After the Kiss (28 page)

He was led to the duke’s study without a word by another silent footman. An indication that Tarrant cared little that his actions were witnessed by his servants. It should have reassured Michael as to his safety and Margaret’s fate. Strangely enough, it didn’t.

The chamber Michael entered was dark, lit only by one branch of candles mounted on a tall stand. A tall,
hulking man stood in front of a desk, his face heavily scarred. It looked as if he’d been badly beaten many times and the bones in his face had never healed properly.

But it was the other man who drew his attention. Tall and almost unnaturally thin, he had a narrow ascetic’s face. His eyes were dark and penetrating, his smile thin lipped. Almost as if he mocked the gesture, but made it nonetheless.

“Tarrant?”

How odd, that he had never met the man. The
ton
was not large, their greatest complaint the boredom fostered by meeting the same people repeatedly. But then, most of his time was spent immersed in codes.

“Alan Stilton, at your service.” The duke’s palm pressed against his chest as he bowed. A courtly gesture, one reminiscent of a hundred years earlier. “I have, of course, the privilege of addressing the Earl of Montraine.”

“Where is my wife?” Michael asked curtly, in no mood for pleasantries.

His question obviously surprised the duke. His smile thinned even more. “So you married her? The woman holds a decided fascination for you, Montraine. My brother felt the same. Pity she never interested me.”

“Where is Margaret?”

Instead of answering him, the duke turned and spoke to his companion.

“That will be all, Peter,” he said. “You must take care of that other matter we discussed.”

“Where is my wife?” Michael said again. Louder.

He stood, feet braced, opposite the desk. In his right hand he held the dispatch case. His left was clenched tightly as he measured the distance to Tarrant. The
rage he felt was so dark and disturbing that he easily defined it. He was capable of killing this man.

“You have a decidedly limited repertoire of questions, don’t you?”

“Where is Margaret?”

Tarrant ignored his question, nodded instead at the dispatch case in his hand. “Are those the books?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Did you solve the code?” The duke looked up at him, smiled again. “But of course you did.”

Tarrant’s hand stretched out, but Michael only shook his head. “Not until I see my wife.”

“Lovers united?” The duke’s thin lips curved.

Michael remained silent.

“I regret I can’t accede to your request,” Tarrant said. “But then, you can’t imagine it to have been this easy. The man who just left this room has gone to kill her.”

The candlelight illuminated the duke’s pale face, rendering it a caricature. One of an evil monk, or a zealot. “And when he’s finished, he will come back and kill you.”

Margaret heard a noise in the corridor. A man’s shout, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps. Finally, muted thunder. A pistol?

She stood behind the door, watching as the handle turned slowly. She was trembling, but she still gripped the bedwarmer tightly between her hands. The door creaked open. She clenched her eyes shut, prayed, and swung as hard as she could.

The weapon was halted in mid-swing.

She opened her eyes, blinked several times, but the vision did not change. The smile was warm, the brown eyes friendly. Robert stood there, both hands
firmly gripping the handle of her impromptu weapon.

“I do not believe, Robert,” she said, almost reduced to tears, “that I have ever been so happy to see anyone.”

“I am happy to oblige, Margaret.”

“Michael is in danger, Robert,” she said frantically, feeling as if time itself were an enemy. “We must get word to him.”

“Not to fear, Margaret,” he said, smiling at her in a brotherly fashion. “Reinforcements have arrived.”

They both heard the noise. Michael knew the sound well enough: a pistol being shot in close quarters.

Michael hurled the books at the branch of candles. The room was instantly catapulted into darkness. He threw himself at the duke, skidding across the desk, the impact so hard that his shoulder lifted the other man a few inches off the floor. When Tarrant fell, Michael was on top of him.

The rage Michael felt made him someone else. A primitive man lost in grief and betrayal, and an anger so fierce that he wanted to choke the man with his bare hands. He needed to feel the moment his death occurred. Slowly. In agony.

Someone lit a candle, and suddenly the room was filled with people.

“Let him go, Michael,” a voice said. He glanced up. Robert.

The glow illuminated the duke’s contorted face, but he didn’t release his grip on the man’s throat. Instead, he tightened his hands, watching in satisfaction as Tarrant struggled for air.

“She’s alive, Michael.”

“He shot her,” he said hoarsely.

“It wasn’t Margaret who died, but his servant. We
caught him just as he was entering her room.”

He heard the words from far away. But the heels of both hands still pressed hard against the duke’s neck.

“But he won’t be alive much longer if you don’t let him go.” Michael felt his arms being grabbed, but he pulled away easily. His strength seemed greater and more deadly than that of any two men.

“She’s alive, Michael.” Robert’s voice again. “I’ve seen her myself.”

Slowly, he eased the pressure of his hands. The duke sputtered and coughed beneath him.

Another candle was lit. He glanced up. People were entering the room. Not liveried servants, but Robert’s men.

“Michael?”

He stared at the apparition in the doorway.
Margaret
. The candlelight seemed to render her almost ethereal. Or perhaps it was simply his mind, illogical and wishing she was here.

He stumbled to his feet just as she ran to him. He closed his eyes and held her tight, inhaling great gulps of air as if he’d held his breath from the moment he’d read Tarrant’s note.

She was safe. Alive and safe.

Finally he pulled back, still holding her close. Margaret surveyed the clutter of the room, the fallen candles, the scorched carpet, the
Journals
lying on the floor.

“Have you been throwing things again, Montraine?”

“Just so,” he said, amused.

“A very touching scene,” Tarrant rasped, being
helped from the floor. He massaged his throat and glared at them.

“The man is a traitor, Robert,” Michael said, and proceeded to tell his friend about the code.

“You fool,” Tarrant said bitterly. “I worked on England’s behalf. If Napoleon had been left to molder at Elba, he would have become the focus of a rallying cry. A martyr for the cause of French independence. He was defeated soon enough.”

“How many English soldiers died at Waterloo because of your treason?” Michael asked bluntly.

“They were casualties of war,” Tarrant spat out.

“As easy as that? Thousands upon thousands die and you can’t even see your own complicity? You must have felt some guilt, Tarrant. Otherwise you would not have been so secretive about your participation.”

“I knew the world would not understand.”

“Why keep the books, if they held such a dangerous secret?” He answered his own question as he stared at the duke. “An act of pride. One that you have had time to regret, no doubt.”

“How was I to know that that fool bastard brother of mine would steal them from me?” Tarrant sneered. “I thought he came to borrow money. I should have suspected something when he looked too damn cheerful at my refusal.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?” Margaret asked softly. Michael could feel her tremble beneath his arm. But she took one step forward and glared at the duke.

“An apt punishment,” Tarrant said tersely. “A thief should expect no less.”

“And the bookshop? You set fire to that as well?”

He only sneered at her.

“There’s nothing noble about your nobility, Tarrant,” she said angrily. “You’re depraved.”

“Now is not the time to express your disdain of the peerage, my love,” he whispered, pulling her back.

Tarrant suddenly moved, so quickly that the two men standing in front of him were unprepared for his action. Picking up a pistol hidden beneath a sheaf of papers on his desk, he pointed it deliberately at Margaret. “You always were insolent.”

Michael shoved her behind him.

“How protective you are, Montraine. Is she worth dying for?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

From here Tarrant could not miss. This time there would be no doubt of the assailant nor the victim. But the other man surprised him. He smiled and slowly raised the pistol, placing the end of the barrel against his temple.

Michael turned and pulled Margaret through the doorway. He didn’t flinch, nor did he turn back at the sound of the shot. He didn’t care about the Duke of Tarrant or his self-imposed fate.

Only three things mattered to Michael Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine. The woman beside him, the child she carried, and their future together.

"T
here is a spot on your shirt,” Margaret said, amused. He stood in the morning room, the picture of sartorial elegance. Except, of course, for that coin-sized stain on the front of his white shirt.

He plucked the offending material out with two fingers and stared at it. “Veronica was excessively vigorous.”

“I suspect it was her father,” Margaret said, smiling. “You mustn’t jostle her so soon after her feeding.”

“Nonsense,” he said in his own defense. “She thoroughly enjoys it.”

“As much as when you recite code patterns and numbers to her?” Her look teased him. “She’s much too young to understand.”

Margaret had fixed in her mind what type of father he might be. He would take some interest in the rearing of his child, she’d decided. But she had honestly not thought he would be so doting. He was in the nursery so often that the nurserymaid had complained. The baby, too, seemed enraptured at the sound of his voice. The sight of them, father and daughter, was enough to bring tears to Margaret’s eyes.

“She’s an exceptionally intelligent child,” he said, raising one eyebrow at her.

“She’s only three months old.”

“Not too young for her superior abilities to be measured,” he said proudly.

Margaret stifled her smile.

Sometimes, in deciphering a code, Michael was in the middle of it before the beginning was revealed clearly. He needed to test various patterns before discerning which one made more sense.

It occurred to him that his life had been like that.

He was a man who’d been familiar with a solitary schedule, one he’d devised for his peace of mind. Silence had been a necessity. Now laughter, and crooning, and the sound of a lullaby, filled the air most times, along with soft footfalls upon the stairs and a sweet voice. He found himself stopping to listen for all the various noises of his world, then returning to his tasks with a smile on his face.

The past year had seen many other changes.

His valet had left his employ in a huff a month earlier, declaring that he’d been hired away by another man, a toff, a gentleman with a great care for his wardrobe and his person. One that did not—and
here Harrison had sniffed at him—smell so much of infant.

Now his sleeping schedule rotated around not his ciphers but his daughter. He hadn’t been boxing for weeks, and he doubted his horses would recognize him lately. His entire life centered on two individuals, Margaret and Veronica. Yet, instead of his world narrowing, it seemed to expand.

His thoughts, heretofore engaged in a routine and predictable pattern, now seemed fixated on the concept of happiness as a goal, in addition to furnishing his wife with smiles.

The enchantment that had settled over his house was not limited solely to his person, either. The nurserymaid hummed constantly, Molly smiled, and even Smytheton did not look quite so fierce lately.

The only thing disconcerting about his world was today.

“It’s them,” he said, hearing the knock on the door. “Do we have to do this?”

She brushed a piece of lint off his coat. “It’s better to get it over with,” she said, smiling.

“I don’t see why.”

“Because families should not be parted by unkind words,” she said. “And it’s time we healed the breach. There’s Veronica, after all.”

“Remember that I warned you,” he said, walking into the foyer beside her.

Smytheton reached the door, opened it.

The Dowager Countess of Montraine sailed into the house like a barque in a strong wind.

“I received your note, Michael. I am glad to see that you have come to your senses after all this time,” she said, removing her bonnet with one hand and gestur
ing for her daughters to similarly divest themselves of their outer garments. One by one they did so, layering Smytheton’s arms so heavily that the poor man looked to be dropping from the weight.

“Where is this new grandchild of mine?”

“Sleeping, I believe,” Margaret said.

“She shall awake,” the countess declared peremptorily. “It is not every day that she meets her grandmother for the very first time.”

The countess turned, raised her voice. “Smytheton!”

Smytheton appeared, arms free once more.

“Send for the nurserymaid. I would see my grandchild. A girl, you say?” She turned to Margaret with a frown.

“Never mind, Smytheton,” Michael interrupted. “I will get Veronica.” He left them and quickly mounted the stairs. An occurrence that must not happen often, Margaret thought, the sight of the Dowager Countess of Montraine silent, with a particular look of surprise on her face.

Ada sidled up to Margaret as they walked into the morning room. “Jane would have given him a son,” she whispered.

Margaret only stared at her.

“They are friends,” Elizabeth explained.

“You see, all the attention will be given to a baby. No one will notice that I’m getting married.”

“Hush, Charlotte!” Ada and Elizabeth said at once. The two sisters looked at each other in surprise. Margaret wondered if it was the first occasion in which they felt some accord. The blessed silence was not, however, to last.

“I am sorry, Charlotte,” Ada said. “We should not have been so cruel. Even Horace said that anger is a brief lunacy.”

Charlotte threw up her hands, turned to Elizabeth. “Stop her! She’s quoting again.”

Elizabeth frowned at her sister. “What do you expect me to do, Charlotte? It could be worse; it could be Wollstonecraft.”

“But it’s not. It’s all those old Latin men!”

Michael entered the morning room with Veronica and placed his daughter in his mother’s arms. The countess stood gazing down at the newest member of the Hawthorne family, a look of tenderness on her face.

“It’s been a very long time since I held an infant, little one,” she said. “But I haven’t forgotten how.”

The countess looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears. “She looks very much like me, doesn’t she?”

Margaret nodded, more in an effort to spare the countess’s feelings than in agreement. In truth, she thought Veronica looked like her father. Her eyes were the same shade of sapphire and there were tufts of black hair on her head.

“Just wait until I tell Helen Kittridge about you, Veronica,” the countess said. “Her daughter has yet to wed, and I already have a granddaughter.”

The rest of the countess’s conversation was in a language only Veronica could understand. The three aunts gathered around their new niece, and for once, none spoke over the others. Veronica, accustomed from birth to adulation, grew bored with the cooing after a time and began to fuss. Michael took her from his mother, only to transfer her to Margaret’s arms.

“There are some things,” he said smiling, “that even I cannot do.”

“You cannot mean that you suckle the child?” the countess asked sharply. “That will never do.”

Margaret walked calmly from the room. Her
mother-in-law followed her, stood at the base of the staircase staring up after her.

“Say good-bye to your grandmother, Veronica,” Margaret said, glancing down at the countess. “It will be the last time you see her.”

“You cannot mean that,” the countess huffed, frowning up at her.

“I’m afraid she does,” Michael said, smiling up at Margaret. “My wife refuses to be cowed by the nobility.” His grin warmed her. “
Any
of the nobility.”

“I cannot be dictated to in this fashion,” the countess said, turning to Michael. He only smiled, leaned against the door frame, and watched his wife.

Margaret began slowly to mount the stairs again.

“Shall I have no say at all?”

Margaret raised one eyebrow at her mother-in-law.

“I welcome your opinions,” Margaret said, glancing down. “Not your dictates.”

For the next moment, not a word was spoken between the two women. A battle of wills silently yet fervently waged. Finally, a nod was the only concession from the countess.

“Your nose isn’t too large,” she said surprisingly, studying Margaret. “And your ears do not protrude, for all that you come from peasant stock. Plus, you’ve given me quite a lovely granddaughter. I shall launch you into society myself. We need a new modiste for you, a decent lady’s maid to style your hair. Do you dance?” she asked abruptly.

Michael cleared his throat. His mother glanced at him, frowned, then sighed in surrender.

“Very well, Michael. But with all those economies you insist upon, I can barely afford to outfit myself. Besides, you cannot live as hermits the rest of your life. Both of you have outraged the
ton
.”

“Why, because we’re happy?” He smiled at his mother and she shook her head at him. But Margaret suspected that the gesture was one less of censure than of capitulation.

Margaret turned and slowly began to descend the steps.

“There is dear Charlotte’s wedding, don’t forget,” the countess said. “You mustn’t be miserly with funds on that occasion.”

“It will be a subdued affair, I trust? Something elegant and reserved for family only? Something
modest
?” he asked, accentuating the word.

“Ada’s wedding will most definitely be small, Michael. Her intended does not like large gatherings,” Elizabeth said. “A very surprising alliance, Ada, to marry a duke.” She smiled at her sister.

“He’s a very learned man,” Ada said, her pale cheeks taking on a pink hue.

“And wealthy,” the countess said, glancing at Michael. “Very, very wealthy.”

Margaret smiled at Michael’s silence. The Foreign Office had recently paid him quite generously for his mathematical engine. In fact, they were negotiating a large development fund for him to refine and expand its abilities.

His first act after the mathematical engine was accepted by the government was to enlarge the third floor. Then, he had surprisingly and whimsically commissioned a work of art. Her smile grew as she thought of it.

“He is quite a student of Egypt,” Ada said, speaking of her fiancé.

“Not again, Ada,” her mother said, waving her hand in the air. “I do not want to hear one more word about those nasty mummies.”

“Ada’s fiancé says that partaking of ground mummy aids in the digestion,” Elizabeth whispered in an aside to Margaret.

She felt vaguely ill but managed a smile. When the nursemaid appeared, Margaret gently surrendered Veronica to her care.

“Smytheton!”

The butler appeared again, seemingly unperturbed by the countess’s shriek.

“I want you,” Aphra announced. Such a decree had the effect of raising Michael’s eyebrows.

Smytheton, however, seemed to understand perfectly. “I regret, my lady,” Smytheton said, bowing, “that I am currently employed.”

“We shall trade.” The countess turned and directed a stern look at her son. “You’ll take that ancient Peterson and I’ll have your man here. He, at least, can walk upright.”

“I’m perfectly satisfied with Smytheton,” Michael said. “One might even say that I’ve grown quite fond of him.”

The countess slitted her eyes and looked from Smytheton to Michael. “Have you no wish to serve me, Smytheton?”

A delicate question requiring a very politic response.

Smytheton smiled. “Indeed, my lady. But I have been taught that loyalty is of paramount importance. I would not be demonstrating my loyalty should I change employers at this time. Therefore, my worth would be diminished before I ever began to serve you.”

The dowager countess knew full well that she had been declined, but in the most delicate fashion. “Choc
olate,” she said to Smytheton, who looked mildly discomfited at her response.

“If you are going to nurse that child,” she said, turning to Margaret, “you must have chocolate at least three times a day. Have I your word on it, Smytheton?”

The poor man could only nod in reply.

She turned to Michael. “Do change your shirt, dear boy. You look positively unkempt.”

The countess proffered her cheek to Margaret. She glanced at Michael helplessly. He only grinned and shrugged. Finally, she placed a quick peck on her mother-in-law’s cheek.

With that, Aphra glided from the room, her arm upraised. The girls, not unlike three little ducklings, followed in her wake.

The silence echoed.

Margaret sent a horrified glance in Michael’s direction.

“You have a look on your face,” he said, amused, “that I know I’ve worn myself on many occasions.”

“Will it always be like that?” Margaret felt as if a gale had whirled her end over end.

“You were the one who insisted upon a reconciliation,” Michael reminded her.

He walked to the door of the morning room, locked it, then returned to her side and reached for her. She looped her arms around his neck, lost all thoughts in his kiss.

“What would you have done if you had met me before you were a widow?” he asked a moment later.

“No doubt hurt a man who did not deserve it,” she admitted.

“And if we had seen each other before that?”

“Then I would have ruined myself for you. Is that what you want to hear?” she teased. “I would have,
you know. And you, Michael? What would you have done if you had met me earlier?”

“Been as I am now,” he confessed. “Illogical at times. Decidedly emotional. Incredibly happy.”

He pulled back and smiled at her. Slowly and deliberately he withdrew a length of red ribbon from his waistcoat, dangled it in front of her.

“Isn’t red the color of ecstasy?”

“Here? In the morning room?”

“Where else?” he said, tilting his head back and studying the ceiling.

The artist had finished the work the day before, and the odor of drying oil paint still lingered in the air. Like the library ceiling, the panorama was of a dawn sky, with tendrils of pink and blue and yellow heralding a new day. But the cherubs embracing in the corner were not diminutive nor plump. Instead, they bore a remarkable resemblance to the Earl of Montraine and his countess.

Smytheton looked toward the morning room, heard the laughter, and shook his head. His stern face, however, was altered by a fleeting, and fond, smile.