Dreamspinner (38 page)

He did not shun me altogether. When the old duke was alive, Mama arranged a trip to London once or twice a year, ostensibly to purchase new gowns. (Rose preferred to remain at Radcliffe with her father.) Mama would contrive a meeting between me and Papa, while she went to the dressmaker.

Those stolen hours were short, but achingly sweet and the only time I felt truly secure. Sometimes Papa took me for a walk along the Embankment or to the Punch-and—Judy show on a street corner. We explored the echoing cave of St. Paul’s Cathedral and took tea in a tiny shop near Covent Garden. Once he bought me a baby doll from the penny toy man, a doll still tucked away in my wardrobe.

When I was eleven, Papa pointed out the street where he’d been born, a dingy lane near the fearsome edifice of Newgate Prison. Filthy children played chase along the curbstone, and women sat gossiping on stoops. Though he wore an unassuming dark suit and I a simple dress, the cut of our clothing marked us as superior to the poor souls here. Amazed at the news that my papa hadn’t always been rich, I clung tightly to his hand and admired him all the more.

For a long time, he gazed up at the brick tenement. Then he spoke: “My mother worked herself to death taking in the laundry of gentlemen. I swore then that I would never suffer as she did, that I would never act as any man’s servant. That I would become one of the privileged myself.”

An inexpressible sadness colored his strong features and compelled me to speak. “And you did, Papa, you did.”

He looked startled, as though he’d forgotten my presence. Suddenly he seized both my hands and said, “You must never worry about money, Emily. I cannot help you as long as your mother insists upon living with that... devil. But upon my death, you’ll be well provided for.”

The thought of losing him made me shudder. Bursting with love, I pressed my cheek to the fine fabric of his lapel and drew in the scent of his expensive cigars. “Oh, Papa, how I wish we could be together.”

His arms held me tight for an instant and his mustache brushed against my brow. Then he pulled stiffly back. “Don’t waste your time on foolish dreams. Come along now.”

Choking back tears, I regretted the rash outpouring of my heart. I should not have forgotten my status as bastard. Though I tried to content myself with the stolen moments, I was bitterly aware that we never went places where persons of Quality might recognize him and wonder about the thin girl with the straggly blond braids. We never rode the elephant at the zoological gardens or saw the Egyptian exhibit at the British Museum or fed the swans at St. James Park. Those places Mama took me, and Rose, too, when she came to London with us.

As hurtful as it is to admit, I know Papa is ashamed of me. He’s ashamed to acknowledge his dark secret because it would bring down the wrath of Society on himself and his legitimate family.

I recall vividly the time Mama let the truth slip. It was a gray November day when I was thirteen. Papa and I had spent a precious hour roaming the toy stalls at the Lowther Arcade; then he left me in front of the millinery where Mama had spent the morning. As the hansom cab rattled away down Regent’s Street, she emerged from the shop and swept to my side. Her lovely features were pinched into a frown.

“He won’t even let you ride in his own carriage,” she said, her tone caustic. “And he won’t be seen speaking to me.”

It was always in those sad moments when leaving him that I was most apt to leap to his defense. “But look what he bought me.” I reached into a parcel and drew forth a trinket. “When I wind the key, the rabbit’s paws beat the drum.”

She made a sweeping wave of her arm, her cloak billowing. “A pittance, a salve for his guilty conscience. Imagine what he must spend on
her.”

“On who, Mama?”

A pink flush crept up her alabaster cheeks. Then her breath formed a fog in the chilly air. “I suppose you’re old enough to know, darling. Your father has another daughter, born of his marriage to a noblewoman.”

My heart seemed to cease beating. Shoppers surged around us, but I felt trapped in a glass-enclosed island, where sights and sounds failed to penetrate. At last I managed to ask, “How old is she?”

‘‘Near Rose’s age, I believe. Probably eight or nine.”

“This other girl... she’s my half sister, then.”

“Yes.” Taking me by the shoulders, Mama studied me closely. “Are you quite sure you’re all right, Emily? Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

Guilt and worry tightened her regal cheekbones. The pall over my senses lifted slightly. I knew she hadn’t meant to hurt me, only to help me see the reality of the world.

“I’m fine, Mama. I’m relieved you told me about her.”

She nodded, and turned away to hail a cab. 1 badgered her for more facts about my legitimate sister, but she refused to speak of her again. The shocking news ate away at me, kept me awake at night wondering about the daughter fortunate enough to share every day with Papa. I didn’t even know her name, yet I couldn’t erase her from my mind.

The morning before we were due to depart for Radcliffe, I could no longer contain my curiosity. Never have I been the venturesome sort, but this once the need aching inside me overwhelmed any natural caution.

The Oxford omnibus conveyed me from our modest hotel in Soho to a point near the elegant address where my father lived. Fog hung in the cur and a few icy raindrops spattered my face. Wrapped tightly in a cloak, I trudged the few remaining blocks and wondered what I would say if anyone challenged my presence in this elite neighborhood. Of course, I was being foolish and fanciful; no one would take notice of a nondescript girl.

On a quiet street near St. George’s Church in May fair, I located the terrace house. As I paused across the road, beneath the bare branches of an elm, my hands trembled as much from nervousness as the cold. Why had I done such a foolhardy thing as to come here? Suddenly I wanted to run as fast as possible, but my legs felt stiff and frozen.

The house lacked the immensity and majesty of Castle Radcliffe, but it was certainly more luxurious and well kept. Four stories high, the redbrick residence towered over its neighbors. Despite the damp weather, the brasswork on the door gleamed and the tall windows shone. There was no sign of life anywhere, not even a servant sweeping the porticoed porch.

So I had seen where Papa lived. Now what? Agitation
and indecision engulfed me. Lacking another plan, I walked slowly down the street, then back again.

A brougham stopped in front of the house. My heart began to pound faster. I shrank against a wrought-iron fence and hoped the hooded cloak concealed me. Perhaps I might glimpse these visitors, see the noble folk who associated with my father.

But the footman remained perched on the rear page board; no one got out of the carriage. Puzzled, I stared until realization struck—this must be Papa’s carriage. Just then, the front door opened and a girl emerged from the house.

She stood somewhat taller than Rose, with a mass of reddish brown hair curling over the miniver collar of her coat. Dainty high-buttoned shoes peeked from beneath her knee-length dress, and her hat sported a cluster of pink hothouse roses.

Papa stepped outside and took her gloved hand. He looked elegant in his top hat and double-breasted coat, more elegant than when he took me on outings. Smiling, she tilted her head up at him and said something which made him laugh. The jolly sound carried across the street.

Even from the distance of years, I can still feel the jumble of emotions that choked me. Pain, anger, and yes, even envy, for I yearned with all my heart to be her. This was Papa’s other daughter. The pampered daughter who shared every day of his life. The legitimate daughter he proudly presented to society. But for a trick of fate, I might haw been the sun in his universe.

He helped my half sister down the steps and into the carriage. Neither noticed me gawking shamelessly. As the brougham rattled away, hot tears coursed down my cold cheeks. Did she realize her good fortune? Of course not. Such a well bred girl would have no knowledge of anything but privilege and luxury. In her wildest fancies, she would never dream that Emmett Carleton had another daughter...

Chapter 19

The handwriting blurred before Juliet’s eyes. She had the dizzying sensation of sinking into a mire of disbelief.

Her father and Emily’s father were one and the same?

Impossible!

Papa would never engage in such a sordid affair. He was too proper, too gentlemanly. He couldn’t have a secret life. A life he’d hidden for so many years.

There must be another man named Emmett Carleton.

Logic scoffed at the wild thought. Another Emmett Carleton in London society? An Emmett Carleton who had lived near St. George’s Church, in a terrace house exactly like the one in which Juliet had grown up? An Emmett Carleton who hated William Deverell?

A cold weight pressed into her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Her limbs felt leaden, numb.

Emily... Emmett. Dear God, she must have been named for him. Emily... his first daughter—

A quiet rap broke the stillness. The sound jolted Juliet. Obeying a half rational impulse, she wedged the diary pages behind the chair cushion.

The door opened. “Memsahib?”

Ravi. It was only Ravi. Drawing in a deep breath, she laced her trembling fingers in her lap. “Come in.”

Carrying a silver tray, he walked into the bedroom. “I have brought your luncheon.”

He set the tray on the dressing table. She watched, only half comprehending as he uncovered plates and poured a cup of tea. A part of her mind cataloged the odors of shepherd’s pie and warm, crusty bread. Her stomach felt empty, but the notion of eating held no appeal.

Ravi straightened. “I have tested the dishes, so you need not fear dining.”

“Tested?”

“For poison, Your Grace.”

She stared. The fact that someone wished her dead seemed eons distant. Her thoughts were scattered pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together. Emily. Papa. Kent. Murder.

Ravi peered intently at her. “Do not look so worried, memsahib. I will keep you safe.”

Juliet managed a nod, more because he seemed to desire a response than because she understood him. He departed, leaving the door slightly ajar.

How much did Kent know?

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t see a way out of the dark chaos in her mind.

Without conscious intent, she pulled out the diary pages. Her eyes brought Emily’s feminine handwriting into focus.

...
Emmett Carleton had another daughter. I tried to tell myself that Papa loved me, that I should be grateful for all he had given me, that only the selfless need to protect his second child prevented him from acknowledging me as his own. Yet the circumstance still caused me deep pain, even as I grew older and wiser in the ways of the world.

I was thrilled to learn that at last he would come to the castle. So what if his intent to declare me his daughter was linked to my new position as duchess? He loved me in his own way, and I was willing to accept him on any terms.

In the note I received yesterday he asked me not to tell Kent of the call. At the time I thought Papa only meant to resolve our situation before informing my husband. I implored Mama to let us hold the secret rendezvous in her sitting room.

“No. I don’t care for the idea of him coming here,” she said stiffly. “Kent might not regard the feud with as much vehemence as William, but he
is
the duke. He deserves to know that an enemy is about to breach his walls.”

I took her smooth hand. “Please, Mama, don’t be melodramatic. I’ll explain things to Kent later, at the right moment.”

“Emmett will only upset you. What if you lose the baby?”

“He won’t harm his own grandchild.”

“Can you be so certain? Darling, you don’t know how hatred can fester inside a person’s heart.”

“Yes, I do,” I whispered. “I’ve seen what the feud has done to you, to Kent, to the old duke. Even Gordon and Augusta resent Papa.”

“Precisely.” Pulling free, she pointed at my slightly rounded belly. “That child represents the mingling of Deverell and Carleton blood. I can’t imagine Emmett acting the doting grandfather to a Deverell. William would never have done so, either.”

Uncertainty whirled inside me, but yearning overpowered doubt. “Please, Mama. I have to see him.”

Studying me, she pursed her lips. At last a bitter sigh escaped her. “You’ve asked me for so little, darling. I suppose I can grant you this one request.”

A sudden, great premonition of disaster overwhelmed me that something would happen to prohibit the meeting. “Don’t tell anyone,” I begged. “Not even Rose.”

Mama nodded reluctantly. When the appointed hour arrived, she admitted Papa through the postern gate and spirited him up into the tower sitting room. Whatever words they had spoken remain a mystery to me, for she merely gave me a tight smile and vanished into the bedroom.

I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. Money had grown scarcer since the old duke’s death, when Kent had discovered the extent of his father’s mismanagement of estate funds. To save the expense of London dressmakers, Augusta had generously volunteered to sew my trousseau. Today I wore the finest of those gowns, a pale blue silk that brought out the color of my eyes.

Feeling shy, I let Papa kiss my cheek. “You look well, Emily. News of your marriage came as quite a surprise.”

“I wanted to invite you to the wedding,” I hastened to say. “But Kent insisted on keeping the party small.”