02 - Borrowed Dreams Page 3

  The battle inside Millicent raged. She did indeed need the protection of a husband’s name in order to pursue her goals. Already she had found it nearly impossible to hire and keep a capable steward to manage Melbury Hall. Even in going to an auction by the Thames, she found that society demanded the presence of a male overseer, since obviously a man had such a higher level of intelligence than any woman.

  Millicent did her best to controlder ttemper and instead thought of her best friend’s story of the ten years that she had spent in Philadelphia. Going under the assumed name of Mrs. Ford, Rebecca had used the ruse of having a husband to establish herself and a newborn in that city.

  “What do you think of the offer, Lady Wentworth?”

  Millicent shook off her struggle and met the dowager’s direct gaze. “Why today? What is the significance of this marriage taking place today?”

  “You don’t stay away from Melbury Hall more than a day or two at the most. My guess is that you are traveling back there tomorrow morning.”

  “I am.”

  “When I add that to my physicians’ predictions about the scarcity of sunsets and sunrises in my future, I could not bring myself to tempt fate by waiting. There is too much at stake.”

  “How does his lordship feel about this great scheme you have been devising?”

  The dowager drew a deep breath and released it before answering. “I did not know if I would be able to convince you, but I explained to my son that it would be out of your need for financial support and not out of charity that the marriage might be arranged. Once he heard that, he was resigned to it. He’ll not be pitied. Whatever else might be stripped from Lyon, he will always have his pride.”

  *****

  Lyon Pennington, fourth Earl of Aytoun, remained motionless in the seat before the window. The muscles of the peer’s gaunt face were drawn tight beneath the dark, untrimmed beard. His eyes were fixed on an invisible point somewhere out beyond the glass, out amid the dreary scenery of Hanover Square.

  The earl’s two valets had laid out a brocade coat, a silk waistcoat, a black cravat, breeches, stockings, and silver buckled shoes for the wedding. Neither man dared to approach him, though, and they stood by the door, exchanging nervous looks.

  “She’s here,” a young woman whispered, coming in with a tray of tea.

  She hurried to put the tray down on a table near the earl. With a curtsy, she backed away and returned to where the men were standing.

  “The dowager thinks,” she whispered to one of them, “that the visitor’ll be looking to meet with his lordship before the ceremony.”

  Another serving girl walked in carrying a tray of pastries. Following her, the earl’s man, Gibbs, entered the chamber.

  “What’re ye waiting for?” he growled at the valets. “His lordship should be dressed by now.”

  As Gibbs took a step toward them, the two men moved to do his bidding. The earl’s man was as tall and as broad as the great oaks in the deer park at Baronsford, and they both had felt the weight of his displeasure in the past. One of the valets reached for his master’s buckskin breeches. He looked uneasily at his lanky fellow servant, who was picking up Lord Aytoun’s shirt. They were both still hesitant to approach the master.

  The one called John whispered warily to Gibbs, “’Slordship was none too keen about dressin’ this mornin’.”

  The two serving maids hurriedly escapthe chamber.

  “Aye, Mr. Gibbs,” the other valet put in quietly. “By ‘slife, sir, Lord Aytoun near killed us both while we was tryin’ to dress ‘im. Not till we gave him the tonic the new doctor left for ‘im did he settle down at all.”

  “His lordship had that already this morning!” Gibbs exploded, quickly lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “’Tis not to be given any bloody time ye fancy giving it to him.”

  “Aye, sir. But what he had weren’t enough.”

  “If I had the time right now to wring your necks and kick ye from here to…” Gibbs tried to compose himself. “But the lack of time is going to save yer bloody arses. The company is already downstairs, and he’s still not dressed.”

  “’Tis only a minute or two that he’s calmed ‘imself.”

  Scowling at them, he motioned for the two men to follow him as he moved to the earl’s chair. “M’lord?”

  Lyon’s gaze never wavered from the window. He was neither asleep nor awake. Gibbs closed the shutters and stepped in front of the sitting man again.

  “We need to get you ready for company, m’lord.”

  The earl’s face was blank as he looked up at the three men now standing before him.

  “Lady Wentworth and her lawyer have arrived, sir,” the earl’s manservant said calmly, pulling the blanket off the man’s unmoving legs. “The bishop has been waiting in the library an hour. Ye’re expected, m’lord.”

  One of the valets reached down to undo the buttons of the double-breasted dressing gown. Perceiving the scowl being directed at him by his ailing master, he stopped and shrank back a step.

  “Put me in the bed,” Lyon growled in slurred tones.

  “I cannot, m’lord. Her ladyship insisted that we should have ye ready.”

  With no thought for the legs that did not move—that had not supported him in months—the Earl of Aytoun pushed himself up from the chair. Before the hands of his panicked servants could reach him, he fell heavily to the floor.

  “Bloody hell…!”

  “…landed on ‘is right arm!”

  “Help me roll him off it.” Gibbs was down on his knees beside the earl in an instant.

  “I ‘eard the doctor say he’d have a surgeon amputate if that arm breaks again.”

  Gibbs flashed John a killing look for his comment and gently turned the earl over.

  Lyon Pennington was as large a man as Gibbs. His months of confinement had detracted somewhat from his prior robustness, but moving him still required several men. Even more when he was not in the best of temperaments.

  “M’lord, if I may remind ye…” Gibbs gingerly bent and straightened the earl’s right arm. The bone didn’t appear to be broken again. “Your lordship promised the dowager that ye would go through with this plan of hers.”

  “Put me back in bed.” Anger was woven tightly into the words that escaped his lips. His good hand formed a fist and pounded once on the floor. “Now!”

  “Your mother had another sick spell last night, m’lord. We had to send for the doctor.” Gibbs crouched nearby, knowing better than to maneuver the earl when his anger was on the edge of exploding. The man’s blue eyes were boring holes in the manservant’s head. “The only thing pushing her from her sickbed this morning was your promise to abide by her wish. If she hears that ye have decided to throw it all down the well, then that could be the last straw. If ye please, m’lord, her ladyship has gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this for ye. I’m thinking ye might give her a wee bit of peace for the few days she might have left in this world.”

  Whether it was the sedating medicine the valets had administered earlier or the realization on the earl’s part that he had few choices left, Gibbs couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, the servant was relieved when Lyon Pennington did not fight them when they lifted him again into the chair.

  “And what of this woman, Gibbs?” he muttered. “Do you think this new bride of mine will ever have so much as a moment’s peace?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jasper Hyde pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. It was nearly three in the afternoon, though there was no sign of his blasted clerk or Platt, either.

  White’s Club was crowded, as it was every day, and Hyde glanced around at the other gentlemen. He was beginning to recognize some of the faces of the players and the others who simply milled about drinking and being entertained by the sight of those intent on losing their fortunes. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was here; the card and dice table's were nearly always full. Hyde knew, though, that the crowd would soon sta
rt to thin as some went off to the dinners and parties and the many other vices that London offered in abundance.

  Hyde stared at the dice cup in the Earl of Winchelsea’s hand. He himself had already lost more than he cared to, but he knew it was well worth it to be rubbing shoulders with such members of the ton. And it didn’t hurt to lose money to them, either.

  “All bets down,” the periwigged croupier called in a bored voice.

  Behind the man, by the large open hearth, a harpist and horn player were playing, and the director was upbraiding a servant for being slow with his delivery of a bottle of wine to a hazard table in the corner.

  Lord Winchelsea rattled the dice once more for luck and rolled them out onto the table.

  “Seven.” The men crowded around the table responded with groans and shouts of victory, depending on their wagers, and Hyde watched Winchelsea smile arrogantly as the dice were passed back to him.

  “Now this is what I call a celebration,” Winchelsea said to the Earl of Carlisle, standing to his left. The other nobleman snorted in response, and Winchelsea smiled at Jasper Hyde. “Still betting with my erstwhile friend here, Hyde?”

  The plantation owner glanced down at the quickly dwindling sum before him. Hyde knew the young earl had easily lost three thousand pounds this week. Winchelsea’s luck, however, had definitely turned today.

  “If you don’t mind, m’lord, I believe I shall wager with you.”

  “Smart move, Hyde. By the way, I have reserved a private room at Clifton’s Chophouse down by the Temple Bar before we go on to Drury Lane. Care to join us there for dinner?”

  “I would be delighted.” Extremely pleased at being included, Hyde doubled his initial wager on the table.

  “Considering your good news today, you should invite everyone here for dinner,” Lord Carlisle challenged.

  “Damn me, but you’re right about that, Carlisle. You can all come.” Winchelsea started rattling the dice cup amid of the loud laughter and calls of approval by those gathered around the table.

  “If I maybe so bold as to ask, m’lord, what is the nature of your good news?”

  Carlisle answered Hyde’s question. “Rumor has it that our friend’s chief nemesis is escaping to the country first thing in the morning.”

  “Aytoun is leaving London?” someone said from across the room.

  “Carried away from London, to be more accurate,” Lord Carlisle answered.

  “Finally sending him to Bedlam, are they?” the same person asked.

  “Despite my heartfelt recommendation, no.” Winchelsea shook the cup more savagely. “But he is being sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment all the same. We hear that he is getting married again this afternoon.”

  “All bets down,” the croupier intoned.

  “What simpleton would give their daughter to him?” another person asked. “Didn’t he kill his first wife?”

  “That was only an unsubstantiated rumor,” Carlisle said in defense of the absent nobleman. “No truth to it whatsoever.”

  “I disagree with that,” Winchelsea argued, putting the cup of dice on the table. “Having faced the man’s brutal temperament, I find him perfectly capable of murdering his wife.”

  “You faced Aytoun’s brutal temperament because you were dallying with his wife,” Carlisle scoffed. “And you just say that now because he was the only man to best you in a duel. You’ve only just lately stopped complaining of the shoulder wound you sustained against him. If you’d beaten him, I say you would not be slandering him with such accusations.”

  “Are you accusing me?” Winchelsea challenged hotly.

  “No…and you shan’t convince me to face you in the park in the crack of dawn, either, my friend.” Carlisle handed the cup of dice back to the earl. “I say we continue with our celebration and let Aytoun and his new wife just go to hell.”

  Voices rose in agreement around the table at that. Still scowling at his friend, Winchelsea grudgingly tmplehe cup and rolled out the dice.

  “Six,” the croupier declared, handing back the dice.

  Carlisle smiled smugly. “Hope this doesn’t mean your luck has changed.”

  “Wishful thinking on your part.”

  “Next we’ll be hearing that your tailor’s at the door waiting to be paid.”

  “You are the devil himself, Carlisle, to wish such horrible things upon me.”

  Paying no regard to the give and take of the two men, Hyde closely followed the roll of the dice across the table again. Seven. Winchelsea’s violent curse was mild compared to how Hyde felt at that moment. Losing five hundred guineas at a single throw might be insignificant among this group of gentry, but for Hyde it was another link in a lengthening chain of bad luck.

  The plantation owner held his breath as a stabbing pain suddenly wracked his chest and shoulders. Hyde waited until the spasms subsided. He knew they would pass, and he did not want to draw any attention to them. Occurring with no warning and more and more frequently of late, the sharp pains came and went, but not before draining him of his vigor. He leaned on the table.

  The dice cup passed on to Lord Carlisle, and once again wagers were being laid on the table. Turning his head, Hyde was relieved to see his lawyer finally appear at the doorway. He made his excuses at the table and made his way across the room to where Platt stood waiting. Without saying a word, the lawyer led him down the stairs to where the clerk, Harry, stood squirming just inside the front door.

  A servant handed Hyde his cane and hat and gloves and helped him on with his overcoat. All the while, Hyde kept his gaze fixed on his servant. The pain in his chest had started to ease a little, but the air in his chest was scarce.

  Hyde motioned to the two new arrivals to follow him into a small chamber beside the entryway. It was obvious that all had not gone as planned.

  “Where is she?”

  Platt closed the door of the chamber before breaking the news. “Harry was not able to buy the slave woman.”

  Rage, like a strong gust of wind, rushed through him in a single sweep. The clerk shrank back against the wall as the end of Hyde’s cane jabbed him hard in the chest. “You had your instructions. All you had to do was to continue to bid on her until you won her.”

  “I did, sir. But the price kept climbing.”

  “Lady Wentworth showed up at the auction unexpectedly,” Platt offered from a safe distance.

  “I couldn’t win the woman, sir, but I made her ladyship pay a fortune for her. She was a worthless refuse slave.”

  Jasper Hyde’s fury boiled over, and he struck the man hard on the side of the head with the cane. “You are the worthless refuse. I should turn you out now. Did you hear nothing of what I told you before? Your specific instructions were to bid up and win that slave. What worry is it of yours about ?”

  “But she went for a hundred ten pounds, master,” Harry blurted out, rubbing his head with one hand and ready to deflect the next blow with the other. “And the crowds were against me. They thought I was pushing the price up on Lady Wentworth and took her side, sir. I looked for yer carriage, but ye and Mr. Platt here were nowheres to be seen. I never thought ye’d be meaning to go anywhere above fifty pound. But I braced myself and went double, and—”

  The cane flashed again, striking the clerk on his upraised wrist and causing him to howl in pain.

  “This will solve nothing,” Platt said nervously. “There are other ways of getting the slave back.”

  Jasper Hyde labored to breathe as he sank onto a nearby chair. He gripped his cane with both hands and tried to fight the pain that was once again raging through him.

  “It is fortunate that Lady Wentworth was the one winning the slave,” Platt offered reasonably. “She owes you a fortune in promissory notes. And she has no credit available to her at all. She bid five times the value of the slave woman and might not even have enough funds available to pay for the purchase. Either through Dombey’s creditors or Lady Wentworth’s lawyer, I could have the slave woman in
your possession by the end of the week.”

  Hyde considered that for a moment, waiting for the pain to pass. When he stood up, the clerk, Harry, cowered against the wall. The plantation owner turned to Platt.

  “You make certain of that,” Jasper Hyde instructed his lawyer. “Time is running short.”

  *****

  The articles lay before her on the brick hearth of the small fireplace. They were no more than a few things Ohenewaa had been able to hide in the sleeves of her ragged shift. A few stones, the crumbled broken bark of a tree, some dried leaves, a small satchel with a few strands of hair. The old woman poured a few drops of water onto the hearth and placed a small piece of bread as an offering next to the charms. She had much for which to give thanks, and she knew the spirits were listening as she knelt by the makeshift altar.

  Reaching into the hearth, Ohenewaa took a fistful of warm ashes and spread them on her face and hands and arms. The ancient chant started low in her chest. Rocking back and forth where she sat, she thanked the Supreme Being, Onyame, for her deliverance from Jasper Hyde. She chanted her gratitude for having the shackles once again removed from her hands and feet and neck.

  What was to become of her was still a mystery. She had been delivered to the office of the lawyer, Sir Oliver Birch, in the early afternoon. The tall Englishman had the name of a tree, she thought. Perhaps he had a soul, as well.

  The lawyer had looked in on her a little later and had explained that the lady at the wharf had already signed the papers freeing her. A free woman, he had said. The words were difficult to comprehend fully. A free woman.

  But the lawyer had also said that this same woman, Lady Wentworth, would be pleased if Ohenewaa would accompany her to her country estate in Hertfordshire. The lawyer had explained that there were many freed slaves who lived and worked at Melbury Hall, and Lady Wentworth thought that Ohenewaa might know some of them from her years in Jama.

  Ohenewaa remembered the name Wentworth very well. She remembered clearly the people’s celebration when news of Squire Wentworth’s death reached the sugar plantations in Jamaica. But that was before Jasper Hyde’s iron fist had closed around their throats.