Blackstone's Bride (4 page)

Chapter Four

“Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd!”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

Violet watched Blackstone start up the stairs, tall, lean, unhurried. He did not take them two at time as he once had, but her father’s calling him a blackguard had no apparent effect on the cool, mocking face. She knew that expression well. It was the face he’d shown her at their parting, and it had erased all earlier images of him. She did not remember what he looked liked when he made a joke or when he was about to kiss her. This cool, detached face was the one he wore in her memory whenever a recollection of him surfaced like a bobbing piece of wreckage after a storm.

“Was this your idea?” She recognized that she could not control a slight tremor in her voice.

“I’m here to serve my country.” His voice said that nothing less could induce him to return to Hammersley House.

“Noble of you.”

“Join the damned army then, Blackstone.” Papa’s color was high, his face rigid. Violet took his arm and gave it a squeeze.

Blackstone stopped about halfway up the stairs. He had that look as if his surroundings offended him. She knew his opinion of Papa’s taste. Blackstone Court, his own estate, was renowned for its elegance.

“If you want the government’s help finding Frank, you’ll smile sweetly at me.”

Her father stood unmoving. “Why this man, Chartwell?”

“Papa?” Violet’s voice was almost a plea.

Chartwell spoke sharply. “There’s no time to dither, Hammersley.”

George Hammersley looked torn. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, my girl, but Frank . . . missing . . . How are we to find Frank without their help?”

Violet reached up and touched Papa’s cheek. “We’ll find him.”

Lord Chartwell cleared his throat. “That’s the cooperation we need, Hammersley. I’ll leave you in Blackstone’s hands then. I must stress that it’s imperative that no one in the prince’s party receive the least hint of our investigation.”

“For Frank’s safety,” Violet said.

“Of course, Miss Hammersley.” Lord Chartwell bowed. In the next moment he was halfway down the stairs.

Blackstone signaled her footmen.
Her
footmen, and they turned to do his bidding. “We’ll want to look at your brother’s trunk and bags before the prince arrives.”

Granthem appeared, carrying Frank’s valise and satchel, and directed Tom and Ned with the trunk. It seemed to Violet that Frank’s possessions had betrayed him, apparently unconcerned to arrive home without their master.

Blackstone reached the top of the stairs. He gave her a brief indifferent glance. “Have you sent for Preston?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We have little time. The prince and his party could arrive at any moment.”

In Frank’s room a grim-looking Preston saw to the placement of Frank’s dark green trunk and leather cases. The room felt crowded, but no one else’s presence could make up for Frank’s absence. Violet felt Preston’s reluctance to touch Frank’s things, as if to touch them made them artifacts of a life, instead of a man’s necessary belongings needing to be put away for his use. Frank was supposed to be here, joking with Preston, teasing Violet, and dressing for dinner.

Preston looked at Blackstone, who nodded, once again assuming command of the situation.

Preston popped the latches and swung open the trunk revealing its two sides, on the right a set of six shallow drawers, and on the left a large open compartment where Frank’s coats and trousers hung. For several minutes they all simply gazed at the open trunk.

It smelled of Frank’s sandalwood shaving soap and the faint starch of his linens. At a nod from Blackstone, Preston began to work his way through an examination of the drawers, opening each in turn.

Papa slipped from Violet’s hold and stood at the window, his back to them, his hands tightly clasped behind him. Blackstone said nothing, watching Preston with undivided attention.

At last Preston shook his head. “This packing job is not Master Frank’s work. Someone’s been through his things, someone who doesn’t know Master Frank well.”

“You’re sure, Preston.”

“I am, my lord. Look here at the way these coats have been hung. You see the turn of the hanger hook?”

Blackstone nodded.

“Master Frank is left-handed, so when he does for himself, he naturally puts the hooks to face right, you see. And in the drawers, someone’s run a hand under his shirts and linens. Took the drawers out and mixed up the order. Master Frank likes his smalls drawer above his cravats drawer.”

“Do you think the search was made here or in Spain?”

“Here, I’d say. Things are not settled like in the drawers. The linings have all been slit, too.” Preston gently pinched the printed fabric to show how the pale green silk had been pulled away from the trim that had once held it in place. Someone with an expert’s steady hand had made the slits.

Blackstone continued to stare at the trunk. “What’s missing, Preston? What do you think Frank was wearing?”

“One minute, your lordship. I keep an inventory each time Master Frank travels. Let me fetch it.” Preston disappeared into Frank’s dressing room and returned with a small black moleskin notebook. He flipped open the little book, and went back to examining Frank’s coats.

“I can’t say for sure, your lordship, but there are two coats missing, a blue coat and a bottle green, a pair of gray trousers, and two waistcoats—burgundy and cream.”

“Thanks, Preston.”

Was wearing.
Violet caught the change of tense. They were speaking of Frank as if he were dead. Her knees felt wobbly, and she stiffened them.

“Was Frank in the habit of concealing documents in his trunk?”

Preston shook his head. Violet looked away. She must be careful not to meet the valet’s gaze on this point. She would look again at the trunk without Blackstone, to see if Frank had made use of his secret code.

The door opened, and Granthem interrupted. “The prince is below.”

Everyone turned to her then, but only Blackstone spoke. “Think of me as a branch of the government, Violet. Give me a week to find your brother.”

A week. She could recover from a week. To find Frank, a week would be nothing.
Now that she looked closely at Blackstone, she could see that he seemed irrevocably altered. His thick hair was black as ever, and his eyes were that deep, cool blue she remembered. But he was not so much lean as gaunt, and his complexion had a yellowish cast, as if he’d been ill. He was impeccably turned out in black evening clothes, as if he had stepped directly from some other drawing room into her life again. His body had that easy disposition of limbs that made him incapable of an awkward move. Only the sneer altered his face, making it hard to see her brother’s boyhood friend in the man before her. A week with this new Blackstone. Maybe that week would finally erase the years of holding on to the old one.

Violet caught her father’s pleading glance. She nodded. “Find Frank.”

Abruptly Papa staggered as if under a blow and reached to cling to a post of Frank’s massive bed.

“Papa?” Violet started towards him.

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I can’t meet the prince, Violet. I . . .”

“I can do it, Papa. I will come to you later to report.”

She glanced at Preston, who stepped forward to take Papa’s arm and guide him to a chair.

“Don’t worry, miss. I’ve got him.” Preston bent over her father, loosening his collar.

She turned to Blackstone.

“Well, Violet, can you do it?”

She nodded.

He took her hand, his warm and firm and alive, while hers felt cold and numb. He slipped a heavy band on her ring finger, and she looked at their joined hands, hers weighted with a large square diamond and his with the infamous signet ring, gold and black with distinctive acanthus leaves on the band and the proud masculine
B
on the black face.

“If you are worried about the diamond, it’s paste,” he told her.

“Appropriate then, a false diamond for a false engagement.” A brief irrelevant thought flitted through her mind that Penelope Frayne would never forgive her.

* * *

Andre Sturdzi, the Prince of Moldova, wore a magnificent dark blue uniform fit for a fairy-tale prince, heavy with gold epaulets and endless loops of braid. He was tall and broad shouldered with guinea gold hair and bright, pale blue eyes like a doll’s painted ones. He had a full drooping moustache that Violet thought a walrus might envy. A fur-trimmed cape dangled from one shoulder. With his stiff posture he reminded her of a wonderful nutcracker Frank had once brought home from Russia.

With him were the Count and Countess Rezina, a December and May married pair, and the prince’s ancient secretary, General Gustav Dubusari. The elderly general was a quaint figure from an earlier time with a powdered wig and a gold-tipped cane. The whole group seemed like a set of figurines on a mantel, inclined to take their fashion cues from the prince himself. There was nearly as much gold military braid on the hem of the countess’s pale blue gown as on the prince’s jacket. After the introductions were made the prince turned to Violet.

“Dear, dear Miss Hammersley.” He bowed over her hand, his moustache tickling the backs of her fingers. A faint flowery scent reached her. “A thousand apologies. I have lost your brother. No, not lost, I think. He has the delay. He left me this note for you.”

The prince extended his hand with a piece of common stationery, folded over repeatedly.

Violet opened the folds and read—

My dear sister,

Do not be alarmed at my delay. Circumstances require me to attend to one more matter before I return. Show the prince every courtesy and every pleasure. I rely on you.

Your brother,

Frank

It was a fine note. The handwriting was Frank’s and the signature to be sure. It was only the stilted words that her brother would never use that caused Violet’s pulse to quicken. Someone else had chosen the words for Frank to write, perhaps someone in the room. Violet suppressed a shudder, and summoned a smile she hoped did not appear too empty.

“Thank you, your highness. We do not blame you for Frank’s delay, and it is a great comfort to us to receive his message.” She could feel Blackstone’s gaze, but she tucked the little note up her sleeve. “My father, too, cannot be here tonight and sends his apologies. He is unwell this evening, and hopes to greet you properly in the morning. In the meantime, welcome to Hammersley House. We will try to make your stay with us as comfortable as Milvert’s.”

The prince watched her closely. “Your brother’s absence makes our visit not so glad. It is good that we have not the hotel. We will cheer you and keep your spirits up while we wait for your brother. You will show us your English ways.”

At each of the prince’s pronouncements the members of his entourage nodded and murmured their agreement. He seemed to expect this approval and paused between sentences to allow the appreciative assent of his followers.

“You English do everything the modern way. We must make Moldova modern, strong.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist. “Our Russian neighbor is powerful, so we learn from you how to keep ourselves strong.”

A pause followed the prince’s stirring speech as if he expected a rapt audience to applaud. For a moment his unfocused gaze did not see her or the servants lined up to assist his party or Blackstone at her side. She felt the pressure of Blackstone’s hand at the small of her back, prompting her to speak.

“Your highness, my fiancé, Lord Blackstone.”

For the first time the prince’s smile faltered a little. His glance at last took in Blackstone and returned to Violet. “But you are beautiful as a thousand virgins. This your brother did not tell me, so, of course, you have the fiancé.” He bowed to Blackstone.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she? We’re but new engaged, so I keep her close to me at all times.” Blackstone linked Violet’s arm through his. “It’s not the fashion, but we do not like to be apart.”

The prince laughed. “But perhaps at dinner, you must sit elsewhere, and I may safely flirt with the beautiful Miss Hammersley. That, too, is English fashion, is it not?”

* * *

Lingering over port in George Hammersley’s red dining room, Blackstone tried to assess the men of the party. General Dubusari was the one to whom they all looked in spite of the prince’s bluster and the count’s practice of keeping the wineglasses filled. Blackstone had not dined with bandits for a year without coming to recognize dangerous men. The prince did not seem to be one of them, but a true killer could shift from cordial amusement to deadly rage in the time it took candlelight to flash down the length of a knife blade. By the time they joined the women, Blackstone decided that Frank was in deep trouble.

What advantage Blackstone possessed in the first moments of seeing Violet Hammersley again evaporated during an interminable hour in her drawing room enduring the prince’s attentions to her. It was impossible not to watch her, not to want to touch her. She never once glanced towards Blackstone, but she twisted the ring he’d given her as if she felt its presence like an irritation.

Apparently current fashion had decided to dispense entirely with anything so practical as straps or shoulders to hold a woman’s bodice in place. Somehow a woman’s gown molded to her breasts and ribs like bark to a tree. He did not know why he had not noticed the vast amount of skin revealed by the new mode any time in the past month. Perhaps living with bandits had thrown him off his game or perhaps it was the contrast between the deep wine color of Violet’s gown and the pale shimmer of her skin that made him take note of changing fashion as he had not done earlier. He told himself that she was paying rapt attention to the empty-headed prince because she cared about her brother.

He found himself less able to summon the attention he needed for the little countess, a round-cheeked, big-eyed blonde with sweet, doll-like features, and a manner of dressing that, he suspected, was contrived to take years off her actual age. Like Lady Ravenhurst the countess had a way of leaning forward to invite a man’s gaze.