Julie Anne Long (14 page)

He was astounded to see the Duchess of Dunbrooke among them. She appeared to be deep in conversation with a handsome, genteelly rounded woman in a soberly purple turban; Pierce knew her to be Sir Henry’s wife. Fascinating, this development. Cordelia Blackburn was the widow of the last Duke of Dunbrooke, Richard Blackburn, a bit of a rakehell who had met a shocking but not wholly unexpected end. And yet Richard had been the brother of Roarke Blackburn, and Colonel Pierce had liked young Roarke. He had been a young man of wit and integrity, a skilled, courageous, and clear-eyed soldier, if a bit rash in his decision to join the infantry. Dead at Waterloo, like so many others. Colonel Pierce regretted his loss very much.

Pierce felt his ennui sputtering into something like enthusiasm. Truth be told, he
would
enjoy a chat with Sir Henry. He strode from his spot and planted himself in front of the little group, smiling with pleasure.

“Why, Pierce!” Sir Henry said, looking both relieved and glowingly pleased. “What a delightful surprise. Jolly good it is to see you. You do remember Lady Tremaine? And may I present to you the Duchess of Dunbrooke and my daughter Miss Lorelei Tremaine.”

Colonel Pierce bowed deeply as the three ladies dipped polite curtsies. When they stood and lifted their faces to his, he was momentarily struck dumb by his first glimpse of Lorelei Tremaine.

A man could become a poet, a philosopher, merely by gazing at the expanse of creamy throat and bosom that rose up out of Lorelei’s gown; the string of pearls she wore seemed redundant, an obstruction of the view. Her gown was of the palest blue silk, the color of a full moon in winter, and shot through with silver threads. The colors echoed to uncanny perfection the shimmer of her hair and eyes. He sought those eyes to see whether anyone truly occupied the body of this vision, and was intrigued to note the slightest of shadows darkening the luminous blue. Something was troubling Miss Tremaine, and though it might be nothing more than tight shoes, Pierce found this perversely more interesting than the determined empty brightness of the other young women around them. Even more intriguing, perhaps, was the fact Cordelia Blackburn, the
ton’s
reigning beauty, was willing to appear at the side of this young swan.

“Take my daughter for a twirl around the floor, won’t you, Pierce?” Sir Henry said, rescuing his friend from a riveted silence. “Then bring her back so we may have a good catching up.”

As Pierce held out his arm for Lorelei’s gloved hand, he was amused to notice the faintest furrowing of Lady Tremaine’s forehead; it indicated disapproval. Pierce sympathized entirely; having had the bizarre good fortune to produce such a prodigy, Lady Tremaine would naturally feel a certain amount of pressure to procure a triumphant match for her.

Pierce found himself basking for a moment in the serene colors of this girl. She fit very neatly into his capable soldier’s arms as he steered her in the familiar rhythms of the dance.

“Why are you sad this evening, Miss Tremaine?”

Lorelei’s eyes went wide for a startled instant. “I do believe you are supposed to compliment my gown before you say anything else, Colonel,” Lorelei replied, in all seriousness, before stopping to consider how she ought to have responded.

“Ah, but then what will be left for all the young bloods to say to you as they escort you about the floor? Let us leave the issue of the gown to them, or by the end of the evening you will have gone mad from hearing about it.”

Lorelei smiled up at him uncertainly. The colonel had russet hair touched with gray at the temples and hazel-green eyes that crinkled a bit at the corners when he smiled, which he was doing now. He was not exactly Papa’s age, but he was also not a young man, nor did he have a title. Mama would not expect her to marry him, and therefore Lorelei felt she could be a little freer in her conversation with him. She hesitated, and then, because she had been forbidden to so much as utter a word about it to anyone, even to her parents, and because the thought of it was preying upon her, and because his hazel eyes were so kind, she blurted, “I am concerned for my sister Rebecca, sir.”

Behind them, a young man steering another young lady across the floor caught his first glimpse of Lorelei. He promptly stumbled over his partner’s feet, trod on the hem of her gown, and collapsed on all fours, bringing his partner crashing down after him.

Colonel Pierce deftly maneuvered Lorelei away from the chaotic little heap. Lorelei’s thoughts were elsewhere; she seemed not to have noticed it at all.

“Your sister?” Pierce asked. Good Lord, could there really be another such vision in the Tremaine household?

“She is . . . she is indisposed,” Lorelei said, and then clamped her rosy lips firmly shut, as if forcing herself to close the door on the topic, and her blue eyes went wide with alarm. Pierce’s imagination wheeled about for a moment, picturing everything from a young woman with a case of the sniffles to a young maiden pregnant and disgraced and confined to the country forever. He tried to keep the intrigued glint from his eye.

“And you are not to speak of it,” he said gently, more a statement than a question.

“I am not to speak of it,” Lorelei repeated in confirmation.

“You are here to marry a duke or an earl,” Colonel Pierce said, another question that he stated as fact.

“Or a viscount,” Lorelei added, “if one can be had.”

“I will do my utmost to assist you in your quest, my fair Miss Lorelei,” Pierce said gravely, but with an unmistakable sparkle in his eye, “if it will ease your worries for the moment. We have a splendid selection of earls and viscounts in London this season.”

Lorelei giggled in spite of herself, amusement turning her eyes into great blue lamps, and Pierce was enchanted. It occurred to him, suddenly, that the opportunity to make Lorelei Tremaine’s eyes light like lamps this season would more than compensate for the excellent hunting he would be missing.

Chapter Ten

T
o Connor’s satisfaction, Mr. Augustus Meredith’s Pawn Brokerage was still conveniently located not more than fifty paces away from the Thorny Rose Tavern, the only place in town a man could lose a month’s wages in the space of a card game. In the event of this unhappy occurrence, Mr. Augustus Meredith would happily supply you with more coin in exchange for your wife’s best dishes, or your Sunday coat, or perhaps, if the straits were indeed desperate, a horse harness. Connor remembered the villagers surrounding Keighley Park often speaking of Meredith’s establishment with both gratitude and resentment.

It was just past sunrise, but the boards of Mr. Meredith’s shop window had already been thrown open, revealing a variety of homely and promising objects arranged with a nod to aesthetics: a few china plates and cups surrounded a large cooking kettle, a sturdy chair was stacked with two or three books, a well-worn but quite serviceable-looking musket leaned against the display wall. This was good, if the musket could be had for a reasonable amount; given their dwindling funds, he might need to hunt for their dinner before they arrived in Scotland, and he couldn’t do it with pistols. Connor smiled faintly when he peered closer and noticed that one of the books was Dr. Mayall’s famous Herbal, a compendium of useful medicinal herbs along with sketches and receipts for simples and salves. He was satisfied he would find precisely what he needed here.

But he hesitated momentarily on the threshold of the place. He had persuaded Rebecca to stay behind for a few more moments of sleep at the Thorny Rose. She had surrendered the locket this morning with surprising reluctance. But Connor gently reminded her of the reason she had stolen the locket to begin with, which was her desire to help supplement their exodus. This was how he finally convinced her that turning the locket over to him was the noble thing to do.

But Connor was still feeling a bit like a scoundrel for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that Marianne Bell was now indirectly helping her “dearest love, Roarke Blackburn,” to run off with another girl. Pangs of guilt notwithstanding, he’d rest a good deal more easily once he’d disposed of the locket. He was poised to embark on a new life, and the locket felt oddly like an anchor preventing him from sailing with the tide.

Mr. Augustus Meredith was behind the counter preparing his morning tea. He glanced up sharply as the shop bell rang, his features reflexively settling into an appropriate pawnbroker expression, a piquant blend of welcome and wary condescension. He opened his mouth to issue a greeting, and then he took his first good look at Connor. He instantly straightened his back and puffed out his chest.

“Good morning. And what can I do for you today, good sir?”

Connor was a little taken aback. One was not usually welcomed so warmly in a pawnshop.

“Good morning. Mr. Meredith, I presume?” Connor asked.

“Indeed,” Mr. Meredith replied, drawling the word regally.

“Perhaps you can be of some assistance, Mr. Meredith,” Connor said, deliberately refraining from introducing himself. “I would like to exchange this”—he opened his palm to display the locket—“for a few supplies. That musket in your window, some cooking pots, and the like. I am on my way to visit my aunt in Scotland, and I promised my nephew a stop for hunting along the way. Unfortunately, I find myself rather short this morning. I was hoping I could select a few items and take the balance in coin.”

Mr. Meredith’s eyes had goggled in his head at the sight of the locket. He cleared his throat. “It is gold, I suppose?” It sounded like an attempt to speak casually, but his words emerged rather croakily instead.

“Of course,” Connor said coolly. “Would you like to inspect it?”

Mr. Meredith eagerly held out his hand for the gleaming thing and expertly ran his thumb along the locket’s edge to spring the catch. He gazed down for a moment, a small pleased smile playing about his lips.

“Oh, my. It is a very handsome likeness of the Duchess of Dunbrooke, isn’t it, sir?”

Connor gawked at Meredith as though he had suddenly begun babbling in Turkish.
The Duchess of Dunbrooke?
The last Duchess of Dunbrooke he knew of had been his
mother . . .

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“The Duchess of Dunbrooke,” Meredith repeated, cheerily and with growing confidence. “Oh, yes, it is she, all right. Pretty as a fairy princess. She was through town with the duke a year or so ago and we got a look at her, me and the missus did. They were paying a visit to their estate on the border, word was, and high time, too, seeing as how the lands there have been neglected for so long. Right shame about the duke’s murder, it is, too. Footpad, they said it was.”

Connor’s head was spinning unpleasantly. “Mur—I’m sure I do not know what you are—”

“And oh, look here,” Meredith continued. “There’s an inscription, too. Let me just fetch my spectacles so I can—”

Connor adroitly plucked the locket out of the man’s hand and clapped it shut. Meredith looked up, startled. He narrowed his eyes at Connor, who had gone a bit green around the mouth. Noticing, Meredith’s jowly face softened.

“Changed your mind, sir? Can’t say as I blame you. S’right hard, it is, giving up a family heirloom.”

Astounded, Connor attempted a response, but when he opened his mouth all he could manage was an arid little yawp.

“Oh, you’ve the look of Dunbrooke, lad. Tall and dark like. Jaw sharp as an ax blade. I saw it right off when you came into the shop. Are you a cousin, perhaps? Fallen on a bit of hard times?”

Connor inhaled deeply, exhaled, and then drew himself up to his entire formidably long and elegant height. “I’ve changed my mind, Mr. Meredith,” he said, his voice successfully under control again. “I’ll use coin to pay for the supplies. If you would be so kind to fetch while I point? Starting with a book in the window. The Herbal.”

Mr. Meredith looked a bit rattled at how abruptly their cozy chat had become chilly servitude, but he immediately scuttled to do Connor’s bidding.

When Connor exited Mr. Augustus Meredith’s shop a half hour or so later, his arms were full and his pockets were nearly empty. He paused on the street, unseeing for a moment, and a tiny laugh of near hysteria burbled out of him.

Marianne Bell—
his mistress
—had become the Duchess of Dunbrooke? How could that
be
? And Richard, it seemed, had been murdered. His younger brother, his rival and ally, the innocent little boy who became a young man seemingly hellbent on self-destruction, had been murdered.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he never heard the footsteps behind him.

“Well, ye’ve not improved any wi’ age, ye ugly ol’ whoreson, but ’tis glad I am to see ye. Ye’re supposed to be dead.”

Connor spun on his heels. Behind him stood a man with skin the color of a polished walnut, eyes a shade darker than oak leaves, and a majestic potato of a nose. His green eyes were shining with affection and mischief, and a bulging burlap sack dangled from one of his hands.

“Raphael Heron!” Connor was delighted. “Still a blight on the face of mankind, I see.”

Raphael Heron gave a whoop of laughter and seized Connor in a crushing hug, the contents of the burlap sack clanking as it shifted. When Raphael released him, Connor placed a testing hand over his ribs, fearing they were all now in splinters. He eyed the burlap sack with wry amusement. Raphael was a Gypsy, the head of a small Gypsy
compania
that had often camped near Dunbrooke land when Connor was a child, and his moral compass pointed in one direction only: just about anything—lying, stealing, and cheating included—was acceptable as long as it contributed to the well-being of the members of his
compania
. Consequently, Raphael and the members of his
compania
were exceedingly cheerful and original liars, thieves, and cheaters. The burlap sack no doubt contained a few purloined candlesticks or some silver plate intended for Mr. Augustus Meredith’s perusal and purchase.

In a peculiar way, the simplicity of Raphael Heron’s code made him the most honest man Connor had ever known. Raphael gave his loyalty begrudgingly but irrevocably, and had given it to Connor years ago the day Connor caught him poaching hare with two hounds and a net on his father’s land. Connor had promised not to alert the authorities in exchange for being shown how on earth one caught hare with two hounds and a net. At first, befriending Raphael had been just another way Connor secretly rebelled against his father. But Connor had soon found Raphael’s unique blend of wry wit, arcane wisdom, and unapologetic larceny irresistible, and they had become true if unlikely friends.

“Ye’ve a story, no doubt,” Raphael prompted. “For I’ve no’ heard that ye’ve been anything but dead.”

“I’ve a story, aye. But only four people alive, myself and yourself included, know that Roarke Blackburn did not perish at Waterloo, and I’d like it to remain so,” Connor said mildly.

Raphael’s eyebrows lifted, and he eyed Connor appraisingly for a long moment. At last, as though arriving at some private yet satisfactory conclusion, he shook his head admiringly.

“Roarke Blackburn? I once knew a Roarke Blackburn, but he died at Waterloo, rest his soul.” Raphael invariably approved of artful subterfuge, since so much of his livelihood depended on it.

“Aye,” Connor agreed, relieved, though he had been certain Raphael could be trusted with his secret. “’Twas a great loss.”

The corner of Raphael’s mouth twitched upward. “If ye say so. Tell me, Roarke Blackburn, or whoever ye might be, will ye share yer story over a pint?”

“It’s Connor now. And I would love nothing better, but I am traveling with a companion and cannot linger much longer, I’m afraid.”

“Very well, then. Another day. I must say, I’ve never seen ye looking better, despite yer face still resembles a dog’s behind.”

Connor and Raphael always accepted insults from each other with the amused equanimity of two men utterly confident of their own charms.

“Odd, but you took the words right out of my mouth, Raphael. And . . . well, I’ve never been happier.”

This was true, Connor realized, startled by his own words. And yet how could it possibly be true? He’d been accosted by highwaymen, his former mistress seemed to have married his brother, who had then been murdered, he was running out of money . . .

“Ah, I see,” Raphael said sagely. “’Tis a woman.”

“It is
not
a woman,” said Connor, irritated.

“And yer travelin’ companion—would this be a woman now, or another gent?”

“And
how
does this matter, precisely?”

Raphael merely shrugged and grinned knowingly.

Connor, feeling strangely panicked, changed the subject. “Have you word of any of the Dunbrooke villagers—the Pickerings, the Browns?”

Raphael’s demeanor changed almost imperceptibly then: his spine stiffened a little, he averted his eyes; it was almost as if, Connor thought with apprehension, Raphael regretted hearing the question.

“Ah, well, since yer brother’s passing—before then, if truth be told—the lands and the people on them have fared . . . poorly . . . as there was no one t’ take an interest. Th’ youngest Pickering boy was hanged for stealing a pig. The family wanted food, ye see.”

Connor flushed. They were delicately chosen words, diplomatic words, and not an accusation, precisely, but they fell on his ears as one nevertheless. And the worst part of it was that Raphael had known how they would sound to Connor, and had averted his eyes to spare Connor’s pride. He had
assumed
that Connor should feel ashamed.

Connor stood very still for a moment, his face flaming. The villagers had been kind to him when he had been a lonely young lord, riding through town on a horse that cost more than any of them would see in a lifetime. He had held their babies, eaten their bread, talked with them of sheep and drainage ditches.
It is not my fault
, he told himself vehemently.
It is not my fault that Richard was shiftless; it is not my fault that Richard is dead; it is not my fault that the Pickering boy met a bad end. Soon this will all be a bad memory. Soon I will be on a ship to America . . .

And yet an image formed in his head: a stately home collapsing into rubble upon the removal of a crucial beam.
But I could never have been so important
, he told himself.

Connor cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over them.

“And what is it you have in the bag, Raphael?” he asked pointedly. It was a childish and petty way, he knew, to attempt to deflect his feelings of guilt, but his pride seemed to have taken over his wits at the moment.

Raphael glanced down at the bag and gave it a little shake to make the contents clank again. “Oh, a bit o’ this an’ that,” he said easily. “’Twasna nailed down, nor was anyone standin’ guard o’er it, so clearly the owner could spare it.”

Connor stared at him, wondering what it might be like to never feel even the slightest twinge of conscience.

“You should get a fair price for it all. Mr. Meredith has a good eye for merchandise. Why, just look at this wonderful Herbal he sold to me.” He produced the tattered little book with a flourish.

Raphael laughed and folded Connor into another bruising hug by way of farewell.

“If ye’ve need of anything at all on your journey, Connor, follow the
patrin
to find me—ye ken how, aye? We’ve marked our path with stones and branches and the like,” Raphael said. “We leave for the Cambridge Horse Fair in a day’s time. We’ll make some blunt selling horses and
dukkering
and healing and the like.”

“Thank you, my friend. Godspeed. And try not to feel unhappy about that nose of yours.”

Raphael tossed a wry grin over his shoulder as he clanked into the pawnshop, conceding the final point to Connor.

The afternoon sun coaxed a green perfume from the fields and trees and warmed a place between Rebecca’s shoulder blades; it felt as though a large benign hand were resting there, guiding her along. In the distance, sheep dotted meadows like whitecaps on an emerald sea, and from a perch in a tree, a bird trilled a giddy string of notes.