Priceless (10 page)

Her sister’s frightened voice shattered Bronwyn’s mad impulse. “Thank you, my lord.” Careful not to touch his hand, she took the fan. “I’ll never forget this moment.” She paused. “Will you be working with Mr. Northrup this day?”

Adam straightened, his mouth a grim line. “Not today. Northrup has quit me, I’m afraid, and I’ll have to find another secretary.”

“He’s quit?” Olivia asked, startled. “But I understood his employment was necessary. That is…”

“Quite so. But his newfound wealth from his dabblings in the stocks will provide for him. The only thing between him and the top of the ladder…is the ladder. Northrup is not important.” He dismissed Northrup without a qualm. “Secretaries are easily replaced.”

“So are fiancées,” Bronwyn said.

“Bronwyn!” Olivia gasped.

Adam ignored her rudeness. Keeping his gaze fixed on Bronwyn, he suggested, “I had hoped I could give you a personal tour of the house today. Explore the gardens. I’m anxious to show my bride the wonders Campbell designed for our home.”

Olivia clapped her hands with pleasure and said, “A novel idea.”

“Then you’ll accompany us?” Adam asked.

“I’d love to.” Olivia touched her sister’s cheek. “If you don’t mind, Bronwyn?”

“Not at all.” Olivia remembered her duties as chaperone late, Bronwyn thought, but she stretched her lips into a smile. “Perhaps, for the sake of efficiency, it would be better if you left me to finish my breakfast alone.”

“Of course.” He stood and extended a hand to Olivia. “We’ll meet in the drawing room when you’ve finished.”

Bronwyn nodded and watched as they left, arm in arm. They made an attractive couple, she thought, lifting her hand to her mouth and biting her thumbnail. The gift of the fan had softened Olivia’s prejudice against Adam. The fact that Bronwyn had told Adam about the manuscripts, and that he had approved, seemed to weigh heavily in his favor. Even now, Olivia was losing her fear of Adam, and she was the wife he described to Northrup. Beautiful and kind.

And he—he was gentle with Olivia. He’d never subject her to his scorn, or his passion.

Leaving the fan, she went upstairs to pack.

Adam lifted his sherry to the setting sun and stared through the window, open now to the cooling breezes. He was thinking of Bronwyn’s eyes, thinking of the scorn he’d seen reflected there so often today.

What was the matter with the woman? If she disliked him, she’d certainly concealed it well last night. In fact—his hand tightened on the cut glass until tiny points bit into his palm—she’d been all he’d ever dreamed of, all he’d ever wanted. True, he shouldn’t have urged her to join him in his bed. And that business last night with Northrup had been embarrassing. Only too well he knew
the need for privacy when passion held sway. Only too well he knew how ale loosened inhibitions.

Today he’d tried to tell her, explain to her, that passion was nothing to be ashamed of. But she was having none of him.

He rubbed his aching leg. He’d walked too far, danced too much, while trying to make the lady happy.

Clearly Olivia had been puzzled by Bronwyn’s behavior, also. During the tour of the house and garden, Bronwyn had spoken of the property in ringing tones, calling its fine points to Olivia’s attention. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was selling the property to her sister.

The only explanation he could conceive, the only explanation that made any sense at all, was that she’d heard Northrup’s reproaches last night. If that were the case, he’d have the devil’s own time convincing her of his blamelessness. He should have defended her, he supposed. He should have said that conventional scorn for educated women was so much nonsense, that he’d rather have Bronwyn than those silly twits who cared only for their gloves and fans.

But in truth, he felt like a man who’d been served oatmeal mush and discovered a diamond at the bottom. He couldn’t decide which actions would be correct. Most especially, he couldn’t quite decide if he liked being so surprised. For years he’d survived,
prospered
, by anticipating life, by planning every maneuver, by logically seeking an opponent’s weakness and exploiting it. Yet he’d never imagined a woman like Bronwyn. From the first moment they’d met, she’d upended his expectations. She’d broadsided him with surprises, and he feared he wasn’t the ice man he had previously believed. His mother claimed he wasn’t cold, that he wore a mask, and he’d denied it vigorously.

Masks could be stripped away, destroyed.

So last night, he should have defended her against Northrup’s poisoned kindness, yet the shaft contained with
in his breeches had left him feeling perverse. Adam had bought this wife to protect him from the contempt of society, and instead he found himself having to defend her. And not just having to defend her—wanting to defend her. He wanted to build a wall around her, protect her from the arrows of contempt shot at learned women. Emotions he’d believed to be atrophied were laid bare, and he didn’t know how to conceal them—or even if he should.

He heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive, and he relaxed. Bronwyn’s parents were back from their revels in London. They would advise him on how to handle their prickly daughter, he was sure. He waited, listening for Lord Gaynor’s hearty call, for Lady Nora’s tinkling voice.

He heard nothing. The carriage waited at the front door, an unusual stillness about it. The door opened and shut, ever so quietly, and the coachman spoke to one who failed to answer.

Assailed by a dreadful suspicion, Adam stood and leaned out the window. He couldn’t quite see the carriage, only the horses as they stirred restively. The springs creaked as someone entered the carriage. They creaked again as the coachman mounted to his box. Someone was leaving. Someone who didn’t wish it known.

With a crack of the whip, the carriage sprang forward, and there she was. Eyes forward, chin thrust out, Bronwyn rode away in
his
rig. Propelling himself through the casement, he howled like a madman. He tumbled onto the porch, raced down the steps. “Bronwyn!” he roared. “Damn you, come back!” The carriage never paused, gaining speed as it bowled along
his
driveway, the driveway he’d taken care to make smooth.

Impetuous as a boy, he ran, and his leg gave way. He sprawled facefirst on the gravel. He tried to stand, but the pain of his old wound knocked him down again. Spitting rock, he watched the carriage as it rolled out of sight.

With the dawn, Bronwyn’s eyes opened on a new room. A small room, elegantly furnished, it manifested a taste for light furniture, light colors. Through the open window on the third story, she heard the first calls of the vendors, the rattle of a wagon, the cook’s voice scolding as she left for the market in the heart of London. She smelled smoke and the stink of the river, everpresent as the weather warmed. This was the start of a new life, yet her thoughts leaped back to yesterday, and she said aloud, “I’m not going to compromise myself for him.”

Rachelle’s voice agreed, “Nor should you.”

Startled, Bronwyn stared at the lady in the doorway. Rachelle hadn’t changed since their encounter last month. Still thin, still kind, she radiated a strength, an anger, that overrode the sorrow in her eyes.

“As I told you last night, you are welcome to stay with me as long as you wish.” Entering the room with a maid on her heels, she indicated a small table. “Place
le petit déjeuner
there.” Rachelle remained silent as the maid set out the tray and left. “Is your mind still made up?”

“I said it was.”

“Only a fool never has second thoughts.” After arranging a comfortable chair beside the bed, Rachelle sank down with a sigh.

“It’s no shame to be without a husband,” Bronwyn said.

“It is no great honor, either.” Dry humor lined Rachelle’s face. “It is a man’s world, and a man can smooth the way. Believe me.” She tapped her chest. “I know.”

“Why do you seek to dissuade me?”

“I would be remiss if I did not warn you of the thorny road you tread. Adam Keane will not take his dismissal lightly.”

“Then he shouldn’t have insulted me so.” Bronwyn flounced up on the bed, plumping the pillows behind her. “I expected better of him.”

“As women have been doing of their men for centuries.” Rachelle poured the tea. “And almost always have been sorely disappointed, I might add. Do you wish for something to eat?”

“No.” Bronwyn slipped from the mattress. With agitated movements she drew the curtains and gazed on Rachelle’s tiny yard, at the stables, the fence, the alley. “I couldn’t eat. I feel so…betrayed.”

“Betrayed? By a man?” Years of bitterness ran in Rachelle’s tone. “You would be ill advised to expect anything else.”

“Then I was ill advised.” Hugging herself, Bronwyn turned to Rachelle.

Rachelle stood and advanced, caught her chin. “You are young. It would not be natural if you were not impulsive. Just so my Henriette was, not too long ago, yet she was wiser than you.”

“How can you say so?”

“I had taught her the danger of loving too much.” Rachelle’s eyes filled with tears. “I am afraid I taught her never to love. She was, in her own way, cold and seeking, willing to use a man’s foibles for her own advancement.”

Bronwyn’s anger cooled at the sight of Rachelle’s grief. “What do you suspect?”

“Men speak of many things at my salon. I suspect she heard something she should not have and made it known. Anyone who attempts blackmail reaps a bitter harvest, and Henriette was young and untried.”

“Have you discovered the identity of the man who hurt her so dreadfully?”

“The man who killed her?” The tears overflowed, dripped off Rachelle’s chin, and she made no attempt to wipe them away. “You might as well say it. He killed her.
Non
, I have no suspects. The young lord who pursued her sobbed at her funeral, offered me the services of his men to beat
la canaille
should I ascertain his name. All of London buzzed with excitement, seeking the murderer who could
lure my daughter with no struggle into his net, but nothing came of it.”

Bronwyn drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of her nightgown and handed it over. “Is it someone she knew?”

“So I believe.” Rachelle accepting the offering and dabbed her face.

“Has someone disappeared from your gatherings?”

“
Non
.” Determination transformed Rachelle. “So I will find him, the man with
le visage fardé
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“
Le visage fardé
means literally ‘the painted face.’” At the table, Rachelle lifted a cover. “I would better say it is one who dissembles.”

“I see.” The yeasty scent made Bronwyn’s mouth water. Rolls of every shape were piled there, recalling her diminished appetite of the day before. She was hungry after all. Taking a roll, still warm and soft, she said, “When I arrived, I didn’t tell you my plan.”

Rachelle collected herself. “Tell me now.”

“I have in my possession Gaelic manuscripts, epics of a time long past. Some I have translated, some I still labor over, but I know they would be of interest to the public. If I could find a sponsor, I would publish them—”

Lifting her hand, Rachelle commanded, “Say no more. I will sponsor you until we can find better.”

“There can be no better,” Bronwyn said fervently.

“Princess Caroline, wife of the Prince of Wales, would hardly be complimented.” Rachelle nodded. “I believe she could be pursuaded to pension you, to support your aspirations.”

A little smile crept up on Bronwyn. “That would be flattering.”

“You are worthy.” Rachelle cocked her head. “In the meantime, I would be complimented if you would join our salon as one of our illuminaries. You will join our evenings as a language expert, if you would.”

“Oh, yes. It’s what I’ve dreamed of.”

Crumbling bread between her fingers, Rachelle said, “When Monsieur le Vicomte arrives, you will be distant and cold.”

Bronwyn clutched her throat.

Rachelle watched Bronwyn carefully. “Had you not thought he would visit?”

“No.” Bronwyn’s heart started a slow, steady thump as she thought of seeing him again. Fingers trembling, she placed the roll on her plate.

“He is a serious man, with serious concerns. In my salon, he finds people who think as he does, speak of matters interesting to him. He comes, perhaps not as often as he would like, but he comes.”

“Do you know why…?” Bronwyn shifted, uncomfortable to be prying into his affairs yet unable to resist the temptation. “That is, I can’t get anyone to tell me why he’s so serious.”

“No, your parents would not tell the blushing bride the details of the disgrace, would they?” Rachelle said with a bite in her voice.

“The disgrace?” Bronwyn remembered Lord Gaynor’s words and guessed, “It’s something to do with his father, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed. But you must understand my knowledge is only hearsay. At the time of
le père infamant
, I lived not in England.”

“Rumor is better than no information at all.”

“This I know for sure. His father was hanged for counterfeiting.”

“Nonsense!” Bronwyn reacted with skepticism. “Adam’s father was the viscount of Rawson, his mother is the daughter of a duke. There’s no way the Crown would have ordered him to be hanged.”

“The story says he dangled on Tyburn Hill almost before Adam’s ship cleared the harbor. Adam’s mother was
destitute, starving. When Adam returned, he searched and found her, at last, in a workhouse. They say her bones poked from her skin, that he had to feed her liquids only.”

“Oh, come now.”

“They say that with Adam’s help, the director of the workhouse died in the worst slums of London.”

Her hand lifted to admonish, Bronwyn paused. That sounded too true. Adam would wreak vengeance with the rancor of the Furies. “But Mab is immense.”

“His mother? So would I be, had I ever starved,” Rachelle said with composure.

“Do they gossip about it?”

“They? Do you refer to the cream of English society as ‘they’?” Rachelle laughed at Bronwyn’s grimace. “Of course they gossip. Adam fans the gossip, with his growing fortune and his scorn for their shallow activities. It all combines to cause a great deal of envy, a great deal of speculation about him.”