Swept Away (16 page)

“Then we shall have to do our best to reacquaint ourselves in the time we have.”

Lucille, all but ignored on the settee, cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “I must presume this is somewhat of an awkward moment, but I believe more than one of us must lay claim to a measure of ignorance, here today.”

Stanley dropped his hand and looked over at his wife. “Of course. Forgive me. In the confusion, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Lucille....dearest--” he moved haltingly to stand by his wife’s chair. “I have the very great pleasure of introducing my brother, Emory St. James Althorpe. He has been away from England lo these many years, but now, as...as you can plainly see, he has returned.”

Emory started to offer a polite bow in Lucille’s direction just as her chin dropped and her little bow-shaped mouth popped open with a gasp. “Emory Althorpe! The traitor?”

Utter and absolute silence followed the blurted pronouncement, and when Florence rapped the leg of a table with her walking stick, it earned the same skin-jumping response as a gunshot.

“We will have no mention of unfounded accusations under this roof,” she declared fustily. “He is your husband’s brother, as well as a dear and valued friend of mine. As such, he will be treated accordingly.”

Lucille’s hand had flown to her throat when the cane cracked against the wooden leg. It remained there until, fearing another strike, she shrank back in her chair and fumbled to grasp her husband’s hand.

Stanley caught the fluttering white fingers and held them tightly in his. “Lucille...I realize this is rather sudden and certainly awkward, but...it
is
a somewhat blunt charge to make. Especially under the circumstances.”

“It is all right,” Emory said. “I am already aware of my status as
persona
non
gratis
in these parts.”

“Non gratis?” Lucille squeaked. “The soldiers at the garrison have been given orders to shoot you on sight!”

Florence whacked the table again and this time, a lamp and two porcelain figurines jumped in unison with everyone else in the room.

“Well they have!” Lucille insisted on a whine. “There are patrols everywhere and as of this morning, the reward for his capture--dead or alive--” she added with suitable dramatics, “has been doubled to a thousand pounds!”

Florence looked quickly to Stanley for confirmation.

“I am afraid so. Colonel Ramsey questioned the fisherman again and showed him the warrant poster. He is convinced the man he saw and Emory were one and the same. Further, he is now speculating openly that there may be a plot afoot to rescue Bonaparte from the
Bellerophon
when it arrives in port, and if so...” He paused and looked at his brother, “he believes Emory may be part of the plot.”

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” Florence muttered. “Has this Ramsey fellow nothing better to do with his time than invent intrigues? Are there not enough bodices to fondle or skirts to sniff after to keep him amused?”

“Wait,” Emory put a hand to his temple and rubbed. “Wait. The man is a prisoner on board an English warship, bound for an English port, under heavy guard by English soldiers. How am I supposed to accomplish this feat of magic?”

“The same way you accomplished it on Elba?” Stanley suggested bitterly. “There were three thousand English soldiers guarding him on that occasion, yet we are told you somehow sailed into port one night and whisked him away.”

“Rory’s involvement has not been conclusively proven,” Florence reminded him.

“Ramsey claims there are witnesses--men who swear it was the
Intrepid
they pursued and came close enough to exchange several rounds of shot with before losing her in a squall.”

Emory frowned. “The
Intrepid
?”

“Your ship, blast it. Your damned ship! The vessel you chose to sail around the world in search of adventure instead of staying at home and seeing to your family responsibilities!”

No sooner were the angry words out of Stanley’s mouth when his jaw dropped and his mouth slackened. When he saw the stunned expressions on Florence and Anna’s faces--Lucille seemed on the verge of offering applause--his hands came up in gesture of contrition.

“Oh dear God, Emory...I am sorry. I...I don’t know where that came from and had no right to say it. It is absurd to hold you to account for matters you could not possibly be aware of a thousand miles away. Even more so now, when...when you barely recall your name.”

Emory seemed to sway, to stagger a little. Anna jumped to her feet and rushed to his side fearing he might have another of his spells.

“No.” His voice was ragged, his jaw tense. A tiny muscle shivered in his cheek, but he managed a pale imitation of a smile as he laid his hand over the cool fingers she placed on his arm. “I am all right.” He looked at Stanley. “There is no need to apologize. If I am a bastard, I suppose it is best to hear it from my own family first.”

“Will you at least sit down?” Anna said. “Perhaps take a glass of wine, or brandy?”

Florence swung her cane up, more than passingly familiar with the height and distance needed to strike the bell that hung on the wall beside her. “A splendid idea. We could all use something stronger than tea at the moment. Once we have calmed ourselves we can discuss the situation like reasonable adults. Stanley--did you bring clothing? I dare say those breeches your brother is wearing, while giving him the appearance of a fourteen year old stripling, could make sitting almost as painful a prospect as prostrating himself on the ground and begging pardon for all the sins known thus far to mankind.”

“I, er...yes,” Stanley nodded. “I did bring a selection of garments and boots. They are in a small trunk in the carriage.”

“You knew?” Lucille said, gaping up at him. “You knew he was here all along and said nothing?”

“I have only known since Monday, when Dame Widdicombe first sent for me. And if I said nothing, my precious, it was because I did not want to alarm you. I am aware of how delicate you are, how genteel your sensibilities. I also recognized how upsetting this might be for you, what with Colonel Ramsey and his men at the rectory nearly every other day.”

Florence’s blatantly indelicate snort accompanied by the muttered words: "silly girl", raised a spot of color in the delicate white cheeks.

“Colonel Ramsey has been most civil of late,” Lucille protested. “And while I may find his presence exceedingly intrusive, I should hope you would not misinterpret that to mean I would do anything disloyal to our family.”

“No, of course not, my dearest. I would never--”

“My first loyalty is always to you, Stanley. And if I sound upset, it is only because you did not think you could trust me with the truth. I am surprised, yes. Who would not be in the same situation? Nevertheless, I do think Dame Widdicombe’s judgement of me is perhaps a little harsh.” She pulled on her lower lip to draw attention to the visible tremor affecting her ability to speak. “I am not silly. I am only concerned for your welfare
and
that of your brother.”

“But of course you are, my dear,” Stanley cried, taking a knee before her. “And I would never suggest you were anything but loyal and trustworthy. I...I only sought to spare you any needless worry.”

She turned to address Emory, her chin held high enough to strain the cords in her neck. “I meant no ill-will, dear brother, and hope that you will forgive me my unthinking cruelty. I am naturally and immeasurably pleased to make your acquaintance after all these years, and you must know, if it were at all possible, I should insist upon you coming home with us this very minute.”

Florence was on the verge of lifting her cane again when Willerkins appeared in the doorway. “Thank goodness. I was not sure if you had heard the bell.”

“I heard, milady. Quite clearly.”

“Yes, well, if you would be so kind, the vicar has left a small trunk in his carriage which needs to be fetched. Will you also inform Mildred there will be five for supper tonight--you are staying for supper, I assume?”

Stanley dared do nothing else but nod his thanks, in spite of the grip Lucille took on his arm.

Willerkins bowed. “Will there be anything else milady?”

“Indeed yes. I believe that old rascal Dupré left us a keg of very fine French brandy the last time I allowed him to hide from the revenuers in my bay. A bottle would not go unwelcome at the moment. And some small cakes to tide us over until the chickens can be plucked and the hares stuffed.”

When he was gone, Florence crossed her hands over the head of her cane and glared about the room.

“I grew quite fond of French lace before the war,” she explained, though no one asked, “and saw no reason to do without it for twenty years. For that matter, I doubt there is a house anywhere between here and Cornwall that does not have a storage room filled with blackmarket goods of one nature or another. And I would defy you to explore any one of the caves beneath Berry Head and not find evidence of transactions conducted with the garrisoned soldiers. Why, I recall...well, never mind what I recall. It is what Rory recollects--or does not recollect--that is the more pressing concern at the moment. He is much better today compared to yesterday and I’m sure he will improve twofold by tomorrow if we all make the effort to help him remember
happier
times.”

Anna had not moved from Emory’s side, nor had he taken his hand away from hers. Whether he sensed her watching him, or whether his gaze just happened to stray in her direction, she found herself suddenly looking deeply into the dark eyes. His face wore no expression, betrayed no emotion. She could not have said how she knew what he was thinking, but it came to her as clearly as if her aunt had struck another limb with her cane: He did not plan to be here tomorrow. Regardless if his memory came back or not, he intended to leave Widdicombe House at the first opportunity.

Anna lowered her lashes in an effort to hide her sudden dismay. It made perfect sense, of course, that he should leave before too many people discovered he was here. Lucille Althorpe did not exude a sense of discretion. If anything, she reminded Anna of the scores of women who crowded the ballrooms and assemblies in London, who would raise their fans and
in strictest confidence
, would tell a complete stranger some twisted piece of ‘truth’ she had heard whispered by some other sworn-to-secrecy source.

And if her aunt was right, if dearest Lucille had grand designs on becoming the next Countess of Hatherleigh, it would only require the right whisper in the right ear to remove one of the barriers standing in her way.

CHAPTER 10

The storm Emory had predicted struck with full force less than two hours later. It came on swift, green-bellied clouds swollen with rain, driven by winds that gusted so hard at times the windows rattled and the trees outside were bent in half. Willerkins was dispatched to gather extra candles and lamps, to stoke the fires in the parlor and bedrooms, and where required, set out buckets and towels to collect the water that dripped from ceilings and ran down walls.

During those same two hours, Stanley monopolized most of the conversation, earnestly convinced it was possible, if he recounted enough events from their youth, to fully restore Emory’s memory before Throckmorton appeared to ring the six o’clock gong. To Annaleah, who found herself an equally rapt listener, it was a tale of a misspent youth, the wild and undisciplined adolescence of a third son who saw no earthly benefit to learning philosophical theories or memorizing long passages of Latin scripts.

Florence had already intimated that Emory had not got on well with his father, that there had been beatings and violent arguments. Most of the former came from stepping in to defend Poor Arthur from the earl’s belief that, if his son’s avian fantasies had been brought on by repeatedly boxing his ears, they could also be cured that way. Stanley speculated it was only because of Poor Arthur that Emory had not run away long before his sixteenth year.

But in that year, the earl died of a burst vein in his head. With their older brother William now the head of the family, Poor Arthur was safe, and within a week of their father’s funeral, Rory was on a ship bound for the Indies. He spent the next six years sailing to parts of the world most people only knew as vague names on a map, and when he returned, he came to Windsea Hall laden with bolts of exotic silk and jars of spices no one could name. He had been to the American colonies, to Mexico and Peru. He had even sailed to the Far East and walked along the great wall. He had brought back tiger skins and Chinese porcelain, and a wondrous curved sword that had belonged to a great Samurai warrior.

For Poor Arthur, he had brought a solid gold cage made in many tiers and layers, containing tiny yellow birds that sang so sweetly they brought tears to his brother’s eyes.

Even though William had welcomed him home, Emory had barely lasted out a month in the quiet countryside before his blood grew restless again. He answered England’s call for experienced seamen and went off to join the war against France. He served as a Lieutenant in Nelson’s fleet, but after the victory at Trafalgar, he parted company with the navy and engaged in several private ventures that eventually won him ownership of the
Intrepid
. During those same years, Stanley had answered his own calling and been given the parish in Brixham. Three years ago, he had married Lucille; thirteen months ago, William Althorpe had died unexpectedly, leaving Poor Arthur next in line to inherit the titles and estates.

Annaleah had watched Emory’s reactions carefully to see if he responded to anything his brother said, but he might as easily have been listening to a stranger’s mixed tales of woe and adventure. In the end, she abandoned the pretence of studying him for purely clinical reasons and found herself studying the man himself. She had startled herself--and her aunt, she suspected--by rushing so quickly to his side earlier. After the episode on top of the cliffs, she thought she would rather be trampled under a runaway coach than ever have to stand face to face with him again. She had challenged him to do his best, and by heaven, he had done it. He had kissed her with his entire body, not just his mouth, and the smallest flicker of a smile, the slightest warmth in a glance that came her way--and there were many--started that melting feeling all over again.