Persuasion (30 page)

Now Amelia faced the tutor, pain stabbing through her breast. “There has been no word, Signor, and I am sure it is safe for his lordship to send word.” Captain Johnson had called again. She knew he was hoping to catch Simon at the house, on the off chance that he would return to visit. Johnson had warned her that if she was aiding and abetting a fugitive, she could face charges, as well. Amelia had decided not to reply to such a comment, obviously meant to wear her down.

“Can I count on you to begin the changes to the curriculum that I have suggested?” she added, smiling at Signor Barelli.

“Of course.” He bowed.

Amelia quickly left the classroom, fingering her wedding band, which she wore on a chain around her neck. It would be wonderful to shout out to the world that she was now Lady Grenville, but she knew she could not. Simon had fled the law, and if she confessed to eloping with him beforehand, it would obviously make her an accessory to his escape.

Amelia strode down the hall, passing open door after open door. She had decided to thoroughly clean the entire house, and windows were wide open, beds were stripped, rugs were rolled up, furniture was being dusted and cleaned, the floors waxed and polished.

The “summer” cleaning would be finished in a week or so. The house would never look better, once she was done. Next week, she intended to attack the kitchens and begin a massive reorganization of the pantries, cleaning every nook and cranny to be found. After that, she was to discuss the state of the gardens with the head gardener. She wanted to plant a maze behind the house, reminiscent of the maze at St. Just Hall in Cornwall.

She faltered. A poignant memory assailed her, of hiding breathlessly in the maze as Simon hunted for her. When he had found her, they had nearly made love....

She shook herself free of the long-ago past. While Simon was gone, she would do her best to manage his home and his estates. Repairs would be made when necessary. There would be restorations and refurbishments. When he came home, he would see that she had kept his estate for him in the best possible condition....

But when would that be? He had been gone for eight days. It felt like eight years!

Amelia hurried directly to the library, where she had an appointment. As she had thought, she was late.

A rustically dressed gentleman stood there, hat in hand, and he bowed when he saw her.

He was a steward from one of Simon’s largest northern estates, and she had written to him, asking him to come to London to meet Simon. She doubted he would have come to town if summoned by a mere housekeeper. “Good day, Mr. Harold,” she said cheerfully, espying a large ledger on the desk. “I am Miss Greystone, and I am acting on his lordship’s behalf. As you may have heard, he is out of town.”

The steward was a middle-aged man in a gray wig and a brown-velvet jacket. He blinked at her. “I was summoned here by his lordship, Miss Greystone. I received a letter directly from him.”

She smiled again. “Actually, I wrote that letter, as his lordship cannot currently oversee his estates, and the duty had fallen upon me—just as the duty of caring for his children and his home has fallen upon me.”

He blinked again. “I had heard some gossip about his lordship, but I dismissed it. Surely it isn’t true?”

“There has been a misunderstanding,” she said firmly. She closed the library door. “A warrant has been issued for his arrest, and I imagine that is why his lordship left town so suddenly, without explanation.” She faced Mr. Harold and smiled again. “I have no doubt that when the charges are dropped, he will return. In the meanwhile, I intend to make sure his estates are being run as effectively as they were before his departure.”

The steward fidgeted. “Miss Greystone, I have always dealt directly with his lordship—or I have been left to my own devices.”

She went to the desk and gestured at a chair facing it. Mr. Harold simply stared, so she ordered, “Sit down, Mr. Harold. Or should I summon my brother-in-law, the Count of Bedford? Surely he will convince you to be cooperative. We must all do our duties, with his lordship absent.”

Mr. Harold immediately sat down.

Amelia smiled and took Simon’s seat behind the desk. She opened the ledger. “We are going to go over all the accounts. And we will start with your weekly expenses.”

Mr. Harold nodded.

Dublin, Ireland, July 29, 1794

T
HE
LAST
FEW
RAYS
OF
SUNLIGHT
slipped into the small hotel room. Simon hunched over the writing tablet, seated at a tiny desk, dipping his quill and writing frantically to outrace the fading daylight. The room was already dark with shadow.

“The sun is about to set, so I must end this missive now. Not a day goes by that I do not anticipate our joyful reunion. My heart remains with you and the children, Amelia, as always. Yours truly, Simon.”

He briefly closed his eyes, as deeper shadows consumed the narrow room. He could hear the sounds of children playing outside in the street below his window. There was laughter and happy shouts. Then he heard a woman calling to them. His heart clenched with anguish.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Amelia hurrying through his house, calling for the boys. They came running eagerly out of the classroom and she was smiling....

He missed his children so. He missed his wife.

Simon inhaled, opening his eyes. He had never imagined that they would have the opportunity to wed, and it amazed him still that she was his wife. Would he ever be allowed to return home? Would he ever see her again? Hold her? Make love to her?

Of course, there had been no word from her. What had she told the boys? Were they all right? How was Lucille?

His chest was constricted. He still clutched the quill, so he relaxed his fingers and laid it carefully down. He did not want to break it; he only had one spare left.

He had been in Ireland for almost two months, and his finances were becoming precarious. He could hardly go to the bank and identify himself and await funds from his accounts in England. However, he and Lucas had discussed all of his plans, including his need for funds, when Lucas had left him in Carlisle. He had opened an account at a Dublin bank in the name of Tim O’Malley. Eventually Warlock would arrange for a transfer of funds. He hoped the transfer would happen soon.

He shoved his chair back rudely from the tiny table, which was more the size of a dinner tray. The abrupt action caused his letter to fall to the floor. Suddenly furious and frustrated, he stood.

The letter wasn’t dry yet as he retrieved it, but he didn’t care. He turned, opened the room’s single bureau and shoved the damp letter inside. Dozens of other letters were already there. He could write to her as much as he desired, and he wrote to her every single day. But he couldn’t post a single letter. It was too damned dangerous.

His heart aching, he closed the drawer and lit the candle that was on top of the bureau. Then he poured wine from an open bottle into a tin mug, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rusting, chipped mirror hanging over the bureau on the wall.

He only shaved once a week now. There was gray in his beard and white streaks at his temples. His hair was loose, and well past his shoulders. He desperately needed a haircut.

He wore a poor man’s cotton shirt, without any adornment. His hands were free of rings. He did not wear a belt. His breeches had a hole in one knee.

No one would assume him to be anything but a down-and-out Irishman.

He took the mug and went to the window, pushing it as widely open as possible. He was hoping for a glimpse of the two boys who so often played stickball in the street. One was red-haired and William’s age, the other a bit younger and blond. But it was dusk now, and the boys were gone.

He decided he would spend another evening at the small pub on the corner below the inn. While he spoke to no one—he didn’t dare—he craved the human company.

Someone knocked on his door.

Simon tensed, putting his mug down and taking a dagger from beneath the single pillow on his narrow bed. He was barefoot, and he took two soundless steps to the door. He leaned against it, listening.

Someone knocked again. “O’Malley. O’Malley! It’s me, Peter.”

He relaxed slightly, slipping the dagger into his shirtsleeve. After he unbolted the door, he opened it a fraction of an inch and saw Peter, a freckled lad of about eighteen, but his attention was on the narrow hall behind him. It was empty.

He finally relaxed entirely and opened the door so he could face the boy.

“Ye said ye wanted news of the war.” Peter grinned eagerly. “And I got news, sir!”

Simon gave him a coin. Peter brought him the
Times
once or twice every week, and he had instructed him to bring him any exceptional war news as well, for which he would be paid. The French had scored a massive victory in Flanders at the end of June, in the Battle of Fleurus, humiliating the Austrian army. Since then, the French had consolidated their armies along the Sambre-et-Meuse, and General Pichegru had gone as far as Antwerp, defying the armies of the Prince of Orange and the Duke of York. General Schérer had successfully besieged Landrecies and was advancing on Valenciennes. The war was not going well.

“From that smile, I would say it is grand news indeed.” Simon did not smile.

“It is worthy of another shilling, sir, at the least!”

Simon leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and waited.

Peter looked disappointed. Then he blurted, “They arrested Robespierre!”

Simon straightened, certain he had misheard. “What?”

“He was arrested, sir, and so were his closest supporters, maybe two days ago!”

His heart was thundering. The face of the Terror had been arrested.

Acutely aware that he could have been in Paris just then, and the city was surely in chaos, Simon took a shilling out of his pocket and handed it to the lad, still in disbelief. “What will they plan? Now what will they do? What is happening in Paris?”

“The Convention has taken power, sir, and the government has been sent to the Blade. They were all executed, every one of them, even Robespierre!”

And Simon stood there, shocked.

The Reign of Terror was truly over.

* * *

A
MELIA
WAS
IN
DISBELIEF
.
Robespierre was dead.

He had been executed by the Terror—his own terrible policies had been used against him.

Amelia closed the newspaper, her hands shaking. “Thank God Simon didn’t go back to Paris,” she whispered to Julianne and Nadine. They sat together in a salon in Julianne’s house.

The three women stared at one another, all wide-eyed. Robespierre’s closest allies had been executed with him, as had seventy-one members of the city government in the following days. Had Simon taken up his old position in the Commune, he could have been amongst the dead....

“This is wonderful news!” Nadine said. “Maybe now, at last, there will be sanity in government and normalcy in Paris. Maybe now, at last, the killing will stop.”

Amelia barely heard her friend. She closed her eyes, and for one moment, she felt that she was with Simon. She could see him standing in a small room, in dark shadows, a single taper burning. Then the image was gone.

He had left town fifty-eight days ago. There hadn’t been any word, as it was too dangerous for him to write. Lucas had told her that he was most definitely out of the country, but he wouldn’t say where. Did it mean he was in the north, in Scotland? Could he be in Ireland? Surely he hadn’t gone to Europe, not with the chaos of the ongoing wars there.

“Are you all right, Amelia?” Julianne asked.

Amelia faced her, trying to smile. “I wonder if he has heard.” If Simon ever came home, he would no longer have to fear the deadly serpent. If he ever came home, he would be free of fear of retribution and vengeance. He would be able to say “no” to Warlock, he would be able to walk away from all of these war games, knowing his children were safe....

“News like this travels like wildfire,” Nadine said. “I am sure he has heard. We must celebrate.”

Amelia wished she felt like celebrating, but she missed Simon too much. She watched as Nadine went to the side bar and poured three glasses of sherry. Anguish pierced her. If only she could send a letter to Simon.

“Maybe this war will soon end,” Julianne said.

Amelia looked at her. “Julianne, he would remain an outlaw. As long as those charges are hanging over him, nothing changes for us.”

The doors to the salon burst open, revealing the Count of Bedford. Julianne leaped up, surprised. “Dom?”

He slowly smiled at them. “Have you heard the news?”

“Yes, we have,” Julianne said. “Robespierre is dead, damn him to hell. The Terror is over.”

Dominic’s smile changed and he walked over to Amelia. “No, that is not the news I am referring to.”

Amelia tensed, with sudden hope. Why was Dominic looking at her that way—with a smile in his eyes? Why did he look so satisfied?

He held out a scroll. “This, my dear sister-in-law, is a royal pardon for Grenville.”

Amelia reeled.

“I imagine that Simon is on his way home, even as we speak.”

* * *

I
T
WAS
EARLY
MORNING
.
William clung to the windowsill beside the front door, while John galloped around the hall on a stick with a horse’s head attached to it. Momma sat in one of the thronelike chairs against the wall, happily embroidering. Amelia was giddy and faint with hope, expectation and joy.

She was almost afraid that she was dreaming. But Warlock had confirmed the news and Lucas had already left to retrieve Simon, within an hour of Bedford’s achieving the royal pardon.

“It’s Papa!” William cried.

Amelia ran to the window, as John galloped over, screaming, “Papa! Papa!”

And sure enough, two horsemen were cantering into the driveway, and she recognized her brother and Simon.