JoAnn Wendt (16 page)

* * * *

Learning that the duke had sent his son to Bladensburg, the duke’s Rhine River estate in Germany, McNeil had sailed for Amsterdam with a shipload of English trade goods. Though his heart was in his mouth for fear of what might be happening at Bladensburg, he conducted his Amsterdam business at a leisurely pace, accepting all social invitations that came his way. At each dinner or ball he probed the guests, sifting out those who might suit his purpose.

The Wetherby party had suited him best. The party consisted of six young persons and two elderly chaperoning aunts. Lord Wetherby was an English earl from Sussex. He was also a penniless spendthrift who sailed through life leaving a wake of unpaid tailors and irate shopkeepers. Eunice Wetherby, his cousin, was unmarried and about twenty-three years old. Her marital chances had suffered, no doubt, because of her guardian’s embarrassing financial state. Three male cousins and Eunice Wetherby’s female companion completed the party. Lord Wetherby was in Amsterdam, preparing to take a holiday junket up the Rhine. Lord Wetherby carried letters of entry from the duke of Tewksbury, inviting Wetherby and his party to stay at German estates on the Rhine, including Bladensburg, the estate of the duke of Tewksbury.

Flirting with Eunice Wetherby at a ball, McNeil had easily insinuated himself into the circle of Wetherby females. Access to Lord Wetherby’s circle was equally easy. The young spendthrift enjoyed nothing so much as keeping company with an openhanded rich colonial. When McNeil offered use of a Rhine River barge he’d hired, Lord Wetherby had jumped at the invitation. McNeil had found himself in the inner circle.

“You are frowning, Captain McNeil.”

Garth jerked as Eunice Wetherby’s anxious voice broke into his intense thoughts.

“I should not have come up to the top of the keep, Captain McNeil. I fear I am disturbing your meditation. I fear you are angry with me.”

He’d not been aware of the ferocity of his concentration until Eunice’s voice ended it. Collecting himself, he cast a last glance out over the rolling forest, then turned, forcing a smile.

“Angry with
you,
dear Miss Wetherby? Impossible.”

She flushed. She looked away, then peeked back at him. A sudden half-shy, half-bold expression crossed her face. She gazed up at him. To ignore the invitation in her eyes would’ve been ungallant. So he bent and lightly kissed her trembling lips. She drew back in propriety. But not immediately. Blushing deeply, she forbore commenting on the daring intimacy. Instead, she gulped air and chattered on as though it had not happened.

“Captain McNeil, my aunts sent me to find you. The tour of the castle begins shortly. The chief steward will lead us through Bladensburg and will explain all of its treasures. We mustn’t miss the tour.”

She drew a shallow, uncertain breath and echoed her own words. “We mustn’t miss the tour?”

Her eyes begged him to disagree and continue flirting with her, but he could not. Involvement with Eunice Wetherby must be proper and superficial. He would leave her virginity intact. Let someone else reap it. There would be unhappiness enough for the prim spinster when he would suddenly receive news of his “aged, ailing grandmother,” and would leave at once.

“I—I—suppose we could miss the tour,” she whispered anxiously.

He gave her a hearty smile.

“Miss it? Not for the world, Miss Wetherby. I know how fervently you’ve looked forward to examining His Grace’s Oriental collection. My arm, Miss Wetherby?”

The corners of her mouth twitched in vexation, but the expression was gone in an instant. Granting him a bright smile, she accepted his proffered arm.

He escorted Eunice down the ancient stone stairwell that spiraled gloomily down the castle keep. Her voice echoed off the stone walls as she chattered happily.

There was a slightly proprietary weight to the small hand on his arm, and the bounce in her step as they crossed the castle yard, scattering peacocks, was unnervingly victorious. So! She considered him hers. All the better. It suited his purposes. He led her along, up the terraces, through the garden and into the villa where the Wetherby party was assembling in a sunny, greenery-filled breakfast room.

As he and Eunice stepped into the fragrance of fresh coffee and warm yeast buns, all heads swung their way. Eating stopped. Conversation died, then instantly resurrected itself and burst on with masquerading gaiety. But eyes met knowingly. Lord Wetherby winked at a cousin, and behind fluttering fans the fat, chaperoning aunts nodded to each other excitedly. Garth drew a deep breath.

Wonderful, McNeil, wonderful. You’re as good as trussed, tied and delivered to the altar.

* * * *

“There are one hundred and fifty-six mullioned glass windows in Bladensburg Castle. Each window reaches the height of twelve feet and spans three feet. The glass is imported from Venice. You will notice, my lord, my ladies, gentlemen, that each pane of glass is beveled. The mullioned fittings are brass. The brass is acid-bathed so as not to distress the eye when sunlight enters the window.”

“The draperies, Parkinson?” It was the fatter of the two aunts who spoke.

“Flemish, my lady,” replied the steward whose job it was to extend the absent duke’s hospitality. “If you will kindly examine the warp and woof of the weave, my lady, you will note that each tenth thread is gold- dipped. It is the gold that brings an especial luster to this fine Flemish silk.”

Lord Wetherby yawned.

Lord Wetherby and his cousins lasted through the draperies, an El Greco painting, a life-size tree of jade, and a tall curio case containing golden multiarmed tantric statues. Murmuring apologies, the men drifted off to sample the duke’s riding stock. As the men left, McNeil was suddenly aware of Eunice’s hand tightening on his arm. It was only a slight pressure, but he was surprised at the imperiousness it conveyed. He was both amused and irritated. So he was the property of a plain-faced spinster, was he?

The gesture was annoying enough to make him want to wheel round and join the men. But he didn’t. While the tour was merely recreation for the ladies, it was a crucial event for him. If he were to make a success of stealing Robert, he must familiarize himself with every inch of Bladensburg. He must be aware of the location of every window, every door, every corridor. He must know where any odd creaking board lurked and how to avoid it in stealth of night. He must count the servants, become familiar with the routine of each. Were footmen posted at night? Or did all servants, except the night steward, retire and sleep soundly in belief that nothing wayward ever occurred in the country?

He must find out. He must leave nothing to chance.

“As you enter the west receiving room, my ladies, sir—”

The party flowed on, moving toward the nursery wing. On the pretext of studying a tapestry, McNeil extricated himself from Eunice and dawdled in the rear. From the moment he’d stepped from the barge to the grounds of Bladensburg two days earlier, he’d been tense and alert, waiting—no, damn it,
yearning—
for a glimpse of the boy. Today’s tour provided the first opportunity to go near the nursery. As the others drifted on, he lingered in the corridor, his throat dry, his senses heightened.

Suddenly, behind the great double doors of the schoolroom, a young child’s laughter bubbled up. The happy laughter was followed by the sound of a switch coming down hard upon soft flesh. There was a terrible pause. Then, heart-wrenching sobs from the child, sobs that played upon McNeil’s nerves like a saw upon tin. He froze, horrified.

A pedantic dry voice rose shrilly above the crying.

“I warned you, my young lord. You are
not
to play, young sir. Your father, the duke of Tewksbury, has entrusted me with teaching you your letters. Now then, pay attention, my young lord. His Grace, your father, was a fine reader at the age of three. His Grace could read Latin and Greek at the age of five. You
must
emulate His Grace, my young lord.”

But the sobs still came, and along with them, babyish catches of breath. McNeil’s anger knew no bounds. His hands shook. Lest he wrench open the doors and smash the face that belonged to the dry, pedantic voice, he strode rapidly away and caught up with Eunice.

The incident banished any doubt he harbored about the morality of his mission. Robert must be taken away.

On the third day of their stay he chanced upon Flavia’s portrait. Deferring to Lord Wetherby’s aunts’ request, the chief steward had ordered the dust covers taken off all of the ancestral portraits in the main ballroom. Flavia’s was among them.

A dozen times a day McNeil found himself standing in the empty, echoing ballroom, staring hopelessly at her. It was a moving portrait and it awakened all the old grief. Girlish and innocent, she’d been painted perhaps in the opening weeks of her marriage. Her huge young eyes shone with hope and with a trusting belief in the goodness of life. There was a shy eager-to-please look to her, and her loose, casually arranged hair made her seem like a country girl on holiday.

Physical pain, the same incapacitating pain he’d suffered in those first weeks after her death, stabbed at him again.

* * * *

The heels of his boots stirred dust devils as he hurried across the castle yard to join the Wetherby party down at the boat dock. A pleasure cruise on the barge was on the agenda, and pleasurable or not, McNeil had to attend. Eunice Wetherby expected it. And it was in his best interests to meet Eunice Wetherby’s expectations.

He was about to descend the brick steps that wound down to the river when a flurry of noise and activity caught his attention in the stableyard. Three grooms huddled around a saddled white pony. The pony shifted from hock to hock as the grooms attempted to settle a wildly struggling small rider on its back. The would-be rider squalled in terror, pitching away from the pony.

“No! No!” a tiny, sobbing voice shrieked.

McNeil halted in midstride, his heart wheeling, his blood pounding in his throat. Could it be —
was
it—

He knew it was. Without thought, he charged across the yard, grabbed the first groom, flung him into the dirt and went for the second.

“Put the child down,” he roared. “Idiots! Can’t you see the child is frightened?”

The groom that he’d flung was kneeling in the dirt, shaking his head like a stunned dog. The other two grooms stared, flabbergasted at the interference. Even the child in the oldest groom’s arms stopped crying, thrust a thumb into his mouth and stared at McNeil. The tot’s wet cheeks were a  testimony to his misery.
His little chest heaved with silent sobs.

It struck McNeil like a thunderbolt. A two-year-old was not a boy, but still a helpless little baby. Tenderness welled up like a choke. He swallowed. Then swallowed again.

“Put him down,” he ordered softly.

Intensely, he drank the baby in as the befuddled groom hastened to obey. The baby was Flavia’s. No one who’d seen her could doubt it. The sweetness was there. And the face that verged close to being heart-shaped. But the eyes were McNeil eyes. And the dark hair was his. A cowlick swirled at the crown of the baby’s head, exactly where McNeil’s own cowlick made mischief, defying the comb.

Gazing at his son, he could hardly breathe. He stared.
Oh, Flavia . . .
But the chief groom had recovered himself and was smarting with anger. Unable to discern whether McNeil was an important personage to be obeyed or just an interfering guest, he made do with shooting him a sullen look.

“ Tis my assigned task to teach the marquis to sit a horse. If my young lordship don’t ride good by the time he be three year old, it’s my
post
I’ll be losing.”

Tearing his gaze from the baby, McNeil raked the groom with furious eyes.

“Proceed to teach him as you are doing, and you shall lose
more
than your post, I promise you. I will throttle you!”

The groom muttered a bit to save face, then fumbled for his cap, pulled it off and held it against his chest in an unconscious gesture of obedience.

McNeil squatted and smiled at the baby. Robert stared back, sucking his thumb.

“You are afraid of the horse, Robert?”

The tiny chest began to heave again. The thumb was sucked in, up to the last pink knuckle.

“Would you like to ride on my shoulder? You can sit here.” McNeil patted himself. “We will pretend that I am a horse.”

Robert stared warily. For several moments he made no response, but McNeil could see the child’s every thought reflected in his eyes. In this, the child was pure Flavia. All of Flavia’s feelings had lived naked in those large lotus blossom eyes. He watched as the tot struggled with his proposal. The dark eyes flashed first with fear. Fear slowly disintegrated into doubt, doubt into a child’s natural inclination to play. At last he nodded, and McNeil shakily held out his arms. His tiny son flung himself into them. At the sweet innocent smell of babyish flesh, McNeil’s heart thundered.
He fought the urge to hug him close, to kiss the tear-streaked cheek. He wanted to whisper “You shan’t cry any more, Robert. Papa will see to it.” But he couldn’t, not in front of the stewards. He swallowed hard.

“Up?” Garth asked thickly.

“Up!” Robert echoed.

Carefully he picked the child up and settled the child atop his shoulders. Two firm small legs straddled his neck. Holding him with both hands, McNeil stood slowly and began walking about the castle yard. At first, his hair was gripped tight in fear. Gradually, fear faded. A bubble of noise that was almost a giggle popped out. Then another and another, until the child chortled in delight. Letting go of McNeil’s hair, Robert flailed chubby hands, whipping his human horse.

“Go,” he chortled. “Horse go!”

McNeil went. For several minutes they trotted around the castle yard. Then, casually, McNeil strolled toward the white pony. By degrees, he introduced the boy.

“See the horse’s eye,” he encouraged.

Robert jiggled excitedly.

“Eye!
See eye!”

“See the horse’s mane.”

“Horse! Horse mane!”

They played for a quarter-hour while the chief groom and the undergrooms watched sullenly. When McNeil judged the boy’d had enough, he lowered him from his shoulders and reluctantly returned him to the groom.