The Passionate One (2 page)

“Where is who?” At
the sound of the smooth English voice, Ash stumbled to his feet.

A man moved down
the marble steps toward them, sparkling like one of the marzipan fantasies the
new French chef created. His coat was encrusted with gems, stitched with metal
threads. Glittering gold lace cascaded from beneath his square jaw, and the
white wig he wore shimmered with diadem dust.

Lord Ronald
Merrick, now Earl of Carr. Until his father’s recent death Janet hadn’t even
known Merrick’s father had lived, let alone that he’d been an earl.

Carr arrived at her
side, his expression becoming annoyed when he saw Fia asleep in her arms.
“Where is the nurse?”

“I wanted to rock
her to sleep myself, Carr. She’s my own bairn. I don’t need strangers to raise
her.”

“If you want to
flaunt your coarse ancestors, so be it.” Carr’s voice was uncharacteristically
indulgent. “But at another time. Our guests will be coming down soon and you
need to get dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

Carr ignored her,
peering instead at the little black-haired toddler she held. “You did well with
this one.”

Janet gazed down at
Fia’s creamy cheeks and pink rosebud mouth. Though just a child, even now one
could see the beauty promised by the fine, regular features and dramatic
coloring. Fia would be the ravishing one.

“Very well,” Carr
murmured. He glanced at Ash and Raine, a glance that did more to dismiss than
acknowledge. “She’ll have a thousand hearts laid at her feet—and her pick of a
thousand titles,” Carr predicted. “But not for a few years, eh?”

He flicked the edge
of Lady Carr’s plaid scarf with his fingertip. “Despite your mumbled bravado,
my dear, you are not yet dressed. Did you honestly think I’d let you wear that
McClairen rag to my ball?”

“I thought it was
our
ball,” Janet said quietly.

“Why would you
think that?” Carr’s forehead lined with puzzlement. “I am the one who was lost
to society, my dear. I am the prodigal whose return they’ve awaited, and you
will not exhibit your political sympathies by wearing the McClairen plaid at my
ball.”

The wind ruffled
the gold lace at his throat. “Such an act would not only be stupid, but
dangerous. ’Tisn’t that many years since the McClairen were ruled traitors. Or
have you forgotten their fate?”

Beheading.
No, she hadn’t forgotten.

“Mother says
Wanton’s Blush doesn’t belong to us,” Raine interrupted suddenly, thirsty for
his father’s attention. “That it belongs to a laird.”

“Does she now?”
Carr queried, directing his sardonic smile toward his youngest son. “And were
you so stupid as to believe her?”

Even in the faded
light she could see Raine’s skin darken.

“And what of you,
boy?” Carr’s probing gaze swung toward Ash. “Did your mother’s prattle scare
you? Did it offend you to think some unknown hairy-legged brute might someday
stomp in and declare your inheritance for his own?”

“No, sir,” Ash
said.

“No?” Carr’s brows
rose. “Then you are a fool or a weakling.” His smile never wavered; the gleam
of amusement did not die in the brilliant eyes. “I despise both.”

She did not know
why he loathed his sons so. But he did. Each year more so than the previous
one. Perhaps he hated them for their Scottish blood, or for having a stronger
claim to Wanton’s Blush than he, or simply for their youth and promise, promise
he’d turned his back on years before. Only Fia seemed to have escaped his
animosity.

“Sir, I only
meant—”

“There will
be
no inheritance,” Janet interrupted, unable to watch him toy with the boy any
longer. “You’ve spent all my dower on tricking out Maiden’s Blush like a cheap
Vauxhall whore. And she
isn’t
yours.” The words came from her in a
rush, long held, now finally spoken. “She belongs to the McClairens. You swore
you’d plead Colin’s case, explain that he wasn’t even in the country when Ian
plotted against the crown. But Colin is living like a pauper in a tumbled tower
and you’ve done nothing to aid him.”

“I’ve done what I
could to deal with Colin McClairen.” Carr’s perfectly smooth face frightened
her.

He’d done something
to the new laird. She could see it in his eyes. A trembling began within her.
She would have done anything for her children, anything. She’d held her tongue
for their sake, but now, for the first time, she wondered if she’d done them a
disservice. The truth might arm them better for the life they were destined to
live than could her silence.

“Since the crown
gave me Wanton’s Blush—I do so enjoy that name—until its future is decided,” Carr
continued, “I shall make it tolerable. I daresay I shan’t be here long. This
evening’s affair is important, a first step in my return to London. Know this,
dear wife, I will use, I
have
used, whatever means necessary to see
that I am restored to my rightful place in society.”

Once she’d loved
him and it was more toward that memory than the living man that she stretched
out her hand. “You used to care for me, Carr,” she murmured. “You had so much
promise, such intellect and address, but it’s been wasted!”

Carr’s face rippled
with violent anger. He grabbed her arm and dragged her upright. “It’s late.
You’ll not wear that plaid.”

She twisted. The
sudden motion jerked awake the little one. Her plaid scarf ripped with a sharp
sound. Fia cried out.

“I am the Earl of
Carr. I have waited ten years for this night, ten years to begin my return to
that strata to which I was born, which is my right. You will not do anything,
anything,
to jeopardize that.”

He was flushed,
furious. So, too, was she. She’d buried the truth from herself for nearly two
years but she could do so no longer. The McClairen plaid hung in pieces from
his fist, a fitting emblem of her clan’s fate—shredded by Carr’s implacable
greed and ambition.

“Carr,” her voice
vibrated with her demand, “the truth. Did you sell my family to the English?
Did you? Tell me!”

“Tell you what?” he
hissed. “That superior men oft reach their goals by climbing atop the corpses
of their enemies? Of course. Don’t be naive.”

“
Men
?
Or you?” Lady Carr asked, in a low harsh voice though she knew the
answer. She’d always known. “Did you betray them?”

“Get you to your
rooms and get dressed, madame!”

“I won’t,” she
said. “I loved you once, but no more. I won’t betray my clan by living with
their deceiver. If pride is the only legacy I leave my children, so be it.”

“You may regret
your words, madame.” Carr flung down the scarf and snatched Fia from her,
thrusting the little squirming girl at Ash. “Take her away. Take the other boy
with you!”

“But—”

“By God, you will
do as I say!” Carr’s face grew mottled beneath the rice powder.

Janet’s heart
pounded with her body’s intuitive terror. But her mind could not feel the fear,
would
not feel it. For too long she’d buried what she’d known, held
her loyalty to her husband above the loyalty she owed her clan. No more. She
would leave, take the children, go to her laird—

Raine had begun to
cry silently. The tears on his cheeks caught the glint from the torches on the
terrace high above.

“Please!” Ash
pleaded. “Mother—”

She bent quickly,
retrieved the scarf, and wrapped it about Fia’s shoulders. “It’s all right,
Ash. Take Fia up.” Her gaze found Raine, his fists balled, his chin thrust out.
“Take your brother, too. Promise me you’ll keep Raine safe, Ash. Please.”

“I will,” Ash’s
tears were flowing now. “I promise—”

Carr’s palm jolted
into the boy’s back, sending him stumbling up the shell path. Ash caught
Raine’s hand and dragged him forward.

Carr turned toward
Janet.

* * *

The cream of London’s society had traveled Scotland’s newly laid roads to see what the Earl of Carr had
made of his unlikely acquisition. Now, as the party began, they descended from
their rooms shedding powder and bon mots as they observed and judged the
magnificence designed solely to impress them.

Within an hour the
party was acknowledged to be a smashing success. Carr’s guests were impressed,
they were titillated, but best, they were amused. And Carr, even more gorgeous
than he’d been a decade ago, held court.

Several there had
known him in his last days as fashion’s most disreputable and prideful leader.
They’d whispered as his assets had been sold off and they’d stared at the packs
of creditors waiting daily at the door of his town house. They’d nodded sagely
when he’d finally fled the city rather than risk debtor’s prison. They’d never
expected to hear from him again.

But here he was,
glowing with pleasure. He traded sallies, lavished compliments, and directed a
league of servants to see that every desire was met, every courtesy extended,
every convenience offered. He did so fine a job of hosting, in fact, that it
was some time before anyone noted his wife’s absence.

Finally an elderly
roué mentioned this to Carr. Carr dispatched a servant to fetch his wife. The
footman returned a short time later with the information that Lady Carr was
nowhere to be found.

Carr went in search
of her, his handsome face wearing the smallest degree of irritation. She was
not in the gaming room. She was not in the ballroom. Neither was she in the
Great Hall nor in any of the small antechambers.

The house was warm,
Carr explained offhandedly. The crush, the excitement, the noise—she was, after
all, unused to society. She might have gone to take some night air in the
garden overlooking the sea. His companions volunteered to accompany him on his
search.

The gardens were
lovely. Paper lanterns had been strung along the perimeters and little candles
flickered in the colored glass balls lining the footpaths. At the far end they
found a gossamer scarf by an open gate.

Carr retrieved it
with a dutiful husbandly cluck. His wife, it seemed, had an affinity for the
sea. With a rueful shrug he turned back toward the castle saying that whatever
his personal inclination, etiquette made clear that a party cannot have two
absentee hosts.

Tipsy and amused
and not at all averse to having a role in the little domestic drama, his
companions pledged to find the errant lady. They lurched through the gate,
laughing and calling her name, leaving Carr behind.

An hour later they
burst through the terrace doors. Wigs askew, clothing in disrepair, they
trembled on the edge of the dance floor, flushed and sobered and appalled.

The din of
conversation faded. Slowly, every head turned toward them and then,
instinctively, toward their host. Those closest to Carr stepped away, leaving
him alone within a circle. Handsome head high, face taut with ill-suppressed
emotion, he demanded an explanation.

“There’s been an
accident,” one of the disheveled band exclaimed. “Lady Carr. She’s fallen from
the cliffs.”

“Where is she?”
Carr’s body trembled. “Is she... alive? God, man, answer me!”

The man sobbed,
shaking his head. “We saw her body on the rocks below. We tried to get down to
her but it was no use. The sea took her.”

Chapter One

Whitechapel
London

March 1760

Lord Tunbridge was
cheating.

In the dank, smoky
back regions of Rose Tavern, the young bucks’ festive mood had long dissipated.
First their purses, then their jewelry, and finally their inheritances had bled
into Tunbridge’s hands. They sprawled in the malodorous abandonment only four
days of fevered carousal can imbue, staring at visions of paternal rage, or
worse, debtor’s prison. There was nothing left for them to do now but wait for
an end to their purgatory.

Because, though
they knew Tunbridge was cheating—no one had so devilish luck—no one could say
how. Certainly no one would dare make complaint to Tunbridge, an acknowledged
duelist with an accredited five deaths to his record.

Only two men
remained playing, Lord Tunbridge and Ash Merrick. A slack-mouthed wench
snuggled on Tunbridge’s lap, her soft pink flesh glistening with the oppressive
heat in the room, while outside a blustery, cold day reminded those abroad that
winter had only recently ended.

Tunbridge ignored
the doxie, his slim fingers straying like albino snakes amidst the piles of
guineas and stacks of silver. It was not so great a heap as those that had
already been won at that table, but it was a substantial sum, enough to recoup
a decent portion of even the worst losses.

Tunbridge’s cold
gaze fixed on his opponent. Thus far Merrick had fared better than his
companions. It was rumored he had arrived in London months ago, after a
two-year stay as a guest in Louis XV’s prisons, and had since seemingly fixed
on making up for lost time.