Lady of Desire (38 page)

Lizzie was careful not even to glance in his direction. “How exciting,” she murmured with a carefully arranged smile. “Where all will you be going? ”

“Everywhere! A full-blown Grand Tour, isn’t that right, darling? Rackford’s never been abroad.” She smiled at him, giving his hand a squeeze. “Paris, Rome, Florence—”

“Maybe you’ll run across Acer and Daphne in Calais,” Reg drawled.

“I think they went northward,” Justin corrected him.

“Gretna,” Jacinda agreed. “Everyone says so.”

The scandal of the Season had been the leading dandy and the reigning beauty’s elopement after his bout of fisticuffs at Almack’s. Helena and Amelia had told Jacinda that it had been Lady Erhard pushing Daphne to snare a title all along. Jacinda was happy for them. If ever a pair had deserved each other—

“Venice is the place I most want to see,” Rackford was telling the others. “Just like Canaletto’s paintings.” He winked slyly at her and took a bite of chicken.

“Venice, of course. We shall have to buy some marvelous art for our new home.”

“Buy it?” he asked quizzically.

“Darling.” She shot him a playful scowl, took a dainty sip of wine, and turned back to her best friend. “Eventually, we’ll arrive in Vienna and, if we’re inspired, we may even travel on to St. Petersburg.”

“How wonderful.”

“You should join us at some point, Lizzie, honestly. You know you’re always welcome—”

“I will not intrude on your honeymoon,” she scoffed. “Besides, I have a bit of a mystery waiting for me later this week.”

“Is that so?”

She and old Professor Alfred Hamilton, Bel’s father and a former Fellow of Oxford, exchanged a fond glance. The old scholar shared Lizzie’s passion for books, especially old books. “Indubitably, my dear Miss Carlisle. Excellent young lady, what? ”

“Why, Miss Carlisle, you cannot keep us in suspense,” Justin protested amiably.

“Yes, do tell!” Reg demanded.

Lizzie smiled. “Before I return to Yorkshire, Dr. Hamilton is going to be introducing me to the representative of a publisher based in Leipzig who needs someone to translate German manuscripts for English publication.”

“This publisher is willing to hire a lady?” Jacinda asked, raising her eyebrows. “How very forward-thinking.”

Lizzie smiled wryly. “My efforts would be anonymous, of course, but, you see…” She leaned closer. “Dr. Hamilton gives me to understand that this German publisher has acquired a manuscript which is being handled with great secrecy. We are beside ourselves with curiosity to find out what all the fuss is about, aren’t we, Alfred? ”

“In good time, my dear, all shall come to light.” Bel’s white-haired father smiled, his unlit cob pipe clamped between his teeth.

Just then, Lucien’s wife, Alice, strode to the front of the room. “ Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”

“Hear, hear!” Lucien chimed in, quieting everyone for her announcement.

With a smile, Alice turned toward the bridal table and gave a small curtsy. “Lord and Lady Rackford, in honor of your nuptials, we will now present the entertainment. Aunt Miranda,” she added, “we’ll need your voice.”

The tall, raven-haired beauty got up out of her chair and strode lightly across the room to Alice’s side. The twins’ wives waited amid much cheering and applause from the rowdy Knight brothers.

“Quiet, you ruffians,” Alice scolded. “You are going to scare our performers.” She nodded to the footman, who opened the door.

In came the nursery maids, escorting their charges: Alice’s nephew and ward, little Harry, Baron Glenwood, who was nearly five. Harry held hands with Bel and Robert’s two-year-old, the earl of Morley, known to his mama as Bobby. The two diminutive lordlings advanced shyly into the center of the room. Their hair was neatly combed, and they were dressed in tiny tailcoats, trousers, and cravats.

At Alice’s cue, Harry bowed; Morley followed suit, nearly toppling headlong. One of the uniformed nursery maids placed Alice and Lucien’s one-year-old daughter, Pippa, on the floor in front of her cousins. Then, with Miranda’s help, the children sang them a bon voyage song, wishing them off safely, though Pippa did little more than lean her bald head against Miranda’s bent knee and wave her arms in excitement.

Lucien, visibly smitten and laughing, shook his head, watching his daughter. Harry was struck with stage fright midway through the song. He popped his finger in his mouth and glanced uncertainly at his old nurse, Peg. Morley, a serious little fellow like his papa, gave his best effort, staring at Miranda and faintly echoing her words.

“Bravo!” Jacinda applauded when their song came to an end. The rest of the family did likewise.

Pippa beamed at everyone, though, in truth, she was applauded for every tiny thing she ever did; Harry rushed off to pounce on his favorite uncle, Alec; while Morley came over to Jacinda. He stood there regarding her thoughtfully until she picked him up and set him on her lap.

“That was a wonderful song, Morley! How handsome you look today. Do you know who this gentleman is? ” Jacinda asked the tot, turning to her husband.

It was then that Jacinda noticed the wary, mystified way Rackford was watching her brothers playing with their children. If high society had been a strange world to him, his first experience of being a part of a loving, close-knit family appeared even more so. Her gaze softened at the impact it seemed to be having on him, of seeing the tender kindness of these young fathers to their little ones. Lucien had taught Pippa how to rub noses with her papa, a game that filled the baby with endless delight—and all the world knew she was the apple of her father’s eye. Miranda had given the nursemaids permission to bring down her lusty, squalling twins so that Jacinda could bid Edward and Andrew farewell before leaving on her journey. Lizzie asked if she might hold Andrew, while Damien came over to them and put his arm around Miranda, boasting proudly about how strong Edward’s tiny grip was on his finger.

When Rackford turned to Jacinda with a hundred questions in his eyes, her heart clenched to think of the dearth of love and affection he had known in his early life. She leaned toward him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

As the afternoon shadows grew long, it soon came time to leave Knight House. They would set out at once for Dover, where they would take the packet across the Channel with their entourage of three carriages—one for themselves, one for the servants, and one for the mountain of luggage they would require for so long an absence. Jacinda fully intended to show Rackford the pleasures of traveling in style.

Good-byes were always a long, drawn-out affair at holidays and other celebratory occasions, and this was no exception. It took them half an hour to get as far as the entrance hall. As Jacinda waited for Rackford to leave off joking around with Lucien and Alec, her nephews, Harry and Morley, came racing over to her.

“ Auntie Jacinda! Auntie Jacinda!”

“Yes, darlings?” she asked, bending down to gather them near her.

“We found a note!” Morley shouted.

“You dropped it under your chair.” Harry handed her a piece of paper with an air of great self-importance.

“Thank you, boys.” Noticing the Truro seal embedded in the wax, she realized the letter must have fallen out of Rackford’s pocket.

“What does it say?” Harry asked solemnly.

“Well, it appears to be Lord Rackford’s. We wouldn’t want to pry…” On the other hand, he still had not confided in her about the night at Torcarrow, even though Reg and Justin knew about it. Besides, the children had already unfolded the letter.

She stole only a brief glance at the large, exquisitely formed handwriting that flowed urgently across the page, but upon reading the first line, she knew instantly that something was very wrong. Devil take his privacy, she thought; then she read the rest.

Dearest William,

Did you not receive my earlier letter? I have not had an answer from you yet. Please come. I know that you are angry, but if you have any pity for your mother, you must know I need you at this difficult time.

The physicians say your father will not live long. The apoplexy has taken the use of the left half of his body, and they fear a second attack is imminent. They are bleeding him and giving him all the best care, but he worsens by the day. Surely you can find it in your heart to come to us. Anxiously awaiting your arrival.

With all my love, Your Mother

Jacinda read it again, barely able to believe her eyes. Lord Truro was dying? What on earth had happened? she wondered. Then she turned her gaze slowly to her husband, who stood, laughing and talking, with her brothers. She couldn’t believe he had not seen fit to mention to her that his father was on his deathbed.

Quickly folding the letter, she grasped his hand, bid her guests and family a final, rather terse adieu, and led her husband to the waiting coach.

“Coachman, to Dover!” Rackford called merrily, waving one last time to everyone as he handed Jacinda into the festooned, beribboned carriage.

She suspected he was slightly foxed. She paused on the carriage step. “Belay that order. One moment, please. Husband, may I have a word with you?” She tugged him into the coach.

“Growing impatient, my love?” He sprang up into the coach and dropped into the opposite squab with a jaunty grin.

She pursed her lips and handed him the letter. “You dropped this. Care to tell me what the deuce is going on?”

Instantly, his smile faded. He took the letter from her and cast it aside, then gave her an insolent look. “Not really.”

“What happened?”

He rolled his eyes and looked away. “The old bastard collapsed in a fit of apoplexy. Something like that.”

“Rackford! When?”

“A week ago.” He gave a disgusted sigh. “My mother said Truro was in a foul temper for days after I wrote, informing him of our betrothal. Then one of the servants sparked his wrath with some insignificant mistake and he flew into a rage—drunk, of course. Mother said he was screaming at the footman when his fury brought on the apoplexy. He fell to the ground, convulsing, and lost consciousness for twenty-four hours. When he came to, the left half of his body was paralyzed.”

She stared wonderingly at him. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me this. Rackford.”

“Yes, Jacinda?” he asked in a bored tone.

She searched his eyes. “We must go to them.”

“Absolutely not. We are going to the Continent, my dear. I promised you we would. I’m not going to let that bastard ruin our honeymoon. Everything is arranged.”

“It can wait. This is more important, Rackford. We must go to Cornwall.”

“No, it isn’t. People die every day. So what?”

“But this is your father.”

“All the more reason.”

“Darling, I know you are deeply, deeply angry at the man. You have every reason to be, but think of your mother. We cannot leave her to face this on her own.”

“Why not? Many a time that woman left me to face that blackguard alone. I survived. So will she.”

“Rackford!”

“Jacinda, I am not going to Cornwall. Ever. They don’t deserve a visit from us. They insulted you. If he could have found it within him to be happy for us and come to the wedding, instead of working himself into a fit of rage over my choice of brides, this would not have happened to him. He did it to himself. The blackguard can go to the devil for all I care. Come, let us leave now for France.” He started to rap on the inside of the coach to signal the driver to go, but she stopped him.

“Be practical! If he is going to die, that means you are about to come into your inheritance. Don’t you think it might be wise to speak with him and make sure everything is in order? There may be items of business related to the marquisate of which you may need to be informed before it comes down to you.”

“Our solicitors will advise me of anything I need to know.”

“Weren’t you even going to answer your mother’s letter? The woman is frantic.”

“She is always frantic, Jacinda. She exaggerates everything to try to gain my pity. Every other day is a calamity.”

“This time, I daresay, it’s real. Rackford, this may be your last chance to make peace with your father.”

“He’s the one who needs to make peace with me,” he said bitterly.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s exactly my point.”

“I vowed never to return to Cornwall.”

“Things are different now, sweeting. I don’t see how you can avoid it. When your father dies, you will be the marquess of Truro and St. Austell and the master of Torcarrow, as will your son after you. Your rank puts you in a position of responsibility that I
know
the man I love would never shirk.”

He closed his eyes and turned away. “You don’t know what you are asking of me.”

“Yes, I do.” She reached over and caressed his shoulder, pausing as she weighed her words. “Rackford, when are you going to confide in me? I know now that Reg and Justin were there the night you ran away.”

He turned back to her, paling slightly, his angular face etched with slowly deepening shock. “You know?”

She nodded. “Do you want to talk about it? ”

“God, no.”

She closed her eyes briefly, striving for patience. “I didn’t think so. Rackford, everything in me is certain that you must do this—if not for your father’s good, then for your own, and for the good of our children in the future. This poisonous hatred must end.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. She watched him warring with himself. His green eyes churned with bitter resentment, and his square jaw was taut.

“You won’t have to face it alone, darling,” she said softly, taking his hand. “I will be there with you every step of the way. Then we’ll go to Europe. I promise it will still be there.”

He searched her eyes in stormy defiance, but when she gave him an encouraging nod, he climbed out of the coach and gave the driver his new instructions— not east to Dover, but west.

To Cornwall.

With frequent changes of horses at the posting inns along the way, they made the journey in four grueling days, traveling each night until the summer light failed at around ten, taking to the road again at dawn. It was Rackford who set this booming pace, not from any eagerness to arrive, but merely because he wanted to get the whole ordeal over with. He was distant and moody for most of the journey, grumbling about the miserable food at the coaching inns, the heat, the dust, the incessant creaking of the coach springs, and his boredom with sitting in the carriage for so many hours on end.