Angel in Scarlet (66 page)

“Actually, I was missing Cynara,” I said. “I haven't been able to ride her in over a week.”

“This rain's been hard on you, I know. It should end soon.”

“You look tired, darling.”

Clinton smiled wearily and moved over to the fireplace to warm his hands. “I have things pretty well under control—some problems with the pottery factory, missing orders, I won't bore you with the details, some major reenforcement work on the tin mines in Cornwall, profits down—” He sighed and turned his hands over, warming the backs. “How I hate it all. I'd much rather just concentrate on the land, but it's a necessary evil.”

“Did your uncle take an active interest in the holdings?”

He shook his head. “Left it all to hirelings, rarely glanced at the accounts. Things were in quite a tangle when I took over—some of those hirelings had been robbing us blind.”

“Was he interested in the land?”

“He never sullied his hands, never visited any of the tenant farms. He let his bailiff handle any problems. Later on he turned the work over to his bastard.”

“Hugh,” I said.

Clinton looked at me sharply. “You knew him?”

“I—Everyone in the village knew about—what went on at the big house, darling. I seem to recall Hugh Bradford managing the farms for a while, before he ran away. It—it was a very long time ago.”

“He managed the farms, yes,” Clinton said, “and he did a damn fine job of it, I'll have to admit that, but—” He cut himself off, scowling darkly. I had rarely seen him look that way.

“There was bad blood between you, wasn't there?” I asked quietly.

“You might say that. Yes, you just might. He was an arrogant, surly, impertinent lout, seething with hatred and resentment—the disposition of a cur dog and every bit as vicious. I tried to make friends with him when both of us were boys, felt sorry for him, but he would have none of my friendship. He hated me, felt I had usurped his rightful position.”

“He—I understand your aunt wouldn't allow him in the house.”

“Quite true. Would you want a vicious cur inside your house? He was insolent and hateful to her, snarled at her every time she tried to make things pleasant for him. She finally told my uncle she could take no more of it and he was given rooms over the stables. My aunt was not the most admirable person I've ever met—she was a miserable shrew, in fact—but she was perfectly justified in banishing him from the house.”

“I—see,” I said. “She accused him of stealing her jewels, I believe. After your uncle died, she claimed he had taken her emeralds—something like that. I—I can't remember the details. Hugh had to flee, with Bow Street in hot pursuit.”

Clinton nodded, still scowling. “I'm not particularly proud of that little episode,” he told me. “Hugh Bradford caused my uncle's death, as surely as if he'd shot him, and my aunt wanted to have him arrested. When she found she couldn't she hid her emeralds and accused him of stealing them. I helped her press charges, was eager to see him arrested myself—I actually believed he
had
stolen the emeralds, you see.”

“You weren't—in league with your aunt?”

“I hated the bastard, blamed him for my uncle's death and wanted to have him hang for it, but I wouldn't have set him up like that. Later on, when I discovered my aunt's treachery, I insisted all charges be dropped. I wasn't the most admirable character myself back then—I was spoiled and headstrong and very full of my own importance—but I was never a villain.”

No, my darling, you weren't, I thought. You weren't nearly as bad as I believed you were. You were spoiled, true, and you were indeed full of your own importance, but your youth and your upbringing had a lot to do with that. You were an inveterate womanizer too, but why wouldn't you be, looking like a young god, women hurling themselves at you. You were never a villain, only a willful youth who eventually grew up and took on responsibilities and matured into a remarkable man. The rain splattered on the windowpanes, still making slippery patterns. The fire crackled, tiny flames consuming the log. Clinton's eyes were hard as he thought of those days gone by. I only saw one side of the picture, I thought, Hugh's side, and it was always colored by his bitterness and hatred.

“Hugh Bradford was consumed by his own obsession,” my husband informed me. “Somehow or other he had convinced himself that he was not illegitimate at all, that he was the rightful heir to Greystone Hall, that all the rest of us, his father included, had conspired to take it from him. It turned him into a vicious cur, as I said, and no one could help him. A cur only snaps at the hand that tries to pet or feed.”

“I—understand,” I replied.

“I detested him, I freely admit it, and I had good reason. We got into some rousing fights when we were children—I fear I taunted him, called him a beggar boy, a bastard. Children can be very cruel. When he wouldn't allow us to become friends, I decided we might as well be enemies—and we were. I just ignored him later on. I had more interesting things to do with my time than bait the sullen boy who cleaned the stables and lived over them.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now?”

“How—how do you feel about him now?”

Clinton hesitated a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful as he considered my question. His mouth tightened. “I try to be charitable,” he said, “but in his case it's difficult. I suppose I should feel pity for Hugh Bradford, for he was a pitiful figure, but I don't. I could never forgive him for what he did to my uncle. I haven't given it much thought in recent years, but I suppose I still hate his guts. Not very admirable of me, I'll admit, but that's the way I feel.”

His eyes were cool now, his mouth still tight, and I felt a chill inside me. He must never, never know about Hugh and me. It was the one thing he could never accept, I realized, the one thing that could seriously jeopardize our relationship. As gentle, as compassionate and understanding and intelligent as Clinton was, he could never come to terms with the fact that his wife had been in love with his bastard cousin, the man he held responsible for his uncle's death. Seeing the tight set of his mouth, the uncharacteristic coldness in his eyes, I felt the chill and felt afraid and felt a tremulous quiver in the pit of my stomach. I stood up, my skirts rustling crisply. All my years on the stage came to my aid, but I still found it difficult to speak in a normal, casual voice.

“You
do
look terribly tired, darling. You've been working much too hard these past few days. Why don't you have a nice hot bath, and then we'll have dinner. Henri is preparing pressed duck with orange sauce, I believe, with a salad of lettuce and marinated artichoke hearts—your favorite.”

“Sounds delicious. And after dinner?”

I moved over to him. I rested my palm on his cheek. His eyes were no longer cold. They were warm now, full of affection, and his mouth curved in a playful smile.

“We'll find something to do,” I said.

“I imagine we will.”

“I love you, Clinton,” I said. There was a catch in my voice. “I love you very much.”

“Convince me.”

He pulled me into his arms and tilted his head and kissed me for a long, long time, and I clung to him and finally pulled back. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes. His lips were parted, ready to savor mine again. I gently extricated myself from his arms.

“A bath first,” I said, “and then dinner and then, if you're not too weary, we might continue this upstairs.”

“You can count on it,” he told me.

It rained again the next day and the next, and then the gray sky cleared and the rain was gone and the land had a new-washed look and the air was full of the pungent scents of wet soil as I rode Cynara, both of us exhilarated by the exercise. The sky was a lighter gray, pale and pearly, cloudless, with a faint violet hue, and the earth was brown and gray and black with a few green accents. It was glorious to be out again, the cool breeze in my face, lifting my cloak behind me, my hair tumbling and flying. Clinton had apparently forgotten our talk about Hugh Bradford and was concentrating on finishing his paperwork so we could enjoy our stay in London. Orders had been forwarded to the staff on Hanover Square, and everything would be ready for us when we arrived a week from now.

“Enjoy your ride, Milady?” Ian asked when I returned to the stable.

“It was wonderful, Ian.”

He took my hand, helping me from the saddle.

“Cynara enjoyed it, too, I wager. Looks perky, she does. Did 'er good to get out. 'Is Lordship 'ad me take 'Ercules out for a bit of exercise this mornin', too, as 'e wasn't able to ride 'im 'imself.”

“I imagine Hercules appreciated that.”

“Appreciated it more that
I
did, I can tell you. Beast is so big an' so powerful, 'ad a 'ard time holdin' 'im back. Thought 'e was goin' to throw me off for sure. I was relieved as all get out to find all my bones intact when we got back.”

“Hercules
is
a bit frightening,” I said, handing him the reins. “I often worry he'll get too excited and bolt when my husband is riding him.”

“Oh, 'Is Lordship never 'as any trouble with 'im, Milady. 'E's the best rider I ever seen, 'andles 'Ercules like 'e was a baby.”

I stroked Cynara's damp cheek before Ian led her away. “Give her an extra portion of oats after you've groomed her, Ian. She's earned it.”

“I'll do that, Milady.”

Crossing the cobbled yard, I entered the house through the side door and took off my cloak, hanging it on a rack in the back hall, feeling flushed and glowing, feeling wonderful. It was almost time for lunch, and Clinton would be meeting me in the drawing room at twelve. A footman nodded to me as I entered the front foyer. I heard voices coming from the drawing room. Clinton was already there and … my word, we must have a guest! Who could it possibly be? I felt a moment of panic. My hair was still all atumble, and the hem of my garnet riding habit was spotted with flecks of mud. I couldn't conceivably meet anyone looking like this. As I moved toward the staircase, intending to go up and change, Clinton and another man came out into the foyer, both their faces grave indeed.

“—feel sure we haven't got anything to worry about,” the stranger was saying, “but it's going to be a dreadful nuisance, Milord, and it's going to consume a tremendous amount of your time.”

“He claims he has proof?”

“He claims to have, yes, but I've no doubt we'll be able to prove it insubstantial. He has a great deal of money, it seems, and he's hired the best advocates money can provide.”

“He hasn't hired you, Burke. I feel confident we'll win.”

“Thank you, Milord. I feel confident, too.”

Both of them saw me standing there by the staircase then. The stranger seemed embarrassed. Clinton looked vaguely perturbed, but good breeding came to the fore and, moving over to me, he took me by the hand and led me over to the stranger and performed introductions. The man's name was Jonathan Burke, and he was an advocate from London. Tall, lean, rather stern, he had coppery-red hair and grave brown eyes and looked to be in his early forties. He was soberly dressed in brown, a dark green neckcloth at his throat.

“I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Burke,” I said. “You're my husband's legal adviser?”

“I have that honor, Milady.”

“There—there isn't any problem, is there?”

“A minor matter,” Clinton said quickly. “Burke came down from London to apprise me of it. He was just leaving.”

“Surely you'll stay for lunch, Mr. Burke?”

“I'm afraid there's no time, Milady. I'm sorry about that. I would enjoy it immensely.”

His voice was deep and melodious and full of sincerity. Although still grave, his brown eyes were friendly. Burke might have a sober demeanor, but he was neither cool nor disapproving. I could tell that he admired me, and I suspected that he had seen Angel Howard perform on stage a number of times, a suspicion he confirmed later on. He said that it had been a pleasure meeting me and that he hoped to see me in London. I said I would look forward to it. Clinton led him to the door and stepped outside with him, and I moved on into the drawing room, both puzzled and disturbed.

I moved over to the fireplace, a terrible dread growing inside me. When Clinton came in, the expression on his face did nothing to reassure me. His eyes were a stony gray. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His cheeks were ashen. Burke had obviously arrived soon after I left for my ride. What had been important enough to bring him all the way from London for so brief a conference? Clinton stepped over to the liquor cabinet without speaking and poured himself a shot of brandy. I noticed that his hand was trembling as he lifted the glass to his lips. I had never seen him so upset.

“Clinton, what—what
is
it?”

He didn't answer. He drank the brandy and set the glass aside, and then he made a valiant effort to control himself. He took a deep breath and ran a hand across his brow, and then he sighed. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but each word might have been chiseled from ice.

“Hugh Bradford,” he said. “He has returned to England.”

Oh, dear God, I thought. Dear God, no.

“He's been in Italy, it seems, looking for proof that my uncle was legally wed to his mother. It took him almost two years, but he feels sure he has finally found that proof.”

“That—that's why Burke came to see you.”

He nodded curtly. “Bradford claims that he's the rightful heir to Greystone Hall and all the holdings.”

I thought sure my knees would give way beneath me. They didn't.

“My bastard cousin has gotten together a shrewd team of legal advisers,” Clinton said. “They're taking the case to court. The son of a bitch thinks he's going to become the new Lord Meredith.”