Virginia Henley (40 page)

Sean lay beside her, hands behind his head, slowly coming to terms with the fact that one period of his life was coming to a close. He had drawn it out as long as he dared. Now he must act decisively. He would not allow himself the indulgence of introspection or self-pity; both were pointless as well as pathetic.

Mentally, he had already withdrawn from the woman beside him, rationalizing that she no longer needed him. She was not the passive, shy girl who had left England. Since coming to Ireland, he had taught her to be a woman who could hold her own against anyone. Though he had almost beggared her father, he had given Emerald a fortune in jewels to make her financially independent, and if she no longer wished to reside with the Montagues, she could remove herself to the town house in Old Park Lane.

    
W
hen Emerald awoke, Sean was already bathed and dressed. He did not come to sit on the bed to talk with her, but strode to the window that overlooked the sea. Johnny’s letter told Sean exactly where William Montague and Jack Raymond would be on the last night of their ill-fated year, and he knew he must use it to his advantage.

“I have business in England.”

“You’re not leaving today?” she asked mutinously.

“No, you may have a couple of days to prepare for the voyage.”

Emerald’s face brightened. “Good—if you were thinking of leaving me behind because of my delicate condition, I was ready to fight you tooth and nail!”

Sean slanted a black eyebrow, humor coming to his rescue. “Delicate? You have the teeth and claws of a wildcat.”

Emerald was about to remark that he had the scars to prove it, but she could never tease him about scars, he had too many, both visible and invisible. She was mildly surprised that he was willing to take her with him on another voyage to England. She had fully expected him to put his foot down and order her to stay safely at home.

Still, there were far more doctors and midwives in London than lived near Greystones. The O’Tooles’ doctor lived in Dublin, but she’d never seen him because Shamus refused his services. Emerald smiled to herself, fully understanding his attitude. She herself had ignored Kate and Tara’s advice to see the doctor and have him examine her. Emerald reasoned that she and Sean would be back long before their baby made an appearance. She just hoped she wouldn’t suffer from mal de mer on the voyage. She waved her hand like a queen. “Order me a calm sea.”

“Don’t forget to ask Tara for a good supply of her oils and the stuff that settles your stomach, just in case.” He made a mental note to ask Tara for some of the sedative she had used on Shamus. He had an idea that he would need it. His plan would be far kinder than exposing Emerald to a confrontational scene.

“Do you think I’ll be there long enough to see Johnny?”

“I’m sure of it,” he said smoothly, leaving her to pack. “I’ll send Kate up.”

    
T
wo days later, as Sean helped her aboard the
Sulphur
, he was shocked to see how much she had expanded in the
few short days since Christmas Eve. As her warm cape fell back, he wondered how her rounded belly could have doubled in size so quickly.

“Emerald, are you feeling well?”

“Perfectly well, thank you, my lord, in spite of the fact that Kate isn’t speaking to me.”

“Come to think of it, she snubbed me completely at breakfast this morning. What maggot is eating her brain?”

“She’s scandalized that Em off to England in my flagrant condition. She believes I should conceal myself in my chamber where no one can see me. She thinks me an immodest baggage, and of course she’s right!” Emerald laughed. “But, bless her, her heart’s in the right place. She offered to come with me, and you know that stepping on English soil to Kate would be tantamount to walking through Dante’s Gate of Hell.”

“You didn’t bring much luggage,” Sean remarked, opening the cabin door to reveal the small trunk standing beside his own. He pictured her wardrobe filled with the clothes he had bought her.

“Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be attending any gala receptions with His Majesty or masquerade balls at Carlton House,” she said lightly. Emerald didn’t want him to see how short of breath she was or how clumsy her movements had recently become. “Go up on deck where you belong, while I get settled in. You know I can look after myself!”

W
illiam Montague was at his wits’ end. The shipping line, his only means of income these days, was almost finished. Since Christmas he had even avoided the offices on Bottolph’s Wharf, and instead roamed about the house in Portman Square, drinking himself into oblivion. To meet household expenses he would be forced to sell off the furniture, piece by piece. All London would know he was a pauper.

Jack was the only one who would tolerate his company. Johnny’s visits were few and far between, and even the servants made themselves scarce.

“It’s like swallowing bitter aloes! To think the
Admiralty
has seized our ships—the sodding
Admiralty!
Your father and I ran the British Admiralty—we
were
the
Admiralty!”

Jack poured William another drink and one for himself. It was the last of the brandy and Jack knew no more would be forthcoming, because it could only be purchased cash on the barrel.

William raised red-rimmed eyes to his son-in-law. “Do you know how much it galled me to go hat in hand to my brother?”

Not as much as it humiliated me. I’m his bastard, for Christ’s sake
, Jack answered silently.
When I married your fucking daughter and finally became a Montague, I thought my days of humiliation were over.

“I just don’t understand how bad luck has dogged us, over and over. It doesn’t make sense that all these losses are coincidence. I didn’t think there was any connection between the disappearance of the slavers and the ships we lost in that gale, but I’m suddenly suspicious. One of your father’s enemies, mayhap that son of a bitch Newcastle, informed on us!”

His hand gripped the glass so viciously, it shattered. A shard sliced into his thumb, and dark red blood bubbled up from the wound. William stared down at the thumb in fascinated horror. It stirred an unpleasant memory, long suppressed.
O Toole.
He did not speak the name aloud. It would be too much like invoking the devil.

“I wouldn’t trust my father’s
friends
, let alone his enemies. They are dissolute to a man. Who is supposed to be at this New Year’s auction he’s arranged?” Jack Raymond did not relish returning to the Pall Mall mansion where he had grown up as one of the many bastards of the Earl of Sandwich.

“Quite an eclectic gathering, I understand: poets, politicians, earls. George Selwyn will be there, as well as Bute and March. Naturally the Prince of Wales and his cronies won’t be able to resist. But I hope my brother gives me credit for some brains. I won’t sell my collection to Prinny; his finances are shakier than ours, if that’s possible. I’m counting on Francis Dashwood. He will pay any price for erotic drawings or sketches.”

“I’ve heard some wild stories about Medmenham,” Jack prompted, becoming aroused at just the thought of the lewd acts reputed to take place within the chalk caverns.

“An unusual place, to be sure. The gardens are filled with obscene statuary and phallic symbols. Even the pathways divide like female legs to give entry into bushy vaginas!”

“’Tis whispered they celebrate the Black Mass,” Jack suggested.

“Well, it’s a common enough practice to dress as monks and lay
nuns
on the altar. Who among us hasn’t indulged that fantasy? But Dashwood carries it further. He’s a fanatic about defiling Christianity and has an addiction to anything blasphemous. That’s why I think the bidding will be high for my caricatures of the twelve Apostles. They are so brutal.” William chuckled.

“Personally, I prefer the pornographic pictures drawn by Rowlandson. Sadism and sodomy don’t do much for me unless women are depicted.”

“You are right, there is something compellingly arousing about females engaged in unnatural coitus.” William’s mouth hung loose at the thought. He knew he’d consumed too much drink to make it to the Divan Club, and in any case that was only putting money in his brother’s pocket. His heavy sigh came out as a loud belch. He’d have to make do with one of the scullery maids again.

    
S
ean O’Toole charted the voyage carefully so that they would arrive in London on New Year’s Eve. The seas cooperated until the last night, when the English Channel was lashed with a vicious storm that threw bolts of lightning, followed by hailstones large enough to tear the shrouds to ribbons.

Needed both above- and belowdecks, O’Toole spent the night alternating between the two women who needed all his attention: Emerald and the
Sulphur.
No one aboard had slept, least of all Emerald, who cried that she should never have come. The storm had abated somewhat by morning, but the seas still roiled, and twice Sean had to order her belowdecks for her own safety.

Tears streamed down her face. “If I’m going to die, I want to be with you!”

Sean’s temper was at the breaking point. He swept her
into his arms and carried her below. “No one is going to die. Stop being ridiculous, Emerald!”

When she clung to him, needing his strength, needing his assurance, needing his comfort, it almost unmanned him. He swept back the covers on the berth and put her to bed fully clothed. “You need sleep; I want you to rest.”

“I can’t sleep!”

“You must; we’ll be docking safely in London in just a few hours. Trust me.” The minute he uttered those two words, he wanted to bite off his tongue. He went to the locker and took out the bottle Tara had given him. He half filled a wineglass and lifted it to her lips. “Drink this, it will soothe you.”

“What is it?”

“One of Tara’s infallible remedies.” He watched her sip the poppy-laden whisky obediently, trustingly. She shuddered halfway through, but resolutely lifted the wineglass to drain it. Sean sat down on the edge of the berth and took her hand. He watched her fear subside, saw her eyelids begin to droop as he stroked his thumb across the backs of her fingers and patiently waited for Morpheus to claim her.

When she finally slept, he tucked her arms beneath the blanket, then stood gazing down at her. As if his ship were jealous of the attention he was giving to his other woman, she lurched and groaned, then began to list. Sean cursed beneath his breath, but before he tore himself away from Emerald, he pressed a gentle kiss upon each closed eyelid.

    
S
even hours later Emerald still slept heavily. She had been oblivious when Sean had lifted her from the bunk, wrapped her in her velvet cloak, and carried her to the hired hansom cab.

As the carriage made its way along the Strand, then turned toward Piccadilly, snowflakes drifted past the yellow gas lamps. Sean did not feel the cold night air; he was
devoid of any feeling at all. He had said his good-byes and was simply going through the motions of delivering her safely. His dark thoughts were already focused on the social gathering taking place at the Earl of Sandwich’s marble monstrosity in Pall Mall.

When the carriage stopped, O’Toole sat there a full minute before he took the final step. Then, with hooded eyes, he opened the door and lifted the sleeping woman into his arms.

Belton, the heavyset majordomo in Portman Square, wore a permanently sour expression after having worked for the Montagues for a decade, but when he saw the dark, threatening face of the man at the front door holding William’s daughter in his arms, his expression became alarmed. He stepped aside as the satanic figure swept into the house and carried the sleeping girl, large with child, into the grand reception room.

Sean laid down his burden on the overstuffed couch as if it were precious, then, without a backward glance, strode from the house. Belton followed him to the front door, summoning enough courage to demand, “What’s going on?”

Sean O’Toole returned with Emerald’s trunk, set it inside the front door, then issued his warning. “Take absolute care of this woman, Belton.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed him a letter addressed to William Montague and Jack Raymond. It spelled out in no uncertain terms that if anything happened to Emerald, he would kill them and see them in hell.

As O’Toole disappeared into the swirling snow, Belton muttered sarcastically, “Happy New Year,” knowing it would be anything but.

    
T
he lights blazing from the windows of the mansion lit up Pall Mall. The Earl of Kildare, in formal black, encountered no difficulties gaining entrance. The salon filled with
men enabled him to blend into the crowd. The smoke-filled room rang with coarse laughter and the loud voices of men who had been liberally plied with claret. Pornographic books, pictures, and sketches were prominently displayed along one wall in anticipation of the auction.

The earl planted his feet beside a marble pillar and allowed his gaze to travel the length of the salon, observing in a detached way just how many prominent men were in attendance. He did not feel contempt or even distaste for the profligates crowded about the graphic works of art; he felt only indifference.