by Cheryl Bolen
Gilberto’s eyes widened, and a smile leaped to his face. “I be happy to see that the letter of yours is delivered into the right hands and will also alert my staff.”
That first day, once the letter situation had been handled, William had traveled to Lisbon with four armed postilions, five outriders who were also armed, and three guards sharing the carriage with him. Within a matter of a few hours, William bought up twenty-five thousand pounds worth of French francs, confident the city had been depleted of French currency. After securing the francs beneath the seats of the carriage, they returned to Figueria by nightfall.
On the fifth William received the message from the viscount’s captors, with Gilberto attesting to the fact the messenger had indeed been given William’s letter. The bandits’ message—a demand to meet in the mountains—was negated by William’s own instructions.
The eighth was yesterday, and he’d still had no word about the exchange. William began to wonder if the bandits were ignoring the instructions conveyed in his own letter. Would they be waiting up in the mountains for him? If he botched this, Nick would never forgive him.
What if something had happened to the viscount? Surely he hadn’t died. If anything happened to Lord Agar, Nick would not be happy. He remembered how adamant Nick was that Lord Agar’s safety was his chief concern. Obviously, Nick would do anything to keep that wife of his happy. Whether he knew it or not, his brother had fallen in love with Lady Fiona.
William was getting bloody tired of the inn’s tavern and even more tired of the incessant Portuguese, which he did not understand as well as he understood Spanish. As he was swigging a glass of port late in the afternoon of the ninth, Gilberto approached him and spoke in a low voice. “The man you’ve been waiting for has arrived, Mr. Hollingsworth. Come with me.”
William sped after the innkeeper, who led him to a small office behind the reception desk. There stood a rather tall Spaniard dressed in a battered uniform of the Spanish army. The man’s black eyes bore into William. “You are Señor Hollingsworth?”
“That is the name I’m using,” William said.
The Spaniard glared. “You will instruct your men to lay down their arms now.”
“First I must see Lord Agar.”
A frown etching his dark face, the Spaniard finally said, “Come with me.”
William followed him from the inn, across the plaza where his men guarded the wagon bearing the ransom money, and along the main road out of town. It was almost dusk, and William hoped like hell they could resolve this before night blackened the village.
After two more blocks they came to a wall of mounted men, at least twenty of them. William quickly scanned the group. Amidst all the dark faces there was one fair one: Randolph, Viscount Agar, whose hands were tied behind his back. His blond hair hung ragged, like his soiled Guard’s uniform. Unable to shave for several weeks, the viscount had sprouted a red beard.
William nodded, then addressed the man who had accompanied him. “You may come with me back into the city and observe that all my men will disperse and lay down their arms before your men ride into the plaza with Lord Agar.”
The Spaniard glared, then nodded.
Once back in the plaza, William walked to its center, drew a breath, and shouted, “I’m calling all my Englishmen to join me at once in the plaza.”
Within ninety seconds, all twelve riflers formed a circle around William and the Spaniard, then one by one each man walked to the center of the plaza and laid down his rifle.
“Will you need further proof that my men will not provoke you?” William asked.
The Spaniard’s gaze whisked around the plaza and settled on the old church’s bell tower. “I will take a look in the church, if you please.”
“Go right ahead,” William said.
A moment later, the Spaniard rejoined him.
“Satisfied?” William asked.
“Yes.”
Then the Spaniard did a peculiar thing. He strolled to the pile of arms and plucked out a rifle. For just a second, William froze with fear. Then the man fired a shot into the sky.
The air swished from William’s lungs. He did not like the Spaniard’s crude way of delivering a message to his men.
A moment later a great wave of tattered Spanish deserters began to ride into the city, kicking up dust from the unpaved street. Their leader’s gaze swung from William to the wagon.
“You’re free to inspect the coins,” William said, nodding toward the wagon.
Following their leader’s instructions, the Spaniards pried off the crate lids. Four wooden boxes bulged with the guineas, the gold shimmering under the waning sun. The men raked their hands through the staggering amount of clanging coins, their swarthy faces lifted in mirth.
“We’ve kept our part of the bargain,” William said. “Now you will release Lord Agar.”
His eyes glittering, the Spaniard strode to the viscount’s horse and untied the bindings on Randolph’s hands. “Vamos,” he said.
Randolph winced as he dismounted, then he limped toward William.
In the meantime, the Spaniards had hitched the cart to one of their horses and began to head out of town, leaving behind a small contingent of men to assure the Englishmen did not re-arm themselves.
“I’m Agar, your servant, sir,” Randolph said to William.
William effected a bow. “William Birmingham, at your service, my lord.”
“I well know the name Birmingham,” Randolph said. “The bankers who are richer than nabobs. You are one of them?”
“I am.”
“How, might I ask, was my sister able to enlist your help?”
William did not answer for a moment. Then he drew a breath and said, “By marrying my brother.”
Randolph gasped as if he’d been struck by mortar. His eyes shut tightly as a pained expression furrowed his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Birmingham began moving into their new mansion five days after Nick had carried her through its threshold to inspect the blue saloon. Nick had not favored moving until Fiona’s leg was healed, fearing that it would be too taxing for her. She had countered by assuring him it would be much easier for her to oversee the completion of the furnishing were she in residence. Nick gave in. It seemed there was nothing he could deny her.
Over the course of the three days it took to move their household, Fiona positioned herself at the base of the central stairway so that she—with help from Mrs. Pauley—could direct the movers. To appease her husband, she sat in her invalid’s chair and propped the wax-plastered leg on another chair to keep down the swelling.
Were he delirious with a raging fever, Trevor could not have stayed away. He happily strutted to and fro, barking orders to her servants. When he saw the scratching and scuffing to the polished marble entry floors, he nearly had apoplexy. “We really must cover this lustrous marble with rugs from the old house while these careless creatures traipse across it.” He shot a disdainful look at the offenders. “We can remove the blight when they finish,” he said with a shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders. So Turkey rugs from the old house served their purpose for three days.
During those three days the cabinetmaker had delivered the remainder of the newly ordered furnishings, and drapers were scaling tall ladders to install silken window coverings, as other servants hung priceless paintings on the newly painted walls.
On the evening of the third day, Nick came home early. He had been worried about Fiona all day. She was trying to do too much and sleeping too little. He was frightfully afraid she would become ill, and in her delicate state, he feared . . . the worst. This house that he’d once thought his crowning achievement could very well be his curse if it caused him to lose Fiona, who was more dear to him than a hundred palaces.
As the eldest child, Nick was used to being responsible for his siblings, but he’d never before been so consumed with worry over his brothers and sister as he was over this wife of his. Was the perpetual
, nagging worry part of being a husband? Perhaps it was the terrifying vision of her tumbling down the stairs that had him fearing for her life every hour of the day.
He paused inside the doorway and watched as his weary wife examined a half-dozen bolts of silk that Trevor was showing her. Her leg was propped on the chair as Nick had instructed, but he could tell by the awkward way she kept shifting it that it must be hurting. To make him even more concerned, her milky white skin seemed even paler, more tinged with blue.
Drawing in a deep breath and striving not to allow her to see how upset he was, he strode to her, removed the silk from her hands, returning it to Trevor. “You, Mrs. Birmingham, have done quite enough for one day,” he said sternly, bending to kiss her cheek. “Allow me to wheel you to the drawing room.”
He cringed as she slowly set her leg down, and when they reached the saloon, he swooped her up and deposited her on the sofa. “Stretch out your leg on the sofa, love,” he instructed.
Trevor stood just inside the doorway, watching with amusement. “I shall take my leave of Adonis and Artemis. If you two get any cozier, I believe I’ll turn blood red.”
“What a wicked mind you have,” Fiona said, her eyes flashing with mirth—until she met her husband’s scowl.
Once Trevor had departed, Nick softened. “You’re going to relax and have a large glass of madeira. Doctor Birmingham’s orders.”
“Yes, master.”
He poured two glasses and came to sit beside her. “You look devilishly tired, my dear. I’ve told you, you’re doing too much.”
Her cheeks dimpling, she tried to effect a scowl. “How flattering you are! Every lady longs to hear that she looks devilishly tired.”
His arm settled across her shoulders. “Oh, you’re still quite lovely, but you won’t be if you should go into a decline.”
She turned to him. “I’m appreciative that you care for my welfare, Nick. Truly. But your worry’s misplaced. I’ve merely broken my leg. I’ll be healed and back to new in a few more weeks. My health’s excellent.”
“Good sleep’s vital to good health, and I know you’ve not been sleeping.”
“The perils of sleeping with one’s husband,” she said dryly. “You know me too well.” She flicked a tuft of hair from his stern brow. “Which room shall we sleep in tonight, dearest?”
The vixen! She was deliberately being seductive with him. “Mine,” he growled, nibbling on her delectable neck. “My new one. I propose that all the Birmingham babes be conceived on the same bed.” Realizing what he had just said, Nick went stiff. He must school himself not to be so transparent. He must not allow Fiona to know how thoroughly besotted he was over her, how he was coming to long for her to grow plump with his babes.
She stiffened too. “Then,” she finally said, “perhaps when we name our house we could choose one of my old family names—to bridge the two families.”
“I would never have been so presumptuous.” She took a long sip on her wine, then handed her glass to him. “Do you object?”
“Not at all. Have you any ideas?”
“My mother’s mother was a Menger. I like the idea of Menger House. It’s a solid old name but has no aristocratic bearers who’ve attached the name to another house.”
Nick pursed his lips. “I like the sound of it, too. Menger House. Very solid.”
“Like you,” she said sweetly.
He could ravage her here on the satin sofa! Good Lord, he’d be happy when her leg was mended and he could thoroughly love her again. Though their bedroom activities had brought immense pleasure to both parties, nothing was as wondrous as feeling himself inside her.
Nothing on earth.
He had best change the subject or he’d be babbling declarations of his affection. And he could not allow himself to do that. “Does your brother have any idea that the monies from the estate are gone?” he asked.
“I don’t know. When Papa was alive, we knew there had been many financial setbacks, but I doubt if Randy understood the depth of the setbacks. Randy’s really not awfully good about money.”
“Do you think he’d allow me to assist him?”
She gave him an odd look. “As in a reverse dowry—or do you mean you’ll provide financial counseling?”
“A little of both, I suppose.”
“I can’t let you give him any more money. Twenty-five thousand is quite enough.”
“I can’t allow my viscount brother to live like a pauper. We Birminghams have a certain image to uphold,” he said, a lazy grin softening his face.
She did not say anything for a moment, then finally sucked in a breath and said, “I’m not at all sure my brother would allow you to assist him. He’s a terrible snob, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” He remembered that day at Tattersall’s when Randolph had been so reluctant to introduce a Cit to his refined sister.
“I’m somewhat concerned that at first he might even be hostile toward you for marrying me.”
“I would expect him to be.”
Her brows nudged together. “And still you’d be willing to help him?”
“I’m a very rich man, Fiona.”
She cupped his face as delicately as a butterfly’s touch. “You’re also a very generous man.”
He offered her glass to her and she drank, then handed him back the glass. “Dearest?”
“Yes, love?” he answered.
“If we . . . have a son, I would like to name him Jonathan.”
He felt like he was in one of those balloons soaring over Hyde Park. Until this moment, he had not allowed himself to hope for a son. Especially a son with Fiona. A son with Agar blood. “Jonathan was my father’s name,” he said solemnly.
“Yes, I know. I would like our child—if we’re blessed in that area—to be named after him.”
His lighter-than-air heart was hammering against his chest, and he was almost overwhelmed with a sense of well being. “But you never even knew him.”
“But I owe him so much.”
Those few words conveyed more than he’d ever dared to hope for. She understood about his father’s careful molding. She was pleased with the final product. “What makes you think I’d entertain such a proposal? Do you even know if I was on good terms with my father?”
She allowed her torso to sink into his lap as she languidly stretched out on the sofa. “Tell me about him, about your relationship.”
He had never told anyone about the strange father–son relationship before, but for some reason he began to try to put it into words. “The man who raised me was not the same father who raised Adam and William—and especially not the same man who doted on Verity. The others were allowed to be children, allowed to be less than perfect.” His face hardened. “But not me. When we were students, if Adam carelessly hurried through his assignments with less than adequate results, our father would be disappointed but never outraged. If I were to botch an assignment, I would be angrily chastised—and often beaten. Were Adam to tie his cravat sloppily, our father would shake his head, but if my cravat wasn’t perfect, my father would go into a rage.”
“How could your mother have allowed such injustice?”
Nick gave a little laugh. “Because she was as browbeaten as I. Their marriage was never a partnership. My father was completely and thoroughly dictatorial. She was allowed to spend her generous settlement in any way she chose, but in all other matters, my father made the decisions.”
“Then . . . you had no affection for your father?” she asked.
“There were times when I thought I loathed him, but not anymore. My biggest regret is that his sudden death prevented me from thanking him for making me the man I am now. I’m sorry that we were never close.” His voice was anguished when he said, “I wish to God he’d lived longer so we could have shown affection toward one another.”
Fiona’s eyes glistened. “How old were you when he died?”
“He died five years ago—when I was seven and twenty.”
&nbs
p; “He must have been terribly proud of you.”
Nick’s voice lowered, his fingers combing through her fair locks. “It was the deucest thing. During his last few years, our roles reversed. He became strangely reverent toward me.”
“His own creation,” she said pensively.
“I,” Nick continued in a somber voice, “was to be the embodiment of all his aspirations. I was to become the gentleman he would have been had he been born into more genteel circumstances.”
“I wish I could have known him,” she said.
“Despite all his money, he neither dressed nor spoke like a gentleman, but he paid dearly to ensure his children would be indistinguishable—at least physically—from those of the upper classes. Of course, your brother and others like him know the difference.”
“Once Randy understands that I was completely in favor of this marriage, and once he gets to know you, he’ll adore you.”
This wife of his was talking like she might be learning to care for him. A Cit. Dare he hope?
Chapter 13
Stretching out her legs on the sofa in the blue saloon, Fiona looked up gratefully at Trevor as he handed her a cup of tea. “Tell me, Trev, do you have as beastly a time sleeping as I? Ideas for completing these rooms keep flashing into my head as I’m trying to fall asleep at night.”
“Oh, darling, I go to sleep the minute my head hits the pillow,” he said, dropping into a chair in front of the tea table. “Then I dream about the rooms. I must say the most scrumptious ideas come to me in dreams.” He poured tea into a fragile cup and began to drink.
