Wizard's Daughter, Page 2

It seemed to Nicholas that she'd recognized him. Well, he knew her, so it made sense she would recognize him—but he just wasn't sure. She'd never met him, but her eyes—the light-filled blue, just as he'd known they would be—yes, he'd found her, even though he didn't yet know her name.

  The older man cleared his throat and Nicholas realized he'd continued to stare after her. He said to Nicholas with amusement, "I am Ryder Sherbrooke. This is my wife, Sophia Sherbrooke."

  Nicholas bowed to the woman, plump and pretty, her mouth full and soft, but she wasn't smiling, she was looking at him with a good deal of suspicion.

  He felt huge relief. She wasn't his wife. He bowed to Sophia Sherbrooke again. "Ma'am, a pleasure. I am Nicholas Vail, Lord Mountjoy. Your husband is an excellent dancer."

  She squeezed her husband's arm, laughed, and said, "My husband tells me he was born with accomplished feet. When we were younger he would let me dance on his accom­plished feet. I was known as the most graceful female of the season."

  Nicholas was charmed.

  Ryder said, "As I said, I have heard of you, Lord Mount-joy, and I am not at all certain I wish you to meet my ward, much less dance with her."

  His ward? Nicholas admitted to surprise. He hadn't imagined anything like this.

  "I have not been in England long enough to earn a reputa­tion to alarm you, Mr. Sherbrooke. May I inquire why you feel concern about me?"

  "Your father was a man I would have gladly challenged to a duel had he but once crossed the line rather than always toeing near it. I suppose I am foisting his deficiencies upon you, his son, grossly unfair of me, I know, but there it is."

  "To be honest, sir," Nicholas said slowly, "I escaped him as soon as I could. I rarely saw him after he wedded his sec­ond wife, which was during my fifth year."

  An eyebrow went up. "I understand his three younger sons would gladly stick a knife in your throat." Ryder paused a moment, looked at the young man searchingly. "You are aware, I assume, that Richard, your eldest half brother, feels the title should be his?"

  Nicholas shrugged. "Any or all of them are free to try for my gullet, sir, but I am a difficult man to dispatch. Others have tried."

  Ryder believed him. He looked big and hard, a young man who'd had to make his own way, a man who knew who and what he was. He watched Nicholas Vail look yet again toward Rosalind, who was laughing, as she always did when she waltzed. Ryder said, "It grows late, sir. After this waltz, I am taking my family home."

  "May I call upon you tomorrow morning?"

  Ryder looked at him appraisingly. Nicholas felt the weight of that look, wondered if he would be found accept­able. Of course he'd heard of the Sherbrookes. But to find this couple acting as her guardians, he simply didn't under­stand, and he knew to his gut that complications would now billow up like a raging wind. How had it come about?

  Ryder slowly nodded. "We are staying at the Sherbrooke town house, on Putnam Square."

  "Thank you, sir. Ma'am, a pleasure. Until tomorrow, then." Nicholas strode from the ballroom, oblivious of the guests who moved out of his way.

  Ryder Sherbrooke said to his wife, "I wonder what this young man is about."

  "Rosalind is beautiful. It is probably the simple interest of a man in a woman."

  "I doubt there is anything at all simple about Nicholas Vail. I wonder who and what he is."

  "If he is a fortune hunter, he will learn soon enough that Rosalind isn't an heiress, and he will look elsewhere."

  "Do you think he is in need of an heiress?"

  Sophie said, "I've heard it said his father gave him naught but a title and a dilapidated property, and he did it apurpose. I wonder why. Is this young man in debt? I don't know. But I do know, Ryder, that pride and arrogance meld very nicely together in him, don't you think?"

  Ryder laughed. "Yes, they do. I wonder if he realizes he is all the talk of London."

  "Oh, yes, of course he does. I imagine it amuses him."

  Neither of them noticed Rosalind staring after Nicholas Vail, who looked neither to the right nor to the left as he strode from the ballroom.

  Nicholas was accepting his cane and hat from a liveried footman, palming him a shilling for his service, when a voice said, "Well, well, if it isn't the new Earl of Mountjoy, the sixth, I believe, in the flesh. Hello, brother."

  Nicholas fancied he remembered that voice from his boy­hood, but it took a moment for him to recognize that the young man facing him was his eldest half brother, Richard Vail. It occurred to him in that moment, staring at the young man, that he minded very much sharing his name. He looked into Richard's brilliant eyes, dark as his own, nearly black, and they glittered—with anger? No, it was more than simple anger, it was impotent rage. Richard Vail was not happy. Nicholas smiled at the young man. "It's a pity your memory has failed you, and here you are so very young—I am the seventh Earl of Mountjoy, not the sixth, and the eighth Vis­count Ashborough."

  "Damn you, you shouldn't be either!"

  "And you, Richard, should consider growing up."

  The rage smoldered as Richard's hands clenched, un­clenched. A knife to the gullet? Surely a possibility. Richard was a handsome young man, nearly Nicholas's size, big enough to look down on many of his peers. Richard said, "I am a man, more of a man than you will ever be. I am wel­come in London. You are not. You do not belong here. Go back to your savage life. I heard you came from China. That is where you have lived, isn't it?'

  Nicholas smiled and turned to look at another young man standing at Richard's elbow. "I recognize you. You are Lancelot, are you not?"

  They could not have looked less like brothers. Unlike ei­ther Richard or Nicholas, this young man was slight, fair, and pale, the image of a delicate poet. Nicholas looked at his artist's hands, with their long fingers and beautiful shape. He wondered what his father had thought of this pretty son, who resembled his mother, Miranda, if Nicholas remembered aright.

  Out of his pretty mouth came a petulant voice. "Everyone knows I am called Lance."

  Nicholas drawled, "No knight then?"

  "Make no jest with me, sir. It was paltry."

  Nicholas raised a dark brow. "I? Certainly I wouldn't consider a jest with you. You are my family, after all."

  "Only by bitter and unjust circumstance," Richard said. "We don't want you here. No one wants you here."

  "How very strange," Nicholas said easily. "I am now the head of the Vail family, I am your eldest brother. You should welcome me, delight in my company, look to me for advice and counsel."

  Lancelot made a rude noise.

  "You are nothing more than a ne'er-do-well adventurer, sir, who should probably be in Newgate."

  "An adventurer, hmmm. That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Nicholas smiled at both young men impartially, strangers, both of them, and they hated him, doubtless made to hate him by his father and their mother. They'd been in­nocent children once; he remembered them from their last visit to Wyverly Chase, just before his grandfather had died. He'd been an ancient twelve. He said slowly, "I remember there are three of you. Where is—what is his name?"

  "Aubrey," Richard said, tight-lipped. "He studies at Ox­ford."

  Oxford, Nicholas thought; it sounded alien, it felt alien. "Do give Aubrey my best," he said, nodding to Richard and Lancelot.

  "I heard you were staying at Grillon's," Richard called after him. "A pity Father didn't leave you the town house."

  Lancelot snickered.

  Nicholas turned back. "To be honest with you, Wyverly Chase is more than enough. I am relieved that decrepit Geor­gian pile on Epson Square wasn't entailed to me. The repairs alone must cost you at least three nights' winnings at the gaming table, if you ever win, that is."

  Lancelot said, "Father wouldn't have left you Wyverly Chase either if it hadn't been entailed. A pity now that it will molder into the ground."

  "It moldered long before my arrival," Nicholas said.

  Lancelot said, "And you will not be able to do anything about it. E
veryone knows you're poor as a rooster catcher on the heath."

  "I don't believe I am familiar with that term," Nicholas said.

  "That's right, you are not a proper Englishman, are you?" Richard said, sneering. "It's a boy who handles the birds for cockfights, worthless little beggars with scarred hands from the birds biting them. We heard you sailed in from faraway China. We heard you even have several Chinaman servants."

  Nicholas gave them both a schoolmaster's approving nod. "It is good that you listen. Myself, I recommend listen­ing, I have always found it useful." As he turned to leave through the front door, held open by the same footman—all ears—he added, "Actually, I have always found listening more useful than talking. You might consider that."

  Nicholas heard Lancelot huff out an angry breath. Richard's eyes were black with rage, his face flushed. Inter­esting how completely their father had bent their minds into hatred of him, Nicholas thought as he strode down the broad wide steps to the walkway. He remembered Richard had been a happy boy, and Lance a cherub, all pink and white and smiling, content to sit at his mother's feet whilst she played the harp. As for Aubrey, he'd been so small when Nicholas had last seen him—a little boy who loved nothing more than to hurl a bail and run up and down the long corridor, yelling at the top of his lungs. Nicholas remembered how he'd nearly gone tumbling down the front stairs. Nicholas had scooped him up just in time. He also remembered Miranda screaming at him, accusing him of trying to murder her son, and Aubrey between them, crying and afraid. His father, Nicholas re-called, had believed it, and taken a whip to him, cursed him, and called him a murdering little bastard. Nicholas's grandfa­ther had been too ill to intervene, and he would have if he'd even been aware that his son and family had come to witness his death. Sweet hell, who knew why such memories bur­rowed into a man's brain?

  There were at least two dozen carriages lining both sides of the street, both the drivers and the horses appearing to be asleep. It was a good long walk back to Grillon's Hotel. Not a single miscreant appeared in his path.

  At the Sherbrooke breakfast table the following morning, a kipper poised on her fork, Rosalind asked Ryder, "Sir, who was that dark gentleman who wanted to dance with me last night? The young one with long hair black as All Hallows' Eve?"

  Ryder was a fool to believe Nicholas Vail hadn't made an impression on her though she hadn't said a thing about him on their way home the previous evening. He said easily, "The young man is the Earl of Mountjoy, newly arrived on our shores, some say from faraway China."

  "China," Rosalind said, stretching it out, as if savoring the feel of it on her tongue. "How vastly romantic that sounds."

  Grayson Sherbrooke grunted with disgust. "You girls— you'd say that riding in a tumbrel to the guillotine, shoulders squared, sounded romantic."

  Rosalind gave Grayson a big grin and made a chopping motion with her hand. "You obviously have no soul, Grayson."

  4

  Grayson waved that away. "Everyone is speculating about him. I heard he's in town to find himself an heiress. At least that means you're safe, Rosalind."

  "Of course I'm safe. I'm in the same hole with the church mouse."

  "Regardless," Ryder said, "he asked me if he could pay us a visit this morning."

  Rosalind sat forward in her chair, the nutty bun in her hand forgotten, eyes sparkling. "What? He wants to visit me?"

  "Or Aunt Sophie," Ryder said. "Who knows? Perhaps he was taken with Grayson, and wants to hear a good ghost story." Ryder frowned. "Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him you were my ward."

  "But why, sir? Oh, I see. As part of the Sherbrooke fam­ily, ward or not, he must assume I'm exceedingly plump in the pocket." Rosalind wasn't about to tell Uncle Ryder or Grayson that she was more disappointed than warranted at this nasty bit of news.

  "You're only discreetly plump," Ryder said.

  Grayson said, "On the other hand, from what I have heard of the mysterious earl, he never acts until he knows exactly what he wants."

  Rosalind said, "You mean he wants me even though I'm not an heiress? That's ridiculous, Grayson. Nobody would want me. Besides, he can't have me."

  Grayson tapped his knife on the tablecloth. "I will be with you when he pays his visit this morning. We must know what he wants from you. If he's come to the mistaken conclusion you are an heiress, I will dispel that notion immediately."

  Rosalind said, "He is very imposing."

  "Yes," Ryder said, "he is. I sent a note to Horace Bingley— the Sherbrooke solicitor here in London—to tell us what he knows of the earl. We will see what he has to say about the young man's character."

  Grayson said, "Excellent idea, Father, since no one really knows much about him. However, it does seem to be the consensus that he is a pauper and desperately needs to attach an heiress."

  Ryder nodded. "I've also heard that the old earl left his heir nothing that wasn't nailed down in the entailment. He beggared his own son out of spite—the reason for this strange behavior no one seems to know. I will ask Horace to find out, if, that is, Nicholas Vail appeals to Rosalind."

  He had indeed appealed to her, Rosalind thought, but didn't say that aloud. She didn't want to alarm Uncle Ryder before he'd ensured Nicholas Vail wasn't a bad man.

  But she knew he wasn't; she knew it to her bones.

  Grayson said, "We haven't given out any information about your early years, Rosalind."

  "What is there to say? I am of no account, I am nothing at all."

  Anger rippled through Ryder's voice. "You listen to me, Rosalind, you are not too old for me to wallop you."

  "But it is only the truth, Uncle Ryder. I know you always prize the truth."

  Ryder said to his wife as she came into the dining room, sniffing the air, "Rosalind has become impertinent, Sophie. What do you think we should do?"

  "Wallop her, Father," Grayson said.

  Sophie laughed. "Don't let her have one of Cook's nutty buns. That way I will have more and she will learn a valu­able lesson."

  "There are three left, Aunt Sophie," Rosalind said. "I swear I took only one; it's your son who is the glutton."

  Grayson toasted her with his teacup.

  Sophie said as she selected a nutty bun, "The Earl of Mountjoy presents the face of a man of mystery, a man with dark secrets. I have always found that a man of mystery piques a woman's curiosity, she cannot help herself. It is the nature of things."

  Rosalind nodded. "He is mysterious, yes, but he also looked apart from everyone at the ball, as if he knew he had to be there but did he want to be?"

  "That is called arrogance," Sophie said and took a blissful bite of one of the three remaining nutty buns. She chewed slowly, eyes closed. "Ah, Nirvana is close."

  "I don't think women are allowed in Nirvana, Mother," Grayson said.

  Sophie waved the last bit of nutty bun at him before she popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes again. "Ah, you are wrong, my dearest. I have ascended."

  Grayson said, "Nicholas Vail sounds like Uncle Douglas. He has a way of looking at a roomful of people as though their only purpose is to amuse him."

  "He even has the look of Douglas when he was young," Ryder said thoughtfully.

  Rosalind said, "He's coming to visit and I never even spoke to him. I could perhaps understand his wishing to visit me had he waltzed with me, since I am such a superb dancer, but he didn't. And he never enjoyed my wit, since I didn't have the opportunity to speak to him. Hmm, perhaps others spoke to him of my lovely way with words, my exquisite grace, do you think?" Even as she laughed at herself, she saw him very clearly in her mind. She could easily see him wearing a black cloak billowing in a night wind. He oozed mystery, dark boundless secrets, hidden and obscure.

  Sophie said, "Regardless of his motive for wishing to see you, Rosalind, I would say he's a man who likes to be in control. One cannot be in control unless one knows about everything."

  "Perhaps, my dear," Ryder said slowly, "just perhaps you are right. The earl does
look like he knows what he's about, and if that is indeed true, then he must know that you are not an heiress. So it's a mystery we have."

  "It isn't always about a girl's dowry, is it, Uncle Ryder?"

  "Yes," said Ryder.

  "Ha," said Sophie. "You took me with naught but the che­mise on my back."

  Ryder Sherbrooke's blue eyes dilated, something neither his son nor his ward wanted to explore, something that made both of them vastly uncomfortable. Rosalind took another drink of her tea. Grayson played with his fork.

  Sophie said, "He doesn't look like an easy man. All those secrets. He looks like he's seen many things, done many things, perhaps to survive." She sighed. "He is so very young."

  "Not so young at all, Mother," Grayson said. "He is about my age. Perhaps I look mysterious as well?"

  His mother, no fool, said immediately, "Of course you do, dearest. And your novels—goodness, there are so many terrifying happenings, so much mystery, my poor heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and one wonders where these black mysteries shrouded in dread and cunning come from. One must accept that they emerge from a mind that cannot be understood, only admired and marveled at."

  Rosalind listened, feeling her own heart sound slow, hard strokes. She saw Nicholas Vail standing in front of Uncle Ry­der, dark as a Barbary Coast pirate prince who would perhaps return to his opulent tent and lie at his ease on silk pillows, and watch veiled dancing girls. As for his size, well, he was larger than Uncle Douglas, she was certain of that. And he looked powerful, a hard disciplined man, both in mind and body. Nicholas Vail—she realized his name sounded through her mind with a strange sort of familiarity, and wasn't that odd? But she knew she 'd never heard of the family. And he was an earl—Lord Mountjoy. She 'd never heard the title be­fore either. She wondered what he wanted with her. She was eighteen and not at all stupid. How she wished that Ryder Sherbrooke, the man whose blood she wished she carried, would let her meet with Nicholas Vail alone, completely alone. Unfortunately, she thought sadly, that wouldn't hap­pen. It was not one of the benefits of being eighteen and un­married.

  5

  At exactly eleven o'clock, Willicombe, his bald head shin­ing brilliantly from the new recipe he'd used just that morning—aniseed, imagine that!—spoke in his lovely musi­cal voice from the doorway of the first-floor drawing room, "The Earl of Mountjoy, madam."