The magic wand of dawn cast a glow over the pale blue hangings and the gilded chairs of her bedchamber. The canopied four-poster was undisturbed, the pillows plumped and the coverlet folded back. Although weariness dragged at her, Vivien knew she couldn’t sleep yet, not while she brimmed with memories of Michael.
Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined the intimacy they’d shared. It was as if their souls had touched, and neither of them could be the same again. Her body ached pleasantly from his loving. She had given herself to a gorgio lord. And there was no room in her heart for regrets.
You’re mine. I don’t ever want to let you go, not even for a moment.
Drunk on pure happiness, Vivien hugged herself, twirling around and around until the painted nymphs on the ceiling swam dizzily. She sank onto the canopied bed. Michael felt a fire in his heart, too, this wondrous connection of body and soul. He believed in her now, trusted her enough to tell her his secret.
They came from different worlds, but surely there was a way for them. There had to be. Perhaps she could convince dado and dye to stay here on his estate. Would they be pleased with him? She fervently hoped so. No longer could she blame all the gorgios for the acts of a few. She had found warmth and love here with the Rosebuds, with Amy, and now with Michael.
Aching to hold him again, she rolled over and reached for a feather pillow to hug. As she slid her hand beneath the smooth linen casing, her fingers brushed something cold and hard. She lifted the pillow and frowned in confusion.
There, coiled like a snake on the sheet, an object glittered in the pale light. Emeralds and diamonds in a rich gold setting. A necklace. Beside it lay a diamond-studded gold ring. Both pieces looked familiar...
With a jolt, she recognized them. The Duchess of Covington had worn that necklace one evening. And the ring was the very one Lady Katherine claimed had been stolen.
Slapped by the chilly wind of shock, Vivien sat up. Someone had planted the gems here. Someone who wanted to discredit her, to see her thrown into prison. Someone who wanted to destroy Michael’s regard for her.
Develesa! It must have been Katherine. No, Her Grace, the Duchess of Covington. She had made plain her scorn for all Gypsies.
In a frenzy, Vivien scooped up the necklace and ring. She could think only of getting rid of them somewhere, anywhere away from her bedchamber. She would drop them in the corridor outside the duchess’s room, where a maid might find and return the gems to their rightful owners. Yes. She would thwart those two at their cruel game. And she must act swiftly.
Her heart thudding as fast as her scurrying feet, Vivien sped out of the chamber and down the deserted corridor. A few rays of light penetrated through a tall window at the far end. She was glad to see no servants about yet; perhaps they were downstairs cleaning up after the ball.
Cutting into her palm and fingers, the necklace and ring were a bitter reminder of the injustices practiced by the ton. She would never truly be accepted by some of these aristocrats. They would do everything in their power to oust her from their elite circle.
But Michael wasn’t like them. She focused her mind on the marvelous closeness she’d found with him. Vestacho. Her beloved. How she wanted to curl up on her bed and reflect on the joy they’d found together. His touch, his tenderness, his passion had made her feel loved—
She rounded the corner, and her golden dream mutated into a nightmare.
Outside the duchess’s chambers stood a cluster of women in their night robes: the Rosebuds, Charlotte Quinton, the Duchess of Covington, Lady Katherine. And Michael.
Dear God. Michael!
Vivien glanced wildly around for a place to conceal the stolen jewels. The stone walls stretched empty in either direction, the nearest vase on a table too far away. Her only chance was to slip away before anyone noticed her.
Too late. Even as she took a step backward, the duchess swept up her arm and pointed like an avenging angel. “There she is! The Gypsy thief!”
Michael pivoted on his heel. To his surprise, Vivien hovered at the bend in the corridor. Her face was pale, and the morning light limned her exotic garb. Her dark, mussed hair tumbled down to her slim waist. She looked startled, her eyes wide and her hands clutched behind her.
How odd that she had appeared so fortuitously. He’d been strolling back to his suite of rooms, whistling under his breath and feeling immensely pleased with the night’s events, when he’d come upon Katherine and her cousin quarreling with the Rosebuds and Charlotte Quinton. The duchess had accosted him with the news that her necklace was missing. Like a damned bulldog, she’d kept insisting on an immediate search of Vivien’s chamber. He’d expressly forbidden that.
Now, his grandmother folded her arms over her ruffled white wrapper. “My ward isn’t a thief!” she exclaimed. “You’ll rue your words, Hillary.”
“No, you will. Just you wait and see.” The duchess barged down the corridor, her orange robe flapping like the wings of a chicken.
Furious, Michael stalked after her. “Your Grace, that’s enough.”
But the duchess ignored him. She went straight to Vivien and poked a finger at her face. “You stole my necklace and don’t bother denying it.”
“I’ve stolen nothing, Your Grace,” Vivien said in a shaky tone. “I swear it.”
As she glanced up at Michael, a shadow of alarm touched her face from her beseeching brown eyes to her trembling lip. He breathed deeply to ease the constriction in his chest. Clearly, she expected his mistrust. He battled the fierce hunger to gather her into his arms and declare his true intentions.
Swinging toward the duchess, he said, “Your accusations are absurd. I’ll hear no more of them.”
“Nor I,” said his grandmother.
“I quite agree,” piped up Lady Enid, hugging her granddaughter, Charlotte, who for once held her tongue, apparently too shocked for words.
Lady Faversham thumped her cane. “You haven’t a shred of evidence, Your Grace.”
“But Miss Thorne admired my cousin’s necklace one evening in the drawing room,” Katherine said. “Hillary told me so.”
Michael returned her cool stare. What had he ever seen in her bloodless, perfect beauty? “Admiration is hardly proof of theft,” he bit out. “Nor cause to slander Vivien.”
“If Miss Thorne is so innocent,” the duchess huffed, “then what is she hiding behind her back? Stolen goods, I’ll warrant.”
Blast the bitch. The best way to shut her up was to prove her wrong. “Vivien, show us your hands.”
Vivien stood as if frozen. Her gaze flitted over the Rosebuds and Charlotte, then returned to Michael. As if he could see into her soul, he sensed a welter of emotions in her: anguish, desperation, defiance. An icy finger of foreboding touched his spine.
“Show us,” he repeated.
She parted her lips as if to refuse. Then she lowered her black lashes slightly and brought her hands out from behind her back. In her cupped palms rested a gold-spun knot of diamonds and emeralds.
A collective gasp rippled from the women. His grandmother blinked in shock. Charlotte clung to Lady Enid, tangling a handkerchief in her scarred fingers.
Struck cold, Michael stared at the necklace and ring. His every instinct resisted the evidence his eyes saw. God! He couldn’t believe that the loving woman he’d held in his arms a few hours ago would rob his guests. Even now, he felt her siren allure weakening him.
But the damning proof lay right there in her hands. She had stolen the jewels. Like Grace, Vivien had played him for a fool.
The duchess snatched up the necklace. “I knew it!” she crowed. She held the piece aloft, the gemstones glinting. “Look, Katherine, here’s your ring, too!”
Lady Katherine hastened to clutch the small diamond-and-gold circlet to her bosom. “Thank heavens. This ring means so much to me.”
The duchess rounded on Michael. “I told you the Gypsy was guilty. She must be clapped in irons immediately!”
Fighting a bitter pain, he forced his gaze back to Vivien. Tersely, he said, “You must have some explanation.”
She lifted her chin and met his angry stare. “I found the jewels under my pillow. I don’t know how they came to be there. I wanted only to return them.”
“A Banbury tale,” the duchess snapped. She looked Vivien up and down. “It’s clear that you fancy her, Stokeford. No doubt she was returning my necklace because she knew she had a chance to snare bigger game.”
“That isn’t true,” Vivien retorted.
“Silence,” Her Grace commanded. “All Gypsies are liars and thieves.”
Lady Stokeford bristled. “You’re the liar, Hillary. It’s time someone voiced what we’ve all been thinking. You and your scheming cousin hid the jewels in order to discredit Vivien.”
“I’d never play such games with this ring,” Katherine said, slipping it onto her finger. “It was a wedding gift from my late husband.”
The duchess’s cheeks reddened. “Have a care how you speak to us, Lucy. Your ward will be sent to gaol at once. I, for one, won’t feel safe until she’s behind bars.”
A small, angry cry broke from Vivien as she stepped forward to confront the duchess. “I wish I had stolen the necklace,” she burst out. “You owe far more than that to my father.”
“Your father?” the duchess said scathingly. “Lucy said you didn’t know his name.”
“My adoptive father. He was crippled last year by a mantrap set on your husband’s estate.”
The Rosebuds exchanged scandalized mutterings. Michael experienced a sudden, cold understanding. No wonder Vivien despised the duchess.
“Tell us what happened,” he demanded.
“One day last autumn, miro dado took a shortcut through a stretch of woods. He was hunting rabbits for our stewpot.” She swallowed, as if it pained her to go on. “When he didn’t return to our camp that evening, I went to look for him. I found him...”
Lady Stokeford slipped her arm around Vivien’s waist. “There, there, darling. You needn’t speak of it.”
“I must speak.” Tears welling in her eyes, Vivien clamped her fingers around her turquoise skirt. “I found my father in agony on the cold ground where he’d lain all day. I couldn’t open the trap, the springs were too strong. I had to leave him, to run back to the camp and fetch help. He suffered terribly. All because the Duke of Covington treats Gypsies like wild animals.”
The duchess twitched her nose. “You’re mistaken, Miss Thorne. I ordered those traps set. I’ve every right to guard against poachers.”
Michael loathed the woman’s savagery. At the same time, he realized grimly that revenge for her father’s injury gave Vivien a stronger motive for stealing from the duchess.
In a flash of movement, Vivien spat at the duchess. The moist globule landed on that contemptuous nose. “There! That is what I think of you.”
Her Grace squawked like a witless hen, swabbing at her face with her orange sleeve. “How dare you!” she sputtered. “I’ll ruin you!”
“I’ll ruin you,” Lady Stokeford said fiercely. “Society will hear of your cruelty, Hillary. You’ve exposed yourself as a petty, inhuman tyrant.”
“You can’t touch me. You’ve no power in the ton anymore.”
“But I have,” Michael stated. As the duchess worked her mouth in the beginnings of alarm, he added in a steely tone, “You and Katherine have your jewelry back. You’ll pack your bags and depart within the hour.” Then he aimed his wintry eyes at Vivien. “Miss Thorne shall remain a prisoner in her room until I can fetch the magistrate.”
“The magistrate!” Charlotte gasped. She’d been so subdued, Michael had almost forgotten her presence. Now she flew at him and grasped his hands. “You can’t do that!”
Striving for impassivity, he disengaged himself. “She was caught with stolen goods. If the courts find her guilty, she’ll be punished accordingly.”
“Banishment is too good for her kind,” the duchess snarled. “She should be hanged.” On that stern note, she and Katherine swept down the corridor to her chamber.
The Rosebuds crowded around Michael. “Don’t listen to that vicious woman,” Grandmama pleaded. “She crippled the man who raised Vivien.”
“I’d like to see the two of them swing from a gibbet!” declared Lady Faversham.
“You won’t be cruel to Vivien, will you?” Charlotte asked anxiously. “Just send her back to the Gypsies. There’s no need to summon the law.”
But Michael ignored all of them. A frigid, unforgiving chill encased him as he took Vivien by the arm and ushered her back to her room. She spoke nothing more in her defense. A foolish part of him yearned for her to say something, anything, that would acquit her of this crime. With violent need, Michael wanted to haul her close and kiss her until he forgot how she’d gulled him.
Before he could make an even bigger dolt of himself, he shoved her inside her bedchamber and locked the door.
At first Vivien was too numb to react. For a long time, she stood in the middle of the rug, the quiet settling over her like a shroud. She felt dizzy from the effort to draw sufficient air into her lungs. Again and again, the images played in her mind.
Michael, making love to her in the darkness, so tender and wild, their passion like a living flame. Michael, relaxed and smiling, his arm around her as if he could not bear to let her go. Michael, as all the warmth and light leached from his face, leaving the stern, inscrutable mask of a stranger.
The pain of reality penetrated the fog of her disbelief. He had forsaken her. His faith in her had vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp. Their intimacy had meant nothing to him. His tenderness had been an illusion, the work of a clever seducer. She had trusted him, and he’d used her for his pleasure.
In a frenzy of pain and fury, Vivien flew into the dressing room and stripped off her clothing. She poured water into the porcelain washbasin and scrubbed away his scent and taste and touch. Yet still, she could feel Michael’s hands caressing her. She smelled his masculine tang. She felt his brand upon her womanhood, for her womb felt tender and achy, her breasts sensitive, her skin rosy from the rasping stroke of his cheek. In defiance of the upheaval in her heart and mind, her body felt languid and satisfied, softened by the fulfillment she had found in his arms.
A fulfillment she would never again know with him.
Pulling a shift over her nakedness, she felt something inside her shatter. Tears poured forth, and she threw herself onto the bed in a storm of grief and rage and despair, sobbing until her emotions were wrung dry. Then she fell into an exhausted slumber. She slept until a distant awareness penetrated her uneasy dreams.
The tapping of footsteps. The clink of porcelain. The rattle of a key.
Michael.
Her heart pounding, she came fully awake, sitting up and blinking against the brilliance of the early afternoon sunlight.
She was alone in the cavernous bedchamber. But on a table near the hearth lay a tray of food. The aroma of fresh bread and meat wafted to her. Rather than pangs of hunger, she tasted the sourness of nausea.
Michael hadn’t come to her, begging forgiveness. He’d sent a maidservant, that was all. Likely, he prided himself on his benevolence in feeding his prisoner.
She would starve before accepting his charity.
She sat hugging herself amid the rumpled sheets. Had he sent for the magistrate yet? Would she be transported halfway around the world to Australia? Or would she be sentenced to hang?
Fear caught her by the throat. She remembered how swiftly he’d dealt with Thaddeus Tremain. By the end of the day, the swindling steward had been carted off to the village round house and thence to London, where he sat in prison awaiting trial.
She was bound for the same fate.
She mustn’t wait like a hare caught in a steel trap. Michael Kenyon was a harsh gorgio lord who judged her guilty because of her Romany upbringing. She had been a fool once in giving him the gift of her body. Nay, twice a fool, for she also had given him the gift of her love.
Rising from the bed, Vivien went to the window and threw open the casement. She leaned out, looking down to the ground, the distance dizzying. There was no balcony here at the Abbey, no handy mat of ivy covering the wall. Without warning, she remembered Michael scaling the wall at the Dower House, bringing her a perfect red rose.
She breathed deeply to alleviate the sword thrust of memory. With effort, she forced herself to think, to plan. The old stones had crumbled in places, offering handy footholds. There was also a drainpipe to aid her. Yes, she could make her way down if she took care.
She hastened into the dressing room. Spuming the turquoise skirt and yellow blouse lying on the floor, she rummaged through her clothes. She wouldn’t wear the garb in which she had danced with Michael, the soft silks he had stripped from her in a fever of passion.
She chose a gown at random from the many fine garments in her wardrobe and drew it over her shift. She would take only this one gown in exchange for the simple clothing she had worn on that long-ago day when she had left the Rom in the company of the Rosebuds.
The Rosebuds. Her heart constricted at the prospect of never again seeing them, especially Lady Stokeford. Dear Lady Stokeford with her impish smile and her staunch loyalty. How she would miss them all.
And Amy. Develesa, she would never again see Michael’s daughter.
Weak with loss, she leaned against the clothespress. After the fireworks last night, she had vowed to tell the little girl a story today. Michael would never let her near his daughter now. In his mind he had already tried Vivien and convicted her.
But she wouldn’t break her promise to Amy. Not even if it meant delaying a few more minutes and risking imprisonment.
Returning to the bedchamber, she seated herself at the dainty desk, took out a piece of cream stationery, and with trembling hands, dipped a quill pen into a silver pot of ink. For Amy, she wrote at the top. Focusing her thoughts, Vivien composed a quick tale about a lonely little orphan girl who through trial and tribulation discovers her papa is still alive and then the two of them live happily ever after.
Upon finishing, she sanded the ink and blew the tiny grains into the rubbish bin. She left the story on the desk. Perhaps the tale would soften the blow of her departure. It was the best she could do for the little girl.
From a drawer, Vivien removed a heavy sack containing ninety gold guineas—her wages of one hundred minus the ten that Lady Stokeford had already paid to her father. It wasn’t as much as she’d hoped for, but the coins would stretch if she was careful in the coming years.
Hefting the precious sack, she contemplated the grand bedchamber. Since moving to the Abbey, she’d come to feel at home in this restful chamber with its huge canopied bed and pretty furnishings, the ceiling painted with a fanciful scene of nymphs and goddesses. She had been foolish enough to think she might belong here in the world of the gorgios, amid the luxurious trappings of the rich.
How wrong she had been.
Though afternoon sunlight streamed past the rich blue draperies, the chamber felt as gloomy and unwelcoming as a gilded cage. She knew the feeling originated within herself, in the anguish that ravaged her soul. She could stay here no longer.
Hastening to the window, she took a deep breath and clambered over the sill.
“This is a plot brewed by Katherine and the duchess,” Lucy said for the umpteenth time as she paced her bedchamber at the Abbey. “But how can we prove it?”
Scowling, Olivia perched upright on a straight-backed chair. “Those two connivers will never admit to their tricks, that is for certain. They would blithely send an innocent girl to prison.”
Enid slumped deeper into a wing chair upholstered in gold brocade. “Oh, if only Vivien hadn’t been returning the necklace and ring at that very moment.”
“No doubt Katherine and Hillary would have gone to her chambers anyway, and made a great pretense of finding the jewels.” Feeling every one of her seventy years, Lucy sank wearily onto a chaise. She had just spent half the day saying good-byes to the departing guests, making excuses for her grandson’s absence, and pretending to be cheerful. “A woman who would set a mantrap would think nothing of framing an innocent girl.”
“Blast them,” Olivia said, thumping her cane on the pale green carpet. “They must have hidden the jewels sometime during the party. Are you quite sure none of the servants saw them in Vivien’s chamber?”
“I’ve spoken to the staff. No one came forward with any knowledge, not even when I offered ten guineas as a reward.” Lucy took a sip of her tea and grimaced. It had gone cold, so she set down the cup with a clatter. “One particular aspect of all this disturbs me, though. If Katherine planned to tarnish Vivien’s reputation, then why did she leave once she succeeded? Why didn’t she stay and pursue my grandson?”
“Perhaps she thought it best to wait until he returns to London,” Olivia suggested. “After all, she isn’t welcome here anymore.”
“Quite so,” Lucy mused. Though she saw the logic in that, she could not shake the feeling that she’d missed something. Something vital.
“Oh, I cannot forget the look on Vivien’s face,” Enid said, blowing her nose with unladylike vigor. “She was so terribly hurt.”
“I know,” Lucy whispered, her throat tight with pain. “If this disaster is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. Had I not encouraged a romance between Vivien and my grandson, Katherine would have had no reason to pretend she’d lost her ring.”
“Nonsense,” Olivia said. “Michael would have been drawn to Vivien regardless.”
“They were in love,” Enid said, sighing wistfully. “Why, I’m sure he bedded her last night.”
“Then why does he not trust her?” Olivia said with unusual vehemence, slapping her hand onto the arm of her chair. “He’s no gentleman for using an innocent girl as his doxy and then throwing her to the wolves.”
A small woeful cry slipped from Lucy. Though she struggled not to weep, tears pricked her eyes. When Vivien and Michael had disappeared from the ball around midnight, she’d hoped they were together. Vivien was the perfect woman to light his heart. She was warm and spirited, not cool and aloof as Grace had been.
This morning when Lucy had seen them, both charmingly rumpled, she had known instantly that they’d made love. They were in love, with that special, blissful glow she had longed to see in them. Once this silly business was cleared up, her grandson would offer for Vivien, and they would marry and live happily ever after with Amy here at the Abbey. He would sire a brood of great-grandchildren to fill this house with merriment again.
But in horror Lucy had watched as Vivien showed them what she’d hidden behind her back. The tenderness had faded from Michael’s eyes, his face hardening to granite. Once again, he’d reverted to the cold, cynical man he’d become after Grace’s death.
Olivia hobbled over to sit beside Lucy on the chaise, hugging her in a rare show of affection. “Forgive me, dearest,” she murmured. “’Twas my own bitterness toward men, I suppose. I didn’t mean to distress you all the more.”
“You only spoke the truth,” Lucy said, groping for her friend’s hand. It was as thin and wrinkled as her own. “I must face the fact that my grandson has behaved dishonorably. That he will not help Vivien.”
Enid sat down at her other side. “Do you suppose Michael is still locked in the library?”
Dabbing at her eyes, Lucy nodded. “The staff has been alerted to notify me when he comes out. Though I doubt he’ll listen to me.”
“At least he hasn’t sent Vivien to the round house,” Olivia said. “He may yet decide in her favor.”
“Bah, he’s getting drunk like his father,” Lucy said, aware of a piercing sense of failure. “Like his grandfather, too. That is how men solve their problems. You are right to mistrust them, Olivia.”
“There, there, you must have hope,” Enid said comfortingly, putting her plump arm around Lucy. “You mustn’t blame yourself, either. You did a fine job raising your son, and Michael and his brothers, too.”
“Quite so,” Olivia stated. “But dwelling on the past doesn’t help Vivien.”
“’Tis a pity we cannot get a key to her chamber,” Enid said fretfully. “We could keep her company, at least. Could we fetch a locksmith?”
“That would take too long,” Olivia said, thoughtfully studying Lucy. “You’re certain Michael took the housekeeper’s ring of keys?”
“Yes, the master key, too. If nothing else, my grandson is thorough.”
“Hmph,” Olivia snorted. Then a gleam of battle entered her iron-gray eyes. “We must find another way to secure her release. Let us proceed to the stables, ladies.”
Lucy stood up uncertainly. “But what’s your plan?”
“We’ll fetch some tools. Something with which to break the lock.”
Enid gasped. “What a clever notion! My stars, can we manage it?”
“We are the Rosebuds,” Lucy said, her spirits rallying. “I’ll take pleasure in smashing the lock myself.”
As they prepared to troop out of the chamber, a soft rapping on the door caused Lucy’s heart to flutter. Perhaps a servant had come to say that her grandson had emerged from the library. Had he changed his mind and realized his mistake? Or would he send for the law?
But their visitor bore no message from Michael. Instead, upon opening the door, the Rosebuds found themselves facing the real thief.
A loud knocking awakened Michael from his drunken stupor.
Blearily, he lifted his head from the table and saw the familiar rows of bookshelves in the library. He wondered why he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day. A bar of sunlight half blinded him. On the table lay an empty decanter of brandy and an overturned glass that dribbled a few drops onto the scarred oak surface. He’d encountered Vivien here many times, perusing the shelves...
Memory walloped him.
Vivien.
He straightened up in his chair, wincing at the pain that stabbed his head. Vivien had deceived him. The passionate girl who had given her virginity to him was a thief. No doubt she’d hoped to secure a place in his affections. Grace had done the same, using her body as a bargaining chip. Perhaps it was best he’d found that out now before Vivien stole his heart, too.
But not even drink could make him forget last night.
He could almost taste her kisses. He could feel her arms holding him, her hands caressing him. He could hear her whispering to him in the darkness.
Vestacho...beloved.
In a powerful rage, he swept his arm across the table, thrusting the decanter and glass to the floor.
The knocking came again, rattling the heavy oak door, the sound reverberating in his aching skull. “Begone,” he shouted.
He did not want servants bothering him with offers of food or drink. Nor did he wish to see his grandmother or Charlotte Quinton or anyone else in this godforsaken hinterland. He didn’t want to hear arguments that would tempt him to trust Vivien. He wanted to be left alone to his brooding. To his drinking.
An array of crystal decanters beckoned from a sideboard. He rose, swaying a little as he started toward the promise of oblivion.
There was another hard thumping that Michael studiously ignored. Until a man’s muffled voice called, “Open the door, you flea-brained idiot.”
Michael stopped dead. His gaze shot to the door. Brand?
God help him. He’d forgotten...
A cold fear gripped him, followed by a hot blast of fury. If Brand Villiers had gone up to the nursery again, if he’d dared to so much as look at Amy, he would die.
Storming to the medieval archway, Michael fumbled with the key and yanked open the door. He clenched his fist, ready to strike. But Brand wasn’t alone.
He stood flanked by the Rosebuds. Lady Faversham wore a grim, angry look. Lady Enid wept loudly into her handkerchief. Lady Stokeford appeared frail and shaken.
Brand’s cold gray eyes held a jeering disgust. “You’ll be pleased to know that Vivien is innocent,” he said without preamble. “I’ve found your jewel thief.”
Then he turned to someone half-hidden behind him. He pushed a white-faced Charlotte into the library.