A Bride by Moonlight (41 page)

“It is an admirable thing to idolize one’s father,” she said. “To wish to be like him.”

“And I succeeded,” said Napier. “Even to the point of taking my father’s old post. And I wonder . . . I wonder if I began to suspect the truth? And Lazonby—so bloody vehement!—even after his conviction was overturned, the bastard wouldn’t back down. So if you want to talk about the black pit of human nature, Lisette, how’s this? What if part of the reason I refused to listen to Lazonby is that, somewhere deep in my soul, I feared facing the truth?”

She shook her head, her mass of red curls shimmering in the afternoon light. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “You are a better man than that.”

He shrugged. “I think my father was bought, Lisette, and not just once or twice. Oh, he did his job—did it well enough to win accolades aplenty. But when it suited him—for whatever reason—yes, I think he let criminals go. And once—
just
once, I pray—he let an innocent man be convicted. That should be unforgivable.”

When he fell quiet a few moments, Lisette spoke again. “And yet it isn’t, quite, is it?” she suggested. “Unforgivable, I mean. Don’t you see, Royden, that perhaps it’s a part of what’s brought us close? These past few weeks—ever since Sir Wilfred’s death—we’ve had to face the truth of what our fathers were. And face the fact that we love them still. That we always will love them.”

“I wish that I could believe that,” he said grimly.

“It is true,” she said. “Whatever else he was, Nicholas Napier was your father. He held you as a child, and picked you up when you fell. He berated you, perhaps, but he also challenged you to better yourself.” Here, she smiled, and cupped his face with her hand. “And he protected you from the frightful . . . what was her name again?”

He managed a smile. “Minter,” he said. “The bounteous Mrs. Minter—though really, a gentleman ought not kiss and tell.”

Lisette looked up, and shot him a little wink. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He turned on his side then, and let his gaze drift over the perfect oval of face. Those wide, blue-green eyes now soft with affection, those extraordinary cheekbones. And that full Cupid’s-bow mouth that begged a man to suck and nibble for hours on end.

But it all paled in comparison to what lay beneath that porcelain-pale skin: a heart that had sustained a world of disillusionment, and yet remained stalwart, pure, and perfect.

“Lisette, I don’t think we have any secrets left,” he said quietly. “Now, are you going to make me—and, apparently, my grandfather—the happiest of men? Are you going to marry me? Or must I chase you to the ends of the earth?”

She looked up at him in shock. “Marry you?” she said. “Oh, Royden! Have you fully considered—”

This time, it was his turn to set a finger to her lips. “I have fully considered how empty my life will be if I cannot win you,” he said firmly. “I considered it very thoroughly this morning whilst you were hanging off that bloody ledge. Indeed, I’ve been considering it ever since we left London—and for a good deal longer than that, perhaps.”

She blinked innocently. “What do you mean, ‘a good deal longer than that?’ ”

He tapped her lips with his finger. “All I need from you now, Lisette, is a yes or a . . . well, a yes. I’m afraid those are the only alternatives left to you—or I’ll be compelled to arrest you for Kissing With the Intent to Defraud a Man of His Heart,” he offered, “or perhaps even an outright violation of the Larceny Act of 1827—since you’ve already succeeded in stealing it.”

“I believe I hear your heart beating very firmly in your chest,” she countered.

“Well then there’s always Teasing With Intent to Cause Grievous Bodily Harm,” he said. “I could tie you to the bed for
weeks
on that charge alone.”

“Grievous bodily harm?” she said incredulously. “I am not responsible for your arm being sliced up.”

“No, but you are responsible for this chronic, throbbing erection I’ve been suffering ever since you unbuttoned your bodice in my office.”

“You are never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“I need a
yes
,” he repeated.

“And I am oddly disposed to give you one, and damn the consequences,” she admitted. “But I would like to know, I think, how long you’ve been stewing in this unremitting lust?”

He cursed softly beneath his breath, then reached over her with his bandaged arm to yank open the drawer of his night table.

“Have at it,” he said, “if it will get me what I want.”

Her brow drawing into a pretty knot, Lisette rolled back onto her elbow, and looked into the drawer. “I see your knife,” she said, “and I’ll allow as how there may be days ahead when I might be tempted to stab you with it.”

“Thank you, but I’ve had enough of that to do me a while,” he murmured. “Just lay it aside.”

The knife landed atop the night table with a heavy
thunk!
“Good heavens!” she said, extracting a long piece of cream-and-emerald cording.

“Don’t carry it off again,” he said darkly. “The next time I have my way with you I’ll be needing it.”

“Yes, I see,” she murmured. “Well! What else have we in here? Someone’s been playing finders keepers, haven’t they?”

Her tiny satin slippers followed—the ones she’d toed off by his hearth—and then half a dozen hairpins. After that came the white tie that threaded through her drawers—he seemed to recall extracting that one with his teeth. Tangled in it was a gold earbob set with a small red stone.

“My garnet earbob!” she said. “I don’t even remember losing that.”

“It caught in my cravat,” he said a little sheepishly, “the day I ripped off your wig—along with two of those hairpins.”

“Ah! Now,
what
is this? Hmm. Might these belong to another lady altogether?” She drew out a pair of gloves, and gave him a little slap across the wrist. “Cream-colored kidskin? I have never owned such a thing.”

“I assure you, my love,” he said a little awkwardly, “that you did. I am not in the habit of collecting items of a personal nature from other women.”

She looked at him with a quizzical smile, and arched one eyebrow.

“Perhaps, my dear, you’ve forgotten?” he suggested. “You left them in my office the day you came to give me my awful thrashing. I believe they were brand new.”

Recognition dawned, and with it came embarrassment. “No, you will never let me forget,” she said again. “Indeed, they are mine. I’d owned them for all of a day, I think, having lost mine and bought new ones outside Liverpool Station.”

“And now,” he said quietly, “they are mine. I show them to you merely as—”

“Trophies of conquest?” she said on a laugh.

“Ah, but a gentleman may not claim a true conquest,” he replied, “until the lady says yes, or . . . yes.”

“Ah, well then,” she said, flinging the gloves aside. “I believe it had better be yes. Those are quite nice gloves, and I think the only way I’ll get them back again is through the Section Three, Paragraph Six of the Marital Properties Act.”

Napier started to tell her there was no such thing in England—that he knew she was just making up tales again, and that he was going to possess her body and soul until the end of time—but Lisette was already kissing him, and the throbbing pain in his arm was finally subsiding. Or rather,
moving
.

To a location a good deal south of his right arm . . .

EPILOGUE

A Case of Good Champagne

A
utumn was edging around Mayfair, the trees along Hyde Park merely hinting at the blaze of color to come. The breeze had turned pleasantly crisp, requiring Lisette to laughingly clap a hand to her hat as her husband spun their open carriage around the corner into Belgrave Place.

He cut an affectionate glance down at her, then, as if on impulse, bent his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “You look radiant this afternoon,” he said.

Hand still on the hat, Lisette turned her face up and felt her breath catch. Napier’s eyes today were dark as indigo—and as always, just a little inscrutable.

Then suddenly, he smiled and her heart melted. “By the way,” he said, “what did Jolley give you just now?”

“Oh, yes. Some sort of letter.” Lisette rummaged in her reticule for the envelope Jolley had pressed into her hand on the way out. “Heavens, it’s from Gwyneth!”

Napier cut a swift glance down at the address. “Ah,” he said quietly. “Is she still in Bordeaux, then?”

Swiftly, Lisette ran her eyes over the lines. “As of Friday last, yes,” she answered. “The hospital, she writes, is more of a . . . a sort of convalescent facility, run by a group of Carmelite sisters. It is in the country, she says, and very peaceful. And look at this—Diana is learning embroidery and tapestry restoration—that must be a quite valuable skill on the Continent?”

“It does sound hopeful,” Napier murmured.

Lisette was still reading. “And—yes, here is the most promising part of all—Diana has begun to talk a little about what happened. She understands about Lord Hepplewood—that he was her father, I mean. Gwen thinks the truth is comforting her a little.”

“I gather she loved him very much.”

“And he loved her, I think,” said Lisette quietly. “Insomuch as a selfish man can love, he provided for her, and tried in some measure to care for her.”

They had all agreed, with Dr. Underwood’s concurrence, that it was best in the end that Diana leave England. She was still liable to be charged with attempted murder should the truth become known beyond the family. Moreover, it was not expected she would ever be entirely well again. Diana’s delicate mind, according to Underwood, had shattered under the strain, the grief, and ultimately, her own guilt.

With Diana’s parentage exposed, Mr. Jeffers had bitterly surrendered his post at Loughford and made it plain he wished no further contact with Diana or his cousins.

At the thought of a criminal proceeding, Miss Willet had recoiled with all the horror Napier predicted. Like Hepplewood’s departing steward, she wanted nothing more to do with her former fiancé or his family. Lady Hepplewood returned to her son’s estate in Northumberland, and Tony resumed his life of debauchery in London, and to a rapidly worsening degree.

Surprisingly, it had been Gwyneth who had stepped up to do the family’s duty. She, along with a nurse chosen by Dr. Underwood, had escorted Diana to France. And there Gwyneth remained.

“She means to return to England next week,” said Lisette, carefully refolding the letter. “We must keep them both in our prayers, and trust we’ve done the right thing.”

“We have done the merciful thing,” Napier reassured her. “And sometimes, mercy is all one can hope for. At least Diana has a measure of peace—and who knows. Perhaps she will recover someday.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as Belgravia became Mayfair, and reached Upper Grosvenor Street shortly thereafter to find the crescent-shaped drive in front of Ruthveyn House empty. The drapes, however, were drawn wide and the front steps appeared freshly swept as if in preparation for morning callers.

“I think they must be at home,” said Lisette, giving her husband’s thigh a reassuring pat. “Are we ready?”

“Utterly,” came the calm reply, followed by the sidelong flash of Napier’s smile. It was meant, she knew, to reassure her; to pledge not just his troth, but his strength.

After lifting his wife down, Napier gave instructions to his tiger before going up the stairs to drop the knocker. His steps, she noted, were as ever swift and certain; he was not a man who blanched in the face of duty.

They were admitted by a fresh-faced footman who cheerfully took their cards. Before he could so much as turn around, however, Lady Anisha swept into the entrance hall attired in one of her flowing tunics, her arms outstretched in welcome.

“Napier!” she said, coming forward to kiss his cheek. “And Miss Ashton!” She paused to grin almost mischievously. “But wait—you’ve altered your name, I think, since last we met?”

“Twice, actually,” Lisette admitted, feeling a little heat rise to her cheeks. “How do you do, Lady Lazonby?”

“
Anisha
,” she said chidingly, returning her attention to Napier, who had thrust a beribboned bottle of wine at her.

“With our compliments,” he said, making her a neat bow, “in belated celebration of your marriage, Anisha—as I believe I promised some months past.”

She took it, glancing at the label. “Heavens,
Perrier-Jouët
!” she said. “My, you do take your promises seriously.”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of Lazonby choking on
cheap
champagne,” said Napier dryly. “My tiger is taking the rest of it round back.”

“How kind you both are. Please, won’t you come back to the conservatory?” She had already set off, speaking over one shoulder as the gossamer scarf floated in her wake. “Lazonby is in the garden with Tom playing ringtaw—and as credibly as any street urchin, I vow. I’ll call him in.”

“I beg you will not disturb him,” said Napier.

“Nonsense,” Anisha replied, throwing open a door to a sunny, vaulted room. “But first I’ll find us some tea. Do go in and be comfortable.”

With Napier at her side, Lisette waded into the lush, cavernous space. Above her head, a green parrot perched, preening his feathers amidst a twining vine that had wrapped around one of the rafters. Below, the room was furnished with deep rattan chairs set amongst fanning palms and feathery ferns. And through the walls of glass one could see a fine vista of the rear gardens.

“What the devil?” Napier uttered.

She turned a little, and caught sight of Lazonby through the glass.

The gentleman crouched on all fours in a patch of lawn, his head cocked at an odd angle, hindquarters aloft, and one eye set low to the ground. Before him, a bit of pavement had been laid and chalked with a large circle. A worthy-looking opponent knelt opposite—a tow-headed lad of perhaps eight years, his arms flung resolutely across his chest.

“Anisha’s youngest,” Napier murmured.

His line of sight properly assessed, Lazonby shot his taw into the ring with a mighty flick, smacking a second marble and sending both off the patch of pavement and into the lawn. Lazonby thrust a fist in the air. The lad fell back into the grass. Then the bickering broke out, along with a bit of good-natured gesturing.

Lisette cut a sidelong glance up at her husband. “And that,” she said wryly, “is the murderous Mr. Evil Incarnate. Funny, he does not look all that wicked shooting marbles.”

Napier grunted. “Ah, well!” he said, setting an arm about her shoulders. “There’s no one I’d sooner eat crow with, my dear, than you.”

Just then Anisha appeared beyond the glass, having apparently gone out the kitchen door. Upon seeing her coming across the garden, Lazonby rose, shook the boy’s hand, and followed his wife inside.

“All hail the mighty conqueror,” announced Anisha good-naturedly as she returned through the conservatory doors.

Lazonby followed, attired in a disheveled cravat, and no coat at all. “I beg your pardon, Lady Saint-Bryce,” he said, bowing elegantly. “One ought not receive a newly minted baroness one’s shirtsleeves and dirt. I shall just go and change.”

“I beg you will not,” she insisted.

“Oh, I think we need not stand on ceremony,” said Anisha. “Do draw up a chair, everyone.”

Sweeping her skirts neatly around, their hostess settled herself on the rattan chaise. Almost at once, however, a pewter-colored tabby leapt into her lap, pressing down the lady’s silk tunic rather tellingly. Lisette’s eyes must have widened.

Anisha flashed a smile. “Oh, dear! Satin has given up my secret,” she murmured, blushing faintly. “And unless I miss my guess, I’m not alone?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lisette cut a furtive glance at her husband, but he was distracted by situating his chair on the uneven flagstone.

“Quick, give me your hand,” Anisha murmured, a trio of thin bracelets jangling as she reached out.

Lisette did so uneasily, remembering what had happened the last time. Anisha turned her hand palm up, and began to study it.

“So,” said Lazonby, turning his attention to Napier. “I hear you mean to retire from government service.”

“I gather they mean to sack me if I do not,” said Napier, his mouth twitching a little.

“Really? Hmm. A pity.” Lazonby shifted in his chair. “Well. What do you make of the weather, then?”

“Sunny and breezy out front,” said Napier dryly. “Any different out back?”

“Actually . . . no.” Lazonby winced. “Aye, dashed awkward, isn’t it, old fellow, after all our years at one another’s throats? Wait—am I to call you Saint-Bryce now?”

“Lord, I don’t care,” said Napier wearily. “Look, let’s have it right out, Lazonby, shall we? I’m late in saying it. I beg your pardon for repeatedly calling you a liar. And for refusing to listen to your claims of innocence. And for my father’s perfidy in—”

Lazonby threw up a hand. “Oh, no, my good fellow! You’re no more responsible for that one than I am for . . . well, whatever mischief my wife is making just now.” He cut Anisha a suspicious glance, then returned his gaze to Napier. “As to the other, well, I apologize for repeatedly calling you a hatchet-faced bast—well, a great many things one oughtn’t repeat in front of ladies.”

Napier thrust out his hand.

Lazonby took it, and gave it a firm shake.

Lisette drew her hand from Anisha’s grasp, and half turned in her chair to face him. “I, too, owe you an apology,” she said quietly. “I treated you abominably, Lazonby. And I regret it.”

“And I regret I led you into the rookeries and abandoned you,” said Lazonby, giving her a little bow from the neck, “and that I slammed you against the wall—er, twice, I think?—and tried to strangle you.”

“You tried to
strangle
her—?” Anisha turned to gape at her husband.

Lazonby shrugged a little witheringly. “Amongst other things,” he admitted, “such as rifling her flat a couple of times and trying like the devil to have her sacked at the
Chronicle
.”

“And I bribed your footman,” Lisette admitted morosely, “and set your curricle afire.”

“What?” Lazonby sat up very straight. “Was that fire your doing, by Jove? Well done! I never guessed.”

“Remind me,” said Napier, turning to Anisha, “never to cross either of them again.”

“Yes, it might be best,” said Anisha, still glowering at Lazonby.

He was twisting uncomfortably in his chair. “Restraint isn’t my strong suit, Nish,” he reminded her. “Don’t whinge over it now, for you knew it when you married me.”

“So I did,” she acknowledged, setting her palms serenely together. “And now here is what you—what we
all
—must do. We must seek a state of
kshama—
of peace and forebearance—and show only kindness to one another. In this way we can negate, in some small measure, all our bad actions of the past.”

“But you’ve never done anything bad,” said her husband, grinning. “It’s just the three of us that are out-and-out rotters.”

She looked at him chidingly. “The teachings of the Vedas are somewhat metaphorical,” she said. “And bad actions include bad thoughts.”

“Do
you
have bad thoughts, old girl?” Lazonby teased.

“Sometimes,” she said tightly, “I do.”

Just then, the fresh-faced footman reappeared with a tea tray, saving Lazonby a further scold. The next quarter hour passed pleasantly as Anisha poured a strong, dark tea and facilitated an amiable conversation.

Despite the faint dread that had followed Lisette here—dread she’d been loathe to confess to her husband—she knew this meeting was something she needed in order to put the dark days truly behind her.

And they
were
behind her, she realized, instinctively resting a hand on her belly, suddenly grateful for Napier’s strength—grateful for the new life his love had given her. Lisette felt as if she had somehow returned to herself—as if she’d become again the ordinary person she had been before everything had gone so terribly awry.

She was stirred from her introspection when laughter broke out in response to something Lazonby had said.

Her worst fears, she saw, were to go unrealized. The gentleman was simply too easygoing—and too happily married—to hold much of a grudge against anyone.

Suddenly, Anisha reached across the table and lifted the cover from a tray of sandwiches. The strong odor of salmon assailed her, and Lisette felt a sudden, barely restrained lurch of nausea.

Anisha’s eyes flared wide with understanding. She dropped the lid back at once.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lisette abruptly. “I feel we’ve kept you too long.”

“Not at all.” But Anisha came at once to her feet. “Still, I know you must be going. Newlyweds always have too many social obligations. Perhaps you might come back for dinner? In a few months, of course.”

Lisette shot her a look of undying gratitude, and soon they were standing in the front hall awaiting Napier’s carriage.

But on the threshold, Napier turned back to address their host. “I wanted you to know, Lazonby,” he said, “that I’ve spent the last two months sorting through my father’s old case files.”

“Good God, man!” Lazonby feigned a look of horror. “One hopes a newly married man might have passed the time doing something a good deal more pleasant.”

Nerves still a little unsettled, Lisette gave a snort of laughter.

“Ah!” Lazonby’s dark brows flew aloft. “The wife makes no complaint, I see. My hat is off to you, old fellow. You’ve been devilish busy.”