Lisbon (35 page)

In the hallway below, confronting Rowan, who had gone to the door, and looking as if he had just been blown in by the wind on this harsh autumn night, stood her guardian. Feet planted broadly apart, he stood there in his brown coat looking surly—he also looked somewhat unkempt, but in the shock of seeing him, Charlotte didn’t notice that. It was his words that froze her where she stood.

“ Tis about time you got back,’’ he was snarling at Rowan. “I’ve been hiding out from my creditors waiting for you to pay this note of hand you signed!” He waved a paper in Rowan’s face. “Honor it, man—or d’you think I’d not use it against you in a court of law?”

“I don’t doubt you would,” was Rowan’s cold rejoinder. “But I’ve since had Charlotte’s affairs looked into, and it would seem she was left a fair sum by her mother—money you squandered!”

Even at the head of the stairs Charlotte could hear her uncle draw in his breath with a hiss.

“You dare—” he began.

“Oh, yes, I dare,” cut in Rowan’s bored voice. “But I’m a reasonable man. That’s a large sum I promised you there.” He inclined his head curtly toward the parchment in his adversary’s hand. “But since you won’t want countercharges of misappropriation of your ward’s fortune brought against you, I’m prepared to settle for half—enough to pay off your gambling debts. And the rest of the deal still stands.”

“The devil you say! I’ll collect on this in full or have the bailiff here tomorrow!”

“And find me gone.” Rowan smiled. “And by then your creditors will have found you, for I’ll see to that. And there’ll be charges and countercharges while you languish in debtors’ prison. ”

“The charge should be murder!” Charlotte’s voice rang out from the head of the stairs. Below her in the hall, 
looking up at her in surprise, was Tom’s murderer. A man who had stolen her fortune, killed her lover, and tried to sell her in marriage!

Without conscious volition, without even being aware that she was doing it, she threw the poker like a spear. Down the stairwell it shot, whizzing past the chandelier to strike through the stiffened skirts of her uncle’s coat and pin him—unhurt but frightened—to the heavy panels of the front door.

Rowan shot a look upward at his lady. She stood like an avenging angel, he thought, leaning over the stair railing as if she would fly down on dark velvet wings and tear at Russ with her talons. A wistful look passed fleetingly across his hard features—he was wishing her violent action might have been on
his
behalf, and not another man’s. Still, he turned in amusement to Russ, ashen-faced at his narrow escape and struggling to remove the poker from his coat.

“Knowing how she feels about you, d’you want her back?” he mocked.

“A hellcat she is, like her mother before her!” yowled Russ, his voice cracking in rage and fear at his narrow escape.

“So we’ve a deal, then? You don’t wish her back? I’ll meet you on Fleet Street tomorrow—at Child’s.” Rowan saw that Russ had torn the poker free from his coat and flung it down, and he threw open the door to let him out. “Be glad her aim was not as good as her intentions, Russ,” Rowan said with a chuckle.

“But if I see you in this house again,” Charlotte leaned over the second-floor railing to warn Russ,
aim will be better!”

Russ made his escape gibbering, and Rowan closed and locked the door behind him. He looked upward, but Charlotte had disappeared, gone back to her room—perhaps to weep, perhaps to shudder that she had nearly killed a man, perhaps to stalk about in rage that her aim had not been better, that the poker had not found Russ’s flesh. Rowan was not sure which it would be with his wild Lake Country wench, but he understood violence, and his heart had known a kindling sympathy when she had thrown the 
poker like a spear. For some odd reason, he felt closer to her at that moment than he had ever felt before.

And because he respected her action and how she must feel, he left her to her own devices and repaired to his room without disturbing her that night.

In her bedchamber Charlotte was standing before the window in the dark. She was shaking. Just now, when her guardian had looked up, she had seen him, not as he stood quarreling with Rowan, but killing Tom. And instantly she had hurled the poker. She had come near to killing a man tonight. The thought made her feel suddenly weak.

In the days to come, Charlotte learned much—mainly by inference—of what occupied her husband with odd visitors and at odd hours. Robert Walpole, who had resumed the post of First Lord of the Treasury in 1721, and whose power far exceeded that of the king, was determined to hold England on a course of peace and prosperity —and was willing to meet the demands of corrupt parliamentary politicians to do it. ‘Every man has his price,” was Walpole s cynical and outspoken belief, and he employed the services—at whatever price required—of those skillful enough and able enough to effect his new designs, which included intricate intrigues in Europe, where wars were always breaking out.

Rowan—who had not, she had by now learned, any great fortune, despite his extravagant manner of living— was one of these men. He was sent on mysterious missions, sometimes to Europe—and came back enriched; Charlotte learned not to ask why, or what he had done to deserve his new wealth.

The only time she asked him was one evening in the dining room. Rowan had a glass of ruby port in his hand and he looked across it with deliberation at his earnest young wife before answering her, all the while keeping her under the scrutiny of those intense brooding dark eyes.

“You might say that I am a creature of the First Lord,” he told her dispassionately. “Walpole considers me mad— but extraordinarily useful. In truth, I suppose I am an Arranger—I arrange for those to meet who cannot meet 
and perhaps should not meet, I arrange for secret talks and negotiations which ambassadors must keep clear of. I find people who cannot be found. I bring messages and receive information and sometimes pass on large sums of money.”

“You are a spy.”

He sighed. “No, I am much more. Sometimes I even make things happen.” He touched his sword significantly.

Charlotte stared at that sword. “You are an assassin?” she breathed.

“An ugly word. ” He tossed off his drink and waved his hand carelessly. “Let us say that when I am presented with a problem by the First Lord, I assess what is best to be done to correct the situation.”

“You are a statesman,” she amended, fascinated.

He gave her a droll look. “Occasionally—and more. When I have decided how best to gain an objective, I carry it out with dispatch. At whatever cost.” It was tempting to brag before this beautiful woman whose clear honest gaze was so puzzled. “The rewards are phenomenal,” he added dryly, and then his gaze hardened. “You will never mention to anyone this conversation between us.”

“No, never,” she murmured, looking down into her glass.

“You will forget what I have said. It is a side of my life about which you need know nothing. It need not concern you.”

And she had to be content with that. But when she saw flickering candlelight coming through to her bedchamber from the dark hall outside and heard footsteps and then saw the light fading away, she came to realize that it meant that Yates had rushed upstairs to wake Rowan in the bedchamber next door and that Rowan had slipped away downstairs to meet some furtive messenger, or perhaps to accompany him into the dark byways of London. Sometimes he was gone all night, sometimes longer. He never mentioned where he had been or that he had been gone at all. She was expected to accept his comings and goings without interest, as normal. That too was hard to do.

I loved a man who had come from a wicked life and sought an honest one,
she thought wryly.
And now I am half in love with a man who came from an honest life and prefers to seek a wicked one.
It was a strange realization for the lighthearted girl from the flowering Scilly Isles to come to. And she thought on it soberly, remembering Tom’s willingness to help another creature—once he had winced from an old leg injury and told her he had gained it from trying to save another man who was falling from the rigging, and both had crashed to the deck together—was that not why he had torn his leg falling from the rigging, to help someone else? Was that not why he had been kicked over a cliff, trying to save her? Just as the shining qualities she had seen in Tom had brought him to his death, so Rowan’s single-purposed violence—despite all his self-evident brilliance—would one day bring him down.

She supposed there was no way to stop it. Not Tom, not herself, not Rowan—no one could be saved from the on-rushing winds of fate.

She wondered suddenly what would be
her
fate—and found no answer.

Just before Christmas they received word of Russ’s death. He had left a gaming hall drunk and sodden, fallen off his horse in the darkness, and frozen to death in an icy alley. When he was found the next morning his purse was gone, along with his hat and his coat and his boots. The thieves that had left him unprotected against the bitter weather were long gone.

Yates brought them the news as they sat at the breakfast table. Charlotte was wearing a shawl, for despite the fire, drafts crept in from the cold hall and the room was cold. Outside, through the windows they could see sleet beating down on streets still iced and slippery from last week’s storm. The kind of weather that men shivered in—and sometimes died in.

“I will not mourn him,’ Charlotte said through her teeth when she heard. “I shall wear no black, no mourning ring. Nor will I alter one whit our Christmas festivities!’’ Rowan was amused. “Not a hypocrite, at least,’’ was his comment. “Although it might be more politic to do so. Russ’s friends will be shocked to hear of your hard heart. He chuckled.

“He was an evil man. You know. You told him to his face that he had stolen my fortune. ”

“A guess only,” he told her blandly. “I had not enough money at that moment to pay off the note of hand he brought. Luckily, my wild stab struck home.”

Charlotte caught her breath. Rowan could always surprise her. “With my own eyes I saw him do murder!" she flashed. “He kept me in rags, he tried to force me into a frightful marriage. I will not pretend to grieve—indeed I should celebrate!"

In her fury she had risen to her feet, almost knocking over her chair. And now Rowan came around the table and took her by the arms, laughing down at her. “No matter," he said. “We will have the body sent back to Aldershot Grange for interment in the family plot. I will announce that that was Russ’s wish. In your condition, you will not be expected to travel so far."

“Nor will I wear mourning nor drape the house in black!"

He shrugged. “I will say that black frightens you because of your impending confinement. I myself will wear a black band on my sleeve to show proper respect.

“Ha!" said Charlotte bitterly. She pulled away from Rowan and paced around the room, breathing hard as she remembered her uncle s perfidy.

“I will also say that he has left Aldershot Grange to you."

“To me?" Charlotte stopped pacing indignantly at her husband s smooth words. “Indeed he would not! I am convinced he hated me—or at the very least despised me as being beneath notice."

“I bought Aldershot Grange from Russ," explained Rowan. “And then gave him back a life tenancy." He laughed wryly. “Which I did not expect to be of such short duration. ”

“Why . . . why did you do that?" she faltered. “Why did you buy Aldershot Grange?"

His dark gaze was unfathomable. “It was a condition of our marriage."

“Then . . . then you had no need to fear pursuit when we fled to Scotland and were wed at the smithy?"

“No need at all," was his cool reply. “It had all been arranged while you lay swooning."

Charlotte took an involuntary step backward. Rowan had betrayed her! His “note of hand" had not been given to Russ for some gaming debt, as she had thought, but for 
her\
Rowan had bought her from her uncle just as surely as Pimmerston was going to!

Fury swept over her. “Then you lied to me!” she accused. “For at the time you said—”

“I lied to gain a wife,” he cut in. “A beautiful one that I cherish. Had I not made the deal that night on Kenlock Crag, Russ would have tried to palm you off on Pimmerston anyway. Would you have preferred that, Charlotte?” His voice sharpened.

Charlotte hardly heard him. Her blood sang in her ears. She was overcome by a wild desire to fling something at this man who had tricked her into marriage, and then to storm out of his house forever. She was about to turn on her heel and make for the door when sanity returned. Cold and merciless.

Things were different now. She was pregnant . . . there was her unborn child to think about.

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Rowan standing before her. But his voice still beat at her. “Would you have preferred Pimmerston, Charlotte?” he demanded savagely.

Trembling, Charlotte remembered Russ’s cold promise to Lord Pimmerston that if she turned out not to be a virgin, he would himself make Pimmerston a widower. A shudder went through her slender frame. Very possibly Rowan, “the Arranger,” as he styled himself, had saved her life by “arranging” to buy Aldershot Grange. She could see that Rowan might prefer that fact not to come out—it would make them the talk of London and cast doubt on her “inheritance.”