Dupree inhaled deeply. “Perhaps I can be of service to you, and that is what really draws me.”
“Then I am grateful. Please, tell me what this is all about.”
Dupree plunged in then, quickly and somberly, his words so soft that they did not carry in the empty room. “I understand that Amanda Sterling is now Lady Cameron.”
Eric’s reaction was instantaneous. Again he felt the stiffening of his muscles, the razor pain that touched him. The loneliness, the bitterness. He wanted his wife. He wanted her with him, beneath him, crying out softly in hunger and need. He wanted to strike her and walk away from her.
“She is my wife.” He did not realize that his eyes had narrowed darkly, that any semblance of a smile had fled his features, that his words came out in a growl. “If you’ve something to say, then do so, for I tire and I lose my patience quickly!”
“It is a delicate matter—”
“Delicate be damned. If you would speak, do so. If not, leave me in peace!”
“There is a story—”
“Then tell it!”
Dupree had hesitated, but the man was no coward. He did not balk at Eric’s anger, but plunged in quickly. “Years and years ago I knew her mother.”
“My wife’s mother?”
“Yes. She was beautiful. So beautiful. Light and elegant, with the sun in her eyes, in her words, in her every movement. She was passion, she was energy, she was vitality! Remembering her gives me back my youth. She was so alive.”
Like Amanda, Eric thought. Always the flames in her eyes, the heat in her soul, the passion for life itself.
“Go on.” Again, the short words came as a growl.
Pierre Dupree moved closer. “I came to Williamsburg often in those days. I was a Frenchman born on Virginia soil, loyal to the King of England. But when I knew that Acadians were arriving in Williamsburg, desperate for homes, I had to come. I had to help those men who spoke my language. You understand?”
Eric merely nodded. Dupree went on. “I was Lenore’s friend. She trusted me. She—she came to me for advice.”
“About what?” Eric demanded.
“Well, she was kindness itself, you must remember. She saw the suffering; she saw the loss and confusion of the people. When the ships came laden with the exiled Acadians, Lenore demanded that her husband take some of them on. Perhaps it was not so great a kindness. I’m assuming you know Nigel Sterling.”
Again Eric nodded gravely, saying nothing, giving nothing. Dupree did not need his approval. He continued. “She never should have married him. Never. Sterling was always everything pompous and cruel in a man, despite his property, despite his title, despite his claim to wealth. He coveted glory, and greater titles, at the expense of all else. He did not deserve a woman like Lenore.”
“Pray, sir! The good woman is long dead and buried. And freed from Nigel Sterling. So of what do you prattle?”
“She came to me, sir, because she was going to bear a child. A child who did not belong to Nigel Sterling, but to a handsome young Frenchman. To an Acadian, that is, sir. To the man Sterling had taken on as hired help.”
Eric inhaled sharply, watching the man ever more intently.
Dupree saw that his words had sunk home. “She was in love. Deeply in love. Oh, it is easy to imagine. There was Sterling, hard, unbending—cruel. And there was the handsome Frenchman with light eyes and ebony hair and the kindest touch upon her! He loved her, I am certain. Who could not love Lenore? And yet when she came to me, I saw nothing of love and everything of scandal. I told her that she must not sin again, that she must give Sterling the child as his very own son or daughter, that for her sake—and for the very life of her lover!—she must never let Sterling know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I was so very wrong! She should have fled with the Frenchman, she should have run to New Orleans with him. She might have found happiness. Instead…”
“Instead! What the hell happened, Dupree? Damn you, man, finish this thing now that you have started!”
“I know nothing for fact,” Dupree said regretfully, looking into his whiskey. “All I know is what was whispered of the Acadians. Sterling discovered her. He damned her, he fought with her. She tumbled down the stairway and was delivered too soon of her daughter. And as she lay abed, dying, bleeding to death, he swore to her that he would kill her lover. And he promised her that he would use her daughter and see that she paid for every sin her mother had ever committed. And when Lenore lay dead at last, he found the young Frenchman and beat him to death and buried him in some unmarked grave.”
“My God,” Eric breathed at last. He didn’t want to believe the man’s words. The accusations were too horrid.
But he could not disbelieve him. He had seen Nigel Sterling with his daughter. He had seen how he had treated her.
Did that mean that he had committed murder, though? Would he sink so very low?
His heart lurched suddenly, seeming to tear, to split as-sunder. God! He wanted to believe in her. He wanted to love her, to give her everything. What hold did Sterling have upon her?
He wanted her. He wanted her then to hold and cradle and keep and assure. He wanted to make certain that no one could hurt her again. That Nigel Sterling could never again reach her.
