Read One Golden Ring Online

Authors: Cheryl Bolen

One Golden Ring (10 page)

She was so very precious to him. Last night he had offered up thanks to the bandits that had brought her into his life. Tonight he offered up thanks that her life had been spared.
There was no other place on earth that he would rather be than beside her, his cherished wife.
“A Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame,” the butler announced the following afternoon.
Shutting her eyes against the pain, Fiona pulled herself into a sitting position. “Show him in.”
Trevor rushed into the room, practically dressed for court in pumps and silken finery—including a bright violet satin vest. She was awfully glad Nick wasn't here to poke fun of him.
“Oh, my poor darling!” Trevor shrieked as he hurried to her bed. “I shouldn't have let you marry that beastly man. It's bad enough that he has you living
south
of the Thames, but now he's gone and allowed you to break your leg.” He pulled a chair up to her bedside and sat down. “I brought flowers. The maid's fetching water for them.”
“That was most kind of you, but I must ask that you not malign my husband. He's really quite a dear, and he's dreadfully upset that I've broken my leg.”
“As well he should be. The beast.”
Her brows lowered. “I'll not permit you to speak of my husband in such a way.”
Trevor studied her through narrowed eyes for a moment. “It's beastly unfair that one man be so blessed. That demmed Birmingham's not only handsome and muscled and
tall
, but he has quite away with the ladies. I believe you've fallen in love with the fellow.”
“Love was never part of the bargain I struck with Nick.” She was almost sorry there had been no time for a courtship for she wondered if she and Nick might have fallen in love. But if she had to choose between a courtship and being pleasured in his bed, she was ashamed to say she would take the bed. Still, love
and
sublime sex would be the only ingredients needed for a perfect marriage. A pity she and Nick had only one of the ingredients.
“You can't fool me,” Trevor said, folding elegant hands in his lap while avoiding her gaze.
While Trevor did know her better than anyone, he was wrong this time. She couldn't possibly be in love with Nick. She had only known him for a few days. Not like with Edward, whom she had known almost her whole life—and loved for half her life.
“Now tell me how this wretched accident happened,” Trevor said.
“There's little to tell. I slipped and fell down the stairs, and the pity of it is that my wretched left leg jammed between the bannister posts and snapped in two.”
Trevor grimaced and held out the palm of one hand. “I beg that you not say another word about the ghastly incident, or I shall faint straight away.”
She thanked God Nick was not so squeamish. “You can't faint, for I need you desperately.”
He leaped from his chair and outstretched an imaginary cape as he fell to one knee. “I am at your service, my lady.”
Fiona giggled. “I shall need your help in decorating the new mansion on Piccadilly. It's finished now, you know.”
He smiled like a drunken sailor. “I'm quite dying to see it.”
“Good. I'll need you to go there this afternoon. We'll need to procure furnishings and draperies and objets d'art
.”
His positive glow had her grinning. “I've just the cabinetmaker for you! He's from the Sheraton school and does the most stunning work.”
“Then see if you can get his catalogues for us to study.”
“Will your husband wish to incorporate any items from this residence?” There was disdain in his voice when he alluded to “this residence.”
“He says I've carte blanche to procure all new furnishings.”
“Then his pockets are even deeper than has been speculated.”
She shrugged. “He has the most wonderful stables down at Camden Hall.”
“So he's the one who bought Lord Hartley's place? A scrumptious estate.”
“Indeed it is. I didn't want to return to London.”
Trevor's nose wrinkled. “Especially to
south
of the Thames.”
With a haughty lift to her chin, she said, “This is a perfectly lovely home.”
“I'll grant,” Trevor said, flicking lint from his charcoal breeches, “the man has exceedingly good taste.”
“As do you. That's why I need you to help with the new house.”
There was a tap at her chamber door.
“Yes?” Fiona asked.
The parlormaid opened the door. “Your flowers, madame.”
Trevor got up and took them.
“Oh, Trev! They're lovely,” Fiona said, eying the nosegay of violets and primrose. “Thank you.”
He placed them beside the bed. “I'd best be off now to see the showplace. I'll also try to see the cabinetmaker today. We can dive into the project tomorrow.”
 
 
Nick left the Exchange early that day. He couldn't dislodge Fiona from his thoughts. Was she in pain? Would she be lonely in the strange house? What if she needed something and no one helped her? He had instructed his servants to see to her every need and had asked her maid to sit with her, but Fiona had insisted she didn't need a companion. “I have a book to read,” she had told him. “Go now. I'll be fine.”
But as the day wore on, his worry for her mounted. So he stormed from the floor of the Exchange, called for his gig to be brought around, and hastened home to his ailing wife.
Relief rushed over him when he saw her sitting up in Verity's bed, her head bent to the book in her lap, sun from a half-dozen casements dappling over her as she looked up at him and smiled.
God but she was lovely! And delicate. And so very dear to him. He rushed to her side and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked as he stood gazing down at her fair countenance.
“Much better now that you've come.” She patted the mattress beside her.
“Are you sure my weight won't disturb your leg?”
“Yes, I'm sure, silly. I've actually succeeded in lifting the leg off the bed today.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“I vow it didn't hurt.”
“Still taking the laudanum?”
“I've been able to reduce the dose by a third. My mother was exceedingly wary of the overuse of laudanum. In fact, she refused to take it when . . . she was dying.”
His poor Fiona. She'd lost so many loved ones. And now she could possibly lose Randolph. “Wretched losing both your parents, but I vow to care for you as diligently as they would have.” What had possessed him to make such a telling declaration? His wife didn't want his love. She wanted his money. And perhaps his body.
But not his heart.
There was a rap at the door.
“Come in,” Nick said, turning to watch Biddles stroll into the chamber holding a letter. “A page from her ladyship's former house just delivered this.”
Fiona and Nick looked at each other. “The kidnappers,” they both said at once.
Chapter 10
His face grim, Nick handed the letter to Fiona, who quickly raised up from the bed and tore it open. When she peered at the writing, her heart skidded. The letter was in Randy's own handwriting. As her eyes skimmed over the single page, she was at once elated that he was still alive at the same time a knot of worry lodged in her chest.
My Dearest Sister,
 
It's devilishly distasteful for me to have to write you, knowing that Papa could not have left much money, but my captors have instructed me to pen this letter to instruct you or your agent to deliver the twenty-five thousand guineas to Figueria, a village just north of Portugal's Mondego Bay. You or your agent are to arrive at the St. Michael's Inn on January 8 and use the surname Hollingsworth. Further instructions will be forthcoming.
 
I beg that you are successful because I have no doubts these vile creatures who've already treated me so cruelly will kill me if you're not.
Her heart caught painfully at the last sentence, and tears brimmed her eyes. With a shaking hand, she handed Nick the note.
He nodded as he read, and when he was finished, he met her gaze. “Don't worry. We'll free him.”
“What do you do now?” she asked in a forlorn voice.
“William will be dispatched within the hour.”
“But we've got eight more days until the eighth. I wouldn't think he'd need more than three days to reach Portugal.”
He did not answer for a moment, and she knew her pragmatic husband was analyzing the situation and developing a strategy. “It's vital to my plan,” he finally said, “that William arrive early.”
Her brows dipped. “Why? What plan?”
“William will arrive in Figueria several days early, take rooms under the name Hollingsworth, and instruct the innkeeper—with a generous bribe to ensure compliance—to give his own letter to whoever delivers a message to Mr. Hollingsworth. I'm counting on the fact that the innkeeper will alert his staff to be expecting a letter for Hollingsworth and be prepared to conduct the exchange of letters.”
“And what will William's letter say?”
“It will demand that the exchange be made in the village plaza. Being fairly certain the exchange would occur in Portugal, I've taken the liberty of studying all the coastal towns. Figueria, like most Portuguese towns, is possessed of a central plaza.”
“You're worried about William?”
“As you are worried about Randolph. I have no desire for William to be robbed and killed in some remote mountain area. His letter will explain that he'll have the money in a wagon in the plaza for the captors to examine before turning over your brother. The letter will warn them that until the time of the exchange—the time to be set by the captors—the wagon will be guarded by heavily armed men day and night. At the time of the exchange our men who are manning the bell tower of the plaza's church will disperse.”
Her eyes rounded. “Heavily armed men?”
Nick nodded. “The Birminghams are used to conveying large sums of money across the continent. We have our own small, well-trained, well-armed guards. A dozen experienced men will travel with Will.”
She slumped. “I'm afraid the captors won't comply. Why should they allow you to make the decisions? Won't they fear being ambushed upon entering the city?”
“An ambush would only result in your brother's death. I'd much rather have him than the twenty-five thousand guineas. The letter will convey that Lord Agar's safety is our first concern.”
“How will they know that after Randy's turned over, your men won't massacre them?”
“Because—as the letter will convey—our men will lay down their arms before Lord Agar can be freed.”
She closed her eyes and spoke in a fragile voice. “It's all so terrifying.”
He set a sturdy hand over hers. “I know.”
She knew he was as terrified for his own brother's safety as she was for Randy's.
“How can William be sure the released man is my brother?”
“Have you a likeness of him?”
A gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I have the miniature he had made for Mama, but it's quite outdated. It was painted nearly ten years ago, when he first reached his majority.”
“Where is it?”
“In my reticule. I carry it with me wherever I go.”
Nick stood over her bed, looking down at her. “You miss him that much?”
“All I have left are my two brothers.”
“You have me,” he murmured.
She understood that Nick's assurances had not been made out of jealousy toward her brothers but out of consideration for her, to let her know there was one more person now in her family who cared about her. And even though she knew he didn't love her, she was beginning to believe he would have the same loyalty toward her that he had for his mother and Verity and his brothers. “You've been an enormous comfort to me,” she said. “I cannot bear to contemplate what would have become of Randy or me had you not come into my life.”
A smile curved his lips. “You would have married some old peer who wouldn't have pleasured you in bed as I have.”
“Nicholas Birmingham! How can you speak of
that
at a time like this?”
Chuckling to himself, he crossed the room and found her reticule. “Is this where you keep your brother's miniature?”
“Yes. I'll get it.”
He shot an amused glance at her. “You don't want me sifting through your reticule?”
“As a matter of fact, I don't!”
He brought her the beaded bag, and she removed her brother's likeness and gave it to him. That she carried a vinaigrette—which she never had occasion to use—embarrassed her. She did not wish for Nick to think her some weakling prone to fainting fits.
Before he left, he bent down to press a kiss to her forehead. His masculine scent was a blend of sandalwood and exotic tobacco. “You're not to move at all while I'm gone,” he cautioned.
After he left she became more acutely aware of the throbbing pain in her leg but decided she would see if she could go without the laudanum—at least until Nick returned. Her eyes shut tightly against the pain, she settled back into the mound of pillows. Were she to break all her limbs, the suffering could not compare to the agony of losing her brother. She hoped to God Nick was dealing with Randy's captors in the right way—if there could ever be a right way to deal with criminals like the brutes who had abducted Randy.
Randy's admission that his captors had abused him disturbed her deeply. Had he suffered any broken bones? Were they starving him? Her chest tight, her stomach tumbling, she did not know how she could stand it until her brother returned safely. She lay there for a long time, steeped in gloom, then she finally forced herself to use the bell Nick had left on her bedside table to ring for a servant.
Biddles came. “Yes, madame?”
“I wish to speak with the governess. What is her name?”
“Miss Beckham.”
Ten minutes later a woman who was a few years older than Fiona hesitantly entered the room. Fiona was immediately relieved that the governess was not even tolerably pretty. The notion of Nick living under the same roof with a pretty unmarried woman—before he was married—had caused Fiona considerable trepidation. Why anything that happened before they were wed should matter to her, Fiona could not understand. Nevertheless, her jealousy was a fact.
She perused the woman for a moment. Dressed quite properly in gray bombazine, Miss Beckham presented a most tidy figure. Her black hair was swept back so tightly that not a single strand dared stray loose. She was rather taller than average and rather thinner than average, with a somewhat gaunt face which had as its only distinguishing feature a pair of brilliant blue eyes. “Mrs. Birmingham?” the governess said tentatively.
“Please sit in the chair by my bed,” Fiona said. “Forgive me for not sitting. You've heard the particulars of my foolish accident, have you not?”
“I have, madame, and I'm very sorry for your misfortune.”
Miss Beckham's voice was genteel, and her manners were all that could be expected. After she sat, Fiona asked, “I wish for you to tell me all about your pupil.”
Not replying for a moment, Miss Beckham seemed taken aback. “Miss Emmie,” she finally replied, “is not as enamored of books as I would have liked, though she is a most capable reader. I've found that she learns more quickly than other pupils I've taught in the past. Her greatest talent is in mathematics—and she seems to love working with sums.”
“Like her father,” Fiona said with affection. “What of the more feminine pursuits you've been instructing her in?”
“She's coming along nicely at the pianoforte, and her French is tolerable—for one who's studied it but for two years. Her penmanship and artistic talent, I'm afraid to say, are quite deplorable.”
Fiona laughed. “I daresay she should have been a boy.”
“Miss Emmie, I think, would rather have been a boy. She's happiest in the country. She loves being outdoors, and she loves riding and being around animals.”
It was no surprise to Fiona that the child loved animals. After all she had neither siblings nor intercourse with other children.
She's probably lonely
, Fiona thought with a flicker of pity.
Fiona wondered if the child ever rode with her father. “Does the young lady, my stepdaughter,” she managed in a wobbly voice, surprising herself that she would even consider accepting the child of a whore as her very own stepdaughter, “ever ride with her father?”
“Oh, yes, madame. Often. He taught her to ride himself.”
The image of Nick patiently riding alongside the child warmed her. His heart was so big, with room enough for all the people who mattered to him. “Would you say Miss Emmie is fond of her father?”
“I would say she thinks he hung the stars in the sky.”
For the briefest of seconds, Fiona wondered if Miss Beckham might share her pupil's admiration for Nick. He
was
so devilishly handsome. And he was nice, too. She wondered if he was nice to Miss Beckham. “Does Miss Emmie have any friends?”
“No, madame.”
A child without friends?
How unfortunate. Then Fiona realized even in the country, the child's only neighbor would be her own grandmother, who abhorred the child. Since none of Nick's siblings had wed, there were not even any cousins with whom the little girl could play. “Poor Emmie.”
“Miss Emmie is certainly not a poor little girl. I've never seen a child as indulged as she. I daresay no little girl in the kingdom is possessed of more lovely dresses or dolls than she.”
Things money could buy, not things the child truly needed, things like friends—or a mother. “I suppose it's her lack of a mother that has made her a bit of a tomboy,” Fiona said.
Miss Beckham shrugged. “She's always been cared for by women. First, her nurse, Winnie, whose marriage resulted in my hiring.”
“Do you think the girl was attached to her nurse?”
The governess's face turned hard, her mouth thinning with disapproval. “She was far too attached to that Winnie.”
Was Miss Beckham jealous? “Does she still see her nurse?”
Miss Beckham's stiff posture reminded Fiona of her own governess, who had unfailingly instructed Fiona to pretend there was a pole fused to her spine. “No, madame,” the governess replied. “Winnie returned to her village and has never returned to London, having her own babes to care for now—though she corresponds with Miss Emmie, and Miss Emmie eagerly looks forward to receiving her letters.”
I suppose those are the only letters the child has ever received.
Poor child.
Fiona sighed. “Thank you, Miss Beckham, for answering my questions. You are, no doubt, aware that we will be moving in the near future?”
“Oh, yes, madame. I've seen the new house from the outside. It's magnificent.”
Fiona, having developed an affinity for the place where she and Nick would officially begin their married life, swelled with pride. “Your chambers there,” Fiona said, “will, quite naturally, be larger than what you have here. Is there any particular request you wish to make for furnishings?”
“The furnishings in my chambers at present are quite adequate, but I thank you for inquiring,” Miss Beckham said as she moved to get up.
After she was gone Fiona pondered the child, the child she had just claimed as her stepdaughter, the child Nick obviously cared about. How could Fiona not accept the little girl when Nick had been so generous to her and her family? After all, it wasn't as if she had to appear in public with the little girl. Nick had obviously married a viscount's daughter in order to heighten his station in life, and trotting out an illegitimate child would threaten the shaky foundation of that newfound station.

Other books

Why I Write by George Orwell
Tropical Secrets by Margarita Engle
We Are Here by Cat Thao Nguyen
Class A by Robert Muchamore
A Restless Evil by Ann Granger
All In by Paula Broadwell
Beyond These Hills by Sandra Robbins
AloneatLast by Caitlyn Willows
Among Others by Jo Walton
To Mend a Broken Heart by K.A. Hobbs


readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024