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Gwendolyn wished she was anywhere except in this sitting room with a host of other women waiting for the gentlemen to leave
their port and join them.
Worse, once the men made an appearance, Miss Purley, accompanied by Lady Julia, was to perform a few song selections she had
chosen. Gwendolyn idly listened to Miss Purley, her mother, and her friends gathered around the pianoforte, furiously whispering
last-minute concerns and instructions. If they thought warbling a tune or two would impress Lord Ellisfield, then Gwendolyn
believed they would be sorely disappointed. Ellisfield didn’t impress her as one to be lovestruck by an amateur musical performance.
Nor was it lost on Gwendolyn that, in spite of her parents’ and, apparently, Lady Middlebury’s hopes, Miss Purley seemed to have swung her interest from his lordship to Mr. Steele. She’d made cow eyes at him all through dinner. Of course, Lord Ellisfield hadn’t shown much interest either. His gaze had wandered toward Gwendolyn.
Meanwhile, except for that moment before the company had taken their seats, Mr. Steele had appeared to ignore Gwendolyn. She
wondered if she’d done something to vex him.
Suddenly Lady Orpington burst through the door, Magpie under her arm. She charged straight for Gwendolyn and plunked herself
upon the settee, taking the space that Gwendolyn had been hoping to save for Mr. Steele. Magpie sat in her lap.
“She is refusing to let us play,” Lady Orpington said in a whisper that could have been heard across the room.
“It is her party,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “She is allowed to make decisions about the activities her guests enjoy.”
Lady Orpington snorted her response. “I need to know why she is refusing us. I will get to the bottom of this. We will be playing . Be ready.”
On those words, she picked up Magpie and came to her feet. Her personality changed from outraged cardplayer to serene gentlewoman. She smiled at Gwendolyn. “I will have everyone won over to my side by morning.” So saying, she waved one of Magpie’s paws at Gwendolyn and walked over to the table loaded with sweetmeats and drinks. She began making small talk with the women gathered there while Magpie leaned over and, sticking out her tongue, tried to snag one of the small cakes. The other guests listened respectfully, but Gwendolyn didn’t sense they saw a prevailing need for a whist tournament.
Or appreciated Magpie eating the desserts.
She turned an impatient eye to the door again. Where were the gentlemen?
Gwendolyn was now very glad that she had requested a horse to go riding in the morning. She needed the freedom. Fresh air
would clear her head. She sensed she was being watched all the time. Lady Middlebury would stare at her in the most discomforting
way, and the servants all seemed too aware of her—
Lady Rabron plunked herself down on the settee in the space Lady Orpington had abandoned. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit
here?” she asked. Her red-gold curls caught the light and created a halo of sorts around her head.
“Of course, please,” Gwendolyn answered, because she had little other choice. However, if Mr. Steele walked into the room,
Gwendolyn would be tempted to elbow the woman off the settee. She instinctively did not trust her.
“We were introduced earlier. I’m Violet Rabron.”
“Gwendolyn Lanscarr.”
Lady Rabron smiled, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
There followed an awkward moment of silence. Gwendolyn sensed the woman had a purpose in searching her out. She waited.
“Have you heard Miss Purley sing before?” Lady Rabron asked as if she’d been racking her brain for a topic of conversation other than her true purpose.
“Unfortunately, I have not,” Gwendolyn replied politely.
“It shall be a first for both of us.”
“That is so.”
“This is also my first visit to Colemore,” Lady Rabron said. “Have you been here before?”
Gwendolyn shifted in her seat. They had discussed this earlier when they were first introduced. Did Lady Rabron have no recollection?
“This is my first visit as well. I’m Lady Orpington’s whist partner.”
Lady Rabron’s eyes widened in mock horror. “I’m shocked that our hostess has refused to allow anyone to play whist. I’d understood
it was an important game at Colemore.”
Remembering her husband’s earlier rudeness, Gwendolyn decided to let the topic be. “The weather is nice this evening.”
Lady Rabron nodded. “I suppose.” She fell silent.
Gwendolyn didn’t choose to fill the void. Polite conversation was so trying.
Suddenly Lady Rabron asked, “Is there a connection between you and Mr. Curran?”
Lady Rabron was finally showing her purpose, and Gwendolyn was vastly annoyed. Was there any woman in this room uninterested
in him?
“We are friends,” Gwendolyn answered, hoping she sounded somewhat cool and detached.
“Ah,” Lady Rabron said. She winced as the rehearsing Lady Julia hit a note in disagreement with the pianoforte. “I noticed Mr. Curran kept looking in your direction during dinner. When he thought you weren’t paying attention.”
That news caused Gwendolyn’s heart to do a little jig. “I don’t know why he would,” she managed to say.
“You do,” Lady Rabron countered. Her limpid gaze met Gwendolyn’s with a startling directness. “You have been watching the
door with the patience of a hungry hawk. I know how that is.” She waited two beats and added, “There was a time I watched
for him as well. He was in love with me. And I him. We were devoted to each other. He asked for my father’s permission to
marry me.”
Gwendolyn felt the smile on her face fade. Usually, when at a disadvantage for any reason, she was good at concealing her
thoughts and disappointments.
But not this time.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to hear whatever story Violet Rabron had to tell. And yet she was powerless
to stop her.
“Father said no,” Lady Rabron said. Regret colored each of those three words.
She closed her eyes a moment and then put on a brave face to tell Gwendolyn, “I needed to marry for my family. I needed to
marry for money and connections...”
Her voice died away. She studied some point on the floor as if lost in the memories. Gwendolyn sat silent. She suddenly found it hard to breathe, let alone comprehend what the woman was saying to her. In all of her musings about Mr. Steele, she’d never imagined that he’d had a grand passion for another, especially such a watery miss like Lady Rabron.
Her ladyship gave herself a little shake as if to rally and accept life as it was. “I’m certain you understand, Miss Lanscarr.
A military captain, which he was at the time, and even one so dashing and brilliant, would not suit.” She paused and then
added softly, “The decision broke my heart. Beckett and I were so in love.”
In love? It took a moment for the implication of Lady Rabron’s avowal to sink in. He’d asked this woman to marry him ?
It was in that moment that Gwendolyn realized how neatly she had discounted the conversation in Lady Orpington’s coach. The
one where he’d warned her not to fall in love with him. She had assumed that meant Mr. Steele had never been in love before.
Therefore, he could not appreciate the depth of Gwendolyn’s feelings for him.
How could she be so utterly naive?
The strangest part of Lady Rabron’s confession was that she had refused Mr. Steele. If it had been Gwendolyn’s choice, she would have run off with the man she loved, her family be damned.
But that wasn’t completely true either. Gwendolyn had been prepared to marry a portly squire with a host of unruly children
if it had meant that her sisters would be safe and free to marry men of their station. She understood the choice Lady Rabron
made.
That didn’t mean Gwendolyn liked this new information. Mr. Steele had been in love, and not with her.
She thought of him standing with Lady Rabron and her husband when they were first introduced to her. Now she saw Mr. Steele’s
unease in a new light. She’d been so wrapped up in “helping” him, she hadn’t noticed.
And then a new panic seized her—Lady Rabron knew that Mr. Steele was not Nicholas Curran. She had even just called him by
his given name, Beckett.
As if reading her mind, Lady Rabron placed a hand over hers. She brought her head close to Gwendolyn’s, her voice low. “Don’t
worry. I shall not denounce him. But why is he pretending to be someone else?”
Gwendolyn thought quickly. She widened her eyes and behaved as if this was news to her. “Someone else? What are you saying?”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Rabron removed her hand. “I thought—” She paused, glanced around the room. The door had opened. The gentlemen
came streaming in to join them. She forced a cheerful smile and came to her feet. “I need to find my husband.”
The men’s voices were boisterous as if the port had flowed freely. Lord Rabron was hanging on to Captain McGrath. His hair
was slightly mussed and his cheeks ruddy.
And Gwendolyn watched Lady Rabron register disapproval and then resigned disappointment in what she saw. She caught Gwendolyn’s expression. Her chin lifted as if ready to inform Gwendolyn to not pity her, but then her expres sion softened. “He is not that bad a sort.” Her words lacked conviction.
Lord Rabron didn’t approach his wife but swooped down on the sweetmeats table along with his drinking companions. Lord Ellisfield
shouted for a whisky. A footman went running.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purley and Lady Middlebury attempted to ask for quiet so that “the very talented Miss Purley” could sing.
And over in a corner, Lady Orpington had the rector’s ear and was talking away, most certainly, about whist.
But there was no Mr. Steele.
“He’s not here,” Lady Rabron said, more to herself than an answer to Gwendolyn’s unspoken question. “He’ll appear.” Then she
leaned close to Gwendolyn, her focus sharpening. “You have an attachment for him, don’t you? I understand why. He makes the
other men here tonight look like children. However, I want you to know, he’s mine . He loves me. And now that I have found him again, I will not let him go.”
“You are married.”
Lady Rabron gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve honored my vows. I’ve given my husband two sons. The time has come for me to seek
my own happiness. He was devoted to me.” Gwendolyn knew she spoke of Mr. Steele. “He told me I was his sun, his stars and moon. It isn’t my fault that we
couldn’t be together. Or his.”
Her assumption that apparently all she had to do was snap her fingers and Mr. Steele would fall to her feet outraged Gwendolyn. The woman had rejected him. She even sounded smug about it. What right did she have to expect anything of him? “I believe Mr. Curran can and will make decisions for himself.” She emphasized the fake name deliberately, a reminder to Lady Rabron. If the woman
truly had feelings for him, she would be cautious.
Lady Rabron’s gaze narrowed as if she’d caught the reprimand, and wasn’t pleased. She walked off.
Gwendolyn watched her weave her way to find a place to sit for Miss Purley’s performance. Would Lady Rabron betray Mr. Steele’s
identity? Would she expose Mr. Curran as a fraud?
Of course she would. She was in a miserable marriage, one of her own making. Seeing her former suitor had raised her spirits.
But if Mr. Steele rejected her, how might she react?
And if she thought Gwendolyn would docilely stand by and do nothing to protect him, she was wrong.
The problem was, Mr. Steele had not returned with the gentlemen. Gwendolyn wondered where he was. She hoped he appeared in
time for her to warn him of Lady Rabron’s intentions... that is, if he wished to be warned.
Doubt began to worm its way into her thinking, especially as time passed and he didn’t make an appearance. She remembered Mr. Steele’s warning to her that day in the coach when he’d chastised her for being attracted to him. Was it possible he had cautioned Gwendolyn not to have feelings for him because he still carried a torch for Lady Rabron? He hadn’t acted as if he did since they arrived at Colemore.
Gwendolyn looked over at Lady Rabron and wanted to believe all the way to her bones that Mr. Steele now had better taste.
He’d obviously been very young when he’d made his offer. Why else would he fix his attention on such a shallow woman?
A wave of loneliness rolled through her. She wished her sisters were here. They would commiserate with her over this unwelcome
information, even though Dara might secretly rejoice.
Finally, Lady Middlebury commanded the room’s attention to introduce Miss Purley. The singing began. Lady Julia accompanied
her while Lady Beth turned the pages. Miss Purley did, indeed, have a lovely voice. Her parents smiled indulgently, their
chests puffed with pride. They kept looking over at Lord Ellisfield to see if he noticed how talented their daughter was.
Gwendolyn doubted if he did. He leaned against a wall as if it held him up.
As for Gwendolyn, she couldn’t carry a tune. But she did have a talent—loyalty.
Mr. Steele needed to be warned of Lady Rabron’s intentions to claim him at all costs. And that she could expose him, if she
so desired.
Or at least, sitting there listening to Miss Purley warble on, Gwendolyn convinced herself that was what she must do... because confronting him would also give her the opportunity to gauge his reaction to Lady Rabron, one she hoped would be as enraged as her own.
Beck took his time as he made his way back to the house.
Colemore raised more questions than it had answered. Nothing made sense.
Most of all, his father.
His dreams had been vivid but disjointed and scrambled. What if they meant nothing? What if they were just the delusions of
a head wound?
He stopped at the edge of the garden and looked up at the great house. A bank of rooms was well lit. Apparently most of the
guests were still up. Beck didn’t hurry to join the company. He liked it out here in the dark. He could hide here. He could
think.
Beck was not pleased to have run into Violet. He’d learned a great deal about human nature, and about women, since those tender
years of his youth. Violet had let him declare his love for her, approach her father... and all the while, she’d known
that her father would never give permission for them to marry. She’d known .
Love had been hard for Beck. He’d never experienced it until Violet. Part of his attraction to her was that she had a family.
Families were both a mystery and the Holy Grail. He’d wanted to be included.
He wasn’t. Her father had made that clear. In spite of Beck’s commission, Danvers had referred to him as little better than
a mongrel and not worthy of his daughter.
Beck had never met Lord Rabron, the man who had been chosen. Beck had been fighting the French in Portugal when he’d heard that Violet had married. He hadn’t been as devastated as he’d anticipated. Then again, he’d been rather busy.
However, Violet’s rejection had convinced him that life was easier spent alone. No one had ever wanted him; why should he
want them?
He now walked around the house to the far wing, the East Wing, keeping in the shadows. His room was located in this section.
He found a side door and the servants’ stairs. The stairway was lit with wall sconces, not ones as fine as in the hallway
but serviceable. He climbed his way to the first floor and then cracked a door open, pausing to listen.
A woman was singing. She was a far cry from the glorious voice in his dreams—
He heard a step on the stairs above him. The person couldn’t be a servant. He moved like a child did, a step and a pause to
bring feet together, then another step. The progress of the old, the crippled, or the anxious.
Beck waited. If it was a servant, he needn’t say anything. If it wasn’t a servant, he wanted to know who else had reason to
take these back stairs. Beck turned as if occupied with looking out into the hall.
He could feel the person come up behind him. A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Beck whirled around, grabbing the man’s wrist, only to find himself looking at Lord Middlebury.
The marquess’s eyes widened at how quickly Beck had moved. “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said. Beck didn’t answer at first. He couldn’t.
Laying eyes on his father for the first time had been a bit unnerving earlier, even though he had told himself he had been
prepared for the meeting.
But here, in the very close confines of the servants’ stairs, the full impact of his father’s presence threw him completely
off guard. He had thought Middlebury almost as tall as he was. He wasn’t, not up close. He was several inches shorter.
The man smelled of brandy. That must have been his “research,” and the reason he shook as if with palsy or moved so carefully.
A drunk had to be wary of stairs.
Being this close, Beck noticed in the candle’s thin, flickering yellow light the places his father’s valet had missed when
he’d shaved him. His forehead was furrowed with deep worry lines.
“Here, here, here now,” the marquess grumbled, tugging on the wrist Beck held. Beck let go.
“My lord, you surprised me,” Beck said respectfully.
“Did I?” Delight came to his eye. “That is good? Yes?” And then suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“Avoiding being forced to hear a young woman sing.”
“The Purley chit. My wife said she was to entertain the company. Is she any good?”
“I don’t wish to be trapped with the others to find out.”
The marquess nodded as if that made sense. Then he abruptly changed the topic. “Would you like to see my research?”
“Yes,” Beck said without hesitation.
“Come then.” He motioned for Beck to follow him as he started up the stairs to the next floor. His movements were easier going
up the staircase. He opened the door and held it for Beck to join him in the passageway.
A trio of servants were standing there. One didn’t wear livery and was probably the valet. He spoke. “My lord, we were looking
for you.”
“I’m right there.” The marquess said this brusquely and with the consequence of a noble. He no longer sounded confused. The
valet and servants stepped back, and the marquess led Beck toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
Beck half expected the servants to attempt to stop him. Instead, they too followed in the marquess’s wake.
“This way,” his father said, opening one of the double doors himself.
Inside, another valet was preparing the room for bed. He nodded in deference to his lord but, again, did not act alarmed to
see Beck.
Lord Middlebury led him into a side room that served as a study but reminded Beck of an apothecary shop with stacks of what appeared to be dried herbs and flowers on the side table and filling sections of shelves lining the walls. There were also stuffed birds and small animals, their glass eyes reflecting the light of candles in the black iron chandelier. The chairs and desk were covered with books cracked open to certain pages. In the middle of the desk was a stack of papers that resembled a manuscript. The pages were covered with cramped handwriting, splotched with ink stains. There was no window, and the air was smoky from the burning of tallow candles and laden with the smells of old leather, glues, and whatever plants he was harboring.
The marquess walked around the desk and sat. “Now, here is my research.” He looked up as if expecting Beck to be impressed
and then pointed an impatient finger at a chair stacked with books on the opposite side of the desk, a silent order for him
to sit.
Beck looked askance before moving the stack.
“Yes, yes,” his lordship said. “Move it all.”
Placing the stack on top of another pile of books on another chair, Beck sat. “What does your research concern, my lord?”
“I’m doing a complete history of all the flora, fauna, and insects at Colemore.”
Only then did Beck notice the board on the wall with insects stuck to it. “That sounds like an interesting study, my lord,”
he replied politely.
His father nodded agreement. “Very important, very important. I’ve even been tracking the river’s course. It is constantly
changing. Oh, not in a way that a yeoman would notice. However, a scientist looks at incremental differences. I study to see
if the changes have an effect on the natural habitats of all living creatures.” He pointed to a stuffed pink-footed goose
looking down on them.
Beck had not anticipated such a direct and sensible answer. “I’m certain they do.”
“You would be right.” There was no shake in his lordship’s hand now even though a wine cup was close at hand. He dipped a
pen in ink. He prepared to write. “I also keep track of everyone who comes to visit Colemore. We, too, are living creatures.
I forgot a few names of our guests. You were one of them. You are?”
For a beat, Beck was tempted to say, Your son . But the man obviously didn’t see any resemblance. To be fair, Beck must favor his mother.
He wanted to ask Lord Middlebury her name, to have plain speaking and be done with this... but something warned him that
now was not the time. He didn’t wish to upset his father. Not if he didn’t have to. “Nicholas Curran. Lady Orpington’s nephew.”
“Curran. Is that with i - n or a - n ?”
“ A - n .”
“Ah, good. Do you have an education, Curran?”
“I attended Faircote.” Lord Middlebury had paid for it. He did not seem to recognize the school even as he wrote it down,
saying aloud, “Fair- cote .” Curious.
Lord Middlebury blew on the paper.
A valet appeared at the door. “Are you wishing to go to bed soon, my lord?”
“I am. Had to catch this Curran fellow and document him.” He nodded to Beck. “Glad to have a moment of your time, sir. Good
of you.” He stood.
Beck realized he was being dismissed. He rose to his feet. “I am happy to be of service, my lord.”
“See your way out on your own, will you? I am tired. Too tired.” A second ago, he’d been energetic, even forceful. Now, in a blink, his shoulders sagged.
Beck gave a bow. One of the valets led him out of the marquess’s rooms.
Out in the hallway, Beck said, “His research seems intense.”
“It is, sir,” the impassive servant answered.
“Does he go afield?”
“He has in the past, back when Winstead was with us.”
Beck kept his voice carefully neutral. “Winstead?”
“Yes, sir. He was Lord Middlebury’s personal servant. He went with the marquess on each of his endeavors.”
“Where is Winstead now?”
“He went to visit his family. He did that from time to time. He has not yet returned.”
“Has he been gone long?” Beck had to ask, curious as to the answer. His confrontation with Winstead had been close to ten
months ago.
Instead of answering the question, the servant said, “I believe the musicale has ended. However, the young lords are in the
billiards room. You may wish to join them?”
Beck had no desire to spend time drinking, especially with Ellisfield. Besides, he, too, was tired. It had been a long day.
“I can see myself to my room from here.”
The valet bowed and returned to the marquess.
Beck took the main stairs to the next floor, where his bedroom was. He thought of taking another look at the portrait, but there was a small group in the library, talking among themselves. He could hear Lady Orpington complaining about having all card games banned in between ordering Magpie to stop “snapping at Lord Killenhall.”
Lord Killenhall’s deep rumble of a voice said he was ready for his bed, and Beck hastened his step to avoid being pulled into
a conversation with Lady Orpington.
He wondered what was truly behind Lady Middlebury’s edict. This was a question to puzzle over in the morning. He went to his
room further down the hall. He was glad he didn’t need to fuss with a valet. However, because he didn’t have a personal servant,
and because he forgot to ask the porter for a lit taper, his room was dark.
Beck didn’t mind. Moonlight streamed through the window, throwing silver panes across the bedclothes. He shut the door and
began tugging at his neckcloth, wanting to at last be free of it—when he realized he was not alone. A person dressed in white
sat in the shadows. He thought of Jem’s ghostie story, although he recognized the silhouette.
“Violet?”
The moon highlighted her reddish-blond hair flowing over her shoulders. She stood so she was silhouetted against the window.
“Beck,” she whispered. There had been a time he had dreamed of such a moment. Of her coming to him. Of her being his.
Now he was too damned tired to care.
Or was he that tired?
He frowned, and then realized that if she had been taller with raven-black hair, golden-brown eyes, and an obstinate nature,
he wouldn’t have been weary at all.
“Violet, your husband—” he started, using the easiest excuse available.
“My husband is busy drinking with his sporting friends. He hasn’t been interested in my bed or me for the past year or more.
Ever since our second son was born.” She held out her arms. “I’m lonely, Beck, and I’ve never stopped thinking of you.”
But he’d stopped thinking of her. In fact, even the resentment, the sense of betrayal he’d nursed for years was gone. Instead,
he was glad she had rejected him. He didn’t want a wife who crept around to other men’s beds.
Now the question was how to convince her to leave, because at any moment, the group in the billiards room could break up.
A husband full of brandy and whatever else never made sound decisions.
A soft noise out in the hall caught his attention. A folded sheet of paper started to slide beneath his door. He stepped on
it with his boot, and the person on the other side pressed the note forward as if determined to deliver it. Beck knew before
he opened the door who was there—Gwendolyn.
She still wore her dinner clothes, but her hair was down in one long braid over her shoulder. She looked up in surprise as
if she had not expected to be caught on her clandestine mission.
And he’d never been so happy to see her. Granted, she wouldn’t have been his optimum choice. He would have preferred a maid or even Lady Orpington—but he was in a touchy situation. Violet apparently expected him to fall into her arms. He was in no danger from her attempt to seduce him. The ship on that matter had sailed long ago when she’d rejected him.
However, a scorned woman who knew his true identity could upset all his plans. He needed to be careful... and Gwendolyn
was the only diversion available to him.
Beck reached for her arm and pulled her into the room.