JoAnn Wendt Read online

  He must find out. He must leave nothing to chance.

  “As you enter the west receiving room, my ladies, sir—”

  The party flowed on, moving toward the nursery wing. On the pretext of studying a tapestry, McNeil extricated himself from Eunice and dawdled in the rear. From the moment he’d stepped from the barge to the grounds of Bladensburg two days earlier, he’d been tense and alert, waiting—no, damn it, yearning—for a glimpse of the boy. Today’s tour provided the first opportunity to go near the nursery. As the others drifted on, he lingered in the corridor, his throat dry, his senses heightened.

  Suddenly, behind the great double doors of the schoolroom, a young child’s laughter bubbled up. The happy laughter was followed by the sound of a switch coming down hard upon soft flesh. There was a terrible pause. Then, heart-wrenching sobs from the child, sobs that played upon McNeil’s nerves like a saw upon tin. He froze, horrified.

  A pedantic dry voice rose shrilly above the crying.

  “I warned you, my young lord. You are not to play, young sir. Your father, the duke of Tewksbury, has entrusted me with teaching you your letters. Now then, pay attention, my young lord. His Grace, your father, was a fine reader at the age of three. His Grace could read Latin and Greek at the age of five. You must emulate His Grace, my young lord.”

  But the sobs still came, and along with them, babyish catches of breath. McNeil’s anger knew no bounds. His hands shook. Lest he wrench open the doors and smash the face that belonged to the dry, pedantic voice, he strode rapidly away and caught up with Eunice.

  The incident banished any doubt he harbored about the morality of his mission. Robert must be taken away.

  On the third day of their stay he chanced upon Flavia’s portrait. Deferring to Lord Wetherby’s aunts’ request, the chief steward had ordered the dust covers taken off all of the ancestral portraits in the main ballroom. Flavia’s was among them.

  A dozen times a day McNeil found himself standing in the empty, echoing ballroom, staring hopelessly at her. It was a moving portrait and it awakened all the old grief. Girlish and innocent, she’d been painted perhaps in the opening weeks of her marriage. Her huge young eyes shone with hope and with a trusting belief in the goodness of life. There was a shy eager-to-please look to her, and her loose, casually arranged hair made her seem like a country girl on holiday.

  Physical pain, the same incapacitating pain he’d suffered in those first weeks after her death, stabbed at him again.

  * * * *

  The heels of his boots stirred dust devils as he hurried across the castle yard to join the Wetherby party down at the boat dock. A pleasure cruise on the barge was on the agenda, and pleasurable or not, McNeil had to attend. Eunice Wetherby expected it. And it was in his best interests to meet Eunice Wetherby’s expectations.

  He was about to descend the brick steps that wound down to the river when a flurry of noise and activity caught his attention in the stableyard. Three grooms huddled around a saddled white pony. The pony shifted from hock to hock as the grooms attempted to settle a wildly struggling small rider on its back. The would-be rider squalled in terror, pitching away from the pony.

  “No! No!” a tiny, sobbing voice shrieked.

  McNeil halted in midstride, his heart wheeling, his blood pounding in his throat. Could it be — was it—

  He knew it was. Without thought, he charged across the yard, grabbed the first groom, flung him into the dirt and went for the second.

  “Put the child down,” he roared. “Idiots! Can’t you see the child is frightened?”

  The groom that he’d flung was kneeling in the dirt, shaking his head like a stunned dog. The other two grooms stared, flabbergasted at the interference. Even the child in the oldest groom’s arms stopped crying, thrust a thumb into his mouth and stared at McNeil. The tot’s wet cheeks were a testimony to his misery. His little chest heaved with silent sobs.

  It struck McNeil like a thunderbolt. A two-year-old was not a boy, but still a helpless little baby. Tenderness welled up like a choke. He swallowed. Then swallowed again.

  “Put him down,” he ordered softly.

  Intensely, he drank the baby in as the befuddled groom hastened to obey. The baby was Flavia’s. No one who’d seen her could doubt it. The sweetness was there. And the face that verged close to being heart-shaped. But the eyes were McNeil eyes. And the dark hair was his. A cowlick swirled at the crown of the baby’s head, exactly where McNeil’s own cowlick made mischief, defying the comb.

  Gazing at his son, he could hardly breathe. He stared. Oh, Flavia . . . But the chief groom had recovered himself and was smarting with anger. Unable to discern whether McNeil was an important personage to be obeyed or just an interfering guest, he made do with shooting him a sullen look.

  “ Tis my assigned task to teach the marquis to sit a horse. If my young lordship don’t ride good by the time he be three year old, it’s my post I’ll be losing.”

  Tearing his gaze from the baby, McNeil raked the groom with furious eyes.

  “Proceed to teach him as you are doing, and you shall lose more than your post, I promise you. I will throttle you!”

  The groom muttered a bit to save face, then fumbled for his cap, pulled it off and held it against his chest in an unconscious gesture of obedience.

  McNeil squatted and smiled at the baby. Robert stared back, sucking his thumb.

  “You are afraid of the horse, Robert?”

  The tiny chest began to heave again. The thumb was sucked in, up to the last pink knuckle.

  “Would you like to ride on my shoulder? You can sit here.” McNeil patted himself. “We will pretend that I am a horse.”

  Robert stared warily. For several moments he made no response, but McNeil could see the child’s every thought reflected in his eyes. In this, the child was pure Flavia. All of Flavia’s feelings had lived naked in those large lotus blossom eyes. He watched as the tot struggled with his proposal. The dark eyes flashed first with fear. Fear slowly disintegrated into doubt, doubt into a child’s natural inclination to play. At last he nodded, and McNeil shakily held out his arms. His tiny son flung himself into them. At the sweet innocent smell of babyish flesh, McNeil’s heart thundered. He fought the urge to hug him close, to kiss the tear-streaked cheek. He wanted to whisper “You shan’t cry any more, Robert. Papa will see to it.” But he couldn’t, not in front of the stewards. He swallowed hard.

  “Up?” Garth asked thickly.

  “Up!” Robert echoed.

  Carefully he picked the child up and settled the child atop his shoulders. Two firm small legs straddled his neck. Holding him with both hands, McNeil stood slowly and began walking about the castle yard. At first, his hair was gripped tight in fear. Gradually, fear faded. A bubble of noise that was almost a giggle popped out. Then another and another, until the child chortled in delight. Letting go of McNeil’s hair, Robert flailed chubby hands, whipping his human horse.

  “Go,” he chortled. “Horse go!”

  McNeil went. For several minutes they trotted around the castle yard. Then, casually, McNeil strolled toward the white pony. By degrees, he introduced the boy.

  “See the horse’s eye,” he encouraged.

  Robert jiggled excitedly.

  “Eye! See eye!”

  “See the horse’s mane.”

  “Horse! Horse mane!”

  They played for a quarter-hour while the chief groom and the undergrooms watched sullenly. When McNeil judged the boy’d had enough, he lowered him from his shoulders and reluctantly returned him to the groom.

  “See that you teach him to ride in slow, easy steps, as I have demonstrated.”

  The groom’s sulky expression came just short of disrespect. Well aware of the folly of insulting a Bladensburg guest, the groom checked his temper.

  “’Tisn’t His Grace’s way,” he muttered.

  McNeil turned and stared the man down.

  “It is my way,” he said in a voice that left no room for n
egotiation. “You would do well to adopt it. In fact,” he added with a cold little laugh, “I insist!”

  He was satisfied at the scared, cowed expression that passed over the groom’s face. Then, lest he totally humiliate the man and stick his son with the consequences of the man’s temper, he quickly strode off without a backward look.

  Behind him, a small vulnerable voice rose, calling after him.

  “Up?” the voice pleaded. “Up?”

  Forcing himself to ignore the endearing summons, he straightened his shoulders and hurried down to the boat dock. Everyone was assembled, sitting in the canopied barge, sipping wine, waiting for him. Eunice Wetherby had saved him a seat beside her. The two fat aunts smiled and looked at each other like a pair of pleased conspirators.

  * * * *

  A hunter’s moon, huge and heavy, crouched upon a forested hilltop and flooded the Rhine River with invading white light as McNeil launched his skiff, unfurled its single sail and watched the sleeping port of Koln shrink behind him. The night was hushed and quiet. Everyone slept, except for an occasional dog baying at the moon.

  McNeil grasped the tiller and bent to the night’s tense work. He’d taken every precaution. The Wetherby party was now staying in Koln, on the estate of Lord Wetherby’s German cousin. McNeil’s room overlooked balcony and garden. At this moment, a candle burned at his writing desk and a man— who seemed, at a glance, to be McNeil — hunched over a book at the desk. The man was Jenkins, his first mate on the Caroline.

  The sail upriver from Koln to Bladensburg ate up two precious hours, McNeil judged, gauging time by the rising of the moon. He was careful to sail close to the shadowy shore with its overhang of trees, and he eluded the river’s customs houses by lowering the mast and slipping under the chains that stretched from river island to shore.

  When the ruins of the castle keep reared its head in the bright moonlight, he drew a deep breath of relief. So far, so good. He beached the skiff in a stony cove south of the boat dock. Shucking boots and stockings, he jumped into the cold water and dragged the boat ashore. Barefoot, he ran through trailing willows, then scrambled up the rocky slope that led to the ancient castle yard. In the bright moonlight, the tumbled ruins cast deep, velvety shadows. Sprinting from shadow to shadow, he worked his way through the yard and up into the terraced gardens.

  Bladensburg slept. River rats running freely in the garden and castle yard were a sure sign of it. The only unbolted door would be at the night steward’s post. McNeil had studied the man’s habits during the Wetherby party’s two-week stay. At precisely midnight, two o’clock and four o’clock, the steward marched out with a lantern to patrol the grounds. The steward’s route was the same each night: the gardens, then the stables, then the castle yard as far as the keep, then down the stone steps to the boat dock, back up the boat stairs, again through the garden and into Bladensburg Hall for a pint of beer. The duration of the patrol was thirty minutes. Sixty minutes if a housemaid awaited the steward at the boat dock.

  Breathing raggedly, McNeil settled into the shadows to wait. Time passed. The moon continued to rise. At last, the night steward’s door creaked open. Lantern light bobbed into the night and swung through the garden. When the lantern bobbed down to the second terrace, McNeil shot for the door, eased it open—and let himself in.

  He listened. All was silent except for the pounding of his own heart. A lantern burned on the steward’s untidy table, and a cat slept curled on a chair. The smell of beer was heavy.

  Drawing on wool stockings that he’d secreted in the breast of his dark shirt, he moved swiftly down the long polished corridor that cut Bladensburg Castle in two. At the wide center staircase, he crouched in the shadows, listening. Nothing. Skipping the second and the ninth creaking steps, he moved up the staircase and into the upper corridor, then into the nursery wing.

  Out of nowhere, a cat suddenly meowed. He froze, cold sweat breaking on his forehead. The cat came padding to him out of the darkness. She arched against his ankles, mewing, begging for a scratch. He scratched the cat’s ears to quiet it, then gently pushed it away.

  Noiselessly, he stole down the corridor to Robert’s sleeping-room and put his ear to the door. This would be the crucial part. He was aware that a nursemaid slept on a cot in an adjoining room, keeping her door ajar in the event the child awoke and cried out for her. Taking a deep breath, McNeil put his hand to the brass door latch. As his fingers touched it, the latch suddenly began to turn of its own volition. He lunged away, leaping into the shadows and pressing his body tight to the wall.

  The door opened without sound. A blond, braided head peered out cautiously, looking up and down the corridor. A whisper broke the silence.

  “Vilhelm? Is you? Vilhelm?”

  McNeil gripped the wall. He held his breath.

  The woman wandered out into the corridor, glanced first in McNeil’s direction and then in the opposite direction. Giving a breathy giggle, she flew down the hall, her white flannel nightdress flapping. A shadow appeared suddenly at the end of the corridor. There was a flurry of whispers. Another furtive giggle. The couple disappeared.

  McNeil released his breath slowly. Darting back to the door, he listened again and then let himself in. The room was bright with the light of the huge hunter’s moon. A door on the far wall stood ajar, and from it came the deep snores of still another sleeper. It was the second nursemaid. Quietly, he stole across the room and closed out the stout German snores and huzzahs.

  He drew back the sleeping-curtains at the boy’s bed and sat to waken Robert gently. He touched his cheek.

  “Robert?”

  With the alacrity of the innocent, the child woke. Having never experienced fear in the safety of his bed, he exhibited none now. He merely blinked in curiosity. As his dark eyes studied McNeil in the moonlight, a lopsided smile grew on his lips.

  “Up?” he croaked in a sleepy voice.

  “Shssh. Shssh, Robert. We’ll play ‘horse’ later. Will you come with me?”

  For answer, the child sprang up and flung himself into Garth’s arms.

  “There, there,” he whispered, choking at the sweetness of his son’s response. He patted him awkwardly. “We’ll play a game, Robert. In the game you must be very, very quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Can you do that?”

  “Yes!”

  “Shsssh!”

  “Shsssh,” the wide-eyed child mimicked, trying to please.

  Garth grinned despite the tense sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead again. Digging into his pocket for the sweetmeats he’d brought for just such a contingency, he popped one into Robert’s mouth. The baby’s eyes lit with delight. He chewed solemnly and silently, licking the sweet drool that seeped from the corners of his mouth.

  “There, old man,” Garth whispered, tucking an extra sweet into the chubby, eager fist. “That should keep you quiet as a mouse.”

  * * * *

  Harrington was waiting on the wharf in Koln. Already the sky was a leaden gray, and a thin pink line was forming on the eastern horizon as the skiff bumped gently against the pilings.

  “You’ve the landau?” McNeil snapped tensely, handing up the sleeping bundle.

  “Ay, Cap’n. The horses are strong and fresh.”

  “Head directly for Amsterdam. Change horses as often as needed. Travel day and night, if need be. Settle the boy aboard the Caroline, and Harrington—”

  “Cap’n?”

  McNeil stared at the small bundle and fought the urge to go to Amsterdam himself. No. That would be stupid and foolhardy. When servants at the Koln estate of Lord Wetherby’s cousin came into his bedchamber with his morning chocolate, McNeil must be in his bed, as though he’d passed the night in sound sleep.

  “Treat the boy as though he were your own flesh and blood,” he said at last to Harrington. “Dress him in clothes suitable for play. Give him plenty of food and plenty of sunshine. Let him get dirty if he chooses. I want him to look like—like an Amsterdam street urchin.”


  Harrington’s ruddy face wrinkled in perplexity. He stared at the child sleeping peacefully in his arms.

  “Who be the lad, Cap’n?”

  McNeil laughed softly.

  “What a forgetful old bastard you are, Harrington. The boy is a beggar orphan. You found him yourself in the alleys of Amsterdam. You rescued him, saving him from certain starvation.”

  Bewildered, Harrington blinked.

  “I did, Cap’n?”

  “You did. And I congratulate you, you charitable old sea dog.”

  Garth smiled wearily, and at last Harrington’s canny, trusting grin came into play.

  “That I did, Cap’n. I well recall it.”

  McNeil grinned, then tiredly looked up at the lightening sky.

  “Off with you, then,” he said.

  “Right, Cap’n.” Wheeling round, Harrington hurried with his sleeping bundle down the wharf to the waiting landau where two sleek chestnut horses pricked up their ears at his approach.

  Harrington stopped and swung around.

  “Cap’n? What do I call ‘im?” he called back in a loud whisper. “What be the little lad’s name?”

  McNeil rubbed his jaw wearily, the tension of the night draining away.

  “How should I know?” he hissed. “You found him. That makes you his godfather. You name him.”

  “Me?”

  Harrington broke into a slow grin.

  “Why, Cap’n—Trent be his name. After me own pa, Trent Harrington.”

  “Trent, it is. Now, go. Hurry. God be with you.”

  He waited until the landau clattered off, its wheels rattling softly over the cobbled streets of Koln. The echo of the landau faded, melding into the soft bump-bump of the skiff nudging the pilings. When he could hear the landau no longer, he shoved off. Daybreak’s wind was fresh and cool, sweet as a prayer. As he maneuvered the skiff into its home cove, he cast one last anxious glance at the town of Koln and its empty cobbled streets. “And God be with you, Trent,” he breathed. “God be with us both.”