Crimson Rapture (35 page)

That
threat seemed to do it, for she first heard its bark, then saw the white and
brown puppy lumbering clumsily toward the house. The dog climbed up the steps,
wagging her tail in anticipation. " 'Ow is it our mistress loves ye so, I
don't know," she complained out loud as the dog followed her happily into
the pantry. "But love ye she does—second only to 'er babe upstairs."

Beauty
barked at this, never bothered, though often confused by the old woman's tone
of irritation. The old woman sounded mean but acted nice; she always saved a
bone, always brushed her coat, and always kept the back door open. The old
woman was part of the pack, as affectionate as their mistress. So why all the
fuss?

"Don't
look at me with those big droopy eyes!" Betty snapped as she worked the
dishes. "I canna 'elp it. Ye 'ave more fleas than a blind beggar and ye
fur's 'tis always fallin' on me clean carpets, it is. I canna ever get the
house straight with ye and I like a clean house. I do—nearly as much as I like
my one or two glasses of sherry a night."

One
or two? The dog looked confused again. More like three or four.

"No
sherry fer the likes of me tonight—la!" She shook her head. " 'Twould
never do to fall asleep with deaf ears to the little master's cry. Not since
this is the first night our sweet lady trusted us alone with the lad. No,
sir..."

Betty
continued to keep the dog company while she went about tidying up the gaming
room, determined all the while to resist indulging her master's abundance of
spirits. She had just finished dusting and setting everything in its place when
she heard the first sounds from upstairs. "Hear that?" she asked
Beauty. "Them be the first grunts afore he works up 'is wail. And my how
that bairn can wail," she laughed, moving quickly into the pantry. She
dipped the suckling cloth into milk, this laced with a goodly amount of sugar,
and rushed up the stairs with surprising speed for a woman her age. She flew
into the nursery and lifted her charge from the crib mere seconds before he
sounded the infamous wail.

He
smiled at her familiar face, second favorite face after his mother, and
greedily grabbed the suckling cloth into his hands. Betty took her bundle to
the rocking chair by the fire and while the little boy contented himself, she
sang and rocked and talked. The little lad soon grew bored with the cloth and
dropped it unceremoniously to the floor. With a huge grin he turned to amusing
himself with his own voice, his favorite trick of making Betty's face laugh
back at him.

An
insistent knock sounded at the door.

"Oh
heavens! Not another call for the master," she muttered to herself, having
just watched the thick black lashes close over dark blue eyes. It could only be
yet another emergency at this hour, she knew. Must be a full moon out tonight,
she thought, rising from the chair to make her way downstairs.

With
her charge hanging limply over her arm, she opened the door and she started.
For a long minute the man she was looking at stole her breath. Handsome didn't
quite do it, but devastating, frighteningly devastating. She might have been a
country virgin meeting the devil himself.

Uncommonly
tall, the man's imposing figure was clad in a wealthy gent's traveling cloak,
the fold of one side thrown over a shoulder to reveal black breeches, boots,
and a richly tailored white silk shirt. None of the fashionable frills. He had
short dark hair and brows, dark eyes hidden in the light, and his sharply
defined features spoke at once of arrogance and aristocracy. She took in
everything at once, including the strange way he stared at her charge. She
suddenly wished she had not put Beauty outside again.

"Good
evening, madam. I've come to see Mr. or Mrs.—" He paused at the title,
"Morrison."

His
gaze seemed unwilling to leave her charge, even as he spoke. She looked past
him to the mounted men on the street. " 'Tisn't an emergency, is it?"

"No,
but it is urgent."

"The
doctor's not at home presently, sir, and I don't expect him till near
dawn."

"And
Mrs. Morrison?"

"Oh,
well, she's at the governor's charity ball—she was on the committee, ye know,
fer all the poorhouses and all. This is the first night she left me with the
young master—" She smiled at the babe, now sound asleep. "Ye can
leave a card—"

"No,
I'll wait," he informed her and turned at once to his men with quick
commands. "It should be awhile. Cover the streets and one of you find out
what's delaying that carriage. I want it here within the hour."

Having
little choice, Betty stepped aside as the stranger stepped inside the hall. The
house seemed suddenly to shrink. The man first removed his gloves and handed
them to her. Her arms were full and just as she suffered the indignant thought
that all in his class assumed servants had ten hands, he surprised her.

"May
I help?" he said, motioning to the sleeping child.

"Oh
aye, fer sure," she said, carefully placing the babe in his arms. She made
a fanfare about placing his gloves in the decorative glove box, hoping he'd
notice the fine quality, disappointed when he did not. His gaze was still fixed
on the child.

Justin
expected to feel something the first time he looked at his son's face. He had
imagined he'd feel father love and joy and pride, and indeed he did; but what
he had not expected was the intensity of these feelings and it shocked him.

This
was his son!

He
could not account for all he felt. Perhaps most surprising was how familiar his
son looked to him. Just familiar. Familiarity that seemed beyond the fact that
he was looking at his own face in miniature: the same dark hair and brows, the
same shaped face, nose, and mouth. No, it was felt as though he knew him
already and inexplicably. He thought of the Hindu's strange belief in
reincarnation.

"Here,
I'll take him off ye hands."

"That's
not necessary. I don't mind."

Betty
was quite suddenly charmed. " 'Tis a rare man that likes babes." She
smiled. "Don't usually notice 'em till they start talkin'. Please, come
sit in the parlor," she motioned.

Justin
followed Betty into the parlor, and still holding his son, the questions began.
"How old is he now?"

"Just
after his fifth month."

"Is
he small for his age?"

"Small?"
Betty laughed. "I can tell ye haven't been around many babes. Why, little
Justin might be eight or nine months for his size."

He
had, of course, known the child's name from his father, though actually hearing
it gave him a long moment's pause.

Betty
saw that this seemed to please the man. "May I get ye a drink?" she
asked, adding hopefully, "Myhap some nice sherry."

"Only
if you join me," he said, though still his gaze kept to the child.

This
was most unexpected coming from his kind and she smiled generously. "Oh,
thank ye, don't mind if I do." She returned shortly with two glasses of
sherry.

"He
looks healthy! Is he?"

She
laughed again. "One has only to hear his wail to know how healthy he be.
The little master keeps his mum on her toes, he does. Why, he's already
crawlin'—if ye can believe that! Everywhere! And I've never seen a babe that
demands so much attention from his mum. And I've raised three of my own."

"Really!"
Justin exclaimed, pleased.

"Oh
aye. 'E looks an angel now that he's asleep, but believe me, there's a devil in
those eyes—"

"What
color are his eyes?"

"Blue,
dark blue, just like—" She stopped, mid-sentence to look at Justin with
sudden visible shock. She suddenly recognized the man in her mistress's sketches,
minus the beard and the long hair.

Oh
lord...

Like
all servants, she knew the secrets of her house. She had known her mistress's
child was not her husband's. Not just because little Justin neither resembled
the good doctor in either appearance or temperament, or even because of the
separate bedrooms, but the good doctor, for all his fondness, showed none of a
father's keen interest in his child.

Keen
interest such as this man was showing.

"I
better take the lad upstairs to his crib."

"Must
you?" Justin asked, unaware of the change in the old woman's tone.

She
nodded.

Justin
reluctantly handed his son over to her and she excused herself. He rose to
check on his men but on the way out, he spotted a sketchbook sitting on the
window seat.

He
could not stop himself. He knew it belonged to Christina; he remembered she was
always sketching as she talked to him on the
Defiant.
He recalled, too,
numerous attempts on his part to coax her into sharing her work but to no
avail. In her usual self-debasing manner, she claimed to pursue drawing for her
own amusement and "my works I fear are immature, drawn by an unskilled
hand, and truly they could be of no interest to anyone but myself."

Justin
picked up the sketchbook and flipped slowly through the pages. He had his
father's appreciation of fine art; he owned the ability to recognize talent.
Christina was definitely talented; he was startled by just how. The landscape
sketches of Hyde Park were impressive, good enough to place her in the finest
art academies if she were not a woman. In between these sketches were ones of
his child, small letters indicating his age—three days, two weeks, one month,
and so on. He smiled at these; the progression was plain.

There
were other sketches too. One particularly impressive picture of an old beggar
woman selling apples on a busy street. An odd subject. Christina somehow
captured the old woman's despair as well as the passersby's indifference. Very
talented indeed.

The
last part of the book was sealed, bound by thin strings. He knew what he would
find as he untied the gold lacings. Sketch after sketch of a man he recognized
only too well. Each was drawn from memories, each offered a different
impression; some pleasant, most not. A vision haunting her dreams.

Yes,
Christina, you have frequented my dreams as well...

The
door opened and Justin set the book down. Richard was heard cursing and calling
for Betty as he hung up winter bindings. "Betty! Betty, where are you?
God, but that's the last time I render service to paupers."

Upstairs
and in a panic, Betty would not descend for her life.

"I
deliver them a beautiful healthy baby girl and it sends them all into tears,
even the blessed mother, crying because she was not a he. Betty!" He threw
off his coat and turned into the parlor, still angry over the ordeal. "A
simple cobbler thinking himself King Henry... imagine, needing an heir to a
cobbler throne—"

Richard
took one look at who stood at his mantel and he stopped. It required a long
minute to ascertain the certainty of his vision and then he fell limply into a
chair. "Oh, God," he whispered to himself after the long pause in
which his mind raced over the implications and consequences.

"You
know," he finally looked up to Justin. "I half expected you to show
up at some point."

"I
imagine you did," Justin replied in a voice both calm and impassive.

"I
suppose you've come for her."

Justin
nodded.

"We're
married, you know."

"Yes,
I know."

The
ship that had finally rescued them carried a message from of all unexpected
people, Mr. Carrington. The brief note told of Christina's marriage as well as
alluding to the gossip and rumors that followed her new husband. It hadn't
taken great leaps in speculation to imagine the benefits of such a marriage for
both parties. And these suspicions were confirmed when he saw his father, who,
much to his surprise, had kept updated information on Christina and his
grandchild, starting from the day he had met her and guessed all.

"I
also know," Justin added, "that annulments are possible within the
Church of England."

With
arms resting on widespread knees, Richard continued to stare at his hands. He
did not venture a glance up. "Need I ask on what grounds?"

"I
don't think you have to."

Richard
expected this and nodded. "It will mean a public confession. It will ruin
me, you know."

"I'm
sorry. I see no other alternative."

Richard's
gaze shot up at the sound of the sincerity of Justin's remark.

"I'm
not a blind fool, Mr. Morrison," Justin answered his surprise.
"Believe me I know only too well how much I owe you." And suddenly he
could not hide his pain. "God knows what would have happened to her had
not you come into the picture. I would offer financial compensation—"

"Oh
please, Mr. Phillips." Richard shook his head. "That's hardly the
problem. It's my reputation. What's the old saying? A man's reputation is
better than gold." He sighed emotionally. "It so true. Despite my
personal proclivities, I love my work. And I'm damn good at it too."