Lions and Lace (37 page)

"Everything will be all right," he whispered. But there was no reaching her. Slowly he looked down at his shaking hands. He had lived his entire life from one dissolute moment to another. His biggest complaint had been a vague sense of annoyance that he was rarely if ever needed. But now this girl needed him, her baby needed him, and there was nowhere to run, no way to find help. It was up to him and him alone. If he had any heroic qualities, now was the time to prove them.

He cautiously removed his gold cufflinks etched with the Connacht shield and began rolling up his shirtsleeves, just in case the doctor didn't arrive down the shaft in time. He watched
Caitlín
. She released a low guttural moan, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she held back her pain.

Eagan Sheridan wasn't the sort to pray. But he was praying now.

An hour later, the baby still had not come, and Eagan had hopes that a doctor might arrive in time.
Caitlín
lay on his frock coat, her brow beaded with sweat from her work, his handkerchief wadded in her small hand. He'd removed his silk vest now that her pains were coming so close together. They needed something to put the babe in when it came. He knew instinctively it was going to be soon.

"
Caitlín
," he whispered, grasping her hand
tightiy
. "You're doing well, girl! You're
a brave
lass. The father of this babe didn't deserve you."

Caitlín
gave him a weak smile before her pains began mounting again. Taking long, deep breaths, she held fast to Eagan's hand until the worst of it was over.

But what they considered the worst was fleeting. With each pain, the contractions grew closer and closer until there was no talking to
Caitlín
. She merely lay on the floor clutching his hand, whimpering like a suffering animal while Eagan ran his forearm over his brow, wiping away his sweat.

When he knew he could avoid it no longer, he carefully pulled up the girl's skirts. He'd seen the anatomy of a woman before, but in this instance, he felt as if he were trespassing on holy ground.
Caitlín
was a mother about to give birth to her first child, and there was no place for a man at her side now. She needed other women who'd gone through the same, not some rake whose only function in life had been to get women into such trouble. Loathing himself at that moment, he pushed up her knees.

And gasped.
The child's head had appeared, and it had dark hair, obviously like its father's. He squeezed
Caitlín's
hand and crawled back to her head. "You're
gonna
have to push,
sweeting
. Can you push?"

"
Tá
me
an
t-
uirseach
.
Tá
me
an
t-
uirseach
,"
she mumbled.

He couldn't understand her, but he knew she was exhausted. He had to get her moving again. "
Caitlín
!" he whispered sharply, "I can see your baby. Your baby has dark hair. Not at all like yours. But I cannot tell you whether it's a girl or boy unless you push."

"Mo
croi
,
dark hair," she murmured.

"That's right.
Dark hair.
Do you want to see?"

She nodded weakly.

"Then push,
sweeting
, push!" He squeezed her hand until he was afraid he might crush it. She did as she was told, using her last strength to bear down on the baby. And just when Eagan was sure the entire thing was impossible and that they were all doomed, her belly contracted. He grasped the baby by the shoulders. The baby slipped out and released a wad that nearly knocked Eagan onto his backside.

In wonder, he looked down at the life squirming in his hands. The baby was as slippery as a fish, but he held on to it as if he held the world in his hands. Counting every perfect finger and toe, he could hardly believe this tiny bloody creature had the power to make him feel utterly alive and utterly humble.

"What is it? What is it?"
Caitlín
gasped weakly, trying to ease herself up to see.

He looked down at her, her blond hair hanging in sweat-matted hanks, her clothes unspeakably soiled, her face drawn with fatigue and strain, but the joy in those glittering blue eyes made her the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"It's a girl,
Caitlín
—
sweeting
—she's a beautiful girl," he whispered, in awe of the bawling creature he held in his arms, in awe of the woman who had created it.

"A girl?"
Caitlín
whispered, too weak to prop herself up to see.

He carefully brushed the sticky tendrils of
Caitlín's
hair out of her eyes so that she could better see her baby. He laid his vest on her belly and placed the baby within it, deciding to leave the cord for the doctor to cut.
Caitlín
was too weak to hold her, so he sat behind her and pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms over her arms to cradle the newborn. They lay there for a long
while,
and Eagan felt the strain catch up to him. But sitting there holding both of them gave him such a deep satisfaction, he would have given his last breath to do it again.

"She's a beautiful
coil
í
n
,
isn't she?"
Caitlín
whispered.

He nodded softly against her blond hair, the babe quieting now that it was secure in its mother's embrace.

Tears cascaded down
Caitlín's
cheeks. "Aye, she is beautiful."

He looked down at her and gently wiped the tears away. "What shall you name her?"

"I'll be
namin
' her Siobhan."

Shivhan
.
It was a lovely name, and he liked it, especially the way
Caitlín
said it.

"Oh, but she's so wee," she moaned, more tears slipping from her eyes. "And she deserves so much. . . ."

Eagan wanted to comfort her, but he didn't have the chance.

They heard noises from above, and finally Harper's voice greeted them once more.
"Everything all right, Mr. Sheridan?"

Eagan smiled blackly.
"Sure, sure, Harper.
Where the hell have you been? And when are we going to get out of here? When this babe is out of finishing school?"

"I've got a doctor with me, Mr. Sheridan. And Mr. Otis is in the shaft. We're getting it started up now. The doctor will meet you here on four. It'll just be another minute, I promise."

"Promises, promises!"
Eagan retorted, and squeezed
Caitlín
, who smiled.

They looked down at the babe, who had fallen asleep against her mother's breast.
Caitlín
was just about to stroke her fine, downy head with her finger when the elevator lamp burned out, depleted of kerosene. They both laughed, as if to say "And what else can go wrong?"
They
laughed in relief that they were being rescued and that
Shivhan
was now with them, alive and healthy.

They waited in the dark to be rescued,
Caitlín
holding her babe and Eagan holding
Caitlín
, knowing for the first time what his life had been missing.

It was almost dawn when Whittaker informed Margaret that she was wanted in the master's library. Poor Margaret turned sheet-white at this news. She left the servant's common room inconsolable, believing the master's notoriously mercurial mood had now resulted in her termination.

At the library door she gave a timid knock and nearly jumped from her skin at Sheridan's booming "Come in!" Her hand shaking and sweating, she turned the silver doorknob and crept into the room. The library was in darkness. The green velvet drapes had been drawn, and no matter the light color of the woodwork, the imposing room threw long dark shadows.

"I want to talk with you, Margaret."

The little maid cast her worried gaze respectfully toward him. Sheridan sat near the fire looking rumpled and unkempt, as if he'd not been to bed for several nights. By his side was an empty glass next to an empty decanter. He'd obviously been drinking, but at that moment he seemed stone-cold sober.

"What—what have I done,
sar
?" she whispered in her lilting accent.

"Sit down." He nodded to a green velvet armchair.

Surprised by his solicitousness, yet terrified by his tone, she numbly took the armchair.

"Margaret, you and Kevin are the only servants Mrs. Sheridan brought with her when she left Washington Square, isn't that correct?"

"Yes,
sar
," she answered, her voice trembling.

"Why is that?"

She bit her lip. When she couldn't think of an answer, she blurted, "Is me and Kevin
gettin
' the boot,
sar
?"

He appeared surprised. But far from comforting her— after all, he was a man of facts and logic—he only said, "No" and kept her pinned to her seat with that piercing gaze.

"So why did she only bring you and Kevin to my household?" he demanded.

The maid swallowed, her accent becoming more pronounced with her nervousness. "Well,
sar
, I suppose because she wasn't very
trustin
' of the other
sarvents
. Miss Alana's always been one to keep to
harself
."

"Why is that?"

"Weil, I suppose it's because of the fire that killed her family. She's never gotten over it,
sar
. In fact, well . . ."

"Go on."

"She's rather obsessed with Miss
Christabel
,
sar
. I mean, it seems she's gotten over the death of her parents, as best as one can, but her sister, she's always
thinkin
' of Miss
Christabel
, and to my mind it
ain't
healthy. Sometimes I've heard her
whisperin
' to that picture of her sister as if the girl was
standin
' right next to her."

"I've never seen that picture," he mused, a disturbed expression on his face.

"Oh,
sar
, she keeps it with her always, but she's very secret about it. She doesn't like people knowing about Miss
Christabel
."

"Odd behavior.
Mrs. Sheridan has always struck me as being very levelheaded."

Margaret whitened at his words. "I'm not
gossipin
',
sar
. It's only because you asked—she is levelheaded—"

Sheridan waved away the rest of her babble, silencing her. He rubbed his unshaven jaw as if he were deep in thought. "She trusts you, Margaret. You know some of her secrets. I have one very important question to ask you before you go, and I want you to tell me the truth. Upon your faith as a Catholic, I want you to tell me the absolute truth, do you swear it?"

"Yes," she whispered, wide-eyed.

"What was your mistress doing the night of Mara's debut?"

"The night of the Sheridan ball?"
Margaret looked around the library and tried to remember. "I don't recall her
doin
' anything out of the ordinary. . . ."

"She was just
stayin
' at home that night, then?" Sheridan prompted, his face hard, his accent no longer calculated.

She looked at him. "Oh no,
sar
. She weren't
stayin
' at home. She
were
dressin
' for the ball." She shook her head. "And I remember it was
rainin
', and I had to run upstairs with her cloak."

"You mean my wife was going to attend Mara's debut?" Sheridan's voice was as quiet as a prayer.

"Yes,
sar
. She was
dressin
', just as she would to go out for any other night. I was
helpin
' her. . . ." Margaret paused. "Then,
acourse
, her uncle found out what she was
doin
' and put a fine stop to that. He locked her in her room, and for hours I could hear her
cryin
' in there. It broke me heart. It fair broke me heart. And the next day she had a nasty bruise on her cheek. We had a fine time
tryin
' to hide it."

Sheridan sat back, his face grim, his eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion. "You swear to this, Margaret? You swear you're telling me the truth?"

"May I die tomorrow and never have children!" Margaret vowed.

Sheridan ran his hand through his hair. He looked worse now than when she'd first arrived. He seemed older, somehow. The lines on his face had deepened, almost as if with remorse.

"You may go, Margaret. And I'll take you on your word that you won't speak a word of this to your mistress."

"Yes,
sar
." Margaret rose and curtsied. She left the library overcome by the sadness of his figure. To her mind Mr. Sheridan looked as if he'd lost everything he'd ever wanted in the world.

As planned, Alana and Mara took the basket phaeton out to Central Park on Thursday. The tulips were already blooming, and they rode by bed upon bed of vibrant, sunlit pinks, yellows, and reds. Purple wisteria climbed the sinuous lines of the gazebos designed from knotted tree branches.
In the distance a girl sat by the lake reading a book, her figure as placid as a Rembrandt.

They hadn't seen the duke, but Alana was sure they would meet him. She'd had years of training in society; she knew an unspoken assignation when she heard one.

Mara was quiet today, her concentration too tightly wound around seeing her young duke to spend it in conversation, which suited Alana just fine because her thoughts were centered on her husband.

It was now the second day that Alana hadn't seen Trevor. Yesterday she'd stayed all day in her room, refusing to go out for the smallest errand. It had taken her that long to gather the courage to face him again. But when she'd emerged that morning, Trevor had already gone downtown to see to his stocks.

Or so the servants had informed her. Perhaps he had really gone to see Daisy. That thought had sent her tumbling into despair. But she put her armor into place once more and rode along the park in the open phaeton looking as placid and cool as the lake on this windless day, though deep in her soul, she was bleeding.

She had surrendered to him in an attempt to save her marriage. But still the lies were piled like the stones of a fortress around them, and the tragedy was that out of those lies one truth had emerged to render the final blow: her love for her husband.

Trevor had taken her body without whispers of love, without even the seduction of false commitment. After they had finished, it was business as usual, his only thought how to chart his way out of the mess their lovemaking had caused. And he'd come up with the perfect end to their crime—another lie, this time for an annulment.

The very idea made her blood run cold, but she knew if he insisted, she would have to accept it. In a fit of anger she'd spoken of divorce, but she didn't think she could go through with it. Trevor was right. Divorce was too ugly. It would harm all of them, even Christal. And what would be the point? Alana would still lose him. She couldn't force Trevor to care for her. One person could not make a marriage. It was both of them, or it was nothing.

She turned to Mara, who anxiously looked around, hoping to see the Duke of Granville riding across the Mall toward Bethesda Fountain. Watching her, Alana's heart grew even heavier. She'd grown to love Mara, and it was painful thinking how expendable she was in Mara's life. Trevor had used her only as a matchmaker for his sister, and it was now obvious he cared nothing about his wife's feelings or her attachments. When her task was completed and Mara well married, he no doubt expected Alana Van
Alen
to shed her married name like a satin cloak, pack her bags, and never see any of them again.

But she would have to see Mara again.
Eagan too.
They were the only family she'd known in years. Alana had grown to care for them too much. Trevor might feel she was nothing more than a chain around his neck, something he had to endure to get what he wanted, but she prayed that Eagan and Mara felt differently.

"He didn't show," Mara suddenly announced like a death knell.

"It's still early," Alana comforted, patting Mara's kid-gloved hand with her own.

"No, let's go home. I've waited before. I'll never do it again. . . ." Mara turned away to hide the pain in her eyes.

Alana felt a lump come to her throat. On the verge of tears herself, she instructed the driver to head back to Fifth Avenue.

They had barely passed the Terrace when they were barraged with the thunder of
hoofbeats
. Both women turned around and found the Duke of Granville and his entourage closing the gap between them, the duke sporting a brilliant smile on his face at seeing Mara. "Good day to you, Mrs. Sheridan!" He reined in his shiny black Thoroughbred and doffed his top hat to Mara.
"And good day to
you,
Miss Sheridan."

Alana was, appropriately, the first to speak. She exchanged words with the duke like an actor in a well-rehearsed play. "Why,
Your
Grace, how coincidental that we should bump into you here at the park."

"Yes, I was thinking the same." He nearly winked.

"Would you like to ride along with us before we return home?"

"If that wouldn't be presumptuous."

"Of course not."
Alana smiled. "But would you ride at Mara's side? I've developed a crick in my neck and would much prefer you at my right."

His Grace
nodded,
an appreciative smile on his lips. He pulled his steed along Mara's side of the phaeton and gazed almost hungrily down at her as if he were afraid he might not see her again.

Mara threw him several shy glances. As always, she looked like an enchantress of demure innocence, dressed today in deep blue velvet the exact color of her eyes.

The duke hadn't a prayer.

Alana led them into an innocuous discussion about the Greensward, and quickly Granville took Mara into a conversation of their own, letting Alana sit back and play chaperone. During the slow trip back to the bustle of the city, the duke invited them to join him at a soiree in his honor given by Mrs. Astor, and Alana nearly clapped with glee at the triumph.

By the time they arrived at the mansion, Mara was infatuated, the duke entranced. And Alana was depressed as she had never been. No matter how thrilled she was at Mara's conquest, there was no denying what that conquest would cost her. Any chance at happiness would die with her annulment. She must accept the agreement her marriage was built upon, but it agonized her to think that the day Mara married was the day she would be sentenced to having her thoughts dwell forever in lonely places. Forever haunted by Trevor Sheridan.