Splendor (52 page)

PART FOUR

''^S^

The Phoenix

<^ Thirty-three ^

London, December, 1812

SHE dipped the quill and wrote, ''The Refugees, Chapter XIII." Carolyn paused, and wrote,

For Sarah, it was a night without end. The fire had spread and it was everywhere, but then, through the tide of flames, she saw it, a shadow, a specter, and it was her beloved William, there at the last possible moment, but not too late, she prayed, for them to escape the conflagration together.

"Carolyn? Still working on the new novel?" George asked from the kitchen doorway.

Carolyn started, poised over the foolscap, not daring to look up. Hot, bitter tears had gathered behind her eyelids, and she needed a moment to compose herself. "Yes," she finally said, laying the quill aside. And she managed a smile for her father's sake.

He entered the kitchen, his expression grim. ' 'I have just locked up for the night," he said, his buoyant tone at odds with the concern in his eyes. "And I do have an idea. Why don't we go to the Gray Wolf to dine? I think we both deserve a few good pints."

Carolyn gazed at her clasped hands, thinking of the red wine she had shared so often with Nicholas. "I am afraid I am not very hungry. Papa," she said. "And I do have this chapter to finish."

George hesitated, and sat down at the table across from her. "Dear, please tell me what is bothering you. Please tell me what happened while you were in Russia."

Carolyn avoided his eyes. "There is nothing to tell." Oh, but there was, and she was writing a romantic novel in consequence. Except her novel would not have a happy ending. She would leave the happy endings to novelists like the anonymous author of Sense and Sensibility. Her readers would weep and mourn for the heroine's sad and tragic fate, for the loss of the hero and his love.

Carolyn had never felt so alone in her life.

George reached for and held her hand. ' 'Sometimes I feel like throttling that Sverayov. I know he is behind your melancholy."

Carolyn pulled her hand away. "Never say such a thing to me again!" she cried furiously. "He is the most honorable man I have ever known—will ever know—Papa!"

George stared. "If he is so honorable, then why is your heart so broken?"

Carolyn stood. She had no intention of telling him what had happened, none. And then she thought about Marie-Elena, brutally attacked and disfigured from the fire and the knife one of her assailants had wielded, and her heart shattered over and over again. Nicholas was a man of honor, and no matter how terrible his wife's behavior had been, no woman should ever have to suffer as she had suffered, and he would not turn his back on her now. Nor did Carolyn expect him to.

It was over.

But this dream had been impossible from the very start.

"I only want to help," George said softly.

Carolyn met his gaze. "No one can help."

George stood. "This is breaking my heart!" he cried.

"Then that makes two of us," Carolyn said grimly, turning away from him. "Now, I do have a novel to finish."

"And what about Copperville? Your editor has sent three couriers over here in the last week, begging you for a column."

Carolyn sat back down at the table, thinking not about Charles Copperville, but about Sarah and William. "Cop-perville is dead. He died in Moscow."

George was frozen. Then, "Before you start, this came a short while ago. It is from your grandmother," he said, holding out a sealed letter.

Carolyn put down her quill and took the parchment with no real interest in the missive, breaking the seal and unfolding it. "It is another invitation to Midlands."

"This is amazing," George said frankly. "First her appearing at the store after you had left, demanding your whereabouts, and now this—the fourth invitation. Will you go? You know, Carolyn, you should go. You have always pretended not to care about her, but I know how much her disinterest has hurt you. I do believe she wishes a relationship with you."

Carolyn shook her head, reaching for a fresh sheet of vellum and quickly penning the same polite two-line refusal she had already penned three previous times. "No. I am not going to Midlands. Why should I? The past is the past. I am living in the present." She dipped her quill and wrote,

Sarah rushed toward William as he galloped through the flames, tripping in her haste.

"And what about the future?" George demanded, laying both of his hands hard on the kitchen table.

"The future does not interest me," Carolyn said thickly, trying to keep her breathing low and even.

George cursed.

Carolyn started. His use of foul language was far more than rare. Their gazes collided and clashed.

But fortunately, there was a loud knocking on the door, interrupting any further words they might exchange. George turned, grumbhng about being closed, but he stalked to the doorway and stared across the shop at the front door. When he faced Carolyn, he was exuberant. "It is young Davison!" he cried. "I shall let him in!"

Carolyn's heart sank. "Papa, wait."

George whirled. "If you send him away one more time, he will never come round again. I am warning you, Carolyn. He is a good young man, his intentions are clear, and he is head over heels in love with you. Do not send him away!"

"But I don't love him," Carolyn whispered, her mouth quivering. But George had already turned and was striding through the shop to let him in.

Carolyn fought an impending flood of tears, thinking, Oh, Nicholas. Will I miss you forever? How shall I live? From novel to novel? But I wish to die!

And it was true. She had no urge to live. Her heart was more than broken, her soul was broken, too. She had not known love could bring so much pain. If she had known, she would have avoided it—and him—from the very start, at all costs.

It had been so much easier when she had fled St. JPe-tersburg, once again with Alexi's help. In her shock, survival had seem.ed possible. But during the two-week journey home, the shock had dissipated, leaving a nightmare in its place.

Anthony Davison entered the kitchen, a smile on his face, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. Carolyn stood and smiled back at him. It was not an easy task.

His own smile faded slightly as he bowed. "Miss Browne. I do hope I am not intruding. I had meant to stop by before the shop closed, but the traffic on Pall Mall was horrendous."

"Of course you are not intruding," Carolyn said politely, but her mind was filled with William, who was tall and golden, and so very much like Nicholas. She ached to get back to her writing.

"This is a gift for you," Anthony said, handing her the parcel.

"Thank you." The moment Carolyn received it, she knew it was a book. She could not feel any enthusiasm as she tore off the plain wrapper.

He blushed. "It is a book. I decided Sir Walter Scott would interest you far more than posies."

Carolyn gazed down at it. ''The Lady of the Lake. How wonderful," she said softly.

"I do hope you will enjoy it," he said awkwardly.

'*Of course I shall," Carolyn said, holding the volume tightly. But she was thinking about the next scene she intended to write, the lovers' flight from Moscow—and their passionate, long-delayed reunion. "Thank you."

"Miss Browne. There is a dinner dance tomorrow night. Might you accompany me?" Anthony asked, his color high.

Carolyn hesitated. "Anthony, I do appreciate the invitation, but I have not been feeling very well. I am sorry," she said softly.

His face fell, but then he regained his composure and bowed. "Very well. Please. Do have a pleasant evening."

Carolyn nodded. "And you," she said.

He whirled and strode from the kitchen, past her father, across the store and out the door. The doorbell tinkled loudly.

George moved into the kitchen doorway. "He Will never return! That is the fourth time you have sent him away."

Carolyn was on the verge of tears, yet she was angry, and she flung the book at her father's feet. "I will never love him!" she shouted. "My love belongs to another!"

George looked at the book lying open at his feet, turning white with shock at her behavior.

Nor could Carolyn quite believe what she had done, and she covered her face with her hands. "All I want," she whispered, "is to be left alone."

And as if that were a cue, the doorbell tinkled again. Carolyn was afraid that it was Anthony, coming back for one last try. She turned away, wiping her eyes, while George muttered about "after hours." And then he cried out.

"Good evening, Browne," a very cultured voice said.

Carolyn recognized the voice, but could not identify it, and she turned around to glimpse the newcomer. Her eyes

widened slightly, for it was Stuart Davison, Anthony's father. But that did not make any sense.

"My lord," George cried. "This is a, er, surprise! Do you wish to purchase a book?"

Carolyn stared at her father, who was whiter than he had been when she'd thrown the Scott novel at him, for his voice was filled with fear. Slowly, she came forward, and curtsied. "My lord."

"Ah, hello. Miss Browne. And have you recovered from your travels?'' Stuart Davison smiled at her, and the effect was chilling, because there was no warmth whatsoever in his eyes.

George immediately rushed to Carolyn's side, his arm around her. "My daughter is not well. Now, if you wish to make a purchase, we are open tomorrow at nine o'clock."

"But I do not wish to buy a book," Stuart Davison said, and he walked past father and daughter, right into their kitchen, as if it were his home, not theirs, and he pulled out first one chair, then another. He was no longer smiling. "Sit down."

Carolyn tensed, shooting her father a glance. Something was terribly wrong. "My lord," she asked, coming forward, "is something amiss?"

"Please," he said, his lips curling, his voice hard. "Sit"

Carolyn glanced at her father, who was sweating. "Do as he says, Carolyn," George said. But then he gave Davison a frankly pleading look. "Not in front of my daughter," he begged.

Davison did not reply. Frightened now, Carolyn sat, staring at the peer. When her father was also seated, he said, "I need Miss Browne's unique talents."

"No!" George cried, on his feet. "Absolutely not!"

Davison slammed his hand on the table, and George sank back into his seat. Carolyn's pulse raced. Bewildered, she met Davison's cool blue eyes. "What is this about?" she asked hoarsely.

"It is about the fact that your father is a traitor to his

country," Davison said. "And only you can prevent his hanging."

Carolyn gripped the table. "Do not be absurd," she began, but then she saw George, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking—as if he were weeping. Briefly, she was speechless, frozen. "Papa?"

He did not respond.

Davison explained. "Your father has been a courier for the British for eight years, Miss Browne, since shortly after Amiens. Come. Surely you did not think he traveled so frequently back and forth to and from the Continent merely to locate or deliver rare books?"

Carolyn stared. "A courier. But that is not a traitor. Papa?'' Her pulse had accelerated.

He looked at her, wiping his eyes, saying not a word.

"Papa?" Carolyn cried, on her feet.

"Yes! I have been a courier!" George shouted. And tears spilled down his face.

"But not a traitor." Carolyn remained standing. "I know my father. Lord Davison. And he loves his country. He would never betray England, not in a time of war, not in a time of peace."

Davison's laughter was soft and amused. "But he has. He has been selling information to French agents for eight long years. And that is a hanging offense."

Carolyn stared, first at Davison, then at her father, in absolute disbelief. "No," she said. Shocked and frightened. But Davison was lying. He had to be.

"Tell her," Davison said.

Carolyn turned to George, who could barely meet her eyes. "Papa?" She was hoarse. This couldn't be happening. It was not true. Her world had already collapsed. But not her father, not this.

"Carolyn, I did it for you," he said thickly.

She cried out. FeeUng her legs buckling, Carolyn clung to the back of her chair.

"Carolyn!" He grabbed both of her hands. "I love you so! You are my life! We have desperately needed the

funds. We sell no books! We would be homeless vagrants if it were not for what I have done. Oh, God forgive me!" he cried.

Carolyn wept, soundlessly. "Oh, Papa. How? How could you? Anything, but not this," she whispered. She hugged herself. It was hard to breathe. The very air burned her lungs. Her father was a traitor. She had already lost Nicholas. How could her father be a traitor? He had said he had done it for her. But she would rather be a homeless beggar. Oh, God.

"Which brings us to you. Miss Browne."

"No," George said weakly. "Whatever you are thinking, no, please, do not involve her."

Davison eyed him as if he were a speck of annoying dirt on his shirtsleeve. "Browne, if your daughter does not cooperate, I shall see to it that you hang. My own tracks, dear fellow, have been thoroughly covered, for I have no intention of going down with you."

Carolyn stiffened. "You are guilty, too?"

"Cease your plotting, Miss Browne. There is not a trace of evidence, but I have kept files on your father's activities. I have hard proof, enough for him to hang tomorrow." He smiled. "Unless you do as I ask."

Carolyn was numb. "What is it that you want from me?" she heard herself ask.

He did smile. "Sverayov arrived in London yesterday. He has certain information, and I believe you have the allure to get it from him."

Carolyn felt it then, the shadows and darkness, threatening to overtake her mind. Threatening to make her snap.

Carolyn retreated to her bedchamber, where she curled up on her bed, hugging a pillow, desperately fighting tears. Her heart sounded like a hollow drum in her own ears. Nicholas was in London. Her father was a traitor. And if she did not spy on Nicholas, George was going to hang.

She hugged the pillow harder. She could not guess why Nicholas was in London, but it had nothing to do with