Crystal Heart Read online

  Alana knocked briefly on the library door some days later and then came in. “Whew!” she said inelegantly, blowing out her breath and slouching into a chair. “Such a morning as I have had. Nothing would do but that Lady Pamela try on the clothing we found for her costume.”

  John looked up from his papers, grinning. “They didn’t fit.”

  “Indeed not. Far too small, and not one is pink. She is much put out.” She returned the grin. “She is saying people must have been smaller a century ago, and has decided she must have a suitable costume made.”

  “With less than a week to the masquerade?”

  “So the dressmaker said. But nothing will do but that Lady Pamela have her gown. In pink satin, by the way.”

  “God help us,” John groaned.

  “Yes, well, we won’t have to be there to see it.” She rose. “I’ve been ordered to do one more search of the attic. Will you help me?”

  “Certainly.” John rose and crossed the room, holding the door open for her. “Though we’ve gone through everything already.”

  “I know, but I couldn’t very well refuse.” She led the way upstairs to the attic, where both stopped, looking about at the jumbled array of trunks. “I don’t know what she expects me to find.”

  “God knows. I’m glad of it, though.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled and bent forward. “Gives me a chance to be alone with you.”

  “John!” She leaned away from his mouth, hovering a few inches from hers. “Do behave yourself.”

  “I thought I was,” he said, and lowered his head.

  “Oh, very well, just one kiss—mmph!” The rest of what she had been about to say was lost as his lips touched hers.

  John pulled back. “What were you going to say?”

  “Hm?” She looked up at him, her eyes dreamy. “I’ve no idea,” she said, and, hooking her arm about his neck, drew his face back down to hers.

  It was a considerable time later when, rumpled and flushed, they at last got down to the work at hand. “I’ll be glad to see the end of these,” John commented, kneeling and opening a trunk. “Never seen so many clothes in my life.”

  “‘Tis criminal to keep this locked away like this.” Alana held up a gown of green silk, trimmed with yellowed lace. Of the style of one hundred fifty years ago, it had a long, pointed waistline, a full skirt, and long, full sleeves of white muslin. “Is this not lovely?”

  “If you say so. That color would look well on you. Matches your eyes.”

  “If I were going to the masquerade—oh, well.” Carefully she folded the gown. “A shame it won’t be worn.”

  John stopped her in the act of lifting out another garment, and turned to her. “If you were going, who would you go as?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Strange. I’d have expected you to think about it.”

  “I’ve no reason to.”

  “No? To pretend for one night you’re someone other than yourself?”

  “Why would I want to do that? I’m perfectly content as I am.”

  “An impoverished gentlewoman, hired to take care of others?”

  “What would you be, then?”

  “A scholar,” he said, promptly. “But a wealthy one.”

  “Is there any such thing?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Not in my experience.”

  “There must be people in the aristocracy who enjoy books.”

  “Name one,” she retorted.

  “Well—can’t seem to think of anyone just now. But that’s who I’d be.” He lifted out the green silk dress. “In this gown, you could be whatever you wanted. A princess, or a duchess, if that is too exalted for you.”

  She shot him a look. “A duchess?”

  “Why not? Or a duke’s daughter, or—”

  “This is quite enough of make-believe, sir. I am what I am,” she said, tartly.

  “So you are.” He set the green dress aside, frowning a bit. There, he’d given her the chance to tell him who she was, and she hadn’t taken it. For that matter, though, why hadn’t he told her about himself? Alana was not the only person keeping a secret.

  “Well.” Alana rose, dusting her hands together. “That is the last of that trunk. I shall just have to tell Lady Pamela we couldn’t find anything more.”

  “Good.” John slammed the trunk closed, sending up a cloud of dust that made them both cough. “Before we go.”

  “What—John!” she exclaimed, as he caught her about the waist.

  “Just one more kiss.” He kissed her soundly and then stood, holding her close against him. “Would you consider marrying a wealthy scholar, Alana?”

  “This isn’t a masquerade, John.”

  “I know. But, would you?”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “First I’d wish to tell him—”

  “Mr. Winston. Miss Sterling. Oh!” The maid who had appeared at the top of the stairs stepped back, her hand to her mouth. “Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sorry to be interrupting, but Lady Pamela sent me.”

  “We were just about to come down.” Alana stepped away from John, patting at her hair. “Does Lady Pamela want to see me?”

  “Both of you, miss. There’s visitors for you.”

  John and Alana exchanged looks. “For us? But how can there be—who is it?”

  “Don’t know, miss, but Lady Pamela seemed terribly excited.”

  “We’d best go, then,” John said, touching Alana lightly on the back. “It’s time for luncheon, in any event. Where are these visitors, Libby?”

  “In the drawing room, sir.”

  Alana and John exchanged bewildered looks again. Visitors for them, in the drawing room? “Who could it be?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Alana murmured. They had descended from the attic and now stood before the drawing room door, Alana brushing futilely at her skirt. “And I’m all over dust.”

  “You look fine.” John reached past her to open the door, aware of the servants who flitted about the hall. Odd. They usually weren’t here, this time of day. “After you.”

  “Thank you.” Alana preceded him into the room, and then stopped so short he barely avoided colliding with her. A second later he, too, stopped dead, in shock. The visitors, two gentlemen of advancing years, had risen to greet them. “Grandpapa!” Alana gasped, her face white.

  “Father!” John exclaimed at the same time. It made them both stop and look at each other again. “Your grandfather?”

  “Your father? But I thought—”

  “So here you are, gel,” the Duke of Grafton said, cutting across her words. “Well, are you going to stand there all day, or do I have to come to you?”

  “I—oh, Grandpapa!” Alana flew across the room, to be enfolded in his arms. She was vaguely aware of the other people in the room, Lady Pamela and Sir Ronald and Miss Valentine; aware also that John had crossed to the other man and was shaking his hand. His father? That, though, was something she would think about when she could take it in. For the moment the only person who existed for her was this stubborn, well-loved old man. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came looking for you. If you knew how I’d been searching—” The old man’s eyes were moist as he surveyed her. “What are you doing, gel, working as a companion when you know I’d give you anything you want?”

  “Grandpapa, it’s not about that, and you know it.”

  “Just fancy!” Lady Pamela cut in. “All this time, we had two members of the aristocracy working here and didn’t even know it.”

  “Two?” Alana looked over to see John standing with the other man. The resemblance told her that they were indeed father and son. “But, who—”

  “It is ever so exciting. A duke and a marquess, in my house. Naughty of you to play such a prank on me,” she said, wagging her finger playfully at Alana.

  “A marquess?” Alana looked at John, who had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “It was a wager,” he said, turni
ng to his father. “To see if I could hold a position for six months. No one here knew.”

  “One of your more corkbrained schemes. Eh, Grafton?” the marquess said.

  “Not as corkbrained as my granddaughter, here. Alana, like to make you known to the Marquess of Ware. Good friend of mine. Oh, and his son, Viscount Kirkwood.”

  “Viscount!” Alana stared at John. “But you never told me!”

  John grinned for the first time since coming into the room. “You never told me, either. I’d say we’re even, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose.” Alana looked up at her grandfather, her head whirling. “But how did you find me? I thought I’d covered my tracks.”

  “Yes, want to talk to you about that. Got a letter from young Kirkwood, there.”

  “And then he wrote to me, to ask me what my son was up to,” the marquess said. “First I knew of it.”

  Alana wasn’t listening. “You knew,” she said to John.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “but not for very long.”

  “You knew!” She pulled away from the duke. “How long were you going to let me go on before you said anything? Or were you enjoying making a fool of me?”

  “Alana, it wasn’t like that—”

  “Oh, wasn’t it,” she said, bitterly.

  “Lainie, gel, this isn’t the place,” the duke began.

  “A wager. A wager! Was seducing me part of it?”

  “No, dash it, Alana, you should know better than that.”

  “Why should I? It was all a charade, wasn’t it? Everything you said and did, even this!” With a mighty pull, she snatched the crystal heart from her neck, heedless of the red mark it left on her skin. “This is as false as your love.”

  “Dash it, no! I do love you, Alana.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re just like all the rest. You love my money, my position—”

  “Damn it, that’s not true!”

  “Would you have courted me if I really were plain Miss Sterling?”

  “Alana,” the duke said, sternly. “Enough of this, now.”

  “Oh, yes, ‘tis enough.” There were tears in her eyes as she looked at John. “I trusted you, and you lied to me.”

  “You lied to me, too.” John looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. “I only did what I thought was best. I thought your grandfather should know where you are.”

  “So you wrote to him? Ooh! I cannot believe your nerve! I thought you were different, but you’re like all the rest. All you care about is having an aristocratic bride.”

  “If that’s what you truly think of me, then forget I ever asked you to marry me.”

  “Gladly! Take this back, then,” she said, and threw the crystal heart at him.

  John dodged, barely avoiding being hit on the cheek by the heart as it flew past. It continued on until it hit the wall with a thump, knocking out plaster and falling into brilliant shards on the floor. Shocked silence filled the room, all eyes on the heart, shattered into a hundred tiny pieces on the oaken boards. “Look what you did,” John said into the hush, and Alana ran from the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Would you care to tell me more about this wager?” the Marquess of Ware drawled. He was sitting at ease in a chair in the second best guest bedroom, while his valet unpacked his bags. Across from him John sat, leaning forward, hands clenched between his knees. An hour had passed since he had first seen his father in the drawing room; an hour since the crystal heart had shattered into fragments. He still had not recovered. “Or is it something you’re ashamed of?”

  “No, nothing like that.” John flicked his fingers impatiently and sat back. “It was stupid, I’ll grant you that, and if I hadn’t been in my cups I wouldn’t have done it. Or bored,” he added, glancing away.

  “Bored, is it? It’s as I said. You should come home and take up your responsibilities.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What is there to understand? Someday you will come into the title, and unless you’re prepared, it will overwhelm you. The land is part of you, John. It’s bred in you.”

  “I’m not like you. That’s what you never seem to understand.” John rose and began pacing. The marquess watched him and, after a moment, waved his hand at the valet, dismissing him. “You were right about one thing. Several things, actually. London life was beginning to pall on me, and I do need to learn how to run the estates. But I’m no farmer, Father. It’s not what I’d do if I had my choice.”

  “What would you do, then?”

  “Exactly what I’m doing now.” John sat again, leaning forward in his desire to make his point. “I’ve learned something about myself these past weeks. I do need to work. But my work, Father. Something to do with books and research. I think,” he said, sounding a bit surprised, “I might like to write books.”

  “Books.” The marquess eyed him with distinct disbelief. “Well, it’s better than gaming your life away in town, I suppose. Books.” He shook his head. “What brought this on? Miss Sterling?”

  “No. Well, a little, perhaps. All that time I thought she was exactly who she said she was, and I admired her. Never complained, never wished for what she couldn’t have, just made the best of things. I learned a great deal from her. Until I learned—damn it, why couldn’t she tell me who she was?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I—” Faced with the prospect of telling his eminently reasonable father about Sir Gabriel, John quailed. “It doesn’t signify. Why didn’t she trust me enough to tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you trust her enough to tell her the truth?” the marquess said dryly, and went on before John could answer. “Seems to me you both have something to answer for. Any road, you’re well out of that match.”

  John stared at the marquess as he rose and crossed the room. “What do you mean?”

  “The girl’s flighty. Look what Grafton’s had to endure.”

  “If he hadn’t—” John began, and then stopped. What had Alana and her grandfather quarreled about? “He must have done something to drive her away.”

  The marquess, bending over the wash basin to splash water on his face, straightened. “Only wanted her to make a good match. Damn, I should never have sent Mitchum away. Where’s that dratted towel?”

  “Here.” John handed him a towel, amused in spite of the situation. “You should try living without servants to do everything for you for a time, Father. Most illuminating.”

  “Huh.” The marquess wiped his face dry. “Fortunately I don’t have to. What do I do with this?”

  John took the damp towel and hung it on the washstand. “No, but it’s interesting what you learn when you no longer have a title to rely on.” John went still. “I wonder if that’s why she did it.”

  “What?”

  “Alana. Miss Sterling. I wonder if she tired, too, of being sought after for her money and position.”

  “Huh. Foolish of her. With all she has, she could make an advantageous marriage. So could you.”

  “Yes, yes. Is that why she ran away from Grafton?”

  “There was some talk of a broken engagement, I understand. Never did quite understand it. True, the young man, young Putnam, I believe it was, wasn’t in funds, but his background was impeccable.”

  “Putnam!” John’s face puckered, as if he’d tasted something sour. “The man’s a womanizer.”

  “What has that to say to anything? It would still have been a suitable match.”

  “But he didn’t want Alana. That explains much.” Explained her references to men she had known in London; explained why she had run away; explained what she had said about him in the drawing room. Understanding that went a long way towards easing his anger and bewilderment.

  “You’re well out of it,” the marquess repeated. “By the by. Your mother asked me to give you these.”

  John, sitting again, looked up to see his father holding out a letter and a small, tissue-wrapped object. Something about it jarred his memory. H
e wasn’t really surprised, upon unwrapping the layers of tissue, to find a crystal heart, suspended upon a chain. “For God’s sake,” he muttered.

  “Been in the family for years.” The marquess sat across from him, indicating the heart with a nod. “Don’t know why she wanted you to have it.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said again, holding up the chain. So like, and so different, from the one he and Alana had found in the attic. This chain was shining gold, not tarnished silver. As for the heart, it was deep, pure crystal, catching the weak rays of the winter sun and refracting them into tiny rainbows scattered across the oak paneling of the room. John squinted at the clasp, and saw, with a sense of inevitability, that there were initials etched there. “GF” on one side, “MF” on the other. Gabriel Follett and Madeleine Follett. It was the long-missing crystal heart. He was, indeed, a descendant of Sir Gabriel, able to fulfill at last the old vow. The only problem was, Alana wanted nothing to do with him.

  “She wants me to bring you home,” the marquess said, and John looked up, dazed. “Says she hasn’t seen you in months. Unless you want to go on with your wager.”

  John looked back at the heart, turning on its chain. “No. I’ve proven to myself I can do it. That’s all that matters.”

  “Good man. We’ll go as soon as we can. Damn.”

  “What?”

  “Forgot. Our hostess gave me this.”

  John took the pink scrap of paper his father held out to him. It was heart-shaped, and on it had been scribbled an invitation to the Valentine’s Day masquerade, for the Marquess of Ware and the Viscount Kirkwood. A smile briefly touched his lips. Alana would appreciate this, he thought, before remembering that Alana likely wanted never to speak to him again. “I’m not surprised. She’ll want to keep us here as long as she can.”

  “I’ll not stay for this. We’ll give our regrets this evening.”

  “No,” John said, so firmly that the marquess looked at him in surprise. “I want to see this through.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’ll stay for the masquerade.” Valentine’s Day. Of course. Nothing would be settled until Valentine’s Day. Between now and then, anything could happen; a stubborn young woman could even be persuaded to change her mind. John smiled. He wasn’t giving up yet.