Brenda Hiatt (11 page)

Holly’s hands slid between them, and then beneath his dressing-gown to caress his back. Wildly, almost frantically, Hunt tugged at the ribbons securing her peignoir, breaking them when they did not give way at once. With a convulsive motion, he shrugged out of his dressing-gown, revelling in the feel of his unclothed length against hers.

Still Holly did not draw back. Instead she rubbed against him, her bare breasts against his chest igniting even hotter fires within him. He swept her up and bore her to the bed, joining her atop the quilts. Feeling he was about to explode, he entered her almost at once. She was wet and ready to receive him. They writhed together for a brief few moments, then gasped simultaneously at the blessed release.

Though his heartbeat gradually slowed, Hunt found he had no desire to return to reason—not yet. She felt so good, so right, in his arms. After a few minutes’ rest, he began to move within her again, this time more slowly.

Holly felt a thrill of surprise. Braced as she was for his withdrawal once his passion was spent, Hunt’s renewed caresses sent a wave of pleasure through her that went far beyond the physical sensations they aroused. That first coupling was all too easy to explain. Denied cravings had needed an outlet, for them both. She had been startled, but not really shocked at the violence of their joining.

But he was not leaving. Not yet. It must mean…His hand slid between them and she abruptly lost the desire, even the ability, to reason as she again gave herself up to passion.

N
OT UNTIL
Mabel’s tap came at the door did Hunt leave her. They had made love twice more, finally falling into a deep sleep, bodies still entwined. At the maid’s gentle knock, they both roused.

Holly looked up at the shadow that was Hunt’s face above her and felt herself blushing. She was glad it was not yet light enough for him to see her clearly. What could she say? What would he say? They had spoken scarcely a word to each other during their long, passionate night together.

“You’d best get ready to go,” he said huskily after a lengthy pause.

She nodded, unable to speak for the sudden pain that knifed through her. He still wanted her to leave.

“Much needs to be said between us,” he said, then, “but now is not the time.”

A tendril of hope curled through her. “Soon, though?” she managed to ask.

“I will be leaving for the Shires in two or three weeks for the hunting season. Perhaps by Christmas…” His voice trailed off, but she could hear the question in it.

“By Christmas,” she replied, more firmly than she felt.

He kissed her once more, hard, and then left her, disappearing so quickly through the dressing-room door that she almost wondered whether she had dreamed the whole night. But no, the bedclothes were scattered about, half of them on the floor, and her peignoir lay by her dressing-table, its ribbons broken. Hurriedly, she bundled the blankets back onto the bed and pulled the torn garment about her before calling out to Mabel that she could enter.

H
OLLY’S HOMECOMING
was not all that she could have wished, though it gave her a spurt of satisfaction to see Blanche’s face when she strode regally into the house, four servants in tow. She had dressed in her finest travelling gown and cloak for the occasion and had Mabel take especial pains with her hair, retouching it at the last stop. She knew she looked every inch the Marchioness of Vandover, and Blanche’s jealous expression confirmed it.

This time she intended to set the tone of her visit at the outset, making it clear that she was no longer at her older
sister’s beck and call. Looking at Blanche’s peevish, puffy face as she delivered a sour welcome, Holly wondered how she had ever held her sister in awe.

Since she had sent word ahead that she was coming, her sister had waited a late supper for her. “Maman is already abed,” Blanche told her as they took their seats. “I did not wish her to tire herself with fussing about tonight so I allowed her to believe you were to arrive tomorrow. ’Twould have made more sense, you realize, for you to stop at an inn and arrive here in the morning.”

Holly refused to apologize, even with her expression. “I look forward to seeing her then. You and she have been keeping well, I hope?”

“Maman is unequal to handling the estate on her own, nor have I the strength to manage it all.” Blanche assumed a martyred expression. “I have written to Upper Canada to tell Noel, but no doubt he is too busy to come. His most recent letter sounded as if he had not even read the one Maman sent him last month.”

The versatile Mary bustled in just then, serving soup and cold tongue. Holly waited until she had gone before speaking again, something she never would have thought to do before the dowager’s training.

“Maman’s letter may very well have been missent. I hear it happens often in wartime.”

Blanche sniffed, but after a few moments of silence she spoke again. “Have you met very many officers in London, then? A regiment was quartered here for a few weeks last summer, as Maman may have written you.”

Holly hid a smile. Her mother’s letter had also mentioned Blanche’s hopes of attaching one of the officers, she recalled. A circumstance which had plainly not come to pass. “A few,” she admitted, and proceeded to share some amusing stories of Town from last spring and summer.

Blanche contrived to appear disinterested, though her heightened complexion and occasional swift glances told
Holly that she was listening closely. For the first time in her life, Holly felt a little bit sorry for Blanche. She realized that despite her problems, her own life was far richer than her sister’s.

The next morning, even before Holly had dressed, her mother came to her room. “Mary tells me that you arrived last night, after all. Why did you not wake me?” she demanded, kissing her daughter effusively. “My! But it is good to have you home again.”

“’Tis good to see you, too, Maman,” said Holly, returning the embrace. “Blanche tells me that the two of you have trouble keeping up with the demands of the estate. Perhaps while I am here I may be of some help to you.”

Mrs. Paxton sighed gustily. “I fear I have no head for business or accounts, it is true. And though she insists she can manage things, poor Blanche is so delicate…”

Holly coughed politely. It had always rather amused her—and Noel, too, she remembered—when Blanche had used that excuse to avoid chores. She was still at it, apparently, her innate laziness warring with her penchant for control. “Of course, Maman. I will see what needs to be done.”

Though Blanche scoffed and found fault, Holly spent the greater part of the next few days going over the household accounts and consulting with the steward. There was no lack of funds, she found, simply a lack of efficient management. Putting her lessons with the dowager duchess to good use, she began to make some sorely needed changes.

While it gratified her to see the difference her efforts made, that was not the main reason for Holly’s industry. As long as she kept busy with such things, she had little time for thought—or despondency.

During the first part of her fourteen-hour drive from London, she had been buoyed by hope after the passionate goodbye she and Hunt had shared. But then, as hour followed dreary hour and she left him farther and farther behind,
her spirits drooped. She recalled instead the angry words they had exchanged a week ago.

She feared no amount of passion could erase those memories from her mind—or his. At best, it merely covered the wounds with a thin bandage, hiding them. Still, she was more hopeful than she had been the day before she left London. Hunt had almost promised they would see each other before Christmas. And every day brought more and more good news from abroad; the French had been crushed near Leipzig, and it was rumoured that Paris would fall soon. Surely, by Christmas all need for secrecy would be past.

She was reflecting happily on such thoughts during a brief rest from a morning of preparing baskets for the needy. As she sat in the parlour waiting for Mary to bring in the tea tray, Blanche came in, just returned from a shopping expedition in the village.

“I brought the morning post,” she announced loftily. “Here is one for you,
Lady Vandover,
from London.” She handed Holly the letter, then pointedly turned her attention to the others she held.

Holly grimaced. Blanche seemed to get a perverse pleasure in calling her by her title and she had given up telling her to stop. Shrugging, she turned her attention to her letter. It was addressed not in Hunt’s hand, as she had hoped, but in his mother’s. Disappointedly she broke the seal, but after reading only the first few lines she gasped and dropped the letter into her lap.

“What is it?” Blanche could not disguise her curiosity. “You’ve gone quite white, I declare. Is it bad news?”

“Hunt has been arrested.” Feeling as though she had been punched in the stomach, Holly struggled to breathe normally. “He is accused…of treason!”

H
OLLY ROSE QUICKLY
. “I must return to London at once! Blanche, ring for Mary, do.”

“Had you not better read the entire letter first?” suggested her sister practically, gesturing at the sheets that had fallen to the floor, her expression almost sympathetic. “Perhaps things are not so bad as they sound.”

Holly stopped halfway to the parlour door. “Oh! Yes, I—I suppose so.” Though her every instinct screamed at her to hurry, she forced herself to concentrate as she perused the remainder of the lengthy missive.

Hunt had been seized outside Wickburn House two nights since and searched. The duchess did not know the details of what had happened, as she had been away from home at the time, but she and the duke were informed that the marquess was being held on suspicion of passing classified information to the French.

It is Hunt’s wish, that you remain in Derbyshire for the present. In fact, he is most adamant on that point. No doubt he is right, for you would not wish to be involved in the inevitable scandal attending his arrest. But pray be easy—Wickburn is conducting a full investigation, and will never allow his heir to be executed for what must surely be a false accusation.

Fondly, etc., Camilla Wickburn

Holly sank back into the chair she had quitted so violently a moment ago. “Hunt…Hunt wishes me to stay here,” she said woodenly. “The duchess speaks of scandal, but I care nothing for that.” Suddenly she rose again, crushing the letter between her fists. “No, I must go! I must discover—” Decisively, she rang the bell herself.

Blanche stared, quite obviously at a loss. “But Lord Vandover said you were to stay here,” she protested weakly. “Surely you will not disobey him—and the
duchess?”

Holly set her mouth into a firm line, her eyes now quite dry. “I must, if ever I expect to become a duchess myself. Ah, Mary, here you are! Pray send word to the stables that my coach is to be made ready, and then go up and help Mabel to pack my things. I intend to leave for London within the hour.”

“H
AVE YOU NOTHING
to say in your defence?” the frustrated barrister demanded, raking one hand through his mousy hair. One of the best King’s Counsels in England, the man was being well paid by the Duke of Wickburn to defend his son from the outrageous charges against him. But his client was making his job extremely difficult.

“Only that I am no traitor,” replied Hunt stubbornly.

“Then why will you not tell me how that letter came to be found on your person? You do not even deny writing it yourself.”

Hunt said nothing. Though a few simple words would clear him, those same words could conceivably send his wife to the gallows.

On the day of his arrest, he had received an anonymous note saying that Lady Vandover had been seen accepting a letter from a known French agent the week before. Hunt had not believed it, of course, but with the investigation going so poorly, he could not afford to overlook any clue that might lead to the traitor. He had gone home at once to search Holly’s chamber.

When he discovered the coded letter, Hunt’s first feeling, incredibly, was one of relief. Holly hadn’t been betraying him with another man. The morning he had caught her returning to the house so stealthily, she must have been meeting the French agent mentioned in the note. And it had probably been another such letter that he had caught her burning last May.

But hard on the heels of relief came fear. Treason, after all, was a capital offence. Holly was half-French. For all he knew, she had family or friends who supported Napoleon. He remembered, too, the time she had attempted to talk him out of pursuing the investigation. Putting the letter in his pocket, he left Wickburn House to take a walk and think things through. Before he had gone half a block, however, he had been arrested and searched. The letter had been found.

Since then he had said almost nothing. Traitor or no, he would not send Holly to the gallows if his silence could prevent it. He himself was in no real danger, he was certain, even though his refusal to defend himself might lengthen his stay in prison and blast his chances for advancement in the Foreign Office.

He had to admit, though, that the evidence against him was hardly trifling. The experts had not yet been able to completely break the code used in the letter they had found, but they were confident that they soon would. And his position in the Foreign Office made him a perfectly reasonable suspect, particularly since he might be considered to have benefited by Lord Meecham’s death…

His defence counselor let out a gusty sigh. “Lord Vandover, you cannot expect me to have the charges against you dismissed if you are unwilling to cooperate. It looks exceedingly bad, you must understand.”

Hunt merely shrugged, and the man rose from his place across the narrow table in the centre of the marquess’s
quarters—the most luxurious available in the King’s Bench, though still depressingly Spartan.

“I shall leave you, then. Pray reconsider, my lord, when I return this afternoon.”

His face an impassive mask, Hunt watched him go. Scarcely two minutes passed before his father entered.

“Northrup informs me you are being most recalcitrant, my boy!” exclaimed the duke. He glanced around the little chamber and apparently decided against seating himself. “Why will you not tell him what he needs to know?”

Hunt ignored the question, instead enquiring, “Has Camilla yet received a response from my wife?”

Forgetting his earlier reservations, the duke sat heavily in the chair the barrister had just quitted, a worried frown on his broad brow. “Not yet. It must have been quite a shock for her, my lad. Give her time.”

Hunt stared past his father at the bars on the windows, a constant reminder that this was not the inn room it otherwise appeared to be. Had Holly’s apparent affection for him been false, as well? He didn’t want to believe it, but if she would not even write…It appeared his wife was more of a stranger to him than he had thought.

“Yes. Of course,” he said bleakly as another piece of his heart died within him.

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN
, I cannot go to see him?” After travelling all night in order to reach London early in the day, Holly had already been frustrated in the extreme to wait idly at Wickburn House until one of the family returned. Now she vented that frustration on the duchess. “Of course I must see him—he is my husband!”

“Now, my dear, pray do not take on so.” Camilla’s soothing tone had quite the opposite effect, making Holly bristle with impatience. “Even I have not been allowed to visit at the prison. Ladies don’t, you know.”

“Is that a law?” Holly demanded.

“Well…not in the
legal
sense, I suppose, for some of the lower orders imprisoned there do have their wives in to visit. But ’twould be most scandalous. Hunt would never forgive you—or me, either, I daresay. He’s been extremely, ah, moody since his arrest, Wickburn tells me.”

Holly considered that quite understandable. But plainly she would get no further with her mother-in-law, whose concern for the proprieties was as firmly entrenched as Hunt’s. “Is Reginald expected home soon?” she asked the duchess, as calmly as she could.

“Oh! He is at the Academy, as always. Shall I send a message round to him?” Camilla was all affability, now that Holly seemed to have conceded her point.

“Yes, thank you. I should like to speak to him. He
has
seen Hunt, I take it?”

“Nearly every day.” The duchess nodded, smiling. “I’ll send a footman at once.”

Less than half an hour later, Reginald burst into the parlour where Holly waited, relief evident on his face. Holly scarcely noticed his expression, for just behind him Mr. Teasdale strolled into the room.

“You
are
here!” Reginald exclaimed. “I told Hunt you would come, but he didn’t believe me.”

Holly’s attention swung back to her brother-in-law. “Do you mean he sent for me? Your mother said he did not wish me to come to London.”

Reginald looked uncomfortable. “Oh, well…he didn’t
send
for you, precisely. And that is what he
says.
But I think he must secretly have been hoping you would. Stands to reason, after all. You’re his wife.”

Holly had to smile at Reginald’s straightforward naïvety. Plainly he had no inkling of how deep the rift between her and Hunt had become. On that thought, she glanced back to Teasdale, now seated a short distance from her. Though she’d been surprised to see him, it was as well he had come—it saved her hunting him down.

Reginald followed her glance. “Teasdale happened to be at the Academy when the messenger came, and offered to be of assistance,” he explained. Teasdale nodded calmly. “He’s been a great support to Mother—and to me—during this horrible affair. Why, I can scarcely paint for thinking over what could…That is to say…” He stopped, apparently realizing that his words were scarcely comforting.

“Reg, dear,” Holly said quickly, “would you be a dear and run to tell Cook to send up a tea tray? I know it’s not the time for it, but I feel a need for something sustaining.”

He fairly shot from his chair. “Certainly, certainly. Could use a bit of something myself, now you come to mention it. I’ll see to it personally.”

The moment he was gone, Holly addressed Teasdale without preamble, her voice low but fierce. “You said that my husband was in no danger, sir. If you adhere so poorly to your bargains, surely you do not expect me to honour mine. You cannot have thought I would remain silent, protecting you, while Hunt goes to the gallows.”

To her amazement, Teasdale smiled. “My dear madam, your husband is in no danger, no danger at all—so long as you
do
remain silent.”

“No danger?” She was incredulous. “How can you say so? He stands accused of treason!”

“The evidence against him is trifling. With that alone, a conviction is virtually impossible.”

“So it is as I thought—you are responsible for his arrest. And what is this ‘trifling’ evidence? If ’twas enough to get him arrested…”

He shook his head. “I merely whispered into a few ears. A rumour is a powerful thing in wartime, you must realize. I needed Vandover out of the way for a few weeks so that I could make my own, ah, arrangements without interference. But as for the nature of the evidence, why, you provided it yourself, my lady.”

“I?” she gasped.

“You do recall the letter from your brother you insisted I give you. I rather feared you might have taken it with you when you left London, but ’twas all I could think of in a pinch. Vandover was getting closer than even he realized with his investigation. Luckily for him—and for you—you left the letter behind so that he was able to find it.”

“Noel’s letter?” Holly felt more confused than enlightened. She had forgotten all about that letter, and tried now to recall what it had said. “There was nothing in that letter to imply any sort of treasonous activities on the part of Hunt or my brother. I’d have burned it else.”

“Precisely why your husband stands in no real danger, my lady. That letter alone cannot convict him. However, there is certain other evidence I could make available to the authorities that would—if I were moved to do so.”

“What other evidence? Hunt has done nothing and well you know it!”

His smile became even nastier. “For a price, some people can be persuaded to say—or write—almost anything. As I said, during wartime it takes little to arouse fear. And certain Foreign Office officials are by now exceedingly anxious to find a scapegoat.”

Holly blanched. She had no doubt that was true—or that Teasdale would carry out his vile threat if he believed it would save him.

“I see you understand me,” he said smoothly. “And in case your husband’s life is not enough of an inducement, there is also your brother’s—or had you forgotten him?”

With a guilty start, Holly realized she had. She had not thought of Noel—her dear twin—since hearing of Hunt’s arrest. “What of him?”

“I have also ample evidence of his treasonous activities in France. The war will be over soon, by all accounts. ’Tis why I need these few weeks to make other plans for my own future. Your brother will wish to return to England when he can be of no further use to Napoleon.”

“Noel is no traitor,” she stated firmly.

“My sources say otherwise.”

She would not,
could
not believe it! But if Teasdale had falsified information against Hunt, he might well have fabricated documents implicating Noel, as well.

“It seems you hold all the cards, Mr. Teasdale,” she said at last. “I have only my word for the vile things you have said and done. Set against your falsified ‘evidence’ I suppose that would not count for much.”

“You are very wise, Lady Vandover. I suspected that all along. But as I said, the war will likely be over soon. By then I intend to have begun a new life for myself, perhaps in the southern continent of America. Once I am gone, you are free to mend your fences with your husband—if you can.”

At that moment Holly hated Teasdale more than she had ever known herself capable of hating. “You have made that rather doubtful. If there is justice in the world, whatever ship you board will sink to the bottom of the ocean. May your death be lingering and painful when it comes, Mr. Teasdale.”

For a moment he looked almost shaken, but he recovered at once. “It is natural you should feel that way, I suppose. But while I await my demise, I recommend that you await your husband’s release from a safe distance. Go back to Derbyshire, my lady. Send no letters, no messages, to Vandover. That way I will have no cause to suspect you of repenting of our agreement prematurely.”

Holly’s spurt of defiance evaporated, to be replaced by despair. If Teasdale told the truth, then indeed Hunt’s life—and Noel’s—would be safe. But her relationships with either of them could never be the same again. Her life’s happiness was the sacrifice required for their lives’ continuance. So be it. “I will return to Derbyshire tomorrow,” she said dully, just as Reginald’s returning footsteps sounded in the hall. “No letters.”

“S
URELY YOU CAN STAY
just a few days to rest before undertaking the journey back,” Reginald insisted. He still could not comprehend his sister-in-law’s sudden decision to leave, especially after his mother had told him how adamant she had been at first to see Hunt. “I can carry messages to Hunt for you,” he offered.