Midnight at Mallyncourt (6 page)

“It's—beautiful,” I said in an awed voice.

“It has beauty, yes, but it's highly impractical.”

“You don't love Mallyncourt?”

“I have no love whatsoever for it,” he said, bored. “If I inherit, I'll sell. There are any number of wealthy Americans who'd snap it up without a moment's hesitation.”

I found this attitude incredible, but it was in keeping with his character. Family tradition would mean nothing to a man like Edward Baker, nor would he be moved by the historic splendor represented by a house like Mallyncourt. I wondered idly what
would
move him. He couldn't be as unfeeling as he seemed.

“Your uncle must require a whole fleet of servants,” I remarked.

He nodded grimly. “There is a butler, a housekeeper, a governess for Lettice, a personal valet for my uncle, a cook, six footmen, a gaggle of maids, two gardeners, a coachman, half a dozen or so stable boys, all of whom are fed and maintained by the Mallyn estate. The butler and housekeeper have quarters in the basement, as does the cook, the governess has a room in the nursery, and the other house servants have rooms in the attics. The rest of them sleep over the stables.”

Circling around the exotic, wildly beautiful gardens, the phaeton drew up in front of the wide, flat steps. Six slender brown columns supported the ornate portico, and there were pots of red geraniums on the posts of the graceful balustrade. Edward alighted and helped me down, his face impassive as the coachman drove away toward the stables. The two of us stood in front of the great house, momentarily alone. I was extremely nervous, a prey to all sorts of apprehensions, and Edward noticed it. Some of his remoteness vanished. My nervousness amused him.

“From this moment on, you're my wife,” he told me.

“It's not a role I fancy,” I said acidly.

“My loving wife, I might add.”

“That will be the most difficult part to simulate, I assure you.”

“Oh? You find me unlovable?”

“Distinctly!”

“That's because you don't know me,” he said lightly. “I've no doubt you'll warm to me in time.”

“I shouldn't count on it, Mr. Baker.”

“Edward,” he reminded me. “You'll play your role nicely.”

“I'll try.”

“You'll do more than try, my dear. Five hundred pounds are at stake, remember. There will be no slipups. Not only would you lose the five hundred, but you would also incur my wrath. You wouldn't want to do that, Jennifer.”

“You don't intimidate me.”

“No?”

“Not at all!”

“Try to curtail your venom, Jenny dear. You're in love with me. We had a whirlwind courtship, a simple, private wedding and have just returned from an ecstatic honeymoon. An occasional lovers' quarrel might be in keeping, but certainly not the animosity I currently detect in your eyes.” He took my arm, tucked it under his and escorted me up the steps. “You're an actress, luv. The curtain is about to go up.”

The great doors opened as if by magic. Two footmen in the Mallyn livery stood back, and the butler approached. Severely dressed in black, he was tall and thin and extremely grand, more aristocratic than the bluest of blue bloods.

“Afternoon, Jeffers,” Edward said crisply.

The imposing Jeffers nodded, barely glancing at me. The footmen stood rigidly against the wall, as motionless as statues. I glanced around at the great hall, trying to conceal my awe. It was square in shape, two stories high, and although a gallery ran around three sides on the first story, I saw no staircase. The enormous fireplace was of gray marble, the Mallyn coat of arms worked in moulded and gilt plaster above the mantlepiece. Faded Brussels tapestries depicting hunt scenes in shades of tan, gray, green and indigo hung along three of the stone walls, and the fourth was paneled in dark wood, displaying a collection of pikes, enameled shields and ancient weapons. A huge brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and though the room was sparsely furnished, the furniture remaining was both lovely and majestic. There was a great chest which, I knew, would have been used as a safe for money and jewels during previous ages. Henry VIII might have dined at that long, narrow table. Ladies in farthingales might have sat on those immense, elaborately carved chairs with their high backs and threadbare crimson velvet seats. The black and white marble floor gleamed.

“My letter arrived?” Edward inquired.

“It arrived two weeks ago,” Jeffers replied, showing neither interest nor surprise. “The west wing apartment has been readied for you and your wife, Master Edward. Your luggage arrived some time ago. Everything has been arranged—satisfactorily, I trust.”

“And my uncle?”

“Still in a poor condition, though, I might add, as easily riled as ever—if you'll pardon my saying so. The doctors are quite alarmed. Lord Mallyn
will
demand his bottle of port every night.”

Edward smiled, pleased. “I've been away two months, and the old devil hasn't changed a bit. Still hanging on. What did he have to say about my marriage, Jeffers?”

“I shouldn't care to repeat that, sir.”

As Edward chuckled to himself, I had the strong and unmistakable impression that someone was staring at me. Looking up, I saw two small hands gripping the railing of the gallery. A thin, childish face peered down at me, the eyes dark and hostile. There was a faint rustle of skirts and then the slender form disappeared through one of the doorways opening onto the gallery. That would be Lettice, I thought.

“Shall I show you to the apartment?” Jeffers inquired.

“That won't be necessary,” Edward retorted, suddenly curt. “Come, my dear. I'll take you up. You must be fatigued.”

We moved down a long, low-ceilinged hallway with rooms opening off on either side, affording me brief glimpses of more splendor, and eventually arrived at a much wider hallway that extended along the length of the house in back. It was stark, with only a few benches and chairs, and the tapestries here were even older, less splendid, patched in several places. Tall windows looked out over a rolled, emerald green back lawn enclosed by neatly trimmed hedges, and an extremely wide staircase of flat stone steps led up to the first story.

“There're more splendid staircases in both wings,” Edward said. “This one was built for the horses.”

“Horses?” I was incredulous.

“The early Mallyns were enthusiastic horsemen, had to ride every day, and, English weather being what it is, that wasn't always feasible. The gallery upstairs is one hundred and seventy feet long, fifty feet wide, so they rode there on inclement days, leading the horses up these steps.”

“Incredible,” I said.

“You needn't look so alarmed. The practice was abandoned over a hundred years ago.”

Just as we started up, there was the loud retort of a door slamming at the east end of the hall. Loud, impatient footsteps rang on the bare stone floor. Edward paused, his hand on my elbow. I could see a man striding briskly toward us, slapping the side of his boot with a riding crop. His head was lowered, and he was muttering something to himself, obviously unaware of our presence. Still a few yards away, he looked up and saw us standing there on the second step. He stopped abruptly, startled. Edward laughed softly to himself.

“Cousin,” he said, nodding.

“So you've come back!”

“But of course.” His voice was gentle, with only a faint hint of mockery in those silken tones. “Let me present my wife. Jennifer, this is Lyman Robb, the esteemed cousin of whom I have spoken so frequently. Lyman, Jennifer—Mrs. Edward Baker.”

“How do you do,” I said.

Lyman Robb was glaring at his cousin with lowered brows, a thunderous look on his face. He didn't acknowledge my greeting. He barely glanced at me. Never before had I seen such hatred made visible as that that burned in those dark, flashing brown eyes as he stared at Edward. They were murderous eyes, I thought, instinctively moving back a step. Edward's hand held my elbow in an even tighter grip, warning me.

Lyman Robb looked as though he wanted to lunge at his cousin and slash him across the face with his riding crop. With a visible effort, he controlled his rage, though the hatred burned as hotly as ever. Not quite as tall as Edward, he was nevertheless a large, powerfully built man with enormous shoulders, wide chest and lean waist, his legs long and shapely, tightly encased in clinging tan buckskin breeches. His brown boots were splattered with mud, and his thin white cambric shirt, tucked in carelessly at the waist and open at the throat, was sweat stained, the sleeves full and billowing, gathered at the wrists.

I stared at him with a kind of horrified fascination. I had never seen a man so vital, so bursting with life. One could sense the red blood coursing through his veins, and he seemed to seethe with animal vigor. There was a deep cleft in his chin, and his mouth was full, the lips curling savagely at the corners. His nose was Roman, a pugilistic ridge between his dark, arching brows, and with his broad, rather Slavic, cheekbones, his wildly unruly black locks and those murderous brown eyes, he looked like some primitive Hun bent on rape and plunder. Robust, aggressively male, smelling of the stables, he was excessively handsome in a crude, rough-hewn fashion. I could understand now why the aristocratic Vanessa had been ready to throw everything else aside to elope with him.

“Your marriage was very timely,” he remarked. The words seemed to come rumbling up from his chest. His voice was rough, with none of the refined accent of his cousin's.

“Exceedingly so,” Edward replied.

“It was love at first sight,” Robb said sarcastically.

“Naturally.” Edward's voice was smooth.

Lyman Robb looked at me fully for the first time, taking in every detail of my dress and person. I wanted to shrink back, but Edward was still holding me firmly by the elbow. Both repelled and fascinated, I held my chin high as those smouldering brown eyes studied me. Robb finally looked away, turning his attention back to Edward.

“
She
may not know why you married her, but I do. I know all too well. It's not going to work, Edward.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“The old man almost had apoplexy when your letter got here. He raged for a full week—the servants were afraid to go near him. You thought you would please him, but the reverse is true. He wanted you to marry, yes, but he fully intended to select your bride himself. You gambled, Edward, and you've lost.”

“I doubt that, cousin. You see, he hasn't yet met Jennifer.”

Robb gave a short, crude laugh. “If you think she'll win him over, then you're a bigger fool than I thought.”

Edward ignored the comment. “Speaking of wives,” he said, “where is the lovely Vanessa? I should have thought she'd be on hand to greet her new cousin-in-law.”

“I haven't the slightest idea where she might be,” Robb replied, and his tone indicated that he hadn't the slightest interest, either. “Perhaps one of the footmen has taken her fancy, or perhaps she's out riding with one of the local gallants who find her so intriguing. Radcliff's son has been spending a lot of time at Mallyncourt, a worthy addition to her throng of suitors. I'm far too busy to keep track of my esteemed wife. I've been working in the fields all day.”

“That's more than evident,” Edward replied, his fine nostrils giving a barely perceptible sniff.

“My odor offends your delicate sensitivity?” Robb threw back his head and laughed, a rich, full laugh this time. “Forgive me, cousin, and let me apologize to your wife as well. You see,” he said, turning to me, “Edward is the aristocrat in the family. He went to Oxford, while I attended a humble agricultural college. He leads the life of a fashionable gentleman, and me, I work, I'm content to toil like the farmer I am to keep the estate in hand. Your husband wears the fine clothes. He has enough polish for both of us—I wouldn't have it any other way.”

With that, he strode briskly on down the hall, his shoulders rolling, once again slapping the top of his boot with the riding crop. A moment or so later we heard another door slam loudly. I looked up at Edward. His vivid blue eyes were filled with hatred, icy, controlled, but equally as potent as that I had seen in Lyman's eyes a few moments ago. I sensed that only their uncle's presence had prevented physical violence from exploding between them a long time ago.

After a long, tense moment, Edward mastered his emotions, and when he turned to me again, he was as cool and unruffled as ever.

“Engaging chap,” he remarked.

“He's—rather overwhelming.”

“Yes, that's quite true. Strangely enough, he's quite popular in the neighborhood. The tenant farmers worship him, perhaps because he's willing to work side by side with them. The local gentry consider him ‘the salt of the earth.' As he's Lord Mallyn's nephew, they're more than ready to make excuses for his—uh—rather boorish exterior. I trust you weren't too appalled, my dear.”

“I managed to survive the encounter.”

That familiar thin smile curled on his lips. “You handled yourself rather nicely. Come,” he said, “we'll go on up to the apartment, and after you've rested a spell and changed out of your traveling clothes you can meet the rest of the family.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said bitterly.

Still smiling, Edward led me up the wide, flat steps.

Chapter Four

“T
HE GREEN
, I think,” Edward had said nonchalantly, and then he had left me alone in the bedroom, sauntering through the sitting room that connected this room with the other, smaller bedroom. The arrangement, obviously, was to be similar to the one we had had in the hotel. Now, an hour and a half later, rested, refreshed, I could hear him moving about in his bedchamber as I stood in front of the full-length mirror critically examining my reflection.