Island of the Swans (92 page)

Nearby, Lady Maxwell leaned on her silver-headed cane and positively beamed her approval. As far as Jane could tell, her mother took credit for the supreme achievement of yet another noble alliance. She’d heard Magdalene crow to her friends that she was mother-in-law to a duke, grandmama to a duke-to-be, and that so far, her tally of grandsons by marriage numbered two additional dukes, a baronet, and now, glory of glory, the future Marquess of Cornwallis.

“No telling what that darling Georgina will turn up when she comes of age,” Lady Maxwell had been heard to brag.

Now, more than ever, local wags were wont to call Jane Maxwell Gordon “The Matchmaking Duchess.”

Well, so be it, she thought, trying to suppress a rueful smile as she exchanged glances with a flush-faced William Pitt, looking world-weary and slightly in his cups. The Prince of Wales had not yet arrived, but she assumed he’d appear in time for the sumptuous repast being laid out in a large room across the foyer.

Jane’s hand rested lightly on Alex’s sleeve. Suddenly she felt the muscles of his forearm clench. She turned her head in surprise and immediately heard her own gasp of breath.

Standing against the windowed wall of the large chamber, but towering above most of the guests, stood a man dressed impeccably in a Fraser tartan kilt and black velvet jacket. White lace frothed at his throat and cuffs, which were in sharp contrast to the distinctive shade of his dark ruby hair, highlighted, now, by a sprinkling of silver. Unlike the pale faces of Londoners standing beside him who had survived yet another dank winter, his face was deeply tanned, except for the thin white scar, which had left its mark on his prominent cheekbone. He looked healthy and prosperous. Obviously, life in America had agreed with Captain Thomas Fraser, late of Struy.

Jane stared at Thomas in disbelief. He smiled warmly at her across the throng and then shifted his gaze toward his daughter who was just turning her profile to him as the Bishop of Lichfield began to address the wedding couple. From where Jane stood, Thomas’s features seemed to soften and his eyes grew moist. Beside him stood a little lad in a matching Fraser kilt who looked to be six or seven years old. The boy held Thomas’s hand tightly, obviously awed by the splendor of the scene.

Jane glanced at Alex, whose face had by this time turned ashen. The arm she leaned on in an attempt to recover her own aplomb was trembling. She half-heard the wedding vows recited while caught up in a jumble of churning emotions.

So this was Lord Cornwallis’s little surprise! Thomas had returned. With a child. Had he discreetly left Arabella at their London lodgings while he watched his daughter Louisa plight her troth to the son of his respected commander? Jane’s heart was beating so fast, she felt dizzy. She knew her face must be flushed and she sensed Lord Cornwallis staring at her with something of a knowing gleam in his eye.

Of course!
Jane thought.
He had invited Thomas to the wedding after he had confirmed that his former intelligence officer was truly Louisa’s father.

Cornwallis knew he could rely on Thomas’s discretion, and he obviously admired the man. So, the general who had failed to defeat the rebellious army of the Americans had succeeded in bringing the three of them—Thomas and Alex and herself—together again after all these years.

Who would be forced to surrender this time?
she wondered, shivering slightly.

The Bishop of Lichfield gave the benediction, and the Bishop of Coventry also blessed the young couple, declaring them legally wed. Louisa and Viscount Brome, who were exactly the same height, kissed each other tenderly and turned with glowing smiles to face the roomful of well-wishers. A number of guests rushed forward to congratulate the Gordon family while liveried servants walked through the crowd dispensing champagne from silver trays.

The next thing Jane knew, she was standing in a reception line between Louisa on her left and Alex on her right. It was agonizing to try to smile brightly and make appropriate comments, when all she could think of was that Thomas Fraser was in line to be presented to the bride and groom.

Alex’s jaw twitched slightly and his mouth had flattened out into a thin line. His face grew even more grim as Captain Fraser approached to pay his respects.

Thomas spoke first.

“May I extend my heartfelt congratulations on the marriage of Lady Louisa, sir,” he said calmly.

Alex merely inclined his head stiffly, but did not reply. The little boy stared up at the two gentlemen uncertainly. Gently Thomas guided the lad a few steps closer to Jane.

“Duchess…” Thomas murmured in greeting.

“C-Captain Fraser,” Jane managed to stammer. “We had no idea you’d be returning from America…” Her voice trailed off.

“May I present my son?” he said, prompting the lad to step forward. “Max, this is Jane, Duchess of Gordon.”

The little boy looked up at her with round blue eyes framed with jet-black lashes the same shade as his hair. Gingerly, he took Jane’s gloved right hand in his small one. He kissed it soundly as he had undoubtedly rehearsed under the watchful eye of his father.

“M’lady’s finger seems so very stiff, Papa,” he said with a child’s innocent curiosity. “I hope you haven’t hurt yourself?” he said to her, his eyes widening.

Thomas looked quickly at Jane, concerned for her feelings.

“I injured it once, laddie,” she smiled down at Thomas’s handsome son. “’Twas a long time ago when I was a wee bit older than you. Your Papa was there when it happened, in fact. You must have him tell you the story of how a naughty lass got into trouble.”

“Does it still pain you, madam?” the little boy asked, furrowing his brow.

“No, dearheart,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”

She turned to Louisa. “But you must meet the bride, laddie. Louisa, pet, this is Captain Thomas Fraser, a friend of Lord Cornwallis who’s emigrated to America… and his son… Max, is it?”

“Maxwell, really,” he said proudly, his piping voice clearly audible above the din. “My Mama named me Maxwell and then she died.”

Alex flinched, but stared stonily ahead.

But Jane hardly noticed his discomfort. She shifted her gaze to stare at Thomas. She felt as if one of the crystal champagne glasses being served to her guests had snapped its stem with a loud crack.

Arabella was dead. Arabella of the fateful letter. Arabella of Antrim Hall. Arabella, wife of Thomas Fraser. The mother of this angelic little boy was dead. It hardly seemed possible that the woman she had hated with an anger stored in some deep recess of her soul had been in her grave these seven years. Deep inside herself, Jane had long stored resentment toward an unloving father, a nakedly ambitious mother, and an untrusting spouse—and, yes, resentment toward a young lover who chose adventure and revenge for past injustices to his family name rather than a life with her. For years, these shadowy passions and a lifetime of malice toward Arabella had formed a lead ball of hate in the pit of Jane’s stomach. And now, Arabella was dead. The focus of all that rage and disappointment could no longer be called on, clung to, railed against, as a substitute for facing real conflicts with real people who still walked the earth.

She was dimly aware that Louisa was bending down to take Maxwell’s hand. Her daughter smiled sympathetically at the child who’d lost his mother at such a young age.

“Maxwell’s a family name of mine, too,” Louisa said. “I’m so glad you came to my wedding.”

Jane watched apprehensively as Thomas patted his son on the head and then took Louisa’s hand and kissed it. The young woman glanced at the kilted stranger for a long moment, as if searching her memory. Her eyes drifted to his hair, startled to see a shade so near to that of her own striking mane.

“You made a beautiful bride, Lady Louisa,” he said quickly. “I wish you many years of happiness.”

“Why, thank you, Captain Fraser,” she replied. “Will you be in England long?” she asked politely.

“For a while, I expect. I hope to show my son where I was born, and perhaps select a school for him.”

“How pleasant for you.” She smiled graciously.

“How pleasant for you!” Alex whispered harshly in Jane’s ear. “Your lover’s named his
other
bastard after you!”

“Oh, do be still!” Jane hissed back. “Have some compassion! You just heard: the boy’s mother died in childbirth, just like your Bathia, so
hush
!”

Jane forced herself to turn to greet the next guest in line. When she looked back, Thomas and his son had been swallowed up in the crush of people crowding forward to congratulate the bride and groom.

It was more than an hour before the receiving line broke up. By that time, the two guests from America had disappeared. Jane deliberately kept her distance from Alex the rest of the afternoon, for his every glance in her direction seethed with repressed anger. She didn’t have to avoid him for long. As soon as the duke had danced stiffly with the bride, he slipped away from the reception without bidding adieu to anyone in the room.

After Jane had seen the last guest to the door, she sagged tiredly against a pillar supporting the foyer. Slowly, she turned and mounted the staircase leading to her bedchamber on the second floor. She found herself pondering as she took each step why Arabella O’Brien Delaney Boyd Fraser, her sworn enemy, had chosen to name her son Maxwell.

“Wake up! Wake up, Jane!”

A single candle glowed in its holder beside the bed as Eglantine shook Jane’s shoulders roughly.

“Jane… you must stop them… ’tis
insane
at their age!”

Jane forced herself to open her eyes and sat bolt upright in bed.

“What is it?” she demanded. “I’m nearly dead with fatigue from the wedding, and you come in here—”

“Well, either Alex or Thomas or
both
of them will be dead by dawn if you don’t do something to stop it!” Eglantine exclaimed. “Alex has challenged Thomas to a duel! He found out from a groom where he’s lodging and called him out!”

“What?” Jane protested, still half asleep. “You can’t be serious. ’Tis some fool’s play—”

“I
am
serious,” Eglantine retorted. “Alex has called him out and Thomas has accepted the challenge!”

“Good God!” Jane cried, leaping out of bed in the direction of the tall armoire standing against the bedchamber’s wall. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. One of the members of Alex’s club who tried to dissuade the duke came by and roused Nancy Christie. She woke me just moments ago… and I came to you, straightaway.”

Jane was rummaging among her garments to find her riding habit.

“Did the messenger say where this lunacy will take place?”

“In the fields near Buckingham House, off Queen’s Way, he said. At dawn’s light.”

Jane grabbed the candlestick off the bed table and peered at the clock on the mantel. It was four-thirty. Still an hour before the first streaks of dawn would steal through the willows, which graced the landscape near the ornate mansion King George III had purchased for Queen Charlotte in 1775.

However, the beauty of the setting was the last thought on Jane’s mind as she urged the carriage driver to speed down the deserted streets whose paving stones were bathed with heavy dew. She and Eglantine gazed out the window across a wide field toward a stand of trees where Jane’s sister had been assured the duel would take place.

The carriage pulled to a halt in the grove of weeping willows that stood shrouded in the early morning mists. The cold seeped quickly into the vehicle’s interior and Eglantine’s teeth began to chatter.

“God’s eyeballs, but ’tis miserable out at this hour,” she said, shivering.

Jane ignored her sister’s plaintive remark and threw open the carriage door. She banged her riding crop on the top of the coach.

“Keep out of sight!” Jane commanded the driver and footman. She stood on the running board of the carriage and pointed in the direction she wanted the driver to go. With a jangling of harnesses and the creak of the wheels, the coach rolled deeper into the woods, pulled by a pair of dappled gray horses, whose nostrils billowed steam in the frigid morning air. “May I have your pistol, please?” Jane asked of the coachman when the conveyance came to a halt.