The Lion's Daughter (50 page)

Watching
her face while he talked, he saw the unhappiness fade, and that eased
his own. Later, when they went upstairs together, she thanked him in
her own way.

“I
am glad you have told me all these things,” she said when they
entered the bedchamber. “I like your letters with their amusing
stories and clever nonsense, but I wish as well to know your
troubles.” She looked up at him. “You never had a wife
before, and so you are confused, but I will explain. A wife is not
like a concubine, only for amusement and pleasure. A wife is to
quarrel with and complain to as well
—
to
ease your heart as well as your body.”

He
shut the door. “Very well. Every other letter from now on shall
be filled with nothing but my grievances. However, you must do the
same. You scarcely write me at all, you know,” he chided.

“Because
no one can read my hand. Jason said he could write better with his
feet.”

“I
have no trouble deciphering. If you want reams of the ugly truth from
me, you must provide the same. I shall expect lengthy, detailed
epistles from London. You must at least tear yourself away from your
flirts long enough to boast of them.”

Frowning,
she crept onto the bed. “I did not know I must flirt as well.
No one told me. They have taught me to dance and how to eat with
twenty different spoons and what to say to this one and that. But no
one has taught me to flirt.”

“Not
even the all-knowing Percival?” He slipped in beside her and
arranged the pillows so they might sit comfortably.

“Then
it's a good thing you came to Mount Eden first, my dear. Tonight you
shall learn from a master.”

THE
FOLLOWING DAY, about the time Lady Brentmor's carriage left Mount
Eden, Sir Gerald Brentmor, sick with anxiety, was pacing his study.

As
soon as he'd realized the black queen was under his
mother's
roof, he'd offered to go after
it. He'd even offered to take the distrustful Ismal with him.

“I
beg you not to mistake me for a fool,” Ismal had answered
amiably. “It is nearly three days'journey from London to your
mother's house. You might easily be rid of me on the way, get the
queen for yourself, and flee abroad. This would be a stupid and
needless risk for me. No, Sir Gerald, you will remain with me in
London, and we shall lure the queen to us.” After a frustrating
discussion, Sir Gerald had been obliged to unearth an invitation from
Mrs. Stockwell-Hume, his mother's
closest friend. Not only had
Ismal imitated her lavish script beautifully, but the forged letter's
contents could not have been better calculated to send the dowager
thundering into L
ondon
forthwith. It had been futile to
remind Ismal there was no assurance the black queen would arrive with
her, that for all they knew, Percival or Esme
—
whichever
of them had it
—
might
have
buried
it in
Corfu
or in her ladyship's garden.

“The
night of her arrival, we shall have several hours to search
thoroughly,” Ismal had replied, “because you will see
that all your household lies in drugged slumber. If we do not find
the queen, rest assured you will compensate me another way. There are
several alternatives, Sir Gerald. All, I regret to say, will prove
much more awkward for you than this simple matter of finding the
black queen.”

The
baronet paused in his pacing to gaze despairingly at the ches
s
set. Rest assured, indeed. He'd
blackmailed enough men and women to know extortion never ended.
Worse, he feared that even a copy of Bridgeburton's letter might
destroy him. The words alone were damning enough to trigger an
investigation
...
at
the end of which he'd hang.

He
took out his pocket watch. One o'clock. His mother had written that
she'd arrive before nightfall. Time was running out, and he had not
yet devised a way to extricate himself from Ismal's nets. He couldn't
even leave his own house. Every time he'd tried, a huge ugly fellow
had promptly appeared in his path. It was no use explaining that one
had business appointments. The brute understood no English and spoke
only the five words he'd evidently memorized: “You go home now,
please.”

The
man always appeared, whether it was early morn or the small hours of
the night. Sir Gerald had finally given up trying.

With
a low moan, he sat down at the chess table. Every night since the
first terrifying one, Ismal had slipped into the house when the
skeleton staff was in bed. He came for conversation, he'd said. And
chess. Every night they'd played, and every night Ismal had won. He
played brilliantly. One could almost believe he could read his
opponent's mind.

Jason
had been like that, Sir Gerald remembered. Frighten-ingly
perceptive
—
except,
of course, on one occasion a quarter of a century ago.

But
if his ghost was about, he must be laughing now. A fine revenge this
would seem to him: six days of purgatory Sir Gerald had endured, and
there was hell to come.

Taking
up the black queen's humble substitute, he cursed himself for the
moment of panic in which he'd given up the original to Risto. If not
for that, the set could have been sold by now, and he'd have at least
five thousand pounds to start fresh with abroad.

If
he survived this night, he'd have to flee England with next to
nothing. His countrymen would soon know him for a criminal, a
traitor. The shock would likely kill his mother. Small comfort in
that, when he'd never be able to put his hands on her money. The
family would be disgraced, and Edenmont as well, having wed into it.
Sir Gerald shook his head. Another poor consolation.

Edenmont
had been putting on a fine show of saintliness
—
an obvious ruse to win the
dowager over. After denying the modest loan her own son had
requested, she'd turned around to throw away a fortune on a
mannerless, barbarous little of a granddaughter. Oh, Jason in his
grave must be delighted. All the trouble Gerald had taken to cut the
black sheep
out
of the family had been for naught. Jason's offspring
—
Percival
and the little whore, along with her dissolute baron
—would
get all the dowager's money.

“Laugh
then, you filthy bastard,” Sir Gerald growled. “You
always got everything: the looks, the cleverness, the charm. And the
women, all of them. You had scores, but you had to have
her
as well. Even when she was mine, you got to her, and
got
your
bastard
on her.”

Low
as he'd spoken, the words seemed to echo in the still room. H
e
was talking to himself. Worse, to
a dead man. His hand shaking, Sir Gerald returned the queen to her
place. H
e
was
not finished yet, he told himself. He'd been a match for
his brother when Jason was
Ismal's age. And Jason was burning in hell, where no one laughed but
the Devil.

One
must be calm, focus on priorities. The highest at present was getting
out of this debacle alive.

He
sat staring at the chess set, his mind working furiously, until four
o'clock when the butler announced that Lady Brent
mor's
carri
age
had
arrived. By five o'clock, the baronet was closeted with his mother in
the study.

SOMEONE
WILL
SEE
us,”
Percival objected. Esme glanced about the narrow, walled garden of
Sir Gerald's townhouse. “Not from the outside, unless they can
see through walls. And the servants are all busy inside.” She
removed her shoes.

“You
can't stand on the ledge. I've tried it. You can't keep your balance.
It's too narrow.” “I s
hall
keep one foot on your shoulder.”

“You
won't hear any better than we could inside. The window's closed.”
“Not
completely.”

Moving
back a few paces, Percival looked up. Though the curtains were drawn,
the window was open a very little.

With
a sigh, he came back to Esme, linked his hands, and bent.

“We
will not be caught,” she promised as she accepted the boost up.
“You must trust me.”

ISMAL
HAD NO need to see through walls. He'd only to peer through the
narrow slit of the garden gate.

Smiling,
he turned to Risto. “She spies upon her uncle and makes his son
help her. She entertains me vastly.”

Risto
scowled. “It will not be entertaining if she calls attention to
the open window. What if she demands the chess set be locked up
securely?”

'Then
Sir Gerald must un-secure it while she sleeps,” his master
answered.

“I
don't like it. The old hag brought too many servants with her.”

“And
all will partake of a feast as fine as their betters'
.
The greedy ones will sleep very
soundly. The others will be too heavy-headed to think or act. We,
meanwhile,
shall
act,
quick and silent as death.”

“SECOND
THOUGHTS, INDEED,” the dowager said coldly. “You had
plenty of chances to be kind to the gel before. But you left 'em
stranded on that godforsaken island and come home and tried to poison
my mind against her. Not that I was surprised. You've ever resented
anything Jason had. You was always jealous of him.”

She
had taken over the big chair behind the desk. Sir Gerald stood by the
chess table. He'd just raised his wine glass to his mouth. Now he
paused. “Jealous, indeed.
I
wasn't the one who insisted
Papa cut him off.
I
wasn't the one who made Diana
break off her engagement.”

“I
did it for her own good, as the rest was for the good of the family.
He'd have dragged us to ruin.”

“You
did it to punish him, because your precious baby wanted no part of
your plans for him. You thought he'd come crawling back, begging
forgiveness, promising to be a good boy. But he didn't, and now he's
dead. And you've learned nothing.”

“I've
learned dredging up the past don't mend anything.”

Eyeing
him with dislike, she took a
swallow of wine. “And it won't win you no favors from me,
Gerald.”

He
calmly set down his own glass. “I never won a favor
from
you in my life, though I always
did what you wanted. Stayed with the business, while you planned a
Parliamentary career and an earl's daughter for Jason, and stayed
with it after he was gone. Stayed with Diana, and had to wed her at
last because you didn't care to do better for me. I even held my
tongue through her infidelities
—
even
the most intolerable of all.”

“She
was never unfaithful,” the dowager snapped. “You made her
wretched, yet she stuck it out,
even after I told her she needn't.”

“She
certainly stuck it out, Mama. Presented me with my brother's
bas—”

“I'll
never believe that.” Lady
Brentmor shook her head, “I've learned the hard way never to
believe you at all. Always blaming someone else for your troubles.
Now you blame what happened twenty-five years ago?”

Her
son approached, to lean over the desk. “It's you who's dredging
up the past. Bound to keep Jason's girl to yourself, aren't you,
though she belongs with her husband.”

“He
can't keep her. He's next to penniless.” “And you'll see
he remains so, won't you? I do wonder how you managed it. Don't tell
me Percival never told either of them about the chess set. He knew of
Diana's bequest before I did, I've no doubt. She kept few secrets
from him. Only one, perhaps,” he added bitterly.

“Edenmont
don't know about the set, and it's going to stay that way.” Her
eyes flashed a warning. “There's no point telling him anyhow
since it won't do him no good.”

“Certainly
not.” Sir Gerald drew back. “No more good than it does
me, with a piece missing.”

He
flung himself into the chair at the chess table. “Might as well
let him have it. At least then I won't be responsible for the curst
thing.” “You'll
do
nothing.
I'll handle this my own way.”
He looked away, lest she see the triumph in his face. She'd told him
all he wanted to know. She was so determined to keep Jason's girl
that she wouldn't let Esme have
the dowry Eden
mont
so
desperately needed. Yet why should the crone care, when the set was
nigh worthless with a piece missing? She cared, he answered himself,
because she knew the queen wasn't missing. She had it, or knew where
it was. That's why she hadn't demanded the set long since. That's why
she wouldn't let him give it to Esme now. Selfish, ruthless old
bitch.