My Darling Caroline (13 page)
H
e preferred thick, strong coffee in the morning, but alas, when one was on a mission, one had to bow to the customs of the region. Unfortunately he hated tea almost as much as he hated En gland.
Philip René Rouselle stirred a trace amount of sugar into his cup, smiling pleasantly at the fat, pock-faced man in front of him.
“I do say, Sir Stanley, the bed felt marvelous, and the breakfast and tea are superb.” He forced a small laugh and took a sip. “It’s amazing what comforts one fails to recognize until one goes to war, hmm?”
Sir Stanley Grotton, suffering from a chill, sat beside him at the polished oak table, his plate of sausages, eggs, and toast sitting untouched in front of him while he repeatedly pinched his red nose with a handkerchief. “Honestly, I don’t see how you boys survived all that nonsense with Bonaparte. Good to have so many of you back alive after such a dreadful circumstance.”
Philip tightly grasped the handle of his cup and took another sip to calm his building anger. He didn’t come to this stinking country to hear some old, fat bastard talk about a person and situation of which he knew absolutely nothing except gossip spread by dirty English pigs. And a circumstance? How could the man call a great and magnificent battle a circumstance? He dreaded the necessity of staying in this ill-decorated home, eating bland food, while he listened to an old pig talk of nothing but nonsense for perhaps weeks. His glorious mission required such a sacrifice, however, and he refused to leave until he completed it. It would all be worth the effort anyway when he finally cornered his mark.
The Raven evidently thought Philip presumed him dead—murdered at Waterloo—or he wouldn’t have been so careless in returning home. Stupid English bastard. But even as Philip now made his way on the freezing, filthy, rat-infested island, he knew it would soon be worth the effort. Surprise would be his weapon this time, and he would finish his job with pleasure. The Raven would be his, on English soil, and Philip would have the last laugh, would be the one to triumph in their long and arduous personal war.
Smiling, he purposely relaxed in his chair. “I hear your neighbor, the Earl of…”
“Weymerth,” Grotton offered.
“Ah, yes, Lord Weymerth. I hear he’s recently returned from the war himself, eh?”
Grotton sneezed loudly. “Brave boy. Came back skinny as a rail and hungry as a horse. Never seen him look so weak in the twenty years I’ve known him, but he’s filling out nicely from what I hear. Probably due to having a wife now—”
Philip choked on his tea, and for the first time in nine years, the time he’d been working for the government, he nearly lost his composure. Coughing gently for distraction, he laid his cup back on the table, wiped the corners of his mouth delicately with his white lace napkin, and turned his attention to his eggs.
A wife? A
wife
? That seemed so unlikely and bizarre. Incredible. Why would someone so keen on deception, so focused on his work, want to marry? Not the Raven. He got plenty of sex from Christine, the stupid bitch always spreading her legs for his convenience whenever he snapped his fingers. And there were certainly others here he could use just as casually.
“So the earl took a wife after returning from battle, eh?” he asked evenly.
Grotton nodded and blew loudly into his handkerchief. “Baron Sytheford’s daughter. Haven’t met her, but I hear they’re all handsome, blond ladies.”
“How very fortunate for the earl,” he conceded lightly, seething inside. The Raven mocked him even from afar, first stealing his woman, then abandoning her for a beautiful but witless English wench. If he didn’t know his own capabilities, he might be tempted to believe there was truly no justice in the world.
“Quite fortunate,” Grotton maintained, becoming interested in his food at last as he picked at his sausage. “Perhaps you’d like to meet them, Mr. Whitsworth. I could invite them for dinner during your stay.”
Philip hid his surge of panic well. “That would be lovely, I’m sure.” He sighed deeply, casually lifting his cup to his lips and draining it of the pale, tasteless liquid only English weaklings would enjoy.
“However,” he continued, delicately dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “it might be better if you invite them for a visit after I’ve taken care of straightening your stables. Does the earl ride, perchance?”
Grotton swallowed a mouthful of tea and nodded. “The man’s a magnificent horseman.”
“Well, there, you see?” Philip gently swiped his palm across the table, smiling, his voice jovial. “If the man can ride, why not show him your new horses after they’ve been properly conditioned and trained? A good horse man will always appreciate a decent mount, and the stallion and mare your cousin gave you are fine steeds indeed.”
Grotton grunted and stuffed his mouth with eggs. “What I don’t understand,” he said while he chewed, “is why Marjorie would think of giving me horses. What the devil am I supposed to do with them? I haven’t ridden in years.”
Philip shook his head patiently and answered the question in an extremely condescending tone. “Who can understand a woman? The whole lot of them tend to be scatterbrained at least most of the time.”
Grotton nodded in agreement.
“I’m sure she must have felt you could do something with them or benefit from them in some way,” he went on. “And if you think about it, what would a spinster do with two horses she inherited from an old reclusive grouch like my former employer? The man died and left her the horses along with my services until they are trained, but she doesn’t even own a stable.”
“So why leave them to her? That hardly makes sense.”
Philip shrugged nonchalantly. “She’d been caring for him as a good Christian neighbor while he was bedridden, and I think that was the only way he knew to repay her for her kindness when he passed on.” He leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “I’ll admit that after his death I was ready to return to the city, but Mr. Perkins paid me well, and I suppose training these two horses that now belong to you won’t be much trouble.
“Frankly,” he stammered with forced embarrassment, “these horses, Sir Stanley, are of the finest stock. You will be able to show or breed them, or perhaps even sell one of the offspring to the regent himself if my talents are used fully.” He sat back in his chair. “Just think about that.”
Grotton eyed him speculatively as he freely ate at last, devouring his breakfast with such speed that Philip thought he might actually choke on underchewed meat. English animal. He knew the man inside and out, had taken the time to learn his weaknesses, two of which were money and pride—and, he considered with disgust, the third was probably food if his table manners were any indication. But if the fat man thought for a moment that the prince regent might want to buy the horses his cousin had freely given him, his arrogance and desire for an elegant lifestyle would surely be his undoing.
Since his arrival only yesterday, Philip had used his charm and good graces to weave his way into the man’s home, gently applying the right amount of persuasion in offering to stay and care for the two Arabians he’d supposedly brought with him from poor cousin Marjorie, the fat man’s spinster cousin he hadn’t seen in years, who now lay dead at the bottom of a lake.
He’d introduced himself as a down-at-the-heels gentleman, an authority on horses, doing a favor for a friend, only just hinting at payment for services rendered. He discussed the war and English heroism at length with Grotton, so the man, for the sake of his company both knowledgeable and patriotic, would want him to remain in the house instead of the servants’ quarters. Indeed, he’d presented himself as an equestrian scholar, far above the station of a simple trainer or groom, and naturally he spoke, looked, and acted like the perfect gentleman. He deserved the comforts of a soft bed and warm surroundings for the trouble of being in such a filthy land, and if the idiot fat man adored the talk of battle, he would endure it.
He now stayed only miles from the Raven, allowed to roam the property at will for an indefinite period of time, and training two horses would be his only trouble for the opportunity. Simple. Only the French could be so cunning and gifted, and patience was his gift.
“I suppose I’ll have to write Marjorie and thank her for her thoughtfulness,” Grotton remarked at last as he sat back in the creaking chair, his plate nearly licked clean.
Philip smiled. “I think that’s a marvelous suggestion. I’m sure the lady would appreciate your gratitude.” Slowly, deliberately, he creased his brows. “I do believe, however, that your cousin mentioned she’d be in Lincoln for the winter visiting an old lady friend who suffers.” His voice brightened. “But you could write her all the same. She’ll eventually receive the letter.”
Grotton nodded and blew his nose again. “Good heavens, it’s been…five years now since I’ve seen Marjorie. The last time was a Christmas celebration with my aunt Helena.” He rolled his eyes. “Now
she
was a character, let me tell you…”
Philip sat back casually and smiled with feigned interest, knowing that by the end of the month, he would suffer as well.
O
n her twenty-sixth birthday, exactly eighty-six days after her arrival at Miramont, Caroline found the greenhouse. She came upon the structure so suddenly that she nearly tumbled into dirty, ivy-covered glass. But as she stopped and stared in acute surprise, she realized she’d accidently discovered the greatest birthday gift imaginable.
Only two hours after a luncheon with Rosalyn and her husband to celebrate the event, she’d decided to walk the grounds thoroughly for the first time, all alone, to contemplate the changes in her life. The afternoon was lovely, the sun shining warmly through the tree branches, and the relaxing atmosphere gave her the distraction she needed to think.
It had been nearly four weeks since Rosalyn had first spoken to them with her hands, and in that time she’d practiced patiently with the child each day to teach her new words, the meanings of which she was slowly beginning to grasp. Rosalyn made gestures for feelings now and knew several words, an accomplishment that continued to amaze everyone. Even Brent finally took the effort to learn to communicate, stopping his daughter frequently to gesture or motion for this or that. Caroline taught him the alphabet she’d created as well, so eventually they could all spell words and talk to each other with their hands and fingers, easily and efficiently. Over time it would all come together, but time was not on her side.
She would be leaving for America soon. She’d made her plans, persuading her sister Stephanie to sell her emeralds and book passage for her aboard ship. It took a great deal of persuasion, actually, since Stephanie, young and romantic, couldn’t understand why she was still inclined to leave England, and especially her husband, for a lifetime of study and research. She’d vocalized her irritation and disapproval, nearly scolding Caroline outright for her determination and continued intentions. And the pressure was starting to take its toll.
For the first time in her life Caroline was uncertain of her path. She had never been torn between two things as she was now. Logically she wanted only her flowers, her plants and precious lavender roses, her breeding calculations, and the recognition of being a learned botanist. But emotionally she wanted the little girl she’d taught to communicate to grow up to know her as her mother, and she had to admit she ached for Brent to want her for more than her ability to bear and care for children.
He already respected her, which was more than most wives could ever expect from a husband. He never demanded that she sleep with him, although he discussed it frequently and teased her shamefully with suggestions. Only two nights before, he’d awakened again with a nightmare and she had gone to him.
He kissed her, sometimes sweetly, sometimes passionately, but never did he touch her with more intimacy than she was willing to accept. And she was fully aware that the passion they shared could only be held in check for so long. Eventually, if she stayed at Miramont, she would push reason aside, honor the marriage vows, and succumb to his lovemaking. Acknowledging that need in her was tearing her apart.
So, confused and alone, she’d left them all to think, to walk without direction through the thick forest, and suddenly it stood before her. A greenhouse, old and covered with ivy and weeds from years of neglect, but a greenhouse nonetheless.
Slowly, excitement overtaking the initial shock, she walked around the rectangular building, finding it to be of average size and sound of structure, the door on the far end tightly shut and covered with wild greenery.
Carefully she tried the rusted handle, but it wouldn’t give, and she didn’t have the adequate tools with her to pry it open. But, as she considered all the options for breeding, with a greenhouse now available to her, her mind immediately began to race with possibilities.
And she was instantly filled with questions.
Did it belong to him? It had to, for she was only a mile from the house, in deep woods, and it certainly hadn’t been used in years, maybe decades. So why had he never mentioned it when he knew how desperate she was to acquire such a structure?
Did he even know it existed? He had to, Caroline surmised after careful consideration, for the man owned the property surrounding the house for miles and rode his horses daily over his land. Yes, he would have to be aware of a greenhouse on his property, so why the secrecy? The only conclusion she could draw was that he wanted to keep the use of it from her for personal reasons.
That made her angry. She’d asked for a greenhouse, and he had spitefully denied her one he already owned, although truthfully she had been overly flirtatious in bringing up the subject. But this would cost him nothing, not even his time. He needn’t be concerned with it at all.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, and with it came the awareness that she wouldn’t be able to acknowledge the find. If he learned of her discovery, he could reasonably deny her access, and that she refused to allow.
So, determined and annoyed, she turned and marched back toward the house. If he could keep his greenhouse a secret, she could keep the use of it a secret. He obviously didn’t go near it often, and if she was careful, she could work in it during those times she knew he’d be otherwise occupied. Keeping the greenhouse a secret would be something they could both share.
Quickly she made her way through the trees and across the meadow, feeling the urgency to start exerting her efforts on the structure immediately. She stepped through the back door, passed the dining room, and was so engrossed in thoughts of planting that she nearly ran into Nedda, who in turn raced into the hallway from the drawing room.
Nedda took a step back, breathing fast. “We have guests,” she blurted anxiously.
Caroline smiled. Obviously whoever had arrived had startled her housekeeper by calling without notice. And since she wore only a plain white blouse and cotton work skirt, she would have to change before receiving.
“Why don’t you serve tea while I dress, Nedda. I’ll be there shortly.”
Her housekeeper faltered slightly, her eyes shifting to the drawing-room door. “I think it would be best if you saw them now,” she mumbled before darting past and racing away.
Caroline gazed after her, curious, having never seen Nedda so pink-cheeked and flustered. Deciding she didn’t need to be announced, and forgetting completely her inappropriate attire, she walked to the door of the drawing room and swiftly stepped inside.
She saw the woman first, a lovely blond woman, sitting primly on the blue velveteen sofa, staring at her gloved hands while she nervously rubbed her fingers together. She wore a pale-pink day gown and her hair was fashionably pinned to frame her creamy, pale face. For just an instant, Caroline feared this was Pauline Sinclair, here to announce she’d given birth to her husband’s second child.
The woman looked up and smiled faintly, her eyes vibrantly blue and filled with trepidation. “Hello,” she said softly, hesitantly. “We’re here to see Lord Weymerth.”
She shifted her attention to the fireplace. Caroline followed her gaze, and that’s when she noticed her companion, a man, huge of stature, dark and exceptionally handsome with thick, jet-black hair, and eyes as blue as the woman’s. He stared at her hard, his expression unreadable but not at all pleasant. He had also dressed impeccably for the occasion, and suddenly Caroline felt embarrassed and out of place.
“I beg your pardon,” she replied as evenly as she could, “but your business with Lord Weymerth is?”
The woman glanced once again to the man, then quickly back to Caroline, her body shifting uncomfortably on the soft cushion.
“I’m Mrs. Charlotte Becker, and this is my husband, Carl. I apologize for calling without notice, but we only arrived yesterday.” She fidgeted slightly. “Are you a servant perchance?”
Caroline was taken aback by the impertinent question, but she quickly recovered her composure, standing erect and walking as gracefully as any queen into the room to sit casually on the sofa next to the woman.
“I am the Countess of Weymerth,” she informed rather coolly. “May I ask how you are acquainted with my husband?”
The woman paled and gawked at her, then looked again to her husband who was now rudely facing the fireplace with his back to both of them. “I—I didn’t know,” she mumbled.
After an awkward pause, Caroline had had enough. “I’m terribly sorry, but you’ve missed Lord Weymerth.” She stood abruptly. “Perhaps if you would like to call another—”
The woman grabbed her arm. “No, please. I’m sorry.”
She looked so forlorn. Caroline watched her for a second or two, then slowly sat again, deciding she should at least allow the woman to explain her position.
“This is just such a…shock,” Mrs. Becker finally admitted diffidently, releasing her arm and looking once again to her lap. “I would have liked to think Brent would have told you about me.” She laughed bitterly and shook her head. “And I can’t believe he didn’t let me know he’d married.”
Caroline’s puzzlement suddenly gave way to such an incredible rush of jealousy that she felt less angry at the woman and Brent for their romantic affair than she did at herself for reacting so. No wonder this woman’s husband appeared annoyed, acted so discourteously. He was undoubtedly enraged and had forced his wife to confront the earl in his presence, not knowing at all that the earl had a wife of his own. Brent obviously felt he needed to keep such a trivial matter a secret as well when he took a mistress, which was now proving to be an embarrassment for all of them. All the more reason to clear the air without delay.
“Are you pregnant with my husband’s child?” she calmly asked, desperate to keep her poise intact.
Mr. Becker flipped around to stare at her so quickly that she thought his head might fly off his neck. Charlotte, poor thing, had at least the dignity to become ghastly white and look so incredibly appalled that Caroline feared she might actually faint.
For a moment nobody said anything, then Carl Becker addressed her directly. “I believe, madam, that my wife has given you the wrong impression.”
Caroline, heart pounding, shifted her gaze to his face, her expression as slack as she could keep it. The man was American, judging by his accent.
He cleared his throat and lowered his deep, baritone voice. “This is Charlotte Ravenscroft Becker. Lord Weymerth is her brother.”
Caroline did nothing, said nothing, just stared blankly at the man for several moments. Then slowly she forced herself to look once again at the woman sitting next to her.
The resemblance was there, in the square jaw, the full mouth, even in coloring, although her complexion was slightly fairer. But the eyes were exactly the same, save for the fact that hers were blue, so brilliant, so expressive, and Caroline couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the similarities at once.
He had a sister. The damned, insufferable man had a sister about whom he’d told her nothing, and what infuriated her was that she had embarrassed herself to such an extent in front of this woman and her husband, she truly wondered if she would recover or be able to rectify the situation.
Slowly she stood, cheeks flaming, chin high. “I would be deeply grateful, Mrs. Becker, if you would forgive my atrocious behavior. I had no idea my husband had any close relations.”
The woman smiled. “The misunderstanding was partly mine. You needn’t apologize.”
“Please, call me Caroline, both of you.” She swallowed to repress a scream. “I’d like you to remain here and I’ll have Nedda bring refreshments. In the meantime, I think I’ll personally announce your arrival to your brother.”
