Книга - Sapphire

Sapphire
Rosemary Rogers


Not even love could stop her…Despite her privileged life in the sultry paradise of Martinique, the beautiful and daring Sapphire Fabergine will never be satisfied until she claims the honor and legitimacy that has been denied her. Sapphire sails to London to confront the aristocratic family who had disowned her before she was even born–only to find that her father is dead and that his title has passed to Blake Thixton, an attractive yet loathsome distant American cousin.Convinced Sapphire is determined to bring about his ruin, Blake kidnaps her and sails back to America, where he presents her with a choice: become his mistress or serve him as a maid in his waterfront mansion. Without means in this unfamiliar land, Sapphire is trapped. But she will not compromise her quest for honor so easily–not even for the man she has come to desire.







Praise for ROSEMARY ROGERS

“The queen of historical romance.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Rogers, a true doyenne of the genre, gives her many readers the romance they anticipate along with lush scenery and romantic locations.”

—Booklist on Jewel of My Heart

“Returning to her roots with a story filled with family secrets, politics, adventure and simmering passion, Rosemary Rogers delivers what fans have been waiting for.”

—Romantic Times on An Honorable Man

“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement, and always, wildly tempestuous romance.”

—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

“This is exactly what her many fans crave, and Rogers serves it up with a polished flair.”

—Booklist on A Reckless Encounter

“Ms. Rogers writes exciting, romantic stories…with strong-willed characters, explosive sexual situations, tenderness and love.”

—Dayton News

“Her name brings smiles to all who love love.”

—Ocala Star-Banner


Also by ROSEMARY ROGERS

JEWEL OF MY HEART

RETURN TO ME

SURRENDER TO LOVE

AN HONORABLE MAN

WICKED LOVING LIES

A RECKLESS ENCOUNTER

SWEET SAVAGE LOVE

SAVAGE DESIRE




Sapphire

Rosemary Rogers





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To my patient family and my loyal readers




Contents


Chapter 1 (#u1881c078-4a8e-53cf-9fc6-9bc2bb8d2f61)

Chapter 2 (#ud3b10b91-acdc-58bc-8c97-ef8c9cede17c)

Chapter 3 (#u73702762-580a-567c-a0c9-520cc6282001)

Chapter 4 (#u0df7dccf-2fb4-538b-b80d-63d929afe158)

Chapter 5 (#ue9daa99c-ef93-5a8f-9660-156edc0cd9d3)

Chapter 6 (#u88e85c90-0a23-52a8-a3d5-5569da68a487)

Chapter 7 (#ue4b55df9-0334-5cfb-a139-918023e64b03)

Chapter 8 (#u3e98f17a-eae8-5d6f-bc23-7edb851e4c41)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




1


Martinique

French West Indies

April 1831

“One kiss, ma Sapphire douce, one kiss, else I will perish,” the handsome, dark-haired Frenchman declared, bringing both hands to his heart where he stood chest-deep in the pool of crystal blue-green water beneath the waterfall.

Maurice wore nothing but a pair of buff doeskin breeches, soaked through and clinging to his body like a second skin, and the sight of his bare, muscular chest and dripping hair slicked back over his head made Sapphire’s pulse quicken and her knees go weak. “You’ll have to catch me first, Maurice.” She laughed and splashed him, swaying her hips provocatively beneath the transparent shift she wore for her late-afternoon swim.

Maurice lunged forward, his hand striking out, but she turned and dove headlong into the pool, touching the sandy bottom with outstretched fingertips before she came back up, lungs straining for air.

“Got you!” He caught her ankle and began to drag her toward him, running his hands up her bare calf.

“No!” Sapphire squealed, kicking her free leg and laughing. “Release me, kind sir.”

“Not until I have my kiss, fair damsel.” Stepping back, Maurice found his footing on the sandy bottom again and pulled her into his arms.

Surrendering at last, Sapphire looped her arms around his neck and tipped her head back, allowing her wet, waist-length auburn tresses to fall over her shoulders and dip into the water. Closing her eyes, pressing her hips to his, she reveled in the feel of Maurice’s body against hers.

Maurice had caught her eye at a ball last autumn when he and his brother Jacques had returned from school in France to join his father on a neighboring plantation. She’d felt the magic from the first night they met. A few innocent kisses, followed by heated glances across crowded rooms and several furtive meetings, and she’d fallen madly and hopelessly in love with Maurice, and he with her. Visions of a magnificent wedding in the garden at Orchid Manor danced in her head. Her only quandary was convincing dear, sweet Papa that Maurice was the right man for her—the only man for her.

“Sapphire, we should return to the house,” Angelique called from where she and Jacques were floating on their backs by the cliff that enclosed their favorite swimming pool. “If we’re gone too long, Papa will come looking. Remember, we’re supposed to be listening to the baroness’s harpsichord recital.”

Only a year older than Sapphire, Angelique was not only the sister of her heart, but her best friend. The two had been inseparable since Sapphire’s parents adopted Angelique. Though ebony-haired and native born to the island, the daughter of a slave, Angelique’s skin tone merely appeared sun-kissed year round and did not give evidence of her true heritage. “I don’t want to go to dinner and listen to Papa’s boring English guests.” Sapphire pouted, turning to brush her lips against Maurice’s. “I’d much prefer to stay here.”

“Perhaps you should return, ma petite,” Maurice whispered softly in her ear. “I would not want to anger Monsieur Fabergine, my future father-in-law.”

He teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue, sending little shivers through her body. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the water was cold and she trembled as unfamiliar and exciting sensations coiled in the pit of her belly, making her nipples grow hard and ache with anticipation.

“Meet me later tonight after your dinner, in our special place, oui?” Maurice suggested huskily in her ear.

She grasped his strong forearms and looked into his eyes. “Yes, and then we shall go riding. I adore riding in the dark, through the jungle and along the beach with only the moon to guide me. It would be a hundred times better if we were together.”

“Or, we could pursue…other diversions.”

Maurice covered her mouth with his and she melted into his arms, sighing. Sapphire was not as generous with her affection as Angelique was, and, unlike the beautiful free-spirited native, she had guarded her virginity carefully. But her resolve was beginning to wane. She was fully a woman and eager to experience all there was to being one. What reason was there to wait? she wondered, light-headed as she finally tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath.

“Come sit on the bank and dry a little before you dress,” Maurice murmured, wrapping his arm around her and guiding her toward the shore. He picked up a blanket and led Sapphire just off the path to a clearing among giant ferns, palm trees swaying overhead. He spread the blanket and took her hand again, easing her down onto the soft carpet of the jungle floor.

“I can only sit a minute.” She smiled, inhaling deeply and savoring the scents of the jungle paradise. “Angelique is right. We should go before Papa finds us.”

“Ah, papas,” Maurice sighed, nuzzling her neck. “They are overprotective of their beautiful daughters, oui?”

She lifted her chin to gaze into his eyes and rested her palm on his broad shoulder. “Oui, at least this father is.” Sapphire brushed her lips against Maurice’s and he closed his arms around her, easing her back to the ground, deepening the kiss. When he again molded his lean body to hers, she felt the evidence of his desire, and heat rose in her cheeks.

Maurice drew his hand lightly over Sapphire’s rib cage, up under her breast, and she sighed. Then he moved his hand slowly over her breast and squeezed gently, bringing a moan from deep in her throat. How could anything so forbidden feel so wonderful?

“Sapphire! Mon dieu! You, sir, remove yourself from my daughter at once!”

“Papa!” Sapphire had not heard the riders until they were upon the clearing beside the pond. She gave Maurice a push as she sat up and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Bon après-midi, Monsieur Fabergine. How are you this fine afternoon?” Maurice had asked politely, as if nothing had happened.

“How am I?” Armand Fabergine sputtered, dismounting from his fine bay gelding, waving his white leather crop. He was dressed in a riding suit of white knee-length breeches, a white silk shirt, a pale blue coat and expensive boots. Behind him, several male guests on horseback strained their necks to get a look at Sapphire and her lover. “In truth, Mr. Dupree, I am not good,” Armand said in lightly accented English as he pointed to his daughter. “Fille, get up. Get up at once!” His lips were pale, his eyes narrowed in anger.

As Sapphire stood, her father grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“And where is Angelique?”

Her father didn’t often become truly angry with her, but he was right now—so angry, sparks seemed to fly from his gray eyes.

“Coming, Papa!” Angelique sang.

“And you,” Armand snapped, looking Maurice up and down with contempt, “are fortunate that I am a civilized man. My father would have shot you down like a dog had you dared to lay a hand on one of my sisters. You had better go from here now, because I cannot promise not to lose my self-control and thrash you.”

“No, Papa!” Sapphire cried.

“You shame me, daughter. Cover yourself!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Please, gentlemen, could you give me a moment?”

The three Englishmen reluctantly backed up their mounts and disappeared behind a giant elephant ear plant.

“Angelique!” Armand called.

“Coming, Papa!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sapphire saw Jacques duck and disappear under a clump of ferns near the shore. She turned back to look at her father. It was Angelique’s way, even since childhood. She never disobeyed or argued with their parents or Aunt Lucia. She would nod, smile prettily and do what she damn well pleased.

“Papa, you don’t understand,” Sapphire pleaded.

“What is there to understand?” Armand bellowed. “This…this young man, who is no gentleman, has obviously attempted to take advantage of you.”

“No!” Sapphire released one corner of the blanket and stepped back to loop her arm through Maurice’s. “Maurice and I are in love, Papa. He has done no wrong—he would never take advantage of me.”

“Love? What do you know of love?” Armand scoffed, taking a step closer. He had grown thin in the past year and his dark hair had turned almost entirely white, but he still had a voice of authority that made men nervous.

“I should go, mon amour,” Maurice said as he stepped back.

“I think that is wise, Monsieur Dupree, before I forget that I am a gentleman and deliver the painful lesson that you deserve.”

“I will see you later,” Maurice whispered in Sapphire’s ear, and then he turned and hurried back toward the shore to gather his clothing.

Angelique came up the bank already dressed, carrying her slippers. “Papa,” she said sweetly, “we were just going up to the house to prepare for your dinner. I simply cannot wait to wear the new gown you brought for me all the way from London.”

Sapphire took a step toward her father, defiance in her eyes. “You cannot do this to Maurice or to me, Papa. I won’t have it! We’re in love…we’re in love and we intend to marry!”

Armand looked down at her, his jaw firm. “You will not marry Maurice Dupree,” he said coldly. “He is not fit to clean your riding boots.” He turned and strode toward his horse.

“Papa! You can’t just walk away from me. I am not a child any longer and I will not stand to be treated like one!”

Armand put his boot into the stirrup and swung onto his horse. “I am still your father and the lord over this plantation and all who live here,” he told her quietly, staring straight ahead. “You are all my responsibility, which means I will do as I see fit, with my slaves and my daughter. I could lock you in your room or return you to the care of the Good Sisters of the Sacred Heart if I must.”

“You wouldn’t dare send me back to school!” Sapphire shouted after him as he rode away.

“I will not be swayed,” Sapphire insisted as she followed Angelique out of her bedchamber and into the wide, lamp-lit passageway. Orchid Manor had been built by her grandfather in the style of the great French châteaux of the Loire Valley, but he had created an airy West Indies ambience with wide doors and windows that opened from almost every room onto stone patios and lush gardens.

“I won’t do it, Angel.” Sapphire tossed her head as she fastened a pearl earring to her lobe. “When Mama died, he told me I was an adult now and that I would be treated as such.” She lifted the hemline of her new plum-colored silk dress with its fashionable bell-like skirt and low-cut décolleté and ran to catch up. “And now, when I have found a man to love, he speaks of sending me back to the convent school. Never!”

“You mustn’t run or you will ruin your hair.” Angelique reached up and fussed with an auburn pin curl above Sapphire’s ear. “Do not bring up Maurice at dinner this evening. Do not bring him up at all.”

“Not bring him up at all?” Sapphire said sharply. “I want to marry him. We want to be married at once.”

Angelique smoothed the skirt of her pale pink gown. “You should not be so free with your heart. You are young—you’ve much to learn about love. There will be many Maurices who—”

“Not you, too!” Sapphire flared.

“I am on your side, the same as Papa.” She turned toward the music wafting from the garden where the musicians played for her father’s English guests, all business associates. “Come, we don’t want to be late and anger Papa any further. We will talk about this later.”

“You sound just like him,” Sapphire spat. “You have not heard the last of this, you or Papa!”

“Could we have any doubt?” Angelique murmured under her breath as they breezed into the large dining room elegantly furnished in white and blond Louis XIV furniture.

“Ah, my lovely nieces,” Aunt Lucia declared, embracing the young women and leaning toward Sapphire. “What have you done now? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Armand so infuriated.”

“I did nothing wrong!”

Lucia, a round figure of a woman with red hair and a beautiful face for a middle-aged woman, looked to Angelique, who only lifted her brows and shrugged gracefully.

“Come, come,” Aunt Lucia said gaily, brushing back her mountain of lemon-colored satin skirts and petticoats. “Everyone is here and it’s time to be seated. Lady Carlisle’s gown is lovely, oui? And look at the headpiece,” she said with a French accent that always seemed to be stronger when there were guests or strangers about. “Isn’t the little bird tucked in the lace simplement divin?”

“Simply divine,” Sapphire said sweetly, forcing a smile as she walked to her chair near the head of the table. She did not care for Lady Carlisle. Only yesterday morning Sapphire had overheard the countess in the library talking to her friend Lady Morrow. “Monsieur Fabergine is quite charming, but his red-haired daughter is entirely too free-spirited for a young woman. She would do well to have her wings clipped by her father before she is lost to good society forever. I wonder,” Lady Carlisle had continued, “if Armand realizes how difficult such a hoyden will be to marry off?”

“Papa,” Sapphire called, smiling. “Please, everyone sit,” she announced to her father’s guests. “Join us—dinner is served.”

Armand walked behind her chair and eased it out for her. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said. “The color of your new gown becomes you.”

She was still angry with him but her smile turned genuine as she sat and peered up at him over her bare shoulder. “Thank you for the gown, Papa. It is lovely.” She smoothed the skirt as she slid her chair forward.

“A lovely gown for a lovely woman,” he whispered in her ear. “Even if she is a hoyden.”

She looked into his eyes and had to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid giggling aloud. Apparently he had heard about Lady Carlisle’s comment concerning her behavior.

“Merci tellement,” Armand said grandly to his guests, helping Aunt Lucia into her chair before taking his place at the head of the table.

One of the married male guests aided Angelique, Sapphire noticed. All men adored Angelique because she was never argumentative and there was something about her dark beauty that men seemed unable to resist.

“Please,” Armand continued, taking his chair and opening his arms grandly. “Here at Manoir D’orchidée, Orchid Manor as you would say, we are quite informal.”

He waved to one of the new servants, a girl from the village that Sapphire suspected had caught her father’s roving eye. It was a vice of his that her mother had always overlooked; an innate male weakness, Mama called it. Be that as it may, when rumors circulated years ago that Angelique was actually Armand’s daughter by one of the native women, Sapphire had decided that the man she would marry would not have this innate male weakness. She would not stand for it.

The servant girl, Tarasai, who was no older than Sapphire, approached the table, eyes downcast, carrying a large white porcelain soup tureen with gilded handles. With the serving of the tortoise soup, the two-hour-long event of dinner commenced, and as course after course was served and carried out, Sapphire found herself sinking further into her chair.

Since her father’s English guests had arrived a week earlier, dinner conversations had been incredibly dull. The middle-aged men spoke of nothing but crops and their health, and as boring as that was, Sapphire found their talk of gout and the price of cane presses more interesting than the Englishwomen’s tedious conversations concerning London society. Aunt Lucia was quite adept at smiling and nodding and adding a oui or a yes in all the right places, and Angelique occupied herself by flirting with the men in the room, servants and guests, old and young. But Sapphire simply could not feign interest.

Waiting for the next course to be served, Sapphire lifted her gaze upward with a sigh of boredom and focused on the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the dining table. Orchid Manor was quite modern in many ways; the rooms were lit by efficient oil lamps, but her father insisted on using only candlelight in the dining room.

Sapphire heard a quiet whine beneath the table and felt a cold nose push against her hand. She made sure that no one was watching, then tore a piece of bread from her plate and eased it under the table. One of her father’s hounds licked it greedily from her fingers and nuzzled her hand for more.

Lady Morrow, who was the same age and temperament as the fifty-ish Lady Carlisle, was telling Aunt Lucia about a lady who had to dismiss her maid for pilfering soap from the larder. Sapphire rolled her eyes at the pettiness of the conversation and reached for another piece of bread to feed the dog.

Baroness Wells, seated beside Sapphire, met her gaze and smiled. Sapphire liked Patricia. Patricia was a newlywed and she could be quite fun, but she was Lady Carlisle’s niece and, therefore, well under the wretched woman’s thumb. Sapphire had tried several times to convince Patricia to go riding or swimming with her, but each time Lady Carlisle had rejected the idea on the grounds that a white woman was unsafe in the jungles of Martinique. The fact that many aristocratic French families lived quite safely in the area did not seem to be a consideration.

Sapphire offered another piece of bread to the hound, and this time he drew his nose just far enough from beneath the white linen tablecloth for Patricia to see him. Patricia spotted the black nose and lifted her napkin to her mouth to hide her amusement.

Lady Carlisle cleared her throat and Sapphire suddenly realized that the women at the table were all looking at her. Apparently someone had asked her a question, but she’d been too preoccupied with the dog to listen.

“Sapphire, dear,” Aunt Lucia said smoothly, “tell Lady Carlisle about the altar cloths you and Angelique recently embroidered for Father Richmond. I was just telling the countesses how well schooled you were by the nuns.”

“The truth?” Sapphire asked, knowing very well that was not what her aunt was seeking. “Angelique’s cloths were quite lovely, her stitching perfect. Mine were bloodstained from continually pricking my fingers with the damn needle and had to be thrown into the rag bag.”

Lady Morrow and Lady Carlisle gasped simultaneously. Sapphire smiled sweetly while Aunt Lucia tipped her wineglass, draining it in one gulp. After that, the conversation moved to the difficulties the ladies had had shopping for Patricia’s trousseau in Paris before she was married last fall. Sapphire was left to feed the dog the rest of her bread, and Patricia’s, as well.

At last, the final porcelain dish was cleared, and Sapphire rose hoping to slip out of the dining room unseen.

“Dames, would you care to take a turn in my garden?” Armand asked, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling doors left open to the stone patio. “The gentlemen and I thought we would retire to my study for a cigar and then join you for drinks, if it isn’t too cool outside.”

“Cool?” Sapphire groaned, dabbing at her neckline with her napkin before placing it on her plate. “Heavens, Papa. It’s a warm enough night. I doubt we’ll catch a chill.”

He rested his hand on her elbow, smiled and leaned forward. “Please, Sapphire,” he said quietly. “I understand your anger with me, but these are my guests. I do a great deal of business with these gentlemen and it will not harm you to be pleasant to their wives.”

She sighed. “Yes, Papa. I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll send Tarasai for wraps if anyone is chilled.”

“Merci.” He walked away, leading the men through the dining room toward his study, leaving her with no choice but to escort the women out onto the patio.

“Please, ladies, join us for a cordial on the patio. We have some rare orchids I think you’ll find quite beautiful.”

“I’m sorry,” Angelique said sweetly, standing behind her chair. “But I’m not feeling very well. A bit of headache. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly. Yes, of course,” the women murmured at once, full of concern for Angelique.

Sapphire groaned inwardly and called Tarasai to bring refreshments to the orchid garden.

By the time Sapphire walked outside, Aunt Lucia was showing Patricia one of Armand’s hybrids, a stunning pale pink orchid with a deep black center, and the two countesses had their heads together, whispering. In no hurry to join either conversation, Sapphire walked toward a small pond stocked with bright orange goldfish. Gathering her skirts, she crouched and stared into the pool to see if she could catch a flash of orange tail illuminated by the light of the torches placed around the perimeter of the garden that separated it from the vast rain forest.

She didn’t find any fish, but she saw a shiny green frog with orange speckles, and when it hopped off a rock onto the patio, she followed it. As she approached the far side of the garden, she caught part of the countesses’ conversation.

“Naked?” she heard Lady Morrow whisper harshly. “No!”

“Yes,” Lady Carlisle insisted. “That’s what Lord Carlisle said. Well, at least practically so.”

“Shocking,” Lady Morrow said. “And to think poor Monsieur Fabergine has this to deal with while still in mourning.”

“That and the dark-skinned girl. Can you believe she sits at the dining table as if she’s one of them?”

“Dark-skinned? Whatever do you mean? I thought she was a French relation or something.…”

Dismissing the frog, Sapphire raised her chin a notch and strode over to the two women whose heads were bowed as they gossiped. “Excuse me, ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear that last of your exchange,” she said, looking one directly in the eyes and then the other.

“How rude of you to listen to a conversation you were not invited to be a part of. Have you no manners whatsoever, young lady?” Lady Carlisle demanded. At least Lady Morrow had the decency to avert her gaze in embarrassment.

Sapphire took a step closer to the countess, her eyes flashing with anger. “You speak of manners? My mother always taught me that if one has nothing nice to say, one should not speak at all.”

“What did she know?” Lady Carlisle hissed. “She was a common trollop!”

Stunned by the countess’s comment, Sapphire stared, eyes wide. “My mother was no such thing!”

Lady Carlisle moved closer to Sapphire. “Your mother was nothing but a New Orleans whore, the same as your precious aunt. That is how your father found her!”

“How dare you!” Sapphire shouted.

“Sapphire.” Aunt Lucia appeared at her side, laying her hand gently on her arm. “Please—your father’s guests…”

Sapphire pulled her arm away. “No! Did you…did you hear what she just said about my mother? What she accused you of being?”

“Ask Lady Morrow,” Lady Carlisle said as she drew herself up in her gray flowered gown, her hideous headdress with its bird bobbing as if it were pecking a hole in her head. “Her cousin’s brother knew them in New Orleans. He and Armand were business associates.”

“Edith, that will be quite enough,” Aunt Lucia said sharply.

“It’s not true! It’s a lie! Aunt Lucia, tell them, tell them my mother was not—” But when Sapphire looked at her aunt, she realized something was amiss. Did these women know something she didn’t? “Non,” she whispered in shock.

“Sapphire, ma petite…” Aunt Lucia reached for her hand.

Suddenly the whole garden seemed to spin around Sapphire, the bright torches, the heavy scent of jasmine, the sound of the countess’s sour voices. “It’s not true. None of it is true. It’s all lies!”

“Sapphire, this is complicated,” Lucia said calmly. “Let us go inside and—”

“No!” Sapphire cried, pulling away, her heart pounding in her throat. With tears filling her eyes, she rushed off the patio and ran into the jungle.




2


Sapphire ran wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shoved her way through the underbrush, taking the shortcut to the stables in the humid darkness.

“It’s not true,” she shouted over and over again. “It’s not true! My mother was not a whore!” And yet she knew in her heart of hearts that it was true; the look on Aunt Lucia’s face spoke the truth. Her mother, her beloved Mama, her father’s Sophie, had been a common woman of the streets—a prostitute. And somewhere deep inside, Sapphire realized she had always known her mother kept a terrible secret. There was a sadness Mama could never put aside, not even with the love of her daughter and devoted husband.

“But how could you do it, Mama?” Sapphire whispered as she slowed to a walk. She was panting so hard that her chest ached and her stomach turned queasy. “How could you have died not telling me the truth?” she demanded of her mother, looking up into the starlit sky, calling to her somewhere above.

But of course there was no response, neither from the heavens nor from her mother, who had been dead for nearly a year. A year…yet it seemed as though they had just buried her mother in the lovely place she and Papa had chosen. Her illness had been swift—a sudden loss of weight, blurry vision, thirst and light-headedness. A physician had been called, but he was unable to cure the strange disease he had called the sugar sickness, and she died three weeks later.…Her beloved Mama was dead and now these people were saying such awful things about her!

Sapphire immediately felt a sense of comfort as she approached her father’s vast stables. The stables had always been a place of refuge when she was sad or hurt or angry. Here, alone with the horses, she found she could lose herself in grooming and caring for them, or simply standing in their presence. Riding through the pounding surf, she’d always found a sense of release and freedom that she had seemed to crave more and more in the past year.

Ahead, she saw the dim glow of a lantern in the tack room and she felt her heart flutter. Had Maurice come, hoping she could slip away from her father’s dinner party for a few minutes? Her steps quickened, her heart beating in anticipation as she slipped in the door. Hearing nothing, she walked quietly down the worn cobblestone center aisle, setting her feet on the paving blocks that had been carried here from the shores of France as ballast on a merchant vessel decades ago, listening to the familiar sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls, the contented chuff and the occasional whinny.

A sliver of light came from the doorway that had been left open a crack, and her heart swelled with anticipation. Her beloved was here! “Maurice?” Sapphire whispered, walking slowly toward the light.

Then she heard a sound, a female voice, and she hesitated. “Angelique?” What on earth was her sister doing at the barn? Taking a horse to meet Jacques?

“Sapphire?” Angelique called from behind the door. “I thought you were in the garden with—”

“Oh, Angel.” Sapphire rushed for the door and flung it open. “You’re not going to believe—” She clasped the door tightly with her hand and stared.

Angelique pulled herself from a man’s embrace.

“Maurice!” Sapphire’s heart fell as her world came crashing down around her.

“S-Sapphire, mon amour.”

“No!” She grabbed a pitchfork from where it rested in the corner of the tack room.

“This is not how it looks, ma chère.” Maurice walked toward her, his arms open.

“Not how it looks?” Sapphire shouted.

“Sapphire, please,” Angelique protested.

Angelique was wearing a simple A-line dress that fell to just past her knees, a dress similar to those worn by the native women. It was what she always wore when she sneaked out of the house to meet men.

“Do not get in my way!” Sapphire threatened Angelique as she took a step closer to Maurice, jabbing the tines of the pitchfork in the air. “You said you loved me! You said you wanted to marry me!” Her voice caught in her throat as a rage swept over her. “You said we would make beautiful babies together!”

“I do wish to marry you, mon amour. I do love you. It is only that—”

“What?” she demanded. “It is only what? You love me, but you kiss my sister?” Her last words came out of her mouth ragged and forlorn.

“Sapphire—” Angelique interrupted, reaching for her.

“Not now,” she snapped, thrusting the pitchfork at Maurice again. “I’m going to run my true love through his black heart,” she hissed, lunging toward him.

Maurice threw himself against the wall and slowly began to inch his way toward the door, his palms pressed to the wall. “Sapphire, s’il vous plait, let me explain. This has nothing to do with you and me. What you and I have is true love—”

“True love!” Sapphire laughed bitterly. “Get out of here,” she ordered, spitting at him.

Maurice ran out the door, and by the time Sapphire turned the corner, he was halfway through the barn.

“Never come back,” she called after him. “Not ever, do you hear me?”

She stood there for a moment staring into the darkness as the barn door slammed shut, then, leaving the pitchfork outside against the wall, she turned back to the tack room.

“How could you?” she whispered, her gaze settling on Angelique. She tucked a stray tendril of damp hair behind her ear. “You knew I loved him.”

“I’m sorry,” Angelique said, looking at the ground.

“You’re sorry? You have betrayed me and that’s all you have to say to me?”

Angelique turned to her, lifting her eyes to meet Sapphire’s. “You don’t want to hear anything else I have to say right now.”

“Yes, I do,” Sapphire challenged, taking a step closer. “I think I have a right to hear what you have to say, considering the circumstances.”

“I’m sorry I let him kiss me, but he doesn’t love you,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?” Sapphire stared at her. “Of course Maurice loves me!”

“No he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have kissed me.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Sapphire, listen to me. Maurice loves your father’s land, not you. He loves what he thinks you can do to further his situation. He has an older brother, you know. Younger sons do not inherit a father’s plantation, and the family is in debt. If Maurice cannot find a rich wife, he will be forced to find a position in trade.”

Sapphire tucked her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. “It’s not true. It can’t be.”

“Sapphire, this isn’t the first time he’s tried. Even the first night we met last autumn at the ball, he tried to get me to meet him in the forest after everyone had gone home.”

Sapphire shook her head in disbelief, trying to think back. “But we danced every dance together that night. He said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that he had fallen in love with me the moment he laid eyes upon me.”

Angelique nodded. “You probably are the most beautiful woman he ever met, but he is not a loyal man. You deserve better.”

“You’re confusing things! You were kissing him. What about Jacques?” Sapphire asked. “I thought you liked him.”

“Ah, Jacques. I do like him, but he has no intention of marrying me. Not that I would have him.” Angelique ran her finger along the edge of a rough-hewn table scattered with brushes and combs for grooming. “Since I am half native, no respectable man will ever have me, no matter how many beautiful gowns Armand Fabergine buys for me or how many tutors he brings to teach me Latin and literature.”

“That’s not true,” Sapphire said quietly.

“It is true and you know it. That’s why Mama left her money to me when she died and not to you. It was so that I would not have to marry. She did it because she knew you would inherit Papa’s land and fortune. She did it so I could take care of myself.” Angelique took a step toward Sapphire. “Do you want to hear Maurice’s plan?”

“What?” Sapphire whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“He knew Papa would never agree to allow him to marry you. His plan was to seduce you, and when you became pregnant, Papa would be forced to allow you to marry him to save your honor.”

Sapphire did not want to believe Angel’s words. But Angelique never lied. Not even when they were children and were faced with punishment if they did not confess to some trick they had played on the servants or when they had sneaked away from their governess to swim naked in the ocean with the village children.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Angel.”

“I am what I am, and if you expect more, I will only break your heart over and over again.” Her eyes, now filled with tears, searched Sapphire’s. “Can you forgive me, my sister?”

Sapphire looked away, focusing on the pale light glowing from an oil lamp that hung from a wrought-iron hook protruding from the wall.

They had been the best of friends—sisters—since the day they met. Sapphire had sneaked out of the house one day, abandoning her music tutor to hike in the jungle. On the beach she had encountered two big, ugly stray dogs that had trapped a small, barefoot native girl against a tree. Sapphire had driven the dogs off with a large branch and taken the little girl home with her to have Sophie bandage the girl’s cut knee. They had discovered that Angelique came from a nearby village and that she was recently orphaned. Her mother had died of a fever and her father—well, she didn’t know who her father was—but one had only to look at the face of the eight-year-old to tell that a Frenchman had fathered her. Perhaps Sophie had suspected it might be her husband who had sired her. That very day, Sophie Fabergine had welcomed the orphan into her home and from that time, raised her as if she were a daughter.

Sapphire looked up. “I’m still angry with you, Angel,” she whispered.

Angelique threw her arms around Sapphire and hugged her. “Of course you are. I deserve it and I would expect no less of you.” She walked to the far wall, stood on her tiptoes and turned down the lamp, enclosing them in darkness. “Now come on. Let’s go home.”

Sapphire was not entirely surprised when she entered her bedchamber to find her father and aunt waiting for her. Angelique took one look at their faces and backed up. “I’ll go to my room.”

“Non, Angelique.” Armand spoke from a woven beachwood chair under one of the open windows. If he noticed Angelique was not in her ball gown, he gave no indication, nor did he make mention of the fact that Sapphire’s hair was tangled and hanging loose, her gown tattered.

“What I have to say affects you as well as Sapphire,” he sighed. “Come in and close the door behind you. You two ladies have shared enough with our guests today, do you not think?”

“What is it that cannot wait?” Sapphire demanded. She knew Aunt Lucia must have told her father what the women had said in the garden about Sapphire’s mother. She had a hundred questions for her father but she just wasn’t ready to ask them yet. “I’m tired, Papa.” She approached her chifforobe, pretending she was about to begin undressing. “It would be better if we talked tomorrow.”

“Non,” Armand said sharply, startling all three women. “Tonight, young lady, you will not have your way! I will speak to you now, fille, and you, out of respect for your father, will listen. I should have had this talk with you—your mother and I should have—years ago, but we cannot change that now. Our guests have remedied that, haven’t they.” He hesitated. “All we can do is go on from here. Now sit down on the bed.” He raised his hand in Angelique’s direction. “You, as well, Angel. I warn you, I will not be handled by the three of you. Not tonight.”

Astonished by her father’s demeanor, Sapphire did as she was told and silently walked to the bed to sit beside Aunt Lucia. Angelique sat on the older woman’s other side.

“Let me first say that I am sorry, Sapphire, that all has come about in the way that it has. I must say that I did not always agree with your mother’s choices, but they were hers to make,” he said. “I know you understand that Lord Carlisle came to finalize a business agreement with me, but he also came to meet you so that I might finalize my plans to send you to London—”

“London!” Sapphire jumped off the bed. “I am not going to London!”

Armand rose from his chair. “I told you to sit, fille, and you will sit!”

Under her father’s angry gaze, she leaned against the bed but did not sit. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited stubbornly.

“In my grief over the loss of your mother, I have allowed you to run wild.”

“Papa, I have not—”

“Do not interrupt me again!”

Sapphire pressed her lips together in silence, but she felt as if she could leap out of her skin. Had her father lost his mind? Go to London? What could possibly be there for her?

“I have allowed you to run too freely,” Armand continued, beginning to pace in the large, airy bedchamber. “Since your mother’s death, I have allowed you, against my better judgment, to cease your lessons, to run about the island, unsupervised, to meet with men in private that you should not—”

“Papa, Maurice and I—” This time, he only had to give Sapphire a look and she was silent.

“You will go to London with Lord and Lady Carlisle and Lucia has agreed to go as your chaperone.”

“But what about me? What am I to do?” Angelique rose, suddenly as upset as Sapphire, obviously for a different reason. “Can’t I go to London, as well?”

“Well, I suppose you may,” Armand said, taken by surprise. “I wasn’t certain you would want to, my dear. To leave your home village, to—”

“Of course I want to go!” Angelique clasped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, Papa, you don’t know how much I’ve always wanted to go to London.”

Sapphire glared at Angelique, unable to let go of her anger toward her yet. “I thought you wanted to go to New York. No, wait, that was last week. Where was it you wanted to go this week? Athens? Paris? Or was it Brussels?” Sapphire mused.

“I want to go to all those places,” Angelique responded, nonplussed. “But most of all, right now, London. Oh, thank you, Papa!”

Sapphire turned to look at her father again. Her mother used to say that Angelique was always so easy to please, unlike Sapphire. Nothing was ever good enough for Sapphire, nothing was ever entirely agreeable—unless it was her idea. “I don’t want to go to London, Papa.” She looked down. It was hard for her to give in. She glanced up at him again, her arms still crossed over her chest. “If this is about Maurice—”

“This is not about that loathsome boy!” Armand said abruptly, turning on his heels to look at her. “Sapphire, you don’t understand. You don’t know who you are.”

“Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?” She moved away from the bed. “I’m still nothing but a child to you, still unable, in your eyes, to make my own decisions, unable to decide for myself what is best for me?” She took a step toward him. “Well, you’re mistaken. I know precisely who I am and what I want out of life. I am Sapphire Lucia Fabergine, daughter of Sophie and Armand Fabergine, and I want nothing more than—”

“You are not my daughter,” Armand said, looking her in the eye.

Sapphire’s throat constricted and her knees went weak. “What?” she managed to say.

“Sapphire, come sit beside me,” Lucia said calmly, trying to take her hand and lead her to the bed.

“No.” Sapphire pulled her arm from her aunt. First this terrible thing about her mother—and now this? She stared at her father. “Is my entire life a lie? Has anyone ever told the truth in this house? Papa, what are you saying?”

Armand’s lower lip trembled. It was obvious he was in pain, not just emotionally, but physically, as well. “Please,” she said quietly, reaching out to take his arm. “Sit and tell me what you have to tell me.” Surprisingly, he allowed her to lead him back to the chair.

“It is true,” he said when he was seated while Sapphire sat on a footstool at his feet. “I am not your father, but you must believe me when I tell you that you are the child of my heart. You must know that, Sapphire, before I go any further.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she stared out the open windows into the dark jungle. Lucia came to stand behind her and pushed a white handkerchief into her hand.

“I’m listening,” Sapphire said, watching the filmy gauze drapes fluttering around her bedposts. A giant green moth had found its way into the room and now fluttered about the lamp, lured by the beauty of the dancing yellow flame, perhaps to its own death. I am like that moth, Sapphire thought. I know that what I am about to hear will destroy me, but I cannot resist knowing the truth.

“I met your mother and Lucia in New Orleans.”

“He was as handsome a man as either of us had ever seen,” Lucia offered, looking to Armand with a smile. “But from the first night he had eyes for no one but your mother.”

“But she was a prostitute,” Sapphire heard herself say, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “That’s how you met her. That’s what Lady Carlisle was talking about, wasn’t it? That’s what Mama was always trying to hide from me. It was her secret.”

Armand folded his hands together and was quiet for a moment. “Oui,” he said finally. “I met your mother in a bordello in New Orleans. We fell in love and I asked her to marry me, though she had given birth to another man’s child without the benefit of a wedding ring. She agreed to marry me and came here to Orchid Manor, bringing Lucia as her companion.”

“And that’s it? You’re telling me that I’m merely the product of some chance encounter between a stranger and a…a night-blooming flower?”

Armand studied his daughter’s face and thought to himself that she had always been so strong, stronger than him or Sophie. Her eyes were red but she did not cry. It had been like that always, even when she was a child; the time she had fallen from her horse when she was seven and had broken her arm, she had not cried. Nor had she cried the hundreds of times she’d skinned her knees or elbows, either. She was strong, his Sapphire, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

Armand sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Listen before you make judgments. Do you not wish to know why your mother was in that place?”

“Do I?” she asked, setting her jaw.

“It doesn’t matter,” Angelique declared, sliding off the bed and coming to stand beside Lucia. “She is Sapphire, and she is as good as anyone on this island. Women do what they must to survive—isn’t that right, Aunt Lucia?” she asked. “Tell her.”

Lucia looked into Angelique’s dark eyes. “It is why I found myself in Madame Dulane’s in New Orleans. I was a common street whore in London and was given the opportunity to travel to America with a kind benefactor. When he grew bored with me, I took to the occupation I knew—but this time, instead of working the streets, I found a place where I would have a bed and food.”

Sapphire felt her head spinning. It was all so much to digest that she didn’t know which question to ask first. Aunt Lucia and her mother selling their bodies to men? Her sweet, quiet, gentle mother, a whore? It was an impossible thought, and yet the look on her father’s and aunt’s faces revealed the truth.

“Did you really meet my mother in New Orleans, or was she also a London whore?”

“I did meet her in New Orleans,” Lucia answered calmly, “but she, too, sailed from London, though not of her own choosing.”

“Not of her own choosing?”

“Sapphire, it will do you no good to be angry with your mother now. She did what she thought was best at the time,” Armand said. “She thought you should not know the truth of your birth until you were older. Then she became ill so suddenly and there was no time…”

The room was silent. Angelique had returned to sit on the bed. Sapphire stared out the window for a moment and then turned back to her father. “So whose daughter am I, if not yours?”

Lucia rested her hand on Armand’s arm and murmured something. He looked at her and nodded. Lucia waited until he had taken a seat in the beachwood chair again and then she spoke, opening her arms as if introducing a performance or work of art. “I have had to piece much of this story together because your mother was not easily forthcoming in her tale, but this is the best I can tell you. There was a young girl in Devonshire,” she said, adapting the tone of a storyteller. “Her name was Sophie and she was a strikingly beautiful woman with auburn hair and a smile that caught the eye of every man in the county, I would suspect.”

Sapphire turned to look at Lucia, unable to resist being drawn in.

“She was a farmer’s daughter who could read and write and who yearned to see the world, at least the world beyond the hills of her little English village. Then one day, the summer she was seventeen, a handsome young man stopped at the local inn to eat.”

“It’s like one of your romance stories,” Angelique said softly. “Or maybe a fairy tale.”

“He was an earl’s son,” Lucia continued. “A viscount in his own right and his name was Edward. It was a meeting completely by chance, though some might say by fate.” She walked to the window, the silk of her bright, multicolored dressing gown flowing behind her. “Had Sophie not been leaving the tavern, having delivered her father’s fresh vegetables at the very moment that his lordship entered the tavern, they would never have met.”

Lucia paused, and then went on. “He fell in love with her at first sight, and she him. And even though they knew their love could never be, for they were not of the same social class, he couldn’t stop himself from riding to the village regularly to see her, and she could not stop herself from sneaking away from the farm to be with him.”

“And then what happened?” Sapphire asked, although she could guess.

“They married in secret the following summer,” Lucia said solemnly. “And they sealed their love—”

“With a night of passionate lovemaking,” Angelique injected.

“And Edward gave his new wife, Sophie, as a token of his love, one of the largest, most beautiful sapphires in all of England. A sapphire that had once belonged to the great Queen Elizabeth.”

Sapphire heard her father move in his chair and turned to see him produce a small, worn wooden chest. “This is your mother’s casket,” he said quietly, opening it and removing a black velvet bag. “And this—” he carefully removed an object from it “—is the gift she saved for you.”

Sapphire gasped in awe at the sight of the stunning sapphire that was as large as a walnut, sparkling bright in the lamplight. “For me?” she whispered as she stepped forward to take it from his hand. It was cool in her palm, yet it seemed to radiate a warmth that surprised her.

Armand closed the lid on the box. “Inside are also letters from your father to your mother. Love letters, I would assume.” He shook his head, suddenly seeming sad. “I never read them, not even after her death. She had never offered to allow me to read them.”

“They’re for me?” Sapphire asked.

He nodded.

“And then what happened?” Sapphire asked again. “Please tell me, Aunt Lucia.”

“Well, the couple spent a magical night together and then parted, he to travel to London to tell his family of his marriage and she to her father’s cottage to inform him of her good fortune.” She turned from the window, folding her hands together. “But Edward’s father, the Earl of Wessex, was not pleased his son had married a country girl, a girl without title or wealth.”

Sapphire hung her head. “The family would not accept the marriage.”

“Indeed not. According to your mother, the Earl of Wessex was very angry because he had already chosen a bride for his son, a bride from a family with great affluence and a proper lineage,” Lucia said, lifting her forefinger that sported a wide, spiraled gold ring. “And so he sent a representative to Sophie to say that his son had made a mistake and wanted to have the marriage annulled.”

“But Sophie knew it couldn’t be true,” Sapphire said, almost feeling her mother’s pain in her own chest.

Angelique met Sapphire’s gaze, seeming to feel her pain, as well.

“Sophie knew.” Lucia nodded solemnly. “And when the young Sophie could not be persuaded to sign the annulment —not even for money—and when she to threatened to go to London herself and find her beloved Edward, Lord Wessex began to fear the country girl. So…he had her kidnapped.”

“Poor Mama,” Sapphire sighed. She could not imagine that such a thing happened to her soft-spoken, timid mother. “Please go on,” she whispered after a moment of silence.

“So…” Lucia took a breath. “Sophie found herself in the hold of a ship for the journey across the Atlantic Ocean, abandoned on the docks of New Orleans. Lord Wessex had so feared the country girl who had stolen his son’s heart that he sent her all the way to America.”

“I cannot believe it,” Angelique murmured.

Sapphire closed her eyes, remembering her mother before she had become ill and hollow-cheeked, and then she tried to imagine what Sophie must have looked like when she was eighteen.

“Sophie was without money or food or a place to live, and by then she knew she was carrying a child.”

“Edward’s baby,” Sapphire said, still finding it all so hard to believe. “Me.”

“She was carrying you,” Lucia continued, “and though she still had possession of the sapphire Edward had given her—safely sewn in the hem of her only gown—she refused to sell it, for she knew it would mean her child’s legacy. Instead, she sought employment. She was hired as a cook in a tavern in the French Quarter and slept in the attic above the kitchen, but when the evidence of her condition began to show—”

“They put her out on the street,” Angelique guessed angrily. “It’s always that way.”

“They did, but Sophie would not be defeated, because even after all she had been through, she knew in her heart that Edward had loved her and she knew that the baby she carried would be with her always—even if she and Edward could never be together again. Determined to protect her child, Sophie sought work in the only place a pregnant woman without a husband or proper guardian could find employment. She found a kind madam and good friends there.”

“You,” Sapphire said.

“It’s where we met and instantly became sisters, the dairy maid turned fallen woman and the dockside London whore,” Lucia said proudly. “And there Sophie’s daughter was born.”

“I can’t believe you kept this from me,” Sapphire said, turning to Armand, the jewel clasped tightly in her hand.

“It was important to your mother that you be loved, that you know the love of two parents.” He sat back, the casket on his lap. “As time passed, the lie seemed to become truth. After a while, I began to forget that you were not the child of my blood.”

“Your mother gave birth to a beautiful girl, born with her mother’s red hair and her father’s eyes, one blue and one green.”

Sapphire drew her hand to her mouth and inhaled sharply at this revelation. She had asked her mother many times why she had one blue eye and one green when her mother’s and Armand’s eyes were brown, and the response had always been simply that children took after many relatives. Now she knew the truth.

“And Sophie named her daughter Sapphire.” Lucia’s eyes now shone with unshed tears in remembrance, “for the gift her father had given them. And Sophie went about her life, determined to give her daughter a better life than she had known. She dreamed that she and her daughter would some day return to England to find Edward so they would be reunited, and their little girl would be given the name and recognition she always deserved.”

Sapphire sat again on the footstool, feeling more than a little light-headed. “And that’s why you want me to go to London now, Papa—to find my father?”

“This is not about what I want, my dearest daughter. It cannot even be about what you want.” He turned to the window. “It must be about what your mother wanted. It was her dying wish that you find your father, that you seek out your inheritance and what is rightfully yours.”

“And why are you telling me this after she has been gone nearly a year?” Sapphire demanded, wiping at a tear that threatened to spill. “Why do you decide now to tell me all this? Why send me now? Why with those awful people?”

“Because I am a weak man and it has taken me this long to get up my courage to send you away from me. I am sending you with Lord and Lady Carlisle because I know you will be safe with them, because I can trust Lord Carlisle, and because I know they will help you make the proper social associations in London. You won’t have to stay with them long, dear, only until your father invites you into his home.”

“I still don’t understand. Why are you doing this now? Why must you send me away now?” she flung at him.

“Because it is time.”

Sapphire thought for a moment and then lifted her gaze to meet Armand’s. “And if I don’t want to meet him?” she asked, defiance in her voice. “If I refuse to go?”




3


Three weeks later

“There you are, ma chère. I thought you had gone to bed.” Armand stood barefoot in a silk dressing robe on the edge of the garden patio outside his bedchamber, staring into the darkness. Torchlight behind him cast shadows over the stones at his feet and the end of his slender cigar glowed in the night.

“You are not supposed to be smoking or drinking—you know that.” Lucia strode up to him and snatched the cigar from his lips to place it between her own, then inhaled deeply.

Armand chuckled and lifted his other hand to take a sip from his crystal tumbler. “Ah, Lucia,” he murmured thoughtfully, enjoying the burn of the rum. “I will miss you.”

“You certainly will.” She exhaled and the smoke curled around her head and rose, dissipating in the warm night breeze. “With no one to keep you from drowning yourself in rum, you’ll be dead in six months’ time.”

Armand grinned, continuing to stare out into the jungle beyond the house, swirling the last of the rum in the crystal glass. “Sometimes, I think, ma chère, I should have married you and not Sophie. You, I think I could have made happy.”

“You’ve already had too much rum, haven’t you.” She inhaled on the cigar again. “And I am far too old to be anyone’s chère, certainly yours. Besides, you had your chance with me in New Orleans years ago.” She moved to stand beside him. She spoke again after a moment, softening her voice. “She was happy, you know, perhaps not in the same way you might have hoped, but she was happy with the life she chose with you.”

“The life that was forced upon her, you mean.”

“You are mistaken, Armand, if you think Sophie married you unwillingly. She would not have disrespected you or herself or Sapphire in that way.”

“I loved her, you know, very deeply. And even after a year, I still miss her so much. Though she never loved me as she loved her Edward, she still made me very happy, and now that I’m without her, each day seems hollow and empty. Even the native girls I bring to my bed cannot…” He sighed. “The loneliness remains.”

“She loved you, Armand. Surely you must know that.” Lucia said. “And Sapphire loves you.”

“Which is why she must go now,” he said firmly. “I do not care what she says, she will be on that ship tomorrow when it sails.”

Lucia groaned. “You know I have not been in agreement with this idea of yours from the beginning. Because she loves you, Armand, I think you need to reconsider. One year, what would one more year matter? She would be a year older, a year wiser and—”

“Non,” he said, clasping the glass tighter in his hand. “I will not have Sapphire throw her life away to the likes of Maurice Dupree or any man like him, and I will not allow her to sit here and watch me waste away.” He looked at her shrewdly. “And I will not have you tell her about my illness, either, do you understand me? If she knows I am sick, I will really have to tie her and crate her to put her aboard that ship tomorrow. Non, it is time my dear daughter had her wings and I will not clip them with my human frailty.” He drew his hand over his abdomen. “It seems as if a fire burns in my stomach day and night, and now I am spitting up blood. I will not allow her to watch me die!” The exertion of his conviction made him cough furiously.

Lucia sighed. “Oh dear, Armand.” She reached out to smooth his back with her hand, waiting for the spasm to pass. “Don’t work yourself into a fit.”

“I’m not,” he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath, pressing his hand against his stomach. “But neither you nor my fille will coax me from my path this time. My wishes will be done. Sapphire will return to London as my dear wife wished, and her father will lay her rightful claim upon her.”

He cleared his throat, allowing his mind to drift as he thought of the lovely young woman who was his daughter. Since he had first seen that precocious three-year-old in the New Orleans parlor, surrounded by courtesans, he had known she was destined for great things. He had fallen instantly in love with Sophie, in part because of her sad eyes. Sapphire had been a striking beauty, even as a child. She had the lovely face and the remarkable rich auburn hair of her mother, and the piercing eyes—one blue, one green—that he later learned were her father’s. She had grown into an even lovelier young woman, and was desired by many, but conquered by few, he realized. “My only regret, ma chère,” Armand mused aloud, “is that I am not able to take Sapphire to London myself.”

“I shall care for her as my own daughter, you know that.” Lucia drew the cigar away from her lips. “I promise you. I’ll see that her father recognizes her or he’ll have me to contend with, and Lord Wessex doesn’t want to challenge a girl from the London docks, I promise you that.”

He smiled and reached for Lucia, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Come to my bed, ma chère. There is no reason why two old friends cannot keep the sheets warm for each other.”

She smiled up at him. “Good try, Armand, but speak for yourself. I am not old.”

“Not old!” He laughed and then coughed again. “What must you be?”

She dropped the cigar to the stone patio and ground it out with the toe of her silk slipper. “My age is none of your concern or anyone else’s.” She turned away, flipping back the skirting of her silk dressing down and lifting her head high. “This old whore intends to go to London, and once Sapphire is properly wed and bed to a man befitting of her station, she intends to find a rich man to see to her needs in her declining years.”

Armand tipped his gray head back and laughed. “I have no doubt you will do exactly what you set out to do, ma chère Lucia. That’s why I can see the end of my life now, because Sophie’s dream will come to fruition. You, my dear, will see to it that our Sapphire will become Lady Sapphire Wessex, or I know you will die trying.”

“Still awake?” Angelique whispered.

Sapphire lay on her back beneath the immense silk canopy of her bed, listening to the familiar night sounds of the jungle. Moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedchamber. The bed was placed in the center of the room where it would get the most ventilation on hot summer nights. The sheer draperies fluttered in the night breeze.

“How could I possibly sleep?” Sapphire whispered back, glancing at the fine china clock on the bed table. It was after midnight.

Angelique stretched sensually beside her on the bed, raising her slender arms above her head. The bedchamber was supposed to be Sapphire’s alone; Angelique had her own room of equal size and luxury a short walk down the hall, but the two girls often shared a bed. “It is exciting, isn’t it? Tomorrow we set sail on the greatest adventure of our lives!”

“I’m not certain exciting is the word I would choose,” Sapphire answered. “I cannot imagine being trapped on that ship with Lady Carlisle and Lady Morrow for three weeks. I fear I’ll go mad with their incessant gossiping and ridiculing.” She stared at the ceiling as she lifted arm over head to rest her wrist on her forehead. “I still can’t believe Papa is sending me away.” Her initial response to her father’s decision to send her to London had been to refuse out of stubbornness, but in truth, she wanted to get away from Maurice. And though she had mixed feelings about finding her father, it was important to her that she do it for her mother.

“He’s sending you away because he knows the world has great things in store for you. He has always known it. We all have.”

“What great things? That’s ridiculous!”

“The daughter of an earl?” Angelique dangled the words as if they were a sweetmeat. “I see you as a highborn lady, making your entrance into London society dressed in a lavish ball gown, the suitors clamoring to have just one dance with the Lady Sapphire.”

“And why in heaven’s name would I want to dance with any man?”

“You must dance so that you can meet and marry a great man, of course. You know it’s always been your dream. It’s why you read those silly novels and poetry all the time, isn’t it? Because you fancy romantic love?”

Sapphire frowned. Marriage was the furthest things from her mind. She was in too much turmoil to even contemplate such a thing, even if it was inevitable. “I don’t understand why you’re so eager to go, Angel. This is our home! There’s so much I’m going to miss, and not just Papa and Orchid Manor. I don’t know that I can bear to leave my horses.”

“Don’t be silly. They have horses in London.”

“This seems so easy for you and I don’t understand. You were born here. Our mothers died in this place.”

“I’m eager to go because there’s nothing to keep me here. Our mothers aren’t in those graves,” Angelique said with her usual practicality as she sat up beside Sapphire, resting her back against the headboard. “And Armand isn’t my father.”

“You don’t know that.” Sapphire picked at the thin fabric of her knee-length sleeping gown. “He could be.”

“So could any number of white men on this island, you know that.” She looked at Sapphire in the darkness. “But that was never important to me. What’s important is the journey we’re about to embark upon.”

“You know that when we arrive in London, things will be different, there. Everyone here loves you, but—”

“Some better than others!”

“But the way you give yourself so freely to men,” Sapphire continued diplomatically, “might be…might be misinterpreted.” It seemed to her that Angelique had always been a sexual creature, even from the time they were little girls. Certainly from the time Angelique was fourteen and had climbed through the bedchamber window after lights-out to surrender her virginity to a neighboring plantation owner’s sixteen-year-old son.

“You worry too much,” Angelique told her. “I am what I am, just as my mother was what she was, and I will not apologize for either of us.”

Sapphire glanced at Angelique. “We could find you a husband, too, you know. You look more French than native and Armand has already said you must use his surname when we arrive in London. With Armand’s name and the money Mama left you, surely—”

“Marriage is your dream, puss,” Angelique said as she gave Sapphire a gentle push, “not mine, nor will it ever be.” She stretched lazily, like a cat. “I want to get to know a hundred men, a thousand, and not over biscuits and tea.”

“Angel, the sisters and Lady Carlisle were all correct. You’re quite incorrigible.”

“Quite.” Angelique turned her head, a mischievous smile on her face. “What’s amazing is that you’re still so naive,” she teased, “especially now that we know you were brought up amidst such bawdiness—your mother and Lucia’s colorful past in New Orleans, Armand and his slave women, me.”

Sapphire said nothing. She wasn’t like Angel. She couldn’t accept change so easily, especially not when she had believed one thing her whole life only to find it untrue. Three weeks had passed since Armand told her the truth about her mother and herself and she was still trying to make sense of it all. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became with her father, this Edward. Why hadn’t he tried to find her mother? Had he looked for her at all or had he just gone along with the annulment and the new marriage arranged by his family? She intended to ask him just that the moment she saw him. It had been her mother’s dream that Sapphire meet her father, to be drawn into the loving embrace of the family, but what Sapphire wanted was an apology—that and to be recognized as Edward’s daughter, but not because she wanted any sort of relationship with the man. She wanted the recognition for her mother’s sake. And for that reason, she was going to London. Not for Armand, not for herself, but for her mother.

“Now we’re off to begin the journey Sophie dreamed of,” Angelique murmured. “You to find your rightful legacy and a handsome, titled man to wed, and me to sample an entire new continent of men!”

“I’m not sure that is what my mother had in mind.” Sapphire absently reached out to stroke the delightfully smooth silk of one of the bed draperies. “Please don’t put it in quite those terms at the dinner table when Lady Carlisle asks you of your plans once we arrive in London. I overheard her talking with Aunt Lucia yesterday and she is not at all pleased that you are being included in the traveling party, though she didn’t actually say that to Papa. I think her husband’s business profits with Papa are far too great to deny the request to escort us, but she has managed to get her invectives in just the same. I do believe she suggested to Aunt Lucia that you might search for a good position as a lady’s maid.”

“I’ll try to hold my tongue for your sake,” Angelique replied with a laugh. “It’s the least I can do, considering that Lady Carlisle has barely recovered from the incident at the falls. I understand Lord Carlisle was quite taken with us both.”

Sapphire couldn’t resist a smile as she slid down in the bed, thrusting a pillow under her head. “We should get some sleep,” she said. “Four will come early. Papa says we’re to sail at first light while the tide is favorable.”

Angelique slid down beside Sapphire, drawing the light sheet over them. “I still can’t believe it’s happening. I can’t believe I’m really leaving this island.”

Sapphire smiled, and although she was not entirely eager to go, she couldn’t help but wonder what awaited her so far from the familiar shores of Martinique.

Sapphire stood on the rail of the sailing schooner the Elizabeth Mae, holding tightly to the ribbons of her bonnet. The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon in the eastern sky, and there was a good wind that would carry them safely from Martinique’s rocky shores. She gripped the polished wood rail as she gazed down on her father and the maid, Tarasai, who had escorted him to the dock.

Sapphire knew the young native woman adored him and, in the past weeks, she had seemed to be able to cajole him into caring better for himself. Sapphire hated leaving him, but at least she knew there would be someone here for him, seeing that he didn’t smoke too many cigars or drink too much rum. She managed a smile and a wave as he looked up to meet her gaze. He had dressed carefully that morning in a finely cut coat and trousers with a starched cravat around his neck, all the latest French fashion. He wore a straw boater on his head, tilted jauntily, and in his hand was an exquisitely carved cane. Monsieur Armand Fabergine had orchestrated this fine image of the man she had thought to be her father, the man who would always be her father in her heart. A lump suddenly rose in her throat and she made a little sound.

“Steady, there,” Lucia, who stood behind her, whispered in her ear. “Remember, this is difficult for you, ma chère, but more difficult for him.”

Sapphire pressed her lips together and nodded.

One of the sailors called for the gangplank to be lifted and Armand tipped his hat.

“No, wait!” Sapphire cried, running.

She heard Lucia and Angelique call to her. She heard the high-pitched voice of Lady Carlisle. “There, you see, I warned you, sir, she will be nothing but trouble…”

But Sapphire ignored them all, gripping the skirts of her new sensible cotton traveling gown and racing down the gangplank, the ribbons of her straw bonnet streaming behind her. “Papa!”

“Sapphire, no. You must go, my daughter,” he chastised, but as her kidskin boots hit the wooden planks of the dock, he opened his arms to her.

She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in the lapel of his black coat, deeply breathing the scent of him. As long as she could remember, this smell, the feel of these arms around her, had always meant safety and security. She had always known that no matter what she did wrong or what trouble she found herself in, Armand Fabergine, her papa, would be there for her.

“Mon dieu,” Armand whispered, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Please don’t make a scene. Lord and Lady Carlisle have been very kind to agree to escort you to London. Please do not shame me.”

She looked into his eyes that were watery with emotion. “I would never shame you, Papa.” She dared a little smile. “At least, not on purpose.”

He grinned and pulled her against him. “Of course you would not, my dear Sapphire. Now you must go. All wait for you.”

She hugged him tightly. “But I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.”

“Do not be foolish, my dearest. You go only for a visit. A few months, a year, perhaps, and then you must return to Orchid Manor and tell me of all you have seen.”

Sapphire nodded because she knew that was what he needed, but she knew as well as her father that if she returned in a year’s time, he would no longer be here. “I love you, Papa,” she whispered.

“I have loved you always. Remember that.” She lowered her chin to allow him to kiss her forehead as she took in the scent of his clothing and his fine cigars, one last time. Then she turned away and walked up the gangplank to board the ship, her head held high, as befitted the daughter of an English lord.




4


One month later

“Lord Wessex, so glad to make your acquaintance at last.”

Blake turned from the open window in the law offices that looked out on the busy London street, and settled his gaze on the short, stout barrister walking toward him. “Mr. Stowe,” he said sharply, ignoring the barrister’s thrust out hand, “I am not accustomed to waiting.”

“My apologies, my lord.” Lowering his head in a cordial bow, Stowe continued. “There was a distraught widow on my doorstep this morning. I couldn’t turn her out.”

“We had an appointment, nine sharp.” Blake brushed past Mr. Stowe and the bespectacled clerk seated uneasily behind a high mahogany desk.

“Right this way, my lord.” Stowe bustled by, leading him down a short hall into a spacious office paneled with dark walnut wainscoting and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound legal volumes. “Please have a seat.”

Blake glanced down at the red leather wingback chair in front of an elegantly carved walnut desk large enough to accommodate a small dinner party. The barrister had good taste, at least. Blake had a desk similar to this in his own office back in Boston. “A Dresden Partners pedestal desk,” he said, nodding with approval. “Ebonized molding, very fine.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.” Stowe hesitated, seemingly startled by Blake’s compliment. Then he walked behind his desk, flipping back the tails of his black serge coat, and waited to take his seat until Blake sat first. “It was my father’s, God rest his soul.”

Blake eased into the chair and caught a faint scent of good French tobacco on the red leather, a scent as tantalizing as a woman’s. It was a chair he wouldn’t mind adding to his own collection. He’d lived in the mansion he’d built in the exclusive Beacon Hill area of Boston for nearly two years, but it was still not entirely furnished. He liked to choose his furnishings carefully, taking consideration with each and every chair, table and chest of drawers. It was how he preferred to acquire all of his possessions.

“Your father was obviously a prosperous man, and I can see you have followed in his footsteps.” Blake sat back, pinched the fine pleats of his black wool trousers and crossed one leg over the other. “But your firm did not come recommended by my associates here in Great Britain. No one had even heard of you when I placed inquiries. Have you the sense it takes a man to get out of the driving rain? I haven’t the time for incompetence.”

The barrister offered a hesitant smile, obviously unsure how to take measure of Blake Thixton, the new Earl of Wessex.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I am quite competent.” Stowe brought his hands together, settling into his chair. “And now the estate can be settled.” He picked up a pair of round-framed gold reading glasses and pushed them onto his nose before reaching for a pile of documents on his desk. “As stated in my letter, some months ago when Lord Wessex died without issue, his chattels were passed on to you, his closest heir by blood as the grandson of his uncle.”

Blake’s gaze drifted beyond Stowe to the shelves of books behind him. “I never knew Lord Wessex, sir, and while I was born in London, my parents immigrated to America before I was old enough to walk.”

“Funny how that is, sometimes. Makes no difference to the law, though. By the laws of English entailment, you are the legal heir of the late Earl of Wessex.” He skimmed the document written with great flourishes as if it was the first time he had seen it. “There is the title, of course.”

Blake frowned. “Of little use in America. My business acquaintances are more interested in the volume of their merchandise I can ship than what titles I hold in society in London.” Tenting his fingers, he settled his gaze on the barrister.

“The title stands throughout the world, my lord. Many Englishmen now living abroad—”

“What is there besides the title? I’m not impressed with the pretenses of society on any continent. Is there land, Mr. Stowe? Land is something that lasts. Are there coal mines? Gold bullion, perhaps?”

Stowe’s eyes darted upward, over the edge of the document and then quickly down again. “Land, yes.” He cleared his throat. “A lovely town house on the fashionable West Side of London. Very nice. I had the pleasure of attending several balls there and more than one card game.”

“I don’t gamble,” Blake said, unsmiling.

“And a country estate in…hmm, let me see.” Stowe set a page aside and began to skim the next. “Yes, here it is. Cedar Mount, in…Surrey.” He continued to study the paper in front of him but said nothing more.

Blake allowed a full minute of silence to pass, then another, thinking about the many business ventures he’d left behind in Boston to come to London and claim this inheritance. He’d have wasted six weeks’ time on this trip by the time all was said and done, and now Stowe was going to tell him that the picture he had painted in his letters was not quite as rosy as he had suggested. Blake shifted his gaze back to Stowe. It was beginning to seem that the only good thing about this trip was the fact that he’d gotten away from Clarice for a few weeks.

“The money, Stowe,” Blake said, making an effort to keep his temper in check.

“Two hundred fifty-two pound.”

“That’s it? That’s all the money Wessex had when he died?”

“Of debt. He was two hundred fifty-two pounds in debt.”

“Repeat that last remarkable phrase one last time.”

“Of debt…”

“Of debt?” Blake exploded, coming out of the chair and slamming both palms on the desktop.

Stowe blinked but did not startle. Blake had to admire him for that. There weren’t many men who could look him in the eyes after one of his outbursts.

“But the properties are fine ones,” Stowe offered.

Blake sat down again, this time only on the edge of the leather chair. “I don’t have time to sell real estate. I told you my trip would be brief. I have a shipping business to run in Boston.”

“I…I’m certain arrangements could be made…I could sell the properties for you or you could hire a land broker, but…but there is the issue of the family.”

“The family? What family?”

Blake presently had no family of his own and found the entire concept bothersome in general. He knew marriage was inevitable and he did hope to have a son one day to pass the business to, but so far he had done an admirable job of sidestepping any serious relationships—including one with his closest business associate’s eldest daughter, Clarice. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women; he adored them. He adored them elegantly dressed for the dinner table and then elegantly undressed in his bed, preferably not speaking. He also liked maids, cooks, seamstresses, and even preferred them because they never possessed any expectations beyond their own immediate pleasure. They had no delusions that a smile or a pleasant word or a tumble in bed would lead to a marriage proposal and a mansion on the bay.

“I have no family!” Blake fumed.

“The late earl’s family, the Countess of Wessex and her three daughters by her late first husband—Lady Camille Stillmore, Lady Portia Stillmore and Lady Alma Stillmore.”

“You apparently know the family well enough to rattle off the names without looking them up, which means the countess has been here to see you. Perhaps she was even the distraught widow on your doorstep this morning? And the late earl made no arrangements for his wife and stepdaughters, should he predecease them?” Blake asked, again barely keeping his temper balanced.

“My lord,” Stowe said delicately, “rarely do men think they are going to die. Some even fear that if they do make preparations, it will hurry them on their way.”

Blake smiled and looked away. It was truer than he or any man cared to admit. His own father, a cold, hard man but an astute entrepreneur, had died without leaving a will or any means to support his wife, Blake’s stepmother. Had it not been for Blake, she would have been penniless and on the street, because like his English father before him, Josiah Thixton had left all he possessed to his eldest. Not that Blake begrudged his stepmother one penny of his inheritance—he saw that she continued to live in the manner in which she was accustomed until she died—but he had always wondered why his father had not guaranteed that.

Blake looked across the desk to find the barrister staring at him. He chuckled and slid back in the chair. “So there is debt, two properties and a gaggle of penniless, hysterical women—is that what you’re telling me, old boy?”

Stowe hesitated, then sat back in his chair, removing his wire-frame glasses. “I might have presented the tidings more delicately, my lord, but that is an accurate assessment indeed.”

“Why do you stand here, monsieur?”

Armand turned absently from the window, where rain trickled down the glass in rivulets, to look at the native girl standing quietly behind him. He’d found Tarasai quite by accident in the village. She was lovely, bright and, most importantly, she pleased him, not only in his bed, but in conversation. She had a gentle way about her and seemed to know instinctively when to speak and when to be silent.

“They are in London by now if they have not run into trouble on the voyage across the Atlantic.”

“The weather has been good, monsieur,” she said in a soft, lilting voice. “And the ship that carried them across the sea was a good one. Your chères filles are well, I feel it in my bones.”

She hugged herself and he could not help but smile. Then he coughed a dry, racking cough and she was at his side at once, one hand on his back, the other on his chest.

When the fit subsided, he stood again and reached into his pocket to take his handkerchief and wipe his mouth. “Ah, Tarasai, I am so tired, so very tired.”

“You should not worry so, monsieur. It is not good for your health.”

Slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket, he looked at her. “I am afraid it was wrong of me to send them away. Selfish of me. They were happy here. It should have been enough, n’est-ce pas?”

She slipped her small hand into his. “It was time for your beau papillon to be set free, monsieur. She was too big for this island, too full of la vie. Her future waits for her there across the ocean, a life of adventure and happiness.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right, Tarasai. I will never forgive myself if she comes to harm through my ambitions for her.”

“I know that I am right,” she said softly. “It is in the stars.”

“Your coat and top, sir?” The butler met Jessup Stowe in the front hall of the prominent men’s club.

“Yes, thank you, Calvin.” Jessup gave himself a shake as he handed the servant his umbrella, then his top hat and drenched overcoat. “Still coming down pretty hard out there,” he remarked as he smoothed his thinning gray hair with the palm of his hand.

“Yes, sir. Your table is ready, Mr. Stowe, and Mr. Barker already awaits your company.”

“Thank you, Calvin.” Jessup pulled his slightly rumpled waistcoat down over his stomach, thinking that either the striped fabric was shrinking or he was gaining weight. “And thank you for taking those wet things.”

The butler nodded, backing up. “I can show you to your table, sir, if you’d just like to—”

“I’ve been eating at that table six nights a week for the past seven years since Mrs. Stowe died, Calvin. Surely I can find it.” Jessup started to turn away and then turned back, snapping his fingers. “Calvin, one more thing.”

“Sir?”

“It’s possible, though not probable, that I might have a guest coming. A Lord Wessex.”

The butler looked at him oddly.

“The new Lord Wessex, the earl’s heir,” Jessup explained with a wry smile.

“I see, sir.”

“He’s an American and doesn’t know his way around London, so I think he might be a bit out of sorts tonight.”

“I’ll show him to your table at once, Mr. Stowe, should he appear.”

Looking both ways to be sure no one was watching, Jessup slipped a coin from the small pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to the butler. “I know Mr. Porter prefers we not tip personally,” Jessup said quietly, “so just between you and me. You’re always so kind to me, Calvin. Kinder than any of my sons has ever been.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Calvin took one last step back, then turned, pleased and trying not to show it, and hurried down the hall.

His waistcoat reasonably straight, Jessup walked into the parlor of the prominent though slightly threadbare men’s club frequented by barristers like himself. He nodded to several gentlemen at the bar and proceeded to the dining room beyond. His old friend, Clyde Barker, also a widower, was already at the table, already on his first glass of scotch.

“Jessup.” The ruddy-faced man rose, his legs appearing a bit unsteady.

“Clyde, good to see you.” He clasped his friend’s hand and then moved closer to wrap his arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “I look forward all week to Fridays, just to see your ugly face.”

“And I the same.” Clyde grinned, taking his seat at the table covered with white linen and set with crystal.

The waiter caught Jessup’s eye as he sat down and headed for the bar when Jessup nodded.

“So how was your day, old friend? Not too tedious, I hope.”

“Not at all.” Jessup settled in the comfortable, high-backed brocade chair and stretched his legs out beneath the table. “I had the pleasure of meeting with the new Earl of Wessex.”

“Really?” Clyde set down his glass and leaned closer, always one for a bit of gossip. “They say he’s an American, a cousin of the last earl. Mrs. Barker’s brother Barton knows a business associate who’s dealt with him. In shipping, I think.” He chuckled, which wrinkled his aged face. “Astute businessman but a real bastard, he says.” His eyes crinkled. “And rumor has it that he’s quite a man with the ladies….”

Jessup glanced up as the waiter set down a glass of bourbon. One a night was all Jessup allowed himself, as he had promised his beloved Emma on her deathbed. In the grave or not, he would remain true to his promises—not just because he’d loved her, but because he feared if he didn’t, the old bird would punish him when he met her at the pearly gates.

“I don’t know. He seemed a pleasant enough chap.” Jessup shrugged.

Clyde stared shrewdly, still leaning on the table. “Really? That’s not what the tone of your voice says.”

Jessup took up his glass. “Well, I’ll confess he is an interesting character. Avery bold young man, very sure of himself.”

“Like all the Thixtons.” Clyde sat back with satisfaction and reached for his glass. “Well, except for Edward’s father, Charles. Did you know him? Now, there was a bastard.” He lifted his glass thoughtfully. “You know what they say about bad traits skipping a generation.”

“The American is a distant cousin, not in the direct family line.”

“Still, you know what they say.” Clyde smiled and lifted his glass higher in a toast. “To good friends.”

“Good friends,” Jessup echoed.

Clyde took a long sip before setting his glass down. “I already ordered the trout and parsnips. Should be along anytime.”

“Excellent.”

“And what did the American have to say when he discovered that what he inherited was mostly debt?”

Jessup frowned. He had suspected everyone in London society knew the state of Lord Wessex’s affairs when he passed away. They always knew. “You know very well I cannot reveal the details of the conversation I had with a client.”

“That bad, was it? They say he has a temper.”

Jessup folded his hands on his lap. “I saw no temper demonstrated in my office. Lord Wessex was a complete gentleman.” Not exactly a lie, Emma.

“Does that mean he hasn’t met the old biddy Countess of Wessex and her ugly ducklings yet? I hear they’re staying in town.”

“Oh dear,” Jessup mumbled, taking the linen napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “I sent him to the town house to stay, thinking the countess was still in the country.”

Clyde laughed and reached for his nearly empty glass. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall. Do you think she’s already proposed marriage between the American and her eldest shrew, or do you think she’ll lay her cap for him herself?” He winked. “She might just have it in her, you know. Some say it was the threat of scandal that made Edward marry her in the first place. Gossip she actually set in motion to ensnare him.”

“Oh dear,” Jessup muttered again. “Dear me, I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I.”

“Charles.” Clyde waved to the waiter. “Another round for us both. I believe Mr. Stowe may be feeling a little faint,” he finished, highly amused.

Jessup laid his hand over the top of his glass. “Dear, dear me.”

“Stowe.”

Jessup saw the American striding toward him, looking none too pleased.

Jessup grabbed his napkin and pushed away from the table to stand up. “My lord.”

The Earl of Wessex was dressed handsomely in a black overcoat and white silk neckerchief over a black evening coat and striped white waistcoat. He carried his top hat in his hand, and was brushing back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“How…how kind of you to join me,” Jessup said. “Please, let me introduce you to—”

“They’re there, did you know that?” Blake demanded. “The countess and her daughters three, but it seemed like three hundred when they all assaulted me at once with their chatter and batting of eyelashes. I thought I’d suffocate from the scent of their rose toilet water.”

“Would…would you care to join me and my friend Mr. Barker for dinner? We’ve not yet been served.”

“What I want is to know is why you sent me to that town house knowing those women were there?” Blake demanded.

“I was not aware of that, my lord. I apologize for not checking again. Last week when I received the message that you’d be arriving, I had the town house in Mayfair opened up and aired and servants hired in anticipation of your arrival. The countess must have come to London since.”

Blake tightened his grip on his thoroughly wet hat and looked away, giving himself a moment to let his anger subside. They were in a dining room of one of the many gentlemen’s clubs in the city. This one appeared old and well-established, and though it was not as well-furnished as some he had visited in Boston and abroad, it did have a certain air about it. The scent of tobacco and hickory wood seemed to permeate the air of the dark-paneled rooms.

“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.

Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”

“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”

Blake caught sight of the butler hovering in the doorway. “Get me a scotch,” he grunted.

“Certainly, my lord.” The man rushed forward. “Could I take your wet things now, my lord, and then bring you a meal, as well?”

Blake handed him his hat and the scarf and coat. “Thank you, but nothing to eat. Just the scotch. I’ve another engagement, but I think I’d best fortify myself before I go.”

“Yes, my lord.” Calvin bowed. “Just let me get you a chair, my lord.”

“I can get my own,” Blake grumbled, grabbing an upholstered chair from the nearest empty table. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Barker.” He placed the chair at the linen-set table and thrust out his hand to shake Barker’s. “I suppose you’re a barrister, too. You’ve got the same barreled abdomen as Stowe and a dozen like you. Comes from sitting behind that desk all day.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Barker pumped Blake’s hand enthusiastically, and all three men took their seats.

“Damn it, tell me what the hell I’m to do now, Stowe. And don’t tell me it’s my prerogative to throw these women out on the street.” Blake gave his head a shake. “I knew I should never have made this journey. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.” He accepted the glass the bartender brought him and impolitely lifted it to his lips, not waiting for the other two men before he drank. “Tell me what you advise concerning the countess and her frog spawn, else they’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight, sir.”

After two scotches, Blake was able to catch a hackney—even in the rain—thanks to the butler at the men’s club. He arrived at the address of one of his business associates more than two hours beyond the engraved invitation’s specified time, but was nonetheless greeted by a flurry of activity and fuss. He had gained overnight status as a celebrity of sorts and everyone addressed him as Lord Wessex. The party was in celebration of his associate Mr. Todd Warrington’s daughter’s eighteenth birthday, but Blake barely gave her a moment’s notice beyond propriety’s perfunctory waltz. He preferred his women a little older, and certainly more experienced.

A brandy in his hand, Blake wandered out onto the granite balcony that overlooked a lush garden. The rain had stopped and a crescent moon had risen high in the sky. As he gazed upward he realized that the night sky was different here in Europe, different in a way that made him yearn for Boston.

“Good evening.”

Blake turned at the soft voice to see a woman close to his own age dressed in a pale pink gown, her light blond hair upswept in an elaborate coiffure, a heavy string of pearls hanging above a well-rounded bosom. He immediately understood the tone of her voice due to his many late-night balcony experiences, with women who stood alone in the darkness while a lively party ensued inside. They were sad women, vulnerable.

“Good evening,” he replied with a smile.

Hesitantly, she moved toward him, offering her hand. “Elizabeth Barclay…Mrs. Williams,” she corrected herself, as if on second thought.

“Blake Thixton.” He took her hand, kissing it…lingering. She smelled of lilacs and utter femininity.

“I know who you are, Lord Wessex.”

When he lifted his head, he saw that she was smiling at him. Not exactly a coy smile, but an honest one, a sad one. He had read her tone correctly.

“And I believe I know you, Mrs. Williams. New York, right? Your husband is Jefferson Williams, in iron?” He recalled meeting Williams once in New York City, an ugly man twice his wife’s age with an even uglier disposition.

“That’s correct.” She withdrew her bare hand; she wasn’t wearing gloves like all the other women.

“Your husband is here in London on business?”

She nodded, coming to stand beside him to gaze down into the garden below. She shivered, and Blake reached out to draw her matching silk wrap around her bare shoulders. When she turned, her mouth rested half open, as if longing to be kissed by someone younger than sixty.

Blake set his brandy on the balcony’s rail and drew her against him with the arm he had raised to cover her shoulders. She gasped and stiffened in surprise as he touched his lips to hers, but when his tongue entered her mouth, she surrendered.

Blake knew Elizabeth Williams had never made love to a stranger on a balcony, but he had done so many times. Holding her in his arms, covering her mouth, her neck, her breasts with hot kisses, he led her to the darkest corner of the balcony, beyond the musicians’ waltz and the bright gas lamps that flanked the double doors that led inside to the ballroom.

Elizabeth struggled for breath, clearly shocked by her reaction to him. He thrust his hand into the bodice of her pink gown and felt her nipples harden instantly at his touch. She moaned. She was starved for a man’s touch. He lowered his head, taking one nipple between his lips and tugged gently with his teeth.

She groaned aloud, leaning against the damp stone wall, both arms above her head in utter surrender to her need. Lifting her skirts without further preliminaries, he pulled aside her silk encumbrances, penetrated her roughly and deeply, and satisfied them both.

Only afterward, as he fastened his wool trousers and smoothed her silk skirts and bodice, did he see a single tear slip down her pale face.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek.

“I…I’ve never done this before,” she said breathlessly.

“You’re a beautiful woman, a woman whose needs must be met—”

“Mrs. Williams, are you here?” called an older gentleman.

She flinched at the sound of the door opening onto the balcony.

Blake kissed her, whispering against her lips. “Come see me in Boston.”

By the time Mr. Jefferson Williams stepped onto the balcony to retrieve his wife, Blake was at the rail again, sipping his brandy, looking into the garden. If Williams saw him, he paid him no mind.

“Are you ready to go, Mrs. Williams? I have an early morning appointment.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Williams.”

The hem of her gown almost brushed Blake’s polished boot as she glided past him. Either Mr. Williams didn’t see him or he didn’t care what his wife did on balconies with strangers.

Blake smiled. Yet another reason to be in no hurry to wed…




5


“Ah, there you are, ma chère.” Lucia swept into the bedchamber Sapphire and Angelique were sharing on the third floor of Lord and Lady Carlisle’s town house near Charing Cross, dressed for the afternoon in a pale green and lavender barege gown, gloves and a berib-boned straw bonnet. “Are you certain you won’t join Lady Carlisle and me for tea at Lady Morrow’s?”

“No, thank you, Auntie.” Sapphire glanced up from her book of Lord Byron’s poetry, trying to appear fatigued. “I’m afraid I’m still tired. My horseback ride this morning with Lord Carlisle was long and I think I’d rather just stay here and cozy up with my book.”

“Very well, puss.” Lucia sighed as she adjusted her new bonnet with its upturned brim that made her look years younger. “I can stay with you if you like, though. I don’t really want to go visit with Lady Morrow. Nearly a month on the ship with her was enough to last me a lifetime, but I was just going so we could stop at the Royal Exchange on the way home.”

Sapphire, wearing a ruffled, ribboned blue dressing gown, was seated in a chair under the window, her legs tucked beneath her. “Don’t be silly, Auntie. I wouldn’t want you to stay on my behalf, especially when you have the chance to shop.” She smiled mischievously.

“Well, I suppose Angelique will be here with you should you need anything.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sapphire intoned, pretending to read again.

“Where is Angelique, anyway?”

“I believe she might be taking a walk in the gardens.” Sapphire licked her fingertip and turned the page of the book without looking up. “Or did she say she was going to the stables to see those new kittens again? I can’t recall.”

“Well, all right.” Lucia rested her hand on the glass doorknob. “You’re certain you’ll be fine?”

“Of course—now go and don’t worry about me. A little reading, perhaps a nap, and I’ll be fine by dinner.” Sapphire smiled sweetly.

“All right, dear.” Lucia opened the door to go, then turned back, her hand still on the doorknob. “I do hope this has nothing to do with my not allowing you to go immediately to Lord Wessex’s residence. I understand your impatience with wanting to meet your father, but we’ve not even been here a full day and there are channels to follow, society rules to oblige. This is far too important to make a muck of it.”

“I understand. You’re right, absolutely right.” Sapphire turned another page and reached for her teacup on the table beside her. “Have fun, and do buy yourself a hat. The one you’re wearing today is delightful.”

The door closed and Sapphire glanced up over the top of her book, listening as her guardian’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, then down the stairs. She took a deep breath, still listening, as she rose and set the book down, using a piece of wide hair ribbon to mark her place.

Walking to the bed, she knelt, pulled her mother’s old leather casket out and gently lifted the lid. Smiling tenderly, she drew her fingers over the brittle love letters given to her mother by her father when they were courting—letters she had reread a hundred times during the journey to London. Also inside was her mother’s locket, worn in her days in New Orleans, and a small curl of Sapphire’s auburn hair. Deeper in the small, leather-bound trunk she found pressed flowers, a tiny silver hairbrush that had been Sapphire’s as a baby and one of Armand’s old handkerchiefs. Digging beneath the lining at the bottom of the casket, her fingers found the velvet bag she sought. Sitting back on her knees, she opened the drawstrings of the bag and lifted the cold, smooth gem from the soft folds of the fabric.

Sapphire’s breath caught in her throat as she lifted the jewel toward the window and the sunlight struck it, lighting it with a blue brilliance that was almost blinding. After all these years, she was going to meet her father….

“But I think our meeting will not be what you imagined, Mama,” she said, pressing a kiss to the glittering jewel. “I’ve a thing or two to say to this man, I’ll warrant you.” She eased the sapphire into the black velvet bag, tightened the string and returned it beneath the casket’s worn burgundy velvet lining, so that even if a nosy servant did open the box, she would never suspect the treasure hidden inside. To the unknowing eye, the old, battered leather casket looked simply like a box of worthless female keepsakes.

Sapphire pushed the trunk back under the bed and got to her feet, her fingers untying the ribbons of her dressing gown. Confident Lucia was in Lady Carlisle’s carriage by now, she stripped off the gown to reveal the dress she’d bought as soon as they’d arrived in London, the dress she would wear when she confronted her father.

Sapphire placed the dressing gown on the bed and turned toward the floor-length oval mirror. The dress was actually of two pieces, a skirt and a front-buttoning jacket with a short basque in a brilliant jewel-blue challis. The sleeves were narrow, as was the latest fashion, and dainty new square-toed black leather boots peeked from beneath her petticoats.

She smiled at her reflection, knowing that the moment her father saw her eyes—one blue, one green like his—he would know who she was.

But she realized she had no time to waste if she was going to escape the house undetected, meet Lord Wessex, and then be back before Lucia and Lady Carlisle returned. She went in search of the bonnet she wanted to wear. It was her plan not to tell Lucia what she had done, and then, when they were formally introduced according to the plans Lady Carlisle and Lucia were making, there would be no scene. Once she had given him a piece of her mind privately—out of respect for her mother and Armand—she would be cordial, if not remote, publicly.

The door opened as Sapphire lowered her bonnet over her auburn curls, and she whipped around to see Angelique walk in, her dark hair mussed and the bodice of her peach-colored day gown slightly rumpled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Angelique demanded.

Sapphire turned to the mirror, adjusting the hat before drawing the ribbons under her neck. “Me? What about you? What do you think you’ve been doing? Though why I bother to ask, I don’t know.”

Angelique sighed and threw herself on the bed. “His name is Robert and he’s the stable master’s eldest son. He thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Sapphire glanced doubtfully at her companion, then back at the mirror, attempting to achieve just the right tilt of her bonnet. “We spoke of this before we left Martinique, Angel,” she chastised. “You cannot kiss every young man you run into.”

“And why not? I won’t be in nearly as much trouble for kissing Robert if I get caught as you will be for sneaking off to Lord Wessex’s.”

“I’m not sneaking.” Sapphire spun around. “I’m walking right out the front hall, out the front door and hiring a hackney to take me to Mayfair.”

“Does Aunt Lucia know you’re going?”

Sapphire frowned as she opened the drawer of a chifforobe to retrieve a pair of scented travel gloves.

“Are you going to tell her where you’ve been when you return?”

Sapphire didn’t answer.

“Then you’re sneaking.”

“He’s my father, Angel. I will not have our first encounter in front of hundreds of people at some formal ball or another.”

“Let me go with you, then.”

“You’re not going with me.” Sapphire traversed the bedchamber to the door, tucking a stray pincurl beneath her bonnet. “You’re going to stay here and cover for me in case my father and I fall into a lengthy conversation and lose track of the time.” She glanced back at Angel. “Although I think that is highly unlikely, considering what I have to say to him.”

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aunt Lucia is going to be furious.” Angelique followed her into the hallway. “Are you nervous?”

Sapphire shook her head, biting down on the soft flesh of her inner lip. It was a lie, of course, even Angel knew it, but saying she wasn’t nervous somehow made her feel stronger, bolder. “Cover for me if you must, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I wouldn’t ask that you lie for me.” Sapphire gave her friend a quick peck on the cheek and, seeing the third-story hall was empty, hurried for the staircase, raising a gloved hand in farewell. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

London was noisy, smelly, dirty and deafening. There were so many sights to see—churches, elegant town houses, narrow shops, public buildings—that she couldn’t decide where to look next. Throngs crowded the streets: butchers’ boys carrying huge sections of beef, mutton and pork; ladies’ maids hurrying by on errands; beggars; plump merchants’ wives; clergymen; farmers in wooden clogs and straw hats; bewigged judges and uniformed soldiers, all threading their way past riders on horseback, hackneys, carriages, ale wagons and wicker carts, not to mention the stray dogs, pigs and occasional chicken. The carriage ride from Charing Cross to the fashionable West End of London was not nearly as long as Sapphire would have liked, and before she knew it her coachman reined in his horse in front of the marble steps of an elegant town house—one she had discreetly discovered was her father’s home when he was in the city.

“Would you like me to wait, miss?” the driver called from the high seat of his hackney.

Sapphire put on a false smile, lifted her chin a notch and tried to imagine how an earl’s daughter would behave around common working men. “No, thank you, sir. Good day.” She passed him what she hoped was the correct fee for his service.

He grinned, tugged at his forelock and nodded. “Thank’ee, miss.” Then he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and the hired carriage rolled away, leaving her no choice but to lift the ornate lion’s-head knocker on the paneled walnut door that was wide enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through side by side.

The door was opened almost at once, startling her.

“May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.

“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.

“And may I ask who is calling?”

Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.

“His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.

The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”

“You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”

The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.

“No, thank you.” She hoped he would interpret her smile to mean he should hurry along.

“One moment, miss.”

He bowed again and disappeared through an arched doorway. The town house did not appear especially large from the outside, but she could now see that it was immense. Her father was not only titled, but obviously quite a wealthy man.

Sapphire exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to the knot in her abdomen, staring at the huge formal portraits of balding men that lined the walls.

Only a moment more, she told herself, and we’ll meet face-to-face.

Blake heard the first knock at the door to the study but ignored it. The knock came again and he peered up irritably from behind the desk that had belonged to the late Lord Wessex. “Yes, what is it that is so urgent?” he barked. “Did I not say less than half an hour ago that I did not wish to be disturbed unless the house was aflame? I don’t care what color livery the footmen wear today and I don’t care if we have the eel pie or the tripe soup because I will not be dining in this house tonight! Not if it were the last table of food on God’s earth,” he finished.

The paneled study door opened and the butler, Preston, stood at attention, his eyes downcast, until Blake completed his string of insults. “My lord.”

“Yes?” Blake groaned.

“There is someone to see you here, my lord.”

“Who?” He half rose from the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into the polished wood of the desk.

“A young lady, my lord, who says…”

“She says what, Preston? Come, now, I grow old before your eyes.”

“She says she is your daughter, my lord.”

“My daughter?” Blake exploded. “I haven’t got a damn daughter. What in God’s name—” He broke off before completing the sentence when he realized what was going on.

Word apparently spread fast in London when it came to inheritances, and people had been pouring out of the woodwork all week, claiming the previous earl owed them money. Perhaps a few were owed, considering the state of Edward Thixton IV’s accounts, but mostly these scavengers were on his doorstep hoping to take advantage of a grieving widow or an aged, addlepated heir. “Would you like me to turn her away, sir?”

Blake thought for a moment as he tightened the tie of the silk dressing gown he wore over a pair of silk trousers. The earl’s daughter? At least this claim was more inventive than an unpaid receipt for a wig or an evening coat. “No, no, Preston, I’ll take care of this one myself.” He wasn’t properly clothed to receive a caller, but he didn’t care.

“Right this way, miss,” the footman said as he led Sapphire down a hall and into a receiving parlor.

She couldn’t help but take in the room, the walls painted a pale green, the heavy drapes in stripes of a complementary hue. The furniture was old but well kept and far more attractive and elegant than some of the newer styles she had seen in the Carlisles’ home. She sighed, then whispered to herself, “I’m here, Mama, at last.”

“His lordship will be in directly,” the footman said, backing through the doorway and closing the double pocketed mahogany doors behind him.

Sapphire turned toward one wall to study a large seascape hung in a gilt frame. She could just make out the name E. Thixton scrawled in the bottom right corner of the painting. It was really quite good. Had her father painted it? Taking a step closer, she admired the bold strokes of blue and green that seemed to bring the sea pounding against the rocky shore to life.

The doors behind Sapphire slid open and she turned.

For a moment, Blake found himself speechless. Preston had said it was a girl come to call, claiming to be the daughter of the Earl of Wessex, but he had fully expected a malnourished chit with bad teeth, dressed in a cheap gown and ugly hat.

But standing before him was a full woman with glossy dark red hair, an expensive, fashionable gown and eyes he would fantasize about for many nights to come. She had the creamiest, most luscious skin, with a sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose and a charming chin with the slightest cleft. But it was her mouth, even more than her shocking eyes or lustrous hair, that mesmerized him most. Hers was the mouth of a courtesan—perfectly shaped with a thin upper lip and a full, sensuous lower lip, a mouth his own suddenly ached to taste.

Only when she blinked was Blake jolted back to reality.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Pardon me?” she replied angrily, her mind racing in confusion. He was young, certainly too young to be her father, who would be close to fifty. Who was this rude man and what was he doing in her father’s house?

“You heard me,” he said as he strode in. He was a shockingly handsome man, perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was, with a shock of ebony hair and the most intense brown eyes she had ever seen.

“I suppose I should ask you the same thing.” She took a step toward him, lifting her chin as she crossed her arms over her fitted jacket.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want but I will not tolerate any false claims from fortune hunters or thieves. Now, whatever you might believe is owed to you will be paid, if it is indeed owed to you,” he said. “I will provide you with the name and location of my barrister and all bills will be submitted to him and only him. I’ll not pay a pence until your claim is investigated.”

Sapphire stepped back. The man’s words didn’t make sense. Who was he calling a fortune hunter and what bills was he talking about?

“What have you to say for yourself, young lady?”

The stranger strode across the room. He was so close, she could smell his shaving lotion and the masculine scent of his skin.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I’m looking for Lord Wessex, the Earl of Wessex who owns this house.”

“I am Lord Wessex, and I am the owner of the property, young lady. Now I suggest you remove yourself from said property before I call the constable.”

Sapphire made a sound of protest but it caught in her throat. “No, you can’t be the Earl of Wessex! My father is the Earl of Wessex, Edward Thixton.”

He scowled. “The late Edward Thixton, Earl of Wessex, had no issue.”

She stared at Blake. “Where is he?” she heard herself whisper.

“The graveyard, I suppose. Now go,” he said coldly as he stepped aside. “Make haste and I won’t call the constable, but if you attempt to appropriate money from me or this estate again, it will be off to Newgate Prison with you.”

Sapphire looked up once more at Blake and her eyes became cloudy with tears. Confused, hurt beyond reason, she stumbled forward and ran for the door. She rushed down the hallway and out the broad front door, ignoring the footman as he tried to call a carriage for her.

She rounded the corner, halting to grasp the pole of a gas lamp on the stone-paved walk. “He’s dead,” she murmured as she squeezed her eyes shut in disbelief. “Oh, Mama, he’s dead.”




6


“There, there,” Lucia said, sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, smoothing back Sapphire’s hair. “Would you like me to get you a cup of tea, perhaps even a little sherry?”

“No, I’m fine, really.” Sapphire dabbed at her tear-swollen eyes with a sodden handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I’ve behaved badly.” She sniffed. “You shouldn’t sit here with me any longer. You should go to the theater with Lady Carlisle as you’d planned.”

“Nonsense. What reason does an old woman like me have to go to the theater? It’s nothing but a place to see and be seen.” She pushed a dry handkerchief into Sapphire’s hand. “And what’s even more nonsensical is you thinking there’s anything wrong with having a good cry. You’ve just been told that your father passed away. I’d think something ailed you if you didn’t cry. I’m only sorry that Lord Carlisle didn’t hear at his men’s club until this afternoon after I’d left the house.”

Sapphire dabbed at her eyes again and stared up at the painted white ceiling above the bed. It was almost dark outside and Angelique had pulled the pale blue damask draperies across the windows and lit two oil lamps, which now cast shadows on the ceiling.

“Remember what it was like when your mother died?” Angelique sat on the other side of the bed. “We cried for days.”

“I know, but that was Mama. I…don’t know why I’m so upset when I didn’t even know my father. I’d never even seen his face and it’s not as if I was looking forward to it. I was so angry at him for what he did to my mother that mostly I think I just wanted to tell him how much I despised him.”

“Non, ma petite! How many times do I have to remind you that your mother was very clear that she didn’t think Edward ever knew what happened to her.”

“I don’t care. He should have known. If only that…that man in my father’s house had not been so hateful to me,” she said, her anger rising. “He was simply abominable.”

“Abominable or not, it seems he is the heir to your father’s estate. He is Blake Thixton, an American and a distant cousin of your father’s, Lord Carlisle has learned.” Lucia, dressed in elegant evening clothes, rose from the bed to walk to the table where she’d placed the bottle of sherry.

“An American?” Sapphire spat. “Why didn’t Lord Carlisle know sooner?”

“Now, now, puss.” Lucia poured herself a healthy dose of the sherry meant for her charge. “You cannot blame the messenger. We only arrived yesterday. How was Lord Carlisle to know? Edward passed away six months ago of natural causes, but Lord and Lady Carlisle have been out of the country seven months, escorting the baron and baroness on their honeymoon tour of Europe. And, truth be told, you would have heard of your father’s passing in a far gentler manner had you not stubbornly gone against my wishes and set out on your own to meet him.”

Sapphire sat up on the bed and pushed her long hair out of her face. “Why do you always say I’m stubborn with that tone in your voice? After all, had Mama not been stubborn, she might have met her demise those first lonely days in New Orleans—alone, with child and nowhere to live.”

“Still, you don’t want to go back to Martinique, do you?” Angelique asked.

Sapphire glanced at her.

“I…I don’t mean to sound selfish,” Angelique went on quickly. “And I’ll fully admit I prefer to stay because I like the excitement of London, but really, Sapphire, what has changed? Yes, the Earl of Wessex has passed on, but you’re still his daughter.”

“You’re right, Angel. That fact hasn’t changed, and that detestable man cannot alter that.”

“No, he cannot.” Lucia lifted her cordial of sherry in toast and took a sip.

“Of course, I have no legal right to my father’s entailed property. I’m female. English law doesn’t allow me to inherit from my father unless I am specifically named in his will. Since he was unaware of my existence, it isn’t possible that I have been.”

“Why did you come, ma chère? Did you come to England for land or money?”

“I came because Mama—”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Lucia interrupted as she approached the bed, the cut-crystal glass still in her hand. “I loved your mother as dearly as anyone, but you are Sophie’s daughter and I know very well you did not come just to satisfy her dream.”

Sapphire rested her hand on her forehead for a moment, taking time to think before she responded. Yesterday she had felt like a young woman, barely more than a child, and yet today…this evening, she felt years older. “I came because it was my mother’s wish,” she said evenly, “but I also came to satisfy my own desire to be acknowledged.”

“And…”

She met Lucia’s gaze. “I wanted him to acknowledge that my mother was indeed his legal wife, not for him to accept me as his daughter.” She hesitated. “So I suppose, in a way, I did come for her, but not for the reasons she thought I would.”

Lucia tipped her glass and smiled over the rim. “Now, there is the Sapphire I know.”

“He’s dead, I know, but I am still Lord Edward Wessex’s daughter and Sophie Barkley was still his wife,” Sapphire said, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. “And heir or not, that man must recognize me as such. He must make an announcement to London society and formally acknowledge me. Even upon my father’s death and the passing of his title, I do possess the right to retain his name.” Sapphire set her jaw with the stubbornness her aunt accused her of possessing. “Aunt Lucia, did Lord Carlisle not tell you that my father left a widow who is hosting a reception Saturday evening for her husband’s American heir?”

“That he did!”

“How improper would it be for us to attend this reception?”

“I’m certain Lady Carlisle could acquire an invitation for us. It seems all of London society has received one since the dowager is apparently quite eager to show off the new heir. They say he is not only handsome, but quite wealthy.”

“Why on earth would you want to attend a reception in honor of the man who has insulted you?” Angelique asked in surprise.

Sapphire turned to her companion, a furtive smile on her lips. “How else can I demand my title due me, but to see the knave again in person?”

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Aunt Lucia asked Sapphire, placing her ringed hand on her goddaughter’s forearm as she emerged from the Carlisles’ carriage.

Sapphire stared up at the doorway she’d run from less than a week earlier and swallowed hard. For days she’d been rehearsing what she would say to Mr. Blake Thixton, but all those words escaped her and she was left with nothing but her determination.

The great front doors opened and the same footman Sapphire had encountered previously appeared.

“Say the word and we’ll go,” Lucia whispered in Sapphire’s ear. “Say the word and we’ll be on the next steamer to Martinique, to Hong Kong, to California in America. You name the place, my dove, and we shall leave all this poppycock behind and go on the adventure of a lifetime.”

Sapphire looked down at Lucia, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt that something was about to change, something that would alter her life forever. “I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me, but no, I have to do this. For Mama, for me.”

Lucia gave her an understanding pat on the arm and turned toward the steps. Lord and Lady Carlisle had already entered the residence and the butler was now staring down at Sapphire and Lucia with great interest.

“Are we going in?” Angelique murmured, so excited she could barely contain herself.

Sapphire grasped the skirting of her new shoulder-baring apple-green silk gown and started up the steps. “Of course we’re going in,” she said confidently. “I haven’t come this far to turn back now.”

“The Viscount Carlisle,” announced the footman stiffly. “Lady Carlisle.”

Sapphire handed the footman her newly printed calling card so that she could be announced.

“Miss Fabergine.”

Sapphire glided across the glittering hall and entered the receiving line behind Lord and Lady Carlisle, who were speaking with a painfully thin woman—the dowager Lady Wessex, her father’s wife, she surmised. Sapphire smiled. The dowager had never legally been his wife because he had, until her death, still been married to Sophie.

“Miss Fabergine.” The butler announced Angelique and then took Lucia’s card. “Mademoiselle Toulouse.”

Sapphire met Lucia’s gaze over her shoulder one last time, smiled and turned to be introduced formally to her father’s so-called widow.

“And this is Miss Fabergine,” Lady Carlisle said. “The young girl you and I spoke of, Lady Wessex. Her stepfather was such a dear, a handsome Frenchman. It would have been impossible for me to deny his request to escort his stepdaughter to London.”

Sapphire curtsied. “Lady Wessex, thank you so kindly for the invitation.”

The widow barely acknowledged her.

“And Lady Wessex’s daughters,” Lady Carlisle continued, moving down the receiving line. “The eldest, Miss Camille Stillmore.”

Sapphire curtsied and smiled at the daughter who appeared to be a year or two older than herself and looked a great deal like her mother. She was most certainly not an attractive woman, and her pale ivory gown overrun with ruffles did not improve her appearance. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Miss Stillmore glanced at Sapphire with the look she knew too well after being in London for two weeks. It was the look, Aunt Lucia had explained, that ugly English girls gave the pretty ones as they realized they were no match.

“Miss Portia and Miss Alma,” Lady Carlisle said, completing the introductions.

The two younger girls, who were more comely than their elder sister, bobbed curtsies, seemingly more interested to meet the new arrival. Portia appeared to be the same age as Sapphire, and Alma only a year or two younger.

“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” Sapphire said, returning their smiles.

“Is he here?” Lady Carlisle asked the youngest daughter, leaning closer so as not to be overheard by those passing in the hall.

“He, my lady?”

“Why, Lord Wessex, of course,” the older woman hissed under her breath. “I expected to meet him in the receiving line. That is why we were invited, was it not? To formally meet the new Earl of Wessex?”

Alma snatched a quick look at her sister, then returned her attention to Lady Carlisle. “He’s here, my lady, only…he says he prefers not to stand in the receiving line.”

Lady Carlisle raised her plucked and painted eyebrows so high that Sapphire thought they might reach her receding hairline. Then, spotting an acquaintance, Lady Carlisle fluttered her fan and walked into the next room, her husband in tow.

Sapphire waited for Angelique inside the doorway of a large parlor a little farther down the hall. Exquisitely decorated with stylish furniture and rich-hued draperies, the sound of clinking glasses and restrained laughter came from inside.

“So, my chicks, shall we stick together?” Lucia asked, putting one arm around Sapphire and the other around Angelique. “Or shall we scatter?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Angelique said, narrowing her gaze and pursing her plump lips seductively. “I believe I recognize that gentleman under the window.”

Sapphire looked at the man and lowered her voice as she spoke. “Angel, how can you know him? We’ve barely been here long enough to—”

“Find me if you need me,” Angelique said, moving off in her new lavender and white silk evening gown.

Lucia and Sapphire watched Angelique cross the room, and then Lucia turned to her goddaughter. “So what will it be, my dear? Shall we corner this scoundrel together?”

“Thank you, but no. I can do this on my own.”

“Very well, puss.” Lucia pecked the air close to Sapphire’s cheek with her rouged lips and walked away, lifting her hand to Lady Morrow who stood beyond them. “Lady Morrow,” she called in her French accent, “so good to see you again, ma chère.”

Sapphire’s pulse raced and she felt butterflies in her stomach. She leaned against the wall for a moment and watched the stylishly dressed guests come and go. There were at least two hundred guests socializing in the two parlors to the right of the front hall and the large drawing room on the left that seemed to have been cleared of furniture for dancing. She was overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds: the glittering jewels hanging from slender necks and earlobes, the stiff white cravats gentleman wore around their necks, the hushed voices, the lively strum of instruments as the musicians struck up a lovely dance.

Sapphire watched as couples moved opposite one another, advancing and retreating, locking arms and then separating to weave their way among the other dancers. She tapped her kidskin slipper beneath her gown, remembering how Armand and her mother had hosted parties at Orchid Manor. They had danced half the night in the tropical garden where Armand had built a platform for such occasions. How her mother had loved dances…. When Sapphire closed her eyes, she could almost hear Sophie’s laughter, see Armand draw an arm around her and whisper in her ear. She remembered dancing with Maurice, as well, and the feel of his arms around her…

“You would care to dance? Excellent.”

Sapphire’s eyes flew open as a man closed his hand over hers and pulled her into the drawing room to join the other dancers. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Blake Thixton released her, pushing her onto the dance floor in the direction of the other ladies as they and their partners separated. Sapphire realized she knew the steps from lessons in Martinique; it seemed as if her mother had spent her whole life preparing her for this introduction to London society. The dance was a variation of the Roger de Coverley and she took her place across from Thixton, staring at him.

She forced a smile, advanced, retired and curtsied to his bow. The moment they joined hands to begin the figure, he spoke harshly beneath his breath. “I thought I warned you not to come here again.”

To the many men and women who lined the walls of the drawing room to observe, or to the other dancers, it must have appeared that Sapphire and Thixton were conversing pleasantly as they danced. She would certainly not be the first one to disclose otherwise.

“I must speak with you,” she said, loathing the fact that he was holding her so tightly when he rested his hand on her waist. Loathing the fact that her eyes kept straying to his mouth, that strange waves of heat washed over her each time he spoke.

“Let me guess—you must see me so that you can tell me more about how you are Wessex’s daughter and what the estate owes you.”

“Yes.” The dancers parted and he released her. “I mean no,” she said in his ear, and then sailed away.

It was a full minute before they were joined again, and as they danced he watched Sapphire with impenetrable brown eyes. It was something near to hatred she felt for those eyes at this moment. “I don’t want money,” she said under her breath. “I want to be acknowledged. I want my mother, who was Lord Wessex’s legal wife, to be acknowledged.”

He spun her around, proving to be a superb dancer. “Surely you jest.”

She was forced to move away from him to remain in step with the music, but the moment he took her hand again, she met his gaze with determination. “I assure you, sir, I do not jest.”

The dance came to end and all the dancers bowed, curtsied and clapped.

“I want you to go now,” Thixton said, his disdain for her obvious in his voice as he looped her arm through his and escorted her off the dance floor. “Go now or you will find that it is I who does not jest.” In the hall, he released her. “As I told you before, there are laws against fortune hunters like you, and the constable will be more than happy to take you to prison where you belong.”

“Fortune hunter! Sir, I don’t know who you think you are, but I—”

Thixton turned and strode down the hall and entered a room, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, Sapphire stood there seething, her gloved hands pressed to her sides as she tried to catch her breath. Another dance had begun and the sound of the orchestra seemed to swirl around her in the twinkling candlelight.

Her gaze shifted to the door where Thixton had gone. There were no guests in the hall. It was completely inappropriate for an unmarried woman to follow a man into a room without a proper chaperone, but without considering the consequences, she hurried down the hall, drew back her hand and rapped hard on the door.

When she got no response, she knocked even harder. “Mr. Thixton, I’m not through with you!”

The door jerked open and Thixton looked down on her. “Did you not hear what I said?” He knew she was trouble, had known it a week ago when she’d shown up on his doorstep trying to see what she could squeeze from the stone of his inheritance. And she was even more beautiful tonight—her rich auburn hair glossier, her eyes even more beguiling and her mouth—it took his breath away. The curve of her sensuous lips made him hard at once, made him want to take her there in the doorway the same way he had taken the sad Mrs. Williams that night on the balcony. But something told him she would not be such an easy conquest and certainly not as easy to forget.

“Sir, it is you who are apparently hard of hearing!”

“Get in here.”

He pulled her into the room and closed the door behind them.

They were in a dark-paneled, masculine-style room dominated by a large billiards table. A billiards room that smelled of tobacco, leather and him.

Taking a step back, Sapphire rested her hand on the edge of the walnut table. “You have to listen to me.”

“I have to do no such thing.”

He strode toward her and she realized then that he had removed his coat. The white shirt beneath his black waistcoat was impeccably pressed, as was the cravat at his neck. He wore his clothing well.

She took another step back, confused by the ridiculous thoughts that were popping into her head. “Yes, you do have to listen to me. I was—am Lord Edward Thixton’s legitimate daughter and—”

“Wait a minute.” He pointed his finger at her, still walking straight toward her. “Were you sent here by that cousin? What is his name?” He snapped his fingers, the side of his mouth turning up in a half smile. “Charles,” he said. “Charles something. He said he knew the best ladies of the evening.”

His hand snaked out, and before she could get out of his way, he grabbed her wrist again. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Why this game, hmm?” He pulled her close to him, gazing down at her with an incredibly smug smile. “You do clean up nice, I’ll give you that. A prettier whore I don’t believe I’ve ever seen.”

“Let go of me, sir,” she said as she struggled to remove herself from his grasp. But he overwhelmed her, not just with his physical force, but with his nearness—the smell of him, the heat of his body in the places where it touched her.

Instead of getting away from him, she somehow managed to entangle herself further in his arms. “Let go of me,” she insisted, pushing against his chest as her heart pounded.

“One kiss,” he said. Holding her close, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, her skin, he could smell the depth of the unrest she could unleash on him. He could feel it and he knew he would be able to taste it in her mouth. “Just a sample of your wares first before I put out any hard-earned money.”

“Sir!” she spat, so angry now that she could barely focus on the face hovering over her as she bent backward in order to keep his body from touching hers any more than it already was. “I assure you I am no—”

His mouth came down hard over hers, muffling her last words. She’d been kissed before, by Maurice, and by a few other young men on Martinique, but never like this. His mouth was merciless, searing her lips like a flame, forcing them apart. He held her with one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders, crushing her. When she tried to move her head to escape, she felt his hand slide upward until his fingers brushed the nape of her neck, holding her trapped in his arms.

Sapphire’s legs went weak. She couldn’t think. Her mind was screaming but she could make no sound. To her horror, Blake thrust his tongue into her mouth, and as she grasped a handful of his waistcoat to loosen his hold, she somehow rose upward, deepening his kiss even further, forcing little whimpers from her throat.

She feared her pounding heart might burst from her chest. He was smothering her, filling her with heat.

Suddenly, there was a sound.

Thixton jerked back, glancing over his shoulder, but did not release her.




7


“Pardon me, Lord Wessex.” The intruder cleared his throat. He stared at Sapphire, who was trying to extricate herself from Thixton’s arms. “I hadn’t realized you were—” he cleared his throat again, obviously amused “—occupied.” His hand on the doorknob, he backed out the door, smiling lasciviously at Sapphire.

He thought she was some sort of wanton, as well! “Wait,” Sapphire cried, flustered, trying to smooth the bodice of her gown. She still couldn’t catch her breath. “This isn’t how it appears, sir. I only—”

“Lord Wessex.” The intruder, still smiling, bowed to Thixton and paid no attention to Sapphire as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“How could you do such a thing?” Sapphire demanded as she took a step back from Thixton, still trying to straighten her gown. Then, realizing a thick lock of her copper hair had fallen from its fashionable upsweep, she tried furiously to return it to its place, but when she pulled out a pin to fasten the stray lock, more hair came tumbling down.

Thixton just stood there staring at her, seeming a little perplexed. “You really aren’t a harlot, are you.”

“Certainly not.” She pushed back a lock of loose hair and then gestured angrily in the direction of the door. “Little good the truth will do me now! That man…that man will go out there and tell everyone I was here alone with you.”

“And that you were kissing me?” he asked, taking a step toward her, smiling again.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. “I was not kissing you, sir,” she spat.

He took another step toward her and she sidestepped him by going around the other side of the billiards table.

“I…I must talk to you about my father. About Edward Thixton,” she said, attempting to gather her thoughts and remind herself of the reason she’d come here tonight in the first place. Only now she could think of nothing but him. Of nothing but the feel of his mouth on hers. The taste of him…

“But…but,” she stammered indignantly. “A more public place might be more appropriate as you are obviously not to be trusted as a gentleman.”

He surprised her yet again by not leaping to the defense of his honor as any decent gentleman would have. Rather, he tilted his dark head back and laughed.

“How dare you laugh at me! I am not through with you, Mr. Thixton,” she threw at him as she turned and rushed for the door.

“I hope not,” he called after her, still laughing.

Sapphire stormed out of the billiards room, slamming the door behind her. As she pushed her hair from her eyes and hurried up the hallway toward the music, she looked up to see guests lining both sides of the wall, staring at her.

Sapphire strode past them, down the hall and directly into the entrance hall. Without even looking for Aunt Lucia or Angelique, she continued out the front door.

“There you are.”

Lucia couldn’t resist a smile as she looked up to see Jessup Stowe hurrying toward her. He was quite handsome for a middle-aged man, bald pate and all, and they had shared a turn on the dance floor as well as a very engaging conversation earlier in the evening.

“Please tell me you weren’t going to run off without saying good-night, my dear Cinderella. I don’t believe I could have slept tonight without bidding you a fond farewell.”

She offered her hand and watched as he bowed formally and brushed his lips across the back of it. She giggled. “Mr. Stowe, you’re certainly smooth with les dames.”

“Only with ladies as beautiful and charming as you, my Cinderella.”

She smiled, genuinely flattered. “Now I know you’re being insincere. There are plenty of women in this house tonight more appealing to the eye and certainly younger than I am.”

“But it is you, Mademoiselle Toulouse, who has caught my fancy. I don’t often meet women as interesting as you.”

“I must go, Mr. Stowe.” With everyone at the ball gossiping about Sapphire and Lord Wessex, she needed to be certain Sapphire was all right.

“I wish you wouldn’t. One more dance? A walk in the garden, perhaps? “Stowe’s broad brow furrowed. “Or if you’re tired, we could—”

“Tired?” Lucia scoffed as she thrust one slippered foot from beneath her new gown. “I could dance all night on these feet. I could dance most of these young women in their silly heeled shoes right off the dance floor.”

“I bet you could, couldn’t you, Mademoiselle Toulouse?” He grinned.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain you are unmarried, Mr. Stowe?”

“I am afraid I am. A widow, these past three years.”

“Did you love your wife?”

“I did. A great deal and I miss her.”

“Good answer. Now, I must be on my way, but because you have passed the test, you may come for me Sunday afternoon and take me for a ride in Hyde Park.” She walked toward the door and the footman opened it.

“To think I didn’t even know I was taking an examination and I’ve apparently not only passed it, but won the prize,” the barrister called after her, his face red with glee.

“Good night, Mr. Stowe.” Lucia walked out the door, feeling lighter on her feet than she had in years.

“Sapphire. Sapphire? Puss, I’m coming in.”

The door opened and Lucia entered, but Sapphire didn’t sit up. She just lay there staring at the ceiling. She’d managed to get out of her shoes and gown, petticoats and stays without any assistance, but she was still wearing her drawers and new chemise.

“Are you asleep?”

“How could I be?” Sapphire asked miserably. “It’s a scandal. I’m sure you heard. I’m sure all of London has heard by now.”

“Ah, they have nothing better to do with their lives than gossip.”

Sapphire groaned in frustration. “And now everyone in London will speak poorly of me and call me terrible names. My reputation is ruined. I came to London for my mother’s sake and look how I’ve shamed her, how I’ve shamed my father.”

Lucia sat on the edge of the bed. “Poppycock,” she said softly. “I have to ask, though, puss—were you a…participant, or did Lord Wessex take unfair advantage of you?”

Sapphire felt heat rise in her face. “It was only a kiss. He didn’t…didn’t—”

“I know this is delicate, but I must know, puss. I of all people would never judge you. Participant or victim?”

“He didn’t hurt me, Aunt Lucia.”

Lucia was quiet for a moment while she smoothed Sapphire’s hand in hers. “Did you speak to him of your father?”

“I tried, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He…he—”

Aunt Lucia patted Sapphire’s hand and released it. “The new Lord Wessex is quite handsome. Unmarried.”

“He was abominable again.”

“Was he, now?” Lucia asked. “The party was rife with tittle-tattle, everyone was speaking of how handsome he is. They say his interest may lie with the dowager’s eldest daughter. Were he to marry her, the money would stay in the family.”

“Well, her interest might lie in his direction, but I can warrant you he’d not be interested in a shrew like her!”

“Really?” Aunt Lucia rose from the bed. “Well, dear, it’s late. I just wanted to be sure you were all right and to say good-night.” She glanced at the empty side of the bed. “I suppose you’ve seen no sign of our Angel.”

“No.”

Lucia sighed. “Certainly not surprising. She had several suitors tonight.” She walked toward the door. “I’m going to turn in, if you’re certain you’re all right.”

“I’m fine.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow when you’re rested, puss. Good night.”

“Good night,” Sapphire called, knowing full well it would not be a good night because memories of Blake Thixton’s kiss would keep her awake until the early hours.

“Good morning, Lucia.” Lady Carlisle sat at the head of the dining table set for breakfast, dressed for an outing in a striped gray and white taffeta morning gown, her hair pulled tightly in a matronly chignon.

Lucia noted that Lady Carlisle didn’t look at her when she spoke. “Good morning, Edith,” she replied cheerfully, moving to the buffet table that had been set up along the wall of the dining room so that one could dine at one’s leisure. “Did you sleep well?” She accepted a plate from a maid standing as inconspicuously as possible beside the serving table, gaze fixed on the polished floor.

“I did not.”

Lucia took her time placing several lamb sausages on her plate, knowing exactly the direction this conversation was headed.

Lady Carlisle cleared her throat.

Lucia lifted the lid of a pottery serving bowl but rejected the dish of sardines. “I’m sorry to hear that you didn’t sleep well, Edith. Were you feeling poorly?” She took several corners of toast and heaped blackberry jam on the side of her plate.

“You could say that.” Lady Carlisle set her fork down firmly on the table. “Lucia…Mademoiselle Toulouse,” she said, taking on a more formal tone. “I must speak frankly with you.”

“So early in the morning?”

“Pardon me?”

Lucia turned from the buffet, a smile placed strategically on her lips. “I said, ‘a moment, darling.’” She took a seat at the dining table.

“Coffee, mum?” the servant asked Lucia, eyes downcast.

“Thank you.” Lucia smiled sweetly and then picked up her napkin and tucked it into the neckline of her brightly colored caftan. “Now, what were you saying, dear?” She lifted her gaze, batting her lashes.

“You heard what they were saying last night? The rumor?”

“Which one? I heard that Lady Thorngrove had lost three thousand pounds sterling at whist, that Baron Birdsley’s wife had run off with the Italian he’d hired to paint her portrait, and that eighty-year-old Lord Einestower’s son and heir had been born with hair as red as his Scots gardener’s when both Einestower and his nineteen-year-old bride had hair as black as any chimney sweep.”

“You know very well which one,” Lady Carlisle said haughtily. “Your goddaughter, Miss Fabergine, was seen in a compromising situation with Lord Wessex.”

Lucia shrugged, spreading jam on one of her toast points. “She kissed Lord Wessex. Rather, he kissed her. I’ll guess you did as much when you were nineteen, Edith. I wouldn’t put it past you to have done so since.”

“How dare you!”

Lucia took a bite of her toast. “It was a kiss, nothing more.”

“She was seen, alone, in the billiards room with a man.”

“For heaven’s sake, Edith, if you want to evoke these preposterous unwritten rules of London society, one could say Lord Wessex is a distant cousin.”

Lady Carlisle patted the corners of her lips with her napkin. “We have absolutely no proof of that. I never heard a word last night at the party about your goddaughter having any connection whatsoever to the Wessex family.”

Lucia tossed her toast on her plate. “Edith Carlisle, are you calling me a liar?”

“I am Lady Carlisle to you and I would not presume to say who speaks the truth and who does not. I’m simply stating that there is no proof that Sapphire Fabergine is related to the Thixton family in any way, and now that she has been caught in an unfortunate situation that could reflect badly on Lord Carlisle and me…”

Lucia could feel her face beginning to burn with anger. “Because we’re staying here?”

“I have no issue with you or Miss Angelique. She’s quite sweet, but…”

“But what, Edith?” Lucia demanded. “What are you trying to say? That Sapphire is no longer welcome in your household?”

“I asked Lord Carlisle to handle this unfortunate situation, but he was unable to—” she gulped water from a crystal glass “—remain here this morning to discuss the matter with you.”

“So you are putting us out, then?” Lucia exclaimed. “Simply come out and say it why don’t you.”

“As I said, I have no issue with you or—”

“So you would put out a girl not yet twenty years old?” Lucia leaned forward, pressing her hands on the polished table. “And where would you have Sapphire go? What would you have her do?”

Lady Carlisle leaned back in her chair as if unsure what her houseguest might do. “That really isn’t my concern. I suppose if she needs finances, she could set herself up as a woman in need of a protector. Obviously she’s that kind of young woman, as I suspected when we first met in Martinique.”

Lucia shoved her chair under the table. Armand hadn’t sent them with enough money to live on their own; such a need hadn’t been anticipated. But she didn’t care about the money. She’d prostituted herself once and she could do it again if she had to. She’d do that before she would allow Sapphire to be treated this way. “How dare you! We shall leave by noon.”

“You understand, she left us with no other recourse,” Lady Carlisle said.

“What I understand is that you, Edith, are not fit to wash Sapphire Thixton’s underclothing.” She whipped around to walk out, and then thinking better of her exit on an empty stomach, turned back, grabbed a toast point covered with jam and walked out of the dining room.




8


“What else can I do for you, Auntie?” Sapphire asked, a leather valise in her arms. “This is the last of our belongings from the Carlisles’.”

“You can’t do a thing but sit here and have a cup of coffee with me and some of these divine pastries from Mrs. Partridge’s shop on the corner, ma chère.” Lucia patted the floral settee.

The apartments Lucia had located to rent were in Charing Cross, only a few blocks from the Carlisles’ town house. Though located on the second floor, which forced them to walk up a narrow flight of stairs, the residence was large. It had two bedrooms, a parlor, small drawing room, kitchen and dining room and it came with kitchen staff. Set as it was over a dressmaker’s shop, the soft hum of voices could be heard from below during business hours, but Sapphire adored the large casement windows that ran the length of the apartments and opened up onto the street where she could see the activity of the day. They’d only been here four days, after staying in a rooming house for two nights, but it already felt like home to her.

“Just let me put this away and I’ll join you,” Sapphire said.

“Put it down, you’ve done enough—too much,” Lucia insisted, waving her arm. “We must have a personal maid and I intend to see to it directly. I won’t see you running up and down those stairs as if you’re one of the servants.”

Sapphire lowered the valise to the floor. “I blame myself for everything.”

“Pish!” Lucia tapped the seat beside her again. “I was sick to death of that Edith Carlisle. You simply provided the perfect excuse to get us out of that house.”

Sapphire lowered herself onto the soft piece of furniture and made herself more comfortable. “No coffee for me, but I’ll sit while you have yours. Did you send Papa a note informing him we’ve moved?”

“I did.”

“Do you think he’ll be angry? He arranged for us to stay with Lord and Lady Carlisle thinking it would be the best for us. I hate to disappoint him.”

“Armand has a good heart but he’s still a man, dove.” Lucia sipped her coffee served in a tiny china cup. “How was he to know Edith was such a poor hostess and a gossip to top it off? No, he would never want you to remain in that household.”

Sapphire’s eyes flashed. “That horrible man—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Lucia interrupted, sweeping one graceful hand. “Coffee beans already on the floor. What we need to do now is decide how to proceed from here.” She glanced at her goddaughter. “What you need to decide, dear, is if you would still like to pursue the matter of your birth.”

“Of course I would! Just because that man was rude, and coarse—” Sapphire rose and began to pace in front of the table set out with the coffee service “—that doesn’t mean he’s frightened me off. I am not about to be bested by some…some American upstart! Mr. Blake Thixton may be the legal heir to my father’s title and possessions, but he has no authority over me, and if he won’t listen to me then I’ll…I’ll take my cause elsewhere. I will be heard and I will be acknowledged!”

Lucia smiled slyly. “Which was my thinking precisely. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

The door opened at that moment and Angelique blew in like a fluttering leaf from the park. “What in heaven’s name are you two doing sitting here like two old spinsters?” she demanded, sweeping off her bonnet and patting her wind-blown hair. “I’ve just had the most pleasant carriage ride through the park.”

“With whom?” Sapphire rested her hands on her hips.

“Just a gentleman.” Tossing her bonnet on a chair, Angelique sashayed to the table and picked up a small, round cherry-topped cake from the china platter. “What have you two been up to?” She glanced around. “Settling in, I see.”

“You could have stayed and helped,” Sapphire offered.

“And you could have gone to the park with me. There’s a Mr. Krum who’s been inquiring of you all about town.”

“Me?” Sapphire brushed the bodice of her pale blue morning gown. “Why ever would someone want to inquire about me?”

“He saw you at the ’Change, in the park, somewhere. I suspect he’s wife-shopping.”

Sapphire shook her head, choosing not to continue the subject. “We were discussing what I’m to do now that Mr. Thixton will not listen to me in person. He refused to accept the letter I sent to him yesterday.”

“Really, Sapphire, I don’t know why you care about all this. The city is full of handsome men like Mr. Krum. Surely you could find a husband to suit you.”

“Angel, this isn’t about finding a husband,” Sapphire snapped. “Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been saying all these weeks? It’s about who I am!”

“And not about Blake Thixton?”

“Certainly not!” Sapphire turned her back to them, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from mentioning him in my presence.”

“We were just saying that we need to go elsewhere to make Sapphire’s plea,” Lucia explained as she added two pastries to a tiny china plate rimmed with lavender blossoms.

“Elsewhere?” Angelique licked the sweet icing from her fingers. “Is this your idea, Sapphire?”

“Actually, it was Lady Carlisle’s suggestion.”

“I want no part of anything she has to say,” Sapphire declared, turning to face them, her arms crossed obstinately. “She insulted us both, me by suggesting I had done something illicit and you by suggesting you were somehow responsible.”

“Now, now, smooth your feathers. I’ll warn you, this is not a conventional approach.”

“We adore unconventional, don’t we, Sapphire?”

Sapphire sat in one of the upholstered chairs at the tea table. “I’m listening.”

“The question is, exactly what is it you want from Lord Wessex?”

“All I want from Mr. Thixton is for him to acknowledge that my father was married to my mother and that I am his legitimate daughter.”

“Which makes the Dowager Lady Wessex what?” Angelique giggled. “A kept woman?”

“I don’t care.” Sapphire leaned forward in her chair, threading her fingers. “I want all of London to know I am Sapphire Thixton, daughter of the late Edward Thixton, Earl of Wessex.”

“Even if the American is willing to admit you could be Edward’s daughter, the dowager is going to want proof.” Angelique reached for another cake.

“But we don’t even know where to start looking for this proof. Aunt Lucia has had no luck so far finding any record of a marriage of anyone in the Wessex family in Devonshire in the past one hundred years. She’s been told such records would have been destroyed,” Sapphire said.

“But perhaps we would not need the physical proof,” Lucia said, “not if we stir up enough trouble.” She sipped her coffee.

“Trouble?” Sapphire repeated.

“Well…” Lucia’s gaze flitted from one girl to the other as her voice rose with excitement. “You see, when I said you had nowhere to go, Lady Carlisle suggested that you set yourself up in search of a protector.”

“Oh!” Sapphire cried. “That despicable woman!”

“Now listen.” Lucia held up a finger. “I understand that the eldest daughter—the one with the bad complexion—is hoping to wed soon. What if we were to initiate a scandal that the dowager would be eager to squelch?”

“Like the late Earl of Wessex’s daughter being put out on the street and forced to seek a protector in order to survive!” Angelique said.

“I don’t know,” Sapphire said, stalling.

“Oh, come now, it would be so much fun!” Angelique continued. “Can you imagine? The men would be lined up on the street outside the dress shop just waiting to leave those silly calling cards. We could go to a ball or the theater every night, and during the day there would be horse races, picnics—”

“It sounds so outrageous!”

“So outrageous, it just might work.” Lucia winked. “I heard at the cook shop down the street that the dowager’s middle girl—what is her name? Polly, Porridge, Petunia?”

Sapphire couldn’t help but laugh. “Portia.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Lucia reached for another cake. “I understand her mother is expecting a particular gentleman caller to ask for her hand any day now.”

“Lord Carter?” Angelique asked, turning back to Lucia. “You mustn’t be serious.”

“You know him?” Sapphire asked.

She smiled. “I would think so. He was the one who took me riding this morning, with his brother and a cousin.”

“You were riding in a carriage with three men, unescorted?”

Angelique rolled her eyes. “One of them brought a little sister along. Of course, I’m not sure how that would matter if we’re talking about setting ourselves up as courtesans.”

“Women in need of protection,” Lucia corrected.

“You know,” Sapphire said, looking to her godmother, “I couldn’t really—”

“I could.” Angelique grinned.

Lucia met Sapphire’s gaze. “I don’t expect you to sacrifice your virtue, sweet. What kind of woman do you think I am? I’m only suggesting that you allow others to think you might consider it, under the right circumstances. First we let it be known that you ladies are both in need of protectors because Lady Carlisle has put you out and I’m too old and feeble to care for you.” She drew the back of her hand dramatically across her forehead. “And then—” she popped up “—once you are the toast of London, people will hear the tragic truth—that you are a Thixton, forced to set yourself up as a kept woman because your family is unwilling to take you into their loving bosom…”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/rosemary-rogers/sapphire-39809769/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.