Heartless (34 page)

To America. Across the ocean. She had seen his lips form the words. She remembered Anna's explaining to her—when Blaydon had left Elm Court after Papa's death—that America was far, far away at the other side of the world, across the vast ocean. Emily had known that Anna was glad he had gone so far away and had hoped he would never come back. Emily had hoped it too.

And now he was taking Anna and Joy there. How was she to explain this to anyone?

Emily could feel the pain of her breathlessness and her sobs as she hurried onward.

•   •   •

“I
am
what
?” Anna stared wide-eyed at Sir Lovatt Blaydon, ignoring Joy's protests at being held so close and at not having her early hunger pangs satisfied. “I am what?”

Sir Lovatt chuckled and looked fondly back at her. “Yes, 'tis true,” he said. “You see what a wonderful secret I have hugged to myself all this time, my Anna? You are my daughter. Mine and my beloved Lucy's.”

“I most certainly am not,” she said, indignation flashing from her eyes. “How dare you suggest such a thing, sir.”

His eyes softened. “I know 'tis a shock to you, my dear,” he said. “I know you were fond of the man you called father, worthless drunkard as he was. But in truth you are mine, Anna.”

“Liar!” she spat at him.

“Anna,” he said, not at all perturbed by her fury, “dearest Anna, do you know how many months after your dear mama's marriage you were born?”

Her eyes widened again. “She fell!” she said. “I was born a month early. I was so small that 'twas thought I would not live. And Mama almost did not survive.”

“Ah, Anna,” he said, “that was the story she told your papa, my dear. 'Twas fortunate you were small. He might have suspected the truth had you been larger.”

Anna felt suddenly cold. And filled to the brim with horror. It could not be. Oh, it could not. Mama and this man? Papa cuckolded? Herself the daughter of the fiend who had stalked her and tormented her for three years? She would rather die than have it be true.

Only gradually did she realize what was causing unbearable aggravation to her anguish. Joy was crying lustily.

“See to the child, my Anna,” Sir Lovatt said. “My dear granddaughter. She is hungry?”

“She is
wet
and hungry,” Anna said.

“Ah. But I had the forethought to have supplies brought with her,” he said, placing the bag of changing cloths and clean clothing on the seat opposite.

Anna changed the baby over her continued protests. And all the while, as she stood awkwardly, feet braced against the swaying of the carriage, she pictured the movements she would have to make to get at the knife in her pocket without his seeing and the way she would have to swing around and stab with it. Stab hard enough to kill. But the space was too confined, and if she was not successful all hope would be finally gone. Besides, Joy was in the carriage. It would be far too dangerous to try to wield a knife while she lay on the carriage seat.

“Here.” Sir Lovatt smiled as she sat down again with the furious baby. “A shawl to guard your modesty in the presence of your father, Anna.”

He wrapped it about her shoulders, a beautiful cashmere shawl that enabled her to loosen her clothes at the front and set Joy to her breast without the embarrassment of exposing herself to a man who was not her husband.

Oh, Luke!

The child suddenly fell silent. It seemed strange to Anna at this particular time and in this particular place to feel the pleasurable suction of her baby's mouth drawing milk from her. Strangely normal in a situation that had no other normality about it.

Sir Lovatt chuckled. “She was hungry,” he said. “I did not want you to marry, Anna. You know that. Since we were forced to live apart during your growing years, you and I, I thought 'twould be enough for both of us to have only each other for the rest of my days. But I allowed you to marry after all so that we could have a child in our home. Your child, my grandchild. Three generations together. The two of you to gladden my heart through old age until my passing. And then you will still have the comfort of little Joy when I am gone, Anna.”

“I am not your daughter,” Anna said firmly. “And my child is not your granddaughter. This is absurd. Bizarre. Even if 'twere true, your behavior is incomprehensible. Why have you done all these things to me in the past three years? Why do you want me all to yourself? Any normal father would be delighted to see his child happily wed and happily producing more grandchildren for him.”

“You were attached to people who were no concern of yours, Anna,” he said. “To that worthless man who would have brought ruin to his own family if I had not come to his rescue. And to a boy and girls who are only your half-brother and sisters—one of them not even quite human. It hurt, Anna. And to know that my Lucy, your dear mother, was torn cruelly from my arms by parents who insisted she marry an earl. Anna, all your life you have been kept from me. You were even given his name. But no more. You are Anna Blakely—my real name—and my granddaughter is Joy Blakely. Joy indeed. I am glad you gave her that name. At last we are all together. Do not blame me for wanting us always to be together. I will make you happy, my Anna. Happier than you have ever dreamed of being.”

“I am happy with my husband,” she said. “I love him. This child is his. Ours.” She disengaged her nipple from Joy's mouth and lifted the child to her shoulder. She rubbed her back gently and patted it to dislodge any wind she had swallowed.

Mercifully he fell silent while she finished feeding her child. Anna tried to keep her mind calm. She tried to think coolly and rationally. She tried to plan ahead. Were they close enough to the coast to board ship today? What were the chances anyway that there would be a ship in port that was bound for America and ready to be boarded? Would they put up somewhere on land for the night? At an inn? Would she have a chance there to enlist help from the landlord or another guest? Would there be an opportunity to use her knife and make her escape with Joy?

But there was the servant who had carried her to the carriage. And a coachman.

And then a thought struck her out of nowhere. Of course. But of course!

She turned her head and tried to keep the triumph out of her face and her voice. “I am not your daughter,” she said. “I can prove it.”

“Dear Anna,” he murmured.

“My father,” she said, emphasizing the words, “used to keep a miniature of his mother, my grandmother, in his room. I now have it in mine at Bowden Abbey. I am so like her that it has always been a source of wonder and amusement to my family. It looks as if I dressed up in clothes of an earlier era for the portrait painter, everyone who sees it agrees. If you were to look at that portrait, you would be in no doubt whatsoever that she was my grandmother, that Papa was my father.”

For the first time there was something of an ugly look on Sir Lovatt Blaydon's face. “'Tis easy to imagine likenesses within families,” he said. “Lucy, your mother, was mine, my Anna. Mine! Ours was a love rarely encountered in this world. A love that she carried to her grave. A love I shall carry to mine. A love that will reunite us for eternity. And you are a product of that love.”

“Even without the portrait as proof,” she said, “I would not believe it of Mama. She would not have done such a thing. She would certainly not have deceived Papa with another man's child. And when it comes to love of a rare intensity, sir, then such a love was shared by my mama and papa. I am ashamed that I doubted Mama and half believed you for even a single moment. Take me back home. I am not yours. There is no relationship whatsoever between us.”

His eyes glittered with a light that frightened her. But he spoke pleasantly enough. “Shock usually brings denial with it at first, my Anna,” he said. “You will believe the truth eventually. When you see how I love you and how I have provided for you and my granddaughter, you will believe it. America is a beautiful country. New and vast. A place for fresh starts. A place for freedom.”

Freedom! It had been a slim hope that he would be convinced by her words and would take her back home. But Anna was now convinced that there was not even the possibility of his story being true. Her mother just had not been the type of person to have given herself to another man a scant month before her marriage. And her mother had clearly loved her father very dearly. Sir Lovatt Blaydon must know, then, that she could not possibly be his daughter. But did he know that he lied? Was he mad? Had he convinced himself of the truth of the lie?

The possibility that he was mad caught at Anna's breathing and threatened to bring panic and hysteria. But she would not give in to either. It would do no good at all. If there was any shred of hope left—and she had to cling to hope—it was essential that she stay calm and keep thinking clearly. She must keep looking about with her eyes and her mind for any small opportunity for escape that presented itself.

Joy, satisfied by her meal, refreshed by her long morning sleep, was eager to play. Anna smiled at her, love constricting her heart, and played while her captor looked on, chuckling indulgently.

I
T
was the middle of the afternoon. Full daylight. A pleasant day with blue sky and white scudding clouds. Clawing fears and wild imaginings seemed foolish somehow when one descended from the carriage and stood on the terrace and looked about at the peaceful beauty of Bowden Abbey.

Luke looked somewhat apologetically at his uncle. “I believe we will find that you have been dragged away from the pleasures of town for naught, Theo,” he said.

But he hurried up the steps and through the doors into the hall and immediately demanded to know where he might find her grace, his wife.

“The duchess is from home, your grace,” Cotes said with a bow for Luke and another for Lord Quinn, who had hurried in behind him.

“Ah,” Luke said. “And where might she have gone, Cotes?”

His butler inclined his head in another bow. “She took Lady Joy out for a picnic, your grace,” he said. “Despite the fact that the child's nurse feels that so much fresh air will be harmful to her lungs.”

Luke turned to look at his uncle, eyebrows raised. “Out on a picnic, Theo,” he said. “So much for our fears. I have a mind to join them after being so long cooped up inside the carriage. Will you come too? Did her grace say where she was going. Cotes?”

But even as the butler shook his head, Henrietta appeared in the archway that led to the staircase. She was smiling and looking beautiful and happy—as if they had not had words before his departure, Luke thought, making her a stiff bow.

“Henrietta?” he said. “I trust we find you well?”

“Very well, I thank you,” she said. “You have brought Uncle Theo with you. How lovely it is to see you, sir.” She crossed the hallway toward him, one hand extended graciously, just as if she were still mistress of Bowden, and he bowed over it.

“As lovely as ever, I see, m'dear,” he said. “You did not join Anna for the picnic?”

Henrietta smiled archly. “I would have felt quite out of place, Uncle,” she said. “Anna has more congenial company than mine. She is picnicking on Colonel Lomax's land at his invitation. I declare he quite fancies her, though Anna is all propriety, of course.”

“She is at Lomax's?” Luke said, exchanging a glance with his uncle. All his anxieties returned. God, but he should not have left her. He should not have assumed that she would be safe at Bowden Abbey without him. “Cotes, send orders to have my horse saddled immediately. Theo?”

“And one for me, Cotes, if you please,” Lord Quinn said. “Egad, but I do not like it.”

“But 'tis merely a picnic,” Henrietta said, all wide-eyed innocence.

And then another figure came hurtling through the arch and launched itself at Luke, making noises that seemed not quite human.

“Emily?” He touched a hand to the back of her head as her arms came about his waist.

She tipped back her head almost immediately and looked at him so piteously that he frowned.

“Something is wrong?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously, but Henrietta spoke from behind her back. “Anna would not allow her to go on the picnic,” she said. “The poor girl could not understand the reason. She has come to you for comfort, Luke.”

Luke fixed his eyes on the wild face that gazed up into his. “I must go and bring Anna home,” he said. “She has gone to Wycherly with Joy for a picnic. We will talk when I return.”

But Emily shook her head fiercely and tightened her arms about his waist.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning. “Anna is not at Wycherly?”

Again the headshake.

“Where is she, then?” he asked.

Emily had to take a step back in order to use her arms. She pointed wildly, first in one direction and then another and then she gestured furiously away from herself with both arms.

“Ah, we are losing time,” Luke said in some frustration. “I do not understand you, my dear. Henrietta says that she has gone on a picnic with Colonel Lomax.”

And then Emily was shaking her head wildly again and turning to point accusingly at Henrietta. She made a cradling gesture with her arms, pointed at Henrietta again, and gestured toward the outside door before gazing imploringly back into Luke's face.

Luke frowned again. “Henrietta had the baby?” he said. “But Anna went out alone with Joy.”

Emily shook her head.

“Hark ye, Luke,” Lord Quinn said. “I believe the child is trying to say that Henrietta took the child somewhere.”

Emily, who had realized somehow that he was talking, had watched him intently. She nodded her head eagerly now.

“I took the baby?” Henrietta laughed lightly. “La, how ridiculous. You know, Luke, that I have never had a great deal to do with your daughter. I am reminded too strongly of the child I lost. The girl should be locked up for indulging in such insane fantasies.”

But Luke was beginning to feel a return of the panic that had brought him dashing home a day earlier than planned, bringing his uncle with him.

“Emily,” he said, taking her by the upper arms and speaking very distinctly, “what does Colonel Lomax have to do with this? Did Henrietta take the baby to him?”

Emily nodded and Luke felt all his insides perform a somersault.

“This is preposterous!” Henrietta said.

“To Wycherly?” Luke asked Emily.

She shook her head and gestured outward, away from the house.

“Somewhere fairly close to here?” he asked. “On Bowden land?”

She nodded.

“And Anna was not with them?”

No, she told him with her head.

“So Lomax had the baby,” Luke said, willing panic down so that he could think straight and find the truth as fast as possible. “Is Anna with them now?”

A nod.

“How did she find out?” Luke asked. “Did Henrietta come for her?”

Another nod, and Emily turned to point at Henrietta again.

“The girl is mad,” Henrietta said scornfully. “You are not going to believe a half-wit, Luke—”

“Egad, madam,” Lord Quinn said, “if you do not hold your tongue until you are invited to use it, I vow I may forget that I am a gentleman.”

“So Anna went to them,” Luke was saying to Emily. “You saw this?”

Tears brightened her eyes and she blinked them away.

“And she went away with him?” Luke said. “He forced her, Emily?”

Yes, her nodding head told him.

God, but why had no one—himself, for example—ever tried to teach the girl a more adequate language to use? Why had no one ever tried to teach her to read and write?

“Emily.” Unconsciously he grasped her arms more tightly. How could she possibly answer his next question. “Where did he take them? Do you know?”

Yes, she told him.

“To Wycherly?”

No.

God! “To London?”

No.

Where would he be likely to take them? Somewhere safe from pursuit. A place where a frantic husband was unlikely to find them. Emily had already indicated that the place was not London. But she knew where the place was.

“To France?” he asked.

No.

“Zounds,” Lord Quinn said, “did you not tell me the scoundrel went to America after Royce's death, lad?”

America. Of course! “To America, Emily?”

She nodded, and the tears spilled over and her face crumpled into misery. Luke drew her close and set his arms about her. And over her head he looked directly at Henrietta.

“You, madam,” he said very softly, “will stay just where you are until I have a moment to deal with you. Say a prayer of thanks while you wait that it will be only a moment. Perhaps, if I bring my wife and daughter safely home with me, my temper will have cooled before I deal with you more thoroughly.”

“Egad,” Lord Quinn said, “the villainy of the woman. Confine her to her room, lad, with Cotes to guard her. You will be going in pursuit. I will come with you.”

“No,” Luke said. “I would rather you stayed here, Theo, to protect Emily from that witch. Devil take it, where would he have taken them? Southampton, do you think?”

“Most likely, lad,” his uncle agreed.

“Fresh horses for the carriage, Cotes,” Luke said. “And quick about it.”

Emily was gazing up at him again, with reddened eyes and untidy hair and frantic hope.

“I am going after them, my dear,” he said. “I will bring them back safely, never fear. You will stay here. Lord Quinn will see to it that you are safe. I will bring them back.” He raised her hands to his lips and forced himself to smile.

Lord Quinn took the girl by the hand and smiled at her with avuncular gentleness, and led her toward the stairs. “You understand lips do you, gel?” he said. “Up we go, then. A cup of tea 'twill be for you and me.”

Henrietta lifted her chin and looked at Luke. “I did it because I love you,” she said. “I have always loved you, even though pride and misery caused me to imply otherwise the last time we spoke. I did it because they are lovers and she is not worthy of you. How do you even know that child is yours?”

“Madam,” he said, his voice and his eyes so icy that there was a flicker of alarm in her own eyes, “be thankful for three things. First, that my time is very limited. 'Twill not take long for fresh horses to be brought up. Second, that you are not a man. If you were, you would be feeling a horse whip about your shoulders. Third, that I do not hold with the chastisement of women. If I did, you would find that I have a heavy hand.”

“You never loved me,” she said. “I was deceived in you. I thought you the love of my life.”

“If you wish to see the love of your life,” he said, with cold contempt, “I suggest you look in the mirror, madam. You seduced my brother for his title and wealth and set a distance between me and him that was never breached. You lied to me and killed a part of me for ten years. You effectively killed my brother. You have used friendship during the past year to try to put doubts and misery in Anna's mind and have tried to seduce me. And now you have put the lives of my wife and child in grave danger. I will not make the excuse for you that perhaps you did not realize that. I believe you know it very well.”

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.

Cotes coughed from behind Luke. “The carriage is ready to leave, your grace,” he said.

Luke kept his eyes on Henrietta a moment longer. “You will escort her grace to her apartments, Cotes,” he said, “and see to it that a guard is kept outside her door at all times. She is not to leave her rooms under any circumstances.”

He did not wait to see his orders carried out. He strode from the house.

He had promised Emily he would bring Anna and Joy safely home. He felt very much less certain when he was back on the road, alone inside his carriage this time, on a trail that might well be cold by this time, traveling in a direction that he was not at all sure was the correct one.

Anna, he thought, setting his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes and feeling immediately dizzy. My God, Anna.

And Joy!

•   •   •

They
were indeed close enough to the coast to reach it before nightfall. And there was indeed a ship bound for America in port. But it would not sail until the morrow and could not be boarded until first light. They were forced to take rooms at an inn close to the waterfront—a single bedchamber with a private sitting room.

Anna must be a good girl, Sir Lovatt warned her before he took her inside the inn. Any attempt to draw attention to herself might well result in harm to the child—he took the baby into his own arms as soon as they left the carriage. And she would accomplish nothing else. The innkeeper had been well paid to ignore her. And his servant would be stationed outside the door of their rooms for the rest of the evening and all night.

“You will be happy enough once we are on our way,” Sir Lovatt told her. “'Twill be a wondrous adventure, my Anna. But 'tis natural that now you look back in some regret.”

And so she found herself late in the evening, pacing the floor of the sitting room, ignoring her captor's suggestion that she sit down and relax or retire to the bedchamber for the night.

“We make an early start in the morning, my dear,” he told her.

Her knife was still where it had been from the beginning. But gradually through the evening she had nudged back the robings of her gown and widened the slit in the side of her petticoat and arranged the haft of the knife so that it was tilted toward the edge of the pocket. She could draw it quickly.

But having done so, would she be able to kill with it? To jab for the heart with such force that the blade would not simply become entangled with the fabric of coat and waistcoat and shirt but would penetrate flesh? The thought of killing was frankly terrifying. But to save Joy? To save herself? To give them a chance to see Luke again?

Oh, yes, she could do it. And she would do it, too, as soon as a chance presented itself. The trouble was that he would not allow her to take Joy into the bedchamber although she had been asleep for more than an hour and would probably sleep all night. Anna could not risk having an unsheathed knife in the same room with her daughter. What if she failed and he punished her by stabbing the baby with her own knife? The thought sent a deep shudder through her.