Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  “I have it, signorina. Please inform the earl that I shall return to discuss this matter with him.”

  But Cassie hadn’t heard him. Toward the back of the drawer lay a neat stack of letters, letters that all carried the earl’s name and direction, letters all written in the same spidery handwriting.

  “Signorina?”

  Cassie raised bewildered eyes to Signore Montalto’s face.

  “I have found the papers.”

  “Si signore,” she said, forcing a smile. She wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, but instead, she schooled herself to escort him from the room and bid him a hurried good-bye.

  Cassie quietly closed the library door and returned to the earl’s large mahogany desk. She picked up the letters, four of them in all.

  “It cannot be true,” she said to the empty room. The spidery handwriting was as familiar to her as was her own messy scrawl. How many times Becky Petersham had chided her, had tried to train her fingers to form more economical, graceful letters.

  With shaking hands, she pulled out a single page, dated not a month before. She read of Eliott and his growing regard for Eliza Pennworthy, an attachment that Becky believed would lead to marriage after Eliott’s year of mourning. For an instant, she did not understand, until she realized that it was her death that Eliott was mourning.

  She read hungrily for news of Edward, but found no mention of him until she opened the first letter, written some seven months before. “The viscount’s grief,” she read, “has given me many sleepless nights, though I know that we did only what was necessary. It is my understanding that he has already resumed his military career and is on his way at this very moment to join General Howe’s staff in New York. I trust that he will come to no harm amid the rabble fighting against England. In any case, it is for the best. He was never meant to have my Cassandra.”

  Cassie scarcely comprehended the rest of the letter, filled with solicitous questions about her and her adjustment to her new life. Her eyes locked upon Becky’s terse closing. “You will not forget your promise, Anthony. Once Cassie is your wife, you will return her to England. Your loving cousin, B. Petersham.”

  The letter floated unnoticed from her fingers to the floor. So many questions now had answers. Becky’s blatant disapproval of Edward. And Becky’s family, something of a mystery to Cassie and Eliott. The letters she received, foreign letters from someone whose name she had never mentioned. And Becky had even encouraged her to take her sailboat out one last time, the day before Cassie’s wedding. She had known of the earl’s intention, and between them, they had plotted her abduction.

  Cassie forced her feet to move to a sofa on the far side of the library. She sank down into the soft velvet cushions and buried her face in her hands. Becky, the earl’s cousin, came to live with her when she was but five years old. Becky, whom she had loved like a mother, the earl’s agent. Cassie suddenly remembered something that had puzzled her, but so trivial that she had not thought of it again. When they were aboard The Cassandra, it had come as no surprise to him that she spoke Italian. She shivered. Had he even directed her education through Becky Petersham? What else that was part of her, which of her likes and dislikes, had he molded to his pleasure?

  She looked out toward the blooming magnolia trees, the potted oleanders. Had he nurtured her, as would a gardener, raised her in the image that he himself had created for her? She felt silent tears sting her eyes. Her mother had died birthing her and he had wanted another Lady Constance. He had chosen her to take her mother’s place.

  She felt crushed with betrayal, made all the worse by her realization that he had succeeded in molding her according to his wishes. She had come to love him. She began to tremble with self-loathing. He had done just as he pleased, and she, without causing him too much concern, had responded to him. Had she not lost the child, she would at this moment be his wife, and likely quite content with her fate.

  “I will not love you!”

  She thought of the contessa, and her claim that the earl was her lover. She knew that she did not believe Giovanna. But somehow, it no longer mattered. She had changed, she knew it now, but at the same time the earl had not. He still would not let her go. He would still give her no choices. She rushed over to the large globe and spun it about until she found the North American continent. Edward was in the American colonies—New York. She quickly found the port city. He was on General Howe’s staff. She did not imagine it would be difficult for her to find him. She straightened and looked grimly about the dark-paneled library. Everything about her was his. It was his library, his home, his country. Even she was his creation. She walked with a determined stride from the library, not looking back.

  At first light the next morning, armed with all the money the earl kept in a strong box, and a sturdy portmanteau, Cassie stole quietly to the stable. She knew the men the earl had left to protect her were still abed, no thought in their heads that they needed to guard against her leaving the villa.

  Her fingers froze suddenly on the saddle girth. She heard Paolo’s shuffling footsteps. She clenched her jaw in determination and grabbed a haying fork. When Paolo walked into the stables, she struck him upon the head. He fell where he stood. She quickly bent down and felt for his pulse. “I am sorry, my friend,” she said softly to his figure, “but you will have a great headache.”

  She dragged him into an empty stall, quickly finished saddling her mare, and walked her to the great gates of the Villa Parese. She did not look back when she reached the dusty road.

  * * *

  “There is a young woman demanding to see you, Captain.”

  Captain Jeremy Crowley raised his head from his breakfast and stared at his first mate, Mr. Thompson.

  “Is this some kind of jest, sir?”

  “No, sir. She is English, and a lady.”

  “What the devil is an English lady doing in Genoa, wanting to see me, for God’s sake?” Captain Crowley knew his question was rhetorical. “Escort her to my cabin, Mr. Thompson, and keep the men from seeing her, if you can.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  Cassie did not need to be told to keep the hood of her cloak closely about her face. She had cursed herself more than once already for not having taken one of the earl’s pistols, for a woman alone, no matter the time of day at the harbor, was bound to attract unwanted attention. When she had seen a Union Jack fluttering at the jackstaff of a large frigate, she had ignored the obscene taunts, most of them incomprehensible to her in any case, left her mare on the dock, and marched up the gangplank. Luckily for her, it was Mr. Thompson who had first approached her.

  Mr. Thompson obligingly relieved her of her portmanteau and escorted her down the companionway to Captain Crowley’s cabin. The frigate was more than twice the size of The Cassandra, and heavily armed. The narrow companionway was stuffy, and Cassie, whose heart was beginning to pound uncomfortably, breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Thompson finally drew to a halt and opened a cabin door.

  Cassie stepped into a smallish room lined with dark mahogany paneling that was covered with swords and muskets and wrinkled maps. The furniture was simple and unadorned, set about the cabin with stark precision. She sniffed in the heavy odor of pipe tobacco.

  “Captain Jeremy Crowley, ma’am,” Mr. Thompson said.

  “You may leave us, Mr. Thompson.”

  Cassie stared at a tall bewigged gentleman of considerable girth, whose full dress naval uniform of blue and white, although clean, had known better days. He was possessed of a large nose, a recessed chin, and the coldest gray eyes she had ever seen. She gulped uncertainly under his equally sharp scrutiny.

  “Please be seated, ma’am.”

  She nodded silently and seated herself on the edge of a black leather chair. Her eyes went toward the small table upon which sat the remains of a sizable breakfast, and she licked her lips.

  “You would care, perhaps, for a cup of tea, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said simply.

&n
bsp; Captain Crowley said no more until she had sipped at the still-scalding tea.

  “Mr. Thompson tells me you are an English lady.”

  Cassie heard the incredulity in his crisp voice and realized that it would be difficult at the very least to convince him to take her aboard.

  “Yes, sir. I am the Viscountess Delford, Cassandra Lyndhurst by name.”

  The hood of Cassie’s cloak fell back at that moment, and Captain Crowley found himself staring unabashedly at a beautiful young woman.

  Cassie felt a dull flush creep over her cheeks, and her eyes flew toward the cabin door. She was suddenly afraid that she had placed herself in the hands of a scoundrel.

  “You needn’t be afraid of me, my lady,” Captain Crowley said sharply, her look of panic not lost to him. He flipped up the blue tails of his coat and sat himself opposite her. “Now, my child, you will tell me how I may be of service to you.”

  He took on the look of a very stern grandfather, and Cassie eased her tense muscles. All the way to Genoa, she had rehearsed her story, one that sounded so outlandish that she hoped it would be taken as truth. Indeed, she had thought ruefully, there was quite a bit of truth to it.

  “My husband, Captain Lyndhurst, is in the colonies, sir, in New York with General Howe. I was on an English ship bound for New York when we were seized for the masts and spars we carried. I was taken by a Genoese nobleman and brought here.” Cassie saw Captain Crowley’s gray eyes narrow in disbelief and hastened to add, “As you know, Captain, most masts that manage to reach English ships usually arrive in sections and must be bound together with iron. This means, of course, that they lack flexibility and many times snap in gale weather. The masts we carried were supposedly secret. They were of the finest seasoned oak from the Baltic. It is obvious to me that there was a traitor aboard, a man who had told the French of our cargo.”

  Cassie silently blessed all the books she had devoured, for Captain Crowley was nodding at her in assent. “You are a very knowledgeable young lady, viscountess. Indeed, that is why our frigate is here, in Genoa. It is difficult to make repairs on a rotted mast.”

  She heard the undisguised bitterness in his voice, but knowing nothing of the administrative weaknesses of the Royal Navy, she could do nothing more than nod wisely.

  Captain Crowley pulled himself from his cogitations. “You said, my lady, that you were brought here by a Genoese nobleman.”

  Cassie felt a tightening in her throat at the mention of the earl and for a moment could not reply. It was perhaps just as well, for Captain Crowley saw the pain in her fine eyes and felt a tug of unprecedented emotion.

  “Yes, sir. I have been here for several months now. At first I fought him, until it was borne upon me that such behavior would gain me naught. I became docile, subservient, and he was lulled into believing that I was content with my lot.” She suddenly threw back her head and stared at the captain full face. “If you do not take me with you, Captain Crowley, he will find me, and I shall never again see my husband or England.”

  Although she did not plan it, Cassie suddenly burst into tears. She buried her face in her hands and her whole body shook with anguished sobs. That she herself was surprised by her tears was not apparent to Captain Crowley.

  “My dear viscountess,” he said awkwardly, leaning forward to pat her hand, “there is no need for you to distress yourself further. As an English gentleman, I must assist you. Shall I set my men upon this blackguard who has held you against your will?”

  Cassie raised her tear-streaked face and gulped. “Please, sir, I beg of you not to. The Genoese are peculiar, and he is a powerful man. I fear that such an action would be dangerous and could create an incident that could affect England itself. The Genoese are mighty bankers, you know.”

  Captain Crowley was beginning to view her as a very well-informed young lady. He nodded sagely. “You need not fear that a Genoese blackguard could lay England low, my lady. But I will do as you wish in the matter.” He rose, dug his large hands into the pockets of his cream-colored breeches, and ruminated aloud. “I am bound for Boston on the morning tide. It is a long journey, and one that is not without danger.”

  “I am well aware of that, Captain.”

  “Aye, I suppose that you are.”

  “This Boston, Captain, is it near New York?”

  “It is not too far distant, my lady. I see no reason why I cannot escort you myself to General Howe and your husband. If aught else, the Genoese are apt builders, and our repairs have been completed a week beforetimes.” He stroked his receding chin thoughtfully while Cassie held her breath, fearful that he would change his mind.

  To her profound relief, he was but concerned about her quarters. She most happily agreed to the dispossession of Mr. Thompson, adamantly refusing the Captain’s cabin.

  “You will, unfortunately, my lady, have to spend most of our journey below-deck. Some of his majesty’s sailors are an unsavory lot and I want no unpleasant incidents on my ship.” He pointed to a neat pile of dusty tomes set on a low shelf. “My library is, of course, at your disposal.”

  He beamed at her, the coldness gone from his gray eyes. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I will see that Mr. Thompson settles you in.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  After Captain Crowley had left her, Cassie rose slowly from her chair and walked to the port windows.

  Mr. Thompson found her there, staring toward the verdant hills behind the city.

  Chapter 23

  The Union Jack lay limp against the flagstaff, undisturbed by the ruffling cool breeze from the bay that rippled through the fortified encampment at the Battery. It was another pleasantly warm March day in New York. His majesty’s sailors called out to each other cheerfully as they cleaned their guns and polished their boots, over the noise of scores of black men, naked to the waist, unloading cargo from the merchant ships onto the docks. Their muscles glistened with sweat as they heaved, in a steady rhythm, bales of woolen cloth, crates of candles, every variety of liquor, Bibles, navigators’ instruments, horsewhips, and toothbrushes, over the docks to waiting horse-drawn carts, bound for Broadway.

  Trade was brisk. For the British army and the loyalists, New York was an oasis where food was cheap and plentiful and the markets overflowed with merchandise that catered to the British taste in comfort. Even throughout the winter months, when snow covered the frozen ground and howling winds whistled through the city, dinners, balls, and plays were not uncommon diversions to while away the frigid evenings. With the coming of early spring, the colonial loyalists threw themselves into a frenzied succession of social gatherings, seemingly intent on proving that, despite the rebellion, New York could still be a place of extravagant gaiety.

  Edward learned forward and patted his gray mare’s glossy neck. She had no particular liking for the noisy harbor, preferring, he knew, the quiet of the countryside or the order of the March. She was skittish and tensed for action, reminded, Edward supposed, of the tumult of battle by the boisterous human activity of the thriving dock.

  He laid his hand on his left thigh and rubbed it. The saber wound he had suffered in one of the many skirmishes with the rebels on Staten Island still ached. He stroked Delila’s neck once again in gratitude. Had it not been for her rearing up to protect him, the wild-eyed rebel’s saber would have slashed through his belly.

  He turned her away from the Battery to his destination, Number 1 Broadway, General Howe’s residence. A message from the general had interrupted him just as he had finished the review of his troops at City Hall. He shook his head in frustration at the prospect of speaking to Howe. The general’s calmly announced plan to open communication lines with Burgoyne marching from Canada by removing south to Chesapeake had left Edward and many of his fellow officers stunned. Edward knew that General Howe and General Burgoyne held each other in mutual dislike, but it seemed fantastic to Edward that such petty rivalry could cloud Howe’s military judgment. To leave Burgoyne in the lurch would be of incalcul
able assistance to the rebel forces. It was a ridiculous plan that Edward still hoped to forestall. Time, at least, was on his side, for it was unlikely that Howe would move before summer.

  The Kennedy House at 1 Broadway was a stately two-story Georgian mansion set back from the busy street and overhung by giant elm trees. Edward’s summons here rather than at General Howe’s headquarters north of the city at Beekman House likely meant that the general was readying for the encounters the spring would bring and wanted to be closer to his troops. Edward grinned ruefully as he handed Delila’s reins to a young private and walked up the wide front steps. It was not so much that he would have liked to join Howe’s expedition southward, it was rather that the assignment would have freed him of the person of Sir Henry Clinton, who was to take over Howe’s command as lieutenant-general. General Clinton, in Edward’s opinion, was more unfit even than General Howe. A more haughty, churlish, and stupid man Edward had yet to meet. General Howe, at least, was well-liked by the Tories in New York for his fairness in his dealings with them, particularly after the fire of the previous September, and was a credit to his rank at social gatherings. Even General Clinton’s aide, Major Andre, himself a brilliant ornament in New York society, agreed with Edward on this point. But they were both helpless in the face of General Howe’s unlikely decision.

  “The General is expecting you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Dobbs.” The fresh-faced young lieutenant newly arrived from Dorset was, like Edward, assigned to remain in New York and endure the command of General Clinton. As he walked past Dobbs, he wondered about the excited undercurrent he had heard in his voice. Perhaps General Howe had changed his mind. He walked faster, ignoring the twinge of protest from his thigh.

  A young private scurried to open the door to the General’s sitting room. Edward nodded at him, smiling. He was scarce more than a boy out of short coats, and yet, he was proving to be eager and not unintelligent. When General Clinton finally assumed command, he would see to the boy’s eagerness, poor lad.