The Necklace

  Then as silence settled around them, he cradled her head in one large hand and slanted his mouth over hers. She inhaled sharply, drawing in his warmth as their breath mingled before she stopped breathing altogether when his firm lips caressed her mouth.

  It was shocking and exhilarating. The garden slipped sideways and slid away until there was nothing except in the world but his arms. Her legs nearly folded beneath her as the heat from his chest burned through her dress. Every bone in her body melted in that liquid warmth.

  Then, mortified at her reaction, she tried to push him away. But even as her sense of propriety returned, his grip strengthened.

  Her will to push him away faded, and an odd elation filled her. Her hand slipped over the hard muscles of his chest. The wool of his jacket rubbed against her fingertips as her hands made their way up his neck and into the dark curls at the nape. His lips pressed against her mouth until she opened it to feel the tip of his tongue tickle her own.

  Erin Hatton, Associate Editor

  The Necklace

  Amy Corwin

  ~~~

  Highland Press Publishing

  The Necklace

  An Original Publication of Highland Press Publishing - 2010

  The Necklace © 2010 Amy Corwin

  Cover Copyright © 2010 Cheryl Alldredge

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the authors and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, save actual historical figures. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ISBN - 978-0-9842499-9-2

  HIGHLAND PRESS PUBLISHING

  Regency Royale

  Chapter One

  Shuffle, Cut, and Deal

  1814, London, England

  After a very long night, Chilton Dacy finally claimed success, although it wasn’t due entirely to his own efforts. The bulk of the hard work was put forth by two bottles of fine French brandy. And at three a.m. the Norwegian diplomat’s wife decided she could part with the papers Castlereagh wanted, in exchange for “just one more brandy” and Chilton’s dubious company for another hour or so.

  Slightly worse for wear, he delivered the documents to the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, at a little after five. Castlereagh, yawning and fidgeting with his dressing gown, escorted him into the enormous library. The servants brought in trays of sliced cake and coffee while Castlereagh gruffly told him to have a seat.

  Chilton waited for the servants to leave before he dutifully complied. Across the desk from him, Castlereagh took a cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. He focused at the window, staring blankly over Chilton’s shoulder at the brightening sky for several minutes, obviously still half asleep. Castlereagh’s mouth hung open and the steaming cup of coffee in his hand wavered an inch away from his lips for a full minute before he took a sip.

  After sitting in silence for an increasingly long period, Chilton straightened and fought back his exhaustion.

  “Lord Castlereagh...the papers?”

  “Oh, yes.” Castlereagh took an absent-minded sip of his coffee. He sputtered and swore before puffing cool air through his lips. “Damn it! Where’s the milk for this bloody coffee?”

  “Sorry, sir.” Chilton reached over and poured a dollop of milk into Castlereagh’s cup. “But the papers?”

  “Yes.” Castlereagh bent over the desk and studied them. “They’ll help, perhaps. It’s simply too bad Norway sided with France. She’ll suffer for it in the end.” He shook his head and leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Well, they may align themselves with Sweden, yet. We shall see. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.” He was damned if would remind the Foreign Secretary of the little matter of back pay. Sooner or later, Castlereagh would remember and send a fat purse around to his flat. Most likely, along with orders for some other clandestine assignment.

  After a few idle questions, Castlereagh stood and held out his hand. “Your Country owes you a great deal, Dacy.”

  Several thousand pounds, in fact, he thought.

  “Thank you, sir.” He struggled to stand, still feeling the effects of the brandy and no sleep for nearly two days.

  “And I shall personally see you are rewarded. Get some rest.” Lord Castlereagh waved him off and returned his attention to a more leisurely perusal of the papers.

  Sleepy-eyed servants let Chilton out into the damp air of early morning. He took a deep breath to clear his head before starting toward Mayfair.

  Tired and slightly wobbly, he stumbled down the street, aiming for his bachelor flat and cool comfort of his solitary bed. As he rounded the corner of his townhouse, church bells tolled the hour. The sound echoed with a slight throbbing pain just above his eyebrows. He paused, gripping the iron railing bordering the sidewalk, and waited for the insistent ache to subside. A few hours of sleep would cure the nascent headache.

  Straightening, he scanned the street by habit. His heart sank at the sight of his father’s coach standing at the curb in front of his apartments. Two liveried footmen already stood outside his door, awaiting him.

  He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. He had completely forgotten. His father had requested a meeting this morning at the God-awful hour of seven. The church bells already announced he was late.

  While he hesitated, the footmen glanced around and saw him. They looked at each other and then moved in concert to either side of him, clearly determined to follow their master’s orders. He nodded a greeting and wearily climbed inside the carriage without argument. His father, Lord Chichester, would have to accept him as he was.

  Chilton wasn’t a man given to excuses, and he leaned back, refusing to worry. If his father chose to believe the worst because of his appearance, so be it. He wasn’t at liberty to discuss his activities, even with his family. And his present condition owed more to his duty to the Crown than personal choice.

  Nonetheless, he wished he’d had time for a shave. And a bath.

  Rubbing his shadowed chin, he grimaced as the coach rattled over the cobblestone streets. He glanced uneasily at his cuff, scratching off some melted candle wax and wishing he could avoid the imminent meeting. It was sure to be unpleasant.

  During the last two days, he had received several letters from his father. After reading the first one, the rest remained unopened and scattered across his desk. He didn’t have time for the lectures and petty family squabbles. The growing tensions with Norway were frankly more important than Lord Chichester’s misguided belief that Chilton found the desiccated wives of foreign diplomats irresistible.

  Nonetheless, his father’s mistrust ate at Chilton. A little faith would have gone a long way toward mending their relationship. And the gulf between them yawned wider with each passing year.

  Staring out the window, he straightened, noticing they were already nearing his father’s townhouse. Self-conscious, he brushed his dusty jacket, feeling nine years old instead of eight and twenty. His fingers caught in a mass of tangled threads dangling from the ripped shoulder seam. He tried to smooth it over and self-consciously tucked some threads back inside.

  With a start, he realized the carriage had stopped. Before he could move, the footmen opened the door and dragged him out. They remained either side of him as they marched him into his father’s library, as if expecting him to try to escape. Once he stepped inside, they had the effrontery to guard the doorway like a pair of gaol wardens.

  Chilton ignored the two men and took a seat on one of the leather chairs facing his father’s desk. Slouching tiredly, he stared at the baroque splendor of the mahogany edifice facing him. Elaborate oak garlands graced the legs and side panels, matching the carvings on his father’s high-backed ch
air. It looked overly lavish and uncomfortable and suited his father magnificently.

  A huge window behind the desk glittered in the morning sun, casting sparkling reflections off the crystal ink pots and quill holders resting on the desk. The light shone painfully into his face, and his eyes watered. He rubbed his temples before he got up to drag the chair out of the shaft of light. When he took his seat again, he eyed the green drapes, tied back with gold silk sashes.

  He should have closed them, but he was too tired to get up again.

  “Chilton!” Edward Dacy, baron of Chichester, said as he walked into the room. His aristocratic face was set in familiar lines of anger and condemnation as he moved around the desk to stand with his back to the window.

  “Good morning, sir.” Chilton stood and nodded.

  A surreptitious glance at the clock on the mantle showed it was barely half past seven. The early hour and lack of sleep left him ill-prepared to forestall the confrontation he saw gathering strength in his father’s shuttered face and stiff shoulders. His befogged mind couldn’t even produce a witticism to share as a peace offering.

  While he watched, his father’s cold eyes examined him, pausing infinitesimally on the torn shoulder seam. The gulf between them widened as lines of disapproval deepened in the man’s face. But, Chilton managed to remain silent, offering neither excuse nor joke. His father didn’t appreciate his cynical sense of humor, anyway. And there was no sense in antagonizing him further with a flippant remark about overly amorous women and their apparent dislike of well-fitting jackets.

  Slightly unsteady, Chilton gripped the back of the chair to keep from swaying. His stomach roiled with the remnants of last night’s adventure. He blinked and resisted the urge to shut his eyes to block out the light from the window. The brightening sunshine flared around his father. The glare increased his discomfort.

  “Just look at you! Barely able to stand and stinking of alcohol!” his father said at last. “I am only surprised you have not succeeded in killing yourself, though it is not for want of trying.”

  “And you are looking well yourself, Father,” he murmured.

  He scanned his father’s angry face before resting his eyes on the thin shadow his father cast across the desk. He couldn’t think of a single explanation his father would accept to lessen the tension crackling through the room.

  How two men, related by blood, could have so little in common was beyond his understanding.

  “Still insolent—even your Rifle Corps couldn’t beat it out of you.” His father leaned forward with his clenched fists hard against the desk. When Chilton didn’t respond, Chichester opened his fingers with slow deliberation and pressed his palms on the blotter as he lowered himself into his chair. “Sit.”

  Chilton sat down and waited. He worked for the Foreign Secretary and had led men into battle—watched them die around him—and yet his father still insisted on ordering him around like a wayward child.

  “At least that wound has healed. If you had not been such a fool...” Lord Chichester said gruffly. “Does it still give you pain?”

  “No.” He rubbed the scar bisecting his left brow before he caught himself and lowered his hand. He drank enough most nights to dissolve the headaches, and he’d be damned before he admitted it in this room. Finally, as the silence lengthened, he asked, “What do you want?”

  “I—we wanted to know you were at least alive. Your stepmother—”

  “Spare me, Father. I am sure Violet is more than happy to see as little of me as possible.”

  “Is it any wonder? You are my heir—my oldest son—and you have done nothing but shame us. She begged you not to endanger yourself by joining the Rifle Corps, but could you respect her—our—wishes? No. And you nearly got yourself killed. You have gone out of your way to make her life miserable. You could at least try to rub along with her and your half-brother—”

  He stood, biting back the real explanation for his condition. Then the room tilted, and he swayed before he could steady himself. He leaned against the arm of his chair until the floor stopped spinning.

  His brittle control snapped under the pressure of his exhaustion. His father’s familiar complaints pushed Chilton into the same conversational rut they always rode in.

  “That’s rich, lecturing me on family responsibilities—”

  “Apparently you are in need of it!” his father said stiffly.

  “Perhaps I am, but isn’t it a trifle disingenuous of you to lecture me on proper behavior? After all, you are the one who defied convention and married Violet a mere two weeks after burying my mother. Although Edward’s birth a month later certainly explains your absence during mother’s illness and unseemly haste afterward.” His hand tightened on the chair.

  He could still feel the grip of his mother’s cold hand on his and see the hopelessness in her gaze as she asked for her husband. Her eyes haunted Chilton’s nightmares with a sense of failure. And his anger hardened as he studied his father’s emotionless face.

  Lord Chichester slammed his palm down on the desk. “I did not bring you here to listen to your insolence. My actions are not open for discussion. The past is over, and you’d do well to forget it. Now sit down. Sit!”

  After a moment, Chilton sat. The sunlight burned ever stronger through the window behind the desk. He leaned back in the chair, trying to escape the glare. Finally, he rested his forehead against the edge of his hand to shield his tired eyes.

  He flicked a quick glance toward his father as the impasse continued. The morning sunshine glowed behind Lord Chichester’s thin frame, forming a nimbus around his head and shoulders. It gave him the unsettling appearance of an ill-tempered, avenging angel bent on delivering an unpleasant message.

  Chilton looked away and waited.

  “I requested your presence because I have a favor to ask,” Lord Chichester said as he sat down.

  “A favor?”

  “Yes. Hard as this may be to comprehend, you are still my son. My eldest son. Your stepmother needs you.”

  “Violet needs my help?” He laughed bitterly. “That’s a prime one. Does she know you’re asking me to do a favor for her?”

  Violet wouldn’t even speak to him on his last visit. For his part, he didn’t press matters. He had no inclination to grovel for her affection.

  Lord Chichester’s hands played over the crystal ink stand and letter opener, displaying his discomfort over requesting anything from his son, particularly his assistance.

  “She does not know. And I would appreciate it if you would remain silent on the matter—if you are capable of that. Violet has been sick with worry—”

  “Why should Violet be worried?” He watched his father and wondered why Chichester agonized so over asking a simple favor. Or why he believed Chilton couldn’t keep a secret.

  The thought almost made him laugh at the irony of his situation. Chilton was nothing if not adept at keeping his own counsel.

  Perhaps Chichester’s discomfort simply revealed the unpleasant truth about their relationship. It had to be galling for him to ask for a favor from someone he disliked.

  Lord Chichester’s first marriage—and Chilton—had been the products of duty, not love. Chilton had always been aware of that fact. As a child, he believed his father was simply incapable of affection. Lord Chichester had done his duty to sire Chilton, educate him, and provide an allowance. Everything proper and necessary for his heir had been granted.

  However, once Chilton’s mother died, his father revealed he was capable of love. He married Violet and demonstrated his affection for her and their son, Edward, quite freely.

  Over time, Chilton found the inner strength to survive. He grew strong and self-reliant—perhaps too self-reliant.

  These days, he was happy to take risks for the Crown. And unlike his father, he didn’t need anything—particularly favors from his family.

  “There is a note—” Lord Chichester said.

  “A love letter?”

  That tr
uly would be ironic if the unfaithful husband had been cuckolded by his young wife. Shifting in his seat, he rubbed his eyes. His jaw clenched to keep from saying anything inflammatory. The room was already far too overheated for comfort.

  “Certainly not! A note signing over the farm.”

  “The farm!” His sharp laugh cut through his father’s explanation. “Neddy-boy will have to go a-begging then or win it back.”

  “He is your brother! He must inherit something—”

  “Half-brother. And I don’t give a farthing. Let him take it all and be welcomed to it.”

  “That is enough, Chilton! You have certainly done your utmost to show your contempt for this family. You have even tried to ensure he does inherit with your rash actions during the war. But I will not tolerate your attitude toward Violet and Edward any longer. You are a disgrace.” Lord Chichester pulled a tattered, folded note out from under the blotter and shoved it across the desk. “You may follow any road to Hell you wish, however you will do this one thing for me.”

  Chilton picked up the paper. He barely glanced at it before tossing it back with a shrug. “So you hold my note. It’s a matter of indifference to me. I shall pay you instead of Tommy Horner.”

  “A thousand pounds? Can you pay it now?”

  After Castlereagh pays me.

  Sometimes it was difficult to maintain the charade that he relied solely on his allowance from his father and the small sum he received as half-pay from the army.

  However, since he couldn’t talk about his missions, he certainly couldn’t reveal the extra income they garnered. Although this morning, it was easy enough to pretend he was in exactly the condition his father expected. His pockets were certainly empty enough.

  “I shall pay you this afternoon—I’ve some wagers to collect,” he replied smoothly. “You will get your money. I always pay my debts.”