In the six years that Jessica had been at the General’s house, the Veseys had visited but rarely, and usually those visits had been accompanied by a request for money. She had little doubt that it was money that had brought them flying to the old man’s bedside now. Less than a week earlier, General Streathern had received a letter telling him of the death of an old and dear friend. He had jumped to his feet with a loud cry. Then his hand had flown to his head, and he had crumpled onto the carpet. Servants had carried him to his bed, where he had lain ever since, inert and seemingly insensible to everything and everyone around him. Apoplexy, the doctor had termed it, with a sad shake of his head, and held out little hope of recovery, given the General’s advanced years. The Veseys, Jessica was sure, had dashed to his bedside because they hoped to be named in the General’s will.
Jessica had tried her best to put aside her antipathy to Lord and Lady Vesey. They were, after all, Gabriela’s only living relatives besides the General, and, as such, she knew with a cold queasiness, in all likelihood Lord Vesey would become Gabriela’s guardian if the General did indeed die, which seemed more likely with each passing day.
She told herself that some of her dislike of Lady Vesey stemmed from that woman’s voluptuous beauty. Jessica had grown up stick-thin, with a wild mop of carrot-colored hair, her eyes and mouth too big in her starkly thin face. As an adolescent, she had towered over all the other girls—and most of the boys, as well—gangly and awkward and feeling hopelessly unfeminine next to the soft, small, rounded females all about her. And even though her figure had eventually ripened into womanhood and her face had filled out and softened, and her hair had deepened into a rich, vibrant red, so that she had become a statuesque and striking-looking woman, Jessica still felt twinges of envy and awkwardness around women like Leona Vesey, who used their lush femininity as a form of weapon.
Also, she admitted that she had prejudged the woman because of letters from Viola Lamprey, the lone friend who had stuck by Jessica through all the scandal concerning Jessica’s father. Viola had married rather late but startlingly well, becoming Lady Eskew three years ago and living at the height of London society. She and Viola had continued to correspond all through the years after the scandal, and Viola loved to keep Jessica amused with her witty, entertaining tales of the scandals and excesses of the Ton.
Lord and Lady Vesey were often the topic of gossip. He, it was said, was much too fond of very young females, and she had been carrying on a very well-known “secret” affair with Devin Aincourt for over a decade. A few months ago Viola’s letters had been full of the stories circulating through London concerning Aincourt’s sudden marriage to an American heiress and the subsequent termination—by Aincourt, not Lady Vesey—of the long-standing affair. The ladies of London were gleeful. Leona Vesey had few friends among them, having often made it a point to demonstrate how easily she could take away any of their husbands or suitors.
Jessica knew she should not have judged Lady Vesey on the basis of gossip. After all, she had certainly been at the center of a great deal of unfair gossip herself ten years earlier. When the Veseys had arrived here, she had made an effort to look at Lady Vesey afresh, untainted by preconceptions and prejudices. But it was soon clear to her that gossip had, if anything, not painted the lady black enough. Leona Vesey was selfish, vain and mean-tempered. She was contemptuous of all those of lower station than she, and she was pleasant only to those whom she thought could help her, usually men. The Veseys had been here for only three days, and already Jessica could barely stand to be in the same room with either of them.
She felt Gabriela tense beside her, and she suspected that the girl was about to unleash her anger on Leona, so Jessica quickly linked her arm with Gabriela’s, casting her a warning look. She was worried for Gabriela’s future. If the General should die and she was given to Lord and Lady Vesey as their ward, her life would be hard enough without her already having earned the enmity of Lady Vesey.
“Oh, please, Uncle,” Leona said, her voice breaking as she bent over the still form of the old man, waxen in the dim light. “Please say some parting word to me.”
Suddenly the old man’s eyes flew open. Leona let out a small shriek and jumped back. The General stared at her with piercing hawk eyes.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, his voice scratchy and fainter than his usual bark, but his annoyance clear.
“Why, Uncle,” Leona said, recovering some composure, though her voice was still a trifle breathless. “Vesey and I came because we heard you were ill. We wanted to be with you.”
The old man glared at her for a long moment. “Afraid you might lose your share of my estate is more like it. Ha! Well, I have news for you. I ain’t dying. And even if I was, I wouldn’t be leaving anything to you and that roué of a husband of yours.”
“Uncle…” Lord Vesey, standing behind and to the side of his wife, tried an indulgent laugh. “You will give everyone the wrong idea. Others are not aware of your little fondness for jokes….”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the General pointed out sharply, sounding stronger with each passing moment. “Damme! Nobody invited you here. You’re a damned nuisance.”
“Oh, Gramps!” Gabriela burst out, unable to restrain herself any longer. “You’re all right! We thought you were dying.”
The General turned his head and saw Gabriela standing on the other side of the bed, Jessica behind her, and he smiled.
“Now, would I do a thing like that?” he asked, extending his hand to the girl.
Tears spilled out of Gabriela’s eyes, and she leaned forward to take her great-uncle’s hand. “I am so glad you are all right. We were horribly scared.”
“I’m sure you were, Gaby.” The old man squeezed her hand with only a remnant of his former strength. “But no need. I’m still breathing.”
He looked toward the foot of the bed, where his doctor and the village vicar stood, staring at him in astonishment. “No thanks to you, I’m sure,” General Streathern went on, talking to the doctor. “Go away. You look like a couple of damned crows standing there. I’m not dying.”
“General, you must not excite yourself,” the doctor said in a calming voice. “You have been unconscious for almost a week now.”
“No, I haven’t. Woke up last night. Just went back to sleep.”
“It must have been the sound of Lady Vesey’s voice that got through to you,” the vicar said, with an admiring smile in that woman’s direction.
“Humph!” the General responded. “Well, you were a fool when you were young, Babcock, so no use expecting you to be any better when you’re old. Hearing that baggage’s voice is more likely to send me over than bring me back.”
“What!” Leona exclaimed, setting her hands on her hips indignantly. “Well, I like that. We left London and drove all the way up to this godforsaken place just because we heard you were ill. And this is the thanks we get?”
“I didn’t ask you to come here,” the General said reasonably. “Nobody did. You came because you hoped there was money in it for you. It’s the only reason the two of you ever set foot in this house, and I told you last time not to return. You’re damned nervy, that’s all I can say, to come strutting back in here. You are a conniving bit o’ muslin, Leona, and I thank God you’re not my blood relative. I wish I could say the same about that piece of trash you’re married to.” He broke off his harangue long enough to shoot Lord Vesey a malevolent glare. “Now get out, both of you. I don’t want to see your faces again.”
“Perhaps we had best go back to our rooms,” Lord Vesey suggested to his wife, looking a shade paler than he had a few moments before.
“Your rooms? You’re staying here?” The General’s face reddened alarmingly.