Daughter of Darkness Page 13

  ‘Oh!’ Willow’s advance into the earl’s room was temporarily stilled when she saw Sapphire sitting by the bedside. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t realize you were visiting.’

  ‘Ambrose and I are old acquaintances.’ Sapphire removed her hand from that of Ambrose when Willow advanced. ‘He has been gravely ill, has he not?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s recovering.’ Giving her father-in-law a smile of greeting, she said. ‘I intended to read you another chapter from Robinson Crusoe, but as you have a visitor… ‘

  ‘Pray, do not let that prevent you.’

  The woman’s faintly accented voice made Willow curious. ‘Are you French, Madam?’

  ‘I’m French born.’ There was a slight hesitation. ‘I was young when I left France, and have not been back since.’

  ‘My mother was French.’ Willow smiled at Sapphire. ‘Her name was Marietta Givanchy. She was very beautiful, I’m told. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Willow?’ Ambrose spoke her name so clearly that she could hardly believe her own ears. She was even more astonished when Ambrose raised a shaking hand from the bed to indicate the decanter on the table. ‘A drink please.

  ‘Ambrose, you’re able to move and speak today.’ After informing him of the obvious she hastened to do his bidding, spilling most of it on the table in her excitement. ‘I must go and tell your sons as soon as I’ve finished reading to you. They’ll be overjoyed.’

  Her daughter was radiating such light as she held the wine against Ambrose’s lips, that Sapphire’s energy was drained by it. Unaccustomed to using her powers for good, she had, in fact, journeyed to Lytton to expose Caroline for instigating her downfall.

  Ambrose had made that impossible. Recognizing his one and only true love at once, such joy had filled his eyes she’d been powerless before him. All she’d felt for Ambrose had returned to smite her anew. Her desire to slander his late wife had shriveled inside her.

  Taking his hands in hers she’d used her long dormant power for healing, giving him her strength, despite knowing she’d taken a step on the path to her own destruction.

  Closing her eyes, she listened to Willow read from Daniel Defoe’ s adventure story, and smiled to herself. The trauma of her life had been worth this one precious moment, of being with the two people she’d loved and lost.

  The affection existing between Ambrose and Willow was almost tangible. Sapphire rejoiced in the fact. If death took her tomorrow instead of the appointed hour, then every dark moment of her life would have been worth just this one of contentment.

  ‘Your reputation preceded you here,’ Willow whispered when she finished reading and noticed Ambrose had fallen into a doze. Her awe for the woman was evident in her voice, and there were tears in her eyes when she knelt and kissed Sapphire’s hand. ‘God surely must have guided you to our door. I believe you’ve woven some spell about the earl, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Is there anything you would ask of me in return?’

  ‘I’d like you to call me Sapphire, my dear.’ Longing to take her in her arms, Sapphire bade her rise. ‘If Ambrose recovers it’s because he’s surrounded with love. Love is the most powerful force on earth.’

  Something drained from her heart, an old, embittered anger that had sustained her through her years of darkness. It left her feeling light-headed and close to tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself the luxury of tears, and now was not the time to weaken.

  Excusing herself, she rose to her feet and left the room. ‘Bring me my crystal,’ she said to Bella as soon as she reached her chamber. ‘I must see what time has been granted, and how best to use it.’ But Sapphire had been weakened and the crystal remained as dark as the revelation of her own destruction.

  Gerard was annoyed when Willow disturbed his meeting with Bascombe and his son Robert. Brow furrowed in a frown, he curtly nodded towards a chair and bade her wait. He’d been trying to catch her alone since her escapade on Circe, and had no intention of allowing her to escape.

  Her very presence proved to be a distraction. She brought with her a subtle fragrance, and the silky fabric of her peach-tinted gown whispered seductively every time she moved.

  The aura of excitement surrounding her affected everyone. Bascombe and son seemed unable to concentrate, and he glanced her way on more than one occasion himself.

  One brocaded slipper tapped in impatient silence on the carpet, her violet eyes gleamed with inner radiance as they consciously studied the paintings. His annoyance fled when their eyes met. The firm curve of his mouth softened when she smiled. He’d found it was impossible to remain annoyed with her for long. She was a delectable creature, he mused, experiencing a sense of unreality when he realized, once again, she was his for the taking. He swallowed as his glance slipped to the pale swell of her breasts, almost tasting the luscious buds of her nipples as they swelled into ripeness under the ministration of his tongue. He imagined her tiny waist spanned by his hands, his mouth pressed against the taut stomach, then sliding down into the dark silky beard that guarded the precious gift of her maidenhood. I’ll make you beg me to take your gift, little lady, he promised silently. You’ll enjoy my assault.

  His pleasurable reverie was shattered when Bascombe coughed, bringing him back to the present. He tore his eyes away from the charms of his temptress and tried to gather his wits together. What the hell had they been talking about? He gazed at the steward, expression bemused.

  ‘Sheep, Sir. You indicated the meat yield can be improved by a program of inbreeding.’

  ‘That’s right, Bascombe.’ He ran a tongue over dry lips. ‘Robert Blakewell advocated the method, and has achieved excellent results. I want ours to be equally as good.’ Beset by a sudden desire to be alone with his wife, he rose to his feet and indicated the meeting was at an end. The door had hardly closed behind the two men when she captured his glance.

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened, Gerard?’ She paused, unconsciously heightening the suspense by making a game out of the news. ‘No, you’ll never guess in a thousand years.’

  He tried not to smile at the quivering excitement in her voice. ‘Then you’d better tell me. One thousand years is too long to be kept in suspense.’

  ‘You make fun of me.’ Her attempt to pout failed when she smiled again. Rising gracefully from her chair she crossed to where he stood, her eyes shining with happiness. ‘Your father spoke quite clearly today, and he moved his hand without any help.’

  Her eyes drew Gerard’s into their jewel bright depths, enchanting him. So bedazzled was he, her words hardly registered in his ears. Nevertheless, he managed to murmur what he hoped was the correct response.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ Puzzlement flirted in the depths of her eyes. ‘You do not sound very interested, Gerard.’

  How could he take the bearer of such glad tidings to task? ‘Of course I’m interested.’ Taking her hand he raised it to his lips and murmured. ‘Your beauty robs me of coherent thought. My interest is concentrated on your appearance, and not your words.’

  Her eyes sparkled at his compliment, her cheeks dimpled in a most comely manner as she caressed the lace at her wrists, softly inviting further comment. ‘Do you like this gown?’

  ‘The gown is pretty enough.’ How naive she was, he thought, his fingertips lightly caressing the curve of her bottom lip. He smiled when she hung her head and blushed. ‘Its wearer puts it in the shade, however. You’re just as beautiful in pink velvet and rosebuds.’

  He watched her blush deepen. Her eyes touched against his in modest confusion before her lashes shaded their beauty again. So soft was her voice, he only just caught her words.

  ‘You were awake?’

  Tipping her chin up he forced her to look at him. ‘Why did you run away?’

  ‘I thought you slept and did not wish to disturb you.’ She looked a trifle desperate when he smiled. ‘I was scared. I’m not used to being married.’<
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  Her expression contained such a plea for understanding that it moved him.

  ‘You’re a stranger to me, Gerard. Actually I… I do not feel married to you.’

  ‘I admit, ours was a short courtship.’

  The irony in his voice caused pain to flare in her eyes and he wished he’d never spoken. She’d not been a willing party to the marriage either. The lessor of two evils, she’d said at the time. ‘Perhaps I should give you time to get used to me. I’m loathe to embark of a relationship with a reluctant wife.’

  ‘That’s exactly what grandmother thought you would say.’

  A frown knotted his brow, until he remembered there was no other married female available to advise her. If his grandmother was Willow’s confidante, he’d better make sure the act of union was pleasing. Inwardly, he cursed. Willow was a fetching little thing, and his physical response to her healthily normal. He’d have to proceed with extreme caution though. He smiled, his mind already planning her slow seduction. He could find relief in Dorchester, should the need become urgent.

  Bending to the sensuous curves of her mouth he kissed it into trembling awareness. His voice was husky with desire when he released her. ‘You’ll be all the sweeter for the seduction.’ Drawing from his pocket the betrothal ring, he slid it on to her finger. ‘This is the Lytton betrothal ring. The stone signifies the purity of the wearer, and it will remind you of the promise between us.’

  Despite the diamond’s great beauty, Willow’s heart sank like a stone. The last time she’d seen the ring it had graced the finger of Daphne de Vere, the woman her husband loved.

  With no pomp, and hardly any ceremony, Daphne de Vere buried her husband in the grounds of St James. Few braved the bitterly cold weather to pay their respects. Those who had were indebted to the marquis in some way, and feared reprisal if they didn’t put in an appearance.

  Daphne’s eyes were glassy with fever under her mourning veil. She’d been plagued by the chest complaint since the onset of winter, and the previous week her handkerchief had come away spotted with blood after she’d suffered a fit of coughing. Aware the signs augured ill, she’d taken to her bed, but not before sending to Eduard the drug he’d grown addicted to since being afflicted by madness. Daphne had mixed the dose herself, almost double the usual quantity, for the servants assigned to watch over Eduard had reported he’d been raving and violent the previous night and the apothecary recommended by the marquis had sent her a new prescription.

  Playing nursemaid to the mad husband of Daphne de Vere had offered both sport and comfort to the servants set to watch over him. Their last duty had been to seal him unceremoniously in his coffin. They’d left him in his soiled clothes, a green velvet jacket and breeches, and a red brocade waistcoat that matched the heavily rouged cheeks. Even in his madness, Eduard had been a flamboyant dresser.

  The mourners didn’t stay long at the graveside, it was too cold. Daphne leaned heavily on the marquis’s arm as they left the scene, and was borne away in a carriage displaying the Lynchcross crest before the coffin had been covered with earth.

  The gravediggers grumbled as they watched the mourners depart. They’d worked hard digging the hole in the frozen earth. Although they’d been paid by the parish it was usual for the family of the departed to offer some small recompense. The elder of the two wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘This one’s a toff. Sometimes, they buries them in their clothes.’ Scraping the earth from the coffin he applied the edge of his shovel to the lid. ‘There might be a silk ‘ankerchief or something we can sell.’

  ‘God, he’s a tawdry looking cove,’ said the younger one gazing at the half-open eyes of the corpse a little nervously. He drew closer, observing the richness of the clothes. ‘They buried him in a hurry, I reckon, and he’s still got his wig and shoes on. Look at them buckles. If they ‘aint silver, my name’s not Jack Dodson.’

  Within a few minutes Eduard Lynchcross was naked, his coffin sealed, and the earth being shoveled swiftly over his grave. Later that evening, Jack Dodson laboriously studied a letter he’d taken from the pocket of the corpse’s coat. He was not skilled at letters. Even if he had been, the missive was written in a foreign language. He couldn’t even make out the name of the person it was addressed to.

  Perhaps it was a letter to the man’s mistress. It might be worth something to the widow’s crippled father. His glance softened as it went to his ten year old daughter. A man wouldn’t want his daughter to suffer more grief than she had to. Wrapping the letter in a piece of cloth, he concealed it in the hollow of his armpit, binding it in place with a piece of rag. There it would stay until the bargain had been struck, and the money safely deposited in his pocket.

  He draped a shawl around his daughter’s shoulders and took her hand in his. They’d dine on more than turnip soup tonight if all went well.

  The marquis left Dodson to Simon Carsewell to deal with. His friend had a deadly efficient way of dealing with those who sought to exhort money from him. Of more interest to him was the child. She was a pretty little thing.

  ‘The letter was still in Jack Dodson’s armpit when the morgue keeper took his body to Guy’s hospital for dissection by a student surgeon.

  The surgeon was Charles Addison. Charles could speak tolerable French but had never learned to read or write it. That made no difference when he discovered the letter. Gerard Lytton’s name was instantly recognizable to him.

  ‘My husband has forbidden me to ride Circe?’ Bewildered by the turn of events Willow could only stare at Brian. ‘Why did he not tell me himself?’ Anger and hurt churned rancidly inside her. What had she done to deserve such treatment? ‘Are you sure you’re not mistaken?’

  Brian’s lean, dark face mirrored the anguish in Willow’s. ‘To be sure, when I gave Circe to my own darlin’ girl, I thought the pair of you would never be apart.’

  ‘What you thought then is immaterial.’ Gerard’s face was dark with anger as he strode into the stable yard. ‘On this occasion I intend to overlook your familiarity of speech with my wife, but let me warn you… from this day on you’ll address her with the respect due to her position. Is that understood, O’Shea?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘But, Gerard… ‘

  Willow’s voice trailed off when she saw the thunderous expression on her husband’s face. The shrug she gave seemed to incense him even more, for his eyes raked her from head to toe. ‘You’re indecently dressed, madam. Go and change into your riding habit.’ He pointed to a docile looking gelding. ‘Put a lady’s saddle on that, in the meantime, groom.’

  ‘Do not put a lady’s saddle on anything, not even the stable door!’ Stamping her foot at her husband’s high-handed tone, Willow rounded on him. ‘That horse is so lazy he cannot walk to the end of the lane. I demand to know why you forbid me to ride Circe.’

  ‘You’re in no position to demand anything,’ he said silkily. ‘And if you do not go and change into appropriate clothing, I’ll be forced to help you into it, myself.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Scornfully tossing her head, she turned her back on him. That was a mistake. Seized by the waist she was spun around and roughly tossed over Gerard’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. ‘Put me down this instant!’ Her dangling fists beat ineffectually at his buttocks as he strode towards the house with her. ‘If you do not, I’ll scream for help.’

  ‘And who will come to your aid?’ Gerard muttered grimly. ‘You may think you have the servants in the palm of your hand, but I wager they’d not risk dismissal by interfering.’ The laugh he gave contained derision. ‘Should I choose to beat you to death in front of their eyes, they’d turn their heads aside.’

  ‘You would not do that.’ Her hat jolted loose and her hair fell in gleaming disarray to the snow. ‘My hair is getting dirty, Gerard.’

  Resignation filled her voice when he took no notice. It was difficult to shrug when hanging upside-down, but she managed it. ‘I suppose the condition of my hair matters not
if you intend to beat me.’

  ‘Your appearance makes no difference to the outcome.’ His gruff voice brought terror to Willow’s soul as she remembered the cruel flogging she’d received her father. The pain had been almost unbearable. She began to tremble. ‘I understand that I’ve angered you, Gerard. I’m bad-tempered and headstrong, and my manners would put the roughest peasant to shame.’ A panicky sob caught in her throat and tears scalded her eyes. ‘I know I’m an ungrateful wretch, but please do not subject me to another beating. My body still bears the scars my father inflicted on me.’

  Gerard’s temper turned to ashes in his mouth. Gradually, his footsteps slowed to a stop and he lowered her to the ground. His eyes were bleak as they noted her tearstained cheeks. Taking out his handkerchief, he gently dried them. ‘The marquis permanently marked you?’

  ‘It’s of no consequence.’ Although the scars were small, she hoped Gerard would not think her ugly when he saw them. ‘They are very tiny scars. One is like a crescent moon and is quite fetching.’ Her mouth twitched into a tentative smile. ‘At least, that’s what my maid tells me. I cannot see it myself.’ Her smile faded when he didn’t respond. ‘I’m sorry I angered you, Gerard.’

  ‘It was not your fault.’ His eyes softened as he reached out and touched her hair. ‘My conduct was less than that of a gentleman. Be assured, you’ll never receive a beating from me.’

  ‘I’m mightily relieved,’ she said candidly, and wondered if it would be safe to broach the subject of Circe once again. She couldn’t understand why she’d been banned from riding the mare. ‘May I ask you something, Gerard?’ When one dark eyebrow raised in assent, she took a deep breath. ‘What have I done to be deprived of Circe?’

  He bound one of her dark silky locks about his hand whilst his eyes brooded on the question. She’d done nothing but affront his pride. She’d out-ridden him on a horse he’d coveted as soon as he’d set eyes on it, a horse he could not ride himself. Nothing he could do or say would make the mare his. Willow hadn’t been in danger. He’d used it as an excuse, and had handled the situation wrongly. Even her dress did not shock him now he was used to it. Unconsciously, he noted her trim figure in its ill-assorted garb, and toyed with the idea of having a riding outfit designed for her. He’d not allow her to wear such clothing off the estate, of course, it would set scandalous tongues wagging.