The Bride's Necklace

“Your cousin?”

“That is correct. Captain Ethan Sharpe of the Sea Witch. He and his crew are missing.”

She said nothing for several long moments. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what she saw in his face but her features softened. “You must be very worried about him.”

There was something in the way she said it. Or perhaps it was the way she looked at him when she did. Whatever it was, his anger seeped away as if a hole had been pricked in his skin.

“Yes, well, I am, and I appreciate your concern. At any rate, if you discover the man who moved the piece, please inform him not to do so again.”

She eyed him in the moonlight, took in his weary expression. “Perhaps it would be good to finish the game, my lord. Sometimes memories do more harm than good. You can always begin anew once Captain Sharpe is returned.”

He’d had the same thought himself. The chessboard was a grim reminder, a haunting note that never let him forget Ethan was missing, perhaps even dead. “Just do as I say, Mrs. Temple.”

Cord took a last long look at the woman propped up in bed and thought how incredibly desirable she looked. In the moonlight, her eyes were luminous green pools, her lips a little pouty. He wanted to pull back the sheet and lift her night rail, to feast his eyes on the delectable body outlined by the thin cotton garment. He wanted to remove the ribbon at the end of her braid and run his fingers through the heavy dark strands of her hair.

His body tightened with arousal and Cord turned away. As he left the room, he shook his head, wondering what the devil was happening to him lately. He had never been the sort to have designs on his serving women, but lately, two of them had caught his fancy.

He amended that. One had appealed to his appreciation of beauty, like a finely crafted vase or an exquisite painting. The other intrigued him with her saucy tongue and overly protective nature. Now that he had seen her in her bedclothes, his prurient interests had also been aroused.

He should have gone to Madame Fontaneau’s, he told himself as he climbed the stairs. Then again, he far preferred a relationship of sorts with the women he took to his bed. As he headed upstairs, he thought again of Victoria Temple.

With Olivia Landers gone from his life, he remained in need of a mistress. Now that his misplaced desire for Claire had vanished, he began to think that perhaps he had merely fixed his interest on the wrong woman. Where Claire was shy and fearful, Victoria was bold and not the least afraid of him. Beneath her prim facade, he sensed a passionate nature he would very much like to explore.

And of course, he would take care of her, set her up in grand style and see that she wanted for nothing. She could take care of Claire, as she wanted so badly to do. He would be doing them all a favor.

Yes, Victoria would be a far greater challenge than her sweetly innocent sister. In fact, judging from the fiery look in her eyes when he had burst into her room, she might very well run him a merry chase. Still, Cord loved nothing better than a challenge, and in the end, he would have her. Victoria Temple might as well resign herself to her fate.

Tory immersed herself in her work the following day, making an inventory of the wine cellar, receiving deliveries from the butcher and the milkman, trying to keep her mind off the earl and his appearance in her room last night.

Just thinking about it made her pulse race. Sweet God, the man had been beyond angry. Surely moving a single chess piece hadn’t set off such a reaction?

Tory thought perhaps it was more a response to his worry for his cousin than the fact that the piece had been moved. It was obvious the men were close friends. She knew what it was like to lose a loved one. She had lost her father and not long after, her mother. She knew how badly it hurt.

And yet she wasn’t sorry that she had moved the piece. Perhaps in a way, the outburst had been good for him, a means of helping him vent his frustration. She could still recall the way he had looked—a virtual fire-breathing dragon with the light of battle glowing in his golden eyes.

His coat had been missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up over nicely corded forearms. Snug black breeches hugged a narrow waist and the long, solid muscles in his thighs. He had been breathing hard, expanding the width of an already powerful chest.

As furious as he was, for the first time since they had met, he had looked at her. Really looked at her. And the heat in his tawny eyes had made her feel as if her bones were slowly melting. She had felt as if her heart might pound its way out of her chest, as if her entire body might go up in smoke. Then, to her utter mortification, her nipples had peaked beneath her night rail.

Secretly, she had worried about the strange pull she felt whenever she encountered the earl. Now, sweet Lord, her worst fears were confirmed. She was attracted to the earl of Brant!

It was ridiculous. Completely absurd. She wasn’t even sure she liked him. She certainly didn’t trust him, and aside from that, the man was an earl while she was merely a servant. Even as the daughter of a baron, after hearing the gossip about him, Lord Brant was the last man who should interest her.

Was it only earlier that morning Miss Honeycutt had stood just inside the butler’s pantry giggling at the tale she had heard from Alice Payne, lady’s maid to the Viscountess Westland?

“Alice says ’e’s quite the stallion, is the earl. Says ’e can tup all night and still be rarin’ for more in the mornin’. Says her ladyship were sore for a week the last time ’e come to call.”

Like every other young woman, one day Tory hoped to marry. Someone kind and considerate, a gentle sort of man, she had always imagined, a man much like her father, who never spoke a harsh word to either his daughters or his wife.

Certainly not a man like Brant with his fiery temper and equally fiery passions.

Fortunately, aside from the hot looks he had cast her way last night—due, she was certain, to the natural instincts of a male in the proximity of a young woman in a state of semi-undress—Lord Brant had eyes only for Claire. In that regard, Tory vowed to remain vigilant. If Brant were half the rake he seemed, Claire yet remained in danger.

Tory strengthened her resolve to do whatever it took to protect her sister from the earl.

Four

“Tory?” Claire flew toward her up the stairs. Three days had passed since the earl had barged into her room and things seemed to have returned to normal. “Thank goodness I found you!”

“What is it, darling?”

“It’s Mrs. Green and her daughter, Hermione. They had to leave for the day. Mrs. Green says she is coming down with an ague and she thinks Hermione has contracted it, as well.”

“An ague? They both looked perfectly healthy this morning.” Then Tory remembered that she had assigned the women the job of preparing two of the upstairs guest rooms for the arrival of Lady Aimes, one of the earl’s cousins, and her little boy, Teddy. It was simply another attempt to make Tory leave, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

She looked down the stairs to the grandfather clock in the entry. The day was rapidly slipping away. The rest of the staff was busy, grudgingly doing the work she had assigned them. Any attempt to rearrange their schedule would simply cause more trouble than it was worth.

“I’ll take care of it, Claire. You go ahead and finish helping Mrs. Wadding. She is outside beating carpets.”

Claire hurried off to her tasks and Tory made her way downstairs to collect a broom, mop and pail.

All the rooms in the house were lovely, and the two she had chosen for Lord Brant’s guests overlooked the garden, one of them done in peach and cream, the other in shades of robin’s-egg blue.

Deciding the little boy should have the blue, she began her work in there, opening the windows to let in the summer breeze, fluffing the feather pillows, dusting the landscape paintings on the wall and the marble mantel over the hearth. She did the same to the second room, grateful that at least the linens had already been changed, then began the job of mopping the inlaid parquet floors.

She was down on her hands and knees scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain when a pair of shiny men’s shoes appeared in her line of vision. Her gaze traveled up a set of very long, very masculine legs, over a broad chest and extremely sizable shoulders.

Tory sank back on her heels as she looked up at the earl. “My lord?”

“What the devil are you doing?”

She glanced down, saw that her skirt was wet, her white blouse damp and clinging to her breasts, so translucent she could see the shadow of her nipples.

Brant must have noticed. His gaze fixed there and some of the heat she had seen before reappeared in his eyes. Tory’s face heated up as he continued to stare at the damp fabric plastered over her bosom.

Tory swallowed, tried to pretend nothing was wrong. “Two of the chambermaids took ill,” she explained. “In their stead, I am completing the work necessary for the arrival of your guests.”

“Is that so?” The earl’s jaw hardened, and instead of answering, she found herself wanting to back away. A little squeak escaped as Brant caught her arm and hauled her to her feet.

“Dammit, I didn’t hire you to scrub my floors. I hired you to run my house. As I see it, there is a very large difference.”

“But—”

“There is a virtual bevy of servants in this house. Find one to take care of the guest rooms.” He frowned at the look of horror that appeared on her face. “Never mind. I’ll send someone up myself.”

To her utter amazement, the earl strode out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. She could hear him bellowing for Timmons and a few minutes later, Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Wadding both came bolting into the room.

Determined to act with at least some portion of her authority as housekeeper, Tory instructed the women to finish mopping the floors in both bedchambers, then sprinkle a few drops of lavender scent on the embroidered linen pillowcases.

With menus to plan for the week and shopping lists to compile, she left them to their work and returned downstairs. She was on her way to change into a dry blouse when she passed the open door to the earl’s study. Her steps seemed to slow all by themselves and she found herself wandering inside, over to the chessboard in the corner.

She was surprised to discover the white knight hadn’t been returned to its former position but remained exactly where she had placed it. Even more amazing, the earl had countered the move.

Not that he knew it was she who had made it. Clearly, he believed one of the male servants had made the play, having made the reference to a man several times in his tirade that night—which irritated her more than he knew. Perhaps he thought it was Timmons who challenged him or one of the two new footmen who had recently been hired.

Whatever the case, in moving his bishop in response, her challenge had clearly been accepted. Either that, or a trap was being laid to discover if the culprit had the nerve to gainsay his orders again.

Tory pondered the latter, worried she might lose her position. Surely the man wouldn’t fire her over a simple chess game. Convinced she could talk her way out of trouble if she had to and never one to back down from a challenge, she seated herself in front of the board and contemplated how to counter the earl’s countermove.

It was late in the afternoon the following day, the June days lengthening and growing warmer. With so many projects in the works, Cord rarely had time for visitors. His cousin Sarah was the exception.

Seated on a pale blue brocade sofa in the Blue Salon, Sarah Sharpe Randall, Viscountess Aimes, was the sister Cord never had. Blond and fair, Sarah was tall for a woman yet slim and fine-boned. As children growing up, he had always been protective of her, the only girl among three rowdy boys, but in truth, Sarah was entirely capable of taking care of herself.

Cord crossed the high-ceilinged room beneath a crystal chandelier, stopping in front of an ornately carved sideboard to refill his glass of brandy.

“How is Jonathan?” he asked, speaking of her husband. “Well, I trust.”

Lifting a delicate, gold-rimmed porcelain teacup, Sarah took a sip of her chamomile tea. “Aside from grousing over the fact he had prior commitments and couldn’t come with us, he is fine. He sends you his regards.”

Cord took a drink of brandy. “Teddy has certainly grown since last I saw him. I hardly recognized the boy.”

Sarah smiled with pleasure. Her husband and son were the most important people in her life. “Teddy looks more like his father every day.”

“You have a fine family, Sarah.”

“Yes, I am fortunate in that. Perhaps it is time you began to think of having a family of your own, Cord.”

Carrying his glass, he walked over to the sofa. “Actually, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about it. I’m trying to work up the courage to enter the marriage mart. So far I haven’t quite found the nerve.”

“At least you’re considering the notion. That is more than you have ever done before.”

“More than considering. I’ve decided to wed. It’s merely a matter of choosing the right woman.”

“Have you anyone particular in mind?”

He thought of Mary Ann Winston and Constance Fairchild, the two young women currently at the top of his list, but he was far from ready to mention any names. “Not yet.”

“Tell me you’ve given up that silly notion of marrying an heiress. I can tell you from experience, loving someone is far more important.”

“Perhaps to you.” He sipped his drink. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize the emotion, though I can tell you’re happy with Jonathan. It shows in your face.”

“I’m very happy, Cord. Except for missing Ethan.”

It was the reason for Sarah’s visit. She had come to discover news of her brother, which they had briefly discussed over breakfast earlier that morning. Cord set his brandy glass down on a piecrust table.

“I wish I had more to report. At least we know that the Sea Witch didn’t go down in a storm. According to Edward Legg, Ethan was alive when he was taken off the ship.”

“Yes, and I suppose in a way that is very good news. My brother is a strong man and we both know how determined he can be. We must believe he is still alive. Which means, all we have to do is discover where he might have been taken.”

Cord only wished it were that easy. He took a courage-building breath, preparing to explain the difficulties they would be facing in their renewed effort to locate her brother, when a soft knock sounded at the door.

“That will be Pendleton,” Cord said, grateful for the interruption. “I received a message from him this morning. Perhaps he has received more information.”

Cord opened the door, allowing the silver-haired colonel to enter. Pendleton made a polite bow to Sarah, his glance taking in her upswept golden blond hair, fine features and the feminine fit of her pale green silk gown.

He spoke for a moment to Cord, then addressed himself to Sarah. “I presume, Lady Aimes, that Lord Brant has informed you of the latest word on Captain Sharpe.”

“Yes, he has. We were both in hopes you might be bringing news of his whereabouts.”

“Unfortunately, not quite yet. We have, however, as of this morning, been able to place an informant on the shores of France with the specific duty of locating the prison where Captain Sharpe may have been taken.”

Sarah’s features seemed to draw in. “Prison. I suppose I have denied the thought far too long. I cannot bear to think of my brother suffering in such a place.”

“Dear lady, you mustn’t despair. Once we are certain of the captain’s whereabouts, we shall find a way to rescue him.”

Sarah nodded, managed a wobbly smile. “Yes, I’m certain you will.”

Cord spoke up just then. “In the meantime, Colonel Pendleton has promised to keep us informed of whatever news he receives and I shall do the same.”

The meeting lasted a few minutes more, then Pendleton left the study. Needing to check on Teddy, Sarah followed him out, leaving Cord alone.

The news of Ethan again had been good. For the first time in nearly a year, he felt they were finally making progress.

As he thought of Ethan, his gaze strayed toward the chessboard. Something looked different. He found himself walking in that direction, stopping next to the board. Then he saw that a piece had been moved yet again and a fresh shot of anger poured through him.

He’d been certain the Temple girl would relay his middle-of-the-night demands to the servants. Just to be sure, he had baited a trap for the culprit, daring him to disobey his rules again. The ivory knight remained as it was, but in response to his countermove, the ivory queen had been advanced three spaces.

Cord found himself studying the board. It was an intriguing move. His bishop remained in danger, and if he weren’t careful, his castle just might fall. He told himself to move the pieces back to their original position. Ethan was the man he should be playing. But he couldn’t quite convince himself. Perhaps with this latest news of his cousin, it was a good sign the game had begun again.

He wondered if Timmons had taken it upon himself to challenge him in an effort to renew his spirits where Ethan was concerned, or if, as he had believed that night, one of the new footmen simply could not resist.

A niggling thought surfaced. Claire Temple wouldn’t have the slightest notion how to play a sophisticated game like chess, but her sister…Surely, Victoria Temple wasn’t masterminding the game.

Few women played, even fewer did so with any amount of skill, yet the latest moves said this player knew what he—or she—was about. That his opponent might be Victoria Temple was, though somewhat farfetched, decidedly intriguing.

Cord sat down in one of the ornate chairs and began to assess the board. The clock ticked and time slipped past. Lifting his black knight, Cord countered his opponent’s latest move.

Tory stretched and arched her back, trying to work out the kinks in her neck and shoulders. Today had been even more difficult than the day before, the atmosphere below stairs openly hostile, Mrs. Rathbone’s silent anger grating on everyone’s nerves.

As housekeeper, Tory could fire the serving woman and hire a replacement, but somehow that didn’t seem fair. What she needed to do was win the woman’s loyalty—but she had no idea how to go about it.

Badly in need of fresh air, she walked over to the French doors leading into the garden, then found herself shoving them open and walking out beneath the warm summer sun. White clouds floated by overhead, one shaped like a dragon, the other a damsel in distress. Not liking the image, she wandered through the garden, which was lush and green with colorful crocuses blooming along the gravel paths and bright purple pansies yawning at her feet.

She shouldn’t be out there. She was a servant, not a guest. Still, it had been so long since she had enjoyed the splash of water in a fountain, smelled the scent of lavender in the air. Pausing next to the round, tiered fountain, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of air.

“Are you Mrs. Temple?”

Tory’s eyes shot open. She looked down to see a small, dark-haired boy standing beside her. “Why, yes, I am.” She smiled. “And you must be Master Teddy Randall.”

He grinned and she saw that two of his front teeth were missing. He was perhaps five or six, with great blue eyes and a smile that lit up his face.

“How did you know my name?” he asked.

“I overheard your mother and Lord Brant talking about you at breakfast,” she said.

“I heard people talking about you, too.” He looked up into her face. “Why doesn’t anyone like you?”

Tory’s smile slid away. “The earl was talking about me?”

He shook his head. “A lady named Mrs. Rathbone and the cook. They said you were Lord Brant’s doxy. That’s why he hired you. What’s a doxy? I thought it was some kind of dog.”

Her face must have been seven shades of scarlet. How dare they say such a thing! Thoughts of firing the woman resurfaced, but Tory tamped them down.

“Well…a doxy is…is someone who does things she shouldn’t. But that is not at all the truth. And it is the very reason you must never listen to gossip.” She reached down and took hold of his hand. “You mentioned dogs,” she said, desperate for a change of subject. “Do you like puppies?”

He vigorously nodded.

“Well, then, you are in luck. There is a new litter just birthed out in the mews.”

Teddy grinned and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “I love puppies. ’Specially little black fuzzy ones.”

Tory smiled. “Come on, then.” Still holding on to his hand, she started leading him through the garden. “Why don’t we have a look?”

They were just walking into the shadowy interior of the carriage house, Teddy clinging to her hand, when she spotted Lord Brant on his way out.

He paused just in front of them. “Well, I see you two have become acquainted.”

Mrs. Rathbone’s words came rushing back, sending hot color into her cheeks. She wanted to shout at him, tell him the gossip was entirely his fault, but in truth it was her fault as much as his, since she never should have accepted the housekeeping job in the first place.

She kept her features bland. “Yes, we met out in the garden.” The words came out a bit sharply. She wished she had the nerve to quit. She couldn’t possibly do that. She had to think of Claire and what would happen to them if she did. “Teddy and I have come to look at the puppies. If you will excuse us, my lord.”

But he made no effort to move, just stood exactly where he was, tall and broad-shouldered enough to easily block their way.

“I heard the coachman’s mongrel had a litter. If you don’t mind the company, I would enjoy seeing them myself.”

Oh, she minded. She minded a very great deal. The servants were already gossiping about them. Seeing them together would only fuel the wagging tongues.

Still, she could scarcely order him out of his own carriage house. She and Teddy started forward and the earl fell in beside her. She stiffened at the feel of his warm hand settling at her waist, guiding her through the shadowy interior, past a shiny black carriage parked at the far end of the building.

She could hear the faint rustle of her skirt against his leg and her heart kicked up. When his arm lightly brushed her breast as he helped her through the doorway into another, smaller room filled with harnesses and hay, a rush of heat slid into her stomach.

They reached the enclosure where the puppies lay sleeping next to their mother, a thin, black-and-white-spotted hound, but the earl didn’t move away. She tried to widen the distance between them, but there simply wasn’t room.

“They’re only a few days old,” he said softly, his warm breath fanning her cheek. Embarrassingly, she trembled.

“Could I hold one?” Teddy asked, staring down at the mongrel pups as if they were purebred.

“They’re too little yet,” Brant said, reaching down to affectionately ruffle the little boy’s dark hair. “Perhaps the next time you visit.”

“Do you think I could have one?”

The earl chuckled softly, and Tory felt an odd lift in her stomach. “If your mother says it’s all right. Why don’t you go in and ask her?”

Teddy grinned up at him, turned and tore out of the carriage house, running pell-mell back inside and leaving her alone in the shadows with the earl.

“I—it is time I went back in. I have a great deal of work yet to do.”

“You’re looking a little flushed,” he said, his golden eyes fixed on her face. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Temple?”

He was standing so near she could measure the beats of his heart, study the sensual curve of his bottom lip, see the way his mouth faintly lifted in one corner.