The Spring Bride (19 page)

Until the murder charge was sorted out, the best he could hope for was to convince her to see him as a possibility. And for that, he needed to talk to her, explain why he'd let her believe he was a gypsy . . . And that he was shortly to be plunged into a murder scandal.

And then to ask her to trust him, and to wait.

Not the easiest of conversations.

He gave the coals one last stir and straightened, finding himself face-to-face with the portrait of Gil's ancestor that was mounted over the mantel. Damned ugly fellow. No resemblance to Gil at all.

The gold frame was stuffed with invitations. Still brooding on his problems, his gaze passed vaguely over them. Noting one was for a party that had been held weeks ago, he pulled it out and tossed it in the fire, then found another old one and burned that too. “Don't you ever go to any of these things?”

“No, and don't change the subject. You could always establish your identity—that'll be quite straightforward, and no need to attend the hearing if we do it properly—and cross to the Continent before you can be arrested.”

“What, and skulk in Paris or somewhere until you find the evidence to clear me?” Zach snorted. He wasn't going anywhere. Not while Jane Chance was still free and unmarried.

“I don't believe I mentioned any skulking. I am trying to save you from stretching your neck.”

Zach shook his head. “Stop worrying. I know it looks black but I am, after all, innocent. I'll stay and fight the charge.” He
scanned the invitations and consigned another expired one to the fire. He watched it curl and blacken, then flame up.

In the morning he'd talk to Jane, tell her the truth—all of it, murder charge and all. Throw himself on her mercy. Ask her to trust him. To wait.

Unless Cecily was found in time, all hell would break loose next week, and rather than leave it for the gossips and scandalmongers—for Lord knew how garbled it would be once the tale reached her—he had to tell her the truth himself.

And apologize for the deception.

*   *   *

H
e went to Berkeley Square the next morning and waited for her in the park. At just after ten o'clock, out she came, radiant in a blue pelisse, laughing and scolding RosePetal, who was straining at the leash as usual, with William clumping along behind her.

Zach's heart leapt at the sight of her. He stepped out onto the path ahead of her, and waited.

She saw him and stopped dead. The laughter died from her face. RosePetal too had seen him and was doing his best to choke himself on his collar in his eagerness to greet Zach. Not Jane.

She said something to William—he couldn't hear what—turned around and marched back the way she'd come, her back straight and stiff, pulling an unhappy dog behind her, as if she were dragging a loaf of bread. A very heavy loaf of bread with four feet that resisted every step.

William shot Zach a smug look and followed.

Woman, dog and footman disappeared back into Lady Beatrice's house. Only the dog appeared regretful, giving longing, martyred looks back at Zach as he was dragged into the house.

It was disappointing, but Zach understood; she thought him a gypsy, after all, and had told him to leave her alone. He went back to Gil's and considered his options.

He had to speak to her. She had to know she had choices other than Lord Cambury. Well, of course she had choices—practically any gentleman of the
ton
would be happy to offer for her, despite her lack of fortune.

But she needed to know
he
was a choice too—a real one—or he would be if—when!—he beat this blasted charge. He couldn't let her throw herself away on a wealthy windbag who saw her as something to add to his collection of beautiful things.

Since she refused to talk to him, he had no option but write to her and explain. He sat down at Gil's desk, selected a fresh sheet of writing paper, sharpened a quill, dipped it in ink and began to write.

Dear Miss Chance,

Forgive this mode of—

No, don't start by groveling. Bad idea. He tossed that aside and started again.

Dear Miss Chance,

Since it is impossible to communicate with you any other way
—

Oh, yes, perfect way to start if you want get her back up. Idiot. He screwed it up and selected another sheet of notepaper.

Dear Miss Chance,

I do not blame you for avoiding me
—

Not true, he did blame her. It was infuriating. He started again.

Dear Miss Chance,

There are several matters I wish to draw to your attention
—

Now he sounded like a clerk, writing to her about drains or something.

Dear Miss Chance,

Please, give me a chance to explain. There are matters—

Oh, good, now he was back to groveling. A groveling drains clerk.

Dear Miss Chance,

I am in trouble, but—

No, it sounded like a begging letter. He wasn't after her pity.

In the end he penned her a brief and straightforward message:

Dear Miss Chance,

My situation has changed and I must talk to you. As you may have already guessed, I am not in fact a gypsy, but a well-born Englishman of distinguished lineage. I wish to apologize for the deception, and explain my reasons for it. I ask for nothing but a few minutes of your time. Please meet me in the square opposite your home.

 

Yours, very sincerely

Zachary Black.

He had the letter delivered by hand and waited in the square. A light, slow drizzle started. Zach adjusted the angle of his hat and pulled up the collar of his coat, and waited. He knew she was home—he'd seen her glance out of the bay window a short time after his note had been delivered.

The drizzle settled in. Zach didn't care about the rain; she knew he was out here, and he was going to make his point, rain or not. Actually he didn't mind the rain at all; it underlined his point.

He'd waited about twenty minutes before William emerged from the house bearing an umbrella. He marched straight up to Zach with a grin from ear to ear. “With Miss Jane's compliments,” he said, and tossed Zach a handful of paper torn into
tiny bits. They fluttered to the ground like blossoms. “Get the message, gypsy?”

Zach did. He looked down at the sodden remnants of his note. The ink was spreading on the tiny pieces of paper in slow blots, like moldy blight on blossoms. Had she even read it?

He glanced back at the bay window. There was no sign of her now, but he knew she'd be watching.

He swept off his hat and stood, bareheaded in the rain for a moment, then made her an elegant bow. He thought he saw a movement inside. He smiled as a fresh idea occurred to him.

“Don't you get it yet, gypsy?” William said. “No use lookin' over there. It's good-bye and good riddance to you.”

Zach laughed. “Do you know, William, I think you might just have tempted fate.”

All the privilege I claim for my own sex . . . is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PERSUASION

T
he fool! What was he doing standing in the rain? Jane stood well back from the bay window and glared at the arrogant figure standing so tall and careless in the square opposite, seemingly indifferent to the rain.

He took off his hat—no, swept it off—and the rain soaked into his thick, dark hair. Even from here she could see it curling a little, clinging to his forehead in dark clumps, looking like a victor's olive leaf crown.

He looked straight at her, as if he could see her standing there, and he couldn't, she was sure he couldn't—and then he bowed with such grace and style she wanted to hit him.

He smiled . . . and a warm shiver rippled through her.

She folded her arms crossly and tried to ignore the spreading warmth inside her. He was too good-looking and confident for his own good. Certainly for her good.

She would not see him. Under any circumstances.

How dare he come back! She hadn't seen him for days. Nearly a week. She'd thought herself safe, at last. She hadn't missed him at all. Not a bit. Not in the least. Had hardly even thought of him. Much. In any case, thoughts didn't count. And what she'd been thinking was relief. Yes, relief.

It was the dreams that were the problem. She could control her thoughts—to a point—but in dreams, she had no control at all.

In the past couple of nights, Daisy had had to wake her several times, saying, “Another nightmare, lovie?”

And Jane, hot and sweaty and all twisted up in her nightgown, had agreed.

But they weren't nightmares, so much as . . . enticements. Like the fairy tales of old where some beautiful, magical being enticed away an otherwise sensible girl . . . and she was never seen again.

Her eyes dwelt on the tall figure standing in the rain, bareheaded and imperious, acting as if he owned the place, as if the rain couldn't touch him, as if she had no choice but to see him. He was getting soaked, the fool. Why wouldn't he leave?

He couldn't possibly see her from here.

That faint, entrancing smile . . .

She understood now why Mama had fallen for Papa and run off with him. It was a kind of madness. Irresistible. She shivered again.

Perfectly resistible, she told herself firmly, when you knew the consequences of such imprudence. Had Mama and Papa known how their great love story had ended, they'd never have run off together.

Though they'd never once seemed to regret it—only their circumstances. But the one had led to the other. Had they thought it was worth it? Abby claimed they'd been very happy, almost until the last, when Mama got sick and Papa got desperate. But Abby thought love mattered before everything.

Jane squashed that thought. Love was a choice and Jane had made her choice and a very good, sensible one it was; she would marry Lord Cambury and she would not even think of a tall, impossibly handsome, wholly untrustworthy gypsy.

A well-born Englishman of distinguished lineage.

She snorted. He changed his story as often as he changed his coat. What would he claim next—that he was a long-lost prince in disguise?

Well, she wouldn't stand around all day watching an irritating man getting drenched for no purpose. She smoothed down her pelisse and checked her hair in the looking glass. She was dressed to go out. Abby would be here shortly, to collect her
in the carriage. They were going to make a call on Lady Dalrymple. Their first.

Jane hoped it wouldn't be their last. It had taken all Jane's powers of persuasion to get Abby to come with her this time. Now, it all rested with Lady Dalrymple and what she had to say for herself.

Mama's mother. What would she be like? Jane was excited and nervous, eager and anxious, all at the same time.

She glanced out of the window, but the square was deserted; no sign of any tall, dark man standing bareheaded in the rain. He'd gone.

Good. She hoped he'd finally got the message.

Foolish man. He'd probably catch his death of cold. Serve him right.

*   *   *

L
ady Dalrymple lived in Green Street. Jane had sent a note ahead, asking whether it would be convenient for her sister and her to call. Lady Dalrymple had sent an instant response, inviting them to take tea with her that very afternoon.

The carriage swished through the damp streets. Abby sat stiffly, clutching her reticule, pale and resolute. Despite her presence, she was far from accepting a reconciliation. “I will accompany you and hear what she has to say,” was all she would promise Jane.

Jane was grateful for her presence. She didn't know what to expect, but she was hopeful, at least.

Abby slipped her hand into Jane's. “Don't expect too much of her, love. She's hurt us enough already.”

Jane nodded. “It's all right, Abby. I'm prepared.”

Abby gave her a rueful smile. “No, you're not. You're too softhearted for your own good.”

The carriage pulled up in front of a small, pretty house, and the driver pulled down the steps for them, holding a large umbrella. The front door opened before they could reach the doorbell, and a butler ushered them into a small, elegant parlor.

Lady Dalrymple rose to greet them. Fashionably dressed in lilac silk, she was small and plump, with a soft, pretty face, gently wrinkled about the mouth and eyes, and light tawny-fair hair attractively streaked with silver. Her eyes were blue, the same color as Jane's.

In forty years' time, Jane thought dazedly, I will look a lot like this.

“Oh, my dears, my
dears
,” Lady Dalrymple exclaimed breathlessly, hurrying toward them. “I thought this moment would
never
come and I'd go to my grave not knowing—oh! let me look at you!—Jane, the
image
of my darling Sarah—oh! I cannot believe it—my dearest, dearest girl—and Abigail”—she turned to Abby—“Oh, my dear, so very like your papa and with
just
that same look he used to get, the poor boy! But let us not be morbid on this happy, happy occasion!” And apparently oblivious of the tears pouring down her soft, plump, lightly powdered cheeks, she embraced them, first Jane, then Abby, still talking all the while.

Quite stunned and not a little overwhelmed by the effusiveness of the greeting, Jane glanced at Abby, currently standing stiffly in Lady Dalrymple's embrace, to see how she was taking it.

The expression on Abby's face was . . . strange. Jane had no idea how to interpret it.

“Oh, listen to me, babbling on like a perfect
lunatic
—but you must forgive an old lady's emotion—it's not every day one meets one's long-lost granddaughters—oh, and look! I've made you all damp.” And unself-consciously she produced a dainty lace-edged handkerchief and proceeded to wipe her tears off Abby's cheeks.

Abby looked half frozen, half panicked. Neither she nor Jane had uttered a word yet; they hadn't had a chance.

Lady Dalrymple continued, “There now, that's better. Oh, what am I thinking? Sit down, my darlings, sit down here with me and let me look at you. And Jarvis will bring in tea and a little something to eat.” Clutching them each by the hand, she tugged them down onto a
chaise longue
, one on each side of her. “Oh, my Sarah's daughters, oh!” And the tears came again. “
Tsk, tsk
, look at me, such a sight I must present and I had
such
good intentions for this meeting.” She mopped at her face with the soaked handkerchief. “But so happy, my darlings, so happy.” She gave Jane a wondering look. “I cannot believe it, here you are, looking just
exactly
like my poor darling Sarah before I lost her, as if more than twenty-five years had not passed. We were very much alike in so many ways. I was once as pretty as Jane here, though you would never know it, to see me now.”

Abby's eyes met Jane's. “
Lost
her?” Abby repeated in a flinty voice. Jane could see she was struggling for composure.

Lady Dalrymple looked at Abby and her face crumpled. “Oh, my poor darling child—those letters you wrote—I vow, I never wept half so much in my
life
when I read them. You brave, miraculous, wonderful child, how
ever
did you manage? It quite broke my heart, reading them.” She embraced Abby again.

Abby endured it rigidly. Her eyes met Jane's.

At this inopportune point the butler entered, followed by two footmen who brought in a tray containing two teapots, cups, saucers, a milk jug, slices of lemon and sugar and a large three-tiered plate containing a truly staggering variety of cakes, biscuits and cream-filled pastries. The butler also brought a small stack of neatly pressed lace-edged handkerchiefs that he silently placed in front of his mistress.

The girls waited in polite silence as they were served with tea and invited to eat. Jane, having a sweet tooth, selected a delicious-looking cream pastry, and Abby, when pressed, reluctantly accepted an almond cat's tongue. She was looking rather pale, Jane thought.

As soon as the servants had departed, Abby set down her cup and plate, untouched. Jane said quickly, “So you read Abby's letters.”

“Yes, I found them in my husband's—your grandfather's—desk after he died. The ones from Sarah herself and your poor, dear papa, as well as Abby's. They
utterly
broke my heart. I never knew where my Sarah was, you see, never even knew she
had
children.” She put her cup and plate aside and blew her nose fiercely. She looked at Abby's face. “Oh, my dear, you didn't think—you
did
! I can tell.”

She took Abby's hands in hers and said urgently, “I read those letters for the
first
time just a year ago, some weeks—well, probably several months after George—your grandfather—died. If you only
knew
how I regretted not doing it the day he died!” She wadded her handkerchief. “I had
no
idea they were there, you see—he'd
never
told me, and I'd never so much as
touched
his desk—he was always dreadfully fussy and meticulous about that—and so it wasn't until he'd died and I had to clear out all his papers and then . . .” She shook her head. “And by the time I got to that horrid Pillbury place, you'd left it, Jane.”

Jane's eyes widened. “You went to the Pillbury Home? Looking for me?”

“Of course I did. For both of you, but Abby was long gone, and you'd already departed for Hertfordshire, only the woman—Bodwin, Bedwyn?”

“Mrs. Bodkin.”

“Yes, she said you'd disappeared on the way—some very confusing story, but in the end she said you'd gone to your sister in London.” She turned to Abby. “So of course I went there but those frightful people you were working for—”

“The Masons?” Abby said, shocked.

“Yes,
ghastly
parvenues—you poor
darling
, having to work for
such
people—the wife was
frightful
, simply frightful!—and of course, when I discovered they'd dismissed you
without a character
—my granddaughter!—just a few short weeks before!” The bright blue eyes sparkled with indignation for a moment, then she slumped and heaved a gusty sigh. “But you'd gone, and nobody knew where. I even hired a man to look for you, but . . .” She shook her head. “I thought I'd found my Sarah's daughters, but instead I'd lost you again.” And more tears rolled down her cheeks.

There was a long silence, then Abby said in a queer, frozen voice, “You didn't even know about us until last year?”

“No, not until your grandfather died. And when I found those letters, I could have
killed
him again! How could he keep it from me, knowing how all these years I've fretted and worried and grieved for my daughter. But George was always a cold, proud, hard man—and stubborn. He never admitted he might have been wrong, when
anyone
could have seen how much those two loved each other.”

She saw Abby's expression. “If I'd had the
least
idea where my daughter was, I would have come for her and brought her—brought all of you!—home where you belonged! When I discovered what had happened—your papa—such a handsome, impetuous boy—and that my Sarah died in such a way—” She broke off, emotion choking her.

Jane and Abby exchanged a long, silent look. Abby's eyes were wet with tears, as were Jane's.

It was the explanation they'd craved, the answer to the questions that had haunted them so long.

Lady Dalrymple wiped her eyes and blew her nose again and sat up with fresh resolve. “Now, enough of this weeping—truly, I am not generally such a watering pot—so tell me
all
about yourselves. I want to know
everything
. I want to know why you girls call yourselves Chance and not Chantry, I want to know what your connection is with Lady Davenham—old Lady Davenham, Beatrice, I mean, and of course I am
dying
to know how Abby went from being a governess to those
ghastly
cits one minute and married to the fabulously wealthy—and handsome!—Max Davenham the next—and clever, clever Jane for making the catch of the season—
Cambury
, no less—what a pity he's losing his hair, but never mind, what are hats for?—and I
must
hear all about how that came to be—the betrothal, not the baldness, poor boy—but first Abby, as she is the elder.” She looked expectantly at Abby.