Diamonds and Dreams (41 page)

Goldie felt very confused. Not only didn’t
she have legs, she didn’t have the rest of her body either. Needing
something of Saber near her for reassurance, she picked up her gold
brush from the dressing table, holding it to her breast. “He gave
this to me. He’s given me a lot.”

Lucille smiled at the luminous expression in
Goldie’s eyes. “What else, besides the brush, has he given you, my
dear?”

Goldie looked at both women. “His company.
He makes me feel so special. When I’m with him, he treats me so
nice. He hardly ever gets mad at me, but even when he does, it’s
always for a good reason. And he never stays mad for long. ‘Course
now I get mad at him too. I’m not afraid of him anymore, y’see.
When I first met him, I didn’t know how to act with him. But as
time went on, he made me feel more comfortable. Now I can get
madder’n hell at him, and I’m not afraid of what he’ll do to
me.”

“Goldie, ladies do not swear,” Clara
scolded. “But tell me, child. You don’t fear his anger at all?” she
asked, remembering the many people who did.

“Nope. Not anymore. Saber tries to act like
a tornado, but he’s really nothin’ but a breeze. And he’s a lot of
fun too. At least he is when he’s not in one of his arrogant
moods.”

“Fun?” Clara asked anxiously. “How is he
fun?” She leaned forward in her chair.

“Well, he likes to play in the mud. He’d
never admit it in a million years, but the day we had our mud fight
he was havin’ a good time. And he likes to cook. I mean to tell you
he can make good bread. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.
He’ll talk about his bread for hours if you let him. And sometimes
he likes to talk about the things he did when he was a little boy.
Things like makin’ dandelion stew and sleepin’ with his mama and
daddy when it was thunderin’. But most of all, I reckon, he likes
to laugh. I do too. That’s why we get along. I’ll swannee, we’re
always laughin’ over somethin’.”

“He spoke of his
parents
to you?”
Clara asked, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“And his childhood?” Lucille asked.

“He played in the mud?” Clara queried, her
hand over her heart.

“And made bread?” Lucille inquired, twisting
her bracelet.

“And he laughs with you?” Clara continued.
“My!”

“It seems that you and our boy have gotten
along famously,” Lucille speculated.

Clara stared at Goldie, a multitude of
thoughts running through her shrewd mind. She smiled. “Goldie, my
dear, Addison has told us about your need to turn Saber into a
duke. I wonder if you would like our assistance with that?”

“Do y’all know duke stuff?” Goldie asked
anxiously.

“We know good manners,” Lucille informed
her, realizing what her sister was up to. “Manners befitting a
duke. Ever since we came into Addison’s care, we have had the good
fortune to become acquainted with many elegant people. Our contact
with them has taught us the proper mode of decorum.”

Clara smiled at her sister’s tales, deciding
to elaborate on them. “Once, we even dined with the third cousin of
the Duke of Brentford! And what a lovely woman she is.”

“Great day Miss Agnes!”

“So would you like for us to teach you what
we know, Goldie?” Lucille asked.

“Yes!” Goldie squealed.

“Lesson number one,” Clara said, “is never
squeal.”

“Not even when I’m real excited?”

“When you are excited,” Lucille began, “you
may laugh with quiet delight.”

While Goldie and Rosie practiced laughing
with quiet delight, Clara rose, examining Goldie with a critical
eye. It would take a lot of work, she realized. Many long, grueling
hours of lessons. But it could be done, Clara decided, and was
determined to do it. After all, the girl who could get Marion
Tremayne to play in mud, bake bread, laugh, and speak of his
parents was worth all the effort it would take.

And so, Clara mused, while Goldie turned
Marion into a “duke,” Clara and Lucille would turn Goldie into a
lady.

* * *

From the bedroom window at Ravenhurst, Dane
looked out over the estate, his gaze settling on the moonlit
village. He could see the thatched roofs of the cottages, but could
not make out the Maes’. “Everything is going wrong,” he
seethed.

Still glaring at the night-shrouded
Hallensham, he thought of Big. The dwarf had returned. How was it
possible? Dane raged. And the girl...was she dead?

Dora crept out of bed and sidled up next to
him, pressing her bare breasts against his back. “Let me make it
right fer ya, milord. Ye knows I can do it. Close yer eyes, an’
I’ll be yer Lady Hutchins.”

Dane spun and glared at her. “I will not
close my eyes! You don’t understand! The dwarf’s back, and the girl
isn’t! It could be that she actually found
him
, and now
they’re after me! It’s possible I might lose everything that’s
mine!”

With that, Dane raced downstairs. Once in
the drawing room, he proceeded to light every candle in it. He
grabbed a bottle of brandy, pacing while he drank. “Something must
be done,” he told himself. “Yes, something...”

He passed the piano and set his brandy
bottle down on it. Seating himself upon the velvet-covered piano
seat, he smoothed his hair, then began to play a strain from a
Beethoven concerto. “Remember when you showed me how to play this,
my love?” he asked, his eyes closing as his mind filled with
memories. “You didn’t want to teach me. Why not? I had to make you.
But weren’t you proud of me when I learned to play your favorite
melody?”

His fingers stilled upon the keys. “You did
so many things wrong, my love. But I forgave you.”

Softly, he began the concerto again,
stopping at a certain section and playing it over and over.
“William! You know nothing of what has happened, and you’ll be
arriving from Cornwall soon! You’ll come here, and they might catch
you, too! Maybe they’re already on their way!”

Now he was banging on the keys, seized by
hysteria, his chest heaving as he gulped in ragged breaths. “Oh,
William, my friend, I can’t let them catch us! I have to protect
you so that you, in turn, can guard what’s rightfully mine! I’ll
speak to Ferris. He hasn’t killed the girl. I know he hasn’t. I
must go to London and do it myself. The girl. Goldie. Bitch! Try
and outwit me, will you? Yes, yes, you must die!”

He jumped from the seat, his fists pumping.
“Dora!”

Within moments Dora came scurrying into the
room.

Dane closed his eyes. Taking her into his
arms, he grew strangely calm and contained. “I am leaving for a
while, my dear. I have some vitally important business to attend
to. But if the villagers know I am gone, they will become lazy.
Without me here to oversee them, they simply will not work. My
dear, tomorrow I would like you to inform all of Hallensham that I
have taken ill. Tell them I am in my bed, but that I will be
recovering shortly. Will you do that for me, Lady Hutchins?”

Dora purred and removed her wrapper. “I will
milord,” she promised, rubbing herself against him.

“And when I return from my trip, my dear, we
will have our house redecorated.”

“Oh, milord! Can we have our bedroom done in
crimson an’ white? Ya knows I always wanted it ter be like
that.”

Dane kept his eyes closed, concentrating on
the woman’s image in his mind. “You’ve changed your decision then?
I was under the impression you wanted it done in green and gold.
Well, no matter. You are lady of the manor and may choose whatever
your heart desires. I have also decided to open the closed
bedrooms. All of them will be cleaned and refurbished. It only
seems wise to get them ready for our children. I want children. I
want an heir.”

Dora nearly fainted with pleasure. “I’ll
give ya as many as ya can fill me with, milord.”

“Yes,” Dane whispered, lowering her to the
floor and parting his robe. “And we will start now. Here. Tonight,
I will do you the extreme honor of giving you my son.”

He pushed into her, burying himself deeply.
“I love you, my dear,” he grunted into her ear. “I will always love
you, my beautiful Angelica.”

* * *

Diggory took another bite of the potato
impaled on his dagger. “Yer not tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t knows,
Og. Three people ’ave already tole me they’ve seed a girl wot
looked like ’er. She was in a coach a while back. Sleepin’ on the
seat, she was. Some bleedin’ nob was with ’er.”

Og shuffled his feet on the filthy floor of
Diggory’s room, shivering with cold fear. “But I knows where she
lives
, Diggory,” he repeated.

Diggory swallowed his potato. “Wot about the
blastie she’s supposed ter be with?”

Og bit his lower lip. “I ain’t never seed
the midget.”

Diggory wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve.
“Tell me again. Everything from beginnin’ to end.”

Og nodded. “I seed ’er with Rosie Tetter.
She was little, jest like ya said she’d be. She ’ad yellow ’air,
an’ she talked strange, like she weren’t from ’ere. Rosie made it
all real easy, Diggory. ’Er an’ the girl must be friends. See, I
followed Rosie t’other day, an’ she went to a big ’ouse wot’s on
the corner o’ Pickerin’ an’ Landon. She walked up the steps jest as
calm as ya please. When she knocked, the blonde chit opened a
upstairs window, ’anged out of it, an’ was wavin’ ter Rosie. Then
Rosie was let inside the ’ouse, she was. It was ’er, Diggory. The
girl ya’ve been lookin’ fer. I can takes ya ter where she is.”

Diggory pulled his knife from the potato,
wiping it on his filthy breeches. “Why should I do the job when ya
can friggin’ do it fer me, Og? It’s a simple job, it is. Do it, an’
bring me ’er body. An’ if ya find the blastie, I want ’im too.”

Og could barely contain his glee. “An’ will
ya pay me, Diggory?”

Diggory smiled and ran a finger across the
flat side of his dagger. “I’ll pay ya, Og. Ye’ll get exactly wot ya
deserve.”

* * *

Saber leaned back against the carriage seat.
Though he and Goldie were riding through an elegant part of London,
he felt they were safe enough within the closed compartment of the
rented coach.

He looked at Goldie, who sat across from
him, and tried to remember the last time they’d shared anything
remotely related to intimacy. What with the aunties always hovering
about, private moments with her were few and far between.

But they were alone now, weren’t they? he
reminded himself with a grin. Devising a scheme of seduction, he
watched Goldie pat her hair. His eyes narrowed at the sight. “Why
do you have your hair like that?” he demanded suddenly.

She turned her face from the window,
touching the knot of hair at the nape of her neck again. “It’s
called a chignon. You don’t like it?”

“No. I like your curls bobbing all over your
head.”

“But this is a proper way for a lady to wear
her hair.”

“Who told you that?” he asked, as if he
didn’t already know.

“Your aunts. They’re teachin’ me stuff about
customs and manners. Rosie’s learnin’ too.” She leaned against the
window.

“Goldie, don’t press so hard against the
window,” Saber admonished. “I realize you don’t want to miss a
single detail about the dukish people out there, but if you
continue pushing on the glass like that, it’s going to break, and
you’re going to fall out into the street.”

“But look at
that
one, Saber!” she
cried, pointing out the window of the carriage as it rolled down
the well-kept street. “Saber, he’s got a pocket watch almost as big
as a dinner plate! Great day Miss Agnes, where can we get one of
those for you?”

“More importantly, where will we get the
money to pay for it?” he teased. Taking great care not to let
himself be seen, he leaned over Itchie Bon and got a glimpse of the
man Goldie saw. It was Lord Wildon, the Earl of Drakethorne. “Yes,
he certainly looks like a dukish man to me,” he agreed, noting
Percival Wildon’s imperious swagger. How strange, he mused. He’d
been with Percival on various occasions, but had never noticed the
man’s overconfident gait. “You’ve never seen me walk like that,
have you, Goldie?” he asked uneasily.

“No, you walk normal.
Too
normal for
a duke. I haven’t seen you do the wiggle walk since we left
Leighwood. You
do
hold your chin up like that man does
though. And that’s good. It’s a real haughty thing to do. Real
dukish, Saber.”

Saber took another look at Percival Wildon.
The man’s nose was so high in the air, it nearly pointed to the
sky. It irritated Saber to be compared to him, and he made a mental
note to keep a firm grip on his own chin.

“There’s another one!” Goldie exclaimed.
“I’ll swannee,
look
at his vest! It’s got pink and purple
flowers
sewed on it! He looks like a walkin’ garden!”

Saber strained to see the man. It was Lord
Ivers, Earl of Wyeth. Geoffrey Ivers, Saber reflected, looked just
as vain as Percival Wildon. “That is not a vest. It is called a
waistcoat.”

“You wouldn’t ever wear a waistcoat like
that one, would you, Saber? I mean, ‘course y’would to be Duke
Marion, but in real life would you?”

He remembered he had several elaborately
embroidered waistcoats. True, he rarely wore them, but he
had
chosen to buy them. He’d thought them nice then, but
now... “No,” he announced. “I wouldn’t wear anything like that.”
Sitting back into his seat, he made a vow to give his colorful
waistcoats to charity.

“Saber, we learned a lot today. We saw six
or seven dukish men.” Goldie said, reviewing her notes. “Dukish
folks are conceited,” she read out loud. “They’re God’s gifts to
the world, accordin’ to them. They dress up like peacocks. They let
their gold watches hang way down, probably to show off around poor
people. They wear rings. Some even wear a ring on every finger.
They—”