Beloved (6 page)

She held out the bag in one hand, the ruby bauble in the other. “This was delivered a short while ago.”

“Yes, miss.”

“There was no note?”

“No, miss.”

“You don’t know who sent this?”

“No, miss.”

Yes, miss. No, miss.
Ella swallowed the irritation Crabley always made her feel. She’d been unable to see who came to the door—or to make out
more than her own name amid the low exchange. Her reason for looking down from the gallery at all was that she’d hoped to
get a peek at the beastly Wokinghams. “Was the messenger liveried?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Speak, then!” She rolled in her lips, then said, “I am too sharp sometimes, Crabley. Forgive me. This is a puzzle. I merely
wondered if you could help me decide who sent such a gift.” And prove that she wasn’t imagining what she thought she smelled.

“Strange attire,” Crabley said, setting his short legs apart and clasping his hands behind his back. He frowned in concentration.
“Foreign, if you ask me.”

“I am asking you,” Ella said softly.

“Definitely foreign. Never did hold with foreigners myself. Not to be trusted—particularly that type. Turbans and tunics and
baggy trousers. Most unsuitable in a servant.”

Ella almost laughed aloud—with joy, not mirth. She pretended to be interested in the rows of Baccarat glasses in cabinets
along one wall. “But there was no note, Crabley?”

“No, miss.”

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Did this servant give his name?”

“No, miss.”

Patience.
“Very well, thank you, Crabley. You’ve been most helpful.”

She hadn’t been mistaken. Once more she held the bag to her nose. Roses. Rose-scented incense—the kind she’d smelled at Saber’s
house. And Bigun must have delivered the gift, which, in turn, must have been sent by Saber.

“I must return upstairs.” And she must go at once to Saber and thank him for the gift. This was his way of asking her to forget
their difficulties and go forward. She could scarcely breathe for happiness.

“Miss Ella,” Crabley said as she went to open the door. “The foreign gentleman said I should tell you and no other.”

She spun around. “Tell me what?”

“He said I should wait for an appropriate moment to tell you his master’s comments. His master knows you will understand.”

Ella held the bag to her breast. “He said his master believes you need no written message, since you will look at the pendant
and understand what it represents.”

She stared from Crabley’s little black eyes to the ruby. “I do not know.”

Crabley cleared his throat. “You don’t know what’s happened to this man who gave you the gift—so the servant says. He has
suffered, and it’s changed him.”

Ella felt her way to sit in Crabley’s leather chair. “I do know that. I know it well. What does it mean?”

“The servant was instructed to let you know that the man you knew is gone. Someone you would hate is in his place now. More
tender than the heart that sends it. That’s what he said I was to say. The foreigner’s master tells you that the red stone
star is more tender than the heart that sent it.”

She looked at the ruby in her palm. “How can he think such a thing?”

Crabley didn’t respond. “Was that all?”

“If you have kind thoughts of him still, this person doesn’t want them. You’re to look at the stone and remember how cold
it is. Don’t try again. That was the most important instruction, he said. You’re not to try again, whatever that means. The
gift is for the past and in thanks.” Crabley coughed and looked blankly at the ceiling. “An exotic star for an exotic girl—one
he will see whenever he looks at a night sky. A girl whose countenance will shine for him wherever he is, wherever he looks.
There can be nothing more between you. That was the rest of the message.”

Ella pressed a hand to her stomach. “Such a long message,” she whispered.

“I have an excellent memory, Miss Ella.”

Hiding tears, Ella got to her feet and walked past Crabley with her face bowed. “Thank you,” she told him. “I’m sorry I disturbed
you.” The bag and ruby must be returned.

“The foreign gentleman had a message of his own,” Crab-ley said.

Ella paused, but didn’t trust herself to turn around.

“He said—rather presumptuously, if you ask me—but he said proud people could also be foolish people. He said you should consider
that his master misjudges the condition of his own heart. That’s what he said.”

Powdered and pompous. Greville, Lord Wokingham, strutted into the study, his paunchy body upthrust by corsets into a pigeonlike
form. No doubt his blue velvet jacket had cost a pretty penny, and the pink satin waistcoat embroidered with orange roses.
His flamboyantly checked trousers didn’t hide scrawny legs—or a widely braced stance and tottering gait.

Repulsive, Struan decided instantly, before meeting bloodshot eyes sunk into fleshy folds. One look into those eyes and he
knew true revulsion—and he recalled the meeting to which Wokingham had referred.

As if reading Struan’s thoughts, Wokingham sputtered, “Esterhazy’s musicale. Seems like yesterday.”

“More than four years ago,” Struan said shortly. Wokingham rubbed his drink-mottled nose. Slashes of bright rouge colored
his flabby cheeks. “Your friend Franchot made quite a splash, eh. And it all began right there at Chandos House. Strange life,
what?”

Struan nodded briefly. “Strange. But satisfactorily just in this case.” His lifelong friend Calum Innes had seen his bride
for the first time that night. And he’d begun the journey to resume his rightful place as Duke of Franchot—a title that had
been stolen from him shortly after his birth.

“Hmm, well, I’d like you to meet your future, er, son-inlaw?” Wokingham guffawed, leaned over his belly to slap in the general
direction of his knees, and staggered to fall into a chair. “Don’t mind if I sit down, d’you?”

“Not at all,” Struan said, distractedly eyeing the man who had stood silently behind Wokingham. “Good afternoon to you, sir.
I take it you are Pomeroy? I don’t believe I heard what other name you use.”

“Wokingham,” the man said shortly. “It’s also our family name. Pom to my friends.”

His father’s rumbling laugh burst forth again. “The Hon. Pom, they call him. My right hand, I can tell you. Couldn’t run things
without him. That gel of yours will be getting a prize.”

The “prize” looked levelly back at Struan. Of average height and thin, there was about him a boneless quality—as if he would
glide rather than walk. Thin hair that might be sand-colored shone in pomaded brown furrows against a white skull. Blond brows
arched to sharp peaks that dipped to meet the corners of his eyes at one aspect, and arrowed toward an exceedingly long nose
at the other. A rim of white ringed the man’s small mouth. But it was the eyes that turned Struan’s stomach. Utterly colorless,
the Hon. Pom’s eyes held no light. His stare was a flat as a snake’s.

“I’d offer you refreshment,” Struan said, hearing his words explode with his haste to be rid of these people. “Unfortunately,
I’ve had something unexpected come up. I’m sure you understand.”

Pomeroy approached, his chin pushed forward. He shot out a hand. “Good to meet you, Hunsingore. Pater’s told me a great deal
about you and your family.”

Without thinking, Struan shook hands. Only with difficulty did he hold back an exclamation. The hand that enfolded his had
the softness of a woman’s. Soft, formless, weak and hot. Hot sweat coated Struan’s palm.

Those hands touching Ella?

Never.

Struan swallowed. “We’re flattered—that is, Ella’s mother and I are flattered at your interest in Ella. Of course—”

“You’re probably wondering what made us take this step,” Wokingham interrupted. “Long story, and I won’t bore you with all
of it. Pom caught a glimpse or two of Ella. Love at first sight and all that.”

“Glimpse? I can’t imagine—”

“Shopping,” Pomeroy said smoothly. “In Bond Street. Saw her and made inquiries. Simple as that.”

“My boy knows what he wants when he sees it,” Wokingham said, his fat lips pushed out. “No point beating about the bush, I
say. If Pom’s ready to find the same fetching little baggage waiting in his bed every night, then who are we to argue, eh?”

Struan gaped. Fetching little
baggage?
His Ella? Pomeroy produced a small, purple velvet box from his pocket and opened it with a flourish. “Call her in, would
you, old chap? Never met a female who didn’t return a fella’s ardor with this sort of encouragement.”

A diamond-encircled sapphire as large as his own thumb-nail winked at Struan. “Er, very nice. Meant to thank you for your
gift.”

“Could hardly thank us for it before we presented it, what?” Wokingham chuckled hugely.

Struan collected himself and, at the same time, checked any further reference to the ruby in the gold bag. Damn, but it was
impossible dealing with marriageable daughters. Evidently this slimy, disgusting excuse for a man wasn’t the only one to have
caught a “glimpse” of Ella. She must be locked away at once. Sent back to Scotland. Made to wear a thick veil…

He was losing his mind!

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Wokingham said. “If there’s any chance of the gel being disappointed about missing the Season,
Pom can take her about a bit. She’ll enjoy it all even more on his arm. After all, she’ll be the envy of every unattached,
grasping female in London. And they’re all grasping, what?”

Struan cleared his throat. “We are flattered by your interest, but—”

“You’re overwhelmed,” Wokingham flapped a beringed hand. “We aren’t doing this blindly, old chap. Let’s be blunt. After all,
we’re all men together here. Saw the gel myself. Fine piece, I must say. My boy’s got good taste.”

“I hardly—”

“We’ll take pleasure in decking her out, won’t we, Pom? My boy will supervise that aspect of things himself.” A huge wink
eclipsed one reddened eye. “Of course, when he’s got the unwrapped material in front of him, so to speak, he may forget to
wrap it up again in time to go anywhere, what?” Laughter shook Wokingham’s belly.

Deep loathing made Struan’s legs weak. It made his temper roar. “I think this meeting is over,” he said carefully. The less
fuss he made, the less chance there was that Justine or Ella would hear and be exposed to this display. “I’ll summon my butler
to show you out.”

“Out?” Wokingham struggled to his feet. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that, m’boy? Out? We’re to be relatives. A man
doesn’t show his relatives out before they’re ready to go.”

“This man shows out whomever he pleases, whenever he pleases.”

Pomeroy strolled closer to Struan. “Evidently you don’t understand. I’ve seen what I want and I intend to get it. For the
first time in my life I want to make a slut into an honest woman. I haven’t been ready until now.”

Struan could not believe he had heard correctly. “Been too young until now,” Wokingham said, apparently oblivious to his son’s
outright insult to a young female who was beyond reproach. “With his fortieth birthday behind him, he recognizes it’s time
to produce some offspring. Might as well choose a pair of thighs that promise endless entertain- ment in the process, what?
To say nothing of the chit’s other areas of possibility. Youth, succulent little tits—and an arse to match, I’ll wager.” The
man finished with his tongue held between his teeth.

One more second and Struan would call them out—both of them. To do so would be more than they deserved. One could not deal
in matters of honor with men who had no honor. “Out,” he told them succinctly. “Never return. Put your bauble back in your
pocket, sir, and go. How dare you suggest that an innocent creature such as Ella is a
slut
?
Out!
”

Pomeroy closed the ring box and tossed it casually upon the desk. “We’re offering to take her off your hands and pay a fair
price for the goods. With certain considerations in the way of a dowry, of course.”

“Out!”

“After all,” Pomeroy remarked, “it isn’t as if she’s got a solid pedigree. You know what we mean.”

Cold chased the heat from Struan’s skin. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, watching their reactions with great care.
“And neither, I’ll wager, do you. This entire incident is an insult to the Rossmaras and it will not be forgotten.”

Wokingham went to his son’s side. Any trace of humor had disappeared from his face. “Insult? When did the truth become insulting?
We’re offering to take the female off your hands. Might not be so easily accomplished with any other eligible male—not under
the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

Struan forced his hands to remain relaxed. “Why don’t you explain this to me?”

“Oh”—Pomeroy gestured loosely with a pale hand— “enough said, really, don’t y’think? After all, we’re all gentlemen here.
Certainly wouldn’t want to speak aloud of a ruinous past in one so physically titillatin’ as Ella, would we?”

They knew something. Perhaps not everything, but some- thing. Struan had convinced himself that a girl seen fleetingly in
a certain setting when she was not even sixteen, was unlikely to be recalled in entirely different circumstances more than
four years later. And she had lived a sheltered life ever since. She was not known in Society.

“Got your attention, have we?” Wokingham asked fatuously.

The man’s satisfaction inflamed Struan. “Your innuendos make no sense, but they do make it necessary for me to issue a warning
to both of you. I am tempted to call you out. Push me further and the temptation will become irresistible.”

Pomeroy smiled—an exceedingly unpleasant sight. “Creditable attempt, Hunsingore. Most might cringe and run away—assume they
were mistaken. Unfortunately for you, we know we are not mistaken. Oh, have no fear, our intelligence was gained in the most
discreet manner. Does the term ‘lady tailor’ mean something to you?”

Wokingham giggled and hitched at the crotch of his trousers. “A certain innovative brothel, eh, Hunsingore. Expert work by
ladies accomplished in satisfying gentlemen of any size—or
taste
?” He giggled again. “And entertainments not to be missed, eh?”