Beloved Page 4

  Struan coughed, and waved a hand. “Um, yes, yes, I suppose it is.” He smiled. “Very admirable, Crabley.” And somewhat humbling—humbling enough to make a man a deal less angry at the world.

  “This was delivered,” Crabley said, extending a small bundle of silk the color of emeralds and bound shut with gold braid. “For Miss Ella.”

  “What is it?” Struan asked, deeply suspicious. “Who would send Ella gifts? She knows no one in London.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  “Didn’t the messenger say who it was from?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “There isn’t a card?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “In God’s name!” Struan roared. “Must you always be so—?” Ella’s entrance, with Justine at her heels, saved him from losing his composure completely. “Someone sent something for me?” Ella asked.

  Struan glared. “How do you know someone sent something for you?”

  She had the grace to blush a little. “I was …I heard the doorbell and looked down to see who it was.”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  Ella, dressed in one of the overly simply-cut gowns she favored, swept to a little gilt chair and sat down. She twitched her lavender-colored skirts and crossed her hands in her lap. Too nonchalant, Struan thought. And too exotically beautiful for any father’s peace of mind. Her eyes were particularly dark today, her skin translucent despite its burnished quality. Her blue-black hair had been tightly restrained in braids and knotted at her crown. Rather than producing the plain effect most would achieve, the stark style only accentuated her mysterious perfection. A man should not be burdened with such extraordinary loveliness to protect and guide.

  He glanced at Justine. Their eyes met, and he saw her understanding of his feelings. They could not love this girl more. She and her brother, Max, were as dear to them as little Edward and Sarah.

  “Ella?” he said sharply, flexing his shoulders. “Perhaps we should have a discussion. Certain matters are deeply concerning to me. Set that down, Crabley. Leave us, please.”

  He caught Justine’s frantic gesturing and stopped himself from chastising Ella for her escapade at Sibley’s. Justine kept no secrets from him, but she easily extracted a price for her honesty. She had made him promise he would not mention the episode unless it was repeated.

  Once Crabley had closed the door behind him, Struan turned back to Ella. He studied her closely. “You don’t appear rested,” he said, ignoring Justine’s grimace. “Are you well?”

  “Very well, thank you, Papa,” Ella said. Her attention was on the green silk-covered parcel.

  “I understand your mama explained to you that I’m to receive visitors this afternoon.”

  Ella’s carefully relaxed posture tensed. “We don’t have to speak of that now,” Justine said in a rush. “After all, Struan, this is all very premature. Ella hasn’t as much as showed her nose to the ton yet.”

  “The suggestion is that we should consider avoiding the Season altogether,” Struan responded, uncomfortably aware of his own stress.

  Justine came to him and rested her hands on his. “No Season? You cannot mean it.”

  “I didn’t say I meant it, merely that the suitor’s father did make the remark in his letter to me that a wedding would be a better use of a large amount of my blunt than what he termed pretty and pointless affairs.”

  “Oh!” Justine blinked rapidly and leaned closer. She lowered her voice. “She is upset, Struan. Please do not persist in this.”

  “Please don’t whisper,” Ella said. “I have no intention of marrying this person who needs his parent to speak for him. How very strange. A man too immature to deal with his own affairs, but who has the temerity to offer for me in marriage. Of course, you will not see him, Papa.”

  Struan smothered a smile. “Of course I will see them, young lady. I have made inquiries. Apparently the Wokinghams have very deep pockets and a fine estate in Lancashire. Lord Wokingham’s letter refers to a previous meeting of ours. Although I confess that I have no memory of the event, courtesy demands that I at least entertain his suggestions.” He wished he could recall the meeting to which Wokingham referred.

  “Piffle,” Justine said distinctly.

  “Why,” Struan said, anticipating an outburst of annoyance, “I do believe you sound more like your grandma every day.”

  Justine didn’t disappoint him. “I shall ignore that comment.” But she scowled darkly at the suggestion that she resembled her termagant dowager duchess grandparent in any manner. “Sin’s ears, Struan, Ella’s right. A creature who needs his father’s voice is not ready to ask for any woman’s hand in marriage, much less the hand of the most beautiful girl in England. Wait until she appears at the Eagletons’ tomorrow. We shall be inundated with gentleman callers. Do not see these people today.”

  He found it almost impossible to deny Justine anything, but he had already agreed to see the Wokinghams. “We are in suspense, Ella,” he said, patting Justine’s hands and reaching for the surprisingly heavy gift. “No card came with this, but I understand it is for you. Open it.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” Justine whispered.

  He kissed her elegant nose and whispered back, “Yes, I am, my love.”

  Ella took the bundle from him, set it back on the desk, and carefully untied the golden braid. She parted the silk and her hands went to her cheeks.

  Within the silk rested a pouch of woven gold, heavy and soft—and shimmering richly. Here and there in the priceless fabric, cunningly placed diamonds winked with sly brilliance. “Gad,” Struan murmured. “A small fortune, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “You seem remarkably taken with displays of wealth today,” Justine said sharply. “What is it supposed to be? Do look at it, Ella.”

  Ella bent over the exquisite thing. “The diamonds are woven into the gold—like beads into fine lace. So perfect.”

  “Very old, I should imagine,” Struan said. “Look at the thing. There’s got to be some sort of note.”

  His haste earned him another frown from both his wife and daughter.

  Ella touched the gold and it fell open.

  “Oh, how clever,” Justine exclaimed. “It’s an evening reticule. See the gold strings to close it—and the white satin lining. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “No,” Ella said softly. She leaned over and picked up something that had lain hidden in the folds of white satin. “A red glass star on a chain. How strange.”

  Struan narrowed his eyes. “A ruby star. Incredible workmanship. I do believe the Wokinghams have decided to ease their way here.”

  Ella wasn’t listening to him. She held the fabulous ruby star in her palm and gathered up the little golden web bag with its dusting of diamond sparkles.

  “Perhaps you are more interested in Pomeroy Wokingham now?” Struan asked. “After all, he wouldn’t send you such a priceless thing if he weren’t very serious about his suit, would he?”

  Ella held the bag to her face and sniffed deeply. “Pomeroy isn’t a name I could ever come to care for in a man,” she said indistinctly. “He did not send this.” Without another word, she turned away and left the room.

  If the beating of one’s heart could make one deaf, then she would surely never hear again. Ella sped belowstairs and through the kitchens. Cook and three maids all paused and dipped curtsies. Curtsies, Ella thought vaguely. How her life had changed since the night when Papa had saved her from the horror in Whitechapel.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling brightly. Every eye went to the treasure she carried. Ella held it aloft and said, “Isn’t it a lovely thing? Useless, but lovely. Did Crabley come this way?”

  “In his pantry, miss,” Cook said, wiping her hands on a voluminous white apron. Red-faced from working over the fire, she blew at escaping strands of hair. The aroma of nutmeg and stewing apples promised delicious things to come.

  Ella hurried on to Crabley’s pant
ry and knocked. She waited for him to bid her entry. “Morning, Crabley,” she said pleasantly once she was inside the comfortable little room. This was where he held court over the household’s fine crystal and china, and dispatched orders to various underlings.

  He got hastily to his feet and set down a book beside his brown leather chair. “Miss Ella?”

  She held out the bag in one hand, the ruby bauble in the other. “This was delivered a short while ago.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “There was no note?”

  “No, miss.”

  “You don’t know who sent this?”

  “No, miss.”

  Yes, miss. No, miss. Ella swallowed the irritation Crabley always made her feel. She’d been unable to see who came to the door—or to make out more than her own name amid the low exchange. Her reason for looking down from the gallery at all was that she’d hoped to get a peek at the beastly Wokinghams. “Was the messenger liveried?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Speak, then!” She rolled in her lips, then said, “I am too sharp sometimes, Crabley. Forgive me. This is a puzzle. I merely wondered if you could help me decide who sent such a gift.” And prove that she wasn’t imagining what she thought she smelled.

  “Strange attire,” Crabley said, setting his short legs apart and clasping his hands behind his back. He frowned in concentration. “Foreign, if you ask me.”

  “I am asking you,” Ella said softly.

  “Definitely foreign. Never did hold with foreigners myself. Not to be trusted—particularly that type. Turbans and tunics and baggy trousers. Most unsuitable in a servant.”

  Ella almost laughed aloud—with joy, not mirth. She pretended to be interested in the rows of Baccarat glasses in cabinets along one wall. “But there was no note, Crabley?”

  “No, miss.”

  She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Did this servant give his name?”

  “No, miss.”

  Patience. “Very well, thank you, Crabley. You’ve been most helpful.”

  She hadn’t been mistaken. Once more she held the bag to her nose. Roses. Rose-scented incense—the kind she’d smelled at Saber’s house. And Bigun must have delivered the gift, which, in turn, must have been sent by Saber.

  “I must return upstairs.” And she must go at once to Saber and thank him for the gift. This was his way of asking her to forget their difficulties and go forward. She could scarcely breathe for happiness.

  “Miss Ella,” Crabley said as she went to open the door. “The foreign gentleman said I should tell you and no other.”

  She spun around. “Tell me what?”

  “He said I should wait for an appropriate moment to tell you his master’s comments. His master knows you will understand.”

  Ella held the bag to her breast. “He said his master believes you need no written message, since you will look at the pendant and understand what it represents.”

  She stared from Crabley’s little black eyes to the ruby. “I do not know.”

  Crabley cleared his throat. “You don’t know what’s happened to this man who gave you the gift—so the servant says. He has suffered, and it’s changed him.”

  Ella felt her way to sit in Crabley’s leather chair. “I do know that. I know it well. What does it mean?”

  “The servant was instructed to let you know that the man you knew is gone. Someone you would hate is in his place now. More tender than the heart that sends it. That’s what he said I was to say. The foreigner’s master tells you that the red stone star is more tender than the heart that sent it.”

  She looked at the ruby in her palm. “How can he think such a thing?”

  Crabley didn’t respond. “Was that all?”

  “If you have kind thoughts of him still, this person doesn’t want them. You’re to look at the stone and remember how cold it is. Don’t try again. That was the most important instruction, he said. You’re not to try again, whatever that means. The gift is for the past and in thanks.” Crabley coughed and looked blankly at the ceiling. “An exotic star for an exotic girl—one he will see whenever he looks at a night sky. A girl whose countenance will shine for him wherever he is, wherever he looks. There can be nothing more between you. That was the rest of the message.”

  Ella pressed a hand to her stomach. “Such a long message,” she whispered.

  “I have an excellent memory, Miss Ella.”

  Hiding tears, Ella got to her feet and walked past Crabley with her face bowed. “Thank you,” she told him. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.” The bag and ruby must be returned.

  “The foreign gentleman had a message of his own,” Crabley said.

  Ella paused, but didn’t trust herself to turn around.

  “He said—rather presumptuously, if you ask me—but he said proud people could also be foolish people. He said you should consider that his master misjudges the condition of his own heart. That’s what he said.”

  Powdered and pompous. Greville, Lord Wokingham, strutted into the study, his paunchy body upthrust by corsets into a pigeonlike form. No doubt his blue velvet jacket had cost a pretty penny, and the pink satin waistcoat embroidered with orange roses. His flamboyantly checked trousers didn’t hide scrawny legs—or a widely braced stance and tottering gait.

  Repulsive, Struan decided instantly, before meeting bloodshot eyes sunk into fleshy folds. One look into those eyes and he knew true revulsion—and he recalled the meeting to which Wokingham had referred.

  As if reading Struan’s thoughts, Wokingham sputtered, “Esterhazy’s musicale. Seems like yesterday.”

  “More than four years ago,” Struan said shortly. Wokingham rubbed his drink-mottled nose. Slashes of bright rouge colored his flabby cheeks. “Your friend Franchot made quite a splash, eh. And it all began right there at Chandos House. Strange life, what?”

  Struan nodded briefly. “Strange. But satisfactorily just in this case.” His lifelong friend Calum Innes had seen his bride for the first time that night. And he’d begun the journey to resume his rightful place as Duke of Franchot—a title that had been stolen from him shortly after his birth.

  “Hmm, well, I’d like you to meet your future, er, son-inlaw?” Wokingham guffawed, leaned over his belly to slap in the general direction of his knees, and staggered to fall into a chair. “Don’t mind if I sit down, d’you?”

  “Not at all,” Struan said, distractedly eyeing the man who had stood silently behind Wokingham. “Good afternoon to you, sir. I take it you are Pomeroy? I don’t believe I heard what other name you use.”

  “Wokingham,” the man said shortly. “It’s also our family name. Pom to my friends.”

  His father’s rumbling laugh burst forth again. “The Hon. Pom, they call him. My right hand, I can tell you. Couldn’t run things without him. That gel of yours will be getting a prize.”

  The “prize” looked levelly back at Struan. Of average height and thin, there was about him a boneless quality—as if he would glide rather than walk. Thin hair that might be sand-colored shone in pomaded brown furrows against a white skull. Blond brows arched to sharp peaks that dipped to meet the corners of his eyes at one aspect, and arrowed toward an exceedingly long nose at the other. A rim of white ringed the man’s small mouth. But it was the eyes that turned Struan’s stomach. Utterly colorless, the Hon. Pom’s eyes held no light. His stare was a flat as a snake’s.

  “I’d offer you refreshment,” Struan said, hearing his words explode with his haste to be rid of these people. “Unfortunately, I’ve had something unexpected come up. I’m sure you understand.”

  Pomeroy approached, his chin pushed forward. He shot out a hand. “Good to meet you, Hunsingore. Pater’s told me a great deal about you and your family.”

  Without thinking, Struan shook hands. Only with difficulty did he hold back an exclamation. The hand that enfolded his had the softness of a woman’s. Soft, formless, weak and hot. Hot sweat coated Struan’s palm.

  Those ha
nds touching Ella?

  Never.

  Struan swallowed. “We’re flattered—that is, Ella’s mother and I are flattered at your interest in Ella. Of course—”

  “You’re probably wondering what made us take this step,” Wokingham interrupted. “Long story, and I won’t bore you with all of it. Pom caught a glimpse or two of Ella. Love at first sight and all that.”

  “Glimpse? I can’t imagine—”

  “Shopping,” Pomeroy said smoothly. “In Bond Street. Saw her and made inquiries. Simple as that.”

  “My boy knows what he wants when he sees it,” Wokingham said, his fat lips pushed out. “No point beating about the bush, I say. If Pom’s ready to find the same fetching little baggage waiting in his bed every night, then who are we to argue, eh?”

  Struan gaped. Fetching little baggage? His Ella? Pomeroy produced a small, purple velvet box from his pocket and opened it with a flourish. “Call her in, would you, old chap? Never met a female who didn’t return a fella’s ardor with this sort of encouragement.”

  A diamond-encircled sapphire as large as his own thumb-nail winked at Struan. “Er, very nice. Meant to thank you for your gift.”

  “Could hardly thank us for it before we presented it, what?” Wokingham chuckled hugely.

  Struan collected himself and, at the same time, checked any further reference to the ruby in the gold bag. Damn, but it was impossible dealing with marriageable daughters. Evidently this slimy, disgusting excuse for a man wasn’t the only one to have caught a “glimpse” of Ella. She must be locked away at once. Sent back to Scotland. Made to wear a thick veil…

  He was losing his mind!

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” Wokingham said. “If there’s any chance of the gel being disappointed about missing the Season, Pom can take her about a bit. She’ll enjoy it all even more on his arm. After all, she’ll be the envy of every unattached, grasping female in London. And they’re all grasping, what?”

  Struan cleared his throat. “We are flattered by your interest, but—”

  “You’re overwhelmed,” Wokingham flapped a beringed hand. “We aren’t doing this blindly, old chap. Let’s be blunt. After all, we’re all men together here. Saw the gel myself. Fine piece, I must say. My boy’s got good taste.”