Blackstone's Bride (24 page)

“Did he tell you why he went to Greece, V.?”

“No. I don’t need to know. You don’t have to tell me. I know I can trust him. Whatever the world thinks he is, I know he’s honorable.”

“A stubborn, honorable fool,” Frank repeated. “Do you think he’ll want me at your wedding?”

“He will. Can you manage a bath chair?”

“I’ll be there.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“You are then resolved to have him?”

“I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

“Violet, I came as soon as I heard. You don’t mean to do this thing. You can’t seriously contemplate becoming Blackstone’s bride.” Penelope looked round Violet’s straw-colored drawing room with surprised approval.

“I do.”

“I beg your pardon, but are you mad?” Penelope sank on the Aubusson-covered sofa, and paused to stroke its elegant pattern.

“Tea?”

Penelope nodded.

Violet smiled. She couldn’t help it after all. Her happiness had a way of bubbling up to the surface like a spring. “I think I am mad, but it’s a lovely form of madness.”

Penelope accepted a cup from Violet. “People will call him a fortune hunter.”

“I don’t think he will mind.”

“How do you mean to handle his family? They will not rejoice at his connection with you.”

“I acknowledge that it may take time for his mother and sisters to accept me. They have had trials enough in these past years, but it is for Blackstone first to make his peace with them. He’s gone to Bath to speak with them, and we will see what reconciliation is possible.”

Penelope set down her tea untouched. “No one will support your charities any longer. No one will seek your acquaintance. People will cut you direct.”

“I will have to rely on Blackstone for company, won’t I?” Violet brightened at the thought. She supposed that they would often be naked, at least in the early days of their marriage, and that definitely meant that other company would be unwanted. What an empty blank place London had been without Blackstone. Though she had tried to fill every page of her calendar with appointments and meetings, in his absence, the million-peopled city of London had been a hermitage.

“That’s the maddest notion of them all. Rely on Blackstone?! The whispers about his intrigues will begin before the ink has dried on your marriage lines.”

“Yes, I suppose his name will always be synonymous with scandal. People will imagine that he has a harem or a Spanish lover or an actress or a lady love.”

“The vain imaginings of bored ladies of fashion will be nothing to endure, but the knowledge of his infidelities will pain you.” Penelope was quite serious.

“You are right, Penelope. If I had to endure knowledge of any infidelity on Blackstone’s part, it would be impossible to be his bride.”

“Violet, you may not think me the most sincere of your friends, but I do know my world, the world from which Blackstone comes. I have been trained from childhood to exist in it. You have not.”

“You think I would do better as Mr. Rushbrooke’s bride.”

“I do not. But there are hundreds of sensible, worthy men between Rushbrooke and Blackstone. I only ask you not to connect yourself with Blackstone.”

“I think I have been connected with Blackstone for years now.”

“You are resolved then to have him? You’ll let yourself be known as Blackstone’s bride?”

“I like the sound of that, Blackstone’s bride. It suits me, I think.”

* * *

“Hazelwood, I have a job for you.”

Hazelwood dropped into one of Goldsworthy’s large leather chairs. The scale of the man required grandeur even in the club’s furnishings. The man’s office reminded him of visits to his father’s study, except for the canvas backdrop and the noise of workmen, and except that Goldsworthy was an amiable fellow, and
amiable
was a word one would never apply to the Earl of Vange.

“I thought you’d never ask, Goldsworthy. You want me to ride a white horse to the rescue of a fair damsel. Do I get to keep her if I save her?”

“You’ve got the right of it, lad, but sadly you can’t keep this one.”

“Goldsworthy, old man, I don’t think you realize quite how wearing this celibacy regimen is. I suspect you’ve been sneaking off to tup Mrs. Goldsworthy on the sly while Clare and I sleep chaste as nuns in our beds.”

Goldsworthy’s russet brows contracted. He looked quite serious for a moment. “You and Clare would do well to become acquainted with chastity, I think. Quite a new experience for the pair of you.”

“But you’re willing to let us run free for a bit to rescue this maiden?”

“To restore a lady’s honor.”

“Ah, then Clare’s your man. He’s stuffed with honor that one. You know what he did at Waterloo, don’t you?”

Goldsworthy nodded and began absently pushing the papers around on his desk, like a man with a broom trying to push a load of snow off the pavement.

“Of course, likely you saw him do it. You know everything about the unfortunates who have fallen into your trap.”

“Hazelwood, do you want the job, or don’t you?”

“I do.”

Goldsworthy leaned down, opening and closing the drawers in his desk, obviously looking for something.

“Well, what is it?”

Goldsworthy stretched a hand across the desk and offered him a wad of banknotes.

Hazelwood took the notes. A man could have a long run at the faro tables with the wad in his hand.

“The job is to buy a painting from the artist Reynolds Royce and ship it to Spain. I’ll write out the directions for you.” Goldsworthy started writing.

“You mean Blackstone’s painting? The painting of his Spanish dancer?”

“Don’t take
no
for an answer.” Goldsworthy held out a slip of paper. “Your first assignment, lad. Report back when you’ve got the fair lady shipped off to Spain.”

Hazelwood looked back at Goldsworthy from the door. “You do realize that you’re seriously thinning the ranks of our little club. Blackstone’s going to be married, solvent, and sober. He can hardly claim membership any longer.”

Goldsworthy looked up at last with a grin. “Don’t worry, lad. I won’t let you down.”

Epilogue

“My affections and wishes are unchanged.”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

A great deal was said and written about Blackstone’s bride. Though the wedding party was exceptionally small and varied for persons of such consequence as Lord Blackstone and his banking heiress, Miss Violet Hammersley, there are those persons in London, alert to the doings of the fashionable who will note the day and time of a wedding and contrive to witness the event.

So it was that as soon as the parties involved had secured a special license and a parson, speculation arose in many quarters as to the fabric and design of the bride’s dress. Such a quantity of blond lace and silk tulle had been ordered by a particular Spitalfields dressmaker that some persons declared Violet Hammersley was getting above herself, a rich cit marrying a lord, even such a rakeshame as Blackstone. Other persons simply made note of the dressmaker’s name and resolved to make use of her services.

Those who did manage to insert themselves into the modest crowd in the church or to obtain a spot upon the pavement outside were not disappointed. The ladies of Spitalfields had outdone themselves. The simple gathers of the bodice, the rich floral appliqué of the overdress, the delicate figured lace of the veil gave the gown an ethereal beauty, fitting both the dignity of the bride and the church, with its soaring arches and ancient windows.

A particularly bold young painter who had managed to attend the affair through the good graces of the Duchess of Huntingdon offered to paint the new baroness and was told that Lord Blackstone had tossed his card upon the fire.

* * *

As for the new bride herself, once the solemnities had been observed, and a tearful parting from her father and brother had passed, she discovered that her new husband meant to make good on his threat to keep her naked as much of the time as he could. In a country inn, within walking distance of a pretty bay, they had a large sunlit suite with a substantial bed, famous for the royal persons who had once laid their heads there.

Violet sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed on the third afternoon of her married life gazing at her sleeping husband. A faint sea breeze cooled the warm afternoon. She stroked the dark waves back from her husband’s brow and sighed. “How soon do you think you will stop wanting me?” She kissed his forehead.

He opened one eye and stretched with lazy masculine pride. He was as naked as she, after all.

Violet unfolded her legs and reached for her wrapper. She would never stop wanting him, and maybe that was all that mattered.

Blackstone’s right hand shot out and snagged her wrapper, whisking it out of her hands. “Violet, why do you think I’ll stop wanting you? I wasn’t able to stop for five years when you broke our first engagement.”

“You must, mustn’t you?” She watched him closely. The blue of his eyes seemed to have deepened with their marriage, but that must be a trick of her own besotted senses. He looked perfectly at his ease, lying in naked splendor. She knew him, knew that at any moment, he could spring and pin her under him, but he might not, given the way they had spent much of the afternoon.

“Did your friend the duchess suggest that husbands must inevitably tire of their brides, or only that Blackstone’s bride must not expect constancy from her scandalous husband?”

Violet swallowed and nodded.

His eyes drifted closed again. She waited.

“I think that if I stop wanting you in English, I will start wanting you in other languages. How do you feel about Spanish?”

“Try me.”

“
Yo te quiero
. I want you.”

“I like the sound of it.”

The words barely left her lips when Blackstone sprang. He snagged her waist with a warm strong hand and flipped her onto her back, and surged over her. He held himself above her, his eyes full of love and laughter.

“
Yo te quiero
, Violet.” He made her laugh, too, even as his knee made a place for him between her legs. “And if we grow weary of wanting each other in Spanish, we will move on to other tongues.”

“Greek and Latin?”

“Sanskrit, I think. I know a Sanskrit word that will always make me think of wanting you.” He dipped his head to kiss her breasts.

“What?” she whispered.

“
Yoni
.” The word came out rough and low as she felt the light graze of his jaw waken the ache of desire in her core.

“
Yoni
. What does it mean?” She framed his face in her hands and lifted his head from her breasts. His laughing blue gaze met hers.

“
Divine passage,
my love.”

* * *

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Chapter One

England. 1824

Emma faced the two gentlemen in front of the massive stone fireplace. A painting on the wall above the gray stones depicted a hunting dog pinning a spotted fawn in agony between his forepaws. Emma’s sympathies were with the fawn.

They had her pinned, the duke and his nephew. The Duke of Wenlocke, tall, gaunt, and imperious, his face as unyielding as granite, leaned heavily on a black cane. His gnarled hand curved over its golden head like an eagle’s talon. His other hand clutched a document.

“This is the girl?” His haughty gaze sent an icy wave of alarm over her. “She doesn’t look like a murderess to me.”

Emma willed her knees to remain steady. It took steady knees to run.

“Oh, she’s the one, Uncle. Emma Portland.” The other man, the duke’s nephew, the Earl of Aubrey, turned from prodding a great log with an iron poker. A shower of sparks vanished up the flue.
If only escape were that easy.

“What’s your age, girl?” the duke demanded.

“Twenty, Your Grace.” Her voice came out thin and reedy, unrecognizable to her own ears over the pounding of her heart.

The duke’s gaze fixed her to the spot. “Stuck a knife in some fellow’s ribs, did you?”

Don’t deny it, Emma.
She clenched her fists in the folds of her shawl. Let them think her a murderess. Let them stare as if she were a beast in a menagerie to be baited.

“She’s accused of the deed, Uncle, not convicted. I’m sure she’d rather do a favor for a pair of gentlemen than face the law.” Aubrey had a smooth voice and a powerful body, his muscled thighs bulging in skintight riding breeches, his calves sheathed in gleaming black leather. Emma had seen him return his pretty mare to the stables with bloodied sides. She had not imagined that he noticed her.

The duke’s stare pierced her. “She’d better. I’m done with the law and courts. Hang all lawyers. I want that
whore’s
get
out of Daventry Hall and back in the gutter where he belongs.”

He shook the paper in his fist at Emma. “You know what this is, girl? A request for the king’s pardon. The duchess wants me to sign it. If I don’t, you’ll be had up before the justices at the next assizes in Horsham.”

Emma drew a sharp breath and blinked hard against a sudden sting in her eyes. Somehow in spite of all their care, the law had connected her with the spy’s death. She knew what that meant. Once more she and Tatty had been betrayed. Her thoughts raced back through the long chain of coins and jewels pressed into willing palms and hasty bargains made with low characters. Their enemies might have bought off anyone on sea or land in the thousand miles between home and England.

“You’ll hang, you know.” The duke handed the paper to Aubrey. “Read it to her.”

Aubrey circled her, making a slow deliberate perusal of her person, the privilege of a man with power. A mad desire to pick up her skirts and run passed in an instant. She would not make half the distance to the library door. She would never make the first set of stairs or the grand entrance or the drive, let alone the unfriendly woods below Wenlocke Castle. Escape took care and planning and, above all, luck. No one knew that better than Emma. How many times had she and Tatty and Leo tried and failed in seven years, until their jailers had hanged Leo?

Aubrey stopped so close to her she breathed his scent, a heavy male mix of musk and leather with a tang of sweat.

“Not pleasant to contemplate, is it? Much better to hide here at Wenlocke, teaching servants’ brats. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Miss Portland?”

Her downward gaze caught at the flimsy paper in Aubrey’s hand. A pardon meant that the duchess, her grandmother’s friend, still believed in her. When she and Tatty had reached her grace, all their difficulties had melted away. Until now. Now the duchess had gone to London to visit her daughter. Tatty was on her way to a ship at Bristol. There was no one at Wenlocke to help Emma. Still the duchess’s wishes must count for something. “The duchess kindly gave me a position.”

“Don’t think to hide behind her grace, girl,” the duke snapped.

“But she’s done it for weeks, Uncle. Look at her. With her pink cheeks, golden curls, and round blue eyes, a man thinks butter won’t melt in that sweet mouth, but that’s a lie, isn’t it?” Aubrey lifted her chin, the cutting edge of his nail against her throat. Her stomach roiled at the touch. “You’re a lie, Emma Portland. There’s a dead man in Reading whose reeking corpse says you’re someone else.”

His broad back was to his uncle. He let go of her chin and reached down and dealt her breast a swift, stinging blow with a flick of his middle finger.

Fear cramped her insides, but Emma knew better than to show it. She had wanted to be a girl again, but she’d made a mistake to brush the walnut dye out of her hair and scrub her skin and accept an old-figured gown from the duchess, sweet and clean and scented with lavender and verbena from the clothes press.

“Listen to Aubrey, girl.” The duke’s voice brought her gaze back to him. “If you don’t want them to break your pretty neck and feed you to the crows, you’ll do as he says.”

Crows.
She steadied her treacherous knees.
Don’t think about crows, Emma.
Tatty and the babe must reach the coast and the waiting messenger.

The fire crackled. Outside, a March gale howled against the windows. The Englishness of the place, which had seemed so warm and comforting when she first arrived at Wenlocke, now seemed chillingly cold. The baroque grandeur of the room dwarfed her. Its dark oak cases held thousands of morocco-bound tomes with gold-tooled spines, crushing slabs of history and law. The English liked their law to do the killing. They did not send assassins to kill babes in their cradles as her countrymen did, but they would hang the merest child for stealing.

Aubrey called it a favor, but Emma knew better. The prickle of the small hairs of her neck warned her. He and the duke wanted her for some ruthless business because they believed her to be a murderess. She could tell them what a joke that was. Tatty, older than Emma by three years, was the fearless one. Leo had always admired her for it, married her for it. Her brother and her cousin had been well matched in courage.

It had been Emma’s duty to kill the flies and spiders in the cell she’d shared with Tatty. Once Emma had even been so bold as to kill a rat. But if these gentlemen knew the truth about her, if they saw that she would be of no use to them, they would simply give her over to the law. And the crows would get her.

Aubrey handed the paper to the duke. His voice turned coaxing. “We want you to teach a different group of brats. That’s all. Here, read this notice.” Emma swung her gaze back to him. This time he offered her a newspaper, and she was pleased with the steadiness of her hand as she took it. Inside her everything quaked as if she would shake apart in spite of the name she had taken for herself.
Portland
for the stone and
Emma
for the lover of the great English hero Nelson. She had vowed to be as unshakeable as her new name.

The paper was folded open to a small notice inquiring after a schoolmaster.
Private instruction wanted in letters, mathematics, and geography.
References required. Inquire at Daventry Hall for interview.

Emma handed the notice back. Asking a suspected murderess to tutor children in a private gentleman’s house was not the favor Aubrey meant. “What makes you think this person will hire me?”

She did not know where her boldness came from. Tatty would say a cat pent up becomes a lion.

Aubrey watched her with a twisted smile. A ridge of vein marred his smooth broad forehead. “We will send impeccable credentials with you.”

Aubrey’s smile was the slow, complacent smile of power. Emma waited for the trap to close.

“In return, you must do something for us. It’s simple really. I’ll keep a man in the village. He’ll tell you what to do, and you’ll report to him everything you discover about your new employer’s habits and plans.”

“I must spy?” She tried not to betray any relief. They had not asked her to kill anyone.
Still she would have to report to a man, Aubrey’s man. Aubrey would know where she was.
Escape would be very, very hard.

“Or hang if that’s your preference.”

“On whom must I spy?” Her mind raced. Let them think her agreeable. Let them think she could be bought with a piece of paper. There would be time while she spied for them for Tatty to reach the coast and Emma to plan another escape. She was the planner, not Tatty.

“On the Marquess of Daventry.”

“A lord?”

“Whore’s get.” The duke’s cold voice insisted.

She turned to him. The lines cut deep in his harsh face. The hooded eyes were unreadable. “May I know why I am to spy on this lord?”

“He’s an enemy of this house, Miss Portland.”

“Is he dangerous, then?”

“He’s damned hard to kill.”

She stared at the duke, but his closed expression revealed nothing. Emma’s brain could make no sense of it—to send a schoolmistress to spy on a dangerous lord. “For how long must I spy?”

“As long as it takes. And we may ask you to obtain certain items for us, certain papers and objects.”

They wanted her to spy and steal. “You will sign the pardon request if I spy?”

In answer the duke tossed the paper aside. The weary gesture told Emma all she needed to know about her predicament. The duke’s unsteady leg buckled, and Aubrey took his arm to help him to a leather chair. Emma understood the gesture. The duke relied on Aubrey now, and Aubrey only waited to take power as it slipped from the duke’s grip.

“When do I leave?”

“Today.”