Sattler, Veronica (22 page)

Patrick
sobered instantly with the question; he shook his head, all trace of humor
gone. "None. It seems there was a fire in the offices of the family
solicitors several years back, and that, on top of the news I received a while
ago that the senior partner we dealt with had died in 'oh-two, leaves me at a
complete loss as to my next step."

"I'm
sorry, my friend," said Brett as he placed his hand on Patrick's.
"What will you do now?"

Patrick
sighed. "Oh, I'm not sure, exactly. Go back to Kent, perhaps. After all, I
went there in the first place to learn the news of the tragedy."

Brett
nodded. "It was a hell of a homecoming. Tell me, though, didn't you
suspect something amiss after your letters went unanswered for so long?"

Again
a sigh. "You're forgetting that I spent most of those years abroad not
knowing who I really was. For a dozen years of my life I was Patrick Saint,
with not a trace of a recollection of my past before the shipwreck. The only
reason I retained the bulk of my name was that the shirt I was wearing had part
of a label left on it, inside my collar where I'd sewn it myself:
Patrick
St.—"

"No,
I'm not forgetting, Patrick. But I was referring to the letters you began to
write a little over a year ago when that fall from your horse brought
everything back. After all, that's still a good while before you made it back
to England."

"I
know," Patrick nodded. He paused a moment to sip at the cup of coffee he
held. "It took me a while to settle things on my estate in Virginia. You
might recall the Americans and the British have been having a bit of a time of
it lately. The end of 1812 was a hell of a time for me to get my memory back
and discover I had strong ties on both sides!"

"Agreed.
It must have been even more disconcerting to discover, after you arrived here,
that you were a Virginia planter who was now also an English baronet!" A
note of compassion entered Brett's voice. "But the worst had to be the way
you learned of your family's end."

"I've
had the time to digest it now, and I've done my mourning for my mother and
father."

"But
not for your young sister," Brett said pointedly.

"No,
not for my sister." Patrick's eyes deepened to the color of sapphire, and
for a moment Brett had a twinge of something vaguely familiar, but it was
fleeting, and he proceeded to give his friend his full attention.

"Dammit,
man," Patrick continued, "why should I? The one piece of information
I was able to glean from those left in the area who were able to tell me
anything, was that there was no body of a child found in the ruins of the fire.
My parents', yes, and those of several servants, all of whose graves I've seen,
for they're plainly marked, but of the little one there's no trace! That's why
I've got to keep searching. I must! Until I know for certain one way or the
other, I cannot give up hope. Can you understand that, Brett?"

Brett
glanced away, not wanting Patrick to read his thoughts. He, too, had buried
family over the years—his beloved grandfather just last week. But because of
the circumstances affecting the earlier losses—those of his childhood— he'd
come to a method of dealing with such tragedy that tended to make him cut his
losses and put them behind him, forcing himself to concentrate on the future.
Being of such a mind, he wasn't at all sure he could sympathize with Patrick's
obsession with finding out what had happened to his sister. He was inclined to
think the girl was dead and put it into the past. After all, if she were alive,
where was she? Why wasn't she coming forth to claim the rightful place in
society she was entitled to? The St. Clares, if Patrick was to be believed—and
Brett had no reason to doubt him—might have wound up impoverished, but theirs
was an old and honorable name, going back to the time of the Conqueror. Surely
a surviving daughter with that kind of legacy wouldn't simply have disappeared
into the woodwork!

Still,
Brett thought as he turned back to his companion, Patrick was his friend—their
relationship going back to their days as cabin boys, even if it was interrupted
by the big man's hiatus in America—and as such, he deserved his full-hearted
support. Smiling, he reached forward to clap him warmly on the shoulder.
"Patrick, if there's anything I can do to aid you in your search, you know
you need only ask."

Patrick
returned his smile. "Thanks, my friend. And perhaps there is. When we've
done with this business at Carlton House, I think I'll make that run to Kent
again. Can you put me up while I'm down there?"

"I
wouldn't think of your staying anywhere else." Brett looked thoughtful for
a moment as he took a sip of his coffee. "I have my own notions of why our
prince regent might be interested in each of our views on what's been happening
since the allies made their triumphant entrance into Paris at the end of March,
but you haven't told me yours." He glanced around the room, which had
begun to fill up since the two had met there a half hour before. "I think
we'll have more privacy if we stretch our legs a bit, don't you?"

Nodding,
Patrick rose while Brett signaled their waiter, and a few minutes later, both
were strolling casually along the street outside.

"It's
clear I was overheard that night a few weeks ago when we shared a few draughts
together," said Patrick. He looked only mildly abashed as he added,
"I usually hold my liquor better than that, but I hadn't eaten a bite all
day, and—"

"You
said nothing that could be constituted as loose-tongued. After all, what harm
is there in wondering about the wisdom of sending Napoleon to a Mediterranean
island? Elba
is
a bit too close to France, if you ask me!"

"Yes,
and not only that," Patrick added, "but they called it an
unconditional surrender and then proceeded to give him an income of
two
million francs a year!
And his wife, Marie-Louise, receives the duchies of
Parma, Piacenza and Guastalla, and
they both retain their imperial titles!
It's
lunacy! The man almost succeeded in swallowing up all of Europe, and they treat
him with—with kid gloves!"

"Of
course, I agree with you, Patrick—as I did then. We've not seen the last of the
Little Corsican yet, mark my words."

Patrick
chuckled. "Evidently somebody did exactly that, that night at the Red
Lion. They marked
both
our words!"

Brett
grinned. "You're right, of course. So now, with the entire city in a flurry
over welcoming the heroes of the allied victory, I suppose the prince regent
and his ministers don't wish to take any chances. They'll sound us out on our
recently, and—ah—publicly, expressed views over the wisdom with which Boney was
handled."

"Well,
I can't blame them," Patrick told him. "It could be awfully
embarrassing if, in the midst of a victory celebration, Napoleon were to
somehow make it off that island and begin to gather troops about him
again."

"Don't
tell me you're going to tell that to Prinny!" Brett stopped and gazed at
his friend in mock horror.

"Oh,"
answered Patrick with a grin, "I might... I just might.... You know,
Brett, they really don't know what to make of me. I've functioned as an
American citizen for years, but suddenly, one day I turn up here in England and
we all discover I'm a blue-blooded, full-fledged member of the peerage. Add to
that my Irish good looks inherited from my sainted mother, and you know what
you've got?"

"The
kind of man who keeps political ministers lying awake at night."

"It's
the truth!" Patrick's voice rang out cheerfully with the comment, causing
the heads of several passersby to turn. He immediately lowered his voice.
"It's a good thing I have a bona fide intelligence man as a friend to
vouch for my harmlessness."

"Softly,
man, softly," Brett warned him in a whisper. "Because you saved my
life that night in the alley, and, of course, because of so much more I've
learned about you since we've resumed our friendship, you know I'd trust you
with my life. But there are times when I wish your rescuing me from the knives
of those French assassin-spies hadn't made you privy to the nature of my
undercover occupation. You haven't had the training in watching your tongue,
and—"

"But
all that's over and done with now, isn't it?"

Brett
smiled, but the look in his eyes was cynical. "With Napoleon only as far
as Elba? I wouldn't bet on it, my friend. I wouldn't bet on it."

Ashleigh
and Megan sat in the smaller, front drawing room of Ravensford Hall and sipped
the tea Brett had asked the butler to serve them. To an observer they might
have appeared to be two genteel English ladies stopping for a visit on their
round of afternoon calls.

Ashleigh
wore a frothy pink voile concoction newly cut by Madame Gautier in lines that
were the last word in feminine fashion, its high waist tied with a deeper pink
satin ribbon that matched the ties of her bonnet and the slashes in her full
sleeves. Its floor-length, slightly flared skirt was edged in delicate lace
that echoed the lace at her wrists and the yoked neckline. On her feet were
matching pink kid slippers, and the spirals of glossy black curls that peeped
from beneath the fashionable bonnet were appropriately chic and feminine at the
same time.

Megan's
outfit, while cut along the same lines, was more sedate. Understanding the need
to play down the use of ribbons and frills when designing for a woman with
Megan's statuesque proportions, Suzanne O'Sullivan had put together a dress of
soft, sage-green silk with only the narrowest piping for trim where it was
needed—this cut from the same sage-green fabric. Her bonnet, in a straw that
had been dyed to match, was wide-brimmed, yet simple, and served perfectly to
set off the understated elegance of the whole ensemble. To anyone's eye, Megan
O'Brien was as far removed from her former profession as any well-dressed lady
of the
ton.

"Another
spot of tea, m'lady?" Megan queried in a perfect imitation of an
aristocratic London accent. It was a game they had been playing ever since
their lavish new wardrobes had arrived from the dressmaker's, and Ashleigh
responded in kind.

"Don't
mind if I do, m'dear," she said, giving a good approximation of the
inflections they'd heard Lady Castlereagh use. But with her next remark she
slipped back into her own soft mode of speaking. "What do you think is
taking so long, Megan?" She glanced at the ornate porcelain clock on the
mantel across from them. "It's been nearly a half hour since he deposited
us here."

"Hmm,"
said Megan, setting down a heavy silver teapot and following Ashleigh's glance.
"His Nibs niver said what it was he'd be checkin' into whilst we waited,
but I've a good idea. I saw a narrow-faced old crone peerin' down at us from
one o' the upper windows when our carriage pulled up. That'd be the great-aunt,
now, wouldn't it?"

"An
austere face with snow-white hair piled high atop—?"

"That's
the one! What's she called again?"

"Lady
Margaret... Westmont, I believe. The housekeeper here told me she never
married. I only met her briefly, when I— Megan! Where are you going?"

Megan
had set down her teacup and risen while Ashleigh was talking and now tiptoed
carefully toward the closed double doors through which they'd been shown
earlier. Her face wore a determined expression. "I've niver been one t'
sit still and wonder when I was curious t' find somethin' out, darlin'."
She had reached the doors and began, very carefully, to open them. Then, just
as carefully, she peered around a partially ajar door into the hallway. A
moment passed, and then she looked back over her shoulder at Ashleigh, a wide
grin on her face. Silently, she motioned for Ashleigh to join her.

As
Ashleigh neared, she began to hear the sounds of voices coming from somewhere
across the hallway. Though they were muted, nevertheless she could perceive
they were strident and angry.

"Megan,"
she began in a hushed tone, "should we—?"

"Shh!"
Megan put a forefinger to her lips. "We've got to get closer," she
whispered, pushing the doors farther apart. She tiptoed into the entry hall,
toward a partially ajar door about a dozen feet away. The tall redhead moved
directly toward it, motioning for Ashleigh to follow.

Glancing
left and right to be sure no servants were about, Ashleigh complied, and a few
seconds later they were both standing beside the door. Through it, Brett
Westmont's voice came, loud and clear.

"You
think to hold me to this alliance because it was my grandfather's last
wish?"

"I
more than think it," came the confident reply. "I
know
it!
Brett, there are many things, I am well aware, that no one can force you to do
if you do not wish to do them, but on this, I cannot imagine your refusing. My
brother's dying wish was that you wed. He told you as much in your last
interview—I was there, remember? And, after you left, he gave me leave to make
arrangements with—"

"Yes,
of course!" Brett's voice spat out. "The Hastingses! Who else? You
know, Lady Margaret, I, as well as a great many others hereabouts, I'll
warrant, have long wondered at your most singular attachment to that family. And
someday I'll get to the root of it!"