Captive Splendors (6 page)

“Hale and hearty and looking forward to the day they see you again. When are you coming back to Java? Where are you bound now?” Regan asked, clapping his son on the back.

“Wherever the sea takes me. The affairs of the Dutch East India Company are in capable hands. I told them not to expect me for at least a year.”

A momentary twinge tugged at Regan. The boy was free to do what he wanted whenever he wanted to. His own carefree days were long behind him. He felt Sirena grow still beside him. How well she knew him. She, too, had sensed his brief, restless urge. He smiled down into her eyes, all thoughts of envy and freedom forgotten. She was all the pleasure he would ever need.

“So,” Regan said jovially to his oldest son, “you haven't cut a wide enough swath with the gentle sex, is that it?”

“From Java to Sumatra,” Caleb laughed. “I thought I would take a chance and see what America has to offer.”

“They have wild Indians in America,” Sirena remarked fearfully.

“And do you think my son is no match for an Indian? For shame, Sirena,” Regan chided.

“It might be advisable if you laid back your rapier and took up the bow and arrow. I don't think the women of the world will take to a baldheaded Dutchman.” Sirena smiled fondly at Caleb.

Malcolm Weatherly stood on the sidelines, a smile pasted on his face. He thought everyone was displaying incredibly bad manners. Wren's parents hadn't even acknowledged him. The Baroness, despite her bloated condition, had not seen fit to welcome either him or her guests, and Wren was conspicuously absent. And this overgrown clod of a Dutchman was getting all the attention he himself should be getting as Wren's intended. He noticed Caleb's attire, and he admitted to himself that the man's easy elegance annoyed him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what his tailor did, he would never look like the giant standing in the middle of the room. He watched as father and son lit cigars without offering him one. How long, he wondered, could he keep this ridiculous smile on his face? Peasants, the lot of them! He needed a drink. If these bumpkins could smoke cigars in Baroness Sinclair's parlor, then he could have a drink.

Seeing Malcolm's movement to the liquor cabinet, Sirena turned and smiled winningly, her emerald eyes glowing. “You must excuse our bad manners.” Her voice was low, musical—almost seductive, Malcolm thought as his eyes widened in interest. “We haven't seen our son in a long time, and it's just that we're happy to be together again under the same roof. I'm sure you understand and will forgive us. Pour me a glass of wine,” she said boldly. “And then let us sit here and have a chat. By the way, I'm Sirena van der Rhys, and the fair-haired man is my husband, Regan, and, of course, you're Malcolm Weatherly. Wren spoke of you this morning.” Sirena nodded sweetly as she accepted the glass of wine and downed it in one swallow, to Malcolm's acute discomfort. She wanted to tell him to fill her glass again, because she would need the dulling effect of the wine to get through this luncheon. What a fop he was, she thought with distaste. Oh, Wren, how could you?

“Would you care for another glass of wine?” Malcolm asked quietly. She must be a sot, he thought maliciously.

“If you insist,” Sirena said, holding out the goblet. “Fill it to the brim.”

To the brim! Malcolm's mind raced. If she drinks, what does van der Rhys do? he wondered as he handed the glass to her, careful not to spill any of the burnished liquid.

Sirena allowed her soft hand to come in contact with Malcolm's long, slender fingers. She glared directly into his eyes and then coyly lowered her lashes. If he was the fool she thought he was, he would take this as a hidden invitation to a deepening friendship, or worse. She preferred not to put a name to whatever he might think it was. She sipped at the wine, the glass held provocatively in her hands as she met his eyes repeatedly.

Regan gave Caleb a gentle nudge. “Another five minutes with Sirena, and the dandy will forget why he's here. A wager, Cal?”

“I may have not learned too much, Father, but I did learn that it's only a fool who would lay odds against Sirena.” Both men threw back their heads, the slim cigars clamped between strong white teeth, and laughed uproariously.

Startled, Sirena turned to look at the two men she loved most in her life. She gasped, and then a warm, delicious feeling spread through her entire body. They were hers, Regan by marriage and Caleb by an invisible bond established between them long ago. They belonged to her, for now and forever. The delicious aura stayed with her till Regan and Caleb glanced at her again, each giving her a sly wink. They knew what she was doing with Malcolm, and both of them approved.

This is a woman, Malcolm thought wildly. And I'm man enough to handle any woman. Women always fell at his feet, begging for his favors. Even Lady Elizabeth Rice, who could count a king among her lovers, was so smitten with him that she had confided the secret of the King's jeweled collar. But Sirena would never beg for favors, nor would she grant any. This woman would never fall at a man's feet, his or anyone else's. Sirena was a woman worthy of a man's challenge.

“What are you thinking, Malcolm?” Sirena purred, her eyes boldly meeting his.

“I was thinking that now I know where Wren acquired her beauty and grace.” He smiled broadly, moving a step closer so that he could delight in the delicate, elusive scent of her perfume.

Sirena lowered her eyes to hide their dangerous glitter. Wren had her beauty, indeed! Was it possible that Malcolm didn't know Wren wasn't her and Regan's daughter? As she sipped her wine, Sirena speculated. If Malcolm was a bounder, and from every indication, along with Tyler's word, he was, then he must think he was wooing an heiress. She wondered if his feelings for Wren would be as ardent if he knew that the van der Rhyses were under no obligation to bestow a dowry on Wren or otherwise include her in any inheritance. What would his reaction be if she told him?

Sirena glanced over at Caleb again and was surprised to note that his attention was directed on the doorway behind her instead of on Regan, who was exuberantly describing the “civilization” taking place on Java since Cal had last been there. Curiously, Sirena turned and saw that Tyler had entered the drawing room with Camilla on his arm. She turned back to Caleb, whose expression was something bordering between astonishment and disappointment at Camilla's obvious pregnancy. So, Sirena thought, the young pup half expected that Camilla would be waiting for him to return to her after all these years. Think again, Cal. Camilla has other things on her mind.

Smiling, Sirena made the first move toward Camilla and clasped her in a fond embrace. The old wounds because of Regan had long since healed between them, and Camilla's acceptance of Wren into her household had firmed their friendship. “You're more lovely than ever,” Sirena said warmly. “Approaching motherhood certainly becomes you. Doesn't it, Regan?” She turned to her husband, who she knew was waiting to see how she would greet his ex-wife before committing himself to any display of emotion.

Looking at Camilla, Regan was hard pressed to believe he had once been married to her so many years ago. She still looked barely more than the nineteen years of age she had been when they had first met. Yellow-haired and with violet eyes whose look of innocence belied her actual experience, Camilla was still as fetching a woman as he had ever seen, aside from Sirena, of course. He was quick to note the expression on Caleb's face, and it occurred to him to wonder again if there had ever been anything between Camilla and his son. Regan sighed. That was long ago, and he really didn't want to know. However, he couldn't have blamed Caleb for his interest in Camilla. She had been and still was as graceful and winsome as a spring daffodil.

Regan stepped forward and put his arms around Camilla, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “Sirena is right, little one. You've never been lovelier.”

Tyler beamed with pride over his wife and inwardly felt greatly relieved that the van der Rhyses seemed to hold no ill will against her, which could have put a strain on his friendship for them. He knew all about Camilla's past, her duping Regan into marriage with her, her affair with Caleb, and none of it meant anything to him. He knew, without a doubt, that he had always been Camilla's one true love.

Only Malcolm stood back from the chatter and bandied compliments. When he did allow his eyes to travel to Camilla, he was careful to avoid looking at her swollen midsection. His lip curled in spite of himself as he mused that pregnant women who displayed themselves in public were as appealing as sows with suckling piglets. He noticed that he had come under Sirena's green gaze and occupied himself with the contents of his wineglass. He hoped she wasn't capable of reading his mind.

Sirena's one glance at Malcolm told her all she needed to know. She had seen that same contempt for women on another man's face, a man she had married to spite Regan. Stephan Langdon, Camilla's father, had died at the point of her own sword for his contempt of women, and her hand now itched for the weight of a rapier to put an end to Malcolm Weatherly. She knew, beyond a doubt, that she would never allow a marriage between him and Wren to take place. If she had had any doubts before, they were all behind her now. Wren, too, had suffered at Stephan's hands, and Sirena wondered why she couldn't see the sadistic similarities between the two men.

As though bidden by her thoughts, Wren and Sara entered the drawing room. Without a glance in Sirena's direction, and ignoring Malcolm completely, Wren moved toward Regan, the silk of her apricot gown rustling softly. Sirena glanced at Caleb, who seemed to have forgotten his disappointment over Camilla and not even to have noticed Sara, whose white-blond hair and pearly complexion was set off by the delicate blue shading of her gown. Caleb's attention was centered on Wren, who by now was firmly within Regan's embrace. Sirena softened toward the daughter of her heart when she saw the barely disguised look of pain leave Regan's eyes.

Malcolm carefully avoided Sara's searching gaze. He never knew how she had managed to become friends with Wren so soon after he had refused to accede to her pleas to meet her whenever she could slip out of the academy. How fortunate that he had discovered her father's falling from grace with the Crown and his near bankruptcy. Imagine, if he had saddled himself with Sara before he had learned the truth about her family's finances! It was impossible for him to fathom why she had befriended Wren when she knew he had thrown her over for the amber-eyed girl. It really didn't matter to him that Sara was Wren's friend as long as she kept quiet about having been his lover. Malcolm smiled, a churlish lifting of the lip that showed strong white teeth. Sara would never spill that sack of beans; the damage to her reputation would be irreparable. He even doubted that Wren would believe Sara, no matter how convincing her tale might be.

While Camilla drew Sirena aside to exchange news, and Tyler and Regan began to discuss business agreements concerning the handling of certain estates, Wren and Sara gathered about Caleb, leaving Malcolm to entertain himself. Malcolm had never encountered such an inhospitable group of people. He wasn't in the habit of being ignored, especially if there were women present. And what of Sara, so blatantly flirting with the younger van der Rhys? Even Wren seemed to have forgotten his existence as she hung on Caleb's every word. If he hadn't known that Wren was Caleb's sister, he might even become jealous.

Sirena glanced over Camilla's shoulder at Malcolm Weatherly. She didn't fail to notice his chagrin at being excluded from the little celebration. One might think that if he really loved Wren, he would be jealous of the attention she was giving Caleb. Then the truth dawned on Sirena. Weatherly didn't know Wren
wasn't
Caleb's half sister. He couldn't know; otherwise he would feel threatened by Caleb's presence. She almost laughed aloud until it occurred to her that Malcolm thought
she
was old enough to be Wren's mother. Sirena sniffed and threw her head back in a haughty gesture of indignation. Malcolm Weatherly would have a healthy shock coming to him when he discovered that Wren was not the wealthy heiress he thought she was.

Lunch had been a gay and lively affair, and much to Wren's relief, there had been no mention of her outrage at breakfast. In fact, it appeared as though Malcolm was winning her family over in his own quiet way. Sirena, at least, seemed to hold him in high regard, judging from the way she had directed her attention to him time and time again.

Sara had been totally captivated by Caleb's stories of his adventures in the service of the Dutch East India Company, and Wren had to admit a twinge of resentment over Sara's flirtation with him. But she really couldn't blame her friend; Caleb was charming and extremely handsome. Then again, any envy she might have experienced had been assuaged by Caleb's eyes constantly falling on her, and she hoped Malcolm had noticed Caleb's attentiveness. It pleased her to think Malcolm might be jealous. Then she realized that Malcolm believed Caleb was her brother and had no grounds for jealousy. That belief was something Wren intended to correct at the first possible opportunity. Malcolm's jealousy was an exciting thought, but first he had to know her true relationship with the van der Rhyses. Perhaps she could get him alone after dinner tonight. She was disappointed that she hadn't been able to go for a drive with him, as she had promised, but the luncheon festivities had lingered far too long into the afternoon. Besides, a few minutes ago Sirena had invited her to go down to the wharves so that Caleb could show his family how he had careened the
Sea Siren,
and she had jumped at the chance. Even in Java, when Caleb had brought the
Sea Siren
into port on his infrequent visits, she had loved to see the warm glow in Sirena's and Regan's eyes whenever they inspected the vessel, and the way they touched each other when they thought no one was looking. The
Sea Siren
was the ship on which Sirena and Regan had first discovered their love for one another, and just the sight of her brought back tender memories for them.

Tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, Wren turned from the pier glass to face Sara. “Are you certain you wouldn't like to come along with us? I know Sirena and Regan wouldn't mind.”

“No, you go along. I've a terrible headache,” Sara whimpered. She was lounging on the high bed.

“Shall I have someone bring you a headache powder or cool cloths?” Wren inquired, moving over to the bed to touch Sara's head. “You do feel warm. Shall I have Camilla send for the doctor?” A note of concern rang in Wren's voice, and worry narrowed her eyes. She had never known Sara to be ill.

“No, no, I'll be fine,” Sara assured her. “You go on and have a nice afternoon. Food just doesn't seem to agree with me these days. It's nothing to worry about.”

“You do look a little green about the edges,” Wren teased. “Are you sure I can't do anything for you?”

Sara groaned and rolled over onto her stomach. “If you don't get away from me with that scent you use, I'll be sick all over the bed! Now go!”

After Wren had closed the door behind her, Sara tried to lie very still. What was wrong with her? She'd never been sick a day in her life. Lately she had had this queasy feeling every day before breakfast and sometimes after lunch. But she had always recovered before dinner. Through her misery she reasoned that the emotional upheaval of Malcolm's rejection and the worry over her parents' financial difficulties, not to mention those concerning her brother's criticism of the King, were causing the butterflies in her stomach. And if those reasons weren't enough, there was always the horror of facing her parents' wrath when they arrived in London.

 

Sara awakened to a noisy commotion in the main hall below. Greetings wafted upward, and the sound of an autocratic, booming voice brought her fully alert. Her father! There was no other voice as forceful as Jason Stoneham's, except, perhaps, that of his son, Bascom.

Sara's blue eyes snapped open wide, and she quickly rose from the bed. Suddenly the room began to reel about her so violently that she had to sit down again. Her stomach rolled once more, and she dreaded the thought of going downstairs and facing her parents. She considered lying back on the bed and pretending to be asleep.

From the sound of Jason's voice booming up the stairs, it seemed the decision was to be taken out of her hands. “Sara! Where are you! Answer me this minute!”

Then Margaret Stoneham's lighter voice joined his. “Jason! Jason! You'll wake the whole house! We were told the Baroness was napping! Jason!”

“Hush, Margaret! I intend to see my daughter immediately! Sara! Sara, where are you?”

“In here, Father,” Sara managed to choke as she braced herself for the confrontation. The door to her room banged open, and through the doorway stepped Jason Stoneham. For a moment Sara almost didn't recognize him. Gone were the meticulously tailored clothes which gave such authority to his deep-chested, slightly portly figure, and in their place were the black frock coat and high-crested hat which had become the popular garb of those of the Puritan sect. Stoneham had even chosen to relinquish the broad white collar that at least offered relief to the somber costume. He removed his hat, placed it carefully on a chair and then came to stand wordlessly in front of his daughter, his hands planted firmly on his hips and a cold glare in his eyes.

“How do you do, Father?” Sara managed to speak. “Well, I trust?”

“Well enough for a man who's learned his own daughter is little less than a trollop!” he boomed at Sara's cowering figure. “How could you shame me this way? I've just come from the academy, where I heard for myself your implication in one of the tawdriest affairs I've ever been told of. The headmistress apprised me of the entire situation, and I've never been so ashamed in my life. To think that a child of mine would involve herself in a—in a—tryst! I can only wonder how long it would have been before
you
had this van der Rhys girl standing watch while
you
slipped away in the dark with some simple-minded idiot who had nothing but lust on his mind!”

“Malcolm is not a simple-minded idiot!” Sara shouted, the words out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. “I—I mean, I did what I did to help a friend. Wren is going to marry Mr. Weatherly, so you see there was nothing evil about it.”

Jason was astounded by her outburst. Neither she nor his wife had ever spoken to him that way. “See here, daughter, remember to whom you are talking—”

“Sara! Sara!” A breathless Margaret Stoneham rushed into the room, still holding her skirts above her ankles from the climb up the stairs.

“Mother! What have you done to yourself!” Sara's mouth dropped open. Margaret Stoneham had always prided herself on her fashionable dress and carefully coiffed hair. Now she looked like an old woman. Her hair was pulled back from her face, revealing streaks of gray beneath the brim of her white cap. The silks and satins she had always worn had been traded for a coarse gown of the deepest black that was relieved only by a white collar and cuffs.

“She has done nothing more than uplift her spirit to the Lord by leaving foolish trappings behind and dedicating her life to Him,” Jason expounded. “Something you could have done rather than involving yourself in a scandal, young woman. Well, all that will be behind you when you adopt the dress of our sect. Fripperies are the devil's work, turning young people's heads away from the true Word.”

Sara shook her head in disbelief. Her parents had followed the Puritan doctrines for years now, but they had never carried them to extremes. Only Bascom, with his wild eyes and unhealthy gauntness, had worn the somber black costume. “When did all this come about? Surely you haven't gone to such lengths because of what I did at school!”

“Certainly not. Your mother and I have been shown the true path to our eternal rewards. Our dress signifies that we are devoting our lives to the Redeemer.”

“You mean ever since you've been condemned by the Crown for upholding Bascom's preachings and because you're close to financial ruin, you can't afford to wear anything else!” Sara stormed hotly, defying her father's masterful gaze. “Mother, where are your lovely clothes, and what have you done to your hair?”

A wistful expression passed over Margaret's face, but when she realized she was under her husband's angry scrutiny, she blanched and said soothingly, “Come, now, Sara, it's not so bad. It's the way to salvation, you know. You'll soon get used to wearing our dress. If nothing else, it solves the problem of what to wear each day.”

“I'll soon get—No! Never! I'll never go about looking like a black crow! Not when I've a clothespress full of silks and satins. I've worshipped with you and Father, I've listened to Bascom's preachings, but I will never wear that—that—that!” She pointed at her mother's gown and shuddered.

“You will do as I say, daughter. Margaret, have that servant girl bring up the satchel you packed for Sara. And have a footman sent to remove her things from the clothespress. My daughter will believe as I do, and her behavior will be in keeping with the sister of the leader of our congregation.”

“I refuse, Father. I won't wear that nun's habit! I'd sooner go about naked than look like—”

Jason interrupted his daughter's blasphemy with a smart slap on her cheek.

Shocked, Sara gasped and held her hand to her face, too outraged even to cry.

“You will do as I say, Sara,” Jason intoned threateningly as he loomed above her. “I have accepted the Baron's hospitality under the condition that I won't have you spend another night in the same apartment with that hellion Wren van der Rhys. You will move your belongings immediately, and they will be few, to your mother's room, where we can keep a watch over you.”

Sara gulped back the tears which were choking her. Helplessly she watched her mother open the satchel containing a plain black gown and stiff muslin petticoats.

When Wren returned from the wharf with Regan, Sirena and Caleb, she bounded up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Sara. She wanted to change into something especially beautiful for dinner tonight; then perhaps Malcolm would look at her the way Regan had looked at Sirena aboard the
Sea Siren.
Their past was so romantic, so adventurous, so passionate. Somehow she could imagine Caleb looking at a woman the way his father looked at Sirena, with such love and smoldering hunger, but she couldn't imagine Malcolm doing the same. Maybe she had been foolish to insist that they wait until they were married before consummating their love. Chills danced up Wren's spine when she thought of Malcolm's ardent lovemaking and his protests when she begged him to stop.

“Sara, Sara,” she called excitedly as she threw open the door to their sitting room, only to find the upstairs maid in place of Sara.

“Miss Sara's down the hall in Mrs. Stoneham's room,” the woman explained.

“Oh, has she already dressed for dinner?” Wren asked, disappointed that she would have to wait until later to tell Sara about her afternoon.

“You might say she's as ready as she'll ever be,” the maid answered mysteriously. “Miss Sara will be staying in the same room with her mother,” she added.

“With her mother? Won't that be crowding it a little?” Wren's curiosity was piqued. Then she remembered that Sara hadn't been feeling well earlier. “I suppose Mrs. Stoneham wants Sara close by in case she becomes unwell again. Now, do you think you can prepare a bath for me? I've only an hour to dress for dinner. While I'm bathing, you can press my magenta satin gown. I want to look especially nice tonight.”

 

Everyone was gathered in the drawing room, waiting for dinner to be announced. Everyone but Sara. Wren was concerned for her friend and wanted to ask the Stonehams if Sara was feeling better, but Mr. Stoneham kept throwing her such black looks that she lost her nerve. After the introductions had been made, Wren tried to explain Sara's innocence to the Stonehams, but she was quickly silenced by a scathing look and a curt remark. Caleb came to her rescue and led her to the far side of the room to tell her something about the natives of Brazil, where he had taken his last shipment.

Even Malcolm seemed to fall under Jason Stoneham's loathing, and if Sirena hadn't gone to his rescue, there was no telling how fierce Jason might have become. Only Camilla seemed happily oblivious to the turmoil about her.

Suddenly Sara was standing in the doorway, her eyes downcast and red-rimmed from crying. Wren gasped in spite of herself when she saw what Sara was wearing. The funereal black contrasted dramatically with her skin, making it appear ghostly. Her silky, white-blond hair was drawn into a severe knot at the back of her head, and a white cap perched on top of her head.

Everyone in the room was stunned into silence. Jason stepped over to his daughter and took her arm. “How lovely you are, Sara. So pure and chaste.”

Sara could not answer; she kept her eyes downcast, unable to face anyone. She wished Malcolm were not there to see her this way, and when she finally mustered the courage to look at him, all she could see in his eyes was blatant disapproval.

Wren sympathized with her friend. No one, nothing, could ever persuade her to dress herself like a Puritan if she lived to be one hundred.

 

Sara tiptoed out of her mother's room and closed the door on Margaret's light snores. Hastily buttoning her hated black Puritan's gown over her nightdress, she listened for a moment before moving toward the back stairs, which led down to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was the Stonehams' habit to retire early, and after a rather long session of Jason Stoneham's praying for his daughter's salvation, they had finally settled down for the night.