Anne Barbour (9 page)

But it was not. Every thrust of her body, every gesture of giving, even her soft murmurings, had been false as a two-pound note. And he had believed. Oh, how he had believed. He might almost laugh, he reflected bitterly, if he were not occupied in watching his life shatter around him.

It was very late in the day when he came to the bitter conclusion that he should rejoice in the discovery of dishonesty before he had made a complete fool of himself. He had almost committed his life and his heart to the witch. Lord, if she hadn’t already revealed herself, he might very well have believed any denials she might have made of Beddoes’s report.

If— Wait a minute! Hadn’t revealed herself? When she had written her note, she had no idea that Bed-does was at that moment telling his employer of the two little castaways. Dear God, she’d had no reason to destroy the plans that had culminated so successfully. Unless—

He sat immobile for a few more moments, frozen in thought. Then, with a cry, he fairly leaped from his chair and stumbled from White’s, nearly knocking over a waiter as he did so.

* * * *

On leaving Bran, Martha had fled to the little room she had been assigned adjacent to the kitchen. She flung herself on the narrow bed. Dear heaven, her worst nightmare had been realized with the appearance of Bran in Mr. Simmons’s office. His reaction had been as she’d anticipated. She would never forget his look of contempt, and she imagined she could hear her heart cracking into great, bleeding shards.

Now, at last, she found a measure of release in tears. All her hurt and grief poured down her cheeks until, at last, when she could cry no more, she simply rolled over on her sodden pillow and stared at the ceiling.

At least, she would not have to face Lord Canby. In addition, she supposed she should be grateful for the position Mr. Simmons had offered her in Harrogate. She need not return to York and the further humiliation of turning over the bookshop to Matthew’s greedy relatives.

Far into the afternoon, she contemplated her future, an activity that brought nothing but the most profound depression. She might look forward to a lifetime of honest work at a reasonable wage, but she knew the hurt would never go away. She would live the rest of her life in an aching void, for she would live it without Bran. How she was to—?”

She sat up, suddenly, her bleak musings interrupted by— What was that smell? Surely—yes! It was smoke! She jumped from the bed and ran from the room, turning first toward the dining room. She encountered several servants scurrying between the kitchen and dining room. She could detect nothing amiss in the dining room. Retracing her steps, she slipped into one of the other rooms along the corridor between the dining room and the kitchen. Here the odor of smoke was clearly detectable, but the servants in the corridor appeared to notice nothing. She fled to the kitchen, where she encountered a scene of unmitigated bedlam.

The cavernous chamber was insufferably hot, but she could see no flame apart from the cooking stoves, nor could she smell anything beyond normal cooking odors. Servants of every status scurried to and fro in a seemingly patternless rush. Some wielded utensils, some carried containers of food. The chaos centered about a large man with a prominent nose who stood in the center of the melee, bellowing in what sounded like French.

Martha approached the man, tugging on his sleeve for attention. “Pardon me, m’sieur, but I believe there is a problem.”

* * * *

Driving along Oxford Street toward the Grand Hotel, Bran found the thoroughfare unexpectedly congested, and was forced from his abstraction by the sound of bells and the clatter of fire trucks racing past him. He smelled the smoke for several minutes before he realized it emanated from the hotel. Then, as he drew nearer, he was appalled to see flames leaping against the evening sky.

It was some moments before he could force his way into the environs of the hotel, and at last simply leaped from his curricle, leaving it unattended in the crush of traffic. Running up to the hotel entrance, he spotted Simmons, assisting a portly matron with a hastily stuffed portmanteau. A distraught young woman pushed past him calling for someone named Hettie.

“I don’t know, my lord. I have not seen her,” Simmons responded breathlessly to Bran’s frantic questions. “The fire apparently started near the kitchen. Mrs. Finch is lodged nearby, but surely she must have—”

But Bran was gone. He was denied entry through the hotel’s front door by the throng of arriving firemen, and ran to the back of the building. He searched frantically for several minutes, colliding with a great number of people, none of whom was the one person in the world he sought so desperately. He turned to make his way back to the front of the hotel, but— Wait! Was that—? His eyes strained toward a figure just emerging from a rear entrance, leading a very young serving maid to safety. Her face was blackened almost beyond recognition, and her shabby gown was stained and tattered, but—yes! It was she! “Martha!” he cried.

At the sound of his voice, Martha whirled, and with an inarticulate cry she ran toward him, her arms outflung.

He gathered her into a crushing embrace, pressing his mouth against her hair.

“Oh, God, Martha. I could not find you! I—thought I’d lost you.” He drew back to look at her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she choked. “I tried to tell that odious man that the place was on fire, but he wouldn’t listen. No one would listen,” she went on, the words tumbling from her. “Until it was too late. Oh, Bran, I am so glad—”  She halted abruptly, gazing up at him, wide-eyed. “But—what—?” She lifted her gaze to him in a dawning, unbelieving wonder.

“Come,” said Bran brusquely. “Let us get out of this.”

Taking her hand, he led her into one of the many garden paths surrounding the hotel . . . Soon they had left the bells and shouts behind, and reaching a shady little bower, he guided her to a small bench nestled there.

“Dear  Lord,  Martha,”  he  breathed  again.   “I’ve been such a fool. For a moment I thought—”  Bran could say no more, but pulled Martha into a rough embrace. His mouth covered hers in a kiss of such urgent tenderness that Martha felt her heart swell in an unbelieving joy.

The next moment Martha thought her heart must have stopped, for she could not breathe—could not even think. This apprehension corrected itself almost immediately as she absorbed the wonder of Bran’s embrace. Only a few moments ago, she had been plunged into a nightmare, of which the hotel inferno was only the culmination of an eternity of unremitting horror, beginning with this morning’s confrontation with Bran.

Now, he had returned. He had been frightened for her! He was kissing her, just as though . . .

“Bran?” she whispered again.

“Dear God, Martha, I have been so very stupid. I almost let you get away from me, and I love you so very much. Can you forgive me for behaving like such a lout?”

A surge of joy, almost painful in its intensity, welled within her. Was she hearing aright?

“Bran—my dearest love. I can’t tell you what your words mean to me, but I don’t understand. I did a dreadful thing. You had every right to turn away from me. How can you love me? I am not deserving of anyone’s love.”

He shook her gently. “Martha, listen to me. Yes, what you did was terrible, but sometimes very good people can do very bad things. You are—although I will admit to a certain bias—a wonderful person. You tried very hard to do a bad thing—and your reasons were compelling—but in the end you couldn’t do it. I am just sorry I did not realize that aspect of your actions until a few moments ago.”

With an incoherent cry, Martha fairly flung herself once more into Bran’s arms and for the next several moments, nothing could be heard in the little bower save a few muted endearments and the distant commotion still in progress at the hotel.

At last, Bran rose and assisted Martha to her feet.

“I think we’d better go now, my love,” Bran said. “It is getting late, and we must find some lodging for you for the night.”

“Indeed,” replied Martha unsteadily. “I’d forgotten for a moment that I no longer have a roof over my head. Do you think another hotel—?”

“I think first we must repair to Canby House.”

He had spoken gently, but once again Martha felt her heart lurch within her breast. “No!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Bran—I cannot face him. What must he think of me?”

“We will face him together, love, for if we are to be married—

“Married!” squeaked Martha. “What are you thinking, Bran? I cannot possibly marry you!”

Bran’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”

“You must marry one of your own kind. You must wed a lady—so she can bear you noble children. I am fit only for—”

Bran clamped his fingers over Martha’s lips. “If you plan to finish the sentence as I suspect,” he growled, “I shall be forced to inflict some serious corporal punishment.”

He followed through on his threat by kissing her once more, firmly, thoroughly, and with breathtaking competence.

“You are a lady in every meaningful sense of the word. If you will have me, I mean to marry you with all the pomp and ceremony available. But, I think you will agree, we must see Lord Canby, and we must do it now.”

Martha breathed an unwilling sigh of agreement. Lord Canby would, in all probability, never wish to see her again, but gazing into Bran’s eyes, she was strengthened by the love she saw there, mirroring her own.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We must go to Lord Canby.”

At the town house, they encountered a scene every bit as chaotic as they had envisioned. It took some moments for Hobbs to answer the door, and they had no more entered the house than the marquess burst into the hall as though catapulted.

“Bran!” Lord Canby cried. “Carolyn has been here. She showed me the note!” His face darkened on observing Martha. “You! You have the gall to show your face here.” His features crumpled suddenly. “My God, you—you thieving vixen, how could you do such a thing? Who are you? How could you have concocted such a convincing tale? Where did you get the locket?” He thrust his hand forward. “Give it to me this instant.”

“Sir.” Bran did not lift his voice, but his simple gesture had the desired effect of calming the old man. Bran drew Martha forward. “May we talk this out quietly—and reasonably?”

For a moment, the marquess stood still, radiating anger and hurt. At last, he said grudgingly, “Very well. Hobbs, have something sent to the morning room.” Turning, he stumped from the hall, not waiting to see if the others followed.

Some minutes later, the little group sat before a comfortable fire, tea things arranged on a low table before them.

“Now, then,” Lord Canby began, casting a glare at Martha, “I should have thought you on your way back to York by now. Unless you have some idea of cozening me further, which, let me assure you, will not fadge.”

“No, my lord,” murmured Martha through dry lips. “I merely wish to explain—and to ask your forgiveness.”

“My for—!” The marquess fell into silence, as though overwhelmed at her audacity.

“Please,” said Bran once more, “we thought it necessary to make you aware of the circumstances. Hear me out, sir. I promise, you will think differently when you do.”

The old gentleman said nothing, but flung up a hand in scowling acquiescence.

The tale did not take so very long in the telling, and when Bran was through, the marquess leaned forward, still frowning at Martha.

“I am so very sorry, my lord,” she choked. “I know what I did was horribly wrong. Please believe me when I say that finding a family had become desperately important to me—although I must confess that becoming the heiress of a wealthy peer held an undeniable attraction.” She sighed. “You asked me before who I am. I am sorry, I cannot tell you. I know not where I came from or what my name might be.”

At this, the old man rose to pace before the fire for a few moments. He turned to face Martha once more.

“I know who you are,” he said heavily. “Your name is Serena Worth and you are my son’s other daughter.”

12

“What!” gasped Bran, echoed by Martha.

“But, I never knew of another daughter!” exclaimed Bran.

The marquess sat down again, and when he next spoke, his voice was hushed.

“When my son—Bennington—married Jennifer, he was already involved with a young woman. She was a governess whom Ben had met on a visit to a friend somewhere up north. Though he loved Jennifer, he could not bring himself to cut the connection with his mistress. Her name was Joanna. Joanna Worth. Even after Jennifer conceived Stewart, Ben kept Joanna under his protection. When Jennifer became pregnant with Felicity, however, he vowed to break with Joanna. When he went to her, she told him that she, too, was with child.

“I don’t know what happened then, but somehow Jennifer discovered Joanna’s existence. She went to confront her rival, and to her own astonishment as well as Ben’s, she liked the young woman on sight. She felt deeply for the plight of her husband’s mistress, and insisted Joanna be brought into their home. Ben, needless to say, was absolutely flummoxed. One hears about these bizarre arrangements all too often in society these days, but one does not expect such a situation to develop in one’s own family. Nonetheless, Joanna was installed in Bennington House.”

“I don’t understand,” Bran interposed in astonishment. “I was as close to your family as I was to my own—much closer, in fact. Yet, I never knew of any of this.”

“Yes.” The marquess coughed. “Well, that was my doing. When Ben came to me to tell me what was happening, I was outraged. When he refused to concede to my demand that the Worth woman be set up in her own establishment, I insisted that, at least, Joanna be hired as Jennifer’s companion and that Joanna’s child be passed off as the offspring of her and a soldier killed in battle somewhere. After a great deal of fractious discussion, he and Jennifer agreed.

“The infant, a girl named Serena, was born a few days after Jennifer gave birth to Felicity. I saw little of Serena, since, though Joanna and Jennifer became fast friends, the infant and Joanna remained in Ben’s home here in London, where they kept to themselves. I was disturbed to learn that Felicity and Serena had become fast friends and played together constantly— almost as sisters. As far as I know, Ben remained faithful to Jennifer through their remaining years together. Joanna and her daughter never came to Canby Park, which is why you would not have seen her there, and, of course, Joanna and Serena never set foot in Canby House. Because of my aversion to the association, care was taken that neither Joanna nor Serena would appear in my presence, although, of course, I occasionally caught a glimpse of one or the other of them by accident. Stewart knew of Serena’s existence, but was told only that the little girl was the child of his mother’s companion.