Valentine

Chapter Twenty-three

The curricle wasn't built to accommodate three people, and Theo found herself sitting practically in Edward's lap once they'd scrambled up to the seat.

Sylvester said nothing and beyond moving sideways a couple of inches offered no assistance as they scrunched into place. Once sure that they were securely seated, he gave his horses the office to start. No one said anything until Dock Street was well behind them; then Edward cleared his throat and spoke with more than a hint of constraint

"I beg your pardon, sir, for bungling it like that. I should have thought… remembered -"

"I don't hold you responsible for my wife's actions, Fairfax," Sylvester interrupted, his voice as hard as iron.

Edward fell silent, wrestling with his mortification. Once he would have been able to handle that situation; instead, he'd had to be rescued like a cocky schoolboy who'd tried to take on the school bully.

Theo touched his arm in sympathy, knowing exactly how he was feeling, but he glared at her, blaming her for his grief and embarrassment, for involving him in a situation where he was forced to acknowledge his limitations.

She glanced at her husband's profile. There was no reassurance there. His mouth and jaw looked as if they'd been carved in granite, and she knew his eyes would be spurting fire in the arctic-gray depths.

"Sylvester?" she began hesitantly.

"I presume you'd prefer not to hear what I have to say to you on the open street, so I suggest you hold your tongue."

Theo was silenced, and they drove without speaking another word through the City with its banking houses, past St. Paul's Cathedral, and along the Strand, where the landscape became more familiar, the streets broader, the private houses more imposing, the shop windows filled with the luxury items that would appeal to Fashionable London at the height of the Season.

Sylvester, no longer under the spur of fear, weaved his way at a more leisurely pace through the streets, giving a reasonable berth to elegant landaus and heavy drays, and allowing the throng of foot traffic ample time to move out of his way. With Theo safe beside him he felt emptied of all emotion, as if skin and bone merely contained a vast, cold void.

"You'll have no objection if I put you down at Piccadilly, Fairfax?" The curt question came after such a long silence that both Edward and Theo jumped.

"No, of course not, sir. I'm much obliged," Edward said miserably.

Sylvester drew up at the corner of Piccadilly and St. James's, and Edward awkwardly descended to the pavement. He stood for a moment, trying to think of something to say; then Sylvester bade him a brusque good day and the curricle moved off.

Alone with her husband, Theo looked over her shoulder and raised a hand in forlorn farewell. She had the air of one in a tumbrel on her way to the guillotine, Edward thought, feeling sympathy despite his own distress. He'd rarely seen her apprehensive, ever, as a child on the occasions when she faced the wrath of her grandfather, but her anxiety on this occasion struck him as perfectly justifiable. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone quite as intimidating as the Earl of Stoneridge that afternoon.

With Edward's departure the vast, cold void filled up again, and Sylvester's anger burned anew with a fierce flame. Theo had frightened him more than he'd ever been frightened before. When he'd rounded the corner of Dock Street and understood how a minute later would have been too late, the pure terror that he'd been holding down had ripped through him, turning his gut to water. When he thought of how only the most accidental of circumstances had alerted him to her dangerous exploit, he felt sick, his internal vision once again filled with images of her stripped body floating in the greasy black waters of the Thames.

He drove into the mews and alighted from the curricle, tossing the reins to the head groom before holding up an imperative hand to assist his wife.

Theo barely touched his fingers as she jumped to the ground. The scar stood out, a blue-tinged slash across his forehead, and she realized that she'd seen him angry before, but never quite like this. Foreboding swirled in her belly, lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, turned her knees to jelly. She had never been frightened of anyone before. She hadn't even been afraid this afternoon; there hadn't been time. But at this moment, facing the consequences of what now struck her as a piece of foolhardy craziness, she was scared stiff.

She didn't know this man, who now governed her life, because he wouldn't let her know him. Oh, she knew his body, she knew what gave him pleasure. And she knew what would make him laugh and what would annoy him. All trivial pieces of present knowledge. But how could she truly know her husband if he kept his innermost thoughts from her, shielded her from his plans and decisions, and told her only the bare facts of his previous existence with none of the emotions and responses that would have shown her the man who had lived that life?

She couldn't begin to guess what was going to happen.

Sylvester moved her ahead of him with a hand in the small of her back, out of the mews and around to the street entrance of Belmont House.

Foster opened the door for them, but his greeting died on his lips as he took in the countess's white face and the earl's stark severity.

Sylvester's hand moved around her waist, sweeping her with him across the hall and toward the stairs, so fast now her feet skimmed the parquet. The marble staircase seemed to rise interminably in front of her. She was acutely conscious of his closeness, his breath rustling over the top of her head, the warmth of his body. But it was a menacing proximity. Always before just the sense of him close to her had sent jolts of arousal into her belly and ripples of anticipation over her skin. But the jolts and the ripples now arose from a dreadful suspense.

The long corridor stretched ahead as they reached the top of the stairs, and she was swept along to the double doors at the end. Sylvester leaned forward to fling open one door, and then they were inside her own apartment, surrounded by the familiar objects, the gracious furnishings, the cheerful glow and crackle of the fire. But she could find no reassurance there.

Sylvester banged the door at his back. Theo turned to face him, and the tension on the gamine face, the strain in the midnight eyes, brought him a certain grim satisfaction – tiny recompense for his own gut-wrenching fear for her.

"How dare you do something so unutterably stupid and reckless!" he demanded.

Theo clasped her hands tightly. "I know it was stupid. I didn't think to take a pistol, I -"

"What!" he interrupted in disbelief. "Is that all you can say? You defy my orders, you meddle in my affairs, willfully expose yourself to danger, and all you can apologize for is forgetting to take a pistol!"

"Oh, don't you understand?" she cried. "What else could I do? You promised me a partnership. You… you seduced me with the promise of a partnership. I would never have married you if you hadn't promised that. Instead, you keep your self away from me. You won't permit me to know anything about you… anything important, that is." She flung away from him, tears of frustration blurring her vision.

"You dare to blame me for your defiance and your stupidity?" Furiously, he took a step toward her and then stopped, aware that his hands were shaking with his rage. He took a deep breath. "I'm too angry to deal with this now," he stated. "I can't trust myself in the same room with you!" He turned back to the door. "You'll stay in here until I come back."

"What?" Startled, she swung to face him again.

"I intend to know where you are – every step you take from now on," he declared savagely. "So you'll stay in this room until I've cooled off enough to be rational. And so help me, Theo, if you so much as stick your little toe outside this door, you'll regret it to your dying day."

Theo stared, dumbstruck, as he stormed out and the door crashed closed behind him. She felt sick and shivery. Angrily, she dashed the tears from her eyes with her forearm and went to the window. Sylvester appeared in the street below. He glanced up once at the house, but if he saw her in the window, he gave no indication. Then he turned and strode off down the street, slashing at the neat privet hedges with his cane.

Theo stepped back into the room. She filled a glass with water from the pitcher on the washstand and drank slowly, waiting for the nausea to recede and for her breathing to steady.

The fat really was in the fire now.

She kicked off her shoes and dropped into a deep armchair by the hearth, drawing her legs under her, gazing into the wreathing flames. The devil of it was that she'd been forced to reveal her own hand. Sylvester now knew that she wasn't prepared to accept his silences as royal commands, and knowing her husband, he was bound to take serious steps to prevent her continuing along her chosen path.

If she couldn't persuade him to take her into his confidence, it rather looked as if she was stymied.

She let her head fall back against the cushions and cursed under her breath. Sylvester was presumably stalking the streets of London devising some foolproof scheme to turn her into a model wife who never questioned her husband's decisions or asked awkward questions or, heaven forbid, took matters into her own hands. A nice, meek little wife who'd warm his slippers and order his favorite foods and hang her head in mute obedience to his every command.

Well, he wasn't going to find it easy. She turned her head and looked at the closed door of her bedroom. Maybe he wasn't going to find it easy, but, somehow, she didn't feel like defying his parting order.

The sound of commotion in the street below brought her out of her reverie, and she sprang up from her chair, going to the window. A post chaise had drawn up before the door, boxes and portmanteaus strapped to its roof. Its yellow painted wheels were coated with mud, and the side panels were thickly splattered. Obviously it had come quite a journey. Six outriders, with blunderbusses, sat their horses – a dangerous journey, presumably.

As Theo stared down, a postilion flung open the door and let down the footstep. Lady Gilbraith descended to the street, shaking down her skirts, adjusting her bonnet with a sharp jerk as if the garment had in some way offended. She took up her lorgnette and examined the facade of Belmont House just as Foster came hurrying down the front steps to greet her, and Mary alighted from the post chaise swathed for some extraordinary reason in a purple blanket and clutching a white handkerchief to her nose.

In horror Theo stared at the amount of baggage on the roof of the vehicle. How the hell long were they coming for?

She turned at a hasty rap at her door. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but 'is lordship's ma… I mean, Lady Gilbraith 'as jest arrived," Dora announced, slightly breathless from her haste. "Mr. Foster sent me to tell you."

"Thank you, Dora." Theo turned to the mirror, hiding a slight smile. She had an interesting choice before her: to obey her husband's express commands or to greet his mother with all due courtesy and hospitality. She thought she would do the latter. Sylvester would be hard-pressed to find fault.

Her tousled reflection looked out at her from the mirror. An afternoon fighting and running for her life from a gang of dockland thieves didn't lend itself to a tidy appearance.

"Help me change my dress, Dora… the cream silk will do." She began to pull the pins from her hair, shaking it loose. "And I'll have to do my hair again, but be quick. I mustn't keep Lady Gilbraith waiting."

Ten minutes later she hurried down the stairs to the hall, where her dismayed eyes took in the mountain of luggage still being carried in by the footmen.

"Her ladyship and Miss Gilbraith are in the salon, Lady Theo," Foster informed her. "I ventured to suggest they might care for some tea, but her ladyship didn't believe we could make a pot to her satisfaction."

"Bring coffee instead. I seem to remember her ladyship prefers it," Theo said, giving him a conspiratorial wink, dropping her voice to a whisper. "How long are they going to stay?"

Foster's lips twitched. "I couldn't say, my lady. It's to be the Chinese room for Miss Gilbraith and the Garden suite for her ladyship?"

Theo nodded, braced her shoulders, and entered the salon. "My dear ma'am, welcome to Belmont House. I trust the journey was not too fatiguing?"

"It was tedious in the extreme," her mother-in-law declared, putting up her glass and subjecting Theo to a long and unnerving scrutiny. "Hmm. You seem to have lost some of that brown tinge to your complexion… something of an improvement." She managed to convey surprise rather than approval. "Where's Stoneridge?"

Marching the streets in a fury. "He had to go out, ma'am. I'm certain if he'd known you were to arrive today, he would have made sure he was here to welcome you."

Theo turned to her sister-in-law, still huddled in her astonishing purple blanket, still clutching a white handkerchief to her scarlet nose. It clashed most interestingly with the blanket. "Mary, I trust you're well."

"Does she look well?" demanded her ladyship. "Sniveling and snuffling. It's to be hoped that fool Weston can do something for the gal. Not that I put much store in doctors… quacks the lot of 'em… and demmed expensive."

"If I could just have a mustard bath, Mama," Mary pleaded thickly. "I'm sure I'll be better directly."

"Coffee, ma'am." Foster entered the salon bearing a tray.

"Thank you," Theo said. "And, uh… uh, Miss Gilbraith would like a mustard bath, if it could be arranged." She turned back to the sufferer, inquiring solicitously, "Just for your feet, Mary, or would it be wiser to immerse your whole self?"

Mary spluttered, looking outraged at such a suggestion made in the hearing of a butler.

"I'll have a basin taken to the Chinese room, my lady," Foster said in repressive accents, shooting his young mistress a reproving look. "Your maid, Lady Gilbraith, has been directed to your apartments and awaits your pleasure."

Theo poured coffee and offered more milk as her mother-in-law declared the brew too strong for a liverish constitution. "Do you also consult Dr. Weston, ma'am?" she inquired sweetly, filling the cup to the brim with milk. "For your liver, perhaps?"

"My liver, gal, is my own concern," Lady Gilbraith announced. "I'm surprised your mother didn't teach you not to ask impertinent questions, but, then, the Belmonts always did lack finesse."

Theo felt her cheeks warm, and she bit down on her tongue until she had it under control. "Coffee, Mary?"

"I don't drink it," Mary said petulantly as if Theo should have been aware of that. "I should like to go to my room."

"By all means, I'll take you upstairs." Theo rose and moved to the door. She glanced toward the long windows looking out onto the street and saw the unmistakable figure of her husband striding toward the house. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she sent a swift prayer heavenward that he'd cooled off enough to react rationally to her presence downstairs.

The post chaise had been taken to the mews, so when Sylvester strode into the house, he had no notion of visitors. His expression was still grim, but the unruly edge to his fury had been blunted, and he was now well in control of himself. He was going to send Theo to Stoneridge first thing in the morning. It was a simple decision, one that would keep her out of the way while he dealt with Gerard and would, not incidentally, ensure she dug no deeper into his secrets.

Banishment would also make clear to his wife that he wouldn't tolerate her interference and her reckless impulses.

He entered the hall just as a footman was hefting the last of the portmanteaus onto his shoulders.

"Oh, Sylvester, you're back." Theo's clear tones came from the salon. "See, your mama and sister are come." She came into the hall, smiling. But her smile was tight and her eyes were dark with anxiety as they raked his face. "I have been making them welcome," she said softly, with a tiny apologetic shrug and a what-would-you-have-me-do quirk of her lips.

He accorded her a brief nod that told her little of his reaction to her disobedience and turned to greet his parent and sister, receiving a series of complaints and a great many sniffles from Mary for his pains.

"I am about to escort them to their chambers," Theo said. "Your sister wishes for a mustard bath, and I'm sure Lady Gilbraith would like to rest before dinner."

Sylvester inclined his head in acknowledgment, saying to his mother, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to dine alone with Theo this evening, ma'am. I have a previous engagement, and I cannot cry off."

Theo's indignantly indrawn breath almost made him smile. An evening alone with his mother and sister was a neat retribution; he couldn't have devised a more appropriate one if he'd tried.

He escorted them upstairs and then left them, saying he had to change his dress for his dinner engagement, but he'd see them in the morning. His eyes flicked across his wife's countenance as he said this, and she understood that that statement was to include her. She'd have to wait until the morning to hear whatever fate he'd devised for her.

Theo glared at his retreating back in mute dismay, then, gritting her teeth, turned back to her in-laws.

Henry recognized that his master was in no mood for conversation as he helped him change into evening dress. The earl was frowning, and his fingers were unusually clumsy with his cravat so that the pile of discarded squares mounted as he struggled with the intricate folds.

He couldn't send Theo away while his mother was there. He'd just have to hope that his mother and sister would keep her so occupied she wouldn't have time to go spinning off on her own frolics, and once the visitors had left, he'd pack her back to the country.

He left the house half an hour later, dwelling with a degree of satisfaction on the irksome evening Theo was going to spend, unaware that a messenger was already hotfoot to Brook Street with a desperate plea for support in the evening ahead.

The Belmonts, Edward Fairfax, and Jonathan Lacey arrived at Curzon Street within the hour to rescue a desperate Theo from perdition.

In his small, elegant house on Half Moon Street, Neil Gerard prepared to receive his guests. They were all members, past and present, of the Third Dragoons, and they were the only people who might continue to regard Sylvester Gilbraith askance. Neil hoped to overcome whatever lingering prejudice they might carry.

That done, Sylvester would surely have no need to dig into the past himself. It would be against his interests to exhume the rotting corpse of a scandal that everyone was prepared to leave buried. But as the ultimate insurance, Neil would plan a little excursion for the busy Lady Stoneridge. He knew Sylvester's pride. The man would be willing to sign anything, even a full confession to something he didn't remember, rather than have his wife's supposedly adulterous indiscretions exposed to Society. And that piece of paper would signal the end of Gerard's excruciating contract with Jud O'Flannery.

The door knocker sounded, and he heard his servant hurrying to open it. From the sound of voices, it appeared that several of his guests had arrived together.

"Good evenin', Neil." A bewhiskered captain entered, rubbing his hands. "Nippy out there tonight." His gaze fell on his host's countenance. "Good God, man, whatever happened to you? That's quite a shiner."

Neil touched his blackened eye, smiled thinly with his swollen lip. "Took a tumble from my horse," he explained. "Nasty brute, I've a mind to send him to the knacker's."

"Nothin' to be done with an ill-tempered nag, that's what I always say," the captain said cheerfully. "Now, see who I found on your doorstep." He indicated a florid gentleman with mild blue eyes, who had stepped into the room behind him. "Haven't seen old Barney here for months. Where've you been hiding, old chap?"

"In Spain with the Peer."

"Headquarters, eh?" The captain nodded and accepted a glass of wine from his host. "So what's goin' on?"

The other man didn't reply immediately. He glanced at the table set in the window alcove. "You expectin' quite a crowd, Neil?"

"Only five of us," Neil said, handing him a glass. "Yourselves, Peter Fortescue, and Sylvester Gilbraith."

"Stoneridge?" Barney raised an eyebrow. "I'd heard he was in town. Married, isn't he?"

"Quite recently. Soon after he inherited the title."

"Mm. Thought you had no time for him, after that nasty business at Vimiera."

Neil shrugged. "It's water under the bridge. No one really knows what happened. He was acquitted. It's hard to dismiss an old friend out of hand."

The other two nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I own I've always thought of him as a decent fellow," the captain declared into his now empty glass. "I'm ready enough to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Good." Neil smiled and refilled his glass just as the door knocker sounded again. He hoped it would be Fortescue, so that by the time Sylvester arrived, everyone would be in agreement as to how to greet him.

The stringy figure of Major Fortescue loomed in the door behind the servant. He was greeted warmly by his friends, a glass pressed into his hand, his questions as to his host's battered countenance answered.

"Gerard's expectin' Gilbraith," the captain said. "D'you remember that rum business about the colors?"

"Yes, and I never believed a word of it," Fortescue declared. "He was a damn fool to resign from the regiment. Made him look guilty."

"He was severely wounded," Neil reminded him.

"True, but he had no call to resign." The major took a deep draft of his wine.

Sylvester heard their voices as he stood in the hall, handing his cape and gloves to the servant. They were well-remembered voices from the past. Gerard hadn't told him who his fellow guests would be, but he'd set up a reunion of old comrades. What the devil was he playing at now? Was this to be some twisted exercise in mortification, despite his previous gestures of friendship?

Sylvester stiffened his shoulders as he prepared to enter the room.

"Lord Stoneridge, sir." The servant announced him.

"Ah, Sylvester, welcome." All smiles, Neil came across the room, hand extended. "Before you ask about my eye, I took a tumble from my horse. Now, you know everyone, of course."

"Of course. But it's been a long time," Sylvester said deliberately.

"Too long," Fortescue declared, grasping his hand in a warm clasp. "Why the hell did you resign in such a hurry, man?"

"A head wound is no light matter, Peter," Sylvester said. "It still plagues me."

His old friend examined him closely. He seemed to be hesitating, and Sylvester guessed he was about to bring up Vimiera, but his eyes were puzzled rather than hostile.

Before he could do so, however, Gerard spoke with brisk heartiness. "A glass of claret, Sylvester, and come to the fire." And the other two men moved forward with their own greeting, and the moment was past.

And it never came again. There was to be no opportunity to air the subject; it was as if it had never happened. For a moment Sylvester thought how easy it would be to settle for that. People were willing to forgive and forget… to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could resume a normal life. Except that he couldn't live with himself any longer; he could no longer live under the shadow of cowardice. And then, of course, there was the fact that Gerard had tried to kill him.

As the evening wore on, he watched Gerard and recognized with the eye of experience the man's fear, the edge of near panic in the flat eyes. How often during their boyhood had he seen it? He was filled with a depthless disgust for the man, a disgust far greater and more potent than simple anger, and realized that he'd always felt it to some extent, even in their schooldays when he'd tried to persuade the boy to stand up to the bullies.

And how had he acquired that black eye and split lip this time? Not in the corridors of Westminster School, certainly, but his face had come into contact with more than the hard ground.

As they sat around the card table, it was clear to everyone that Neil's game of whist was distracted, infuriating the captain, who was his partner. As the party broke up, Major Fortescue voiced the opinion of the group.

"You serve too fine a claret, m'boy, for a man who's not the world's best card player." He flung an arm around Gerard's shoulder. "Damn fine claret it was. Can't say I blame you for over-imbibing."

"Well, I can," the captain grumbled. "Lost me fifty pound clear, you have, Gerard. I should have let Barney have my place."

Sylvester wondered why he had been the only one to notice that Gerard drank little. Deliberately he hung back as the others left.

"Another glass, Sylvester?" Neil didn't sound too enthusiastic as he made the offer out of courtesy.

"Thank you." Sylvester sat down beside the fire, blandly ignoring the reluctant tone. "An excellent evening, Neil. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Smiling, he accepted a refilled glass and calmly began the hunt. "Tell me, did you discuss Vimiera with our friends before I arrived?"

Neil's eyes shifted and then he smiled stiffly. "A word, perhaps. We're all agreed that the story's dead as the proverbial dodo. No point ruining good friendships over it. You'll not find it mentioned again by anyone."

"I do indeed stand in your debt," Sylvester said thoughtfully, his eyes hooded so that his companion couldn't see their sardonic glitter. "I know it's been a long time, but could you tell me again exactly what happened to you that afternoon?"

Gerard's lips thinned. He moved a hand through the air in a vaguely dismissive motion. "It'll do no one any good to go through it again, Sylvester."

"You were coming up in support. Did you see me surrender?"

Gerard closed his eyes as if the memory were too painful. "As I said at the court-martial, I wasn't with you when you surrendered, so I can have no opinion on the matter. The facts spoke for themselves."

"But you were coming up in support?"

"Yes. As it had been agreed at the battle plan."

"With a sizable force?" Sylvester probed slowly.

"A hundred and fifty men."

"Then why in the name of grace would I have surrendered?" Sylvester raised his head and fixed Neil Gerard with a piercing stare. "Goddammit, man. I was told they slaughtered half my men like pigs after they'd taken the colors. They had a damn good try at slaughtering me."

"I don't have the answer, Gilbraith." Neil stood up abruptly. "No one will ever know the truth, so why don't you just let sleeping dogs lie?"

Sylvester rose to his feet also and said deliberately, "I can't do that, Neil. I can't live with the possibility that I might have done something so dastardly. I have to find out what happened." He watched the other man's face closely and saw the panic flare, a naked flame, in Gerard's flat brown eyes.

He set his glass on the table, and the click of glass on mahogany sounded in the silence like the clash of cymbals. He shrugged with an assumption of carelessness.

"Ah, well, I must take my leave. I trust I haven't outstayed my welcome, but it's good to spend an evening like the old days," he said cheerfully, strolling into the hall. "I'll just have to trust that my memory of that half hour, or however long it was, returns." He took his hat and cape from the servant.

"Thank you again, Gerard, for a most pleasant evening." His smile was friendly, his eyes devoid of all expression as he shook his host's hand. Then he frowned. "What was the name of your sergeant? The one who testified at the court-martial. Savage-looking piece of work, but a useful man to have beside one in a fight, I'd imagine."

Gerard shook his head. "I don't recall his name."

"Pity. I might have tracked him down. Well, good night again."

He walked rapidly down the two steps of the narrow house onto the pavement, turned, and raised a hand in farewell. Gerard's face was thrown into relief by the lamplit hall behind him. His expression was one of pure terror, and the fingers of his right hand worried at his black and swollen eye. Then the door closed and the light was gone.

Jud O'Flannery had been the monosyllabic sergeant. Sylvester could see his face with that eye patch and the great scarlet cicatrix slashing his cheek as clearly as if it were yesterday.

And the passing reference to the man had brought that look of terror to Gerard's battered, cowardly face.

Sylvester stood for a minute on the pavement, looking thoughtfully toward the flickering gas jets lighting Piccadilly at the far end of the street, before he turned to walk in the opposite direction to Curzon Street.

Neil Gerard flung on his coat and left the house by the back alley. He strode to Jermyn Street, to a house where he was well-known, where his tastes were as well-known and readily catered to. The little girl they brought him, dressed in a spotted pinafore, her hair in pigtails, trembled convincingly and wept and screamed most satisfactorily at the appropriate moments. But her eyes were sharp and knowing even through the pain he inflicted with a savage need to make someone pay for his terror.