The Romany Heiress Page 2

  By rights, he should be elated the party was going so well. The weather had cooperated with blue skies. The light breeze coming in off the river contrived to keep the guests comfortable in the last throes of summer. The horse fair a few miles away in Staines would provide entertainment tomorrow, allowing his guests to get out of the house and into the glorious Surrey countryside. His personal coup de grace was the presence of his closest friends, Alain Hartsfield, the Baron Wickham and Tristan Moreland, the Viscount Gresham, along with their wives. The collection of close friends hadn’t seen each other for awhile, making the party a reunion of sorts for them.

  Giles surveyed all that lay before him, waiting to be filled with the usual satisfaction he experienced from orchestrating such flawless occasions. Today that sense of pleasure was strangely absent. Not even the presence of Lady FoxHaughton, his current but discreet affaire de coeur, could vanquish the emptiness that filled him despite all that surrounded him.

  Down on the lawn, Alain waved up at him and beckoned for him to join them. Giles smiled and waved back in affirmation.

  Giles wended his way toward them through the canopies set up on the vast west lawns of Spelthorne Abbey, under which resided tables and chairs for tea and blankets thrown about picnic-style for the younger or more adventurous guests.

  Laughter reigned at the canopy claimed by Alain and Tristan, their wives, and little AlainAlexander, Tristan and Isabella’s son. Tristan clapped Giles on the back goodnaturedly. “Finally, we get you to ourselves. You’ve been so busy playing host”

  Giles smiled and rocked back on his heels, quick humor on his lips. “These parties don’t happen by accident,” he joked.

  Isabella spoke up from her haphazard couch of pillows. “Of course not, and no one is better at organizing such events than you,” she enthused, careful to keep an ever-watchful eye on her toddling eighteen-monthold son.

  “I will tell cook that her efforts were well-received. She will appreciate the compliment.” Giles made a half bow in her direction. To his eye, Isabella looked lovely in her casual repose. With her honey-colored hair and tawny eyes, Isabella had been born to great beauty, but marriage to Tristan and motherhood had increased her beauty tenfold. Giles suspected it was due to the contentment she had found with the enigmatic viscount. The ache of emptiness he had experienced earlier flared again.

  A sudden movement on the blanket drew Giles’ attention. AlainAlexander had succeeded in escaping his mother’s reach and was attempting to stuff the remaining lemon scones in his mouth. In a swift movement, Tristan bent down and scooped the little boy up unto his broad shoulders while the little boy laughed and dropped crumbs in Tristan’s hair.

  “One scone is enough for you, little man, or you’ll end up with a stomachache tonight,” Tristan admonished playfully. He tossed the little boy up in the air, catching him and tickling him when he came down. Giles thought the boy liked it immensely, if the whoops he made were any indication.

  “Tristan! Your roughhousing is what will give him the stomachache” Isabella scolded, reaching to take AlainAlexander and settle him back on her lap. A soft, knowing smile passed between the couple as Tristan relinquished the boy.

  Another queer pang tightened in his belly as Giles watched the familial scene unfold. He cast a covert glance and caught Alain exchanging a quiet smile with his wife, Cecile. A discreet hand slipped briefly to her waist. Ah, there would be another happy announcement among their circle of friends soon.

  He did not begrudge his friends their happiness. But Giles could not deny the tinge of sadness he felt when he saw them together with their families. For the first time in the seventeen years he, Alain, and Tristan had been friends, he felt a chasm between him and them.

  Over the last few years, Alain and Tristan had had adventures of their own of which he had not been part. Tristan had served in the British fight against Napoleon as a covert agent. Alain had dedicated himself to single-handedly bringing oppressed French citizens to safety in England. They had had their adventures; they had found their true loves. They were bringing children into the world.

  All at once, the source of his ache became clear. He was not being left out-indeed, he stood as godfather to young AlainAlexander-he was being left behind.

  “Giles, you’re wool-gathering” Alain remarked. “Tristan just asked about the evening’s entertainment. Many of us were speculating on it down at the river this afternoon.”

  “Ah, my apologies,” Giles said glibly, covering his inattention. “Tonight’s entertainment is a secret” He dropped his voice conspiratorially, “I’ve hired a troop of performers, acrobats, jugglers and the like. In fact, right now, my footmen are no doubt setting up the performing area on the south garden lawn”

  “What’s an acwrobat?” AlainAlexander bounced excitedly on Tristan’s shoulders as he tried out the new word.

  Giles gave the little boy a smile and reached out to tickle his foot. “An acrobat is someone who does tricks with his body, like turning circles in the air.” Giles winked. “Can you keep a secret young man?” When the boy nodded, Giles went on, “There’s to be a fireworks display afterwards”

  The boy’s eyes grew big. “Can I stay up, daddy?”

  “Now you’ve done it, Giles. You have gone and spoiled him. How can I say no to that?” Tristan grinned up at the boy.

  “I’m his godfather. It’s my job. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will take a walk before dinner and enjoy some much earned solitude.” Giles said with a joviality he did not feel.

  A walk would clear his head and let him sort through the revelations racing through it. Away from the demands of the party, he could put his thoughts in order and gain a perspective on his current situation.

  He chose his favorite path, a bridle trail that ran along the creek to the north of the property. The trail would loop back to bring him up on the south side by the gardens where the evening festivities would take place.

  Already the burble of the creek and the shade of the trees soothed him. He breathed deeply of the summer scents of the forest around him. How he loved this land! The abbey and its extensive grounds had never failed to thrill him, to fire his blood, to define his purpose. Strolling under the green-leafed bounty of the summer trees was a potent reminder that he had been born to this land, born to be the Earl of Spelthorne.

  His whole life had revolved around becoming Spelthorne. When his father died two years ago, Giles had been ready to take up an earl’s considerable responsibilities with his trademark competence.

  How could he doubt the direction of his life when it had followed its pre-ordained course and achieved the desired results? He was master of the place he loved most in the world. He nurtured it, protected it, like a parent does a beloved child. His mind veered in that direction.

  Children. Eventually there would be children here to take up the banner of Spelthorne’s legacy. Giles knew that with certainty. Just as all else had followed in due time in his well-ordered life, so would the taking of an appropriate wife and the getting of heirs.

  Giles stopped and skipped a handful of pebbles in the stream. The serenity he coveted slipped away at the notion of setting up his nursery. Family and a spouse should have reassured him. The thought of acquiring a dutiful wife, as well versed in duty and order as himself, did not fill him with satisfaction. Watching Tristan and Isabella, and Alain and Cecile, he knew more than compatibility in marriage was possible. His friends had all managed to find great passion as well.

  He had been promised a great passion once upon a time. Unbidden, the lovely fortuneteller’s prediction came to mind. She’d spoken of overcoming challenges and finding passion. For a moment in that bleak garden he had thrilled to her words, feeling like a conquering knight of old at the thought of facing down challenges and claiming a lady fair for his own. Then she’d slipped through the gate and into the night. The moment passed, and he became Giles Moncrief the unexceptional again.

  He should have acted on his impulses t
hat night. He should have given his hands the free rein they ached for and let them run through the silky darkness of her hair. He should have gathered her to him and kissed her soundly on the full, inviting lips of her luscious red mouth. Even now, his body roused to his mind’s image of her perched on the low bench, hair tossed back, skirts swirling about her, her sharp green eyes studying him, not quite able to hide the reckless streak within and promising him the chance at a great passion.

  Giles threw the last pebble forcefully, hoping to exorcise the potent memory. Well, there was still time for his fortune to come true. Anything could happen. Of course, he didn’t really expect it to. Nothing simply “happened” to a man who did not make a habit of living life spontaneously. He was not Tristan or Alain, whose penchant for adventure had catapulted them down several unplanned avenues in their day. He was the Earl of Spelthorne. At the age of thirty-one, he had achieved his life’s desire. That should be enough. He should not wish for more. Many men lived entire lives achieving less.

  Giles clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra until the south lawn came into view. Down on the grass, activity reigned. His footmen were setting up a wide, raised platform for the performers. In a different section of the lawn, finishing details were underway on the white-clothed tables where the guests would dine alfresco amid his prized flowers and summer candlelight.

  Giles drew a deep, steadying breath. Yes, this should be enough for any man. Armed with that fortifying knowledge, he strode toward the activity to see what had transpired during his short absence.

  What had looked like organized activity from his vantage point looked more like chaos close-up. As soon as he neared the stage, Giles knew something was wrong. A brightly painted gypsy vardo was parked behind the stage and a dark-haired woman dressed in deep purple skirts stood toe to toe with the footman Giles had left in charge.

  An argument was in progress by the time Giles was within earshot and growing more ridiculous by the moment given that the woman couldn’t have been more than three inches over five feet and his footman was a robust six foot if not a bit more-a point that was heavily emphasized by their proximity to one another. His footman should know better. The first rule of any encounter was discretion. The pair was beginning to draw a crowd.

  With practiced ease, Giles clapped a strong hand on the footman’s shoulder. “Reginald, what is the problem here?”

  “My lord, forgive me. This gypsy claims to be the entertainment you’ve hired for this evening. I told her you were expecting the acting troupe from Staines to travel over for the entertainments.” His tone carried a hint of superiority as he laid out his information, obviously expecting his answer to be collaborated.

  “That is correct” Giles agreed, noting that the affirmation brought a near sneer of victory to Reginald’s face. He would have to remind Reginald that one did not gloat in the face of the defeated. Rule two of any encounter was to claim victory with humility. No one liked a conceited winner. It made for future antagonism and enemies.

  “Gentlemen, if I may have a moment to explain the circumstances before you decide between yourselves to have us thrown off the property without hearing all the evidence?” The woman said in a tone that indicated her displeasure over being treated as invisible.

  Giles turned to the woman, taking her in for the first time since he’d come down the slope. The world stopped. The bustle around him faded into a dull whir and nothing mattered but the apparition before him, conjured directly from his ruminations at the creek. Midnight curls spilled to her waist. Jade-colored eyes sparked with the thrill of the fight. High cheek bones added an aristocratic element to her face that was tempered by the fullness of cherry lips. If the Snow White of children’s tales came to life, she was this woman incarnate.

  Only this woman was more sensual, more mature than any child’s princess, and much more to his liking. He’d never given much attention to the young debutantes that flooded London every spring. His tastes ran to the more sophisticated woman.

  There was no mistaking that she was a vision from his past, the one fantasy he’d allowed himself. The woman was undeniably Irina Dupeski.

  For the sake of maintaining good form in front of the servants, he could not admit he knew her. For the sake of not looking like a foolish school boy who couldn’t control his body, he could not give away the effect she was having on him.

  Giles crossed his arms over his chest and said in his best authoritative tones, “My man is right. You are not the people I hired.”

  She gave him a long stare that belied her recognition of him. “Spelthorne?”

  “I am” Giles held her gaze, somewhat mollified that she shared some shock as well at seeing him again. It was gratifying that she remembered him. Still, he found himself willing her not to say anything about their previous association, as innocent as it was.

  “My man is right. You are not the troupe I hired. I suggest you explain yourself.”

  “The acting troupe has eaten tainted food and is unable to perform tonight. We have offered to come in their place,” she said simply, her gaze never leaving his.

  Giles gave a cold smile, the romanticism he’d felt earlier disappearing in the face of reality. Along with her beauty, he now recalled how well she’d worked his friends that night on the verandah-flirting with Alain, teasing Chatham, and coaxing Tristan.

  At the time, he’d been mesmerized by her efforts, finding her behavior simply vivacious. But later, goaded by Isabella’s skepticism over the event, he’d wondered if it had all been calculated persuasion on Irina’s part. Making him and his friends happy would certainly be more profitable than disappointing them. She was probably working him now, in an attempt to grab a quick purse. She would find he was no country simpleton.

  “I see. How commendable that you should perform in their place. I suppose the size of the promised purse or the opportunity to enchant an audience of peers had no impact on your decision? Tell me, did you pay the innkeeper to feed them tainted food or did you simply sour it yourself?” His logical mind was comfortable with such an approach. His heart was not. It preferred to remember the tender chemistry that had sprung between them on the stone bench when no one had been around to see. It preferred to believe neither of them had been acting then.

  She bristled at the accusation, color rising gloriously in her cheeks. “How dare you make such assumptions!”

  “How dare you assume I can be fooled” Giles ground out, holding to his logical line. “Remove your vardo and your companions at once, and I won’t involve the law.”

  The woman did not budge. “If we leave you won’t have entertainment for the evening. Regardless of the methods involved, the troupe is not going to perform. It is us or no one, milord”

  Giles noted she did not deny his charges of trickery further.

  She tossed her black curls and cocked her head in a pretty gesture Giles remembered. “Call a truce, milord, you cannot prove your claims nor can I prove my innocence. We’ll take your pay. You’ll take our services, and the vardo will be gone in the morning.”

  In the distance the dressing bell for dinner sounded at the house. The green-eyed minx had him at a disadvantage. He had no time to engineer a counter plan for the evening’s entertainment.

  Giles gave a curt nod. “We are agreed” Especially the “gone in the morning” part. Irina Dupeski with her tantalizing beauty and shrewd ways was a dangerous combination.

  As the evening went on, Giles’ concerns took a new avenue. The dinner was spectacular under the summer stars; Cook having outdone herself with the stuffed duck in aspic and the tender summer asparagus covered lightly with cream sauce. The gypsy troupe amused his guests with juggling, comic skits, dancing, and music.

  It was only when it was time for the fireworks, signaling the evening’s finale, Giles realized Irina hadn’t made an appearance. He had not caught sight of her in any of the acts. Her absence left him uneasy. What was she up to? It was too simple to assume she’d been unn
erved by their encounter and left. No, she was here somewhere.

  The prospect of ferreting out Irina Dupeski filled him with an awkward mix of excitement and anxiety. Further encounters with the Rom beauty could serve no practical purpose. He could not pursue her. She was not of his social class, and he was far too responsible when it came to relationships with women to engage in the only sordid option available to him where Irina was concerned. Besides, based on their heated exchange on the lawn, it was not even clear that she held that kind of interest in him.

  The crowd oohed and aahed over the pyrotechnics that arched over the lake and the summer house visible in the distance from the lawn. Lady FoxHaughton squeezed his arm under the cover of darkness, as the last of the show faded from the sky. “Giles, you’re a genius. People will talk about this party for ages” She gushed, elegant and proud to be at his side during his moment of triumph.

  He accepted her congratulations with a benign smile that masked his inner turmoil and dismissed her as politely as possible. He had no appetite for what she offered tonight.

  Finally, having seen all his guests settled for the eve ping and bidding goodnight to Tristan and Alain, Giles climbed the stairs, eager for the solitude of his chambers where he could decide what to do about Irina’s absence. He was torn between giving into the temptation of going to find her and the rational choice of staying safely ensconced in his rooms until the vardo was gone and Irina was out of his life once more.

  Giles stepped inside his chambers and stilled. The lamp his valet usually left burning low was turned up high, illuminating the room and the obvious fact that he was not alone.