“You underrate your own achievements, and your brother and sister’s good sense. Remember what a sweet little thing Annabelle was? How she used to follow us around and you would take her up with you on your horse?” Alex started to smile reminiscently, but Peter made the mistake of adding, “How could she possibly hate you? I doubt anyone has ever hated you in your life.”
Alex stood again and crossed to the window, leaning heavily on the cane this time. “Wrong. My mother did. Used to tell me that my birth ruined her figure.” He settled himself on the window seat and smiled ironically at his friend. “Although half the men in London appeared to find nothing wrong with her figure. Did you know my father kept me back from the navy until he was sure that Jonathan must be a true Kingsley? So that when I got killed the title would still go to a son of his own blood. Sentimental man, my father.”
Peter was silenced. Alex had been such a cheerful, hey-go-mad boy. Two years younger than Peter, Alex was the natural leader whose imaginative antics often led them into trouble, while it was left to the quieter, more studious Peter to get them out. As close as they had been then, as many letters as they had exchanged over the years, only now did Peter understand how unhappy his friend must have been.
Alex folded his hands on the brass head of the cane in front of him and his smile softened to a real one. “You shouldn’t have gotten me talking about that. Don’t look so sad, Peter. It’s all history now. We are as much a product of our problems as our triumphs. I am reasonably happy with myself, except for how I’ve neglected my brother and sister. I may be skittish, but now I will have the chance to make amends for that.” He laughed suddenly. “But you must bear the responsibility for sending me back into deadly danger.”
“Deadly danger?” Peter repeated in confusion.
“The ladies, Peter.” Alex rolled his eyes in comic horror. “They terrify me! All those fluttering fans and sly, catlike eyes—I never know what to say to fashionable women. They make these purring remarks and bare their sharp little teeth, and I don’t know whether they are flirting or insulting me or attempting to compromise my virtue.” His deep voice took on a mournful note. “It’s a hard prospect for a simple sailor.”
Peter laughed, glad the familiar Alex was back. “A simple sailor, indeed! I have yet to see you show the slightest sign of shyness around any woman in this house.”
“It’s notwomenI have problems with,” Alex said. “It’sladies.”
“So avoid the fashionable world,” Peter said promptly. “You’re a peer of the realm—no one can force you into polite society.”
Alex stretched luxuriously. “I’m afraid it can’t be avoided entirely. Poor Belle is twenty and hasn’t even been presented yet because she has spent the last two years in mourning. I shall have to rescue her from my appalling Aunt Agatha and open up Kingsley House again. The least I can do is give her a ball that will be remembered for years. But be warned,” he added with a baleful glare, “if I become a casualty of the social wars, it will beyourfault for not letting me go back to the navy.”
Peter chuckled and stood up. “You can sit and bemoan your cruel future, but I am ready to eat. Care to join Sarah and me?”
Alex stood up and limped across the floor. “If there is one thing I’ve learned in the navy, it is to take advantage of a good meal. Lead on!” As he came up to Peter, he briefly put one hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed, grateful for his quiet understanding. He wished he could take the Harringtons back to England with him, but he knew that coming to terms with his past was one battle he must fight alone.
Chapter 2
Radcliffe Hall
March 17, 1795
Ordinarily Christa started the day with a cup of hot chocolate and a bread roll in her bedchamber, declaring that the British custom of devouring animal flesh in the morning was too much to be borne. On this day, however, she rang early for her maid, Annie, so she could dress in time to meet Lord Radcliffe at his breakfast. After wearing black for a year, it was a pleasure to slip into a white muslin gown with embroidered sprigs of roses. She had made it from a new pattern book, and it was daringly fashionable.
Annie nodded approvingly as she laced the high-waisted dress tightly around her mistress’s curves. “High time you put off your mourning, Lady Christa,” she said with a vigorous nod. She was a plump, pretty girl, brown as a wren. “You’ll never catch a husband if you stay hidden here in the country.”
“Ithasturned out well, no?” Christa gave a half turn, admiring the simple flowing lines of the gown. She approved of the new fashions based on the styles of ancient Greece and Rome; they were one of the most positive results of the French Revolution. She had always loved clothes and in this last quiet year she had spent much time designing and sewing. While it was an odd occupation for a lady of quality, she found it soothing, and she was as skilled as a professional seamstress.
Annie threaded a matching rose velvet ribbon through Christa’s glossy black curls, cut shortà la Titus, then handed her mistress a fine cashmere shawl for protection against the great house’s drafty corridors.
It was a very large house, built in the ponderous style known as English Baroque, and by the time Christa reached the breakfast parlor she had worked up an appetite. “Pray do not disturb yourself, Uncle Lewis,” she said gaily to the man who started to rise at her entrance. “My papa always told me never to come between a man and his breakfast.”
“Good morning, Marie-Christine. You are looking very well.” Lewis Radleigh nodded approval of her bright dress, then seated himself while Christa poured hot chocolate and recklessly helped herself to a coddled egg and two pieces of fruitcake. After all, she was opening a new chapter of her life.
Silence reigned for the next few minutes as both concentrated on their food. Swallowing the last bite of egg and finishing her chocolate, Christa covertly studied her companion. Portraits showed that the Radleigh men had always been a magnificent lot—tall, broad-shouldered, as blond and confident as lions. Lewis Radleigh was the younger brother of Charles’s father, and he had the family height and looks. His blond hair was barely touched with silver and his impassive features could be judged handsome.
But the blood ran thin in him—he was a repressed, colorless shadow of his magnificent relatives. Lewis and Charles’s mother, Marie-Claire, had become joint guardians of the infant earl after Charles’s father died in a carriage accident, with Lewis managing the Radcliffe properties during his nephew’s minority. After Charles’s death, he inherited the title in his own right, executing his duties conscientiously but with no obvious signs of pleasure.
Observing that he had finished his ham, Christa said, “Uncle Lewis, I should like to speak with you today. Now that I am out of mourning, it is time I planned my future.”
Lord Radcliffe regarded her thoughtfully.“Quite right. I fear I must spend the morning with my agent, but I shall be free this afternoon. Would it be convenient for you to come to my study at two o’clock?”
Christa nodded, then pushed away from the table and stood. “Très bien. I shall see you then.” As she left the room, she thought with amusement that it was typical of him to make a formal appointment to meet someone he had lived with for the last year. Christa knew Charles had been fond of his uncle and relied heavily on his business judgment, but she herself scarcely knew the man, even though they had first met when she was in leading strings. Perhaps Lewis felt passion for the mathematical articles he published in learned journals. He showed none of that quality in daily life.
For all his stuffiness, he had responded admirably when Captain Brown summoned him to Ramsgate. Christa had arrived in England dangerously ill from fever and shock and had little memory of her first weeks in the country. One image that remained burned on her brain was Lewis’s agonized face when he learned what had happened, for he’d been very nearly a father to Charles. Rigidly controlling his personal grief, he had summoned a London doctor to treat her and waited in Ramsgate until she could be moved. By the time she was fully aware of her surroundings, she was safe in Radcliffe Hall.
She was grateful that Uncle Lewis had left her alone to mourn in her own fashion. Anything she wished had been ordered for her, and he had let her ride and walk about the estate alone. They generally dined together, but conversation was always sparse and superficial; wrapped in their separate grief, they were like two ghosts that coexisted without touching. She doubted he would miss her when she went to London.
* * *
The inlaid hall clock was striking two when she entered Lord Radcliffe’s study. He rose behind his desk and made a slight, formal bow. “Please have a seat. I am glad to see you have put off your mourning.” He studied the lively face with its healthy color and sparkling gray eyes, then added, “You look very much like your mother.”
