Martha Schroeder (21 page)

Amelia was puzzled by the colonel’s cryptic speech and the air of preoccupation and suppressed excitement that radiated from him. “Of course. Colonel. If it meets with Gideon’s approval, I will stay.”

“Thank you.”

They had reached the library. Amelia found herself unable to take the first step over the threshold. She simply could not make her feet move. Sir Richard took her elbow and led her over the sill and into the large, paneled book-lined room that her father had loved more than any other place in the world. And now it was being defiled by the presence of his heir and successor. Once he had helped her enter, Sir Richard left her side and went to sit unobtrusively at the desk. Amelia saw him take up one of her father’s quills before her attention was drawn to Eustace, her cousin and her enemy.

“Good morning, coz.” Eustace was striving for jauntiness and insouciance. But as she looked into his face, Amelia could see the ravages the past few days had taken on him. He was unshaven, unkempt, and one corner of his mouth jerked spasmodically. His eyes were dull, and he refused to meet her gaze.

“Well, coz?” he said with an assumption of bravery. “What have you to say to the head of the family?” He tried to grin, but it was a ghastly travesty.

Her carefully prepared speech outlining her demands went out of her head. “Why, Eustace? Why did you do it?”

He shrugged, and Amelia noticed for the first time that his wrists were not restrained. She stepped back in instinctive alarm. “Because I needed your money, coz. Why did you think?”

“And you were willing to kidnap me and kill Gideon to get it? Eustace, we are blood relations! How could you?”

Eustace’s dull eyes gleamed suddenly with malice. “Because I thought you deserved it, you mealy-mouthed little puritan. And because it would have given me great pleasure to have gotten the best of you and had you and your money in my power.” His hatred was palpable and drove Amelia back another step before she stiffened her spine and determined to hold her ground.

“I’m sorry I asked. I should have known the answer.” She remembered her mission and laid out her proposal in quick, clear sentences.

As he listened, Eustace’s bravado evaporated. When she finished, all he said was, “A confession? Surely you don’t require that. My word should suffice.”

One look at Amelia’s face should have told him her response to that assertion, but his sense of grievance was so strong, he

missed the anger in her eyes. It was only when Sir Richard spoke for the first time that he understood.

“Your word is not worth as much as Blakeley’s. You will sign the confession or risk being hanged for attempted murder.”

Eustace seemed to shrink before Amelia’s eyes. “Very well,” he said. “Have some scrivener write it up, and I will sign.”

“I have taken the liberty of drafting something,” said Sir Richard, picking up the papers he had written. “If Lady Amelia will examine it and initial it, you can then sign it.”

Amelia skimmed the document. Unable to read of the events of the past days without feeling ill, she took a pen from the desk and quickly scribbled her initials. Then, without looking at him, she handed the sheets to Eustace. He studied them carefully for a few minutes, then shrugged and signed the last page.

“There, dear Amelia, is your revenge. When can I have my money?”

“You may draw it at my banker’s the day after tomorrow. I would like you gone before Christmas, if possible. Your mother may go with you or stay and make her home on one of the estates, as she chooses.”

“You always were too good to be true. I suppose now you’re going to marry that misbegotten gypsy.”

Glad to feel anger once again instead of sick revulsion, Amelia said only, “If he’ll have me,” and swept out of the room.

Chapter Sixteen

As they walked back upstairs, Amelia felt reaction setting in. She had managed to push Eustace’s part in yesterday’s terrifying scenes to the back of her mind while she was dealing with the results. But now she felt once again the force of her cousin’s malice beating against her mind.

“Why does he hate me so?” she wondered aloud.

“Evil and weakness always hate strength and goodness. It is a law of nature.” Sir Richard spoke matter-of-factly, as if what he’d said was too obvious to need explanation.

Amelia considered Eustace’s lifelong malice, directed not just at her father and Gideon, but at anyone luckier or more gifted than he. There was a sort of peace in thinking that there was nothing she could have done to deflect that hatred, that it was rooted in his character and was not the result but the cause of the dislike she in turn had always felt for him.

When they reached Gideon’s room, Amelia straightened her shoulders and pasted a smile on her face. She would not reveal how shaken she still was by what Eustace had done. Gideon had enough to do just to recover.

“Eustace has agreed,” she said as she entered. “He will sign, and then he will be on his way to the Continent or perhaps to the antipodes. It scarcely matters. He will be gone.”

Gideon looked at her from the bed, his eyebrows raised at her lighthearted tone. “Did it go as easily as she says, Sir Richard?”

“Not altogether, but Lady Amelia refused to give way and the duke was forced to agree.” Sir Richard went to assume his usual position in front of the fireplace. He frowned down into the flames for a moment. Then, as if he had reached a decision about something, he straightened and turned to face Gideon.

“There is something I think you and I need to discuss,” he said without preamble.

Jane began to gather her knitting together, but Amelia pulled the other small armchair closer to the bed and sat down with a resolute air. She would not leave unless Gideon requested it.

Sir Richard looked at Jane as she rose and unobtrusively walked toward the door. “I would ask that Miss Forrester stay if you have no objection. Captain.”

“Since I am not entirely sure what you wish to discuss, I have no reason to exclude anyone.” Gideon gestured to the chair with a smile. “Come and sit down, Miss Forrester. If things get too racy, you may cover your ears.”

She inclined her head in agreement and sat down again. All three gazed at Sir Richard, waiting for him to begin. He frowned and was silent for a full minute before he looked up at Gideon and said, “I need to ask you about your life before the gypsies sold you to the chimney sweep.”

“No!” Amelia’s involuntary protest sounded like a pistol shot.

Gideon shook his head. “No, no, Amy. It is clear that the colonel thinks I know a great deal more than I do about his family. I am not altogether clear about what he thinks he learned from me yesterday.” He grinned at Amelia, his mask as the cold-blooded cavalry officer firmly in place. “I was not at my best when we talked. In fact, I believe I was off my head. Perhaps if we go over it now, we can all come to some conclusion.” His grin faded, and his expression was almost grim as he looked Sir Richard in the eye and said, “Proceed, sir.”

Sir Richard stood on the hearth, facing all three of his companions. He planted his feet firmly, about shoulder width apart and clasped his hands behind his back. “Before I begin, I must apologize for my behavior yesterday. Jane knows a little about my family, but I fear that you, Falconer, as well as Lady Amelia must have been shocked by my accusations.

“I have spent years trying to trace my nephew, Francis. He disappeared one spring day when he was six and has not been seen since. His mother has never been able to face his death and insists that he is still alive, that she would somehow know if her son were dead. So she has entertained charlatans and cranks of every description, not to mention every vagabond and criminal who bears even the slightest likeness to Francis. None has ever come close to convincing her. She is sure she will know her son at a glance, even after twenty-one years.

“I am very fond of Serena, and I hate seeing her suffer, her whole life concerned with nothing but finding her son. I would like to be able to give her incontrovertible proof that Francis is dead.” Looking down, he seemed to study his boots for a moment before adding, “At least, that is what I wanted until this morning.”

Gideon was listening politely, but something about the colonel’s voice had captured Amelia, and now she leaned forward, certain that what was to follow would be important.

Sir Richard appeared uncharacteristically nervous. He looked at Gideon with what seemed to Amelia to be almost a pleading expression—if that were not completely out of the question. She was sure Sir Richard Sinclair had never pleaded with anyone for anything in his life.

“I have to ask you some questions about your life before the gypsies sold you to the chimney sweep.”

Gideon’s face instantly assumed the shuttered, impervious expression he wore whenever anyone brought up the subject of his childhood. Amelia saw it and moved imperceptibly closer to him, as if to protect him from his painful memories.

“Why do you find this necessary?” Gideon’s voice was chilly yet impassive, as neutral as it they were discussing the weather. “I thought you would want to know about the gypsies. The usual information. I do not like to talk about it, but in your case, I am willing to make an exception. I do not understand why you want to know about—before. Surely if I knew your nephew, it was after that.”

“I believe the reason for my interest will become clear as we proceed.” Strain was evident in the rasp of Sir Richard’s voice.

“You will forgive me if I find that assurance insufficient.” Gideon turned his head away, dismissing the colonel as clearly as if he had shown him the door.

“Please, just indulge me for a few moments. I understand that this is difficult for you—as it is for me. But I cannot tell you what I hope to learn without prejudicing the outcome.”

Sir Richard was pleading now, Amelia thought. There was no doubt about that. Coupled with the tension that seemed to radiate from him, it made her even more convinced that Gideon needed to answer his questions.

Gideon shrugged. “You are not the first to want to know the dirty gypsy brat’s origins.” His tone stung Sir Richard, as Amelia knew it was meant to do. She could see the colonel flinch. “Go ahead.” Now Gideon sounded merely bored. “I will answer.”

Sir Richard’s tension seemed to grow even more pronounced, and Amelia found herself leaning forward, awaiting his questions as if she herself were going to have to answer.

“What are your first memories?”

Gideon stared at him. This was not what he expected, and he answered without the sarcasm or other defenses he usually assumed. “I—I don’t know. Sunlight through white curtains. Laughter. Warmth. A woman singing. Nothing more concrete than that.”

“Do you remember what she was singing? That lullaby, perhaps?”

Gideon’s frown was formidable. Anyone less determined than Sir Richard would have stopped. But the colonel ignored the storm signal. “I tell you again, I need your answers.”

“Yes, I remember the lullaby. There were other songs as well, but I remember that one in particular.” Gideon felt as if he were being stretched on the rack. To remember was bad enough, but to talk about the dreams that had kept him company through the bad years was torture.

“Do you remember anything at all about the woman who sang?”

Gideon took a moment to respond. When he did, his voice was thick and his throat worked spasmodically. “She had a very sweet voice, and she smelled of flowers.” He stopped, then spoke in a low, choked voice. “She had dark hair.”

Sir Richard’s hands clenched. “And next, the silver ball.”

Amelia could see he was as tense as a strung bow. “Where did you get that ball?”

“It is iron, not silver, and I have always had it. I had it in the gypsy camp.”

“If you polish it, you will find it is silver. Like the song, the ball came from the time before.” It was not a question. Sir Richard seemed to assume the truth of those facts.

“Yes. I have said all this, but you refused to believe me. You seem to think I had something to do with your nephew’s death. You tried to take my ball from me.” Gideon seemed to draw himself together, as if gathering his forces to face an enemy whose strength he could not yet gauge.

“I—I am sorry.” Sir Richard cleared his throat. “I have said so before, and I will repeat it as often as necessary. Yesterday I thought that you were hiding something. I believe now that your answers are all completely truthful.” He drew in his breath and seemed to stand even straighter than before. “I need to know one last thing.”

Amelia sensed the anguish behind his simple words. This was what the colonel had been driving at all along, she knew. She reached out for Gideon’s hand, and he clamped his over her fingers with a viselike grip.

“How did you get to the gypsy camp?”

“What do you mean?” Gideon’s eyes were wary and a little wild. This was not something he wanted to deal with, Amelia knew. This brought back the nightmare of drowning.

“What happened to you? Why did you leave the house with the white curtains and the singing woman?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Gideon spoke quickly. Sweat began to bead his brow.

Amelia’s hand moved under his in protest. He did remember at least some of it. He had told her about it only yesterday.

Sir Richard saw Gideon’s instinctive response. “I think you do. Tell me,” he commanded. “I must know.”

Gideon closed his eyes. “I used to have a nightmare. It comes back sometimes even now. Before a battle. When I was wounded. I do not want to think about it.” He opened his eyes and faced his inquisitor.

But it was Jane who answered him. “I think it might help you to answer. The nightmare may lose its power over you if you speak of it, and perhaps together we can make some sense of it.” She smiled encouragingly at Gideon. “I have seen it happen sometimes, Captain. To look at a nightmare in the daylight can weaken its hold. We are your friends—even Sir Richard is, I am sure.”

Gideon still sat silent, his usually healthy tan pale under his bandage, his hand gripping Amelia’s until the knuckles showed white.

“I think Jane is right, Gideon,” Amelia said. Her heart aching for his pain, yet she was sure that he had to go back to that time. “Try to remember the river.”