rose angrily. 'Though why in hell you, of all people, have turned into a champion of marriage is more than I can fathom.' He started to say more, to inflict another small jab of wound-opening memory, knowing even a light touch could make it fester, but he thought better of it, contenting himself with saying, 'You were the one who wanted me to take a bride. Well, I did, and now you can have her. I hope you'll both be very happy.'
He turned on his heels and walked to the door. As he reached out to grab the knob, he paused and turned back to face his father. 'By the way, it took a great deal of persuasion to convince this lovely lady to marry me. She's accustomed to being paid for her services.' Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fat envelope and tossed it toward Simon. It flew through the air and landed with a slap on the desk top.
'Make sure she gets this.'
Noelle could listen no longer. She went mad, leaping toward him with hands outstretched like claws and shrieking loudly, 'You son of a bitch! I hate you! The fires of hell are too good for you, you friggin' bastard!'
Extricating himself from her flying fists, Quinn's face broke into a wide grin at her tirade. 'Charming, isn't she?' The door slammed behind him.
Chapter Five
Without moving, Simon stared at the closed door. His face was gray and drawn, but he felt nothing-no anger or frustration or hurt or humiliation or any of the other myriad of emotions that would soon bombard him. He had been stricken a blow so unexpected, so devastating, that he was stunned; this was the tangible evidence of just how great his son's hatred was. Another man might have cried or prayed or screamed out, but Simon did none of these things because he did not know how. Too many years had passed since he had felt any deep sentiments.
Then the pain began.
Memories he had successfully blocked from his mind came rushing back: holding his son close, tossing him in the air, running with him. He remembered how the small child had haunted the Cape Crosse shipyard, sometimes sitting quietly and watching the carpenters as they worked but more frequently bombarding them with questions.
And then, the bitter years, watching the naked hatred in the same eyes that had smiled at him. He had been unable to confront his guilt because the boy was too great a reminder of the disaster Simon had made of his personal life, too great a reminder of the one other person they had both loved so deeply. For the first time in years Simon Copeland comprehended the depth of love he felt for his son.
Now he looked over at the woman who was the instrument of his son's revenge. She stood across the room from him, staring out the window. The glare from the late morning sun obscured her features, but she seemed quiet and calm. Her composure angered him. This slut was his son's wife! Could she really have been as reluctant as she had seemed?
He opened the envelope Quinn had tossed down so nonchalantly and pulled out a fat bundle of pound notes. She was certainly being well paid for her part in this charade. Had she somehow been responsible for what had happened? Simon thought of his strong-willed son and discarded the idea. No one could force Quinn into anything; Simon had firsthand knowledge of that. No, this girl was merely a catalyst, a pawn in Quinn's game of revenge.
A piece of stationery dropped out of the envelope. Simon opened it to find Quinn's bold handwriting glaring accusingly at him:
March 28, 1835
I hereby resign from my association with Copeland and Peale and renounce all claims I have on that company.
Quinn Christopher Copeland
London, England
Simon stared at the short letter in stunned disbelief and then reread it. Its terseness and impersonal tone revealed more than the words themselves. He knew with an unshakable certainty that Quinn was absolving himself not only of his association with the company, but also of any association with his father. He was walking out of Simon's life as he had done once before. Except this time he was leaving something behind.
Simon looked at Noelle and noticed that her chest was trembling slightly. She had turned so that the glare from the window no longer fell directly on her face, and Simon saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. Why, she was not much more than a child! She seemed so defenseless, her grief all the more pitiful because it was silent.
His logical mind took over, and he stuffed the pound notes back into the envelope. She was undoubtedly upset about her earlier angry outburst and afraid that she would now not be paid. His voice was calm but cold.
'There's really no need for you to cry. Here is the money you were promised. I suggest you use it wisely. This is a God-given opportunity for you to better yourself, to improve your station in life.' Even to himself, he sounded pompous.
The girl regarded him directly, as though she were assessing him. She made no attempt to conceal her tears, nor did she move to take the envelope he proffered. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, as though she had looked inside him and found him lacking. Placing the envelope on the edge of the desk nearest her, he stood.
'Come now, miss, it's your money. Take it and leave. I'll have my butler show you out.'
He crossed to the tapestry bellpull in the corner, but before he could touch it, her voice hissed at him. It was laden with contempt, all traces of the accent of the street erased.
'I don't want that money. I don't want anything from you or your son.'
Simon's expression betrayed his surprise.
'You weren't expecting me to refuse, were you? You're both alike, the two of you.' Once again the tears spilled over her lashes. 'It doesn't even occur to you that there might be a human being with feelings standing in front of you. It doesn't occur to you that things aren't always what they seem. Keep your money. I don't need it.'
With those words, she straightened her shoulders and walked proudly toward the library door.
Simon watched the girl's straight back as she crossed the room. Her honesty and dignity moved him, her diction puzzled him; he felt a strange reluctance to let her go. As she reached the door his voice rang out, abrupt and commanding.
'Stay right there. I want to talk to you.'
She ignored him; her hand stretched out for the knob.
'Please.' The word was out before Simon knew it.
She turned to him. For the first time he could see a questioning in her eyes, an unsureness.
'Please,' he repeated, crossing to her, 'I apologize for my rudeness. I would appreciate it if you would stay for a few moments and talk with me.'
Noelle hesitated briefly and then nodded her consent.
'Please sit down. Over here by the fire so we can be comfortable.' He escorted her to a thickly cushioned sofa. 'Tea?'
She paused a moment and then said, 'Yes, thank you.' Sitting gracefully, her back straight, she eyed him warily. He reminded her of his son. They had the same arrogant profile.
Simon strode to the bellpull, gave a firm yank, and returned to Noelle, settling himself in a chair opposite her. He took a moment to study her more closely. It was hard to imagine, but perhaps, with proper food and decent clothing, she might look less absurd.
'I didn't hear your name,' he began tentatively.
'My name is Noelle Dorian.' She spoke softly but watched him intently as though his reaction were a test of some kind.
'Pretty.' For the first time, he saw a flicker of a smile cross her face. 'Were your parents French?'
'No. My mother was English, but she loved everything French. She died seven years ago.'
'Seven years ago! You couldn't have been much more than a baby. What about your father? Is he still living?'
'I expect so. At least, if all Daisy's stories were true.'
'Daisy?'
'My mother. She was an actress when she was young. She used to tell me how my father was rich and
