Authors: Stephanie Stevens
Curious, she opened the file and began to read.
"It can't be true." There in her trembling hand was a betrothal contract, dated April 10, 1818, signed by her father and Marquess Winston Thurston in proxy for Alan.
Sitting back, disbelief etching her face, the paper slipped from her fingers, floating unnoticed to the floor. She withdrew the other contract, dated the same day, but--she'd recognize that bold signature anywhere. Clinton!
She blinked, clearing the tears from her eyes, and saw a draft for 150,000 pounds. She closed her eyes to block out the truth and opened them again to see the foreclosure notice on Thurston Manor held by the Barencourte Bank.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, falling on her hand. Standing up, she turned to the window, dejectedly, resting her head against the pane. Thoughts ran helter-skelter while her hands fisted in anger and denial. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow. Deception even harder.
He had purchased her and used another's misfortune to ensure his end, making her trust and love him. She had given her heart to him; now she cried with self-loathing. When her tears were spent, she turned from the window, walked to the desk, shuffled the papers back into the folder, and replaced it in the drawer. She stood just as the pasty-faced Bartholomew announced the arrival of Marquess Thurston.
When he saw the pale, tear-streaked face and bandaged hands, Alan's smile faded. He waited until the stodgy butler left before walking hurriedly toward her, asking, "Tiffany, what's wrong? You look dreadful."
"Oh, Alan, thank goodness you are here. You must help me," she pleaded as tears fell unchecked.
"Of course I will. Tell me, what has happened?"
"I need to leave here before Clinton returns. I will go to Aunt Winnie. She will know what to do."
"Now, wait a minute, Tiffany. I cannot whisk you away from your husband. Why, that wouldn't be proper."
"Is it proper for a husband to lock his wife in, Alan? Is it proper for him to post guards at every door? If you'll not help me, I'll escape anyhow."
Alan saw her distress as well as her determination and knew her to be headstrong and foolish enough to leave on her own. Perhaps it was his sense of chivalry, or her desperate pleas, or his guilt that overrode reason--in any case, he consented.
Rory stopped at the drive, recognizing Thurston's carriage. "What the hell is that twit doing here?" he muttered, climbing the steps to the manor. At that moment a hurried Alan exited, stopping abruptly when coming face-to-face with Rory.
"Well, Thurston, what brings you to our neck of the woods?"
"I . . . I just returned from the Continent and thought I'd pay my respects." With that, he turned and tripped while descending the stairs.
Rory moved to Alan's side and called to one of the servants.
"Are you all right, Thurston?" Rory asked, thinking Thurston to be quite clumsy. "What the hell happened?"
"Must be my new boots. Slippery, you know? If you gentlemen would be so kind as to assist me to my coach."
Rory watched the carriage amble down the drive. Chuckling to himself, he thought Thurston ought to change his boot makers, as they hardly had a shine.
He turned to the butler. "Clinton's expected this evening. I've received word."
"Very good, sir, I'll inform the cook."
Handing his hat and coat to Bartholomew, Clinton headed to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Turning down the hall, he covered the distance to the bedroom in long strides.
Germane gasped in surprise when Clinton opened the door. She quickly curtsied. Clinton nodded, impatient to see Tiffany, and about to enter the room. He was stopped by Germane. "Her Grace is not here."
"Do you know where I might find her?"
"No, Your Grace, perhaps Clarissa knows."
As Clinton descended the stairs in search of Clarissa, he met Rory. "Ah, the prodigal son returneth. What did you do, work around the clock? I understood you'd be gone two weeks."
"I managed to accomplish far more than I anticipated."
Entering the study, with Rory in tow, Clinton scanned the room for Tiffany, adding, "Brent and Austin are expected. I received word just this morning." He accepted the glass of brandy Rory handed him.
They drank in companionable silence until Clinton asked, "Where is Tiffany?"
"About, I suspect." In answer to his brother's unasked question, Rory expounded, "She's fine, a bit subdued. Stayed hidden but came out today."
Clinton smiled. "Nothing unusual happen?"
"She didn't escape, if that's what you mean. Threw no tantrums that I know about. About the only unusual occurrence to my way of thinking was a visit from the twit." Rory laughed, recalling the incident, adding, "Actually, the twit's visit proved to break up an otherwise dull afternoon." Rory's chest rumbled with laughter as he filled Clinton in on the marquess's mishap.
Bartholomew entered, announcing dinner.
Upon entering the dining room, Clinton noted Tiffany's absence and demanded, "Where's the duchess?"
The footmen, serving girls, and butlers looked at one another and then turned to Clinton.
Icy fear twisted his heart and knotted his stomach as he read the answer in their eyes. He abruptly left the room, summoning Bartholomew.
"Thank you, Clarissa, that will be all."
"But . . . but where can my lamb be?" Clarissa sniffled. "She didn't take her shawl." She wept softly, leaving the study.
Clinton, running his fingers through his hair, leaned forward in his chair. In a controlled voice he stated, "Send the stable hand in, Rory."
Rory stood at the mantel listening to Clinton ask the same questions over and over again. The stable boy was dismissed.
Suddenly the study door was thrown open by a swaggering Austin, followed by Brent. "Jesus, Clinton, terrific homecoming. We're greeted by weeping servants and hysterical maids. Where's the funeral?" Throwing himself down in a nearby chair, one leg dangling over its arm, he looked from Rory to Clinton.
Brent, realizing something was amiss, inquired, "Is it the baby?"
"No" was all Clinton said.
"Where is the radiant mother-to-be? We've brought some special tidbits to tease that finicky appetite of hers and those unusual cravings expectant mothers have."
From his station at the mantel, Rory dryly replied, "We seem to have temporarily misplaced her."
Brent furrowed his brow; Austin jumped to his feet and demanded, "How in the hell do you misplace a mother-to-be?"
Clinton filled Brent and Austin in, concluding, "One thing is for sure, she did not leave here alone. There is no mount missing, and since search parties have not found her, it's safe to assume she did not travel by foot."
"I'd say the marquess's visit has something to do with her disappearance," commented Brent.
"And his fall was a ruse to divert the servants," added Rory.
"I'd bet my life on it, especially in light of Rory's observation of the twit's boots. You really should have killed him at the race, Clint," Austin heatedly remarked.
A muscle twitched in Clinton's jaw, his voice cold and exact. "He has her."
"Well, man, let's not sit here! Let's take back what's ours and rid ourselves, permanently, of the twit," Austin declared, standing up, ready to do battle.
"Wait a minute, Aus." Grabbing his brother's arm,
Brent turned to Clinton. "Are you saying she was abducted or she went willingly?"
Shaking Brent's hand off, Austin shouted, "What the hell difference does that make? She's a Barencourte, carrying a Barencourte. She belongs right here!" Austin pointed his finger to emphasize exactly where "here" meant.
While his brothers argued heatedly, Clinton absently looked at the sheet of paper he picked up from the floor. He stated irrevocably, ' 'Tiffany took advantage of the marquess's presence and sought his aid."
Rory looked puzzled, asking, "Why the hell would she leave? Certainly not because--"
An impatient, angry Austin interrupted, "It makes no difference, I tell you. The fact of the matter is, she's not where she belongs, whether she was taken or not! The marquess is as good as dead for interfering." He looked at Clinton and added, "Let me kill him for you, brother."
"Now, wait a minute, Austin." Grabbing his arm again, Brent stated, "If and when it comes to that, which I highly doubt, it would be Clinton's pleasure, not yours."
"Our honor, the Barencourte honor, deserves satisfaction, and I tell you I intend to . . ."
Clinton tuned his brothers out, keeping his own consel while Rory and Brent attempted to appease Austin. By the time Austin was appeased, Clinton had set the wheels in motion to locate and capture his quarry.
Clinton spun around, hearing Austin call him. He turned from the window where he had remained through the night, awaiting word.
"Captain Faulkner sends this message, Clinton: 'The duchess of Wentworth has booked passage to France."
"And the name of the ship she's on?"
Austin smiled broadly. "The
Tiphanie. "
Clinton's face split into a grin, the first one in the last twelve hours.
"We ride to London, Austin. Tell Keegan to bring the carriage as well. I'll not have her ride astride, but in comfort."
Austin smiled, turned, and whistled as he left.
The sun broke the horizon as four horsemen galloped down the road. A black, well-sprung coach followed in their wake, its coat of arms: two lions rampant on a field of
noir,
the mark of cadency, the File, the sign of a firstborn son, gleaming as the first ray of light appeared.
London, 1819
"F
eeling better, Tiffany? I do hope you're not already seasick. We do have quite a journey ahead of us," remarked Alan, noting the greenish tinge to her face.
"The tea the captain sent is soothing my stomach," she replied softly. The smell of lemon oil and sandalwood pleasantly teased her nostrils. Lifting her eyes, she studied the cabin. The floor planking was dark mahogany, and the paneling the same rich wood. A wide window seat with plush cushions afforded a view of the murky water of the harbor. Oriental rugs graced the floor, adding warmth to the cabin. The bunk that nestled against the wall was covered with warm, plush blankets. It appeared the captain had given his lavish accommodations to her. She was about to comment when she heard a knock on her door. She called, "Enter."
Captain Faulkner entered; after nodding to Alan, he turned to Tiffany, inquiring, "Do the quarters meet with your approval, madam?"
Tiffany smiled. "Yes, Captain, they are lovely. It was kind of you to give me yours."
"Madam, these are not mine; they belong to the owner of the yacht. And you, Marquess. Are your quarters acceptable as well?"
"Certainly, Captain."
A moment passed. The captain looked upon his passengers and then he said, "I came by to inquire if you'd both care to join me for dinner."
Feeling the beginnings of hunger gnaw at her stomach, Tiffany readily agreed. "That is quite kind of you, Captain."
"I am afraid, Captain, that I will have to decline your most generous offer." Alan turned to Tiffany, explaining, "I have some business I must attend to before we set sail." Glancing back toward the captain, he added, "I trust Her Grace will be safe on board in your company."
"Most assuredly, Marquess."
"Well, then, if you both will excuse me, I shall be going now. I shall be back before morning." With that, he took his leave of them.
Austin and Brent watched the marquess leave the yacht. A devious smile lit Austin's face and he nodded to Rory, who shadowed the marquess.
Austin moved up the gangplank, meeting the captain. A short but successful conversation ensued. When Austin turned to leave, Brent could not miss the wicked grin or mischievous glint in his brother's eyes. Brent thought it was going to be a very long night.
As Tiffany emerged onto the deck, the waning afternoon sunlight momentarily blinded her. She paused and felt the captain stop behind her.
"I thought, my lady, that while you were taking a bit of fresh air, the cabin boy would ready your bathwater."
Tiffany smiled up at the tall, ruggedly handsome face of the captain, noting his long sideburns and trimmed, full beard. "That was so kind of you. I imagine you have many duties to perform without having to see to my comfort."
"On the contrary, madam. The owner has a well-manned crew, which runs this ship efficiently."
Tiffany gazed about, admiring the ship. "It would appear the owner takes pride and has spared no expense."
"Indeed not, madam. This ship is a gift to his wife."
An incredulous look crossed Tiffany's face. "You mean this yacht is purely a pleasure vessel purchased for his wife?"