Page 12 of Wizard's Daughter

  Lorelei thought about this. "The men were toughs, the sort you see lurking around the tavern in our village at home, dirty clothes and mean eyes, as though they'd rip out your gullet and not regret it for a moment."

  "They didn't call each other by name or say anything at all?"

  "I heard one of them say he hoped the young lad hadn't croaked it since the other man had struck him so hard, and they hadn't been paid to croak anyone." She paused. "The carriage had some sort of crest on the door, Sir Robert. It was as if the men had tried to cover it with a cloth, but it had gone askew and I saw—" She put her hands to her head and pressed.

  Her mother, with a moan, rose to go to her, but Sir Robert forestalled her, and she sat again. He said, "You are doing fine. Miss Kilbourne. Think about it for a moment." And he gave Lady Ramey a charming smile and a small shake of the head. He said to Lord Ramey, "You must be very proud of your daughter, my lord. She is no fainting miss."

  The other four daughters eyed each other, then their sis­ter, then straightened their shoulders and tried to look com­petent. Since the youngest daughter, Alice, was no more than thirteen, Rosalind was impressed.

  If Lorelei had considered fainting, she didn't consider it now. Grayson had taken her hand and was lightly rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "The crest," Grayson said. "Were there colors, shapes, you can remember?"

  "I saw the door for only a very brief moment," she said, "but yes, I could make out the legs of a lion, I think, standing upright, and there was the lower part of a red circle and a band of gold around it. It was as if the lion were holding up the world. I'm sorry, that's all I can remember."

  "They bound and gagged you but they didn't hurt you? Didn't threaten you? Gave you no idea that they were kid­napping you for ransom?"

  "No. They cursed a lot, particularly when I bit one man's hand, but he didn't hit me or speak, just cursed. And after they put that handkerchief against my nose, I have no mem­ory of anything."

  Sir Robert took his leave, well aware that more was going on in the Sherbrooke drawing room than anyone would ever tell him. It was another fifteen minutes before the Kilbourne women took their leave, Lady Ramey's daughters now sup­porting her since Lorelei seemed just fine.

  Lord Ramey, after drinking three snifters of the earl's magnificent brandy, was still giving Grayson accusing looks for losing his daughter. However, a date was made for the following day, should Grayson feel up to it. No doubt about that, Rosalind thought, given his fatuous smile at Lorelei.

  The drawing room was silent when the front door closed behind Lord Ramey.

  It was Grayson who finally said aloud what everyone was thinking. "The men made a mistake. There is no doubt in my mind those men believed Lorelei was Rosalind ."

  Ryder said, "They drove for fifteen minutes, so Miss Kilbourne believed, drugged her with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief, and obviously took her into a house where those who wanted Rosalind were waiting. They saw it wasn't Rosalind and didn't kill Lorelei. Whoever it was balked at the murder of an innocent. That is something at least. They sent her back."

  Rosalind was sitting next to Grayson, speaking low, when she heard Uncle Douglas say, "Where is Nicholas?"

  But Nicholas wasn't there. He was gone.

  Lee Po pulled up Grace and Leopold in front of a well-tended redbrick Georgian town house at 14 Epson Square. As he walked up the steps to the front door, Nicholas said over his shoulder, "No, don't argue with me, Lee. I want you to tool the grays around the square. Don't worry about me, I know what I'm about. I shouldn't be long."

  Lee Po didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do. He knew who lived in this house.

  Nicholas hadn't been inside the town house since he was a small boy—namely, at his father's wedding to Miranda Carstairs, youngest child of Baron Carstairs, barely five months after Nicholas's mother had died.

  His knock was answered by a pallid, furtive-looking young man, his hair so blond it appeared white in the dim light of the entrance hall.

  "Yes?" A very suspicious voice, Nicholas thought, and handed him his card, then watched him look at it and give a nervous start. That's right, you little bugger, he thought, I'm here.

  He said in a quiet voice, "I wish to see my half brothers, one or all of them. Now."

  "Ah, my lord, allow me to see if Master Richard is avail­able." The butler led Nicholas into a drawing room he re­membered reeking of attar of roses, his father's new wife's scent. He hated the smell to this day.

  The walls were oak paneled, the cornices classical, the fire­place ornate, and the furniture light and airy, making the drawing room feel more spacious than it actually was. Like the outside of the house, it was well tended. It required quite a lot of money to maintain this property, Nicholas knew; he wondered how deep his brothers' pockets were. He looked for any sign that Lorelei had been in this room, but he saw noth­ing out of the ordinary.

  He turned when the door opened and his half brother Richard strolled in, looking quite elegant in dark brown trousers and a waistcoat of brown and cream stripes. His coat was dark brown velvet. He looked quite fine and indo­lent, a young gentleman with nothing more on his mind than his evening's entertainment. Ah, but in his dark eyes: wari­ness. No, even more, Nicholas could see he was alarmed.

  In his cultivated bored voice, Richard said, "Well, well, if it isn't a Vail I never expected to see here. What do you want?"

  Nicholas walked to his stepbrother, drew back his fist, and slammed it in his jaw. Richard fell back, hit the arm of a chair, and went down. He was stunned for a moment. Nicholas moved to stand over him, hands on his hips.

  "I didn't hit you that hard, you little puke, get yourself to­gether."

  Richard Vail shook his head and rubbed his jaw. He looked up at Nicholas and slowly got to his feet.

  Then, without warning, he leapt upon Nicholas.

  He was strong and fast. Both of them went down. Richard sent his fist into Nicholas's belly. It hurt, but not all that much. Nicholas smiled as he struck Richard's throat with the heel of his hand, sending him scrambling backwards, gag­ging, to fetch up against the wall, all the while his hands wildly rubbing his neck. Nicholas grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright. He didn't hit him, but took two steps back and sent his foot into his belly. Richard grunted and stumbled back against the fireplace, now clutching his stomach.

  Nicholas said, "I could hit you lower, would you like that?" "No!" Richard yelled, trying to get his breath, turning quickly to the side to protect himself. Nicholas stood quietly, waiting.

  "You bastard! You kicked my belly into my backbone. I've never seen anything like that. Is that from your heathen Chinese friends?"

  "I will tell you this one time, Richard, then if you act again, I will kill you. Today you kidnapped the wrong girl. If you ever attempt to take Rosalind again, you are a dead man. Do you understand me?"

  Richard Vail didn't attempt to deny his complicity. He looked upon his half brother with hatred and a good deal of fear. His stomach burned ferociously.

  Nicholas said, his voice even lower, quieter, "Do you un­derstand?"

  Finally, Richard nodded.

  "Good," Nicholas said, dusted his britches, and turned to leave. He paused at the doorway. "You hired two incompe­tent toughs, that's how Lorelei Kilbourne described your men. You have all your father's money. Surely you could have purchased better talent. Do you know the fools let the cloth fall away a bit from our father's family crest on the car­riage and Lorelei saw it? I would have known it was you without that information but it makes me feel better to have it verified."

  Richard Vail leaned against the mantelpiece, his swarthy face pale, impotent fury in his eyes. "I only wanted to talk to this girl you're going to marry, this girl who is of no impor­tance at all, who has no money save what the Sherbrookes will give you as a dowry. I wanted to tell her what you were really like, warn her she was making a big mistake."

  "If you wished to speak to the lady, why didn'
t you sim­ply pay her a visit? Didn't your dear mother teach you any manners at all?"

  Richard said nothing.

  "Ah, of course you wanted to add on the threats, didn't you? Do you know, I venture to say that if someone were stupid enough to threaten Rosalind , he would sorely regret it. She is"—Nicholas found himself looking at a statuette of a limp shepherdess sitting beside Richard's ear atop the mantelpiece—"she is quite fierce." And he realized, as he turned on his heel to leave, that he was smiling. But then he stopped in his tracks and whirled around. "If, by any mad chance, you weren't considering threats, if you planned to weigh her down and throw her into the Thames to be rid of her once and for all—" Nicholas realized he was shaking. He said very quietly, "If you were considering making my betrothed simply disappear, don't, Richard. If anything hap­pens to Rosalind , Lancelot will be next in line for my title. You will be dead."

  "Damn you to hell! I hope she plays you false!"

  Nicholas laughed at that.

  The pale young man who'd greeted him at the front door stood not a foot outside the drawing room, wringing his hands. He was darting frantic looks behind Nicholas's left shoulder.

  "What are you doing hare?"

  Nicholas turned to see Lancelot Vail trip quickly down the front staircase, dressed elegantly, like his older brother, his face flushed at the sight of Nicholas.

  "I was on the point of leaving, Lancelot," Nicholas said. "Why don't you go pour your brother a nice snifter of brandy?"

  21

  Rosalind was staring out the bow window at the daffodils waving in the Wednesday afternoon breeze, waiting for Nicholas, when the door opened. But it was Willicombe who came into the drawing room. She was impatient and worried, but still she smiled at him because Grayson had recently confided in her that he was making Willicombe a magician in his next novel, with a head full of red hair, and it was to be a surprise. Rosalind cocked an eyebrow at him.

  "Lady Mountjoy is here to see you, Miss Rosalind ."

  Wrong Mountjoy.

  Lady Mountjoy didn't simply walk into the drawing room, she sailed in, a figurehead swathed in lavender from her boots to her big bonnet decorated with big clusters of purple grapes. She was short and on the plump side, but still, she looked ready to take on the Roman legions, something both to alarm and impress. Beneath the awesome bonnet, her hair was quite blond, the few gray strands difficult to see. Her eyes were very light, perhaps blue or gray. Lancelot was Picture of his mama. So this was Nicholas's stepmother,

  Miranda, the woman who had spawned three sons and taught them to hate Nicholas.

  Lady Mountjoy didn't look happy, but she did look deter­mined, and to Rosalind's eyes, she looked fretful, lines of discontent bracketing her mouth. She looked on the edge, as if afraid that something was happening she couldn't control. Ah, perhaps she's upset that her sons failed to get rid of me to prevent Nicholas from having a boy child off me, and she's come to convince me to break off my betrothal to Nicholas herself. Rosalind hoped the woman didn't have a stiletto in her lovely beaded reticule.

  She eyed her future stepmama-in-law and hoped this was her mission; she could get her teeth into that. Maybe she was here to try to buy her off. Rosalind remained silent as Lady Mountjoy stopped a foot short of her nose—very rude, to be sure—but Rosalind found she wanted to laugh at this plump little peahen of a woman trying to intimidate her. Lady Mountjoy looked her up and down, and snorted. She took one step back, as if realizing she was at a disadvantage since Rosalind topped her by a good six inches, and announced, "You are young and don't look as if you have much sense. I am surprised Nicholas would choose you, but than again, perhaps he is desperate. Tell me, missy, how much of a dowry are the Sherbrookes putting in his pockets?"

  Missy?

  A straight shot over the bow, no namby-pamby attack for this one. "Ah, I presume you are Nicholas's stepmother?" "Unfortunately that is true."

  "I understand you haven't seen your stepson since he left after his grandfather's death. What was he, twelve years old? And how many times did you and his father visit him while he was living with the former earl's father? Once, twice? It appears to me, madam, that you do not even know him; Nicholas is a stranger to you. You could pass him on the street and not know him. Why then are you surprised at whom he would choose?"

  Lady Mountjoy waved her hand around. "One hears things from one's relatives and one's friends. All agree he is not stupid and therefore choosing you has left them bewil­dered, perhaps believing you seduced him."

  "Hmmm. I only met him a week ago. A very fast seduction, don't you think?"

  "Don't you make sport with me, missy!"

  Rosalind gave her a sunny smile and a wave of the hand. "How do you do, Lady Mountjoy? To what do I owe the honor of your presence?"

  "You ask me how I am? Very well, I will tell you how I am. My spirits are upended; I am perturbed. I didn't wish to ever meet you, missy, yet here I am forced to come. I wish you no honor with my presence."

  "Should you care to leave? I will not force you to re­main."

  Rosalind got a fat diamond-adorned nanny finger shaken in her face. "You will be quiet. You are really quite common, although it does not surprise me."

  "Perhaps I could sing for you. I'm told I have a lovely voice, that when one listens to me sing, one easily forgets my youth and my commonness. I do not even need a pianoforte to accompany me. What you think?" Rosalind didn't smile, she simply stood there, waiting to see what Lady Mountjoy would do.

  "I do not wish to hear you sing. That is ridiculous. Now, I am looking for Nicholas, though I imagine he will be rude and not show himself."

  "Did not your relatives and your friends tell you his resi­dence is currently at Grillon's Hotel? He has a lovely suite of rooms there and all the staff are quite deferential to him. Should you like the direction to Grillon's?"

  "I know where Grillon's Hotel is located, you impertinent little no-account. I have also heard he has a heathen servant who is very likely more dangerous than he is. No, I shall not go there."

  "Lee Po, dangerous?" Rosalind nodded thoughtfully. "Possibly so. As for Nicholas being dangerous, I cannot be certain about that. However, in all honesty, he can be rather curt, but it is because he feels things so very deeply, you know."

  Lady Mountjoy snarled. "He is a man, you ninny. Men rarely feel much of anything that is worth remarking upon. It is true they feel lust in their younger years, but in their older years one must pry the brandy bottle from their hands."

  Perhaps that was part of the reason for Lady Mountjoy's discontent—no lovemaking and no brandy. Rosalind said, "It is a great pity you don't know your stepson at all, ma'am, for I believe him to be truly remarkable.

  "I fear Nicholas isn't here at the moment. I believe he went off with my uncles to shoot at Manton's. I wanted to go, but they do not yet allow ladies. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

  Lady Mountjoy grabbed Rosalind's hand and held on tight, making the grapes on her bonnet dance. "I don't want tea, you stupid girl, I want to tell you to call off this absurd wedding with Nicholas. I'm trying to save you even though you are as common as a weed and don't deserve to be saved." She lowered her voice to a hiss. "Your life is in dan­ger. Nicholas Vail is a scoundrel. When his father kicked him out, he didn't have a single sou—"

  Ah, so she was finally getting to it. Rosalind said easily, "Well, how could he have a single sou when his father kicked him out? Wasn't he a little boy?"

  "It is one and the same thing. My dear husband told me the old earl gave Nicholas quite a lot of money before he died, but I ask you, what happened to it? We heard Nicholas simply disappeared—I know he gambled the money away. He was sly and mean, a-good-for-nothing from the age of five. He had nothing when he left England."

  "Do you know, I don't believe Nicholas gambles at all, but I shall ask him. I wonder too what happened to the money if his grandfather did indeed give him some. Was he robbed? Perhaps left for dead?"

  "Control your mel
odrama. Nicholas was a wastrel when he was a boy, and I'm sure he's remained one. Whatever hap­pened, Nicholas lost the money his grandfather gave to him. All know he is still poor. He has a title and no money and thus he needs an heiress. So I am here to tell you the truth. He is only after the money the Sherbrookes will give you. He will get a boy child off you, then murder you in your bed. If you trust him you are more a fool than I believe you are."

  "As in the fruit never falls far from the paternal or mater­nal tree?"

  Rosalind believed for an instant that Lady Mountjoy would strike her. Her bosom heaved, she turned alarmingly red in the face, and her breath was as loud as a bellows. But she held herself still. Rosalind realized in that instant if the woman had hit her, she would have retaliated, knocked her flat, with great enjoyment. Chin up, shoulders squared, Lady Mountjoy said, "My sons are gentlemen, nurtured by the parental and maternal tree. They know what is what, they know how to behave. If possible, my husband would have declared Nicholas a bastard, but the boy had the gall to look the picture of him, curse the fates."

  Rosalind managed to pull her hand free of Lady Mount-joy's surprisingly strong grip. She turned away from the woman to sit down on the sofa. She watched Lady Mountjoy pace in front of her. Her imposing bosom looked ready to topple her, but didn't, possibly because she was so tightly corseted. She had once been very pretty, Rosalind thought.

  Rosalind said finally, "I met your sons Richard and Lancelot, at Drury Lane, to see Hamlet. I, myself, didn't care for Kean's performance all that much. Have you seen him as Hamlet?"

  "You are trying to distract me and it won't work. Be quiet." She paused, eyed Rosalind up and down. "Besides, I know you are a fraud yourself."

  "Ah, so I am no longer the victim. Like Nicholas, am I now a scoundrel too? If that is what you believe, then why are you concerned? We are both poor and we are both scoundrels. Like to like. Don't you think it fitting?"

  Rosalind thought the woman would explode. That made her feel quite good. She was learning an excellent lesson: Hold on to your temper with both hands, and breathe. As for Lady Mountjoy, she hadn't learned this lesson. Her face was alarmingly flushed. "You mock me, you worthless excuse for a proper lady. The only reason society is forced to pay any attention to you at all is because of the Sherbrookes."