Secrets of Midnight (3 page)

And he was furious now. No wonder poor Wilkins had
fled. Nigel had half a mind to retire from the library, too, until his brother
had calmed himself, but he might as well be done with the unpleasant business
now that it was started.

"Yes, Donovan, as the will clearly states, you
must wed. If you want your inheritance. I had no hand in this matter, mind you,
it was all Father's doing, but I think it's for the best. As you know,
Charlotte and I remain childless, and if anything should happen to me—you being
the heir presumptive, of course, it's damned important that the Arundale line
continue—"

"Perhaps, dear brother, if you could stomach
sharing your wife's bed more often, that problem could easily be remedied."

It was a cruel cut, Donovan knew as he turned back to
the window, an uncomfortable silence descending upon the room. Nigel hadn't
chosen his bride, an endlessly whiny young woman of bland intellect, sour
breath, and formidable fortune. Their father had chosen her seven years ago,
just as he had attempted three years later to choose a "suitable"
bride for Donovan once it became clear that Nigel was having difficulty
producing an heir.

But Donovan had escaped that fate by taking swift leave
of the country to fight against Napoleon in Portugal and Spain, the Peninsular
War as good an excuse as any to keep him far away from England and Arundale
Hall. Until he'd received a letter saying that the duke had died, and that
Donovan must return home at once to settle important matters of the estate.

So he'd come, because he needed money. The devil take
it, he needed money! If it was only himself he had to worry about, he'd leave
this bloody house and never return, and on his way out the door tell Nigel, his
disagreeable wife, and that damned Wilkins to hell with his inheritance if he
had to wed to obtain it! But then he might never find Paloma, his personal
funds nearly depleted in the search—

"I say,
Donovan, that
comment was uncalled for."

Forcing down his anger, Donovan glanced at Nigel—at the
strained expression on his face, at the hint of jowls developing around his
jawline and the noticeable paunch around his middle—his brother, only one year
his senior, looking much older than his twenty-eight years. "But true. It's
no secret that you've sired four bastards in Dorset County while your beloved
wife remains barren as a brick—"

"All right, old man, enough! At least you have a
bloody choice, which was more than I was granted! Perhaps things might have
been different . . ." Nigel didn't finish, but rose abruptly from his desk
to face his brother. "Father's will stipulates that your bride must be a
country-bred girl of good family—"

"I heard."

"Not your sort of woman admittedly—"

"But bound to be a good breeder."

"Exactly. Now, if you're in agreement that we
proceed, I'll call Wilkins."

It was all Donovan could do to force a nod, his anger
rising as Nigel walked stiffly to the door.

A country-bred girl. Leave it to his father to make
such a final ridiculous demand, considering that Donovan had spent many a
London Season evading just that sort of marriage-hungry miss as well as any
scheming provincial mother eager to make her daughter a highly placed match.

In fact, he scorned the institution of marriage. It was
a farce, a sham. Why would he ever want to wed after watching his parents'
marriage—another loveless arranged affair —grow colder by the year? Several of
his friends had stumbled down that same wretched path while he'd been away at
war, the damned fools marrying for purely mercenary reasons or caving in to
family duty.

Good God, he was no blather-brained romantic, but didn't
anyone of his station marry for affection? What about shared interests or a
common passion? How many times over a good bottle of brandy had he sworn that
he'd rather remain a bachelor than have some unwanted marriage thrust upon him
and his life become a hell on earth?

A cynical bachelor to boot. He'd long been convinced
that the only happiness one could hope to find was well outside the bounds of
matrimony, and Nigel with his mistresses was perfect proof—along with their
mother, who had created quite a scandal five years ago when she fled to Italy
with the wealthy count who still shared her bed. But now Donovan was being
sucked into the same miserable pit as everyone else he knew, and there didn't
seem to be a damned thing he could do about it . . .

"If you're ready, Lord Donovan, we'll continue."

Donovan left the window, but he couldn't sit. He paced
back and forth across the library as Wilkins in his high-pitched tenor drone
began to reread the will. Nigel simply sat slumped in his fine leather chair
and looked glum.

"Does he have to go over all that again?"
Donovan demanded, feeling more each moment like a caged beast with not even a
faint hope of freedom. He came up beside Wilkins's chair so suddenly that the
little man jumped, sweat beading his pallid brow. "Show me what I have to
sign, and let's be done with it!"

"But—but, my lord, there's the matter of the house
in Cornwall—"

"What house in Cornwall?" Donovan looked to
Nigel, who now appeared almost as uncomfortable as the solicitor.

"Father bought property in Cornwall a year or so
after you left England. A tin mine there has been quite profitable for us."

"
Quite
profitable," parroted Wilkins.

Donovan glanced from one man to the other, an inkling
rising like sour bile in his gut. "All right, a tin mine in Cornwall. What
in blazes does this have to do with me?"

"Simple, Donovan," Nigel said with a small
sigh. "The house and surrounding estate is yours outright once you've
agreed to abide by Father's will, while the substantial monetary portion of
your inheritance and a fifty-one percent share in the mine—the controlling
share, mind you—shall be yours once we see you properly wed."

A heavy silence hung in the room once more, Donovan
staring incredulously at his brother. "I'm to live in some godforsaken
house on some godforsaken land in Cornwall?"

"It's a handsome house, actually, Donovan—well, in
need of a little repair, I'll admit, but not anywhere as bad as you make it out
to be."

"Near the fishing village of Porthleven,"
Wilkins chimed in, peeping over his spectacles. "Well, a small seaport,
really. Quite a charming spot—"

"It could be on the bloody moon for all I care!"
Donovan roared, his fist crashing down upon the desktop. "I thought I'd be
given a town house in London at the very least. That's where all those silly
little country chits go to ogle prime marriage stock, isn't it? Am I to find a
wife or not?"

"That's the very point of it, Donovan. Father was
certain you'd be distracted in the city—all those bored Society wives looking
for a discreet dalliance or some such amusement. Just the sort of woman you've
always favored, and so you can see, far too much of a temptation. So Father
decided that you should make your choice in Cornwall. The Season hasn't quite
begun, after all. If you leave soon, you might be able to catch some willing
beauty still at home packing her trunks."

"If I leave soon . . ." Donovan muttered to
himself, feeling as if he had walked straight into a great yawning trap that
had been meticulously prepared for him from the moment he'd last defied his
father. Meeting Nigel's eyes, he said in a dangerously low voice, "You
knew I wouldn't be able to refuse, didn't you? So you've avoided your
foul-smelling wife and enjoyed your damned mistresses, knowing that one day
Father would have me exactly where he wanted—"

"Surely an officer's infrequent pay hasn't kept
you in the style to which you're accustomed," Nigel cut in, his voice
grown as low as Donovan's. "Even when combined with the paltry allowance
Father's been sending you all these years. Face facts, Donovan. A man of your
station needs money to live properly, or you might as well have been born a
pauper. Marrying is a small price to pay for such security, wouldn't you say?"

Donovan said nothing, thinking that his elder brother
had learned well at his father's side. Too well.

But Nigel didn't know about Paloma, and Donovan planned
to keep things that way. Nor did Nigel realize that Donovan cared absolutely
nothing for security or the proper way in which a man of his station should
live.

All he cared about was that he gained his inheritance
so he could continue his search. And that somehow he would escape the trap that
was fast closing in around him. He had only to think of a way

"Father's will meets with your approval, then?"

Donovan nodded grimly.

"Good. Wilkins has the agreement fully prepared.
You've only to sign."

Donovan did, then threw the pen upon the desk and
strode for the door.

"I'll have a carriage brought round for you first
thing in the morning." Nigel's voice carried after him. "You should
arrive in Cornwall within a few days—"

"I'm leaving now," Donovan ground out without
turning. "My horse suits me fine."

"As you wish. I'll send the servants I took the
liberty of hiring for your household after you, then."

Donovan stopped at that, and half spun to eye his
brother narrowly. "You hired servants?"

"A butler, of course. Fine fellow named Ogden. He
can double as your valet until you've a chance to hire your own man. A few
others too. A cook, a housekeeper, just enough to get you started. A family
agent has been living in the house and seeing after our business affairs, doing
bookkeeping and the like, but he'll have cleared out by the time you arrive."

"Oh, yes, my lord, Henry Gilbert should have
cleared out his things several days ago. No worries there," Wilkins
squeaked helpfully. "He's taken a small residence just down the road if
you have need of him."

So Nigel and his bespectacled lapdog had seen to
everything, Donovan thought, incensed. Even down to hiring servants—no, bloody
spies. Paid to watch him. Paid to see that he honored his agreement.

Hell and damnation, he wouldn't be surprised if the
whole lot of them planned to troop into the master suite on his wedding night
just to observe the proceedings!

"Wedding night . . ." Donovan said through
gritted teeth, deciding he'd best leave before he began throwing
things—starting with Wilkins.

"What was that, Donovan?"

Glaring at his brother, Donovan said not another word
as he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Chapter 3

"Estelle, no feeden that mongrel under the table
now! I won't have it, I tell 'ee—Linette, have 'ee a notion to eat your eggs
while they're nice an' hot or is it your plan to just push them round your
plate? An' where's Marguerite? Marguerite!"

"She's still sitting in front of the mirror,
Frances. Where else would she be?" Corisande answered as she hurried down
the stairs and into the cozily warm kitchen where the Eastons' long-suffering
housekeeper stood shaking her head, her hands fisted at her thick waist.

"Front of the mirror, is she?" came the
disapproving reply in a rustic Cornish accent as thick as clotted cream.
Frances's wrinkled face creased into a frown. "I've never seen a young
girl, comely as that one or no, spend so much time fixen herself up for the
day.
'
Tes wicked, I say, an' her being the good parson's
daughter!"

"Well, if not wicked, at the very least it's a
sorry waste of time." Thinking of how she'd bolted from bed upon waking
and thrown on her clothes, barely taking a moment to run her fingers through
her disheveled hair and wind it into a bun at her nape, Corisande added over
her shoulder—good and loud enough for her fifteen-year-old sister to hear
upstairs— "I imagine Marguerite will find herself scrubbing the breakfast
dishes if she doesn't come down soon, won't she, Frances?"

"Ais, so she will, an' this evening's too,"
the housekeeper agreed heartily as Corisande reached across the table for a
piece of barley toast. In too much of a rush to sit down, she shot a warning
look at her youngest sister as the impish nine-year-old tossed a bit of fried
bacon to her panting mutt, Luther, then tried to cover her action with an all
too engaging grin.

"Estelle . . ."

The grin faded, big hazel eyes pleading. "But he's
hungry, Corie. Just look at him, poor dog. All ribs and whiskers."

Luther was a sight, Corisande agreed, a small
wiry-haired creature of indeterminate breed who peered expectantly at her toast
through a spiky fringe of gray hair. "Maybe so, but you heard Frances. You're
to listen to what she says—and Linette, since you've obviously no interest in
your eggs, why don't you fetch Marguerite?"

"You know she won't come," Linette answered
with a matter-of-fact shrug. A thin, gangly child just turned twelve with the
delicate features of their mother and the auburn hair all the Easton girls
shared—well, except for Marguerite, whose locks bore a deeper hint of
red—Linette pushed away her plate in disinterest. "Not until she's brushed
her hair two hundred strokes."

"Well, she'll find her hair's soon to fall out of
her head if she keeps on." Frances shoved Linette's plate right back in
front of her. "An' you eat now! Your papa will think I'm not feeden 'ee
proper—"

"Corie, I miss Lindsay."

Linette's soft statement couldn't have brought the
clamor in the kitchen to a more sudden halt. As Frances sighed and turned back
to the hearth while Estelle's expression fell, her whining hound momentarily
forgotten, Corisande gazed thoughtfully at her younger sister.

"We all miss Lindsay, sweet. I can't believe she's
been gone three days. It feels like forever."

"Well, she'd be here right now, having breakfast
with us and laughing and telling us wonderful stories, if only she hadn't gone
to London." Linette raised her small pointed chin, her eyes filled with
angry hurt. "Things will never be the same, you know. She might never come
back—"