St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  "But what a joy it must be for you, Mr. Fitzleger," Madeline said. "Will the child be with you long?"

  "I believe so. The air of London has not been agreeing with the poor child and her mother, my youngest daughter-in-law, Corinne is much preoccupied, preparing for her confinement."

  "I hope she brings forth a son," Hadrian said. "A boy with the gift. We'll be needing another Bride Finder for the next generation."

  "I am sure Corinne will do her best, sir."

  "Well, tell those sons of yours to put their backs into the task." Hadrian's ribald comment caused Madeline to color, and Anatole was surprised it did not earn his burly uncle one of Fitzleger's gentle rebukes.

  But Fitzleger bore an air of distraction about him, and Anatole didn't think it was entirely owing to the unexpected arrival of one small girl. He knew that particular expression on his old tutor's face far too well.

  Now what the devil's amiss? Anatole thought grimly.

  He was not kept in suspense for long. When the general flow of conversation resumed, Fitzleger wasted no time in drawing Anatole aside for a private word in his ear.

  "My lord, on my way here, I noticed something that has me much troubled."

  "Not another mysterious cloaked woman," Anatole said with a wearied sigh.

  "No, thank the Lord, but something equally as disturbing." Fitzleger raised troubled eyes to Anatole's face. "I did not realize until this evening that you had taken Bess Kennack into your service."

  "And so? Did you not send her to me for that very reason?"

  "No, I most certainly did not."

  Fitzleger's emphatic reply caused Anatole to frown for a moment. Then he shrugged, "Someone else from the village must have done so, then."

  "But do you think it wise to have her here under your roof? I know you only meant to be kind, but—"

  "Kindness has nothing to do with it. It's called guilt, Fitzleger."

  "Guilt for which there is no reason. You are not responsible for the death of that girl's mother, no matter what poor Bess thinks in her bitterness." Fitzleger shook his head, saying earnestly, "Send the girl to me. If Bess needs employment, I will find it for her. This situation seems fraught with disaster, considering how the child feels about you."

  "The child thinks I'm a demon from hell who should have been put to the torch at birth. But it is not an opinion I am unfamiliar with."

  "My boy—" Fitzleger began, resting his hand upon Anatole's sleeve.

  But Anatole rejected both the old man's gentle touch and his advice. "Have done with your fretting, sir. As long as Bess performs her duties and pleases my wife, I have no complaint. I could not be in any serious danger from a chit of a girl."

  Especially not when danger seemed to approach from a far different source. Anatole's senses came to full alert, the footsteps of someone's imminent arrival stalking through the corridors of his mind.

  Yet as hard as he tried to focus, he couldn't seem to hone in on the identity. He hadn't been exaggerating before when he'd told Madeline that many St. Legers in one place produced a disturbance in the atmosphere. The combined power of so many forceful personalities clouded his inner sense, made him feel as though he groped through a fog.

  Could it possibly be his steward? Warford had been concerned of late about some poachers and—Anatole sucked in his breath, cringing at the stab of pain behind his eyes. He rubbed his fingers across his forehead.

  No, it wasn't Warford's warm blustery aura he detected. This felt colder, sharper, like a blade of steel lifting his scalp.

  "Roman!"

  The name escaped Anatole in a curse, startling Fitzleger. Brushing past the old man, Anatole prepared to bolt toward the hall. But it was already too late.

  The long gallery doors swung open, and Roman St. Leger swept into the room. Conversation trailed away to nothing, all eyes turning in his direction, for as Anatole had often remarked bitterly, no one knew better how to make an entrance than Roman.

  Doffing his chapeau bras and multi-caped cloak, he swirled toward Bess Kennack, who stood behind him in the shadows. Tossing both garments into her arms with a careless grace, he chucked her under the chin, causing the dour girl to blush and gaze up at him with an awed expression.

  As the girl backed away, Roman faced the assembled company with an elegant bow. Attired in a frock coat of ivory brocade and matching breeches, his blue waistcoat was shot through with silver. Roman's golden hair waved back from his perfect features, the silken lengths secured at the nape of his neck by a dark velvet bow. Shaking out the lace at his sleeves, he glanced up at Anatole, his eyes dancing with malice.

  The forgotten bad angel, the evil fairy come to make mischief…

  Anatole's gut knotted with apprehension, and he stalked forward to bar Roman's path. Roman raised his quizzing glass and eyed Anatole's black frock coat with a mocking stare.

  "Merciful heavens, cousin. Who has died?"

  "No one. Yet!'

  An amused smile curved Roman's lips, but Anatole was aware of movement behind him at the far end of the room. His cousins springing to their feet, his uncle Hadrian stiffening to an alert stance, Marius taking a hesitant step forward.

  Anatole was certain they all remembered too well the last confrontation between Roman and himself within the walls of Castle Leger.

  It had been the day of Lyndon St. Leger's wake, when grief and tensions were high, years of rivalry and resentment simmering over. He and Roman had gone for each other's throats like a pair of mad dogs, and it had taken the combined efforts of the entire St. Leger tribe to end their deadly struggle.

  And all because of a watch, his father's watch, that by tradition should have passed down to a much-loved son. But it had been bequeathed to Roman instead.

  His cousin still wore the cursed thing. With a gesture that was slow and deliberate, Roman retrieved the timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open, affording Anatole a glimpse of the miniature of his mother mounted in the casing.

  "Dear me," Roman murmured. "My apologies, cousin. It appears I am a little late for these festivities."

  "Late?" Anatole said, struggling to conceal how much the sight of that cursed watch still affected him. Keeping his voice low so that it did not carry back to the others, he demanded, "What the devil are you doing here at all?"

  Roman sighed. "That question is getting to be a tiresome habit with you, cousin. I have come to join this little family gathering."

  "I don't recall that you were invited."

  "I should have been. To the best of my memory, I am still a St. Leger."

  "A fact that I do my best to forget."

  Something brittle and dangerous flashed in Roman's eyes. "Then, perhaps it is up to me to remind you."

  Anatole tensed, bracing himself for anything when Fitzleger rushed forward, the old man insinuating himself between them.

  "Gentlemen, please!" he said in that same distressed tone he had been accustomed to scold them as boys. "This discord between you must end. St. Legers have ever stood together. Master Roman, if you wish to remain, you will behave yourself accordingly."

  The tension faded from Roman's perfect features, replaced with his usual languid air of amusement. "Oh, aye, certainly, sir."

  "And my lord." Fitzleger turned to Anatole, speaking softly. "Think of your good lady. You would not wish to distress her with an unpleasant scene."

  Anatole scowled, but his gaze traveled to where Madeline stood surrounded by the tense forms of his uncles and cousins. Her face was alight with a mixture of innocent curiosity and uneasy bewilderment.

  No, Anatole thought, he did not wish to distress his bride. In fact, it amazed him to discover how far he would go to avoid doing just that. Even so far as to dance with the devil himself.

  Stepping close so that no one else could see, Anatole caught Romans arm in a hard grip.

  "If you stay," he said tersely, "you'll mind that adder's tongue of yours. My bride knows nothing of my unusual heritage, and for the
moment I intend to keep it that way. At your own peril, you do anything to defy me in this matter."

  Roman's brows arched in surprise, but he said, "Why, cousin, far be it from me to do anything that would displease you."

  Wrenching his arm free, he smoothed out his sleeve, his lips curling in a smile that Anatole mistrusted. Every instinct he possessed urged him to use his power as he'd never done before. One good blast, and he could fling Roman back out those doors and straight to hell.

  Aye, and he could also terrify his bride to death, condemn himself forever in her eyes as something strange and savage, an uncivilized monster.

  Clenching his jaw, Anatole could only do what he'd so often been obliged to do for his cursed cousin. Stand aside.

  Roman sauntered past, and Anatole could see the other men relax. He exchanged some bantering words with his young cousins, but his gaze fixed on Madeline. His eyes widened with something far different than his usual sardonic appraisal, and Anatole well understood the reason for it.

  His bride, he thought with a mixture of pride and despair, had never looked more lovely than she did this evening.

  "Anatole," Roman murmured, his rapt gaze never leaving Madeline's face. "I trust you do plan to present me to your wife."

  Something twisted in Anatole's chest, an emotion so foreign he scarce recognized it for what it was. Fear.

  Madeline,” he said. “My cousin. Roman."

  It was hardly the most polished introduction, but Roman, damn him, more than made up for it by the smooth way he bowed over Madeline's hand.

  "Madam." Roman raised her fingertips to his lips. "Forgive my neglect in not welcoming you to the family sooner. Had I known what beauty awaited me, I assure you, I would have visited long before now."

  "Thank you," she murmured, looking flustered, the sort of effect Roman always had on women. Had Anatole truly hoped his sensible Madeline might prove different?

  A hollow sensation lodged deep in his chest as he listened to Roman pour silken compliments into her ear, telling her how enchanting she looked this evening, how charming.

  All the things Anatole realized he should have told her himself. Things he'd desperately wanted to say, but had been prevented by the weight of his own rough tongue. Now all he could do was stand by helplessly and feel himself dwindling. Back into that awkward boy with his face pressed against the glass.

  Desolation warred with more primitive impulses, the desire to yank Madeline away from Roman, haul her possessively into the circle of his arm. Fighting against the urge to play the jealous fool, Anatole scarce noticed the stirring of another arrival filter through his consciousness.

  Not until a discreet cough sounded from the doorway. Anatole flicked an impatient glance in that direction and froze at the sight of the bizarre apparition hovering there. A painted man… his face lost beneath a layering of dead-white cosmetic and rouge, a patch affixed to the corner of his thin mouth. He seemed to be all powdered wig and lavender silk, the wasp-waisted frock coat he wore flaring out from his slender hips and padded shoulders.

  "What the deuce—" Anatole's exclamation drew the attention of the others, his own astonishment echoed in the dark mutterings of his uncles.

  "Who the devil is that?” Paxton said, staring.

  "Never mind who," Hadrian grumbled." What the devil is it?"

  Madeline slipped close to Anatole and whispered, "Is that another of your cousins, my lord?"

  "Hell, no!" Anatole replied feelingly, insulted by the mere suggestion of such a thing.

  The only one who appeared unperturbed was Roman. He aimed his quizzing glass idly at the man in the doorway and drawled, "Ah, Yves. Your pardon, sir. In my exuberance at being clasped to the bosom of my family, I had entirely forgotten you."

  He beckoned, and the man crept inside the room. Anatole wondered that he had not detected his presence sooner, but the creature had a weak aura, the weakest he'd ever known in any man yet living. He was swallowed up in the shadow of Roman's far more powerful one.

  "Gentlemen, my sweet cousin, Madeline," Roman said, with a languid wave of his hand. "Allow me to introduce Yves de Rochencoeur."

  The fellow dipped into a flourishing bow, and Anatole's nostrils curled with distaste. The Frenchman reeked of some cloying scent, worse than a sailor's backwater whore.

  Roman continued, "Yves is a dear friend of mine. I took the liberty of fetching him along with me to dine."

  Liberty was far too mild a word, Anatole thought, outraged. Bad enough that Roman had had the insolence to show up uninvited without bringing one of his foppish friends along with him. But before he could vent his own annoyance, his youngest cousin chimed in.

  "Damn, Roman," Caleb said, with all the bluntness of youth. "But this is a family supper."

  Rochencoeur's eyes widened with dismay.

  "Milks pardon, messieurs, madame," he said. He had an odd raspy voice that grated along Anatole's nerves like an iron file dragged across metal. "I did not comprende. Certainement had I but known, I would have not the intrusion made."

  The Frenchman backed toward the door, and Anatole would have been well content to let him go, but with a soft cry Madeline hastened forward.

  "Oh, no, monsieur, pray do not go," she said. "We should be honored to have you join us, should we not?"

  Her appeal was met with stone-faced stares, only Fitzleger offering an encouraging nod.

  "My lord?" She turned imploring eyes toward Anatole. "There is more than enough room at the table. Please tell monsieur that he is welcome."

  Anatole folded his arms across his chest and squirmed, aware of the grim silence of the other St. Legers, fully understanding the reason for it. He possessed a Cornishman's instinctive mistrust of all strangers himself, but he wasn't proof against the plea in Madeline's large green eyes. He had already agreed to Roman's infernal presence. What was another aggravation more or less?

  "Well," he said, "the fellow doesn't look as though he'd eat much. I suppose he may stay."

  "How gracious of you, my lord," Roman purred, but Caleb shot him a look of pure betrayal.

  "Anatole—" the youth began only to be cut short by a stern frown from Mr. Fitzleger.

  "That'll do, lad." The vicar came forward to offer Rochencoeur his hand. "You are more than welcome, sir. Tell me, do I detect the hint of a southern accent in your voice? The lilt of Gascony?"

  "You have the keen ear, monsieur," the Frenchman replied. He still looked ill at ease, but he managed a thin smile. "I was born there, in a little village. But now I spend most of my time in Paris."

  "So what the blazes brings you to England?" Anatole asked.

  Before the man could reply, he was cut off by Roman, "Monsieur Rochencoeur is a most talented artiste. I have great need of his services."

  "Here in Cornwall?" Hadrian growled. "What the deuce for?"

  "Why, Uncle, did I fail to mention that?" Roman said with one of his silky smiles. But it was Anatole's gaze that he met and held, as though anticipating the effect of his words.

  "Yves is my architect. He is the man who is going to resurrect Lost Land."

  Chapter 13

  Branches of candles glowed the length of the mahogany table, the burning wicks reflecting in the crystal goblets and the whimsical china designed by Anatole's own grandfather. The St. Leger dragon breathed fire from the center of each plate, cup, and saucer.

  Will Sparkins filled the wineglasses, strutting about in his new powdered wig and gold-trimmed black livery. The lad had cleaned up to be quite a comely young man, his thatch of hair trimmed away to reveal a pair of sweet blue eyes.

  The transformation of Will was at least one good Madeline had accomplished since coming to Castle Leger. Perhaps the only one, she feared.

  She tried to relax, to smile at her guests, but she'd never been much good at this sort of thing. She sought to remember everything she'd observed in her mother about playing the role of gracious hostess. However, Mama had never held a dinner quite like this one, with
dragons snarling out from the china, her only companions a cadre of men who looked more apt to dive for their swords instead of their forks.

  There was a tension in the air that threatened to rival the storm gathering outside. Dark undercurrents swirled all about Madeline, which she scarce understood, only felt.

  She picked at the fricandeau of veal on her plate, her gaze traveling to where Anatole sat at the far end of the table, his face cast in shadows as he sipped his wine in brooding silence.

  She thought wistfully back to the other suppers they'd shared this past week, alone. Detesting formality, Anatole had dragged his plate down to her end of the table. He'd eaten heartily, allowing her to talk, which she feared she had done in abundance. But that companionable silence was far different from the grim one he'd adopted now, making him more remote from her than ever.

  Somehow the tension seemed to have crept in, clinging to the coattails of one man. The glittering gentleman seated to her left.

  Roman St. Leger.

  Madeline scarce knew what to make of Roman, with his handsome face, smooth manners, and smiles that never quite melted the winter in his eyes. He was different from the other St. Legers, she thought, studying his flawless profile.

  From Anatole down to young Caleb, they all had an otherworldly quality about them, an arresting, unforgettable something that Madeline could not quite define. A something that Roman lacked.

  Becoming aware of her intent regard, his eyes met hers across the rim of his wineglass, his mouth twitching with amusement.

  "Shall I turn the other cheek, cousin?" he asked. "So you may study my left profile as well?"

  "Oh, n-no." Madeline lowered her gaze, blushing furiously at being caught out.

  "But you were staring at me with such a confused frown on your lovely face. Is there something about me that puzzles you?"

  A great deal, Madeline thought, if she were permitted to speak the truth. Such as why Anatole had appeared reluctant to admit his own cousin to the house? And why had the mention of the mere words Lost Land set all the St. Legers on edge, made Anatole look ready to strangle both Roman and his unfortunate friend Yves?