The Handmaiden's Necklace (5 page)

“Give him time to ponder his fate,” said the black-haired Marquess of Belford, as if he knew the sort of fear time could breed.

The strong fingers squeezing his robe together beneath his chin slowly loosened.

“Time to go,” Belford said to the duke. “By now the servants have probably called a watchman. As Cord says, tomorrow is another day.”

Sheffield released him, shoving him away so hard he crashed into the mantel on the fireplace, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. But Oliver’s fear was slowly fading, replaced by an iron resolve. He had prepared himself for this day. Perhaps fate had given him a final chance to win the game.

“We’ll see who winds up dead,” Oliver taunted as the three men started for the door. “I’m not the same weak man I was five years ago.”

The men ignored him, just continued out of the drawing room, Belford limping slightly, an old wound perhaps. Oliver wasn’t acquainted with him well enough to know.

The door closed in the entry as the men left the house, and Oliver sank down on the brocade sofa. So he would face the Duke of Sheffield at last. There was a time he’d been sure this day would come. He had bought a set of dueling pistols and practiced with them daily, until he had become a very skillful marksman.

For the past few years, he had begun to think he wouldn’t need the weapons. Now it appeared that he would.

Oliver almost smiled. Rafael wanted vengeance. Oliver knew the feeling well. In a way, he was glad Rafe knew what had happened that night. It would make his victory all the sweeter. Tomorrow, if he got lucky, he would see his nemesis dead.

A thin fog hung over the knoll. The grass was deep and wet, forming beads of dew on the men’s leather boots. The first thin rays of dawn spread over the horizon, enough to outline the two black carriages parked at the edge of the grassy field below.

Ethan stood next to Cord beneath a tall sycamore tree, next to the two men who had accompanied Lord Oliver Randall. In the open space at the top of the knoll, his best friend, Rafael Saunders, Duke of Sheffield, stood back to back with the man who had ruined his life, Oliver Randall, third son of the Marquess of Caverly.

Randall was perhaps two inches shorter than Rafe, with a slightly leaner build, auburn hair and brown eyes. He had nothing of the power and command that Rafe always
seemed to have, and yet Ethan hoped his friend hadn’t underestimated his enemy.

Word was, Oliver Randall was a very skillful marksman, one of the best in London.

Then again, so was Rafe.

The countdown began, Cord calling out the numbers, the men taking long strides away from each other as the steps were counted off. “Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

Both men turned at exactly the same instant, casting their bodies into profile. They lifted their long-barreled, silver-etched dueling pistols and fired.

Two distinct shots rang out, echoing over the knoll. For several seconds neither man moved, then Oliver Randall swayed on his feet and went down, crumpling into the wet grass on the knoll.

His seconds ran forward, two faint shadows in the purple rays of dawn, along with the surgeon, Neil McCauley, a friend who had agreed to come along. Both Cord and Ethan started toward the men, Ethan’s blood still pumping, though some of his worry began to fade as he saw Rafe standing there, apparently unharmed.

Then he spotted the bright patch of blood that appeared on Rafael’s sleeve, though Rafe didn’t seem to notice. Instead he strode toward Oliver Randall.

Bent over the injured man, Dr. McCauley looked up at the duke. “It’s bad. I’m not sure he’ll make it.”

“Do the best you can,” Rafe said. Turning, he strode toward Ethan, who caught up with him at the edge of the knoll.

“How badly are you injured?” Ethan asked, shoving back a strand of wavy black hair that fell across his forehead.

For the first time, Rafe seemed to realize he had been shot. “Nothing too serious, I don’t think. Hurts a bit, not too badly.”

Cord walked up just then. “My house is closest, and the women are there. Let’s get you home and get that arm taken care of.” Cord glanced toward the knoll. “Looks like McCauley has his hands full with Randall, but my wife is a fairly good nurse.”

Rafe just nodded. His jaw clenched with pain several times as they moved over the grass toward the carriage, but his mind seemed miles away.

Oliver Randall had been dealt with. Still, there were other matters of honor that would need to be mended. Danielle’s name would have to be cleared, Ethan knew, her innocence made known to society.

Ethan wondered what steps Rafe next intended to take.

R
afe leaned back in the chair behind his desk. A mild June sun streamed through the mullioned windows, warming the room, but it didn’t improve his mood. His arm was throbbing, yet the wound, thankfully, had proved to be minor. The lead ball had gone through the fleshy part of his arm without hitting bone and passed out the opposite side.

Oliver Randall had not been so lucky. The ball had hit a rib beneath his heart, glanced off and lodged in an area near his spine. Neil McCauley had successfully removed the ball but the damage had already been done. Assuming the wound escaped putrefaction, Oliver Randall would live, but the man would never walk again.

Rafe felt no remorse. Oliver Randall had cruelly and deliberately destroyed two people’s lives for no other reason than jealousy. He had plotted and planned, lied and duped the entire town of London and especially Rafael. Now, in return, Oliver’s own life had been destroyed.

“You reap what you sow,” Rafe’s father had said when
Rafe was a boy. The late duke had been fair and just. He would have seen justice in the outcome of the duel.

Still, Oliver wasn’t the only man at fault. In the days since the duel, Rafe had set out to mend some of the damage he, himself, had caused. He meant to clear Danielle’s name of any wrongdoing in the scandal that had ended their betrothal, but he wanted to speak to Dani first.

In that regard, his efforts had failed.

Rafe swore softly. Frustrated and out of sorts, he was thinking of Danielle when a knock at the door drew his attention. His butler, Jonathan Wooster, silver-haired with a narrow face and watery blue eyes, stood in the doorway.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but Lord and Lady Belford are here to see you.”

He had wondered when his friends would arrive. “Show them in.” They were worried about him, he knew. He’d been holed up since the duel and hadn’t left the house. Though justice had been served, he felt defeated. He hadn’t left the house because he couldn’t find the will.

Ethan ushered Grace into the room, a lovely young woman with heavy auburn hair and jewel-green eyes and dressed in a fashionable, high-waisted gown a paler shade of green. Grace and Rafe had long been friends, but never anything more. Rafe believed that Grace had been destined from the start to become Ethan’s bride, the one person who could dispel the darkness his friend had carried inside him.

“How are you feeling?” Ethan asked, a worried look on his face. He was as tall as Rafe, leaner, darker, his features more sculpted, the sort of man women were drawn to. Even more so now that his demons were gone.

“The wound was never that serious.” Rafe strode toward
them across the room. “And the arm seems to be healing very well.”

“That’s very good news.” Grace’s pretty face lit with a smile. “Perhaps you feel well enough to accompany us to luncheon. It’s such a lovely day.”

Rafe glanced away. His body was mending, but his mind lingered in the past. The day after the duel, he had summoned Jonas McPhee to discover the whereabouts of Lady Wycombe and her niece, Danielle Duval. Since Rafe hadn’t seen her since the afternoon tea and neither had his mother, he thought that perhaps she and her aunt had returned to Wycombe Park.

Instead, according to McPhee, Danielle and her aunt had left the country.

“I can tell by the grim look on your face that you have discovered Danielle is gone,” Ethan said.

Rafe frowned. “How did you know?”

“Victoria told us,” Grace said. “She seems to have an invisible connection to every servant in the city. She was looking for information about Danielle. I suppose she thought you would probably wish to see her.”

Rafe bit back a sigh of frustration. “Unfortunately, Jonas McPhee informed me three days ago that Danielle and her aunt have sailed for America, gone off to the city of Philadelphia. I had hoped to speak to her, to apologize and somehow try to make amends. I don’t suppose that is going to happen now.”

“Certainly not right away,” Ethan agreed.

Rafe looked at his friend. “Did Victoria also tell you that Danielle has accepted a proposal of marriage from an American name Richard Clemens?”

“No. I don’t think she knew.”

Rafe stared past the couple, out the window into the garden. The sun was shining as it hadn’t in days, and a pair of sparrows sat on the branch of a sycamore tree beside the house.

He turned back to his friends. “Danielle has given up her home, been forced to leave her own country to try to find some kind of happiness for herself. She has sailed thousands of miles to escape the terrible things that were said about her—none of which were true—and the fault is entirely mine.”

Grace reached over and touched his arm. “That is not so. Your actions undoubtedly played a part, but Oliver Randall is the man responsible. He planned to end your betrothal to Danielle and destroy your feelings for each other—and he succeeded.”

Rafe’s hand unconsciously fisted. “Randall accomplished exactly what he set out to do. He destroyed any chance for happiness Danielle and I might have had. Unless, of course, she finds some measure of contentment with the man she intends to marry.”

Grace’s fingers pulled on the sleeve of his coat. “Are you willing to take that chance, Rafael?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Danielle’s marriage might make her life even more unhappy than it’s been for the past five years. Are you willing to take that risk?”

His chest tightened. The thought had occurred to him more than once in the past few days. He remembered the Dani he had fallen in love with, so sweet and innocent yet filled with such passionate fire.

Who was this man she intended to marry? Did she love him? Would he take care of her, treat her the way she deserved?

Ethan’s voice filled the silence that had fallen in the study. “Grace believes there is yet a chance for you and Danielle—if you are brave enough to take it. My wife believes that you are still in love with the woman. She is convinced that you’ve never stopped loving her. She believes you should go after her and bring her home.”

Rafe cast a hard look at Grace. “I realize you have always been an incurable romantic, sweeting, but this time I think you may have gone completely over the mark. Dani is marrying another man. She is probably in love with him. And I… I am betrothed to Mary Rose.”

“Are you still in love with Danielle?” Grace pressed.

Rafe took a steadying breath. Was he still in love with Dani? It was a question he had never allowed himself to ask. “It’s been five years, Grace. I don’t even know the lady anymore.”

“You have to find out, Rafael. You have to go after her. You have to discover if you still love her—and if she still loves you.”

Rafe snorted. “The woman loathes the very sight of me.”

“Perhaps she does. Perhaps she only thinks she does. Once I convinced myself that I hated Ethan. I blamed him for everything that had happened to me. But the day he showed up on my doorstep, I realized that the feelings I once held for him were still there, hovering just below the surface. At the time, I wished it weren’t so. Now…”

She turned, slid her arms around her husband’s waist and leaned into his embrace. “Now I am only grateful that he
came for me, grateful that he has come to love me the way I love him, grateful for the son he has given me.”

Ethan bent his dark head and pressed his lips against his wife’s auburn curls.

“What about Mary Rose?” Rafe asked. “We are betrothed, in case you have forgot.”

“You don’t love her,” Ethan answered, surprising him. “And I don’t believe she loves you. I don’t think you want her to.”

No, he didn’t want Mary Rose to love him. Because he knew he could never return that love.

“Ask her to wait,” Grace urged. “Surely a little more time before the wedding wouldn’t be too much to ask.”

Rafe made no reply. His chest was squeezing. The questions Grace posed had been hovering at the edge of his mind since McPhee had discovered the truth about that night. The list had only grown since the duel. They were questions that needed to be answered.

There were words that needed to be spoken, a past that needed to be resolved.

“I’ll think about what you’ve both said. I want you and Ethan to know that no matter what happens, I appreciate your friendship. You will never know how much.”

Grace’s pretty eyes filled with tears. “We just want you to be happy.”

Rafe only nodded. He had given up that hope five years ago. Now, hearing his best friend’s words, the thought burned inside him again. Was it possible? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to find out.

Tomorrow morning, he would book passage for himself on a ship bound for America.

“If you decide to go,” Ethan said as if he had read Rafe’s mind, “Belford Shipping has a vessel sailing for America three days hence. The owner’s cabin is yours. The
Triumph
can sail you straight up the Delaware River to Philadelphia, and she’s a fast ship, Rafael. With good weather, she’ll cut at least a week off the time Danielle has ahead of you.”

Rafe looked up at him. Inside his chest, his heart was squeezing as if it were locked in a fist.

“Make the arrangements” was all he said.

N
eeding a moment alone, Danielle stood at the window, staring into the darkness of the city they had reached just two weeks ago. Tonight she and her aunt were attending a small house party being given by close friends of Richard’s in honor of their engagement. It seemed there were always more people to meet, and though they were friendly, sometimes it was a bit overwhelming.

Dani gazed into the quiet outside the house. With its narrow cobbled streets and redbrick buildings, tall white church steeples and large, open green parks, Philadelphia was charming, if nothing at all like London.

Though America and England had once been connected, it was as if the American colonists had done everything in their power to carve out a new identity all their own. Their speech was less clipped, less formal. Their clothes followed English fashion, yet, with the distance between the two countries, even the most lavish costumes seemed slightly out of vogue.

Still, the people here had a strong, rugged independence
that Danielle admired and respected. They were their own people, these Americans. She had never met anyone quite like them.

Danielle turned away from the window and walked over to join her aunt, who stood next to the cut-crystal punch bowl. During the two weeks since her arrival, Dani had settled comfortably into the narrow brick row house Aunt Flora had let for her stay in America. At present, Dani and Caro resided there with her in the charming, colonial-style home.

After Dani’s wedding, three weeks hence, she and Caro would move into Richard’s home on Society Hill, and once they were settled, Aunt Flora would return to England, accompanied by a companion she hired for the journey.

Dani would remain with her husband in Philadelphia, a completely new and different world. She was grateful Caro would be staying, as well.

She took a sip from the cup of punch Aunt Flora slid into her hand.

“Here comes Richard,” her aunt whispered, smiling at the blond man who approached from across the parlor, what the Americans called a drawing room. “He is certainly a handsome man.”

She cast Danielle a sideways glance, trying to read her emotions where Richard was concerned, but Dani kept her features carefully blank.

She liked Richard Clemens enough to accept his proposal, but she wasn’t in love with him. And she didn’t think Richard was more than moderately enamored of her. He was a successful, practical man who needed a wife to replace the one who had died in childbirth and a mother for his two children. Over time, Dani hoped, their affection would grow deeper.

“Ah, Danielle—there you are.” He smiled and she returned it.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Wentz,” she said. “Since you and he both own textile manufacturing companies, I imagined the two of you were talking business.”

He reached down and caught her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Very astute. I sensed that from our first meeting. A man with a wife who understands her role can be a tremendous asset to her husband’s business.”

Dani continued to smile. She wasn’t exactly certain what role Richard expected her to play, but in time she supposed she would figure it out.

“Actually Jacob Wentz is in the dye manufacturing business. His plant is in Easton, not far from Clemens’s Textiles.” Richard turned for a moment to speak to Aunt Flora, and as the pair made polite conversation, Dani studied the man she was to wed.

Richard stood slightly above average in height, and he was attractive, his hair a deep golden blond and his eyes a mixture of brown and green, turning more one color than the other, depending upon his mood.

She had only begun to know him during his time in England. He’d been attentive and interesting, an intelligent man, successful in his business endeavors, a widower who seemed to find her attractive. Here he was different, more driven. Here, business always came first. At times it seemed to consume him.

“If you will excuse us for a moment, Lady Wycombe,” Richard said, “there is a gentleman I would like Danielle to meet.”

“Of course.” Aunt Flora gave him a last warm smile,
turned her attention to the matron standing next to her and they began to pleasantly chatter.

Dani let Richard guide her across the parlor, a well-designed room with molded ceilings, Aubusson carpets and Chippendale furniture. Even the furniture in the houses she had visited seemed decidedly American, mostly mahogany, with smooth lines and graceful curves, pretty lace doilies and high-backed Windsor chairs.

Richard covered her hand where it rested on the sleeve of his tailcoat as they wove their way among the guests, stopping for a greeting here and there. It was obvious by the way people deferred to him that her fiancé held a high place in Philadelphia society. In fact, there were times he seemed overly concerned with it, but perhaps she was mistaken.

He stopped in front of a tall, burly, gray-haired man with mutton-chop sideburns. “Senator Gaines, it’s good to see you.”

“You, as well, Richard.”

“Senator, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Danielle Duval.”

Gaines made a very polite bow over her hand. “Miss Duval, you are every bit as lovely as Richard has said.”

“Thank you, Senator.”

“Senator Gaines was once ambassador to England,” Richard told Dani. To the senator he said, “Danielle’s father was the Viscount Drummond. Perhaps you met him while you were abroad.”

One of the senator’s thick gray eyebrows went up. “I’m afraid I never had the privilege.” He tossed Richard a look. “So you’ve caught yourself the daughter of a viscount. Quite a feather in your cap, old boy, if I do say so myself. Congratulations.”

Richard beamed. “Thank you, Senator.”

“When’s the wedding? I presume I’ll be invited.”

“Of course. We’d be very disappointed if you couldn’t attend.”

They spoke a moment more, then Richard said a polite farewell and so did Dani. She tried to ignore the uneasy feeling the conversation had stirred. Richard seemed so concerned with her background, so impressed that she was a member of the English aristocracy. It seemed to come up at every party they had attended since her arrival.

“Richard! Do bring your lovely bride-to-be over here for a moment. We’ve a guest tonight I would like the two of you to meet.”

Dani recognized their rotund little host for the evening, Marcus Whitman, a wealthy farmer Richard had introduced her to at a musical affair they had attended last week. Since her arrival, her fiancé had insisted on attending one affair after another.

“I want you to have a chance to get acquainted with my friends,” Richard had explained.

Dani had hoped they would have more time to themselves, a chance to get to know each other better before the wedding. So far, she had only met his children once and then only briefly.

“Good evening, Marcus.” Richard smiled. “It’s been a lovely party. Thank you so much for hosting the affair.”

“My wife and I were pleased to do it. Before he died, your father and I were friends for nearly twenty years.”

Richard politely nodded. His father was often mentioned at these events. Apparently he had been quite a respected man in the community. “You said there was someone you wanted us to meet?”

“Yes, yes…indeed.” He turned and touched the coat sleeve of a tall man standing behind him, drawing the man’s attention.

“Richard, I would like to introduce you to an acquaintance from London, a friend of a friend, if you know what I mean. Rafael Saunders is the Duke of Sheffield. He’s here in Philadelphia on business.”

Shock ricocheted through Dani. She felt as if the floor had just tipped sideways. She could feel the blood slowly draining from her face.

Whitman continued the introduction. “Duke, meet Richard Clemens and his fiancée, Miss Duval. She’s a countryman of yours. Perhaps the two of you are acquainted.”

Dani stared into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, eyes she would never forget. Her chest tightened almost painfully.

“Mr. Clemens,” Rafael said, making Richard a very formal bow. “Miss Duval.” His eyes fixed on hers and for an instant she couldn’t look away.

Dani couldn’t talk, couldn’t form a single word. She just kept staring, her hand trembling on Richard’s sleeve. When he turned to look at her, he must have seen the pallor of her face.

“Darling, are you all right?”

Dani wet her lips, her mouth gone completely dry. “I am…I am happy to make your acquaintance,” she said to Rafael, silently thanking God she had never told Richard the name of the man who had once been her betrothed. The man who had ruined her.

Rafe’s eyes remained on hers. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you, Miss Duval.”

She dragged her gaze away, ignored the wild beating of her heart, and glanced frantically around the room in search of an avenue of escape. “I—I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I am feeling overly warm. I think I could use a breath of fresh air.”

Richard slid an arm around her waist. “Here, let me escort you. A moment on the terrace and I’m sure you’ll be right as rain.” Guiding her toward the French doors leading out into the garden, Richard led her across the room. Several people glanced their way, but Dani barely saw them. Her mind was spinning, her stomach tied into a knot.

Rafael had followed her. She couldn’t think of any other explanation. Why had he come? What did he want?

Did he hate her so much that he had come to ruin her chance for a new life with Richard?

Dani clamped down on a moment of fear and prayed there was some other reason Rafael had traveled all the way to America.

Rafe watched Danielle leave the parlor and wished he had handled things differently. She looked so pale, so shaken. Then again, what had he expected?

Not that he’d had any choice.

Before he’d set sail, he had done his best to discover any information that might help him find her, but there simply wasn’t enough time. He knew the name of her ship, the
Wyndham,
and that she had sailed to Philadelphia, where her fiancé, a wealthy manufacturer, apparently had a home.

Beyond that, he didn’t know exactly where to look for her. Instead, he had arrived in the city with letters of introduction engineered by Howard Pendleton, a close family
friend. Letters from men of influence in London with friends in Philadelphia who might be able to help him find Danielle.

Howard Pendleton, an army colonel who worked in the British War Office, had helped Cord and Rafe bring Ethan home from France, where he had been imprisoned. Through Ethan, Pendleton had heard of Rafe’s intended journey and come to him with an offer of assistance—but there was a favor he wanted in return.

“Rumors have been surfacing,” the colonel had said, “whispers that a venture may be in the making between the Americans and the French. A deal that would be of great benefit to Napoléon. We need your help, Your Grace. If you agree, you won’t be on your own. You’ll have Max Bradley to assist you.”

Rafe knew Bradley well, knew how good he was, and that he was a man to count on. England had been fighting the French for years. Thousands of British lives had been lost.

Rafe agreed to help in any way he could and received the colonel’s assistance in return, which included the letters of introduction. When Rafe set sail aboard the
Triumph,
one of the newest ships in the Belford shipping fleet, Max Bradley sailed with him, a man who worked undercover for the War Office—a polite way of saying that Max was a British spy.

In the days since their arrival, Bradley had gone underground in search of information, and Rafe had used the letters to find someone who could lead him to Dani. He had been introduced to Marcus Whitman, a close friend of Richard Clemens, and secured an invitation to the house party Whitman was holding in honor of the bride and groom.

Rafe stared off toward the terrace, his chest feeling heavy. In her gold brocade gown, with her glorious red hair swept up, Danielle looked even more beautiful tonight than she had the last time he had seen her.

Still, as he had watched her moving around the room on the arm of the man she was to marry, there wasn’t a spark of joy in her lovely green eyes, not the least hint of passion. Perhaps, like himself, she had merely learned a greater degree of self-control.

As he watched her disappear out of sight into the garden, he wished he could have found a better way to proceed. But he had wanted to meet Richard Clemens, to discover as much about the man as he could, and with the wedding just three weeks away, there wasn’t much time.

Rafe made conversation with Whitman and his dark-haired, likable little wife, all the while watching the terrace door, hoping for another glimpse of Dani.

“If it isn’t His Grace, the duke.” Flora Chamberlain appeared beside him, a round-faced little woman with keen blue eyes. “One never knows whom one might encounter, even all these miles from home.” She studied him from beneath thick gray lashes, her gaze coolly assessing. “It never occurred to me that you might actually come.”

Rafe’s gaze met hers. “Did it not? You knew I would discover the truth when you gave Jonas McPhee that letter. Did you really believe I would let the matter rest without speaking to Danielle?”

“You could have discovered the truth five years ago if you had made the effort.”

“I was younger then, and extremely hotheaded. I was insanely jealous of Dani. And I was a fool.”

“I see… You’re older now, not so wildly passionate.”

“Exactly. When I last saw Danielle and she continued to profess her innocence after all of these years, I decided to investigate the matter and discovered, to my everlasting regret, that I had wronged your niece.”

“Quite a surprise, I’m sure. Still, it was a goodly distance to travel.”

“I would have gone to any lengths to find her.”

“I’ll admit I hoped you might come. I believe Danielle deserves an apology from you—even if you had to sail nearly four thousand miles to make it.”

“Is that the only reason?”

She glanced away, out toward the terrace. “For the present…yes.”

“I need to speak to her, Lady Wycombe. When can that be arranged?”

The countess continued to stare off toward the garden, then she turned back to Rafe. “Come to my house tomorrow morning—221 Arch Street. Ten o’clock. Richard isn’t due to arrive until noon.”