China Rose Read online

  "Even more so when she gave him a daughter in less than the allotted time after the nuptials," Lady Prudence was quick to point out.

  Sir Wilfred glared at his wife. "It was talk like that that kept them in the country. Mind you, I suspect the change benefited him more ways than the one--he trebled his fortune in under five years, as I recall, starting up his own shipping and export company. Of course, it all fell apart again when young Melissa died. He just lost interest in life, in business, and gave up on everything."

  "Timothy Grant was nothing more, nothing less than a common profiteer," said Sir Ranulf evenly. "Investments that ran good one year turned sour the next. He was a gambler, Sir. He gambled his family fortune and lost--it happens to the best of them, and he was far from the best. In Grant's case, he foolishly staked his wealth on black gold."

  "Slaves?" Lady Prudence gasped and a hand fluttered to her breast.

  "Only a rumor, m'boy," Sir Wilfred was quick to say. "I doubt he would take a risk like that, especially when public opinion was running so strongly for abolition."

  "It still is. And there are still slavers...and enough wealthy Englishmen willing to break our laws to run the trade to the Colonies."

  "Ah, but there isn't a ship or captain welcomed in any honest port this side of the Atlantic if they carry the taint of black gold. If a business is found to be profiting on the side from slavery, they are ruined--family, reputation, everything." Sir Wilfred saw the sudden discomfort on Sir Ranulf's face and caught himself before he could splutter more. "Oh. Yes. Terribly sorry to bring that up, m'boy. Wasn't thinking. I heard that devil's spawn, Captain Savage, was back in port with his holds full of cotton."

  "Cotton!" Ranulf snarled. "Jason Savage is a slaver. The only reason he is able to dock here in Portsmouth is because he never has a trace of his stinking cargo on board. He leaves here laden with wool and copper, which he sells at exorbitant prices along the Ivory Coast. Then he crosses the Atlantic with the decks crammed beam to beam with slaves. He picks up his load of cotton and brings it here, laughing at the English laws even as he burns the tar pots day and night to rid the stench of chained flesh from his ship. But it never comes completely clean, does it? The Reunion is a slave ship and one of these days I shall personally see it set to the torch, her captain along with it."

  "You will have a difficult time of it, " Sir Wilfred frowned. "For he sails under American colors and insofar as I know, the slave trade still flourishes amongst the Southern Colonies. Your brother ought to have a care who he keeps company with. How many crossings has he made with Savage?"

  Sir Ranulf's eyes became cold and hard. "I do not keep track of my brothers' comings and goings. I have enough business of my own to worry about without acting as watchdog over either Eugene or Justin."

  "Eugene is a homebody," Lady Prudence noted, unfazed by the tightness in Sir Ranulf's jaw. "Always was and always will be. Not like that other rapscallion. It is almost as if Justin was sprung from a different bloodline."

  "Justin was an accident of birth," Ranulf said evenly. "Nothing more, nothing less. I care not if he decides to swear allegiance to John Quincy Adams or a Mongolian warlord. As long as he stays out of my way--out of sight and well out of my affairs--I am satisfied." He took a deep breath to control his rising anger. "As for the lure of Yankee gold, or whatever it is that attracts my youngest brother into Savage's shadow like a mewling puppy, you may be sure that if Justin ever set foot on shore with two coins to rub together, by nightfall they would worn clear through and vanished. He was left a trust by his mother, substantial too, but what did he do with it? How long did it last? Where did it go? I'll tell you Sir--it was squandered on women and drink and gambling dens. Those are his only interests, his only loyalties, not family ties or reputations. Certainly not any concern for the laws of the land."

  "Well!" Lady Prudence was nearly scarlet with indignation. Both men turned at the sound of her outburst, having managed to somehow forget her presence in the coach.

  Mention of Justin Cross tended to work that way on Sir Ranulf's sensibilities, while Lord Berenger-Whyte was simply carried away by the sound of his own voice.

  "What a perfectly horrid conversation to carry on in mixed company!" she declared. "I trust, when we arrive at the Pickthalls, that you will be better able to confine yourselves to more genteel topics than slavers and Mongolian warlords and loose women! "

  "A timely observation my dear, as we seem to have arrived," said Sir Wilfred as the coach rolled to a halt. "You are absolutely correct, as usual. There is no need to talk of such things. Come along now...give me your hand."

  Lady Prudence huffed past him, ignoring his offer to assist her out of the coach. She flounced through the iron gate and up the steps to the painted white door of the modest row home. The servant who answered the bell bade them wait in the drawing room while he announced their arrival.

  "Rather small, is it not?" Lady Prudence said, not in a whisper. "What did you say was his living?"

  "Tobacco," Sir Wilfred murmured. "Makes cigars, I believe."

  "Hmmm." She withdrew a handkerchief and held it under her bulbous nose as if the room was filled with the harsh smell of smoke rather than sweet lavender.

  A few moments later, the door opened and an elderly couple joined them. They were both in their mid sixties. Osmond Pickthall was tall and balding, easily twice the breadth of his wife Constance. She stood a head shorter, a slender wisp of a woman with graying hair that refused to obey the restrictions of pins or netting. Her hands were continuously in motion, fluttering with nervousness, never more so than when she ushered a third, slender figure into the room beside her.

  China Grant was somberly dressed in black, it being one year less a fortnight since her father's death. The starched collar and unrelieved severity of the bodice and high-waisted skirt did little to suggest there was anything other than a small-breasted, narrow-hipped young girl hiding beneath it. Her coal black hair was scraped back from her face and pinned into an unflattering chignon at the nape of her neck. Eyes the color of robin's eggs were fringed in jet black lashes and were by far her most startling feature. Her mouth was pleasantly shaped but pressed thin at the moment, betraying the same tension that kept her hands laced tightly together at her waist.

  Sir Ranulf's spirits were not encouraged to see so little had changed since their last meeting. There was not an excess ounce of flesh anywhere; she barely filled the bodice of her gown. Her nose was too sharp, her chin too susceptible to quivering, and her eyes far too large for her face. Her only redeeming quality appeared to be a complexion as flawless and near perfect as the dewy country air could make it.

  As for her character, he had no trouble imagining that she would run screaming from the marriage bed, or worse, lie there flat as a board, shocked and pale-lipped, praying to be bred immediately so that she could plead nine months of abstinence. He thought of his recent wildly explosive acrobatics with Bessy Toone and enough of his misgivings were eased to allow him to step forward and present his fiancé with the small bouquet of periwinkles he had carried in from the coach.

  "My dear Miss Grant," he said, smiling. "I was enormously pleased to hear you had arrived in Portsmouth safely. My most sincere apologies for being out of town until this morning."

  She dropped a small curtsey as she accepted the bouquet, murmuring her thanks. "You are too kind Sir. It was not my intent to disrupt the plans that had been made; I merely thought to take an earlier coach so that I might spend some time visiting with dear friends. May it please you, Sir Ranulf Cross, allow me to introduce Mr. Osmond Pickthall and Mrs. Pickthall."

  While introductions were made between the Pickthalls and the Berenger-Whytes, China Grant observed the handsome aristocrat she was to marry in two weeks time. He seemed taller, broader across the shoulder than she remembered. His hazel eyes were bold and direct, his jaw well set with an air of authority. He was the eldest of three brothers, a physician by calling, and at thirty-five years of age, was amb
itious in politics and considered a likely candidate for the next parliamentary elections. He was also considered, if Constance's whispered confidences were true, one of Portsmouth's most sought after bachelors and China was surely not alone in wondering why he would have consented to an arranged marriage to a girl who could do nothing to further either his political future or his fortune.

  A small land holding in Devonshire was the extent of her dowry. Her father's shipping business was defunct, there were no assets in any bank that she was aware of.

  She had been sorely tempted a dozen times already to return home to Devon.

  Feeling eyes on her now, she glanced up and noticed Sir Wilfred studying her as intently as he had been doing throughout the introductions and the first few moments of polite chatter.

  "By Jove," he muttered. "Your mother could be sitting there beside you, Miss Grant, and you would swear it was a reflection in a mirror."

  China flushed self-consciously and laced her fingers tighter together in her lap. "I am afraid I have few memories of my mother, Sir Wilfred. She died when I was but five years old. Father spoke of her often, however, and from him I gathered I bore some resemblance."

  "Not just some, child. You are the exact image. You have her height and form, the same dark hair, the same extraordinary blue of her eyes. Why, even the shape of your face was cut by the same hand. Look at her Prudence. Tell me that isn't Melissa Worth twenty years ago."

  "That isn't Melissa Worth twenty years ago," Lady Prudence said dryly. "And you are allowing your sentiments to run rampant again, you old fool. She bears a slight resemblance, nothing more. In the eyes, perhaps, but the nose is wrong and the mouth lacks character. She should take heart from the fact that she has a plain and unworldly countenance; such things do not beget rumors and gossip, which would hardly benefit the wife of a future member of Parliament."

  If Lady Prudence noticed or even cared that she embarrassed the girl, it was not evident; she was more concerned with examining the tray of cakes and sweets that was carried in along with the tea trolley.

  China, seated opposite the formidable brigade from Braydon Hall, barely sipped her tea. Her cake went untouched and her knuckles grew whiter and whiter as the tension throbbed through her slender body. She kept glancing surreptitiously up through her lashes at Sir Ranulf, who entertained the conversations amiably enough, but with an underlying edge of impatience that gave China the impression he wished to be anywhere else but seated on a brocade wing chair in a cozy parlor in Courtney Park.

  She knew that she was bound to be looked upon as an ignorant country bumpkin, and that regardless what she wore or said or attempted to do in the capacity of Sir Ranulf Cross's wife, she would be hopelessly inadequate. Secure in that knowledge, her courage was failing rapidly as the time drew closer for her to leave the homey comfort of the Pickthalls and take up residence at Braydon Hall. She was to spend the next fortnight there, chaperoned by the Berenger-Whytes, and she was dreading it more with each passing breath.

  As if reading her mind, Sir Ranulf set his empty cup down. "Ladies, Gentlemen...Mrs. Pickthall, I thank you for your gracious hospitality but we have an hour's traveling time ahead of us and I am certain Miss Grant will want to see herself settled at Braydon Hall before nightfall."

  Constance Pickthall fluttered her hands. "Oh, but--"

  Lady Prudence rose and spoke over any protestations. "Indeed, there was the threat of rain in the air when we arrived, and the roads leading out of Portsmouth proper, turn into dreadful ruts of mud. Wilfred, to feet. There is no need to devour every cake on the platter." She turned to China. "Hurry along now, child. You must learn not to keep a man of your future husband's stature waiting while you fuss over bonnets and capes."

  China and Constance excused themselves, the former on the verge of tears, the latter holding a hand to her breast to still the inner palpitations.

  "What a perfectly gruesome woman," Constance murmured when they were safely behind the closed door of China's room. "Your first task as Lady Cross should be to expel her with great force from your home. Indeed, you will outrank her once wed, as her husband is only a Lord of Busybodies. Oh now, come my dearest, you mustn't have wet eyes, that will only give the woman satisfaction."

  China sighed as she gathered her few remaining belongings into a brocaded portmanteau. The rest of her worldly possessions had already been sent on ahead.

  "I feel so...inadequate. And small, and...inadequate."

  "Now now, we will have none of that, young lady. You must remind yourself constantly that you are your father's daughter; brave, bold, strong of heart." She took the velvet ribbons from China's trembling fingers and retied the bow on her bonnet. "I understand exactly how you must be feeling. I can well imagine how a man like Sir Ranulf Cross would seem overly imposing to a young girl of tender age, but as is the case in most arranged marriages, your father thought only to provide security and safety for your future. It may seem terrifying and unfair to be thus handed from one household to another but it will all work out in the end, you'll see. Sir Ranulf is a fine man, see how tenderly he looked at you this past hour. In time you will see that your fears will become but a dim memory."

  "I thought he looked at me like a cat might look at a mouse," China said, then faltered as a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. "I know I am an extremely fortunate girl and should be grateful beyond measure that Sir Ranulf is willing to go through with this marriage. It's just that I feel so...absurd. I have no idea what is expected of me, no idea how to behave in his world. My goodness, he is a doctor of medicine, a politician, a Peer of the Realm..."

  "Do you suppose you are the only girl who ever suffered fears and reservations before her marriage?" Constance chided her gently. "Do you suppose your own mother was any less frightened than you right now when that dashing young man of hers challenged her to defy everything she knew to go out and conquer the world with him? She left home and family and society behind to follow him into an uncertain future filled with gossip and criticism and evil, wagging tongues. But she had character and determination--and the love she needed to see her through."

  "But he doesn't love me," China whispered. "He barely knows me."

  "You will make him love you," Constance said, cradling China's face in her hands. "How could he not? You are as lovely as the china rose your mother named you after. Rid yourself of these dreary mourning clothes, show him the beauty of the heart that beats within your breast, and yours will be a union to rival those penned by the great bard himself. You go down those stairs and dazzle that man with a smile. Let him hear you laugh. You will see...he is no blind fool. It will all turn out for the best, mark my words."

  Constance gave China a final gentle chuck under the chin and smiled. "And if Lady Prudence becomes too insufferable to bear over the next two weeks, just remember that she was so distraught after your mother's elopement with your father, she wept for three weeks straight and had to be sent away to Bath for the cure. She had her heart so set on Timothy Grant that she married the first stumble-tongued oaf who came along. And isn't that a more horrifying thought than anything facing you now? That you might have been her daughter."

  China's smile was genuine for the first time that day. She hugged Constance and kissed her cheek, then drew a deep, bolstering breath and headed back down the stairs. Sir Ranulf's small party was already waiting in the foyer, the two men standing with hats in hand. China touched cheeks with Osmond Pickthall, hugged Constance one last time and promised to visit soon.

  She felt a hand grasp her elbow firmly and looked up, somewhat surprised to see Sir Ranulf standing by her side. It was as if he had already assumed possession.

  The landau was waiting at the curb and, with a last blurred glance over her shoulder, China Grant boarded it and rode away in the drizzling rain toward her future.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Braydon Hall proved to be every bit as awesome and formidable as its owner. A stately three storey mansion, it had a gabled rooftop
that thrust at least a score of chimneys skyward. Boasting forty main rooms and surrounded by a hundred acres of gardens, ponds, and forest, it carried sections of original stonework that dated back three centuries. It was situated at the end of a long, winding laneway, walled on both sides by tall oaks. The lawns were immaculate, the backdrop of rolling hills made for an impressive first view.

  From China's third floor bedroom, she could look down over an enormous cobblestone courtyard that was flanked on two sides by the stables and outbuildings. Past those were gardens, bursting with color, a tall maze of squared boxwoods, and, if she leaned out the window, she could see the wide sweep of an elegant reflecting pool surrounded by willows.

  Scarcely in her room long enough to remove her bonnet, China heard a gentle tapping at the door. A maid entered and curtsied then set a small tray down on a table before speaking.

  "I brought you a pot of chocolate, m'um. The Master says dinner won't be for another two hours, to give you a chance to settle in proper. I'm to ask if you would like a bath drawn or--" soft amber eyes flicked up to China's severe chignon-- "or perhaps a good brushing out for your hair?"

  China reached up self-consciously and patted the knot of hair at her nape. She had found it easier to wear it this way through the days of travelling and anxiety, and was too weary to fuss over it now. The thought of a hot bath, however, was delicious.

  "A hot bath would be wonderful....?"

  "Tina, m'um." The girl curtsied again. She was petite, blonde haired, with a pretty smile and eyes that suggested a lively sense of humor lurking beneath. "The Master says I'm to be your personal maid for the time being, that I'm to look after you proper and see that you are wanting for nothing."

  "Thank you, I--"

  "Miss Pim an' me, we already started unpacking for you m'um," Tina said, bustling importantly across the room to open a set of doors on the far wall. They led into an adjoining dressing room, a chamber larger than the bedroom China had had at home. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, a full length mirror standing beside a dressing table covered with tiny pots of bath salts and perfumes and a myriad toiletries. Lining one full wall was an enormous armoire, and propped open before it, one of China's trunks that had been half emptied of its contents. Fully emptied along with the other three trucks she had carefully packed with all of her possessions, the armoire would still look cavernously bare.