Rexanne Becnel (6 page)

If only he could find some proof of that earlier marriage!

Agitated, Marsh’s gaze skimmed the faded ink notations, running down the page until his eye caught on another entry:

The blood rushed from his head and, stunned, Marsh sat back in the high-backed armchair.

He could hardly believe it, and yet the words were clear. His father was dead. There would be no revenge on Cameron Byrde for the cruelty he’d done to Maureen MacDougal because the man was already dead.

He had been for twenty-three years.

Then the second part of the entry struck him, and the blood surged back with a msh. One girl child. That meant Marsh had a sister. A half-sister.

“Could I tempt you with scones and lemon curd, Mr. MacDougal? They’re fresh baked this morning.”

Only half aware, Marsh looked up to see Mrs. Liston standing in the doorway holding a heaping plate in front of her. His stomach clenched, rebelling at the thought of food, rebelling at the awful truth with which he’d just been confronted. He had a half-sister!

Fortunately, good sense kicked in, squelching any outward reaction to this new and bitter turn of events. His eyes locked on the vicar’s wife, who wanted so much to help him. He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “You are too kind. Perhaps you can also assuage my curiosity, Mrs. Liston. I see here a listing for a Cameron Byrde. I applied to the housekeeper at Byrde Manor yesterday to fish along their riverbank. Is this the same family?”

She put down the plate of scones and bent low to squint at the entry. “Cameron Byrde,” she mused. She gave him an apologetic smile. “I am not from these parts, you see. I am from York, come here only last year to wed my cousin, Mr. Liston. But Cameron Byrde,” she went on. “That sounds familiar. I see here that he died in 1804. Oh, yes. I remember now. Yes. He is the one. Drowned, I believe. A very sad case.”

Sadder than she knew. “What of his wife and other family? Are they the ones to whom I owe my thanks for the sport I enjoyed yesterday? They have such a pleasant and prosperous-looking estate,” he added, hoping to disguise the intensity of his interest.

“Well, yes. I suppose it is pleasant. And I suppose it is prosperous as well. But Byrde Manor is nothing compared to Woodford Court.”

“Does Mrs. Byrde live there still?” he said, before she could meander too far a field with the comparison.

“Lud, no. I’ve never met her meself. But I’m told she’s a grand lady now, livin’ in London. She wasn’t Scottish, you know. She’s English like me; of that I am certain.”

Yes, grand indeed, Marsh seethed. Cameron Byrde had married a woman nothing like sweet, simple Maureen MacDougal. But he tamped down his fury. “What of the daughter?” he went on.

“The daughter. Let’s see. The daughter. Oh.” She lit up. “That was her daughter you just met. When you arrived, she was just leaving.”

Marsh stared at her, not certain he’d heard her right. “That was Mrs. Byrde’s daughter?”

“Oh, yes. I’m certain of that, for she brought Mr. Liston greetings from her mother. She’s a countess now. Lady Augusta Acton.”

A buzz had started in Marsh’s ears. This could not be right. “But her name was Palmer, not Byrde,” he pointed out, trying to refute her words. “Sarah Palmer.”

“Well.” Again she lowered her voice, as if someone else might overhear her. “It seems Lady Acton has been wed four times. Imagine that! Four times! Widowed three times, of course. Perhaps Miss Palmer took her stepfather’s name.” She straightened up and thrust the plate at him. “Do you want lemon curd with your scones?”

Marsh took a scone. He ate it, hardly conscious of what he did, and washed it down with tepid tea devoid of milk or lemon. What he needed was a tall glass of whiskey.

He bent back to the books and, after fussing a bit more, Mrs. Liston left. But there were no other entries to be found for any Byrdes except for a land lease agreement with a Neville Hawke in 1818.

Then again, the one entry he’d found had been sufficient enough to tilt his entire world off center.

His father was dead and he had a half-sister.

And though he’d anticipated that there might be several such siblings in the offing, never in his wildest, most depraved imaginings had he considered that he might lust after one of them.

A
DRIAN
handled the phaeton and two like an expert. When he’d come to call in the early afternoon, he’d insisted on escorting her to the country dance in Kelso that evening. A vast improvement, in Sarah’s opinion, over the vicar and his curious long-nose of a wife. Now, as the carriage turned smartly into the town square, which glowed beneath dozens of lanterns, the lad pulled up before the mayor’s residence, then leaped down with boyish enthusiasm. He appeared all proper manners and decorum, however, when he assisted her down.

She smiled at him. “Why, thank you, Adrian.”

He beamed right back. “You see? And you thought I was a hooligan. Confess it, you did. But as you see, I also can play the gentleman. I can show a leg with the best of them.” He paused and grinned before adding, “When I want to.”

With his eyes so bright and glinting with mischief, Sarah had no choice but to smile back and shake her head. He was too handsome tonight, dressed in his best midnight-blue waistcoat with his white cravat tied in an elaborate knot, and his tall boots polished until they positively gleamed. He was already as tall as a man, though he still retained the gangliness of youth.

She was not alone in that assessment, for a pair of young girls clad in pretty pastel muslin dresses approached the front door arm in arm, giggling and glancing back at Adrian. When he acted as if he did not notice, Sarah nudged him. “Are you acquainted with those young ladies?”

He spared them a brief look, then gave an offhanded shrug. “Just some girls from over the hill.”

Just some girls with eyes for handsome young men, Sarah thought as they joined the queue of people entering Mayor Dinkerson’s spacious abode. “Please don’t feel you need to shepherd me about, Adrian,” she whispered to him. “I’ve been to many a dance in my day, and I know enough people to occupy myself and gain whatever other introductions I desire.”

But would she see the man to whom she’d been both properly and improperly introduced yesterday?

At the thought of Marshall MacDougal, a wicked little hum began to tickle down low in her belly. It was annoying and frustrating and mystifying as well. Really, but the man was nothing but an ill-mannered wretch. She should not respond to him so.

But, unfortunately, she did. And as she greeted Mayor Dinkerson, she couldn’t help glancing about for the American.

He was not there. The evening progressed with introductions to the mayor’s son and daughter-in-law, then to the wool broker, the solicitor’s two daughters and their families, and on and on to every person of any consequence in Kelso. Yet despite the bevy of people more than eager to greet the sister of the wealthiest landowner in the area, Sarah was distracted every time the front door opened.

By ten o’clock she had begun to grow discouraged. He was not coming.

It was all so confusing, she fretted as Mrs. Liston cornered her and embarked on a long, boring story. A part of her dreaded seeing Marshall MacDougal, for to even recall the power of those few stolen kisses terrified her all over again. Yet at the same time she perversely yearned to see him. The very thought of conversing with him again sent a scary thrill shooting up her backbone.

Their brief meeting at the vicar’s house had only intensified that feeling. At least they were now properly introduced. He hadn’t embarrassed her then, so why should she worry that he might do so now?

Indeed, the more Sarah thought about it, the more she wanted to see him. Forgotten was her vow to avoid him at all costs. Surely in such a public venue she was perfectly safe speaking with him. Or even dancing with him.

“Careful, Sarah,” she muttered under her breath. She was treading on dangerous ground—or she would be if he were here. But he was not and she ought to be relieved.

She was relieved, she told herself. She would force herself to be relieved. So she smiled brightly at Mr. Goodson, the portly squire from over Ancrum way, who’d gone to fetch her a glass of wine. “Oh. You are too kind,” she gushed. She patted him on the arm as she accepted the glass, a gesture she knew was certain to increase his attentions to her.

A short silence fell between them and she fancied she could almost hear him dredging up his courage. Finally he asked, “Would you like to dance?” his ears turning pink in the process.

“How kind you are to rescue me from becoming a wallflower.”

“But you promised the next cotillion to me,” Adrian interrupted, appearing from behind them. With the grace a court dandy would have envied, he somehow insinuated himself between her and Mr. Goodson. He held his arm out to her, then grinned at the other man. “You can have the next one, Goody.”

Sarah had no choice but to take the lad’s arm. But as they lined up for the dance, She gave Adrian a stern look. “That was not well done.”

“What?” he protested. “You had promised me the dance. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember it well. But a gentleman does not wait until the music is already warming up to claim his next partner. It is rude to her. Nor should you have instructed Mr. Goodson that he may have my next dance, for you do not know whether I have already granted that dance to someone else.” They bowed as the music began. “And lastly, you should not have called him Goody in my presence. By rights you shouldn’t call him that ever, for he is your elder and deserving of your respect.”

If Adrian was at all chagrined by her criticisms, it was banished at her last remark. “Everybody calls him Goody. So will you, once you get to know him.” Then, spying her disapproving expression, he relented. “All right, all right. I’ll do better the next time. I promise. Only stop frowning at me as if I’m a naughty lad.”

That’s precisely what you are
. But Sarah kept silent, for she understood Adrian’s desire to be treated as an adult. She well remembered how rabid she’d been to abandon the schoolroom during those last two years before her coming out. But London society was not nearly so lenient as country society and she’d had no choice but to wait. Here in the countryside, however, children were allowed to join the adults in all sorts of social events that they would be banished from in town. Certainly a fourteen-year-old like Adrian would not be dancing like this among his elders.

He was dancing, though, and he was quite good at it. When she remarked as much, he grinned. “My mum insisted. Says all the girls love dancin’. Do you?”

“Indeed I do. Is your mother not coming to the dance?” she inquired, for she’d not yet spied the unpleasant Estelle.

“She’ll be here eventually,” he retorted, his smile fading.

Now, what did that somber look signify? Sarah wondered as she did her portion of the movement. Didn’t he want his mother here?

A half hour later she had her answer. For Estelle arrived on the arm of a tall, thick-waisted brute of a fellow. He was properly dressed, with his hair slicked down, but he had a rough look about him. As for Estelle, she was outfitted in a brilliant blue satin gown that displayed a vast amount of her overly developed chest.

Sarah couldn’t help but stare, for the woman’s bosom looked very near to popping free of the straining fabric. Everyone else seemed to anticipate the very same event, for every male eye and most of the female ones too fastened on those remarkable breasts.

For a moment Sarah was annoyed with herself for choosing a rather ordinary gown for her first outing in Kelso society. She hadn’t wanted to flaunt herself, neither her wealth nor her knowledge of current town style. It seemed, however, that she’d succeeded a little too well. When compared to Estelle’s eye-popping ensemble, her own modestly cut summer-green gown looked so sweet as to be almost sickening.

Her brow creased in a faint frown. Really, but that woman had no shame.

Then Sarah’s eyes found Adrian standing near one of the windows, and she recognized at once the larger problem that Estelle’s appearance created. Adrian was old enough to understand exactly what all the other men thought when they gawked at his mother that way. He was old enough to understand about lust, and if his scowl was any indication, he didn’t like it at all.

Excusing herself from the company of Mrs. Dinkerson and the tiresome Mrs. Liston, she threaded her way through the crowd, angling toward Adrian. Though she did not comprehend all the undercurrents of the situation, she was certain that Adrian needed an ally.

But he frowned when he spied her, and like the moody boy he still was, he slipped out through the open window and disappeared into the lavender night. She stared after him in consternation, but when a silky, malicious voice intruded on her thoughts, Sarah’s consternation turned to dislike. Estelle.

“I should think he’s a mite young for the likes of you, Miss Palmer. No matter that my boy is a handsome lad, he’s still no match for a fast town trick like yourself.”

As Sarah turned to face the other woman, outwardly she appeared composed. But inside she was seething. “Nor is he any match for a selfish mother who thinks nothing of embarrassing him in front of everyone he knows.” She stared pointedly at Estelle’s thrusting bosom. “Couldn’t you cover those things, if only for his sake?”

For a moment Estelle appeared to be struck dumb. Clearly she had not expected to get just as good as she gave. But when she recovered, it was equally clear that her dislike for Sarah had jelled into something much colder.

“William likes them,” she boasted, clasping the arm of her silent companion. “As does every other male in the room.”

“Yes. My point precisely. Every man except the one who should matter the most.” And with that Sarah glided away, holding her head as high as if she were the queen. But her aplomb was superficial, for she’d never wanted so much to claw another woman’s eyes out!

From that unpleasant confrontation the evening slid steadily downhill. While she was finally partnering Mr. Goodson, she spied Marshall MacDougal standing in the foyer. She nearly tripped and fell, and afterward had to concentrate mightily to follow the steps of the dance. Though she continued to honor her dance obligations, she watched surreptitiously as he was introduced around by Mr. Liston. Even Estelle Kendrick was introduced to him, and Sarah had to bite her tongue when she saw his gaze lower to that monstrous mound of pale flesh the woman practically thrust in his face. Her stomach clenched violently at the unwelcome image of him falling face first into that deep cleavage and never coming up again.

“I…I believe I need some air,” she murmured to her partner of the moment. “If you will excuse me?”

But a quarter hour in the window of the second-floor ladies’ resting room did nothing at all to calm Sarah’s nerves. Indeed, when she spied a group of boys in the side yard sneaking drinks, then pushing and shoving and laughing too loud, she felt decidedly worse. Adrian was not there among the fellows of his own age, nor was he mingling with the adults downstairs.

The poor boy. He fit in nowhere, she realized. No father, and a slattern for a mother. No wonder he’d fled Eton. He did not fit there either. He might be educated as a gentleman, but he had not yet learned how to escape his less-than-sterling heritage. More than ever she vowed to befriend him. But first she had to find him.

So, with a resolute sigh, she rose from the window seat, smoothed her skirts, then for good measure tugged the seed-pearl-embroidered neckline of her gown as low as it would go. The fact that the dressmaker’s mirror in the corner revealed no cleavage at all—not even a little shadow of one—only depressed her further.

Why should she care that her bosom was perfectly ordinary when compared to that woman’s? Adrian was her project, not Marshall MacDougal or any other man here tonight. As far as she cared, they could all smother in Estelle’s overabundant flesh. In fact, she hoped they did.

Marsh spied Sarah the moment she descended the stairway. He’d come to the mayor’s soiree because of the opportunity it gave him to meet a large number of people. But he’d known he would probably have to face Sarah Palmer, and so he’d procrastinated until he could procrastinate no longer. He’d braced himself for revulsion when he saw her, determined to bury any stray remnant of attraction that might still linger. As much as the idea repulsed him, it seemed she was his sister—his half-sister—sired of the same father as himself. To even recall their kiss sent a sick shiver through him.

Yet for the first few seconds after he saw her, he forgot their unsavory relationship. For the first few seconds he simply stared at her, struck by this third facet of her persona. The arrogant scarlet-caped beauty of the carriage; the earthy equestrian alongside the river; and now this vision of innocent perfection.

Mayor Dinkerson, who’d taken over Mr. Liston’s task of introducing Marsh around, nudged him in the side. “I suppose you’ll be wanting an introduction to her as well?”

Marsh saw the twinkle in the man’s eye just in time to prevent himself from making an unwise reply. He cleared his throat. “We’ve…ah, we’ve already met. The vicar,” he added, when the man seemed to expect more details.

“Aha. You couldn’t know this, of course, but Miss Palmer is the very image of her mother, though her hair is darker. But the eyes, the smile, and the bearing…” The man gazed up at Sarah, smiling. “Yes, that Augusta was quite a beauty.”

Augusta. The mother. The one who’d stolen Cameron Byrde from Marsh’s sweet, trusting mother. In that moment Sarah’s beauty became distasteful in Marsh’s eye, the false beauty of the devil, ugly on the inside, where it counted.

Unfortunately, the mayor had met Sarah at the bottom of the stairs and now was leading her back to join their group.

Marsh reacted without thinking, almost as if in a panic. He spun abruptly on his heel and headed toward the first familiar face he spied, that of Mr. Halbrecht, the innkeeper, as it happened, who gestured to him with one beefy hand.

“Mr. MacDougal. Hello. Hello. Over here.” His already florid complexion had deepened to a ruddy glow. It was either too much to drink or else the woman he was presently conversing with, Marsh decided. For she was a glittering bird among the otherwise more sedately clad villagers. A bright blue glittering bird with a chest that would do a ship’s figurehead proud.