Wicked Loving Lies

Instead of being grateful and relieved that he had ransomed her and taken her back, she had spent most of her time crying or mooning around with swollen eyes. She’d tricked him, curse her, damn her! And all the punishment he’d inflicted on her since then could not wipe that out.

After he’d left her that night, bruised and bleeding from the force of his assault on her body, he thought he had cowed her forever. And then, a scant month later, she had announced to him quite calmly across the breakfast table, “I think you’ll be happy to know, my lord, that I am expecting a child.” Then, as he half rose, she must have read the ugly resolve in his eyes for she continued in the same even voice, “I could not bear not to confide our happy news to Mrs. Gordon and some of the other ladies whose husbands are your closest friends. They all wish us well, of course.”

At least the child she bore was no progeny of an Indian savage—but he could not be thankful for that; for if it had been, he would have had the excuse and a reason to strangle it. No, she had produced a grey-eyed, black-haired brat who looked like her and might, by the slimmest margin of possibility, be his. And she had never, no matter how he threatened or bullied her, confessed to having been the mistress of that half-French American, even after he came back into her life.

“Why does she cling to her miserable existence? By God, that fool of a doctor said it would be only a matter of hours.” And then on the heels of his wish he received its fulfillment with the panted cries of the women upstairs and the scurrying of feet.

For the first time that evening the duke smiled and leaned back in his padded velvet chair. So it was over at last! He had everything prepared—all the necessary papers drawn up and signed and the doctor on his way. If all went well, he would be back in London by morning—no need to spend another night in the country with a corpse and whispering servants for company.

“Well, Leo? ’Pon my soul! I’d hardly expected to find you back in town so soon, after—” Lord Anthony Sinclair, Baron Lydon, let his words trail away into an awkward cough as he lowered his ponderous bulk into the padded leather chair next to his brother in the Select Room at Whites Club.

The duke raised an eyebrow as he studied Lord Anthony’s red, perspiring face.

“Indeed, Tony? I would have thought that you of all people would be the least surprised to find me back in town.” A certain dryness crept into his voice. “Well? Did you tear yourself away from Prinny’s company merely to offer me your condolences?”

Lord Anthony cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Dammit, Leo! Why will you always put a man so deucedly ill at ease? To tell the truth, I had half-expected to discover you here tonight. Saves me a trip into the country, y’know, although I daresay, with the funeral—”

“The funeral, my dear brother, took place very quietly this morning as you very well know. And, to forestall any further questions on the matter, I did not feel the need to be present. So, now that that is out of the way perhaps you will put me out of my suspense and tell me why you found it necessary to come looking for me.”

“Last thing I wanted to do, actually!” Lord Anthony confessed with a sudden burst of frankness. “Why does everything have to happen all at once, eh? But dash it, there was no one else to be the one to tell you, and you know the Prince of Wales thinks a great deal of you—reminded me that you have Chatham’s ear—”

Languidly, the duke raised one white, be-ringed hand, causing his brother’s words to stumble into silence.

“Peace, my dear brother, peace! I am afraid that I can make no sense at all of whatever you’re trying to convey to me. I presume you did come here to bring me bad news of some kind? Well, I have found that news of any sort is best delivered quite directly without any frills or evasions.” He paused deliberately to take a pinch of snuff and heard his brother sigh heavily.

“You’re a devilish cold fish, Leo. Damned if you aren’t. Never quite understood—but very well then, no need to give me that cold-eyed stare, I’ll come directly to the point. It’s your—it’s Dominic.”

This time he thought he saw a reaction in the duke’s cold, composed face, a certain strange gleam in his eyes, making them grow suddenly more brilliant for an instant. But the next moment, the duke had raised one eyebrow as he said calmly, “Indeed? But now you have truly surprised me, Tony. I was told some months ago that the young man had suddenly decided to take off for France in spite of the somewhat turbulent turn of events there. So? What of him?”

This time Lord Anthony was quite blunt, his face flushing.

“He’s here. In England. In Newgate Prison, to be exact, facing a charge of treason along with five other Irish rebels. And if you can’t do something about it, Leo, there’s going to be the very devil of an ugly scandal when he comes up for trial within the next fortnight.”

The duke’s snuffbox closed with a snap—his only show of emotion. He said softly, “So? And do they know who he is? Has anything been noised abroad yet?”

“He would have been summarily executed after a public flogging, along with some ten or fifteen others, if not for the intervention of a certain Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who informed the major in charge that the man known as ‘Captain Challenger’ was none other than the Viscount Stanbury and the heir to an English dukedom. Damn it, Leo—no need to look at me that way, I can’t help the way matters turned out! Fortunately, this Major Sirr proved to be an exceptionally intelligent and discreet man. He had five of the rebel leaders sent here to Newgate, under heavy guard, of course. And they’ve been permitted to speak to no one, not even to the prison doctor. No exercising in the prison yard, and their meals are pushed in to them through a grating under the door—”

“You may spare me the trivial details, Tony, and relate to me only the facts, if you please.”

The duke’s voice remained unaccented by any overt feeling, but his fingers had clenched themselves over the head of the slim sword cane he habitually carried. “How many persons, outside of yourself and the Prince of Wales, and this major fellow in Ireland, of course—how many others know?”

Lord Anthony, feeling himself reprimanded as if he had been a schoolboy, sounded a trifle sullen. “I told you—no one. Not even the warden of the prison himself. They are being kept incommunicado; that’s not unusual, you know, for those accused of treasonable acts! But the question is, dammit, for how long can the secret be kept? There will have to be a trial, and then—can’t you see what the results would be? I’m known to be one of Prinny’s closest intimates and you—I’ve heard rumors you’re likely to follow Chatham as prime minister if he ever decides to step down. I tell you, Leo, you cannot—”

“And I will not, my brother. But this, you must admit, is too public a place to discuss such matters. I will order my carriage, and we will go together to the earl of Chatham’s house. I think he will still be up. And then, on our—unnoticed, I hope—way to Newgate Prison we will talk further.”

“You are going to tell Chatham then? But—”

Lord Anthony was forced to cut short his expostulation as his brother, summoning a servant, gave the man instructions to have his carriage brought around to the door.

“With a personally signed order from the prime minister himself, I think we will be allowed access to these treasonable Irishmen. And then—we will see.”

The duke smoothed one long finger against the line of his jaw, and his voice grew thoughtful. “It will be interesting to see if the young savage I remember has changed very much since he’s grown into a man.”

In the beginning the duke, his fastidious senses already offended by the prison stench and the tiny, windowless cell to which he had been escorted, found it hard to recognize any resemblance to a man at all in the emaciated, heavily chained wretch who was half-pushed, half-carried through the iron-studded door.

The light shed by a single, flickering lantern was dim, and it took His Grace some moments to realize that the scarecrowlike, raggedly clad creature who fell back against the door as soon as it had closed was not only manacled hand and foot so that he could hardly stand, let alone move, but gagged as well. So the warden was following his strict instructions to the letter, it seemed! A conscientious man.

The duke had preferred to stand rather than take the single rush-bottomed chair that had been hastily brought in for his comfort. And now, moving leisurely, he permitted himself to take a small pinch of snuff before he reached with his other hand, still gloved, for the lantern.

Still moving slowly and deliberately, he crossed the small space between them, his polished boots rustling the dirty straw. There was no sign of movement, not even a flinching away, from the chained man, even when the duke suddenly held the lantern high, barely inches away from the bearded, bruised face. Or what he could see of a face behind leather straps that held the gag in place.

Was it possible that they had made a mistake, after all? That this was some other rascally rebel who hoped to save his own skin by pretending to be an English viscount?

The duke’s thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste. They should have thrown a few buckets of cold water over him before bringing him in here! His eyes, moving over the ragged figure, noticed without surprise the collection of cuts and weals that decorated both his torso and arms.

He said aloud, letting a sneer creep into his voice, “I see that our soldiers are as efficient as usual when it comes to putting down rebellions against the crown! I take it you were persuaded to confess to your part in it?”

There was no answer, nor had he expected any, but the man’s head went up at last, and slitted eyes that reflected the lantern light like silver looked into the duke’s appraising ones.

“So it is you, after all. You should have stayed in France, after all—or did you go there to drum up help for your ridiculous cause?”

The eyes were the same, although the boy of sixteen he remembered had grown taller. They glared defiance and hate at him, precisely as they had done so many years ago when Dominic had said, his voice flat and hard, “And someday I will come back here and kill you, for what you have done to my mother and to me.”

But as long as his mother lived, and the threat remained that the duke her husband might send her to Bedlam, Dominic had not dared to return to England.

The duke saw the corded muscles stand out in the young man’s throat as if he ached to speak—to cry his defiance aloud, perhaps? Or to beg for mercy? But there would be time enough to remove the gag if he wished it; and for the moment there were things he wished to say first.

“Your mother died last night—a pity there was no time to send for you or that I had no idea you were already on your way here. You’ll agree with me that it was a merciful release?”

This time there was a sound from behind the gag that sounded like an animal growl, and the duke smiled.

“Ah yes. I had forgotten how attached you used to be to the poor, unfortunate woman. But time, as you know, has a way of changing most things, and even the strongest bonds must break someday. You should be thankful for her sake that she died before she heard what you have been up to.” He shook his head, still with the thin smile curving his lips. “No, no, I would not attempt to spring at me if I were you! For chained as you are you would only suffer the further humiliation of falling flat on your face at my feet. As I recall I once had my grooms hold you while they administered the beating you richly deserved for attacking my nephew. I am afraid, Dominic, that your unstable temper comes to you from your mother—and with such a poor inheritance, who knows? For your own sake and the sake of others you might injure, it might be that I could have you committed to Bedlam—”

His eyes studied carefully the effect of his words, but apart from that first instinctive, abortive tensing of his muscles Dominic seemed not to hear him, his eyes now staring stonily over the duke’s shoulder.

Royse now lowered his voice slightly and his tone became almost insinuating.

“Come now, I have only tried to make it plain to you what I could and would do as a last resort! But if you are prepared to be reasonable and to curb your animal rages, why—we might talk.” He watched the silver-grey eyes that seemed to reflect back the flickering of the lantern without revealing anything that was in their depths, and he continued in the same studiedly reasonable tone. “You can nod, can’t you? Well then, if you wish me to remove your gag and promise that you will not subject me to any bursts of your usual insolence, I will do so. You see? I am prepared to be reasonable. You have only to move your head.”

There was a long moment when it seemed as if Dominic was determined to be stubborn, and the duke cast about in his mind for other methods. But his face showed nothing of his thoughts, and at last he caught the grudging, almost imperceptible movement he looked for and permitted himself to smile again.

“There, you see? That was not too difficult, was it? It has been a long time since we have had a conversation, you and I. And believe me, we would have done so much earlier if I’d had any notion that your Uncle Conal was letting you run wild and associate with the scum who call themselves the United Irishmen.”

Placing the lantern on the chair, the duke went behind Dominic and deftly began to unfasten the leather straps, noticing as he did so that the young man’s back was also a mass of cuts and festering wounds. They had really done a good job on him with the “cat”—a pity in so many ways that the meddling Lord Fitzgerald had seen fit to interfere before they finished him off.

There was a certain tenseness in the figure before him that prompted the duke, as the gag loosened and came off, to give him a quick shove with his gloved hand, sending him staggering forward onto his knees.

“There is no need for you to attempt to get up, for with the weight of those chains, you cannot. And I must admit I feel safer this way. Besides—” he walked a little distance away and picked up the lantern once more “—it will do you good to do some penance. I take it that you have gone back to being a papist as your mother was?”

The voice that finally answered him was a husky whisper as Dominic forced movement into his aching jaws and swollen tongue.

“Did you want to speak to me, Your Grace? Or merely to force me into just such ungovernable outbursts of rage as you accuse me of?”

The duke of Royse arched one slim blond brow. “It seems that you have actually managed to acquire some polish, after all! Did your uncle find you tutors in Ireland?”

Dominic’s voice was carefully controlled. “My uncle tried to teach me many things, as I think you would know. But in the end I found my own tutors. Is this what you have waited to ask me?”

The duke’s face had tightened and his eyes flickered, but he managed to control his rage within him. “My time is short, Captain Rebel. Tell me—why do you Irishmen who call yourself leaders always choose such overly dramatic names? Captain this and Captain that. But in the end you will all be brought to the same state—condemned felons, on their knees to English justice!”

“But an English rebel is entitled to stand before a judge, is he not, Your Grace? And before a jury of his peers. I had not thought I would sometime find a use for the grand title that my accident of birth bestowed upon me!”

“I had thought you had some such plan in mind! But be careful. I do not take my name or my titles lightly!”

“What will you do with me then? Have me killed before I can stand trial? Or committed to Bedlam as you threatened? Will you make arrangements to send me gagged into the court? I do not think your English justice, of which we’ve seen so little in Ireland, will tolerate it.”

“You’re still defiant, then. I take it you mean to make some brave, impassioned speech about justice and liberty and equality for all before they pass sentence on you? Oh—very gallant! I can tell you’ve been absorbing all the revolutionary ideas that have unfortunately spread from America to France! But do not think that I will let you drag my name in the dust.”

Dominic’s voice sounded suddenly tired. “I intend to open the eyes of some of the people in England to the injustice and brutality their armies and corrupt officials practice in Ireland in the name of King George. And if that constitutes dragging your name in the mire, then I must tell you, Your Grace, that only the two alternatives I’ve mentioned before will stop me from doing so.”

“I think not!” was all the duke said between his clenched teeth before he strode to the door and called for the jailers.

He waited until they had come back and refastened the gag, and then, drawing off his glove, struck the man the world knew as his son across the face.

In French he said, “If we ever meet again, you are at liberty to call me out for this. But I do not think that we shall.”

Outside the night air was clean and cold as the duke of Royse climbed into his carriage where his brother sat anxiously awaiting him.

“Well, Leo? Dammit, man, you had me worried when you took so long! And it’s a deucedly cold night too—a good thing I thought to bring my flask of brandy with me. Well, what happened? You look like the devil himself.”

“And so I might be called, by some! But I have decided what must be done and left instructions with the warden.”

Lord Anthony cast his brother a doubtful, sidelong look.

“Pitt’s letter helped, eh? Thought it might. He’s the real ruler of England now the king’s health is failing. But you were saying—”

“You did not let me finish, Tony. But yes, the earl of Chatham was good enough to give me carte blanche in the handling of this unfortunate affair, along with the expression of his fullest trust.” He sat back, relaxing against comfortable velvet cushions as he pulled the fur lap robe up over his knees. “Tomorrow afternoon at precisely two o’clock our five rebels will be permitted to take one turn about the exercise yard, at a time when all the other prisoners are already locked back into their cells. And at about two minutes after the hour they will be taken and impressed into the Royal Navy—a not unusual happening in many of our prisons both here and in Ireland, as you know.”

“By George!” Lord Anthony breathed admiringly. “Damn me, Leo—I always knew you had a devilish, devious mind! So there’ll be no trial after all, eh? And no scandal, thank God!”

“And our young rebel,” the duke added silkily, “will serve His Majesty for a change.”

PART ONE

1

The small Carmelite convent, white-washed walls almost hidden by the tall trees that surrounded it, stood like a miniature oasis on the dusty, arid road to Toledo. Like the royal estate at Aranjuez, which lay nearby, it was watered by a thin artery of a stream that branched off the Rio Tajo.

Sometimes, when one of the more adventurous young females left in the care of the good sisters was daring enough to climb atop the thick stone walls, she would see around her, shimmering endlessly under the sun, the arid brown and ochre plains of the Spanish province of Castile. How hot and desolate the countryside looked! And especially from the convent walls, where one had only to turn one’s head to see everything green—the shade trees, the fruit trees, and the carefully tended vegetable gardens. A peaceful place, cut off from the world where so many unpleasant things took place. And it was quiet here, too, except for the times the nuns would raise their voices in songs of praise during the mass, or when the muted bells tolled. At this time in the afternoon, it was quiet enough to hear the droning sound of the bees as they gathered honey from the profusion of flowers that grew almost wild here, in the reverend mother’s own private garden. Walls within walls….

The young woman who sat on a stone bench beneath the shadiest tree in the garden wore the sober garb of a postulant. Her head was bowed, and she seemed to study her clasped hands, lying in her lap. From a distance, she presented a perfect image of piety and humility, but the reverend mother herself, turning back from her window with a sigh, knew better. She had sent Marisa outdoors into her own private garden to meditate and pray for guidance, but she knew the child too well to be misled by the outward meekness of that bent head. No doubt the girl was dreaming of something else—new ways to show her rebellion, perhaps. Marisa had never learned true humility; and if she accepted discipline, it was only up to a certain point, and because she chose to for her own reasons. However, the letter that Mother Angelina had forced herself to read aloud that same morning must naturally have come as a shock. The child needed time to adjust herself to the thought that she was not to become a nun after all. Her father, it seemed, had other ideas.

“She’s so young yet,” mused Mother Angelina, “she will adjust. Perhaps it will be better for her this way. I was never really certain if she had a vocation or if she chose the cloister as a form of escape from all the ugly memories…. It is not right that a child, gently brought up and protected for all of her young life, should have been exposed to such horror….”

As the older woman’s thoughts turned back, so did those of the young girl in the garden. Far from being clasped together in meek submission, her fingers twisted against each other with a passion of rage she was unable to control; and her enormous, tawny-gold eyes were stormy.

She had tried to pray, as Mother Angelina had instructed her, she had tried to cleanse her mind of rebellious thoughts. But it was no use. Perhaps, after all, the discipline of the convent had never really left its mark on her recalcitrant nature. Humility, resignation, obedience, she could feel none of these.

Unwillingly, her thoughts flashed back to the morning, the usual routine being unexpectedly broken when she was summoned to the mother superior’s study.

She had hurried along the long, cold corridor in the wake of Sor Teresa, whose brown habit seemed to rustle with sour disapproval; Marisa cast back frantically in her mind for some small misdemeanor, some infraction of the strict rules.

But everything had faded away when she saw Mother Angelina’s kind, concerned face and the pinched lines around her lips.

“Sit down, my child.” Papers rustled on the small wooden desk. “I have just received a letter from your father. A special messenger brought it all the way from Madrid.”

“He—my uncle the monsignor has talked to him then? He’s consented?”

As usual, her eagerness had carried her too far forward, and she subsided into her chair, sitting very straight as she had been taught, trying to control her excitement under the shadow of the reverend mother’s frown.

The frown she was used to, but the sigh that suddenly escaped Mother Angelina’s lips made her wary.

“I’m afraid—you have to understand that God tests us in many ways. Your father—”

Marisa had not been able to prevent herself from interrupting.

“But I do not understand! Surely my father can have no objection to my becoming a nun? Why should he? If my uncle has talked to him—”

Oh, but it had been such a shocking, unpleasant interview! Mother Angelina, as upset in her own way as Marisa was, had taken refuge in unusual sternness, reminding her of the vows of obedience she had been willing to take.

Nothing could mitigate the shock of the contents of her father’s letter. For some time, Marisa could not bring herself to believe that she had heard correctly.

“Married? He—he has arranged a marriage for me with some man I have not even seen? Oh no. It cannot be true! I don’t wish to be married. I will not be married! I only want to become a nun, just like you. I don’t—”