Must Have Been The Moonlight (28 page)

Cloaked in the semidarkness of his library, Michael poured himself another snifter of brandy and walked to the window. One arm tightly wrapped in a sling, he worked to sort through images in his head.

There were holes in his memory from that day on the mall, but something had been bothering him since Bedford left that afternoon.

Michael had lived in Egypt long enough to know the signs of vendetta killings. Someone had tried to frame him for Omar’s murder. If that person was the man he’d seen that night on the
Northern Star
, the attack on him could not have been motivated by vengeance, for the man would know that he’d had no hand in the sheikh’s murder.

“Excuse me, your Grace.” Brianna’s footman stood uneasily in the doorway. “I was told that you wanted to see me.”

The tall clock at the far end of the corridor began to chime
the hour. Michael knew that clocks all over the residence did the same, a legacy of his grandmother’s collection of timepieces, as if there wasn’t already a reminder of his mortality—and here he sat troubled about his wife, with the same apprehension he’d felt since Bedford left.

He hadn’t gone to her. He went to the library instead, to nurse his restraint, celebrating his first night in two weeks without laudanum. Only to find himself slowly getting drunk.

“Where did my wife go today?” Michael asked without turning from the window.

“To a jeweler on Bond Street, your Grace.”

“The same one she visited two days ago?” Michael asked, and the man nodded. “She didn’t visit Lady Alexandra?”

“No, your Grace.”

Michael knew about the ring that Brianna had the jeweler make for him. So, why had she lied about something as simple as that?

“Did she meet anyone?”

“Only the jeweler, your Grace.”

“That will be all.”

Michael could see the dull glow of lamplight on the wet street. It had been too long since he’d had control over anything in his life. Too long since he’d cared about anyone else. He was troubled that Brianna could so easily lie to him.

Setting down the brandy glass, he walked upstairs. Brianna lay in her bed, surrounded by velvet hangings. She faced the hearth, her hands folded beneath her cheek.

His shadow fell across her. Her lashes lifted.

And all he had to do was look into her eyes to know her vulnerability. All he had to do was look into his heart to know his.

He should have told her that he’d written Caroline to tell her that he was coming home. He’d sent the missive with the men he’d hired to dispatch the mare to Aldbury. Caro had had a right to know.

But there was more on his mind tonight then revisiting a chapter of his life that he now realized had been closed for a long time.

“Tomorrow, we’re leaving for Aldbury, Brianna.”

B
rianna scarcely noticed the lack of dialogue in the carriage as they passed beneath an imposing wrought iron arch that opened into broad, rolling, seemingly endless expanse of parkland, punctuated by towering oaks and maples. The Aldbury cavalcade had traveled several hours, stopping for lunch and continuing again into dusk. She had not seen but two cottages for an hour among the maples and oaks, and now both stood tucked away on one side of the road. Lights glowed behind the windows. Flower boxes lined the sills. Down one sloping ridge she saw the lake bathed gold by the dipping sun on the western horizon. She scraped frost off the glass in an effort to see more, enthralled by the charm of the passing countryside.

“We’ve been on Aldbury land for the last hour,” Brianna heard Lord Chamberlain say. He sat beside her on the tufted velvet seat.

She turned from the window and noticed that everyone was watching her. The dowager sat on the opposite seat, and Michael lounged against the window, no longer asleep. She realized he’d been watching her for some time.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

For indeed everything around her was. She had never seen the size and scope of such a manicured park, an encapsulated fairyland of ice and sunlight. The road dipped downward and was sheltered now by tall trees.

“The estate sits on forty thousand acres, half granted by King Henry VII after a Yorkist rout for the crown failed in 1487.” Chamberlain narrated Aldbury history as if he were obligated. Brianna had learned that he was Michael’s private secretary, bequeathed to him as heir to the Ravenspur dynasty. She was to be his pupil in all things Aldbury. “Keep looking out the window, your Grace,” he said.

They breasted another steep rise and she saw the magnificent house in the valley below. She pressed against the glass, her jaw gaping.

Bathed in amber mist, set in an Arcadian landscape of terraced gardens, the palatial three-story apparition covered some four acres, with huge corner towers of Doric columns, steep rooftops dotted with chimneys, and sunlight glistening off hundreds of mullioned windows. Ten minutes later, as the carriage clattered across a Palladian bridge and rounded another corner, Brianna was struck by the preeminence of Aldbury Park. In the growing darkness, she could see candlelight showing from every window. Heart racing like a child’s, she raised her gaze to Michael’s, but unexpectedly felt any comment inadequate within the scope of her dismay, wishing now that she hadn’t allowed him to be so reticent concerning his life. She couldn’t believe that this place was his home—that he’d grown up in this glass and golden fairytale world. She had only guessed at his past, and her interpretation had fallen far short of reality. His life suddenly seemed surreal, belonging to someone other than her desert warrior. Her own family was wealthy and held lands, but nothing of this magnitude. The idea that people actually lived this way was beyond her scope.

“It’s overwhelming at first, Brianna,” Michael replied to
the silence, as if understanding her growing trepidation, and that he had been less than candid about many things.

Nor did the magnitude of her feelings change as the evening progressed. The line of servants that greeted the carriage led all the way up the long manicured walk, the steps, and into the enormous foyer. The women were dressed in black dresses, the men in tailcoats, wearing a white shirt and scarlet waistcoat beneath with black trousers and buckled pumps. All had come out to meet Michael.

Brianna had not expected the show, or the subtle display of affection shown Michael as he greeted each one. He knew many by name.

Standing beside the dowager, Brianna watched as he walked up the granite stairs, knowing that the long ride had drained him of strength. His steps were slow and precise, the laudanum he’d consumed earlier having taken its toll, but he worked his way through the line of servants as protocol demanded. Despite everything between them, Brianna felt an enormous swell of pride for him. His great coat fluttered in the icy gusts. His arm, still pressed to his body, remained insulated beneath the woolen warmth.

She saw him look back at her once, as she followed her personal entourage up a huge seventeenth-century carved staircase to her chambers. She turned away.

Her bedroom was magnificent, filled with three centuries of historical treasures from the Genoa velvet bed hangings and the white marble fireplace to the ivory inlaid tables. She quietly explored the length of her dressing rooms and her private salon in the adjoining rooms, but ventured no further for fear of losing herself in this house. She hadn’t asked where Michael’s rooms were.

Brianna reached inside her pocket and withdrew a silver-plated derringer, and set it in her nightstand. Mr. Smith had given her the weapon in place of the revolver.

She would go nowhere without it. Walking to the window, she stared out over the vast emptiness of the world where she would now live.

At least out here, isolated within Aldbury’s forty thousand acres, she didn’t have to worry about Michael’s safety. His physical limitations would prevent him from returning to London for a while. Brianna laid her cheek against the cool glass, finally turning into her dimly lit room. She would not allow herself to be afraid. She would not allow herself to hate this place. And, right now, she would not allow herself to think about Michael.

Gracie entered.

Brianna saw the hot tray of food she carried. “Dinner from now on is at seven, mum,” she said. “Her Grace thought you would want to know.”

Brianna took the tray and set it on the window bench. “Do I have you to thank for supper?”

“She told me to take you this tray. You have to eat something, mum.”

Stiff upper lip and all that, Brianna surmised, drawing in her breath as she looked at the long silver box delivered on the tray.

“Is there anything else that you need, mum?”

“What is this box?”

“I don’t know. But his grace put it on the tray for you.”

Carefully, Brianna removed the lid.

A single red rose lay within.

Brianna nearly collided with Dr. Blanchard the next morning at the top of the grand staircase. “His grace is not in his quarters,” he informed her when she asked where he was. “He left this morning after he dined with the dowager at breakfast. Mark my words, he’ll be back with a fever. It’s only been two weeks since he was injured.”

“Where did he go?”

“He had some matters to attend to in the village. Ask Chamberlain if you want an up-to-date report. I’m only the physician.”

A servant stood beside the door where Brianna had stopped. “The dowager is waiting inside for you, your Grace.”

Remembering why she was here, she nodded politely and entered a private drawing room. The dowager sat in a large wing-backed chair facing the window, her ever-present cane in her hand.

“You’re late,” the woman snorted without turning to see who had entered the room. A blanket covered her thick skirts. “Do sit down.”

On this, her first morning at Aldbury Park, Brianna had overslept. She was awakened when Gracie entered her bedroom with a hasty edict to rise. After dressing in a warm woolen morning gown, she left her quarters and was brought here. She stood in front of the dowager and curtsied.

“Good morning, your Grace.” Her long hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon. Brianna felt as young as she knew she probably looked.

“Good morning indeed.” The dowager’s shrewd gray eyes shifted from the window. “You’ve slept it away.” She peered at Brianna through her lorgnette. “Do sit down, child. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”

Brianna spread her skirts on the window bench and lifted her gaze as a servant approached with a tray.

“Are your quarters acceptable?”

“They are quite…formal, your Grace.”

“Those suites have traditionally been the lady’s rooms in this house. Every Ravenspur duchess has slept there for centuries. Have you any idea what you’re in for here?”

“In for?” Brianna queried. “As in what crime did I commit to find myself a prisoner?” She folded her hands. “I wed the Ravenspur heir.”

“Indeed.” The dowager harrumphed, not fooled by her briskness. “A blind man can see my grandson is smitten with you.”

Brianna’s interest stirred but her expression remained neutral. She wasn’t entirely confident how Michael felt about anything.

“Would you care for some tea?”

Brianna preferred white java but accepted tea. When it
was served, she blew at the wafting steam. The dowager drank hers heaped with cream and sugar, so Brianna elected to suffer the same. They sat in polite silence until the maid curtsied and left. Brianna did want to develop a relationship with the woman. She was Michael’s grandmother, after all, and seemed to hold some sway over her grandson, whether he admitted to it or not.

“James was always impertinent,” the dowager sniffed. “In and out of trouble. Defiant, even as a nipper. It’s no wonder he brought you home rather than choose a bride any of us found for him. Are you perchance with child?” The hopeful tenor of her voice matched her eyes.

Brianna blushed to the roots of her hair. “No, your Grace.”

“No matter. The Irish always did know how to procreate with a passion we Brits lack. I expect that my grandson knows how to perform his duty by you.”

Without managing to choke, Brianna set down her tea. “What is it that you wished to see me about, your Grace?”

“Fifty years ago I sat where you’re sitting now.” Turning her head, the dowager looked out over the brown fields of Aldbury Park. “I was seventeen. The only difference is, I didn’t have me sitting in this chair giving advice.” She chuckled, clearly favoring her advice above all else. “I was filled with a zest for living, even if I didn’t know quite where to put all that ebullience. I soon learned that pride in these lands goes back centuries and that I was now a part of it all.”

Brianna looked out over the placid landscape, impressed by its scope if not by the serene beauty. Yet, there was a sense of desolation in the brown fields that surrounded this estate.

“The crops have failed for years,” the dowager said, following Brianna’s gaze. A sigh fell over her expression. “I fear Edward was as incapable as his father when it came to managing these lands.” Her gray eyes focused on Brianna. “My grandson will not have an easy time. His days will be filled with the endless routine of making this estate whole
again. He is gone now because he is needed someplace. Even he feels responsibility to his heritage, though he’s not prepared to admit as much. He can’t be worrying about you.”

“Perhaps it is I who worries about him, your Grace.”

The answer had not been what the dowager had expected. Her whole expression gradually shifted. “Do you know the grand advice my mother-in-law gave me?” The dowager’s cane thumped the carpet. “Men will stray, she told me. It’s the lot of the wife to bear the burden of her gender. Which was the biggest mash of poppycock I ever heard. The only thing I ever bore were my children.”

“Then she was wrong about your husband?”

The dowager’s mouth pursed. “If he ever found interest elsewhere, I never knew, nor did I want to know. But I was married for forty-seven years because I became someone
I
could respect separate from my husband’s enormous shadow. For it did become enormous, both at home and in the governing body of this country. Who you become is up to you. How you become that person will shape your future and James’s.”

A knock on the door sounded and the majordomo entered, followed by Lord Chamberlain. “Your carriage is waiting, your Grace.”

“You’re leaving?” Brianna stood as the duchess edged to her feet.

“Alas, my home is near Wendover. The drive is not long. Just unpleasantly bumpy.” The cane wobbled, and Brianna reached out to touch the elder’s elbow in an effort to steady her, only to be stopped. “One must maintain appearances.” The dowager patted her hand fondly. “I will have no one think me feeble. Least of all myself.” Her voice lowered. “But I don’t mind if you take my arm, dear.”

Brianna walked beside the dowager and her retinue of personal servants past the grand staircase, with its massive crystal chandelier lit to brilliance high above them. Even with the cane, the dowager’s energy abounded in every muscle of her sixty-seven-year-old frame. “Make my grandson happy, Brianna.”

It was an order, albeit affectionately given with the addendum that the dowager liked her grandson’s choice of bride, but an order nonetheless. Brianna’s uncertainty had no place in the patent scheme of things. Chamberlain agreed as he politely handed the dowager into her carriage, leaning nearer for a little chin-wag about the preparations he was making to ready the Ravenspur duchess for public consumption. As if she had nothing important of herself to offer her new position.

But though she resented the constipated pomposity of the man talking around her as if she didn’t exist, she wanted to believe that he could help her through this transition. “You’ll meet me in the second floor salon at three o’clock for a new wardrobe fitting,” Chamberlain said as the carriage pulled out onto the drive. He’d already turned, expecting her to follow. “I’ve arranged for music and dance lessons.”

Michael still hadn’t returned by the time she suffered through lunch with Chamberlain. Left alone in her chambers, Brianna wrote letters. In her fervor, she wrote to various members of her family, one to Lady Alexandra and another to Mr. Smith, letting him know where she could be found when he learned something about the amulet. She rearranged her bedroom, scooting her desk in front of the window. Michael had returned by the time she finished with her wardrobe appointment, but Blanchard’s opium concoction had knocked him out.