Authors: J. Jay Kamp
“He’s threatened your son?” The duchess frowned. “What’s wrong with Lord Launceston, anyway?” She seemed genuinely concerned when she approached Ravenna, took her by the arm as a long lost friend. “Poor girl, married to a foolish rake.”
One of the duchess’s male companions lifted his hand. “Came into his money too young, that’s what’s wrong with him. It’ll ruin a man’s good sense every time.”
“That’s rubbish,” the other gentleman spoke up. “It matters less at what age one succeeds the title than what sort of rearing one’s had to begin with. Launceston’s father was a rogue, as you’ll well recall—”
The duchess gave the man a scolding look. Turning toward the servant behind her, she said, “Mr. Darnly, bring the duke’s carriage. We’re going.”
“You’ll help me?” Ravenna felt a smidgen of hope.
“What could Lord Launceston possibly do, refuse to receive me?” The duchess laughed, and her congenial eyes twinkled. “Of course I’ll get the baby for you. I’m a mother too, you know.”
* * *
She waited in the duchess’s library for almost two hours. Alone, worrying unreasonably that Christian might have attacked her benefactors, that he’d killed the baby in a fit of hatred and this was the reason for the duchess’s delay, she fell crying across the sofa. All she could think about was Paul. Relentlessly the memories poured over her with the realism inspired by the man at the opera—Paul swabbing the deck, Paul showing her how to reload a musket, Paul laughing to himself with that velvety tone, raising his eyebrow wickedly and pursing his lips with a flirtatious wink. All these things were perfect in her mind, as if he’d never died, as if he’d waltz in with the duchess at any moment, talking about the amazingly uncomfortable things women did in the name of fashion.
Finally, near two o’clock, she heard the duchess returning with her friends…
laughing
.
She feared suddenly they hadn’t gone at all to fetch her baby, but had been sidetracked by a coffee house or an acquaintance in the Strand. Giddy and idle, Christian had called her.
Then my son’s still back there, at Christian’s mercy
.
But the duchess came smiling into the library, and when Ravenna saw her son, she felt guilty for ever having doubted the woman. At her side was frightened Megan, and behind trooped the duke and his lady-friend, the duke carrying what Ravenna saw was Christian’s diamond-buttoned jacket, while the young woman had Shasta on a leash between them. After this, came the coachman—Ravenna’s coachman. Then two of her footmen, and next the cook, even Christian’s own personal servant, Mr. Davis, all of them blinking and uneasy to find themselves suddenly in the Duke of Devonshire’s apartments.
At last, bringing up the end of the procession, the duchess’s other masculine companion directed the servants to put down her trunk. It was obviously heavy with her dresses, her shoes and the baby’s things, for the duchess hadn’t only rescued her son, she’d humiliated Christian. She’d taken every servant, every possible possession belonging to Ravenna, and she’d made absolutely certain she’d brought it all.
* * *
That night, the duchess put her in the duke’s coach and sent her, along with her rescued servants, home to Wolvesfield and James’s safety. Ravenna offered to sell her wedding ring, to forward the duchess whatever money she could, but the duchess wouldn’t hear of it. She told Ravenna to take the diamonds and that ostentatious coat of Christian’s and save the buttons for her son’s future, as those diamonds were likely all she’d ever see from her husband’s sorry financial state.
Ravenna should enjoy them, if nothing else. “Buy a new dress,” the duchess advised. “And do get something a bit more fashionable.”
* * *
Five days later they arrived at Wolvesfield.
Home
, Ravenna thought to herself.
This is where I truly belong, where we all do, but for how much longer?
For after abandoning their jobs and rallying behind the duchess, how would Ravenna tell Christian’s servants they’d made a mistake? That they’d be again at Christian’s mercy when he filed the papers of contestation and became the new and rightful marquess? Because certainly Christian would do just that. He’d prove that the old Marquess's marriage had been a sham, and he'd expose James’s illegitimacy. He’d take over everything, the rent role, the house, and even her pin money couldn’t save them.
Yet only she knew these things when the carriage rolled up before Wolvesfield’s doors. Her doomed servants jumped down from the coachbox. Mr. Davis, Christian’s valet, helped her with the baby and she’d never seen the man look so cheerful.
Christian will destroy you
, she thought glumly.
He’ll ruin you all to get back at me
.
When James came out of the house to greet her, he made as if to swoop down and give her a huge, boisterous hug. But as he neared, he glanced at the faces of those around them, the footmen and the cook, the coachman he’d sent. His gaze traveled to the carriage, painted in the duchess’s colors. The smile faded from James’s lips. He put his arm around her and, drawing the baby and her up close, his frolicsome eyes sharpened. “What has he done now?”
When Sarah approached, the expression on Ravenna’s face must have been pitiful because the maid appraised it correctly in an instant. “Oh, no, he’s gone an’ done it, then. The lousy knave’s beaten you, hasn’t he?”
Before she could answer, James took the baby with the utmost care, then raised his voice above the chatter. “I’m afraid there’s no time to rest,” he said, turning sympathetically from servant to servant. “Sir Joseph Banks is expecting a feast, so Mr. Smythson, Cook requires you in the kitchen, and Skelly, Peter, if you’d help with the serving?”
“Banks is here?”
“Upstairs,” James said, but he wasn’t thinking about the Royal Society when his eyes met Ravenna’s; worry burned obviously in James’s dark gaze. “Come up to your room and tell me what’s happened,” he said, tipping his head toward the house. “If Christian’s beaten you, I swear I’ll personally see that he’s—”
Ravenna stopped. “Promise me you won’t hurt him, James.”
Prodding her to keep walking, he took her arm. “Let’s first see how badly he’s hurt you.”
Once in her bedroom, she went to the window and looked out at the sea, thoughtlessly twisting Christian’s ring around her finger. She should have been happy to be away from him. She should have taken James’s obvious love and fed on it ravenously, but instead she felt hopeless. Christian’s distraction was gone. In its place, she found only fear, and fear in everything.
How was she going to tell James what had happened? To explain it all, about Nootka, the forced marriage, the threats of disinheritance, would mean telling him everything was about to crumble. Christian would take Wolvesfield and the peerage with it, reducing James to what he’d always been—the son of a commoner, and how could she say
that
with Sir Joseph Banks sitting in the next room, waiting to be wined and dined? James needed his wits about him. He couldn’t go running off after Christian now.
Because there was a chance, no matter how small, that Christian might not do anything at all. Threatening, insulting, even hitting her was one thing, but Christian might not have the guts to confront James.
Standing at the window, she felt the weight of James’s eyes as she considered her choices.
If Christian doesn’t contest the succession, James doesn’t need to know anything, does he? At least not tonight
.
“Ravenna.”
Just tell him what happened in London, and when Banks is gone, then tell him the rest. Christian can’t file the papers that fast. You’ll have a few days before the lawyers take action, and what could James do tonight but worry?
“Ravenna, what has he done?” James asked. “If he’s struck you, I don’t see any sign of it.”
At least until tomorrow, the truth can wait until then
.
She turned to face James’s question. “You can’t see the bruise,” she said, pointing to her side. “It’s here, under my dress.”
As James stepped closer, she took off her jacket. She knew he wanted to see exactly what she’d suffered, so she tugged her blouse out of her skirt, held it up an inch or two to show the mark Christian’s fist had left.
Staring at the bruise, James betrayed nothing. He didn’t swear. He didn’t threaten to break every bone in Christian’s body, but she understood how furious he was. He turned away too quickly. He didn’t let her see the squint to his eyes, and when he paced the room with long, ambling steps, fell into the chair nearest the hearth, she sensed it.
He blamed himself
.
For a long moment he did nothing. He held the baby against his chest, gazed out the window behind her. “Forgive me,” he said finally. “I should never have let you go to London.”
“But he wouldn’t have hit me unless I’d gone.”
His black brows furrowed.
“What I mean is, if he hadn’t hit me, I’d still be with him, wouldn’t I?” Crouching down beside his chair, she made sure he saw the love in her face when she touched his arm. “There was nothing you could’ve done, all right? If he hadn’t hit me, it would’ve taken me a lot longer to figure out how he wasn’t going to change. He’d still be yelling at me, and I’d still be thinking there’s a chance I’d eventually fall in love with him.”
“And there isn’t that chance?”
Paul again, always there and waiting at the mention of love
. Ravenna’s heart fluttered and convulsed with pain as the memories re-surfaced, nights at the piano with her arms around his stocky waist, dreaming at his shoulder, reveling in Mozart.
“I’ll never love anyone again,” she said.
Between them the baby began to fuss, and knowing he hadn’t been fed in hours, she took him from James’s arms and settled down to feed him in the opposite chair.
When the room had quieted, she told James about the opera and all that had happened in its wake. When she described the stranger’s face, his reddish-brown hair and the tranquility she’d seen in his sky-blue eyes, James looked uncomfortable. He understood. If he’d been introduced to that Salzburg man, he might have wept as well, he said.
Feeling the pain all over again, Ravenna explained the reason behind Christian’s behavior at the opera, how the rain-ruined letter had driven him to drink. She could still hear his pathetic voice when she told James about it, Christian’s bone-shattering slams against the front door and the terror, hellfire and retribution shining in his desperate eyes.
Death himself
, he’d said.
He’s coming for me and I’ll burn in hell
.
James considered these words carefully. “Just so I understand, how does this
Don Giovanni
end? Does the libertine suffer for his crimes?”
“He does.” She remembered the rain running down Christian’s face, the terrible conviction in his leaden gaze. “The statue comes to dinner and takes Giovanni to hell.”
“The statue?”
Guilt-ridden, frightened
…at the opera he’d closed those eyes so tight, as if he might keep out the devil, if only he didn’t look. “The statue from the Commendatore’s grave,” she said, shaking the image from her mind. “Anna’s father comes back from the dead.”
* * *
Soon James had to go downstairs and entertain Sir Joseph Banks. From the door, he asked Ravenna if she’d packed anything to wear in her hurry, or would she borrow a dress of Sarah’s?
But she didn’t feel up to company. She was far too exhausted, not to mention disheveled from her five-day carriage ride, but still she felt compelled to support James’s bid for fellowship in the Royal Society. She put on Sarah’s dress. She dug up some shoes. She slipped Christian’s diamonds, along with the vial of Indian potion, into a boot at the back of her clothes-press. When at last she was somewhat presentable, when the baby was fed and everything done, Ravenna permitted herself one small luxury. “I’m yours,” she whispered, pushing Paul’s malachite ring on her finger. “No matter what happens, no matter what comes.”
With Paul’s image stifling her thoughts, she went down to meet James’s guests. They had supper in the dining room, sea trout and roast beef, while Banks completely dominated the discussion. On Sarah’s suggestion, they withdrew to the drawing room after their meal, and when the subject came around to cedar trees, Ravenna knew enough about nurse logs and temperate forests to keep Banks talking for several hours.
By the time the clock struck half-past four, she could barely keep her eyes open. That Salzburg man had deepened the wounds in her battered heart and now she found herself drifting from Banks’s opinions about Pacific foliage, instead stared mutely at the Turkish carpet in remembering Paul’s freckles, his pale, blond brows and the way he’d said
tree
instead of
three
.
Picturing it all with unmerciful accuracy, finally she couldn’t bear it any longer. Banks and the others were chatting about maples, and as they trooped off to view some botanical specimen in the greenhouse by candlelight, nobody noticed when she took James aside and, standing on tiptoe, kissed his cheek.
“Good luck,” she said.
“You’re going to bed?” James’s head tipped forward slightly. “Love, you know I’d break this off, but I’d—”
“No,” she told him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry about me, just…do your thing.”
“Do your thing?” A bemused smile touched James’s lips, and she nearly drowned in his dark gaze when he raised an eyebrow, regarded her skeptically. “A twentieth-century turn of phrase? You invent them, don’t you? Tell me the truth.”
Hearing that long-missed warmth to his voice, she wished he
would
break it off with Banks, that he’d sit down and hold her in the quiet of her room while she poured out her soul to him, told him of her grief, of Christian’s threats…
Rather than suggest it, she shook her head. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and turning toward the door, she was about to make a beeline for bed sheets and comfort when suddenly he stopped her.
Scooping her up in his immense brown hands, he led her forward until she found herself exactly where she wanted to be, nestled to his six-foot-four frame. “I’ve missed you,” he said into her hair. Holding her close, he stood there for a moment, sheltering her, his chest a wall of buff-colored silk that seemed to her comfort personified, and when he drew back—she almost didn’t let him—she felt the tingling heat of his lips pressed in a kiss against her cheek.