Sattler, Veronica (15 page)

"Order
some
—"Ashleigh
almost choked. "I—whatever are you talking about? You have no cause
to—"

"What
I am talking about, my beautiful little spitfire, is the outfitting of your
person at a level that's suitable. All of my mistresses have been exquisite
dressers."

"All
of your..." Ashleigh's mouth gaped as she was hit by the impact of his
implication. A moment passed while her stunned silence filled the room.

Then,
suddenly, she was all action as the message cleared her brain and made way for
the mounting storm that replaced her initial shock. With an angry outthrusting
of hands, she pushed her chair away from the dressing table and jerked herself
to her feet. She turned at once to face him, eyes blazing. "It will be a cold
day in hell before I ever consent to being your mistress, Lord Westmont! There
is only one thing I desire right now, and that's to get out of here and go
home. I demand you release me—at once!" This time the tone of her voice
demonstrated no unfamiliarity with a capacity to demand.

Brett's
eyebrows rose slightly at her unexpected reaction. He'd been well aware of her
resistance to his advances until now, but he'd succeeded in convincing himself
it was still part of some game she was playing, most likely to hold out for
more money than she'd originally been offered. Now he wasn't so sure.

Dozens
of women he knew would have jumped at the chance to become his mistress, for he
was well known to be a generous lover. And this even extended to his parting
with a woman. Why, just this morning, as he'd begun his day riding over the
estates, he'd made a mental note to pay off Pamela Marlowe with what some would
term a staggering figure.

But
here was this near child telling him quite unequivocably she was refusing his
offer! It made him recall the doubts he'd momentarily entertained last night
after she'd protested with that tale of hers about a mix-up.

He
decided to put it to a final test. "Ashleigh," he said softly,
"perhaps you haven't understood what my offer implies. A position as my
mistress would mean a sizable increase in... income for you. I am known not to
be ungenerous. Depending on the length of time we remain together, you could,
I'm sure, many times triple or quadruple whatever it is Adams has offered you,
and you wouldn't have to split it with your—"

"Not
ungenerous!
Hah!"
Ashleigh's outrage was almost palpable. "Was it generous to ignore my
innocent pleas and take my—my honor, on th-that piece of furniture there?"
She gestured hysterically at the bed across the room. "Was it generous to
hear my explanations of how I came to be here and then ignore them and proceed
to—to rape me, sir, and not just once, but again and again?" Her voice had
been rising with the rhetoric of each angry question, and she really began to
get into the emotion of it now, her hands on her slim hips as she paced back
and forth before him. "And what sort of generosity was it, pray tell, that
induced you to leave me incarcerated in this chamber for the duration of the
entire day?" She glared up at him with this final query, her small,
pointed chin outthrust, her lips in a straight angry line.

Brett
sighed as he looked down at this small figure of righteous, indignant fury. At
last he was forced to admit the chit might have been telling the truth, for no
woman in his ken would have dismissed an openly generous offer from the heir of
the wealthiest duke in England, and she had just thrown it in his face!

He
frowned. If Ashleigh was the innocent she had said she was—and now it seemed
this was possible—just who and what else was she? No serving menial had the
speech and manners she used—not to mention a level of education that would have
prepared her to take the governess's position she claimed she'd been hired for.
Some answers to these and a host of other questions he had about the girl were
suddenly necessary, and he knew just the person to put them to. He'd seen
Adams's carriage moving toward the Hall in the distance as he glanced out the
window when he finished dressing a short while ago.

"Ashleigh...
ah, Miss Sinclair," he said quietly, "it seems we just might have
been operating under—ah—some kind of a misunderstanding after all. If that is
so, you'll soon have my apologies, I can assure you; but for now, I want you to
wait here a little while longer while I get to the bottom of this. Have a seat.
I shan't be long." He whirled and headed for the door.

"Apologies!"
Ashleigh cried. "I don't want your apologies! I only want to get away from
here!"

But
she found herself finishing this to the closed door Brett had shut behind him.
Too late, she heard his key turn in the lock. He might be talking of apologies,
but it was clear he didn't trust her a whit!

Brett
hurried down the long hallway until he reached the grand staircase that led to
the house's huge entrance hall and descended two steps at a time. As he neared
the bottom, he saw Adams speaking to Mrs. Busby, and Mrs. Busby was crying.

"Adams,
I need to speak with you—now, if you don't mind. Let's go to the library."
Brett turned as if to go there.

"Lord
Westmont, I beg of you, hold a moment," said Adams.

Brett
turned to him, impatiently ignoring the softly weeping housekeeper. He was
astonished to see tears in the older man's eyes as well.

"Lord
Westmont," Adams repeated, "or perhaps I should say 'Your Grace.'
Tragic news. The duke, your grandfather, is dead."

"It's
a disgrace, that's what it is, Henry. His Grace, not yet cold in the grave, and
Young Brett running up to London like he did, and while that poor girl sits
here under lock and key! It's inhuman, too, if you ask me!"

Hettie
Busby sat on a stool, in the butler's pantry at Ravensford Hall, addressing her
husband. The couple had been employed in the duke's household for over thirty
years—all of their adult lives—with Hettie beginning as a scullery maid, then
rising to housekeeper, and Henry progressing from stable boy to trusted head
groom through their tenure. During that time their loyalty to John, duke of
Ravensford, and his family had been unquestioning. But now, as Hettie faced old
Henry there was an unmistakably disloyal gleam in her eye.

Her
husband saw it and sought to soothe her. "Now, 'Ettie, ye oughtn't t' be
carryin' on so about th' young duke. 'E's 'ad a rough time of it 'imself, what
wi' th' old duke dyin' and th' funeral and what all. Surely ye can understand
th' man's grief?"

Hettie
shook her head adamantly. "He has no right to keep that wee young thing
prisoner here, Henry! Just as he had no right to—to do what he did to her
before he left!"

"Now,
'Ettie—"

"And
her a
virgin,
too, Henry! Ah, it's like to tear my heart out, listening
to her pitiful crying when I pass that chamber door. I'm a woman, too, you
know! And I ain't made of wood!"

"There,
there, now, lovie." Henry offered her a comforting pat on the shoulder.
"P'r'aps ye might take it up wi' Iron Skirts?"

"That
one!"
Hettie's
look left little doubt as to what she thought of his suggestion. Over the years
there had been times when the duke's twin had strained the limits of Hettie's patience.
"All she's concerned about these days is arranging a date for Lord
West—for His Grace's wedding. A wedding, mind you, and her brother just five
days buried! It's all she talks about to any of us. And this morning she told
Jameson and me she's invited Lady Elizabeth over to stay for a fortnight, 'to
make the planning easier,' she says. Of course, that was before His Grace up
and decided to take off to London without a moment's notice! Now, I suppose,
we'll be hearing how the visit will have to wait until His Grace decides to
return."

Henry
gave her a gap-toothed grin. "Don't suppose 'at'll sit too well wi' th'
Lady 'Liz'beth! She's a nasty temper, 'at un!"

Hettie
nodded knowingly. "For the life of me, Henry, I never could figure out
what it is that draws Iron Skirts to them Hastingses. Lady Elizabeth's a
beauty, all right, and clever enough, but a peevish shrew, and that Lord
Hastings is the dullest soul going, even when he's not in his cups—which ain't
very often! And the old mum, well, I take pity on her, I do, but a half-wit's a
half-wit, and that's the best can be said of her!"

Henry
nodded sympathetically. "Odd, though, 'Ettie. Old Loomis told me 'bout 'er
afore 'e died. Swore she warn't al'ays 'at way. Said she 'ad a good 'ead on 'er
shoulders in th' long ago."

Hettie
nodded. "I heard something like that, too, from old Mavis Towler, the
midwife in the village before the war. Said it was the birth of them twins that
changed her. Of course, Mavis wasn't the one called in to help with the
birthing. Said the family called in some 'secret persons' to deliver Lady
Caroline and Lord David. It was an odd way of putting it, don't you think? Of
course, Mavis could have been jealous."

It
was Henry's turn to nod. "Mmm, Mavis was a jealous one, she was. Recall
'ow she went green when th' Lady Mary 'ad me fetch th' doctor th' night
Lord—'Is Grace was on 'is way?" Henry lowered his voice when he came to
the name Mary, looking guiltily over his shoulder as he did so.

Hettie
chuckled. "No more need to be worrying about mentioning
her,
Henry...
unless it's a ghost you were expecting to come up behind you!"

Henry
cleared his throat and gave his wife a frown of disapproval. "Well, time I
was gettin' back t' th' stables. 'Is
Young
Grace 'spects as good care of
'is 'orses as 'Is
Old
Grace did!"

Hettie
took his look as fair warning. Rising from her stool, she sighed, saying,
"Guess I'll go upstairs and see if the child ate anything on her tray. She
never touched her breakfast, or dinner last night, either. See you at supper,
lovie."

But
it was much sooner than suppertime that Henry saw his wife again. Less than ten
minutes later he beheld Hettie hastening down the path to the stable yard, out
of breath and looking distraught.

"Henry!
Henry!" she cried. "She's gone! Escaped out the side window by tying
some sheets together!"

"Who?"
came her husband's bemused reply.

"Who?
Why, who but just one that was here would have had the need to do any
escaping?" Hettie answered with some vexation. "The little miss, of
course!"

* * * * *

Brett
gave his stallion a pat on the neck before handing the reins over to the one
stable boy he trusted with his prized personal mount when in London. "See
that he gets a good rub-down and a double ration of oats tonight, Tim. I'm
afraid I pushed him a bit to get here at this hour."

Tim
took the black horse's reins with the same look of reverence he always had when
given the honor of caring for the Westmont bloods.

"I'll
treat 'im like th' prince 'e is, your lordship. Raven's me fav'rit, 'e
is!"

Hearing
the boy refer to him as "your lordship," Brett resisted the urge to
correct his form of address as a means of informing him of the duke's death.
Higgins was probably in the kitchen right now, telling the small staff he
maintained here on King Street that the duke had passed on. The lad would learn
the facts soon enough through the servants' grapevine.

Brett
sighed wearily with this thought as he turned and headed for the house.
Responding to mournful inquiries and condolences was the last thing he wanted
to do right now, yet there was little chance of avoiding them when he entered
the fashionable town house that now belonged to him. During the past week, he'd
dutifully participated in all the trappings and rites of mourning society
demanded, and he was tired to the bone with it. Now, all he wanted was to be
alone with his grief. Indeed, it was the very reason he had left Ravensford
Hall so soon after the funeral and interment. Here, he hoped, his real mourning
might begin.

Still,
it was with good grace and all the instincts of fine breeding bequeathed him by
the grandfather he sorely missed, that he patiently endured the softly spoken
sympathies of Bradshaw, the butler, and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, before
climbing the stairs to his chamber a short while later. Murmuring a dismissive
thanks to the footman who had lighted his way, he saw the door shut before
sinking tiredly into a huge wing chair next to the fireplace. Then, stretching
his long legs out toward the newly built fire crackling in the grate, he ran
his hands absently through his hair and allowed his thoughts free rein.

He
was gone... the one human being on earth he'd cared for... and who'd cared
about him... now a part of the dust all would inherit some day. He shut his
eyes, trying to make the notion of this absence feel real, for it was a problem
that he'd been wrestling with since he'd gotten the news. Somehow, although his
head and body had functioned with the rational behavior of one who has learned
of the death of a loved one, he'd been keenly aware that his heart had yet to
deal with the loss. For years his grandfather had been a persistent and
monumental presence in his life; had, indeed, shaped it into the thing it was
today... and now he was gone. Yet why couldn't he feel anything beyond this
dull weariness?