Captive Splendors (5 page)

It wasn't difficult to understand why King Charles, for all his self-righteous proclamations on the sanctity of marriage, preferred Lady Elizabeth to his dark and homely queen, Henrietta Maria. Lady Elizabeth was as fiery-natured as her flaming hair, and, most important of all, she was discreet, a necessity for a long regime as the King's favorite.

Malcolm had made her acquaintance quite by accident, almost in the same way he had met Wren. Lady Elizabeth had been taking the air in Hyde Park, and he had been so entranced with her beauty that he had boldly initiated a conversation. From there the flirtation had taken wing; when Elizabeth had invited Malcolm to a quiet dinner at her modest apartments on Drury Lane, he had quickly and eagerly accepted. They had been together several times before Malcolm had discovered that the King enjoyed sleeping beneath the same bed linens and between those same alabaster thighs.

Malcolm had thought he had succeeded in keeping his financial difficulties from Elizabeth, but only a few nights ago did he realize this was far from the truth. At first he had feared she would put an end to their affair, but to his surprise she had watched him warily through her azure-blue eyes and told him about a certain collar being fashioned for the King to wear on the anniversary of his son's birthday celebration. Bit by bit, Elizabeth had apprised Malcolm of the situation, carefully avoiding mentioning the name of the goldsmith who was creating the sensational collar. And sensational it would be, according to Elizabeth's description. “Worth a King's ransom,” she had declared.

At first Malcolm hadn't understood why she was telling him about it. Finally it had dawned on him that Elizabeth was offering him information that suggested the collar was within reach of someone enterprising enough to relieve the goldsmith of it before its delivery to the King. She had been more than willing to part with the scheme, for a fair share of the profits, of course. Tucking the gleaming snuffbox into his breast pocket, Malcolm nearly chortled out loud. Either way he couldn't lose, so long as he wasn't caught snatching the collar red-handed. If the robbery went off well, as he hoped it would, he wouldn't have to saddle himself with a wife for whom he cared nothing otherwise, failing all else and if the jeweled collar were beyond reach, he would acquire for himself a lovely, rich wife.

Seeing that his hired phaeton was approaching the drive to Baron Sinclair's home, he straightened his cravat and slipped a peppermint into his mouth to sweeten his breath. He stepped lightly from the carriage just as a hackney cab came up the drive and stopped behind him. Malcolm turned, expecting to see Baron and Baroness Sinclair. Instead, a tall, powerfully built man with hair the color of polished mahogany and a complexion like newly minted copper exited the cab, a fragment of a cigar clamped between his teeth. Malcolm watched curiously as the man hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets and looked about, his dark eyes sharply appraising.

Removing the cigar from his mouth, Caleb tossed it into the shrubbery and advanced toward the front door. Malcolm, surprised by the stranger's proprietary air, quickly fell into step behind him. They both reached for the bell pull at the same time, and there was a moment of embarrassed hesitation as they measured each other.

“It seems we are bound for the same place,” Malcolm said haughtily. “If you please, sir,” he added, pushing his way in front of Caleb and grasping the bell pull firmly.

Caleb took an immediate dislike to the dandy, and his quick eye did not fail to notice that Malcolm's cuff had been ineptly mended.

“Are you expected, sir?” Malcolm asked arrogantly.

“I am,” Caleb replied simply, his dislike for the man growing.

“I, too, have an appointment. I frequent the Baron's home rather regularly, and I'm sorry to say I've never made your acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself. Malcolm Weatherly,” he announced, extending his hand.

“Caleb van der Rhys,” Caleb stated, making no move to return the gesture.

Malcolm blinked. Van der Rhys! Surely this man was too young to be Wren's father. He tried to determine if Caleb had recognized his name. He knew only that in appearance he ran a sorry second to van der Rhys. Standing next to this sun-bronzed giant made him feel as though he'd been dipped in milk and hung out to dry.

Caleb seemed completely uninterested in Malcolm. If Tyler counted this dandy among his friends, that was his business. Then, of course, perhaps this Weatherly was a friend of Camilla's. Caleb grinned, his square white teeth gleaming in his tanned face. Perhaps Camilla hadn't changed after all.

Weatherly wondered what the man's private joke was. It seemed to amuse him considerably. He glanced down at Caleb's boots and felt a twinge of envy. Caleb's feet were encased in the finest leather boots Malcolm had ever seen. They were moroccan, from the looks of them, and polished to a high gleam. Van der Rhys was as impeccably dressed as he. But the other man carried himself so effortlessly, with a casual air of superiority that only money could provide. Undoubtedly a woman's man, he thought sourly, yet with a hidden power and a self-assurance that were enviable. In the split second before the maid opened the door, Malcolm decided he would never want to face Caleb van der Rhys in a life-or-death confrontation.

The moment Sally, the dimpled maid, opened the wide oak doors, Caleb grinned and winked at the flustered girl, his manner easy and assured. As if he belonged, Weatherly thought, grimacing.

“Follow me,” Sally giggled as she all but ran ahead of the two men, her cheeks flushed and her hands trembling slightly because of the sun god who had entered the house. She skidded to a stop and held open the doors to the morning room for Caleb and Malcolm to enter. “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked Caleb, not even bothering to glance in Malcolm's direction. She
knew
whom he was here to see. Lord love a duck, wait till Miss Wren hooked her eyes on
this
one! Wait till the rest of the staff hooked their eyes, too. All the downstairs maids would be peeking and giggling for weeks, herself included.

“Caleb van der Rhys to see the Baroness.” Caleb smiled winningly. He enjoyed the flustered look the little maid wore. He knew the effect he had on women, and it secretly amused him. Until they started playing the little games women play, and then it annoyed him. In that one respect he was most like Regan. He wanted a woman who would be a match for himself and would be honest. He wasn't interested in any weeping and wailing or coy deceptions. A little fire and spirit always made for a worthy encounter.

“Sir,” Sally, the maid, said, curtsying low, “the Baroness is indisposed and won't be down till luncheon. Would you care to leave your card, or would you like to see Miss Wren?”

Caleb threw back his head and laughed, making Sally sigh in near ecstasy. “Next to the Baroness, Miss Wren is just the person I'd like to meet. Tell her Caleb is here and to move as fast as her legs will carry her to my arms.” He laughed again as the maid cast a puzzled glance at Malcolm and ran from the room.

Wait till the girls in the kitchen hear about this! she told herself. Lordy, I'll be the center of attention for weeks. Morry, the houseboy, will be so impressed with me, he might even ask me for a walk after supper!

Forgetting her training in her excitement, Sally knocked loudly on Wren's door and opened it at the same time. “Miss Wren, Miss Wren, you're to come quickl There's a gentleman downstairs in the morning room. A gentleman to end all gentlemen! Wait till you see him. Lordy, he's the handsomest man my eyes have ever seen! Come,” she said, holding out her hand in a girlish fashion.

Wren's lashes drooped. Malcolm was early. She wasn't ready for a confrontation between Regan and him. She would have to plead a headache and hope for the best. How could she face Malcolm now, after the hateful things she had said to Sirena and Regan? Malcolm was so sensitive to her moods that he would immediately know something was wrong. “Tell Mr. Weatherly I've a horrid headache and I'm resting. Give him my apologies and ask him to return at teatime,” Wren begged. “And say that I'm sorry I won't be able to take that drive with him today.”

“No, no, Miss Wren,” Sally cried in agitation. “His name is Caleb van der Rhys, and he said if he couldn't see the Baroness, then he wanted to see you. Miss Wren, he looks . . . he looks like a—a god,” she whispered. “I quite forgot myself in his presence and almost swooned at his feet.” As an afterthought, she added impishly, “Your other gentleman friend is in the morning room with him.”

Wren's heart fluttered and she felt faint. Caleb! Caleb was downstairs waiting to see her! Caleb was in the morning room with Malcolm! “Damnation!” she muttered under her breath.

The maid frowned. “Miss Wren, for shame. Young ladies never say such words.”

“This lady does,” Wren said through clenched teeth. “Very well, I'll go down and see my two . . . gentlemen callers.” She tossed her dark hair, pinched her cheeks for added color and wiped at her incredibly long lashes with the back of her hand. Why hadn't someone told her Caleb was in England? That was the least Sirena and Regan could have done. They knew how fond she was of Caleb. It must be some sort of trick on their part. Sirena, Regan said, was as tricky as a fox. And for both men to arrive at the same moment was more than a coincidence. “Damnation!” she said aloud, her eyes defying Sally to make any comment. The little maid remained mute, happy that she would get still another glimpse of the sun-darkened giant in the morning room. How she wished she were quality folk with a gentleman caller the likes of Caleb van der Rhys!

“rm ready, Sally,” Wren said, smoothing the skirt of her rose morning gown. One light flick of her fingers to her hair and one last deep breath. Her shoulders squared imperceptibly as she approached the morning room. Sally opened the doors and Wren stepped through. Her amber eyes went immediately to Caleb and she wanted to faint. She forced a smile and, as the good teachers had taught her, walked to the center of the room, both arms extended appealingly in welcome.

Caleb, caught up in Malcolm's boring discussion of London weather, was stunned at her entrance. Merciful God, Sirena was right. What a beauty! Where was the little girl he had known so long ago back in Java? His heart hammered in his chest as he scooped Wren into his arms, ignoring an outraged Malcolm Weatherly.

Tears glistened in the girl's amber eyes as Caleb held her away from him for a moment. “You're all grown up now,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “Who would have believed the little girl who had run barefoot on the wharves could end up like this?” He pointed to her elegant morning gown, then lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I don't think I care to call you my sister any longer.” His dark eyes teased her. “Little sisters should never look as you do.”

The amber eyes smoldered momentarily and then became banked fires waiting for another time to be rekindled. Casually, Wren removed herself from Caleb's arms and turned to acknowledge Malcolm Weatherly. “Malcolm, this is my . . . this is my . . . brother Caleb.”

“We've met,” Malcolm said curtly. Wren had never looked at him in quite the way she looked at van der Rhys, and, supposedly, he was her intended. He had never seen a sister look at a brother in just that way, nor had he seen a brother so overcome by a sister's beauty. A small worm of fear crawled around his stomach and then settled down to rest at Wren's next words.

“I'm so glad you arrived early, Malcolm. Sirena and Regan are here; they arrived during the night and are quite eager to meet you. Everything has been arranged for luncheon, when the Baroness will come down to join us. Until then, why don't you and Caleb take a walk through the garden? I'll join you both shortly.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“That doesn't sound like one of your better ideas,” Caleb said with a grimace. “Now, if you had said, ‘Let's remove our shoes and romp through that lush carpet of grass . . . together,' I would be the first one into the garden. However, I guess it's you and me, Weatherly, for a stroll.” He turned and grinned wickedly, sending Wren's heart into a quick pounding. “Patience, as you know, is not one of my better qualities.”

Wren laughed, the first genuine laugh she had uttered in months. “I remember. If things go well, perhaps we can romp through that meadow of green before you leave for home.”

Caleb's dark eyes lightened at her words as he followed Malcolm from the room.

Outside in the spacious marble foyer, Wren leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. Of all the damn days for Caleb to arrive. “Damn, damn, damn,” she cried as she ran through the hall and up the curving stairway.

Unaware of the drama unfolding below, Baroness Camilla Langdon Sinclair slid out from her ruffled, canopied bed and stretched luxuriously, cupped her hands around her protruding stomach and sighed happily. Soon she would be a mother. If someone had told her she would ever welcome this state in her life, she would have laughed. Tyler was so happy, and the way he doted on young Wren was how he would dote on their own child. Even more so. Dear, sweet, wonderful Tyler, who loved her and understood her. Tyler was wonderful. Life was wonderful. The sun was shining and she was glad to be alive. The child growing inside her was the fruit of her and Tyler's deep love. Nothing would ever destroy that love; she wouldn't allow it.

With the help of her maid, she bathed and dressed in a becoming gown of soft gold, cleverly designed to conceal her condition. As if she wanted to hide it. Why had she listened to that prudish seamstress who had said it was unseemly for a “lady-in-waiting” to reveal her condition?
Reveal
it! God! She wanted to
flaunt
it! To shout about it from the rooftops! And all the while to sport her burgeoning belly and milk-heavy breasts in a declaration of womanhood fulfilled. She wanted the whole world to know she was expecting a baby. She would walk with her shoulders thrown back and belly thrust forward in full evidence. She wanted Sirena and Regan to know how happy she was.

Camilla tilted her head and listened. How quiet the house was. By now, with the newly arrived guests, the house should be ringing with Wren's happy laughter and Regan's boisterous good humor. On the other hand, as Tyler had worried, things might not go well once Wren informed them of her intentions. Well, she, for one, wasn't going to worry about it. Nothing was going to spoil her good mood. After all, Wren was already eighteen years old. And hadn't she, Camilla, been secretly married at the same age?

Camilla Sinclair had been little more than sixteen when she had first laid eyes on Tyler Sinclair. Her father, Stephan Langdon, had been distantly related to the late Baron, Tyler's father, through marriage. It had been a sun-kissed summer when she had traveled to Knightsbridge with Stephan to spend a few weeks at the Sinclairs' summer home. It had been no secret to her that Stephan was considered the black sheep of the family and was barely tolerated by the Baroness while the kindly Baron believed in letting bygones be bygones and had warmly welcomed them into his home.

During that glorious summer she and Tyler had fallen madly and impetuously in love, much to Stephan's greedy pleasure and the Baroness's dismay. Even repeated warnings to Tyler that his mother would disinherit him if he continued his dalliance with Camilla had not dampened his ardor. They were in love; that was all that mattered, and later, when it had seemed that the Baroness would have her way and they would be separated, Camilla and Tyler had run off to be married.

At first Stephan Langdon had been overjoyed with the alliance between his only child and the wealthy Sinclair son. But when Tyler had decided to reveal his secret marriage to his parents, Stephan had reconsidered. “Don't do it,” he had said. And Tyler, young and still several years away from the time when he would inherit a large part of the Sinclair estate, had heeded his words.

Tyler had thought that it was his skin Stephan had been bent on saving. It hadn't taken him long to realize that Stephan Langdon had known the Sinclairs were intractable and that Tyler would most certainly be disinherited, leaving Langdon not only with the burden of a daughter but also with that of an impoverished son-in-law. Tyler would have been disinherited and ostracized, and, along with him, Stephan would have found himself an outcast. He had known the Sinclairs would have avenged themselves on him for his part in the romance and banished him from their society.

The main reason Langdon had been acceptable to his peers was because he had had the Baron's endorsement. Without that, and because of his sullied reputation, he would have been cast like a leper from the fashionable drawing rooms he so coveted.

Innocently, and with Camilla's consent, Tyler had agreed to keep their marriage secret. It had been understood that when he reached his majority, he would lay claim to Camilla. But Stephan had not been able to wait five more years to ease his financial predicaments. When Regan van der Rhys had arrived in London and word of his extraordinary wealth had spread, Stephan had adroitly placed his daughter in conspicuous proximity to the Dutchman. Circumstances, which had been unknown to either Stephan or Camilla at the time, had led to her marriage to Regan.

She had been a girl then, Camilla now reasoned, a foolish, self-centered girl who had easily been led by her calculating, conniving father. The only honesty she had ever displayed had been her love for Tyler. Everything and everyone else had been a farce. Even in another man's arms—Regan's, Caleb's, little matter whose—it had always been Tyler. Tyler, who knew her for herself, her virtues as well as her faults, especially her faults. Tyler knew them all and loved her in spite of them.

Camilla smiled a self-satisfied smile and patted her swelling abdomen. It had taken quite a few years to become pregnant with this child, but now she had all a woman could ask for. A husband, a child about to be born, and the freedom to be herself and reach out for what she wanted.

While Camilla preened and pampered herself, Wren was pulling one day dress after another from the tall clothespress. This one was disregarded because it wasn't her most becoming color. That one because it didn't suit her mood.

Her eyes spewing amber sparks, she caught a glimpse of herself in the pier glass at the far end of the room. A flush rode high on her ivory cheeks, making her eyes sparkle and snap like a flame and contrasting with the unruly spill of her dark hair. Malcolm Weatherly had never brought her such excitement as had Caleb's arrival. Although infinitely handsome in his own right, Malcolm looked pale beside Caleb.

Now, why did I think that? she questioned herself. Malcolm was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. And if the way he turned women's heads was any measure of her opinion, she couldn't be more correct. Malcolm had the good looks of an aristocrat blended perfectly with the charm of a rakehell. Women couldn't resist him. His black, crisply curling hair, which tumbled casually over his broad forehead and accented his sleepy-lidded, laughing eyes, gave him a boyish air. And with his sensuous smile and lithe, graceful build, it was little wonder women found him attractive. And not just young women like herself. Older women, too, more sophisticated women, seemed fascinated by him. His grooming was impeccable and his demeanor beyond reproach. Malcolm carried himself with an almost studied affectation, while Caleb just . . . Caleb just moved, effortlessly, with the natural grace of an athlete. Beside Caleb, Malcolm's carriage appeared almost mechanical.

How uncharitable I'm being, Wren scolded herself. Malcolm loved her and she loved him. Hadn't she thrown caution to the winds and practically alienated Sirena and Regan? This was no time to start having doubts about her feelings for Malcolm. Her own impulsive words of anger rang in her ears, and the vision of Regan's pained features swam before her, making the flush on her cheeks burn like fire. I meant every word I said, she defended herself to the mirror. Sirena and Regan have lived their lives, are still living it, and I will do the same, with or without their approval. She jabbed her finger toward the mirror for emphasis and turned with renewed vigor to rummage through the clothespress. She finally settled for a shimmering apricot silk which enhanced her high coloring and set off her flaming eyes to perfection.

“Wren, Wren, I've just come from the garden, and you won't believe whom I saw there!” Sara cried as she closed the door behind her, her blue eyes alight with excitement. “Malcolm and another man, a man to end all men, the kind of man we used to whisper about at the academy. Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!” She swooned girlishly. “Wren, I swear he makes Malcolm look like a farmer.” Unmindful of the cross expression on Wren's face, she burbled on. “I must ask Tyler to introduce him to me. We would go so well together, for he has hair as dark as shadows and skin like bronze. Magnificent! With my fairness, we would compliment each other perfectly!” With a carefully hidden slyness, Sara observed Wren's reaction to her words. She knew if she threw Wren at this stranger, the girl would balk and become more enamored of Malcolm than ever before. But perhaps if she pretended an interest in this man herself, Wren might be persuaded to forget Malcolm and leave him to Sara.

Wren swiveled around and grasped Sara by the arm, her amber eyes shooting sparks. Her mouth set in a grim, tight line, she hissed, “That's my brother you're speaking about, and no, you wouldn't compliment each other. Caleb is a man, not a boy, and you're only a silly, foolish schoolgirl. And if you ever call Malcolm a farmer again, I'll—I'll pull out all your hair! Do you hear me, Sara Stoneham?”

“Mercy sakes, Wren, what's gotten into you? I was only teasing you. You're upset because Sirena and Regan are here, and now all your bad deeds are coming home to roost. Maybe you're what Mother used to call a bad seed,” Sara declared loftily.

“Damn your eyes, Sara, I'm not a bad seed and well you know it!”

“Of course not, little bird, ladies always speak profanity. Damn your eyes, indeed! If my mother ever heard you speak like that, she'd forbid me to associate with you. As it is, this will probably be the last you'll see of me once my parents come to save me from your bad influence. It
was
because of you I was expelled from school, wasn't it? And since you've become so sensitive about your brother, as you call him, I'll just wager my pearl comb against your silver bracelet that I can have him falling over his own feet for me within an hour!” Sara turned to hide her smile from Wren. Her ploy just might work. It had been no mere sisterly defense of a brother that had made Wren get her back up. And was she mistaken, or was Wren's defense of Malcolm something of an afterthought?

“Don't make me laugh, Sara. Caleb would never find himself smitten with a child like you. And a wager it is. An hour from the time you meet him.”

“Wonderful. I'll flirt outrageously. The way you and I used to practice at school. Remember you said I had the longest lashes and would have men falling at my feet the day I made my debut into society?”

“I remember,” Wren said through clenched teeth. Why did she have this terrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach? Sara was a wonderful friend, who had made living away from home bearable. And here she was, treating Sara like an unwanted piece of baggage. Caleb could do worse, she sniffed. “I'm sorry, Sara. You're my best friend and I shouldn't treat you so shabbily. Please don't be angry with me,” she entreated, her tone softening in apology as she touched Sara lightly on the shoulder.

“I'm not angry,” Sara said, her smile wide and gentle. “I just don't think Malcolm is the man of your dreams. Caleb, now, seems like a lusty, seafaring man, the kind your infamous Sea Siren would have gone after. He's not your real brother, Wren,” she remarked distinctly, to make sure her friend understood what she was saying.

Wren's heart thumped. She herself had thought the same thing the moment she had set eyes on Caleb. He looked just like Regan, except for his dark hair and eyes. Sara was right. Caleb was the kind of man the Sea Siren would want for a lover. Wren sighed. Malcolm was the man she wanted. He was the man she wanted to marry.

“Caleb is a philanderer, Sara. He loves women. All women. I think his sole mission in life is to see how many young virgins he can bed before he takes a wife, if he should ever decide to take a wife, that is. I'm certain he's left a trail of swooning women from one port to the next. Caleb is not the marrying kind, and I want to get married and have children. With Malcolm,” she added coolly, her youthful expression composed.

Sara's stomach churned at Wren's words. Not if I can help it, my friend, she thought viciously. She had to do something, anything, to make Malcolm aware of the mistake he was embarking on. Perhaps her first idea was best. She had seen the way Caleb had looked at her in the garden. And hadn't Wren said he was interested in women? It wouldn't hurt to turn her wiles on him and see what effect that had on Malcolm. If Malcolm realized a man such as Caleb van der Rhys was interested in her, he would give up his mad idea of marrying Wren. Sweet, innocent, puritanical Wren. No, that was wrong. She, Sara, was the Puritan. A fallen Puritan. Yes, she would flirt with Caleb, and she would do it as soon as they sat down at the luncheon table.

“Are you ready, Sara? You know how fussy Camilla can be when her meals are late. If we delay any longer, we'll be the last into the dining room, and I want to be the one to introduce Malcolm to Sirena and Regan.”

“I'm ready now,” Sara said, patting a stray lock of hair into place. She looked every bit as beautiful as Wren, with her delicate good looks and in her pale blue, clinging gown. She would endeavor to stand next to the dashing Caleb so that Malcolm could see how well they looked together. Just like honey and cream, she thought, and smiled secretly.

 

Regan took one look at Malcolm Weatherly and almost exploded in anger. Sirena laid a gentle hand on his arm to quiet him as she, too, appraised the dandy through narrowed eyes. Then her glance shifted to the tall, dark giant of a man who entered the room. “Caleb!” she cried, rushing to him and throwing her arms about him. “How wonderful to see you!” Suddenly she found herself being lifted from the floor and swung around in a circle.

Caleb laughed. “You're more beautiful than ever, Sirena.” He set her down gently, his arm protectively cradling her shoulders as he extended his free arm to his father. “It's good to see you, Father. You look as if the burdens of parenthood haven't been too taxing. Tell me, how are my four brothers?”