Prince Charming (5 page)

“If I ordered you to bring her daughters home to England now, would they be safe?”

“No.” Her answer was quick, forceful. She softened her tone when she added, “The little girls should be raised in their father's country. It is what George and Marian both wanted.”
And not under Malcolm's guardianship,
Taylor silently added.

“Do you believe the cholera has taken the babies as well? We would have heard by now, wouldn't we?”

“Yes, we would have heard. They're healthy and well,” she said. She made her voice as emphatic as possible and said a quick prayer that she was right. The babies' nanny, Mrs. Bartlesmith, had written with the tragic news. She hadn't been at all certain cholera had killed George, and since the physician refused to expose himself to the possibility of catching the disease by coming to the house after George had died, no one could be sure. The nanny kept the babies away from their father while he was so ill. She protected them as best she could. God had already taken Marian, and now George, and He wouldn't be so unmerciful as to take the two-year-olds as well. It was too upsetting to even consider.

“I trust you, Taylor.” Madam's voice was weary now.

“Thank you, Madam.”

“Did I protect you growing up?”

“Oh, yes,” Taylor cried out. “All these many years you've protected me.”

Several minutes passed in silence. Then Lady Esther said, “Are you prepared to leave England?”

“I am.”

“Boston is a world away from us. Tell the babies kind stories about me, even if you have to make them up. I wish to be remembered fondly.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Taylor tried desperately not to cry. She stared at her hands and took several deep breaths.

Lady Esther didn't seem to notice her granddaughter's distress. She went into detail once again about the money she had had transferred to the bank in Boston. Her voice was weak with fatigue by the time she finished her instructions.

“As soon as Sir Elliott returns, he'll announce I've had yet another miraculous recovery. He may be an imbecile but he knows who is buttering his bread. You'll attend the ball tonight and act as though everything is as right as ever. You will laugh. You will smile. You will celebrate my good health. You will stay until the chimes strike the midnight hour. No one must know you're leaving at first light. No one.”

“But, Madam, now that you're so ill, I had thought to stay here with you.”

“You'll do no such thing,” her grandmother snapped. “You must be away from England before I die. My brother, Andrew, will keep me company. I won't be alone. Malcolm and the others will be told that you've gone after you've set sail. Agree with me, Taylor. It's your duty to make this old woman die content.”

“Yes, Madam.” Her voice caught on a sob.

“Are you weeping?”

“No, Madam.”

“I cannot abide tears.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Her grandmother sighed with satisfaction. “I went to a great deal of trouble to find the right one. You do know that, don't you, Taylor?” she asked. “Of course you do. Now then, there is just one more document to sign and witness. One last ceremony for me to see through. Then I'll be at peace.”

“I do not wish for you to die, Madam.”

“One doesn't always get what one wishes, young lady. Remember that.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Tell Thomas to fetch the guests he's hidden away in the parlor. Then come and stand next to me. I want to watch you sign the paper before I witness it.”

Taylor stood up. “You will not change your mind about this?”

“I will not,” her grandmother answered. “Will you change yours?”

The challenge was there in her clipped, no-nonsense tone of voice. Taylor managed a smile. “No, I will not change my mind,” she answered just as forcefully.

“Then hurry up, Taylor. Time's wasting away, and time, you see, is my enemy.”

Taylor started for the door connecting the bedroom to the adjacent parlor. She was halfway across the chamber when she suddenly stopped. “Madam?”

“What is it?”

“Before Thomas brings the others inside . . . we won't be alone again and I . . . may I . . .”

She didn't say more. She didn't need to. Her grandmother understood what she was asking.

A loud sigh filled the chamber. “If you must,” her grandmother grumbled.

“Thank you.”

“Get it said, Taylor.”

“Very well,” she agreed. “I love you, Madam, with all my heart.”

 

He couldn't believe he'd done it. Damn it all, he almost hadn't been able to pull it off. He shook his head in disgust.
What kind of man would demand one brother buy another brother's freedom? A real bastard, that's who,
he thought to himself. . . a real son of a . . .

Lucas Michael Ross forced the raging thoughts aside. What was done was done. The boy was free now and ready to start a new life. That was all that mattered. The son-of-a-bitch heir to the family fortune would eventually get his reward. As far as Lucas was concerned, his older half brother could rot or thrive in England for all he cared.

His anger wouldn't go away. Lucas leaned against the pillar near the alcove in the majestic ballroom and watched the couples twirling around the marble floor in front of him. He was flanked on both sides by his brothers' friends, Morris and Hampton. They both held titles, but Lucas couldn't remember what they were. The two men were in the middle of a heated debate on the merits versus the perils of capitalism in America and why it would never work. Lucas pretended interest, nodded whenever he thought it was probably appropriate, but otherwise pretty much ignored the men and their discussion.

It was his last night in England. He didn't want to savor the evening; he wanted to finish it. He didn't have any particular fondness for this bleak country and was in fact confused by those who chose to make their home here. After living in the wilderness deep in America, Lucas couldn't imagine why anyone would deliberately choose England. He found most of the inhabitants to be as pompous and pretentious as their leaders and their monuments and every bit as stifling as the air they breathed. He detested the closeness, the endless smoke stacks, the gray-black film that hung over the city, the gaudiness of the women, the prissiness of the men. When he was in London, Lucas felt penned in, caged. The sudden image of a dancing bear he'd once seen when he was a boy attending a country fair on the outskirts of Cincinnati came into his mind. The animal had been dressed in men's britches and was prancing in a circle on his hind legs around and around the owner who controlled the beast by holding onto a long, heavy chain he'd secured around the bear's neck.

The men and women circling the dance floor reminded Lucas of the trained bear. Their movements were jerky, controlled, certainly rehearsed. The women's gowns were all different in color but otherwise identical in both cut and style. The men were just as silly looking to him. They all wore their black formal uniform. Hell, even their shoes were identical to one another. The rules and regulations of the restrictive society in which they lived were their chains, Lucas supposed, and he found himself feeling a little sorry for them. They would never know real adventure or freedom or wide-open spaces. They would live, then die, and never realize what they had missed.

“What has you frowning, Lucas?”

Morris, the older of the two Englishmen, asked the question. He looked up at Lucas while he waited for his answer.

Lucas nodded toward the dance floor. “I was thinking there isn't a maverick among them,” he replied in that soft Kentucky drawl that seemed to amuse the men so.

Morris obviously didn't understand what he'd meant by the remark. He shook his head in confusion. Hampton was more astute. He nodded agreement. “He's referring to the couples dancing,” he explained.

“And?” Morris prodded, still not comprehending.

“Don't you notice how alike the women are? Every one of them has her hair all bound up tight at the back of her head, and most of them have those ridiculous feathers sticking out at all angles. The gowns are quite identical as well,” he added. “With those wire contraptions hidden underneath the skirts to make their backsides look so bizarre. The men aren't any better. They're all dressed alike, too.”

Hampton turned to Lucas. “Breeding and education have taken all our individuality away.”

“Lucas is dressed in formal attire, just like we are,” Morris blurted out. He acted as though the thought had only just occurred to him. He was a short, squat man with thick glasses, a receding hairline, and firm opinions about every possible topic. He felt it was his sole duty to play the devil's advocate and argue against any view his best friend held. “The clothing you've suddenly taken exception to is appropriate attire at a ball, Hampton. What would you have us wear? Boots and buckskin?”

“It would be a refreshing change,” Hampton snapped.

Before Morris could come back with a rebuttal, Hampton turned to Lucas and changed the topic. “Are you anxious to get back to your valley?”

“I am,” Lucas agreed, finding his first smile.

“Then all of your business has been completed?”

“Almost all,” Lucas replied.

“Aren't you leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“How can you finish up your business with so little time left?” Hampton asked.

Lucas shrugged. “There is only one small task to take care of,” he explained.

“Are you taking Kelsey back with you?” Hampton asked.

“He's the reason I came back to London,” Lucas answered. “The boy's already on his way to Boston with his brothers. They left the day before yesterday.”

Kelsey was the youngest of Lucas's three half brothers. The older two, Jordan and Douglas, were already seasoned frontiersmen working their land in the valley. Kelsey hadn't been old enough on Lucas's last trip back, and so he'd left the boy with his tutors for two more years. Kelsey was almost twelve years old now. Intellectually he'd been nurtured, Lucas had seen to that, but emotionally he'd been neglected to the point of starvation. The son-of-a-bitch heir to the family fortune had seen to that.

It no longer mattered that Kelsey was too young for the harsh life in the wilderness. The boy would die if he stayed in England any longer.

“It's a pity Jordan and Douglas didn't stay on in London a little longer,” Morris remarked. “They would have enjoyed this affair tonight. Quite a few of their friends are here.”

“They wanted to get a head start with Kelsey,” Lucas replied.

They were also determined to get their brother out of England with all possible haste. As soon as the son-of-a-bitch heir had signed the guardianship papers, they booked passage. They were concerned he might change his mind or increase the amount of money he wanted in exchange for his own brother.

He was getting angry again. Damn but he wanted to get out of England. During the war with the South he'd been locked up in a prison the size of a broom closet. He'd turned claustrophobic then and thought he would go out of his mind before he escaped. The torments weren't over yet, however, and he'd been forced to endure another atrocity he still couldn't think about without breaking out in a cold sweat. The war had changed him all right. He couldn't stand close quarters now. His throat would start to tighten up on him, and he'd have difficulty taking a deep breath. The feeling was welling up inside him again. London was rapidly turning into a prison in his mind and all he could think about was breaking free.

Lucas pulled out his timepiece, flipped open the latch, and noted the time. Twenty minutes until midnight. He could last, he told himself. He had promised to stay until midnight, and twenty more minutes wouldn't kill him.

“How I wish I could go with you to your valley,” Hampton suddenly blurted out.

Morris looked appalled. He squinted up at his friend through thick glasses. “You can't be serious. You have responsibilities here. Do your title and your lands mean so little to you? I don't believe you really mean it, man. No one in his right mind would give up England and all she has to offer.”

Morris was gravely offended by what he considered to be extreme disloyalty to his homeland. He hurled himself into a lecture meant to shame his friend Hampton. Lucas wasn't listening. He'd just spotted the son-of-a-bitch heir across the hall. William Merritt III was the legitimate firstborn son. Lucas was three years younger. He was the bastard. Their father had visited America when he was a young man, and while he was there, he swept an innocent country girl off her feet and into his bed. He gave her his pledge of love, bedded her every night of the month he spent in Kentucky, and then thought to mention he had a wife and a son waiting for him back in England. The son had grown up to be just like his father. He was a self-indulgent demon who thought only of his own pleasures. Loyalty and family values held little meaning for him. Because he was the privileged firstborn, he inherited the land, the title, and whatever funds were left. His father hadn't bothered to make provisions for his other legitimate sons, and his firstborn wasn't about to share the wealth. Jordan, Douglas, and Kelsey weren't just left out in the cold. They'd been thrown there.

Jordan was the first to track Lucas down and ask him for help. He wanted to come to America and start a new life. Lucas hadn't wanted to get involved. Jordan and his brothers were strangers to him. He felt disconnected from the world of privilege they lived in. He was an outsider, and though they shared the same father, he didn't feel any kinship to his half brothers. Family was a concept altogether foreign to him.