Rapture Becomes Her (7 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Rapture Becomes Her
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The one thing he did know for certain: he’d left London in a hooded gig, driving a big bay gelding, having planned a swift side trip to Eastbourne to inspect the yacht before traveling on to Windmere. Beyond that knowledge, events grew hazy.
Barnaby frowned, concentrating hard. He’d sent his man, Lamb, along with the majority of his luggage ahead to Windmere. He remembered that much. Remembered, too, that he’d told Lamb he’d arrive in a day or two. It seemed an innocent enough itinerary. He snorted. Innocent or not, if not for the fisherman, Jeb, he’d be feeding the fishes in the Channel right now.
He moved his head and winced with pain. Gingerly he reached up and probed the back of his head. Swearing at the burst of pain he felt when his fingers found the deep gash, he left off exploring his wound, but in the darkness, he smiled wolfishly. At least he had discovered why he didn’t remember much. Someone had given him a vicious blow to the back of the head and if they’d struck harder, he admitted grimly, he wouldn’t have had to worry about drowning.
A yawn took him and as he drifted off to sleep, the features of the girl-dressed-as-a-boy floated through his mind. He’d thought her a pretty boy. . . . When he had time, it might be amusing to discover how she cleaned up.
Chapter 4
B
arnaby woke the next morning and, despite the faint throbbing in the region of his head where he had suffered the blow he was convinced had been meant to kill him, he felt surprisingly well. Until he sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. The room swam and for a moment he feared he’d black out.
He didn’t, but only by sheer stubborn effort was he able to stand up. Granted, he hung on to one of the bedposts for several moments and fought off the dizziness, but by God! He was standing on his own two feet.
With an unsteady gait, he walked to one of the chairs by the fire and sank gratefully into it. He was as weak as a newborn and he scowled at the fire on the hearth as if the exuberant red and yellow flames were at fault.
He heard a knock on the door but before he could reply, the door swung open and Flora, with a tray in her hands holding a pewter coffeepot, a white pottery mug and a plate heaped with fat golden biscuits, came tripping into the room. Catching sight of him sitting by the fire, she stopped abruptly.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a scolding tone, setting down the tray on the small table next to his chair. Hands on her slim hips, she declared, “You should still be abed. And you should let me dress that wound of yours. Ma says it probably should be wrapped.”
“Probably,” Barnaby agreed, feeling foolish sitting there swathed in yards and yards of cotton nightshirt that barely covered his knees. The deceased Mr. Gilbert, may God rest his soul, had been far rounder than he’d been tall.
Since Barnaby remained precisely where he was and the jut of his formidable chin told her he wasn’t going to climb meekly back into bed—or let her touch his head—after a moment Flora snorted and poured him a cup of black coffee. The rich scent of the coffee tickled his nose as she handed the steaming cup to him. Giving him a stern look, she said, “Stubborn, that’s what you are.”
Taking the cup, Barnaby smiled. “I see that in our short acquaintance you already have a correct reading of my character.”
She shook her head and grinned at him. “It’s a male trait. Now drink your coffee.”
Barnaby obeyed, taking a long swallow. Setting down the cup, he asked, “Is there someone you could send to Windmere for me? My man, Lamb, should have arrived and he will have a change of clothes for me.” He grimaced. “I assume what I was wearing is ruined.”
Nodding, Flora said, “Young Sam can take a message for you.” She shook her head. “As for your clothes . . . the shirt might be salvageable, but the sea water shrunk everything else.” She giggled. “Your pants might fit Sam and he’s only eleven.”
Barnaby half smiled. “You can give him everything—with my compliments.” He looked around. “Do you have quill and paper? I’d like to get the message to Lamb as soon as possible.”
 
John Lamb arrived some three hours later and her cheeks pink, a flustered Flora showed him into Barnaby’s room. Barnaby wasn’t surprised at Flora’s reaction. John might be his servant, and Barnaby often wondered who served whom, but women of all stations found his manservant
most
attractive.
As tall as Barnaby, he was a strikingly handsome man, the dark gold of his skin and the crisp curl of his black hair revealing an African ancestry not too far away in his background. But even more stunning were his azure eyes set against the deep gold of his complexion—that and his catlike grace and elegance.
After Flora reluctantly left, watching Lamb as he unpacked the valise he had brought with him, Barnaby asked, “And how was your journey?”
Lamb glanced over his broad shoulder at his employer and grinned, showing a gleaming set of even white teeth. “From your note, far less exciting than yours, it appears.”
“Be glad of that,” Barnaby growled as he rose to his feet. Taking the pair of breeches Lamb handed him, he proceeded to dress. The initial dizziness and weakness had passed and by the time he was pulling on his boots, other than a slight headache, he was feeling more himself.
The valise emptied, Lamb turned and sent Barnaby a sharp look. In a voice no servant ever used to his master, he asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
John Lamb was the result of a liaison between Paxton, Barnaby’s grandfather, and a quadroon mistress he’d taken under his protection while in New Orleans on business for several months some thirty-six years previously. Paxton had died three years later, never knowing, or caring for that matter, that he had sired a son while in New Orleans. No one ever questioned that Lamb was his son. John’s build and facial features, especially those azure eyes, told their own story: he looked more Joslyn than did Barnaby.
When Lamb was six years old, at the urging of his mother’s latest protector, she had sent him to Virginia. Bewildered and frightened, the little boy with the stunning blue eyes in the dark gold face was shown into the grand library at Green Hill. It wasn’t until years later that he learned that the tall, handsome man regarding him so unhappily was actually his half brother.
One look at the boy and Lyndon had no doubts that John Lamb was indeed his father’s by-blow. Unable to turn his back on the boy, but unwilling to acknowledge him as his half brother, he banished the boy to his overseer’s care but saw to it that the boy was educated. Lamb wasn’t raised as the child of a wealthy planter or taken to the bosom of the family, but he wasn’t put in the fields to work either.
As Lamb put it to Barnaby one night when they were both very drunk, “Neither fish nor fowl, that’s me.” He scowled at his tankard of ale. “Sometimes, I wish your father
had
sent me to the fields. This half life . . .”
“Remember it is your own damn choice these days,” Barnaby said. Equally drunk, Barnaby spoke carefully, struggling not to slur his words. “After he died, I offered to set you up on your own land. You’re the stiff-necked jackass who refused.”
Lamb had grinned at him. “That’s because, as your ser-servant, I like watching you squirm. I couldn’t prick
his
conscience, but I sure as hell can yours.”
Which, unfortunately, was true, Barnaby thought, sighing. Neither Paxton nor Lyndon had been particularly evil: both men just ignored or brushed aside anything unpleasant or that interfered with their pursuit of pleasure.
Lamb interrupted his thoughts. “You’re thinking of them, aren’t you?”
“And if I am?”
“Stop it. I made my choices and for now”—Lamb flashed him a dazzling smile—“it pleases me to play your servant.”
Barnaby snorted. “Servant,” he muttered, “doesn’t even begin to describe you. Anyone less servile I’ve yet to meet. Or arrogant, now that I think of it.”
“True,” Lamb agreed fairly, “but I think you’re straying from the subject at hand. What happened?”
Briefly Barnaby told him what he knew, leaving out only the farce that had been played out in his bedroom after his rescue. For reasons that escaped him, he wanted to keep Miss Emily to himself—and that The Crown was rife with smugglers. At least for the present.
Lamb tried to examine the wound, but Barnaby hastily waved him away. “I’m fine—or at least I’m fine enough to ride away from here without my head wrapped in bandages.”
Frustrated, but knowing him of old, Lamb asked, “So who was it that hit you on the head and left you to drown in the Channel? Mathew?”
Barnaby studied his boots. “It doesn’t feel like Mathew.” He glanced up at Lamb, frowning. “You met him. Did he seem like the sort of fellow who would use such an elaborate and uncertain method? Knocking me on the head and I’m pretty certain, blowing up, certainly sinking the family yacht?”
“No. Your cousin Mathew would take no chances. If he’d clouted you on the head, you wouldn’t be sitting here—he’d have made certain you were dead before he put you on the yacht. But like you, it doesn’t feel like Mathew to me—if your esteemed cousin Mathew wanted you dead, dead you would be.”
Barnaby nodded. “My thoughts precisely.”
“So who?”
“That’s the devil of it!” Barnaby declared angrily. “I don’t know! Beyond leaving London for Eastbourne, I have no clear memory. It could have been anyone.”
Lamb shook his head. “Not anyone. You’re a stranger here and”—John grinned at him—“while you can be infuriating, you haven’t been here long enough to drive anyone to murder. Your death only benefits Mathew . . . and his family.”
Unable to argue with Lamb’s logic, Barnaby picked up the jacket Lamb had laid on the bed. Shrugging into an expertly tailored jacket of brown superfine, Barnaby said, “At least I have you to watch my back.”
“That you do,” Lamb said and, reaching into the valise, he took out a long-bladed knife. Handing it to Barnaby, he watched as Barnaby examined the lethal instrument. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Barnaby bent and deftly slid the knife into a specially constructed sheath in the side of his boot.
Straightening Barnaby said, “I know I wrote you that I lost my knife in the Channel. How the devil did you find another one so soon?”
The corners of Lamb’s lips twitched. “Must I remind you—I am a
most
superior servant.”
 
After leaving a generous sum of gold for Mrs. Gilbert and his sincere thanks for their efforts, a few minutes later Barnaby and Lamb were riding away from The Crown. In addition to his own horse, John had brought along a fine black gelding for Barnaby to ride.
The weather was still fretful, but since the worst of the rain and wind had abated, it wasn’t an unpleasant day. Riding through the open, rolling countryside broken only by the occasional stand of trees, Barnaby felt a pang for the green meadows and forests of Virginia.
“It is very different than home, isn’t it?” Barnaby said after they’d traveled a few miles.
“This is your home now,” Lamb said quietly. “Unless, of course, you mean to turn your back on the title and all that comes with it and return to Virginia.”
“I wonder if English law would allow me to do so? I suppose I could do something like abdicate, couldn’t I? Mathew would certainly be elated.” Barnaby sighed. “Life was simpler when I only had Green Hill to worry about.”
Lamb looked at him, one brow raised. “Are you seriously considering doing something that harebrained? Whistling down a fortune and running back to Virginia?” Bluntly he added, “I think perhaps you suffered a harder blow than you realized.”
Barnaby stared glumly between the ears of his horse. Did he really want to return to Virginia? He could do it. England had not been very welcoming; his cousins clearly wished him at Coventry and one of them might have tried to kill him last night; he had no reason to stay. . . . The features of the boy who was not a boy floated through his mind. Well, he reminded himself, there was no reason to leave
immediately.
More cheerful, Barnaby glanced at John and asked, “And how was your arrival at Windmere? Pleasant? Or hostile?”
Lamb frowned at him but realizing he would get no more out of him on this subject, he shrugged. “Somewhere between the two. Some of the servants were obviously delighted that they were finally going to meet the new master; others were sitting out in judgment. No one was rude.”
“And Windmere itself? Your impression?”
A slow grin spread across Lamb’s face. “I think you should see it for yourself.”
 
Barnaby’s first sight of Windmere left him breathless. Half castle, half manor house, the place was huge and stunning. Dominating a hill with the Cuckmere River flowing far below, on two sides of the original castle massive turrets rose up to meet the sullen gray skies. Woodland of birch, white willow, oak and beech planted by a Joslyn over two centuries ago fanned out around the massive stone, wood and brick house. Large, gray slabs of Horsham stone covered the multi-leveled roof; mullioned windows gleamed and numerous brick chimneys speared skyward.
Barnaby gaped like a bumpkin at a fair seeing a two-headed pig for the first time. He’d always been proud of his stately home in Virginia with its flowing verandas, tall windows and graceful lines. The three-storied house at Green Hill was considered one of the largest and most elegant houses in the surrounding area, but
this!
Barnaby swallowed. Good God! He’d wager that Green Hill and three or four houses of that ilk could be swallowed up within the walls of Windmere as if they’d never been.
Lamb chuckled beside him, saying teasingly, “And to think that a simple planter from Virginia is now lord of all of this.”
“Christ! No wonder you didn’t want to tell me about the place,” Barnaby said, a note of awe lingering in his voice. He shook his head, bemused. “I never expected anything like this. It’s magnificent! But I’m going to need a guide to find my way from the bedroom to the dining room.”
“You’ll have that—I think the staff numbers around thirty.” Lamb grinned. “And that’s not counting your stablemen and shepherds and bailiff and—”
“Stop! My head is spinning.” He shot Lamb a pitiful look. “You forget the night I just passed and that I am a wounded man. Remember my poor head.”
Lamb guffawed. “You are too hard-headed to be slowed by that little bump you took last night.” His laughter fled and he said softly, “Whether you like it or not, this is your destiny . . . unless you intend to run like a coward back to Virginia.”

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