The Sanctuary (A Spencer Novel)

by Sandra Lea Rice

  James gaped. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  Anthony smiled without an ounce of humor. “He wanted to insure his wife’s bastard son would fail.” He caught the surprise on his friend’s face and pressed on. “I might have, too, but for a small inheritance left to me by my mother. Thankfully, I have a talent for making money.” He’d spent the last seven years doing little else.

  “I had no idea.”

  Anthony stared into his empty glass. “Admitting to being a legitimate bastard isn’t something one does easily.”

  “What of your mother’s family?”

  “A sanctimonious bunch, the lot of them.” Anthony let his distaste show. “They never forgave my mother for her infidelity and want nothing to do with me. They cared more for propriety than my mother’s happiness. Her family turned a blind eye when the old earl couldn’t get her with child and punished her for the lack of an heir.” He set his glass down with a thump. “In their opinion, he’d made her a countess and she should have been grateful. Of course, the fact her marriage elevated them in the eyes of their friends and neighbors, did not hurt.”

  James propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and set his chin on his fist, listening raptly as Anthony rubbed wearily at his face.

  “Mother became pregnant during a trip to Scotland, but her condition was kept quiet. The last thing the earl wanted was to be labeled a cuckold and he had the succession to consider. Apparently, a cuckoo in the nest was less abhorrent to him than an empty one.” Anthony sighed. “I tried so hard to please him, but nothing I ever did seemed good enough. I lost track of the number of canings the old earl gave me. I learned to take the whippings quietly, though, for if my mother intervened he would turn his violence on her.”

  A flicker of compassion crossed James’ features. “What of your natural father?”

  “I was ten when I first met him. He was a Scottish Laird with a wife and two sons. Duncan learned of the beatings and threatened the old man with violence. Thereafter, my whoreson of a stepfather became quite inventive with his discipline.” Anthony rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. “There are many ways to hurt someone and he became a master of them all.”

  After a short hesitation, James said, “I am truly sorry.”

  Anthony shook his head. “I found relief at school. However, my mother was left defenseless.”

  “How so?”

  “He enjoyed beating her.”

  Visibly shocked, James cleared his throat. “You mentioned half-brothers.”

  Anthony snorted. “They despise me.” He remembered the look of hatred on their faces at the cemetery. “I saw my father often throughout the following years.” He twirled his empty glass on the table beside him. “Although he claimed to care, he never saw fit to tell his wife and sons about me. They learned of my existence at the time of his death, and of the inheritance he left me.”

  “How long has your father been gone?”

  “I attended his funeral during this last trip to Scotland.”

  James stood and grabbed the decanter, splashing a little in each of their snifters before resuming his seat and downing his drink in a single gulp.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, James. I sense something is troubling you.”

  James leaned forward, his hands clasped around the empty goblet. “The timing is probably awful, but I need a favor of you.”

  Anthony blinked. In the years they’d known each other, his friend had never asked him for anything. “Name it.”

  “Do you remember my mention of a cousin in America?”

  He searched his memory. “The one nearest your own age? A female, I believe.”

  “Yes. As children, we were inseparable. Clairece, or Ree as I call her, was a little hoyden.” James grinned. “Smart, one of the brightest women I’ve ever known. She’s coming for a visit and plans to stay at my sister’s house in Mayfair. I would ask for your help with her.”

  Anthony’s curiosity rose. “In what way?”

  “Ree married a man named Roger Griffin. He was a professor at one of the universities and a close friend of her father’s, my uncle Joel. I met Roger once or twice. Nice chap. Although nearer her father’s age, Roger and Clairece seemed to rub along well.” James hesitated, staring at the floor in front of him.

  “Go on.”

  James raised his head and Anthony read the clear anxiety riding in his friend’s eyes. “Her father is a highly respected anthropologist and historian and, like you, possesses an interest in artifacts, antiquities, and the like. Ree showed the same aptitude and Uncle Joel taught her.

  “He was asked to authenticate an item once belonging to Mary, Queen of Scots. Although her possessions were destroyed on or before her execution, this piece was overlooked and kept hidden for generations. At the time, Uncle Joel was occupied with another project. Ree had become almost as proficient at authenticating items and went in his place. Roger went with her.”

  Oh, God.

  James rolled the snifter in his hands. “The relic was at the Metropolitan Museum in New York.”

  Of course it was.

  “From what I learned, Ree went upstairs to view other pieces for the museum while Roger remained below in the vault. At the sound of shots fired, she and the curator rushed back to find the piece missing and Roger dead.”

  This has to be a coincidence of momentous proportions. “It’s fortunate she wasn’t in the vault at the time or she would have died as well,” Anthony managed.

  “Indeed, but the fact she lived only added to her depression. I believe, as does the rest of the family, she feels a sense of guilt over Roger’s death.”

  “I doubt her presence would have changed anything.”

  “You’re right, but she lived and Roger did not. Clairece has not been the same since.”

  “What were they asked to authenticate?” Anthony would wager a small fortune the artifact was the same as described in the envelope lying not two feet from him.

  “Queen Mary had a little lap dog, a Skye terrier. The animal was devoted to her. Documented accounts of her execution state her pet cuddled around her feet as they prepared to behead her. After the decapitation, they found the little creature hiding under her skirts covered in her blood. She’d had a leather collar encrusted with precious gems made for her terrier. Her personal jewels had long since been confiscated but the neckband was overlooked, most likely hidden under the dog’s long coat.

  “Story has it, one of her ladies-in-waiting scooped up the little animal and took the dog away. The terrier died a few days later of a broken heart, and the collar vanished.”

  Anthony’s wits scattered.

  Unaware of his churning thoughts, James plowed on. “There are rumors of the collar resurfacing here in England. We believe Ree is coming for that purpose.”

  Of course she is.

  James paused. “Without a doubt, she will attempt to find those responsible for Roger’s death.”

  “How may I be of help?”

  “We would ask you to assist Ree and keep her safe in the process.”

  “And how am I to accomplish this?” Anthony queried. “Then again, I am certain you’ve thought of something.”

  James flushed and shifted in his seat. “Send out word of your desire to acquire an unusual piece for your collection. With any luck, whoever has the collar will contact you. You have the blunt to make it believable and whatever you lay out, we’ll reimburse.”

  Anthony leaned forward. “You do realize the possession of royal artifacts is against the law?”

  “Yes, but there must be someone you could speak to at Scotland Yard.”

  “There is.”

  James plucked at a button on his waistcoat. “One more thing.” He paused. “You mustn’t tell Ree you’re helping us or she�
��ll avoid you at all costs. If you let it be known you’re interested in the artifact, she should come to you.”

  Feisty little minx. “When is she expected?”

  James’ expression brightened. “You’ll help?” At Anthony’s nod, an exhale of relief escaped James. “She should arrive any day now.”

  He raised a brow. “You’re not meeting her?”

  James shifted. “Her missive said she would contact me after she arrived.”

  And independent as hell. “Why is she staying at your sister’s house and not with you?”

  “I suspect she doesn’t want me to know what she’s up to,” James admitted.

  Anthony pushed himself out of the chair. He needed time to read the contents of the envelope and form some sort of plan. “Will you be at White’s in the morning?”

  James rose to his feet and set the snifter on the desk. “Yes. I daresay so will Phillip and Stephen. I would like this to remain between the two of us for the time being.”

  “You may count on my discretion.”

  In the front hall, Hodges waited with James’ overcoat, hat, and gloves. As the heavy door opened, a blast of cold, sleet-filled wind blew in.

  James lifted the fur-trimmed collar and shoved his hat on his head. With a quick salute, he sprinted the short distance to his waiting conveyance.

  “Lock up for the night, Hodges, and find your bed,” Anthony instructed.

  “Certainly, my lord. It has been most uneventful with you away. Quite dull indeed.”

  “Things are about to change.” Anthony took the stairs two at a time and strode to the library to retrieve the envelope. After scanning its contents, he placed the package in a desk drawer. First thing tomorrow, he would visit Scotland Yard and alert Stallings of Clairece’s imminent arrival. Having once seen the collar, she could be of considerable use in identifying the relic.

  James had suggested Anthony keep his reasons for aiding Clairece a secret. But if asked, perhaps she would allow him to handle the situation alone. No doubt she’d had a rough go of it, but she had no idea the sort of people she would have to deal with.

  If not careful, she could end up as dead as her late husband.

  Chapter 3

  Anthony crossed the lushly carpeted room at White’s and made his way to an alcove in the back, a reserved table he shared with his friends. Various newspapers and half-empty cups littered the tabletop.

  James lowered a copy of the Post and watched him with undisguised anticipation.

  Stephen glanced up from his paper. “We were wondering where you were,” he said around a bite of toast.

  “I stopped by Scotland Yard.” Anthony flicked a glance in James’ direction as he lowered himself into a padded chair. A fresh cup of coffee, his beverage of choice, appeared before him. He swallowed a gulp and relaxed. What passed for coffee at the CID looked like sludge and tasted far worse.

  “Been thinking about your New Year’s Eve ball, old chap.” Stephen flipped another page of the paper. “If you haven’t chosen a woman for the night, I think we, as your closest friends, should secure one for you.” Stephen folded the latest scandal sheet and eyed Anthony in expectation.

  Anthony held his friend’s gaze. “If I choose to have a companion for the evening, I will select one myself . . . old chap.”

  Stephen frowned. “Yet you’re not. Your name appears regularly in the papers in connection with some female or another, but for some reason you’re leaving your selection for the ball rather late.”

  Steepling his fingers against his nose, Anthony peered over them at Stephen. “You should know better than to believe what’s printed in those gossip rags. Does it also say how I find the time for all this philandering?”

  James sent a warning frown at Stephen. “I would advise you to stop or you may find yourself on your arse from the wrong side of Tony’s fist.”

  Stephen jumped, his eyes widening, as Anthony pushed to his feet.

  James frowned. “You’re leaving already?”

  “There are things I must attend to before this evening’s festivities,” Anthony said. The assumption he was preoccupied with bedding women was demeaning. There had been women, but not as many as the tabloids alleged, and not for some time. Work filled the greater part of his days and nights and when Parliament was in session, there was little time left for the type of pursuits the papers hinted at.

  Once outside, Anthony stuffed his hands in his pockets and dipped his head against the chill wind. As he walked, he pondered his habits in dealing with the fairer sex. Circumspect in his associations, he also considered himself particular in whom he chose. At no time, no matter the temptation, had he lain with a married woman.

  And he never let his emotions show.

  As a child, he’d learned to hide his feelings. At the first sign of any attachment, the old earl would use his affection against him. The person or item would simply disappear without warning.

  Anthony jerked up his collar, his stride increasing. “Damn you, old man,” he muttered.

  He recalled his mother’s bruised and battered face. After finding her crying in her room, he’d marched into the earl’s study and grabbed the cane, breaking it over his knee. For the first time, his stepfather had looked at him with approval. The realization that it took violence to win the old man’s regard sent Anthony rushing outside to empty his stomach behind the shrubs.

  He kicked a broken piece of brick from the sidewalk and heard it ping against the wrought-iron fence. “Burn in hell.”

  Though Anthony fought against the next memory, it still surfaced; cold, dark and damning. After winter break, he’d returned to Eton, relieved to be away from Sanctuary Park and all its cruelty. He’d concentrated on his studies to forget the hatred permeating every square inch of the mansion. Sanctuary—such a lovely name for such a monstrous place. As always, there’d been the tug on his heartstrings as his mother waved him off.

  Within a month, he received a short, indifferent message informing him of his mother’s death from a fall down the stairs. The missive stated she’d been buried quickly as befitted a whore and without benefit of clergy.

  Swamped by guilt, the remembered vision of freshly turned sod swam before his eyes. Even the small comfort of saying goodbye had been denied him.

  The clip-clop of horse’s hooves pulled him back to the present and the London streets. Anthony swiped his fingers across his eyes, set his jaw, and marched on.

  Chapter 4

  Inniswood Place

  December 31, 1898

  From the window of his darkened library, Anthony observed revelers making their way along the lighted sidewalk below. As they stepped in and out of the circles of illumination cast by electric streetlights, their costumes offered a brilliant array of dazzling color. Pinpoints of light flashed like thousands of diamonds across the snow-covered ground while Londoners celebrated the coming of the New Year.

  Boughs of evergreen, swathed in white and silver tissue, hung above every doorway and window of Inniswood Place. Red-velvet bows provided stark relief against the shimmering cloth. Ivy and sprigs of red-berried holly filled huge pots throughout the enormous ballroom.

  A massive fir tree held place of prominence in the center of the drawing room. Adorned in strings of brilliant lights and draped in silver gauze, the conifer glowed. Artificial doves covered in a profusion of white feathers, as well as dozens of blown-glass ornaments, were artfully displayed throughout the branches. Fairy lights illuminated the ballroom and other areas open to his guests.

  The lights were first introduced in 1881 at the Savoy Theater, and Anthony had stared in awe at the tiny incandescent bulbs. For his tenth birthday, his mother had taken him to London to see the display. Engrossed in the exhibition, he hadn’t noticed a man’s approach until a hand came down on his shoulder. It
was then Anthony had met his biological father—and his world changed.

  The sounds of music and laughter drifted up from the ballroom, drawing him back to the present. He’d been inundated by beautiful women who’d made quite obvious their willingness to share his company and his bed for the evening. After welcoming his guests, he’d slipped away to the privacy of his library and the solitude he desired.

  Anthony took a sip of Holiday Punch and blinked. If the mixture of champagne, Madeira, Curacao, rum, and brandy didn’t keep the party lively, the concoction would send his company seeking quiet places to indulge in private trysts. He lifted the glass and caught the scent of oranges, lemons, and raisins. Even with the addition of seltzer water, it was a potent drink.

  Within the hour it would be 1899, the last year before the turn of the century. At twenty-eight, he had amassed a large personal fortune and reestablished his title and estates as solvent. His investments were sound and he had more money than he could spend in his lifetime. He should be content, but he was not.

  Anthony pondered his earlier conversation with Hodges. His butler always had an opinion. Whether his manservant chose to share it, was something else entirely. One thing was evident, Anthony needed his life to be of importance to someone.

  He knew the type of union he desired. He would choose a woman to satisfy his visceral needs, keep his home, and bear his children. More importantly, he wanted a wife who would be his friend, companion, and lover throughout life. A woman to keep safe, who would complete him.

  He didn’t imagine the search would be easy. Once Parliament adjourned and this business concerning the artifact was concluded, he would begin his quest.

  Anthony turned from the window. His regard shifted from one priceless painting to another before moving on to the antique coins displayed under glass. As a collector of fine art and antiquities, his knowledge was considerable.