Dreamspinner (19 page)

“You needn’t bother,” Rose said stiffly. “I’ve already had mine, in my room.”

Her eyes flicked to Augusta and Juliet wondered if animosity had prompted the refusal. The girl’s soft, sad demeanor caught at Juliet’s heart. So there had been another Deverell sister. A sister who’d died? Judging by the way Kent had interrupted, he clearly considered the matter closed. Propriety precluded her asking any questions on a topic of such delicacy. Yet she couldn’t help wondering what else he might be hiding.

“Perhaps I may escort you to the state apartments, Your Grace,” said Rose.

“Please, call me Juliet.” Weary of battling the undercurrents of hostility, she yearned for escape. “And yes, I’d like to rest before dinner, if everyone will excuse me.”

Augusta nodded stiffly; Gordon blinked benignly; Punjab glared balefully.

Kent touched Juliet’s arm in an absentminded caress that sent hot chills over her skin. “I’ll join you later,” he murmured. “I’ve a few estate matters to attend to first.”

His inky eyes seemed distant. Longing swept her, a longing for the dark of night, when she would gain his total attention. Subduing her impatience, she started toward the door.

“Mind you don’t light more than one candle,” Augusta called. “We can’t afford extravagance.”

“For pity’s sake,” Kent said in a low voice.

Juliet missed the rest of his words, for she and Rose entered the shadowy hall. A grimace tautened the girl’s milk pure complexion. “That woman ought to be gagged,” she muttered. “What a skinflint she is!”

“Perhaps she only means to look out for Kent’s interests.”

“Then she should stop embarrassing him with her penny pinching ways. He can certainly afford a few measly candles.” She tilted a keen eyed glance at Juliet. “Especially now.”

“Now?”

“Well, you’re an heiress, aren’t you?”

The echo of their footfalls filled the stone passageway as Juliet searched for a polite response. “I’m not so certain about that,” she said. “My father didn’t exactly give his blessing to our marriage.”

“You mean because Emmett Carleton couldn’t tolerate knowing his daughter has joined the Deverell fold.”

Juliet shivered, as much from the ice in Rose’s voice as the chill in the air. She imagined Rose growing up exposed to the same sort of twisted stories about the Carletons as Juliet had heard of the Deverells. What an awful legacy her father and William Deverell had wrought with their rivalry.

“I’m sure my marriage is difficult for Papa to accept,” she said. “But I hope, given time, we can all bury the past.”

Rose stared. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she said, sounding reflective, as if the possibility were appealing. “You said you haven’t any sisters. Do you have brothers?”

“No, I’m sorry to say—”

“Then surely your father won’t cut off his only child. At the very least, he’ll have to endow you with a rich settlement.”

“Even if he did, Kent would never accept the money.”

“He’ll have to,” she said with a dismissive flutter of her hand. “My brother always champions his impoverished tenants. He can’t in all conscience turn down your dowry. The Deverells will prosper again, as we’ve done for centuries.”

A wistful smile curved her lips; Juliet didn’t have the heart to prick the girl’s dream. Much as she, too, wanted to help the estate, she doubted that Papa would dower her. Casting about for another topic, she glanced at the gilt framed portraits on either wall of the narrow passageway. Stern men in stiff Elizabethan ruffs stared; haughty women in jeweled coiffures glared.

“Are all these people Radcliffe ancestors?”

Rose gave a proud nod. “Illustrious people form the branches of our family tree... aristocrats, diplomats. The Deverells have always had a strong sense of public duty. My great uncle was governor of Bombay.”

“Kent told me the family has a tradition of interest in India.”

“The second duke made a fortune there through the East India Company. We can even claim royal blood. See there?”

She pointed to a large portrait dominating the base of a stairwell. Lusterless with age, the painting depicted a dapper gentleman with a wealth of dark, curling locks tumbling to his crimson and blue cloak.

Juliet slowed her steps. “He looks familiar.”

“He should... that’s Charles the Second. The seventh earl of Ashingham wed one of the king’s bastard daughters and became the first Duke of Radcliffe.”

“Expedient,” Juliet said dryly.

“Perhaps,” Rose conceded, as she led the way up the age worn stone steps. “I’ve been compiling a family history, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re quite the freethinking lot. We’ve had more than our share of rogues and eccentrics. And the first duke wasn’t the only one to wed a bastard.”

Slyness glinted in Rose’s brown eyes... or was it a trick of the fading light? Graciously Juliet said, “Oh?”

“Yes, didn’t Kent tell you? His first wife was of illegitimate issue.”

Her heart clenched as she recalled Lord Breeton’s portrayal of Emily Deverell:
Born on the other side of the blanket, poor thing
...
she was prone to melancholia.

Was bastardy at the root of Emily’s despair? Had a lack of self honor driven her to suicide? Questions crowded Juliet’s mind, but civility kept her from probing the issue until she knew Rose better.

“Yes,” she said, “Kent told me.”

Pausing at the head of the stairs, Rose arched her eyebrows. “And you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

She afforded Juliet a measuring look, then shrugged. “I suppose I’d expected you to be shocked, having been raised in polite society.”

Pivoting in a whisper of gray skirts, Rose headed down another murky corridor. Clearly she’d been testing her new sister-in-law. Juliet renewed her vow to prove to the Deverells that a Carleton was neither haughty nor prone to holding grudges.

Rose opened an oak door, and they entered a sitting room. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in faded green, the satin on the walls rotting in spots. As in the drawing room, the vaulted ceiling held a painting, this one of nymphs and porpoises cavorting in sea foam.

“This is the Alcove,” Rose said, walking across the faded carpet to a gilt framed door. “And here’s the duchess’s chamber.”

She marched into a huge bedroom, Juliet following at a slower pace, her neck craned in awe. Dominating the gloomy grandeur of the room was the bed with its green and gold hangings of Utrecht velvet; she spied a few moth holes. Across the mattress lay an embroidered counterpane, and ducal coronets graced the bedposts. Even the looking glass and writing desk bore the Radcliffe crest. A great chandelier drew her eyes to the ubiquitous painted ceiling and cobwebbed cornices.

“You’ve a dressing room through there,” Rose said, pointing. “And that door leads to Kent’s suite. When we heard yesterday that you were coming, Augusta had the place aired and the linens freshened.”

Juliet could scarcely credit that; a smell of mildew pervaded the room. She turned her attention to a series of drawings arranged above the mantel. Strolling nearer, she saw several romantic studies of the castle.

“Don’t touch those drawings,” Rose said, hurrying over. “I only just hung them this morning.”

Wondering at the girl’s protectiveness, Juliet said, “The sketches are lovely. They’re your father’s work, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I had them framed and placed here.” The pride Rose took in William Deverell’s talent glowed in her eyes. “How did you recognize his style?”

“Kent showed me a portfolio of drawings that he found in your London town house.”

“Some new ones?” Her voice breathless with excitement, Rose took a step forward. “Did he bring them back here, to Radcliffe?”

“I don’t know.”

“I must go ask him immediately. If he shuts himself in the estate office, it’ll be hours before he emerges.”

She started toward the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Dinner is at eight-thirty. When Ravi sounds the gong, just follow the stairs back down and turn left. Do excuse me.”

She darted out, her sable hair swaying.

Juliet shook her head and smiled. She didn’t quite know what to make of the girl; her mood was alternately furtive and friendly, sly and sincere. Ah, well, she’d get to know Rose better soon.

She poked around, opening the drawers of a gilt desk and peeking into the dressing room. There wasn’t a single personal item left from Emily. The knowledge left Juliet with an oddly mingled sense of curiosity and relief.

She wandered to one of the windows, recessed in deep stone. Pushing back the dusty velvet drape, she wrestled with the latch. With a jarring creak, the window swung open. She leaned on the casement and drew in the moist, moss scented air. The room commanded a breathtaking view of the Avon, now a gray glimmer in the twilight. Great stands of willow and cedar overhung the water, along with clumps of underbrush, unidentifiable in the deepening gloom. Tomorrow, Juliet thought, she’d go exploring and find the south garden and the greenhouses.

A faint shriek pierced the liquid murmur of the river. Though logic told her the sound emanated from one of the peacocks, she shivered. The ancient ambience somehow set her nerves on edge.

Intent on ridding the room of its stale odor, she went from window to window, flinging each wide open. The breeze fluttered the drapes and bed hangings, and chilled the air. Longing for the cheering warmth of a fire, she searched for a bell cord to call a servant, but saw only the frayed end dangling from the ceiling. She subdued her irritation. She could manage alone; often enough she’d watched a house maid light the bedroom fire.

In the grate, coals lay neatly stacked atop a few sticks of kindling. Juliet found a box of matches and knelt to execute the task. Despite try after try, the green wood failed to ignite. She burned her finger; tears of frustration stung her eyes. Sitting on her heels and sucking her finger, she felt inundated by a flood of homesickness, a longing for the bright, familiar walls of Carleton House, for attentive servants and fresh gowns, for Mama’s comforting presence and Maud’s cheery gossip.

The thickening darkness of the room added to her utter isolation. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for becoming mistress of such an archaic household. Nothing had prepared her for coping with the shrewishness of Augusta, the contempt of Ravi, the capriciousness of Rose.

Juliet squared her shoulders. This was Kent’s home and hers now, as well. She wouldn’t let her own uncertainties daunt her. The castle was like a neglected garden; with tender care and devoted nurturing, she could coax life back into its timeworn walls and happiness into its emotion-scarred occupants.

With renewed vigor, she struck another match and applied it to the kindling. Long moments later, a tiny flame licked at the wood. Soon the coals gave off a blessed, blazing heat.

Shadows snaked in the corners of the antiquated chamber as she closed the windows. Carrying a single candle to the dressing room, she found her hatbox on a rickety dressing table. She tidied herself to the best of her limited resources, then returned to the bedroom and sat in a wing chair by the fire to study her lone botany text. Her attention meandered to the state of the bedroom. If she had the money, she’d invest in new wallpaper and bed hangings, a more cheerful decor...

Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded. Finding her way through the murky passageways, she joined the others in a cavernous dining room. At the lead of the table, Kent’s place lay conspicuously empty; Ravi entered to report that the sahib had rung for a tray in his office. Though annoyed, Juliet summoned a smile and asked Augusta about her works of charity, then engaged in a polite dialogue with Gordon about his studies of evolution and questioned Rose about the family history. Though the conversation flowed freely, Juliet longed for her husband’s presence.

Afterward, the party retired to the drawing room. Kent still failed to appear. Would he often absent himself, sending messages through Ravi? Restlessness drove her to make her excuses and retreat to the bedroom. Minutes ticked into hours. Trying the connecting door, she found it locked. She pressed her ear to the gilded panel. Silence. As she resumed pacing, her irritation slowly dissolved into resentment, then anger. Didn’t he care enough to check on how she’d fared with his eccentric relations?

By the time she heard a few faint noises coming from his bedroom, she’d worked herself into a justifiable fury. Marching to his door, she rapped hard.

A key rattled; the door opened. Kent stood with a drink in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned to his broad bare chest. A frown furrowed his forehead; weary lines bracketed his mouth. The black strands of his hair were mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through them. An arrow of concern punctured her wrath and roused the desire to soothe away his weariness.

“What is it?”

His testy tone buried the brief tenderness. “I’d like to speak to you.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No; I’ll only take a few moments of your time.”

Lips compressed, he studied her. “All right, then.”

Trailing him, Juliet saw that a single candle illuminated a room as vast and ornate as her own. Lending warmth to the setting were a few scattered mementos, a cluster of framed photographs on the mantel, a collection of books on the nightstand. Sketches of mowers and reapers were tacked above a desk. Beside the elaborate velvet hung bed stood Ravi, turning down the covers.

At her approach, he looked up, silent and expressionless. She clenched her teeth in annoyance and murmured to Kent, “Might we speak in private?”

“Of course.”

He shifted his gaze to Ravi; the servant bowed and left. When Kent turned back, wariness shaded his face. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “I wanted to know where you’ve been all this time.”

“Didn’t Augusta tell you? I was going over the accounts.”

“You couldn’t stop long enough to join us for dinner?”

Irritation creased his brow; he set down his drink, then bent his dark head as he worked at a cuff link. “I’ve been absent for more than a month, Juliet. I couldn’t spare the time.”