Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 2

  But what did she think of him? Did she find him guilty? The look in her eyes, her words, said differently, but he feared the futility of hope. He watched, frustrated, as the ingénue shyly lowered her eyes before him. He cursed again, almost tangibly feeling something special slip from his life as the abrupt banging of the Lord Chief Justice's gavel broke the tableau as everyone raced back to their seats, not willing to miss a moment of the court's closing proceedings.

  As he turned back to the bench, Jared caught a glimpse of his mother's avid gaze trained upon the girl's retreating back. A tiny spark of humor brightened his outlook. His mother and he often had the same idea at the same time. Throughout his childhood, they'd plagued his father with their uncanny connection.

  At forty-seven years of age, his mother still glowed with the incredibly good looks of her youth, which had always owed more to country air and exercise than artifice. Her blond hair, gone silver, still framed her face in short, soft curls. Tears sketched a never-ending path down her rounded cheeks, though she surreptitiously made to wipe them away to hide her grief, holding herself sternly erect. Only someone who knew her well—as he did—could detect the effort she expended to remain in control. Her hands, half hidden among the concealing folds of her full skirts, nervously worried a soggy, tattered handkerchief, a clear indication of her upset.

  Jared's lips tightened as his jaw firmed. He hated seeing her like this, hated being seen by her like this. His enemy had much to atone for...

  Seated on a tier above yet quite close to her son, Emily Barrington Tyson watched the interplay between her son and the dark haired woman with surprised delight. How often had she pushed him to marry and set up his nursery only to be told that he would not contemplate marriage until he found a woman of intellect; one that could hold the attention of his formidable mind both in and out of the bedroom? Now, her heart wrenched with pity as she beheld her son's obvious attraction.

  Knowing her son, Emily realized his reaction to the young woman in the gallery was as shocking and unwelcome to him as the reverse was with her. He was obviously smitten and unable to do anything about the situation. What rotten luck that he should finally find a likely candidate while he was in this horrible situation.

  Her eyes met those of Arnold Beardsley's and she looked quickly away, the pain almost more than she could bear. Arnold Beardsley thought her son guilty. As long as he felt that way, there could be no hope for them. No future.

  Arnold had loved her for years. Like many of the other gentlemen of his generation, he had courted the “Bright Barrington” as she was known then, but unlike the other gentlemen who had simply been following a fad, Arnold had truly been heart-broken when Emily chose to accept his best friend's proposal. With a little more effort, she could have brought herself to love Arnold, but she had adored Randolph Tyson as he had adored her.

  She knew Arnold had never stopped loving her even when, at his father's continued urging, he had arranged a marriage of convenience to secure his family's succession. Because he was an honorable man, Arnold had been faithful to his well-bred, but slightly dull wife and in due course, they had three children: two boys and one girl.

  Though still considered in the prime of his life, Arnold had not taken another in wedlock after the death of his wife. Instead, he'd waited until three years after Wyndmere's death before approaching Emily with another proposal. She might have been receptive to his suit but for this mess with her son that had taken up all her energy. Distracted and inattentive, she'd put him off with vague promises to consider his suit. Emily had finally ceased mourning Wyndmere, though she would miss him forever. Arnold's steadfast regard through the years spoke well for their chances at connubial bliss, but she'd marry no one who could look at her son as he just had.

  Emily Barrington Tyson had no doubts about her son's innocence. She had not raised a traitor, though all the evidence in the world condemned him. There was too much of his father in Jared to allow such disloyalty. In fact, too much of both his fathers...

  Acting upon her limited choices, Emily had already set certain events in motion. At the start of this mockery of a trial, she had written a desperate note to an old acquaintance; one of the most powerful men in the world. Shortly thereafter, another letter was sent to the Prime Minister, William Pitt. She had reason to know the King's so-called leniency was manufactured by the threat of possible military action and a breaking off of diplomatic relations by a certain head-of-state, should a single hair on the head of one Jared Michael Randolph Jamal Tyson, His Grace, the Duke of Wyndmere, be harmed. Of course, the disclosure Emily had been forced to make to Pitt made her son look that much guiltier. Yet it couldn't be helped for she was fighting for her son's life, and nothing, nothing was more important to her than that. Not the notoriety that would be hers should the Ton find out her years-old secret ... not even the hatred she knew would be kindled in Jared's heart when he found out what she had done, for he had never been told his true history.

  Emily was fully prepared to live with both notoriety and hatred, if only her son might be spared. The sound of the court official's voice broke her introspection. Here, then was the verdict...

  "Jared Michael Randolph Jamal Tyson, Duke of Wyndmere, this court finds you guilty of treason against your King and country."

  Hundreds of voices erupted at once, shattering the silence that had shrouded the great hall. Shrieks of feminine dismay rose amid loud-voiced, angry denials, yet the overwhelming majority of spectators were cheering the court's findings.

  Jared looked heartened at the evidence that some of his friends still believed in his innocence though his features remained sternly blank in a proud refusal to bare his emotions before the slavering beast this crowd had become. Emily's heart sank at the crowd's response. They were like a pack of hounds with the scent of her son's blood in their nostrils.

  "Treason of such magnitude usually carries a sentence of death,” the Chief Justice informed the condemned sternly after the outbursts had died down. “However, His Majesty is inclined to be gracious due to the service you have rendered this country in the past, and the ties of friendship that once existed between the Tysons and the Crown.” The speaker's features contorted in a grimace that plainly revealed his questioning of their sovereign's newly regained sanity. He continued, “By order of His Majesty, you are to be banished from England for the remainder of your life. Unfortunately, in accordance with the perpetual charter granted the first Duke of Wyndmere by Charles Stuart I, you cannot be stripped of your title. Also, in accordance with said charter, any child of your body, male or female, may inherit the title and estates—” The speaker broke off to address the prisoner with more acrid words.

  "It does not appear there is much this Court is allowed to do in punishment of your crimes, your Grace. However, we can restrict your goings and comings, and it is the decision of this Court to remand you back into strict custody of the Tower until such time all the arrangements that have been made are duly carried out..."

  * * * *

  Jared's lethargy was broken when he realized the court was announcing that contrary to the usual allowance for a prisoner to settle his affairs and bid farewell to family members, he would remain locked in the tower until he could be put aboard a Turkish brigantine scheduled to arrive within the week.

  A Turkish ship? Jared wondered dazedly. He had been accused of dealing with the Ottoman government but knowing that to be a lie, he was stunned to learn that government had sent a ship for him. In fact, for it to be arriving within the week, it would have had to have been sent months ago. He knew he had not requested a ship of the Turkish government. Why should he when the Tyson fleet of ships numbered in the hundreds? Who had done this? Who had dared...? A red mist obscured his vision as heated rage took over.

  "I demand to see Pitt.” He shouted. “I am being framed. I never requested a ship. I have not been in contact with the Ottoman government ... what the hell is going on—?"

  Tiger-gold eyes flared angri
ly in heated denial as two burly court officers, answering the hurried order to escort the prisoner back to his cell, each grabbed an arm and proceeded to half drag, half-lead the shouting man out.

  Jared dug his heels in, giving himself a scant moment's delay. He chanced a look back to find his mother's eyes fixed on him, awash with tears. She swayed where she stood, hovering on the edge of a faint.

  "Mother—."

  He cringed inside, dying from not being able to go to his mother, to comfort her. His eyes misted in gratitude as soft arms went around his mother's shoulders, bolstering her up, watched as his mother turned thankfully into those girlish arms to weep bitterly. His heart, immune to all other's showings of camaraderie, leaped anew at this evidence of sympathy from one who had so quickly and inexplicably become important to him. Large gray eyes met his, silently promising support. He kept his gaze locked with hers, drinking her in, until his guards yanked at his arms, abruptly breaking the contact. He looked until they hauled him out and away. It might be a long dry spell before he could look into those gentle gray eyes again, but he swore a vow to himself that he would. One day, he would see her again...

  A Turkish ship ... now who had instigated that? I could not have done better myself. Oh, this is delicious. Divine. Look at the two sanctimonious Tysons. How he suffers. How she grieves.

  Boo-hoo. And I sit here, soaking it in, reveling in it.

  Poor Townesend, cast in the role of the unsuspecting dupe; the former friend. And see how that old fool Raeburn looks upon him in disillusionment where once he looked in love.

  Three taken away from you. Does it burn you, Jared, my own? Of course, it must. But not enough, my Nemesis, never enough.

  Fingers curled tightly about a roughly-carved crystalline elephant.

  Who is the girl? How did I miss her? Or is she a new development in the game? Do you begin to love her, Jared? I hope not, but I really believe you do. What a pity. She is so pretty, so ... fresh, yet she, too, must be eliminated. Everyone you love, Jared. Everything.

  In the end, I will destroy you all.

  Chapter Two

  Excerpt from the personal diary of Emily Tyson, Duchess of Wyndmere:

  March 24, 1800

  Last month was the two year anniversary of my leave-taking with my son, yet the memories of that day are as clear as if it were yesterday. Jared was confused and angered by the ship Selim sent for him because its presence made him appear guilty of the charges of treason. Of course, he truly had no idea why the Sultan of Turkey would go out of his way to defend him, even to offering a treaty-agreement with England. I confess to cowardice, within these private pages, for when it was time to tell Jared the truth, I could not. I was afraid he would hate me when he learned the story of his birth, kept from him all these years. In the end, I left the sordid tale for Selim to impart. I am sorry for it, for my shirking of duty did me no good. I have not heard from Jared these two years. He returns my letters unopened and unread. I would know nothing if Selim did not keep me informed of his doings. I find myself resenting Randolph for dying. He has escaped this blame I am labeled with. Perhaps if I too were dead, Jared would think of me more kindly. His coldness hurts me so ... Will he ever understand that everything I did, I did that he might live? I love him more than life. I always have. Though he may hate me forever, I would do it all again...

  Chapter Three

  Selim, I know it must have been a shock when you finally met my son and realized that he was also yours. As he grew, the resemblance to you was startling. In answer to your question: No, I swear I did not know I was carrying Jared when I left you. Honesty compels me to admit it would have made no difference as long as Randolph wanted me. He did know. In fact, it was he who told me I was increasing. He was proud to adopt and raise Jared as his own. If you have gotten to know your son even a little, I think you have to agree he is a fine young man. I fear I should have told Jared the truth of his heritage when his father died, but we were both so grief-stricken at the time I could not bear to take away the image of the father he had always known. I suppose it is just that Jared hates me, and so I must deal with my sorrow in this. He returns all my letters unopened, and will not be reconciled. Please inform Jared that I am trying to keep things running well, but I am finding it hard. The Duke of Raeburn, an old family friend, has offered his assistance. Do you recall my sister, Amelia? Her son, Jason, has also been an enormous help. I have deposited more funds in his name with the bank of Italy and Jared may draw on them at will. The funds will be replenished as needed. I yearn for his return. I cannot believe that the real criminal will remain free while my son, who is innocent, suffers so. I will write again, soon. Please ... give our son my love.—Emily

  Istanbul, Turkey

  October, 1800

  By reason of the Sultan's desire for warmth, the winter palace at Ankara was opulent—more so than the larger summer palace located in Istanbul. Luscious furs were in plentiful supply. The pelt of the Siberian Wolf, the rare white-spotted coat of the Ounce also known as the Snow Leopard, the black mink from the Steppes of Russia—all lent their grandeur to the private audience chamber of His Serene Sultan Selim Jamal Abdullah III, ruler of the Ottoman Empire.

  Selim watched under hooded lids as Jamal entered the vast chamber through the ornate door that opened from the “Hall of men". The guards at the door saluted smartly, bowing with hand over heart as he passed. A curt nod acknowledged the honor they accorded him as he swept down the center of the room, his eyes fixed sternly before him.

  Selim smothered a smile and paused in his enjoyment of a succulent peach. His son walked boldly, like the prince he was, down the length of the room to stand before him.

  Ah. His heart swelled as he gazed fondly upon this long-lost child—this child of his loins, his only son; begat upon his first great love, Emily. Oh, Emily, my English rose.

  Selim had acquired her before he was the crown Emir—and therefore nothing. He had always known Emily did not return his feelings of ardor. After all these years, he still felt a touching fondness for the woman who had saved his life the night his uncle had assumed the throne. He no longer cared that she had been running away from him on that same night. After all, he earned his own freedom by becoming the next in line to the throne the night he allowed her to leave.

  Instead of having him killed, his uncle, the new Sultan—a forward-thinking man—had treated Selim as a son and allowed him his own quarters, not even demanding he be confined to “the cage"; the traditional prison of all male relatives of the reigning Sultan where he had spent his youth.

  Without removing his own amber gaze from the similar eyes locked with his, the Sultan gestured. A servant stepped forward with a damp cloth and proceeded to wipe his ruler's peach-sticky fingers. “You appear upset, Jamal. What is troubling you?"

  Jamal executed a stiff bow. “Sir, I just came from the men's exercise yard where I had a slight altercation with Mustapha—"

  Selim straightened abruptly. “Was your brother seriously injured, Jamal?” In respectful memory of his Uncle's kindness to him, Selim considered his young cousin as his son.

  "No. I merely defended myself.” Jamal shot a knowing gaze at the innocent look on his father's face. “Mustapha was under the mistaken impression that I was slated to ascend the throne ahead of him. I had to ask myself where he would get such erroneous information."

  Selim heaved a long sigh. “I must confess that he heard it from me. I see no reason for Mustapha to continue in false hope. You are my eldest male relative, being twelve years older than Mustapha, therefore you are the Royal Emir, the ‘Prince of Promise'."

  "But I thought we were agreed that we would conceal the fact of my parentage to avoid just such undue confusion as this—” Jamal said, an irritable frown marring his handsome face. He pushed a slim hand through his thick black locks of hair in a frustrated manner.

  No doubt, being raised as a noble Englishman had not prepared Jamal for his role here in Turkey. He was used to having e
verything his way. Selim smiled to himself. Frustration may have been an emotion completely unfamiliar to his son two years ago, but it was about to become a common occurrence if he insisted on confronting his royal sire.

  "I am not going to rule after you. I'm not trained for it. I'm not a Muslim, and most importantly, Sir, I'm not interested."

  "I am glad you came to speak with me, my son.” Selim beckoned Jamal closer. A servant placed a chair for him to sit. “I have been studying what to do with you,” he continued as if he had not heard Jamal's protests. “I think we must find you a wife."

  "A what?"

  "A wife. A good Muslim woman who will—"

  "Hell, no.” Jamal shouted, coming up out of his chair, adding a belated, “Sir.” Taking several agitated steps away from the throne he studied his father's face, his eyes narrowing. “I cannot believe what I am hearing."

  "Be calm, my son,” Selim advised, carefully selecting another ripe peach. He closed his eyes in delight as he bit into the succulent fruit. His constitution was such that he could indulge his appetites and still maintain his slim physique. “It is a responsibility you will grow into,” he added calmly.

  "You will excuse me if I inform you I have no intention of growing into that responsibility.” Jamal strode about the room, every step screaming his agitation with this new situation. “I have repeatedly stated that I have no interest in your throne. And I have no intention of marrying outside of my faith. It would only cause more trouble than I have now. Need I remind you that any child I beget will be heir to my titles and lands in England?"

  "Just so. And you would expect that child to shoulder it's responsibilities without complaint, would you not?” The silken tones in which the Sultan spoke had the servants cringing at the doors. The calm before the storm, they warned of an emotional storm brewing. Jamal was not the only one used to getting his way.