He derived, he feared, unworthy satisfaction in watching her skin grow red with embarrassment. He glanced at Owens. Though the American had no cause to take umbrage, Owens might not see it the same way. He watched over the Braxton girl like some preternaturally vigilant warrior guard, which would have been touching if the girl showed one whit of regard for him. But she didn’t.
As far as Pomfrey could see, she wanted nothing more to do with him. Doubtless her initial experience with the carnal embrace had been disappointing and unpleasant. He had little sympathy for her. What had she expected, coupling like an animal out in the wilderness with a ruffian like Owens? Solicitude? Gentleness? Even the most treasured bride would be bound to find the initial introduction to her wifely duties disturbing, perhaps onerous. He could well imagine with Owens they had bordered on brutal. Perhaps that is why she had refused to marry him.
He couldn’t be rid of the pair soon enough for his liking. And while he was stuck with Ginesse Braxton for the near future, he could at least look forward to ridding himself of her watchdog.
“Owens,” he said, slicing off a piece of meat, “the stable master says your horse has made a remarkable recovery and is ready to ride again. When do you expect to be leaving?”
“I was hoping to leave tomorrow,” he said.
Miss Braxton, in the process of raising her water glass to her lips, checked. “So soon?” she whispered.
Owens turned to her at once, his gaze sharply compelling. “Is there any reason I should stay longer?”
With a peculiar show of defiance, she lifted her chin. “I can think of no reason if you can’t.”
“You have already dismissed the most persuasive reason.”
“I do not consider it a reason, but a nostrum.”
Dolefully, Pomfrey chewed his meat. Lord, but they were an exhausting pair. Just being in the room with them sapped his energy and soured his mood. They were both too elemental, too intense, their emotions too raw and their pride too great. It was like dining with feuding emissaries, neither of whose language you understood.
“Nostrum?” Owens pushed back his chair and slowly rose from his seat. His gaze locked with Ginesse Braxton’s. The water in the glass she held shivered. Pomfrey froze, his forkful of meat arrested halfway to his mouth, half expecting Owens to toss the chit over his shoulder and carry her off for a good drubbing. Then what was he supposed to do?
What Owens would have done or said next, Pomfrey would never know because at that moment, Lieutenant Jones arrived, shepherding in Fort Gordon’s newest visitors.
With a sigh of relief, Pomfrey looked around and then started in amazement. A nicely plumpish redheaded woman was being escorted in on the arm of a somewhat stout, elderly gentleman in a white linen suit. Trailing close behind came a second, slender, well-groomed young man, obviously a gentleman.
“Mildred!” Pomfrey breathed.
“Hilliard!” Miss Whimpelhall said, then, “I mean, Colonel Lord Pomfrey. How…how nice to see you again.”
“Miss Braxton!” said the young man, his rather somber young face breaking into a pleased smile.
“Ginny!” the old man piped in.
“Great-Grand!” Miss Braxton cried, shoving back her chair with so much force it nearly fell over, rushing to the old man’s side and flinging her arms around his neck.
“Jock,” whispered Jim Owens.
And the young man, who’d been fondly witnessing the happy reunion between the older gentleman and Miss Braxton, looked at Owens. His gaze slowly sharpened, and his expression went from polite interest to incredulity to astonishment and then, finally, undisguised pleasure.
“Good Lord. I came to Egypt to uncover the dead, and it looks like I have already had my first success,” he said wonderingly. “How are you, Your Grace?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Did you call that young man ‘Your Grace’?” the old gentleman asked as Jock strode forward and seized Jim in a warm embrace.
“Say nothing,” Jim murmured and gently pushed Jock away. “The man’s making some sort of jest,” he said with forced heartiness, willing his half brother to say nothing, to do nothing more to endanger what Jim had spent years trying to ensure: that Jock inherit the dukedom.
In the past few minutes it had grown even more important to him to do so. Because he’d witnessed that first moment when Jock’s gaze had found Ginny. He’d seen the spark of elation, the brightness that had entered his face, and he knew without a trace of doubt that Jock was in love with her.
Jock, he’d realized, must be the paragon Ginny had been describing all those days ago. An honorable, even noble young man. Dashing? Jim was no judge, nor could he say if Jock qualified as romantic. But “conscientious, hardworking, and diligent”? God, Jock had possessed those qualities as a boy; as a man he would be exemplary.
Jock must be the reason she’d refused him, and if Jock would just keep his mouth shut, he could have both Ginny and the dukedom, and Ginny could have the man she loved and the life that he would have liked to have offered her.
But his half brother was either oblivious to his warning or didn’t care, for he turned to face the company. “It’s no jest, I assure you. I have been looking for Bernard for nearly two years.”
“Bernard?” Pomfrey echoed. “Well, there you have it. Your mistake after all. This man’s name is James. James Owens.”
“That’s right,” Jim said desperately. “A case of mistaken identity. Sorry to disappoint you, Mr.—”
Jock clapped Jim’s shoulder. “There’s no mistake, Colonel. Allow me to present my half brother, Bernard James Owens Tynesborough, Duke of Avandale.” He turned to Jim. “Trust me. I’ll explain everything later.”
Jim barely noted the astonished expressions of the others. He regarded Jock numbly. All his years of endless roaming, all the years of living on the edges of society, of being nameless, of being careful never to succeed too well at anything lest he drew attention to himself, of refusing to work the premium concessions because some aristocratic dilettante might recognize him…All of it for nothing, because of a chance meeting with his half brother.
Oh, there was a good chance that the news of his being alive would not reach England in time to keep Althea from having him declared legally dead. But the world would soon know it was untrue, and even if the Avandale inheritance stayed with Jock, he could never wear the title. There were too many witnesses that Bernard, Duke of Tynesborough, long presumed dead, was alive. And it made too delicious a story. Poor Jock. With just a few words, he’d given away a dukedom that in just a matter of months would have been his.
And what of Jim’s Uncle Youngblood? When Althea heard he was alive, there was no possibility she would ever return the land that had been part of the Youngblood ranch for a hundred years. She would probably sell it to a rival ranch for no other reason than spite.
He wanted to weep.
His weary gaze found Ginesse, stranding motionless next to the old man. Strangely, he wanted to explain it all to her, to apologize to her. He wanted to tell her he’d wanted to do the right thing, that his intentions had been honorable, that he’d tried—God knows, he tried.
“That’s preposterous,” sputtered Pomfrey. “He’s an American. Or is this one of those convoluted matters of progeniture where some eighteenth cousin five times removed finds himself suddenly a titled lord?”
“Half American,” Jock corrected. “And not at all. His mother was my father’s first wife. She returned to her father’s ranch in America when Bernard was still in leaders. When she died a few years later, Bernard stayed on in America with his uncle. Avandale remarried and I am the result of that union, but later, after my father died, Bernard returned to England and inherited the title. And me, eh, Bernard?” he finished with a smile.
Such a simple recitation of something that had always seemed to Jim so tragically Greek in its heartless exploitations, betrayals, and perfidy.
Jim’s mother, Alva Youngblood, had been one of w
hat the English press had termed “Buccaneers,” a bevy of nouveau-riche American heiresses who had invaded England to trade well-filled coffers for coronets. Alva had simply been more naïve than others. She had believed the destitute, charming, and facile future duke of Avandale when, at his father’s command and in spite of his mother’s countercommand, he had declared his undying love. She’d accepted his proposal.
She had remained naïve until she’d discovered that her enormous dowry, a gift from her cattle baron father, had been used not only to make repairs to the future duke’s much-neglected estate, but to provide houses, servants, and gifts for both of that same future duke’s mistresses, one residing in London, the other in Paris.
Brokenhearted, she’d forthwith taken her infant son and decamped, returning to her father’s ranch to find that the price of her coronet had cost her family dearly and that drought, bad investments, and poor timing had conspired to all but bankrupt the once prosperous empire.
The recently made duke saw no advantage in reuniting with a wife who would only cost him money to maintain and had nothing more to offer. Via a politely worded letter, he applauded her decision as the best for all parties concerned and suggested that she, and entirely incidentally his infant son, stay in America. And so she had.
After Alva’s death, the duke had dutifully complied with his mother’s wishes—his father no longer standing in the way of her sovereignty—and wed another rich lady. The difference being that this time, the lady came ready-made with a title, an impeccable lineage, and a thorough understanding of what was required of her. Jock’s mother.
Jim had never known her. She’d died years before the duke. After Avandale had died of a heart attack in some whore’s bed in Cannes, Althea had arrived at his uncle’s ranch with a battery of lawyers and documents granting her sole custody of the duke’s heir and snatched him away from his home to “try and salvage something useful out of the sordid misalliance.”
Jim closed his eyes for a second against that final memory, surprised it still had the power to hurt him.
“Why is he here?” Miss Whimpelhall, a smallish rounded woman asked. “Why have you been looking for him for two years, Lord Tynesborough?”
“It’s rather a long story,” Jock answered.
“We have time,” Ginny said, breaking her unnatural silence.
“Later, perhaps,” Jock told her gently. “If Bernard—or should I call you Jim now?—wishes. I fear I have already over-stepped myself and said more than I have a right to. I will only add this,” his eyes found Pomfrey, “he has broken no laws of man or God.”
“Perhaps not in England…” Pomfrey muttered under his breath, but Jim heard him.
Before Jim left the garrison for good, Pomfrey and he would have to have a little discussion about how he was to comport himself regarding Miss Braxton. And he would be leaving the garrison and it would be soon. He had endured any number of ordeals since he’d arrived in Egypt: bullet wounds, knife gashes, sandstorms, thirst, thugs, unfriendly tribesmen, rival thieves, and murderers hired to eliminate him, but he did not think he could endure witnessing Jock courting Ginesse.
“Well,” Sir Robert said jovially, “just think, Ginny. You have been led across the desert by a real duke. Not many young ladies can say that, what?”
But Ginny did not look gratified. She looked stricken, and damned if he could imagine why.
“Well, if you aren’t going to tell us what you are doing traipsing about in Egypt, Avandale, we might as well eat,” Sir Robert said, oblivious to the tense undercurrents in the room. He waddled toward the dining table, looking over the various dishes with interest. “Hm. I don’t suppose you have a bit of Stilton about, eh? Miss Whimpelhall here has been positively pining for a bit of cheese, haven’t you, m’dear?”
Miss Whimpelhall, whose long-awaited reunion with her fiancée had been overshadowed by Jock’s announcement, made some demure sounds.
Pomfrey, finally seeming to realize his neglect of his future bride, hastened forward to pull out a chair for her. She settled like a small brooding hen as Pomfrey bellowed for the staff to bring out more place settings.
“Excellent,” Sir Robert said. “Ginny, sit down. You look a mite peaked. You’ll want some red wine.”
Ginesse returned to her chair, taking a seat and taking hold of her wineglass almost simultaneously. She took a long draught, emptying the glass.
“That’s my girl,” Sir Robert said approvingly. He dropped into a chair and looked up at the rest of them. “Professor, you’re hovering. Do sit down. And you, young man,” he turned his leonine head in Jim’s direction, “sit by me. You can regale me with all the splendid adventures you had with my great-granddaughter!”
Dear God.
Ginesse blanched visibly, and Pomfrey blew out his moustache, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“I am sorry to have to disappoint you, Sir Robert,” Jim said, “but I am sure you will forgive us if my brother and I continue our reunion in private. There is, as you can imagine, much to be discussed.” He inclined his head, waiting attentively.
Though visibly disappointed, Sir Robert had no choice but to give his permission. “If you must,” he said.
“I must,” Jim answered. “Perhaps another time.”
Sir Robert brightened. “I shall hold you to that, m’boy. Now Pomfrey, about that cheese…”
Jim clasped Jock’s arm and half pulled him from the room and from there out through a door leading into the small yard where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Only then did he stop and face his brother. For a long moment neither spoke, Jim looking in vain for some trace of the solemn, bespectacled little boy who’d shadowed him through that great, cold house, and Jock, he assumed, was doing likewise.
“You look much the same,” Jock finally said, shaking his head. “I might say bigger, but you always seemed inordinately big to me. Certainly harder. You never did wear your heart on your sleeve, but one could mostly read you. Now…You might be made of adamantine, Jim.” He smiled. “I shall have a hard time getting used to calling you that.”
“You look entirely different,” Jim said. “You were such a quiet lad, studious and unassuming.”
“Survival tactics,” he answered. “You defied her; I faded from her.”
“I never meant to abandon you.”
“I never considered that you did. We both did what was necessary to survive,” Jock said. “I was better equipped than you to live under her dominion, but you, you could never manage it. How many times did she have you beaten?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“If you say so.”
“I wanted you to inherit, you know. I meant you to have it all,” he said sadly, knowing it was too late.
“I know.”
He looked so pleased; Jim didn’t have it in him to tell him of the other lives he’d ruined with his announcement. Besides, it would serve no purpose.
“I also know that Althea threatened that if you ever returned she’d sell your mother’s land in America.”
Jim started and stared. “How?”
“I was there that day, in the library. I’d fallen asleep in one of the alcoves, and when I awoke I heard you and Althea. If I’d made myself known she would have punished me for eavesdropping, so I stayed hidden. I heard it all, including the bargain you struck.”
“Jock, it had nothing to do with you.”
“I beg to differ. It had everything to do with me. I was only twelve, but I already knew I wanted no part of her plans. I never wanted to be the duke, Jim. That was your role and one I did not envy you. You were better suited to it than I.”
Jim looked at him in surprise.
“I only wanted to be left to my studies. Even though I knew I could do nothing about it at the time, I resolved never to let her make me Duke of Tynesborough in your stead.”
Jock must have read something of Jim’s astonishment. “Why are you surprised? I didn’t want a purloined title and a life built on some else�
�s sacrifice. Would you?”
“No,” Jim said, shamed by his younger brother’s integrity. He had never thought of Jock’s feelings in the matter. He had arrogantly and unjustly assumed the quiet boy would fit into whatever mold Althea prepared for him. How humbling to discover that at twelve years of age Jock had shown a strength of character lacking in many grown men.
“I am sorry, Jock. I meant no harm. I sincerely thought you would want to be the duke. Had you not heard us in the library, you might have been content to inherit, and you would have made a fine duke. Far better than me. I wish you had never heard.”
Jock snorted derisively. “You do not play the humble role well, brother. But I’ll enjoy your accolades until you’ve a learned a few of my many faults and rescind them.” Jock smiled. “And as for hearing you and Althea, be glad I did. I kept silent knowing full well the pressure Althea was capable of bringing to bear if opposed. I waited until I came of age two years ago and arranged for us to meet at the offices of the family’s solicitors where I begged the private use of one of their rooms.
“Once we were sequestered, I informed Althea that I knew all about her plan to make me duke and how she’d blackmailed you with the lands your mother had brought to the marriage and over which she had full control until I reached twenty-five. I told her I would not stand by and allow it and that if she ever attempted to have you declared dead I would go before the House of Lords and reveal everything I had heard.”
“Brave lad.”
“Terrified lad. My limbs were so unsteady I had to remain seated throughout the interview. I am sure she thought me beyond cavalier.”
“Good man.”
Jock smiled, looking pleased. “And then I told her that in addition, unless she was willing to sign over your mother’s lands to your uncle, I would reveal her as a perjurer and an extortionist.”
Jim laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Blackmailing the blackmailer. There was a certain attractive symmetry to it. “What did she say?”
The Other Guy's Bride Page 21
