Captive Splendors (10 page)

Regan laughed merrily. “Don't deny it. She took her lessons well from you.”

“Bragging or complaining?”

“Bragging, definitely bragging,” he laughed.

“Well, pretty compliments don't solve our problem. What's to be done?” Concern clouded Sirena's eyes again, and she turned her head away.

Regan sighed. “I guess I'd better come up with something. I can't have you frowning and creating wrinkles across that pretty face.”

“Wrinkles!” Sirena cried. “Where?” She rushed over to the pier glass and scrutinized her face.

Regan laughed again, loudly and raucously. “Still vain, eh, pet?”

“Oh, you—you scoundrel!” Her fingers found the hairbrush and Regan artfully dodged the hurled object. Lowering his head, he charged right for her, grabbed her around the waist and tumbled both of them to the soft carpet. His lips found hers and sealed them in an ardent kiss, successfully stifling her protests.

After a moment Regan drew away and looked down at her. “You win, sweetheart. If you want to talk about this situation with Wren, I'm listening.”

Sirena smiled. How well this man knew her, and how she loved him. He knew she had to set her feet on a course that would resolve the problem before she could come to him, free and abandoned.

Regan got to his feet and helped her up, holding her for a moment. “Only hurry and work this out in your mind, Sirena. A man can't be expected to wait forever.”

Patting him fondly on the cheek, Sirena whispered, “Do you know how much I love you, Regan? You know me so well and love me in spite of myself.” She moved away from him and seated herself on a chair that was farthest from the bed. “Tell me what you think of this Weatherly, Regan.”

Regan paced, as he always did when he was thinking. “I quite agree with Tyler's opinion. He's a bounder. And from what Tyler has told me, Weatherly is down on his luck. There's not much to be said for his financial status. Which could lead a worried father to suppose that Wren's main attraction for him is money.”

“Agreed,” Sirena said firmly. “Not that Wren couldn't have any man she wanted. She's certainly beautiful and intelligent, but Weatherly is the first man she's ever become romantic about. We can't allow her to make a mistake she'll have to live with the rest of her life. Regan, can't you go directly to Malcolm and tell him we don't approve of this match and that if Wren insists upon it, we will be forced to disinherit her?”

Regan pondered for a moment, his agate-blue eyes narrowed in thought. “No, Sirena, that wouldn't work. We've already exhibited how dear Wren is to both of us. He'd know that whatever might happen, we could never bear to have Wren live in want of anything we could provide. Naturally, if he were married to her, our beneficence would also fall on him. Any other ideas?”

“We could offer him a sum of money, a large sum. If what Tyler says about his finances is true, he just might jump for it.”

“Don't you see that wouldn't work either? We'd be holding ourselves up for blackmail. Yes, Weatherly would take the initial offer, but then he'd bleed us dry while he was contriving little ways to court Wren secretly. Even if Weatherly found himself another woman, he'd still haunt us. And what if Wren were to discover we had paid him off? We'd lose her, Sirena.”

When Regan halted his pacing to look at his wife, he was surprised to see Sirena's chin set in a curve of stubborn determination and her eyes flashing green fire. “What is it? You've thought of something, you little witch! Now, give over and tell me what it is!” he demanded.

“It's so simple! It's been right under our noses all the time!” Sirena laughed gaily. “Regan, did you notice the attention Malcolm was paying me this evening?”

“Notice! I noticed, all right! And I don't mind telling you I was keeping a watchful eye. I knew your game, Sirena, but I wasn't certain of his. One false move on his part, and I would have slit his gullet!”

“There, you see! That's the answer!” She went over to the desk, seated herself and withdrew a sheet of stationery from the top drawer. Her pen poised over the paper, she bit her bottom lip and began to write.

“What's that?” Regan asked. “What are you up to?”

“Thank you, darling. You've just given us the answer to Wren's problem with Weatherly. It's safe to say that the only thing more valuable to Malcolm than his fancy clothes and his money is his life. Regan, darling, you are going to threaten Malcolm.”

“Threaten to kill him? Sirena, it will never workl Every father threatens murder in some way or another to the man who takes his daughter away from him. Few ever carry out the threat, and Malcolm knows it!”

“Ah, yes. That is true with a daughter. It is quite different with a wife. I've heard of many men who've met their end because they were too attentive to another man's wife. Certainly Malcolm knows of several cases himself. And you, Regan, can be most ferocious when necessary.”

Regan thought for a moment and then laughed. “I can see your point. Why, if I ever thought that Weatherly—or any other man, for that matter—were to steal you away from me, he would find destiny at the end of my sword.”

“Exactly. All I have to do is write this little note to Malcolm, inviting him to visit me tomorrow. The scene will be set, and you, darling, will find our young dandy in a compromising situation. I'm certain I can rely on you to take it from there.”

“With pleasure.” Regan made a courtly bow. “Now, hurry and finish that damn note, and I'll have a footman deliver it immediately. It's a fool's idea, but it just might work.”

Sirena applied pen to paper, blotted the note and then handed it to Regan. His eyes narrowed.

“Sirena, we're taking a chance here, and, like all schemes, it could backfire on us.” At Sirena's questioning look, Regan continued. “We'll have to be very careful. Wren must never know what we've done. She'd hate us, Sirena, but most of all, she'd hate you.”

Sirena's eyes became distant. How could she ever bear having Wren hate her? But she knew Regan spoke the truth. “That is a chance I have to take, Regan. I would rather have Wren hate me than leave her to the wiles of a scoundrel.” The moment was tense, the air charged with unasked questions. Regan knew Sirena had calculated the odds and decided to live with whatever the outcome would be. Her lips formed a smile, but there were uncharted depths in her eyes. “Regan, give the note to a footman and hurry back,” she said softly. “I need you to hold me.”

As Sirena stepped into the garden, the light breezes caught the ends of her hair and blew them softly against her cheeks. Her face turned to the sun, she bit into her lower lip to keep it from trembling. The scene she was about to play with Malcolm strummed at her nerve endings. She hoped Tyler hadn't noticed her fidgeting at breakfast and the way she had kept asking him the time. Malcolm should be arriving at any moment, and it was only with the help of the heavens themselves that Wren had an appointment with her dressmaker that morning. Otherwise Tyler would have had to be brought into the little plot so that he could keep Wren away from the garden.

Sirena smoothed the folds of her sea-green gown. If she was going to play the part of a seductress, she had decided to look like one. The material matched her eyes perfectly, and she had applied a touch of Spanish paper to her lips and cheeks to heighten her coloring. Trying to find humor in a situation she herself had created, she smiled and hoped she wasn't out of practice. Flirting and seduction were arts that were never lost to a woman. She waved a lace-edged handkerchief in the air; the linen had been liberally doused with scent. Poor Malcolm, she sighed with a touch more confidence. He would hardly be a match for her wiles. Later, much later, years from now, Wren would thank her. If Wren ever found out, God forbid.

Sirena settled herself on a bench near a bed of roses, a long legal paper clutched in one hand. Slowly, sensuously, she swung her foot to and fro, careful that her slim ankle and trim slipper peeked from beneath the hem of her gown. Men liked a show of ankle, and Weatherly would be no exception.

She cast a critical eye at the sun and knew that Malcolm would arrive within minutes. A promise to continue their discussion of the night before in an “intimate setting” was all she had needed to offer him to be certain he would fall prey to the plan.

When she heard his footsteps on the flagstones, she made no move to indicate she knew he was near, but bent her head over the legal paper she had snatched from Tyler's desk at the last minute.

“Mrs. van der Rhys,” Malcolm said, bowing low and touching his lips to her hand in a too-familiar and ardent manner. His eyes, however, focused on the legal document in her lap; papers of that nature always represented money in one form or another. It was just possible she was working with Sinclair on the arrangements for Wren's dowry. Commendable, he said to himself, liking Sirena more by the minute.

“Malcolm,” Sirena cooed, “how prompt you are. An excellent virtue. A sign of a dependable man. And you Englishmen certainly do have a flair when it comes to dressing. You must give me the name of your tailor, and I'll have Regan stop by and order some new clothes before we leave for Java.” She touched the fabric of Malcolm's frock coat, letting her long, slender fingers trail lightly over his chest. “You are simply dashing.” Sirena smiled and appraised the man beside her. She could understand Wren's infatuation with him. Any woman might find herself likewise smitten. His dark hair was crisp and curled softly on his well-shaped head, a rakish lock spilling boyishly onto his forehead. His features were handsome, almost pretty, but his strong, square chin lent authority to his face. He had a habit of lowering his chin and looking up through long, spiky lashes, the kind young children have after they've been crying. Only Weatherly's mouth gave a hint to the man within. Well-defined but narrow lips, which Sirena knew could curl with cruelty, were studiously curved into a smile showing gleaming, strong teeth. And beneath the stylish clothes was a sinewy, long-limbed body hardened by years of riding and athletics. Malcolm Weatherly was a vain man, and this trait would provide the key to his undoing.

Malcolm was flattered and his heart beat a little faster at her light—was it also teasing?—touch. “How is your headache this morning?”

“Oh, it's gone,” Sirena said airily. “The trick to getting rid of a headache from the night before is to have a glass of wine before you get out of bed the next morning. Actually, Regan is the one who told me about drinking wine on rising. He said something to the effect that sounded like ‘a little bit of the hair of the dog that bit you.'” She laughed at the befuddled look on Malcolm's face. “Sometimes Regan can be very crass. Pay it no mind; a gentleman like yourself would never say anything like that, I'm sure.”

“Perhaps with another man, but never to a lady or within her hearing,” Malcolm simpered.

“Now, Malcolm, there's a little something I want to discuss with you, and I do hope you will give me your word that what we say now will be just between the two of us.” Sirena's voice was low and throaty.

“Dear lady, you have my word,” Malcolm whispered, his eyes wide and his hands trembling at his sides.

“Now that you've met my husband and stepson, I'm sure you can see they're not . . . not quite like other men. They don't have the flair, the style, that you English have. They're more—how can I say it and not sound disloyal?” Sirena pretended to frown. “Earthy,” she declared happily. “Yes, they're earthy. They don't understand young love and romance and things like that, whereas I, being a woman, do. I want you to know that no matter what they say, no matter what they do, I'm on your side.” She leaned forward so that her breasts almost spilled from the low-cut gown. “I think that you are the perfect choice for our little Wren.” Her slender hand reached up and touched Malcolm's cheek, and she purposely widened her eyes, a look of innocence on her face. “I feel it here,” she said, taking his hand and placing it on her bosom, “that you will take care of her and we won't have to concern ourselves with her well-being. I just feel it here,” she repeated dramatically, pressing his hand against the soft swell of her breasts.

“And you're right,” Malcolm agreed as he tried to loosen his collar. “You can trust me with her life—with your life, too,” he babbled, his eyes becoming moist.

Sirena's breath quickened at the hot look in Malcolm's eyes. Fool! her mind shouted. Where is Regan? How long can I keep up this playacting? Regan had promised that he would give her ten minutes alone with Malcolm. Surely it was long past that now.

Her ears picked up the sound of a footfall at the end of the path. At last, Regan! Sirena made her move. Her eyes became heavy-lidded as she licked at her lips, making them wet and inviting. “Come here, closer,” she whispered throatily. “I have something I want to say to you, something for your ears alone.” She bent forward slightly, one breast almost entirely exposed as Malcolm fought to keep his eyes on her seductive face.

“You can trust me, Sirena, with whatever it is you have to say,” he whispered back, quivering at what he knew he shouldn't be seeing.

Sirena was careful not to move. “I wish,” she breathed heavily, “that I were the one you were in love with, not Wren. There, I've said it and I'm not ashamed!” She heard Malcolm utter a loud groan and found his head buried in her bosom. “Darling, you feel the same way, I can tell,” she murmured, gasping for breath. She clutched his head to her as he burrowed deeper into the soft flesh between her breasts. “I knew you cared for me last evening when you offered me the wine. Stay here forever,” she pretended to moan.

“Forever and forever,” Malcolm echoed hoarsely, his hands feverishly attacking the beautiful woman's curves.

Sirena's mind raced. Hurry, Regan! Now! Now! The warm wetness of Malcolm's mouth revulsed her. If ever she had any doubt of Malcolm's love for Wren, his actions now were proof of the bounder he was. The footsteps came closer. Hurry, Regan, hurry!

“Of all the despicable tricks!” Wren's voice rang through the garden. “How could you?” she screamed at Sirena. “Aren't you ever satisfied? Isn't Regan enough for you? How could you do this to me, of all people? Whore!” Wren's face was drained of all color, her eyes dull and hard. “I'll never forgive you for this, Sirena. Never!”

Sirena was dumbfounded. Where was Regan? Why wasn't Wren at the dressmaker's? Malcolm was flustered and looking like a plucked peacock. And here was Wren, blaming her, Sirena, not this simpering oaf who was trying to maneuver himself away from Wren's ire. Sirena was being blamed for Malcolm's perfidy. She had to do something, say something to make Wren understand it had been only a ploy to save her from Malcolm. “Wren. . . you don't understand, I wasn't—”

“I don't want to hear a word you have to say. My eyes told me all I needed to know. You have to be the center of attraction. You need men, all men, to throw themselves at your feet and adore you. Regan, Caleb, the boys, they're not enough! No, now you've set your wiles on Malcolm, on my man! Well, it won't work, Sirena, because I know Malcolm loves me! He'll always love me.
Me!
Do you hear me, Sirena? And what's more, I never want to see you again.” Wren choked. “I . . . don't . . . we don't need you, do we, Malcolm? We don't need anything from her. Not her blessing on our marriage . . . not her money . . . not anything!”

Malcolm's mouth fell open in amazement. This wasn't exactly what he had had in mind when he had begun courting Wren van der Rhys.

“You don't mean that, Wren,” Sirena pleaded. “You're my daughter, my child; sometimes I think you are more mine than the children I carried within me. . .”

Wren turned her head away, refusing to face Sirena, feeling betrayed by her. Her heart was near breaking. She wanted to throw herself into Sirena's arms, wanted to listen to any explanation Sirena might offer, yet she couldn't bring herself to do that. If she listened to Sirena, it would mean that Malcolm had betrayed her, and that was the one thing certain to destroy her.

Malcolm gazed in amazement at the two women. What were they saying? What had Sirena meant when she said that Wren was more her child than the children she had carried? Wasn't Wren Sirena's child? “Wren, speak to your father. . .”

Wren turned to face him, her amber eyes sparked with rage. “Regan is no more my father than Sirena is my mother. I only have you, Malcolm,” she said with a sudden softness in her voice. “I need you. You must take me away from here—now! Please!”

Speechless, Malcolm followed Wren's lead as she took his arm and pulled him away.

Sirena sensed a presence near her and looked up into Regan's agonized eyes. “We did all we could, Sirena,” he said, “and it looks as though we made a botch of it. Wren came home early and must have slipped through the gate near the stables. I was just about to make my grand entrance when she discovered you here.”

Wordlessly, Sirena held out her arm and Regan drew her close. “What will we do now, Regan? We've lost her. We've lost our daughter,” she murmured through stiff lips, choking back the tears.

“We'll find her again, sweetheart, you'll see.”

“But she's leaving, going off with Malcolm.”

“No, she won't. I'll bet on it. I heard everything. She told him she wasn't really our child. I doubt he'll have any use for her now that she's decided to quit herself of us. She'll come back, you'll see. Caleb will bring her back.”

But Sirena was not to be consoled, and the tears that coursed down her cheeks burned her skin.

Outside the garden, Wren waited with Malcolm for the groom to bring his phaeton around. “I'll gather my things and meet you at your apartment,” she said softly, still holding back racking sobs. “I imagine it will take no more than a few hours. Hold me, Malcolm, hold me!” she cried, hurling herself into his arms. “I've never spoken to Sirena that way. I've always loved her, always been sure of her love for me. I . . . I don't blame you, Malcolm. Sirena is beautiful, and she threw herself at you.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, Wren,” he said coldly, his tone so stiff and detached that Wren pulled away and looked up at him with bewilderment. “I mean I don't want you to come to my apartment. You've ruined everything with your silly schoolgirl mentality. I'm afraid I have no further use for you, Wren.”

“Use for me? Malcolm, what are you saying?” Her voice quivered and her hands trembled. “I love you, Malcolm. I'll always love you.”

“Don't say that. Can't you understand? I've enough to do with feeding myself. I can't support you, too. I haven't a farthing to my name, thanks to my wastrel uncle. I've barely enough to keep body and soul together, let alone pay my tailor's bill. Within days my creditors will be hounding me again. I can't afford you, Wren.”

“We'll do something. Well survive. I'll find some work, and you can do so many things—”

“Stop it, Wren. Get it through your head that I can't afford you. Here's my carriage.” Barely waiting for the vehicle to come to a stop, Malcolm sprinted inside. “I'm sorry it worked out this way, Wren, but you've only yourself to blame.”

“I'll come to you, Malcolm, I will! I'll do anything for you, work my fingers to the bone—”

“Don't, Wren. Don't make this any uglier than it is. Don't come to me. Stay away from me. I can't afford yon.” Banging the side of the coach with his fist, he shouted at the driver to go faster. Wren was left alone on the drive, tears streaming down her cheeks, a look of confused astonishment in her golden eyes.

Without a backward glance at the girl he had wanted to marry, Malcolm gave his driver instructions to the home of Lady Elizabeth Rice. Now, more than ever, he was interested in listening to what she had to say about the jeweled collar the King was having made for his son's birthday. Now, more than ever, he needed what revenue he could gain from the sale of those jewels. Providing, of course, that he would be successful in acquiring them. Settling back on the leather upholstery, he mentally reviewed a list of all the markets and fences on which he could unload the collar for the top price. The name of Lord Farrington kept cropping up. The Prince's birthday was still two weeks away, which would give Malcolm two days at the very most to relieve the goldsmith of his art work. The first thing he had to do was to contact Farrington. But that would be after he had spoken to Lady Elizabeth. He anticipated her smooth, white limbs welcoming him into an embrace and felt a veil of moisture gather on his upper lip. Sirena van der Rhys had set his blood on fire, and it would take the ministrations of the sensuous redhead to quench his thirst.