Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch. Miranda Jarrett

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СКАЧАТЬ efforts of a devoted mother. Dorinda knew he was right, for she had tried before on Frederick’s behalf. It had been on that day, her grief for her son still fresh and raw, that Dorinda had written to Caro, summoning her, and to George, to reestablish her link with the future earl. George was a fool, but with him as earl she could return to die with dignity and respect at Blackstone House.

      Languidly the fan moved through the warm spring air. Soon, thought Dorinda with grim satisfaction, soon the little bitch with the upturned eyes and handsome American lover would find the fate she’d earned so richly for herself.

      “I would, of course, do anything I could for my son,” she continued with a sigh, “but I am far too old to enter into such negotiations as will be necessary, or would I trust them to anyone who would not care for Frederick as I do.”

      “Let me do it, please, I beg you!” said Caro, eagerly leaning forward on her stool with her hands clasped. “I can make all the arrangements and arrange for the ransom. After all, that’s why I’ve come, isn’t it?”

      Once again Dorinda sighed dramatically. This was almost too easy, without any sport in it. The chit was so gullible, so willing to believe, that it was no wonder that her son, another foolish idealist, would have fallen in love with her.

      “Would that it were so easy, dear Caroline! But I fear that it cannot be done from Naples. No, no! The Tunisians are a sly, heathen lot who demand such business be conducted face-to-face. If you wish to help your husband, you must be willing to take your brave American and go to Tripoli, and bring Frederick back to me.”

      “Then I shall,” said Caro without hesitation. Impatiently she rose to her feet, determined to begin planning at once. “Mr. Sparhawk is well acquainted with ships and sailing. I’m sure he can find us passage to Tripoli.”

      “Let that be my contribution,” urged Dorinda, her eyes glinting within the dark rings of kohl. “I know the ways of this city, who to ask and who to bribe. Not even our Mr. Sparhawk will be able to find a vessel bound for Tripoli any faster than I.”

      Bound for Tripoli, thought Dorinda with a delicious sense of justice, destined for the slave market and a nightmarish, anonymous half life from which Frederick’s little whore would never return alive. The lover would be killed; Dorinda would specify that, for the man had done no worse than choose unwisely. It was Frederick’s Caro she wished punished. If the silly chit was lucky, she’d be bought for a rich man’s harem, bound to serve only one infidel. If she were less so, then she would be the most costly houri in a brothel, drugged and forced to serve whichever man bought her favors.

      Even that would be too kind for all she’d done: defiled the Moncrief family with her presence, banished Dorinda from England, sent Frederick to a painful death, degraded his memory with her lover. But it would do, thought Dorinda with satisfaction as Caro smiled with unfeigned joy.

      It would do.

      “Vesuvius, my lady?” asked the driver, his eager, florid face filling the window of the hired carriage. “The Castel Nuovo? Santa Chiara? The Royal Palace? Or would my lady see the antique statues taken from Pompeii? Very popular they are with the English gentlepeople, my lady.”

      “Whatever you please,” said Caro wearily, burrowing back further into the worn squabs. In her present mood she wanted only silence, not a visitor’s itinerary. “It doesn’t matter at all to me. Simply drive until nightfall, or until I tell you otherwise.”

      Though the driver’s face fell, he tugged on his forelock and climbed up on the box, ready to do as she requested. As much as he would have liked to show his city to the beautiful Englishwoman, his disappointment was tempered well enough by the fare she’d pay. Until nightfall, she said: caro mio, she’d owe him a fortune!

      Inside the carriage, Caro closed her eyes and tried to let herself be lulled by the repetitious clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the rasping of the iron-bound wheels against the paving stones. She might as well have been back in Portsmouth for all the famous scenery meant to her. Certainly she would have been happier if she were.

      For now she’d been assured that Frederick lived. In a few weeks, maybe even less, she would be reunited with him, and after returning here to Naples to visit his mother as she’d promised, they would sail back home to England. At the same time Jeremiah Sparhawk would redeem his friend, bid her and her husband farewell and leave for America. Most likely she would never see him again, and that was how it should be for a contented, married woman.

      But deep inside, she knew she didn’t want it to end like that. It was not that she wished ill for Frederick. Her joy for his survival was very real, and the thought of holding him again in her arms was wonderful indeed. But things were different since Frederick had gone away. She was different.

      God help her, what was she to do?

      The carriage passed a garden, and the heady fragrance of full-blown roses filled the carriage. She breathed it deeply, remembering.

       Another June, long ago, and she had held roses in her trembling hands when she stood beside Frederick in the chilly chapel at Blackstone. There had been no guests and only two witnesses—Mr. Perkins and the housekeeper—and the anxious young curate who owed his living to the Moncriefs had stumbled over the words of the service. Afterward she had signed her name after Frederick’s in the register, prouder of the elegant penmanship she’d only recently mastered than of the new name and title she had written.

       There had been more roses in the earl’s bedchamber, on the mantel in tall porcelain vases, on the desk, on the little tables beside the bed, and when Caro had drawn back the coverlet she’d discovered hundreds of rose petals scattered over the sheets, deep, velvety red against the white linen. With her long hair combed about her shoulders she had waited for Frederick in the center of his bed, the heavy curtains looped back against the posts, and felt the rose petals tickle against her bare toes as she’d listened to the thumping of her own heart.

       Tonight he would truly make her his. Tonight she would do all the things her mother had taught her and please him, her new husband. She was now his by right and by law, and because she loved him she would do it, even as she prayed she would not shame herself and be sick.

       At last Frederick had come, in a yellow dressing gown and nightcap, and she had hastily looked away, already embarrassed by the intimacy his dress implied. She had felt the bed shift when he sat on the edge, and her hand had been cold when he’d taken it in his.

       “You know before this I have never done anything to hurt you, Caro,” he had said gently. “I won’t begin now.”

       Troubled, she had raised her eyes. “But as your wife—”

       “I know all about what the world says of old men who take young wives,” he said, smiling indulgently. “It’s not much different than what is said of old men with young mistresses. What matters more to me instead is the love we share, pure and unsullied by animal passions. You are in many ways more like a daughter to me than a wife, and like a father I’ve found great joy in the woman you’ve become.”

       She had shaken her head, confused, and he had lightly pressed his finger to his lips to hold her silence.

       “Innocence like yours is a rare jewel, Caro, beyond any price. You are too young now to know the value of what you have given me today, but I am not, and I rejoice in the gift, however fleeting. Someday, perhaps, you will learn otherwise, and though I shall grieve, I will understand.” СКАЧАТЬ