Stolen Love (23 page)

"Indeed you don't, Mr. Rutherford." Mr. Chester nodded and stepped closer to brush off Nicholas's coat. "I'm very happy with my present situation, sir."

"There, you see, Rip? You haven't a chance."

Mr. Chester pulled out his watch and, after glaring at it, snapped it shut. "The carriage is waiting, Mr. Villines," he announced.

"Will you come with me to the station, Rip?"

"I'd be delighted."

A few moments later they were heading for Paddington Station. "It's decent of you to see me off," Nicholas said when they were on the platform awaiting the arrival of the train.

"How long before you're back in London, Nick?"

"I don't know. I'm going to Europe after Christmas. I've thought of going to Spain. It might be several weeks."

"I hope it won't be as long as all that."

"Why?" The train was just coming into the station, and Nicholas had to raise his voice to be heard over the piercing whistle.

"I've got some news I hope will cause you to cut short your plans."

"What news?" The train was pulling to a stop, and there was a bustle of activity on the platform.

"Well, amazing as it seems, it appears I am getting married."

"Married?" Nicholas came to a halt and turned to face Ripton. "You?"

"Yes. And I must say, Nick, I am equally amazed."

"Congratulations, Rip!" Nicholas began vigorously shaking his hand. "But, tell me, who is this Venus who's captured your heart?" he asked, pulling Ripton along with him to the train.

"I'm surprised you can't guess. I took your advice, after all."

"My advice? What advice was that?" he said, stepping up into the train, where he stood, one foot still on the step, looking down at Ripton. He was smiling broadly.

"About Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth?" His smile slowly faded. "You're going to marry Elizabeth?"

"I asked her the day after Lord Lewesfield's ball. After I found out about Beaufort Latchley asking her first."

"What?"

"Frankly, Nicholas, I was surprised to hear about you and Amelia. I always thought you were in love with Elizabeth."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Which do you mean?"

Nicholas snorted. "When is the wedding to take place?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, she hasn't actually said yes just yet. But she's given me a most hopeful response."

"Come along, now." One of the porters gave Nicholas a tap on the shoulder, and the last thing he heard before the train pulled out of the station was Ripton asking him to be best man at his wedding.

Nicholas had not been at Witchford Runs even twenty-four hours when he made his aunt exclaim, "Nicholas, will you stop pacing like that? What in the name of heaven ails you?"

"Nothing ails me, Aunt," he responded. He sat down. "I have just now recollected," he said after a moment's testy silence, "that I have some business to attend to in London."

Lord Eversleigh had been watching his grandson intently, and he now said, "Dear boy, sit here with me." When he had obeyed, the viscount leaned forward to pat Nicholas's knee. "Perhaps you would like to invite the girl and her family to our birthday celebration," he said.

«
^
»

P
ercy Johns sat on his chair with one elbow propped up on his desk. He picked up his pen and neatly added the date of the theft of Lady Lewesfield's emeralds to one of his lists. This time he did not cross off any more names. Every one of the remaining gentlemen had been at Lord Lewesfield's ball. Still, the Mayfair Thief had finally had some bad luck. Nothing that would allow him to knock on the man's door and make an arrest, but it had created for the first time an opening, a small crack in what before had been a solid wall. Patience. All he needed was patience.

"Mr. Johns, take a look at this."

Percy looked up and took the paper Alfred Wells was holding out to him. "What is it?"

"I was having a pint with Stubbs, from George Street Station, and I told him about how the artist fellow wouldn't give us his letter, and we got to talking, you know, and he remembered about a woman who came into the station with a letter. Well, I didn't say anything on account of how I thought it couldn't possibly be related, only I couldn't get your lists off my mind. So, Stubbs and I, we finally found her, Mrs. Dwight, the lady with the letter. Almost an accident, really. But she still had the letter, Mr. Johns. And she gave it to us, so here it is."

"Well." Percy smoothed the paper flat on the table. "Thank you, Mr. Wells." It was dated September 1840, and though there was no day written on it, the date was still the first entry on a new list. His second entry was the date of the artist's letter. Across from each entry on the second half of the page he wrote in the date of the nearest theft from another list. "How curious," he said to himself. A little louder, he said, "I have never in my life believed in coincidence, Mr. Wells."

«
^
»

H
avoc Willard was sorting through the afternoon post when he came across the letter bearing the coat of arms of Viscount Eversleigh. It was addressed to the Willard family, so he took it out of the pile of correspondence and carried it to his wife. She was in the drawing room with Amelia and Elizabeth, and he handed it to her without a word, watching attentively as she opened and read it. She broke into a smile and let it drop to her lap.

"We are invited to Witchford Runs, Mr. Willard."

He frowned when he saw Elizabeth lift her head at her aunt's exclamation, then stare intently at the letter in her lap. "Witchford Runs? Where in the devil is that?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what this means," said Mrs. Willard.

"Of course I know what it means. We are invited to visit an aristocrat with whom we have no acquaintance," he replied.

"Young Nicholas Villines is visiting his grandfather, the viscount. He could not bear to leave Amelia, it's clear."

"Then you will insist on accepting this invitation?" Havoc asked.

"For the sake of our daughter's happiness, we must, Mr. Willard. We shall leave tomorrow." She gazed happily at Amelia. "They shall be married, I feel it in my bones."

Havoc called Elizabeth into his study later that afternoon. "Mr. Latchley would like to have your answer soon, Elizabeth," he said when she had taken a seat. She looked at her lap, and Havoc sighed. "Mr. Rutherford and I have spoken at length about you, and I admit he impressed me a good deal more than I expected. Nevertheless, I have told the young man my preference is that you marry Mr. Latchley."

She looked up. "Uncle Havoc!"

He sighed. "Mr. Latchley is certain of his affection for you. He may be reluctant to tell you, but I believe he loves you. And he will make you happy."

Elizabeth sat forward. "Please, Uncle. I do not want to marry him. Don't make me."

Havoc rose abruptly and began pacing before her. "I am convinced it is the best thing for you," he said with as much emphasis as he could muster without raising his voice. "He is willing to give you a fortune of your own, Elizabeth. No matter what happens, he could never touch that. The money would be yours."

"No!"

Havoc sighed again and stopped his pacing to sit next to her. "I have told Mr. Latchley that he has a rival…" He took her hand. "I have also told him that if you do not accept this other gentleman's offer, he shall have your positive acceptance when we return from Kent. I wish you to understand that if you accept Mr. Rutherford, it will be against my advice. Listen to me." He reached to stroke her hair, and when she looked at him, he took out his handkerchief to wipe her tears. "If Nicholas loved you, he would not have left you to Latchley or Rutherford," he said slowly, wanting to be certain she understood him. "My dearest Elizabeth," he said softly, "your heart is in your face every time you look at him. You must put your disappointment behind you. If you were to marry Rutherford, you would constantly see Nicholas, and I believe it would make you miserable." He stroked her hair again. "I could not stand to see you miserable."

"But he's asked us to his grandfather's!" She clutched his hand.

"Elizabeth," Havoc said sadly, "I don't think he can see past the little girl you used to be. Nicholas Villines is the kind of man who is determined to get precisely what he wants. If his feelings for you were something other than friendship, he would have made that clear by now. What is clear is that your aunt is certain he will propose to Amelia. Even Amelia has talked of nothing but Lord Lewesfield's ball and how he courted her. He'd not have done so idly, you may rely on that."

"I can't marry Mr. Latchley!"

"Elizabeth, you must."

«
^
»

L
ord Eversleigh's estate was in southern England, in Kent, not far from St. Margaret's Bay. The approach to the house was decidedly unspectacular until the drive crested and the house and stables came suddenly in view. Witchford Runs itself sat in the middle of a slight depression. In spite of its closeness to the sea, there was no view of the water from the house. It was not an imposing building, it had too much charm to be that. The walls were a dull gray where they could be seen through the moss and ivy. The corners of the house were rounded, rising up to the red tiled roof three stories above.

Witchford Runs just missed being the grand manor house. The windows of the lower floors were taller than they were wide, and they were all of multipaned, diamond-shaped glass. Carriages passed under an ivy-covered archway before rattling over the flagstones of the inner courtyard and coming to a halt before two carved oak doors.

The main drawing room at Witchford Runs was octagonal with an alcove at one end overlooking willow trees and green lawns. The floor, of wood dark and satin smooth from years of use, was mostly uncovered. The furniture was French, delicate in design and painstakingly embellished; wherever it was not veneered it was gilded.

Lord Eversleigh was writing a letter at a Roentgen desk he had acquired during a trip to Paris some years ago. Russell Villines was slumped comfortably in an armchair reading a London paper while his wife sat on a gilt-legged sofa, intent on her sewing. Nicholas sat on the window seat in the alcove, one hand dangling over a raised-up knee, staring out the window at the lawn. He stood up so quickly it was as if he anticipated the opening of the drawing room doors. The steward stepped in, just keeping the doors held open behind him, and announced: "The Willards have arrived, my lord."

"Thank you, Carsons. You may show them in." Lord Eversleigh replaced his pen in its holder and blotted his letter. Mrs. Villines put down her sewing and smiled broadly. The viscount, Mr. Villines, and Nicholas rose when the Willards were ushered in.

Although Lord Eversleigh was approaching his mid-eighties, it did not appear that he had lost even a strand of his white hair. He stood erect, and his black eyes were clear and intelligent as he smiled pleasantly at Mrs. Willard, shook hands with Havoc, and complimented Amelia and Elizabeth on their looks. He smiled again when Nicholas took Amelia's hand and bowed over it.

"I'm so glad you've come," Nicholas said to her.

"And I to be here, to be sure." She tossed her curls and glanced at Lord Eversleigh, who returned the smile and looked as though he thought her dimples were quite the most charming thing he'd seen.

"Good afternoon, Elizabeth." Nicholas took Elizabeth's hand when she extended it, but he did not kiss it as he had done Amelia's.

"Nicholas." Their fingers intertwined for only a moment.

Lord Eversleigh's gaze rested on Elizabeth even after he had taken his seat at the desk. "I am pleased you were able to come to Witchford Runs," he said, turning on his chair to face the center of the room. "I hope your journey was not unpleasant." He directed the comment to Mrs. Willard.

"Not at all, my lord," she answered. "Kent is lovely. And we did enjoy the drive from the station."

Nicholas sat down near Amelia, but after several minutes of inconsequential conversation with her, he fell silent and watched Elizabeth. She had left her place by her uncle and was standing in the alcove, looking out at the same view that had so absorbed Nicholas before.

While listening to Mrs. Willard's expression of thanks for his invitation, the viscount followed his grandson's gaze. "We are glad to have you here, madam," he said to Mrs. Willard before saying sharply, "Miss Elizabeth Willard?"

She turned around with a start. "Yes, my lord?"

"You have been silent, Miss Willard. What do you think of Witchford Runs so far?"

"Sir, it is exactly as I imagined it would be." The viscount raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps even more beautiful."

"You may admire it to your heart's content at some other time. Will you please an old man and sit here?" He indicated a chair near him. It was not a request, it was an order.

"Yes, my lord."

Mrs. Willard frowned at Elizabeth when she sat down. The Willards remained only a few minutes longer before Carsons came in to tell them their rooms were ready, but it was long enough for Lord Eversleigh to see that Nicholas's attachment to the Willard girl was far more serious than he had believed, and that there was some rift between them.

Elizabeth's room was large and furnished in a more sober style than the drawing
room. The India rug was woven in shades of blue, and cream, and the walls were hung with a muted blue silk. The canopy of the bed was also a deep bluish gray. There was a French commode along one wall, into which she saw a servant had already placed her clothes. The rest of the furniture was Sheraton. Her things were laid out on the dressing table, plain silver brush, a silver comb that did not match the brush, two tortoiseshell hair combs, her most valuable possessions, and a scent bottle that had belonged to her mother.

Elizabeth was nervous, the unsettled state of her stomach told her that. No doubt the fact that Lord Eversleigh seemed to have taken a dislike to her had something to do with it. She walked to the windows and opened the curtains. The windows overlooked the western side of the house, and she stared at the green fields for some time. It was exactly as Nicholas had described to her in his letters. The drive, the house, Carsons, even Lord Eversleigh, were all as he had written.