Not Quite Married (34 page)

Standing in her own parlor, he ordered her to obey! With her face and temper both ablaze, she rushed for the bellpull.

The marquis lunged after her and hauled her back with an ironlike grip. She tried to free herself, but as they struggled, the fierceness of his black eyes bit deep into her determination. He was ready to use violence, if necessary, to have his way. The realization broke through her resistance, slowing her struggles.

“That’s better. From now on, you will listen and do exactly what I tell you.” He loomed over her, his chest heaving from the exertion. “First, you will send a letter to the
Times,
announcing your upcoming nuptials.” He turned to the man standing guard at the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting the letter myself. All you need do is sign it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said furiously.

“Oh, but you will,
chérie.
” The marquis grabbed her by both arms and dragged her to the writing table near the window, where he pushed her down onto a chair in front of the paper, quill, and ink his accomplice laid out on the desk.

“Sign it,” he commanded.

“I will not.” She tried to wrest her arm from him, but his hand clamped tighter.

“You will acknowledge your engagement to Louis or all of London will turn out to watch you hang.” His coal-black eyes seared the words into her mind so that she was hardly aware that he released her.
“For murder.”

“‘Murder’?” Her heart convulsed. “Just whom am I supposed to have killed?”

“My son Raoul.” The look in his eyes was chilling. He held her now by a force of will as powerful as any physical contact.

“That is madness.” She tried to swallow, but found her throat paralyzed. “Raoul died in the fire. Everyone saw . . . my father identified his body.”

“I have a witness who claims otherwise.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at his accomplice, who had casually draped his frame over one of the stuffed chairs. Physically the man was nondescript, of foppish bent, and not as young as she had first supposed.

“I’ve never seen this man before.” She gripped the edge of the table. “How could he possibly know anything about my marriage?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to remember me,” the man said, swinging a leg suggestively over the arm of the chair. “I was merely one of the many guests at your wedding.” His accent was not French, but a flat, East-London English. His pallid complexion and watery eyes made him appear as unhealthy as his speech was common.

“But I was your husband’s companion during your ‘illness’ after your marriage. He confided to me the nature of your particular malady and of his proposed cure.”

The voice finally teased out a wisp of recollection. It was him!

The man Raoul had conspired with that night in the library at Byron Place—the night she learned the truth about him. He had been at Byron Place while she was imprisoned there— Had he been Raoul’s accomplice?

“This is absurd! If there was a murder attempt, it was on
my
life, not Raoul’s!”

“Not so, my lady,” the stranger intoned. “Before his death, your husband confided to me that you had taken a lover before your marriage. He said you only married him to provide a name for the child you bore. As soon as the child was born, you intended to leave him—a plan he resisted. Finding no other solution to your passions, you schemed to lose him in a fire.”

“That’s a lie! Raoul held me at Byron Place against my will. I barely escaped the fire with my life! Who would believe this disreputable cur?”

The marquis’s mouth curled into a sneer. “This ‘cur’ is my nephew, Cornelius Pitt. His father was English, and his story would be given full consideration by any English magistrate.

Think, my dear. If you were being held prisoner, how is it you escaped and my son is dead? Could it be your lover helped you escape and set fire to the house to do away with Raoul?”

“No!” She reeled, horrified by the plausibility of his fabrication.

“You were there.” She turned on Pitt. “You know what happened.”

“Yes, I know.” Pitt smiled. “And so will everyone else in London when I tell them how Raoul pleaded with you to be a proper wife and not use him so cruelly.”

“The spite was his, the pleading mine. If anyone was meant to die, it was me. He plotted to kill me in order to inherit Weston Trading and my father’s wealth.” Even as frantic as she was, Brien recognized that he did not deny her charge. If he didn’t know it for a fact, he at least suspected it was true. Steadied by the resurgence of her own reason, she grasped desperately for a defense. “Raoul set the fire himself. Or had it set. I have a witness, too. Dyso.”

“Who would believe that dumb brute?” The marquis gave a snort of contempt. “Especially when we find your ‘accomplice’ and persuade him to come forward in the interest of justice.”

“I had no accomplice,” she declared, her face flaming.

“I am certain it won’t be difficult to find one,” the marquis sneered. “Perhaps
more
than one.”

The full horror of her predicament was now clear. There would be as many witnesses and accomplices as the marquis’s gold would allow.

Sensing her softening, the marquis pressed on. “You said yourself

. . . I am more cunning than Raoul. I will not allow passion or pride to interfere with my plans as he did. You will marry Louis.

And you will do it as soon as possible.” The marquis reached for the quill, inked its tip again, and held it out to her.

After a long, acrid moment, she accepted the quill and lowered it to the paper.

As she signed, the marquis moved closer. “You see, this isn’t so difficult. I believe you and I will come to get along quite well,
chérie.
” His hand slid possessively over her breast and she knocked his hand away. With a coarse laugh he reached for the letter. Perusing her signature, he gave a grunt of approval and motioned his nephew to the door.

“The announcement says you will hold the ceremony within the month,” he declared. “I have taken the liberty of sending a letter to your father in Bristol, informing him of the betrothal and of your delight in the match.” He paused before the door, looking pleased. “I am most eager to have you as my . . .
daughter
. . .

once more.”

Brien sat feeling boneless as they left the parlor. Every ounce of will and fortitude was drained from her. She listened to their retreating footsteps and the close of the front doors but, strangely, didn’t hear Jeannie creep into the parlor. The feel of the little maid’s arms around her shoulders startled her. She began to tremble violently and wrapped an arm across her belly.

“They will stop at nothing to force me to marry him. Ohhh, Jeannie, I can’t let them do this to me. I have to protect us. I have to find a way . . .”

JEANNIE WAS WAITING in the stable when Dyso returned that afternoon.

“Thank God you’re here.” She touched his arm so that he would look at her. “My lady is in trouble. The marquis . . . the one whose son she married . . . he was here. He wants to force Lady Brien to marry someone.” Seeing anger welling inside of him, she hurried on. “Harold took a letter to his lordship in Bristol. But who knows how long it will be before he gets it and comes back to London? She’s frightened, I can tell.”

He brought his massive fists crashing together.

“No! You can’t! If you try to harm him, they will say she sent you and blame her. Please, Dyso,” she pleaded, “we have to find another way.”

Anger filled the big man as he led the horses back to their stalls and methodically set about feeding and watering them. His emotion ran so powerfully and his manner was so controlled that Jeannie feared it had been a mistake to tell him.

“Dyso,” she pleaded, “we must wait for the earl. He may be able to help my lady.” She caught up with him and clutched his sleeve, hindering him little. “Until then, we have to keep her safe.

Promise you won’t go near the marquis.” She shook his arm.

“Promise!”

There was no agreement in his fierce face as he wrenched his arm free.

Watching him lumber away toward his quarters, she called after him, “Dyso, wait!” But he neither looked back nor slowed his determined pace.

That evening, after dinner, Brien called Jeannie to her rooms.

“I cannot stay in London. I have to put some distance between myself and that jackal. But where can I go? Byron Place still isn’t habitable and we have no relations that—” She looked up with fresh hope. “Squire Hennipen! The marquis would never think of looking for me there.” She squeezed Jeannie’s hands, taking a much-needed deep breath. “Tell Dyso to prepare the carriage.”

Jeannie’s stricken look jolted Brien.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“I-I told Dyso about the marquis.” Jeannie looked grieved. “He was furious. I tried to calm him but he wouldn’t listen. This evening when Cook went to call him for dinner, he was gone. He didn’t take anything with him—just left.” Her chin quivered as if she might cry. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself if—”

“Dyso is gone.” Brien felt dangerously weakened. She swayed and caught herself against the bedpost. She had no protection now. Her hand went to her waist and then slid below it. “He would have learned about it sooner or later.” Brien put an arm around the maid. “We must get away from London as quickly as possible. Find Phillips and have him bring my trunk out of storage.”

Alone once more, Brien was filled with mixed emotions. She hated the marquis, and part of her wished to see him beaten and destroyed. But not by her Dyso. The gentle giant would be hunted down like an animal and punished. Ridding the world of the marquis’s foul presence wasn’t worth losing her beloved Dyso. She could only pray that he had gone to fetch her father.

What would the marquis do when he found her gone? Would he fulfill his threats?

She straightened and made herself think of the child growing inside her.

Not if he couldn’t find her.

A COLD AUTUMN rain had settled over the countryside, making their flight through the darkness all the more difficult and depressing. They arrived at the Hennipens’ comfortable house well past midnight and Squire and Mrs. Hennipen hurried downstairs in slippers and nightcaps to take her into their arms and hearts. She explained her need for refuge and they declared that she and her maid were more than welcome. They showed her to the very room where she had stayed while recuperating from the fire, and they swore to keep her presence there a secret to all but a small circle of trusted servants.

As Brien settled, exhausted, into the thick down comforters and snowy linen of a familiar bed, her last waking thought was of Aaron. And for the hundredth time, she regretted the foolish pride and the impossible distance that separated her from his strength and the comfort of his embrace.

WHO DID YOU say?” the Bishop of London demanded testily, looking up with a scowl and lowering his newspaper to the breakfast table in front of him.

“The Reverend Henry Powell, your worship,” the secretary said with a shrug that said he hadn’t recalled the fellow either. “I checked. He’s the one you sent to St. Agrippa’s . . . that wretched little parish at the edge of Whitechapel, near the docks.”

The bishop rubbed his forehead and dragged his hand down over his eyes. “The place that missionary lout left in such a mess.

What was his name?”

“Stephenson, your worship. This ‘Powell’ fellow is accompanied by the earl of Wilton’s son.”

“What the devil do they want?”

“Parish records, I believe.”

“Good God.”

Moments later, the bishop greeted Aaron Durham and the new vicar of St. Agrippa’s, offering them coffee and then listening to their request. He assessed the pair before him and decided on a surprising course of action: the truth.

“Vicar Stephenson, alas, made a muddle of every post and task he was given from the day he left university. Bucolic country chapels, teeming tropical missions, dockside relief parishes . . .

nothing too large or too small for him to mugger up.” He lowered his voice. “When he got back from Africa, I sent him down to a little church at the edge of Whitechapel and the blighter promptly fell ill and almost died. When I found out he’d been taken to a hospital and left the place unattended, I went down there myself and closed the church. Brought the register back here with me.”

He sent his secretary down to the library to look for the book, then turned back to them. “Can’t imagine there would be anything of interest in it. The wretch wasn’t there long enough to do any business.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, your worship,” Aaron said with a smile, glancing at Reverend Powell and drawing a folded piece of rumpled paper from his pocket.

THE BUSTLE OF activity that accompanied the arrival of a trading ship in port had died by evening and
The Lady’s Secret
now lay quiet and serene in her quayside berth. Aaron paused for a moment to admire her lines and reflect on the worth of her maiden voyage. They had brought back raw materials that would fetch a high price now that there was talk of war again in England. But the excitement, the feeling of satisfaction and of completion that he wanted, would not come.

He propped a booted leg on one of the dock pilings, braced his arms across it, and thought of the other aspects of the journey he had just completed. As always,
she
bloomed in his mind. With only a moment’s thought he could feel her in his arms and smell the faint scent of roses in her hair. Just closing his eyes he could see her as she was that day on the hilltop overlooking his land, outside of Boston . . . her eyes sparkling with discovery and her cheeks glowing with health and womanly vitality.

He slid his hand into his pocket and over the rumpled paper that was both his torment and his salvation. Would it have been better to have left it alone? To let both Brien and the powers of officialdom go on thinking no marriage existed? What did he hope to gain by proving what he already knew in his very core . .

. that she was his and that he was unalterably hers? Here, in the same city, they might as well be an ocean apart. Her life, her world was here. She wanted no part of a marriage to a noble scapegrace who had just abandoned all ties and claims to a respected title—