Salt Redux Read online

  Salt put up an eyebrow in surprise. “So her ladyship agrees with the editorial hacks who pepper their opinions with cries of “Recall Lord S from the country!” as if I am a salve to be applied and government will heal?”

  “I don’t know about you being a political salve,” Jane said bluntly, “but I no longer want the Countess of S-H—not a subtle way of pointing the finger at me, I might add—being accused, in print, of holding you prisoner on your own estate with babies, babble and beauty!” She pouted and squeezed his hand. “Babies and beauty, mayhap, but never babble.”

  The Earl grinned and then became serious.

  “You would readily return to London and the life of a politician’s wife?”

  “I would readily take the children and follow you to the ends of South America if it meant an unbroken night’s sleep!”

  At that, Salt gave a shout of laughter and hopped off the bed. He kissed her forehead and then made her an elegant bow.

  “So be it, my love. Shall we tell the family the good news? Though, I doubt Caroline will be pleased at our decision to permanently reopen the house in Grosvenor Square. She enjoys living there with only Lady Reanay and Kitty Aldershot for company—”

  “—and her menagerie of assorted feathered and furry friends!”

  The Earl grinned and shook his head. “I do believe she enjoys their company more than ours.” He frowned on a thought. “Does she mean to continue wallowing in self-recrimination now her mourning is over?”

  Jane held his gaze. “There is only one person who has power over that.”

  The Earl knew she was referring to Sir Antony Templestowe, but he did not want to discuss his disgraced cousin today. So he refrained from answering her and went to the door, saying brightly, fingers curled about the ornate door handle, “Before I allow the family to descend upon you, and only for the briefest of visits, because you and the baby need to rest and recover, has my lady thought of names for the newest addition to our family?”

  “Yes, my lord. Samuel. Sam.”

  Salt grinned with boyish pleasure. “Sam? A son, Jane?”

  “Yes. Another boy. Your lordship now has an heir and a second. Though we shall never talk of Sam in such terms because he is as dear to us as Ned.”

  “Naturally. You know I would have been pleased with whatever you cared to give me, Jane.”

  “I know that, dearest,” she replied, though they both knew the birth of a second son was what was needed to secure the earldom’s future. “I hope you will be just as pleased with your son’s second and third names: Antony Hugh.”

  This stopped the Earl from opening the door to his children, who could hear him through the slim crack where the door met the jamb and were calling to him, despite a nursery maid’s best efforts to have them hush. He turned a shoulder to the bed, jaw clenched.

  “I wish to call our son Samuel Antony Hugh Sinclair,” Jane said placidly. “And for Antony to be Sam’s godfather.”

  “When you have had time to rest and recover and reconsider—”

  “Magnus, I have had nine months—longer—to consider names for our son. Had matters gone differently before Ned’s birth, Antony would be Ned’s godfather, too. Enough time has passed that not one eyebrow will be raised by such a gesture.”

  “And Caroline?” he asked with the raise of an eyebrow, as if highlighting the foolhardiness of her request. “I doubt she will see the matter as you do, my lady.”

  Jane sighed and briefly closed her eyes. She was exhausted and all she wanted was to sleep with her newborn son at her breast, but only after she had her husband’s assent to her request. To leave it another day would see her husband and Caroline fanning the flame to each other’s hurt pride, as they continued to be overly sensitive about an incident that had occurred four years ago. More than enough time had passed for brother and sister to put the past behind them and be reconciled to their cousin, Sir Antony Templestowe.

  “I cannot refuse you,” he said, after a small heavy silence between them. “I will write and ask him but there is the possibility he will refuse the honor.”

  “He won’t. And Caroline cannot refuse to be Sam’s godmother… If you ask her nicely.”

  “Jane. Do not play matchmaker. You are destined for disappointment. What’s done cannot now be undone. Caroline has been married and widowed. And from what I hear from others, Antony spends more time between the sheets pleasuring a plump Russian princess than he does on diplomatic business!”

  “Does he? Well, he has his mentor to thank for such diplomatic dexterity.”

  “I was his mentor!”

  Jane snuggled under the silken coverlet, unable to stifle a giggle. “And what a wonderful mentor you proved to be.”

  Salt’s face grew hot.

  “Jane! This is no laughing matter! I won’t have a lothario for a brother-in-law.”

  Jane did not state the obvious. Her husband had a past littered with beautiful mistresses and yet he was the most faithful and loving of husbands. She believed Sir Antony to be cut from the same uxorious cloth. Nor did she mention that Caroline’s short-lived marriage to the young fortune-hunter Stephen Aldershot had been a disaster from day one, and for reasons she was not about to discuss with her husband; there were matters brothers did not need to know about their sisters. So, she said placidly,

  “Of course I would not wish a lothario on Caroline. Now, please, my love, open that door before Ned and Beth scratch the paneling to wood shavings.”

  The Earl did as requested. With a beaming smile and lots of fuss, he scooped up his son and daughter, who ran into his open embrace. A nod to those crowded into the sitting room to follow, and he carried his children to the four-poster bed. Soon the bedchamber was overflowing with family and favored retainers. The newest member of the noble Sinclair family, wrapped snugly in his blanket, was put into his mother’s waiting arms and bravely slept through all the fuss.

  With the apologetic physician satisfied with the health and wellbeing of both mother and baby, the Earl gave the order for the ringing of the church bells in the family chapel, the parish church, and in every church as far out into the county as his lands extended. The tolling of church bells was a public proclamation that the Countess had provided the earldom with a son—another heir. Jane drifted off to sleep to these pealing bells—Lord Samuel Antony Hugh Sinclair nestled at her breast—thoughts not on her newborn son, or her family or even her husband, but on a polite handsome gentleman a thousand miles away.

  Had her noble husband been privy to her thoughts, he would have been alarmed and envious to discover the Countess was wondering how she could have Sir Antony Templestowe returned to England. She believed with all her heart that the love Sir Antony had for Caroline was enduring. The fire may appeared to have died, but prod the log, feed the flame, and that love, she was utterly convinced, could be rekindled anew to burn as brightly as it had in the past. The love the Earl had for her was proof of that. She intended to prove the same was true for the two people, beyond her husband and three children, she loved most in the world.

  THREE

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  SIR ANTONY TEMPLESTOWE would have been greatly encouraged had he been privy to the Countess of Salt Hendon’s thoughts. As he was not, he alighted from a dust-covered traveling coach laden with his personal luggage, weary, travel-worn and none the wiser that at least one family member had forgiven him for past indiscretions. He had not realized how much he missed his home city until now, standing on the pavement of South Audley Street looking down the row of Palladian terrace houses to the palace-sized mansions on Grosvenor Square. He stood as a statue for a moment, an ear to the discordant familiar sounds of the largest city in Europe: Horses’ hooves clip-clopping; carriages lumbering over compacted earth; the lilting cadence of barrow sellers shouting out their wares, and loud enough to be heard over the constant din; the endless cacophony of building noise, hammering and banging and the general racket of industry.

  He smiled, invigor
ated by it all, and finally went up the two shallow steps to the front door of his elegant double-fronted townhouse.

  The townhouse, once occupied by his sister Diana, Lady St. John, had reverted to his possession upon her incarceration, whereupon he ordered the rooms stripped of every vestige of her existence. While he was in Russia, the rooms were freshly painted, wallpapered and furnished to suit his tastes. He was most looking forward to the Etruscan Saloon. Before his departure for St. Petersburg, he had had only time to consult with the architect and choose colors. From letters he was told the room was now furnished with deep-cushioned gilded sofas and spindle-legged tables, the sash windows draped with velvet curtains in hues of terracotta and chocolate brown to match the classical wallpaper of vases and ancient draped figures. It was the ideal space for his silver samovar and assorted teapots and Imperial tea service.

  In his dressing room, there was a niche between the full-length window and the door into his closet, and this is where he would position the enormous Imperial copper bathtub with its canopy of diaphanous curtains to keep in the warmth while he soaked. Brought from Russia with great care and expense, it was a parting gift from his mentor, Prince Mikhail. He wondered if Semper had managed to have it positioned yet, and could think of nothing he wanted to do more than soak in scented water with a nice hot cup of caravan tea, perusing the latest edition of The Gentleman’s Magazine.

  He noticed the silver knocker was fixed to the black lacquered front door, signal he was at home to visitors, and reasoned Semper must have reinstated it knowing he was due to arrive any day. His majordomo, contingent of Russian servants, and personal effects he had sent on ahead by sail from Esjberg, while he traveled by carriage from Lubeck to The Hague to deliver diplomatic correspondence too sensitive to be trusted to a courier. More importantly, it allowed him to recover from the sea sickness suffered on the sea voyage from Helsinki to Lubeck. Stepping on to English soil after the final sea crossing, he was green but utterly relieved to be on terra firma.

  The door opened and there was Boyle, his rake-thin butler, and behind him a footman who was quick to help him shrug out of his fitted greatcoat and divest him of ornate sword and tan leather kid gloves.

  “So good to have you home at last, Sir Antony,” Boyle said with a welcoming smile and short bow. “Mrs. Boyle and I have waited this day for a very long time.” With a wave of a hand, he sent three hovering footmen out into the street to help offload the assortment of portmanteaux and parcels. “And may I say how well you’re looking.”

  “You may, Boyle. Thank you. I trust Mr. Semper and my Russians have not disrupted your household routine to any great degree?”

  “Not at all, sir,” the butler replied, following Sir Antony into the black and white marble entrance foyer with its elegant Adam staircase.

  “Mr. Semper found them all places to perch?”

  When his lordship raised an eyebrow and waited, the old retainer said with a knowing smile, “There’s no need for your lordship to concern yourself about the household staff. Mr. Semper has proved himself an excellent majordomo, and Mrs. Boyle couldn’t be happier with the young Mrs. Semper. They are trying their best with a lingua franca, and Mrs. Boyle can’t praise enough a more diligent seamstress and embroiderer as Mrs. Semper. Five of the Russians are quartered in the annex and been given odd jobs, and those who speak Frenchie have been put into footman’s livery as requested. A more polite lot of foreigners I’ve yet to meet.”

  “Good.”

  At least his household was organized, which left him free of distraction to pursue the matter of getting his personal life in order. The thought of facing his cousin the Earl with the news his mad sister had broken free of her bonds and was lurking somewhere near—he did not doubt that for a moment—brought him out in a cold sweat.

  Possibly, the Earl already knew. A month had come and gone since the apothecary’s letter and no news of any kind from Salt. Admittedly, he had been traveling and not told his family of his intention to return, so letters could have crossed. But he did not think so. His sister was mad, that was indisputable, but she was also exceedingly intelligent and mind-bogglingly cunning and would wait the most opportune moment to be reunited with the Earl, at a time and place that best suited her evil intent. As to how he was to find her and confine her before she could inflict harm to those he loved most in the world, he still had no clearer idea than he did before he set off from St. Petersburg. One thing he was very clear on. Once she was recaptured, he intended to have her transported to the furthest reaches of the Russian empire.

  Diana running free was enough to dampen his enthusiasm for returning to the city of his birth, but there were also his strained relations with Lady Caroline Aldershot. If he had the choice between hacking off a limb or seeing her happily married to another, he’d choose the former any day! What was he to say to her? How could he congratulate her husband when he wanted to wring the life out of him? What was he to do…?

  The butler repeating his question, a little louder than before, brought Sir Antony out of his reverie and he let go of the mahogany balustrade, suddenly aware he was gripping the polished wood.

  “Would you care to change out of your travel clothes before joining the small party in the Saloon?”

  Sir Antony stayed his jockey boot on the first step of the elegant staircase. His gaze traveled up the curved wall covered in gilt-framed ancestors and fixed on the first landing. “Small party…?”

  “Yes, sir. Afternoon tea is being served in the Saloon before the party heads off to Vauxhall Gardens. I believe there is a recital this evening…”

  Sir Antony looked over a shoulder. “Guests?”

  “Lady Porter, Lady Dalrymple and a Mrs. Smith. Although, as Lady Dalrymple has come to stay and as Mrs. Smith is her ladyship’s companion, there would in truth be only one guest: Lady Porter.”

  Sir Antony turned away from the staircase and faced his butler.

  “I beg your pardon, Boyle. My brain is rather tired. All that traveling, you understand. You will need to enlighten me further.”

  “Her ladyship has taken to having a regular gathering on Thursdays. This being the third Thursday in a row, I would call it regular.”

  “And Lady Dalrymple has come to stay? Here?”

  “Yes, sir. At her ladyship’s invitation.”

  “And this other personage, this Mrs.—Smith, she also now resides under my roof?”

  “As companion to her ladyship, Mrs. Smith is installed in the small apartment adjoining her ladyship’s rooms, while Lady Dalrymple, after consultation with Mr. Semper, was given the second-best bedchamber, the one with the partial view of the garden that has a small adjoining sitting room, and is across the passageway from her ladyship. Lady Dalrymple’s maid is being accommodated with the chambermaids and not wanting for anything. None of these arrangements, I assure you,” the butler stressed, observing the blank look to his master’s handsome features, “will affect your lordship’s comfort in anyway. The ladies are ensconced on the south side of the staircase, while your lordship retains complete dominion of the north wing. On that, her ladyship, Mr. Semper, Mrs. Boyle and myself were in complete accord.”

  If Sir Antony was weary and wanting a bath when he alighted from his carriage, he was now in need of a nap to clear his mind, newly clouded with such assiduous household arrangements. One matter remained in complete fog. He realized later that there could be only one response to his question. Yet, at the time, the possibility remained so far removed from his consciousness that he never gave it a moment’s consideration, despite it being the reason for his return to London. His complete and utter shock and failure to grasp what was staring him in the face exacerbated his reaction tenfold.

  “Her ladyship…?”

  The butler smiled in sympathy with his master’s tiredness, for who else could her ladyship be if not his nearest and dearest? As if in response to his question, the door to the Etruscan Saloon opened and the noise of conversation and female laugh
ter spilled onto the landing. Her ladyship, a clutch of talkative females at her back, peered over the balustrade, ivory lace fan gently waving across her low décolletage. Seeing who it was in the entrance foyer below, she let out a gasp of surprise and turned to the others to announce the master of the house was finally home safe. She came sailing down the stairs in a billow of brocaded yellow silk taffeta petticoats and matching mules that clack-clacked on the steps. Her arms, three tiers of delicate white lace cascading from the elbows of tight three-quarter length sleeves, were outstretched in welcome.

  The butler grinned at such an effusive reconciliation and said with a sense of the grand occasion and sweep of an arm,

  “Sir Antony, the Lady St. John.”

  EARLIER, when outside his townhouse listening to the sounds of the city while admiring the view, and blissfully unaware of what awaited him indoors, Sir Antony was equally oblivious to the yellow-painted landau with its three female passengers that drew alongside the pavement. Had the female occupant on the house side of the landau extended her pretty silk parasol, she could have tapped Sir Antony on the shoulder. She did not. Her first reaction was to quickly avert her face lest he recognize her. But as he was in profile, gaze fixed on some distant point, there was little likelihood of him turning in any direction but the front door of his residence. He certainly would not want to front the congestion of a line of carriages that had come to a standstill because of a hold-up in the flow of traffic further down the street.

  With this in mind, the female slowly turned to boldly stare at him. As she was wearing a very pretty straw Bergere with a wide brim and a string of blooms encircling its shallow crown, she had to move not only her head but also her shoulders, and tilt her chin up, so the brim did not obscure her view. Such was her shock at seeing Sir Antony returned from Russia, she was blind to the quizzical look of her sister-in-law sitting opposite, who stared openly from Lady Caroline to Sir Antony and back again. She was also deaf to her elderly aunt’s monologue on the accident that had brought all traffic traveling north and south to a stop. Preoccupation with Sir Antony’s profile also made Lady Caroline unaware her eccentric aunt had taken advantage of the stationary landau, and with the help of Kitty Aldershot, and the aid of her Malacca cane, was up on her heels to have a clearer view of unfolding events.