The Chadwick Ring (23 page)

He splashed brandy into a glass and sank into the chair behind his desk, only to rise again at once, far too agitated to relax. He leaned against the desk and mused. Ginevra was pregnant. Inside her slender body a child grew and developed, the fruit of his loins. He was startled by the intense wave of desire that pulsed through him, engorging him with its heat. God, why wasn’t she here with him now so that he could hold her, caress her, reaffirm his potency ... He chuckled wryly. If Ginnie didn’t hurry home soon, he would be damned lucky if he could walk up the stairs.

He lifted the snifter to his lips and relished the rich bouquet of the brandy, his sensitive nose discerning the faint tang of the charred oak casks it had been aged in: good French stock, and not even contraband, although there were those who claimed the liquor had lost some of its savor when the blockade was lifted. As he sipped his drink, his nostrils twitched, and they picked up a discordant note, a whiff of some odor that seemed thin and acrid against the heady aroma of the brandy. Chadwick scowled and set the glass aside. After a moment he realized that what he smelled was the heavily perfumed note from Amalie.

He retrieved the green envelope from his pocket with a grimace of distaste, aware that it would require all of Hobbs’s skill to remove that cloying scent from the fine fabric of his coat. Poor Hobbs! His much-imposed-upon valet had probably dared hope that at last such trying duties were behind him.

Chadwick’s blue eyes narrowed as he broke the thick wax seal that was stamped with an elaborate and explicit representation of Venus Astarte. Amalie had never been one for subtlety, be it in the employment of her perfume or the gratification of her appetites in bed, and Chadwick was amazed now to think that their relationship had continued for as long as it had without his becoming jaded much sooner. But now at last—praise God!—Amalie seemed to have accepted the termination of their affair. The little maid had said that her mistress had left town, and no doubt this message was a long and lugubrious farewell.

Thus Chadwick was surprised to flip open the single folded sheet of paper and discover but three terse sentences penned in Amalie’s distinctive spiky, back-slanted hand: “
Adieu, mon cher
Richard,
le jeu est fait.
Your son has eloped with your wife. I wish you joy on becoming a grandfather.”

10

He stared at the note, revolted and fascinated. He felt awed by the depth of his mistress’s malice, strangely humbled to realize that the life he had lived so heedlessly could have inspired such hatred. Amalie’s revenge. Dear God, had he dared to think she was not subtle? Obviously she knew him far better than he had ever known her! With deadly cunning and accuracy she had searched out his most vulnerable spot and had probed it mercilessly, stimulating half-dead hurts and hostilities to new and painful life. She knew his ambivalence toward the son of his first marriage, and somehow she had managed to employ the boy as agent in destroying the second. Bysshe would have been an easy gull, Chadwick saw now: he had been building to this explosion for weeks, and Amalie had made skillful use of his burgeoning anger. As a final ironic twist, the marquess realized with grudging admiration, Amalie must have arranged for the elopement to be carried out in the very curricle he had bought for her.

The one thing the Frenchwoman had underestimated was his trust in Ginevra. He knew there were many differences yet to be resolved between him and his young bride, he knew she was still uncertain of her feelings toward him, but never would he believe that she might be unfaithful to him—especially not after last night.

But where were Ginevra and Bysshe now? He rubbed his aching temples and tried to think. God alone knew what lies Amalie must have fed to those impetuous children to make them flee into the night, and now he had to find them before something regrettable happened. But where could they be? Obviously with only a light vehicle they could not have followed the fashion for elopements and gone haring off to Scotland, so they must be somewhere close at hand, perhaps even still in London. His blue eyes blinked hard. Was it beyond the realm of possibility that they might truly have gone to his mother?

Lady Helena’s butler staggered back, almost felled by the impact of the door Chadwick flung open. “Is my mother stirring?” he barked, and without waiting for an answer he bounded up the steps two at a time.

When he burst into his mother’s bedroom, he found her propped against a great mound of pillows, reading, a pot of some fragrant tisane warming over a fairy lamp-beside her bed. “Thank God you are awake!” he exclaimed.

She looked up and observed dryly, “Well, if I hadn’t been, I certainly would be now! You make enough noise for a regiment of hussars!” She glanced at his face again and set aside her book, her faint smile fading. “What’s wrong, Richard?” she asked quietly.

He knew the answer before he posed the question. “Are Ginnie and Bysshe here?”

Lady Helena’s sharp eyes widened. “No. Why did you think they might be?”

He stared down at the shrunken figure huddled in her downy nest. Her face was lined with fatigue, and the thin silver braid that emerged from beneath her linen nightcap dangled limply over one shoulder. One of his earliest memories was of watching reverently as Lady Helena’s maid brushed the blue-black tresses that flowed in a thick, iridescent swath down her back; he remembered that when he begged to be allowed to stroke her hair, it had felt springy, almost alive under his chubby fingertips.

“Richard, what has happened to upset you?” she asked again, and for answer .he handed her the note from Amalie. One eyebrow arched delicately at the perfumed paper, but as she read the letter her face was carefully expressionless. At last she passed it back to him and asked bluntly, “Do you believe this?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. I do know that something has happened to make them take flight, although I am uncertain whether Ginevra went willingly.”

He hesitated before adding slowly, “Her maid tells me that, as the note implies, Ginnie is with child.”

The years fell away from Lady Helena’s face as she smiled tenderly. “I thought so.”

Chadwick looked surprised. “You did? How could you tell?”

His mother shrugged “Women can always tell. It’s the eyes, I think. Besides”—she chuckled in a way that reminded him of all the years she had dwelt in France—“one could hardly expect your wife to be otherwise.” Her amusement subsided, and the look of weary age returned. “You must find them quickly, Richard.”

“I know—but how? Where could they have gone?”

She eyed the note he clutched in his long fingers and suggested, “I don’t suppose it would accomplish anything to question the ... friend ... who dispatched that nasty piece of business?”

He crushed the green paper into a reeking wad and flung it away from him as if it were unclean. He said tightly, “I have it on good authority that Amalie has already left town.”

Lady Helena nodded sardonically. “Very prudent,” she judged. “Then what about Bysshe? Where would he be likely to go? You must have some idea.”

Puzzling hard, Chadwick finally admitted with a groan, “No. I have no notion of how his mind works. We are strangers.”

His mother winced with remembered pain and regarded him sadly. “That’s a sorry admission.”

“A true one, nonetheless,” Chadwick sighed.

“
Plus ca change
...” she murmured. She thought again and said, “But surely there was someplace he used to go when he was unhappy or confused? Some place that meant security to him?”

“I cannot think of anywhere, unless it be ...” His brows lifted. “Dowerwood?” His mother nodded sanguinely. He protested with an irritable wave of his hand, “But that makes no sense! A man decamping with another man’s wife does not go—”

Lady Helena intervened hardly. “Bysshe is not a man, Richard, pray you remember that. He is a little boy
trying to be
a man. That is a very nice, very significant distinction.” She held out a placating hand. “Please, my son, try to understand.”

Gently he caught her fragile fingers in his strong ones. He bent with courtly grace to brush his lips across them.

“I understand,
ma chère.
And when I find our infant runaways I promise that I shall be—”

“No!” Lady Helena snapped, jerking her hand away from him. “You do not understand at all. You cannot deal with them in the same manner. Bysshe is still a child; Ginevra most definitely is not. She is young, yes, but she is a woman, a strong and courageous woman—or she would be if you would ever make up your mind whether you should treat her as your wife or as your daughter!”

For perhaps the first time in his adult life the Marquess of Chadwick was truly shocked. “For God’s sake, Mother,” he choked, flushing hotly, “how can you...?” His voice faded, and he seemed to feel his blood draining from him. He stared down at Lady Helena, his blue eyes naked with pain in a face otherwise bleached of all color. With appalled insight he realized the truth of her blunt words. He thought of Ginevra’s fortitude in coping with the vast and bewildering changes he had wrought, the gallantry with which she had accepted his entry into her life, her bed. He remembered his own impatience and temper that had erupted whenever she questioned one of his edicts. Had there been even one time when he had tried to explain to her what he wanted from them, when he had listened to her opinions? He had imposed his own demands ruthlessly, even to the getting of a child—he could have prevented that, but in the satisfaction of his lust it had never occurred to him to question whether a girl of eighteen years might not be ready yet for motherhood—and he had excused his willfulness by cosseting her when it was convenient and did not contradict some expressed desire of his own. Whenever she retreated from his inconsistency, he drew himself up like a stern father and called her immature. Just which of them was the childish one? he wondered.
He rasped, “Mother, I love her.”

Lady Helena watched him with eyes as blue as his own, and she wished with wistful regret that she could draw his dark head down to her breast and comfort him again as if he were little. She sighed and knew it could not be. They had been apart too many years, she had failed him too many times, and now, when he needed her, she could offer no comfort, only advice.

In a voice oddly humble he repeated, “I do love Ginnie.”

“Then find her,” Lady Helena said softly. “Find her, my son, and tell her, now, before it is too late.”

Cold water trickled over her cheek, and Ginevra shook her head violently, only to still again with an anguished moan. She screwed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over them to shield them from the intolerable brightness of the single candle. As she lay there she felt the water drip once more, seeping in little rivulets between her fingers and beading on her gold lashes. When she tried to flick the wetness away, her fingertips brushed her cheekbone, and she winced.

Above her, Bysshe’s voice begged, “Oh, Ginnie, please be careful.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her lashes, blinking away the moisture as her eyes adjusted to the light. Bare inches from her face she encountered Bysshe’s brown eyes frowning at her anxiously. He repeated hoarsely, “You must be careful,” and he dabbed delicately at her cheek with a sodden cloth.

She batted away his succoring hand and looked around cautiously. Her pelisse and shoes had been removed, and she was lying on something upholstered and lumpy, like a worn settee. Beyond the range of the candlelight the grey radiance of approaching dawn limned a room that seemed vaguely familiar. With great care she raised herself gingerly on one elbow, her head throbbing at every movement, and she glanced about her, taking in the cherry-wood armchairs and framed engravings, the crossed swords over the mantel, all looking rather eerie and ominous in the dim light, yet all known to her. Confused, she returned her gaze to Bysshe. His mouth, she noted, was swollen and discolored where she had slapped him. “Why have you brought me to Dowerwood?” she asked.

He muttered, “I didn’t know where else to bring you.” He leaned forward, and she shrank away from him. At her retreat he cried, “I’m sorry, Ginnie!” and blushed furiously. “Please believe me, I’m so very sorry!”

She watched him warily. “Where are Emma and Mrs. Harrison?”

He shrugged with unconvincing nonchalance. “They’re at ... at the caretaker’s cottage, I assume.” He hesitated before adding sheepishly, “No one seemed to be stirring when we arrived, and I ... drove in quietly so as not to wake them. I parked the horses in the wood.”

She pushed herself erect and swung her feet around in front of her so that they dangled over the edge of the sofa. She could feel the blood pounding in her temples with sickening force, and she clutched at the arm of the settee to steady herself. When the dizziness subsided somewhat, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, and with her fingertips she cautiously prodded her bruised cheek. There seemed to be a swelling on her nape as well.

Bysshe dipped the cloth in a basin of tepid water, Ginevra could not help recalling the time she had sponged him in like manner. So much for gratitude. He said, “When I ... when you ... fell, you struck the bracing of the curricle, and ... Oh, Ginnie, for a moment I thought ... I was so worried!”

His anguished remorse irritated her. She challenged bitterly, “So worried that rather than seeking help you carefully ensured that no one would know we were here?”

His color deepened. “I ... I was afraid.” He added quickly, “But I’ll take care of you, Ginnie. I promise I’ll get whatever you need. I won’t hurt you.”

She said coldly, “Forgive me if I find your word less than reassuring.” She twisted away, and suddenly an intense wave of nausea swept over her. Lunging for the water basin, she only just managed to avoid disgracing herself on the parlor rug.

Bysshe watched with a green face. When the sickness had passed, he moaned, “Oh, Ginnie, what’s happening to you?” She lifted her head and regarded him balefully, too weak to speak. He looked at the basin with a grimace of disgust. “I guess I’d better do something about that,” he grumbled, and he bore it away to the back of the house.

While he was gone, Ginevra leaned back against the cushions and garnered her strength. Morning sickness, she thought, and her lips curved up into a ridiculously dreamy smile. She frowned again, and after a fearful hesitation she probed her belly gently through the light fabric of her skirts, unsure of what she expected to find, yet needing to know for certain that Bysshe’s outrageous escapade had not harmed the precious gift she carried for Richard...

Richard! she thought with a start. Oh, God, he must be going mad with worry by now. Whatever could he have thought when he finally arrived home and found her gone? Assuming that he did arrive home, of course, that he had not spent the night with ... No, she shook herself firmly, she would not allow her mind to fall prey to the farrago of nonsense that woman had fed Bysshe. Her husband had said he would come home, and he never lied to her.

But what if he believed that she had eloped with Bysshe?

Agony pulsed through her like electric current, and she wanted to scream as at last she comprehended the full extent of the Frenchwoman’s revenge: this elaborate charade had not been intended to make Ginevra distrustful of her husband; rather it was meant to convince Richard that his second wife, like his first, had betrayed him, that Ginevra was another Maria. “No!” she sobbed, ignoring the pounding in her temples. “No, I won’t let her hurt him like this!” She sprang to her feet and stumbled toward the door.

Suddenly in the archway Bysshe materialized. The light in the room was rising quickly, the pure unsullied light of a new day, and Ginevra could easily read his look of surprise. He carried a tumbler of water in one hand, and he caught her awkwardly with the other. “Ginnie,” he chided, “you shouldn’t excite yourself.”

She pulled away from him without difficulty, and in a cool voice that belied her agitation she said, “Bysshe, it’s time you take me home.”

For response he proffered the glass to her with the abashed air of a child presenting a flower to its mother. “Here,” he said, “I thought you’d want this.”

The water was fresh-pumped and cold, and she gulped it greedily, grateful to wash the vile taste of her sickness from her mouth. When she had finished it she said breathlessly, “Thank you. Now, may we go home?”

He shook his head. His brown eyes were regretful but resolute. “No, Ginnie, I can’t take you back.”

She stared at him, blocking the doorway, and her own expression firmed. “Then in that case, stand aside and let me go find Mrs. Harrison and Emma. They will help me.”

He shook his head again, harder. “No, Ginnie. I won’t let you go back to him. You don’t seem to understand. I’m very sorry I lost my temper—that was unforgivable of me—but nothing has changed. I still have to protect you—from yourself, if need be.”