Grand Deception: A Tapestry of Love Romance Read online

  GRAND

  DECEPTION

  A TAPESTRY OF

  LOVE Romance

  Rebecca Ward

  Copyright 1992 by Maureen Wartski.

  To my mother, who also likes frogs.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  The tall gentleman in the heavy black cloak stood at the ship’s rail and, disregarding the roll of the ship and the spray that washed over the bow, stared intently across the water.

  By now he should have been able to see the coastline, but the freezing mist obscured everything. The sounds of canvas straining overhead in the wind, even the cries of the seabirds, were muted by the dense fog curtain.

  The 10,800-mile crossing had been tedious, difficult at times. An unexpected storm had sprung up as they rounded the Cape of Good Hope and left most of the passengers sick and wretched. His own servants had been ill, with the exception of his valet, who seemed immune to any physical distress. So together he and Wendell had helped the exhausted stewards nurse the sick.

  The tall gentleman himself had been in perfect health for all these weeks, but now, with the end in sight, he could feel the tension building in his hard-muscled body and a gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

  “It won’t be long now,” he muttered.

  “Er, what? What’s that?” a strained voice gasped.

  One of the other passengers, a slight young man with a wan face, had also come to lean against the rail. “Waiting for your first glimpse of England, are you, sir?” he continued. “Don’t blame you. Best sight I ever hope to see this side of heaven.”

  He shut his eyes as the ship pitched and rolled, swallowed hard, and clung to the rail. “Name’s George Trague, sir. You were good enough to help me over a bad spell around the cape, er, what? Why they call it Good Hope I’ll never know. Felt so sick myself I hoped I would drown and get it over with.”

  Mr. Trague paused, waited for another roll to subside, and then added feelingly, “Anyway, wished to thank you. I would’ve been cocking up my toes if it wasn’t for you and your manservant.”

  The tall gentleman disclaimed any thanks and said that seasickness was a terrible thing.

  “On my word it is,” Mr. Trague agreed. “I hail from Gloucester, sir—nice spot, Gloucester, famous for its roses. If you’re ever in my way . . . esteemed to be of service to you. Command me in anything. I never mean to leave home again. Never would have done except my sister—er, Lady Portax, what?—wished me to escort her out to India to join her husband. He’s a United Company man. How long have you been away?”

  “All my life” was the quiet answer.

  “All your—Then it’s true what they’re saying. I mean,” the young man flushed and amended hastily, “that this is your first time home? All your life away from England? Were you, er, born in India, what?”

  The tall gentleman smiled but did not reply. There was a cool civility in his smile, but the expression in his eyes was one that prevented Mr. Trague from asking any more questions. Remarkable eyes the gentleman had, too, being neither hazel nor green but dark gold. Like those of a hunting falcon—

  George Trague’s thoughts were interrupted as a swell caught the ship, lifted it up, and then pitched it down again so violently that he was torn loose from the rail. He gave a bleat of alarm as he began to fall backward.

  Before the cry had left Mr. Trague’s lips, his companion had lunged forward and caught him by the arm. The movement was as swift as thought, the hard grip of his fingers reassuring. “Are you all right?” the tall man asked.

  “Yes. I’d better go below before I do myself a mischief.” Mr. Trague attempted a feeble smile. “I heard them say that the sun’s trying to burn through the fog. If it does, sir, you’ll see the most glorious sight to welcome you home.”

  He lurched away. The tall gentleman watched him go before returning to his silent watching. His lean, sunburned face was resolute and his fine mouth was set as he stared into the heart of the fog.

  It will fall as it will fall, he thought. And then he repeated the words that he had spoken before. “It won’t be long now. And then we’ll see.”

  “We shall keep Christmas here in Gloucester this year,” Eugenia Carlisle decreed. “It will be more suited to our station in life as the new Earl and Countess of Severn. Do you not agree, Otto?”

  From the seat farthest from the fire Miranda watched Lord Otto Carlisle retreat even deeper into his newspaper. “Do as you will,” he said indifferently.

  My lady frowned, drummed her beringed fingers on the table for a moment, then turned to her son.

  “Penry, you must of course invite any friends of yours that you wish. In fact,” she added significantly, “the more the merrier.”

  Mr. Penry Carlisle, who had been picking at his breakfast without much enthusiasm, regarded his mother coldly. “Meaning that you want one of m’friends to offer for Cleo,” he drawled. “Won’t wrap plain facts in clean linen, Mater. None of ’em’s likely to come up to scratch unless he’s badly disguised.”

  Lady Otto’s delicately darkened brows drew together. Her high-bridged nose quivered at the insult. “May I remind you that you are speaking of your sister, Penry?”

  “Don’t need to be reminded. Trial to me, on m’ life. Fubsy-faced female, always nattering on about moss and frogs and creeping around with mud on her skirt. But don’t work yourself into a lather, Mater. Now that Pater’s an earl, some idiot will declare for her.”

  His tone was so cutting that Miranda could not help protesting. “That is unkind!” she exclaimed. “Cleo’s interest in nature is not a crime.”

  It was a mistake to draw attention to herself. As Penry turned to face her, Miranda felt a tightness in her throat. It was the identical tightness that she had experienced some fifteen years before when she had been ushered into this breakfast room by the curate and told to make her curtsy to Lord and Lady Otto Carlisle, whose kind charity was keeping a roof over her head.

  Penry leaned back in his chair, arranged the cuffs of his puce superfine coat, raised his quizzing glass to a pale green eye, and drawled, “Now, if we was talking about you, Miranda, it would be a different story, on m’life. Black hair and those eyes—’straordinary. Almost makes up for your not having two coins to rub together. Shall I introduce you to one of my friends, I wonder?”

  Fifteen years ago she had been forlorn, heartsick, and frightened, and when Penry gibed at her, she had shed bitter tears. Now Miranda’s eyes were dry, and when she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat went down.

  She met his malicious gaze calmly. “I thank you for your good offices,” she said, “but I do not require your help.”

  “But surely you don’t want to be an ape leader, sweet coz.” Penry grinned. “Or do you have an admirer hidden somewhere?”

  “You are talking nonsense,” Lady Otto interrupted. “Of course Miranda has no hidden admirer.”

  She sipped a concoction of warm milk and sage, especially recommended by Dr. Malfous to ward off cold, and surveyed the chit thoughtfully. Penry was right in saying that she had good eyes; they were large, clear, and of an unusual light gray color. Her hair was blue-black and lustrous like her unfortunate mother’s had been. And though her high-cheekboned face was too full of character to be called beautiful, her skin held the peach bloom that m
y lady’s paint box could not reproduce.

  Not a bad-looking piece, my lady thought grudgingly, but Miranda Gannet was penniless. In spite of the unfortunate family connection to which Penry had just now alluded, she had no prospects. Besides which, at twenty-five, she was too old to catch any suitor’s eye, had not two coins to rub together, and was altogether lacking in graces.

  Still, the girl needed to be reminded that she was not in any way a Member of the Family. A girl in Miranda’s position could not afford to forget that she was at Carlisle House only on sufferance.

  My lady spoke in dampening tones. “Cleone is twenty and must think of her future. I must ask that you not encourage her eccentric behavior, Miranda. As the daughter of the Earl of Severn, she must make a suitable marriage.”

  Miranda listened to Lady Otto roll the title over her tongue. Since the news had come of the old earl’s mortal illness early this summer, her ladyship had assumed the role of countess. She had fretted as the late Earl of Severn inconsiderately continued to cling to life through the autumn and had turned by degrees more waspish when he actually seemed to be on the mend. But in early November the old man had finally been gathered to his forefathers, leaving his title, his fortune, and his ancestral estate in Surrey to his distant cousin, Lord Otto Carlisle.

  True, the title had not yet legally passed into the Carlisles’ hands, but the old earl’s solicitors in London were doing what was necessary. For a brief moment my lady’s eyes glowed with the anticipation of what Severn’s death would bring her: fortune, position and an entree into the select circles that, as the wife of a marquess’s second son, she could not have hoped to penetrate.

  Then she remembered her unfortunate daughter, and her smile faded. “Miranda,” she commanded, “be so good as to go and call Cleone to the breakfast table.”

  As Miranda rose obediently, Rothdale, the butler, motioned to a footman to cover Miss Gannet’s untouched breakfast and keep it warm. She thanked him with a smile, then went out of the breakfast room and on to the staircase landing, where a footman and two underfootmen were awaiting orders.

  Any of them could have gone to look for Cleone, of course. Miranda understood that my lady was reminding her that she occupied a gray area at Carlisle House—not quite as low as a servant and never so high as family.

  If it were not for Cleo, she would have left long ago. . . . Miranda shook aside that useless thought, reached for a shawl, and descending the stairs walked out of a side door into the garden. There she found Cleone on her knees beside the large fish pond.

  “What are you doing?” Miranda wondered aloud.

  Cleo did not look up. “I came to see whether the pond had frozen over,” she replied in an absorbed manner. “I have been making a study of the frogs and how they go into their winter sleep. It is all very interesting.”

  Looking at Cleo was like observing the Carlisle family through a mist. She was thinner and shorter than any of them, had inherited a lighter shade of her mother’s fair coloring and blue eyes, and a much softened version of her father’s blunt features. She was hardly pretty, a defect that my lady deplored regularly, but her expression was gentle and eager to please. Her voice, which was high like her brother’s, did not carry Penry’s sting.

  “Did M-Mama send you to bring me in?” she asked anxiously.

  “It is breakfast time,” Miranda reminded gently.

  “I only m-meant to take a few notes about the frogs—” Now that she was talking about her family, Cleo spoke with a slight stammer. “Oh, Miranda, I am such a wigeon. Yesterday, when Lord Lancey was to call, I went out in the garden and found a sleepy t-toad—such a dear, funny one—and f-forgot the time. M-Mama was in a taking because by the time I returned to the house Lord Lancey had gone away.”

  Cleo paused to sniff, then added dolefully, “Now she will rake me over the c-coals again, and P-Pen will be beastly, and Papa will look down his nose and say s-something cutting to us all.”

  Miranda put an arm around the younger girl’s bony shoulders. “Not if we hurry,” she said soothingly. “When I was coming to find you, the morning post was being carried in. If we act quickly, the family will be too busy reading letters to glump at you.”

  Her words proved true. As they entered the morning room, my lady greeted her daughter absently, while Carlisle and his son ignored her. Penry was inspecting several bills and what looked like gaming vouchers. Carlisle was frowning over a letter from his London man of business concerning his latest financial transaction on the exchange.

  “Here is an invite from the Duchess of Beerwick,” my lady announced in tones of deep satisfaction. “I am told that Her Grace is most circumspect and will not invite any of the common mill to her circle. But now that you are an earl, Otto, it seems that we merit her attention. It gives me hope that even you, Cleone, will be able to make an advantageous match.”

  She was interrupted by a snort from her lord and master. “So the demmed solicitors are finally doing what they’re paid to do!” he exclaimed. He held up an envelope and waved it in the air.

  My lady put a hand to her heart. “Do you mean to tell me, my lord, that the title is at last yours?” she exclaimed. “Open it, I beg. You know what Dr. Malfous says: Excitement is not good for my delicate health. Open it quickly.”

  But his lordship was enjoying the moment too much to be hurried. Each movement deliberate, he picked up the silver letter opener and slit open the envelope. Then, even more slowly, he slid the letter from its sheath.

  “Well?” Lady Otto said sharply.

  His lordship’s narrow lips twitched into an uncharacteristic smile. Holding up a hand for silence, he unfolded the letter and began to read. Suddenly a stricken expression appeared on his face, his mouth went slack, and his eyes bulged. He attempted to speak but could only make croaking noises.

  “For the Lord’s sake, Pater.” Penry leaned across the table and twitched the letter from his father’s nerveless hand. “Let me see, it says here—” He broke off and swore viciously.

  “My son!” his mother cried. “Such language is fit only for the stables. Have you forgotten your upbringing?”

  Penry flung the letter onto the floor and looked at his father. “On m’life, sir, this can’t be true. Says here that you may not be in line for the title after all. Says that some fellow called Bretagne could be the new Earl of Severn.”

  Absolute silence greeted this news. My lady’s color changed to putty. Rothdale, who had just instructed the footman to bring in coffee, stopped in midgesture. Cleo, roused from her contemplation of the frogs in the fish pond, looked bewildered and asked, “Who is Mr. Bretagne and why is he to be the earl instead of Papa?”

  Lady Otto rallied. “Hold your tongue, Cleone. Of course your papa is the Earl of Severn. It is a wicked jest of Penry’s, that is all—”

  She was interrupted when Carlisle spoke in a low voice. “It’s not. Anthony Bretagne is the colonel’s son.”

  His voice quivered with shock. Not understanding any of this, Miranda looked from one Carlisle to another. Cleo and Penry looked blank, but Lady Otto cried, “Colonel Ranald Bretagne, do you mean? But he is dead. His widow was lost without a trace and her little boy with her!”

  The young footman who had been serving coffee chanced to cough at this point, and my lady recalled how underlings gossiped.

  She nodded a curt dismissal to the servants as Penry snapped, “What are you talking about? What colonel?”

  Carlisle answered in that same, leaden voice. “Severn had a younger brother. Back in the 1780s Ranald Bretagne was a colonel of a garrison safeguarding the United Company in India.”

  He fell into a brooding silence that enshrouded the breakfast table. Penry jumped to his feet and nervously began to pace the room. Cleo attempted to shrink farther into her chair. Miranda, who had retrieved the letter from the floor, read that Mr. Anthony Bretagne had duly presented himself to Messrs. Teece, Legatt, and Somerhaven in London and had offered documents to prove his birth
and parentage.

  The late Earl of Severn’s solicitors further wrote that Mr. Bretagne had in his possession a certificate of birth and a letter from Sir John McPherson, governor general at Fort Williams back in 1786, that stated that the child born to Lady Helena Bretagne was indeed the son of Colonel Ranald Bretagne.

  “I cannot credit it,” Lady Otto was protesting. “Such things do not happen. I was barely out of the schoolroom, but I well remember the scandal of Colonel Bretagne’s suicide. According to my papa, the colonel was entrusted with some important papers that he was to deliver in England, documents that were never delivered. It was rumored that the colonel had sold them to a foreign power. When news of his perfidy was made known, the colonel shot himself.”

  “A pox on him for a scurvy traitor. But are you sure his wife and son died?” Penry cried.

  “Quite sure. I collect that the colonel married Lady Helena Manfrey—one of the Somerset Manfreys, I believe—who resided with him in India. She was in a . . . in a delicate condition and so remained in Bengal when he came to England. My papa said that when Lady Helena heard of the colonel’s suicide, she went quite mad. She took her infant son and rode away into the Indian hills. Their bodies were never recovered.”

  Her ladyship paused. “You should know more about this sorry business, Otto. You and Ranald Bretagne were cousins, after all.”

  It seemed to Miranda that Carlisle suddenly looked uneasy. “You’re talking nonsense, Eugenia,” he snapped. “Never was close to the man—we were cousins three times removed, and I was younger than he.” He paused to add emphatically, “My father knew the fellow, but after what happened he never spoke Bretagne’s name. Didn’t allow anyone to speak it in his presence, either, and I don’t blame him. Everybody knew the colonel was a demmed blackguard even though Severn used his influence to hush things up.”

  Suddenly he drove a fist down onto the breakfast table. “It’s damnable that the villain’s son should appear after all these years and take away what’s mine!”