At Long Last

by Shirlee Busbee

  Quite frankly, he was bored—and restless. Taking a long swallow of his ale, he admitted that it had been a mistake to return to Natchez. He would have been wiser to have remained in England. At least there, he wasn't haunted by memories.

  He scowled. He hadn't been back in Natchez a fortnight, and already he had fallen into his old profligate habits—and with bad company. Last night's gambling with Leyton and Walcott had been unwise at best and at worst... He shook his head, not wanting to think about the worst. Of course, he had risen from the gaming table the winner. But he had not compounded his error by ending the evening in the arms of a nameless, faceless whore as had been his wont previously. That should have given him some comfort, but did not.

  The days when he had found pleasure in pitting his skill against a pair of scoundrels like Leyton and Walcott were long past. As were the nights, when he came home too drunk even to remember where he had been or what he had done—or with whom. If he came home at all. At least these nights he came home reasonably sober and slept in his own bed. Age and experience, he thought with a cynical lift to his lips, have some virtues to recommend them.

  He glanced at the pile of vowels he had thrown on the table early this morning when he had returned home. He supposed at some point he should find out the extent of his winnings, but at the moment he found the task distasteful. The thrill of winning, even against Leyton and Walcott, did not fill him with any joy.

  In fact, Tony conceded uneasily, very little gave him joy these days. It was why he had left England and finally returned to Natchez after an absence of five years. He had hoped being back in the land of his birth and amongst his old friends would help dispel the growing feeling of dissatisfaction with his life. But so far, all it had done was increase his boredom and indifference to life in general. Why he had thought he would find a solution to his queer moodiness at Sweet Acres escaped him for the moment.

  The extensive lands and grand mansion in England, inherited from his mother's family, were certainly everything a man could want. And God knew, he had fortune enough and friends aplenty to amuse him in England. But for all his great wealth and many friends, he had been restless, and had found that places and people who had once given him enjoyment flat and insipid. To his surprise, Tony had discovered a longing to return to the land of his birth. Without dwelling on it, he had closed up his country house, as well as the town house in London, and along with a few longtime, trusted servants, had boarded a ship sailing for America. And despite his boredom that afternoon, he couldn't deny that he was glad to be back at Sweet Acres once again.

  Tony had grown up at Sweet Acres as an only child. He could not remember either of his parents, which was no surprise, since his mother, Susan, had died birthing him. His father, Ramsey, distraught over his wife's death, had died three months later in an accident as he rode home drunk from a night spent drowning his sorrows.

  It was both fortunate and unfortunate for Tony that his father's parents, Sidney and Alice Daggett, had raised him. Fortunate, because they adored him; unfortunate, because they denied him nothing, and he grew up believing that the world revolved around his own perfect self. And since he had been blessed, or cursed, as the case may be, with strikingly attractive features and a tall, loose-limbed, athletic body to match his indigo-eyed, black-haired handsomeness, it wasn't surprising that he had come to expect no less than the adulation of all around him.

  Worse yet, he was also heir to two great fortunes: his father's and his mother's. His mother, an only child herself, had been an English heiress of substantial wealth, and, as her son, Tony had inherited the fortune that had come with her when she married Ramsey. Under the terms of his maternal grandfather's will, he would also, in good time, inherit the wealth of her father, the Baron Westbrook.

  It was considered by some a piece of good luck that Tony's father, Ramsey, had been a twin, else poor Tony would have been heir to the entire Daggett fortune—which everyone agreed would have been his ruin. Upon his grandfather's death, since Ramsey had been the eldest son, if only by a scant five minutes, Tony had, following the English manner, inherited the majority of the Daggett fortune; half then, the other half when he reached thirty. His uncle Alfred had inherited a handsome fortune, too, but Alfred had always felt that once Ramsey had died he should have been the principle heir—not his nephew.

  Fortunately for Tony's character, before he died lord Westbrook had come to realize just how outrageously spoiled his beloved grandson had become. Consequently, he had tried to make amends by ensuring that not all of the immense Westbrook wealth came into Tony's careless hands at once. And Tony had been careless in those days—a reckless, spendthrift gambler in fact.

  Baron Westbrook had been a shrewd old man, and, upon the baron's death, Tony had come into a decent portion of the estate; but the bulk of it was safely beyond his reach. Of course, Tony had the use of the various homes scattered about England, but, no doubt hoping that age would bring his beloved grandson wisdom, the baron had craftily set aside the largest part of his fortune to be doled out in specific amounts as Tony reached various ages. But with his father's fortune already at his fingertips, something the baron had known when he had made his will, lack of money had never been a problem for Tony.

  Nor had women. In addition to a parade of fancy pieces, he had had two wives to his credit. His mouth twisted. Two dead wives. The first, Mercy, whose death had been accidental, although there were plenty who believed otherwise, had been his bride for only eight months before her tragic death. And the second... Tony's eyes grew bleak. The second, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered, and there existed an even larger part of the population convinced that she had died by his hand.

  Tony sighed. He had married both times for a proper, if not exemplary, reason—to please his grandparents by providing the next generation. Both sets of grandparents had pleaded with him to marry and settle down, and because he loved them, he had tried to give them what they wanted—to no avail and a great deal of scandal.

  His early life had been dominated by his two sets of grandparents—the Daggetts in Natchez and the Westbrooks in England. He had spent a great deal of time with the Westbrooks in England and in due course had attended school there at Eton. It didn't help his character any that Lord and Lady Westbrook continued the ruination begun by the Daggett grandparents. The Westbrooks, with the best of intentions, encouraged his pride and smiled fondly at his youthful arrogance and recklessness, instilling within him at an early age the notion that there was nothing that he could not have—that his own way and his own pleasure came first.

  Tony did have some saving graces. Along with his handsome face and lithe body, he had also inherited the Devil's own charm and grace, a lively sense of humor, and, as time passed, the ability to laugh at his own foibles. Despite his wealth and attractiveness, there was not a conceited bone in his body. He was considered a loyal and true friend by those upon whom he bestowed his affection—something he did these days with great caution—having also learned that his fortune attracted too many "friends" whose only interest in him was his wealth.

  His father's twin, Uncle Alfred, had also been able to bring it home to Tony that the world was not his for the taking. Alfred heartily disapproved of him and said so, frequently and loudly. In his youth, Tony's cousins, Franklin and Burgess, had done him the favor of habitually bloodying his nose. Franklin in particular had brutally taught him that he could not be cock-o'-the-walk all of the time.

  Considering everything, what was surprising, as Tony had neared his majority, was the fact that he was not thoroughly despicable. Eton had helped—there was no favoritism there. And Tony was not unintelligent. As he had ventured farther and farther out from the ruinous cocoon of his doting grandparents and begun to rub shoulders with others—some who had an even higher opinion of themselves than he did—he began to realize that he was not quite the perfect being he had been led to believe and that life was not his to command.

  It had been, he thought with
a wry smile, something of a shock to discover that as far as most of the world was concerned, he was simply an arrogant young puppy with more hair than wit. And I was, he admitted, taking another long swallow of his ale. An arrogant, selfish, puppy. But that, he reminded himself quickly, was a very long time ago and now, at the age of thirty-eight, he was able to view some of his early antics with something approaching astonishment—and bitter regret.

  Finishing his ale, Tony put the tankard down on the table and reached for the thick, black-velvet rope that hung nearby. Giving it a hard yank, he waited for a servant to appear. When his English butler, Billingsley, arrived, he waved his tankard in the air, and said, "I think I need another—you might as well fill a pitcher and bring it back with you. It will save you several trips to the cellar."

  Lyman Billingsley, thin and lean as a hickory stick and with a beaklike nose that could frighten impressionable children, gave him a long look down that same nose. They had been together nearly twenty years. Tony had hired Billingsley on a silly wager that he could pick out a felon from Newgate and make a decent servant of him. Tony had been very drunk at the time, a state he seemed to continually inhabit in those far-off days.

  But it had worked out well, owing more to luck than any brilliance on the part of young Tony. Billingsley, originally a highwayman by trade, had taken a considering look at the young swell who had rescued him from certain hanging and decided that this was an opportunity too good to miss. His days of crime were behind him—well, except for the occasional gold watch or jeweled pin that had caught his eye. But in the main, he had given Tony his loyalty, and over the years had turned into a good butler. He had not, however, ever learned to view his employer with the reverence accorded by most servants to their master, much to Tony's relief and delight.

  Picking up Tony's empty tankard and slapping it down noisily on a tray he had brought with him, Billingsley said tartly, "Seems to me, guvnor, that you've been drinking a mite too much lately. And since when have you ever worried about how many steps you save me?"

  Tony grinned. "Of course I've been drinking heavily—haven't you learned yet? It's what gentlemen of my class do when they have nothing else to do. And as for saving you steps..." His eyes gleamed. "You are getting on in age, you know."

  "Is that so? I may have twenty years on you, but I ain't in my dotage yet!" Billingsley returned with relish. "And as for getting on in age, I ain't the one who needs a wife and some little Daggetts to terrorize the countryside—and inherit Sweet Acres and your bloody great fortune."

  "I think you're forgetting my cousins," Tony said with a lazy smile, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. "They will be only too happy to step into my shoes."

  "Indeed they would," Billingsley replied sharply. "That stiff-rumped uncle of yours, at the snap of a finger. But do you want 'em to? That's the question, my lad."

  Tony shrugged. "It doesn't matter. When I am dead I'll be beyond caring."

  Billingsley drew himself up, his brown eyes snapping. "Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! And what about me?" he asked in scandalized accents. "What'll 'appen to me if you cock up your toes sudden-like?"

  "Ah, I see, I am to marry and beget heirs to ensure the well-being of my butler?"

  "You should think about it," Billingsley said virtuously. "And while you do, I'll fetch another tankard of ale, but no pitcher—you've been drinking alone too often these days."

  Used to being bullied by his butler, Tony waved him away with a grin. But his expression was thoughtful after Billingsley had left the room. If Billingsley was worried about him, and Tony recognized that his longtime servant was, then it was time to do something about this pool of melancholy he seemed to be falling into. But what?

  The cotton crop was planted. Besides, he had a very able plantation manager, John Jackson, to oversee the running of the various plantations he owned. He also had an extremely astute business agent both here and in England. His house ran to his liking. John Osgood, his head stable man, another of the servants he had brought with him from England, kept a gimlet eye on the horses—and anything else he took a notion to interest himself in, Tony thought with a grin.

  His grin faded. Which left him with damn little to do but brood over the hand that fate had dealt him. Or rather the fate he had regrettably fashioned for himself.

  Irritated by his mood, he stood up. If he was so bloody bored that he was feeling sorry for himself, then by heaven, he had bloody well better do something about it. But not, he reminded himself firmly, anything that smacked of his old dissolute life. He had sworn to himself that those days were behind him. But were they? The previous night would certainly give the lie to that.

  Scowling, Tony wandered to the French doors and stared out at the beguiling view. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back to Natchez. In England, he spent much of his time in the country, safely away from temptation, able, for long periods of time, to convince himself that he had exactly the life he wanted. Which was, of course, why he was so restless and thought he needed a change.

  With relief he heard the door open behind him. However, the expression of barely suppressed excitement on Billingsley's face halted whatever Tony had been about to say.

  Drawing himself up grandly, Billingsley announced, "A lady to see you, sir."

  Billingsley stepped aside, and into the room swept Tony's dearest dream and worst nightmare. Arabella Montgomery.

  Almost smirking, Billingsley asked, "Will that be all, sir?"

  Tony visibly started, and, tearing his stunned gaze from Arabella's set face, muttered, "Yes, of course, leave us."

  Arabella's heart was pounding like a war drum, and she was furiously aware of the maddened leap her pulse had given at the first sight of those once-beloved features. The years, she thought waspishly, had treated him well—he was still the most attractive man she had ever met. Blast him!

  Though his features remained composed, Tony was conscious of the fact that he was suddenly invigorated in a way he had not thought possible. He motioned to a lovely channel-backed chair covered in coffee brown silk. By heaven, he thought dazedly, she hasn't changed a bit. She was still as vital and vibrant as he had remembered. And yet it was as if he were seeing her for the first time, those mysteriously slanted golden brown eyes, the saucy nose, and full mouth. And that hair! Had it always been such a vivid shade of red? So brilliant and bright that it looked as if a touch would sear flesh.

  Unable to help himself, his gaze flashed over her with frank appreciation. He noted the trim little figure, the surprisingly voluptuous bosom he had once tasted and teased, the narrow waist his hands had eagerly clasped, and the lush hips that had cradled him as he had brought them both ecstasy. Dear God! How had he managed to stay away from her for five long years?

  Reminding himself of the reasons he had left Natchez all those years ago, Tony forcibly pushed away the painful memories. She had made her feelings for him clear, and he was not about to let himself in for that type of anguish ever again.

  Determined to remain indifferent to her presence in his house—the house he had once hoped she would inhabit as his bride, he asked politely, "Will you have a seat?"

  Arabella gave a stiff nod and sat down. She had not missed his swift appraisal, and she told herself that she was insulted and outraged. And her heart had not leaped with pleasure. Keeping her eyes fixed on a spot above his head, she said crisply, "You are no doubt surprised to see me."

  Tony's long mouth quirked. "Surprised? Oh, I don't think that begins to describe what I am feeling."

  She shot him a glance from under her long lashes. She reminded herself that her history with Tony Daggett had nothing to do with that day's meeting. The return of Jeremy's vowels was the only reason she was there. He was a lying scoundrel and less than dirt beneath her feet. He had bewitched her once and made her love him, then thrown it all back in her face. She loathed him.

  But confronted by the flesh-and-blood man who had haunted her dreams, face-t
o-face with the sweet lover who had taught her the joys of passion, she discovered that her heart and brain were in decided conflict.

  Angry at her unruly emotions, she focused on the task in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she said bluntly, "I have just come from Oakmont. Daniel Leyton informed me that you are now the owner of Jeremy's vowels. Is this true?"

  Whatever Tony had expected her to say, it certainly hadn't been that. Frowning, he glanced at the pile of vowels and miscellany lying carelessly on the mahogany table where he had so recently rested his feet. Jeremy? Who the devil is Jeremy and, more importantly, why do his vowels matter to Arabella?

  An icy chill went through him. Not, he hoped with a fierceness that startled him, a husband. But if not a husband, then what?

  When he remained silent, Arabella continued uncertainly, "You do remember Jeremy? My brother?"

  Her brother. Thank God! He did vaguely remember a blond-haired stripling, a pleasant youth.

  "Er, yes, I do, now that you mention him. It is his vowels that Leyton lost to me last night?"

  "Yes, and I want them back," Arabella said grimly. "Leyton and that blackguard Walcott had no business seducing Jeremy the way they did. They cheated him."

  "Ah, and Jeremy has, of course, accused them of this?" Tony inquired silkily, deciding that fate had finally dealt him a most interesting hand—most interesting. His boredom was gone. The feeling of melancholy that had assailed him vanished, and, inexplicably, he felt like laughing out loud. Life was suddenly extremely enticing. He was going to see that it stayed that way.

  "Well, not exactly," Arabella admitted. Her expression earnest, she added, "You see, they induced him to drink too much, and then they encouraged him to gamble."

  One of Tony's slimly arched brows rose. "Their actions may have been objectionable, but unless, er, Jeremy, has some sort of proof that they actually, ah, fuzzed the cards, I don't see what you expect me to do about it."