Spellbound (19 page)

Satisfied, her ladyship
moved away to sit and chat with Lady Montgomery.

A heartfelt sigh escaped
Raven’s lips.

“So sad, my dear. What has
you looking so glum?”

Pasting a social smile
firmly in place, Raven greeted the Dowager Duchess of
Windhaven.

“Your grace. I was merely
thinking.”

Eyes twinkling, the old
woman placed an arm around Raven’s waist, squeezing gently. “Ever a
dangerous pastime, my dear. I do not recommend it.”

The former actress laughed.
“Indeed, your grace. I shall endeavor to take your counsel to
heart.”

Frowning, Lady Windhaven
replied, “I do wish you would not call me ‘Your Grace’. Can you not
bring yourself to call me Grandmother? Or perhaps Gloriana?” She
paused. “My father was fond of calling me Glory,” she
confided.

“Oh, but my lady, I
couldn’t possibly. By now you have heard the circumstances under
which I was invited here. Surely you cannot want the kind of
relationship such informality suggests?”

“It makes no never mind to
me, my girl, I assure you. It was very bad of you and that grandson
of mine to try to pull the wool over our eyes as you did, but I am
just pleased he has shown such determination to possess something
he wants. He has been so lifeless since that useless son of mine
died.”

Startled, Raven admitted,
“He said he wanted me to pretend to be his intended so he would be
left in peace about marrying. It had nothing to do with me,
personally, I assure you.”

The duke’s grandmother
snorted. “Balderdash! Poppycock! That young man went to London five
years ago and saw you as Juliet. He fell in love with you then. He
returned thoughtful, preoccupied. It took some managing to discover
the source of his preoccupation, let me tell you. When I discovered
it was you, and who you really were, I encouraged him to marry,
hoping he would be driven to extremes. And, low and behold, here
you are.”

“You are a manipulative old
woman, are you not?” Raven murmured with a blank expression on her
face.

Lady Windhaven chortled in
delight. “That I am, girl, that I am. Have no fear; my interfering
is over between you and my grandson. It is up to the two of you to
work out whatever little misunderstanding has come between you.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing fractionally. “Which doesn’t mean
I’m not there to listen should you need it.”

Before the old woman could
move away, Raven asked the one question they had been preying on
her mind. “Would you actually countenance an alliance between your
grandson and I?”

After a second of intent
study, the duchess replied, “What matter what I think, my girl? It
is your life and Tristan’s, not mine.”

More confused than ever,
Raven watched her return to Lady Hetty’s side.

Tristan, as was his habit,
declined the cigars and opted for an extra glass of the ruby-red
port offered. He needed the liquid sustenance. His temper was
already wearing thin and the ladies had only been gone a very few
minutes.

The young Earl of
Claremont, son and heir to the Marquis of Preston, had been allowed
to stay, although not quite seventeen. His father had even allowed
him port although he’d drawn the line at a cigar.

Tristan watched the young
man, inwardly laughing at his air of self-importance. Had young
Deveraux known the kinds of mischief his father and Tristan had
been into at that age, he would not think himself so privileged
now.

It was with an unexpected
pang that Tristan realized he could have a son on the threshold of
manhood right now had things been different. He and Griff were of
an age and, until the season Griff had met Delilah for the first
time, they had done everything together.

Going off to war had
changed much in himself and more in Griff.

Brushing aside such maudlin
wanderings, Tristan returned to the present. He realized Huntley
and Dunston were arguing in an undertone with the comte watching
them, a small frown between his brows.

The words betrothed and
comte were uttered, snapping Tristan’s attention firmly on Gervase.
Plastering a smile on his face even while his middle tensed with
dread, the duke asked, “What’s this, comte? Are you to enter
parson’s mousetrap?”

Dead silence filled the
room. Even Will, good servant that he was, faded silently into the
background, leaving the men in what seemed like privacy.

Comte Antoine smiled, a
mocking look that Tristan immediately mistrusted. “We merely speak
of Lady Rachael’s betrothal to me. From infancy, I have known she
would be mine. When she disappeared, naturally, plans were
suspended. But now, should your actress”—the word was said with a
certain amount of disgust—“prove to be Lady Rachael, the betrothal
stands.”

“That’s interesting
considering she is my wife.”

The startled silence that
followed informed Tristan that this salient fact had somehow missed
them all. His own expression became mocking. “Gentlemen, I married
the lady as Rachael Eliot. She is my wife, should you choose to
acknowledge her as Lady Rachael. And should you not…” He shrugged.
“It hardly matters then, does it?”

“But she cannot marry
without her father’s permission.”

“Why not?” Tristan scoffed.
“She is six-and-twenty at least, well beyond minor
years.”

Gervase, hitherto silent,
inserted, “Rachael would actually be nine-and-twenty, Lord
Windhaven.”

Tristan’s eyes widened.
“Indeed?”

Dunston’s laugh cracked
across the now silent chamber. “Gel ages well, don’t
she?”

Adam smiled. “Perhaps you
should keep her real age to yourself. I’m not sure she’ll
appreciate learning she’s nearly three years older than she
thought.”

Tristan snorted. “I agree.
Had you been able to tell her she was younger, maybe. But older?”
He shook his head. “No woman wants to hear that.”

A look of extreme annoyance
crossed the comte’s handsome features. Addressing Lord Dunston, he
asked, “Why do you consistently speak of this woman as your
daughter? As far as I can tell, she has given no proof that any
actress worth her salt could not acquire. For me, I need to know
positively.”

“That is something we may
not get, Antoine,” said Gervase reasonably. “She may have nothing
left that was hers before she disappeared. We will have to trust
our instincts and mine say that she is my sister.”

“She lost the locket you
gave her,” Tristan inserted nonchalantly, turning to the marquess.
By the look on the older man’s face, he’d been right to assume the
locket had come from him and not from Emerson.

Gervase clutched at his
waistcoat so suddenly that Tristan thought he might be having an
apoplectic fit despite his young age. He was relieved to see the
earl was simply grabbing for a particular fob.

Lord Huntley tossed it
towards the duke. “It was exactly like that, my lord. Except Rae
wore hers on a chain around her neck.”

Intrigued, Tristan scooped
up the trinket. It was gold, intricately engraved. Releasing the
little catch, he opened it to reveal two meticulously painted
miniatures, a boy and a girl, identical smiles set in identical
features.

And it was Raven in the
right hand portrait. There was no doubt in his mind. Besides which,
Gervase did look like the male version of her.

The duke narrowed his eyes
at Comte Antoine. “Why are you so determined to believe she is not
Lady Rachael? It would seem to be not in your best interest to
claim she is an impostor.”

“Ah, but as you so
eloquently pointed out, my dear duke, should I accept her as Lady
Rachael, I would lose my betrothed, as she is already married. I do
not emerge the winner either way.”

“Unless she is not a lady
at all,” Adam muttered, his pale eyes locked on the comte in such a
way that Tristan was immediately suspicious.

In less than a second,
Adam’s meaning penetrated. But the baronet continued before he
could say a word.

“What you seem to have
forgotten, or misunderstood, or are just too stubborn to realize,
Larousse, is that Rae belongs to Windhaven no matter who or what
she is. She has made her decision and no one, not even Dunston,
will change her mind on that head.”

Tristan came out of his
chair so fast, it clattered to the floor. “You bastard! You
intended to convince Dunston Rae is not his daughter and then
magnanimously set her up as your mistress?” Rounding the table, he
went for the smaller man, grasping him by his shirtfront. “Had she
decided to decline, what would you have done? Kidnapped her? Raped
her?”

Shaking him like a rat, he
snarled, “Whatever is decided, she is my wife, damn you! If you
touch her, speak to her, hell, if you so much as look at her, I’ll
gut you like the animal you are!”

Tossing him aside, the
debonair Duke of Windhaven bellowed, “Benson!”

The butler appeared, Will
at his side.

“Get this refuse out of my
house!”

Benson snapped his fingers.
Two more silent footmen appeared and between the four of them, they
removed the insensible comte from the duke’s explosive
presence.

Tristan swore long and
fluently. Rounding on the hapless marquess and his son, he snapped,
“Did you know what he was when you brought him here?”

Gervase, calm as ever,
replied, “We did not, your grace.”

His father nodded his head
in agreement, a flush of anger on his thin face. “Had we known, I’d
have torn up that betrothal contract myself.”

Somewhat relieved by these
assurances, Tristan managed to calm his breathing. He wanted to go
after the comte and beat him to a pulp for even daring to think
what he had.

Then it hit him. He knew
with vivid clarity exactly what Raven had been talking
about.

Going suddenly pale, he
slumped down into the nearest chair, which just so happened to be
the comte’s. Propping his elbows on the tabletop and dropping his
head into his hands, he muttered, “She was right. Damn me, she was
right.”

Lord Preston, having known
the duke the longest, was firmly urged to discover what ailed the
man. Not by any means thankful for this duty, he nevertheless
interposed, “I have rarely known a woman to be right about
anything, my friend.”

Tristan’s head came up, his
eyes hard. “What are you blathering about?”

Preston shrugged. “Women.
Rarely ever right. They like to think otherwise, but…”

The duke laughed bitterly.
“In this instance, my friend, I’m afraid you are very, very wrong.
I will not go into details, but suffice it to say, Rae was wholly
correct.”

Family and friends gathered
in the library the next afternoon.

Raven was as nervous as if
she was about to set foot on stage for the very first time. And, in
a way, she supposed she was. The only difference was, this would be
the performance of her life.

Frighteningly, all she
could do was tell the truth. What her audience did with that
information was up to them.

When everyone had assembled
and was seated comfortably, Raven stood. The gentlemen would have
stood as well, but she firmly waved them back.

“Where shall I
start?”

“The cat, the locket, and
Gerry,” Tristan suggested, oddly reserved in his manner.

Raven smiled faintly.
“Monsieur Boots was my orange tabby cat. Father gave him to me but
wouldn’t let me keep him.”

Lord Dunston interrupted.
“I gave you that blasted feline and a troublesome creature it was,
too. Became uncontrollable after you…left.”

Raven nodded. “As I
suspected, it was Fath—Mr. Emerson who made me turn the cat
loose.”

Moving slightly away from
the assembled company, she added, “I lost the locket. I don’t
remember anything about it other then it was gold and engraved. I
assume it held a picture or two, but I…I can’t
remember.”

“It looked like this,” Lord
Huntley inserted, holding up his fob.

Raven moved forward as if
in a daze and reached for the bauble. “Ye-es,” she said slowly. “It
does look similar. But”—her brow furrowed—“the shape is different.
Mine was oval. This is round.” She released the catch. The twin
portraits gazed up at her. She smiled. “I remember. We were amazed,
Gerry, that someone had painted our portraits and we had never had
even one sitting.”

“Yes,” Huntley whispered.
“You suggested father had a spy lurking in the bushes, watching our
every movement.”

“Which wasn’t far from the
truth, by God,” Lord Dunston said with a wink.

There was a pregnant pause.
The duke, clearing his throat, asked, “What is your earliest memory
of the Emersons?”

Raven turned, staring into
the fire as if for inspiration. “I suppose it would be when
Fath—Mr. Emerson took Boots away from me. After that, I remember
Moth—Mrs. Emerson having Paradise when I was five, in 1799. I loved
that baby. But she died, as did Mother’s previous five daughters.
Less than a year later, Wren came along. She lived until she was
four. Dove was born in 1802 and lived three years. Then Linnet was
born and I was sure she would die too. But she was stronger than
the rest.”