Capture The Wind (48 page)

Unable to stop herself, Angela blurted out, “Then it’s true? You are seeing her?”

“Every time she will allow it. The contessa, you see, is very adroit at keeping a man dangling after her. A moment of time here, a glance there, then just a hint of the next time before she is gone again, leaving thirsty victims dying for another drop. Oh yes, that part is quite true. Is it being said that I am pursuing her?”

Miserably, Angela nodded, and Kit’s sardonic smile deepened. “How droll. Perhaps I should have introduced you to her this evening. If I had known you were spying on me from the shadows, I would have done just that.”

Recalling the beautiful woman in the carriage, Angela knew the answer even before she asked, “That was the contessa in the carriage?”

“Yes. Lovely, isn’t she? Doesn’t look anywhere near her age until one gets quite close. Then there are only a few signs of the years she has spent flitting about—a line or two, just the tiniest bit of sagging skin—but I should not bore you with the details.”

“No,” Angela whispered. She fumbled blindly for the edges of her cloak and pulled it around her as if for protection against the knife-edged slashes of pain that raked her. “I must
 . . .
go.”

Somehow, she was never quite certain how, Dylan was there, and it was his voice that directed her from Kit’s cabin to the top deck, and his words that finally stilled her almost uncontrollable shivers. She recalled little of the carriage ride home, nor did she remember Emily putting her to bed. Everything was a blur, everything but Kit’s relentless voice as he shattered, any hope she had left.

“Is it any coincidence,” Charles Sheridan asked idly, “that Angela Lindell bears a striking resemblance to Elaine?”

Stiffening, Kit growled, “What the devil do you mean by that?”

The duke shrugged, and moved to stand facing the windows of his study, his hands clasped behind him. “Only,” he said, his voice muffled by heavy draperies and thickly leaded glass, “that part of your resentment of the situation may stem from some misguided notion that Angela is just as treacherous as Elaine. That, my son, is doubtful. Only Vivian comes close to Elaine in duplicity, but she so far outdistances any other mortal woman that I think not even your misconception could make that vast leap.”

After a moment, Kit said, “It amazes me that you married two such devious women. I have often wondered at the courage or stupidity of a man who would undertake such a venture.”

The duke turned, smiling. “Do you? Love of a challenge, I suspect. Vivian St. Genevieve was only fourteen when we wed, and I had never laid eyes upon her until the day before the ceremony.” He paused in reflection, a faint smile still curling his mouth. “Though you may not believe this, it was love at first sight for me. Of course, I was only seventeen at the time, and not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of a wife from the French countryside. Vivian changed that. As she changed every other aspect of my life in a very short time.”

“She seems to have that ability.”

Sheridan’s ironic glance spoke volumes. “Indeed. When I discovered that I was soon to have an heir, I was thrilled for more than one reason. It would, I mistakenly thought, inhibit some of her more
 . . .
reckless
 . . .
qualities. Alas, she proved me quite wrong. Your birth only freed her from the duty of providing an heir, and set into motion an entirely new vista for her. She began to dabble in politics, still bearing a fervent loyalty to her own country, and I was beset at all sides with problems. How to keep my wife from endangering not only her head, but mine? I tell you, it was enough to drive even a less imaginative man quite mad.”

Kit’s smile was grudgingly sympathetic. Though lately he had formed a precarious truce with his father, it wasn’t even close to anything resembling friendship. Conversations such as the one they were engaged in were infrequent and usually awkward. Perhaps it was the copious amount of brandy Kit had consumed after dinner that made the difference now. He wasn’t certain.

Lifting his tumbler, Kit said, “She still drives men mad.”

Sheridan turned. “Doesn’t she? So tell me—how do you find her after all these years? Is she the devoted mother that you had always remembered?” His chair squeaked slightly as he sat down behind his desk and studied his son.

Wryly, Kit murmured, “Hardly. My memories are those of a six-year-old. Viewed from the illuminating distance of twenty-four years later, I have found vast discrepancies in my perceptions of what happened, and what I now believe to be the truth.”

“I always thought you would, once you sifted through fantasy and fact. Of course, it took me years to differentiate between truth and bitter speculations. Even when I found you again, I believed that Vivian had committed the most heinous of crimes against a child. I was relieved to discover that to be untrue. It restored some of my faith in maternal affection.”

When Kit remained silent, his father swiveled in his chair to look at him. “Christian,” he said softly, earning Kit’s upward glance, “your mother was careless, yes, but never callous. She loved you in her way, but she was very young and headstrong and totally committed to pa-triotism with a zeal few can ever realize. Do not judge her too harshly. She is what she is.”

“As are we all.” Kit took another sip of brandy, lowering the glass to study the slow drizzle of potent liqueur coating the sides. It felt as thick and syrupy on his tongue; he mentally blessed the Benedictine monks who had first distilled it. Brandy eased a multitude of worries if taken in small, isolated amounts. He heartily endorsed its medicinal properties in the treating of the human spirit. There were even times when brandy could erase the final images of Angela that had been seared into his brain.

He closed his eyes against that painful memory and asked blindly, “How do you explain your marriage to Elaine?”

The duke’s shrug was a thing felt, if not seen. “She was the antithesis of Vivian. Instead of a volatile temperament, she was always cool and collected, mindful of proprieties. I knew she would never risk my head or hers with impetuous behavior. Alas, it took me a shade too long to discover that her cool demeanor encased an even colder nature. Her treatment of you was my first indication.”

Opening his eyes, Kit nodded. “She hated me. Never lost an opportunity to let me know it, either. I think I was a threat in some way. Her failure to provide another heir only made things worse. I can recall bitter arguments between the two of you over that.”

“Yes. There were times I think she wished you would meet with an unfortunate accident.”

Kit smiled grimly. He did not bother informing the Duke of several occasions he had narrowly escaped being killed. At the time, he’d not thought his father would believe him, or even care. It had only embittered him more over the years.

God, was his entire life to be a series of narrow escapes? He was beginning to realize that his control over his own destiny was still nebulous. Who could explain Angela’s sudden appearance in his life except for an act of fate? Or perhaps, the whimsy of some laughing god.

“Perhaps,” Sheridan mused, “I should not have divorced Vivian as I did. It was a precipitous act, fueled by jealousy, anger, and hurt at her leaving me and taking you with her. I viewed it as the highest betrayal. My acts, however, began a chain reaction that still has repercussions.”

Looking up at the duke, he fumbled for the thread of their conversation, found it, and said, “If Vivian will only explain her reasons to me, perhaps I can forget her abandonment.”

“I doubt it. One never forgets something like that. But you can accept it, even without an explanation that you are very unlikely to get. Perhaps it has escaped your notice that Vivian is adept at avoiding questions. That is what makes her so ideal at her profession.”

Kit grimaced. “I find it abhorrent. How do I deal with the situation without betraying my own mother?”

Silence fell; a log in the fire popped and sent out a shower of sparks onto the hearth mat that quickly burned out. Finally the duke said slowly, “I don’t know. Confront her, perhaps. But do not trust her enough to tell her of the proposition put forth to you by Mr. Pitt. That could be suicide. Concoct a plausible explanation, then allow her to make her own decision. After that, anything that happens will be of her own volition.” He paused, then said, “I have my own doubts about the scheme Pitt proposes. Are you certain you wish to take such risks?”

Shrugging, Kit said, “There are no more risks involved than the ones I’ve taken for the past ten years. At least this time I will be working under the sanction of the king.”

Sheridan’s smile was cynical. “The treaty signed at Amiens will not last another six months. Napoleon will not stop until he is forced to stop. Even with a pardon for you and your crew, if the French take you
 . . .
”

His voice trailed into silence. Kit needed no words to tell him how quickly they would be executed if captured. He had committed too many crimes against the French to be given mercy if caught. It was understood, and the crew had heard the offer and voted to accept it, knowing what could happen. Only two men had declined, not being English. No one had blamed them. It was a dangerous proposal to undertake.

“We leave before dawn,” he said into the heavy silence, and his father nodded.

“Do you intend to wish Angela farewell?”

The subject was still touchy between them, though Kit had slowly come to the conclusion that his father, true to character, had used Angela as a means to an end; in this case, to lure his son to London. Being an astute entrepreneur, John Lindell had been easily convinced to enter into a business venture with the duke. That had given Sheridan justifiable reason to invite the Lindells to social functions, and also gave him easy access to Angela. Mystified as to how his father had known about her at first—and why he thought she would matter to him—Kit was too stubborn to ask.

It had been Turk who had informed Kit that the spy they had employed was also employed by none other than the duke. “Gabriel is a multifaceted individual,” Turk had observed with his usual understatement; only his logical assertion that it was hardly likely one could trust a man trafficking in deception for financial gain had defused Kit’s first rush of anger. It also explained why Kit had so frequently been frustrated by near misses in his pursuit of Vivian St. Genevieve.

Now, he was just as frustrated though he had finally achieved his objective—another correct prediction Turk had made. It was infuriating that the giant could be so right so many times. And it gave him pause when he recalled Turk’s insistence that Kit make amends with Angela.

God, he wanted to. How many nights had he lain in his bed and thought of her? Wondered where she was and if she thought of him at all? Most likely, he had mused, if she did think of him, it was with anything but charity. Still stinging from his mother’s refusal to talk to him, he had been deliberately cruel to Angela, knowing it would drive her away from him. And it had worked only too well. The past month, both notes he had sent her had been returned unopened. He had only himself to blame, but his determination to dismiss her from his mind and life had wavered several times.

Looking up at his father, Kit said, “Perhaps I shall say my farewells to Angela before I leave. It should delight her to know that I am leaving London.”

The duke smiled. “Filbert will have the carriage brought ’round for you.”

A cold October wind
pushed out the draperies in a bell shape and chilled the room. Flames danced like frenzied demons in the grate, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. Rising from her chair near the fire, Angela moved to the window and leaned out to pull it shut.

Dusky shadows shrouded the garden below, and the wind clacked through bare limbs as trees shed crimson and gold leaves into sodden piles on the ground. A sudden gust swept up a few of the drier leaves and whirled them in a spinning eddy; there was the smell of frost in the air, melding with the sharp scent of wood smoke.

Hesitating, Angela gazed into the garden, letting the damp air mist her skin. She thought of sea winds stirring up waves in lacy froths against the sides of a ship, wetting her toes and her dress. There was nothing outside to remind her of the sea, nothing but her own memories that never seemed to fade. Random events triggered the memories, sometimes nothing more than the warble of a sparrow to remind her of the exotic birds on St. Thomas.

Still leaning out the window, one arm outstretched as she gripped the latch to pull it closed, Angela shut her eyes and let the rain drizzle over her face and wet her hair. The wind chuckled around tall chimneystacks and building corners, tugging at her hair and seeming to whisper of far-off places. She shivered, then gave a start when a hand touched her shoulder.

“Miss Angela,” Emily was saying, and with a final glance at the shifting shadows beyond the garden wall, Angela regretfully pulled the windows shut and turned.

“I was just
 . . .
getting some fresh air,” she explained lamely, and looked away from the sympathy in Emily’s eyes. She could not bear that. No more sympathy. Even her mother had ceased to badger her into accepting social invitations; she suspected her father was behind that, but she did not care to explore the reasons for it.

“Miss Angela,” Emily repeated, and there was a strange note in her voice that made Angela look up with a frown.

“Yes?”

“I
 . . .
I came to tell you that I am leaving your employ.”

Angela stared at her uncomprehendingly. Finally she asked in a shaky voice, “Why?”

“I can’t tell you.” Emily looked down at her clasped hands. Coaxing would not lift her head, and finally Angela reached out to grasp her chin.

“Tell me,” she insisted, gazing into Emily’s brown eyes. Color flushed the girl’s face, and her mop of brown curls rioted over her forehead from beneath the neat white cap she always wore.

“Dylan,” she blurted, and Angela understood.

Releasing Emily’s chin, she nodded. “I see. You are going to stay with him, I imagine.”

“Sort of.”