To Have and to Hold (38 page)

"The mayor? What do you mean? Why would he want to hurt me?"

"I don't know. I may be wrong, but I think something's rotten here. When I get back from Rye, I'll find out what it is. In the mean—"

"Rye? You're going home again?" Panic fluttered again.

He passed a hand over his eyes. "I didn't have a chance to tell you. While you were out this morning, a messenger came. My father's dead."

"Oh,
no."

"It's only what we've been expecting."

"I know, but..." She touched his cheek. His eyes were downcast; she couldn't read his expression. "I'm so sorry. I know you weren't close to him, but still ... it must mean something."

His smile was only a tightening of the lips. "It must," he said in an odd voice. "Rachel, there's very little time. I'll take care of this business with Carnock now. While I'm gone, will you pack a bag for me? I'll have to take the coach to Plymouth to catch the evening train for Exeter. Try not to worry—nothing will happen until I come back. You're perfectly safe. They won't touch you as long as you're in my custody." She nodded, hoping it was true. But he must have seen doubt in her eyes because he gathered her close, murmuring, "Don't be afraid. I promise you,, it's not starting over.''

As soon as he said it, the panic overflowed. "But what if it is? Oh, God. I won't be able to bear it."

"Shh—"

"I won't. You don't know, you don't know! If they lock me up again—"

"They're not going to do that."

"But if they do—if they do, I'll find a way—
I
will not let it happen again
—“

"Stop it. Stop." He gave her an urgent shake and brought his face down to hers. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then believe me. I won't let them touch you. I will not." His big hands held her shoulders. "You're safe. Do you believe it?" She nodded, but he wanted the words. "Say it. Do you believe I'll protect you?"

"Yes."

They held on to each other for another minute. She wanted to tell him she loved him, had never needed to say it more. But she held back, because she was afraid. And because he already knew it. He must.

The clop of horseshoes in the courtyard finally parted them. Sebastian cupped her face between his hands and kissed her hard. "I'll be back in one hour. Pack a bag for me, or let Preest do it if you—"

"I will." It was hard to let him go; she kept his hand to the last second. As soon as he was out of her sight, all the dread came back.

She didn't stay to watch him ride off. She hurried through the house and went up to his room, intent on closing her mind to everything except the one task he'd given her. Preest was nowhere about, and she was glad; she couldn't have spoken to anyone. She found Sebastian's traveling case in his dressing room and began to put clothes into it. How long would he stay in Rye? Would he need two trunks? Three? She filled his case with shirts, trousers, waistcoats, cravats, jewelry, combs, handkerchiefs, two of his best black suits. When she ran out of room, she went to the storeroom on the third floor, found two more cases, brought them back, and filled them with more clothes. She thought of going for a fourth trunk when the reality of what she was doing suddenly hit her. She had a vision of his face when he saw what she'd done, and she laughed—then clapped her hand over her mouth, frightened by the manic sound of her voice.

In the bathroom, she ran cold water over her hands and wrists, staring at her white-faced reflection in the mirror. She couldn't disguise the fear; it lurked in her eyes, desperate as a cornered animal.
"Stop it,"
she said aloud, echoing Sebastian's command. This terror was crazy. A mistake had been made, that was all, and soon it would be rectified. She'd done nothing wrong, she wasn't guilty, she—

She whirled away from the mirror, hands dripping water, feeling drenched with dread. She'd been innocent before, but that hadn't saved her. A premonition of disaster made her shudder. How stupid to believe the nightmare was over—it would never be over! Sebastian couldn't help her, nobody could. Blind, she made her way into the bedroom and sank down on his bed, winding her arms around her knees.

"Stop, stop, stop," she begged, muffling the plea into her skirts. Had she
dreamed
the letter? Why hadn't she shown it to someone? No one had seen it but her, and now it was gone. Had somebody taken it?
Why?

She lay in a tight ball of misery, alternating between despair and false confidence that everything would be all right, that Sebastian would return and tell her he'd made the nightmare go away. The room dimmed as afternoon shadows lengthened, darkened. At last she heard the sound of hooves on the stones below.

His horse was lathered and winded. He jumped from its back and handed the reins to Cory, speaking to him in a voice too low for her to hear. She couldn't tell from his face what he was thinking.

She put her hands on her hot cheeks, wishing she'd thought to wash her face, comb her hair—he would worry if he saw her like this. No time. She hurried out of the room to find him.

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Sebastian had his foot on the first step when he saw her, rounding the curve in the staircase above him, holding her skirts in one hand and the bannister in the other. Her face told him everything. He waited for her to come to him, and at the moment she reached him he took her in his arms. She was brittle with fear; he held her gently, half afraid she would crack. "It's all right, Rachel, everything's all right. I've arranged it with Carnock. You're safe."

She murmured something, a low, fervent, inarticulate thanks, sagging a little.

Someone was coming down the corridor toward them. The formal drawing room was closest; he took her hand and pulled her inside, and closed the door behind them. But he'd no sooner embraced her again when a knock sounded at the door.

It was Susan. "My lord," she said, looking embarrassed—she must have seen them in the hall— "Reverend Morrell's here to see you."

"God rot it," Sebastian muttered.

"I'll go," said Rachel.

"No, stay." To the maid he said shortly, "Show him in," and she curtsied herself out.

"Sebastian, I should go."

"Why? Stay, Rachel, I want you here." He touched her hand, and his reward was her slight smile.

Christy Morrell's inopportune visit would have rankled if Sebastian hadn't liked him so much. As it was, he greeted the vicar amiably and accepted his gentle sympathies in good part, unsurprised by now that news of the old earl's death had reached his ears so quickly. Christy spoke kindly to Rachel, and if her presence at Sebastian's side surprised him, he didn't show it.

"So, my lord, you'll go to Sussex for the funeral?" he asked, accepting a glass of claret Sebastian poured out himself.

"Yes, I'll be leaving this evening. In about an hour, actually. No, it's all right," he protested when the vicar looked apologetic and set his glass down untouched.

"No, I've come at a bad time. I didn't realize you'd have to go immediately." He reached for his hat, which he'd set on a chair, and for half a minute he massaged the crown between his long fingers, looking as if he had more to say. He sent Rachel a level glance. "I've heard about the constables' visit," he said at last. "That they tried to arrest you, I mean."

"The devil you have," Sebastian exclaimed before Rachel could speak.
"How
did you hear of it? It only happened this afternoon."

"Not much stays a secret for long in Wyckerley," Christy said with a slight, apologetic smile.

Rachel had stepped away a little, distancing herself from them; she was squeezing her hands into fists at her sides, a subdued sign of distress Sebastian knew well. Going to her, he took one of her hands by force, pressing it flat between both of his, not giving a damn what the minister thought. He said, "Well, then you might as well know I've convinced Carnock to sign a writ countermanding Vanstone's warrant. They're saying she violated the conditions of her parole, but it's a lie. If you want my opinion, the mayor's up to something."

"Vanstone? Oh, I doubt that," Christy said seriously. "He's not an easy man, and I know he can be hardheaded, but upholding the law means everything to him. I've never known him to do anything remotely dishonest."

Sebastian grunted, unconvinced. Something was wrong with this whole business, but he didn't confide in the vicar his true suspicions. "Carnock's agreed to delay any proceedings against Rachel until I return. So she's safe. For now."

"Are you worried that they'll try to arrest her again?"

No point in minimizing the danger; Rachel knew the risk as well as he did. "I think there's a chance, yes. If she can't show them a remittal letter, she'll be in trouble. They'll call her a liar. I can delay the consequences, but I don't think ..." He realized his candor had gone too far: Rachel's hand felt like a claw in his and her face had lost all color.

Christy looked between them for a long moment, his sympathetic eyes measuring. "Forgive me," he said softly. "I can think of a way you could protect Mrs. Wade."

"How?"

He smiled. "You could marry her."

Sebastian didn't move, even though it felt as if an explosion had gone off in his chest.
"Marry
her." He forced a hearty laugh, stunned, and too shocked to think of anything clever to answer.
"Marry
her," he repeated, stalling, filling his voice with wonder and amusement. He dropped Rachel's hand and faced her, willing her to smile with him. "Why, what an extraordinary idea. Really, Vicar, you
amaze
me."

"I beg your pardon." The minister was blushing, realizing he'd blundered. "I thought—it occurred to me that you might see that as a solution. Excuse me. It's just that, even if the mayor were up to something, as you suggest—which I doubt, my lord—I think he would lose his enthusiasm at the prospect of reimpris-oning the wife of the Earl of Moreton. But I misspoke, I... misread the situation. I do beg your pardon."

"Not at all," Sebastian said meaninglessly. His mind had gone blank. When he glanced at Rachel, he saw her staring at him with a weird fixity, a red spot glowing dully in each cheek.

"If you need anything," Christy was saying to her, "help of any sort, I hope you won't hesitate to tell me, Mrs. Wade. Or my wife, if you should need a woman friend."

She murmured, "Thank you," and bowed her head.

"I'll see you to the door," Sebastian offered. His voice sounded stupid to him, foolishly light, almost jocular. Christy went out. Following, Sebastian stopped in the threshold and turned back to say quietly, "Wait for me," to Rachel. Her colorless eyes were impenetrable. The first inkling of what he'd done began to seep in, like a cold rain down the back of his neck.

Christy's horse was tied in the courtyard. Walking down the long passage to the door, he broke an awkward silence to say, "I apologize again if I've offended you. I can see I made a mistake."

"No, no, you haven't offended me." Sebastian forced a chuckle. "Embarrased the hell out of me, perhaps, but ..." He trailed off. Another joke gone flat. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, and finally said something true. "I don't know what I'm going to do about Rachel, Christy. I wish I did."

"Maybe it will come to you when you're in Rye," he said kindly.

"Maybe."

When they arrived at the courtyard door, the vicar said, "Did you know that Lydia Wade's aunt died last night?"

"Mrs. Armstrong? No. I'm sorry to hear that. I knew she was ill. What will become of her niece?"

"That," said Christy, frowning, "is a very good question."

After he left, Sebastian hurried back to the drawing room, but Rachel was gone. She had chores, duties; a servant could have come for her to solve some household dilemma. Otherwise she'd have waited for him. Of course she would have. They had things to talk about, Carnock's compromise, his trip to Rye, her—

"My lord?"

"What is it, Preest?"

"My lord, I've been informed by the maid that a light repast awaits you in the dining room, and by the groom that the carriage will be ready in the courtyard in exactly half an hour."

"Yes, all right." He glanced at his watch. "Am Ipacked?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Where's Mrs. Wade?"

"I believe she's in her room, my lord."

In her room. That meant nothing; she could have gone there for any number of reasons. "Go and get her, will you? I have to change clothes. Ask her to join me in the dining room in ten minutes."

"Very good, my lord."

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in his place at the table, debating whether to begin eating or wait a little longer. He sipped his wine; it tasted bitter, he could hardly swallow it. Five more minutes passed. He said to the maid serving him his soup, "Clara, leave that and go and fetch Mrs. Wade, will you? I think she's in her room."

He could have gone himself, but it seemed important to stay where he was, do nothing out of the ordinary. Take no initiative. Everything was fine.

Clara came back round-eyed. "Oh, sir," she blurted.

"Well?"

"Mrs. Wade says she's not coming."