Still in a daze of disbelief, Ruel followed the footman to the front door. A horse was brought quickly from the stable and a rider dispatched with a message Ruel had scrawled out. As he watched the horse’s hooves send up a line of dust along the road, his mind still struggled with the realization. Anne! Anne had come back from the dead. She was inside the house. How could that be?
He had been haunted by her memory. Though certain that he loved her, he had failed to tell her at Waterloo. Then she had been killed on the battlefield. Killed. He had been so sure of it. Every mile he had crossed in his journey back to England had been etched with his agony. Regret. Anger. Disbelief. Sorrow. Self-contempt. Fury. Rage. Tears.
How many tears had he wept over her? When he thought back on his life, he could not recall shedding a single tear about anything. Ever. Grieving Anne had torn the edges of his heart.
Once in Devon, he had hidden himself away at Slocombe House. Feeling dead inside, despairing of hope, he had found his only comfort in God. There were no cathedrals or abbeys like the ones he had known in London, so he sought strength in the Bible he found in the library. But Ruel could hardly accept that God’s grace, His free gift of love, could reach down and touch his own life so profoundly. The most undeserving of men, he had been remiss in too many ways. As the dark days passed, Ruel had repented, vowed to change his life, surrendered his own will to God’s leading. Yet he could not break free from the sorrow and regret that had held him in chains of anguish.
But now God had brought Anne to him. Feeling like a young colt set free in a spring pasture, he bounded back across the foyer.
“My wife,” he said proudly to the footman. In a clear breach of every rule of etiquette, he slipped his arm around Anne and drew her close. With a laugh, he kissed her cheek.
“So pleased to meet you, Lady Blackthorne.” The footman made a deep bow. “We were given to believe you had perished.”
“And we are all happily wrong.” Ruel turned to Anne. “You must be exhausted from your journey. I shall take you to our chambers at once, and Mr. Locke and Miss Watson must be shown to the guest rooms as well. Simmons, see that hot water is sent upstairs directly. And the trunks, of course. Let us plan to gather for tea at four o’clock in the drawing room.”
“I welcome the opportunity to refresh myself,” Anne said softly. “But first I must request a tête-à-tête with Sir Alexander.”
“Alex?” Ruel said. “Alex is not here. He prepares his wedding in London.”
“But he was ahead of us.”
“Alex is coming to Slocombe?”
“Your family had no idea you were alive, sir,” Charles Locke spoke up. “Your letter from France arrived at Marston House only two days ago.”
“Two days? Impossible! I sent it weeks ago.”
“It is true,” Anne confirmed. “Your parents summoned me the moment they received the news, for of course I had written to tell them you were dead. The moment Sir Alexander heard you were alive, he abandoned his wedding plans to come to you at once. He arrived in Tiverton last night. Surely he is here already.”
“Evidently you outpaced him.” Ruel’s grin broadened. “But this is excellent news! My brother is on his way. Alex is coming. What a splendid reunion we shall have!”
Teatime came but Anne could not tear herself from the bliss of Ruel’s arms. As the party sat together in the drawing room, the sun drifted down toward the horizon casting lacy shadows from the oak trees outside the window. Anne tried to think about important things. Prudence. The duchess. Sir Alexander.
All she knew was this man whose warm embrace folded her in security and love. He was just as she had remembered him. And different, too. The scar on his cheek made a fitting emblem for the new man. His pain was more open now, more easily revealed. But so was his love. He had been wounded by loss. But she sensed that he had healed into a more compassionate human being.
Ruel had not moved from Anne’s side, and even now he kept one arm firmly around her shoulder as if he could not bear to be separated from her for even a moment.
“Calais,” he said to her as a maid poured tea into empty cups. “I can scarcely believe that you and Miss Watson were there all the time.”
Anne shifted at the mention of France. “Ruel, I must tell you what became of your lace machine.”
“Never mind the loom. I am now considering an offer my brother made to me some time ago. Mr. Locke, I understand that you have had a letter from Henry Carlyle, your partner with Sir Alexander in Locke & Son Tea Company.”
“Several letters, in fact,” Charles replied. “Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, writes to say he is safely arrived in China, and he is successfully negotiating a large shipment of the finest tea that country has to offer. Locke & Son may expect to turn a handsome profit when he returns to England. Lord Black-thorne, you are more than welcome to join your brother, Lord Delacroix, and me in this venture. Indeed, I am sure we should all be most grateful for your influence.”
“I thank you, sir. Like my brother, I am deeply committed to the financial well-being of the duchy of Marston. I should very much like to learn more about the tea trade.”
“But what about lace?” Anne spoke up. “Monsieur Robidoux is doing so well in Calais.”
Ruel turned to her. “Robidoux? You know him?”
She glanced at Prudence for reassurance before continuing. “Prudence and I took your machine into France, and Monsieur Robidoux met us at Douai. Hezekiah Cutts has been a great success. You are the owner of a growing lace industry in Calais—with a lace school and a clever manager. Monsieur Robidoux is a most competent businessman.”
Throwing his head back, Ruel laughed heartily. “
You
took my machine to France?
You
set it up? My little Luddite?”
“How could I not, sir?” she asked softly. “It was your dream.”
Sobering, he shook his head. “Thank you, Anne. I know it was a great sacrifice. Your father—”
“I trust you will continue to work toward his freedom.”
“Of course. Your mother and the others are well, I am sure, for I commissioned my steward to take the best possible care of them.”
“You are too good.” Embarrassed at the public exchange of emotion between herself and Ruel, Anne knew she must move quickly to other matters. “I must address an issue of great import. It has to do with the attempt on your life in Brussels.”
“Give Droughtmoor no thought, I beg you. The man is of little consequence and—”
“But I speak of Sir Alexander,” she cut in. “He may have been the assailant.”
Ruel scowled. “My brother?”
“Sir, you stand between him and the duchy.” She sucked in a breath, trying to force herself to tell him what had occurred when the duke had read aloud his letter. “Upon hearing news of your presence in Devon, your brother departed London at once, leaving his bride-to-be in the lurch. The duchess was . . . distraught.”
“In a snit, no doubt. I long ago heard the rumor that she is not my true mother—though I assure you no one in the family gave credit to such vile gossip. All the same, I have ruined her plans more than once. Anne, you must understand how the duchess views her life. I am not the first child whose mother rejected him in favor of a sibling, nor shall I be the last.” He paused, searching her face. “My mother, Drought-moor, Society—nothing in the past can have importance now. But you do. Will you stay with me, dear lady? Can you make Slocombe and Marston your home?”
Forgetting all about Sir Alexander, Anne slipped her arms around his neck. “Oh, Ruel, I am at home already.”
“My home is in your heart,” he whispered.
“Ahem!” The footman cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Lord Blackthorne. Mr. Walker is here at your request.”
As the tall figure slipped into the room, Prudence gasped and leapt to her feet. “Mr. Walker!”
Before she could rush to him, the man stiffened. “Miss Watson? I . . . but we thought—”
“Excuse me,” the footman interrupted again. “Alexander Chouteau has arrived. May I present your brother?”
“Of course!” Ruel stood. “Show him in at once.”
Sir Alexander strode into the room. “Ruel, how surprised I was to learn you are alive and well,” he began. “I bring warm greetings from our parents.”
“Alex, upon my word, I cannot credit the notion that you thought me dead!” Ruel crossed the room to embrace his brother. “I wrote to you from France. I told you all I was coming here to Slocombe.”
“Your letter was waylaid, and in the meantime, Lady Blackthorne gave us to believe that you had perished in France.” Sir Alexander spotted Anne, and his face darkened. “Are you aware, brother, that your wife betrothed herself to a wealthy French merchant—merely weeks from our parting at Waterloo?”
Her heart hammering, Anne gripped the arm of the settee and pushed herself to her feet. “Sir Alexander, this is a private matter, and I have not had time to speak to my husband about it.”
“Anne?” Ruel turned from his brother. “Is this true?”
“Monsieur Robidoux can hardly be considered wealthy.”
“Robidoux?” Ruel’s face softened. “Do you speak of Pierre Robidoux of Douai?”
Anne relaxed a little at the quizzical smile that tipped one corner of his mouth. The short Frenchman with his large nose was something less than a romantic rival. Ruel knew that, and so did Anne. But Alex clearly did not.
“Believing you had been killed at Waterloo,” Anne told her husband, “Monsieur Robidoux asked for my hand. He had come to consider me an asset to the lace industry in Calais. I knew I could not rely upon the largesse of the Chouteau family, for they had ignored my communications.”
“Lies!” Sir Alexander burst out. “She cannot claim we ignored her. For all we knew, she was dead, too.”
“Sir, it is quite impossible that none of my letters reached you in Paris. You never troubled yourself to respond. And your parents knew of my situation. As you just stated, they received the letter I wrote to inform them that I believed their son had perished.”
“Never mind that, Anne.” Ruel took her hand. “Do you hold any affection for Robidoux?”
“Nothing more than a business arrangement ever passed between us. Prudence can attest to that, as will Monsieur Robidoux himself. Ruel, please, you must believe me.”
Pulling Anne protectively against him, he made no answer. Instead, he faced his brother. “Alex, why have you come to Devon? What brings you to Slocombe House when all London is abuzz with preparations for your wedding?”
Alexander paled. “To prove to myself you were alive, of course,” he blustered. Pointing at Anne, he added, “Why do you suppose
she
came?”
“Anne is my wife. We made a vow to spend our lives together. Alex, you knew I was alive. My letter proved it. Why have you come?”
“Upon my word, Ruel, I am astonished at such a question. I have been on the road for two days. My carriage lost a wheel and nearly overturned. My best horse has gone lame. Is this the sort of greeting I deserve?” Alex gave his brother a disarming grin. “Now, then, have I missed teatime entirely?”
Ruel’s shoulders relaxed. “Come then, let us sit down together, all of us. You may have more adventures to relate than anyone else.”
Clapping his brother on the back, Ruel started across the foyer with Alex. Anne stood for a moment. Her mind told her all was well, but her heart still pounded in alarm.
“Sir Alexander, you never answered Ruel’s question,” she said.
The men stopped and looked back at her.
“You came to Slocombe House at your mother’s bidding, did you not?” She squared her shoulders. “Or was it your own idea?”
“Anne, what are you talking about?” Ruel asked. “Alex has come to wish us well.”
Trying to breathe normally, Anne faced down her brother-in-law. “You should go back to London, sir. Go back to Gabrielle Duchesne and make a good husband of yourself. Tend to your affairs, and allow your brother to resume his position in the family.”
“What affairs?” His face reddening, Alexander took a step toward Anne. “You have taken everything. You got your claws into my brother, and I have no doubt you mean to bear him an heir.”
“Alex!” Ruel cut in. “You will not insult my wife!”
“You know nothing about this wicked creature, Ruel.” Alexander’s voice rose. “She is nothing more than a devious housemaid! She believes she can weasel her way back into your life and into our money. Well, it should be my money, do you hear? Just as the title ought to be mine!”
“Alex, the title is mine by birthright.” Gathering anger darkened Ruel’s features. “You know I am heir apparent.”
“Mother would have
me
inherit,” his brother exploded. “You have done nothing with your life—women and dice and roaming about the world spending money on your foolish schemes. Lace! Lace, for heaven’s sake!”
“Alex, you are raving.”
Ruel reached to try to calm his brother, but Alex leapt backward. Suddenly drawing a small pistol from his pocket, he pointed it at his brother. Anne saw at once he carried it on the half cock.
“Alex, stop!” she cried out.
“You are not to be the heir. I am.” He leveled the weapon at Ruel’s heart. His voice dropped. “You hear me right, dear brother. After you left for America, Mother told me that the rumor of your parentage is true. You were born of our father’s mistress—a housemaid. No wonder you were so eager to wed Anne Webster. Like her, you are a commoner. A nobody!