By Love Unveiled (17 page)

Nor was his glorious hair curled like Hampden’s. Instead, its wanton waves and roughly hewn edges made him look like a highwayman. She never ceased to feel a thrill of danger when she saw his unfashionable hair.

As if he felt her eyes upon him, Garett turned. His gaze swept down her bodice to her tightly cinched waist, and he frowned, cutting her more deeply than words could have. No doubt he disapproved of her simple dress.

She hesitated, suddenly embarrassed to be dressed so poorly, but Hampden saw her and his eyes brightened. “Ah, Falkham. If I’d known what you hid out here in the country, I’d have come to visit sooner.”

Garett’s frown deepened. “Why haven’t you worn that dress before, Mina?”

Her feelings even more wounded now, she lifted her chin to smile at Hampden. “I saved it for a special occasion. But I see now I . . . I couldn’t hope to dress
properly for a dinner such as this. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Abruptly she left the room, a hard lump lodged in her throat. And she’d thought she looked beautiful! How could she have forgotten how richly the nobility dressed for dinner? Had she really been playing the gypsy so long that she no longer knew what to wear to a simple dinner in the country?

She hadn’t even reached the stairs before Garett came after her. “God, Mina, I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter, Garett. You have your dinner with Lord Hampden. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you don’t understand.” For the first time since she’d met him, Garett looked truly ill at ease. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing, except that it’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Too common?”

His eyes dropped meaningfully to her bodice. “Too provocative.” At her frown, he added hastily, “I know it’s what all the ladies wear. By their standards it’s not even daring, but damn it, I can’t stand having Hampden see you looking so ravishing.”

The way he avoided her gaze said that he told the truth. Garett was
jealous
? And of Hampden, no less. She didn’t know whether to be thrilled or furious.

“Come back to dinner, sweetling,” he murmured. “Please. I wouldn’t have you miss dinner just because I . . . I made a foolish blunder.”

Two surprises in one night, she thought, blessing Hampden for having come to visit. Garett was jealous
and
he’d admitted to a blunder. Well, the least she could do was show him she appreciated his truthfulness.

“Fine,” she said with a regal air.

He relaxed and, with a cordiality she seldom saw, escorted her back into the room.

Hampden waited for them, looking amused. After Garett seated her and the two men sat, Hampden said, “I’m glad my surly friend here convinced you to return. Dinner would have been dreadfully dull with only the old bear there for company.”

Marianne glanced at Garett, who struggled to keep his face expressionless. Lifting her glass of wine, she fell in with Hampden’s teasing. “Lord Falkham’s not so awful. But if you want scintillating dinner conversation, don’t ask him about his estate improvements. Not unless talk about crops interests you.”

Garett lifted one eyebrow. “I’m sure Mina would prefer to talk about her father.”

Why couldn’t he ever let up? She forced back a sharp retort, sipping her wine to give her time to think. “Actually, my lord, I’m far more interested in how you and Lord Hampden met.”

There. A safe topic. The two men could reminisce, and she wouldn’t have to worry about parrying Garett’s verbal thrusts in front of a stranger.

Hampden gleefully took up the gauntlet. “We met in a stable. You’d never know it now to look at him, pigeon, but our friend Falkham was once a stable boy.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “You’re not serious.”

“Very much so. He and I both were stable boys. In
France. We worked for a dreadful old count who enjoyed having two English lords in his employ.”

Garett, a stable boy in France? “Why?”

“Why did we work for the count, or why were we in France?” Hampden asked.

“Why were you stable boys?”

“Oh. Couldn’t do much else. When we first arrived, Falkham was only fourteen, and I sixteen. We weren’t the only English nobility there, you must realize, and not a soul wanted us.”

“But what about the king?” Marianne asked. “Surely he championed you. Surely he helped his countrymen.”

Hampden smiled mirthlessly. “Ask Falkham about the king.”

Marianne’s gaze flew to Garett.

Garett drank some wine. “The king was as destitute as we were. He could scarcely keep food on his own table, much less help us fill our bellies.”

“But they told us—”

“Cromwell and his men?” Bitterness crept into Garett’s voice. “What else were they to say? The Roundheads preferred to let the English think that their king lived richly in France, when in truth, he went from acquaintance to acquaintance, gathering what help he could, always trying to find someone to help him finance another uprising. His Majesty gave us his friendship, but he could give us little more.”

“When the king left France, Garett joined the Duke of York’s army,” Hampden put in.

“Yes.” Garett turned somber again.

Marianne suddenly wished the conversation hadn’t gone this direction.

Hampden wouldn’t let him sour the evening, however. “It wasn’t all bad in France. Remember Warwick, Falkham?”

Garett’s eyes lost their faraway look. “How could I forget? He stank of burned wool whenever it rained.”

“Still does, from what I hear.” Hampden turned his gaze to Marianne. “Warwick’s coat caught fire one day. We put it out, but the edges were still charred. Warwick had as little money as the rest of us, so he cut off the charred parts and continued to wear the coat.”

Hampden chuckled, but Marianne couldn’t join him. She found the story more sad than funny.

“Don’t worry, the man didn’t suffer during the winter,” Garett said, correctly guessing the source of her concern. “He kept as warm as any of us. If anything, we were the ones to suffer from smelling his smoky coat. We used to say, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s Warwick.’ ”

Hampden joined Garett’s laughter, and after a moment, so did Marianne.

“There was little enough to laugh about in those days,” Hampden said, sobering. “The count and Garett’s uncle saw to that.”

“Sir Pitney?” she asked. But Sir Pitney had been in England, unaware of Garett’s existence.

Hampden cast Garett a penetrating glance. “You didn’t tell her about the letters, about the man Tearle sent to kill you?”

Garett shrugged. “I’m sure she knows.”

“How could I?” She turned to Hampden. “Sir Pitney knew that Garett lived?”

The marquess grew grim. “Perhaps not at first, for apparently a servant boy accompanying Garett’s parents and killed with them was mistaken for Garett and buried as the Falkham heir. It’s the only reason Garett escaped death himself.”

“You were
there
?” she asked Garett. “But . . . but . . .”

“Why do you think the soldiers assumed I was dead?” His expression was tormented. “My parents were taking me with them to Worcester. We stopped for a rest, and Will, Father’s valet, took me into the woods so I could relieve myself. We heard the shouts and ran back, but they were already lying gutted . . .”

His voice had grown choked, so Hampden jumped in. “Will dragged him, struggling, back into the woods. It saved both their lives. Cromwell’s men left no one breathing, not even the footman who wore Garett’s old clothes.” Hampden’s voice hardened. “That’s why everyone believed Garett dead. But his uncle found out otherwise eventually. Garett sent him four or five letters with proof of his identity. Sir Pitney ignored them.”

She was already reeling from the horrifying picture Hampden had painted of a young Garett watching his parents die, but this— “That’s appalling!”

“Not as appalling as what happened later.” Hampden cast Garett a furtive glance. “One day a man came looking for Garett, with a sword in hand and a thirst for blood. Fortunately, he found me instead, and I was
armed and more than able to defend myself.” He smiled. “I’m afraid Sir Pitney’s man didn’t return to England.”

At Garett’s now determinedly aloof air, Hampden quipped, “And the count complained because I’d dirtied his floors.”

Marianne felt all at sea. Why hadn’t Garett told her all this? No, she knew why. His stubborn pride made him think he shouldn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

“Tell me about this count,” Marianne urged. It suddenly seemed important to learn the whole truth of why Garett had returned from exile an embittered man.

“Ah . . . the count,” Garett said, breaking a slice of toast in half with a loud snap.

“The count was the only man to truly make me hate the French,” Hampden said. “I’m sure Falkham agrees, since he tormented Falkham more than he did me. He hated Falkham. Used to call him ‘le petit diable.’ ”

Marianne could easily understand how Garett might have gained that nickname. “At least he enabled the two of you to fend for yourselves. Without him, you said you might not have found work.”

“I’m not sure that would have been so awful.” Garett sipped some wine. “We might have been better off begging in the streets of Paris.”

Hampden chuckled. “True. After the beatings the old man gave us, ’twas a miracle we lived to manhood.”

Having suddenly lost her appetite, Marianne put
down the spoon she’d been about to lift to her lips. “Beatings?”

“Actually,” Hampden said, “mine weren’t as bad as Falkham’s.”

Garett cast her a gleaming glance. “That’s because the count knew Hampden provided his best source for court news in the city. Hampden always talked the man out of beating him by offering to tell him some juicy bit about his enemies no one else knew.”

Hampden smiled. “Ah, yes. I bribed him with gossip. I almost forgot. Of course, it helped I was sleeping with his enemies’ wives.” He shrugged. “At the time, it seemed a better way to get funds than working in the stables.”

Marianne’s face turned a brilliant red as she stared down at her soup.

It was Garett’s turn to chuckle. “So that’s how you got your ‘tales.’ I used to envy you that ability to find out all of the Paris court’s secrets. Now that I know—”

“You wish you’d been old enough to get a few of your own?” Hampden finished helpfully.

Garett gave him a mock threatening look. “I wish I’d put you onto the count’s wife. Then you might have lightened the load for both of us.”

“That sour-faced old—” Hampden broke off, as if he suddenly realized a lady was in the room. “Ah, but she hated you as much as her husband. Neither of them could stand your ridiculous pride. They thought to teach the barbarian Englishman a lesson. They loved your being a penniless nobleman. But it infuriated them you never broke under their beatings.”

Marianne’s throat constricted at the thought of a fourteen-year-old Garett being beaten. She couldn’t help asking the next question. “Were . . . were the beatings terrible?”

Garett shot Hampden a warning glance as he said, “No.”

Hampden raised both eyebrows. “I take it you haven’t shown her your back, or she’d know that was a lie.”

“It’s time we moved to more suitable topics of conversation,” Garett stated flatly, his eyes fixed on Marianne, who felt sicker by the minute.

Hampden shrugged, then launched into a witty description of the latest news from the English court. But Marianne no longer listened. Images of Garett being beaten flashed before her eyes, killing her peace.

She began to understand why he hated his uncle. Sir Pitney could have spared Garett those hard years, but he’d knowingly let his nephew remain penniless in France while he’d plundered the boy’s estates.

What had Garett said? “Only pain makes you strong.” Now she knew what had happened to the lighthearted boy his mother had spoken of. That boy had been killed, first by his parents’ brutal deaths and then by his uncle’s betrayal.

She glanced at Garett as he questioned Hampden idly about the court. It was a miracle he’d withstood it at all. Then there’d been his years as a soldier, which he refused even to talk about. No wonder he distrusted her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar name on Hampden’s lips. “Winchilsea’s death set the town
buzzing,” he said as he cut a piece of meat. “No one really believed the man to be guilty until he was killed.”

“You think he was innocent?” Garett asked, his expression oddly shuttered. “From what I’d heard, the poisoned medication stayed in his possession from the moment he left his home. Clarendon believes he might have been working with the Roundheads, and I’m inclined to agree. It’s just the sort of thing they’d do.”

“Who really knows? But I’m not convinced. Still, I’m one of only a few who’ve given him the benefit of a doubt. After he died, the gossips immediately tried and convicted the old man, since no one remained to prove him innocent. His daughter—”

“Daughter?” Garett’s eyes narrowed on her. “I didn’t know Winchilsea had a daughter.”

Cold fear gripped her heart, but she forced a measure of calm into her expression. “They say she killed herself after she heard of his arrest.”

“That’s right,” Hampden said as Garett continued to stare thoughtfully at her. “Threw herself into the Thames. Some even think she might have been involved in the poisoning.”

“Tell me, what was this daughter like?” Garett asked coolly.

Hampden sat back to wipe his mouth with his napkin. “Something of a recluse and quite plain, from what I was told. I gathered she didn’t like people.”

For once, she was glad that the court gossip was as patently false and cruel as usual. “Actually, Miss Winchilsea was painfully shy.”

“You knew her?” Garett asked, his gaze boring into her.

“Of course. I told you I knew her parents.”

“Why didn’t you mention her before?”

She made a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t know her well. She kept to her rooms, spoke to no one, and rarely interfered with my life. I’m not surprised she drowned herself. She was the type to faint at the sight of blood. I can well imagine how horrified she must have been to hear about her father’s arrest.”

Hampden snorted. “ ’Twas a silly thing to do. I could never see you, madam, throwing yourself into the Thames at such news. I wager it would never even enter your mind to do so.”