The Rebellious Twin (18 page)

Halfway to Graystone Hall, Rissa saw two horses ahead of her, tied to tree branches beside the path. She halted Dublin and heard laughter coming from somewhere close. One of the horses looked like Donegal. The other — was it Stormont’s?

The thought froze her brain.

Clarinda had promised she would keep her distance from Lord Stormont. Well, she hadn’t exactly promised, but Rissa had made it clear she wanted Stormont for herself. How dare Clarinda! But perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps those horses belong to someone else.

A burning curiosity overcame her. She had to know.

Her first thought was to simply ride right up to Stormont and Clarinda, if indeed it was they, and confront them. But after further thought, she decided a much better plan would be to sneak up and see whatever there was to see. She slipped from Dublin — such folly! how would she ever get back up again? — led him off the path and tied his reins to a tree. Moving stealthily through the thick brush and brambles that bordered the path, she drew close, stopped and listened. Nothing. She drew closer, grateful the foliage was heavy here, and peered through the thick branches of a Hawthorne bush.

Shock flew through her. There they were — Stormont and her dear twin — sitting upon a log, and he was trying to kiss her, but she was saying something that sounded like, “No, please don’t,” and pulling away. “I must go,” Rissa clearly heard Clarinda say. “We must meet again,” Stormont replied.

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. And besides, I am not ready for this.” Clarinda stood and gazed down at him. “You should not have kissed me this morning.”

“Do tell.” Stormont appeared unperturbed. “I must leave for London tomorrow, then on to my home in Kent. While I am gone, give some thought to your dear, departed Jeffrey. Ask yourself if you really want to spend the rest of your life mourning for a man who preferred your sister.”

“How calloused!” she cried.

He stood quickly and was on her like a cat, gripping her arms. “Can Jeffrey warm your bed at night?” He shook her slightly, his head bent, his face only inches from hers. “Can he make your pulse race? Can his kiss make you burn for his touch?

“Get away!” Clarinda called, her fists beating on his chest. “Can’t you see, my heart belongs to Jeff — “

Her words were smothered by his mouth, which came down on hers so hungrily Rissa heard her sister give a whimper. Rissa watched, transfixed, as Stormont continued the kiss with barbaric fervor, and Clarinda — oh, this was hard to believe! — continued her struggle to get away. Just watching, Rissa felt a wild swirl in the pit of her stomach. She could almost feel her own mouth burning with the fire kindled by Stormont’s unleashed passion. Clarinda, you’re a fool, she thought, as from a distance she felt her own limbs tremble as Stormont’s hands slid upward, ever upward, from Clarinda’s waist until they pressed against the sides of her breasts. I surrender, Robert, I am yours, she silently called. His touch sang through her veins. She could scarcely believe it when Clarinda broke from the kiss to declare, “Please, enough!” and Stormont let her go and backed away.

The two stood staring at one another, the only sound coming from Stormont’s heavy, uneven breathing. At last he bowed and said lightly, “My apologies. Again I seem to have gotten carried away.”

Clarinda appeared dazed and shaken, unable to say a word.

“Upon my return, I want to see you again,” Stormont declared.

“I don’t think I — ” Clarinda began in a weak voice, but Stormont interrupted.

“Think about it while I am gone. I shall be back the Saturday before Christmas. Meet me Sunday morning, early — the stables at Hollyridge.”

Still sounding as if she was in a daze, Clarinda repeated, “The Sunday before Christmas — early — the stables at Hollyridge.”

“Don’t forget,” Stormont admonished as he swung onto his horse. “Good day, Clarinda.” With an amused twinkle in his eye, he touched his hand to his forehead in a mock salute and rode away.

Swiftly, practically reeling from the stunning sight, Rissa retreated as silently as she could and returned to where she had tethered Dublin. Shock yielded quickly to fury. How dare they! she thought over and over again as she stood off the path, hidden behind a tree, silently waiting until she looked down the path and Clarinda and her horse were gone.

At least they hadn’t seen her.

To further compound her ire, Rissa could not find another tree stump to climb upon so she could get back atop her horse. On foot, leading Dublin, she walked the rest of the distance to Graystone Hall, her thoughts alternating between anger that she had to walk, and rage at her sister. Clarinda would pay for this. How, she wasn’t sure yet, but without doubt her twin would live to regret this act of treachery.

And there was something else to occupy her mind…

Rissa pressed a hand to her bosom. Good. The keys and papers were still there. Translating from French would be an arduous task, but she simply must grit her teeth and do it. She could hardly wait to find out what secrets, if any, those pages in French revealed about Sara Sophia.

As for what to do about Clarinda, that would require some thought. Best not to reveal she had seen her sister in the arms of Stormont, although keeping her silence would not be easy. Her impulse was to vent her rage at Clarinda, then tell their parents, who would surely, and at long last, dispense the ultimate punishment. But what of Stormont? How deeply did he care for Clarinda? Might he not go after her if she was sent away?

There had to be a better way.

An idea began to form in Rissa’s head. If it worked, not only could she wreak revenge, she could cool that fiery passion she had witnessed between Stormont and her sister. Their romance would turn as cold as the ice on the Northern Sea.

If she carried through with her plan, it would be tricky, downright daring, but if it worked, what sweet revenge.

*

Thoughts of Robert Stormont kept crowding Clarinda’s mind. All day, and now into the evening, she had thought of nothing but their encounter, feeling her heart swell whenever she thought of that long, passionate kiss he had given her while they were sitting on the log. She caught her breath, just remembering the warmth of his hands through her dress, how they had started at her waist, then slid slowly upward…

Strange. He had been the one to break away.

A quick knock on the door. Estelle entered. “M’lady, what are you wearing for dinner this evening?”

She had totally forgotten, thanks to Lord Stormont. But this was a surprise. Usually Rissa was the one to chose, and she, not caring, merely went along with her sister’s choice. “What does Lady Rissa want to wear?”

“Lady Rissa ees working at her desk and does not weesh to be disturbed.”

“Are you sure?” Rissa hated to read, hated to write. Up to now, her lovely harlequin desk was mainly just for show.

Estelle rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu! I swear eet’s true. For the last hour she has been pouring over a French-to-English dictionary, translating some document on parchment.”

“What could it be?” Clarinda asked.

“She wouldn’t let me see.”

Clarinda rose purposefully from the settee. “I shall be right back.”

*

The minute Rissa had returned home, she hurried to the classroom that had once been hers and Clarinda’s, but was now Alexander’s. Rummaging through stacks of books, she finally found the tattered copy of a French-English dictionary. Griping it tightly, she hastened to her bed chamber, straight to her desk, where with prodigious effort, and much looking-up of words, she translated the letter. After she was done, she shook her head, hardly believing the astounding words she had just put into English. Gingerly she picked up the letter. Unbelievable! Whoever would have guessed? She would read it again, just in case she had been dreaming.

*

To my dearest Sara Sophia,

It is with a heavy heart that I must leave you this sad missive. Collette, my faithful lady’s maid sits by my bed, writing my words down as I speak, for I, too weak to lift my hand from the counterpane, am deathly ill, not likely to recover. But before I depart this earth, I have one compelling task which, above all else, must be completed. I must explain to you who I am, who you are, and the circumstances which led your dear father and me to our tragic fates in a series of events too painful to relate, and yet I must relate them.

I, your mother, was born Louise Marie de Polignac in Saint-Cloud France in the year of our Lord, 1762. Daughter of the comte de Polignac, I grew up accustomed to privilege and luxury. In 1780 I sealed my marriage with your father, Louis-Armand, comte de Clarmonte, a man of great honor, charm and wealth, whose vast estate at La Rochelle was noted for its fine collection of art and antiques. When I met Louis-Armand, he was a member of the French diplomatic service, serving at the Sardinian court as ambassador to Russia. We fell in love immediately. Later, after we married, he served as an advisor to Marie Antoinette and was active on behalf of the French monarchy. This position proved to be his ultimate downfall, for the peasants revolted during this time and murdered thousands of members of the nobility who had remained loyal to the crown.

Your dear father was among them.

Even now, as I lie in my sick bed, I find the tragic events that lead to his death excruciating to recall, but for your sake, my beloved daughter, I shall recount them. In 1793, during the Reign of Terror, your father was arrested as a monarchist by the National Convention. He was imprisoned for a time, then brought before the Revolutionary tribunal on December 14, 1793. The trial was a mockery. After only minutes, he was condemned as a counter-revolutionary. Two days later, he was forced to ride in a tumbril through the streets of Paris, hands tied behind his back. Along the route, he was jeered at, spit upon by the unruly mob, until he arrived at the place de la Liberte where that ghastly device, the guillotine, awaited him. For his sake, I was there, in disguise, blending with the bloodthirsty crowd that cheered each time that swift, cruel blade dispatched yet another innocent victim. Forcing myself, I watched as your father, his head held high, walked unaided up the steps to the platform. I heard him bravely decline a blindfold. I watched his lips form the words, “I love you,” as he knelt to receive his fate and knew that those, his last words on earth, were meant for me. I watched the blade come down, and his head … ah, I can say no more on the matter, having never fully recovered from the near-unbearable agony I experienced that terrible day as I watched the only man I ever loved put to a horrible death.

During the time of his imprisonment, your father was selfless in thinking of his wife and child first while his efforts to save himself were always second.

To that end, he contacted his old and dear friend, Lord Westerlynn, with whom he had done business for many years. It was through Westerlynn’s brave and selfless assistance that your father was able to smuggle much of his precious artwork from his chateau at La Rochelle to Hollyridge Manor. At the time of your father’s death, I, too, was in dire peril of being arrested by the tribunal. Thus, you and I were forced to flee France, taking only the clothes on our backs. Arranged by Lord Westerlynn, it was an arduous journey, fraught with peril, though I doubt you remember since you were barely four years old at the time.

I shall always be grateful to Lord Westerlynn for risking his own life in order to save us and bring us to England where he gave us this haven, here at Hollyridge Manor.

At present we live in dire peril, should those members of the Tribunal discover where I am and come after me. Since it is my heartfelt wish that your childhood be without fear, I appealed to Lord Westerlynn that he pledge himself to secrecy and not reveal the true circumstances of your birth until your eighteenth birthday, at which time he would give you this letter. By then, I trust your life will no longer be in danger and that the world can know that as an only child you have, in your own right, inherited your father’s wealth and title.

Know that you are Countess Sara Sophia Alexandrine de Clarmonte.

Know that although your father’s entire estate was confiscated, his brave efforts salvaged enough art, mainly in the form of paintings, to enable you to live in luxury the rest of your life. Lord Westerlynn has found a safe place to store the artwork that was smuggled at great peril across the Channel to England. This is one of the things he will tell you about on your eighteenth birthday, at which time you will find yourself a countess, and very wealthy indeed.

And so farewell, my daughter. I leave this cruel world with joy in my heart, for soon I shall be reunited with your beloved father. My only regret is that I shall miss seeing you grow to womanhood. I know already of your sweet disposition, and how bright you are, and I can see by your eyes that you will also be beautiful. May God shine his mercy upon you, and may you lead a rich, happy, worthwhile life.

With heartfelt love,

Your mother, Louise Marie de Clarmonte

*

Astounding! Rissa dropped the letter to her desk and sat back in awe. Who would have ever thought that drab of a girl was a genuine countess?

Sara Sophia would be the toast of London if the ton found out.

But they won’t, not if I have anything to say about it.

And she definitely did. Rissa felt a glow of triumph. It was indeed satisfying to know that she was in control, that the fate of Sara Sophia — wrong! — Countess Sara Sophia Alexandrine de Clarmonte lay in her hands. She owed nothing to Sara Sophia. In fact, given a title and a fortune, the chit would then be a rival for the affections of Lord Stormont, or even that decadent Lord Wentridge. That simply would not do. Of course, it would be a pity when the poor girl left for her dreary position as a governess, never knowing the glory that was truly hers. But life was like that. If God had planned for Sara Sophia to find that letter, then she would have found it.

God meant that letter for me.

Rissa wondered if she should burn the letter. That way, for a certainty, no one would ever know. She touched the letter to the flame of the beeswax candle on her desk, then quickly drew it back, frowning in deep thought. Such an irretrievable step — perhaps she had better not. One never knew. Perhaps the letter might come in handy later on. She would keep it, tucked away at the bottom of her sewing chest, along with the keys.