Sattler, Veronica (33 page)

"So
there you are, Jane!" exclaimed Lady Margaret. "I might have known
you'd be into the cream again. For shame! Now, come along with me or I shall be
forced to—" The steely blue gaze fell on Ashleigh. "And what are
you
doing here, miss?"

"Well,
I was just—"

"Your
abigail's been searching for you for some time. I suggest you go to her."
Margaret turned toward Lady Hastings. "And, as for you, little Jane, I
think it is high time you were taking your nap. You know you cannot go about
all afternoon without it. It worsens your behavior. And your theft of this
cream proves it!"

With
a swift movement, Margaret reached for the saucer in Jane's hands, but the
small woman saw the action coming and sought to forestall it by backing away,
at the same time raising the saucer toward her mouth with a half frightened,
half willful look in her eyes.

"Oh,
no, my dear!" Margaret's words bit into the air as she closed the gap
between them, causing Lady Hastings to start. In a split second the saucer fell
to the floor, sending cream and shards of porcelain in all directions across
its stony surface.

"Now
look what you've done, you foolish creature!" snapped Margaret.
"Haven't you learned yet not to defy those who know better?"

Jane
Hastings hung her head, totally cowed by the sharp tones—not to mention,
thought Ashleigh, the condemning look in Margaret's eyes. Then, blubbering
softly, she raised her head a fraction and murmured, "Y-yes,
Margaret."

"Very
well, and see that you don't forget it so easily. Now come along."
Margaret sidestepped the mess on the floor and fastened a bony hand about Jane's
wrist, then, as if remembering a detail at the last second, glanced at
Ashleigh. "You will call someone to clean up this accident, please, Miss
Sinclair."

Ashleigh
watched as Margaret then proceeded to lead Lady Hastings from the chamber. She
felt a sharp twinge of sympathy as she saw the small woman in the dove-gray
dress cast a last, longing look at the cream on the floor before she was
whisked briskly out of sight.

* * * * *

Patrick
St. Clare sat in the humble caretaker's cottage on the grounds of what used to
be his family's estate and held the yellowed pages of the letter he'd just read
with trembling fingers. Then he glanced up at the old man sitting across from
him.

"Jemmy,"
he said, "why, in heaven's name, when I was down here a few months ago, didn't
Martha tell me there was a letter?"

The
old man glanced at his wife who sat near the window beside a huge wheel,
spinning. "'Cause she didn't know of it, sir," he replied
matter-of-factly. "Th' lady only give it t'
me
t' keep fer ye, said
I was t' trust no one else wi' it." Jemmy nodded, as if that settled the
matter.

Patrick
smiled, for he well remembered the literal single-mindedness with which Jemmy
Stokes would keep anything entrusted to his care. It was one of the chief
reasons his parents had relied on him and only one or two others to help them
carry out their clandestine involvement in the free-trading operation they'd
engaged in during Patrick's youth.

Of
course, in this instance, it had almost backfired where he was concerned. When
he'd at last returned to Kent, back in May, Jemmy had been absent, visiting a
sick brother who lived many miles away, and it was only Martha he'd spoken to
in his search for details of his family. If fortune hadn't decided to smile on
him by allowing him this second chance visit, he'd never have come across the
contessa's letter.

Patrick
scraped back his chair from the table that stood between him and the old man
and rose to his feet. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a sheaf
of five-pound notes and placed them on the table. "I'm deeply grateful,
Jemmy," he said.

"Now,
then, sir, ye needn't be doin' that. Ye were gen'rous enough th' last time ye
come down. Me Martha—"

"Please
accept it," said Patrick. "It's little enough, considering how you
helped our family years ago, and the information in this—" Patrick
indicated the letter he was still holding "—is more valuable than gold to
me, old friend. Please, take the money, and all I'll ask is that you drink a
draught or two to me when you spend a bit of it at the pub in the village
tonight."

Jemmy
smiled a gap-toothed smile before glancing briefly at his wife and then back at
Patrick. "Aye, that I will, young sir, but th' rest goes fer boots fer th'
lads and a new Sunday dress fer Martha."

For
the first time since Patrick's arrival at the cottage, the old woman by the
window stopped her spinning and focused on the men. A wide smile graced her
plain features as she nodded at the two, then she bent back over her wheel and
continued spinning.

"Well,
I'll be on my way, then," said Patrick as he moved toward the cottage's
single door. "I'll be staying at Ravensford Hall for a few days if anyone
needs to find me. After that, well, that piece of paper I gave you has my
London address as well as that of my home in America... er, do any of your lads
read?"

Jemmy
shook his head. "No, sir, but th' vicar can do us th' service if we've a
need fer some'n wi' letters."

"Good,"
said Patrick. "Well, I'm off—no need to see me out. Farewell, my friends,
and again, my thanks."

When
he had gone from the cottage and mounted his horse, Patrick took a final look
about the place where he'd spent many happy hours as a boy and then turned his
horse's head in the direction of Ravensford Hall. Only then did he allow the
flood of elated tears to wash his rugged face as he let the full import of what
he'd learned move him.

Ashleigh
was alive!
Somehow
he'd felt all along she hadn't perished in the fire, and now he had proof of
it. He refused to consider the fact that it had been twelve long years since
then and that death, or God only knew what else, could still have befallen her
in that time. The little one lived, he was sure of it, and now all he had to do
was
find her!

Slowing
his horse to a walk, he brushed the moisture from his cheeks with an impatient
hand and reached for the letter in the pocket where he'd stashed it. Quickly,
he unfolded the sheets of yellowed parchment and scanned their contents again.

My
Dear Patrick,

I
have no idea when this letter will reach you, or if indeed it will at all. It
is over two months since the fire, and my husband's people tell me your ship is
long overdue from its western voyage, and there are rumors it went down in a
storm with all hands lost. Of course, the mere fact that I am taking this
chance to return to England one more time to personally deliver this missive
into our good friend's keeping, says all that is necessary about my hopes that
it did not perish or, at least, that you were not among those who were lost if
it did. I say 'one more time' because this is the last time I shall return to
the country where I grew up. It has become entirely too dangerous for me to do
so, and by this I do not mean to indicate the hazards of wartime Europe or even
of the free trading I was happy to assist your family with in exchange for your
many kindnesses toward me, for how should I have had those cheering glimpses
and other heartening news of my son without your help? The danger I speak of
has to do with something far more pernicious than threats from governments abroad
or at home; it has to do with an evil I feel to be close at hand, although if
you ask me how I know this, I could not tell you—but I
feel
it, Patrick,
and I am as certain as I am of my breathing that it is
real.

The
fire that took your parents' lives was, I am sure, deliberately set, and the
fact that it began in my chamber leads me to believe it was intended to destroy
me, and not the innocents it took. The only reason I escaped, along with your
sister and her nursemaid, Maud, was that I was in the nursery that night.
Little Ashleigh had had one of her nightmares about that poor horse she'd seen
mistreated and I was singing her to sleep with one of my little Italian
canti.
The nursery being a distance away from the other sleeping quarters, as you
know, it was a good while before the fire reached us, and even then, we three
barely escaped with our lives. Alas, by then, too, the rest of the house was a
blazing torch, with no hope of rescuing those inside.

The
grooms and stable men and others who slept apart from the main house spoke of
first seeing the flames shooting from the windows of
my guestchamber,
and
when I heard this, I determined that evil work was afoot and the chance could
not be taken that further harm might come to those who were lucky enough to
survive. In the confusion and noise that ensued from those vain attempts to put
out the fire, I removed some rings from my hands and pressed them into Maud's
while urging her to the stables with Ashleigh. Once there, I told her of my
fears and made her promise to take your sister to a place of safety—a sister's
she'd spoken of in London—and not to tell anyone until she heard from your
family's solicitors, whom I would contact, and whom she must also contact after
a reasonably safe amount of time had passed.

Alas,
dear Patrick—and this brings me to the primary objective of this letter—I
regret that now, even after all these weeks, your solicitors have received no
word from Maud, and I fear for her whereabouts, not to mention the little
one's. The only vehicle I was able to manage for them that terrible night was
little Ashleigh's pony cart, for Maud was no driver, and it was only through
Ashleigh's pluck and bravery that we were able to use that.
The child drove
it!
I had no wish to endanger them further by going with them, you see, for
I could not be certain that whoever had set the fire was not yet watching...
and waiting. So the last I saw of Maud and her charge was the little cloud of
dust they left by moonlight as I turned my horse's head and made for the road
to the Dover coast.

So
if this letter should reach you, Patrick, and I pray it does, I beg of you, if
you have not done so already, go to London and begin the search for your
sister. She
must
be found!

As
for the rest, you know where to reach me, and I pray you do, in person, with
your dear little sister by your side. My husband, as you know, is a wealthy
man, and if this tragedy has left your family without means—as I have reasons
to suspect it has—you must know that you and the little one can always find a
home with us—Gregorio has said as much, and it is the least we can do for all
your family's kindnesses over the years.

Praying
this will come to pass, I am

Your
dear friend,

Maria,

Contessa
di Montefiori

Patrick's
hands went limp as he finished rereading the letter. Maria... Mary... formerly
Viscountess Westmont... since then, many years happily remarried to the son of
a family friend in the country where she'd been born. He knew her story well.
The daughter of an Italian prince and an English opera singer, she'd
accompanied her homesick mother back to England to live when but a child, and
had been raised there with the best that wealth could buy, for her father had
died and left his fortune to his wife and daughter. Then she'd met Lord Edward Westmont,
Brett Westmont's father, and, against the wishes of John Westmont, the duke,
married him in a runaway love match. All had gone well for a time, and she'd
borne him an heir—Brett. But a few years later, something had gone very wrong,
according to the tale Mary had given his parents and which they'd told Patrick
later.

Someone
had deliberately set about planting false evidence to make it appear that Mary
had taken a lover, and when John, the duke, heard about it, things happened
very swiftly. Within a week, in which she was given no chance to explain or
vindicate herself, she was dismissed from Ravensford Hall, put aboard a ship
and sent to her father's family in Italy with notice that a divorce would
ensue. Her son, of course, remained with his father, and no amount of pleading
or reasoning was able to prevail against the old duke's mind.

The
rest, Patrick knew from firsthand experience. Before too much more time passed,
Edward remarried. Several years later, he and his second wife and son were
killed in a carriage accident. Then Brett was sent to sea, and Patrick along
with him, as a companion cabin boy.

When
they returned, Patrick and his parents had a surprise visit from the woman they
had known as Mary Westmont, Brett's mother. It had been a shock more than a
surprise, for one night, her face blackened with soot, and dressed in the
clothes of an Italian seaman, she had turned up quite unannounced in the
company of Jemmy Stokes, already a participant in the business many
enterprising Englishmen engaged in: smuggling items that were outrageously
taxed into a country that would have had its people financially crippled if
they were to pay the tariffs on goods that were a necessary part of their
life-styles. In a network that ran the length of the English coastline, and
from there inland, thousands of otherwise fine upstanding subjects of the king
had, for decades, been risking their freedom and their lives to bring to the
rest of his subjects items such as tea, soap, spices, tobacco, brandy, and
linens at prices that were affordable, thanks to the bypassing of customs.