Barbara Metzger (10 page)

In her mind she’d known how it would be. You can’t play cards with the devil and not come away smelling of fire and brimstone. St. Sevrin had gone to London, so there was hope that she’d won; but, either way, she’d lost. She’d lost her innocence by selling herself, even if it was for the best of causes.

Besides, she was too old. Fairy tales were for children, with their wide-eyed sense of wonder. Children knew how to play; adults forgot.

In Lisanne’s mind she understood. She even knew she’d been fortunate longer than most. In her heart, though, she felt abandoned. “It isn’t fair,” she cried the eternal lament into the void. “I did it for you. Please don’t leave me alone like this! I cannot help growing older. Please. Without you I have nothing.”

Under the ages-old trees, where violets tried to find a patch of sunlight, Lisanne cried for her lost parents, her lost childhood. She faced a terrifying future with a dangerous stranger, or an equally uncertain future without him, under her uncle’s domination. The only creature in the world who cared about her was her dog, whose motley fur was soon damp with the first tears Lisanne had cried since her mother’s death.

Like a newborn crying at being thrust from her safe womb into the world for the first time, Lisanne lay on the forest floor and sobbed her heartbreak.

She didn’t know how long she wept there, and she never heard his footsteps. Becka didn’t even growl when strong arms reached for Lisanne and lifted her into his lap, cuddling her against his chest while he leaned back against a tree trunk. St. Sevrin let her cry her fill, even though her tears were soaking through his shirt in front, and the tree’s rough bark was digging into his skin in back. And Becka was drooling on his Hessian boots.

“Everyone has left me” was all he could understand between her wrenching sobs.

“Ah, and I feared you were crying because I came back.”

“But, but my friends are all gone.” She tried to move from his embrace to find a handkerchief, but he already had one to hand, knowing how long it would take her to sort through the clutter in her pockets.

He gently wiped her eyes. “I’ll be your friend, sweetings. I haven’t much practice at it, but I’ll try.”

She took the cloth from him and blew her nose, not a delicate gesture. Since she was already covered in dirt and debris from the forest floor—as was St. Sevrin now—one more inelegance didn’t count, to Sloane’s thinking.

Coming upon her crying in the woods, all splotchy-faced and disheveled, St. Sevrin felt something twist in his guts. Women’s tears hadn’t moved him in ages, manipulative and on cue as they usually were, yet these sobs had brought him to his knees literally and figuratively. He didn’t know the problem, only that he had to protect her, even if from himself. Whatever was wrong, he’d make right.

This new feeling of protectiveness wasn’t passion, which the duke was used to, or even casual attraction. It was more like brotherly affection, paternal almost, which was not a comfortable role for him. Sloane did not want to think of Lisanne as a child, as too young for his attentions. If comforting was what she needed, however, comforting was what she’d get.

As she sat there in his lap with his arms around her, though, Sloane could feel her rounded bottom against his thighs, her softness against his chest. She was not a child, he told himself. It was her small stature that was deceiving, and her thinness. Lady Lisanne was not his sister, daughter, or ward. She was the woman he was prepared to marry if she’d still have him, if she wasn’t crying at the mare’s nest she’d dug up with her offer.

“What, is the idea of being a duchess so terrible, then?” he asked. “Or just my duchess?”

She sniffed and squirmed off his lap to a position across from him, sitting cross-legged in the leaf mold, her skirts hiked up past her ankles. “You decided, then.”

“Only if you’re still sure it’s what you want. You can back out now, Baroness, and I’ll understand.”

The magic was lost to her either way, but the forest would be safe. She didn’t even hesitate, especially when the duke had shown how gentle he could be holding her. If there was an ounce of tenderness in this war hero turned rake, that was one ounce more than Uncle Alfred possessed. “I am sure.”

“Then, here.” He reached into his coat pocket for a small jewel box and opened it to show her a gold ring with a pearl surrounded by tiny diamonds. “It’s the lightest ring in the St. Sevrin collection. The emeralds would have weighed you down,
ma petite.”

“It’s lovely.” Lisanne started to admire the ring on her finger until she realized the duke was trying not to laugh at her dirty hands and ragged fingernails. She hid both hands and ring in her skirts. “But do you mean you have a fortune in gems somewhere? Why ever didn’t you sell them to pay your bills?”

“The entail, of course. Cousin Humbert would be after me with a court order before the ink was dry on the jeweler’s check. I did take the lot ’round to Rundell and Bridges for cleaning while I was at the vault, to make sure my esteemed father hadn’t switched them for paste. You can have them reset later. And Mackensie says he’s holding a box full of your mother’s jewelry for your request, too, so you’ll outshine all the other sprites in your forest.”

Lisanne didn’t want to talk about the forest. “Then he gave his permission?”

“Reluctantly, but yes. Your estate was even larger than you thought, so a goodly portion of it is being tied up for you and your progeny, besides Neville Hall and its income. I told him to add a codicil to keep your father’s title from being absorbed into the dukedom, naming our second son to the barony.”

“Or daughter.”

“Or daughter,” he agreed. “See? I’m really an easy fellow to get along with.” Especially when handed a fortune to rival Golden Ball’s.

“And Sevrin Woods?” she had to ask.

“Mackensie’s writing a book, it seems. I’d be surprised if a crow will be allowed to nest in one of the trees without your permission when he’s done.”

“That’s it, then.” She was relieved, of course, but anxious. “When? That is, how soon…?”

“Until the execution? Poor poppet, between the devil and the deep blue sea, are you?”

“Oh, no, you mustn’t think I’m having second thoughts.”

“Third and fourth ones, too, if you’ve any common sense.” He patted his inside pocket. “The venerable Mr. Mackensie helped me get a special license. We can be wed as soon as you wish.”

“Soon, then. You’ll be wanting to settle your accounts and start the renovations.”

“No fancy June wedding?” He couldn’t imagine this ragtag urchin at a grand social event at St. George’s, but it was her money, her wedding. He had to ask.

“No, if we marry now, there’s still time for spring planting if you get the tenant farmers back.”

He nodded. “Practical little puss. I’ll go speak to Uncle Alfred this very afternoon.”

“No, you mustn’t! He won’t allow it.”

“He cannot stop it. And I’m not about to steal you away from him like a thief in the night. I don’t want the sheriff coming after me for kidnapping an heiress, and I don’t want anyone thinking this was some hole-in-corner affair.”

“But he’ll ruin everything. You don’t know him.”

“No, Baroness, he doesn’t know me. If he causes any problems, we’ll make other plans. Don’t look for trouble.” The marriage itself was going to be hard enough, heaven knew. “Now come, sweetings, a smile. I hear you can charm the birds out of the trees. Is it true?”

Lisanne did manage a wan smile. She pulled a heel of bread out of her pocket and played a few notes on her flute. “Be very quiet.” Soon enough, little black and white birds came and took crumbs out of her hand.

When the crumbs were all gone, St. Sevrin kissed her hand, dirt and all. “I bet no other duchess can do that.”

He stood to leave, brushing at the damp spot where he’d been sitting. Now he’d have to go back to the Priory and change clothes before calling on Sir Alfred. Kelly was going to have a fit.

As he turned to go, Lisanne asked, “How did you find me? No one else ever comes through the forest. I could have been anywhere.”

“It wasn’t hard. There was a path right from the edge of the Priory’s old lawns. I can’t imagine how I missed it the morning after your visit.”

Lisanne could. It hadn’t been there then. So she wasn’t quite alone after all.

*

The duke sent his card in. Then, to make sure Sir Alfred didn’t deny his presence, he followed the niffy-naffy butler into an airy parlor done in the Chinese style. An older woman was pouring tea for Findley, a chinless youth, and a plump miss who was obviously and unfortunately the spotted Esmé, all rigged out in the height of fashion. The ladies’ gowns were made in London by a French modiste, if Sloane didn’t miss his guess.

Findley took the card from the butler’s silver salver and cursed when he read the name. “St. Sevrin, damn his effrontery in calling at a decent house. Pomfrey, tell the makebait I’m not—” Sir Alfred stood abruptly when he saw who stood behind the butler in the doorway. “Why, Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure.”

St. Sevrin made his bows, murmuring some fustian about calling on neighbors, while Sir Alfred begrudged the introductions without offering tea. Out of spite, Sloane raised Esmé’s hand to his lips and lingered over her baby-fat fingers. Not until he thought Lady Cherise was about to have palpitations and Sir Alfred to have conniptions, did he release the pudgy hand. At least the chit’s face was now so red you couldn’t see the spots. Sloane asked for a moment of the baronet’s time, on a private matter. Sir Alfred was only too happy to get him away from his starry-eyed peagoose of a daughter.

There was no sign of Lisanne until they moved to a small room, apparently the estate office. St. Sevrin could spot the baroness out of the corner of his eye, standing behind a large potted fern in the hall. She’d changed her gown to another unhappy selection, an ill-fitted beige lutestring that looked like a grain sack with a bow around it, an unevenly tied, frayed bow at that. Her uncle didn’t acknowledge her presence, didn’t bother making an introduction, as if she were a servant. Of course the servants all wore immaculate livery, not rags.

Sloane noted how everything in the house was of the first stare, right down to the smuggled cognac Sir Alfred offered. He declined in favor of keeping a clear head, but he did accept a seat opposite the baronet at the handsome cherry-wood desk.

“I hear you are interested in selling off your timber.” Sir Alfred was making conversation while letting his own glass of cognac settle his nerves. “Sorry I can’t be of service, but the man in Honiton is supposed to be reputable. He’ll give you a fair price.”

St, Sevrin adjusted his cuffs. “Oh, I am no longer interested in selling off the home woods. I won’t need to, after I marry your niece.”

Sir Alfred jumped up, overturning the inkwell on the desk. “What did you say? Never! I wouldn’t give permission for a basket scrambler like you to get within five feet of her. I know my duty to my dead sister’s child better than that.” He stomped over to the door and called for a servant. “Clean this mess. And show this man out.”

The footman who entered looked at the spreading black puddle, then he looked at the black expression on the duke’s face. “I’ll be fetching some rags, milord.”

He didn’t come back, which St. Sevrin thought was a shame;
it really
was a lovely
old desk.
“I have Mackensie’s permission, you know. I am here only for the formality of the thing.”

“He’s not her guardian!” Sir Alfred was growing red in the face. “He cannot make that decision.”

Lisanne came in then. She did not look at the duke, but addressed her uncle. “Mr. Mackensie didn’t make the decision, sir. I did.”

“What? You? How the deuce did you ever see him? I’ll have your hide for disobeying me, you wretched brat. I told you to stay away.”

“I wouldn’t advise such intemperance, Findley. I do protect what is mine, you know.” No emotion showed on the duke’s face now, but his voice was quiet, sinister.

Findley didn’t take the warning. “She’s not yours, blast you, and never will be! What, are you going to claim you’ve fallen top over trees with this…this ragamuffin? The dustman wouldn’t have her!”

Sloane took his eyes from Findley’s beaked nose, which he was going to flatten if the man didn’t shut up soon. He glanced at Lisanne, who had gone pale enough that a row of freckles stood out on her cheeks and her eyes were wide with distress. He saw all those other children who haunted his nightmares, their hungry, hopeless eyes.

“Nevertheless, I aim to have her.”

“Over my dead body!”

“It’s coming to that, you clodpole,” the duke muttered under his breath, but Sir Alfred was too enraged to hear. He turned to Lisanne with his ranting: “And you, Annie, do you want to tie yourself to a rake and a wastrel, a degenerate womanizer? Why, the man’s nothing but a fortune hunter. You’d be penniless in a month. He’ll have his whores at your breakfast table, wager your house or your services on the turn of a card.”

St. Sevrin stood and leaned threateningly over the desk, one hand on either side of the ink blot, prepared to slam this maggot’s face into the mess.

It was Lisanne, though, who quietly interjected: “He may be all of those things, and worse, Uncle, but I doubt he has ever struck a woman.”

Findley’s face turned purple now, and St. Sevrin had all he could do not to strangle the man as the import of her words sank in. “Enough, sirrah. Lady Lisanne and I have come to an agreement that suits both our needs. We do not require your blessing. At this point I do not even care for your presence at the wedding. I have fulfilled my honor-bound duty in advising you.” He stepped back to leave.

Sir Alfred called him back. “I’ll fulfill mine, Duke, by telling you what a Smithfield bargain you’ll be getting. What do you think, that Annie is some pretty little rustic tomboy you can dress up and teach to make polite conversation? Well, it can’t be done. God knows I’ve tried. Annie’s no hoyden, no high-spirited filly. She’s a lunatic, that’s what!”

Now
he remembered the rumors. Sloane stared at Lisanne while her uncle continued his harangue. Damn, he knew this deal was too good to be true. He murmured to himself,
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”