The Wild Child Read online

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Also by Mary Jo Putney

  Preview of The China Bride

  Praises for Mary Jo Putney

  Copyright Page

  To libraries and librarians:

  God bless you, every one

  I met a lady in the meads

  Full beautiful, a faery’s child;

  Her hair was long, her foot was light,

  And her eyes were wild.

  —John Keats,

  “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”

  Prologue

  As the two men climbed the steps inside Grillon’s Hotel, the slighter one pushed ahead impatiently. His taller companion touched his arm in warning. “This can’t be the right girl, Amworth.”

  “Of course it’s Meriel,” Lord Amworth retorted. “How many lost blond English girls can there be in northern India?”

  The lines in Lord Grahame’s harshly weathered face deepened. “I saw the ruins at Alwari when they were still smoking, Amworth. No one, much less a five-year-old child, could have survived the massacre and fire.”

  The other man frowned. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  They reached the upper hall and walked to the room where the newly arrived party was staying. One sharp knock and a plump, elderly woman admitted them. “I’m Mrs. Madison, your lordships. Good of you to come so quickly.”

  “And it was very good of you to accompany the child back from India, Mrs. Madison.” Grahame’s restless gaze scanned the receiving room. “Where is the girl?”

  “In the bedroom, my lord.” Mrs. Madison gestured.

  They crossed the sitting room and looked through the open door. On the bed, a small, fragile girl was solemnly arranging cut flowers in an arc in front of her, a cascade of hair so pale it was almost white falling about her face. She glanced up, revealing elfin features and widely spaced eyes. There was only the faintest flicker in the pale green depths before she dropped her gaze to the flowers again.

  “Such a pity what happened to her, but she’s never a bit of trouble,” Mrs. Madison volunteered. “Is she your niece?”

  Amworth exclaimed, “It’s Meriel! She’s the image of my sister at that age.” He dropped on one knee by the bed. “Meriel, do you remember me? Your uncle Oliver?”

  She ignored him totally. He glanced at Mrs. Madison. “Has she become deaf?”

  “Not deaf, but her wits are gone, destroyed by the horrors of her captivity. The physicians who examined her in India said she’d always be a child.”

  “Maybe she’ll recognize me. She was only an infant when her parents left England, but she knew me when she was five.” Grahame also knelt within the girl’s line of sight. Taking one tiny hand, he said intensely, “Meriel, it’s your uncle Francis, your father’s brother. Remember the pony rides in the garden at Cambay?”

  She pulled her hand away as if he didn’t exist and carefully placed a lily next to a yellow rose. Apparently she was sorting the blooms by color and size. Grahame exhaled roughly. “She’s always like this?”

  “She notices Kamal a bit, but no one else. She just lives in her own world.” Mrs. Madison nodded toward the corner of the room, where a turbaned and bearded young Indian watched in silence. When the English lords looked in his direction, he pressed his hands together in front of his chest and bowed, but he was as silent as Meriel.

  In a whisper that penetrated more thoroughly than a regular voice, Mrs. Madison explained, “He’s a eunuch, you know. A harem guard. The maharajah chose him to escort Lady Meriel to Cambay. Since she didn’t want to be separated from the fellow, it was decided to bring him to England. Very useful he’s been, too.”

  Looking shaken, Lord Amworth allowed himself to be guided back to the sitting room by Lord Grahame. “Dear God, what a tragedy! She was such a bright, sweet child. Her parents doted on her. Perhaps…perhaps someday she might regain her wits.”

  “It’s been over two years since her parents died, the better part of a year since she was returned to English hands. If she were going to recover, surely there would be some sign by now.” Grahame’s face was almost as pale as Amworth’s. “An asylum…”

  “Never!” Amworth retorted. “We can’t put her in some filthy madhouse. We must set up a household for her at Warfield. Find a kind widow among the family connections to look after her. In a safe, happy home, she may gradually improve.”

  Grahame shook his head but didn’t argue the point. As an army officer he’d seen madness and knew it came in many forms, including total withdrawal from the real world. He doubted that Lady Meriel Grahame, only child of the fifth Earl Grahame, would ever regain her sanity. But Amworth was right; she could be kept in comfort. It was the least—and the most—her uncles could do.

  When news of the small heiress was released, people talked about what a miracle the child’s survival was. But such a pity what had happened to her.

  Such a pity.

  Chapter 1

  Dominic Renbourne’s head was pounding like a regimental drum. He came awake slowly, knowing he shouldn’t have drunk so much at the boxing match the night before. A good evening, but he’d pay for it all day.

  Belatedly he realized there was pounding on the door as well as in his head. Where the hell was Clement? Damn, his valet was still in the country visiting his ailing mother. Bloody nuisance.

  Since the knocking showed no sign of abatement, Dominic swung his legs to the floor and took stock. The sun’s rays said early afternoon, not morning. He still wore crumpled breeches and shirt, but had managed to get his coat and boots off before collapsing on the bed.

  Yawning, he ambled from his bedroom into the sitting room. He hoped Clement’s mother recovered soon; Dominic’s rooms were a shambles. If matters got much worse, he’d have to find a charwoman to clean the place.

  He swung open the door and saw—himself.

  Or rather, a cold-eyed, immaculately tailored version of himself. The shock of seeing his twin brother in the passageway was like a splash of ice water.

  Before Dominic could think of a suitably acid greeting, his brother pushed past him into the sitting room. “You need a shave and a haircut.” Kyle kicked aside a rumpled coat with one shining black boot. “And a bonfire to purge this place.”

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion.” Dominic’s normally easy temper flared with the special kind of irritation that only his brother and father could inspire. How long had it been since he’d seen Kyle? At least two years, and then only in passing, with cool nods exchanged. They didn’t move in the same c
ircles. Both of them preferred it that way. “Why are you here? Has Wrexham died?”

  “The earl enjoys his usual health. Robust, in an invalidish sort of way.” His brother began to prowl the room, unease showing in every line of his body.

  Dominic closed the door, then leaned against it and folded his arms across his chest, beginning to enjoy his twin’s obvious discomfort. Kyle had always concealed a tense, restless nature under a rigidly controlled exterior, but today the control was slipping badly. He looked ready to jump out of his skin. “If our dear father is still among the living, why are you stooping to visit my poor chambers?”

  Kyle frowned. In another few years his sour disposition would carve hard lines around his mouth, yet for now his features were still eerily like the image Dominic saw in the mirror every morning. Kyle’s face was a fraction fuller, his eyes perhaps a shade less blue, but the pair of them were still alike as peas in a pod. Both a little above middle height, leanly built but with broad shoulders, dark hair with a slight wave. As a boy, Dominic had reveled in that resemblance. Now he resented it. It seemed wrong that they should appear so similar when they were utterly different.

  “Perhaps I am visiting from brotherly affection.”

  “Do you think I’m a fool, Lord Maxwell?”

  “Yes,” his brother said bluntly, his contemptuous gaze scanning the cluttered room. “Surely you can do better than this with your life.”

  Dominic’s mouth hardened. His manner of living was not a subject he would discuss with his brother. “I presume you are here because you want something, though I can’t imagine what a useless younger son could possibly offer to the lord and heir of Wrexham.” And if Kyle did want something, he was going about it the wrong way.

  Apparently realizing that, his brother said in a more moderate tone, “You’re right, I need help, and only you can supply it.”

  “Indeed?”

  His eyes showing how much he hated asking for aid, Kyle said flatly, “I want you to pretend to be me for several weeks.”

  After a moment of shock, Dominic laughed. “Don’t be absurd. I could fool strangers easily enough, but not anyone who knows you well. Besides, what is the point? Deception is a child’s game.” Dominic had always been better at impersonating his brother than the other way around, but they hadn’t changed places since they’d started school. Or rather, schools. Sometimes Dominic wondered how different his life would have been if they’d both gone to Eton.

  “There are…special circumstances. You would be among strangers, not anyone who knows me.” Kyle hesitated, then added, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Dominic had been heading toward the small butler’s pantry, but at that he swung around, eyes glittering. “Out. Now.” Though he had been bullied and betrayed by his brother, he would never be bought.

  Kyle pulled a folded sheaf of papers from an inside pocket and tossed them at Dominic. “Your reward if you carry this off successfully.”

  Dominic caught the sheaf and opened it, then stopped in his tracks, stunned by what he held. “This is the deed to Bradshaw Manor!”

  “I’m quite aware of what it is.” Kyle plucked the deed from his brother’s hand and tucked it back inside his coat.

  As a younger son, Dominic received a modest allowance, barely enough to live as a gentleman, while Kyle would eventually receive the entire Wrexham fortune. Quite a reward for emerging from their mother’s body a mere ten minutes earlier. And not only would Kyle someday be one of Britain’s great lords, on their twenty-first birthday he had received Bradshaw Manor outright. It was a fine estate in Cambridgeshire, well cultivated and including a handsome house. Dominic would sell his soul for Bradshaw Manor—and Kyle knew it. “You bastard.”

  “I could hardly be illegitimate without you being the same, dear brother.” Kyle smiled as he saw the power shifting into his hands. “And you malign our mother, of hallowed memory.”

  Dominic’s response was unprintable. Kyle had him, and they both knew it. In dire need of refreshment, he stepped in the pantry and pulled a jug of ale from the cupboard, then poured a full measure into a tankard that was fairly clean. He did not offer his brother a drink.

  After a deep swig, Dominic returned to the sitting room, claiming the most comfortable chair. “Explain why you want me to play the role of Lord Maxwell.”

  His brother began to pace again. “When we were boys, Wrexham and the fifth Earl Grahame talked of a match between me and Grahame’s daughter.”

  Dominic nodded. It was one of the times he’d been grateful to be a younger son. But the plan had been dropped. He thought a moment. “Isn’t the girl mad?”

  “She’s not mad,” Kyle said sharply. “Just…different.”

  It sounded as if his brother had met the girl and liked what he saw. “Do you mean she’s merely eccentric? If so, she’d make a fine Renbourne.”

  Kyle stopped at the window, staring out at soot-stained London chimneys. “Earl Grahame was in India on a political mission when he and his wife were killed by bandits. Lady Meriel was taken captive. She was only five. More than a year passed before she was restored to the British authorities, and by then the damage was done. Her ordeal changed her into a mute lost in some private world, but she is no raving lunatic.”

  That was far beyond eccentric. “The fact that she doesn’t rave doesn’t make her sane,” Dominic exclaimed. “You’re willing to bed a lunatic for her fortune? Jesus, Kyle, that’s disgusting.”

  “It’s not like that!” Kyle swung around angrily before recapturing his control. “Though I’ll admit that Wrexham favors the match because she’s an heiress.”

  “I always knew he was greedy, but I’m amazed that he’s willing to sully the noble Renbourne line with a madwoman’s blood.”

  “He discussed the matter with her physicians. Since she was born a healthy, normal child, there is no reason to suppose that her children will be afflicted.”

  Dominic’s lips curled with distaste. “This all sounds like an elaborate rationalization to disguise the fact that the two of you will do anything for money. Does marriage really mean so little to you, Kyle?”

  His brother flushed. “This isn’t about money. Lady Meriel will suit me well.”

  “Where do I come into this pretty picture?” Dominic swallowed a generous mouthful of ale. “Do you need help in bedding your idiot bride? It’s true that I’m very good at bedding. You, I suppose, have never stooped to anything so undignified as making the beast with two backs.”

  “Damn you, Dominic!” Kyle’s hands knotted into fists. “You badly need a lesson in manners.”

  “Perhaps, but not from you,” Dominic said coolly. “I ask again—what do you want of me?”

  His brother took a slow breath, visibly wrestling with his temper. “The betrothal has not yet been announced because her guardian, Lord Amworth, wishes me to spend several weeks at Lady Meriel’s estate to become acquainted with her. If the girl shows signs of dislike, the marriage is off, and I presume he’ll look for a different groom.”

  Dominic grinned maliciously. “And you know yourself to be so charmless that you wish me to substitute and win the poor girl’s cooperation in this travesty.”

  “By God, I knew it was a mistake to come to you,” Kyle pivoted and stalked toward the door.

  Seeing that he’d gone too far, Dominic raised a hand to stop him. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have called when I have an aching head. I’ll grant that you need no help with your wooing—girls always fancied you.” Heirs to earldoms were always vastly popular, but Dominic didn’t point that out. Any more insults, and he’d never learn what was so important it was worth Bradshaw Manor. “Why do you need my help?”

  Kyle wavered a moment before expedience won. “I have another…obligation. Since I can’t be in two places at once, I want you to go to Warfield.”

  Dominic stared at him. “Good God, Kyle, what can be more important than becoming better acquainted with the girl you intend to marry? You need to be th
ere yourself, to decide if you truly wish to make such a strange match. How can I possibly substitute for you?”

  “My other obligation is none of your concern,” his brother snapped. “As to your relationship with Meriel, though it’s probably a stretch to assume you’re a gentleman, anyone who rescued as many broken-winged birds as you is unlikely to injure an innocent, unless you’ve changed beyond all recognition.”

  Dominic clamped his jaw shut on an automatic retort, knowing it was a mistake to let Kyle anger him. Thinking regretfully of Bradshaw Manor, he made the obvious suggestion. “Surely the best solution is to postpone your visit to Warfield until your other business is finished. Or vice versa.”

  “Neither can be delayed.” Kyle’s brows drew together, dark and intimidating. It had been so long since the two of them had spent any time together that Dominic found it unnerving to see his own mannerisms reproduced by his brother. Their habits should have diverged more by now.

  “Lady Meriel has two guardians, brothers to her mother and father,” Kyle explained. “Her maternal uncle, Lord Amworth, is the one who supports the match. He believes that the right husband, and perhaps children, might help her become normal.”

  “Surely after so many years, that’s unlikely.”

  “I suspect that Amworth’s secret wish is for Meriel to have children. He was very close to his sister—this might be his way of trying to get her back, or at least continuing her line.”

  Dominic repressed a shiver of distaste. “I suppose that makes sense in an unwholesome way, but why the hurry? If you’re the selected stud, a few weeks’ delay shouldn’t make much difference.”

  “There is a complication. Her paternal uncle, Lord Grahame, is opposed to the idea of Lady Meriel being wed. He considers it a travesty, a sin against nature.”

  Dominic agreed with that wholeheartedly. “So Amworth wants the deed done before Grahame finds out. It appears that you risk becoming involved in what could become a nasty scandal.”

  “Lady Meriel is twenty-three. No court has declared her unfit, so technically she doesn’t need her guardians’ permission to wed.” Despite his smooth explanation, Kyle looked uncomfortable as he continued, “Amworth assures me that Grahame will accept a fait accompli as long as the girl seems content with the result. Since Grahame is traveling on the Continent, Amworth wants his niece wedded and bedded before he returns.”