Chapter 10

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

—Coleridge

The carriage conveying Elysia, Trevegne, and Charles Lackton rolled up the tree-bordered drive to the home of Squire Blackmore. Blackmore Hall sat in all its glory and ostentatiousness at the head of the gravelled drive. A combination of all architectural styles of the day was represented in its design. Gothic towers loomed over Chinese-styled cupolas copied from the Prince of Wales Pavilion in Brighton, and fought with Indian facades and Greek columns. The hall was lighted by what seemed to be thousands of torches placed in front of the entrance illuminating it like a noonday sun.

Elysia gasped aloud in utter disbelief.

"Yes, it's rather overpowering," Alex commented dryly. "It really is quite distressing—even worse by day. The original structure was a small manor house that the squire bought a few years ago and built onto. As you can see, he gave little thought to cost—or apparently to taste. But wait for the coupe de grace , m'lady."

Charles Lackton was craning his head out the window. He turned and stared at them, his mouth gaping. "I can't believe it. This is fantastic. I've seen the Prince's place in Brighton, but this—this is just like being in China!" Charles exclaimed with excitement

Alex looked at Elysia in despair. "Spare us the impulsiveness of youth, that any more of these…" he paused as if searching for an appropriate word to describe Blackmore Ha ll "…atrocities may not be perpetrated on this sacred land of England."

Elysia laughed in agreement. "In fact, m'lord, it should be against the law, and carry a strict penalty. You will, of course, mention it in the House of Lords next time you attend?" Elysia asked innocently, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

"Most definitely, m'lady, for how can I, a peer of the realm, allow such a thing to exist on my very own doorstep?" he mocked, as Charles stared on in confusion at this by-play.

As their carriage halted, the squire's footmen descended upon them like a swarm of bees, and escorted them into the noisy hall. Dominating the center of it was an elaborately decorated, bubbling fountain with dolphins spurting water, and mermaids reclining gracefully about the basin, and seats fashioned out of stone into giant shells and lily pads. The whole fountain seemed gilded in gold, and Elysia glanced at Alex's amused expression as he watched her reaction.

"Quite a tour de force , m'lord," she said.

"Quite, m'lady. Would you like me to build one for you?" the marquis asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"How did you guess, m'lord? I quite see it in your study," Elysia retorted with a straight face.

"You wound me deeply, m'lady," he murmured as they greeted their host.

Squire Blackmore welcomed them with a beaming smile, effusively thanking them for joining the party. He was a jovial host, eager to see to all of his guests' needs, feeling personally responsible for entertaining each and every one. His yellow breeches, red satin coat, and bright-green vest could be spotted everywhere among the crowd—outshining even the elaborate dressings of the squire's dandified London guests.

What Mrs. Blackmore, the squire's self-effacing little wife thought, one could not tell, for she said little, and was seen even less. She was small and plain, dressed in mauve with a small pearl brooch her only adornment. She was a startling contrast to her peacock husband who strutted about in all his finery, diamonds and rubies glittering among his pudgy fingers.

Elysia caught a glimpse of herself and Alex in one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors. They looked an attractive couple, she could not help but think, as her eyes wandered proudly over Alex's dark-red coat and white satin breeches, and silver brocade vest. A large, blood-red ruby glowed darkly among the folds of his snowy-white cravat.

Elysia's green eyes stared back at her from the glass and seemed to rival the sea-green dress that floated about her with each step. Its interwoven golden threads looked like sprinkled stardust casually thrown by the hand of a playful fairy. Gold ribbons were tied beneath her breasts and threaded behind to disappear beneath the gauzy train falling off her shoulders and down her back. Her hand strayed to the shining green stones encircling her throat.

The Trevegne emeralds—magnificent jewels that hung like a ring of green fire around her neck, adorning her arms like entwining snakes, and winking like cat's eyes in her ears and scattered through her hair.

Alex had brought the jewels, enshrined in a gold-encrusted case, into her bedchamber as she dressed—placing the case carefully in her hands. Her look of astonishment and pleasure when she opened the latched lid and stared speechlessly down at the glowing gems on a bed of white velvet had pleased Alex. Particularly when she admired their settings and disclaiming the idea he suggested of changing them to a modern design—preferring the original design that had been in his family for generations.

The marquis had given her an odd look—smiling to himself over her words as if at some private joke. She was unaware of the Trevegne legend, handed down from generation to generation of Trevegne men, predicting a fertile and blissful union for the master and his bride, should the emeralds remain unaltered—retaining their original appearance, as seen in the portrait of the first Lady St. Fleur.

Elysia could now see Charles Lackton's bright-blue coat among a group of people reflected in the mirror. She glanced about the crowded room full of chattering people, looking for Louisa Blackmore. But Elysia couldn't see her among the colorful throng of people crowding close to offer their congratulations to the marquis, and to get a glance of the woman who had finally captured the elusive Trevegne.

She suffered the inquisitive glances, sly and knowing, tinged with a hint of jealousy and malice from the women, and admiring and friendly from the gentlemen. They flirted outrageously with her when Alex was out of hearing. Their glances lingered on her bright hair, magnolia-soft shoulders, and swell of breasts revealed by the décolletage of her gown. Elysia felt half-naked by the cut of bodice and the fragile semi-transparency of the material, until she saw some of the dresses the other ladies were wearing. The transparency of their gowns revealed every curve and line and movement of their perfumed bodies.

Elysia searched around the room for Alex. Finally she saw him in conversation across the room with several gentlemen and a beautiful woman in a glittering gold dress. Diamonds dripped from her neck and arms, while a tiara of diamonds nestled in her dark hair. She was unbelievably alluring and Elysia wondered who she was as she watched her husband laugh at some remark of hers, inclining his head to hear what she was whispering into his ear, her fingers caressing his sleeve intimately.

Elysia abruptly turned away, accepting a goblet of iced champagne from a footman, feeling an unsettling emotion inside of her at seeing Alex with another woman. She took a sip of the bubbly liquid and smiled at the attentive young bucks trying to engage her in conversation, half-listening to them as her eyes constantly strayed to the two people conversing in the corner.

The whole room seemed to be gilded; in fact, it was a mansion of gold glittering against gold, illuminated by the enormous crystal chandeliers that nearly blinded one with their brightness. Blackmore Hall had none of the aged mellowness and charm of Westerly, with its weathered walls, warmly aged wood, and remembrances of past generations stamped upon it. There the past was a part of the present.

Elysia glanced about her at the garishly printed wallpaper. Every available space was occupied by tables with vases and busts and priceless objets d'art , sofas, cabinets, and chairs of the most outlandish design. Everything bespoke newness, the vivid colors clashing with each other. Blackmore Hall was gaudy in its flamboyance and extravagance—like an overdressed kept-woman, wearing all her trinkets in her insecurity.

Elysia felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Louisa Blackmore standing beside her. She was wearing a demure, white muslin gown, with a single string of pearls clasped about her neck. She looked frail and angelic—like a dove that did not belong among this menagerie of colorful and exotic creatures.

"I'm so glad you've come," Louisa said breathlessly, taking Elysia's arm and guiding her away from the group of surrounding people.

"And I am glad to see you. Yours is the first familiar face I've met," Elysia replied. "I shall commit a faux pas soon, for I've been introduced to so many Lord so-and-so and Sir this-and-that, that my head is aswirl with names and faces that do not match."

"I never do know with whom I am conversing, but then they very seldom know who I am either," Louisa said, shrugging without resentment.

"Ah, Lady Elysia," Squire Blackmore interrupted, "you are indeed looking exquisite, if I may compliment you. Louisa," he said directing a stern look at his daughter, "you must not monopolize our guest of honor. I have warned you repeatedly of this. She is not interested in you—now go see to your duties."

"Yes, Papa," Louisa answered apologetically, drifting off before Elysia could stop her retreat.

"Your daughter had been graciously entertaining me, Squire Blackmore," Elysia defended her friend, resenting the squire's bullying attitude.

"Yes, yes, but she is a tiresome child at times," he explained, his eyes riveted to Elysia's emeralds. "Those are the Trevegne emeralds, are they not?" he said as he gazed covetously at the jewels.

"Darling, aren't you going to introduce me to the new Lady St. Fleur?" a drawling, feminine voice spoke from behind them .

Elysia turned to face the dark-haired, golden-clad figure she had watched earlier amusing Alex.

"Of course, I had not realized that you had not been introduced. Lady Elysia, allow me to introduce Lady Mariana Woodley, the toast of London," he said ingratiatingly, in honey-tongued tones.

"Only in London?" Lady Mariana teased the squire, but her smile was slightly forced as she stared at Elysia's beauty—and the emeralds that she felt should rightfully have belonged to her.

Elysia smiled at the beautiful Lady Woodley, and received a slight smile in return. Then she felt her own smile freeze upon her lips, as she read the blatant hatred and jealousy in the flashing brown eyes—their murderous message obvious. Elysia glanced about, feeling desperate to find Alex. She felt a shiver run up her spine as Lady Woodley flicked her fan in agitation.

"We were all quite surprised to hear that Alex had gotten himself a wife," Lady Mariana said, making it sound like something distasteful. "Alex is—or was—such a roué. I wonder if he will change his ways, or have you successfully chained him to your bed?" she demanded brazenly.

Elysia raised her chin higher as she felt a slow anger begin to burn inside her at the other woman's crudeness.

"Alex is quite a man. There will be quite a few cold beds in London now that he is out of circulation," Lady Woodley added maliciously, a sly look in her eyes.

"And will yours be one of the empty ones, Lady Woodley?" Elysia asked sweetly, unable to control her smouldering temper any longer.

Lady Woodley gasped as Elysia's barb scored a hit and she slightly raised her fan as if to strike, when Alex appeared and stepped between them nonchalantly.

"I see you are becoming acquainted with one another," he said smoothly, noticing Elysia's flushed cheeks and flashing green eyes, and the sullen look on Mariana's face. "I want you to meet someone, my dear," he said, guiding Elysia away smoothly. "Lady Woodley, if you will excuse us. "

"One of your amours , m'lord?" Elysia asked curiously, forcing her voice to sound casual.

"Possibly. Not jealous are you, m'lady?"

"Not at all, m'lord. Although I am told there are a number who will be."

Trevegne laughed heartily, drawing the attention of several people, surprise on their faces at seeing the haughty marquis laugh. "I seem to recall a line from an unknown poet that expresses my sentiments exactly. Let me see…how does that go?" He paused thoughtfully, "Ah, yes, it begins ‘You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.' Do you agree?" He looked at her provocatively. "I'm not the one to turn down an invitation to dine—especially if it is well-prepared."

"Are you sure, m'lord, you did not just happen to think that up one evening in one of your clubs, after boredom and drink had claimed your wits?"

"Ah, you've a genius for making light of my finer accomplishments," he grinned.

"I wasn't aware that you had any, m'lord."

"I need never fear hearing honeyed words full of cajolery from you, m'lady—but remind me never to ask you to deliver a eulogy for me, or indeed I shall be damned and sent straight to Hell."

With that parting shot he left her with the squire, who escorted her into dinner. Elysia found herself seated on the right of her host, and Alex opposite her on the squire's left. The only two people with whom Elysia thought she could have enjoyed the dinner, were lost to her view down the great length of table among the other guests. Charles and Louisa were placed at the end with the less important personages.

Elysia avoided looking across the table where Alex was sitting with Lady Woodley next to him—a smug look on her beautiful face. Like the cat that swallowed the canary—and would choke on it, Elysia thought, as she watched Lady Woodley flirt playfully with Alex. Elysia's eyes narrowed as she stared at the dark-haired woman in speculation. So…she was a widow. The squire had been a fountain of information—especially about the lovely widow who was a favorite of his an d was considered a nonpareil in London. And, it was obvious even to the casual observer, that the widow was interested in Alex—and knew him quite well.

"Please to allow me to speak to you. This r-roast beef, c'est magnifique, n'est-ce pas ?" The Frenchman sitting next to Elysia started a conversation, half in French, half in English. His accent was thick, and he rolled his R's off his tongue in a rhythmic fashion. "Voila, Lady Elysia," he declared theatrically as he passed her the salt.

" Merci monsieur, mats je ne sais pas v?tre nom ?" Elysia apologized for not knowing his name, her French accent perfect.

A look of utter delight passed over the young Frenchman's dark features. "Ah, vous étes enchantêe, " he crooned. " Je suis Jean-Claude D'Aubergere, Comte de Cantere. To speak to me in my native tongue gives me such pleasure. I feel not so much the foreigner here in this cold land—it warms me as if I were back under the sunny skies of France. For this gesture, je suis v?tre servant dévoué . You are the beautiful Marchioness of St. Fleur, of course. We were introduced—but I do not think you remember so insignificant a Frenchman," he said sadly.

"Oh, but I do remember you, comte, for you most opportunely interrupted a tiresome monologue on the finer points of embroidery by the vicar's wife."

"Then, it was my pleasure to rescue you from cette dame formidable ?" he grinned engagingly. "It is kind of you, Lady Elysia, to take pity on this sad Frenchman, who is homesick for the sounds of his homeland. Your enchanting voice reminds me of other mademoiselles , laughing and chatting in gaiety. But alas, it is no more," he said shrugging his shoulders in a very Gallic manner. " C'est un tragédie, et maintenant, je suis un beggar. "

"You are an emigre , count. It must be difficult for you here in England. But you mustn't consider yourself a beggar. Were your estates confiscated?"

" Vraiment ," he sighed, "that is unfortunately the sad truth for me. And now Le Petit Corporal has ruined any hopes I had cherished of returning to my home. "

"Napoleon!" a shrill voice echoed from the comte's other side. "Monsieur le Comte, do you believe he will attack London?"

The other guests near them stopped their light chattering to listen to the count's reply to the question asked by the nervous-looking gentleman with the high, stiff, pointed collar that stood up starchily about his chin, withstanding his futile efforts to turn his head.

" Non , this I do not believe. Je pense qu'il est un rumeur . He is not strong enough this ‘bourgeois Général' to conquer the strong-hearted Anglaise , non ?"

A loud cheer of stout approval was sent up along with numerous toasts to England and the King, and anything else that entered some guest's mind.

"I doubt whether Napoleon would seriously try it. We've the strongest navy in the world, and you must remember Napoleon is fighting on many fronts. We have only the Channel as a serious threat. He would not dare to attack from the North Sea with winter coming on, if indeed, he is of a right mind—which I sometimes suspect he isn't." Trevegne spoke quietly, selecting a small pheasant from a platter a footman held.

"But here along the coast we are so unprotected. Those French could come across the Channel and murder us in our beds before we could even open our eyes!" the vicar's wife added hysterically, as several voices chimed agreement.

"Nonsense!" Squire Blackmore said vehemently. "The navy wouldn't allow it. Damn fine bunch of men." He flushed, and glanced about apologetically. "Your pardon, ladies, but it gets my blood to boil to hear us talkin' scared."

"Navy too busy trackin' down smugglers to catch any Froggie sailor that sails up the Thames, even. Probably think they were actors from Covent Garden, putting on a performance," someone from down the table drawled in a bored voice, as loud guffaws followed his comments.

Elysia glanced at the count, whose lips had tightened at the derogatory reference to French people, his chin lifting higher in arrogance .

"You mustn't allow them to offend you, count," Elysia spoke sympathetically, placing her hand on his arm, feeling the rigid muscles, "I do believe they hide their fears with laughter."

He stared into her beautiful green eyes with their softened expression and friendliness, and raised her hand to his lips with a dark glow in his eyes.

"Thank you. Vous êtes une ange, et je t'adore ," he breathed softly, passionately under his breath, as his fingers tightened over hers.

Elysia gently loosed her hand from his, and looked away from his amorous gaze with embarrassment straight into Alex's angry golden eyes as he watched her intently, a frown drawing together his heavy black brows.

"If it were not for smugglers you'd not be sipping that excellent brandy you have in your cellars," the marquis commented sarcastically, to no one in particular, "nor that fine tea your lady sips elegantly in her salon."

"I'll wager you've a few renegade bottles tucked away," a dissipated-looking man added slyly.

"Hardly. You insult me, Lord Tanvil, for I only drink what was set down by my father, and my grandfather before him. Can you imagine my drinking anything more recent? You do me an injury," he declared in mock affront.

"Trevegne'd probably have the effrontery to invite Napoleon to sample some of Louis XVI's finest brandy. Wasn't your family given a case from Versailles?"

"Well don't let Prinny know about it, or His Royal Highness will have it for himself," Trevegne said among the laughter, and then added as an afterthought, "and, on the day Napoleon sits down to dine at Carlton House, I'll give everyone here a bottle of that very excellent brandy." A chorus of acceptances followed his offer, and other wagers of ridiculous notions were added to it.

"Well, I think a lot of this talk of invasion and smugglers is a storm in a teacup," the squire's voice filled the silence when the laughter had died down. "Can't be as many of them rascals smuggling about as people say—about as true as a traveler's tale. The way people talk you'd think everyone was a smuggler. Why, I might even be one," he laughed in disbelief at the absurdity of the idea.

"With your sense of direction you'd probably end up in Marseilles rather than Dover," someone predicted as uproarious laughter engulfed the table.

After that, the conversation changed as often as the many dishes that were brought in. If it had not been for the attentions of the count and Alex, Elysia doubted whether she would have tasted anything, what with everyone choosing from the main platters of beef, veal, and fish, covered in sauces and jellies, as soon as the creamy soups were finished and the plates taken away. Then side dishes of game birds and poultry, and dozens of vegetable dishes and salads were brought in, and the meal was finished off with spongy Genoese cakes with coffee filling and little chocolate soufflés. All this was accompanied with various wines for each course. The crystal goblets kept brimming, despite the guests' constant attention to emptying them.

Feeling quite satiated, Elysia retired from the banqueting hall with the other ladies, leaving the gentlemen to sit over their port and cigars.

Elysia accepted a small glass of Madeira and sat silently listening to the frivolous chatter of the women as they gossiped and giggled over juicy tidbits about their friends and, no doubt, about the latest hot item—herself. She felt isolated from the rest. They weren't really the type of people that her parents entertained. They seemed to be a raffish set of people—not the social elite of London, she thought shrewdly. She knew that Alex had only come to introduce her to these ladies and gentlemen from London—assured that the news would get back to London about her, and this time accurately—scotching any false rumors that might have spread about them. The marquis seldom, if ever, socialized with the squire and his set of hangers-on.

Elysia glanced about for Louisa, finding her held captive by a large matronly looking woman on the far side of the room. Seeing Elysia's glance, Louisa sent her a smile, grimacing as she turned back to the garrulous woman wielding her lorgnette like a rapier. Elysia drifted over to a display of porcelain, feigning an interest as she overheard a conversation between two flashily dressed young women from London.

"Can you imagine—a redhead. Not at all the fashion," said the young lady with her curly blonde hair and china-doll features, and catching a reflection of her face in the mirror opposite, smiled vainly.

"I know, and such a surprise," her plump friend said, adding confidentially, "and we had been told to expect an announcement any day between the marquis and Lady Woodley. Why, John said that no man could resist her—even Trevegne."

"She must be absolutely seething," the blonde chuckled. "I mean, after all, she'd been talking about those emeralds, and how well they'd look on her." She glanced at Elysia who was apparently absorbed by the porcelain figurines, and whispered grudgingly, "I must say, she does wear them well, what with her coloring and all."

"Lady Woodley must be as green as the emeralds with envy," the other added impudently as they laughed, casting a glance at Lady Woodley from behind their fluttering fans.

Elysia moved off, swallowing a smile that became a thoughtful look as she cast a glance at Lady Woodley. So London had been expecting a match between Alex and Lady Woodley? She now knew why the lovely widow looked daggers at her—she had expected to become the next marchioness. What had happened to cause Alex to leave her? Well, she would probably never know, yet she had the uncomfortable feeling that Lady Woodley was not one to lose gracefully, or indeed, to even admit defeat. She had an enemy in the dark-eyed widow.

"I'm so sorry I've not been able to talk with you, Elysia," Louisa said, coming up softly to where Elysia stood alone.

"That's perfectly all right. You must entertain your guests, and I've been admiring these porcelains. It's quite a collection."

"Yes, Mama has a passion for them. I do not really mind talking with the guests—it is just that I do not know how to politely excuse myself when I want to get away.

"Please," Louisa said grasping Elysia's hand and pulling her along with her, "let me show you another display of Mama's—we can talk undisturbed in the library."

They left the room unobserved, and Louisa led Elysia to the library, where a large chiffonier stood, with Oriental vases and plates attractively placed. It was not as large a library as Westerly's, in fact, it offered very little reading matter. Most of the room was taken up with assorted displays—one of which was made up of ornately carved knives and rapiers. Elysia shivered and turned away.

"I am so glad that you and the marquis came tonight, although I am sorry to know of Peter Trevegne's accident. I do hope he will be quite all right."

"Yes, he will recover. Dany, our housekeeper, is magnificent, and has more skill than a doctor. Otherwise, I doubt that Alex would have considered coming tonight and leaving him."

"Yes, well…" Louisa's voice trailed off with indecision, hesitating whether or not to continue with what she wanted to say, a shy, worried look on her small face.

"What is it?" Elysia asked helpfully, aware that something was troubling Louisa.

"How do you know when you are in love?" she blurted out breathlessly, taking Elysia completely by surprise. This was hardly the question she would have expected from Louisa.

"Well, I-I don't really know," Elysia was forced to admit

"But you must know. I mean, you've married Trevegne. When did you realize you were in love with him?" Louisa asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy expression. "It must be wonderful to know your love is returned. I've watched the way the marquis looks at you—why he was positively mad with jealousy at dinner when the French count was holding your hand and flirting with you. He constantly watches you when he thinks you are not watching him."

"He does?" Elysia asked in surprise. For she'd thought he had been fully occupied with Lady Woodley, who seemed unable to take a bite without asking his advice first—constantly placing her bejeweled fingers on his sleeve.

"Well?" Louisa persisted.

"I'm sorry. What?" Elysia answered, her mind elsewhere .

"When did you know you loved the marquis? Or how did you know that it was true love?"

Elysia looked thoughtfully at Louisa's upturned face—expectantly awaiting an answer. How could she tell her that she didn't love Alex, that she knew nothing about love, that Alex didn't love her? Could she destroy Louisa's romantic dreams? Had she the right to tarnish them with her own unhappiness? It was apparent that Louisa was very much in love—and for the first time. She had once dreamt the same things as Louisa, but Elysia knew now that they were just an innocent and naive schoolgirl's dreams.

"To me, love would be when you could no longer think of anyone else but the person you are in love with. You feel bereft when he is not around, and giddy and nervous when he is. You want to please that person, make him happy. You feel jealous of others he might be with. But most important, is that you place his health, happiness, and welfare above your own—no sacrifice is too great to bear for him. You worry about him, fear for him," Elysia continued quickly, almost incoherently with the revelations to herself of her own feelings for Alex which had hidden until now, and were being reluctantly revealed to her. "Nothing must ever happen to him to take him away from you—or your world—or your very existence would be at an end."

Elysia stood silently, breathing hard as the truth emanated from her confused and troubled mind. She loved Alex, she repeated to herself in disbelief. How could it have happened? She had despised him—hated him. She would have escaped from him had she been able. Now she would gladly lock the door to her prison and throw away the key. When she had thought him injured, she had acted like a woman possessed, or a woman very much in love. The truth had been revealed then—but she had been too blind to see it. She thought it had been desire—not love. She had believed that love could not exist for her.

She paled as she thought of Alex—what good did these feelings do her? They could only torture her, hers was an unrequited love. He desired her, yes, but he didn't care for her—at least not in the way she wanted to be loved by him. In all of their lovemaking, he had never said that he loved her. He had whispered endearments that had thrilled her, but never had he mentioned love. She was just one of his many women, the one he was currently fascinated with at the moment. He would soon tire of her, as he had done with Lady Woodley and so many other beautiful women. Could she bear to see him turn to another woman—go to London, and leave her at Westerly, alone? No, she could not stand that—but it would be even worse if he knew she loved him. How amusing for him—another broken heart. Elysia wondered if it had been her disdain and obvious dislike for him that had attracted him? He, who had always received and expected admiration and capitulation to his advances. If she kept up her show of ill-will towards him then possibly he would not tire of her—at least not yet, and she might succeed in capturing his love. But how could she pretend when she had capitulated so completely to him, and now knew that she loved him beyond all reason. He was so astute—nothing escaped his golden eyes. Although some of the hostility had disappeared in their relationship, she still felt on shaky ground. It was more as if they had entered into an armed neutrality. They teased and traded sarcasms, but with an underlying edge of friendliness. They had entered into a new phase of their relationship—but it could very easily be shattered.

Never would she allow Alex to know that she loved him, Elysia vowed to herself—never—unless he returned that love. She would not let herself be vulnerable to that kind of pain. She would play this game out to whatever its end, and by her own rules.

"Elysia. Elysia," Louisa was staring at her with concern. "Are you quite all right, you're pale. You are not feeling ill are you?"

"No, I'm quite well," Elysia answered dully. Or as well as can be expected with a broken heart, she thought despondently.

"Do you know that what you said is exactly what I believed love to be. Oh, it is precisely how I feel." Louisa looked over her shoulder to be sure they were alone, and then continued in a confiding tone. "I have met the most wonderful man, Elysia. He is tall and handsome, and has the most beautiful, blue eyes and auburn hair," She looked starry-eyed as she thought of him, her cheeks flushing rosily.

"His name is David Friday, and he is the kindest, most gentle soul on earth. I met him for the first time one day a couple of weeks ago. I was out riding when Dove started to limp. We weren't far from the stable, so the groom went back to fetch another horse, and I was staying with poor little Dove when this young man came out of nowhere and removed the pebble from Dove's hoof. He talked to me so gentlemanly like, that I'm sure he is one; even though he was dressed as a seaman. I felt so at ease with him, not at all tongue-tied, like I usually am with those London gentlemen."

"A seaman, Louisa?" Elysia asked doubtfully, afraid her friend was sure to be hurt. "Your parents, surely they would not…"

"Exactly," Louisa interpreted Elysia's thoughts. "They would not be at all pleased. In fact, if Papa found out that a seaman had dared to talk to me, I don't know what he might do in his rage. They have high hopes for my making a successful marriage, even though the marquis is no longer available," she sighed, and then bit her lip as tears brightened her gray eyes. "Oh, Elysia I'm sure if you met him you would see that he is indeed a gentleman, and worthy of my love. I only doubt that I am worthy of his."

"What have we here?" Lady Woodley asked amusedly from the doorway. "Schoolroom secrets? Well, you'd better return to the salon, for your mama is worrying about your whereabouts, and that of her ‘Guest of Honor.' Hurry along and tell your mama that we shall be with her shortly before she sends you back to the nursery for being rude and spiriting one of her guests away. Luckily I saw you leave, and had to play tattle-tale," she continued maliciously as Louisa hurried past, giving her a resentful look.

"Oh, please do not leave yet, Lady Elysia," Lady Woodley said, moving towards Elysia, her eyes staring trance-like at the Trevegne emeralds. "I would like the opportunity to speak with you."

"Really," Elysia returned politely, yet not fully trusting the young widow. "I had not thought we would have much to say to one another."

"There you are mistaken, for there are quite a few details of which you should be aware. I would not have you ignorant of the truth, my dear Lady Elysia," she replied, reluctantly dragging her eyes away from the green stones, only to stare into equally green eyes. "I would have changed those ancient settings to something more modern," she said, almost to herself, before her eyes narrowed and a thin smile curved her lips. Then she continued, "You do know that you possess a hollow title? It is a title that you did not gain by your own cunning and efforts to ensnare Alex. You are only the Marchioness because I turned Alex's offer of marriage down. He married you out of pique—to save his pride. Alex knows I shall be marrying a duke shortly, and after all the speculation about him and myself, well, you can imagine what people say. Alex would never allow himself to become the laughingstock of London, so naturally, he would have to take drastic steps to appear heartwhole, and show an unconcerned visage to the world. What better way than to take a wife, look the devoted husband? No one could possibly believe that he had been hurt by my refusal. But he still loves me and I still love him. Just remember that Alex and I shall continue as we have in the past, once he gets over his offended pride, of course. But he always does as I wish." She looked at Elysia venomously. "You did not really imagine that he could be in love with you? I was his mistress for over a year. I know him. And you…you've only known him for a fortnight or so. Can that measure up to how long I've known him?"

"Maybe you have known him too long, possibly he became bored with your…er, charms," Elysia retorted smoothly, yet feeling sick with despair inside. But she would not let this creature know how wounded she felt.

"Bored? Bored with me?" Mariana demanded incredulously. She was enraged all the more because she knew it might be the truth. But she could not accept the remark from this beautiful, younger woman. "How dare you…you little slut. Do you actually believe that you could hold a man like Al ex?" She looked Elysia up and down insultingly, laughing derisively. "He will come back to me, he always does. He still wants me, not you, my dear. You have nothing but his name. You don't possess his love."

Lady Woodley turned to leave the room, a smile curving her lips with self-satisfaction at the doubt she had planted in Elysia's mind.

"Yes, I possess the title. I bear Alex's name, and I also shall bear his children. You say I hold only the title. Well, the position entitles me to the jewels you have coveted for so long, and the estates, and Westerly, and a place in society that is permanent. Alex married me, and that is forever. Yes, I hold all of these," Elysia spoke, halting the other woman in her tracks. "But you deceive yourself, if you imagine I shall not keep Alex—for I shall—and not in name only. You are the one, Lady Woodley, who has nothing. You possess none of the things you so confidently lay claim to—neither Alex, nor that title you covet. I would caution you not to count your chickens before they hatch. Good evening, Lady Woodley," Elysia spoke haughtily as she passed the speechless widow, and returned to the salon where she heard the mingled sound of men's and women's voices.

The carriage returning from Blackmore Hall bounced as it hit a pothole in the rutted road, and threw Elysia against the marquis. She pulled back as if burnt, and moved even farther to her side of the seat. She turned her face away from his curious stare, pretending to be absorbed in the darkness beyond the carriage window. Her mind kept returning to Lady Woodley's vicious words, her cruel laughter echoing around her troubled mind. Would Alex return to the widow? Had he indeed asked her to marry him—and been rejected? From the gossip, it would seem that he had not asked the widow to marry him. But if what she said was true, his pride would have been salvaged as he planned, marrying her to save himself from looking the fool. She could never let Alex know that she had fallen in love with him—especially now—if he still felt love for Lady Woodley.

She had lied when she told the widow that the estates and riches of Alex mattered to her. She would gladly have suffered the direst poverty to have but a part of his love. What was wonderful about a grand house if she had to wander through its halls and rooms alone? Who was there to see her dressed in fine silks and satins, bejeweled from head to toe? It was not an empty title she possessed, but an empty heart.

She foolishly thought that given time she could make Alex fall in love with her—eventually he might have, but she had not known that he married her on the rebound. She had believed him when he said he was in the mood to marry—serving his purposes, and saving her reputation. "Lies, lies, lies," she cried in her heart. Everything was ruined now, now that she knew there was another woman in his life. He would hardly fall in love with her if he was in love with Lady Woodley.

Elysia sighed dispiritedly, half-listening to the conversation between Alex and Charles, their voices taking on a droning quality as she continued to stare out into the blackness of the night. She narrowed her eyes as she thought she saw a flash of light out at sea that quickly disappeared; probably a reflection from the lighted sconces from inside the coach on the glass of the window. She could see her own face reflected palely, her eyes distorted until they seemed to glow iridescently like white-hot coals in her face. Elysia hugged the warm fur-lined cape about her body, luxuriating in the feel of the soft fur against her bare shoulders and cheeks. Closing her eyes she dreamed of what could have been.

* * *

A finger of rock detached itself from the rest and moved silently from its shadowy concealment out onto the road. The man stood statue-like as he watched the big black coach disappear down the road to become lost in the blackness, the sound of the horses' hooves fading until silence reigned supreme, once again.

He looked out to sea, his eyes alert and searching, until he was rewarded by the flashing of a light three times. Then it disappeared. He glanced along the cliffs of the coast, knowing he would not see the answering flashes from the shielded lantern he knew was signalling the ship at sea from some hidden spot. The ship would now sail into one of the numerous coves along the coast. If he had not had a general idea of the area the ship would venture into, the chances of his locating such a ship—wishing to unobtrusively dock and unload its contraband cargo—would be a million to one. The whole length of Cornish coastline was honeycombed with small secretive coves and deep penetrating ravines where a ship could moor undetected and go about its surreptitious business.

David Friday crossed the road and untethered his horse, where he had left it behind the rocks, and swiftly mounted. He headed down the road in the opposite direction from the coach that had swiftly traveled past only moments before. He rode along the road for several miles until he could see the curve of the coast jut abruptly outwards, forming a natural harbor with a deep ravine. A moorland stream flowed through it to empty into the sea, leaving a rock-carved passage to the high cliffs above, and easy access to the road.

David dismounted and left his horse in the shelter of a group of pines and made his way quietly to the edge of the ravine, carefully lowering himself over the edge, his booted feet seeking footholds among the slippery rocks. Suddenly his foot slipped, and he lunged perilously forward, falling to the floor of the ravine. He landed on an outcropping of rock that formed a narrow ledge just wide enough to stop the descent that would have ended in his death.

He lay still, his breathing heavy, as he tried to regain his breath and listen for any sounds of voices raised in alarm, followed by searching footsteps. But no sounds of panic reached him, only the rumble of the sea. David breathed a sigh of relief. They must still be at the mouth of the ravine unloading cargo. The pounding of the waves masked the noise he'd caused by his fall, and the lookout—posted up on the road to watch for revenuers—would have been too far away to hear anything and give the sound of alarm.

David Friday looked about him from his vantage point. He could clearly see the little harbor, and the outline of the lugger anchored beyond the swell of the waves. A small boat was rowing ashore where a group of figures were standing in readiness on the sandy beach.

His ledge overlooked the path directly beneath his perch. Yes, this was a perfect spot for observation. He settled himself more comfortably, in preparation for the loading to be completed and for them to begin their ascent up the path from the ravine to the road above. He felt no impatience with this job; he wanted to catch this nest of smugglers. It wasn't so much the smugglers themselves he was after—men who risked their necks to sail across the Channel that was patrolled by His Majesty's navy and coast guard, they were only the arms and legs of the operation. He wanted the head of the body, the man who sat safely on British soil, masterminding everything yet never dirtying his white, uncalloused palms—except with gold guineas.

Every major port, small fishing village, or hamlet, had a gang of smugglers. From the Romney Marsh to as far north as York, smuggling was rampant. It seemed to be an accepted community activity. One could enjoy fine French brandy after dinner at the vicar's, or at a local tavern, and fragrant imported tea in the afternoon in an elegant and highly respected lady's drawing-room.

Taxes were high, shortages of every imported item were prevalent with the continuing of the war, and people had come to enjoy these luxuries—hesitant to give them up. He was not after these people, and their small horde of brandy, silk, tea, and chocolate. The village fishermen and farmers who banded together once a month to row across the Channel and bring back a cache of black market goods engaged in small-time smuggling, and were relatively harmless.

He was after the smuggler who brought in "human cargo," and dealt in goods on a grand scale—not a bolt of silk and several kegs of brandy, but a cargo of a thousand casks of brandy, and hundreds of pounds of Chinese tea, and a storeroom full of fine silks, velvets, and lace. A great profit was harvested from the sales of these contraband commodities to the fashionable shops on Bond Street and the gentlemen's clubs of St. James's. But the highest profit was reaped for ferrying a passenger across the Channel from France to England. The fare was indeed high for the man who wanted to enter England by night, his face unremembered by the silent crewmen, to disappear into the countryside, only to reappear in a crowded street in the heart of London.

David Friday wanted desperately the man who would betray his country by bringing in French spies. Napoleon had eyes and ears in London, thanks to the greed and avariciousness of these traitorous men who dared to call themselves Englishmen. They allowed the enemy to enter England to plot and deceive, and then helped him to sneak away with secret documents and information. But the traitor was far more deadly than the spy who was acting under orders from his country, and at least had a loyalty to it. The English dog who would bring in the enemy had no beliefs. He would act only for the gain and profit he would receive from his actions. He felt no love or loyalty to his country—only an allegiance to the craving for money.

An owl hooted, and within an instant, it was answered by four hoots from the top of the cliff. The lookout had signalled the all-clear, and shortly after, the dark horses, loaded down with kegs and casks, and the sturdy wagons with their wide iron-made wheels—to keep the heavily laden carts from sinking deep into the sandy beach—would begin to move toward the safety of their drops: hiding places in caves and barns, quiet crypts in cemeteries, false bottomed floors, and hidden closets in the walls of homes in the villages.

David was lying flat, his chest pressed against the rocky ledge, as the pack train moved slowly up the path. He heard smothered curses, as feet slipped and arms were scraped against the rough cliff wall along the narrow and uneven path.

David watched carefully as the men and beasts trundled by. His eyes were searching for a lone figure in an all-concealing cape and hat. But the men were all dressed similarly in smocks and rough woolen coats. He knew most of these men from his previous observations. Most were hard-working men from the village. The others were hired men from other parts—vicious and dangerous, with loaded pistols tucked under their wide belts. He could see no new faces. His vigil tonight had been in vain. It was only for cargo, this run—no extra man that would separate from the rest to make his way alone in the night, or return to sea with the unloaded boat.

He waited until the smugglers had got to the road and were well on their way down it before climbing back up the face of the cliff to the top. He mounted and rode off toward the moors, across the road and away from the smugglers' train. He had no need to follow them, for he knew where they would cache the goods. He had watched them seven times in the past as they'd unloaded the ship and prepared the horses, then slowly and quietly moved through the narrow lanes to various drops. But the major part of the load was separated from the rest—this was destined for London, and stored away in a deviously conceived cache—an innocent-appearing summer house. David had watched astounded as cargo after cargo had been unloaded and carried into the small pagoda-like structure—only to disappear. He had searched it in vain after the smugglers left, but found no evidence that contraband had been concealed there. He knew there was a secret panel that must conceal a hidden cave or passage, but he had been unable to find it, despite his thorough searches. It seemed inconceivable that this small structure could hide a cache of contraband—yet it did. The cave probably connected by a subterranean passage to the home of the mastermind, for the summer house stood back from the cliffs, and there was no natural harbor for ships to anchor in. Nor had he found a coastal sea cave in his traversing of the area. So that left one place—Blackmore Hall.

Squire Blackmore was the man he wanted. A man so insidious as to force the villagers and farmers to smuggle for him by enclosure of their lands, and the village common, leaving them no place to raise food or livestock. He closed down the tin mines, putting countless numbers out of work. The village was under his control and with the fishing poor—few men returned with full nets—rather than starve, they smuggled for him.

Yes, David Friday wanted Squire Blackmore. He would enjoy seeing the walls of Blackmore Hall come tumbling down about the squire's head. But then he thought of two misty gray eyes looking trustingly up into his face. How could he destroy Louisa Blackmore's world? She was such an innocent, completely unaware of her father's villainy. David had never before met such a demure and lovely young woman. She was still a young girl, actually, for she could not be more than sixteen or seventeen.

He would not allow her to become besmirched by this affair. He must protect her in some way. But how could he? It was his job—his duty—to catch, and arrest her father as a traitor. How could she feel anything but shame and degradation when that happened—and what would she then feel towards the man who had brought about her father's downfall? Hatred? Disgust? What a tangle he was involved in, he thought in despair, as he sighted the small moorland hut directly ahead.

David glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that he had not been followed, even though he had taken a circuitous route. He was taking no chances of being discovered. He dismounted, and knocked twice on the door before entering the hut.

It was a small hut with one room, and lighted by a flickering lantern that threw a dim light over the crude furnishings and the solitary man sitting at the rough wooden table in the center of the room.

"Good evening, sir," David saluted smartly.

"Hardly a good evening, Lieutenant," the man answered sourly, pulling his coat tighter about his broad shoulders. Only his bushy, iron-gray brows and deep-set eyes were visible from behind the high collar. "Come and sit down, Lieutenant, and relax. You look rather dishevelled. Run into any trouble?" he asked sharply.

"No, sir, I just missed my step over the edge of a cliff," David explained with a rueful smile lurking in his eyes .

The other man looked startled and then smiled. "I'd hate to lose you, my boy—still got your sea legs? Feel like I'm walking at an angle myself."

"I don't believe I shall ever be able to walk normally again. Still feel the deck beneath my feet."

His commander laughed, a hearty laugh that crinkled his eyes into slits, the myriad lines etching the corners that blended into one crease. He was deeply tanned, his face aged from the sea and weather. He looked at the young man sitting across from him with piercing eyes—eyes that were accustomed to looking far into the distance for land, or the flag of another ship.

"I gather, since you are back so early, that our friend did not show up?"

"Right, sir. It was just a load of brandy and other goods. No sign of any strangers," David answered dejectedly.

"Well, one will show eventually—or our friend will decide to travel across the Channel himself. Either way we shall be prepared. And it is absolutely vital now, more than ever, that we apprehend them. I have received news from London that top secret information has been leaked, and vital documents are missing. It is of the utmost importance that we recover this information and put an end to this spy ring," he said emphatically.

"But how could they have gotten hold of such information?"

"We've been fortunate to catch the traitor in the Ministry—an under-secretary of small import, yet high up enough to come within contact of important information. He will stand trial. His usefulness is at an end to all concerned. However we have kept it quiet so as not to panic our quarry. We do not want them to flee and take that information with them—something Napoleon would sell his soul to obtain, if indeed he has not already sold his soul to the Devil."

"Do we know who has that information?" David asked, a muscle twitching beside his eye. "Is it Blackmore?"

"No, so far the good squire has only transported French spies to and from England, along with his other smuggling. He has not dirtied his hands with the actual spying itself," David's superior said with distaste. "Although he might as well have. Giving good English gold for his contraband is the same as putting it in Napoleon's pocket."

"Who is the spy?"

"We were fortunate to get a full confession out of the ex-under-secretary. Odd how little courage these spies have when faced with an actual enemy in front of them. They work best in the dark when they can sneak away like a snivelling dog," he said, loathing curling his lip. "We were informed that he passed the information to a Frenchman posing as an emigre , and is at present a guest of our country. In reality, he is one of Napoleon's top agents. His name is D'Aubergere, and claims to be a count or something to give him access into society. He is now a guest of the good squire," he added, looking meaningfully at David. "You realize what that means?"

"Yes. Our Frenchmen will undoubtedly be awaiting his friend from across the Channel, so he can pass on the information and receive new orders. Or he will personally take the information to Napoleon, to receive full recognition for his daring." David pounded his fist on the hard wood table angrily. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go in there and arrest him."

"We can't do that, unfortunately. It would give me great pleasure, believe me. However, I doubt whether he has the evidence on his person—it will be well concealed. And we've no proof—except for a frightened traitor's confession that D'Aubergere does indeed have it. Even if we should arrest him, the documents would be in Blackmore Hall. These French are a wily lot—he will have hidden it safely away. Can you imagine the squire not making use of that? Another spy would be dispatched to retrieve it—at quite a price I should imagine, if I read the squire correctly. And I am sure he will know the worth of what he holds."

His commander stared thoughtfully at the flickering light as David sat dejectedly, feeling helpless to act.

"No, we must move with caution. They do not know that the hounds have caught scent of the fox," the older man added with a gleam in his eyes. "They feel secure in their cloak of deception. As far as they are concerned they have nothing to fear, and they would not take the risk of causing speculation now, by acting rashly and taking risks. They will play it safe—not chancing discovery. The count will either wait for a contact, or travel over to France with the information himself. I suspect it might be the latter. Arrogance has been the downfall of many a man—and this Frenchman is no exception. However, with something as important as this packet…well, I am afraid they might send for a French war ship to pick him up. They would not risk being picked up by the coast guard with something of such value. So we must wait, as D'Aubergere waits. And under no circumstance can D'Aubergere be allowed to pass on the documents. We will give him enough rope to get them out of concealment and then he will hang himself as we catch him red-handed, along with Blackmore and his smugglers. Although, I'm sure the good squire will deny all knowledge of D'Aubergere's clandestine activities—claiming he has been duped, and most foully deceived, but we will get him yet," he promised ominously, "for it will be hard to explain why a cache of contraband is hidden in his summer house. Thanks to you we know about this smuggling operation. Just luck you picked up this lead while you were in France. Now, more than ever it is fortunate we know about Blackmore. I think we shall crack this ring yet."

"The villagers are in this against their will," David told him. "They aren't even receiving just pay for their labors. That scoundrel Blackmore has forced them to work for him. They'd starve otherwise. It's abominable that a man like Blackmore could become so powerful. And yet there is a filthy rich marquis living not more than a few miles west of here, and he does nothing to help the village that is his responsibility. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if he were involved in this too."

"I shall certainly put in a word for the villagers, never fear," the commander promised. "I know the marquis of St. Fleur, and although he is rather wild, I do know that he is honorable—he no doubt hasn't the slightest idea of what is amiss."

"Sir, I should warn you that there are a few nasty customers working with Blackmore whom I'd not care to tangle with, unless well-armed. They're from London or thereabouts—not local, and a meaner bunch of characters I've yet to meet," David advised. "It could get messy if there's a fight."

"I've my men. We'll handle that rabble in short work. I'd better be off, the boat will be waiting for me," he said, rising and then looking about the unprepossessing hut. "Sorry you've got to put up here. Couldn't you stay in the village in some decent place?'

"No, I'm afraid not. You know how suspicious the countyfolk are of strangers. I was born and raised in a village up north, and because my parents were not of the district I was always considered an outsider. I'd be as conspicuous as a stableboy in Almack's if I stayed in St. Fleur," he declared. "I've had less, sir, and it's a hardship I'll gladly bear, to catch this nest of rats."

"Good boy, I've complete faith in you. Signal me if anything unforeseen should crop up. Keep close watch, for I need not stress the importance of this affair."

He buttoned his coat closer about his throat and left the hut, giving a farewell wave to the young man who had to remain within its inhospitable walls.