St. Raven, page 19
She returned to the valise to add the short and completely ornamental blue spencer jacket that completed this outfit, and to stuff her nightdress into it. At the last minute, she remembered her shoes and pulled the bag from the bottom.
She sat to put them on, but he went on one knee before her. “Allow me.”
Short of fighting him over it, she had no choice but to let him slip the kid half-boots on her feet and tie the blue ribbons against her anklebones.
Feet. Another extraordinary sensitivity they’d explored in the night.
“What a pity that I’ll never be able to tell my grandchildren that I once had the Duke of St. Raven on his knees before me.”
He looked up, smiling. “Tell them. By then, I doubt anyone will be shocked. I wouldn’t tell them the rest of it, though.”
She realized then that she’d never be able to tell anyone the rest of it.
Still on one knee, he took her hands. “Regrets?”
A million, but they didn’t outweigh the treasures. “No. You?”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. “When a lady gives a man the gift of a night like that, the word regret is an impossibility.” He raised her hands and kissed each. “I consider the past days a wondrous gift, Cressida. Needless to say, you can call on me for any service, at any time.”
Parts of her leapt at that erotic promise, but she knew he meant it in a mundane sense.
“Gloves,” she said, seizing an escape.
She turned and dug in her valise again, taking longer than she needed to find the lacy summer gloves. She pulled them on as she turned back, able to look down until she was sure she could smile. “And in the unlikely event that I can be of service to you, my lord duke, I will always be available.”
“Then I think I will visit you once a year to hear you call me Tris Tregallows.”
She prayed he was too wise for that. “Then, Tris Tregallows, restore me to my home, please.”
He offered his arm, and like a proper lady, she placed her gloved hand upon it.
“You’ve forgotten something.”
She turned back. “Oh, my valise.”
He put her hand back on his arm. “Breakfast. It’s not the end yet.”
Her stomach abruptly rebelled. She couldn’t sit and have breakfast with him.
“No?”
“I’m not hungry.”
After a moment, he said, “I’ll have something packed for you to take with you. But in that case, I have to go and call the carriage to be ready.”
He considered her a moment as if he would say more, but then he turned and left the room.
Cressida stood looking at the mahogany door as if it might provide a revelation, then turned sharply away. She walked to the window to look out at the charming garden. If only Nun’s Chase were the home of an ordinary man and they could live here forever. How perfect that would be.
But the man who owned this was no ordinary man. He lived clothed in his rank, but so unconsciously that he hardly knew it. He’d talked of having to work at being a duke, but she didn’t think he’d had to work very hard. His father had been a duke’s son, after all, and he’d spent many years as part of the Duke of Arran’s household.
Truth to tell, she thought with a tender smile, the Duke of St. Raven had as much idea about ordinary life as the Regent, and it spoke in everything he did. He could walk into a shop incognito and receive instant, groveling attention.
Nun’s Chase was a playground as artificial as Marie Antoinette’s farm, Le Petit Trianon. As artificial as Crofton’s hell. And here, she must remember, St. Raven held orgies. Events more orderly and subtle than Crofton’s affair, she was sure, but at heart the same.
She’d fallen in love with Tris Tregallows, but he admitted that to be his past. His present and future was the Duke of St. Raven—great lord, great philanderer.
She turned her mind to the practicalities of her future, and started with a resolution to think of him only by his title.
How much money did the jewels represent? They were large, but quality mattered. Surely there had to be enough for a decent, comfortable life.
Then . . .
Then?
Then it would be up to her mother, and her father if he was able, to decide where to live, and in what state. She assumed it would be the house in Dormer Close, and that she would return there with them. She was needed, but on top of that, where else did she want to be?
In London, likely to see St. Raven at any unpredictable time?
She shuddered.
At any fashionable spot?
Ditto.
No, Matlock was safe.
As long as he didn’t pursue her there.
Might he try to persuade her to become his mistress? . . .
She licked her lips, praying he not do that. Because she wasn’t sure she could resist. Perhaps she should hide. Under an assumed name . . .
She turned away from the window, shaking her head. No point in that unless she was willing to go, like Sir John Mandeville, to the ends of the earth. If the Duke of St. Raven wanted to find her, he would. She smiled wryly at the painful stab of hope that caused in her.
Her costume still lay neatly folded on a chair. Unable to resist, she took the long blue veil that had covered her hair and stuffed it into the bottom of her valise.
Last night hadn’t been wise, but she wouldn’t have missed it for all the jewels in India.
It was the footman, Harry, who came to tell her that the coach was ready. Cressida followed him, thinking St. Raven must be planning to say farewell in the hall. Probably better so. Less temptation than in a bedroom.
However, when she went downstairs, the hall was empty, and the door stood open to show a plain coach waiting, four horses in the shafts. She walked out, head high, fighting tears. Had that been farewell, so thoughtlessly incomplete? Had their time together meant so little to him?
She raised her chin and crossed the gravel to where a groom held the carriage door open, eager now to get away. She put her hand in that of the groom’s as she mounted the steps, then froze and looked at him.
The Duke of St. Raven wore a plain jacket, breeches, and a battered low crown hat.
He winked. “I found I need to see you safe to the end of your journey. I just heard that Le Corbeau was out last night.”
“What? Isn’t he in jail?”
“My adventure had its result. The magistrates let him go. The ungrateful bird took immediate flight. He’s never operated in the day, but when I feel there’s some connection to me, I daren’t risk anything. Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone will recognize me.”
“True enough. I only knew you by your touch.”
Foolish that, but he smiled, kissed her hand, and pushed her gently into the coach. Cressida settled, the door closed, and they were off, rolling smoothly down the excellently maintained drive.
Rolling like an inexorable river home.
That had been farewell, and there was peace in it. She took comfort from knowing he was on the box, even though they would not speak again. She also noted a basket on the floor, doubtless containing the food he had promised.
Her appetite stirred. She opened it to find buns crusted with pink sugar crystals, fruit, a corked jug, and a cup and saucer. The earthenware jug contained café au lait, still almost hot. She half filled the cup so as not to spill, then picked up a bun and took a big bite.
She was certainly no fine lady. After all she’d been through, a fine lady would sicken at the thought of food. She, however, found it comforting, even though her mind was stuck on the charming, devastating, beloved, and perplexing Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven.
She didn’t understand men at all. How could he bear sharing nights like last night with a succession of women? How could he put each one out of his mind and move on to the next?
She didn’t understand this man. Was he saint or sinner? They’d met when he’d been acting the highwayman—but it had been for a good cause of sorts.
He’d carried her off by force—but again, for a very good cause. When he’d leaped to her aid, he hadn’t known her from Eve. They’d become friends, but he would have done it for any woman in that situation.
Yet he admitted to hosting orgies at his house and showed no shame at being an expert guide to a disgusting bacchanalia. And he had been with many women.
She looked at her half-eaten bun. Was she just another naive woman seduced out of her wits by a charming rake? After all, he’d involved himself in her quest out of idle mischief.
Growing up in a house without men—they had not even had male servants—she had never had much to do with them, certainly not in informal circumstances.
Informal! She took another bite out of the bun. A classic understatement.
She knew her inexperience made her ripe for folly, but it did feel as if they were friends. Every time an imperious blast on the horn alerted an upcoming tollgate to be ready for an important traveler, she could imagine how much he would be enjoying playing the groom.
Yet wasn’t that another black mark against him? A man of his age, a man of high rank, should be more sober and responsible.
But then she remembered him talking of taking up his duties as duke. He had spent much of the summer touring his estates, and applied himself to learning about Newfoundland and cochineal.
She looked at the pink sugar crusting the last of her bun, shrugged, and popped it into her mouth. She was definitely not a lady of fine sensibilities.
A light drizzle started as they approached London, and she wondered if St. Raven was regretting his quixotic journey, especially when drizzle developed into a steady rain. It would serve her purposes, though. There would be no one on the street to see her arrive, and every excuse for hurrying into the house.
By the time the coach halted before her door, the rain was a downpour, sheeting past the windows and frothing in the puddles on the ground. Oh, poor Tris.
She waited as the boot was opened and he carried her valise to the door, slogging through puddles. At least he was wearing boots and had a cape with him, but his hat poured water around the brim.
Regrettably, Cressida had to fight the giggles.
Sally opened the door a crack, then wider to take the valise. Then she turned to get something—her father’s big, black umbrella. Tris opened it and came to open the carriage door. He held out a hand while shielding the place where she would step down. Their eyes met for a moment under the concealment of the umbrella.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning everything.
“Thank me later when you have the jewels. I’ll dry and change and then go to Miranda’s. If I need to send a message, I’ll send Cary.”
That was all they had time for. They hurried to the door, where Sally waited, preventing further words. But before he left he bowed slightly. “Bon voyage.”
Cressida went into the house, then turned to watch as the Duke of St. Raven climbed back onto the box, and the coachman set the horses into motion to carry him out of this world and back to his own.
Good journey, she thought back at him, meaning, as she knew he had meant, the rest of their lives.
Bon voyage, my love.
Chapter Eighteen
Sally closed the door and popped the umbrella back in the elephant-foot container. “Nasty weather, miss. What a shame you had to travel in it.”
“Dismal. Is my mother with my father?”
“Yes, miss.”
Since they had only the one maid now, Cressida carried her own valise and hatbox up to her room, trying not to imagine the handle still warm from St. Raven’s hand. In her room, she paused to take off her gloves, bonnet, and curl-trimmed cap, then went to visit her parents.
She found her father asleep and her mother knitting. Louisa Mandeville had always claimed that knitting was soothing. Since her husband’s attack, she must have knitted enough shawls and mufflers for half the poor in London.
She looked up, gray eyes weary, but they brightened. “Cressida, dear! I didn’t expect you back for days. Did I?” she trailed off uncertainly.
Her poor mother had always been so quick, so certain, but this whole debacle had shaken her.
“I was supposed to be away for the week. Chicken pox,” she explained, kissing her mother’s cheek. “Fortunately a neighbor was returning to London and offered to convey me home. How is Father?”
“Much the same. The doctors say there’s nothing wrong with him, but if there’s nothing wrong with him yet, there soon will be from lying in bed so long.”
She looked at the still figure in the bed, and Cressida looked, too, seeking any sign of change.
Mouth slack, her father snorted with each breath. In sleep he looked fairly normal. It was between sleep he was so strange, staring at nothing and acting as if deaf and dumb. Her mother was right about the effect of this state. His thick head of grizzled hair remained the same, but his sun-browned skin wasn’t wearing well, and she knew it was a struggle to get any kind of food into him.
Her mother sighed. “I have told him and told him that I forgive him for losing all the money. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Cressida was sure it was the loss of the jewels that had shocked him into this state. Would their return be the key to recovery? When would she hear? Tris would hardly be at his London house yet, never mind tidied up and at Miranda Coop’s.
Her mother’s shoulders straightened, and she rose to lead the way out of the room and close the door. “There are times when I could slap your father,” she said, sounding more like her old self. “To throw away a fortune on the folly of gaming! . . .” Hand over mouth, she stopped and inhaled.
She lowered her hand. “I have been thinking while you were away, Cressida. It is time to make plans. Our lease on this house will soon expire, and there’s no money to renew it. I have sold most of my jewelry to pay the doctor’s bills and to buy food and pay Sally. We can live cheaper in Matlock, but we need money to get there. I’m not even sure if your father can travel. . . . Oh, Cressy, what are we to do?”
Cursing her father, Cressida squeezed her mother’s hand. She didn’t want to raise hopes. “An inventory,” she suggested. “We need little of this fashionable stuff, so we can sell it.”
And, she thought, that would explain her discovery of a cache of jewels.
“I doubt we can raise much. Most things here came with the house. When I think of all those Indian things your father scattered around Stokeley Manor. And the house!” She put her hand to her head. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
Cressida took her into her arms. “Then don’t, Mama. Leave this to me.”
To her embarrassment, tears leaked from her mother’s eyes. “What would I do without you, darling? But this is so unfair. You should be enjoying parties, finding a husband.”
“Not in London in August, Mama. And truly, though this has been an adventure, I will be happy to be back in Matlock.”
“If we can even afford to run the house there.”
Oh, dear. Her mother must have been going round and round all this for days. “We’ll manage,” Cressida said with as much confidence as she could find.
Her mother pulled free, smiling sadly. “You have such a practical, enterprising nature, darling. You have it from your father, of course. Or did. I mean, he used to be so very practical. . . .” She shook her head. “I must return to him. By all means, inventory the house—once you are recovered from your journey.”
Cressida watched her mother return to her vigil, then wandered back to her own room, fending off assorted thoughts about the nature of love and loving responsibility. She’d always assumed that a happy marriage required complete approval.
Did her mother love her father, even in the face of his appalling behavior, or was the bond simply duty? Louisa Mandeville had shown no sign of missing her husband over twenty-two years, but she had accepted him back with apparent pleasure. In the past year, they had seemed a happy couple.
Her mother was angry with her father now, she saw how foolish he had been, and yet she still seemed devoted. Cressida sighed. It was too complex a situation for her troubled mind.
She unpacked her valise, finding at the bottom Roxelana’s blue head veil. She didn’t regret bringing it, but as she wrapped it idly around her hand, she recognized a disturbing link. It was like a ribbon stretched from here to there when a clean break would be much better.
It was over. Or would be once Tris . . . Once the Duke of St. Raven retrieved the jewels from Miranda Coop. Would he be able to open the statue quickly if he had the chance?
Oh! If she’d thought, she could have brought him into the house to practice on the one here. . . .
No. The Duke of St. Raven could never come here. The servants would speculate. Nor could a rain-drenched groom be taken to her father’s study. But she could have given the statuette to him. Why couldn’t she have thought of that in time?
Her recent life seemed to be a dreary parade of ifonlys and what-ifs, and not a one of them was a penny-worth of good. The past could not be changed.
The future, however, could.
She could send the statue to him. She hissed with frustration. The same problems applied. How could she explain sending something to the Duke of St. Raven, and through pouring rain? Nothing, nothing, could connect them.
She suddenly realized how true that was.
No one from Stokeley Manor was going to wonder if St. Raven’s houri had been that dull Miss Mandeville, the nabob’s daughter. Even the fact that Stokeley had been her father’s house, and those statues her father’s possessions would not stir the notion.
If the idea were forced to anyone’s attention, however, it was a different matter. Her protection from ruin was the complete impossibility of it, the total lack of contact between them.
She acknowledged the fierce pain of that prospect, but it made no real difference. Their worlds did not connect.
She turned her mind to the practical. By now he might be dressed and on his way to Miranda Coop. She looked out and saw that the rain had lightened. It had been a summer storm. He need not get wet. Perhaps an hour?
