Leaving the gazebo, Asher glided across the lawn, using the trees and shrubs to cloak his movements. Swiftly crossing the small courtyard, he tried the handle of the French doors and smiled when the knob turned in his hand. He’d been counting on the custom of seldom locking doors in the country.
Slipping inside the spacious room, he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the utter blackness that met him and then brought forth the small candle he carried in the pocket of his jacket. A flick of flint and a tiny light burst into being.
Shielding the flickering candle flame with his body, he glanced around the shadow-filled room. Nothing seemed to have changed since the last time he had been in the study. The furniture and arrangement looked the same; the Gainsborough still hung on the wall in front of him, hiding, he hoped, the same original safe. Drifting across the room, he stopped in front of the huge painting, undecided of his next move.
He hadn’t come here tonight to steal the letters, but since he had gotten this far undetected the urge was strong. Frowning, he thought about it for several seconds, weighing the chances for success. If the letters were in the safe, he’d have them in his hands in a matter of moments…. But first he’d have to remove the painting, open the safe, search for the letters, and assuming they were there, remove them, then replace everything as it had been, all of which would take time, not a great deal of time, but time he might not have. He saw no point in advertising that a robbery had taken place and intended when he left the room for there to be no sign that anything was amiss—or that anyone had been there. But not knowing where Ormsby was in the house and conscious that, at this hour, the marquis could take it into his head to wander into the study at any moment, Asher decided that beyond a peek behind the painting, he would do no more.
Shifting the painting slightly, he winced at the low grating noise it made when it slipped a little in his grip and scraped against the wall. After waiting a tense second, he angled his head and, using the light from his small candle, took a quick look behind the painting. The safe was still there and it looked to be the same one he’d seen years ago. The urge to strike now, to take down the painting and open the safe and look for Thalia’s letters was nearly overpowering, but he fought it back. Since the near debacle last spring, he was almost superstitious about changing plans on a whim and while the impulse was there, he reminded himself that he’d come to look tonight, nothing more.
He stiffened, the hair on the back of his neck rising. There was something…some change in the air current, some faint sound…. There was nothing to alarm him, but instinct warned him that he dare not linger and Asher listened to his instincts. Not questioning his actions, with lightning speed, he replaced the painting as it had been and darted out the French door, barely taking time to quietly shut the door behind him.
Not wanting the scent of a just-snuffed flame to taint the air in the room, once outside, he only stopped long enough to thoroughly pinch out the light of his small candle before sprinting to one of the big oaks that dotted the lawn. Concealed behind the big tree, he dropped the now-dead candle in his pocket and risked a look at the house, his pulse jumping at the spray of light that bloomed into being behind the windows and French doors of the room he had just so precipitously vacated. Christ! That had been a narrow escape and he blessed his instincts, knowing that he had escaped detection by a hairsbreadth.
He watched for several minutes as someone traveled slowly around the room, the candlelight marking the movement. It was no small gleam of light that Asher saw shining out from the study; whoever it was carried a large candelabrum, making it almost a certainty that it was the marquis who was wandering around in the room and not a nosy servant. Asher froze when a tall man, recognizable in light from the blazing candelabrum he held in one hand, stopped in front of the French doors and looked outside. Ormsby.
For an unbearable moment, the marquis stood there staring into the night, almost as if he sensed that Asher was staring back at him. Ormsby turned, as if speaking to someone else. Returning to his original position, Ormsby opened the French doors and strolled outside. With narrowed eyes, Asher watched him wander around the small courtyard, the candelabrum he carried casting a golden glow wherever it fell. What the bloody hell was the man doing? Asher wondered.
The unpleasant thought occurred to Asher that, just as his instincts had warned him, the marquis might very well possess the same instincts. Was Ormsby merely enjoying the night air? Or was he suspicious? Had he sensed an intruder?
Whatever the marquis’s reasons for this nighttime amble, after a few excruciatingly long minutes, he returned to the study, but not before Asher caught sight of Ormsby’s companion, who came to the door and inquired acidly if the marquis was going to stay out there all night. Asher recognized the voice instantly and there was no mistaking that brawny build or the peg leg. Denning!
Contempt billowed up through Asher at the sight of his stepfather standing in the middle of the opened French door. There was no doubt in his mind that the colonel and the marquis had been gambling when Ormsby had decided to pay a visit to the study. Even if his grandmother had not warned him, Denning’s presence here tonight would have given Asher a clear indication that the colonel had allowed the lure of the card table to overcome his scruples…what few scruples his stepfather possessed, Asher thought grimly.
Apparently satisfied that there was no one lurking about, Ormsby returned to the house and rejoined Denning. He shut the French door behind him and Asher watched as the two men passed from his view. A second later the study went dark.
Only when he was certain that the marquis was not coming back did Asher move, and then on fleet feet he covered the distance that separated him from his horse. It had been a near thing and he wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Ormsby Place. It might have been only an accident, a coincidence that had brought Ormsby to the study tonight, but Asher had a healthy wariness of coincidence. Whatever had brought the marquis to the study, he now had new respect for Ormsby’s instincts and the next time he entered the marquis’s study he’d make damn certain Ormsby was away from the house. As for his stepfather…Denning’s presence at Ormsby’s tonight made a trip to Apple Hill tomorrow even more imperative than it had been.
Untying his horse and swinging into the saddle, he headed home. Denning’s presence tonight at Ormsby’s troubled him, but he was not going to dwell on it. There would be time enough tomorrow to face that complication and he concentrated on the near discovery by Ormsby aware that, regrettably, until Denning had appeared, he’d enjoyed that little game of cat and mouse with the marquis. Especially, he admitted with a wicked grin, escaping unscathed.
Asher was not grinning the next morning as his horse, a black today, trotted toward Apple Hill. It was a tricky situation he faced.
He would have no trouble nailing his stepfather’s hide to the barn, but his brother presented a problem. In a month or less, John would turn five and twenty and was no longer the green boy he’d been when Asher had last pulled the colonel from the River Tick and set up the entail to keep the remainder of Apple Hill safe from Denning’s compulsive gambling. Asher knew that things would be different this time and that he’d have to walk softly. A grown man now, John wouldn’t take kindly to his older brother riding in and running roughshod over him—even if, Asher thought wryly, it was for his own good. No, he’d have to proceed cautiously and be certain he did not offend or wound his brother’s pride. Or rouse John’s protective instincts for his father.
His mouth grim, he turned his horse down the long meandering drive that led to Apple Hill. While most of his affection for his stepfather had died long ago, Asher knew that his half siblings loved their father. Why wouldn’t they? he thought wearily. Denning’s habits may have destroyed the love and respect he’d held for the man, but he had never let his brothers and sisters know how close their father had brought them all to ruin and they had great affection for the colonel.
John may have suspected t
here was more to it than met the eye when Asher insisted, none too gently, on the entail, but he was certain that none of the others guessed that the money that gave them their glowing opportunities had come from him. Oh, they knew that their older half brother had been generous and that Asher had helped place their feet firmly on the path to comfortable futures, but none of them had any idea of the full extent of his involvement. That they looked at their father as their benefactor suited him and avoided, he admitted wryly, too many questions about the source of the large sums he expended on them.
His stepfather assumed the money Asher filtered through his hands for the benefit of the family came from gambling, and in truth a large part of it had. Asher had never seen any reason to disabuse him of that notion. Not surprisingly, it had been his stepfather who had first introduced Asher to the world of gambling—he’d not been six years old when Denning had placed a pack of cards and a pair of dice before him and began teaching him the various games of chance. Denning had been amazed at how quickly Asher had taken to the dice and cards and to this day he was prouder of his stepson’s quick understanding and phenomenal memory at the gaming tables than any other accomplishment. Addicted to any form of gambling himself, Denning never once questioned Asher’s glib explanations of having had a run of luck at the races or in one of the gambling halls in London.
The road rose slightly and when Asher topped a gently rolling expanse, the house came into view—the neat rows of apple trees that had given the estate its name fanning out behind the main dwelling in the distance. Originally, Apple Hill had been a narrow three-storied manor house, but several additions over the centuries had nearly quadrupled the size of the building. The central block with its tall gable was half timbered with the other additions, a pair of two-storied wings on either side consisted of a charming conglomeration of various materials—wood, brick and stone. Yellow roses climbed wildly at the corners of the two wings, their scent drifting in the air; in the spring lilacs bloomed near the front door and presently heavy headed pink and white peonies nodded against the foundation of the main structure, adding to its charm. Despite his bitterness, Asher retained several fond memories of Apple Hill and his youth. His stay here, he reminded himself, as he halted his horse at the side of the house, had not been entirely without joy.
Leaving his horse tied at the side of the house, he followed the brick walkway that led to the front. Stopping at the age-darkened oak door, he raised the black iron knocker and knocked.
A moment passed, then the door opened and there, with a smile on his face, stood Apple Hill’s butler, Woodall. A middle-aged, rotund little man with pleasant features and alert brown eyes, Woodall and his father and grandfather before him had all served the Denning family. Woodall had always been a favorite of Asher’s and he remembered with pleasure the extra sweets, sugar plums especially, that the butler had slipped him and his half siblings at Christmastime.
“Master Asher! Why, this is a most pleasant surprise!” exclaimed Woodall. “Master John will be delighted to see you.”
“And the colonel? Is he in?” Asher asked as he handed Woodall his gloves and hat.
Some of the pleasure in the older man’s face faded and he nodded. “Yes, he is, but he is still abed.” He coughed delicately. “It was very late when your stepfather returned home last night.”
Asher refrained from comment, saying lightly, “Well, perhaps he will be up and I shall see him before I leave this afternoon.”
Woodall looked doubtful. “It may be very late when the colonel arises,” he warned.
Asher smiled at him. “You forget that I am most familiar with my stepfather’s habits. Now lead me on to John.”
Shown into the estate office at the rear of one of the wings, Asher wasn’t surprised to find his half brother hard at work.
At the sight of Asher, a welcoming smile lit up John’s face and, laying down his quill, he rose to his feet from behind the messy oak desk where he had been seated. After crossing the distance that separated them, John enthusiastically pumped Asher’s hand, exclaiming, “By Jupiter, it is a pleasure to see you! I heard that you were once more at Fox Hollow and had been planning to ride over and visit with you soon.”
While they did not resemble each other to a great degree, that the two men were related in some manner was evident in their tall and muscular builds and their coloring and a similar look through the eyes and mouth. All of Jane’s children favored her; it was most obvious through the eyes, but they all also had her black hair and olive complexion, her daughters slightly fairer skinned than her sons. Only John and Martha, Jane’s eldest daughter, had inherited the exact color of their mother’s eyes—a striking green. Since they had different fathers it was natural that Asher possessed certain features that the Denning siblings did not and there was a chiseled elegance about his jaw and nose that the others did not possess.
Indicating a worn, but comfortable leather chair, John said, “Be seated. Shall I ring for Woodall to bring refreshments?”
Smiling, Asher shook his head. After seating himself, he watched as his half brother took the chair across from him. John appeared relaxed and cheerful and Asher could discern no sign of worry about him. Certainly he did not look like a young man on the verge of signing away a portion of his inheritance. Had his grandmother, Asher wondered, been wrong? Misunderstood John’s words?
Glancing around the familiar room, with its heavy masculine furniture and haphazard arrangement, Asher’s gaze stopped on the paperwork scattered across the top of the desk. Looking at John, his brow lifted and he said idly, “I would have thought that you’d be out inspecting your farms on such a fine day. What keeps you chained inside, pouring over account books?”
John wasn’t fooled. He grinned at him and asked, “Grandmother told you about my frantic visit, didn’t she?”
Asher shrugged. “I may have heard something that made me think that all might not be well.”
“And you’ve come riding to my rescue once more?” John teased.
Asher frowned at his boot. John wasn’t acting like a young man weighted down with trouble, and he wondered again if his grandmother had misunderstood. No. John himself had just alluded to a “frantic” visit and Asher reminded himself that Denning had been at Ormsby’s last night.
His gaze still on his polished boots, Asher asked quietly, “Do you need rescuing? You know that I am always at your disposal.”
“Now if you’d asked me that question just yesterday morning and made that offer, I’d probably have fallen on your neck with cries of gratitude,” John admitted frankly. He flashed Asher an embarrassed smile. “When I spoke to Grandmother, I feared that I would have to break the entail, but things have worked out splendidly. Father told me yesterday afternoon that he has come about and that he is quite plump in the pocket. He said that I never need fear that he will ever be a drain on Apple Hill again. In fact, he hopes to be able to underwrite a majority of the costs of improvements to some of the farms.”
John’s words did not lessen the knot of unease in Asher’s chest. While Denning may have reassured John in the afternoon, the colonel had been at Ormsby’s place last night and more than most, Asher knew how quickly a winner at the gaming table one night could turn into a ruined man the next.
His eyes meeting his brother’s, Asher asked bluntly, “Is he gaming again?”
John flushed and he nodded. “Yes. He has been a frequent visitor to Ormsby Place since the marquis has returned to the area and I know that they play deep.” John leaned forward and said earnestly, “But, Asher, he assured me yesterday, that even though he may gamble with the marquis, he has the funds to cover any losses.”
“For now,” Asher said grimly. “What if he starts losing? Did he explain how he would meet his debts? In a manner that does not involve Apple Hill?”
“No,” John said slowly, “but he was most positive about never asking me, or anyone else for that matter, to cover his debts again.” John grimaced. “I do know that he is
still gambling with Ormsby because he informed me late last night that he had invited Ormsby to dine with us Saturday evening. When I objected—knowing they’d be gambling long after I went to bed, he waved me aside, telling me that I needn’t worry he’d lose to the marquis….” A puzzled look crossed John’s handsome features. “I can’t explain it, but he was so confident…it was almost as if he knew something that would insure that he always won.” John laughed uneasily. “And we both know that isn’t possible, but Father…Father was adamant that his days of walking away a loser were over.” He frowned. “No, not that he wouldn’t lose, but that he’d always have the funds to cover his losses.”
Asher didn’t like the sound of any of it, especially Ormsby coming to dine at Apple Hill on Saturday. The certainty that the colonel was about to bring them all to the brink of ruin took root within him. “No one,” Asher said flatly, “wins every time and sooner or later, he will have run through whatever funds he may now possess. Your father is a fool if he thinks he has stumbled upon some magic formula that will keep Lady Luck always at his shoulder.”
A defensive note in his voice, John said, “You are too hard on him. I know that you paid off some of his debts when the entail was set up….” A shy smile crossed his face and he added, “And for that I am grateful—I will never forget that you helped save Apple Hill, but you cannot hold that one mistake against him for the rest of his life.” At the expression in Asher’s eyes, he added hastily, “I’ll concede that Father has not always been wise, that he has even been foolish when it comes to gaming, but he has always managed to come about—you can’t deny that.”
Passion Becomes Her Page 11
