Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1) (4 page)

“Look there. Ye gone and done it now, Guv. Ye frightened little Brandy with her harsh ways. Why…she’d lay her skin open for ye iffen she must…but a kiss? A kiss from between these rotten teeth would turn yer belly. It would.” 

She’d shuddered during her speech at the mention of kissing, and it looked like an honest reaction. She was also lying. He knew her teeth were almost as good as his, but he didn’t mention it. She was searching for material to act on and he wasn’t willing to give her any. She was too accustomed to this act of hers.

“Well then, besides instructing my staff on your likes and dislikes, what would you like me to do with you this eve?”

“Could ye just take a bit of a strap to my arm, Guv? The thing’s been pining for attention, it has.”

Gil tried and failed to keep from turning a bit nauseous as she held out the arm connected to the shoulder he’d broken. She gave him a gleeful look and then she chuckled.

He didn’t know why he bothered staying near her. She was taken care of. Mrs. Wright hovered at her door to grant his wife’s every whim. No one would care if he traveled to London and found other entertainment…so why did he bother to stay and listen to her?

“You’ve a wicked tongue, Brandy. I’m surprised the guards on that sanatorium actually let you keep it.”

“Well now! Such a high and mighty man! Thinking to gift poor little Brandy with a tongue-slicing. Why…ye’d be near the tenth gent that’s suggested that very thing. ‘Course ye’d need to get past me teeth first, and Lordy, I’ve felt this sickness coming on…. It comes and it goes—”

Her words cut off as he moved, shocked and propelled by her deliberate gagging. It took a second or two to comprehend that he held her neck between his fingers, squeezing her flesh. Gil was shocked. Totally. That’s what made his next words whispered and harsh.

“Have a care, Brandy-love. It wouldn’t take the slightest effort on my part to end my own misfortune. Right here. And right now. There’s not a soul that would blame me, either. You understand?”

He watched her eyes clear as she blinked. Then he felt her slender throat swallow against his palm.

“Yer…loving…leaves me breathless…M’Lord.”  She choked the words out although it had to hurt.

Gil opened his fingers, cursing beneath his breath. He couldn’t meet her eyes, and focused instead on her nose. And then he stood, towering over the bed.

“Forgive me, Helene. I don’t know what came—”

She interrupted him. “Don’t call me that, dream man. Ever. Helene’s gone. She’s gone and buried in gay Paris, she is. But don’t fret none. We’re well-rid of her. She was a stupid twit, all airs and girlish nonsense. Not at all like Brandy. Now, that chit’s got sense. She just hasn’t got any luck, poor thing. Poor little thing.”

Gil watched her dab her eyes with the edge of the coverlet, acting so much like Mrs. Wright he almost smiled.

“Poor thing. Poor little thing…”

She was rocking and crooning and directing her words to the coverlet at her cheek.

“They should’ve silenced you the moment you arrived at the sanatorium.” 

The look she gave him was one of such pure agony he could almost feel it. The weak side of her face fell.

“Do you know what happens to the quiet ones?”

Gil swallowed, disbelieving he’d just heard such a clear, aristocratic voice coming from her lips. He knew he was finally hearing the real Helene Marguerite and she sounded completely sane. He shook his head.

“Why…that’s just what Brandy suspected, Guv, so it is. Do you think you can separate that Mrs. Wright from her hanky long enough to come and visit Brandy? Tell her Brandy’s right sorry she’s been extra work. And Brandy understands work. What will the neighbors say?

“In between their arguin’ and lovin’, they run mightily to tellin’ tales, iffen ye knows what I mean. Now, run along my handsome dream man. Brandy will be just fine now. You’ll see. Brandy just wishes she’d met up with all this a bit sooner. That’s it. That’s all it is.”

She sat, shaking her head sadly as Gil stumbled backward. Once again she made him escape. Hell. He was almost running. His eyes blinked rapidly as he turned back at the door.

“You have a care now. You hear?”

She lifted her head and blew him a kiss making the gesture randy and lewd. Gil yanked open the door and fled.

***

Brandy shivered in her silken drawers, heavy muslin nightgown, and embroidered bed-jacket and wished she was back in bedlam where she belonged.

The bed’s softness made her legs and arms numb if she lay too long in one spot, the candle didn’t shed enough light on the bounty all about her eyes, and that Mrs. Wright and her battalion of maids were so kind, it was hard to bear. On reflection, she knew she’d never experienced such misery. Bone-wracking cold should be freezing her limbs into a ball instead of a feather mattress, goose down pillows, and God help her if these weren’t real, finely woven linen sheets.

She was in heaven…but it wouldn’t last. Brandy didn’t deserve such molly-coddling. She knew better than to enjoy it because it wouldn’t last. She’d be cast out. And soon. And that would be pure hell. Pure. She didn’t know if she could bear it. A body shouldn’t have to experience such luxury just to know it would end. She wondered if such bliss would be worth the pain when the good lord Gillian Tremayne tired of her game and ejected her.

Brandy looked about what she could see of the room. It might actually be worth it. She didn’t have enough experience to know how it would feel. She watched the room waver with tears she couldn’t send back before turning her face into a pillow.

Her cousin, Helen, was a fool.

***

“You know, Gill…I heard the strangest tale yesterday. Wouldn’t you know, but the listening sent me post-haste out here to discover the veracity myself.”

“I didn’t think loss of my company was enough to bring you all the way from London, Reg, but I’m grateful. You wouldn’t believe how grateful. Witherspoon? Would you see to fetching another bottle of
brandy
—“

Reginald Dunston, third Marquis of Dunsberry and Gil’s best friend, stared in amazement as Gil appeared to breathe his spirits in rather than drink them. He didn’t think Gil would choke to death on a bit of brandy, but rose to assist. He was waved aside as Gil managed to get a breath. Reginald returned to his chair and regarded his friend for a bit before speaking again.

“Brandy would be appreciated. Especially after that long drive. I’ll thank you in advance, my good man. A swig or two from your excellent cellar would be a perfect restorative.”

Gil motioned Witherspoon off on the errand and Reg watched as he wiped at his cheeks. Nobody said anything for long moments. And then Reg spoke again.

“Very well. I’ll just say it. You certainly seem miserable enough to be married to Helen.” 

“Of course I’m married! You attended the nuptials, for Christ’s sake!”

That outburst was impressive. Reg sat back with great satisfaction. Only marriage to that harlot could trigger such a vehement reaction. He’d known his wager wasn’t in jeopardy, but it was always good to check.  

“I’m sorry to hear of your wedded bliss, but that does make me especially glad I came. I can’t wait to see Runyon’s face when I call for my wager.”

“What wager?”

“Well…it’s a bit of a misunderstanding, old chap, and I wouldn’t want you to take this wrong…”  Reg put an index finger under his cravat and pulled on it, making it easier to breathe while Gil glowered at him. “You being on your honeymoon and all. I…well, I wouldn’t want you to take offense.”

“Blast it all, Reg. I’ve had a gullet-full of purported bliss and honeymooning. I’ve never seen you so cagey. What the hell did you wager and why should I even care about the answer?”

“It’s nothing. Really. I have my answer and didn’t even have to ask. Only marriage to Helen Bingham could make you this…happy.”

Gil choked on his swallow. Again. Reg wasn’t the only one watching with interest. Witherspoon had entered with a decanter and also waited as Gillian finished coughing. Then he spoke.

“Begging your pardon, My Lord, but the French stuff is all gone. I took it upon myself to bring you the finest Scot whiskey. I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

“I’m not surprised,” Reg replied, “what with the way you insist on inhaling the stuff rather than drinking it.”

“Save your mirth, Reg. You’ll need it.” 

Reg lifted his eyebrows at that information while Gil waved his butler out and wiped his eyes. He didn’t say anything as he poured a glass of whiskey and sniffed it appreciatively. He would’ve liked French brandy, but the state of affairs between the two countries was still tense. The price was more than he could afford. Actually, just about every luxury was beyond the range of his purse. His title came with land and responsibility, but ready cash was a dream. That was why he didn’t pressure Gil. It would be bad enough losing to Runyon without realizing he’d have to forego replacement of his cravats for another season.

“You’ve a bet on my marriage to Helen, don’t you?” Gil asked.

“Aye. With Runyon. But he’ll bet on which raindrop reaches the bottom of the sill faster. He told me the oddest thing. Something about Chaffin pipping you at the post, so to speak. Rumors of an elopement at Gretna Green with an heir already on the way. Nonsense like that.”

“So that’s why she did it.”

It was Reg’s turn to choke. It didn’t help that his friend just smiled and nodded until he finished coughing.

“Chaffin is the lucky fellow. Hell, she probably had him strung along in fine style, too. I should’ve known an earl would win her black heart over a simple title,” Gil told him. “But she didn’t have to ruin my life while she was at it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I should count myself lucky I didn’t have to fight a duel of honor over their elopement.”

“Are you speaking to yourself or me?”

“You know she trapped me, Reg. I couldn’t possibly have sired her child, if she’s even carrying one, because I gave off my attentions months ago.”

“Then why did you propose to her? Cupid’s arrow hit you?”

“She blackmailed me! Swore she’d put it out that I’d left her to face ruination. She purported to have love letters as proof. In my handwriting, of all things. Forged, no doubt, from my calling notes. I couldn’t allow a stain like that on the Tremayne name. And you know it. Think of my mother.”

“But it wasn’t true!”

“You go prove it, lad. With my reputation, I’m probably lucky no one thought of this scheme earlier.”

“How does Chaffin fit in?”

“Suppose she’s got
him on the same lie….but he’s slower to take up the bait?”

“But it was you she was marrying.”

“True, but I’m a mere baron, Reg. An earl is the greater prize.”

“You expect me to believe she chose Chaffin over you?”

“Exactly.”

“And then what? Left you to face the scandal?”

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Much worse. I already said it. She’s ruined my life.”

“Nonsense. Your life would only be ruined if you
had
wed Helen.”

“Don’t press your brain, Reg. You’ll never figure it out. Trust me.”

“But I saw you wed. It just doesn’t wash. You’re having a joke at my expense, aren’t you?”

“You want to hear it, or keep guessing?”

“Oh, I’m all ears, Gil. All. But first, I’ll pour myself some more of this excellent Scotch. I will need another drink, won’t I?”

Gil chuckled. “More than bloody likely.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Why, I do believe you’ve got red streaks in your hair, Lady Tremayne.

Brandy’s back stiffened at the cheerful tone, although she’d been secretly hoping for it. He’d been away for three days, and none of the others did anything
except put their hands over their eyes and cry, or over their ears and run. She didn’t know how she was supposed to keep her mind acute with that lot.

“Curb your honeyed tongue, My Lord. There are ladies present, and you
should know how shocked Lady Violet here can be.”

Gil looked at the flowers
Brandy had set on each seat around her
tea table and smiled.

“Well, it’s no use hiding your beauty under a bonnet any longer, love. Lady Violet,
and her other acquaintances, are simply going to have to cover their delicate ears
if they don’t wish to hear me appreciating it.”

He moved behind her pansy and
placed his hands on either side of it as if blocking ears.

To her amazement, Brandy laughed. It wasn’t her crazed sound. It was genuine amusement. Oh, but this Gilly was a prize, not to mention easy on the eyes.

Gillian Tremayne probably had the appetite of a horse, but his pants fit
him tightly enough to show fat if it started to settle. Brandy lowered her gaze as
she realized that his pants fit
very
well, and she’d been staring.

“You don’t think Madame Lily will mind if I set the little dear down, do
you?” Gil asked.

She stifled a giggle as he moved the blossom to the Aubusson carpet and
settled onto the seat. The chair creaked, and she held her breath. The thin metal
structure had been made for a lady’s boudoir, not for someone Gil’s size. She
longed to find the humor in that, but couldn’t. He looked exactly right and
probably hadn’t worked at it either, while she suffered.

Brandy lifted her hands.

“Do you think, if I act real nice, Luv, that maybe that nice Mrs. Wright would let me out of these bonds?” she asked. “I might like
to take a spot of tea like a lady, I might.”

Gil glanced at her mittens and then at her. He had a strange look on his face. Her belly sent a warning. She ignored it.

“I’m certain Mrs. Wright has a reason for her tortures, my dear. But I have prior experience. She’s a
devious sort, isn’t she?”

He winked and she instantly looked away.

“Cor,” she said to the wall, “the stupid wench thinks to improve the texture
of my hands, she does. Can you believe it? Wastin’ such an effort on a common
whore. You should look harder for your help.”

“Well, we happen to think you’re far from common, Brandy, so we’ll have to
forgive her. Shall I do the honors, then, and pour for you? I’d hate to see
Madame Violet expire of thirst while we talk.”

Brandy watched him pour liquid into the teacup set before the flower and forced down the flicker of something very odd
through her stomach, as if an illness threatened. She couldn’t remember ever being ill and now wasn’t an officious time to start. Such a thing made one vulnerable. She swallowed and answered.

“Thank you much, kind sir.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth at his expression, noticing then
how much easier it was to move the left side of her face. Perhaps there was a God after all. And maybe he did really listen to her. She released her lip and smiled at the dream man looking just right sitting among her flowers, holding a tiny teacup.

He paled.

Damn.
She’d forgotten her looks. Brandy turned her attention to something
among the leaves the Duchess Rose was
budding between.

“This tea could use a bit more warmth, Brandy- love.”

She watched him swallow and couldn’t resist.

“That’s probably
true, My Lord, but the ladies don’t seem to mind. And we’ve all heard how restorative old bath water can be.”

“Bath water?”  He sounded angry, but she couldn’t tell for sure, since he turned his gaze to something outside the window.

“It’s very clean bath water, Guv. I swear it. I’m certain sure Mrs. Wright
would’ve caught any lice or vermin long a-fore it washed into that little ol’ glass.
It’s just the thing for cleanin’ out the innards, too. Or, so I’ve heard. It was very
brave of you to try it. Very.”

She was nodding while she said it, making her expression as vacant as
possible. That actually made his reaction easier to withstand.

“What the hell are you trying to do, poison me?”

She froze as he turned back to her. She put both swathed hands in her lap to hide their trembling.

Trust a man to hide his true emotions and then slam the nearest
available indefensible thing in anger,
she thought.

She watched him stroke the pansy’s petals to his right. For some reason, the thought of him wreaking vengeance on that helpless plant made her want to cry. And then he caught her expression with a look
from under his eyebrows. She carefully blanked her eyes again and sniffed the emotion from existence.

“I suppose that was my fault, My Lady. Perhaps next time I join your tea party, I’ll bring my own refreshment. You won’t mind, will you?”

“Yer—yer not goin’ to hit Brandy? Why would ye let an opportunity slip by you like that?”

“I wi
sh to hell it hadn’t happened, love, but hear me now. I’ll never hit you.”

“Sure. That’s what they all say.” She twisted her mouth and studied him. “Are ye
certain sure that ye wouldn’t like to have just a wee swing? I wouldn’t stop ye,
ye’re that handsome, Guv.”

He smiled. It was such a sad smile that Brandy’s heart tightened within her breast.
Now why would
that have such an effect when nothing has meant a thing since Sherry deserted
me?

“I wouldn’t dream of punishing you for my own stupidity, Helene.”

She sighed dramatically.

“I keep tellin’ ye, Helene’s gone. I’m beginnin’ to think yer
touched, my man. And there’s no fixing that.”  She shook her head and spoke in Nurse Gunther’s voice.

“You know...I looked up your father, Brandy. It appears Lord Bingham
really did have a younger brother.”

“The devil you say.” 

She lifted her own cup in salute and tossed the bath
water down her throat. It was to disguise the instant tremor. She hoped it
worked.

“There’s no mention of what happened to him after he married a Valerie
Montriart. That…would be your mother. Yes?”

Everything froze in her body. Ice filled her veins while her heart constricted. And then it decided it would continue beating.

“Brandy hasn’t got parents. Iffen she had a pair, do ye really think they’d have
let her roam the streets of Paris? Pull your wits about you, Man.”

She spoke in Reginald’s voice and realized her mistake instantly. She snapped her
mouth shut and sat as if chiseled from stone while he stared. Damn everything! He didn’t need to
know that she listened at keyholes!

“That was very good, Brandy,” he said finally
.

He sounded cold. Calculating. She wondered if she’d finally reached the part of him that demanded retribution. Every man had it, deep inside his soul. That’s what made it easy to hit
defenseless things. Easier still to kill, rape, and maim. Easy to take the Montriart
family out of their chateau one eve and call it a legal arrest. Easier still——

“As I said before, you should be on the stage,” he said, interrupting her
thoughts.

“You aren’t…going to hit me?”

Her voice squeaked. That was distressful. That sort of thing showed she’d
care. He heard it, too. She could tell by the way his eyes drilled into hers. Brandy forced her heart to
calm down. If she breathed evenly and counted, it would go back to beating evenly and without emotion. It usually worked
.

“You’re leaving me again, aren’t you?” he whispered.

She ignored him, barely seeing him as she concentrated on the pansy in his
hands.

“Before you go, would you mind telling me what happened to those lovely folks?
You know…
Monsieur
Bingham, and his lovely wife,
Valerie?”

She forced the instant emotion down and brought the entire picture he made into focus. He really was handsome. And with the pansy in his hands, he looked darling and handsome.

“Cor, but ye are a sight
fer sore eyes, Dream-man. Did ye know that?” Her voice cracked, but maybe he wouldn’t know why..

“I’m glad you approve. I’ll make certain my tailor hears.”

“And tall! Cor, but ye probably hit yer head on every tavern door, don’t
ye?”

“Except for the Drake and Crown on Gloucester Street. They seem to appreciate a man of my size. Was Valerie responsible for the shade of your hair?”

“What shade? My hair’s a muddy brown, and it’s gray through and
through. It’s got a nest or two in it, too. I should know. I’ve been cussing the
stuff for years.”

Her count continued in her mind. 137. 138. 139....

“Mrs. Wright will be very unhappy when she hears your description
of her handiwork, Brandy. I certainly like how your hair shines today. The
sunlight brings out the purplish highlights. I only wish we hadn’t had to cut the
very bottom off, but we had the devil’s own time getting a brush through what we
left, as it was.”

“Fancy that,” she replied.

“Why, I’d be willing to bet Valerie Bingham’s hair was the softest,
smoothest hair anyone ever touched, wasn’t it?”

Two hundred....

“Long, too. Yes? I’ll wager your papa loved it. Come, Helene, surely he
spoke about it. Hair that color doesn’t come often. It doesn’t come—”

“Streaked with blood.”

Everything she’d veiled from herself slipped as the
answer tore from her, coming in some new, unfamiliar voice.

***

Gil was so excited he didn’t dare move. He held his breath for countless seconds, fearing that if
the boudoir chair squeaked, the moment would be lost. The mix of elation and horror made him light-headed.

Brandy was just sitting there, watching him with luminous brown eyes that were a definite brandy-colored shade.

“Blood?” he questioned finally, his voice low and soft. “Did someone hit
her?”

He used a dull tone while Brandy’s brilliant eyes filled with tears. He watched as they slid down her cheeks. She
didn’t appear to even feel them.

“No,” she whispered.

Gil longed to wipe his hands on the side of his riding pants as he studied her. He’d been certain the answer would be yes.

“Why was there blood, Helene?”

His riding accouterment had been made to take the pressures he would
exert in any outdoor situation. It was even vented to allow sweat to evaporate from his back,
but there wasn’t any place he could wipe his palms without attracting her
attention. And that might break the spell. He’d be damned before he moved a muscle.

She shrugged finally and Gil nearly cursed aloud. And then she frowned and spoke in a strange, little-girl kind of voice,
startling him.

“Why are all the people cheering, Sherry? My mama doesn’t cheer.”

“I tol’ ye not to look, Brandy! Damn, but you’ll get us kilt!”

The words were
in a high-pitched, uneducated voice.

“Why are you talking to me like that?”  That was the little girl again,
sounding even more lost and forlorn than before.

“Like what? Cor! You’ll attract attention! Now, get yer hide back to
my room a-fore I let one of me gents take ye there. Ye know wot will happen
then, don’t you?”

“But my papa isn’t with Mama. Where is he?”

“Ye still here? Very well, watch to yer heart’s content, but don’t say I didn’t
warn ye.”

“Papa!”

Gil wondered who the speaker using gutter French was. He
guessed that the aristocratic, terror-filled girl voice was Helene…from perhaps eight
years earlier. But that might put her at the
Place de la
Revolution
in Paris, where they’d executed countless aristocrats. He’d heard about it from the fleeing nobility. It hadn’t seemed real, even then. But he hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been too young to join Wellington’s army at the time, and now he wasn’t allowed to.