Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  “Is what a joke?” Olivia cried.

  At last he met her gaze. His eyes were filled with confusion. “But this is my father’s handwriting. Dear God. Olivia. Lionel is not dead. He has returned.”

  PART TWO

  The Beguiled

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Garrick strode into the foyer of Stanhope-on-the-Square, his strides brisk. He had made the journey back from Surrey in record time, and it was early afternoon. Apparently the earl had been waiting for him, because he had only just entered the house when Stanhope appeared from the opposite end of the marble-floored foyer. His face was grim, his eyes anxious.

  “Is this a jest?” Garrick demanded. But his father was hardly a fool. And the tone of the earl’s brief message had been absolutely serious.

  “Would I ever jest about such a matter?” Stanhope rushed forward. “Good God, he appeared here yesterday morning. Why in God’s name did you go to the Hall?”

  Garrick grimaced. “A whim.” He tried not to think about Olivia now.

  The earl was exasperated. He took Garrick’s arm and they began walking down the corridor and into the library. “Garrick. It might be Lionel.” He paused and closed his eyes. “It is he. Dear God.”

  Garrick faced him, incredulous. “Father, have you lost your mind? Lionel died fourteen years ago. Fourteen years ago, Father. Whoever has appeared here, claiming to be him, is an impostor.” But Lionel had never been buried. He had vanished; his body had never been found. And Garrick was acutely aware of it.

  The earl stared, clearly dismayed and torn. “Of course, that was my first reaction. But he has an explanation for these past years—and he knows so much about our family.” The earl paced, then paused. “He looks like him. He is clearly about the same age.”

  How could his father be so gullible? The earl was brilliant, his mind razor-sharp, and he had the common sense so often denied the upper crust of society but found among the impoverished who lived on the streets. Garrick studied his father and realized that he was not quite as tall as he had once appeared, his shoulders were not as broad, and his face, once so handsome and commanding, was jowled and wrinkled. My God, he thought, still staring. He is an old man. He may still be powerful, but he is old. And he is believing what he wishes to believe.

  The earl was human—and flawed—after all.

  “Lionel was fourteen when he died. It is impossible to say how he might look now, at the age of twenty-eight,” Garrick said.

  “Did Lionel die?” The earl whirled from where he stood at a window. It was raining yet again outside, and the gardens were shrouded in a wet mist. “He vanished. Without a trace. Into thin air. Or so you claimed.”

  Garrick folded his arms. “And what does that mean?”

  The earl stared. “You were the last person to see him. No one vanishes. If it was an abduction, as everyone decided then that it was, why was there no ransom note?”

  “There was no ransom note because the abductors killed him accidentally.” Garrick was suddenly angry. “We have been over all of this before, Father. This person claiming to be Lionel is an impostor. What possible explanation could he have for being gone for fourteen years? If Lionel were still alive, he would have returned years ago—fourteen years ago, to be exact.”

  The earl rubbed his temples. “I am not a fool. I have already had all of the same thoughts as you. But …” He paused. Garrick now realized his father’s face was oddly ashen. “He not only looks like him, he is very convincing.”

  “What has he claimed? Did he lose his memory during the abduction? It was an abduction, was it not? Now, suddenly, fourteen years later, he remembers who he is and he has returned?” Garrick’s tone was bitingly sarcastic. “How convenient!”

  The earl’s jaw flexed. “He wishes to see you. He is very anxious to see you. Why don’t you let him tell you? And afterward I wish to speak with you.”

  “Very well,” Garrick said. In spite of himself, in spite of his common sense and his absolute belief that this was an impostor, his pulse was racing and he was short of breath. But it could not be Lionel. Lionel was dead. Garrick had convinced himself of that long ago. “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. In his old room,” the earl said.

  Before Garrick could turn to go, the countess was rushing forward, arms outstretched. Garrick took one look at her strained countenance and tearful eyes, and he put his arm around her. “Are you all right?” he asked, suddenly furious. He would unmask this fraud immediately. For this kind of game was far too cruel to be tolerated any longer.

  She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, shaking her head, but whether it was a yes or a no, Garrick could not tell. Clearly his mother was distressed. “Garrick,” she said hoarsely, “Lionel has come back.”

  He gripped her arms. “Mother, stop it! This man—whoever he is—is a fraud. He seeks only to claim the Stanhope title and fortune. Lionel vanished fourteen years ago, and he is dead. Otherwise he would have returned long ago.”

  The countess stared at him, dabbing at her eyes continually with the embroidered linen. “He has reappeared—as abruptly as he once disappeared,” she said. She started to cry. “It is a miracle,” she said.

  Garrick was stricken. He did not know what to do. “Mother, please, go upstairs and rest. Father and I will handle this.”

  She nodded, but before she left she said, “Your father is as convinced as I.”

  When she was gone, Garrick faced the earl. “It is unfair to encourage her—to raise her hopes. I beg you to exercise prudence at the least.”

  “Your mother would not be fooled in this instance.”

  Garrick looked at him. “And why not?”

  “She is his mother,” the earl said simply. “How could a mother be fooled by her son?”

  He paused outside the room Lionel had used when they were children growing up together. Since that time, Garrick knew the room had been closed, the furnishings covered, draperies drawn, maids entering only once per annum to dust. His heart drummed, with anger mostly, but with other as intense emotions he dared not identify. He knew he was hesitating.

  Garrick knocked. The door had not been firmly closed, and it opened under the pressure of his fist. He was prepared for an impostor. He was not prepared for the sight of the man who sat up from where he reclined on the bed, and he felt his heart lurch to an immediate halt.

  The fraud—Lionel—also stared, standing. “Garrick,” he said hoarsely.

  Garrick was speechless. It was Lionel! That was his first insane thought. For, despite the many years that had elapsed, this man looked exactly as Lionel should have by now, and he was clearly cast in the image of the earl and the countess themselves. It was not just the blond hair and blue eyes, two attributes found easily enough among the population at large. There was a cleft in his chin. His lower lip was full. His nose was perfectly straight. Garrick was in shock.

  Lionel came forward, hesitantly but beginning to smile. “Garrick, you are staring as if you have seen a ghost,” he said.

  Garrick inhaled. “Perhaps I am looking at a ghost,” he managed. He fought for composure. This was not Lionel. But how could there be such a resemblance? Or was he, like his parents, too eager to see the similarities? He tried to find dissimilarities. Was not this man’s jaw fuller than Lionel’s had been? Were his eyebrows not a shade darker? And he was not as tall or as broad shouldered as Garrick. When they were boys, Lionel had been taller and bigger. This man was very slightly overweight now, when Lionel had been lean.

  But these last traits all might have changed with age.

  “I am no ghost,” Lionel was saying, smiling now. “But I cannot blame you if that is what you think.” He reached out as if to touch Garrick’s shoulder.

  Garrick stepped away from him, trembling, in disbelief, still amazed, and very angry now. “I do not think you are a ghost. I think you are, simply put, a fraud.” But he continued to stare. “You cannot be my brother. If my brother was alive, he would have returned
home many years ago.” He was aware of the hurt and accusation in his own tone.

  Lionel’s face fell. His gaze remained on Garrick. “Have you grown to hate me in the ensuing years? I am no fraud, but I do not blame you for thinking as much. If I were in your position, that would be my thinking exactly.”

  “But you are not in my position,” Garrick said coldly. “You are the one who has suddenly wandered into London, claiming to be my long-lost, and undoubtedly longdeceased, brother. Have you suffered from a fourteen-year mental lapse?” he demanded scathingly.

  Lionel shoved his hands in the pockets of his breeches. He was clad casually, in breeches and stockings, a simple shirt, and as simple a waistcoat. “I have. But not the kind of mental lapse you are thinking of. Won’t you at least listen to what I have to say? Once, years ago, I would have never had to make such a plea—not to you.”

  Garrick froze, hurled violently into the past of his childhood, when he would have followed Lionel anywhere, done anything he asked, believed anything he said. “I shall enjoy this,” he said finally, his hands also in his pockets. They were shaking.

  “I was not abducted,” Lionel said bluntly, his blue gaze—exactly the same shade as Lionel’s had once been—unwavering upon Garrick’s face. “Which is why there was never a ransom note.”

  “I do not understand,” Garrick said uneasily, his heart skipping and some emotion, dread, perhaps, rising up within him.

  “I ran away,” Lionel said simply, his gaze searching.

  Garrick’s heart stopped completely before starting again. “You ran away.”

  Lionel nodded. “Do you think that living here, growing up the way we did, was any easier on me than it was on you? Oh, I know I was the favorite, and I could do no wrong. But I was hardly the favorite because of being myself. I was approved of because I always jumped to his tune, always did as he demanded, never doing what I wished to do, never doing what I wanted. It was, in truth, unbearable—and getting worse with every passing day.”

  I ran away. Lionel’s explanation echoed in Garrick’s mind even as he listened to him speaking now. He was stunned. Was it possible? Had Lionel felt the same horrendous pressure from the earl as he himself had as a boy? “Lionel was not a rebel. He never complained about his lot in life. He wanted to please Stanhope. I was the one always complaining. I was the one always condemned and criticized. Lionel would have never run away. He could do no wrong. He was happy.”

  “You are wrong. Because I am your brother, and I did run away. I was not happy. The older I got, the closer I came to my majority, the worse it became. I was dreading the future. I could not imagine spending the next twenty years or so dancing to Father’s never-ending tune. I was tired, Garrick. Damn tired of being his lackey.” Lionel’s eyes were filled with anger.

  Garrick stared before turning away, running a hand through his hair, which was unpowdered and tied back in a queue, as was his brother’s. He was trembling. But damn it, this man was not Lionel. Or was he?

  What if it were Lionel?

  “Lionel would have told me of such a plan,” Garrick said harshly. “He would not have run away without telling me first.”

  “I couldn’t. You would have insisted upon coming with me.” Lionel stared. “How can you doubt me, Garrick? How?”

  Garrick found it difficult to breathe properly. Goddamn it, he was right. He would have insisted upon joining him. How could this man not be Lionel? He knew so much. “How could you do this to our mother? She cried for months afterward,” he said tersely, wanting to also say, How could you do this to me?

  “It was a matter of survival. I planned it for six months. Had there been another way, I would have taken it. I went to India, by the way. I bought myself a commission in the cavalry under an assumed name.” Lionel grinned.

  It was so familiar that Garrick’s heart was wrenched hard. Was this man his brother after all? His temples throbbed, making his head hurt—but that was nothing compared to the pain in his heart—endured for fourteen endless years. Memories were flooding Garrick now. Wonderful memories, of the two of them up to their ears in mischief and trouble.

  As if Lionel could read his mind, he said softly, “Do you remember that snowy Christmas at the Hall? We hid behind the shrubs, which were frozen, of course, and threw snowballs at that fat Baron Margery and his even fatter son when they disembarked from their coach. Father was furious. We hid in the stables all day.”

  Garrick felt like fainting for the first time in his life. How could this man recall that if he were not Lionel? He could hardly think. Could Lionel have run away, hurting all those who loved him so? Lionel had always enjoyed himself and had never experienced many regrets over his behavior. As wonderful as he had been, his life had been free of guilt—he could do no wrong. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could have run away so selfishly, so irresponsibly. God knew, Garrick had wished to do so often enough as a boy.

  He thought about the last time he had been with Lionel, trying hard to remember every detail of the day Lionel had disappeared. He could not recall Lionel behaving oddly, the way he might had he been on the verge of running away. Or could he? “The coin,” he suddenly said. “The lucky Spanish coin. You tried to give it to me the day you vanished.”

  “Yes.” Lionel was smiling.

  Garrick stared at him.

  Lionel said, “I wanted you to have it because I was leaving.”

  Garrick really didn’t expect a grown man to be wearing. an old Spanish coin on a chain around his neck, but his glance went directly to Lionel’s stock. “Do you still wear it?” he heard himself say.

  “I gave it to a young fellow years ago, but it did not prevent him from dying of an ague anyway.”

  Garrick tried to clear his mind. He was confused. “Tell me, what made you decide to come back?”

  Lionel paced. Briefly his back was turned. “I have never stopped thinking about you, Garrick,” he said. He faced him again. “And Mother. Do you think this was easy? I have missed you terribly. But I had no choice, because I just could not live with Father breathing down my neck for the next thirty or forty years. Then, recently, I had a brush with death. A Bengal tiger. Actually, it was more than a brush with death. I almost died from my wounds. And while I lay recuperating, all I could think about was my family, and that the time had finally come to return home.” Suddenly Lionel’s eyes were wet. He looked away.

  Garrick was still shaken. His mind raced now but remained oddly blank. If there was a truth to be found, it was eluding him. Yet his heart was becoming oddly light, oddly exuberant. Insane organ that it was, it was daring to hope. Suddenly he thought of Olivia, which made his pulse race all over again. How he wished to confide in her now and share this astounding turn of events.

  “So tell me,” he said, knowing he did not sound casual at all, “about your first woman.”

  Lionel looked up, startled. Then he smiled—that awfully familiar grin. “Do I have to share everything?”

  Garrick was not smiling. “Perhaps you do not know who your first was?”

  Lionel stared. “I know. But you still doubt me, don’t you?”

  “I have no choice but to doubt you.”

  “It was Lady Marianne Compton. The redhead. At least, I think her first name was Marianne, it’s hard to remember now. But she was about twenty, if I recall correctly, and she was newly wed. She and the viscount were guests at Stanhope Hall. She was more than willing. I was, I believe, thirteen.”

  Garrick wet his lips. “Her name was Madeleine. Madeleine Comden. And her husband was a baron, not a viscount.”

  “You have a better memory than I,” Lionel said easily.

  Garrick was trying frantically to think if a stranger might know of this or the incident with the snowballs. Lionel had bragged to just about everyone at the Hall about the loss of his virginity, hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, of course, but excusable given the circumstances—Madeleine had been gorgeous and his first. Even the earl had heard the gossip—and had repriman
ded Lionel for his wagging tongue. Of course, he had then slapped his shoulder soundly, beaming with approval at such virility on behalf of his heir and firstborn son.

  And that fat baron had been furious about being hit with half a dozen snowballs, some of which had struck his head and face. He had complained loudly about the delinquent Stanhope boys.

  This man could be lying. He could be a fraud.

  This man could also be telling the truth.

  “Tell me more about the night you disappeared,” Garrick said tersely. “Do you remember our conversation?”

  “Frankly, I do not,” Lionel said. “Good Lord, Garrick, that was fourteen years ago. I only remember we were at the haunted keep on the cliffs, and that it was raining, and that you would not take the coin.”

  Garrick reminded himself that most of England knew those facts, and he himself had brought up the subject of the coin, damn it. He swallowed, still oddly light-headed, still damnably hopeful. But he must not hope. He must not accept this man as his brother. Not yet. “What about your thirteenth birthday? Do you remember what Father gave you?”

  Lionel smiled. “I do. The matchlock rifle.”

  Garrick remembered, too, because Lionel had been so pleased, and the earl had taken Lionel out immediately to test the gun—and Garrick had been left behind. Jesus.

  “May I ask you a question?” Lionel asked.

  Garrick nodded, cautious.

  “Do you remember when we were boys, you were about six or seven, I think, it was at the Hall, and you and I went riding, eluded the groom, and then we got lost? We were only lost for a quarter of an hour or so, but you were scared, and frankly, so was I. We were both sent to bed without supper for that one.” Lionel smiled.

  “I do not remember,” Garrick said stiffly. But at this point his mind seemed to have quit on him—he could hardly put a thought together.

  Lionel’s expression was somewhat smug. “One cannot remember even half of everything that is long since done, Garrick.” He walked over to him for the first time. “It is really good to see you. I have missed you.”