stupid things, like Viscount Rendel keeping her close to Rendel Hall, not allowing her to go anywhere or see anyone or do anything—”
“But you just said that she wasn’t ever seen after her marriage.”
“Yes, but the viscount couldn’t possibly have held her some sort of prisoner. That is really too silly. Also, I don’t know if you ever heard of Evan Goddis, Arielle’s half brother, but he didn’t and still doesn’t have the most regular of reputations. I heard talk that he forced Arielle to marry poor Paisley for a huge settlement. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it.”
“Why do you say poor Paisley?”
“Well, he had no children, did he? Just before he died—so mysteriously, as I told you—his illegitimate son was visiting him from France.”
“What do you mean by mysterious?”
“Choking to death over dinner is hardly an everyday occurrence, Burke. According to the servants—you know, Martha’s cousin is the under-housemaid at Rendel Hall—well, she said that the illegitimate son and Arielle simply sat there and watched him choke to death.”
“That sounds rather unlikely.”
“I suppose so. I shouldn’t simply sit here and watch you make a spectacle of yourself, believe me.”
“Have you seen Arielle since her hus—since Rendel died?”
“Once, when I was visiting a friend in East Grinstead, Lady Fanchaut, you know. She took me to this marvelous little modiste shop there, just off High Street, and there were the most clever ribbons for my new bonnet and—”
“When was this? How did she appear?”
Lannie finished her vermicelli soup and wondered briefly if her waistline could afford just a bit more. She sighed and shook her head at herself. She motioned to the footman, Robert, to serve her some fricasseed chicken.
“Lannie?”
“What? Oh, yes, Arielle. As I said, I saw her in East Grinstead. She appeared well, I suppose. Well, not really all that well. Different. She was too thin, but then she always was. It was odd. She wasn’t wearing mourning.” Lannie paused a moment, her head cocked to one side. “Why all this interest in Lady Rendel, Burke?”
Before Burke could come up with an adequate response, Lannie said, “It’s quite ridiculous to call her Lady Rendel. She is only eighteen years old, for heaven’s sake. Well, when you see her, do say hello. I enjoyed her company when she was younger.”
RENDEL HALL
Arielle very slowly set down her tambour frame. “Where did you hear that, Dorcas?”
“Why, in the village. Mrs. Cranage saw him and she told me he wasn’t alone.”
“Evan,” Arielle said very slowly, her eyes suddenly wide and strained.
“Yes, that’s right. Etienne DuPons was with that bounder of a half brother of yours. The only thing I don’t understand is why. What would Evan Goddis want with that man? It’s not as if he had any money.”
“I don’t know,” said Arielle. “I had thought that Etienne had returned to France right after his father’s funeral.”
“Perhaps he did, but now he’s back. Return of bad garbage, I say.”
“Is there ever any good garbage, Dorcas?”
Dorcas raised her head from her tatting at that. “A smile. Excellent, Miss Arielle. You should smile more, you know. Lord Rendel has been dead a long time now. You should get out, go to parties and balls. You should—”
Arielle raised her hand to stem the advice tide. “No, not yet. I will go out when I am ready.”
When would that be? Dorcas wondered, returning to her tatting. Poor Miss Arielle; the child had suffered so much at the hands of that monster, and now, well, what was keeping her at Rendel Hall, as if she were still a prisoner?
“I certainly hope you don’t mourn him for a full year.”
Arielle looked at the pale yellow of her muslin gown. Hardly mourning. Celebration colors, that was all she wore. She looked over at Dorcas, not only her former nanny and maid, but now also her companion. The old woman was the only person on the face of the earth who cared about her. She still had no idea where Nesta and her husband were. She’d gotten a tattered envelope containing a brief note from Nesta some four months before, from a place called Macau. Nesta had said nothing about coming home.
Arielle rose from her chair and walked to the wide bow windows that overlooked the sloping front lawn of Rendel Hall. It was hers now, all of it. She wasn’t wildly rich, but rich enough to do anything that pleased her; at least that was what her esta
te manager, Mr. Harold Jewells, continued to tell her at their Monday morning meetings. Two Mondays ago he’d hinted that she should go down to London and enjoy herself, and she’d merely stared at him. No, she couldn’t go anywhere. Not yet. She was too afraid. She was still too ashamed. People would know if they saw her. They would see the truth in her eyes. She couldn’t face it yet.
And she couldn’t face men and the way they would treat her, look at her. Even Mr. Jewells, who was thin as a reed, bald, and utterly harmless.
She turned back to Dorcas, forcing a smile. “I think I shall go riding. Poor Mindle has been sitting idle for two days now. At last the sun is out.”
“Take a groom,” Dorcas called to her back.
“I’ll take Geordie,” Arielle said, but not for reasons of propriety. She was afraid to be alone. Even on Rendel land. She was afraid of her half brother, a silly fear, really. But she couldn’t change what she felt, and now there was Etienne. She was so weary of living with fear. Why hadn’t it all magically disappeared when Paisley had died? Why was she still haunted? What, for God’s sake, could Evan do to her? Or Etienne, for that matter? Be nasty? That was nothing, nothing at all, but yet the fear remained, that paralyzing fear.
When Geordie had finished saddling Mindle, he helped her into the saddle. “Let me saddle up old Rigby, my lady. Then we’ll be off.”
“No hurry,” she said, looking fondly after her servant. He was a Scot, from Glasgow; short, wiry, tough, and his arms and hands were so strong he could break a man’s neck with a snap. And he was hers. She’d dismissed nearly all of Paisley’s servants immediately after his death. They’d been loyal to him, not to her. The only one she’d kept on was Philfer, the butler. It wasn’t that she liked him, because she didn’t. It was simply that he was too old for another position and he had no family.
Invariably when Arielle rode, it was in the opposite direction of her old home, Leslie Farm. Was Etienne staying with Evan? If so, why? She shivered, remembering Etienne just after his father’s death. The funeral was over, the will read, and Arielle had faced him in the winter-dark drawing room. Whenever she saw him, she saw herself: on her knees before him, her fisted hands on his thighs, taking him into her mouth—
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