A Lady by Midnight (19 page)

She cringed, hoping she hadn’t caused any offense. Evan didn’t seem to love her romantically, but then . . . After yesterday, what did she know of reading men’s emotions?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I . . . that we . . .”

He took her bumbling apology and waved it smoothly away. “Kate, you will have so many options now. Every door will be open to you. Corporal Thorne may be a fine enough fellow. He troubled himself to protect you, and that speaks well of his character.”

You’ve no idea, she thought.

He’d taken a melon for her. And a snakebite. He’d given her his dog.

“But,” Evan continued, “you can do better in your choice of a husband. You deserve better.”

She sighed. “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“C
orporal Thorne! Here you are, at last.”

Thorne made a bow. “My lady.”

Lady Rycliff herself welcomed him at the door of a new, lavish Mayfair town house.

“You know you can dispense with all that.” Stray wisps of copper floated about her smiling face as she hurried him inside. “It’s good to see you. Bram’s been so looking forward to your visit. Now that the baby’s arrived, he’s outnumbered by females again.”

The piercing wail of an infant drifted down from the upper floor.

Lady Rycliff bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. When she lifted her face, her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Evidently, little Victoria is eager to meet you, too.”

“Did I wake her?” he asked, worried.

“No, no. She scarcely sleeps.” Lady Rycliff showed him into a parlor. “Will you mind waiting here for Bram? I’m so sorry to abandon you when you’ve just arrived. We’re between nursemaids.”

She disappeared, and Thorne stood awkwardly in the center of the room, surveying the evidence of genteel disorder. A few pillows lay scattered on the floor. The room smelled . . . odd.

He could scarcely believe that this was Lord and Lady Rycliff’s home. Rycliff had been born and raised in the military. Order came as naturally to him as breathing. And as for his wife . . . she’d been quite the managing sort, in Spindle Cove.

Shouldn’t they at least have servants?

As if reading his mind, someone said from the doorway, “Good God. This house is in upheaval. How is it that no one’s offered you a drink?”

Thorne turned to see that Rycliff had joined him.

He bowed. “My lord.”

Rycliff brushed off the honorific. “It’s just Bram in this house.”

He offered Thorne a tumbler of brandy with one hand and a firm handshake with the other. “It’s good to see you.”

Thorne accepted the brandy and made excuses for the handshake. His right arm was still numb from the elbow down, though he was slowly regaining sensation.

As he drank, he sized Bram up, noting the changes a few months’ time and new fatherhood had made on the man. One thing was clear—he ought to dismiss his valet. Only late afternoon, and Bram was dressed in a waistcoat and a rumpled, uncuffed shirt. To Thorne’s eyes, he looked exhausted—but he’d venture to deem it a contented exhaustion, quite different from the grim fatigue of campaign.

Lady Rycliff reappeared, her arms full of wailing infant. “I’m so sorry,” she called over the din. “She’s a very fretful baby, I’m afraid. She cries with everyone. Our first nursemaid’s already left us. No one under this roof is getting much sleep.”

“She sleeps for me,” Rycliff said. “Give her here.”

His wife did so, with obvious relief. “Two months old, and she’s already Papa’s darling. I fear we’re in for a time of it.” She looked to Thorne. “I do hope you weren’t planning on a quiet, restful stay in Town.”

“No, my lady,” Thorne said. “Just business.”

And when he wasn’t occupied with business, he imagined he’d be spending long hours engaged in self-castigation and regret. Distraction of any kind would be welcome—even if it came in the form of a wailing infant.

“Go on ahead,” Bram told his wife. “I have her. I know you’ve dinner to oversee.”

“Are you certain you don’t mind? I’ll just check on the corporal’s rooms upstairs.”

“She always sleeps for me,” Bram said. “You know that. Come along, Thorne. We can discuss our business in my library.”

Squalling daughter in one arm and brandy in the other, Bram backed out of the parlor. Thorne followed him across the corridor to a richly paneled library.

Bram kicked the door shut behind them, placed his brandy on the desk blotter, and readjusted baby Victoria’s weight in his arms. He paced the floor back and forth, jouncing the wailing baby as he went. His persistent limp from a war injury gave his steps an uneven rhythm.

When he caught Thorne’s inquisitive look, he said, “Sometimes the walking helps.”

Not every time, apparently.

When the babe’s crying still didn’t abate, Bram swore quietly and pushed his rolled sleeve to mid forearm. He fixed Thorne with an authoritative look. “I’m still your commanding officer. You are never to tell Susanna I did this. That’s an order.”

He dipped the tip of his little finger in the brandy, then popped it into the babe’s mouth. Little Victoria went quiet instantly, contentedly suckling.

“God help me,” Bram muttered down at her. “You’re going to be a handful when you’re sixteen.”

He released a heavy breath and looked to Thorne. “So. Are you certain you want this?”

“Want what?” Thorne asked, wary.

“An honorable discharge from the army. Not the infant. Loud as she might be, I’m not willing to part with her.”

“Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “To answer your question . . . Yes, my lord. I’m certain.”

“Enough with the ‘my lord,’ Thorne. I’m not asking you lord to servant, or even commander to soldier. I’m asking you friend to friend.” The baby released his finger, falling into a shallow sleep. He lowered his voice and resumed pacing the room, slowly this time. “I want to make sure this is really your desire. You could make a good career for yourself in the army. I’m well enough placed now, I could easily grant you a commission, if you wished.”

The words gave Thorne a moment’s pause. What Rycliff offered was no small favor. If he accepted a commission, he could be assured higher standing in Society and a steady income for the rest of his life. Enough to support a family.

“That’s very generous of you to—”

“It’s not generous at all. It’s piss-poor compensation. You saved my life and my leg, and you served under me faithfully for years.”

“It was my duty and an honor. But I don’t belong in England anymore, if I ever did. I need someplace bigger. Less civilized.”

“So you’re going to America. To be a farmer?”

Thorne shrugged. “Thought I’d start with trapping. I hear there’s good money in it.”

“No doubt. And I can’t deny it would suit your talents.” Bram bounced his daughter. “I’ll never forget that time in the Pyrenees, when you used nothing but a bayonet to skin and gut that . . . What was it, again?”

“A marmot.”

“Yes, marmot. A tough, greasy bastard. Can’t say I’ll be requesting marmot stew on the menu anytime soon, but it tasted fine when it was the first fresh meat in a fortnight.” Rycliff nodded at his ledgers. “Can’t I lend you some funds? Let me do that much. We can call it a loan.”

Thorne shook his head. “I have money set aside.”

“I see you’re determined to be stubborn and self-sufficient. I can respect that. But I insist you accept a gift, friend to friend.” He tilted his head at a long, gleaming rifle from the mantel. “Take that. It’s Sir Lewis Finch’s latest design.”

When Thorne’s eyebrows knitted in skepticism, Rycliff hastily added, “Professionally manufactured, of course. And thoroughly tested.”

Thorne lifted the weapon with his good left hand, testing its balance. It was a fine rifle. He could see himself out tramping the woods with this gun in his hand. Of course, to make the picture complete, he’d need Badger at his heel.

Damn it. He would miss that dog.

Thorne watched with curiosity as his friend gently rocked the sleeping baby in his arms. “You love her,” he said. “The baby.”

Bram looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Of course I do. Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s my child.”

“Not every father loves his child. How do you know you love yours?”

Thorne knew this strayed beyond the normal boundaries of their conversation, but if Bram wanted to do him a favor . . . this was a favor he could use.

Bram shrugged and looked down at his sleeping daughter. “I suppose it’s a fair enough question. I mean, as of yet she doesn’t do much, does she? Except deprive me and her mother of sleep, food, peace of mind, and sexual congress.”

Bram lowered his weight into the desk chair. Slowly, so as not to wake the babe. “When she’s freshly washed, she smells better than opium. There’s that. And even though I know it’s not statistically likely, no one could convince me she’s not the most beautiful infant in Britain.”

“So she’s pretty. And she smells good. That’s all you have?” If that was all there was to love, Thorne thought, he would have been chest-deep in it for ages.

“What can I say? She’s not much of a conversationalist yet.” Bram shook his head. “I’m no philosopher, Thorne. I just know how I feel. If you require a definition, read a book.”

Sliding his daughter to his left arm, he reached for his brandy and drew a healthy swallow. “Does this line of questioning mean there’s truth to the rumor? You’ve taken up with Miss Taylor?”

“Taken up?”

“Susanna’s had some very strange letters from Spindle Cove. There’s some talk of an engagement.”

“It’s only talk,” Thorne said. “No truth to it.”
Not anymore.

“If there’s no truth to it, then how would the rumor be started?”

Thorne set his jaw. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Bram shrugged. “Miss Taylor is Susanna’s good friend. I just want to be certain she’s been treated well.”

A white flare of rage rose in Thorne’s chest. He worked hard to conceal it. “My lord, when will this discharge go into effect?”

“You’ve permission to speak freely now, if that’s what you mean.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll thank you to mind your own affairs. If you make any further insinuations that disparage Miss Taylor’s virtue, we’ll have more than words about it.”

Bram stared at him, surprised. “Did you just threaten me?”

“I believe I did.”

He broke into low laughter. “Good God. And here Susanna and I were placing wagers on whether you even liked her. Now I see she has you utterly tied in knots.”

Thorne shook his head. She did
not
have him tied in knots. She hadn’t held him tied in knots for at least . . . fifteen hours.

Bram raised a brow. “Don’t take offense. Stronger men than you have been brought to their knees by Spindle Cove women.”

Thorne harrumphed. “What stronger men would those be?”

A knock sounded at the study door.

“How do you do it?” Lady Rycliff asked, marveling at the sleeping babe in Bram’s arms. “For a gruff old soldier, you charm lambs and babies with remarkable ease. Corporal Thorne, what is his secret?”

Bram gave him a stern look.
Don’t tell. It’s an order.

Thorne wouldn’t disobey an order. But neither could he let that “stronger men” remark go unanswered. “It must have been the . . . the lullabies, my lady.”

“Lullabies?” Lady Rycliff laughed and turned to her husband. “I’ve never heard him sing a note. Not even in church.”

“Yes, well,” Thorne said. “His lordship sang them very softly. And then he made little kissing faces. There might have been a story about fairies and ponies.”

Bram rolled his eyes. “Thanks for nothing.”

Chapter Seventeen

A
fter the midsummer fair, activities in Spindle Cove returned to the usual routine. Still nursing an adder-bitten heart, Kate embraced the familiarity as some comfort.

The ladies of the rooming house followed a predictable schedule during the summer. On Mondays they had country walks. Tuesdays were sea bathing. On Wednesdays they turned their hands to gardening.

And Thursdays were their day to shoot.

On this particular Thursday—a rather overcast, gloomy sort of morning—Kate had invited the Gramercys to join the ladies’ target practice at Summerfield, Sir Lewis Finch’s estate.

“I’ve always wanted to learn this,” Aunt Marmoset said. “It’s so exciting.”

“Watch first, shoot later.” Kate demonstrated the proper loading of a single-barrel pistol. “You must measure out the charge carefully with the powder horn,” she said. “Then the ball and a patch. Like this, see?”

As she tamped down the bullet, Kate could sense Aunt Marmoset’s impatience.

“That’s all very interesting, dear, but when do I make it go bang?”

Kate smiled. “Let’s shoot together this first time, shall we?”

She moved behind the older woman and helped her raise the pistol in both hands, bracing her arms straight as they aimed at the target.

“You’ll want to close one eye,” she said. “For precision. Then cock the hammer like so. And once you have it aimed and steady, gently squeeze the—”

“Oh,” cried one of the other ladies, “here comes Lord Drewe!”

“Evan’s here? Where?” Aunt Marmoset swung around, turning Kate with her. Together they pivoted with the loaded pistol braced in their outstretched hands—like a compass needle veering toward north.

All the ladies gasped and ducked.

“Get down!” Kate cried, struggling to regain control.

“Evan, look!” the Aunt Marmoset called. “I’m learning to shoot!”

Realizing he stood in the line of fire, Evan froze in place. “Brilliant.”

With a flick of her thumb, Kate uncocked the hammer.

“Aunt Marmoset, please.” She gripped the old woman’s frail wrists and pulled downward, until the pistol was safely pointed at the ground. Despite her racing heartbeat, she made her voice calm. “Why don’t we set this aside for now? Lord Drewe looks as though he has something to say.”

Evan recovered himself. “Indeed I do.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “I have exciting news for everyone.”

“What is it?” Charlotte Highwood asked.

“Sir Lewis has agreed to loan me Summerfield’s great hall for an evening next week. My sisters and I . . .” He paused for effect. “ . . . will be hosting a ball.”

All the ladies went dead quiet. Nervous glances were exchanged. Kate thought she heard someone mutter a prayer.

“Did you . . .” She cleared her throat. “You did say a ball, Lord Drewe? Here at Summerfield?”

“Yes, a ball. It will be our way of thanking Spindle Cove for all the warm hospitality we’ve been shown during our holiday. We’ll invite the militia, all the rooming house residents. We’ll have a grand time.”

The ladies’ silence clearly wasn’t the reaction Evan had been expecting. He looked around at the somber young women, nonplussed. “I don’t understand. Do you not like balls?”

“We do,” Kate assured him. “It’s just that Summerfield balls . . . well, the last two both ended in violence and mayhem. Last summer, the ball was over before it even started, due to a tragic explosion. And then at Christmas, a French smuggler crashed into the ballroom and held poor Miss Winterbottom hostage all night. So we’ve developed a bit of a superstition, you see. About Summerfield balls. Some people say they’re cursed.”

“Well, this one will be different.” Evan pulled up to his most lordly, commanding stature.

“Of course it will be,” Lark said, “if the Gramercys are hosting it.”

“Oh, yes,” Harry added. “We are known for always showing our guests an unforgettable time.”

Kate might have argued that the first two Summerfield balls had been unforgettable in their own ways.

Diana Highwood smiled, saving them all with her ever-affable nature. “Mama will be very pleased. And I can scarcely wait myself. A ball is a lovely idea. Lord Drewe, you and your sisters are very good to us.”

Evan bowed. “Thank you, Miss Highwood. It is our pleasure.” To Kate, he added, “Miss Taylor, will you take a turn with me and my sisters in the garden? We’d like to solicit your advice with regards to the music.”

“Very well,” Kate said. She disarmed and disassembled the pistol and stored it safely away. To Diana, she whispered, “Please don’t let their aunt anywhere near another weapon.”

Diana laughed a little. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Before heading for the garden, Kate collected Badger from the Summerfield groundskeeper. While she supposed a top hunting dog should theoretically be inured to gunfire, she hadn’t thought it wise to have him underfoot during target practice.

Once they’d rounded a hedge and disappeared from the other ladies’ view, Kate addressed the whole family. “I’m so sorry for that incident just now with the pistol. So very sorry. It was unforgivable of me to even put the weapon in her hand. I’d no idea the old dear would prove so strong. Or enthusiastic.”

“Never mind that,” said Evan. “Sir Lewis just finished showing me his medieval hall. Believe me, no humble pistol could chill my blood after viewing his collection of ancient torture devices. That’s not what we called you aside to discuss.”

“It’s not?” She arched a brow. “Are you sure?”

“The ball,” Lark whispered excitedly. “We need to talk about the ball. You do realize, it’s for you. It’s all for you.”

“The ball is for me?”

Lark vibrated with excitement. “Yes, of course.”

Harry cut in. “What Evan said about showing our appreciation . . . that was true, too. But we want to bring you out, Kate. Give the debut you never had.”

“But I’m twenty-three. That’s much too old for a debut.”

Evan said, “A debut, a come-out . . . they’re just words that mean ‘introduction to Society.’ That’s precisely what’s in order here. We need to tell all England about you, Kate. But it only seems right to begin here. In Spindle Cove. All your friends will be so happy for you.”

“I suggest a dramatic announcement at midnight,” Harry said. “Make them all tingle with anticipation.”

Kate tingled with some other feeling. She thought it might be dread.

She couldn’t understand why this idea made her uneasy. Being announced as a long-lost lady, at a ball held in her honor—it ought to sound like a dream. A moment of fairy-tale triumph for a girl who’d grown up feeling outcast and alone. Her friends
would
be thrilled for her, to be sure. Except for perhaps Mrs. Highwood, who would likely go apoplectic with envy.

Still, she couldn’t imagine the moment without feeling a flutter of anxiety. If she was going to stand before all her friends and neighbors and be announced as Lady Katherine Gramercy . . .

Kate wished she could be certain she believed it herself. Remembered it, in some undeniable fashion. Any small detail would do. With each passing day, she felt more certain that the memories were there, closer to the surface than ever before. She just needed to find the courage to unlock them.

As they turned into another section of the garden, Badger lunged at a wandering peafowl, scampering across a bed of herbs. Kate broke away from the group. She leaned down to touch a teacup-sized pink rose blossom, sliding her finger along the velvety petal. The delicate texture held her transfixed, and a melody rose in her, instinctive as breath.

See the garden of blossoms so fair . . .

There was something in that song. Something important. She wouldn’t have remembered it all her life otherwise.

She ground her slipper heel into the manicured white gravel. “Will you excuse me? Please go ahead back to the village. I—I’ve forgotten something. And Badger needs to have his run for the day.”

Without even waiting for an answer, she turned and began walking in the other direction. The puppy followed at her heel.

She had no particular destination. But she
had
forgotten something.

She would walk and walk, and keep walking until she recalled it. Until she finally reached the end of that long dark corridor.

And when she arrived there—this time, she would open that door.

“Don’t be long, Kate!” Lark called after her. “The sky looks like rain.”

T
horne could not have picked a worse day for overland travel. He hadn’t made it very far south before the sky darkened with ominous clouds. A few hours later he met with the rain.

It hadn’t let up since.

These damned Sussex roads took no more than a sprinkle of rain to go from “passable packed dirt” to “muddy pig wallow.” His progress was slow, and wet. This all would have been easier if he could have skipped returning to Spindle Cove at all and proceeded straight to America after gaining his discharge papers. But he needed to collect his personal belongings and arrange for transfer of the militia command.

And he needed to see Katie. Just one more time, even if from a distance. Conversation wouldn’t be necessary. He just wanted to lay eyes on her and assure himself she was happy and safe and loved.

She deserved to be loved, by people who’d read enough books to understand what the hell “love” meant.

At last he turned off the main road and took the spur toward Spindle Cove. At that point the moors and meadows were more passable than the rutted roads, so he turned his horse off the lane and continued overland.

Through a cloud of swirling fog, the ancient specter of Rycliff Castle appeared on the distant bluffs, seeming to shift and change with every gust of wind. Beyond that the sea was obscured by a wall of gray mist. All the usual sounds of country life—sheep bleating, birds singing—were muted by the steady rain. The entire scene was unearthly. Beneath the many sodden layers of his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, his skin crawled.

Watch sharp.

At the meadow’s lowest point—just before the rocky bluffs began to rise on the other side—Thorne slowed his horse to a walk. He scouted carefully for the appropriate crossing place. Centuries ago there’d been a deep moat carved here. An extra layer of protection for the castle above.

Over hundreds of years the moat had mostly filled in—but there were still pockets here and there where the meadow dropped out from beneath a man’s feet, and boulders waited to catch him a few yards below.

A strange sound came to him, piercing through the thick felt blanket of rain noise. He recognized it at once.

“Badger?”

Thorne left his horse. The gelding was on familiar ground now; he’d spent a year grazing these meadows every day.

Whistling in this downpour would be futile. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted for the dog. “Badger! Here, boy.”

The pup’s barking came from one of the deep hollows in the meadow. What was he doing down there?

“This had better not be another snake,” Thorne muttered, advancing to investigate.

It wasn’t a snake. It was a woman.

His Katie, tucked beneath a bit of overhanging turf, soaked to her skin and shivering in a muddy hole in the ground.

“Jesus Christ.”

He stepped down into the pit, bracing his boot on a ledge of stone and stretching his free hand toward her. “Katie, it’s me. Take my hand.”

“You’re here.” Her face was so pale, and her voice was frayed. “I knew you’d find me. You always find me.”

Her arm looked positively ghostly as she reached up to him. He worried he’d make a grab for her hand and discover she’d dissolved to mist. Lost to him forever.

But no. When he tightened his fingers, they seized on real flesh and blood. Treacherously
chilled
flesh and blood, but he would take her any way he could have her, so long as she was alive.

With a few tugs and a bit of cooperation on her end, he had her out of the hole. She fell against him, and he caught her in his arms.

“Katie.” He stared down at her, horrified. Her thin muslin frock was soaked through, clinging to her skin in mud-streaked tatters. “Are you injured? Are you broken anywhere?”

“No. Just c-cold.”

He released her—steadying her on her feet so he could strip out of his coat. The damn sleeves were fitted too well, and the fabric was damp. He had to struggle, and every moment he wasted was a moment she shivered with cold. By the time he finally had the thing off, he’d rattled through every blasphemy in his vocabulary.

“What the devil are you doing out in this?”

“I . . . I didn’t mean to be. I took Badger out for a run, and we were caught in the rain. I didn’t realize how much he’d hate it. I thought dogs loved the rain.”

“Not sight hounds.”

“S-So I’ve learned. At the first sprinkle of rain, he darted down into the hole. I couldn’t make him leave, and I wouldn’t leave him. I decided we’d just take shelter and wait the downpour out. But then it went on and on. By the time it eased a little, I was so very c-cold.”

He threw his coat around her shoulders and drew it closed. For a summer rain, this one was cold, and God only knew how long she’d been out in it. Her lips were a distressing shade of blue, and now she wasn’t making a damn bit of sense.

“I had to go walking, you see. I had to keep walking until I found the answer. Even if it t-t-took all day and all night. I had to know. But now I do.” Her teeth chattered and she stared blankly into the distance.

“I need to get you inside. We have to get you warm.”

Her eyes met his, suddenly lucid and piercing. “I remembered, Samuel.”

God. When she said his name, his heart made a mad, frantic attempt to escape his chest.

She collapsed against his body, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. Her breath was a puff of warmth against his skin.

“I remembered you,” she whispered. “You, the music, the song. That night. I remembered everything.”