by Sandra Heath
Peter gazed at it with shining eyes. “Oh, I say, how absolutely first-rate! One day I will have such a necklace. I will go to Peru and find treasure that eluded the conquistadors. Maybe I will even find a forgotten city!”
Jack wondered what Emily thought of her son’s ambitions. “I’m sure your Mama will not like you to go so far away.”
Peter’s jaw jutted mutinously. “Mama will not care, for she will soon be married to Sir Rafe.”
“Oh?” Jack’s heart lurched. He had already guessed that a marriage was in the air, but to hear it actually said ...
“Grandmama and I hate Sir Rafe, for he is odious in every way, but Mama wants the match. They are to be betrothed at the Bonfire Night assembly at the Royal Oak, then the wedding is to be on Mama’s birthday on Christmas Eve.”
Christmas Eve? Jack felt unutterably stricken. Ye gods above, he thought, it was as if the dearest thing in all the world had been wrenched from his arms. Yet he barely knew Emily Fairfield! He had gazed upon her for the first time a matter of hours ago, but already he knew he loved her.
How the wheel of fate did turn. Instead of Emily herself being the easy conquest Felix had predicted, it was Jack Lincoln whose hitherto inviolate heart had submitted without struggle. He was Emily’s captive, her prisoner, to do with as she pleased; but it pleased her to marry Rafe Warrender... “Er, your Mama must love Sir Rafe very much if she is prepared to marry him in spite of how you and your Grandmama feel,” he ventured.
“No, she doesn’t love him. Grandmama says it will be what the French call a mariage de convenance.”
Jack almost felt like leaping to his feet with a cry of triumph! She didn’t love Rafe! All was not lost! But all he said was, “I see.”
The rather ridiculous rush of victorious emotions subsided almost immediately, for the definite existence of a match meant that Rafe was bound to call at the Hall, where he would come face-to-face with Emily and Cora’s unexpected guest. This unavoidable fact was something Jack had been pushing to the back of his mind, and now he wished he hadn’t; indeed, he wished he’d owned up to the kinship the moment Rafe’s name had been mentioned.
But it was too late now. The moment had passed, and he’d inserted himself beneath the roof of the woman who was to be Lady Warrender! He would have to cross the bridge of his meeting with Rafe when he came to it, and in the meantime concern himself with his promise to Felix.
Peter and he returned to the house shortly afterward, for the sun had almost gone down and the air was decidedly chilly. After resting awhile in the comfortable third-floor bedroom he had been given, Jack then got ready for dinner. Before going downstairs, he studied himself in the mirror, thinking how far away now was the rover who had explored the streets of Cuzco and sailed upon Lake Titicaca. Tonight he was respectable again, and with his long hair tied back and thus invisible when he looked directly into the glass, he could see once more the Jack Lincoln who had been one of the most sought-after men in London.
He supposed such clothes as these suited him, for he could not find fault in the way the black silk coat and white silk breeches showed off his tall, leanly muscular figure. It was the vogue to have evening coats too tight to be buttoned, thus exposing the white satin waistcoat and lace-trimmed shirt beneath. It was also the vogue for the line of the coat to taper away to the tails at the back, thus revealing how his silk breeches clung to his hips and thighs, as well as to another more private portion of his anatomy.
He smiled a little wryly, for since his return to England he had heard much comment about immodest female fashions, but not a great deal about male fashions, which to his mind were just as shocking.
As he made his way down to the dining room, he encountered Cora at the head of the staircase. She was wearing a bottle green silk gown and pretty embroidered shawl; a little ivory fan dangled from her white-gloved wrist, and there were pearls at her throat. A hint of rouge warmed her lips and cheeks, and she had placed an aigrette in her silver hair. Her beauty still shone out, and Jack could well understand why Felix loved her so very much.
“Why, Mr. Lincoln, how very elegant you look,” she declared, inclining her head gracefully.
He bowed. “In spite of my regrettably long hair?” he replied with a smile.
“Well, it suits you, to be sure.” She toyed with her fan. “Felix writes very highly of you, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Then I am honored, Mrs. Preston, for I regard him as the finest man I have ever known.”
“Oh, I do too, Mr. Lincoln, I do too.” Cora paused. “It is strange that he does not mention the purse in his letter.”
“Oh?” Jack met her eyes.
“Well, I suppose it does not matter. The mere fact that he sent it is sufficient. I have already written a note to Mr. Mackay, instructing him to come here as soon as he can. I will send someone with it in the morning, and imagine we will receive a visit the day after.” Cora smiled again. “Did Felix speak much of me, Mr. Lincoln?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes, with the greatest affection and longing,” Jack replied honestly.
“I appreciate your candor, sir.”
Candor? He knew he was tiptoeing around the facts like a ballet dancer!
Cora held his gaze. “And did he speak of Emily?” she asked lightly.
“I...” Jack squirmed, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, Mrs. Preston, he did.”
“So you know ... ?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “But if you fear I will say anything, please be assured that your secret is safe with me.”
She searched his face. “I know it is, Mr. Lincoln, for Felix would not praise you so highly if you were anything less than a paragon.”
“A paragon is something I definitely am not, Mrs. Preston,” he replied with feeling.
“Oh?” Their eyes met. “Is something wrong, Mr. Lincoln?”
The question concentrated his mind. “Er, no, of course not, Mrs. Preston.”
“You seem a little ... Well, I’m not sure what you seem, but you seem it, nevertheless.” There was a small smile on her lips.
“Perhaps it is just that I am nervous about the meal ahead.”
“Nervous? Whatever for?” She was taken aback.
“It is some time since I dined in the company of ladies.”
She tapped his arm with her fan. “Sir, you have no need at all to be nervous; indeed you will not have time to be nervous, for you will be too busy satisfying our endless curiosity about Felix and foreign climes.”
She slipped her hand over his sleeve. “Let us go down now, sir. And remember, vouloir, c’est pouvoir. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Chapter 14
Dinner was at an end, the cloth had been removed, and liqueurs and fruit had been served. The room was warm from the fire that danced warmly in the hearth, and candlelight glowed on the faces of Jack’s three companions as he told them all about his travels in distant lands.
The meal had commenced with watercress soup, followed by whiting, and then roast pork. It ended with a deliciously light tart made with bottled gooseberries. All simple fare, but beautifully presented and garnished. Jack had enjoyed the occasion in spite of his conscience about not having admitted he was Rafe’s cousin, but pangs of guilt reached through him as he played the perfect guest.
Cora and Peter were full of questions about Peru, but Emily did not seem to share their interest; at least, perhaps that was not entirely true, more was it that she deliberately refrained from showing an interest. Jack was sure that the reason lay in the excitement that animated Peter’s face. She was afraid that her son, like Felix, would leave England and seldom—if ever—return.
So she listened politely enough to the conversation around the table, but asked no questions of her own. Wearing a long-sleeved crimson velvet gown, with diamond earrings that glittered in the candlelight, she watched Peter’s enthusiasm with all the inevitable pain of a doting mother who could suddenly see the future more clearly than before and d
id not look forward to it.
Jack felt he understood, so when Cora and Peter were talking to each other—or rather arguing with each other about the height above sea level of Lake Titicaca—he leaned across to her. “Most wanderers return, Mrs. Fairfield. Felix is the exception that proves the rule.”
A self-conscious blush colored her cheeks. “You can clearly read minds, Mr. Lincoln.”
“On this occasion it was not difficult.”
She smiled a little wryly. “No woman likes to be told she is an open book, sir.”
“Not an open book, Mrs. Fairfield, just a loving mother.”
“If Felix is the exception that proves the rule, Mr. Lincoln, where does that leave you?”
“Me?”
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but have you not just spent a number of years abroad?”
“I did not leave this country willingly,” he said after a moment.
“Oh?” She had visions of duns in hot pursuit, for that was the usual reason gentlemen quit England’s shores.
Again he read her mind and smiled. “Nor was I forced to flee in order to stay out of jail. I left because I had nothing to stay for. I was a bitter man, Mrs. Fairfield, and perhaps I still am.”
“Bitter?”
He paused again, acutely aware of his glaring omission about Rafe. “I, er, was cheated out of my inheritance.”
She was appalled. “How dreadful. Is there no hope of regaining it?”
“Not as things stand at present,” he replied, wondering if he should use the moment to explain.
“Who cheated you?”
Rafe’s name blistered on Jack’s lips, but something held him back. “Oh, it is too long a story, Mrs. Fairfield.”
Cora and Peter had resolved their difference over Lake Titicaca, and were now listening to the conversation across the table, so Emily tactfully changed the subject. “We are a little out of the way here in Shropshire, Mr. Lincoln, and the latest news takes a little time to reach us. So please, tell us what you heard in Bristol. I’m sure there must be a great deal to relate. Of the war in Europe, perhaps?”
“Well, it’s said there has been a great French victory over the Austrians ...”
“Ah, yes, at somewhere called Ulm, I believe?”
He smiled. “You are abreast of the news after all, Mrs. Fairfield.”
She smiled as well. “I only know because Sir Rafe mentioned it, and he had just come from London.”
Again he felt he should explain about Rafe; again he did not. “Maybe he knows more, having been in the capital. I confess it was unsubstantiated talk in Bristol. The only other thing I heard was that there may have been a naval engagement off Cadiz. Lord Nelson’s command.”
Cora sighed. “Ah, Lord Nelson. When it comes to naval matters he is matchless; privately, of course, he is to be reprimanded most considerably. He and that great lolloping Hamilton creature are a disgrace!” She looked at Jack. “Let us speak of something interesting. Is there no gossip from Brighton, Mr. Lincoln?”
Emily laughed. “Mama, I hardly think the port of Bristol was rife with that kind of chitter-chatter.”
“Oh, I suppose not. I’m just interested to know what Mrs. Fitzherbert is wearing now.”
Emily eyed her mother. “I would rather know whether or not the lady is to be our next queen. After all, the Prince of Wales does seem to have married her as well as the Princess of Wales, which rather makes him a bigamist. Is that not so, Mr. Lincoln?”
“If it’s true, then yes, it does,” Jack replied.
Cora’s lips twitched. “I hope it is true, for at least Mrs. Fitzherbert is a lady. Caroline of Brunswick is another great lolloping creature like Lady Hamilton. Quite appalling.”
Jack felt he had to speak up. “Maybe so, Mrs. Preston, but surely the qualities of the two ladies in the Prince’s life are not the question. Rather should we consider the qualities of the Prince himself. Is a man who can overlook a first wife in order to marry a second really desirable as a future king?”
Cora smiled. “Why, Mr. Lincoln, are you stirring up sedition over the walnuts?”
He laughed. “The whiff of revolution must have accompanied me from Lima.”
Peter’s lips parted. “There is revolution in Lima?” he gasped.
Cora groaned. “Oh, no, please do not let us start on Peruvian politics as well!”
Emily smiled. “I agree, Mama. Mr. Lincoln, I daresay you are wondering what you will do to pass the time while you are here—when you are not being ruthlessly pumped for information, that is. Let me assure you that we will look after you. Our social calendar is not full to the brim, but on Bonfire Night there is to be an assembly at the Royal Oak in Temford. Most of local society will be there, and I am sure that you will enjoy the evening if you accompany us.”
Cora cleared her throat. “Mr. Lincoln may enjoy it, Emily, but I certainly will not.”
“Please do not start, Mama—”
“You will be making the greatest mistake of your life that night! The bonfire will not be the only thing to go up in flames, for your happiness will as well.”
Emily flushed. “Mama!”
“Il n’y a que la veríté qui blesse.”
Jack knew the French phrase. “It is only the truth that hurts.”
Cora looked at him. “Emily intends to be betrothed at the assembly to Sir Rafe Warrender, who is the worst insect that ever lived and breathed.”
Emily’s gaze rested reproachfully on her mother. “This is very ill done, Mama, and if you think I will allow the conversation to continue in such a vein, you are very much mistaken.”
Cora was cross, and deliberately addressed Jack. “Mr. Lincoln, if you should happen to go up to the long gallery, which is at the very top of the house, you will find my late son-in-law’s, er, studio, I suppose one would call it. He was an artist of some talent, and there is an unfinished portrait of Sir Rafe on the easel. The odious fellow has been captured well, for the nasty little eyes are most indicative of the mean character within. "It is my opinion that there is nothing to which Sir Rafe Warrender would not stoop in order to get what he wants.”
She cleared her throat a little awkwardly, realizing she had expressed a rather more heated opinion than was polite to someone who was little more than a stranger. “Er, forgive me, sir, and please disregard all I have just said. Emily is to marry him, and I must make the best of it. Peter and I both must,” she added, glancing across the table at her grandson.
The boy pulled a face.
Chapter 15
Emily had a dream that night. She was in Geoffrey’s arms again, abandoning herself to the passion she had missed so much since his death. His kisses were fierce and yearning, and his body hard and urgent. Her fingers curled richly in his hair as she was swept along on waves of gratification.
But the pleasure was greater than she remembered, becoming so intensely erotic and wanton that she felt carried to the edge of control. Her flesh felt as if it would melt, and she ached with desire. Then came the joy, delirious, wonderful joy that flooded over her existence. She cried out, and the sound of her voice awoke her.
The joy scattered, disappearing into the darkness and leaving her feeling empty and confused. For several moments she lay there in bewilderment, unsure of herself or her surroundings, but then she knew it had been only a dream. Disappointment cooled her skin. She was alone in the bed. Geoffrey had gone forever and could never come to her again.
She hid her face in her hands, waiting for her emotions to subside, then slowly she pushed the bedclothes aside and got up to go to the window. A low mist hung over the park, but the sky was clear, with a waxing moon gliding across the starlit heaven. She heard a vixen screech in the distance and saw a barn owl, white and ghostly, swoop toward the stable loft. The dream still touched her, like a sweet echo, faintly heard. But there was something wrong about that echo, something she could not take hold of and bring closer. What was it?
The fire had burned low in the he
arth behind her, and the room was cold and shadowy, but she still felt warm because the voluptuous dream still wound treacherously around her, reminding her of the physical joy she was now denied. Her nights were so lonely, and she knew that they would remain so even when she married Rafe, because she didn’t desire him as she had Geoffrey, didn’t long to feel his arms around her or his lips upon hers.
“Oh, Geoffrey ...” she whispered, blinking back the tears that often came in these small hours. Suddenly, she needed to look at his portrait again. Turning, she donned her lilac woolen wrap, held a candle to the fire, then slipped out of the room.
If it had not been for the cat, she would not have made a sound as she hurried toward the landing, but the animal darted from behind a heavy curtain, where it had been watching a mouse hole. Emily was so startled that she gave a loud gasp and almost dropped the candle, but then she recovered and continued on her way.
Jack was lying awake in his nearby bedroom. He heard nothing until that single gasp. Curious, he immediately got up and went to the door, opening it in time to see the flicker of candlelight disappearing toward the landing and then up the staircase to the floor above.
As it faded away, his curiosity increased. The long gallery was up there, or so Cora had said. Who would go there at this hour? A thief, maybe? He would investigate, for it was better to be safe than sorry. He was naked, and so put on the new russet paisley dressing gown he had purchased in Bristol, then took a small pistol from its case in his portmanteau and left the room.
Emily had reached the long gallery, where the light of her candle hardly seemed to stretch at all. The other paintings seemed to be watching as she made her way toward Geoffrey’s self-portrait. Moonlight shone palely through the numerous windows and lay in latticed patterns on the wooden floor.
There were odd sounds, the scuffling of mice in the walls, the shifting of the house on its ancient foundations, but she heard nothing as she held the candle up to the portrait and gazed once more upon her husband’s handsome face. A face she might not know as well as she once thought.
