The Earl of Rivington was dead.
Maryann saw him stretched out on the faro table which someone had dragged against the wall by the French doors.
She felt nothing.
At three-thirty on the morning of Wednesday, May first, she rang the bell summoning the servants to the library. She sent Harv for a surgeon and, on the suggestion of Sir John Lewis, for the constable as well.
“It’s merely a question of formality,” Sir John assured her. “We all can attest to the accidental firing of the weapon.”
Maryann stared at him. She had known the silver-haired gentleman since she first came to town with her mother and sisters. She had walked in the park with his granddaughter. He sat in Parliament, she knew, and was a justice of the peace in his home county.
“It is best, Lady Maryann.” He spoke with quiet authority. He did not try to avoid her eyes but watched her with grave concern. “For everyone, including you and Lady Rivington.”
Accidental death—no trial, no scandal or very little.
Maryann thought of the alternative—a charge of willful murder against Woverley, the trial exposing the late Earl of Rivington as a gambler and a cheat, her own testimony about what she had heard on the terrace in all likelihood dismissed as the ravings of a distraught daughter.
“Sir John, since I was not a witness, I suggest that you or one of the gentlemen present at the time of the … accident speak to the constable.”
He bowed. “I agree, Lady Maryann. It is not necessary that he should bother you at all. I shall also have a word with Woverley. His mind, I fear, is sadly addled from shock. Travel abroad and a prolonged stay in warmer climes will be just the thing for him.”
Maryann watched Sir John pass through the French doors onto the terrace, where the Marquess of Woverley sat in solitary splendor. He had finally given up the pistols in favor of a bottle of cognac and was fast drinking himself into a stupor.
Turning to the stunned servants hovering in the doorway, she ordered coffee to be served to the gentlemen in the library and told Hedwig to go to Irene and to keep her upstairs.
She went to her room to dress, then spent a few moments with her mother, who had heard the news from Hedwig. Irene was pale but quite composed. Spectacles resting on the tip of her nose, she was compiling a list of mourning apparel to be ordered from Madame Blanchard.
“Mama?” Maryann said hesitantly. “You are all right?”
Dipping the pen in the ink stand, Irene looked at her daughter. “I do not feel like mourning, but the proprieties must be observed.”
“Yes, of course.”
A bill more or less would make no difference. And later—
Maryann closed her mind to whatever might happen later, when all her father’s debts were disclosed. She returned to the library, where she calmly accepted the condolences of the surgeon when he had completed his examination of the still figure on the faro table.
She felt nothing.
She spoke with Reginald, answered his questions as best she could, and, when he suggested that it might be better if he left immediately, convinced him to stay a few days. There would be much that needed to be done, and, although she had Mr. Winsome to help her, she’d rather have a brother at her side while she faced brothers-in-law, her father’s friends, his heir—and his creditors.
Her mind functioned like the wheels inside a wellmade clock. She knew it would not be long before merchants, tailors, and bootmakers gathered at the door, and instructed Mr. Winsome to bring her father’s account books into the front parlor where she might study them.
Looking at the sums Mr. Winsome pointed out to her—most of them on the debit side, something stirred in her. Concern for her mother. She wondered how Irene would hold up under the strain of the next days or even weeks, worried how to make provisions for her.
And she thought with longing of Stephen, who would not be able to come to her until Thursday night.
She was relieved to find that not all her feelings were frozen. Her father was dead, shot by one of his gambling companions. And she felt nothing about his death. Not regret, not relief. Nothing.
At eleven o’clock that morning, she heard the knocker on the front door. The sound was strange—dull and lifeless. Someone had, apparently, wrapped the brass fixture in black crepe. However dull the sound, from that time on it did not cease. Some of the callers only left cards, others, friends and well-wishers of Irene, or the morbidly curious, asked to be admitted.
On Mr. Winsome’s insistence that he was well able to deal with creditors until the arrival of the new Lord Rivington, Maryann assigned him the use of her father’s study and went upstairs to join her mother in the drawing room.
The first person she saw, and who saw her when she entered the crowded room, was Tammadge.
He stood alone by one of the windows and immediately started toward her. Grim faced, she watched him. Indeed, her feelings were not dead. Anger and revulsion flared hotly in her.
Impetuously, she met him halfway. “How dare you show your face!”
One pointed black brow rose. “I have come to condole with you on your sad loss and to assure you that Lady Rivington will never suffer from want. As my wedding gift to you, I have made over to your mother a lifetime annuity of two thousand pounds.”
Rage blurred her vision. She had to take several deep breaths before she could trust herself to speak without screaming.
“My father was killed because you told Lord Woverley about his cheating,” she said, her voice low, throbbing with anger. “No doubt you believe you have me cornered, that, faced with penury and debts, I’ll change my mind and marry you.”
“You will certainly change your mind.”
She drew another deep breath. “You miscalculated, my lord! I shall provide for my mother. And you may go to the devil!”
White faced, his eyes narrowed, he stepped so close that his breath stirred tendrils of her hair. “Just wait until word of your father’s activities is out, and you and your mother find yourselves ostracized.”
The close contact made her skin crawl, but she did not retreat.
“Lord Tammadge,” she said icily. “You will give the word at your peril.”
“And just what do you mean by that?” An ugly look crossed his thin face. “What has your father told you about me?”
She measured him from head to toe, then turned her back on him.
Seeing the butler hovering near the door, she said, “Melville, Lord Tammadge is leaving. Please fetch the box on the mantel shelf in my room and give it to him. He will not be calling again.”
She did not check to see what effect her words had on her erstwhile betrothed, or whether others had heard her, but crossed the room to her mother’s side.
It was obvious that her confrontation with Tammadge had not been noticed here at the back of the large chamber. Both her mother and Lady Effingham, who was seated beside Irene, smiled at her.
“My love, you ought to change,” Irene said gently. “Madame Blanchard sent two gowns for you. Jane took them upstairs.”
Maryann left without protest. Like her mother, she did not feel like mourning, but the proprieties must be observed.
Cousin Reggie, who had once executed her favorite doll and who was now the Seventh Earl of Rivington, arrived in the afternoon. He was curt and wasted no breath on sympathy, but after an hour spent with Mr. Winsome, he joined Maryann in the front parlor in slightly better humor.
“It’s not as bad as I feared,” he said bluntly. “Your father was a wastrel, but with some wise investments—I’m not exactly a pauper, you know—and a little economy, I shall have the estate back in shape in a year or two. It’ll be a drain on my finances to settle his debts—gad, you wouldn’t believe the amount he owes at Tattersall’s!”
“Five thousand pounds,” said Maryann. “I saw the books this morning.”
The new earl hunched his shoulders and lowered his head in a manner reminiscent of the late earl. “But I’ll settle. Can’t have it said of me that I cast off my aunt and cousin.”
Family pride, thought Maryann. She hoped it wouldn’t lead him down the road her father had taken. She prayed that, for his sake as much as her mother’s and hers, a scandal over her father’s death had been averted by Sir John Lewis’s action.
“There won’t be any money for you or Aunt Irene. Not even a dowry for you,” the seventh earl said gruffly. “But the dower house belongs to your mother. If she does not want to live near Rivington Hall. I’ll make arrangements to lease it. The rent should cover the cost of simple lodgings and her upkeep.”
“Thank you.”
Relief brought tears to her eyes. She had told herself she could provide for her mother, but deep in her heart she had doubted her capabilities.
She blinked the suspicious moisture away and left the parlor before she could disgrace herself with a fit of weeping.
With the intention of gathering her wits and her strength, Maryann sought refuge in her room. She lay down on the bed, but had barely closed her eyes when her maid opened the door and peeked in.
“What is it, Jane?”
“There’s a note, my lady.” Eyes bright with curiosity, Jane approached the bed.
Stephen! was Maryann’s immediate thought, and her pulse started racing.
But it was not the bold writing that had covered the reverse side of Lady Effingham’s invitation and bade her come to Hyde Park.
Her gaze skipped to the signature: Hannah Moss.
This was unusual enough to temper disappointment. With growing excitement, she read the long, meticulously written note.
Hannah begged Lady Maryann to come to Wilderness Road the following day. She had made up her mind to visit Parson’s Stairs, where she had been found unconscious. She wanted to see if the location would help her remember details about the abduction. At present, she was aware only of blind horror and fright.
She did not want her parents to know about this since she feared her mother would forbid such an undertaking, and asked that Lady Maryann call at ten o’clock when Hester and Abraham would be at synagogue.
And would Lady Maryann please come disguised as a servant girl? A lady would attract undue notice in a part of town that consisted mostly of warehouses and shipping offices.
“Jane, when was this delivered?”
“Just now, my lady. The girl as brought the note is waitin’ fer an answer.”
“Where?” Maryann rose hastily. “I’ll speak to her.”
“In the entrance hall, my lady.”
The young maid who had admitted her to the Moss’s house blushed and curtsied awkwardly when Maryann approached.
“M’lady,” she stammered. “I’m sure Miss Hannah wouldn’t have bothered ye if she had known about yer father. But we hadn’t heard, an’ when the footman told me, I didn’t know what ter do.”
“What you must not do under any circumstances is tell Miss Hannah. I don’t want her upset.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Maryann hesitated. “How is Miss Hannah? Has she spoken again?”
“Oh, yes! She’s gettin’ ter be the way she was afore she was kidnapped. But she’s frettin’ about not r’memberin’.”
“Then tell her, please, that I will call for her with my carriage at ten o’clock as she requested.”
The maid beamed. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll tell her. It’ll make her ever so happy!”
After seeing the girl off, Maryann sent word to the stables that she would require the carriage with Robert and Rush in attendance at nine o’clock the following morning for a visit to Wilderness Road.
Back in her room, she inspected the gowns she wore to the Sloane Street gardens. Choosing a simple cotton print, she wondered what else she could do to make herself look like a maid. A maid on an outing with a friend, she reminded herself. Perhaps celebrating Princess Charlotte’s wedding.
What she needed was one of Hedwig’s caps.
It took repeated explanations of the reason for the masquerade and assurances that Robert and Rush would be with her at all times, but finally Hedwig was persuaded to part with one of her cherished caps.
“Mind you,” she said, hiding concern behind teutonic gruffness, “if you’re not back by afternoon, I’ll send the runners after you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t tell Mama!”
“Niemals,” Hedwig promised.
Having made her preparations, Maryann should have been able to relax, but with every minute ticking by, her excitement grew.
Unlike last Thursday, she had made no plans to assist in Tammadge’s capture on the morrow. She had been willing to leave everything in Stephen’s hands. But now an opportunity had been handed to her.
If her action helped Hannah remember, if the girl accused Tammadge, the Bow Street magistrate would be able to have him arrested before he abducted Meg. Before the cutthroats forced young girls aboard the Venture.
There were many if’s to contend with, but to have played a part in Tammadge’s downfall would give her great satisfaction.
From her window, Maryann watched evening shadows creep across the garden. Time dragged unbearably slow. If only it were morning….
Jane came to light the lamps and pull the drapes across the window. There was nothing left to do but pace the floor … until dinner … until morning.
Somehow, Maryann got through the evening, even through dinner which the new earl took with them before retiring to a hotel. He had given permission, graciously to Irene and Maryann, and reluctantly to Reginald, to stay at Rivington House until after the funeral, which he had instructed Mr. Winsome to arrange for Saturday.
“Your wedding will have to be postponed, of course,” the earl told Maryann gravely as he took his leave. “I hardly think Tammadge would be satisfied with a small, private ceremony.”
“Tammadge and I have decided that we do not suit.”
He frowned. “Is that how it is? No doubt he found out about your father’s debts. Well, well! I wouldn’t have taken Tammadge for a man who looks to his bride’s dowry.”
Maryann did not disillusion him.
“What about that boy—gad, why must your father have given him a family name? Reginald! Pshaw!”
Maryann waited.
The earl collected hat and gloves from the hall table. “I cannot be expected to provide for your father’s bastard.”
“If he weren’t the bastard, you would not be the earl, Reginald!”
She saw his face turn a dull red. More quietly, she said, “But no, you need not be responsible for him. If I find the money to pay the fees, would you speak to the dean at Christ Church to make certain he won’t be kicked out for lack of connections? He is known there as my father’s ward.”
After some thought, the earl said reluctantly. “I daresay I could do it.”
“Thank you.”
She accompanied her cousin to the door, and, when she closed it after him with a sigh of relief, found Harv waiting for her.
Looking as important as only he knew how, the footman said, “There’s a gentleman waitin’ for you, Lady Maryann. Knocked on the back door, he did. Said he wouldn’t come in.”
Stephen! It simply must be Stephen.
Her heart raced faster than her feet as she hurried down the back stairs and into the kitchen. Robert was rolling dice with Rush and James at the scrubbed table. Before they could scramble to their feet, she had flown past them, opened the back door, and stepped into the darkness of the garden.
Strong arms wrapped tenderly around her. A broad chest waited for her to lean against it. The cloth of his coat felt rough against her cheek, and he smelled of the cheroots she had sometimes seen him smoke, but she did not mind. Tenderness and strength; roughness and a manly scent. They were Stephen.
And he was with her.
The thought filled her mind and her heart. She had no wants, no needs, save to be held by him.
“My love,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “I only just heard the news or I would have been with you sooner.”
She pressed closer, reluctant to speak and spoil the sweetness of the moment.
“Woverley himself told me,” said Stephen. “What an awful thing to have happened!”
Clinging to him, she raised her face. Stephen at least must know the truth.
“Are you aware it was no accident?”
“It was not? I suppose I should have known.”
The light from the kitchen windows was not sufficient to show the expression of his face, but she felt his tension, heard the tight note in his voice.
“Tammadge put Woverley up to it,” she said. “He believed my father’s death would force me to marry him.”
“Never shall you marry him! You are mine.”
Stephen tightened his hold possessively. “The devil fly away with eligibility! You’ll wed me and no one else.”
Her heart swelled with joy and love.
“Yes, sir,” she replied instantly and with becoming meekness.
He was quite still.
The tension flowed out of him. He shifted his hold. His hands clasped her waist. Sweeping her off her feet, he held her suspended.
“She says she will!” he shouted, swung her in a circle, then set her down.
Before she could catch her breath, his mouth covered hers, stifling any admonitions she might have been inclined to utter. But she had no such inclination. Locking her hands behind his neck, she returned his kisses with ardor and devoted herself to convincing him that he would never regret his impetuous offer of marriage.
A long time later, he asked, “You won’t mind not having a botanical garden?”
“I shan’t mind not having it immediately.”
It was difficult to think of anything but his hands moving up and down her back and making her skin tingle. But she did remember a daydream of growing flowers in Cornwall and selling them to support Irene and to finance her own gardens some day.
The daydream she’d indulged in after her last visit to Hannah.
“Stephen, I have such news! Hannah Moss is coming out of her shell. She has asked me—”
“Hannah speaking? But why haven’t you told me?”
“It only happened yesterday. She did not say much, but she—”
This time, Stephen had not interrupted her. She had stopped herself, realizing that she could not tell him about the planned excursion to the waterfront with Hannah.
There was no danger involved during the morning hours of Princess Charlotte’s wedding day, with a stalwart groom and a soldier dodging their every step. But she knew instinctively that Stephen would worry anyway. And tomorrow, of all days, he must have a clear mind.
No, she would not tell him. She finally understood why some things were best left unsaid, even if one loved and completely trusted another.
“But what?” Stephen asked. “What did Hannah do or say?”
“She said she’d like to forget about that awful night when she and Leah were abducted.” Which was the truth, after all, except that Hannah had admitted she could not forget.
“Kiss me, Stephen,” Maryann demanded. “We’ll have more than enough time to talk while we till your fields in Cornwall. Tonight, I want only your kisses.”