Rapture Becomes Her Read online

  When Lamb was six years old, at the urging of his mother’s latest protector, she had sent him to Virginia. Bewildered and frightened, the little boy with the stunning blue eyes in the dark gold face was shown into the grand library at Green Hill. It wasn’t until years later that he learned that the tall, handsome man regarding him so unhappily was actually his half brother.

  One look at the boy and Lyndon had no doubts that John Lamb was indeed his father’s by-blow. Unable to turn his back on the boy, but unwilling to acknowledge him as his half brother, he banished the boy to his overseer’s care but saw to it that the boy was educated. Lamb wasn’t raised as the child of a wealthy planter or taken to the bosom of the family, but he wasn’t put in the fields to work either.

  As Lamb put it to Barnaby one night when they were both very drunk, “Neither fish nor fowl, that’s me.” He scowled at his tankard of ale. “Sometimes, I wish your father had sent me to the fields. This half life . . .”

  “Remember it is your own damn choice these days,” Barnaby said. Equally drunk, Barnaby spoke carefully, struggling not to slur his words. “After he died, I offered to set you up on your own land. You’re the stiff-necked jackass who refused.”

  Lamb had grinned at him. “That’s because, as your ser-servant, I like watching you squirm. I couldn’t prick his conscience, but I sure as hell can yours.”

  Which, unfortunately, was true, Barnaby thought, sighing. Neither Paxton nor Lyndon had been particularly evil: both men just ignored or brushed aside anything unpleasant or that interfered with their pursuit of pleasure.

  Lamb interrupted his thoughts. “You’re thinking of them, aren’t you?”

  “And if I am?”

  “Stop it. I made my choices and for now”—Lamb flashed him a dazzling smile—“it pleases me to play your servant.”

  Barnaby snorted. “Servant,” he muttered, “doesn’t even begin to describe you. Anyone less servile I’ve yet to meet. Or arrogant, now that I think of it.”

  “True,” Lamb agreed fairly, “but I think you’re straying from the subject at hand. What happened?”

  Briefly Barnaby told him what he knew, leaving out only the farce that had been played out in his bedroom after his rescue. For reasons that escaped him, he wanted to keep Miss Emily to himself—and that The Crown was rife with smugglers. At least for the present.

  Lamb tried to examine the wound, but Barnaby hastily waved him away. “I’m fine—or at least I’m fine enough to ride away from here without my head wrapped in bandages.”

  Frustrated, but knowing him of old, Lamb asked, “So who was it that hit you on the head and left you to drown in the Channel? Mathew?”

  Barnaby studied his boots. “It doesn’t feel like Mathew.” He glanced up at Lamb, frowning. “You met him. Did he seem like the sort of fellow who would use such an elaborate and uncertain method? Knocking me on the head and I’m pretty certain, blowing up, certainly sinking the family yacht?”

  “No. Your cousin Mathew would take no chances. If he’d clouted you on the head, you wouldn’t be sitting here—he’d have made certain you were dead before he put you on the yacht. But like you, it doesn’t feel like Mathew to me—if your esteemed cousin Mathew wanted you dead, dead you would be.”

  Barnaby nodded. “My thoughts precisely.”

  “So who?”

  “That’s the devil of it!” Barnaby declared angrily. “I don’t know! Beyond leaving London for Eastbourne, I have no clear memory. It could have been anyone.”

  Lamb shook his head. “Not anyone. You’re a stranger here and”—John grinned at him—“while you can be infuriating, you haven’t been here long enough to drive anyone to murder. Your death only benefits Mathew . . . and his family.”

  Unable to argue with Lamb’s logic, Barnaby picked up the jacket Lamb had laid on the bed. Shrugging into an expertly tailored jacket of brown superfine, Barnaby said, “At least I have you to watch my back.”

  “That you do,” Lamb said and, reaching into the valise, he took out a long-bladed knife. Handing it to Barnaby, he watched as Barnaby examined the lethal instrument. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Barnaby bent and deftly slid the knife into a specially constructed sheath in the side of his boot.

  Straightening Barnaby said, “I know I wrote you that I lost my knife in the Channel. How the devil did you find another one so soon?”

  The corners of Lamb’s lips twitched. “Must I remind you—I am a most superior servant.”

  After leaving a generous sum of gold for Mrs. Gilbert and his sincere thanks for their efforts, a few minutes later Barnaby and Lamb were riding away from The Crown. In addition to his own horse, John had brought along a fine black gelding for Barnaby to ride.

  The weather was still fretful, but since the worst of the rain and wind had abated, it wasn’t an unpleasant day. Riding through the open, rolling countryside broken only by the occasional stand of trees, Barnaby felt a pang for the green meadows and forests of Virginia.

  “It is very different than home, isn’t it?” Barnaby said after they’d traveled a few miles.

  “This is your home now,” Lamb said quietly. “Unless, of course, you mean to turn your back on the title and all that comes with it and return to Virginia.”

  “I wonder if English law would allow me to do so? I suppose I could do something like abdicate, couldn’t I? Mathew would certainly be elated.” Barnaby sighed. “Life was simpler when I only had Green Hill to worry about.”

  Lamb looked at him, one brow raised. “Are you seriously considering doing something that harebrained? Whistling down a fortune and running back to Virginia?” Bluntly he added, “I think perhaps you suffered a harder blow than you realized.”

  Barnaby stared glumly between the ears of his horse. Did he really want to return to Virginia? He could do it. England had not been very welcoming; his cousins clearly wished him at Coventry and one of them might have tried to kill him last night; he had no reason to stay. . . . The features of the boy who was not a boy floated through his mind. Well, he reminded himself, there was no reason to leave immediately.

  More cheerful, Barnaby glanced at John and asked, “And how was your arrival at Windmere? Pleasant? Or hostile?”

  Lamb frowned at him but realizing he would get no more out of him on this subject, he shrugged. “Somewhere between the two. Some of the servants were obviously delighted that they were finally going to meet the new master; others were sitting out in judgment. No one was rude.”

  “And Windmere itself? Your impression?”

  A slow grin spread across Lamb’s face. “I think you should see it for yourself.”

  Barnaby’s first sight of Windmere left him breathless. Half castle, half manor house, the place was huge and stunning. Dominating a hill with the Cuckmere River flowing far below, on two sides of the original castle massive turrets rose up to meet the sullen gray skies. Woodland of birch, white willow, oak and beech planted by a Joslyn over two centuries ago fanned out around the massive stone, wood and brick house. Large, gray slabs of Horsham stone covered the multi-leveled roof; mullioned windows gleamed and numerous brick chimneys speared skyward.

  Barnaby gaped like a bumpkin at a fair seeing a two-headed pig for the first time. He’d always been proud of his stately home in Virginia with its flowing verandas, tall windows and graceful lines. The three-storied house at Green Hill was considered one of the largest and most elegant houses in the surrounding area, but this! Barnaby swallowed. Good God! He’d wager that Green Hill and three or four houses of that ilk could be swallowed up within the walls of Windmere as if they’d never been.

  Lamb chuckled beside him, saying teasingly, “And to think that a simple planter from Virginia is now lord of all of this.”

  “Christ! No wonder you didn’t want to tell me about the place,” Barnaby said, a note of awe lingering in his voice. He shook his head, bemused. “I never expected anything like this. It’s magnificent! But I’m going to need a guide to find my way from the be
droom to the dining room.”

  “You’ll have that—I think the staff numbers around thirty.” Lamb grinned. “And that’s not counting your stablemen and shepherds and bailiff and—”

  “Stop! My head is spinning.” He shot Lamb a pitiful look. “You forget the night I just passed and that I am a wounded man. Remember my poor head.”

  Lamb guffawed. “You are too hard-headed to be slowed by that little bump you took last night.” His laughter fled and he said softly, “Whether you like it or not, this is your destiny . . . unless you intend to run like a coward back to Virginia.”

  Barnaby shot him a glance almost of dislike. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?”

  “Been waiting for just the right moment.”

  Dismounting in front of the arched and pedimented three-story porch in the middle of the building, Barnaby was unprepared for the commotion his arrival caused. The pair of molded and paneled oak doors, dark with age, swung open the moment his foot touched the bricked driveway and a half-dozen servants, some wearing dark green livery, spilled out to greet him. Like arriving majesty he was gently wafted through the doors, and upon entering the house, to his stunned gaze, it appeared as if the grand hallway was filled with a crowd of people, bobbing and bowing, all of them seeming eager to meet him. Or catch their first sight of the American, he thought dryly.

  The house steward down to the smallest, shiest scullery maid came forth to be introduced to the new master and most passed in a blur before Barnaby. Raised as the son of an aristocratic wealthy planter in Virginia, he was used to servants and elegant surroundings, but he was still a bit startled at the size of the staff. Did he really need six scullery maids?

  The introductions over, leaving word with the butler to bring up a tray, Lamb hustled Barnaby upstairs to the quiet of his suite of rooms. When the door shut behind him, Barnaby looked at Lamb and muttered, “And that was just the house servants?”

  “Most of them—there were probably a half dozen you might have missed, and I thought I recognized one or two of the gardeners and a few stable folk that had finessed their way inside.”

  “Good God! It’s like a small city.” He glanced around the sitting room in which they were standing. Taking in the bronze damask upholstered sofas, leather-covered chairs and satinwood tables, the large mahogany desk near the bow window and the long sideboard against the far wall, he estimated that the room was large enough to hold a ball. An equally large bedroom decorated in the same shades lay beyond. His gaze was met with the same luxurious gold and tobacco silk-covered walls, and similar rugs in shades of fawn, cream and amber lay scattered across the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring. He peeked into the dressing room and almost laughed. It was barely smaller than his sitting room in Virginia.

  Wearier than he realized, he sank down into one of a pair of channel-backed chairs of brown mohair, positioned at either end of a small sofa in front of the fire that blazed in the marble fireplace. Looking at Lamb, he said simply, “Big house.”

  Lamb laughed. “Indeed. And this is just one of several properties you own.”

  “No wonder Mathew was put out when I inherited,” Barnaby said, staring moodily at the fire. “I wouldn’t have taken it well either to have something like this place snatched out from beneath me—let alone the fortune that goes with it.”

  Lamb’s eyes traveled over the richly furnished room. “It’s certainly a motive for the attack on you.” When Barnaby continued to stare at the fire, he said softly, “Lest you feel too guilty, I would remind you that all of the Joslyn family is very wealthy—you may have inherited the jewel in the crown, but Mathew and his brothers, Thomas and Simon, are hardly paupers. Gossip has it that Mathew’s home, Monks Abbey, is nearly as large and impressive. And I’ve heard that Thomas, especially, has an impressive fortune of his own.”

  Barnaby leaned his head back, wincing when his wound came in contact with the back of the chair.

  Lamb muttered an oath and crossed quickly to his side. “I want to take a better look at that gash of yours.” When Barnaby objected, he said fiercely, “Enough! I can see that it is bleeding from here. Now let me tend to it.”

  Before they had left Barnaby’s room at The Crown Lamb had heard the story Barnaby and Mrs. Gilbert concocted about Barnaby’s unfortunate “illness” to explain his unexpected arrival at the inn and had gone along with the story. Lamb agreed that there was no need to announce to the countryside that the previous night someone had tried to murder the newest Viscount Joslyn. And the illness would give Barnaby an excuse to remain in his bedchamber should it prove necessary.

  Lamb’s lips thinned as he examined the deep laceration at the back of Barnaby’s head. Probing the bleeding wound, he decided the viscount was going to suffer relapse of his illness and retreat to his bed for a few days.

  Leaving off his examination, Lamb said, “It needs stitching, but for now, I’ll do a quick cleanup and get rid of the obvious blood. After Peckham arrives with the food and drink I ordered, I’ll see to it. For the present you just sit here and don’t move.”

  Barnaby grimaced, but agreed. Lamb disappeared into the dressing room, only to reappear a few moments later with a strip of clean linen. With less-than-tender care, and ignoring Barnaby’s jump, he pressed the linen to the cut and held it there for several minutes. Removing the pad of linen, he took another look at the cut. Blood was still seeping out, but satisfied for the time being, he tossed the blood-soaked linen into the fire.

  “That’ll do until I can sew it up.”

  “Do I thank you or curse you?” Barnaby asked, the cut throbbing from John’s ministrations.

  “You may thank me now and curse me later,” Lamb snapped.

  They both heard the butler’s approach through the sitting room and John hissed at him, “Remember, just sit there. Look bored.”

  Peckham, a small, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and shrewd blue eyes, entered the room. Carrying a huge tray with a domed silver cover, he set the tray down on the carved mahogany table behind the sofa.

  “Would you like me to serve you now, my lord, or would you prefer to wait?” Peckham asked.

  “Oh, ah, I’ll wait. Thank you, er, Peckham.” Giving him a languid wave, Barnaby added, “You may go.”

  Lamb accompanied Peckham from the bedroom and as they were crossing the sitting room, he murmured, “His lordship is not feeling himself—we think it was something he ate on his journey.”

  Peckham glanced at him. “Nothing serious I hope?” “Oh, no, I expect in a few days he’ll be up and about and eager to see the estate,” Lamb said easily. “But he’d prefer not to have any visitors for a while.”

  “I shall see that he is not disturbed,” Peckham replied, and exited the sitting room.

  Returning to the bedroom, Lamb took a deep breath. Now to sew up Barnaby and get him in bed—even if he had to wrestle him to do it.

  An hour later, thinking of various tortures he’d inflict upon his “servant,” Barnaby’s head was neatly stitched and, despite his bitter protestations, he was in one of his own nightshirts—something he rarely wore—and enthroned in the huge, velvet draped bed which sat upon a dais in the middle of the room. Brooding, he watched as Lamb poured him some coffee—tepid after sitting so long—and served up a slab of smoked country ham, chunks of bread and thick slices of yellow cheese. Adding butter, mustard, pickles and an apple to the plate, he brought it over to the side of the bed.

  “Eat half of this and I’ll leave you alone for a few hours,” Lamb said, setting it down on the mattress.

  Balefully, Barnaby regarded him. “I am not an invalid, you know.”

  “And I intend to make certain you don’t become one.” There was no arguing with Lamb when he was in one of his mother hen moods and admitting, at least to himself, that he really wasn’t feeling up to snuff, Barnaby ate as directed. To his surprise and Lamb’s satisfaction, it appeared that his appetite was excellent and he demolished the plate of food.

&nb
sp; Leaning against the pillows, he watched as Lamb whisked away all signs of his meal.

  Barnaby bit back a yawn, and reluctantly he confessed, “You know, mayhap a few hours in bed won’t come amiss.”

  Lamb smiled and, picking up the tray, prepared to leave the room. Reaching the door to the sitting room he glanced back at Barnaby. Gruffly, he said, “Get some rest.”

  “I intend to,” Barnaby answered. When John would have turned away, he added quietly, “Thank you.”

  Lamb smiled, nodded and walked through the doorway, leaving him alone.

  Lamb was able to keep him abed that first day, but by Thursday, Barnaby, ignoring his furious objections, rose from his bed, bathed and dressed as usual. Leaving Lamb to sulk in the dressing room, he left his rooms and walked down the curving staircase to the black-and-white marble tiled foyer. A young man Barnaby remembered being introduced as his house steward, Tilden, was standing in front of a black japanned cabinet, shuffling through several envelopes, a faint frown on his face. Hearing Barnaby’s step on the stairs, he looked up.

  A smile replaced the frown and he bowed and said, “My lord.”

  “Ah, good morning, Tilden, isn’t it?”

  Pleasure gleamed in the young man’s steady gray eyes. “Yes, my lord. I am happy to see that you have recovered from your indisposition.”

  “No more than I,” Barnaby said. He glanced around. From the foyer doorways appeared to beckon in all directions and, looking at Tilden, he asked with a smile, “Now, if I wanted breakfast, where would I find it?”

  Tilden laughed and said, “If you will allow me, my lord, I shall show you into the morning room. And perhaps, after you have eaten, I could give you a short tour around the house?”

  “Excellent!”

  The morning room with its slightly faded green-and-cream rug and blue-and-ivory chintz-covered chairs was surprisingly cozy and Barnaby felt more at ease since he had first laid eyes on Windmere. Pale sunshine leaked into the room from the narrow windows and, finishing a fine breakfast of stewed fruit, bacon, coddled eggs, toast and marmalade at the oval oak table, Barnaby was ready for Tilden’s tour.