Countess of Scandal (20 page)

"I know," she whispered.

"If you are found to be the author of that pamphlet, you will be hanged. If you won't think of yourself, for God's sake think of me. Of your family."

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard as if she could already feel the rough hemp of the rope. "I do think of them." And of him—too much.

'Then let me see you to Killinan."

"I'm sorry, Will. But I can't go. I am too deeply pledged."

Will's lips tightened, as if he held back a spasm of pain. Or was it an angry curse?

She ached, too. Something precious and vital was breaking inside of her, falling into dust and blowing away in the cold wind as if it had never been.

"I am pledged as well. To my family, my work," he said. He raised her hands to his lips, kissing one, then the other, warm and lingering. "I will leave tomorrow. If you change your mind, send me word."

She nodded, but they both knew the truth. Neither of them could change their minds, abandon their course. They had to part, even as what they might have had, might have been, fell into ruin.

"Wait," she said. She hurried to her dressing table, taking a small portrait out of the drawer. It was not new; it had
been painted when she married Mount Clare, a miniature of her young self framed in pearls. Maybe if Will had it, he would sometimes think of her, sometimes remember.

She pressed it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. 'Take this with you, and... don't forget."

He gazed down at it for a long, silent moment before he kissed her lips, hard and desperate. She kissed him back, trying to memorize his taste, the way he felt in her arms. Remember everything. And then he was gone, vanishing out the window for what she knew in her heart was the last time.

Her knees suddenly felt too weak to hold her up, and she collapsed to the floor. She wanted to cry, but it seemed her tears were used up.

Will had been a precious gift in a dark time; she had always known he could not be hers forever. But now she saw that she had become greedy, because his loss broke her heart. It felt as if a part of her own body were torn away, leaving her cold and aching.

"I'm sorry, Will," she whispered.

Slowly, slowly, she took a deep breath and pulled back into herself again. She
had
chosen her path, rocky as it was, and she had to stay on it, moving forward one step at a time.

She rose to her feet, hurrying over to the window to close it against the night The street was deserted again, silent in a deceptive peace. She drew the curtains shut and turned back to her room.

The pamphlet was mere bits of charcoal in the grate, but she well knew that other problems could never be made to disappear so easily.

Chapter 15

Will's home at Moreton Manor was a handsome, respectable house, only a few decades old. Built of redbrick faced with gray stone, it would not have been out of place in London or Brighton. It was not as large as Killinan Castle, nor nearly as grand as Carton or Castletown. But Will had always liked it and remembered it as welcoming—despite the people inside its walls.

Today, though,
welcoming
was not quite the right word for Moreton.
Chaotic
was more like it

The front doors were wide open, servants carrying boxes and trunks down the stone front steps to the carts waiting in the drive. Even the windows were agape, maids leaning out to shout new instructions to those below.

It seemed his mother was in a great hurry to decamp, Will thought as he swung down from his horse. He was weary after the journey from Dublin, but there would obviously be no rest here today.

He left the horse with one of the grooms, striding past the harried servants and into the foyer. The marble floor
was nearly covered by crates, with family portraits stacked along the walls. Even the draperies were gone from the windows.

"No, no! Do not place the box of silver on
top
of the china; it will be utterly crushed," he heard his mother cry, her panicked voice floating out of the drawing room.

Will peeled off his leather riding gloves, slapping them against his palm as he contemplated the shambles of his home. Surely General Hardwick was quite wrong—there was nothing he could do from here. The populace was in flight from a menace that was as yet invisible and thus even more fearsome.

He dodged around the crates, his spurs jangling as he entered the drawing room to find even more confusion. The pastel-green chamber, usually lined with glass-fronted cases full of china figurines, bits of antquities, and miniature portraits, was stripped. Maids were taking down the pale yellow draperies at the windows. The only thing still in place was the painting over the fireplace, a portrait of his mother seated on a bench in the More-ton Manor park, Will and his brother's childhood selves clinging to her silk skirts.

The real lady stood just beneath the painted one, directing the packing. Her blond hair was mostly gray now, strands of it escaping from her cap. Beneath its ruffles, her face was pale and strained, except for two bright spots of red in her cheeks.

"Not like that!" she cried, rushing across the room to grab the offending crate. "Must I do everything myself?"

Will strode across the wooden floor, bare of its carpets, to help the beleaguered footmen slide their burdens into place.

"William," his mother said, pushing back her loose hair as she stared at her long-gone son. "You have returned."

"So I have, Mother," he answered. "And just in time, it would seem. Are you going somewhere?"

Lady Moreton frowned at him. "You are as teasing as ever! Of course I am going somewhere; you are meant to bring my passports. I hope you did not forget them."

"It is lovely to see you, too, Mother," he said, kissing her cheek. "And, yes, I brought you your papers."

"There is not a moment to lose." She cast a suspicious glance at the servants hurrying around them. "Come with me."

She grabbed his hand, leading him out of the drawing room by a side door and along a back corridor. Will followed, curious as to what she was about His mother had always been a nervous sort, prone to see the worst in situations. As the daughter and wife of staunch Tories, she disliked being in a county of Whig families and seemed to resent Will's father for running off to London without her so often and forcing her to stay behind.

Not that Will could entirely blame his father. He himself had always liked escaping to Killinan when he was young. Eliza and her family, despite their quarrels and disagreements, loved each other so much. Their teasing affection was a balm to a lonely young man's heart

And when he fell in love with Eliza...

Eliza.
The memory of their parting burned in his heart When would he see her again? How could he keep her safe?

His mother led him into the library. Like the drawing room, it was denuded of its possessions, the books gone from the shelves, the paneled walls bare of his father's
hunting prints. Canvas covers muffled the carved furniture too heavy to move.

And two of the tall windows were broken, the wall below them marred with black scorch marks.

"You see, William," she said, her voice trembling,
"I
must get away from here before they kill me."

Will knelt by the dark marks, examining the damage. It still smelled of smoke, the paneling buckled by flames and water. "What happened here?"

"They tried to burn us out, of course. Luckily, I was sleeping in here with some of the maids, and we managed to put out the fire."

Will looked back at her, trying to imagine his fragile mother putting out a fire. "Why were you sleeping in here?"

"There were rumors in the village of unrest. Lady Louisa Conolly and Lady Killinan went there to try talking to the tenants, to reason with them, the great fools. You cannot reason with animals!" Her voice rose. "I have always hated this loathsome place. I knew something like this would happen eventually."

He ran his fingertips over the wall, trying to fathom it. Someone had tried to burn Moreton Manor. Someone hated the Dentons that much.

"I could not sleep in my own chamber," his mother went on, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. "Just lying there in bed like some sacrificial victim. So I stayed down here, watching, and thank God I did or this house would be a ruin. Your brother's legacy, such as it is, would be gone."

Will laughed. He was quite certain his brother Henry would not have cared. He would have just built himself a villa in Italy and stayed there with his mistress forever. But

178
 
he... he
was furious someone would frighten his mother, threaten this house.

"I am glad you are home, William," his mother said. "You will find those villains and make them pay for their crimes."

Will took her in his arms, feeling her thin shoulders tremble as she sobbed against his chest

"I was so frightened," she gasped. "They... they broke the windows with stones, shouting horrible things. Then they threw in the torches. So much smoke—I was sure we would all be killed."

"Shh, Mother," he said gently, even as his anger grew. "You are safe now. And soon you will be in England."

It was the crystalline crash of broken glass that tore Will out of his shallow sleep.

For an instant, he thought it was just another dream, brought on by his mother's hysterical fears and wild tales; But then he heard it again, the distant crackle of a breaking window downstairs.

He swung out of bed, still fully dressed, and reached for the loaded pistol he kept ready. Eliza's portrait sat next to it on the dressing table, her dark eyes watching him steadily.

"Not this time, Eliza" he muttered, swiping the portrait into a drawer. He could not think of her now. He hurried out of the bedchamber, standing poised on the staircase landing as he listened for any other sound. Less than one day home and it felt like an eternity. At least his mother slept now; tomorrow she would leave.

He had boarded up most of the windows that afternoon, and the house seemed a darkened cave, lit only by one lamp on a pier table outside his door. Obviously, trying to secure the house in any way was a futile endeavor, but the physical activity distracted him as he listened to his mother fretting.

Only when his muscles burned from the exertion and sweat trickled down his spine did he lose himself for a moment His other work, trying to find useful information for the authorities, was no distraction at all. As he had warned Hardwick, he had no spying instincts, no acting skills. He had not been home in years, and no one would tell him a thing. The servants were all silent, stony, shrugging away all questions.

Which was a relief actually. He was a soldier, not a spy, and he disliked dealing in any underhanded methods. But was his work, his very identity, getting him into too much trouble now?

And trouble in his family's house. He crept lightly down the stairs, holding on to the pistol All seemed silent now, and there was no whiff of smoke. Had he merely imagined it after all?

But, no, there it was again. The faint music of glass falling to the floor, coming from the library, where they had first tried to burn his mother out. Well, by God, they were not going to burn
him
out. He had as much right to be in Ireland as they.

Carefully, he eased back the library door, peering inside as he held the gun at the ready.

It was very dark, all the windows boarded except the small decorative frosted glass panels at the top. The panels were, or had been, etched with the Denton family arms.

Now they were shattered, as if the attackers were frustrated they could get no closer to the large windows.

Will's senses were heightened as they always were in battle. Now he could hear running footsteps on the gravel outside and could smell the hint of smoke at last

He took off running down the corridor and through the foyer, under the sway of the crystal chandelier. He threw back the bolt of the front door, rushing out onto the front steps as a strange recklessness took hold of him. He had had enough of waiting, of worrying about Eliza. He needed
action
now.

As his gaze darted swiftly down the driveway, noting every ripple of the shadows, every cloud sliding around the cold moon, he saw they were
not
being invaded by a United army. One bush was on fire near the house, and three or four figures fled into the night

But it was enough. Filled with that cold anger, Will leveled his pistol and fired after them. One man screamed and stumbled, his companions leaving him behind.

All Will's instincts cried out to capture him now, but the villain's pace was slowed. There were more urgent matters first

Tearing off his shirt, he leaped off the front steps to beat at the bush. Its summer-dry branches snapped, the flames licking closer to the other trees and shrubbery. It was a small enough fire now, but if he had not been awakened, it would have done its work handily enough.

He knocked the flames out with his shirt, kicking at the last embers with his boot until there was only the smolder of a pile of charcoal. Then he slid his dagger from its sheath and prowled off after the fallen rebel.