The Devil's Necklace (21 page)

But getting him to leave, she knew, would not be easy. With her time so near, Ethan hovered over her like a wolf protecting its mate. He cared for her—more than cared—his actions of the past few days convinced her.

In the end, she paid a linkboy to deliver a message supposedly from Colonel Pendleton’s secretary requesting an urgent meeting in regard to Viscount Forsythe at one o’clock at the colonel’s office in Whitehall. Ironic, she thought, that the way to help her father was to lure her husband away with the promise of his capture.

Ignoring the ache in her back, Grace sat on the sofa in the drawing room, working on her embroidery and trying to keep from constantly checking the ormolu clock.

She heard the rap of the heavy brass door knocker as the messenger arrived, then the sound of Baines’s footfalls as he carried the note to his master. A few minutes later, Ethan appeared in the doorway.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to leave for a while. Will you be all right while I’m gone?”

“I’m pregnant, Ethan, not dying of the plague. I’ll be quite all right while you are away.”

He seemed to miss the humor. “Are you certain?”

“Actually, I could use a moment to myself. You’ve been
hovering over me like a hen with a chick since the day you came home.”

His mouth faintly curved. “And I shall continue to do so until your babe has arrived.”

Your
babe. Grace ignored Ethan’s reference to the child that would also be his. Even if he had begun to accept his feelings for her, he had not come to terms with the notion of a child who carried the blood of a man he despised.

“Pendleton wishes to see me. I shouldn’t be gone all that long. I’ve asked Baines to keep an eye on you. If anything happens, just—”

“Nothing is going to happen in the short time you are not here. Go to your meeting. I shall see you upon your return.”

Instead of leaving, he walked toward her, caught her face between his hands, bent his dark head, and very thoroughly kissed her. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

She felt breathless when he stepped away, and this time the pressure of the babe beneath her ribs was not the cause. Grace listened as Ethan summoned his phaeton then waited for a groom to pull the vehicle up in front of the house. As soon as he was gone, she instructed one of the footmen to have her own carriage brought round. She wished she could drive the conveyance herself, but she was simply not up to it.

She prayed that if Ethan arrived before her return, he would take the note she left for him at face value and not later ask the coachman where he had taken her.

Baines stopped her as she tried to make her escape. “You are leaving, my lady?”

“I’m going for a drive. I may stop by Lady Brant’s to visit her and her son for a bit.”

“Are you certain you should go out…I mean in your condition?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Baines. And yes, I am quite certain.” She sailed past him before he could protest again—or perhaps
sailed
wasn’t the word, since her movements were quite cumbersome and it took a great deal of effort not to groan as she waddled down the front porch steps.

It seemed to take forever to reach the Rose Tavern in Covent Garden. She knew the place, next to the Drury Lane Theater, often patronized by playgoers, though lately she had heard it was getting a rather sordid reputation. This however, was the middle of the day, and she was certain her father would not have chosen the place if it were not safe.

Bundled in a fur-lined cloak, the hood up to cover her hair and most of her face, she pulled the woolen fabric of the cloak a little tighter around her, hoping it would disguise her bulky shape. At first she didn’t see him, and then there he was right beside her.

“Gracie…dearest. I knew you would not fail me.” With his heavy growth of beard and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, she almost didn’t recognize him. She supposed that was the point. Resting his arm beneath her elbow, he began to guide her toward a table against the wall, but at her clumsy movements, he glanced down, then froze where he stood at the sight of her huge, unwieldy belly.

“Dear God!”

She smiled. “Actually, it was my husband.”

“You must sit down, my dear.” He helped her into a chair. “Here, let me get you a cup of tea.”

She nodded, grateful to be sitting, until the pain in her lower back kicked in and her ribs began to ache.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I would never have asked you if I had known your condition.”

“But you did ask and I am here. Your letter said you are trying to prove your innocence. What can I do to help?”

By the time she returned to the town house, Grace was exhausted. Almost too tired to climb the stairs to the entry. The door swung open even before she reached it and Ethan stormed out on the porch. For a moment, he came to a halt with his legs braced as if he stood on the deck of his ship and his pale eyes reflected both anger and concern.

“Have you gone mad?”

Grace gasped as he reached her, swung her up in his arms, and carted her up the front porch stairs, amazed he could carry her heavy weight.

“I am fine, Ethan. Put me down.”

He didn’t, of course, simply carried her into the house, down the hall to the drawing room and set her on the sofa. “What on earth were you thinking?”

She straightened and looked up at him. “I am not a prisoner in this house, Ethan.”

“It is nearly your time.”

“Don’t you think I know that? May I remind you that you have been gone these past months and I have managed quite well without you.”

He looked guiltily away, then back. “Well, I am here now and until this babe arrives, you are going to do as I say.”

She tried to get more comfortable on the sofa, then gave him a too-sweet smile. “Whatever you say, darling.”

He studied her face and his slashing black brows drew together. “You weren’t so desperate to get out of the house that you forged that note to get me to leave?”

She raised her eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

“I am saying that note I received was bogus. Colonel Pendleton did not send it. There was no meeting at his office.”

“I’m afraid I know nothing about it.”

“You did—didn’t you? You wrote that note because you knew I wouldn’t let you go anywhere in your condition.”

Sometimes the truth was the best lie of all. “Actually, I did. Please don’t be angry, but I felt as if I were suffocating.”

“You little witch. If we were still on board my ship, I would lock you up in my cabin and throw away the key.”

Grace laughed. “I promise I shall never use such subterfuge again.”
At least not the very same sort.
Still, she had agreed to help her father. As soon as the babe was born, she would try to do some of the things he had asked.

The baby, Andrew Ethan Sharpe, named after Ethan and his grandfather, was born on the fourth day of November, a cold fall morning with a thin layer of frost on the ground and oppressive black clouds hanging over the city.

During the long hours of labor, the baby’s father, looking far worse than its mother, had sat in a downstairs drawing room, accompanied by his two best friends, Cordell Easton, earl of Brant; and Rafael Saunders, duke of Sheffield; one of them a father who had suffered a similar or deal, the other a man determined to wed and eventually endure the same.

At the sight of Phoebe marching down the hall with a stack of fresh linens, Ethan sprang to his feet and rushed to the door of the drawing room. “How is she? Is the babe here yet?” It was the question he had asked at least a hundred times.

“Your wife is fine. The babe is almost here.”

“Couldn’t come soon enough for me,” muttered the duke, who looked nearly as haggard as Ethan.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” mumbled Cord, raking a hand through his wavy brown hair, “having a baby or sit ting here waiting for the babe to be born.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Rafe hoisted his glass of brandy and took a hefty swallow, one of many the men had imbibed through the long hours of the night as they waited for the child to arrive.

“It’s a boy!” Victoria Easton appeared in the doorway grinning, and all three men jumped to their feet.

“Is Grace all right?” Ethan asked worriedly.

“She is fine. The babe is fine. He looks just like you.”

Ethan doubted very much that a newborn babe looked like much of anything but a pale little ball of skin. He still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a child. Deep down, he had to admit it was Grace he wanted, Grace he was in love with.

But Grace loved the child, had loved it long before it was born. He had seen that love reflected in her face, in the expression of quiet rapture that came over her whenever she looked down at her protruding belly.

“Can I see her?” he asked Victoria.

“Give us a few minutes to get her and the babe cleaned up then you may come up for a visit.”

A few minutes seemed like an hour. Ethan paced at the bottom of the stairs until Victoria reappeared and motioned for him to join them.

With a steadying breath, he raced up the stairs.

Having a baby, he thought, had to be the worst thing a man could endure.

“’E
re’s your son, milady.” His wet nurse, a big, buxom, red-haired woman named Sadie Swann, had a cockney ac cent and a ruddy complexion. “’E’s dry and fed. Such a sweet boy, ’e is.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Swann.” Standing in the middle of a comfortable drawing room at the back of the house that had been set aside for family use, Grace reached for the baby, took the small blanket-wrapped bundle from his nurse’s hands and cuddled the child against her breast. It was the first of December, the baby growing bigger every day.

Sadie smiled down at the babe. “Spittin’ image of ’is father, ’e is.”

And so he was, with his black hair, blue eyes and refined features. Little Andrew would look just like Ethan when he grew up, she was sure, a handsome devil the ladies couldn’t resist.

Still, his eyes might change, turn into the vivid green of his mother—and grandfather. Grace prayed that would not happen. Even now, her husband rarely paid attention
to his son. He was uneasy with the child, though she was uncertain whether it was the little boy’s bloodline or if Ethan simply had no idea how to behave as a father.

He had lost his own father, she recalled. Perhaps the role was so foreign to him he didn’t know how to begin. What ever the cause, Grace was determined to do something about it. She just wasn’t sure what that something was.

In the meantime, she had promised to aid the viscount, her own father, and in that regard, as soon as the child had been born, she had begun nosing about, making subtle inquiries that might turn up something that would help prove his innocence. He had asked her in particular to try to locate the whereabouts of a young man named Peter O’Daly.

“I was chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee,” he had said the day of their meeting. “Which made me privy to a good deal of high-priority information very few people were aware of. I was the man the evidence pointed to, though it was purely circumstantial, planted I imagine by the true culprit. Later, I realized there was someone else who might have seen those documents, the young man who did occasional cleanup work in the office.”

“You’re speaking of this boy, Peter O’Daly?”

“Yes. During the trial, no one thought much about him. It was assumed the lad could not even read. But Peter disappeared not long after I was convicted and no one has seen him since. If I can find the young man, perhaps I can discover who might have paid him for information, as I now believe someone did.”

Grace had been quietly searching for Peter O’Daly ever since, though so far she had only questioned the servants. The staff of an upper-class household was a well of
information, an underground chain of people who could glean invaluable gossip from all over London. She had mentioned the boy, given them the name and description her father had given to her, cautioned them to keep their silence and told them she would give them extra pay for their help and a bonus if the lad could be found.

So far she had learned nothing, but perhaps in time something would turn up. In the weeks since her visit to the Rose Tavern, she’d had only one other message from her father. He had wished her good health and expressed his joy on the birth of his grandson, which he must have read about in the newspapers. Grace had sent a reply to the tavern, addressing it to the fictitious name of Henry Jennings as he had instructed, and assured him she was doing her best to uncover information that might be of help.

Clutching the babe in her arms, Grace sighed as she left the drawing room, her thoughts turning from her father to problems closer at hand, namely Ethan and his son.

She wished she knew what to do.

“So…how are you enjoying fatherhood?” Rafe stood across from Ethan in the upstairs ballroom of Sheffield House. The men were practicing their fencing.

Ethan tested his sword, whipping it lightly through the air. “Fine, I suppose, as far as it goes.”

Rafe grunted. “Meaning, you rarely see the child.” He touched the tip of his sword to Ethan’s. They took up their positions again as they had been doing for nearly an hour, and the fencing match continued. Ethan had always been an active man. Just because he no longer captained a ship didn’t mean he intended to sit idle.

Steel clanged as the men moved forward and back across the room, pressing, then defending, parrying and thrusting. Ethan parried a swift thrust from Rafe, used his sword tip to circle the blade, slid the shaft beneath the length of his opponent’s sword and thrust the tip of his blade against the pad on Rafe’s chest.

Rafe scowled. Neither man liked to be bested. “Your point. That makes you one up.”

The match had gone back and forth, the men’s skill evenly matched, though Ethan doubted Rafe had ever used his blade in combat, as Ethan had done.

“Grace seems to be a good mother,” Rafe said when they paused between matches. “But then I always thought she would be.”

“I watched her with young Freddie Barton when we were on the ship. I knew she would be good with children.”

“A boy needs a father, as well.”

Ethan made no reply. As Rafe had said, he rarely spent time with the babe. He wasn’t prepared to be a father. He hadn’t the slightest notion how to behave like one. His own father had died when he was eight and though his uncle had done his best to fill the role, it wasn’t the same.

“Perhaps in time…” Rafe said, surveying his pensive frown as he took up his sideways stance, bent his knees and lifted his sword again.

Perhaps,
Ethan thought, lifting his sword to meet Rafe’s, but he wasn’t really sure. He would try, he vowed. For Grace.

They fenced for the next half hour, working up a mild sweat, then called the match a draw and removed their fencing gear.

“What about you?” Ethan asked, shoving his sword back into its scabbard. “Any progress in your pursuit of a mate?”

Rafe smiled, exposing a row of very white teeth. “Actually, there is. I’ve decided to offer for Miss Montague. I plan to call on her father tomorrow evening.”

Instead of returning Rafe’s smile, Ethan found himself frowning. “Do you love her?”

Rafe shrugged. “What does love have to do with it? The notion of love is extremely overrated, which no one knows better than I.”

“Perhaps you should wait. Marriage is a big step, Rafe.”

“I’ve waited long enough. Unlike you, I want children. I want to hear my son and daughter’s laughter in this house.”

Ethan thought of the son Grace had borne him, Andrew Ethan, the child who carried his name, and wished he could feel the same.

Whatever his feelings for the babe, he knew what he felt for Grace. He wanted her. Endlessly. Ached to make love to her again. At night he slept fitfully, knowing she lay in bed in the room next to his. Again and again, he dreamed of caressing her breasts, of being deep inside her, and awakened hard and throbbing.

He was going to make love to her soon, he promised himself.

They were married. Grace was his wife.

It was time he behaved like a husband.

Grace made her way along the hall with the baby in her arms. Around her, the servants were busy doing extra cleaning for the upcoming Christmas celebration, though
Grace was finding it hard to get in the mood. She looked down at her son. His eyes were open and he was staring up at her, watching her as he often did. She saw a hint of Ethan in his gaze, as if he studied her, wondered at her thoughts.

Thinking of her elusive husband, she made her way down the hall. He hadn’t shared her bed since the birth of their son. He had yet to make love to her, though she could see the heat in his eyes whenever he looked at her. He was impossibly handsome and incredibly virile and every time he walked into the room, she could feel the power of his need and an answering need washed through her. It was time, Grace thought, past time as far as she was concerned.

But the baby was her current problem. She paused at the door to Ethan’s study, bent her head and pressed a soft kiss on the infant’s forehead, then stepped inside the room. Ethan glanced up at her approach and for an instant his pale gaze softened. Then his glance went to the child in her arms and a shuttered look came over his face.

Grace managed a smile. “I know you’re busy. I was hoping you might watch Andy for a while. Nurse is out and Phoebe is running an errand. Victoria and I need to buy a few things for the holidays. I don’t like leaving him alone with anyone else.”

He shoved back his chair and came to his feet as she rounded the desk. “I know nothing of children.”

She kept the smile fixed on her face. “No one does at first.” She shoved the bundle into his arms and his hold tightened clumsily. He had held the child before, of course, but only at her insistence. She intended that would change.

“I won’t be gone long.” She bent and brushed a kiss on
the baby’s cheek, then soundly kissed his father. Ethan’s mouth was so warm and seductive she lingered an instant longer than she meant to, then quickly pulled away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush in her cheeks.

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” Turning, she started for the door, eager to escape before he could change his mind.

Ethan fell in behind her. “Wait a minute! What should I do if he cries?”

She turned, her bright smile still in place. “Entertain him. Jiggle him a little. He likes it if you sing to him.”

“Sing to him? I have a terrible voice.”

She laughed at that and the terrified look on his face. “You’ll be fine. It really isn’t all that hard.”

But she could see that he didn’t believe her. He was still holding the baby as she swept out of the room and started down the hall. Her carriage waited out front and though she didn’t want to leave, she made herself go. She wanted Ethan to love his son as she did. He would, she was determined, once he saw how sweet and innocent and lovable the tiny infant was.

Though she worried every minute of the time she spent with Tory and got very little shopping done, she didn’t return for nearly three hours. Her heart was racing by the time she reached the house, hurried down the hall and arrived at the open door of the study. Inside the room, Ethan stood over the cradle he’d had brought down from the nursery and positioned next to his desk. He was staring at the small bundle lying in the cradle and there was a look on his face unlike any she had ever seen.

Her chest squeezed. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and stepped quietly into the room. Ethan turned at the sound of her approach but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I’m home,” she said lamely.

The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “So I see.”

“You did all right with Andy?”

He turned back to the cradle. “He only cried once. He’s been asleep for a while.”

She walked over to where Ethan stood, reached up and rested her hand against his cheek. “Thank you.”

“For looking after the babe?”

“For giving me hope.”

Something moved across his feature. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He whispered the words against her cheek, and she nodded, though in truth, she was less certain than ever.

Yesterday as she had descended the stairs, Baines had been waiting at the bottom, holding a silver salver with a wax-sealed message lying on top.

“This just arrived for you, milady.”

She saw her name scrolled in blue ink on the back of the message and knew instantly whom it had come from. Her hand shook as she plucked the note off the tray and moved away to read it. The wax crumbled away beneath her fingers and seeing more of her father’s handwriting, walked even farther away.

Had the note arrived just yesterday?

The babe began to fuss just then and the memory of its arrival slid away. Reluctantly, Grace stepped out of Ethan’s embrace, turned toward the cradle and leaned over to pick up her son.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” She kissed the top of his head, smiled at the fuzz of his dark hair brushing against her cheek. “I’ll take him back upstairs,” she said to Ethan, and he nodded.

Carrying the baby down the hall, she thought of the note again and her spirits sank. Every minute her father remained in London, he was in danger. Mostly from the man who was her husband. Still, she knew that tomorrow she would find a way to reach the Rose Tavern. As she had before, she would do whatever she had to in order to help the viscount, and prayed that Ethan would not find out what she had done.

Ethan watched his wife walk out of the study and knew that something was wrong. In the weeks since his return from sea, he had begun to understand her, to read her moods, her needs. Something had happened and she was worried. He wasn’t quite sure why.

It didn’t change what he planned to do. Tonight he meant to make love to her. It was one need he meant to take care of for both of them.

His body stirred to life as he recalled the moments he had held her in his arms there in the study, remembered the soft feel of her body pressing into his, and a stab of desire burned through him. It had been weeks since the birth of the babe. His friend, Dr. McCauley, had assured
him time enough had passed that it was safe for them to make love.

Ethan wanted that above all things, and when he saw the way Grace looked at him whenever she thought he couldn’t see, he believed she wanted that, too. Tonight, he would go to her bed.

The thought made him hard as he rose from his desk. He would take her gently, he promised himself, give her time to get used to his lovemaking again.

Ethan steeled himself, knowing it would take a will of iron. Hoping he would be able to keep his silent pledge. No matter how much control it took, he would make certain she enjoyed it as much as he did.

A chill December wind blew through the branches of the trees. In the darkness outside her bedchamber, a thin finger of moonlight streamed in through the window. Dressed in the dark green silk nightgown she had worn on her wedding night, Grace waited nervously until she thought that Ethan would be abed, then walked over to the door. Taking a breath for courage, she gripped the knob and pulled it open.