First Season / Bride to Be (20 page)

But here Emily's luck ran out. Her father appeared in the archway opposite before they had taken two steps into the house.

“What the devil is this?” he shouted. “Get your hands off my daughter, you blackguard!”

He surged forward with his hand raised to strike, obviously forgetting that he held a loaded paintbrush. “Father!” Emily cried. “This man was attacked on the road. He's hurt.”

Knowing that the words wouldn't penetrate at once, she pivoted somewhat clumsily and dropped Richard Sheldon into an armchair.

“Footpads,” she added loudly. “In broad daylight.”

“Eh?” Her father came to an abrupt stop before them. “What? Footpads?”

“Yes,” said Emily. “They knocked him on the head and stole his horse. I found him in the meadow, ah, er, crawling toward the house for help.”

A stifled exclamation escaped Richard, and Emily sent him a silent command to be quiet. Simple explanations worked best with her father.

“Crawling?” he repeated.

Emily nodded, gazing innocently up at him.

The hand holding the paintbrush dropped, leaving a streak of brilliant crimson along his pants leg.

“I was
not
—” began Richard.

“Isn't it a terrible thing?” put in Emily quickly. “Do you think we should inform the magistrate?”

“That jumped-up country squire?” exploded her father. “He wouldn't know a footpad from his own backside. Of all the dim-witted, bad-tempered, rag-mannered blusterers…”

Satisfied with her diversion, Emily let her father's ranting run its course. She threw Richard Sheldon a fierce glance, signaling that he should keep quiet.

“We should send for the doctor,” Emily said when her father at last fell silent. “Mr. Sheldon has suffered a severe blow to the head.”

Her father stared at their guest suspiciously. His eyes narrowed. His dark brows drew together. “Olivia!” he bellowed.

Wherever they lived, each of her parents always had a workroom. In this house, they were at opposite ends, which Emily found far more restful than some arrangements she had been forced to endure. But in this case it meant that her father had to shout at the top of his lungs before he gained her mother's attention.

“I was painting the petal of a golden poppy,” she said reproachfully as she entered the drawing room. “You startled me and made me spoil it, Alasdair.”

“Emily's brought this fellow home with her,” he explained, in the same aggrieved tones he used when one of the dogs dragged in a half-dead rabbit. “Says he must have the doctor.”

The Honorable Olivia Crane raised slim red-gold brows and surveyed her unexpected guest. There was no question about where her daughter got her looks, Richard thought. They were both petite women; red-gold hair, a pointed chin, arched brows and a wide, serene forehead, eyes of heavenly blue. No wonder he had thought of Botticelli.

As Emily repeated the story she had concocted to her mother, Richard looked about himself. It was certainly an odd family. They spoke and moved like members of the nobility, yet their clothes and surroundings were bohemian. The mistress of the house had a smear of yellow paint on her cheek. The master carried a paintbrush as if it were part of his hand. Richard wondered if he was related to the Earl of Radford, who was also a Crane. Now that he thought about it, there was a resemblance. Indeed, his host looked a great deal like the old earl's two sons, whom Richard had often seen in London drawing rooms.

A memory intruded. There were actually three sons, but the third was some sort of black sheep. He had heard the story—what was it?—something about a painter's studio and a nobleman's daughter caught posing nude.

“Good God!” Richard exclaimed, his eyes irresistibly drawn to Emily's mother. “You're Shelbury's lost daughter.” The flaming hair of Marquess Shelbury's line was unmistakable. This eccentric pair had caused one of the great society scandals of the 1790s.

Olivia Crane's brows rose again. “My father knows perfectly well where I am,” she answered without embarrassment. “I'm not the least bit ‘lost.'”

Something like a growl escaped her husband.

Richard flushed. For a man famed for his conversational skills, he had been remarkably clumsy. It was another measure of how much had been left behind in the last eleven months.

“Just the opposite,” asserted Alasdair Crane.

“I found myself in my art,” his wife agreed. “And, of course, I found Alasdair.” They exchanged a smile that seemed more suited to the wild young lovers who had fled for the border than a middle-aged married couple with a grown daughter.

“We should send for the doctor,” said Emily.

Richard turned to gaze at her. Once again, she looked unperturbed. She obviously knew her parents' scandalous story and was thoroughly accustomed to their behavior. It must have been fascinating to grow up in such a household. “I'm feeling much better. I don't need the doctor.”

“You can't even walk,” protested Emily.

“Yes, I can.” To prove it, he stood. The dizziness was still there, but it was receding. He took an experimental step. “You see?” He raised his eyes to find all three Cranes staring at him.

Emily looked slightly dazed. Her mother seemed suddenly thoughtful. The Honorable Alasdair appeared rapt. “Samson,” he murmured dreamily. “Chained to the pillars, straining to bring the temple down.”

“I beg your pardon?” replied Richard.

“A tunic?” was the incomprehensible response. “No, no. A breechclout.”

The two Crane women blinked. Emily's cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

“I could invent the hair,” continued her father. “It would take weeks to grow it out.” He grasped Richard's forearm. “Just come with me. I must make sketches…”

“Father!” cried Emily.

“Alasdair,” admonished her mother at the same moment.

He turned to gaze at them as if he had forgotten their presence. His grip on Richard's arm remained tight.

“You cannot paint him, Father,” added Emily. “He is a stranger, a traveler. You cannot just…”

“He would be very glad to pose,” answered Alasdair, in a tone that suggested he was used to getting his way.

“No, he wouldn't!”

Emily looked distressed, and her mother irritated. It was all very awkward. And he hadn't the least desire to become an artist's model. “If you would just lend me a horse…” he began.

“I will if you pose,” said Alasdair, looking crafty.

“Nonsense,” said his wife.

“Lively” didn't begin to describe the discussion that ensued. It ranged from high dudgeon to broken pathos and back again. After a while, Richard realized that the Cranes were enjoying themselves far too much to come to any conclusion. It was better than many plays he'd seen, Richard thought, suppressing a smile at a particularly clever exchange.

Emily plucked at his sleeve. She didn't seem to find the argument amusing. “Come,” she said, urging him out into the hallway.

Her parents' dispute had upset her, Richard concluded. The kindest thing was to ignore the shouting. “If I could borrow a mount,” he said.

Emily frowned. “Are you sure you can ride?”

“Quite sure. I'm fully recovered.”

Although she looked doubtful, she led him out to the stables and ordered the groom to saddle a horse.

“I'll be sure you get it back. And I must thank you again for—”

“Must you?”

She wanted to get rid of him, Richard decided. She was embarrassed because he'd witnessed the family dispute.

The groom brought out a good-looking bay, and Richard prepared to mount. It was rather a pity that he would never see her again. After his unwanted adventure of the last year, it was clear that nothing about his old life would be right, including the women who had been part of it. Emily Crane might be just the sort of girl he could admire now—free and forthright, with a mind of her own, not bound by senseless convention. The memory of her slender body against his came back with warm vividness.

He put it aside. He had a great many things to accomplish. He had already lost eleven months—or twenty-nine years, some might say—of his life. He had to get on with it. “Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you once again.”

Emily raised a hand in farewell, then turned back toward the house. Richard hesitated a final instant before directing the horse out through the gate.

It was no wonder he had been eager to get away, Emily thought as she made her way to her bedchamber. Her parents' voices still echoed from the drawing room. He must have thought they were all demented. People generally did.

She was truly tired of it. It wasn't the moving, the tantrums, the upsets, so much as the loneliness. Her parents had each other, and that would always be enough for them. She had her parents, but it wasn't the same. She wanted what they had—a consuming love, marriage to a man who matched her in every particular, a companion to share the rest of her life. It would be different from her parents' life, of course, a bit more stable, even conventional. Emily smiled slightly. But she longed for the same compelling bond.

Impossible
. She would never fall in love. There was no one to fall in love
with
. On her rare encounters with a young man, he was appalled by her bizarre household, just as Richard Sheldon had been today. Everyone just assumed that she was like her parents.

No, she was doomed to a single life. She would have to find some useful profession, make her own way. But as usual, at this point in the reasoning process, she was stopped. Her education had been spotty, so she couldn't be a teacher or a governess. She despised sewing and fancywork. She had no talent for acting, even supposing her father would allow her to go on the stage. Perhaps she would set up as a highwayman. It was one thing her life had suited her for. Her father had taught her to shoot a pistol. She had a fine seat on horseback. And who would suspect a woman of taking to the High Toby? There was nothing else for it. She would sustain her old age by highway robbery.

* * *

In the drawing room, the quarrel ended, as they always did, with an embrace. “Come upstairs,” murmured Alasdair, stroking his wife's paint-streaked cheek.

“In a moment.” Olivia raised her limpid blue eyes to his. “We must talk about Emily.”

“What? By Jove!” He scanned the room. “Where has that blackguard taken her?”

“I imagine that
she
has taken
him
to the stables and lent him a horse. Emily is such a practical girl. But that is not the point.”

“Not the point! She comes in with her arm around some vagabond, practically glued to his side, and—”

“
That
is the point. Emily must be put in the way of meeting some suitable men. She cannot stay with us forever.”

Alasdair scowled, his black brows bristling. “Suitable?” he growled.

“Emily does not share our passion for art,” Olivia pointed out. “She has no wish to devote her life to it.”

His shoulders drooped a little as he conceded this.

“And I must admit that I don't know if I would do so if I did not have you to share that life.”

This earned her another embrace, and it was some time before she was able to continue.

“My sister would introduce Emily to society,” she said then. “If I asked her to do so.”

“You want to send my daughter to the house of a duchess? What the devil would she do there?”

Olivia looked suddenly haughty. “Do you imagine she wouldn't fit in?”

“I
imagine
she's far too good for 'em.” Alasdair shook his head. “And Julia'll fill her head with all sorts of nonsense.”

“Emily is a very sensible girl. We have done all we can to give her a proper perspective on what is important in life.”

“
You
have,” replied her husband admiringly.

“You are a wonderful example of a man following his true passions.”

The look that passed between them then was incendiary. Further talk was unthinkable, but Olivia was well aware as they retired to their bedchamber that the issue was decided. She had learned to manage Alasdair three weeks after she met the fiery young artist all those years ago. And how much else she had learned, she thought, just before all thought was swept away.

Richard sat in the taproom of the Blue Dragon nursing his pint of ale and listening to a pair of shopkeepers at the next table vilify the Duke of Wellington. Londoners were a fickle lot. They had worshiped the man as a hero not long since, but now that the war was over and the duke was involved in politics, he had become fair game.

He shouldn't be here. He ought to be in quite a different part of town, taking up the obligations and responsibilities that had brought him home. The attack on the road was the least of the obstacles he had overcome to reach London again. But now that he was here, he found himself delaying. From the moment he contacted his mother, there would be no turning back.

It was inexcusable to leave his mother thinking that he was dead, asserted a stern inner voice.

He acknowledged it with a nod. But he didn't rise to hurry to her house in the heart of fashionable Mayfair. The problem was, he was no longer the son who had embarked on a voyage to the West Indies. That Richard Sheldon, Baron Warrington, had been a pink of the
ton
, a wit, a habitué of White's and Almack's. And he had expired in the first few days after the ship foundered off South America and a longboat had deposited him on a stretch of unexplored coast. The baron had not been prepared to scrabble for grubs to survive, thought Richard wryly, or to fashion a spear and kill his own food. In a very real sense, he had succumbed to the rigors of the wild. The man who had returned was someone else entirely.

But who?

That was a question he couldn't answer. He felt less like a single person than a bundle of fragments. There was the old Warrington—heedless, improvident, sardonic. Looking back, Richard didn't like him much. He had been overindulged by a widowed mother, he saw now. And then he had lived off his stepfather's bounty without a scrap of gratitude or any appreciation of the older man's virtues. Indeed, he had thought him a prating old stick. When Sir Walter Fielding died unexpectedly, the old Warrington's first thought had been of money, and how he would continue to live in high style. He had actually been surprised, Richard remembered with wonder now, that his stepfather had left him only a token legacy to add to his ruined patrimony. What else had he expected? Sir Walter had made it clear enough that he disapproved of his mode of life.

And so he had gone off in a fit of the sulks, Richard thought, abandoning his mother in her grief, behaving as badly as he possibly could. No one would miss that Richard—least of all himself.

But in England there was little call for the skills of a jungle savage. The Richard born out of sheer need to survive had no place in this city, in this tavern. He could kill with his bare hands, endure plagues of leeches, fade invisibly into a screen of foliage. With a thin smile, Richard sipped his ale. No, that Richard had served his purpose and must now take his leave.

And then there was the silent, determined man who had paid his passage home by working the sails of a merchant ship. He had had just one goal in life—to reach England—and now it was achieved. He didn't appear to have suggestions about the future.

On the docks in Cartagena, there had been ships departing for Barcelona and Shanghai and Boston. That Richard had toyed with the idea of hiring himself out on one of those and disappearing for good. A disorderly chorus of inner voices had dissuaded him. Duty called. Warrington deplored the hardships of a common sailor's life. The man who had fought his way out of the jungle resisted such confinement.

And so, he had come home.

Richard grimaced as he lifted his tankard once again. He was damned if he knew
who
had come home. In Southampton, he had encountered the shipping agent who originally booked his passage. The man had been astounded to see him, of course. He was barely recognizable, even to himself, Richard thought. Just now, he felt more like a committee than a man. Would his mother be happy to see the son who had returned? She'd reared him to become a darling of the
haut ton
, and her pride in his success had been vast. What would she think of the rough-handed man who came back from the dead?

She would expect him to revive his former self as quickly as possible. That was the dilemma that kept him in his chair. Not that he would do so. The cut of a coat or the latest gossip held absolutely no interest for him now. But what was he going to do?

Life spread out before him, a blank slate. Once he had assured his mother of his continued existence, he would have to find some occupation, some task that would use his skills and not drive him mad, as his former pursuits were likely to do.

He might try to discover if anything could be salvaged from the wreck of the Warrington estates, which his father had nearly managed to waste before his death. Richard, succeeding to the title at the tender age of six, had rarely spared a thought for his tumbledown patrimony. His mother's remarriage had ensured his comfort and he hadn't cared for anything else.

What an insufferable puppy he had been. He had never willingly moved a muscle to help anyone, and he hadn't cared a snap of his manicured fingers for his heritage or posterity. He would have to make a push to save his estates, though frankly, he wasn't drawn to land management. But it was a step toward finding a Richard Sheldon he could tolerate. He had been stripped down to the bare essentials of humanity. He had survived. He would build, step by step, on that. Perhaps, along the way, he could find a pursuit that consumed him.

It occurred to him that Alasdair Crane had exactly that. The man's passion for painting, and for his wife, had been striking. Crane had known what he wanted, and he had taken it. All the strictures of society had not been enough to stop him. That was what he wanted—that certainty, that savor. And perhaps, someone to share it; a…a kindred spirit.

Richard blinked, surprised at where his thoughts had led him. Even in his lonely fight to escape the jungle he had not indulged in such philosophical ruminations. He sighed. Every person he knew would think he had gone mad. No one would begin to understand such ambitions.

Emily Crane might, stated this new, rather disconcerting inner voice. She had been reared by parents who set their chosen work above society. She would know precisely what he meant. Memories of her red-gold hair, her delicate face and form pressed close against his own, lingered, even haunted his dreams. What if he rode back there now? Would she welcome him?

Shaking off these recollections, he drained the tankard and set it down. First, he had to see his mother and assure her of his safety and good health. After that…he would see.

* * *

As he strolled toward his mother's town house in the fading light of a fine spring day, Richard's mood was far from mellow. A visit to his bankers had been annoying. They had treated him like an idiot. And though he acknowledged that he had usually behaved like an arrogant young fool in the past, their condescension had filled him with rage he could barely contain. He had become far too used to strangling any entity that opposed him. London wasn't that sort of jungle.

In truth, it had been unsettling. Had he lost his ability to deal with people? An unfamiliar emotion crept over Richard then—a distrust of himself and his own impulses.

He had reached his mother's door. This wouldn't do. He was a civilized man—overcivilized many had said before his departure. The last eleven months hadn't destroyed that entirely. Perhaps he no longer knew just who he was, but he hadn't spun completely out of control. He could manage the conflicting forces that beset him. After a brief internal struggle, Richard pulled on the mask of his former persona, raised his hand, and rapped on the oak panels.

The door was opened by a footman he didn't know. The man surveyed Richard's clothes with rising insolence and said, “Yes?”

Richard pushed past him and into the front hall. He experienced a flicker of surprise at how easy this was, despite the servant's impressive physique, before saying, “Fetch Henley.” It was no good asking a stranger for his mother.

“Mr. Henley is not available,” answered the footman, looking ready to wrestle him out the door again.

“Nonsense. He will be sitting in his pantry at this hour, probably reading some tedious volume of military history. If you don't summon him at once, you will be very sorry.”

The footman took a step back, clearly impressed by the way Richard spoke as well as his knowledge of the household.

“I've known Henley since I was a boy,” Richard added. “Get him.”

The servant retreated another step from the look in his eyes, and then obviously decided that this was a matter for the butler to judge himself. He disappeared through the rear door with a flutter of coattails.

The place looked exactly the same, Richard thought, gazing at the gilt sconces and curving staircase, the furnishings of the parlor on the left. Which was odd. His mother had a penchant for redecorating, particularly in those rooms most seen by guests.

He heard no sound of conversation or music from above. He could just run up the stairs to the drawing room. But he hung back, postponing the moment a little longer. Henley would know everything that was going on in the house and how his mother was likely to receive his return. He envisioned the coming scene with a grimace.

The door at the back of the hall opened, and the tall spare figure of Henley strode through. “How may I assist…?” he began in freezing accents, then stopped. He peered at Richard, came closer. “My lord?”

“Hello, Henley. I'm back.”

The old butler seemed stunned.

“I survived the shipwreck,” said Richard, to give him time to recover. “But I was flung ashore in the middle of a jungle. It's taken me all this time to make my way home.”

“Is it really you?” Uncharacteristically, Henley approached and took hold of Richard's forearm, as if to verify that it was indeed living flesh.

“Alive and well.”

The butler released him, then glanced up the stairs apprehensively.

“My mother's all right, isn't she?”

“Her ladyship is at this moment holding a séance to contact your spirit, my lord,” was the emotionless reply.

“What?”

“She began them three months after you were declared lost.”

Richard started up the stairs.

“My lord, if you appear in the middle of…” But his lordship obviously wasn't listening. It really
was
young Richard, Henley assured himself. He did recognize him, although it had taken a moment to see that pampered exquisite in the powerful man who had taken his place.

* * *

The drawing room was so dim that Richard couldn't see anything at first. An odd humming sound emanated from the center of the chamber, where he gradually made out a group of people sitting at a round table illuminated by one wavering candle. They were holding hands, he realized disgustedly. And the rather disturbing sound was coming from someone who faced the other direction. All he could see was a bulky silhouette with an outsized head that must be some sort of turban.

“We call across the great gulf of dissolution to the other realm,” chanted a high, nasal voice. “We reach through the mists and darkness that obscure it. We seek this woman's son, Richard, tragically lost at sea in the flower of his youth.”

Richard snorted softly.

“Bring him hither my messengers,” commanded the voice. “Azrael. Phileto. Bring him!”

Richard was about to interrupt when he was startled by a whoosh like a great rush of wind. How the devil did they manage that?

“He is coming!” claimed the voice. “He is near. Spirit, give us a sign. Show us your presence.”

Richard could take no more. He strode forward. “Mother, what the devil are you doing?”

An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, followed by a confusion of other shouts and exclamations. People started up in the dimness, overturning chairs, stumbling into each other, and crying out again. Someone started sobbing. Realizing that he had not chosen the ideal moment to address his mother, Richard moved to secure the candle, which was in danger of being knocked over. Taking it up, he began lighting others in the sconces around the room.

“There he is!” cried a male voice. “Good God!”

Richard continued lighting candles. The drawing room grew brighter, and he was able to see that it held eight people besides his mother. He didn't know any of them, though the orchestrator of the supposed séance was obvious—a burly, square-shouldered man wearing a massive jeweled turban with a feather. Ignoring them, he went to the chair where his mother sat and knelt beside it. “I beg your pardon for bursting in on you at such a moment,” he said.

“You did it, Herr Schelling. You brought him back!” was the dazed reply.

To Richard's disgust, the large turbaned man put a hand on his breast and bowed in acknowledgment.

“Mother, I was not dead.” He felt ridiculous saying it. “I was cast ashore in South America, and I had to make my way back on foot. I'm sorry I could not get word to you.”

His mother simply stared at him as if he were indeed a ghost.

She was a bit thinner, but her gown was still in the height of fashion and her hair and ornaments exquisite. She looked like the mother he had left—a dedicated member of the
haut ton
. He took her hand, both to comfort her and to show her that he was solid flesh. “The ship I took began to go down in a storm,” he added, hoping that details would make his return real to her. “The sailors put me in a longboat. Before they could join me it was swept away. I came ashore in a jungle.”

His mother put her free hand on his cheek. Her hazel eyes, very like his own, brightened with a haze of tears.

How could he have considered not coming back? Richard wondered. It would have been cruel, unforgivable.

“I thought you were gone,” she whispered, too low for anyone else to hear. “My God.” She gripped his hand so hard her knuckles whitened.