by Sandra Heath
Cora had an answer for everything. “Well, I’m sure Emily will place Geoffrey’s wardrobe at your disposal, Mr. Lincoln. He was about your height and build, and the clothes are doing nothing but hanging in his dressing room. Is that not so, Emily?”
Emily forced a smile. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.
“There, you see? As they say in France, tout est bien qui finit bien, all’s well that ends well,” Cora declared, then set her napkin aside and got up. “I perceive that it is some time yet before morning service, so Peter and I will make a start now. Come along, Peter. You need to put in a great deal of effort with your verbs. Your conjugation is really quite dreadful, you know. I cannot imagine what manner of person is teaching French at Harrow, but I doubt if he has ever been across the Channel.” She ushered her reluctant pupil away, the message from Rafe still unmentioned.
Jack and Emily found themselves alone. The longcase clock ticked into the silence, and the fire shifted, but the flames were as nothing to those that flared in Jack’s heart. Just looking at Emily aroused his desire once more, so he did not dare to look at her. His glance rested here, there, everywhere, except upon her; and yet she was the one thing in the room that he longed to feast his eyes upon.
Nor were Emily’s thoughts as innocent as they ought to have been. She was acutely conscious of everything about him, and her gaze stole secretly toward him across the table. He hadn’t tied his sun-lightened hair back this morning, and she loved the way it curled down, so pale and golden. And then his eyes ... oh, his eyes. They were the color of the summer sea, and as inviting.
Her surreptitious gaze moved farther down, to his body, now so properly attired in pale gray coat and cream breeches. She remembered the night. All he had worn then had been a thin, russet paisley dressing gown, through which she had been able to feel absolutely everything she should not.
The trembling seconds ticked by, then suddenly they looked at each other and spoke at the same time.
“Mr. Lincoln, I’m sure—”
“Mrs. Fairfield, there is no need—”
They both broke off in confusion, then he managed a smile as he deferred to her. “Ladies first, Mrs. Fairfield.”
“I... I was going to say that I’m sure you have no real desire to see the rapids. As Mama said, you will find them rather trifling after the cataracts you must have observed in the Andes.”
He held her eyes across the table. “On the contrary, Mrs. Fairfield, I am looking forward to seeing what your Shropshire river has to offer. Unless, of course, you would prefer not to
go.”
“It will do me good to ride again, Mr. Lincoln, especially after the fall yesterday. They do say that it is best to return to the saddle as quickly as possible, or run the risk of losing one’s nerve.” She cleared her throat a little and began to fold her napkin.
Jack immediately got up to go around the table to draw her chair out for her. She rose to her feet and turned to thank him. Their hands brushed, and she snatched hers back as if the contact burned her. Lavender enveloped him, bewitching him still more. It would be so easy to simply reach out and pull her to him again, to find her lips ...
She felt the charge in the air, like that breathless moment between lightning and thunder. Time itself seemed to hesitate. Images shimmered before her—being carried in his arms, making love in her dreams, the embrace in the long gallery ... Oh, the embrace in the long gallery. Somehow she managed to murmur that she would see him in the courtyard after morning service, then she hurried from the room.
But as she closed the door behind her, she knew how dangerously alluring and erotic were the sensations that enveloped her now. She could easily have put a stop to the ride; indeed, feeling the way she did, she should have put a stop to it. Instead, she was allowing herself to be swept along by the virile excitement of Jack Lincoln. It was excitement that was forbidden to her because she had pledged her hand to Rafe,
She took a huge breath to steady herself. “This won’t do, Emily Fairfield,” she whispered. “If you carry on like this, he’ll think you the most easy conquest in all the world!”
She began to walk toward the staircase, but as she passed the little silver plate on the hall table, she noticed that even though it was Sunday, a letter had been brought. She recognized the by now familiar hand of Sir Quentin Brockhampton, who acted for Lord Fitchett, one of the more pressing and impatient of Fairfield Hall’s creditors. With a sinking heart she broke the seal and read. It advised that either she paid the seven hundred and fifty guineas owed to his lordship, or—regretfully, of course—court action would be taken.
Common sense rushed soberingly over her, and she glanced back at the dining room door. The reminder of her debts and responsibilities came none too soon. She had to keep an iron grip on her emotions—and make sure Jack Lincoln stayed at arm’s length.
Chapter 17
Sir Quentin Brockhampton, author of the disagreeable communication Emily had just received, was almost at the end of his journey from London. Exhausted from a night of being bounced and jolted over the highways of England, he had fallen into a fitful sleep by the time his traveling carriage reached the square in Temford. He was huddled in his warmest ankle-length greatcoat, with a shawl around his shoulders and a rug over his knees, and his top hat had slipped forward over his face as he swayed to the rhythm of the vehicle.
Because it was Sunday morning, the square was almost deserted, two sides lined with houses, shops, and the church of All Saints. The third side was occupied by more shops and houses, and by the Royal Oak inn, a large, newly painted white building, three stories high, gabled, with a central archway that led into a large yard. At the rear of this yard stood the newly completed assembly room, where the long-awaited Bonfire Night gathering was to take place.
The fourth side of the square was a tall, impenetrable hedge of yews, with grand armorial gates through which could be seen the medieval splendor of the castle. A Yorkist stronghold during the Wars of the Roses, it was now a gracious and much improved residence, where the white rose of York had given way to the blue rose that Sir Rafe Warrender had stolen from his kinsman.
The carriage rattled toward the castle gates, which remained firmly closed across its path because the man at the lodge did not admit visitors before Rafe’s usual breakfast hour. As the vehicle swayed to a halt and the coachman called out the identity of the caller, Sir Quentin awoke with a jolt. He had been dreaming he was on trial for his life at the Old Bailey for the crime of eating ham. His jury consisted of farmyard animals in gentlemen’s clothes, and the foreman was a Gloucester Old Spot pig with a very mean and vengeful expression in his little eyes.
Sir Quentin sat up on the carriage seat and took out his handkerchief to mop the beads of perspiration that stood out on his forehead. Dear God above, he vowed mentally, he’d never touch ham again! Or bacon! Or pork! He became aware of the voices outside and lowered the window glass. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
The coachman leaned down. “This fellow says he is not permitted to admit anyone this early, sir,” he explained.
Sir Quentin’s gaze swung to the gatekeeper, who took the precaution of doffing his hat, but made no move at all to opening the gates. He was a thin, weedy fellow with a receding chin, but nevertheless had a very determined look about him. By this time Sir Quentin was cold, stiff, hungry, thirsty, and bad-tempered enough to draw a pistol from inside his coat and level it at the man.
“Now look here, fellow,” he growled, “I have urgent business with Sir Rafe. Open these gates immediately, or so help me I will puncture you between the eyes!”
The man’s jaw dropped, and even Sir Quentin’s coachman gaped, but in a moment the gates had been flung open and the carriage was permitted to pass. Its wheels crunched on the scrupulously raked gravel beyond, and the horses snorted and tossed their heads as once again they reluctantly came up to a trot.
Peacocks paraded noisily on the lawns, and a flock of doves rose from the iv
y-covered battlements as the vehicle approached the barbican. The moat had long since been filled in and the bridge replaced with a turning area of gravel because a peculiarity of the castle’s design made it far too awkward for vehicles to actually enter the inner ward. Sir Quentin therefore alighted outside the walls, in the cool shadow of the formidable gatehouse.
Rafe was in the middle of taking breakfast in a small chamber off the great baronial hall. He was dressed in a scarlet quilted silk dressing gown with a large shawl collar trimmed with black fur. It was buttoned at the waist, and beneath it he wore his shirt and breeches. At first he frowned when informed that a visitor had called, but his annoyance turned to unease when he learned the visitor’s name.
“Sir Quentin Brockhampton? Show him in immediately,” he declared, tossing his napkin aside and getting up to go out into the hall, where every sound echoed and not even two roaring fires could warm the chilly air. Grimacing gargoyles gazed down from the hammerbeam roof high above, and a number of suits of armor stood around, as if intent upon eavesdropping.
Sir Quentin’s footsteps echoed loudly as he hastened toward Rafe. “Ah, Warrender, I’m relieved to find you at home.”
“Where else would I be at this unconscionably early hour?” Rafe replied rather churlishly, then turned to go back to his meal. “I’m taking breakfast, so you’d best join me.”
“Eh? Oh, yes ...” Sir Quentin followed him.
“Are you hungry?” Rafe asked, gesturing to him to sit down, then resuming his own chair.
Sir Quentin was a little distracted. “Er, yes, damnably so.”
Rafe snapped his fingers at a footman. “A little of everything for Sir Quentin.”
“Sir.” The man bowed and moved to the nearby sideboard, which was covered with silver-domed dishes. Far too many for one man, Sir Quentin thought.
Rafe indicated the coffeepot and toast. “Help yourself in the meantime, dear fellow. Now then, what the devil brings you here like this?”
“Well, two things really. Yesterday I had occasion to go to my club in Pall Mall. One of the other members had a Swedish sea captain along as a guest, a fellow by the name of Gustavus, who is the captain of a merchantman out of Lima, the Stralsund”
“I trust this is leading somewhere, dear fellow?” Rafe murmured wearily, getting on with his sausages, bacon, and scrambled eggs.
“Er, yes.” Sir Quentin fell silent as the footman brought him a mountainous plate of food. “Good God, do you usually eat this well on your own?” he asked.
“Mm? Yes, as it happens.”
As the footman withdrew from the room and closed the door, Sir Quentin surveyed the plate, which was topped with a thick slice of streaky bacon. The memory of the foreman of the jury lingered unpleasantly, and he knew he couldn’t eat it, or the pork sausages, or the delicious black pudding. He even shrank from the kidneys in case they came from a pig! Instead, hungry as he was, he would content himself with the eggs, mushrooms, and fried bread.
“Well, get on with whatever it is you have to tell me,” Rafe prompted irritably.
“Eh? Oh, yes. You see, when I realized that Gustavus had just returned from Peru, I asked on the off chance if he had heard anything of Felix Reynolds. Oh, I know South America is vast, and the chances of—”
“And did he know anything?” Rafe interrupted.
“Yes, as it happens. At least, he knew of a Felix Reynolds, but only through a third party, a Peruvian doctor friend. And since I hardly imagine there is more than one Felix Reynolds in South America, I can only believe it is the Felix Reynolds. Anyway, the doctor informed him that Reynolds is not going to recover from a recent illness.”
“Not going to recover?” Rafe put his knife and fork down slowly, then slid his hand nervously into his dressing gown pocket, where nestled the quartz pebble.
“Yes. I pressed Gustavus on the point, but the doctor had apparently been adamant. Apparently Reynolds did not wish to distress his friends with the truth, and so pretended that he was getting slowly better. Gustavus was certain he must have passed away by now.”
Rafe’s eyes began to gleam, and he took his hand from his pocket. “What else did your informative captain have to say?”
“About Reynolds? Nothing.”
“But he was absolutely certain of his facts?”
“He could not have been more so.”
Rafe breathed out with satisfaction. “So all we have to do is await official notification?”
“Yes.”
An edge of uncertainty crept into Rafe’s voice. “By giiiad, Brockhampton, if you’ve made any mistake in all this—”
“I haven’t. Damn it all, Warrender, as soon as I caught a whiff of who’d bought the St. Lawrence estate, I made a point of visiting Bath.”
The St. Lawrence estate was a vast inheritance that had come on the market when the last Earl of St. Lawrence died without heir. Its disposal had been the subject of much interest the length and breadth of the land, until a mystery purchaser had acquired it. The name of the buyer had never been made public.
Sir Quentin went on. “That fool of a lawyer didn’t have a clue who I was, and left me alone in his room. I went through his files and saw the deeds. A few further inquiries here and there soon elicited the truth of the matter. The fellow in Bath handled the entire disposal of the St. Lawrence estate, and as you know, broadcast the sale as widely as he could. The asking price was very high, and the few prospective purchasers who showed an interest were soon discouraged. It seemed the executors were going to have to lower the price, but then Reynolds wrote from Caracas, where he’d just seen the notice of the sale. He bought it all at the full asking price. Like that.” Sir Quentin snapped his fingers.
“And this information isn’t widely known?”
“No. It was pure chance that brought it my way—an overheard confidence at my club. Relax, Warrender, for there is no doubt that Felix Reynolds is—was, if he’s dead—an exceedingly wealthy man. There are no entails, other claimants, or any of the usual inconvenient legal obstacles, and we already know that Reynolds acknowledges being Emily Fairfield’s father, for it is all there in the letter he left with me, along with the money. He wasn’t wealthy then, of course, but certainly has been in later years. Precious stones from Brazil, and gold in Peru, or some such thing. So legitimate or not, your wife-to-be is a great heiress.”
“And she is beautiful as well. Was there ever a more desirable bride?” Rafe murmured.
“I trust you have marriage arrangements well in hand? I’m keeping my side of the bargain. By now she will have received another letter from me. Seven hundred and fifty guineas this time. I forget to whom it is supposedly owed. Lord Fitchett, I think.”
“Fitchett? He’ll do as well as any, I suppose,” Rafe replied. “As for the bargain, you may be sure I am doing my part. The official betrothal is to be the day after tomorrow, on Bonfire Night. There is to be an assembly at the Royal Oak in the market square.”
“I see. What of the marriage itself?”
“Christmas Eve.”
“Hmmm. Can’t you bring it forward?”
Rafe looked at him in puzzlement. “Bring it forward? Why? Christmas Eve is less than two months away.”
“Because if Reynolds really was at death’s door when the Stralsund left Peru, the very next ship might bring his death certificate, which will go straight to that fool in Bath, who will immediately implement the last will and testament, which I strongly suspect has been drawn up in readiness! Think about it, man. As soon as Emily Fairfield realizes she is wealthy, she isn’t going to need your helpful purse, is she? And I should imagine she will call your bluff about her late husband’s spying activities. It is one thing to face scandal in penury, quite another to do it from the vantage point of a vast fortune. If you want her and her inheritance, you had best get on with it posthaste.”
Rafe gazed at him. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.
“I am. Look, there’s more I have to tell you yet�
��”
“You said that was all Gustavus told you!” Rafe interrupted sharply.
“About Reynolds, yes.” Sir Quentin looked at him. “While I was talking with Gustavus, he also mentioned a passenger who came to England on the Stralsund. A certain Jack Lincoln.”
Rafe stared at him, then shook his head. “Not a common name, I grant you, but not all that uncommon either.”
“I asked Gustavus to describe him. It’s your cousin, all right. He boarded the Stralsund at Lima with two companions. I don’t know who they were, but that’s by and by, for it’s Lincoln’s presence in the Peruvian capital that makes me feel uneasy. Can it really be coincidence that he and Reynolds were there at the same time?”
“Lima is a capital city, damn it, and while it may not be the size of London, it’s quite possible for two Englishmen to be there without bumping into each other! Anyway, I fail to see what difference it would make if they were acquainted. Reynolds didn’t know about my designs upon his daughter, so I can’t see that knowing Lincoln’s tale of self-pity and woe will have had an impact upon anything.”
Sir Quentin pushed his food around the plate with his fork. “But they both know me, Warrender.”
“So? That still doesn’t affect the odds. Look, Lincoln’s being back in England may not please me, but I hardly think he’s going to toddle all the way here to confront me again. Nor can he possibly be aware of my thus far tenuous connection with Reynolds through Emily Fairfield. Relax about Lincoln, for his having been in Lima is the beginning and end of it. Mere coincidence, no more and no less.”
Sir Quentin wasn’t so sure. A feeling of apprehension nagged away at him. “Look, Warrender, I know you think I’m worrying about nothing, but I strongly advise you to do all you can to persuade your bride-to-be to bring the wedding forward. The sooner you are her husband, the better.”
