house in London with his brandy in his hand? Revell had been the one their father had cast the farthest from home, less like a twisting leaf than a worthless penny minted from tin instead of copper. Yet since then Revell had made himself into a wealthy man with the fortune to match his title, a man with power and influence and the awestruck respect of others, exactly the sort of man that, as a boy, he and his two brothers had sworn they would become. Certainly Brant had succeeded, and George, too, and he’d never heard either of them complain of their lot. If restlessness and loneliness were the price to be paid for their success, then so it had been.
Revell shook his head, resisting the lure of the old bitterness, and spread his fingers to take in more of the fire’s warmth. He’d been away so long that he’d forgotten how cold Sussex could be in December, or maybe this chill, like the weariness, was only another sign of getting old. He frowned at his reflection in the looking glass over the mantel, half expecting to see his thick black hair streaked with white or his sharp blue eyes turned rheumy with age. He would, after all, be twenty-eight next month, and he shook his head again at how quickly time had slipped by.
From habit he reached into the inside pocket of his waistcoat to find the small curved box, the gold-stamped calfskin worn from touching, and with his thumb he flipped open the lid. At once the cluster of sapphires inside caught the dancing light from the flames, flashing sparks and stars of brilliant blue as he turned the gold ring this way and that. For six years he’d carried this betrothal ring with him, close to his heart, a constant reminder of the one woman he’d thought had been destined to wear it, the only woman he’d ever love, the one who’d spoiled all others for him.
Love. With a muttered oath, he snapped the little box shut and shoved it back into his pocket, wishing he could thrust aside her memory as easily. God knows she’d been able to forget him fast enough, vanishing from Calcutta without explanation or regret or even one last bittersweet word of farewell.
Six years, yet in an instant he could still recall the rippling merriment of her laughter, the way her eyes would grow soft and her cheeks flush when she looked at him, the cherry-sweet taste of her mouth welcoming his.
His dearest, darling Sara….
Six years, hell. He was growing old, and foolishly sentimental, as well, dreading his own company and memories so blasted much that he’d accepted Albert Fordyce’s invitation to come here to Ladysmith. They’d been at school together, true, but Revell hadn’t seen Albert for years until they’d met by sheerest coincidence last week outside Drury Lane. The promise of a Christmas goose and rum punch and mistletoe in the doorways, a roaring great yule log in the fireplace and a masquerade ball for Twelfth Night: that was all it had taken to lure Revell here for a fortnight of weighty cookery, squealing fiddle music, and tedious entertainments with red-faced country squires and their bouncing, plump-cheeked ladies.
And none of it would be enough to make Revell forget Sara, not by half. Nothing ever was.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
For what must have been the thousandth time in this past hour, Sara glanced at the tall case clock that, bedecked with a spray of holly and red ribbon for the season, stood in the corner of the drawing room. Only five minutes remained until seven, when, without fail, Lady Fordyce would marshal her guests for the short procession to the dining room table, and Sara and Clarissa would begin their own little procession upstairs to the nursery for their more humble meal.
Now four minutes were left: could fortune really be smiling upon her like this? Her heart racing, Sara smoothed the small muslin ruffle on the end of her sleeve. If Revell were like the rest of the guests gathered in this room, then he’d be staying at Ladysmith through Twelfth Night. Their paths were bound to cross before then—the manor was simply not so large a house that it could be avoided—but the longer the meeting could be postponed, the better. True, it was unforgivably rude for Revell not to have come here to the drawing room to greet his hostess before dinner on his first night, but for Sara it meant another day and night when her secret was still safe.
Three minutes. There was, of course, also the chance that Revell wouldn’t recognize her. Sara knew she was much changed since he’d seen her last. Her sorrows showed on her face, and the plain, serviceable way in which she dressed did little in her favor. Besides, as Clarissa’s governess, she was not much different nor more visible than any other family servant. Although she’d been standing here beside the window for the past hour while Clarissa had been petted and indulged by the others, she doubted any of the elegantly gowned ladies or handsome, laughing gentlemen had noticed her at all. She could only pray that Revell would do the same.
“Miss Blake,” said Lady Fordyce, sweeping toward Sara. She was a tall, handsome woman, kind and good-natured, who lavished upon her two children with the same fondness and devotion that her husband Sir David doted upon her. “I believe it is time for Clarissa to retire for the evening.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Sara with an efficient small curtsy to mask her relief. She’d be able to escape with two minutes to spare. “Clarissa has found the holidays most exciting.”
“I should blame her brother rather than the holidays,” said Lady Fordyce with an exasperated sniff as she watched her children. Held high upon Albert’s shoulder, a delighted Clarissa was shrieking Christmas songs as loudly as she could, pumping her arms up and down like a military bandleader and not at all like a young lady.
“Albert,” said Lady Fordyce sternly. “Albert! Please lower your sister directly so Miss Blake can take her upstairs!”
“Mama, no!” wailed Clarissa as Albert promptly set her down on the carpet with a shush of white petticoats. “It’s not time, not yet!”
“Alas, Clarissa, it most certainly is,” commiserated Sara as she took Clarissa’s hand. “Come now, kiss your mama good night.”
Clarissa’s face crumpled with disappointment as she appealed to the solemn ring of grown-up faces gazing down at her. She was the only child at present in the house, a position that she occupied like a little queen among her courtiers. But even queens could be banished, and Clarissa knew from sorrowful experience she could expect no reprieve from her mother once dinner was being served.
“And a kiss for me, too, Clary,” said Albert heartily, the way he did nearly everything. Although still in his twenties, he was already well on his way to being a model bluff English country gentleman, more fond of his dogs and his horses than the leather-bound books in his father’s library. “Who’s my only sweetheart girl, huh? Who’s my best darling sister?”
“That’s because I’m your only sister, Albert,” said Clarissa, but she kissed his ruddy cheek anyway. “As you know perfectly, perfectly well.”
“Your sister, Fordyce?” said a deep, low voice that Sara had thought she’d never hear again. “How could such a charming little sprite have you for a brother?”
Automatically Sara’s head turned in response, her heart racing and her feet urging her to flee. Revell was standing so near to her that she could see the tiny half-moon scar, pale against the clean-shaven shadow of his jaw.
Did he see that in his looking glass each morning and remember the night he’d come by it? How he’d cut himself as he’d climbed over the high wall that had surrounded her father’s grand white mansion on Chowringhee Road? Did he still recall how often he’d visited her—no, stayed with her, and loved her the glorious night through! Did he touch that scar now and remember her, how he’d slid over the rough stucco and through the thicket of trees and vines to reach the teak bench where she was waiting for him, there in the velvet heat of an Indian midnight?
“Little
