Slightly Sinful (38 page)

Had he dreamed last night? There was something recent, something that had happened or something he had dreamed. But what was it? He frowned in concentration. Surely his memory of recent events was not about to start playing tricks on him.

He turned from the window in exasperation after a few minutes. He was going to have to go outside, rain or no rain. He would go mad if he remained here. But a knock on the door diverted his attention.

"Come," he called, expecting that it would be Strickland or perhaps a chambermaid who did not know that he was in.

But it was Rachel. She came inside and closed the door behind her back.

"Rachel." He smiled at her. "I hope this morning's events did not put too much strain on your uncle's heart or distress you too much. But you must be very happy that all the stolen property has been recovered and that that husband-and-wife team will not have a chance to rob anyone else for a very long time."

"I am." But she looked decidedly pale, he thought. She did not return his smile as she came toward him, both hands outstretched, but she did look intently at him. "Thank you, Alleyne. Thank you for everything."

At first when he took her hands in his he thought the coldness in his head must be caused by the chilliness of her hands. But then there was dizziness too.

"What?" He gazed blankly at her.

"Lord Alleyne Bedwyn," she said softly.

He gripped her hands as if he were a drowning man and she his only lifeline.

"What?" he said again.

"Is the name familiar to you?" she asked him.

It was not. To his mind it was not. And yet his whole body was reacting to it in strange, uncomfortable ways akin to panic.

"Where did you hear that name?" He hardly even realized that he was whispering.

"There was a letter from one of my former neighbors in London," she said. "It was sent on here from Chesbury with Uncle Richard's mail. The only missing gentleman she knew of was Lord Alleyne Bedwyn, who died at the Battle of Waterloo, though his body was never found. She knew about it because she happened to be close to St. George's on Hanover Square when the memorial service the Duke of Bewcastle held for his brother was ending, and she stood watching the crowd leaving the church."

Alleyne Bedwyn. Bedwyn. Bedwyn.

That is the greatest excitement we have seen in Bath since Lady Freyja Bedwyn accused the Marquess of Hallmere right in the middle of the Pump Room of being a debaucher of innocence.

That was what had been niggling at his mind a few minutes ago . . . Freyja Bedwyn.

"Are you he?" Rachel asked him.

He raised his eyes to hers again and stared blankly at her. He knew that he was-he was Alleyne Bedwyn. But only his body knew it. His mind was still a blank.

"Yes," he said. "I am Alleyne Bedwyn."

"Alleyne." Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her upper lip. "It suits you so much better than Jonathan."

Alleyne Bedwyn.

Freyja Bedwyn.

The Duke of Bewcastle-his brother.

They were all just words to his mind and churning panic to his body.

"You must write to the Duke of Bewcastle immediately," she said, her smile suddenly radiant. "Imagine how happy he will be, Jon- Alleyne. I will run down now and fetch pen and ink. You must-"

"No!" he said harshly, releasing her hands. He strode away from her to stand beside the bed, his back to her, his hands busily straightening the candlestick on the bedside table.

"He ought to be informed," she said. "Let me-"

"No!" he spun around to glare at her, his eyes blazing. "Leave me. Get out of here."

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

"Out!" He pointed at the door. "Leave me."

She turned sharply away and hurried to the door. But she did not open it. She stood for a few moments, her head hung low.

"Alleyne," she said, "don't shut me out. Please don't. Please don't."

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes huge and wounded. And he knew that if she left the room he would go all to pieces. He reached out blindly for her, and they came together in the middle of the room, their arms coming about each other and clinging tightly.

"Don't leave me," he told her. "Don't leave me."

"I won't." She lifted her face from his shoulder. "I won't ever leave you."

He kissed her, straining her to him as if he would never let her go. And when he stopped kissing her he buried his face against her shoulder and wept. He would have pulled away from her then in horror and embarrassment, but she held him tightly and murmured unintelligible words to him, and he sobbed his heart out in great noisy, undignified gulps until he was spent and exhausted.

"Well," he said shakily as he half turned from her in order to use his handkerchief, "now you know what sort of person Lord Alleyne Bedwyn is."

"I have always known him," she said. "I have just not known his name until today. He is a gentleman I like and admire and respect. He is a gentleman for whom I feel a deep affection."

He put his handkerchief away in a pocket and raked his fingers through his hair.

"I always hoped," he said, "that if one small memory would return everything would come flooding back in an instant. But my worst fears have just been realized. Someone in the abbey yard this morning mentioned the name Lady Freyja Bedwyn and I felt as if I had been jarred by some shock even though I was too busy at the time to pay the feeling any attention. When you spoke the name Lord Alleyne Bedwyn, I knew immediately that it was my own. And I recognized the name of the Duke of Bewcastle. But the curtain has not fallen from my memory, Rachel. Freyja-how is she related to me? I know she is. I know who I am now. I know that I have at least one elder brother. But it is as if I know these things with my body, with a part of me that sits low in my stomach, rather than with my mind. I cannot remember."

He was grateful that she did not say anything, did not try to offer comfort or hope in words. She merely stood beside him and set a hand on his arm and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

He took her to lie on the bed, and they lay there for a long time, his arm about her shoulders, his other hand over his eyes. She lay on her side, curled against him, her head on his shoulder, one arm thrown across his waist.

He felt infinitely comforted. She was Rachel. His love. His one anchor in a turbulent ocean of seething depths.

"I suppose there are not many people," he said, "who can say that they survived their own funeral. I have you to thank for that." He kissed the top of her head.

She merely burrowed closer.

And then he saw the fountain again. But this time he saw it against the background of a great mansion that was a curious but not displeasing mixture of architectural styles, spanning several centuries.

"Home," he said. "It is my home." He could not remember its name, but he could see it. And he described it to her-its outside, that was. He could not remember its inside.

"It will all come back to you," she said. "I know it will, Alleyne. Alleyne, Alleyne. I do like your name."

"We all have strange names." He frowned and then shook his head. "I think it was my mother who named us. She was a famous reader of ancient romance and I suppose scorned naming us George or Charles or William-or Jonathan."

She kissed his ear.

B Y THE TIME THEY ALL GATHERED FOR DINNER THAT evening, there was a great deal of excitement in the air.

Nigel Crawley and his wife had been bound over for trial, and the ladies were brimming over with eagerness to recount all the details that the others had missed when they returned to the hotel. Even Sergeant Strickland had found some excuse to be in the room, standing deferentially behind Alleyne's chair and occasionally unable to resist the temptation to interject a lengthy comment.

The ladies were also excited about having their money back, one thing they all admitted they had not expected to happen. Now they could declare themselves officially retired from their profession, an announcement that occasioned a toast to which everyone drank. And now they could revive their dream and decide exactly where in England they wished to settle so that they could go there and look about them for a suitable building in which to set up their boarding house.

Tomorrow they would leave for London to tie up all loose ends there and make their plans.

Rachel let them talk until they seemed to have nothing left to say. Then she looked all about the table, her hands clasped to her bosom.

"I have something to say," she said.

Even Uncle Richard did not know yet. He had slept all afternoon. Anyway, she had lain on the bed in Alleyne's room all afternoon. She had even fallen asleep there. So had he, incredibly.

"Do you, Rachel?" Bridget said. "We have been talking rather a lot, haven't we? But it has been a very exciting day, you must admit."

"What is it, Rache?" Geraldine asked.

"I have someone to present to you," Rachel said, "someone whose acquaintance you have all been longing to make." She laughed.

Alleyne was looking at her with bright, almost feverish eyes.

Rachel indicated him with one hand.

"May I present Lord Alleyne Bedwyn," she said, "brother of the Duke of Bewcastle."

Flossie whooped inelegantly.

"God bless you, sir," Sergeant Strickland said. "I always knew you was a real nob."

"Bewcastle?" Uncle Richard said, looking closely at Alleyne. "Of Lindsey Hall in Hampshire? But that is not so very far from Chesbury. I ought to have seen the resemblance."

"Lord love us," Phyllis said, "I am dining with a real live duke's brother. Catch me while I swoon, if you will, Bridge."

"I said that was an aristocratic nose," Geraldine declared. "Now did I or did I not?"

"You did, Gerry," Flossie said. "And you were quite right too."

"You know the Duke of Bewcastle and his family, Uncle Richard?" Rachel asked.

"I am acquainted with him," her uncle said, "but I cannot say I have met any of the others. There are a few brothers and sisters, I believe, but I do not know their names. But Lord Alleyne will be able to tell you."

"My memory has not returned, sir," Alleyne said. "Only the merest fragments."

There was a short silence while everyone digested that fact, but then everyone was speaking at once again, asking questions, making suggestions, offering consolation, wanting to know how Lord Alleyne had discovered his identity if he still could not remember much.

It was Flossie who suggested another toast.

"To Lord Alleyne Bedwyn," they all said.

He was to leave in the morning for Lindsey Hall. He said so in response to a question from Geraldine.

It was the question and the answer that somehow brought silence down upon all of them. Looking about the table, Rachel discovered that everyone had stopped smiling. Perhaps, she thought, she was not the only one feeling mortally depressed.

"I will miss the kitchen at Chesbury," Phyllis said, "and cooking for his lordship. I was happier there than I think I have ever been in my life. In fact, I know I was."

"I never did give Mr. Drummond an answer," Flossie said with a sigh. "It didn't seem right to say yes when he is a gentleman born and I am what I am. But he knew about me and said he did not care a fig for my past. And I miss him something terrible."

"I never did properly finish organizing the household at Chesbury," Geraldine said, "and doing an inventory. I could have done a good job as housekeeper there if I could only read and write."

"I could teach you, Gerry," Bridget said. "But not yet. You had all better go on to London ahead of me. I had better stay with Rachel. She is going to need a companion and chaperon and it won't be any hardship to go back to Chesbury with her for a while. I have friends there."

The other three ladies gazed wistfully at her while Uncle Richard cleared his throat.

"I am in desperate need of a housekeeper and a cook," he said. "And I fear that if my steward cannot find himself a decent wife soon, loneliness may well drive him from my service. I would hate that. He is a good man. Rachel will certainly need a lady companion. Now far be it from me to destroy anyone's dream, but if you all wish to postpone it or even to change it entirely, then I would suggest that we all return to Chesbury together."

There was a great clamor of voices then as all the ladies spoke together. It was almost impossible to distinguish individual comments, but they were all summed up, it seemed, when Phyllis rose from her place, swept around to the head of the table, wrapped her arms about Uncle Richard's neck from behind, and kissed his cheek.

The general laughter this time was a great deal merrier than it had been earlier.

"I suppose," Uncle Richard said, "that for the sake of my neighbors, Mrs. Leavey, we had better kill off Colonel Leavey in Paris. And I suppose we had better have him die impoverished, thus forcing you into taking employment as my cook."

"And we are going to have to make up a story for Rache too," Geraldine said. "We will have to say that she has been abandoned by that monstrous, philandering husband of hers, I suppose. Unless someone can think of a way of making her single again so that she can receive suitors. Any suggestions?"