Gail Eastwood (21 page)

“Wh-what are you going to do?” Lord Munslow asked. He was trembling.

“I suggest a nice trip abroad for you and Lady Norbridge, if you can scrape together enough for your passage. Those certain parties are not likely to be pleased with you should they realize you won’t be making more payments. And we’ll see to it that you won’t. In addition I strongly suggest that you continue to keep to yourselves any and all of the secrets you have been trading on, including Lady Vivian’s.” He gestured to the little group around him. “You can see that it is not such a deep and terrible secret as you suppose. In return, we will maintain these”—and here he patted the papers again—“as our own little secret. You will have to accept our word on it, I’m afraid. It is fortunate for you that we are gentlemen.”

The two villains stood still, as if quite uncertain how to proceed.

“An abject apology would be suitable,” Nicholas prompted.

“Followed by a hasty departure, I would think,” Ashurst added, “before we forget that we are gentlemen.”

Lord Munslow and Lady Norbridge took the hint. As soon as they had departed, Nicholas and Ashurst clapped Cranford on the back and began to congratulate him. Venetia slipped the folded papers out from under his arm so he wouldn’t drop them.

Curious, she opened them, only to discover that the top page was blank. She peeked underneath and found that the second page was blank as well. She checked them all, and every single page was blank. Astonished, she rounded on Cranford.

“Lord Cranford, what does this mean? All of these papers you brought from London are blank.”

Cranford grinned sheepishly, in an endearing way that nearly made her heart crack. How was she supposed to live without him?

“Well, I never actually was able to find Joseph Stone, or get his deposition. Did I say that I did? I’m afraid I returned from London with no more actual proof than we had when I left. But my brother-in-law does know the parties to whom Munslow owes money—knows
of
them, I should say.”

Venetia could hardly believe her ears. “That was a splendid finesse! What would you have done if they had looked at the papers?”

Cranford chuckled. “I assumed that they would not. Their own guilt was enough to condemn them. I’m guessing it was Lady Norbridge who delivered the notes and the poems. Her room was near yours, and as a woman she was far less likely to be noticed going to and from that section of the house. We never once thought to consider a woman.”

Nicholas was laughing now. “You
are
a gambler, old man, or you have become one since coming here. What have we done? Is there any risk now that you will not venture?”

“I seem to have hit a streak of luck, but I would not say I am a changed man,” Cranford answered, sobering.

No, I suppose not,
Venetia thought. The conversation had started to go in an uncomfortable direction. “We have news,” she said abruptly, realizing that he did not yet know of Vivian’s betrothal.

“Indeed,” said Ashurst, beaming as he told the viscount of the betrothal. “You must wish us happy.”

After congratulating him and Vivian, Cranford turned to Venetia. “And you, Lady Venetia? May I wish you happy as well? I know the betrothals are to be announced at the ball, but I am afraid I may not be there. I am exceedingly tired from my hectic night on the road, and hope you will forgive me if I need to sleep more than dance. Is it to be the Duke of Thornborough? Or has someone else become the favorite since I left?”

Venetia thought she would have liked to kick him. Or worse. The urge to pummel him with her fists made her fingers itch, but then she realized that those fingers would have quickly slid up his shoulders to tangle in his hair, and they would not have been pulling on it. Such warm thoughts! She surprised herself.

“No,” she said coldly. “You may not wish me happy. And I have no intention of telling you my choice if you intend to miss the ball. There is still half the day left for you to rest before it starts.”

“Venetia, you have not even thanked Lord Cranford for all his trouble,” Vivian remonstrated softly. “Sir, we are deeply in your debt for what you have done. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. We all do.”

***

Gilbey did try to sleep in his room that afternoon. He lay in his bed in torment while his mind tried to match Venetia with the various suitors that were left. The Duke of Thornborough was too old, Lord Lindell was too young. Lord Amberton was too foolish. The thought of Lord Wistowe touching her in between his other
amours
nearly got Gilbey out of his bed in anger.

That left Lord Chesdale, Lord Newcroft, and Colonel Hatherwick.
Wasted, she would be wasted, on any of them.
The good-natured colonel would always be off fishing and Venetia would die of boredom married to him. Lord Newcroft would show her off like a newly purchased horse and trot her around to every place that might advance his position. Lord Chesdale—well, perhaps Venetia could influence him to drop some of his affected posing and peering through his quizzing glass, but she would always play second to his cattle. Gilbey groaned and rolled onto his stomach.

Eventually he slept but he dreamed restlessly. He awoke hours later in a dark room, convinced that Gillian had just been there, pointing a finger at him and calling him a fool. He fumbled in the darkness until he found the tinderbox and matches so he could light a candle to look at his watch. He had missed dinner. He knew he could not miss the ball as well.
He had to know.

Some time later Gilbey, dressed in his best dark blue evening coat and white pantaloons, walked quietly through the corridor leading to the main part of the house. All was very still, leading him to suspect that the other guests were already assembled in the grand salon, now pressed into use as a ball-room. He hated to make an entrance, especially if he was late. He did not really wish his presence to be noted at all—he just wanted to know who Venetia would marry.
So I can spend my years hating him.
The thought caught him by surprise. He decided to slip outside and watch unnoticed from the terrace. He did not think of it as cowardly, just unobtrusive.

The salon was ablaze with light spilling out into the darkness of the terrace along with the sweet strains of music. The French windows stood open, allowing a fine view of the kaleidoscopic scene within. Gilbey stood in the shadows and watched for a few minutes, picking out the Duke of Roxley in black evening clothes, looking proud and authoritarian, and the twins’ aunt in bright yellow, looking flushed and pleased with life and the world.

The twins were dancing, moving through the figures of the new quadrille they had learned from the French dance master just last week. They both wore white gowns, but each had a different color for accent. Venetia’s had silver trimming and a bodice inset and underskirt of blue satin. Silver gleamed in her hair as well. She looked more beautiful than ever. Vivian’s gown featured lavender.

The dance ended and he lost sight of the twins. Maybe he was a fool standing out here in the dark like some sort of
voyeur.
Maybe he should go back to his room. The betrothals might not be announced for hours yet. Before he made up his mind to leave, someone stepped onto the terrace and it was suddenly too late.

“Lord Cranford. What are you doing skulking about in the darkness?” It was Venetia.

Of course. It would be.
“Uh, spying? Pretending I am still in my room? Uh, obviously nothing very heroic.”

She laughed, and he wanted to hug the sound and commit it to memory. He would be leaving in only a matter of hours, as soon as morning came. If he ever saw her again, they would be strangers.

“I think you have already proven yourself heroic enough for one day. I still need to thank you.”

“Only for one day?”

“A day, a week, a month, a lifetime.” She put her hand over her mouth when the last word came out.

He moved closer to her. He wanted to touch her, to remember that she was real. After tonight, this would all seem like a dream. “Venetia. Tell me who you have chosen. I have to know.”

“Why? What does it matter to you? It is really none of your business, is it?” She was like quicksilver, she changed moods so rapidly. Now she sounded angry. She stared up at him. “If you want to know so badly, I’ll tell you. Nobody. I’ve decided to marry no one.”

He was shocked. “What about your father?”

“Hang my father. I have already told him. Oh, he was not pleased, but there it is. No announcement for me. I am certain the gossip will go on for weeks or months, maybe years.”

“Why no one, after all this?”

She stamped her foot. “You just won’t leave it alone, will you?” She narrowed her eyes, which glittered a little in the darkness with what might have been tears. “Maybe you deserve to know. Maybe you’ll take the guilt home with you and lock it up in your study with your books. It’s because I am in love with you! I cannot marry anyone else. I thought I might, but I can’t.”

“Venetia.” He took her into his arms and felt her rigid indignation melt away almost instantly. “I love you, too,” he whispered into her hair. “I tried to fight it, and then I thought I could run away from it. But I can’t,. God help me. I must be just like my father after all.”

She pulled away a little bit, enough so she could look up at him. “No, you are not. You suffered from his mistakes, and you also learned from them. I don’t believe that you would repeat those mistakes, no matter what happened.”

Was she right? Was he simply afraid to take the chance? She felt so right in his arms, as if she belonged there. “I promised your father . . .” Well, no, he hadn’t actually promised. She was looking up at him, completely irresistible. He reached down for her, touching his lips to hers, lost in the moment and completely forgetting where they were.

Nicholas was the one who discovered them. “And what have we here?” he said softly as he stepped onto the terrace.

Gilbey and Venetia sprang apart, then Gilbey reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. He turned to face Nicholas.

“What we have is two people who love each other. I want to marry your sister, Nicholas. How angry will your father be?”

Nicholas whistled. “We really have turned you into a gambler, old man. My sister had better keep a tight rein on you.”

Venetia put her arms around Gilbey. “Are you certain?” she whispered.

When he nodded she thought her heart would soar right out of her breast. Instead it seemed to have caught in her throat. “If you come inside with me now, you can see for yourself,” she said through tears of happiness. “I told him I loved you, and how you helped us. He may have felt sure that you would not offer for me, but nevertheless he did say that if you had offered, he would have had to accept you in view of how you protected our family.”

“Oh, foolish father,” quipped Gilbey.

Nicholas was still standing there. “He would have to agree now, anyway, old man. Seems to me you have just compromised my sister’s reputation. At her own betrothal ball! Well, I never thought there was anything wrong with your sense of timing. If you take her in right now, you’ll be just in time for the waltz.”

Gilbey and Venetia looked at each other wonderingly and then smiled. “I never have met such a family of manipulative schemers,” Gilbey said. “From now on I think the only one I can trust is your father.”

Nicholas put up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “All I did was get you to come here.” But neither Gilbey nor Venetia had ever seen Nicholas with quite such a satisfied grin.

***

Author’s Note

Epilepsy is a common problem. According to one source I consulted, one in two hundred people in the United States and three in two hundred in Europe struggle with this affliction in its many different forms. The real numbers could be much higher, for many epileptics don’t report their disability.

Researching this story, I was struck by how social attitudes toward epilepsy have changed only in degree since the early nineteenth century. Fear, ignorance, and suspicion are still common attitudes toward those who suffer with it today. Many epileptics hide their condition to protect their jobs, while others face chronic unemployment, sometimes simply for the lack of a driver’s license. Some face a lack of understanding and support even among their own family.

I hope meeting Vivian will make my readers more aware of those who must cope with epilepsy every day. Epileptics are among us everywhere, not just in the newspaper or in the local homeless shelter. Social attitudes take time to change, but that change begins in one heart and mind at a time.

Information is available from the Epilepsy Foundation of America, 4351 Garden City Drive, Landover, MD 20785, or from your local Epilepsy Society.

P.S. The story of Gilbey’s sister Gillian was told in my first novel,
A Perilous Journey
(Signet, 1994).

Keep reading for a special excerpt from Gail Eastwood’s

A PERILOUS JOURNEY

Available now from InterMix

“Devil take it, Rafferty! The woman’s blind, or we’ve suddenly become invisible,” the Honorable Archibald Spelling grumbled to his companion. The two young Corinthians sat in the taproom of the Ram’s Head Inn with empty tankards on the stained cloth in front of them.

Julian Rafferty de Raymond, the Earl of Brinton, glanced up from the newly dealt cards in his hand with a sigh. “You can’t expect normal service under these conditions, Archie. I rather imagine that what we have here is a barmaid’s idea of hell.”

In the hours since the two friends’ arrival, the venerable Ram’s Head had become a madhouse. In the taproom every conceivable excuse for a seat had been called into use; people perched on trunks and baskets and even packing crates dragged from the storerooms. They leaned against the wainscoted walls and stood in the spaces between tables. The heat and the noise were nearly unbearable, and the stench of spilled ale overwhelmed all other smells. Through the smoky haze that filled the room, Brinton spied the barmaid struggling through the crowd, mugs aloft, looking remarkably like a frigate foundering in a storm.

Spelling had already tossed down his cards. “I confess I have a prodigious thirst, and I’m hungry enough to eat the elephant in the Tower menagerie.”

“How fortunate we are not in London, then,” Rafferty teased, setting his own cards aside in a deliberately tidy stack. Only intense concentration on their card play had allowed him to ignore his own discomfort. “The odds on food or drink reaching our table appear to be slight,” he added, his words trailing off as his voice suddenly tightened.

He pressed his fist against his chest as a deep, painful cough racked him. He waited for the spasm to pass before attempting to speak again, shrugging off Archie’s sharp look of concern. “I think I shall test my invisibility by trying to get into the kitchen,” he finished finally.

“Perhaps I should—” Spelling began, but the earl cut him off with a shake of his head. Foraging for food might not be a normal occupation for a peer, but social standing at the Ram’s Head had deteriorated to an animalistic survival of the fittest. Brinton was taller, leaner, harder, and tougher than his friend, despite his bad lung. His aristocratic features and confident bearing could communicate a cold air of authority that was seldom challenged. He preferred to take matters into his own capable hands. Grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, he rose from his seat and began to make his way through the crowd.

The state of affairs at the Ram’s Head was not immediately discernable from the outside. Porters, ostlers, and patrons alike had been driven under cover by the heavy spring rain, and the sound of water splattering from roof corners and gable ends echoed through an empty courtyard.

In truth the Ram’s Head was bursting at the seams like every other inn in Taunton. The first of the early season horse races had been planned to coincide with the usual Saturday market, and a profitable amount of crowding had been expected. The avaricious gleam in the innkeepers’ eyes had dimmed in dismay, however, when the morning’s drizzle had thickened into a driving downpour. As the turnpikes became quagmires, the steady stream of coach travel through Taunton had stalled there. The inns had quickly filled beyond capacity and beyond any innkeeper’s ability to cope.

The earl and Spelling had claimed their space at the Ram’s Head early enough in the day to obtain sleeping quarters, although no private parlor had been available. They were a striking pair, the earl’s dark coloring and angular features contrasting with Spelling’s round face and sandy red hair. Immaculately attired in tight-fitting buckskin and superbly tailored superfine, they exuded wealth and the careless confidence of the aristocracy. They had passed the hours playing piquet, watching and speculating about the steady accumulation of other guests.

Now as Brinton shouldered his way into the front entry hall of the inn, he could see that it was every bit as crowded as the taproom. The place reeked of wet wool and warm bodies. He could not catch his breath in the close, thick air, so he hurriedly pushed on toward the back of the passage.

As he did so, a sudden gust of wind set the candle flames dancing, and cool, fresh air steadied him. The thundering of a new downpour on the cobbles outside became momentarily louder, announcing the arrival of more pathetic souls to join the crush. Curious, he glanced toward the front door, wondering what sort of person would still be journeying on such a dismal night.

He glimpsed a tall, fair-haired youth, who turned to an even younger lad, Brinton guessed, judging by the shorter height and the cap that were all he could see of the second traveler. No servant or older person appeared to be with them.

Poor devils
! he thought. They seemed so young to be traveling alone, and to be confronted with such a situation! As he turned again toward the kitchen, he wondered how they would manage. The unpredictable challenges of traveling could be difficult to bear, even for someone as seasoned as himself.

In the kitchen the earl easily rescued a haunch of mutton from the fire while the cook was busy berating a luckless stable boy who had been ordered to help her. Not one of the servants collected in the kitchen paid Brinton any notice. He hacked off a sizable chunk of the meat with a nearby kitchen knife and, skewering it neatly on the blade, carried it off, amused by his success even though he had not managed to find any beverage.

Brinton had never expected to be foraging his own fare now that he was home from the war against Boney. Service in the military, following his family’s tradition, had hardened him to inconvenience and discomfort, but his friend Spelling had not shared in those experiences. Archie was probably suffering much more from the present difficulties than he was, the earl reflected as he retraced his steps. The sound of raised voices in the entry passage brought him to an abrupt halt.

“I’ve got no place left to put you,” the formidable innkeeper was booming at the new arrivals. Although the blond youth was taller, the man’s girth could have encompassed the lad three times at least. Brinton was impressed that the lad stood his ground. As he positioned himself for a better view, he realized with surprise that the boy was nearly his own height.

The innkeeper waved a pudgy hand helplessly and continued in his rumbling tone, “I’ve got people everywhere—in the stable, in the cellar, even under the stairs. I’ve got fifteen people in each part of the attic if I’ve got five, and that’s packing ’em in like pickled herring.”

“We won’t be turned away,” the tall youth replied in a firm and obviously educated voice. “We have been to three other inns already and have traveled a great distance today.”

Brinton heard courageous desperation in that voice. He watched in fascination as the young man locked his eyes on the innkeeper and ignored the rude, unsympathetic noises coming from the crowd close by.

“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do,” the innkeeper responded uncomfortably. “I’m no magician.”

Hoots of derisive laughter met this observation. A large, pasty-faced woman pushed up close to the young travelers. “There’s no room here—get on wi’ ye and let this man tend to the rest of us, wot’s got ’ere first!” She coughed, adding the vile smell of blue ruin to the foul air already around them.

The smaller lad sagged noticeably, and the taller youth slipped an arm around his companion for support. They were so wet the water from their clothing was draining into a puddle at their feet. The tall one, clad in a stylish greatcoat of brown wool broadcloth, held his head high and glared defiantly at the innkeeper. The short one could hardly be seen, muffled up in a voluminous green wool traveling cloak that must have been a crushing weight now that it was thoroughly soaked. A dripping lock of reddish brown hair hung over his forehead.

The earl remembered how it felt to be that wet. He and Archie might be hungry, he thought, but at least they were warm and dry. He was aware of the calculating looks directed toward the meat he was carrying, and he consciously tightened his grip, torn between the drama unfolding in the hall and his duty to his famished friend in the next room.

More ugly noises came from the crowd. He had no desire to be caught in the middle if the scene he was witnessing turned nasty, yet somehow the pair of young lads had engaged his sympathy. As Brinton continued to watch, the tall youth leaned close to the innkeeper.

“We will pay you double—triple—your usual rates,” he said in a low voice that nonetheless could be heard clearly by everyone. Then his proud posture crumpled as his companion very deliberately stuck a sharp elbow into his side.

The smaller lad looked away as he did so, by chance casting his glance in Brinton’s direction. The shock of meeting those eyes rattled the earl considerably. They were the most remarkable blue-green color he had ever seen, and they seemed to reflect the most profound distress. They widened slightly as awareness of his own gaze registered, and then the small face abruptly turned away again.

Brinton made a decision at that moment. He knew he was intrigued beyond resisting, and he wanted to do something to help. He forced his way back through the crowd into the taproom where Spelling still waited.

Brinton placed the chunk of mutton on the table with a flourish. “Here, Archie, dinner!” He grinned and, after carefully extracting the knife, cut a few pieces off the meat. He and Archie began to eat them with their fingers.

“Raff, you are admirably resourceful. How did you get this? Seduce the cook?” Archie said with his mouth full. “On second thought, don’t tell me. You have more deuced luck than anyone I know. But you have my eternal gratitude.”

The earl half listened as he considered how to introduce his new idea to his friend. “Eternal, eh? I hope so,” he managed to say between bites, “because what I’m going to propose we do next may not suit you so nicely, and I already consider myself in your debt for providing this escape from my visit to my uncle.”

“O-ho, that’s rich, considering the chaos we’ve found here. Must have been bad in Devonshire. And here I’ve been feeling blue-deviled for bringing you into this. I’m sure I’m game for anything you might suggest, Raff.”

Brinton had been summoned to his elderly uncle’s Devonshire estate to hear the old man announce plans to remarry. As the heir-apparent, he knew he was supposed to be shocked and chagrined, but he had refused to give the old fool such satisfaction, bestowing his blessing instead. If the union by some miracle produced a new heir, he would toast the child’s health. He had no need of his uncle’s estates and titles, and no interest in becoming leg-shackled himself any time soon.

He grinned at Archie and watched his friend’s face betray belated second thoughts. The two had shared a number of scrapes and misadventures in their schooldays and later in London.

Archie sighed. “You wouldn’t propose we give up the race tomorrow, would you?”

“Never fear, my friend. I truly do wish to view these so-called prime goers, assuming the mud after this monsoon doesn’t prevent it. My stables need new blood.” Rafferty gazed thoughtfully toward the hall. “No, what I have in mind is more immediate—quite pressing in fact if we want to prevent a riot. I want to offer to share our room.”

Spelling choked on the mutton he was chewing, and the earl had to get up from his chair to pound him on the back. While his friend was recovering, Brinton continued. “I recognize the imposition, Archie, especially when we’ve already been denied the privacy of a separate parlor. But we are among the very fortunate few who actually have a room to ourselves. What harm could it do?”

The ridiculously innocent expression on the earl’s face nearly sent Spelling into another spasm. “Harm? Why no harm at all, unless you count robbery, murder, and mayhem. To whom do you wish to make this offer, and why should we help them?”

The earl sighed. Archie always did have a talent for cutting right to the bone of a matter. “There is a pair of half-drowned pups who have found themselves in difficulties—two youngsters as green as they come. I take them for gentry at the very least—the older one speaks well, and they are dressed in quality that shows despite how wet they are.”

“And?”

“I doubt we would be at any risk from them—they offered the innkeeper triple his price, if you can credit it, in full hearing of all that mob.”

Spelling whistled.

“I admit they are a puzzle. They shouldn’t be traveling alone. There is something definitely amiss; that is part of what intrigues me, Arch.” He did not mention an elfin face with huge blue-green eyes that refused to quit his mind.

“Think they’re runaways?”

Brinton lowered his voice. “If you really want to know, I would wager they are on their way to Gretna Green.”

Archie’s mouth dropped open as he digested this unexpected twist. Then he slapped his thigh and roared. “A female? Eloping? If that don’t beat all!” He stopped to look sharply at Brinton. “How much would you wager?”

“Now, now. I didn’t mean it literally. I didn’t get a very good look at the smaller one. Whether I am right or not, they would still be better off with us than where they are now or back out in the street.”

“Where’s your gaming spirit?” Archie persisted. “Stake you a hundred pounds!”

“No, Arch. Save your money for tomorrow. There’s a pair of ‘legs’ over there that will be happy to take it from you then.”

In the end the earl prevailed. “Bring that, if you would,” he said offhandedly, pointing back to the remains of the mutton and the kitchen knife as he and Spelling quit their table. Archie dutifully scooped them up, ignoring pleas from the new occupants of their seats. He followed Brinton toward the hall, where ominous rumblings could be heard among the crowd.

They found the young travelers still in a stalemate. The innkeeper had given up arguing, dismissing them with a cold challenge to curl up in any vacant corner they could find. The inn’s entryway was so jammed, the two had not even been able to move away from their place at the booking desk. They stood there looking thoroughly miserable, with a large portmanteau and a leather satchel between them.