Autumn Rain (21 page)

"Kingsley," Lucien gasped. "Don't—don't bury him."

"Man's delirious."

"No—got to send him back—"

"He's dead."

"Got to take the body—she'll want it—" He choked, then coughed. "Cannot breathe—"

The doctor and Mrs. Wilson exchanged glances, then she leaned over him, speaking directly into his ear. "It's the heat, my lord—there is the danger of cholera—they will wish to burn it."

"No—pay to—pay to seal the box." His hand clutched hers. "Don't let them—bury him here."

She glanced up questioningly, and the doctor shrugged. "Rich boy, wasn't he? Aye—old Kingsley can pay the passage."

His grip relaxed, and once again, Lucien felt himself slipping toward the abyss. To stop his fall into the pit, he forced himself to think of Elinor Kingsley. And he knew she would want him to bring the boy's body home to her, and if he survived, he meant to do it. Later, he would try to discover what had become of young Kingsley's journal. He'd like to take that also. But first he had to live.

CHAPTER 18

She sat there, twisting her hands in her lap, looking down to see the ring he'd given her, not wanting to believe the scarlet-clad officer who stood before her. Beside her, Arthur slumped in his chair, seeming to have shrunk, to have aged even beyond his sixty-five years within a few minutes. He said nothing, nothing at all.

"Believe me, I convey my own as well as Lord Wellington's condolences," the stiffly correct Captain Moore told them. When Baron Kingsley did not respond, he murmured, "Under the circumstances, I shall of course leave you alone in your grief."

Elinor's throat ached, the lump too great to swallow even. As Jeremy showed the captain out, she clutched the arms of her chair, holding on as though she could somehow stem the rising hysteria. Charles was dead-dear, sweet, fun-loving Charley was dead—gone forever. That could not be right—there must've been some mistake—only yesterday, she'd received a letter from him. A letter she'd shared with Arthur—and with Mary—and all the while he'd already been dead for days.

She wanted to scream—to cry out to God that it could not be! Not Charley—anyone else but Charley! Dear God—not Charley!

Without speaking to her, Arthur rose from his chair, and leaning heavily on his cane, he walked slowly from the room. Already word had spread in whispers through the house, and now silence descended, as though everything within had stopped.

Outside, in the street, there was a near carriage wreck, shouted accusations, and angry threats. Moving as though she were in a trance, she rose to close the window against the hot city air. The August sun shone brightly, the street was alive with people who did not know, who continued living their existences without a thought for Charles. She fastened the shutters angrily. Why could it not have been one of them? Why Charley? Why? Why?
Why?

The Earl of Longford would be accompanying his body back, the captain had said. Longford had been wounded also—so grievously that he'd been expected to die. But now it appeared that he was recovering. There was no justice—Charley had perished while a man who cared about nothing had lived. And she could not help feeling a deep bitterness for that.

"My lady—?" Mary inquired timidly from the door. "It's sorry I am fer ye." She entered the room, moving closer. "Are ye all right? Perhaps a bit of laudanum—"

"No." It even hurt to whisper.

"I ordered some tea fer ye."

"Thank you."

There was such a sense of unreality that Elinor thought she had gone mad. She was going to drink tea, she was going to go through the motions of living, knowing that Charley was dead. Three months ago, she was laughing at the antics of the animals in the Tower menagerie with him. Three months ago, she'd sat beside him to watch the splendid fireworks at Vauxhall, had shared ices at Gunter's, had—she couldn't go on thinking about those things—she couldn't. And yet when she closed her eyes, she could see him standing before her, she could hear him again.

I ain't going forever, you know... come back a captain for you...
Now he was not coming back at all. She stood there, seeing his earnest face, that ruffled brown hair, the intense blue eyes, the fun-loving boy Arthur had sent to war because of her.

She looked down to her hand again, to the pearl ring that Arthur had disparaged as looking plain and cheap, saying he did not know why she chose to wear it when she had so many that were finer.
Want you to have something to look at while I am gone, so's you don't forget me.
As if she ever could.

I love you, Nell—if it wasn't for him, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops... I love you, Nell... I love you, Nell...

She felt an intense loss, an intense guilt that tore at her insides as surely as if she had been stabbed—an emptiness as real as if something had been wrenched from her body. She'd not even been able to tell him that she loved him as he'd wanted, and she regretted that now. Not because she loved him like that, but because he'd died for her. And she felt a bitter, overwhelming resentment of Arthur. How dare he waste other's lives?

"I brung the tea," Mary offered. "Ye'd best sit down to drink it."

"Thank you," Elinor murmured absently. "Later, perhaps."

"Cook put a bit extra in it—ter make ye feel better," the maid coaxed. Setting the tea tray down, she took Elinor's arm and gently pushed her toward Arthur's leather chair. "Just a dab—not much, mind ye," she insisted, pouring the dark amber liquid into the cup. Not to be denied, she held the steaming cup to her mistress's lips. "A wee bit—ter revive ye."

But Elinor had no wish to be revived. Still, at Mary's urging, she managed to take a sip. "Ugh—it's not tea!" She choked, pushing it away.

"Aye, it's—just doctored a bit. Now ye'd not have me take it back a-saying ye didn't try it, would ye?" She held the cup to Elinor again. "Got honey and butter and rum—and a touch of spices in it."

"And laudanum—I can taste the laudanum."

"Ye ought ter sleep, so's God can heal yer heart," the woman murmured. "Just a bit more."

"I don't want to be senseless!" Elinor cried. But she did—she wanted to wake up and discover it was but a nightmare. She wanted to discover another letter from Charley in the post. She exhaled heavily, then took the cup and drained it. Maybe she would not wake up at all.

But Mary poured another. "If ye was ter go to sleep down here, I'd cover ye. Come on—one last drink."

Elinor obeyed as though she were a child, then pushed it away. "It's all—I'd take no more." She leaned back, but this time did not close her eyes.

Outside, in the foyer, she could hear voices—a polite dispute of some sort. The butler, backed by the footman, was insisting that "Lady Kingsley is not receiving, sir—there's been a terrible tragedy. Neither she nor his lordship will be going about with you, I'm afraid."

"I heard—saw the captain leaving." Bellamy Town- send was in the door. Behind him, Jeremy protested, hissing that she was unwell, then apologized to her, "I tried, my lady, but—"

"It's all right," she responded woodenly.

Bell had started to go when he'd encountered the captain and heard the news. Instead, he'd changed his mind and chosen to stay, to steal a march on others who would come to offer condolences, but when he saw Elinor, he was stunned. There was no mistaking the utter anguish in her face. And for all that he was an unprincipled rake, he felt a surge of genuine sympathy for her. He crossed the room quickly, then dropped to his knees at her side, taking both her hands.

"Dear lady, I came as soon as I heard. There are no words—" He cut himself off, sensing that it was no time for flowery speeches. "If there is anything I can do— anything I can get for you, you have but to ask."

"There is nothing."

"Arthur—?"

"I know not—he went upstairs."

"I am here for you, Elinor," he said quietly, knowing that he meant it.

It was the first time Bell had ever felt utterly helpless before a woman. Knowing that he would look the fool should any see him, he nonetheless sat there on the carpet, saying nothing, just holding her hands. A shudder, not of revulsion, but rather like a chill, passed through her. He looked up to where her maid hovered.

"She needs a throw—a blanket."

The woman shook her head. "It's the medicine—she'll sleep soon enough."

He nodded, and his fingers tightened over Elinor's.

For the moment, she forgot that she did not really like him, that she merely tolerated him for Arthur and Sally Jersey, that she had only played the acceptable game, the superficial and utterly meaningless social discourse with him. As he held her hands, she took what measure of comfort she could in his presence.

"I am afraid I am poor company," she murmured.

Already the room seemed to be moving around her, and while she felt cold inside, her extremities seemed to warm. Her palms felt hot, her mouth dry. She blinked, trying to reattach herself to reality, then leaned back, closing her eyes against the spinning world.

"I think she's swooning," she heard Bellamy say from a distance.

"It was a lot of laudanum," Mary told him.

With an effort, Elinor forced open her eyes and tried to focus them, struggling to sit up. "Got to lie down," she mumbled thickly. "Got to get to bed." She fell back, defeated by the drug. "Charley's coming home," she whispered through dry lips. "I know it." Then everything went black.

Rising awkwardly, Bell glanced toward the maid. "She ought to be abed. Kingsley—?"

"Locked himself in his bedchamber. But Jeremy—"

The slender young man stepped forward. "Me'n the others'll carry her up."

"No. Just help me get her out of the chair."

"It ain't seemly," the woman protested.

Elinor Kingsley was nearly dead weight, scarce moving, protesting unintelligibly when he lifted her. She lay back over his arm, her neck arched, her head dangling, her red hair spilling toward the floor, and he feared he'd break her neck. Shifting her manfully, he managed to throw her up against his shoulder, bracing her head.

"Where?" he asked tersely.

"Upstairs."

Although he was surprised by her lightness, it was no mean feat to carry her up, and, his vision blocked by her body, he nearly stumbled several times. Behind him, two footmen followed, ready to catch him, and ahead, the maid led the way, throwing open the door, scurrying to turn back the covers on the four-poster bed. He laid her down, then pulled the sheet over her, covering her morning dress.

"How much laudanum did you give her?" he asked curiously. "She's out."

"Fifteen drops in rum tea."

"Egad." Despite the bright hair that spread over the pillow, she was pale against the white sheet. "It must've been a dreadful shock—they were of an age, weren't they?"

Mary nodded. "He turned twenty last week, and she will in September."

"A pity. One could tell he was quite attached to her."

The maid's head came up and she met his eyes soberly. "They grew up together."

"Yes, yes—of course." But he could not ask a servant what he most longed to ask. He could not ask if Elinor had returned young Kingsley's regard—if there had been more than familial devotion between them. "It will take time to ease the pain she and Arthur must feel," he said lamely.

"We all liked the young master," Mary responded. "He was a good, honorable gentleman."

"I did not mean otherwise," he said quietly. He wanted to stay, to be the one there to comfort Elinor Kingsley when she wakened, but he knew he could not. Still, he lingered. "Would you see that Arthur is told I came by?"

"Yes."

He had already intruded beyond anything that was proper, and there was nothing to do but leave. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out a gold guinea and held it out to her. "I should welcome news of how she fares— and Arthur also," he added quickly.

Ignoring the money, she shook her head. "I cannot— it would cause comment." Seeing that his face fell, she relented slightly. "But perhaps Jeremy could tell yer footman..."

"All right."

As he trod the stairs downward, it was perhaps the first time he'd regretted his miserable reputation. He was getting older, he decided—perhaps his salad days were growing to a close. Mayhap it was time he turned his efforts from pursuing every new beauty to loving one.

CHAPTER 19

Stoneleigh: August 20, 1812

The ancient chapel was airless, hot, and oppressive, and more than one of the neighbors come to mourn Charles Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in their seats, fearing they'd faint before the vicar finished waxing eloquent about "the bloom of youth cut short." A few craned their necks to watch as Elinor sat, red-eyed but quiet, between her parents, then whispered among themselves at the curious absence of Lord Kingsley himself. Indeed, but no one, not even those neighbors who'd called to offer condolences, had seen the baron since his return to his country home. There was a rumor afoot that upon hearing of his grandson's death, the old fellow had gone quite mad.. And there were some who had intimated that the attachment between the old lord's wife and his grandson was more than a familial one. But today it was impossible to tell much for Lady Kingsley's tear-streaked face was obscured somewhat by her black veil.

The prayerbook lay precariously in Elinor's lap as her hands clenched and unclenched, creasing the black crape skirt of her mourning dress. She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the wooden box. In there was Charley—or what was left of him. It still did not seem real, not even knowing that his body lay there. Perhaps if she'd been able to see him, to actually bid him farewell, but it was too late, and rationally she knew that after a month of summer heat, she'd not want to. Despite the pitch seal, there was a faintly unpleasant odor coming from the casket, an odor that compounded the discomfort of the closeness.

Arthur should have been there, she thought resentfully. He ought to have to see for himself the pain he had wrought. But he wasn't. He was in his bedchamber, the drapes pulled against the light, sitting alone, staring, leaving her to grieve by herself. Oh, her mama and papa had come, but they did not understand—to them, Charley had merely been Arthur Kingsley's grandson.

Indeed, her father had looked about the huge mansion, shaking his head, saying it was a pity she'd not increased, for now the old man had built himself an empire for naught. "Be like the Romans," he muttered, "gone to ruin for lack of any to rule it."

"As I recall it," she'd retorted, "it was not for
lack
of a ruler, but rather from too many aspirants that Rome was weakened."

"What I mean," he agreed, nodding. "When the old gent's gone, there's going to be a vultures' feeding for the two-thirds as don't go to you. Old man must have distant relations somewheres, you know."

As if she cared. She didn't want his money—she didn't want anything of his—except Charley. And Charley was dead.

A wave of loneliness, of self-pity washed over her, sending a tear trickling down her cheek. Poor Charley. Poor her. Now she would never know if she was but the first passion of his youth, the onset of his salad days, or if she had truly been the love of his life. He'd not even lived long enough for her to know if she could have come to love him as he'd wanted.

Her mother passed an embroidered lawn handkerchief to her, then reached to hold one of her hands. And Elinor wanted to turn against her, to bury her head in her mother's shoulder, and to weep loudly for him. But she couldn't—she was no longer a child, but rather a woman who neared her twentieth birthday. She was past being held by her mother.

Mercifully, the service ended, and the pallbearers, their noses covered with perfumed handkerchiefs, carried poor Charley out into the tiny churchyard. There had been speculation that Arthur Kingsley, in his desire to maintain the image of being born to the manor, would have the boy interred beneath the floor as were the previous owners and their families. But as Arthur had not responded when asked, Elinor had chosen a place outside, a place beneath a spreading oak, one she thought Charles might have liked. As if he even knew it.

They filed out silently, and when she looked up, she could see the earl's scarlet-clad back. In a way, it surprised her that he had come, for she'd been stunned when he accompanied Charley's body home. He still looked terribly ill, pasty beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and his black eyes seemed to be set more deeply, the planes of his face harsher, more angular. He'd been wounded— almost mortally, if the papers could be believed, but she supposed they exaggerated in their need to make heroes. If he'd taken a ball in the lung as reported, he surely would have died, for who had ever heard of a lung healing? She felt a new surge of resentment—how could he have survived the impossible when one bullet took Charles?

Behind the earl was Viscount Townsend. Indeed, but his kindness had surprised her, for he'd nearly haunted her since the day they'd heard about Charles. He'd even gone so far as to wangle an invitation to stay with Lord Leighton nearby, that he might support her through this, he said. It was as though Charley's death had somehow made him aware of his own mortality, and he was bent on rediscovering his own soul. Now, instead of flirting outrageously, instead of importuning at every available instant, he was actually showing himself capable of compassion.

Even Leighton, whom she had barely known before, had been kindness itself, riding over daily to inquire as to whether there was anything he could do for either her or Arthur. But Arthur would not see him. Arthur was shutting her and everyone else out, punishing her still for his own folly.

The air was warm, the sun bright, the sky blue and cloudless—as though the Power that was did not care that Charles Kingsley had perished, as though He decreed that life went on regardless of the pain.

"Best go on," her father murmured, taking her arm. "No need to watch, puss."

"Oh, Papa—I cannot! I—" As the earth was shoveled over the wooden box, she lost her composure completely. "No! Not yet!" she cried hysterically, pulling away. "Not yet!"

Lucien, who'd watched such scenes a hundred times and more, moved between her and the grave, blocking her way. Catching her with his good arm, he held her apart from him, pushing her back. She struggled, and for a moment, he reeled, then righted himself.

"There's naught more you can do for him, Lady Kingsley," he said. Despite the gruffness, there was a measure of sympathy in his voice. "Go with your parents."

"But—" Her lower lip quivered and tears spilled freely from her eyes.

"Go on—I will see it done." His black eyes met hers for a moment. "You don't want to remember this." When she did not move, he added gently, "He'd have you think of him as he was, you know." Looking past her to her father, he nodded. "Take her home, will you?"

With her father pulling, she half-stumbled away, and Lucien could hear Ashton muttering, "Don't know who the devil he thinks he is, telling me what's right to do, puss."

Bellamy Townsend started after her, but Lucien stopped him. "Leave her to grieve alone a bit, Bell."

"It's none of your affair!" the other man retorted. Then, he turned back apologetically. "Sorry—you been through hell also, haven't you?"

"Something like it." They faced each other across the open grave. For a moment, Lucien looked down as a laborer tossed a shovelful of earth over Charles Kingsley's casket, obscuring a corner of it. "Something like it," he repeated softly.

"She took it hard, you know," Bell murmured. "Boy meant a lot to her. Children together, I guess."

"She meant a lot to him also."

Bellamy's gray eyes rested on the bulky bandage that stretched the shoulder of Longford's regimental jacket. "Heard you'd nearly bought the beyond yourself."

"So they tell me."

"Heard it was the lung—that you were spouting blood."

"Bell"—Lucien growled uncomfortably, then relented enough to tell him shortly—"it seems to have healed itself once it filled with air again."

"Cool about it—say that for you. Ought to earn you another medal from Prinny, from what I hear—wouldn't even surprise me if you were to be received now."

"I don't mean to put it to the touch," Lucien muttered dryly.

"Thinking about rusticating, are you?"

There was no mistaking the disappointment in the other man's voice, for it was obvious Bell wanted no rival, no matter how unlikely. Lucien smiled faintly and nodded. "Let us just say I mean to rest awhile."

"You going to be at home this afternoon?" Leighton asked, interrupting them.

"I can scarce go anywhere," Lucien retorted, then sighed. "I suppose you were thinking of visiting me?"

"Only if you are up to it."

Lucien looked down to where the box was nearly covered now. "My dear Leighton, I am going to get myself utterly, totally foxed—so disguised that I do not mean to know my own name," he declared flatly, "but you and Bell are welcome to join me in the enterprise."

"Man ought not to drink alone," Leighton murmured solemnly. "Bell?"

Townsend watched Thomas Ashton help his daughter into a small, open carriage for the ride back to the house. Behind them, Elinor's mother and sisters mounted a larger conveyance. If he visited her today, he would be intruding, and he knew it. Besides, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he also knew Longford was right-Elinor Kingsley needed time, and in putting himself constantly forward, he was probably making her heartily sick of him.

"Might as well—got nothing else to do at the moment."

Lucien followed his gaze, thinking that he ought to take Charles Kingsley's journal to her. On the morrow, when he felt better perhaps...

It had been a long time since Bell had been in any of Lucien's houses, not since the affair with Diana. He looked around the elegantly appointed saloon approvingly. "Surprised me to hear you'd bought an estate in Cornwall," he murmured.

Lucien shrugged. "It was Langston's—poor fellow was quite run off his legs—and I could not complain of the price. But let us move to the bookroom—it's better suited to the sport of drinking." He held the door open, and as Bellamy passed, he said, "I rather favor the wildness of the coast, you know. When it storms, the waves beat upon the rocks with a fury you cannot imagine. It rather soothes one's soul."

"Thankfully, I cannot say it has stormed since my arrival."

"Bell prefers only the maelstroms of his own making," Leighton observed, dropping into a leather-covered chair.

Townsend took a chair opposite, and twisted his head to look back to where Lucien's shaking hand poured port. "Actually, I have been thinking of settling down."

Lucien's eyebrows raised. "You? I shouldn't think the life would suit you, Bell."

Townsend nodded. "I'm thinking of marrying Elinor Kingsley," he admitted. "Getting too old for the pursuit—pretty soon I'll be an old roue. Nothing worse than that, you know—always hate to see the old gents in their corsets trying to play the lover."

Lucien's hand stopped midair. "I was under the impression that Kingsley was merely indisposed—not dead."

"He ain't going to last forever—can't. Besides, nobody's seen him since word came about the boy."

"My dear Bell," Leighton advised him, "those kind do last forever—think of our poor king. How long has he been mad this time?—nearly two years, I think—and that does not count—"

"It's not your affair, George! Besides, the old gent's sixty-five if he's got a day on him."

"It's my affair if you mean to set up a flirtation from my house," George retorted. "I'll not countenance it."

"The honorable Leighton." Bellamy sneered. "Tell me—are all the Maxwells so devilish straitlaced? Must be that dour Scots upbringing, I suppose. I always heard that the Presbyterians were a bloodless lot."

"He hasn't been to Scotland in years, Bell," Lucien murmured, carrying three big cups and two bottles of the fortified wine to them. "He doesn't like the cold."

Leighton took his and stared at the cup for a moment.

"Not too elegant, Luce. Must be two glasses' worth in here."

But Bell took his and grinned. "Man's into some serious drinking, George—when he says he means to get foxed, he means it, don't you, Luce?"

"Precisely."

"Shoulder paining you?" George asked Longford.

"Yes. Interminably." Lucien pulled a chair up between them, then reached for his own cup, wincing. Leaning back, he lifted it, murmuring, "May Russia swallow Boney before the year is out. Pray for a hard winter, gentlemen."

Bell snorted. "Don't you have anything but the war to think on, Luce? It's over for you, you know." Nonetheless, he drank to it.

"I should like to see you go there," Leighton observed.

"Me? Un-uhhh. I should not be able to take my tailor, I'm afraid. Besides, I don't want a ball in me. Look at Luce—fellow's deuced peaked—and dashed fortunate to be breathing."

"Your patriotism overwhelms me, Bellamy," Lucien observed sardonically.

Thinking that the other two might get into it over the war, Leighton tried to turn the subject back to Elinor Kingsley. "So you came in pursuit of the baroness," he murmured, sipping of his port. "And I thought it was my friendship you courted. I agree with Luce, you know—you are better advised to wait for the old gent to pass on."

"Going to steal the march," Bell insisted. "Bound to be a passel of fortune hunters after her when he's gone. Besides, the woman's an innocent, George—an utter innocent! She won't know the bad ones from the good ones."

"And you mean to be there to help her sort them out?" Lucien queried incredulously. "My dear Bell, who's going to warn her about you?"

"She cannot be a complete innocent," George decided.

"Oh, I own that I thought Longford—that there was something there—but I have since concluded I was mistaken. Devilish straitlaced female, if you would have the truth of it." Townsend looked at Leighton over the rim of his cup. "If I'm not mistaken, I don't think she even knows how it's done."

"Don't be absurd, Bell—the gel's been wed an age," George retorted.

"Look, I've been flirting with her for months—and she can't even get those interesting
entendres
a man throws out to show his intentions."

Lucien shrugged. "Maybe she's stupid—or wise. If she pretends not to understand, she doesn't have to answer-did you never think of that?"

"She's not stupid," Bell insisted truculently. "Got brains to match the beauty—spouts Latin and Greek as good as old Master Downey in grammar school. But—" He fixed his eyes on the earl, who now appeared more absorbed in his port than anything. "But I
would
like to know what she was doing at your house that time, you know—and you ain't fobbing me off that it was Harriette Wilson I saw."