Desire Becomes Her Page 9

  “Couldn’t we just tell him that we’ve decided to accept his offer of a home?” Gillian asked abruptly. “Does he have to know ... everything?”

  Sophia was quiet for second. Then, her eyes meeting Gillian’s, she said, “Yes, I suppose we could keep quiet, but is that the wisest course? Whether you tell Uncle the truth or not, we’ll lose our home; Canfield will still hold the vowels and he will still be able to gossip about Charles’s bargain with Winthrop—even if he can’t force you into his bed. If Uncle knows the entire story, he may be able to prevent Canfield from besmirching your reputation more than it already is. At the least he’d be warned and braced for the scandal that could erupt.”

  Gillian bit her lip. “I feel such a mewling weakling. He is an old man—he doesn’t need this kind of problem.”

  “Have you considered what could happen if you don’t tell him and Canfield gossips about the vowels and the bargain your husband made with Winthrop?” asked Sophia. “I repeat—if our uncle is to welcome us into his home, he needs to know the truth. He should have the choice of accepting us into his home, knowing a terrible scandal may follow us, or of turning his back on us, now before anything happens. To act otherwise would be dishonorable and unfair.”

  Sophia’s words hit home. It would be cowardly—and dishonorable, Gillian admitted, not to let Uncle Silas know of the scandal he might be facing. She had no choice. She had to tell him. And pray God, he didn’t toss them out of the house.

  It seemed like hours before Meacham scratched on the door to the sitting room and a moment later whisked them down the long hall and into their uncle’s rooms. Silas was seated in the green damask chair by the fire. He’d removed the tobacco brown jacket he’d worn to dinner, but his broken arm remained swathed in the silk sling and his feet, shod in slippers, were resting on a footstool.

  A tray of refreshments had been placed on the mahogany chest that sat against the far wall, and indicating the tray, Silas said to Meacham, “After you serve the ladies, you may leave us. I’ll ring you when it’s time to escort them back to their rooms. And remember, no one must know that they are here with me.” Meacham smiled. “There is no one to see—as soon as you came upstairs the gentlemen left for The Ram’s Head looking for livelier company. I do not think they will return for several hours.”

  Silas nodded, pleased. “Good. Good.”

  Both ladies declined refreshments and after Meacham had poured Silas a snifter of brandy, he bowed and departed.

  Gillian and Sophia sat together on the cordovan leather sofa across from Silas and he regarded them with affection. He thought they made a pretty picture, Gillian glowing in a gown of amber sarcenet and Sophia serene in a garment of blue with a silk fichu several shades lighter than her gown. Noting the tense way Gillian sat on the sofa, the fingers of both of her hands clenched together, he said gently, “Now why don’t you tell me what has you in such a fret and why we are skulking around like a trio of conspirators.”

  Even though she had known this moment was coming, Gillian didn’t know where to begin. She rarely spoke of the night Charles had died and then only to Sophia. Despite the passage of time, beyond the horror of her husband’s murder, she writhed with shame every time she thought of that confrontation with Lord Winthrop. A shudder traveled down her spine when she recalled the look in Winthrop’s eyes as he stared at her body and she dreaded having to speak of that night again. Charles’s bargain certainly wasn’t something she had ever wanted to discuss with her uncle and yet she knew she must... . But dear God! It was difficult. She looked helplessly at Sophia.

  Sophia patted Gillian’s clenched fingers and smiled at her. “I know it is hard, but Uncle needs to know everything. Start at the beginning—the night when Charles was murdered.”

  Silas stiffened. He’d known that his nieces must have something of importance to discuss with him and that the matter was urgent, else they would not be meeting tonight in this clandestine manner, but that the matter harked back to Charles Dashwood’s murder hadn’t crossed his mind.

  Leaning forward, he said, “Tell me, my dear.” He sent Gillian a singularly sweet smile. “I promise that I shall not be shocked.”

  Taking in a deep breath, Gillian said, “You must understand that I had no idea of the sort of party I was attending at Welbourne’s hunting lodge.”

  “I never imagined that you did. Nor have I ever thought for a second that you had anything to do with Charles’s death.” Sadness crossed his wrinkled face. “I should have done more to stop you from marrying him... . I blame myself for what happened. I was aware that he was not a ... good man, and I can never forgive myself for not speaking out more strongly. Just look at what you’ve had to endure because of my silence!”

  “Oh, Uncle!” cried Gillian, slipping from the sofa to kneel near his chair. “It was all my fault—I was silly and determined to marry him—you could not have stopped me.” Her fingers gripping the hand of his good arm where it lay on the arm of the chair, she said, “I am the only one who bears any blame for the foolish choice I made.”

  He raised his hand and brushed back a tendril of dark hair that dangled against her cheek. “Since we disagree on that, shall we settle on sharing the blame?”

  She blinked back tears and smiled shakily. “If you wish.”

  “Well, now that we have that out of the way, suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  A pair of pewter candelabrum on the mantel provided the only light, and the room was quiet except for the pop and crackle of the fire as Gillian sought to find the words. It was an ugly story she had to tell, and fearing to see the affection in Silas’s gaze turn into disgust, she turned her head away. Her cheek resting against his leg, the skirts of her gown spread out like an amber cloud around her and her eyes fixed on the fire, she began to speak about that night. Lost in relating the events, she was hardly aware of Silas’s hand caressing her dark hair.

  The first part was easy, but humiliation and shame seared through her again when she told of Lord Winthrop’s entrance into her bedroom and her throat closed up, her voice dying away.

  After allowing her brief pause, Silas said quietly, “Go on, my child. Do not falter now.”

  Her voice not much above a whisper, Gillian continued, stopping only at the part when she discovered Charles’s body lying on the floor and she suffered the blow to her head. Silas was silent for a moment after her voice died away. He’d said he wouldn’t be shocked, but he was—not by any action of Gillian’s, but that Charles had been so vile! Guilt smote him. Good God! Charles had been a despicable creature, a man who had thought so little of his wife that he had expected her to whore for him—and I let her marry him, he thought bitterly. His eyes dwelled on her dark head resting confidingly against his leg. She has much, he decided, to forgive me for.

  “I suspected that Charles wouldn’t make you a good husband, but I never envisioned he would sink to such depths,” Silas said unhappily. “It is a good thing that he is no longer alive, fouling the air with his breath.” He waited a second before adding gently, “But the tale doesn’t end there, does it, my dear?”

  Still not looking at him, Gillian shook her head. In many ways, now came the most difficult part. She and Sophia had discussed Silas’s reaction and tried to gauge how he would react when he learned of Canfield’s threat. As children, they’d heard tales of the duels Silas had fought when a young man and the fear that he might feel compelled to call out Canfield could not be dismissed. Gillian had never thought she’d be grateful for his broken arm, but she was—it might be the only thing that prevented him from challenging Canfield.

  “Winthrop kept the vowels and a few weeks ago, he lost them to Canfield,” she said baldly. She swallowed. “Unless I become his mistress, Canfield has threatened to take our cottage to cover the vowels.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Silas, a note in his voice that made Gillian turn and look at him.

  “You won’t do anything foolish, will you?” she asked anxiously, no
t liking the expression in his eyes or the set of his mouth.

  “Of course, he won’t,” said Sophia with great calm. “His arm is broken—he can hardly challenge Canfield to a duel in this condition.” She smiled serenely at Silas, who scowled at her. “And by the time your arm is healed and you could challenge him, this situation will be resolved.”

  “And how do you figure that, my gel?” demanded Silas, not at all pleased that Sophia was right.

  “Because I suspect by the time your arm is healed that Lord George Canfield will have realized that if he opens his mouth about Charles’s bargain with Winthrop, it will not reflect well on him. Unless he wishes to appear a blackguard himself, he’ll keep his tongue behind his teeth.”

  “You could be right,” Silas agreed, “but I mislike letting the rascally scoundrel escape without retribution.”

  “I doubt that he will,” Sophia said. “His kind almost always comes to a bad end.”

  Silas didn’t disagree and if he had his way, that bad end would come sooner than later... . Staring down at Gillian, who still looked at him anxiously, he smiled. “Let him have your cottage, my dear—you know that it is my dearest wish that you and Sophy live here with me.”

  “But what about the scandal, if Canfield gossips?” Gillian asked tightly. “Are you sure that you want us living here when the ton might be abuzz about me and what a wicked woman I am? A murderess and now a strumpet?”

  “Without question!” Silas declared roundly. “As for the ton—it has been a long time, my child, since I have worried about the ton. Let them gossip! While their tongues wag, we shall be here snug as bugs in a rug. What do we care?” He smiled at her. “I am an old man. And I would far rather spend my last days having my two favorite nieces brightening my days than to be parading up and down Pall Mall.” Gillian choked back tears. “Oh, Uncle Silas! We are your only nieces.”

  He beamed at her. “Yes. And isn’t it lucky? We have no one else to worry about except ourselves.”

  It was nearly an hour later before Meacham came to escort the ladies back to their rooms. Much had been discussed and decided in that hour. Silas would make the announcement that Gillian and Sophia would be living permanently with him at High Tower sometime tomorrow evening when Luc Joslyn came to dine.

  Rubbing his hands together, Silas said with glee, “I can hardly wait to see the expression on Canfield’s face. Stanley will most likely get his nose out of joint at the news, but with Luc present, he should behave himself.”

  “Or not,” interposed Sophia. “He and Canfield were both rude to Mr. Joslyn, and there was no need for Stanley to air our private affairs in front of him. What Mr. Joslyn must think of us I dare not guess.”

  Silas waved a dismissing hand. “Don’t you worry about Luc. He can handle a lot worse than what Stanley and Canfield can throw his way.”

  The final decision had been the disposal of the cottage where the two ladies had lived. On the morrow Silas would send several servants to Gillian’s cottage to pack and bring all of hers and Sophia’s belongings back to High Tower. The cow, the pig and even the chickens didn’t give Silas pause: they all could go to the estate farm.

  Following Meacham down the hall, Gillian admitted that while it wasn’t very nice of her, she couldn’t deny a sense of satisfaction knowing that by the time Canfield initiated his threat to take the cottage to cover Charles’s vowels, he’d find nothing but an empty building. Her eyes glittered. Now if the cottage would only burn to the ground ... It was a wicked thought and she was ashamed of herself ... but not, she admitted wryly, as much as she should have been.

  Through the neighborhood grapevine, Luc heard of Stanley and Canfield’s Thursday night visit to The Ram’s Head the next afternoon. Bored and restless, he’d ridden into Broadhaven to while away a few hours at The Crown, the only other tavern in the village, before returning home to dress for dinner at High Tower.

  Run by Mrs. Gilbert, a widow, and her five daughters, The Crown was as different from The Ram’s Head as chalk is to cheese. Older and less flamboyant, Mrs. Gilbert’s establishment was smaller, more intimate than Nolles’s place—and with none of the loud, rough crowd one would find at The Ram’s Head. Primarily the haunt of hardworking, honest fishermen, laborers and farmers and their families, The Crown had a comfortable, settled charm—like a favorite pair of slippers. Since Barnaby arrived in the area and his preference for The Crown became known, the clientele had changed slightly. Lord Broadfoot and a few other members of the local gentry wandered in these days to enjoy a tankard of ale or a snifter of brandy in Mrs. Gilbert’s establishment.

  In the main room of the tavern, the oak beams in the ceiling were black with age and crisp lace curtains hung at the windows. The furnishings were rustic, the sturdy oak tables showing the nicks and dings of age; the planked floor gleamed with a patina only obtained by the passage of decades. Nose-twitching scents floated in the air—fresh baked bread and simmering meat mingled with the smell of lemon punch, ale and spirits, and the fire burning in the big brick fireplace welcomed one to come and sit and share a pint or two with friends.

  Entering the tavern, Luc wasn’t surprised to find the tavern nearly empty at this time of day. Farmers were still busy in the fields and the fishermen hadn’t yet docked their boats with, hopefully, a hold full of fish.

  At Luc’s entrance, the young woman behind the long counter at the rear of the room looked up from wiping the gleaming wooden surface of the bar. A smile burst across her pretty face and, stuffing the rag underneath the counter, and with the skirts of her brown woolen gown flying, she rushed up to Luc.

  “Master Luc!” Mary Gilbert cried, blue eyes full of delight, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. “You just sit right over there by the fire and let me go tell Ma that you are here.” Wiping her hands on her big white apron, she added, “She was just saying the other night that we haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Mary Gilbert was the youngest of the five Gilbert daughters and looked very much like her sisters. All had their mother’s lively blue eyes and dark brown hair, though Mrs. Gilbert’s was liberally sprinkled with gray these days. Watching Mary bustle away, Luc grinned, thinking that the whole family was as appealing and as hard to resist as a basket of big-eyed kittens.

  Following Mary’s directions, he settled himself at a table near the fireplace and stretched his legs toward the fire. Glancing around the room, he noted three men he recognized as day laborers nursing their mugs of ale at a table underneath one of the lace-curtained windows and nodded at a pair of retired fishermen he knew seated a few tables away.

  Her cheeks pink, blue eyes bright and her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a bun, Mrs. Gilbert sailed into the room and, spying Luc, hustled over to join him.

  Plump as a pouter pigeon, her features pleasant and cheerful, Mrs. Gilbert looked nothing like a smuggler, Luc mused, his lips twitching.

  Yet it was true. Until a short while ago, Mrs. Gilbert, her five daughters, Jeb Brown, a local fisherman, and Luc’s own sister-in-law, Emily, now the Lady Joslyn, along with a few others, had been exactly that: a gang of smugglers. Luc owed his own arrival in England to Emily and Jeb and their smuggling activities. Jeb had been making a run to France and at Emily’s request had been on the lookout for Lord Joslyn’s half brother. Jeb had found him, ill and weak from an infection from a bullet, concealed in a brothel. Luc often wondered what his fate would have been if Jeb hadn’t so providentially shown up in Calais and wafted him to England.

  His eyes hardened. It was only luck that he hadn’t been killed when Jeb and his men had made a landing that night near Cuckmere Haven and members of Nolles’s gang had attacked them. Jeb and his men had been roughed up, their contraband stolen, but no one had been killed. If for nothing else, Luc thought, he owed Nolles for that near miss.

  “Now why do you look like that, young man?” Mrs. Gilbert demanded, seating herself across from him.

  “I was thinking,” Luc admitted, “how much better th
e world would be if Nolles was no longer in it.”

  Mrs. Gilbert nodded. “Now that I can’t disagree with!” Mrs. Gilbert had her own reasons for feeling as she did about Will Nolles. Her husband had been murdered after visiting The Ram’s Head one night, and though it could not be proved, the general belief was that Nolles had ordered Mr. Gilbert killed, hoping to eliminate the competition The Crown provided.

  Mr. Gilbert’s death had been a blow, and Mrs. Gilbert and her daughters struggled to keep the tavern going, until Emily, in desperate straits because of her cousin’s spendthrift habits, had come up with the outrageous idea of repairing their fortunes by smuggling. With five daughters to provide for and faced with losing the tavern, Mrs. Gilbert had been the first member of what had become a small group of village investors that profited from Emily’s idea.

  Smuggling might be illegal but it was the only thing that had saved some of the inhabitants of the neighborhood from losing everything they owned. It was also, Luc conceded, a way of life in these parts. Finding anyone not connected to the smuggling trade in some manner would be nearly impossible whether it was the relatives of the farmer whose horses were “borrowed” or the day laborers that helped move the contraband, all benefited from the trade. It wasn’t so surprising that Emily had turned to smuggling as a way of saving herself and the others.

  Of course, Luc thought with smile, Barnaby hadn’t wanted his viscountess to continue as the head of a gang of smugglers, and since he married Emily, Barnaby had been busy concocting ways for everyone to earn a guinea or two. An honest guinea.