by Lynn Kerstan
Rising painfully, he stumbled through the dark aisles toward the street. Blood pounded in his head. He’d spent his childhood doing what he was told. All his life he’d followed the rules. Now everything was upside down and he didn’t know what to believe. He felt an unwitting compulsion to talk about it with someone and could not remember a time in his life when he’d talked about his feelings. Coltrane men never did.
Lady Ramsey hurried from her dressing room to the parlor when the Earl was announced. She’d not seen him since Prinny’s banquet, although he faithfully answered her notes with polite assurances that he was in good health and tending to business. She thought it ominous that he signed them “Coltrane.” His way of warning her to keep her distance, she suspected. Like all hurt animals, he hid away to lick his wounds in private.
Mark was by the window and turned when he heard the door close. “Sorry, Megs,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Were you going out?”
She gazed at him, aware of hollow cheeks, white lips, and a bleak look in his eyes. “Oh, my dear,” she said. Without thought, she sped across the room and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, my dear,” she said again.
For a long time he was stiff, and then, slowly, his own arms rose up to hold her. She felt him tremble as they stood in a silent embrace. “Come, Mark,” she said when he pulled back. Taking his hand, she led him to a small divan and sat beside him. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the rug.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a while. “I thought he’d left me there to die.”
Margaret frowned. She’d assumed this had something to do with Jillian Lamb. Reaching out, she lifted his chin with her long fingers. “Tell me what happened, Mark. I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”
“He tried to ransom me. They told me he would not. God, all this time I thought—” He buried his face in his hands.
Confused, Margaret stared at his bowed head. “From the beginning, my dear. Tell me from the beginning.”
“I’ll . . . try,” he said. “I’m not sure where that is, though. Today I found out something that changes everything, so I’ll start there and go back. Maybe you can make some sense of it.”
He spoke in a halting voice, and when he had trouble going on, Margaret prodded him with questions. After a few minutes she poured him a glass of brandy, along with one for herself. She was appalled at what he told her but not altogether surprised.
It was so rare to hear a Coltrane man talk like this. They all brought such pain on themselves by keeping everything inside. One word, one question, would have saved him months of agony, but Mark could never bring himself to speak. Not once had he given any sign that he believed Richard had abandoned him. She always assumed he knew the truth.
Margaret suddenly realized he was finished. His eyes were closed, and the empty goblet dangled from his fingers. She took it away and crossed to the sideboard to refill it. “I never guessed,” she said lamely. “Everyone knew what Richard went through to gain your release. It did not occur to me you thought differently.” When he failed to respond, she went back and handed him the glass. “I think it strange you would take the word of men trying to wring information from you. Surely you knew Richard would stop at nothing to free his only son.”
He gazed up at her, eyes swimming with pain. “God help me, I did not. He told me not to come back, Megs. When I left England, he said he never wanted to see me again.”
“And you believed that?”
He lowered his eyes.
“Mark, he spoke in anger. I expect those words haunted him every day thereafter.” She released a sigh of exasperation. “Richard never said what he felt, any more than he admitted those feelings to himself. You were all he had. He was afraid he’d lose you to France the way he lost your mother, terrified to his bones you’d never come back.”
“He gave me a direct order, Megs, and I disobeyed.” Mark gulped the brandy and set the glass on the rug. “I’d never done that before. I thought he’d disowned me for it.”
“Yes . . . well, the two of you were cut from the same slab of rock. You ought to have guessed he was not himself when he lost his temper, my sweets, for when did he ever do so? I doubt any son was ever treasured more, and I’d wager you loved him, too, in your own way.”
“I think you’d win,” he murmured, clasping her outstretched hand, “but I’m not altogether sure. We rubbed along fairly well when I did what he expected, but at the end I could not. If any of that was love, it seems a very different thing from what I’ve heard or read of it.”
“Poets and philosophers have tried for centuries to explain love, Mark, but something is always lacking when they put it into words. You may need to discover the truth for yourself.”
“How can I? The Old Ear . . . my father . . . is dead, and the only thing I feel is guilt for not trusting him.”
“Idiot.” She stood towering over him, so that he was forced to look up at her. “Richard never knew you doubted him. Don’t punish yourself for it.”
“You think he doesn’t know?” Mark grimaced. “I’ve been at St. Paul’s. It felt as if he was still alive. Somewhere.”
She ruffled his hair. “If so, he is aware what you are feeling now and accepts your apology. Not that he would admit it, of course.”
That won her a brief smile. She sat again by his knee, considering what to do next. For once in his life Mark had opened up. He was raw, in pain, and vulnerable. Much of it was his own fault, although he could not really be blamed, but neither could he be left to go on making the same mistakes. Margaret decided, without a mite of compunction, to interfere. Subtly, of course, because she had to balance a little meddling with the promises she’d made. “Jillian was onto it right away,” she said, noting the flush that stained his cheeks. “She asked me once what had happened to Richard’s collection. She remembered pieces Her father had sold him and noticed that many of the best ones were missing from Coltrane House. One in particular.”
“I was gone six years,” he murmured, “and never kept track of the collection.” He wriggled uncomfortably. “Which one in particular?”
“I’ll show you. Wait here.”
Minutes later, she returned with a silver box and placed it in his hand. “Jillian told me about this. She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and wondered what had become of it. When she left, I decided to track it down and send it to her, as a token of our friendship.”
Slicing his aunt a suspicious glance, he opened the box and lifted out a jade carving about six inches high.
“Jillian called her the Dancer,” she said.
Mark turned the statue in his hand, holding it up to the light. It was translucent, immeasurably graceful,, and seemed poised to leap away. “Why didn’t you? Send it to her, I mean?”
Margaret shrugged. “As it happens, the thing cost a small fortune. I never suspected its value when I set out to find it, but Jillian must know and she would never accept such an expensive gift. I bought it, anyway, because it should stay in the family. The Dancer is yours now, Mark.”
He set it carefully on the table, as if it were too hot to hold. “I cannot.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a sizable fortune of my own, and no way to spend it nor any heir to leave it to. She looks very much like Jillian, don’t you think?”
He turned away. “I suppose so. Small, anyway. Go ahead and send it to her, Megs. She’ll appreciate it more than I will.”
“No, my dear. She’ll only send it back. Better you take the Dancer home and think of Richard whenever you look at her.” Margaret crossed to her nephew’s favorite spot by the window, allowing him time to consider. He would think of his father whenever his eyes fell on the tiny statue, but mostly he’d be reminded of Jillian.
She stifled her elation. It was such fun being devious and such a rel
ief to be given the oppor-tunity. These last weeks she’d wondered what to do and when to do it, for she could not imagine breaking her word to Jillian. It was unthinkable, dishonorable, and—she’d begun to fear—inevitable. Had things come to so desperate a point, she’d have told Mark the truth and lived with the consequences, because on no account could she let him bury his head in the sand forever.
Now he seemed to be coming up for air. Perhaps, for once, a Coltrane man would find his way on his own. Or nearly on his own. She went back to the table, picked up the Dancer, and held it out. “Take her, Mark. She belongs to you.”
His hands shook, but he accepted the statue and placed it carefully in the box. The padded velvet lining was a deep, rich brown. Coffee-brown. He shot a-wary look into his aunt’s guileless blue eyes. “Why do I feel like you are up to something, Megs?” Her lips curved in a complacent smile. “I have no idea,” she replied.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARK WAS SITTING at his desk, chin propped on his wrists, staring at the Dancer, when Foxworth brought in the afternoon post. “Better have a look at this one, Milord.” He held out a thin envelope.
Mark opened the note and scanned it quickly. Come meet your godson, it commanded. He looks like me, but come anyway. We’ll christen him Saturday if you ride hard. “It’s from Robin,” he explained as though Foxy didn’t already know. “I’m off for Kerrington Lodge first thing tomorrow. Care to come along?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. What say we travel in style for once?”
“As you will.” He resumed his contemplation of the statue.
Saturday morning, with a squirming Trevor James Renstow in his arms, Mark vowed in his godson’s name to abjure Satan and all his works. The blue-eyed, red-haired infant bawled lustily when the cool water dribbled over his head, which pleased Robin enormously.
“Good set of lungs,” he observed loudly as his embarrassed wife tried to shush him.
Somewhat desperately, Mark attempted to calm the howling Trevor. He’d never in his life held a baby and was terrified of dropping it. Him. Trevor’s mouth closed around his forefinger and began to suck noisily. Two wide, unblinking eyes gazed up at him in absolute trust. Dear God, I want one of these, he thought suddenly. I want a great many of these. With profound reluctance, he passed the infant to Mary for the conclusion of the ceremony and afterwards took him back almost immediately. Stubbornly, he insisted on carrying him home.
For the next week, Robin groused that he never got to hold his son because Delacourt wouldn’t let him go. Mary had to pry the infant loose to feed him. Foxworth hinted that the baby’s parents might like some time; alone, but Mark didn’t budge until Robin practically threw him out of the house.
We’ll name the next one for you,” he promised, “if you’ll be gone so we can get him started. For that matter, Del, go make some babies of your own!”
Robin’s words echoed in his head every time a crossroads was reached, and Mark always chose the long route, the roundabout way that led to Choppingsworth Downs. Finally, he admitted to himself that was where he’d been heading, one way or another, for several weeks.
Foxworth was unusually silent when the detours were suggested, and he made no comment when the Earl called an early halt near Eastry at The Laughing Pig. Over a game of chess that evening, Mark allowed as how he might pay a brief call on his ward since he happened to be passing by.
“You ought to send a message,” Foxworth observed. “Not the thing to swoop in uninvited. Want me to go on ahead?”
Blindly moving his king into immediate peril, the Earl mumbled something about a surprise.
Foxy pounced unhappily. “Checkmate,” he complained. “That’s twice now. When will you concentrate on the game so I can beat you fair and square?”
“Sometime soon,” Mark said distractedly.
The next morning he pottered around the inn until noon, dallied over an untasted lunch, and had about talked himself out of going, when Foxworth plopped in the chair across from him. Mark didn’t like the gleam in his eye.
“Changed your mind, eh?” Foxworth helped himself to a slice of cold beef. “Figured you would.”
“The devil I did.” Mark flung his napkin on the table. “I’m going to wash up. When you’ve finished my lunch, see that my horse is saddled and brought around. I’ll be back in time for supper, probably sooner. We’ll head out for London in the morning.” Foxy tugged his forelock. “Yes, Milord.”
When the Earl rode off an hour later, Foxworth waved goodbye and waited until he was out of sight. Then he ordered the carriage prepared, advised the driver and footmen to get ready for departure, and went upstairs to pack. An hour later, the small entourage set out for Choppingsworth Downs. Slouched comfortably in the coach with his boots propped on the opposite seat, Foxy whistled a tuneless song. He had a hunch they’d be staying in Kent for a while.
The sheep were so inert they might have been painted on the lush green grass. At least Jillian Lamb had sheep again, Mark thought as he turned up the tree-lined drive to Choppingsworth Downs. A great many sheep, scattered among pastures separated by blackthorn hedges, immobile as stones and all marked with splotches of red dye behind the ears. Mysteriously, a few sported yellow stains above their stubby tails.
The barn had been rebuilt, he saw immediately, and the house was newly shingled. Making a mental note that it could bear painting, too, he dismounted near the stable and stood holding the reins, not sure what to do next. Accustomed to grooms scurrying to relieve him of horse or curricle, the Earl of Coltrane felt remarkably foolish. Where the devil was everybody? Except for those comatose sheep, the farm appeared to be deserted.
A yipping noise caught his attention, and he turned to see a blond moppet bounding toward him with a squirming black-and-white puppy in each arm. “Hullo,” she said brightly. “I’m Anna. Who are you?”
For a long moment he was unable to respond. Jillian’s daughter. He gazed at her in confusion. Having no experience with children, he could not guess her age, but no two females could have been less alike than dark-haired, coffee-eyed Jillian Lamb and this blond little girl. Anna’s hair, waist-length and perfectly straight, was yellow as straw, and her eyes, oddly familiar eyes, were a clear, new-leaf green. Laughing as the puppies wriggled in her arms, she regarded him with unabashed curiosity.
“Very pleased to meet you,” he managed to say with a stiff bow. “I am Mark Delacourt, and I’ve come to see your mother.”
“Jilly?” piped the child. “She’s in the house. What a glorious horse. Is he yours? What’s his name? May I ride him?”
“Uh . . . yes, of course.” She called her mother Jilly? “His name is Coriolanus, and he’s tired right now. Is there someone who can take care of him?”
“Coriolanus? Lots of name for a horse. I’ll get somebody. Don’t go ‘way.” A minute later she was back without puppies, accompanied by a limping young man who promised to give the horse a rubdown and a meal.
Seizing the Earl’s hand with grubby fingers, Anna tugged him toward the house. Her head reached just above his waist;
“How old are you?” he asked, enchanted by her enormous green eyes and wide grin.
“Nearly six,” she bubbled. “We always have a big party on my birfday. You can come if you like. The last day in June. Look, there’s Jilly!”
Mark glanced up and saw her poised at the top of the wide stairs, wearing a greyish apron over a faded blue smock. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls. Arms clasped around her waist, she stood watching him with something like terror in her eyes, although—for Anna’s sake, he suspected—she forced a welcoming smile to her lips.
The little girl bounded up the steps. “He has a horse named Coriolanus and I get to ride him.”
“That’s nice,” said Jillian, stroking the child’s long blond hair. “What a surprise to see you, My Lord.”
“I apologize for descending on you without warning, Miss Lamb,” he murmured awkwardly. “It’s just that . . . I was in the neighborhood.”
“How fortunate for us,” she said without expression. “Do come in, and forgive my dreadful appearance. It’s laundry day.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t disturb you for long.”
“Long enough for tea, at least,” she insisted politely. “Anna, please tell Mrs. Enger to prepare a tray and bring it to the parlor in half an hour. If you change into something pretty, you may join us.” Anna had been gazing at Mark with awe. “Are you a real lord?” she asked, wide-eyed.
Jillian crouched to the child’s size and held her shoulders lightly. “Do you remember when I went to London? This is the Earl of Coltrane. My guardian.”
“Oh,” said Anna, clearly disappointed. “That lord.” She disappeared into the house.
“My reputation precedes me,” the Earl observed in a low drawl as Jillian led him into a sunny parlor. ‘Shouldn’t you have specified wicked guardian?’ A tiny smile flitted across her lips. “I’ve told her a little about you and certainly nothing unflattering, but Anna expects lords to wear ermine cloaks and lashing spurs. Your boots and riding coat are scarcely what she had been imagining. Please do sit down.” When he hesitated, waiting for her, Jillian arched on the edge of a chair with her eyes lowered. She fiddled with her apron.
Mark settled uneasily on a bench near the unlit fireplace. “Why are you doing laundry?” he asked. It sounded like a reprimand. “Have you no servants?”
“Certainly. But this is Saturday, and most of the staff has gone to Wingham for the market and auction. ‘They’ll be back soon. Besides, I like to keep busy.”
Feeling a need to keep busy himself, Mark stripped off his riding gloves and looked around for something to do with them. When he reached up to put them on the mantel, his arm struck a poker angled against the hearth. The clatter of iron hitting the flagstones sounded like an artillery barrage in the ballroom. His cheeks went hot.
