Josephine
Josephine was so deep in her meditation that it was a shock to rise and discover that Polly had come and left a pot of tea and a steaming pitcher of water. Remembering how much there was to be done, she washed and dressed quickly, then went downstairs for breakfast. First, however, she made a detour to the library.
Resisting the temptation to stare at the carpet where they had made love, she knelt by the wreckage of Hero's harp. She was studying it when he entered the library himself.
Glancing up, she said hesitantly, "Many of the pegs snapped, and the bow has separated from the box, but it looks as if the pieces can be joined again."
He went down on one knee and lifted the pieces. "You're right," he said when he had finished his examination. "There is no damage that can't be repaired." He stroked the satiny willow wood. "I'm glad. Tam was a great artist—it was sacrilege to try to destroy his work."
"Luckily the harp is very solidly made. It put a sizable dent in the wall." She sat back on her heels. "Last night, when you hurled it away, I felt as if you were also trying to destroy the music in you. I hope you weren't successful." She ended with a faint, questioning lilt.
"I suppose that was my intent, though I wasn't thinking that clearly." He plucked one string that was still taut, and a melancholy note sounded. "Perhaps I should write a song about the mine explosion. Commemorating the honoured dead is an ancient Celtic tradition."
She laid her hand over his. "Please do that, and sing it at the next local eisteddfod. It would mean a great deal to everyone in the valley."
His face tightened, and she guessed that he was thinking that it would have meant more if he had been able to effect changes at the mine earlier. Though his grief and guilt were under control this morning, they had not gone away. She guessed that he would never be entirely free of them.
The stillness was broken when Williams entered, a panting young boy at his side. Recognizing Trevor Morris, Marge's oldest, Josephine got to her feet. "Does your mother need me, Trevor?" she asked. "I was about to go down to the village."
He shook his head. "No, Miss Langford, it's wonderful news. My dad is alive! They found him this morning. Mama sent me to tell you as soon as they brought him home."
Josephine's heartfelt, "Thank God," was drowned by Hero's exuberant, "Hallelujah!"
It seemed almost too good to be true, but the proof was in Trevor's shining face. Hero's face reflected the same joy, and she knew that this news would heal him as nothing else.
Hero said, "Williams, order the curricle. Trevor can tell us the story while we ride into the village."
Within five minutes, they were racing toward Penrith at a speed that would have frightened Josephine if the driver had been anyone less skilful than Hero. Squeezed between them, Trevor explained, "The explosion blew Dad into one of the older tunnels and broke his leg. He was unconscious for a long time. When he woke up, he remembered he was near one of the adits."
Sparing a quick glance from the road, Hero said, "One of the old drainage tunnels?"
The boy nodded. "He had to dig his way through a roof collapse to reach it. When he got to the adit, he found that the explosion had dropped the water level, so there was air. He crawled out last night, and this morning a shepherd found him."
"A miracle," Josephine said quietly.
"That's what my mother says."
There was silence for a time. Then Hero asked, "How will the families of the men who died manage?"
"There are two friendly societies," Josephine replied. "People put in a bit each week, so there's money to help those who fall on hard times."
"So many deaths will put a strain on the societies," he said. "Do you think that anyone's stubborn Welsh pride would be offended if I made contributions?"
"I'm sure no one will object."
When they reached the Morrises' cottage, Hero asked Trevor to walk the curricle back and forth to cool the horses, a task the boy accepted with alacrity.
The cottage door was opened by Marge. The circles under her eyes were insignificant next to the joy of her smile. Josephine went straight into her friend's arms and they had a good cry together. When they were coherent again, they all went inside, where Marge insisted on serving them tea and currant buns.
Voice low so as not to wake Owen, Marge repeated what Trevor had said. "And there's more good news," she added. "Two more men were found alive in an air pocket." She gave the names; Josephine had taught children of both men.
Marge continued, "They say there are going to be changes at the pit. Apparently, Lord Michael Kenyon wasn't satisfied with what he's found, and he's taking over direct management."
Hero's gaze sharpened. "What about Madoc?"
Marge smiled with deep satisfaction. "His lordship hasn't said a word against Madoc in public, but that doesn't disguise the fact that for all practical purposes, Madoc has become an overseer, only there to carry out the owner's orders. They say Madoc's furious, but he daren't complain or he might lose his fancy salary and house."
After swallowing a bite of currant bun, she said, "His lordship has put all the men to improving the shoring in the shafts that survived. They say he's also ordering a new Watts steam pump and a winding engine so that the men won't have to ride up and down on that dreadful rope like a bunch of grapes."
"Thank heaven!" Josephine said fervently. "It sounds as if everything necessary will be done. With luck, the mine will never have such a disaster again."
"Michael seems to be picking up where he left off four years ago," Hero agreed. Looking at his hostess, he said, "Marge, if Owen is awake, might I talk to him?"
"I'll go see." She went to check on her husband, then returned and said, "He's awake, and he'd like to see you."
"I suppose it would be too much for him to see me as well," Josephine said. "Marge, will you join me in offering a prayer of thanks?"
Marge cocked her head curiously. "I never thought you resembled your father, but for a moment, you looked just like him. Thank you for reminding me that it's time for a prayer. I've been at sixes and sevens ever since they brought Owen home."
Hero
As the two women knelt together, Hero went upstairs. Owen and Marge shared a tiny room at the front of the house, not much larger than the double bed that dominated the space. Owen was pale and his left leg was splinted, but his expression was peaceful. Wordlessly he raised his hand.
Hero clasped it hard and sank onto his knees by the bed. "Thank God you're all right," he said intensely. "It's hard to believe that you survived such a blast, then three days of being trapped below ground."
"I guess it wasn't my time," Owen said, his voice a little hoarse. "A miracle I wasn't killed outright, and another miracle that I was close enough to the adit to work my way out."
"You deserve some of the credit as well," Hero said. "Finding your way out of a maze of tunnels, in total darkness, with a broken leg, was an amazing feat."
"I was highly motivated."
Hero studied the other man's face. "Why did you make me go first? You have a family and are needed far more than I am."
Owen smiled faintly. "I knew that if I died, I'd go straight to heaven, but I had serious doubts about you."
For a moment Hero wondered if the other man was joking. When he realized that Owen was perfectly serious, Hero began to laugh helplessly, resting his head against the oak frame of the bed. Yet even in the midst of his laughter, he knew that he had seen an awesome demonstration of faith, one that would affect him profoundly for the rest of his life. Unable to speak of that, he said only, "You were absolutely right. If heaven and hell exist, I'd now be frying like an egg."
"Very likely." There was a hint of twinkle in Owen's eyes. "Now you'll have more time to change your ways. Not that you're truly wicked, but I doubt you've ever given serious thought to the state of your soul."
"Right again. Josephine will undoubtedly have a positive effect in that area." After a moment's pause, he added, "We're to be married in a week. You're the first to know."
"Fancy that, our Josephine a countess," Owen said with pleasure. "You couldn't make a better choice—you need a woman with her feet firmly planted on the ground."
Seeing that the other man was tiring, Hero stood. "If you're on your feet by then, perhaps you'll be able to give Josephine away. I think she'd like that."
"On crutches?" Owen said doubtfully.
"We'd be happy to have you there in a bath chair." Feeling as if a boulder had dropped from his heart, Hero went downstairs again. More people were arriving, so he and Josephine bid Marge farewell and left to make room for other well-wishers.
As they returned to Westgate, Josephine said, "If you had known that Owen was alive, last night wouldn't have happened, and today you wouldn't be facing a life sentence of marriage."
He shrugged. "Perhaps it was meant to be. It's done, so there's no point in brooding." His mouth quirked up. "As you may have guessed, there's a broad streak of fatalism in the Rom."
"As long as you are... content."
He gave her a quick glance, wondering if she regretted the prospect of marrying him, but her expression was serene. "Apparently Michael took what I said in London seriously. Now that he has seen the situation for himself and taken steps to rectify it, there is no need to break the lease."
"I must admit I'm impressed. Apparently when he retrieved his temper, he turned into a reasonable man," Josephine said. "Now you'll have more time for the slate quarry."
"Would you like to spend your honeymoon riding to the Penrhyn quarries? Just the two of us, mountains, daffodils, romantic nights beneath the stars..."
Her brows rose. "And when it rains?
"Cozy but less romantic nights in travelers' huts in the mountains."
"Sounds lovely." She gave him a smile that made him want to tether the horses and drag her off into the bushes.
After mature consideration, he did exactly that.
Josephine
The next week was a whirl of activity. The wedding didn't require much planning, for they had decided on a small ceremony at Westgate. However, there was much to be done in the village among the families of men who had died in the mine. Josephine went to a dozen funerals, held weeping women in her arms, and helped widows plan for the future. As word of her engagement spread, there were some who regarded her with disapproval or resentment, but her marriage was minor news compared to the explosion. She thought it ironic that the village's concern over the disaster made her own situation easier.
More troubling was Hero's attitude. He was charming and considerate, and clearly he delighted in her body. Yet she felt that in most ways they were less intimate as lovers than they had been as adversaries. It was as if he was compensating for their increased physical closeness by stepping back emotionally. Though his withdrawal did not shake her belief that it was right to marry, it grieved her greatly. She could only hope that the dailiness of marriage would dissolve his reserve.
On the fifth day after her engagement, she returned to Westgate in late afternoon and was met by Williams. "The Earl of Strathmore is in the drawing room. He arrived two hours ago."
"Oh, dear," Josephine said ruefully as she removed her bonnet. " And Hero hasn't returned from Swansea yet?"
"No, miss."
She entered the drawing room and found the earl comfortably ensconced with a book and a tea tray. "Lucien, what a surprise. Hero didn't tell me that he was expecting you."
Lucien rose and took her hands, then kissed her lightly on the cheek. "He wasn't—I decided to deliver the special license in person. He should have known that I wouldn't want to miss his wedding. Every groom needs a friend by his side. To his regret, Rafe can't come. Tied up in the Lords— some bill that he's been working on is coming up for a vote. He did, however, order me to kiss the bride on his behalf." He brushed her other cheek with his lips.
"I'm not quite a bride yet."
"Then I'll have to kiss you again on your wedding day," he said placidly. "Twice, unless Hero objects."
"I'm sorry you've had to wait so long."
"It's what an uninvited guest deserves."
"Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?" she suggested. "It's a perfect May day."
"If I recall Wales correctly, we'd better get outside quickly, or it might be raining when we get there."
She made a face. "Sad but true."
The sunshine was still there when they emerged onto the flagstone patio. A peacock strutted up and fanned his tail, the sun shimmering magically on the blue-green patterns of the feathers. "Handsome creatures," Lucien remarked, "but staggeringly stupid. A clear example of the curse of beauty."
Josephine laughed. "You and your other Fallen Angel friends are beautiful, and none of you seem stupid."
He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow, amusement gleaming in his green-gold eyes. "True, but we didn't become friends because of appearances."
"Is there any particular reason why you banded together and have stayed friends for so long? Beyond the obvious fact of enjoying each other's company, I mean."
"Most groups of boys consist of a leader and a number of followers," he said reflectively. "Perhaps we became friends because none of us enjoyed being led."
"I would have supposed that you were all natural leaders. Each of you could have ruled a circle of adoring sycophants."
"But we didn't choose to. Rafe despises toadeaters, and as the heir to a dukedom, he attracted them like a horse attracts flies. You know Hero— trying to get him to do something he doesn't want is like trying to order the wind, yet he has no desire for power over others. Too much the Gypsy, perhaps. Michael, I think, preferred to test himself against his equals rather than settle for the easy domination of weaker characters."
"And what about you?" she asked, intrigued by his analysis.
"Me? Like Hero, I dislike taking orders, but I don't particularly enjoy the visibility that goes with leadership."
"Born to be a spymaster, in fact."
"Afraid so." He looked doubtfully at the peacock, which was strutting before an unimpressed peahen. "Do lower your voice. Those peafowl might be French agents."
She laughed as they went down the steps to the gravel path. "Hero may be hard to order, but his sense of responsibility can lead him to do things that he might prefer to avoid."
Lucien gave her a shrewd glance. "Are you concerned that he is marrying you from a sense of responsibility?"
"A little." Unable to resist this chance to discuss her concerns, she said carefully, "When he and I struck our original bargain, I was a stranger and it was easy for him to threaten to ruin me. But as he came to know me as an individual, I think he started to feel guilty, and his proposal was the result. Previously he had been quite adamant about not wanting a wife. I hope that he doesn't come to regret our marriage."
"While he takes responsibility seriously, it wouldn't get him to the altar if he didn't want to go," Lucien replied. "I don't believe I have ever known Hero to do something that he truly did not wish to do. As the old earl learned to his cost. That's why they were usually at loggerheads."
The gardens were improving rapidly now that the old gardener had three husky young assistants. Risking the gardener's ire, Josephine stooped to pick a scarlet tulip. "What was Hero's grandfather like? I was never in a position to know him."
"A difficult man. His attitude to Hero was very complex, but warmth was never part of it. They would have gotten on better if Hero had groveled. Instead, though Hero was always courteous, he had a way of being... not quite there."
"I know exactly what you mean," she said, thinking how he had been for the last few days. "It's rather maddening."
"Certainly it maddened his grandfather."
Their wanderings had brought them to the rockery. As they followed the twisting path, a peahen began to shriek from her perch in a nearby tree. Josephine regarded the bird with disfavor. "At least the males are decorative, but the way the females screech tempts me to experiment with peahen fricassee. To the extent that I ever thought of it, I assumed that peafowl were elegant and aristocratic, but it turns out they're only noisy, glorified pheasants. It's been a sad disillusionment."
"So much for the glamour of the nobility." Lucien's mouth quirked up.
"For some reason, talk of peacocks reminds me of Hero's first wife." Josephine toyed with her tulip. "What did you think of her?
"I suppose I shouldn't say, but I will. It's useful for a second wife to have some understanding of the woman who went before." He thought a moment. "She was very beautiful, of course, and very aware of it. She had great vivacity as well, yet I never really liked her. There was an essential coldness in her nature that repelled me." He gave Josephine an amused glance.
"That's a minority opinion. Most men would have gladly thrown themselves down like carpets so she could walk on them, if that was what the Incomparable Caroline wanted."
"I don't think I would enjoy walking on a carpet of human bodies," Josephine said dryly. "Not at all comfortable."
"Which is why you and Hero will probably deal very well together. Though he admired her considerable charms, he wasn't good carpet material."
Josephine wondered if that was the source of the problems in the marriage. "He loved her enough to make her his wife."
"That wasn't love—it was an arranged marriage, you know." Lucien's brow furrowed. "Or perhaps you didn't know. It was the old earl's idea, of course—he wanted to see the succession secured before his death. Hero was doubtful, but he agreed to meet Lady Caroline, and was pleasantly surprised. He had been afraid that his grandfather had chosen some horsefaced female with good bloodlines and no conversation. But the old earl was clever enough to know that if the girl was unattractive, Hero would never cooperate. As it was, Hero agreed to the match readily enough."
"Were there problems in the marriage from the first?"
"As arranged marriages went, it appeared more auspicious than most. Hero seemed satisfied with his bargain. But after a few months..." Lucien shrugged. "Something went wrong, I have no idea what. Hero sent Caroline to Westgate and stayed in London alone."
"And drowned himself in debauchery," Josephine said helpfully, since her companion didn't seem inclined to elaborate.
"I'm afraid so," he agreed. "Not that I have anything against debauchery, but he didn't seem to be enjoying it much. Though I saw him occasionally in London, he didn't confide in me. Then came that dreadful business here at Westgate, and he left the country. You probably know more about that than I."
"Thank you for speaking so freely. I want to understand as much about Hero as I can." She picked a white tulip to go with the scarlet. "Sometimes I feel as if he is a play, and I came in on the second act and must deduce what has gone before."
Lucien smiled. "That is the nature of all human friendships, and what makes them interesting."
"Speaking of friendships, did you know that Lord Michael is living in his house on the other side of the valley?"
Lucien's head whipped around, and he regarded her with sharp concern. "I hadn't heard that. Has there been trouble?"
Josephine was vividly reminded that under his light manner, Lucien was a formidable man. Wanting to share her concern, she said, "The day after Lord Michael returned to Penreith, a rifle bullet almost struck Hero when we were riding. I was afraid that Michael had fired it, but Hero insisted that it must have been a poacher."
"Have there been any similar incidents?"
"Not that I know of. Lord Michael has been busy." Josephine described the explosion at the mine and the steps his lordship was taking to improve conditions.
Lucien's expression eased. When she was finished, he said, "It sounds as if Michael is recovering his natural equilibrium. Obviously he came here because of his business interests, not because of some ill-founded hostility toward Hero."
"I hope so. I didn't enjoy wondering if he was going to put a hole in Hero." She bit her lower lip. "Since this seems to be my day for impertinent questions, I might as well ask what his good points are. He must have some, or he wouldn't have such admirable friends."
"Courage, intelligence, honesty," Lucien said promptly. "One always knew where one stood with Michael. When in good spirits, which was usually, he was a witty, thoroughly enjoyable companion. He was also absolutely loyal to his friends."
"He hasn't been to Hero," she pointed out.
"Yes, and I wish I knew why," Lucien said. "Still, it sounds as if his state of mind is improving."
"I hope so, since we seem destined to be neighbors. Will you call on him while you're here in the valley?"
"I think I shall. With luck, he'll have forgiven me for seconding Hero in that duel." Lucien smiled. "Speaking of Hero, here he comes now."
As the two men shook hands, Josephine remembered how Lord Michael had appeared at the Duke of Candover's ball. Though she wanted to believe he was no longer a threat, it was hard to believe that such hostility had completely vanished. She prayed that she was wrong.
That night it was very late when Hero came to Josephine's bed. Thinking that he and his friend would talk until dawn, she had fallen asleep, but she woke when the mattress sagged under his weight. Sleepily teasing, she murmured, "Who's there?"
She heard a sharp intake of breath, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. "Who the fuck were you expecting?" Hero said in freezing accents.
She came fully awake in an instant. "That was a joke, Hero. Obviously a bad one."
"Very."
She leaned forward and put her arms around his rigid shoulders. Quietly she said, "It doesn't take a genius to guess that Caroline was unfaithful to you. I suspect that was at the root of your own adultery. But I'm not like her, even if my sense of humor is sometimes inappropriate. To me, the idea that I could even think of making love with another man is ludicrous." Feeling him soften, she added, "Considering what an amazingly difficult time you had getting me into your bed, what makes you think any other man would be successful?"
He put his hand over hers. "Only someone essentially innocent could offer such flawed reasoning, but having made my share of stupid jokes, I'm in no position to throw stones." A hard edge came into his voice. "You guessed rightly–my noble first wife was a slut. It isn't something I care to dwell on."
"I can think of better things to dwell on," she agreed. Her hand glided lightly down his torso until she found what she sought. "For example..."
He sucked his breath in. "You're a remarkably quick learner. It's time to skip to an advanced lesson." With a flurry of cat-quick movements, he flipped her over and followed her down, doing things that astonished her.
There was a possessive fury to his lovemaking that night, as if he was seeking to brand her as his own. She accepted him gladly, eager to erase all memory of her unthinking remark. For a handful of moments, the distance she had sensed in him was burned away by the fires of passion and they were fully intimate, body and soul.
That sense faded later, but if it could happen once, it could happen again. Josephine fell asleep in his arms, as happy as she had ever been in her life. But before sliding into slumber, she found herself hoping that the hell of fire and brimstone truly existed. And that Caroline Fiennes Tiffin, duke's daughter and faithless wife, was burning in it.
Michael
Michael Kenyon was working in his study when his manservant, acting as butler as well as valet, came to announce that the Earl of Strathmore was paying a call. Michael hesitated, struck by a sharp longing to see his old friend. More than that, he longed for life to be as simple as it once had been, when he and Luce and Rafe and Hero had breezed into each other's lodgings with the casual ease of brothers...
But life hadn't been that simple in years, and in London, Lucien had aligned himself with Westgate. "Tell Lord Strathmore that I'm not receiving."
A hint of disapproval showed in the servant's eyes, but he said only, "Very good, my lord," and left the room.
Michael tried to return to work, but it was impossible to concentrate on his accounts. Irritated, he shoved the ledger aside and strode over to the window to stare broodingly out over the valley. When he saw Lucien riding away, his mouth tightened. Luce must have come for Westgate's wedding, news of which was all over the valley. Apparently Westgate was marrying his mistress, the small female who had been with him in London. Michael recalled her as being reasonably attractive, and she had seemed sensible, apart from her willingness to bed Westgate, but she was a far cry from her predecessor.
His stomach twisted and his gaze went to the mine, which was dimly visible in the distance. He'd come to Penreith with a purpose, and because of the disaster at the pit he was no closer to accomplishing it than the day he had arrived. Every waking moment had been filled with activity, first directing rescue work, then putting together plans to implement the improvements that should have been done years ago. It was bitterly galling to acknowledge that Westgate had spoken the truth about the mine when they had met in London.
Probably Westgate was also correct that Madoc had been embezzling, though Michael hadn't yet found the proof. The figures in the account books added up, but they didn't quite make sense. He was disinclined to pursue the matter at the moment; if Madoc had been greedy, it was Michael who had given him the opportunity. And the fellow was extremely useful.
Besides, Michael had far more important things on his mind; feverish activity was no excuse for cowardice. Soon he must resolve the horrifying dilemma that had brought him back to Penreith.
And no matter how painful it proved to be, justice must be done.