Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 33

Turning, he stomped up the stairs and proceeded to Helen's bedchamber, the one he'd specifically picked for her, the one where they'd made love so many times. He stormed in, unconcerned that it was now the repository of Miss Crump's belongings.

He went directly to the wardrobe and yanked it open, stunned to find all of Helen's new clothes still there, with Crump's possessions neatly folded and pushed into the corner.

He ran his fingers over the pretty, sensual fabrics, remembering how he'd chosen each outfit just for her. In the dresser, the drawers were filled to the brim with Helen's undergarments and stockings.

She hadn't taken a single thing! She'd shunned it all, as if his gifts-that he'd selected with such care-meant nothing to her.

In a state of shock, he collapsed down on the bed, and as he tarried, he began to get angry.

He'd given her every material chattel a female could possibly desire. He'd showered her with affection and attention, and she'd thrown it all back in his face.

The ungrateful witch!

If another voice, a more rational voice, reminded him that he'd really given her nothing at all, that he'd blithely ruined her, never paid her her salary, and had refused to publicly acknowledge their connection, he conveniently ignored it.

She'd abandoned him-as his mother had abandoned his father all those years ago-and the realization was galling.

Was it too much to ask that a woman be faithful? Was it too much to ask that a woman be loyal?

He wondered where she was. She couldn't have had any funds. Was she dest.i.tute? Would she rather live on the streets than with him? Had she accepted another position-right under his nose? Had she...had she...run off with a paramour as had his mother?

In light of how fickle Helen had proved herself to be, he wouldn't put anything past her.

He dawdled for hours, too disturbed to leave. He kept expecting to hear her tread on the stairs as she rushed to be with him, smiling and glad to have him back.

When he happened to glance out the window, he was amazed to see that the afternoon had waned, that evening was quickly approaching. No doubt the tedious Miss Crump would arrive shortly, and it would be difficult to explain why he was sitting on her bed like an imbecile.

He marched to the wardrobe, scooped up Crump's possessions, and tossed them into the hall. Then he slammed the door, spun the key in the lock, and went to get blind, stinking drunk.

Miranda watched James slip away from their supper party by sneaking out onto the verandah. She hurried after him.

For weeks, he'd been prowling about like a wounded bear. He'd tormented Miss Crump until she'd fled in tears, and the servants were in an uproar over his uncharacteristic bellowing and criticisms.

James had always been the most amenable of employers, and they were of the opinion that his foul mood was due to the fact that he'd actually been in love with Helen Stewart. There was talk of locating her, of begging her to return so James would be pacified. The prospect had Miranda panicked.

The servants had never liked Miranda, and they blamed her for Stewart's abrupt departure. If James raged much longer, Miranda was terrified that one of them would tattle as to how Stewart had quit.

As he vanished down into the garden, she stepped outside. Eager to catch him alone, she raced down an opposite path, so it would look as if they'd met by accident. She slid onto a bench just moments before he rounded a corner and saw her.

"James," she cheerily said, "I thought you were playing cards."

"I was."

She patted the spot next to her, inviting him to join her, but he didn't, so she stood and sidled over to him. He was so tall, so masculine, and a little thrill s.h.i.+vered down her spine. What if she could get him to kiss her? What would it be like?

"Are you feeling all right?" she inquired. "Lately, you've seemed a tad... unhappy."

"I'm fine." He glared at her, and his gaze was worrisome. "What are you doing out here, Miranda?"

"Taking the night air. What would you suppose?"

"Really? You know, I heard the most interesting tidbit this morning."

"What is that?"

"The butler told me that you quarreled with Miss Stewart-just before she walked out. He said you were in my bedchamber, and you spoke with her there."

"The butler said that?" The nosy busybody! How dare he! "The man's insane. Why would I be in your bedchamber? And why must I constantly be harangued about Miss Stewart? I never liked her, and I'm not sorry she's gone. I haven't a clue why you're being such a beast about it. For heaven's sake, she was a servant."

"If I learned that you'd been cruel to her"-there was a hint of threat in his voice-"that you'd hurt her or lied to her, I'd be very, very angry."

"You're being absurd, and I have no idea why I listen to you when you're in such a temper."

"I've been thinking, and I've decided you should go home."

"But what about Tristan? What if there's news?" She grabbed the lapels of his jacket. "You can't send me away. Please tell me you won't!"

Up on the verandah, several people had come out and more followed until the entire roster of guests appeared to be outside. They were behind James, so he couldn't see them, but they milled about, then, as a group, they moved down the stairs and out into the garden, proceeding directly toward where Miranda and James were chatting.

Miranda tarried, letting them get closer and closer. As they pa.s.sed the hedge and had a clear view, she flung herself into James's arms, rose on tiptoe, and pressed her mouth to his.

There were many gasps and embarra.s.sed mutterings, causing him to lurch away as if he'd been burned.

"Honestly, Westwood," a woman t.i.ttered. "You and your ward? How cliche!"

James stared them all down, while Miranda grinned, anxious to have them recognize that she was glad they'd been discovered.

Something was supposed to happen now, but she wasn't sure of the sequence. A stern, fatherly figure was supposed to order James into the library for a private talk that would end with a proposal of marriage. But instead, a man at the rear of the group pushed his way forward.

"Let me through, let me through," he brusquely decreed, and the others split so he could approach.

Shortly, Jonathan Bramwell, Aiden's younger brother, emerged.

"James," he dramatically announced, "this message was just delivered. It's from Aiden. Another captain brought it back for him. He said it was urgent."

He handed James a sealed envelope as they all gathered around. Everyone was on tenterhooks, watching as James ripped at the seal, as he tipped the letter toward the light and began to read.

Frowning, he crushed the letter into a ball and clutched it over his heart, and he staggered as if he'd received a hard blow.

"What is it, man?" Bramwell asked, looking stricken. "Is it bad news? Is he dead?"

A deafening silence ensued, then James chuckled and shook his head.

"No, he's not dead. He's been found, very much alive. He's hale and healthy, and Aiden will have him here in a few days."

The crowd exploded in wild cheers, and Miranda fixed a smile on her face and pretended to be ecstatic, too.

London. Home.

Tristan peered out at the drab buildings, at the gray sky, and he laughed and stepped onto the gangplank.

Thousands of people had come to see him debark, and as he appeared-with James at his side-the wharf erupted in pandemonium. Women swooned. Bystanders screamed and threw flowers. Off in the distance, cannons were fired.

James had warned him about the frenzy that his rescue had created, but all the same, he was surprised by it.

He halted and waved, which ignited more mayhem, then he started down, gazing out across the teaming throng, but he didn't see Harriet anywhere. He tried not to be disappointed, but he was.

He'd asked one of the sailors about her, but was told she'd already left, and Tristan was stunned that she hadn't waited to say goodbye. Not that he necessarily deserved a goodbye, but still...

He sighed and continued on, his legs shaky from his recent illness. Just after arriving on Bramwell's s.h.i.+p, he'd come down with the worst influenza, having been laid low for over two weeks, which had severed things with Harriet in a way he'd never intended.

After he'd recuperated, he might have sought her out, but a spate of storms had effectively wrecked whatever slim opportunity remained to redeem himself. After the weather had cleared, he'd meant to visit her, but Bramwell had convinced him not to.

Coward that he was, he'd let Aiden badger him about his place in relation to Harriet. Tristan was going to marry Miranda. Where-precisely-did Harriet fit into that scenario?

He knew Bramwell was correct and he should forget about her, but it seemed wrong to leave without a farewell.

He jumped down to the dock, and a bevy of James's footmen forged a path to the carriage. Suddenly, the crowd parted, and there was Miranda, pretty and fetching in a lavender-colored dress, a matching bonnet.

"Tristan!" Trembling with relief, she rushed forward to greet him.

He pulled her into a tight hug. "h.e.l.lo, Miranda."

"I can't believe you're here! I just can't believe it! I was certain you'd perished. This is a miracle!"

Her eyes glistened with tears, and he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. The embrace was very sweet, very chaste, and when he realized it bored him silly, he pushed away the disloyal thought.

This was Miranda. Innocent, perky, flirtatious Miranda. His fiancee. Soon to be his bride.

A footman opened the carriage door, and Tristan helped her in. Then it was his turn, but he couldn't follow.

Feeling momentarily panicked, he glanced around. He was tall enough that he had a wide view, but Harriet was nowhere to be found, and a flood of melancholy washed over him.

While on Bramwell's s.h.i.+p, she'd been close by, so it had been easy to live with his disavowal of her. If he'd wished to change his mind, he could have strolled over to the hatch and descended to her cabin.

But now...

Once they drove away, he'd never see her again. If he wanted to get hold of her later, maybe to say h.e.l.lo or to check on her, he had no idea how to contact her.

"What is it?" James asked, coming up behind him.

"I was looking for the woman who was stranded with me. I should tell her goodbye."

At his mentioning Harriet, it seemed as if the entire mob froze, every ear c.o.c.ked in his direction.

James scowled and whispered, "Do you think that's wise?"

"Why wouldn't it be? We're friends. She saved my life."

A vision flashed, of those desperate, frantic hours out on the ocean where he'd been so gravely wounded. She'd nursed and encouraged him, and despite what anyone might ever say to the contrary, he'd survived because of her.

How could he go off without her? A life without Harriet was no life at all! What was he doing? Why was he here with all these strangers? He didn't belong with them. He belonged with her.

Alarm swamped him, and he nearly bolted, but James laid a steadying hand on his arm, dragging him back to the present.

"You claim she's your friend," James murmured, "so you should be aware that this horde is here to see her-more than you. The worst stories have been spread about her."

"What kinds of stories?"

"Rumor has it that she's a prost.i.tute, that she frolicked naked with Bramwell's whole crew."

"That's a b.l.o.o.d.y lie!"

"I'm sure it is, but if you seek her out, you'll only fuel the scandal by drawing attention to her."

"We were friends," Tristan said again.

"Forget about her," James counseled. "It's all in the past."

Miranda popped up in the window. "Did you tell him about the party?"

"What party?" Tristan queried.

"Drat it!" She grinned. "I've ruined the surprise."

"We're having a celebration at the house," James explained. "Everyone is waiting for you."

"Oh..."

He glanced around a final time, and far down the wharf, he thought he saw Harriet with a dapper-looking blond man, but he wasn't positive. It didn't matter anyway.

Spinning away, he climbed into the coach. James followed, the driver clicked the reins, and they hurried away.

Harriet hid behind a mast, trying to stay out of the way as sailors rushed by, finis.h.i.+ng ch.o.r.es so their sh.o.r.e leave could begin.

She should have already debarked, but at any moment, Tristan would step out onto the deck and proceed down into the crowd. It would be her last chance to speak with him, and she was having trouble working up the courage to approach him.

From the instant they'd been rescued, she hadn't seen him again. Not during her horrid bout of influenza. Not during the rough storms that had hit afterward. His behavior had made it clear that she meant nothing to him, and his rejection was killing her like a knife stuck through her heart.

Still, she wanted to say goodbye, and she didn't understand why it was so difficult. She'd never been shy or timid, but the world was moving too fast. It was loud and hectic, and she couldn't find her balance.

A door opened up near the bow, and two men emerged. They were tall and handsome with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. From the cut of their expensive clothes, they were obviously very wealthy, an aloof duo of affluence and power.

As they marched by, it took Harriet several seconds to comprehend that the man on the left was Tristan. He'd been bathed and barbered, and he was so changed that she hardly recognized him.

The fellow who accompanied him had to be his aristocratic brother, and she could feel her separation from them as blatantly as if they'd built a wall to keep her out.

As they walked to the gangplank, people saw them and erupted in cheers, and she crouched down, wondering what to do.