Secrets of Midnight (15 page)

Somehow she felt as if something had changed and she
didn't like it, no, not at all.

Donovan didn't like it either. Dammit, he didn't like
the way those crushed flowers made him feel and certainly not the memory of
Joseph Easton's pleading eyes, as if the man had been trying to tell him
something.

Those barrels, an accident? Somehow Donovan doubted it.
But he couldn't attend to the troubling matter now. He had a bride to take
home, a spitting, irritating, altogether perplexing termagant of a temporary
bride who no doubt intended to make his life most interesting for the next few
weeks.

God help him. He'd gotten his wish.

Chapter 13

"More tea, my lady?"

Corisande stared into the fire, impatiently twirling
the tiny silver spoon around and around between her fingertips. "Would you
like more tea, my lady?"

"What . . . ?" Corisande looked up in
surprise at Ogden hovering just behind her chair, the spoon clattering onto the
bone china saucer. For heaven's sake, she hadn't even heard the butler come
into the room! Did all of these bloody servants walk about the place on tiptoe?

"Forgive me, my lady. I startled you—"

"No, no, Ogden—well, actually you did startle me a
little but . . ." Corisande didn't finish, the man's expression as placid
as a basset hound's while her heart was pounding. In fact, Ogden resembled a
basset hound although his eyes weren't dopey at all, but quite keen. Reminded
again of what Donovan had said about spies, she forced a bright smile. "More
tea would be fine, Ogden. Thank you."

As the butler silently obliged, Corisande let her gaze
roam for the hundredth time around the immense drawing room where Donovan had
left her almost a half hour ago. In fact, everything about this house was
immense, at least compared to the parsonage, from the high-ceilinged rooms to
the solid English furnishings.

She'd felt quite ridiculous that afternoon in the
dining room, sitting at one end of a monstrous oaken table while Donovan sat at
the other, her three sisters, Frances, and Henry Gilbert placed at evenly
spaced intervals along the sides. Not that she wanted to be closer to Donovan.
She'd had enough closeness for one day, thank you very much, although the
carriage ride hadn't been too terrible since Estelle—and Luther—had been
allowed to join them after all. But at that dining table she'd practically had
to shout to reply to anything Donovan said, making the wedding breakfast with
its many courses more of a trial than she could have anticipated.

She'd never seen such an embarrassment of food,
including a saddle of roasted mutton and a baked ham that could have fed the
poorhouse for a week, nor tasted the like of mulligatawny soup, pungent with
Indian curry, and potted pheasant. Frances, after being assured by Corisande
again and again that her father would be fine, was finally able to
relax
and proceeded to enjoy herself immensely, delighting
in each new dish and then spending the remainder of the day exchanging recipes
in the kitchen with a very flattered Grace Twickenham.

Meanwhile Estelle and Linette had nearly eaten
themselves sick, while Marguerite had barely touched her food, so overawed was
she with her surroundings. After the double-iced bride's cake was served, all
three girls, Luther skittering among them, had spent the day eagerly exploring
much of the house and grounds with Donovan as their guide, and he'd insisted
that Corisande come too.
Which was fine because she hadn't
wanted to be left alone with Henry, although he disappeared soon after the meal
to return to Porthleven to clean up the mess at the parsonage.

And to fetch her one valise, forgotten earlier in the
day and which Corisande had packed very lightly. Why bring more? Poor Rose
Polkinghorne was furiously stitching new dresses for her, although Corisande
hoped Donovan's inheritance would come soon and she wouldn't have to wear them.
Each was as impractical and revealing as her wedding
dress,
and after Donovan leered at her so in the church, no, no,
admired
her as he had so smoothly insisted

"Will there be anything else, my lady?"

Corisande started again, realizing that Ogden had
poured her tea, added a fresh
log
and stoked the fire,
and then walked to the door without her giving him any notice at all, her
thoughts running rampant. Lord, she was tired . . .

"No, Ogden, but—do you know if my husband is still
meeting with Mr. Gilbert?"

"Yes, my lady, I believe so. Would you like for me
to carry some message to His Lordship? Or perhaps, since it grows late, I could
have Miss Biddle show you to your room—"

"No, no, I'll wait here. I'm sure he won't be much
longer . . ."

Not that she cared, Corisande thought as Ogden nodded
and left the room, well, other than that she longed terribly to feel a soft
pillow under her head. But she had to make some attempt to play the wistful
bride, abandoned as it were, if only for a short time, by her newly wedded husband.

Yet it was rather strange, really. She and Donovan had
no sooner bid good night to her family—Linette and Marguerite waving drowsily
from the carriage while Estelle, an exhausted Luther snuggled and snoring in
her lap, already lay fast asleep against Frances's deep bosom—than he had led
her to this room and excused himself, saying he had summoned Henry Gilbert to
the library and that he would return shortly. But that had been a while ago
now, while here she sat drinking tea . . .

"And more tea," Corisande muttered, her gaze
flying from her brimming cup to an elaborately carved sideboard where a
decanter of golden sherry gleamed among cut-crystal glasses. Except for some
wine with her meal, she'd drunk her fill of tea all day. A long grueling day,
and who knew how much longer Donovan would keep her waiting?

Corisande couldn't resist. She wasn't normally one to
drink spirits, well, except on those nights after working hard to land a cargo
of smuggled goods when she'd shared a nip of brandy with the men who risked
their lives to cross the Channel for the good of the parish—and admittedly, to
line his own pockets as well, Oliver Trelawny, the grizzled captain of the
cutter Fair Betty would often laugh.

But tonight was different. Soon she and Donovan would
be alone for the first time since the parsonage . . .

Corisande half flew from her chair to the sideboard and
poured herself a generous amount, the sweet fortified wine infusing her with
warmth as she nearly emptied the glass.

It was silly, really. She shouldn't be so nervous. She
had nothing to fear. Donovan might have been leer—admiring her, but he knew
better than to risk even the thought of touching her. Of course he must know,
too, that she would scream to high heaven if he did so much as touch her and bring
this whole houseful of spying servants down upon them, and then what would he
say? No, he'd be a fool to threaten his inheritance now when it was so near to
his grasp. A damned bloody fool.

Feeling better and certainly more confident, Corisande
took another long swallow, then refilled her glass and walked back to the fire.

For heaven's sake, it was just as ridiculous that she
was spending so much time worrying about Donovan when she had so much else to
think about. Like her visit to see Oliver Trelawny last night, for one. She had
imagined he would be concerned about her impending marriage, so after she had
finished her calls she'd gone to see him at the comfortable quayside inn he ran
with his wife, Rebecca, when he wasn't out fair trading, and discovered she had
been right.

"Lord, Corie, how do 'ee expect to go on helping
with the landings when you'll be marrying on the morrow? Do 'ee think your
husband will be pleased to find 'ee gone from his bed late in the night when I've
need of you?
"

Her face burning, Corisande had wanted terribly to tell
him the truth about her marriage, although at that point she hadn't been sure a
wedding was even going to take place. She trusted the gruff, white-bearded
captain with her life. But Oliver had been known a time or two to boast in his
cups, and she couldn't risk that he might somehow let the truth slip.

"Lord Donovan knows how much helping the
tinners
means to me," she had hastily explained. "Helping
the fishermen and their families in Porthleven too. It's been such a terrible
time all
around,
and . . . and I wouldn't have
considered marrying him otherwise! If I say I'm needed at a sickbed or some
such thing, I'm sure he won't question me."

Oliver had pondered for a long moment, tugging at his
thick beard,
then
he slowly nodded.

"Very well, Corie, we'll give it a try. Lord
knows, you're a wonder at hiding goods an' sending them on their way, so I don't
want to think of going forth without 'ee." His raspy laughter had filled
the back room. "An' since 'ee assured me three years past there'd be a
spot reserved in heaven if I split my trading profits with you so's 'ee could
help the poor, I don't want to gamble with meeting the Old One instead, no,
indeed. He'll have to save his red-hot fork for another damned soul!"

Yet Oliver had sobered an instant later, his weathered
face grown very serious as he leaned toward her across the scarred table. "I
hope this fine gentleman treats 'ee well, Corie.
'
Ee
know I think of you like me own daughter, an' after 'ee did so much to help my
poor Sophie . . ." His voice catching, the burly sea captain had paused to
shake his head, his eyes wet when he looked up again. "Well, Lord Donovan'll
answer to me, is all I'm saying. You know good an' why."

Yes, she knew good and why, Corisande thought as she
lifted the glass to her lips and downed the rest of the sherry, her hand
slightly shaking. Lord help her, even now the memories . . . the blood, the
screaming, the knife blade gleaming bright . . .

A sudden chiming made Corisande jump; her gaze flew to
the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Ten o'clock. And still no sign of
Donovan.

"So much for playing the attentive bridegroom,"
Corisande said under her breath, which was fine with her. But what wasn't fine
was waiting any longer. She was bloody tired! Discussing their next smuggling
run had kept her at Oliver's until way past midnight, then she'd had to tend to
Biscuit, poor pony, the long day exhausting him entirely, then try to sleep
while wondering if Donovan would appear at the church or not—oh, enough!

She didn't need him or Miss Biddle to show her to her
room. After all, Donovan had conducted the grand tour earlier that day, so
Corisande knew the master suite was on the next floor. There was her
bedchamber, then a cozy sitting room, and his much larger bedchamber. Nothing
to be nervous about at all. Separate rooms, separate beds, and a door between
that could be locked. Perfect.

So why did she suddenly feel the need for yet another
glass of sherry? Resisting the impulse, Corisande set down her glass and left
the drawing room, heading at once for the staircase.

The door to Donovan's library was still shut. No
matter. At the top of the stairs, she turned into the right wing of the house,
remembering what Donovan had said about how filthy and rundown everything had
looked upon his arrival last Friday.

She would never have imagined such disorder, so clean
and well maintained did the house look now, thanks to Miss Ellen Biddle, he had
said. A pity these corridors and rooms would be empty and dark in only a few
weeks' time, for despite what she'd thought in the past, she had to admit that
the house was quite impressive, even lovely. But again, what did she care?

Corisande was almost to her chamber when she heard
laughter and young women's voices. She stopped, the door slightly ajar, and
peered into the room.

Two housemaids were turning down the bedclothes;
Corisande recognized one of them as the sullen, unkempt girl who had told her
last week that Henry Gilbert wasn't at home, failing to add that the Arundale
agent had moved to a smaller residence on the estate. But she wasn't unkempt
now, both housemaids' appearance neat as a pin, their aprons starched and
white. More wonders accomplished by the amazing Miss
Biddle,
that
much was clear.

"I don't see why we're turnip' down the sheets. It's
not as if she'll be sleepin' 'ere tonight."

Her breath catching in her throat, Corisande leaned
closer.

"No, but what old Miss Biddle says goes, 'aven't
you learned that by now, Bess? You're going to find yourself discharged, you
will, quick as a blink if you're not careful to mind."

"Well, it makes no sense to me,"
came
the petulant reply, but soon husky giggles erupted. "Bloody
'ell, she'll be one sore chit tomorrow, wouldn't you say, Meg? As Fanny tells
it—just this morning she did, too, whilst she was polishin' the silver and I
was settin' up the table, well, she said His Lordship won't be wastin' any time
in getting 'imself an heir this night. Seems Lord Donovan didn't want to marry,
oh, no, but then he'll never see his inheritance. Bloody sad problems these
nobs 'ave, eh? Seems His Grace of Arundale's wife is barren, well, only because
His Grace won't sleep with her, so the chore's left to Lord Donovan and his
common little bride."

"Bess!"

"It's true! She's barely better than us, a dotty
vicar's daughter, that one. Fanny said His Lordship had to find 'imself a
country girl, a good breeder, to be exact. And so he did, quick as a
jackrabbit, but I wish to 'eaven he'd looked no farther than my hips here. Wide
and deep, they are, good for plowin' both day and night! And wouldn't I like to
be the one sharin' Lord Donovan's bed. God help me, I feel all wet sometimes
just lookin' at 'im!"