Mary Jo Putney (44 page)

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, battling his fatigue. The work he did for his country was more significant than his tangled personal affairs. The endless wars with France were entering a new phase now that Britain had troops on the Iberian Peninsula. If Veseul was the Phoenix, he needed to be stopped once and for all.

Gervase thought for a while, then gave a smile of bleak, humorless satisfaction. There was a way to bring the pieces together. It was time for an Aubynwood house party. Once a year he would invite a number of government ministers and other prominent folk to his estate to relax and discuss politics and make policy without the distractions of London. This year the list would include the Count de Veseul. He would also invite Diana.

He began jotting down names of persons for his secretary to write. If Diana were innocent and loving, he would have her with him, and could begin to introduce her to society. And if she were a traitor, perhaps she would betray herself with Veseul.

At the thought, he halted, a drop of ink poised on the tip of his quill until it fell on the paper in a black, spreading stain. If Diana were not what she seemed, it would be, quite literally, unbearable.

* * *

Traveling only with his servant Bonner, who could act as both valet and groom, Gervase headed north early the next morning. The location his lawyer had given him was a surprise, but of course the Hamiltons would not have been staying at an inn if their home had been on Mull. At least the journey would be shorter than he had expected. They traveled fast and long, changing horses at every posting stop, taking turns at the reins. In the silences, there was ample time to think of Diana, to wonder what the future held.

The farther north they went, the more optimistic Gervase became. Quite simply, he could not believe his mistress to be dishonest; he had seen her with her son and her friends as well as himself, and no actress could counterfeit such warmth over so many months.

There was no proof that she was anything other than what she appeared to be. Veseul had not been observed entering her house. Perhaps the sly apothecary had been incorrect in his identification. The stolen information could have been copied at Whitehall by an underpaid clerk who was looking for extra income. It had been foolish to think otherwise.

He even permitted himself to imagine what life would be like if he bought himself free of his marriage Though technically a courtesan, Diana had never lived the public and flamboyant life of a Harriette Wilson and she should be accepted in most social circles. For Gervase that was not an important consideration, but he wanted Diana to receive all the respect due his wife.

They could have children together. He was genuinely fond of Geoffrey and would see that the boy was well-established. But he also wondered, with increasing urgency, what it would be like to have children of his own, sons and daughters like Diana, whom he could give the constant love and guidance he had never had.

The bright dreams grew through three days of travel.

His wife's residence was not in the village proper, and Gervase was directed out a narrow, rutted track that wound ever higher, ending at an isolated cottage. Wondering what the devil had led Hamilton to bring his daughter to such a remote spot, he left the reins to Bonner and knocked on the heavy oak door.

As he waited for a response, he listened to the wind whispering through the gorse and heather. It seemed a peaceful place, well-tended, with masses of cheerful flowers planted.

If Mary Hamilton was happy here, he wouldn't take her away, merely assure himself that she was well-cared-for. Would she recognize him? If so, he hoped she wouldn't recoil in terror. This meeting would be difficult enough as it was.

The young woman who opened the door was a pretty country lass with dark hair and a face that looked ready to smile, though now she studied the visitor gravely. When he asked for Mary Hamilton, the young woman nodded, then directed him through a door on the left.

His quick glance showed that it was furnished in a simple country style of plain wood and colorful fabrics, cozy and unpretentious, but most of his attention was drawn to the woman standing in front of the window, her back to him. The light was bright outside, obscuring detail, showing only erect posture and a slim figure.

At the sound of his entrance, she turned to face him. It took time for his vision to adjust, for him to see enough to confirm his first, impossible impression.

The woman was Diana.

Chapter 20

Gervase stared at her. "For God's sake, Diana! What are you doing here? Did you wheedle the direction out of my lawyer and come to check that I was doing what I said I would?"

Her face was pale over a soft brown dress whose simplicity emphasized her graceful figure and rich coloring. "I'm here because this is my home, Gervase. I lived here for eight years, and I still own it."

He tried to make sense of her words. "Then... you know Mary Hamilton? Have you been the one taking care of her?"

"No." She moistened dry lips with her tongue, then spoke, her voice almost too low to be heard. "I was christened Mary Elizabeth Diana Lindsay Hamilton. I am your wife, the girl you married against your will."

The silence stretched, then snapped. "Impossible." Gervase felt the numbness of shock even as his voice denied her words. "You are intelligent, normal. You look nothing like her."

"Do you really remember what the girl you married looked like? Think back, then say she couldn't be me." Diana's voice was level, but she was braced against the window frame for support, her fingers white-knuckled on the sill.

As they stood separated by the width of the cheerful room, he tried to connect his memories with the woman before him, the woman he knew so intimately. He had thought the girl in the inn had dark brown hair and brown eyes, but Diana's chestnut hair and lapis eyes were dark in dim light.

Surely he would have remembered Diana's exquisite features, her heart-shaped face? But the face of the girl he had married had been veiled in dark hair, distorted with fear and weeping. She didn't have Diana's lush feminine body, but she'd been scarcely more than a child, her body just beginning to develop.

A slow chill of horror began deep inside him even as he spoke the key denial. "Her mind was afflicted. She could barely speak. Her face was slack, her eyes strange. You could never have looked like that."

"No?" Diana's voice was bitter. "It isn't difficult when one has been drugged into unconsciousness. You were wrong about me, but correct about my father. He was quite, quite mad. When he traveled, he took me along for fear I would lie with half the parish in his absence. When we stayed at an inn, he would force me to take laudanum, waiting until I swallowed it. Then he would lock the door from the outside to be sure I couldn't leave."

She waited for the beginnings of belief on his face before continuing. "Mind you, I can understand why you decided there was something wrong with me. I had difficulty waking up, and when I did, at first I thought you were one of the horrible nightmares that come with laudanum. I couldn't understand or believe what was happening."

Diana halted, unable to continue as she recalled the night in full, agonizing detail. Waking up to the terror of a stranger's invasion; her father's indecent delight at the thought of ridding himself of his loathsome daughter; the strange, unreal ceremony. Then her husband's fury, his implacable strength as he ripped and defiled her body in unimaginable ways.

She shuddered, then spoke with rapid sarcasm, trying to bury the memories. "Of course, if one is going to be raped, there is something to be said for being drenched in laudanum first."

The memories were horrible, but they came from the past and were less important than the present and future. Deliberately she slowed her breathing, which had quickened in remembered panic. "When our paths crossed in London, I was terrified that you recognized me, the way you stared, then came over and took me out of that group. But you never showed any sign of knowing who I was. I suppose that was because you were so sure you had married a simpleton."

He asked flatly, "Did you recognize me?"

"Oh, yes, my lord husband," she said softly, "I recognized you the moment I saw you." The furious face of the man who had so reluctantly married her had been burned indelibly on her brain—the wide cheekbones, the clear light eyes, the chiseled lips twisted into a thin line. She would have known him anywhere, even if half a century had passed.

There had been times in the past when she thought Gervase remote, but they were nothing compared to the bleak withdrawal in his face now. Speaking more to himself than to her, he said, "So you devised the perfect revenge. You trained yourself in harlotry and sought me out, knowing that no man could resist you."

He was staring as if he had never seen her before, as if she were some unspeakable creature from the depths of the earth. "How long did it take you to discover the finest, cruelest method of injuring me? Did you know in advance, or did you only realize it when you came to know me better?"

"Neither!" Diana was startled and suddenly frightened. "I didn't seek you out for revenge. When I came to London, I had no thought—no
desire—
to
meet you. But then I did. Since you wanted me, it seemed like a God-given opportunity to become acquainted, to learn what kind of a man I was married to. And when I did..." Her voice faltered. It was difficult to continue in the face of his revulsion. "And when I did... I came to love you."

"You lying, traitorous bitch." The viciousness in his voice was scalding. "You can actually stand there and play the innocent, even after so many lies."

He paced a few steps closer, his lean body explosive with fury. "And I thought your father mad for saying you had a vile nature. Tell me, Diana, how many men have you lain with, or are there too many to count? How many times have you and your friends laughed and mocked me for my incredible stupidity? Were you working with the Count de Veseul all along? Or did he approach you and you decided that compromising my work as well as my soul would be a delightful and profitable bonus?"

"None of that is true!" she cried. "No one, not even Madeline or Edith, knows that we are married. I have never given my body to Veseul or to any other man. Only to you, my husband. And the first time, I didn't
give
it to you—you took it, against my will." Even in her fear at how disastrously wrong this confrontation was going, she could not restrain the bitterness of her last sentence.

"Do you honestly think I will believe a word you say when you have been deceiving me since the moment I met you?" he asked incredulously. "Only my blind, mind-warping lust kept me from seeing through you. You always seemed too perfect to be true, but I wanted to believe in you." Pain roughened his voice. "My God, how I wanted to believe."

"Of course I deceived you at first," she said with exasperation. "Don't you remember saying that if I ever came near you or any of your properties, or used your name, that you would revoke the settlement and leave me penniless?"

"I should have known that money was at the bottom of it," he said scathingly, "even though you did such a fine job of pretending to be less grasping than most of your kind."

"That's exactly why I wouldn't let you settle a regular income on me," Diana said, hoping that he would see this as a proof of integrity. "It seemed wrong to be taking your money twice over when you didn't know who I was."

"So instead of asking more for yourself, you had your friend Madeline do it, preserving your facade of saintly unconcern."

"What are you talking about?"

His mouth curved up cynically. "Stop playing the innocent. It won't work anymore."

Bewildered, Diana said, "Gervase, the only money I have is the thousand pounds a year you settled on me, and I've saved as much of that as possible for Geoffrey's future."

"Ah, yes, Geoffrey," he said, his voice soft and deadly. "Do you know who the little bastard's father is?"

Quicker than thought, she struck him. Her palm hit his cheek with a flat slapping sound, the force of it rocking him back.

She recoiled, aghast not just at the rage in Gervase's eyes but in horror at herself, that she could be physically violent to someone she loved. For a moment she feared that he would offer violence in return, but with visible effort he held himself absolutely still.