“Do you mean to tell me who this gentleman is?”
“I hadn’t,” he admitted. “But—if you’re to marry me …”
“I am not accepting your proposal. Not now. Probably not ever,” she added, giving him a look. “But even if I don’t, you should know that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Good of you,” he said. “His name is James Fraser. A Highland Scot, and a Jacobite—or was, I should say. He has some land in North Carolina; I visited there when I was quite young—didn’t have the slightest clue that he was … what he is.”
“He’s acknowledged you?” Amaranthus had never been one to hide what she thought, and the direction of her thoughts just now was easy to make out.
“No, and I don’t want him to,” William said firmly. “He owes me nothing. Though if you’re wondering how I shall support you without the Ellesmere estates,” he added, “don’t worry; I have a decent small farm in Virginia that my mother—well, my stepmother, really; Lord John’s first wife—left me.” There was Helwater, as well, but he thought that might disappear along with Ellesmere, so didn’t mention it.
“Lord John’s first wife?” Amaranthus stared at him. “I hadn’t thought he’d been married at all. How many wives has he had?”
“Well, two that I know of.” He hesitated, but in fact, he rather enjoyed shocking her. “His second wife was—well, she still is—the wife of James Fraser, just to make things interesting.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking to see if he was making game of her, but then shook her head, dislodging a hairpin that poked suddenly out of her hair. He couldn’t resist plucking it out and tucking the liberated curl behind her ear. A faint stipple of gooseflesh ran down the side of her neck and she shuddered, ever so faintly, despite the humid heat inside the carriage.
Two weeks later …
EMERGENCE FROM THE coach was like hatching out of a chrysalis, he thought, stretching his long-folded legs and his aching back before reaching to help Amaranthus out of their traveling womb. Air, sunlight, and above all, space! He yawned uncontrollably and air flooded into him, inflating him back to his proper dimensions.
He’d intended to take Amaranthus back to Uncle Hal’s quarters, and hesitated for a moment, but she said firmly that she’d rather go to Lord John’s house first.
“I trust Uncle John to listen,” she’d said. “And fond as I am of Father Pardloe—why are you looking like that? I am fond of him. I’m just never sure what he’ll do about things. And Ben’s his son, after all.”
“Good point,” William admitted. “Mind, I doubt my father knows what Hal will do, either, but he’s used to dealing with the effects, at least.”
“Exactly,” she’d said, and spoke no more on the drive through the city, only glancing at her reflection in the coach’s window and touching her hair now and then.
The door of Number 12, Oglethorpe Street opened before he could knock, his first inkling that something was wrong.
“Oh, you found her!” Miss Crabb was looking over his shoulder at Amaranthus, her lean face shifting between pleased relief and a desire to stay irritated. “The baby’s asleep.
“His Grace has gone to Charles Town,” the housekeeper added, stepping back to let them in. “He thought he’d be back within two weeks, but sent a letter that came two days ago that he was detained at my lord Cornwallis’s pleasure.”
Amaranthus had disappeared up the stairs in search of Trevor, so this explanation was delivered to William.
“I see,” he said, stepping inside. “Did my father go with His Grace?” It was evident that Lord John wasn’t in the house, because if he had been, he’d be present right now.
Miss Crabb’s abiding expression of discontent had shifted, showing something of uneasiness.
“No, my lord,” she said. “He went out day before yesterday, and he hasn’t come back.”
136
Two Days Previously
THE NOTE HAD ARRIVED at Number 12 Oglethorpe Street just after luncheon. It had been a casual meal, ham sandwiches and a bottle of beer, consumed in the cookhouse while Lord John watched Moira dealing with an enormous turbot that had been delivered that morning. The woman knew how to wield a cleaver, he thought, despite her recalcitrant attitude toward tomatoes. A pity; she was plainly capable of turning any tomato into an instant ketchup with one blow. He watched with keen anticipation as she squinted at the fish—it was so large that it hung off the sides of the small table—deciding upon the direction of her next attack.