Natalya (13 page)

A shadow of cynicism crossed Grey's countenance as he replied, "Somehow I doubt that, Mrs. Sykes." He might have added that he had never known his father to display any emotion as strong as shock.

Natalya was watching him curiously, while Mrs. Sykes studied him with a critical eye. "I hope you'll pardon me for speaking my mind, your lordship, but you look terrible. You need someone to look after you. How horrid that your—" She broke off suddenly, as if realizing that she was about to say too much. "But I'm taking up your time, when you doubtless have more pressing business."

Francesca's name hung unspoken between them; Grey's jaw was clenched as he glanced away. "Very true, madame. I really must be going." He turned to Natalya. "I'll be in touch with you as soon as I have settled the plans for your passage to America. If you need me, I'm certain Mrs. Sykes will assist you in reaching me."

Natalya's heart began to ache as she realized that they were parting, and that she was more nervous about her new situation than she would ever admit. She longed to touch his hand, but Grey had never seemed more distant. "Thank you for bringing me this far," she murmured, mustering a brave smile.

"It is I who am indebted to you," he replied gracefully. "I shall see you soon. Have you sufficient funds?"

"Oh, yes, certainly." Natalya flushed. "I brought with me the very handsome advance that Mr. Murray paid for
My Lady's Heart."
She didn't mention the fact that Nicholai had given her a far larger sum of money than the rather meager payment her publisher had made.

"Ah, yes, a woman of independent means," Grey murmured. "I beg your pardon for forgetting with such annoying frequency." He smiled into her eyes, adding, "I hope that you enjoy London, Natalya."

With that, he sketched a bow to the other females, made his farewells, and returned to the landau. The driver brought Natalya her small bag, then hopped back to his perch and guided the beautiful landau into the sea of vehicles. Natalya stared after him, trying to keep Grey's dark head in sight.

"Cousin!" Adrienne exclaimed next to her. "What tales you must have to tell of your flight from France with that exceedingly thrilling man! Are you
desperately
in love?"

"He's a viscount, you know," Mrs. Sykes put in bluntly. "Not so long ago, every well-born female's mama had her sights set on Lord Altburne. He was a rake, but so irresistibly charming that no one could hold his faults against him. The war's aged and hardened him, but I'll wager that will only increase his appeal to women."

Natalya felt herself redden. "Grey doesn't use his title anymore," she mumbled. "And you mustn't be so silly, Adrienne. There's nothing to tell. The arrangement between Mr. St. James and myself was purely one of convenience. Once he arranges my passage to Philadelphia, our business will be ended."

"How dull and depressing," pronounced the younger girl. "I don't know that I believe you, Talya."

Mrs. Sykes turned to lead them toward her carriage. "I wouldn't depend on hearing from Viscount Altburne any time in the near future," she said in the tone of one who knew much more than she would divulge. "He will soon discover that he has a rather messy plate of his own business to attend to." Reaching back, she took Natalya's arm in a firm grip. "Come along, my dear. I'll see to it that you are not bored while you await his lordship's attention. To begin, we must acquire a proper bonnet for you!"

Chapter 9

April 1, 1814

"Ah! I see you're back," the Earl of Hartford said mildly as he stood to greet his son. "Do come in, dear boy."

Torn between a familiar twinge of disappointment and the stirrings of amusement, Grey was surprised to feel himself smile easily. His lordship, having been informed by the butler that his long-lost elder son was in the vestibule, had done no more than lay aside the
Gazette
and inform the rather stunned-looking Dimbleby that he might bring the viscount up to the library. Now, as Grey crossed the softly hued Aubusson carpet, his father regarded him with polite interest.

"'You're looking extremely fit, sir," Grey said by way of greeting. As he shook his father's hand, he thought how well the elder man wore his seventy years. Hartford was always impeccably turned out in the finest and most subtle of taste. His tall, lean figure never seemed to change, though his hair had gone completely white and his ice blue eyes appeared to be even more piercing under the snowy tufts of his brows. Grey decided now that perhaps this was one of his parent's positive attributes: he was reassuringly predictable. And most predictable of all was his impassivity.

Hartford believed that it was bad form to show emotion. He had once remarked to his son that while there must be occasions to warrant such displays, he had yet to encounter one. He had weathered the birth of three children, the death of his wife delivering their daughter when Grey was ten, and more recently the loss of his second son, David, in the battle of Salamanca. If none of these had caused him openly to shed a tear, why should the return of his heir from rumored death be an exception?

"I look well?" Hartford repeated, as if trying to make sense of his son's remark. "Why should I be otherwise?" He glanced up as two maids came in with tea and cakes. "Ah, just the thing. Can you stay for tea, my boy?"

"Father, I've come home," Grey said, with labored patience. Why had he allowed himself to hope that the earl might show some sign of affection or relief or even simple pleasure when he presented himself after a two-year absence?

"So I surmised, but I thought you might have other matters to attend to." Hartford sipped his tea, then inquired, "The war is over, I gather?"

"Nearly so, sir. I've been in prison at Mont St. Michel this past year. I escaped and found a way back to England, thinking that, perhaps, I might be allowed to take leave. Matters seem so nearly resolved on the continent that I felt the Allied forces could doubtless manage without me." His tone was dry and laced with irony, a match to his father's spare conversational style.

"Prison, hmm? So that's where you've been. No doubt that was unpleasant, but certainly preferable to David's fate." Hartford glanced longingly toward his
Gazette,
but forced himself to chat a few minutes longer. "I'll own that you don't look well, dear boy. But then, you're getting older. I tend to forget that you're..."

"Thirty-six," Grey supplied.

"Hmm. Yes, of course. Well, you look as if you could do with a good meal and a good bed."

"Father, where is Francesca?" Grey asked abruptly, ready at last to hear what he sensed was bad news.

The earl drew his mouth into a tight line and appeared perilously near visible annoyance. "How very tedious. I'd hoped that you had already been told. You know, Grey, I never did care for that girl—"

"I need not remind you that I only married her at your behest, Father," Grey put in firmly. "I was tired of being badgered to marry and sire an heir, and tired of being chased by the mothers of every girl in England. Francesca was beautiful, and eminently suitable,
you said.
For my part, I was simply glad to have it settled so that I might devote myself to the war with Bonaparte."

"I'll not deny that there were many practical advantages to that marriage, nor that I encouraged it," Hartford replied in chill tones. "The competence Carsbury settled upon his daughter discharged debts that were a threat to our fortune, and that affected
you,
my boy. No one coerced you to agree, however." He gave his son a shrewd glance, thinking of the passion he had seen in Grey's eyes before his wedding to the hot-blooded Francesca Carsbury Burke. The young woman's first marriage to a corporal in the King's Own Third Dragoons had been short-lived, thanks to the war, and she had emerged from mourning one year later wearing a restless, knowing expression that had roused the interest of every healthy male she'd encountered. "You had an odd kick in your gallop that spring, my boy," Hartford continued. "I never did know whether it was boredom with your mistress or an urge to cause a stir among the
ton
that sent you to the altar; I certainly didn't ascribe your compliance to any desire to please me."

Grey nearly laughed aloud, longing to declare his belief that the earl had spared little energy worrying about his son's motives or state of mind. Instead he remarked cynically, "It was an interesting wedding night."

"And then you returned almost immediately to your ship, leaving
me
to share this house with the new Lady Altburne." The earl's gaze wandered as he reached out with a thin hand to touch the
Gazette.
Sniffing, he added, "I couldn't like her."

"Father, our apartment is quite separate from yours. I highly doubt that you had occasion to encounter Francesca with any regularity." Grey's eyes were steely as he leaned forward and said, "Now, kindly tell me the whereabouts of my wife."

"Have you heard nothing at all?"

"A rumor," he allowed. "I would appreciate facts in its stead."

"Well, your bride has flown," Hartford said placidly, with a wave of his hand. "Run away, you know."

"Father, I would be obliged if you would simply lay the thing bare for me! I'm in no humor for struggling to elicit each scrap of information."

"Unfortunately, dear boy, I am in possession of relatively few facts. One day, a few months after you returned to sea, your wife disappeared. Left a letter that claimed she had no marriage and couldn't bear such a life any longer. Something about a premonition that you'd be killed in any event, so what was the point? Such a lot of nonsense." The earl opened a golden snuffbox and gracefully took a pinch before continuing. "Since you're keen on hearing everything, I'll add that rumors were flying at the time that Francesca had run away with a lover, but I've no idea whether there was any truth in that."

"Do you not?" Grey queried coolly. "And have you no news of her whereabouts?"

His father stared thoughtfully into space for a moment as if searching his memory. "I do believe that I heard she'd somehow gotten herself to America. Michael Angelo Taylor mentioned to me when we last met at Brook's that she had written a letter to her father that took six months to arrive. I wouldn't rely on Taylor's word, however." Hartford brought the folded journal back into his lap and let his eyes roam over the printed columns. "No doubt you're fatigued, dear boy. The servants will be delighted to fuss over you."

Taking his cue, Grey stood. He had a thousand questions more to ask, but it was evident that the earl had already exceeded his time limit for filial conversations.

"I'll be dining out, Father."

Hartford nodded absently, not looking up. "Fine, fine."

* * *

Grey was aware of an almost overpowering sense of unreality as he stood in the bedchamber inhabited by his bride for so short a time. He found new holland covers on the furniture, but the soft gold walls and gold, green, and cream carpet were poignantly familiar. Drawing the cover from the testered Hepplewhite bed, he stared at the rich mustard brocade counterpane and pictured Francesca lying across it, her auburn hair spread out to frame a pale face with slanting, thick-lashed green eyes and a luscious red mouth. Her legs had been long, pale and smooth as alabaster, and her breasts—

Grey gave himself a mental shake. It was true that his bride had been a tigress in bed, and in those days he had been satisfied with the match if only for the most carnal reasons. Now, however, as dusk cast a pall over the bedchamber, the entire affair seemed a rather unsavory dream. It was difficult to remember exactly how it had all come about. In part, he blamed his fondness for spirits during the weeks of his leave in England that spring of 1812. Drink had dulled his judgment. Then there was his boredom with Alycia, just as the earl had suspected. His longtime mistress had been over-preoccupied with a desire to have him buy her a house, gowns, jewels, and assorted other treasures during his brief stay in London. Francesca had sparked the sort of lust he hadn't known for a long time, and he now remembered having some notion of getting her with child to leave an heir behind in the event of his death.

Thank God there had been no child, Grey reflected as he wandered into the dressing rooms and that connected his wife's bedchamber to his own. Four-year-old suits of clothing hung neatly in his dressing room, and it was as if they belonged to a dead man. It was obvious that he'd need to pay a visit to his tailor on the morrow. Where, Grey wondered, was Clive Speed? His devoted valet of nearly two dozen years was an authority on all matters of male style, taste, and breeding. He had taught his master to shave and to tie a cravat that would rival any of Brummell's; Grey would have gladly taken Speed with him into war had it not been for the man's advancing years.

Somehow, even though he'd sent no word of his impending arrival to Hartford House, he had rather expected the valet to be waiting beside his shaving stand with a fresh neckcloth. Perhaps, Grey thought, he was taking a turn in the park. There doubtless had not been a great deal to occupy the proud manservant during his employer's two-year absence.