Lions and Lace (44 page)

Grief etched on her features, she refused to look at him. All she could think of was Christal—fragile, vulnerable Christal, her only relative besides Didier, out on the streets with no one to care for her.

"Have you heard me?"

She raised her head, too distraught to find the words to answer him. In one brief interlude she'd lost the man she loved and her sister. "Why did she do this? Just as I had her freed . . ." she said numbly.

"I don't know, love. I don't know why she did this."

"She didn't do this." Her anger surfacing, she felt tears again spring to her eyes. "Christal would have never done this without a reason. I don't care if everyone thought her mad. She wouldn't have left me without a good reason. I know it. I
know
it!" She searched wildly for a wrap so that she could flee.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I'm going to Brooklyn! I'm going to find her!"

"There's nothing that you can do that I can't do a hundred times over with Pinkerton men. I'll have everyone look for her. How are you going to make a difference?" He held her. The sheet slipped altogether, and she was left naked and struggling in his embrace. "Be reasonable, Alana. There's nothing you can do right now."

Her anger flared. He'd rejected her love, and now he was keeping her from her sister. Unable to get away, she lashed out at him. "Let me go! I'm the only one who can help her. After all, isn't it odd that you discover my sister one day and the next day she disappears?"

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, pushing her onto her back and pinning her to the bed.

She nearly spat. "I mean, after all,
even you
have to worry about your reputation.
Perhaps finding out about my mad sister made you see that it might sully Mara's social conquests.
And with all your effort behind her success, I can see why—"

"You're not thinking clearly, and you know it."

"Let me go," she said quietly, too quietly.

"Your sister was ill. You told me they'd had her drugged. She was confused and escaped in the early hours of the morning. I'm sure she'll turn up. I'll have everyone I can hire looking for her."

"Will I ever see her again?"

Almost as if he felt chastised, he eased his grip on her arms. "I'll do everything I can to find your sister. It's a promise." He stared at her, her expression far away, filled with pain and bewilderment. "Look at me," he said softly, his hand resting on her thigh.

She wouldn't. Her mind was snapping. She was too bewildered to think of anything but Christal. She wondered where she could be and whether she was all right. Silently she begged that her prayers be answered, that
Christal ,
would come to the mansion. When she thought she might never see her sister again, she gave a terrible sob.

"Alana," he whispered, his hand reaching out to comfort her.

"No, don't touch me! Don't touch me! If you don't love me, you cannot touch me!" She leapt from the bed and took the sheet. Holding it over her front, she ran toward her room.

He stopped her, his arm encircling her narrow waist.

"Oh God," she sobbed, breaking down, "please let her be all right. I beg of you . . . I beg of you."

"Hush," he whispered, again trying to comfort her.

She pushed him away and stared at him through teary pain-ridden eyes.

"I'll find her. I promise." There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

"Your other promises are all broken, though, aren't they?" Pain seared through her heart. "This agreement, this marriage—you've never kept any of your other promises to me."

He stared at her, his face stone-hard. "I'm the one who can help you, Alana. I'm the only one."

She turned away, unable to look at him. Running and tripping on the trailing edge of the sheet, she fled his bedroom while he stared after her, a terrible grief of his own ravaging his features.

"No, no, I cannot be
doin
' such things," Caitlin insisted.

Eagan stared down at her, a frustrated frown on his handsome mouth. She was juggling the baby from shoulder to shoulder while
Shivhan
cried softly. "But you've got to do something more than just be a servant. Think of your child."

"Me
mam
was a
sarvent
.
And her
mam
before that.
What's wrong with
t'at
?" she said irritably.

"But why do that when I can set you up in a shop and you can do more? Think of the babe. She should go to school and make something of herself. How will you do that on servant's pay?"

Caitlin went to the basement window and looked through the ornate black grille that kept the thieves away. She bounced
Shivhan
against her chest. "It's not right, I tell you, to be
acceptin
' such a thing from a man."

"You can pay me back."

"I'll never be able to."

"But I don't care, so why should you?"

She shot him a glance,
then
returned her attention to her baby. "I cannot be
doin
' it. I cannot."

Eagan ran his hand over his jaw. Everything had been so simple for him. Then
Caitlín
had come along, and now everything was impossible. "Sometimes I think you don't like me very much."

She spun around. "
T'at's
not true! You've been a saint to us." She looked at
Shivhan
, and her eyes clouded.

He stood by her side. "Then what is it?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Make me understand."

She was quiet, patting her little baby against her shoulder. Just when she was about to say something,
Shivhan
burped like a
beermonger
.

Amazed that such a loud noise could come from such a tiny creature, they were both stunned into silence. Eagan was the first to chuckle, then
Caitlín
.
Shivhan
had ceased her fussing—no wonder—and she merely looked at Eagan with a sleepy, glazed stare.

Still laughing, he reached out and took
Caitlín's
chin in his hand. She stopped smiling just as his lips met hers.

By Eagan's standards the kiss was brief and respectful. She seemed to enjoy it because her mouth became soft and pliable, just the response he had wanted. But when he was through, he felt guilty just looking at her. Her expression warred between accusation and betrayal, with a small glimmer of desire thrown in.

"You're angry," he whispered.

"I'll be
leavin
' here today," she said quietly. "You speak of Ireland as if you think we have
t'at
in common. But we have nothing in common." Her gaze roamed the kitchen. Even that room had more luxury than she had seen back in Ireland. "Only the Ascendency lives in houses like this one. You're the American Ascendency, Eagan." She started crying. "And I'll not be
havin
' your babe so you can put me out on the streets too." With that, she wrapped
Shivhan
into her receiving blanket and fled to her little room.

His mouth open in shock, Eagan just watched her go, helpless to stop her.

By three in the afternoon, the Sheridan men were drunk. Eagan had arrived in the library shortly after lunch and helped himself to Trevor's whiskey. The stuff was torture to get down his throat, but he already felt tortured, and he could get more drunk more quickly on a couple of shots of that Five Points whiskey than he could on the V.S.O.P.

Two hours passed, and neither man spoke much. Trevor tapped his stick against the grate and stared morosely into the cold coal-blackened hearth while Eagan kicked back more drinks than were wise.

Finally Eagan swilled down one last shot and slammed the glass on the table. "I got
pro'lems
," he announced, slurring every letter that could be slurred. "You're me big bad brother, Trevor boy, Brother o' mine. What would you do in me
shishuation
?"

Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and peered at him, nonplussed. If his own speech hadn't been a fraction off, he might not have appeared drunk at all. "
Wha's
the situation?"

"Women, Trevor, women."

"And don't I know it." Trevor downed his own shot.

"
Caitlín's
driving me crazy. I think I love the girl."

"Don't fall in love."

Eagan seemed taken aback by this warning. "Too late
. '
Sides, she
needsa
husband.
Shivhan
needs a father." He fingered the rim of his whiskey glass, his eyes defiant.
"No —arguments?"

"No."

"Well,
thas
a surprise.
Wha's
got into you? I thought you'd want me to do—better . . ."

"I did better. Look what it got me."

Eagan studied his brother's melancholy figure.

"Marry a girl beneath you, Eagan. Otherwise there'll be no end for your pain."

"Alana loves you, Trevor—loves you."

Trevor gave him a dark glance. His answer was as succinct and poetic as it was hopeless. "How do you mix whiskey and champagne? How do you sing
"
Brid
Og
NiMdilk
"
to the tune of "Blue Danube"? You know how you do it?" The fire in his eyes died. "You can't, that's how. You just bloody can't."

Alana sat in the chateau's palm court with her morning coffee. A pleasant green fragrance surrounded her, and a fountain gurgled in the middle of the glass-and-iron enclosure, but none of it cheered her. The hours ticked away as slowly as an unwound clock. The mansion was as quiet as a mausoleum, a marble prison where she waited for news about her sister.

No news had come. Her sister, it seemed, had left without a trace. Though the asylum had searched frantically and detectives were at the chateau at all hours reporting on spurious leads, there was nothing.
Christabel
Van
Alen
had disappeared into thin air.

Depressed and anxious, Alana nonetheless had time to think about her harsh words to Trevor. When she'd gotten the news of Christal, she'd been pushed beyond her endurance by the joy and pain of her relationship with Trevor. He had always made her feel vulnerable, but after the intimacy of their lovemaking and her confession of love, hearing about
Christal's
disappearance ravaged her. Her instinct had been to fight back.

Now there was only numb silence between them whenever she glanced at him at the dinner table or spied him in the foyer. Her accusations made her feel foolish. There were so many detectives reporting to the mansion, they were wearing a path to the library door. If it was all show, her husband was doing a brilliant job.

She fingered one of the lush palm leaves surrounding her, knowing she had to apologize. Her heart was already torn apart by Christal—she couldn't bear losing the only man she would ever love too. Now they were separated more profoundly than at any time before, even when he was forcing her to marry him.

"A letter for you, Mrs. Sheridan."
Whittaker entered the court.

"Thank you," she said anxiously, taking the letter and the gold opener. She looked at it, and her hands began to shake. The handwriting on the front was
Christal's
.

"Madam, are you all right?" Whittaker inquired.

"Fine . . . fine . . ." she mumbled, trying to get the envelope opened. Her gaze devoured it.

My dear,
dear
sister,

How painful it is to be writing you like this, so far away, unable to speak to you about what weighs so heavily on my mind. By now, you know of my departure. I understand it was wicked of me to run away, but I swear to you, Alana, there was no other choice. I would have perished at Park View. But not for the reasons you think.

This will come as a great shock to you, Sister. And knowing what I know now, I thank God every day that you have stood by me and defended my innocence against all odds and all reason. I know you've felt Mother and Father's death in some ways more deeply than I. I, at least, had confusion to numb me. You did not. Forever, I will remember your bravery because of this.

I did not kill Mother and Father. And yet their death was indeed no accident. I know this now because one week ago, I awoke with such clear memory, I weep to regain the bliss of forgetfulness. My memory is a terrible one, Alana, but it frees me. No longer must I carry the guilt of a heinous crime, for now I know who killed our parents.

And that is why I must flee. Didier is still out there, Alana. And he will come after me, as surely as I know you will. But if he finds me, he will kill me. I know after the shock of this sinks in, your first reaction will be to seek our uncle out and accuse him of his terrible crime. But always,
always
remember this: You too are at risk. You must not shout accusations, even though your suspicions are correct, since you have no evidence. You only have my word, and though I know you believe me, Sister, others will not. I've been in Park View Asylum for three years; our case is lost.

But do not cry for me, Alana. I've gone to seek a better life, no matter how bleak it may look now. I've managed by selling my jewelry, and that money will suffice for a very long time. You must believe that to stay would have meant a far worse end than the anonymity I've chosen.

My situation is dire, Alana, but my real pain now comes from having to be separated from you. I love you. In the years to come, when the threat is gone, I make you this promise: I will appear at your doorstep. Just when all hope is gone, I will come. I'll embrace you, and I'll never let go. We will regain the years snatched from us now, and the years to come will be sweeter for it.

Do not look for me, Alana. You will not find me. I must run far away because I fear for your life too. Remain ignorant. When the time is right, Justice will find us. In the meantime, know that I always think of you. I pray for your fine husband and the nieces and nephews I will someday meet. And I pray that you believe this had to be and that you know I am happy at last.

Your
adoring sister,

                                                           
Christal

Alana stared at the letter, unsure if the drops that smeared the ink were from her tears or her sister's. The handwriting became rushed at the end, and she wondered when Christal had penned it. The postmark was Manhattan, but where? She pictured her sister at a dock or a train station, alone and frightened, traveling far out west or even to the Orient to escape the demons left behind in New York

The pain of losing her, of perhaps never seeing her again, clawed at her heart. But worse was the seeping horror that the real criminal had escaped, unpunished for his heinous crime. And because of their uncle,
Christabel
had been put through unspeakable mental agony. She'd had to grow up early. Even the letter seemed written by a girl much older than sixteen, much wiser, more burdened. It had been a crime to put her through such trauma, and the thought that this could have been avoided if justice had ever looked favorably upon them made Alana want to scream in rage.

But she remained silent. Her fury, her lust for retribution, would stay dormant until she knew the most effective thing to do. Christal was right. For now, at least, she could make no accusations. She must get help, but to do that, she needed her husband.

Desperate to find him, she smoothed the letter and held it for one reverent moment to her breast. The letter might be the last she would ever see from her sister, and she fought to hold back her tears. Someday, she promised Christal, they would have vengeance for what had happened. Somehow justice would be found, if it took the rest of Alana's life.

Collecting herself, she turned and looked at Whittaker, who still stood quietly in the entrance, lines of concern written deep in his face. "Where is Mr. Sheridan?" she asked softly.

"He's in the library, madam."

She nodded.

Once in the library, she found Trevor working at his desk, pondering the stacks of documents about
Christal's
whereabouts that the Pinkerton men had generated. He looked up when she entered. "Whittaker told me a letter arrived for you," he said.

She looked at his harsh features, half of her wanting to beg him to help her, the other half wanting to run away, shamed by his refusal to admit he might love her.

"Have you had news of your sister, then?"

"Yes." She stared at him, unsure how much of the letter she wanted to reveal. "She ran away, as you said. She couldn't take the asylum anymore. There are no clues to her whereabouts. The postmark is local."

"May I see it?"

Reluctantly she handed it to him. He read it, his mouth a grim line. Finally he muttered "bastard," and she knew he was talking about Didier.

"Can we find my uncle too?" she whispered.

He was already writing those instructions for the detectives.

"I have one last request." Her voice shook. It was time to confront the lion for the last time. Trevor looked up, and their eyes locked. They had been at an impasse ever since they'd last made love. Now that
Christal's
future was in the hands of the
Pinkertons
, Alana knew she must focus on saving, or dissolving, her marriage.

"And what is your request?" he asked slowly, as if sensing her grave mood.

She cleared her throat. "After this moment, I'll never speak of this again. The duke is going to announce his engagement to Mara at Mrs. Astor's ball. I shall leave it up to you, Trevor. All I need is evidence that you want this marriage as much as I do. If I get that, you know I will stay"—her voice wavered—"forever." She swallowed, refusing to break down in tears. "However, if you continue to insist that we cannot remain married, I must tell you that after Mara's engagement I shall be moving to other quarters, and I'll expect you to bring about the annulment precisely after that."

"I don't like being given ultimatums." His eyes flashed darkly.

"I know you don't," she said.

"And I'll have you know, Granville is not going to make that announcement, so this little speech of yours is wasted. I doubt Mara will be engaged for a long time yet. You'll not shed me that quickly, I fear."

She raised her chin and collected herself, amazed that she could do so when she was so shattered inside. She loved him. She considered him her husband in every sense. They had shared a bed, and his desire for an annulment cheapened what to her had been a mysterious and powerful act. He thought he was buying time by assuming Nigel wouldn't go through with his engagement to Mara. But he was wrong.

She had no choice but to put an end to the emotional turmoil that was destroying her. "When Mara's engagement is made, if the man I love can't love me, the marriage must end." She searched his face to see if her words had any effect. For a brief, wishful moment, she thought she saw pain cross his face, but quickly it disappeared, replaced by the same distant expression she knew all too well. She turned to the window, cursing the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes. She'd lost Christal, and now she was going to lose him. She couldn't bear the finality of it.

She cleared her throat again so he wouldn't know how close she was to sobbing. "I'm—I'm afraid I must be completely mercenary. I need help to find my sister. If we part, I hope you will continue to—"

"I'll find your sister. Regardless."

She couldn't allow him to see how devastated she was. "Thank you," she answered tightly, her heart turning to stone. When all that had to be said had been said, she swept back the
demitrain
of her gown, and walked out of the room.