The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (25 page)

Dressing gown askew, Walter loomed above her, facing a man who stood less than three feet away.

Billy! Rand's cousin, Billy Turnbull.

The Stafford livery barely contained Billy's chest, a prizefighter's chest. Beneath the livery, his muscles rippled menacingly. His gaze imparted anger and sympathy, just before he challenged Walter's glare.

“Get gone from this room!” Walter shouted, his face red with fury.

“The lady's hurt,” Billy said, his fists clenched.

“That's none of your concern!”

“I heard her scream, m'lord. I sent a servant for the doctor an' her mum.”

“How dare you! I'll have you killed, you witless scum!”

“For wot?”

Elizabeth struggled to a sitting position. A fierce stab of joy coursed through her. Rand wasn't in Dover. He had planted Billy in Lord Stafford's employ so that Billy could watch over her, protect her. If her pride had not prevented her from screaming at the very start, Billy would have put a stop to the rape much sooner.

Walter's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and Elizabeth realized that Billy was in no immediate danger. Walter couldn't kill him. What explanation would serve to justify such an action? Interrupting the rape of a gentlewoman would never suffice, and Walter might even find himself gaoled with the same felons he had captured—a fate worse than death.

“You're sacked, dismissed!” Walter roared.

“In that case, m'lord, I have nothin' t' lose.”

Billy's fist snaked out so quickly Elizabeth couldn't believe her eyes. She heard Walter hit the floor with a teeth-jarring thud. Billy tossed her a blanket from the bed, then grabbed Walter's ankles and dragged him toward the door.

“His lordship won't come 'round till mornin', Miss Wyndham,” Billy said, his taut muscles rending the seams of his livery. Dead to the world, Walter's weight was considerable. “And me cousin will have brewed up some new scheme by then, never fear.”

“Where is…?” Elizabeth clamped her mouth shut. Dr. Purefoy, Dorothea, and Patience had entered the room.

Dropping Walter's ankles, Billy bolted through the confused maze of bodies.

Nobody tried to halt his flight, and Elizabeth silently wished him Godspeed.

***

Everything was gray, as if viewed through a fog. She saw herself from a position directly above the bed where she lay. Her pale hair spread across the pillows, dwarfing the delicate features of her face. She had wasted to little more than a shadow. Finally, she was dying. Upon Ranulf's death, she had willed herself to die, but it had taken far too long. She welcomed Death. More than welcomed him. Hungrily embraced him.

But Death had proven himself a capricious lover, just like Ranulf. She wanted Ranulf so badly. She missed him more than the children she'd never borne. Without Ranulf, her life had lost all meaning, like a summer without sun. Life would be forever gray and black and white, without the green of tree leaves, the red of roses, the pinwheel colors of excitement and laughter. Soon she and Ranulf would be reunited. In hell, most assuredly, for their sins had been great.

Her soul floated upwards, beyond the canopied bed, past the shadows hiding the ceiling rafters, into a blackness pricked with stars…

Elizabeth's eyes snapped open. Her world was dark, too. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape. Her head still ached but it was a dull pain, akin to the pain in her heart.

I feel like Janey.

Lady Jane had lost Ranulf and she had lost Rand. Without Rand, the flowers were gray, the trees white, the sun black.

Why struggle anymore?

The next day Walter, Elizabeth, and Dorothea visited the Tower of London. Elizabeth saw the celebrated statue of Henry the Eighth. Walter pressed a piece of floor and Henry's overstuffed codpiece, lined in red velvet, rose in a lewd fashion. Believing it to be a protection against barrenness, several women stuck pins into the codpiece. Handing Elizabeth a pin, Walter insisted she do the same. She complied.

Why struggle anymore?

Inside the tower's armory, Elizabeth happened upon Ranulf Navarre's broadsword, displayed in a case that contained relics from the thirteenth century. “Used in the treacherous uprising against Henry III,” the inscription stated.

Ranulf's sword had been ravaged by the centuries, but a sliver from the true cross of Christ had once rested inside its pommel. Janey had belted the sword across Ranulf's hips before he went into battle. Elizabeth could see it all so clearly, yet it didn't seem to matter anymore. Lady Jane was dead and Rand's Bonny Bess might as well be dead, too.

Damn your soul, Walter Stafford,
she raged inwardly, a momentary spark of fury tempering her weariness.
Save for your stubborn greed and blasted pride, Rand and I would have spent the rest of our lives together.

Following their Tower visit, Elizabeth accompanied Walter and Dorothea through the gardens of Ranelagh. She vaguely noted that Walter had covered his bruised cheek with heavy white makeup. Despite his mustache and goatee, the bright sunshine made him look like the man in the moon.

Moon!
Dear God, what would happen tonight when Billy was not in residence? Pray God that Rand had “brewed up some new scheme” to thwart Walter's pending assault.

Ranelagh possessed an enormous rotunda with a huge central fireplace, and—in Walter's words—was
the
place to take tea and be seen. Rather than tea, Elizabeth sipped a punch that smelled of lemons and oranges and was so loaded with sugar she could scarce taste the brandy.

Portions of Ranelagh's spacious lawns had recently been cut. Inhaling the scent of new-mown grass, Elizabeth was reminded of the White Hart gardens. She missed her father, who was overseeing the renovations on Wyndham Manor. She missed the Dales, too. The moors would be cold and wind-blown now, the trees shed of their leaves, the sheep and cattle huddled in their rock barns. Perhaps the hills would be blanketed with snow, the streams overlain with a layer of ice.

She wished she could go home, but dismissed the notion as whimsical. And impractical. Rand was in London. Even if he
had fled, he wouldn't have headed north.

A fragment from the poem she'd written after Zak Turnbull's execution teased her memory:

I have been here before,

But where or how I cannot tell;

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet, keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,

How long ago I may not know;

But just when at the swallow's soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall—I knew it all of yore.

Tears threatened to overflow. She had lost her only love, possibly forever. Only remnants remained, like shredded dreams.

Dorothea leaned across the table. “Did Lord Stafford tell you? We're going to visit Shepherd's tonight.”

Perhaps Tom would be there and she could ferret out news of Rand, thought Elizabeth. She would have to be very careful. Surely the aborted ambush had revealed Tom's kinship to Rand. Perhaps not. After all, Walter knew Rand as John Turpin.

“You look pensive, dearest,” Walter said. “Don't you want to visit Shepherd's?”

“I don't care where we go.” Most likely Tom wouldn't be there. Even if he was, Walter would surely stick as close to her as the rowel on a spur.

“The Prince of Wales is scheduled to put in an appearance.” Walter sipped his drink, awkwardly crooking his little finger. “Prince George is a dedicated gambler. How would you like to meet a real prince, Elizabeth?”

She studied her punch. If she tilted the glass just so, she could see her reflection in its depths. Or at least one eye and a portion of her nose.

“Mind your manners and answer Lord Stafford,” Dorothea said sharply.

Elizabeth stared blankly at Walter.

“Oh! I nearly forgot!” Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a folded sheet of paper. “Look at this.”

Elizabeth gazed down at a sketch of Rand's face. The poster appeared identical to all the others she had seen, save for the bold headline: 2,000 GUINEAS REWARD.

The vast amount jolted her from her apathy. “Two thousand guineas! God's teeth!”

Walter looked pleased with himself. “I finally persuaded the Duke of Newcastle to increase his reward. The duke is still incensed over the brutal treatment of his lovely wife.”

Brutal treatment?
Elizabeth stifled a snort.

“It is merely a matter of time before someone turns the thieving bastard in,” Walter said.

“Saint Peter himself would sell his soul for two thousand guineas,” Dorothea gushed.

Walter laughed. “Fortunately for us, the world contains far more Judases than saints.”

***

Lord Stafford's carriage halted in front of Shepherd's. Descending, Elizabeth felt her ankle begin to twist. But her stepmother's handsome escort, Anthony Harrod, swiftly reached out and set her securely on her feet. Father had insisted that he and he alone orchestrate the renovations on Wyndham Manor, thus Anthony was Dorothea's current “Cicisbeo”—the euphemism for a man who escorted married women.

Elizabeth heaved a deep sigh. She suspected the manor's repairs had less to do with Father's absence than his daughter's despicable behavior. Father had always lived in a world of illusions. If he wasn't present, it couldn't be happening.

Once her illusions had been her whole world. Not anymore. She would give anything she possessed, including her writing career, to be held by Rand, kissed by Rand, caressed by Rand. Only he would never expect her to give up what Walter called her “scribblings.” Rand admired her intellect.

And my courage,
she reminded herself, raising both her chin and the hem of her skirt.

Shepherd's interior included heavy velvet and brocade drapery, inlaid floors of polished wood, hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, Chippendale chairs, and upholstered settees. A magnificent staircase led to game rooms on the second floor, while the first floor contained two rooms devoted primarily to faro and hazard. As Anthony escorted Dorothea to the ladies' water closet, Walter explored every nook and cranny. “Very nice,” he said repeatedly. “Very expensive.”

“You've never been here before?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.

“This lovely home was once owned by a Miss Angel Cipriani, who opened it for public entertainments. Well known leaders of the town attended her parties and masquerades, including the Duchess of Hamilton and the Duke of Gloucester…”

His calculated pause hinted that Elizabeth should express the appropriate awe, but she couldn't have cared less if the Devil himself had attended.

“Miss Cipriani's galas hid all kinds of illegal doings,” Walter continued, “and the attention of my mentor, John Fielding, was eventually drawn to them. She was brought before the justices, convicted and fined. Afterwards, she sold her home.”

“To Mr. Shepherd?”

“No. Richard Shepherd bought it three years ago, changed its name, and made it quite respectable.”

“Then I don't understand why—”

“Miss Cipriani sold it to one of her lovers. I wasn't welcome. You see, I was somewhat responsible for the lady's downfall. Now that I'm a business partner in my own gambling establishment, I've become honorable, even praiseworthy, an irony you should appreciate. I've waited twenty years to enter these doors. On my oath, I'll never again abstain from what I deserve or desire.”

“Why do you believe you deserve me?”

“I'd be the first to admit that I deserve better. You are nothing more than a landlord's daughter. But I
desire
you, my dear.”

Her tranquil expression never faltered, never betrayed the terror that grew with every word he spoke. Tonight he would become dishonorable and there was nothing she could do about it.

Before she could respond, Dorothea returned. A servant took their wraps and they entered the second room, where a mahogany hazard table dominated. An overhead lamp shone down upon its green playing field, illuminating the dice boxes.

“Every evening gamblers are given three new pairs of ivory dice,” Walter said. “An expense that annually sets Mr. Shepherd back two thousand pounds. But it's a pittance compared to the food and drink, which is free to all players.”

“Free?” Dorothea squealed. “Goodness!”

“'Tis not so magnanimous,” said Elizabeth. “The longer one remains at the table, the more likely the odds will turn against him.”

“That is correct, dearest.” Walter smiled, although she suspected he had a different meaning in mind—her capitulation. “You are very wise for a woman.”

They passed a tray heaped with culinary delights. “Peacock steaks, lobster, and salmon!” Dorothea exclaimed, snatching a cluster of grapes.

“Shepherd's has a divine French chef,” Anthony said. “Even if he is a bit difficult, as all Frenchmen are.”

Elizabeth surreptitiously sought Tom among the croupiers, but any anticipatory hope had waned. If she spotted Tom, what difference would it make? She might slip him a note, but what if Walter, hound-like, sniffed out her ploy and questioned Tom?

For the moment, it was safer to do as she was told.

“Look at those cunning little cakes,” Dorothea gushed. “Oh, Anthony, do get me several. I believe I can play much better on a full stomach.”

Anthony dutifully followed the waiter. Elizabeth wondered if her stepmother's escort would spend the night in Dorothea's bed. Probably. Cicisbei enjoyed being part of the entourage of beautiful or high born women and satisfied their every desire. Anthony had been hired by Walter, of course, but Elizabeth was no longer certain of anything regarding her father's marriage. She only knew that Dorothea's face had the look of a satiated lover—a look Elizabeth would never have recognized had she not met Rand.

“Would you like some cakes?” Walter asked. He surveyed Elizabeth's gown, a blue silk decorated with flowers, ribbons, lace, and ruching. It had been sewn by a dressmaker who emulated the French designer, Rose Bertin. Rose Bertin serviced Queen Marie Antoinette. “In truth, you are a mere shadow of your former self.”

“Who is that man?” Elizabeth discreetly gestured toward the far end of the room, thinking to change the subject since Walter knew very well why she had lost so much weight. Her trepidation over Rand's capture contributed, as did her reluctance to consume one morsel unless it was served from a shared platter. She suspected Walter was not above drugging her again. “The man seated behind the large desk,” she clarified.

“That's Richard Shepherd, entering private wagers into a betting book. He also metes out loans on drafts and pays off successful claims.”

Dorothea jabbed Elizabeth with her fan. “There he is! The prince himself!”

Elizabeth followed Dorothea's impolite finger. The Prince of Wales was the most striking of the gentlemen clustered around Mr. Shepherd. Not much older than Elizabeth, George was tall and even more handsome than she'd heard. Gossips maintained he pursued women as passionately as he gambled—as passionately as he collected mansions, fine paintings, and racehorses.

Many patrons stood a prudent distance away, ogling England's heir apparent, who was well aware that he was playing to a wide audience. Repeatedly, his gaze found Elizabeth's and his grin seemed to intimate all manner of sensual delights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you've all heard my wager.” George's gesture, surprisingly graceful in one so intoxicated, included Elizabeth and her entourage. “I am certain that by November, 1789, I shall be King of England. My good friend here disagrees.” George's arm encompassed the shoulder of a shorter man with a pleasant, intelligent face. “Charles declares that I shall be king much sooner.”

From behind her fan, Dorothea said, “Who is that young man with the prince?”

“Charles James Fox,” Walter replied. “He's the son of Lord Holland, an enemy to King George and one of Parliament's most brilliant orators. Fox is a Whig, always in direct opposition to His Majesty's policies, which, I suspect, is the primary reason why the prince chose him for a friend.”

George's wager shattered Elizabeth's favorable impression. To become king, George would have to issue a
coup d'etat,
force his father to abdicate, or assume the throne upon His Majesty's death. How could such a sweet smile mask such treachery?

“Recently my father carried on a conversation with an oak tree.” George's voice was both masculine and melodious. “The conversation was rather one-sided. Thinking the tree to be the king of Prussia, Father engaged in a rather spirited discussion on the divine rights of kings.” George's padded shoulders lifted in a delicate gesture of revulsion. “Unfortunately, Father never paused long enough to allow the poor tree a chance to respond.”

“I believe I prefer a mad monarch to a disloyal brat,” Elizabeth murmured.

“Many people agree with you, dearest.” Walter stroked her bare shoulder.

Shrugging off his hand, Elizabeth walked away, and was pleasantly surprised when he did not follow. Upon entering the front gaming room, she immediately spied Tom. They stared at each other for a long moment before he leaned over and, using a small wooden rake, swept the losers' counters across the table.

Walter grasped her by the elbow; he had followed after all. “There's a handsome young man,” he said, staring at Tom. “The lad looks familiar to me. Does he to you?”