Suzanne Robinson (17 page)

“You needn’t protest. You wouldn’t be the first young lady to lose her heart to him. But I wouldn’t take too long to recover. Cheyne has never lost his in return, and I encourage him not to.”

Mattie gave Capgrave her full attention. “Why not?”

“How shall I put it? Let me just say that Cheyne has demons to fight, and in any case I have plans for him.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been trying to get him to stand for Parliament. He’d make an excellent M.P.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Mr. Tennant would want to do.”

“Cheyne doesn’t know what he wants. Not completely. In time, I shall guide him to the right choice.”

“Really? I didn’t know you had that kind of power.” Capgrave laughed gently, and goose bumps raised on Mattie’s arms at the sound.

“Power, Miss Bright, especially the power to mold and influence strong minds, is the ultimate gratification.”

Mattie stared at Capgrave, round-eyed.

“I meant to ask you if you would speak to Cheyne about his future, as he seems to value your opinion.”

“I think you’re mistaken. Mr. Tennant has only just learned to tolerate me.”

“Nonsense. He has spoken of you with admiration several times.” Capgrave glanced at the subject of their conversation, his gaze resting on Tennant with lazy speculation. “You might say he’s softened toward you.”

“You are talking about Mr. Tennant? There’s nothing soft about him.”

Capgrave’s gaze remained on Tennant, who was deep in conversation with Lancelot Gordon. “I disagree, Miss Bright. While it’s true that he was a ruthless military officer, he was also a gentle and
affectionate child.” He turned to give her a slight smile. “And I assure you he speaks of you with regard. He called you valiant.”

“Dang.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m most gratified, Dr. Capgrave.”

Mattie marveled at Capgrave’s remarks as the company went down to dinner. They were proceeding two by two down the staircase when the lights flickered and went out.

“Wait, everyone,” Mattie said. “They come back on quickly.”

They waited, but nothing happened, and confusion resulted when Mrs. Bright tried to go back upstairs, nearly sending Sir William toppling over the banister. People separated and went in different directions, and it took a while for the servants to bring candles. A few more minutes passed while the guests found the dining room from wherever they’d wandered. Eventually the electricity burst to life, and the dinner progressed with an animated discussion of the perils of the new form of power.

“It’s just that the steam turbine needs work,” Mattie said.

Mama sniffed. “I don’t approve of newfangled inventions. Ladies, shall we have coffee in the drawing room?”

Mattie followed their guests until Mama stopped her. “Dear, would you fetch my shawl? I think I left it in the Painted Room.”

Hurrying upstairs, Mattie was searching the Painted
Room when she heard the door shut. She turned to find the Marquess of Stainfield standing with his back to it. Avery had slicked back his hair to reveal his aristocratic bone structure. His legs were long in proportion to the rest of his body, and he reminded Mattie of a regal greyhound.

“What are you doing, my lord?”

“Please, call me Avery.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your mother was kind enough to arrange this moment with you, my dear.” Stainfield rushed to her and grabbed her hand. “Dearest, sweetest Matilda, you can’t be unaware of the regard in which I hold you. Over these past months I’ve come to cherish you. Your beauty is divine, and your—”

“Stop, my lord.” Mattie disentangled her hand and stepped back. “You don’t want to say these things.”

“Yes, I do.” Swooping at her, Stainfield captured her hand again and kissed it. “Please allow me to say how much I adore you.”

“No.”

Stainfield blinked. “No?”

“No, you can’t say how much you adore me. Not now.”

Mattie pried her hand free and retreated to put a sofa between her and Stainfield. She was alarmed by her unexpected revulsion for this man whom she’d taken so much care to encourage. When he touched her, all she could think of was how soft and clammy his hands were. He spoke words of ardor, but there was something missing. He wasn’t acting like Cheyne
Tennant had at the Lutterworth ball. When Cheyne had held her, he’d been driven by an urge so desperate that it had communicated itself without his saying a word. Stainfield needed too many words.

Stainfield had been staring at her in disbelief. He rushed around the sofa, and Mattie backed away until she hit the fireplace mantel. Her pursuer snatched her hand again and kissed it.

“Dear Matilda, I can’t wait.”

Trying to pull her hand free, Mattie said, “Yes, you can.”

Stainfield pressed her hand to his heart, then started kissing it.

“When, then, my dearest?”

“Next year.”

Stainfield stopped kissing her hand. “That will be too late!”

“Too late for what?” asked Mattie as she twisted her hand in his grip.

“Oh, er, nothing. Forget what I said.”

He moved closer, and Mattie’s vision filled with his lips. She gasped and shoved him, but he still clung to her hand. Darting sideways, she yanked on it.

“Let go, dang it.”

A low voice interrupted Stainfield’s refusal. “I should do as the lady requests, Barmy, or I shall pull both your arms off, then stuff them down your throat.”

Mattie stopped struggling to stare at Cheyne Tennant. He was on the threshold, one hand at his side clenched in a tight fist, the other behind his back.
His gaze was fixed on Stainfield with the intensity of a cobra eyeing a rat. Stainfield dropped her hand.

“See here, Tennant. This is none of your affair.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Tennant strolled over to the marquess. “You’ve refused the request of a lady. No gentleman would stand by and witness it. Go down to the drawing room, Barmy.”

Stainfield straightened his coat. “I shan’t. You go.”

Tennant sighed. Then his hand lashed out to grab Stainfield’s arm, which he twisted behind his back. Mattie gawked at the two as Tennant ushered his captive out the door and shut it. He returned to her, the corners of his mouth turned down, his brow furrowed.

“Are you all right?”

Mattie recovered herself. “Oh. Yes, yes.”

Tennant moved nearer, and Mattie’s eyes widened when he reached for her. She took a step away, but his hand reached for a curl that had come undone from its pin in her struggle with Stainfield. She held her breath while his fingers stroked the curl. Drawing close, he drew the curl up and plucked a pin from her hair to fasten it in place. All she could feel was a strange pulsing energy that enveloped her. Tennant lowered his hands and stepped back, leaving her bereft and disappointed. She nearly jumped when he took her hand. She stared at it, amazed at the way it vanished inside his. He turned her arm over and scowled at the red marks on it.

“If he’s marked you, I’ll whip him from here to Kensington Palace.”

She lifted her gaze to his, and the room faded. His eyes narrowed, then widened, and his breathing grew more rapid. Somehow he was closer than he’d been. Mattie held herself still as he leaned down, slowly, as if his mind were fighting his body. She wanted to scream. After what seemed hours, Mattie felt his lips brush hers with the slightest of pressures, like the sweep of a feather against her skin. His breath entered her mouth. Then he stopped. Sucking in that hypnotic breath, he pulled back and dropped her hand. Avoiding her eyes, he turned from her.

“I should … Damn.”

“Why did you—”

Tennant’s hand sliced the air. “Don’t ask the question, Miss Bright. Let’s just say I was dazzled by the midnight sun.”

Before she could say anything, he was gone. Mattie stared at the closed door for a long time. She finally snapped out of her daze.

“The shawl. I came up here for the shawl. Yes, got to fetch the shawl.”

It wasn’t in the Painted Room. Distracted, Mattie retrieved one from her mother’s room. On her way back she noticed that the door to her own room was slightly ajar.

“The letters,” she muttered.

In her bedroom nothing seemed amiss. She went to the secretary and noticed that the chair in front of it was at an angle. She opened the cabinet, took out the gilt box and lifted the lid. The letters were gone.

Desolation rushed over her. All her beautiful letters,
gone. She felt a sense of loss so great she nearly started crying. The strength of her grief starded Mattie. Cheyne’s letters were gone. She hadn’t realized how much they meant to her until now, and there was nothing to replace them. He would never repeat the things he’d written to her. Never speak of love as he had written about it in those letters.

What was she thinking? She didn’t want Cheyne Tennant to say such things to her. Forget about love, Mattie Bright. Love and Cheyne Tennant—you’re being ridiculous.

She had more important matters to think about. The blackmailer had been in her room, for God’s sake.

Fear shuddered through her. Someone had stolen the letters between the time she left her room to greet her guests and now. That meant that the blackmailer or an ally of his was in the house. Dora was gone, and the rest of the servants were busy down-stairs under the eye of Wynkin.

“Land sakes,” Mattie said to herself. “It’s one of the guests.”

She controlled her agitation, replaced the letter box, and went downstairs with the shawl. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, with Mattie studying each visitor with secret wonder. Someone in the drawing room was a blackmailer.

Tennant. She had to tell him. There wasn’t an opportunity until people began to leave, but as he waited for Wynkin to bring his coat, she passed by him and whispered, “The letters are gone. Come back tonight at one.”

He moved away to allow Wynkin to help him with his coat. In moments he was bowing over her hand.

“Good evening, Miss Bright. A clear sky with a veil of stars. One always wonders what mysteries are abroad on such a night.”

 
12
 

Still wearing his evening clothes Cheyne threw his coat over his shoulders and slipped out of his house. His hand was on the latch of the wrought-iron gate surrounding the service yard when a bulky form emerged from the darkness.

“Going, are you?”

“Blast it, Mutton, don’t creep up on me like that.” Cheyne went through the gate and shut it before Mutton could follow. “I told you earlier, you’re not going.”

“He’s shown his face, so to speak. He’ll be wary.”

“The blackmailer won’t return to Spencer House tonight. I’m going to speak with Miss Bright and find out what happened. I don’t need you.”

“Right.”

“Go to bed,” Cheyne said.

“Right.”

Shaking his head, Cheyne set off for Spencer
House. He took a cab to Green Park and walked across the grass.

It had begun. The rat had taken the bait, and he should feel elated. Cheyne paused beside a plane tree, fighting the rage that had exploded in him when he had encountered Barmy Richmond pawing Miss Bright. The gentlemen had been passing around the port after dinner when Barmy excused himself. Cheyne noticed a peculiarly avid expression on his face. Intrigued, he’d followed his old school friend, saw him speak to Mrs. Bright and then go upstairs. Curiosity took him the rest of the way, but he almost left when he saw Barmy join Miss Bright in the Painted Room. He struggled with his conscience, but not long. It had been easy to open the door in order to see what Barmy was about.

Cheyne hadn’t expected to react the way he had. Seeing Barmy clutching Mattie Bright had aroused something in him he’d thought he’d left behind in South Africa. There he’d seen so much blood. His closest friend had been killed by a hidden rifleman, a shot in the back. The rage he’d felt against poor Barmy had been almost as great. Something primitive stirred in his gut, uncoiled and crouched, ready to spring. Only the most rigid discipline overcame the urge to strangle, rend, and crush. The violence of his feelings frightened him.

He had wanted to tear Mattie Bright from Barmy’s grasp and snarl a warning at him. Deep within himself he acknowledged that he’d wanted Barmy to challenge him so that he could unleash
the beast imprisoned within the civilized and gentlemanly veneer.

“Get hold of yourself, old man,” Cheyne muttered to himself.

He knew what was wrong. He’d fallen victim to Miss Bright’s eloquent pen. He still remembered her last letter. She’d written of her loneliness and how different love was from ideals and fairy tales.

“Shall I tell you what I’ve learned?” she’d written. “Love isn’t all grand feeling and starry skies. It is finding a companionable soul with whom you can sing in harmony, not the same tune but a complementary one. Love is liking and admiring, yet seeing truth about someone with unclouded, unfearing eyes, and accepting that truth.”

Cheyne leaned against the plane tree. “Unclouded, unfearing eyes. She’s certainly got those.”

If she knew him, knew everything, would she still look at him with those unclouded, fearless black eyes? Could she accept the truth when the truth bore the stain of illegitimacy?