JoAnn Wendt (33 page)

“Now, for sails on our pretend ship . . . ”

He winced audibly as she pounced on his treasure, a seventy-five-year-old ship’s log, priceless treasure. She flung the log open and ripped out two pages. When the “ships” were a-sail, she carried them to the bed and rumpled the turquoise spread.

“See the blue ocean, Trent. See the big waves.”

With a squeal of glee, the little traitor forgot him and scrambled up into the bed to play ships with Annette. When the hot chocolate came, the two of them made a party of it, with the tray an island in the blue sea. Garth wasn’t invited.

A large chunk of time passed. Giggles. Happy chatter. Ships sailing to London. Cargoes of silver teaspoons. The sailors threw him not the slightest glance.

At last, Trent remembered him. Clutching the pipe box ship, Trent slid down from the bed, ran to Garth and pressed the ship into his hand.

“Play!” the child demanded.

Annette did not look up at the sound of Garth’s footfalls. The bed jiggled violently as he lounged across one end. Annette coolly retreated to the far end. Trent crawled to the center, kneeling and barking commands.

“Sail here!” Trent pointed to Annette.

McNeil slowly maneuvered the ship toward Annette. When it was about a foot from her and she still hadn’t thawed, he quipped, “Can’t do it, old man. That sea is full of icebergs.”

He watched for the telltale twitch of her lips that would signal a return to good humor. It didn’t come. He tried other ploys, all of which he considered extremely clever. No response.

With a sigh, he hove to and limped his makeshift ship back to home port. So it was a full apology or nothing, was it? He flushed. He’d never apologized to a woman before. Well, cook and his mother and a few assorted aunts didn’t count. He drew a last breath, waded into deep water and crossed the Rubicon.

“Perhaps the ship needs a new cargo,” he told Trent, who knelt on the bed, bouncing up and down in excitement. “This,” he said, taking a teaspoon and placing it in the pipe box, “is Captain McNeil’s confession: He behaved like an ass last night.” He picked up another spoon, putting it in the box.
“This
says he is sorry for it.” He fumbled for another spoon. “This says—” He swallowed, the words sticking. “—says—forgive me?”

Annette didn’t move, didn’t raise her eyes to his. So he sailed the box across the turquoise sea and up the burgundy velvet dressing gown until it rested in her lap. She still didn’t move. Garth held his breath, recalling Raven’s words.
You treat Vachon like dirt. You haven’t even the decency to tell her—

Holding his breath, he vowed he would play fair with Annette from now on. He would make a clean breast of things, tell her of Eunice . . .

At last, her hand twitched. She touched the spoons. Silver clinked as she picked up the spoons and slowly brought them to her heart. To Garth’s amazement, she burst into tears.

Bewildered, he said, “Don’t cry, Annette, don’t.”

Frightened, Trent scrambled to Annette. He patted her cheek and shook his head. “Don’t cry, Yady Annette.”

Annette mopped her tears, ruffled Trent’s dark hair and kissed the boy. Finally, she dragged her eyes to Garth.

In a watery whisper she said, “I’m not crying because I’m
unhappy,
you stupid idiot. I’m crying because you’ve made me wonderfully happy.”

Still weeping, she came into his arms. From that point on, the day did not seem to be quite the right one to tell her about Eunice and his upcoming marriage.

Outside his house, the snow fell wet and thick, fell erratically without pace or pattern. Through his drawing room window he watched the snow’s futile attempt to cover the brightly burning oil lamp. But each lump of snow lasted only a moment on the brass, melting and sliding. The lamp burned on like a beacon. As the world turned white, the lamp glowed ever brighter, reflecting the whiteness. Outdoor sounds ceased, muffled by blanketing snow. He sipped wine and watched.

Inside, the fire crackled a pleasant invitation:
Be lazy. Do nothing.
And from the nursery drifted the distant sound of an amusing altercation: Mab putting Trent to bed, Trent escaping from the bed and running to the window, Mab trying again. It went on for several minutes. Then he heard the firm slap of hand to fanny. Token wailing. Then silence. He grinned. Mab Collins was working out well. Mab was fond of Trent, and she and McNeil were no longer the enemies they’d been.

Silk rustled behind him. Annette’s warm arm entwined his as she gazed out at the falling snow. She too held a wineglass. The amber liquid in her goblet caught the firelight, blazing golden.

He smiled down at her. Since his and Trent’s visit to her house, the name “Lord Dunwood” had vanished from Annette’s vocabulary. And he, having recovered from what he assessed to have been a near-fatal attack of conscience, had put off announcing news of his betrothal. Such news could only upset the applecart; he preferred to keep the cart upright for as long as possible.

With the snow increasing, they settled down over a chessboard in front of the fire. They were ten minutes into the game—Annette moving in rash intuitive spurts and he cutting off her retreat with simple, classical moves—when he caught the muffled clop of hooves. Horse harness jingled. Coach wheels grated to a stop.

“Who the devil? On a night like this?”

He got up and strode from the drawing room, closing the door behind him to prevent a draft. He beat Toad to the front door and wrenched it open.

“Yes?”

For a moment, the figure before him seemed unrecognizable. The figure was heavily cloaked, and the snow was falling like a blanket. But when recognition dawned, it was a severe jolt. He stiffened, blinking in disbelief.

“Don’t stand there as though you’ve seen some dreadful apparition, Garth,” Eunice Wetherby said. “Do let us in.” She glanced over her shoulder to where a very fat figure and a slim one clung to the arms of the coachman as they made their way up the walk. “Auntie is freezing, and my companion has a cough. The ocean crossing was dreadful.
Dreadful
coach journey from Hampton.”

Cold, snow-flecked cloaks brushed him as the covy of clucking, complaining women entered, stamping snow from their shoes.

“Terrible climate.”

“Inferior to England.”

“—will be the death of me.”

Speechless with shock, Garth groped for words. “Eunice, I didn’t know you were coming,” he said stupidly.

Dropping her cloak into Toad’s arms, she turned to answer. But her aunt, Lady Wetherby, jumped in. “Of course you didn’t know, dear boy. There was no time to send a letter before sailing. Besides, our dear Eunice was not certain you could
read,
for you do not seem to be able to
write,
dear boy. Eunice has had nary a word from you.”

“Auntie!” Eunice’s plain, birdlike face colored to scarlet.

The foyer vibrated with resentment. True, he’d not written, and he’d paid scant attention to the silly, gushy letters Eunice wrote him. Like a skiff with a loose rudder pin, he tacked about for a reply, but Lady Wetherby sailed upwind of him, cutting him off.

“Come, come, dear boy! We forgive you, don’t we, Eunice? All’s well that ends well. Now that you two lovebirds are reunited,” she paused, beaming at Garth and then at the flushed Eunice, “we shall set the date for your wedding and we shall live happily ever after!” Lady Wetherby extended her hand.

Date? We?
As he kissed Lady Wetherby’s hand and then the hand of Eunice’s companion, his hackles rose. Truss and roast him, would they? He was on the verge of rudeness, when the memory of that harrowing night at Bladensburg came rushing back.
Trent.
Eunice was the key to Trent’s safety. So were the fat aunt and even the mousy companion. If the duke’s suspicions should ever be stirred . . .

Swallowing a lump of anger, he took Eunice’s hand.

“Eunice,” he said, trying and failing to pump enthusiasm into his voice.

“Dearest Garth.”

She offered her cheek. He kissed it perfunctorily. Her cheek was cold, and the scent that rose from her was heather. Heather had been Flavia’s scent. He jerked away at the first whiff of it and turned from her.

Lady Wetherby and Mouse stood appraising his foyer, their eyes totaling up the cost of the black and white marble checkered floor, the silver chandelier that Annette had ordered.

Annette!

“That
must be the drawing room,” Lady Wetherby said, nodding to the door he’d earlier shut. “Come, ladies. We’ll thaw before the fire.” With proprietary aplomb, as though she owned the place, she marched to her target.

Garth sprang forward.

“Wait!”

Before he could stop her, she’d opened the door and gone in. Eunice and Mouse obediently fluttered in after her. Halfway to the fire, they froze like three rabbits felled by a single shot.

Across the room, Annette’s plum-colored silk glowed in the firelight. Although her garb was silk, she wasn’t attired in a gown but a dressing gown tied over white dimity petticoats. It was the sort of attire a man’s wife might wear on an evening no company was expected.

Silence thundered. There was only the snap and hiss of the fire. While Eunice’s face went pale, Lady Wetherby and Mouse flushed red. Annette drew herself up, chin held high, a spot of bright color burning on each cheekbone. Her glare stabbed first at him, then at the invaders, settling with uncanny female intuition upon Eunice. Eunice returned the glare. Then, four sets of accusing eyes swung to him.

He wished he were in China. Or at sea, riding out a simple, sail-splitting typhoon. But neither option presented itself. There was no solution but to bite steel and get it over with. He drew a deep breath.

“Lady Wetherby, may I present the Baroness Annette Vachon.”

The two women nodded stiffly. He stumbled through the introduction of Mouse. He’d forgotten her name. With an air of injury, she supplied it. That left Eunice and Annette. He took a last breath.

“Lady Annette, may I present Miss Eunice Wetherby. Miss Wetherby is my—my—”

Eunice and Annette were scarcely breathing, hanging on his every word. “My— er –my --” he began again lamely.

To his fury, Lady Wetherby crisply finished for him. “Betrothed. My niece, Eunice, is Captain McNeil’s future wife.”

Annette jerked, then stood still as death. For some moments she seemed not to breathe. When breath again came, it was in childlike spasms. Overwhelmed with the sudden urge to comfort her, he started forward, but she shot past him, flying from the room. He dove after her.

“Captain McNeil, explain this woman!” the aunt demanded.

“Garth,” Eunice whined.

Ignoring them, he strode after Annette as her heels clicked down the long corridor toward the kitchen.

“Toad!” she called out. “The landau at once! Mab? Get my cloak and boots. Collect my things.”

“Annette, wait! I tried to tell you—”

But she’d reached the kitchen. Turning, she stopped him in his tracks with a look of pure fury. She slammed the door shut. She shot the door bolt home, locking him out.

He exhaled with a curse, but had no time to pursue the matter. Servants bustled everywhere. Luggage bumped in the foyer as the hired coachmen lugged it in. Cook chattered at his elbow, asking directions for room assignments and refreshments.

It was an hour before the servants finished settling them in, an hour before he resumed his interview with Eunice. Preparing himself with a slug of brandy in his study, he straightened his shoulders and headed for the drawing room. Eunice and her aunt were waiting, perched on a settee with a low tea tray before them. Eunice’s eyes were red from crying.

“I would like to speak with Eunice alone, Lady Wetherby.”

The woman’s several chins jiggled in indignation. “Perhaps
you
feel free to do things improperly, but
we
do not. Eunice shall require a chaperone until she is properly married.”

His temper flared. With effort, he checked it.

“Who
is
that low woman?” Lady Wetherby began.

“Yes,” Eunice echoed, taking courage from hiding behind her aunt’s skirts. “Who is she, Garth? I demand to know.”

He considered a lie, then thought better of it. He’d only be digging himself into a pit. Besides, with peckish, hennish women like the Wetherbys, it was always safer to be blunt. Bluntness deprived them of future territory at which to peck and scratch.

Quietly, he said, “Annette has been my mistress for the past few years. You will do well to absorb that fact and then forget it.”

Eunice gasped.

Lady Wetherby’s jowls puffed out. “A gentleman would not admit such a thing! And to his betrothed!”

He was on the verge of snapping about Lord Wetherby’s “gentlemanliness”—his penchant for writing Garth for loans, but he bit the words back. The loans were lost money. An investment in keeping Trent safe.

He turned to Eunice. “Why did you come, Eunice? I told you I would fetch you myself. We would wed in London.”

Eunice opened her mouth to respond, but Lady Wetherby jumped in.

“You
didn’t
come, dear boy. You didn’t even write. You didn’t acknowledge Eunice’s letters. It was humiliating for her. Her friends, her cousins, everyone asking about the wedding— oh, it was not to be borne!”

Nodding at each point Lady Wetherby made, Eunice dropped her face to her hands and wept bitter tears of injured pride.

He felt the stirring of pity. He sighed tiredly, wondering how many marriages had as their foundation, pity.
More than the world dreams
. . .  He went to Eunice and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“How can I make it up to you, Eunice?”

Her head came up, bird-eyes shining with hope.

“I—I—”

“You can set the date, dear boy. And purchase the marriage license.”

He drew an annoyed breath.

“I will give it thought. After my next sailing.”

“Give it thought! Dear boy, you will set the date
now, today, this moment.
And as for that despicable woman—”

He swung on his heel, striding to the door, and Lady Wetherby gasped uncertainly, changing her tack.