The Weary Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  “Damn it, she shouldn’t need to!” Marcus exploded. “You should have defended her.”

  “This from the man who abducted her in the first place!”

  “What cause have I ever given you to imagine that I have either the necessity or the inclination to abduct women? It was Marshall who abducted her, and I who brought his wife to chaperone Miss Milsom.”

  Overton scowled, though he looked uneasy.

  “The matter is easily verified,” Marcus said curtly. “The Villins and the Robinovs saw exactly the order things happened in, so you can make your own mind up.”

  Overton smoothed his hand over his thinning hair. “Damn it, why did you not come in last night and tell us this? Why run off like a guilty man?”

  “Because I had no wish to continue my conflict with the Marshalls in your house! Before your family or Miss Milsom. I advised her to speak to you, but before God, I never imagined you would take the word of those people before that of the woman to whom you entrusted the care of your children!”

  “Mrs. Marshall was clearly very upset,” Overton muttered. “And it’s true we have suspected some partiality between you and Miss Milsom.”

  Marcus regarded him coldly. “I mean to marry Miss Milsom. If you would be so good as to send for her, we may clear this matter up properly.”

  Lord Overton actually flushed. “I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

  Marcus’s rage grew hot. It must have exploded out of his eyes, because Overton actually took a step backward. “You still believe those charlatans over me?”

  “Damn it, of course not!” Overton exclaimed. “If you had been here, this mess would never have gone so far. The Marshalls have gone to Brighton, but I cannot summon Miss Milsom because she has left, too.”

  Marcus stood perfectly still. “You dismissed her? Already?”

  “The evidence seemed somewhat damning,” Overton said uneasily.

  “Evidence?” Marcus paced furiously to the door. “What evidence?” At the door, he threw over his shoulder, “Where did she go?”

  “To Finsborough. From there, she means to travel by stagecoach to her aunt in Norfolk. Sir, I hope this…”

  Marcus said no more, for he was already striding across the hall to the front door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was an odd, semi-numb bitterness to the knowledge that Philip had ruined her life for a second time. It almost seemed right that he should have done so.

  Not even Old John but one of the under-grooms had been assigned to drive her to Finsborough in the ancient, bone-shaking coach that had once taken her to the Hart. Part of her longed to go there instead, but she could not bear the idea of obliging Sir Marcus to rescue her again. In fact, she could see no way in which he could do so. Even if he reasoned successfully with the Overtons, how could she return to a family who, in the end, had trusted her so little?

  So, she alighted at Finsborough, carrying her few possessions packed in her one carpetbag and went to sit on the bench in the yard to await the stagecoach to London. She barely batted an eyelid when she discovered that coach was full, and merely bought a ticket for the one o’clock mail coach instead. It was as well the Overtons had paid her until the end of the year.

  Grief welled up. The children would spend Christmas without her. The boys would return to school, leaving Eliza on her own. Eliza had always suffered with the departure of her twin, retreating into a world of loneliness. Both her mother and sisters had remarked with great pleasure that Miss Milsom’s presence had considerably mitigated the effects of these partings. Now Helen feared for her. She hoped at least the Vernes would continue to arrange visits between their niece and Eliza, for the friendship had helped Eliza a great deal, and the Overtons were just too absent-minded to remember.

  She dashed her hand across her face. Well, this at least was something she could do. No one had forbidden her to write to Henrietta Cromarty.

  Since there was still an hour to wait, she went into the inn, asked for pen, ink, and paper, and sat down at an unoccupied table to write. It was a difficult letter, for she did not wish to accuse Mrs. Cromarty’s parents of rank injustice—although that was what her dismissal was. In the end, she merely said she was sorry for the misunderstanding that had led to her departure from Audley Park, that she had not seen the children before leaving, and would Mrs. Cromarty please pass on her regret and her love. After that, it was easy to suggest Henrietta be present when the boys left for school and to make some permanent arrangement for visits between Eliza and Jane Verne that the household would remember if Lady Overton forgot.

  As she folded the letter and inscribed Henrietta’s name and direction, she thought of another she wished very badly to write.

  She drew a fresh sheet of paper toward her and dipped the pen in the ink. Then she hesitated. How did she even begin it? My dear Marcus seemed too presumptuous, and even if she opted for the more formal title, what the devil could she say? There was nothing he could do for her, nothing he was obliged to do for her. Only, missing him was like a huge hole in her body and mind. Was it so very selfish to wish him to know that? Yes, for he had said nothing to justify such a declaration. She would die rather than embarrass him, and she knew from experience the value of pride in one’s own eyes.

  Perhaps they would meet again.

  And perhaps, although he had said she was in his heart, she had always reflected her own feelings into their relationship, not his own.

  “Helen.”

  Startled, she looked up in time to see Marcus throwing himself into the chair opposite hers. Her heart gave a giant leap. She hadn’t wanted him here, and yet that he’d come lightened everything.

  Scowling, he held her gaze. “Were you really going to go without a goodbye?”

  She tried to smile. “I was going to write you a letter, only I don’t know what to say. Lady Overton dismissed me. Somehow, she believes I was eloping with you, and only Philip saved me from scandal.”

  “I know,” he said grimly. “I believe I have left Overton somewhat wiser on that score. I suppose the sheer blatancy of the Marshalls can make such massive lies seem like incontrovertible truth, but I can’t pretend I’m not offended by the insult the Overtons offered to both of us.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “I shall forget about it, spend Christmas with my aunt, and then look for a new position. Even if the false story gets out, no one will think less of you.”

  “Oh, neither story will get out,” Marcus said grimly. “Marshall is well aware I’m serious about that. I’m afraid his wife is merely indulging in a little petty revenge against you.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing that would have entered any normal person’s head.”

  Someone bumped against their table, and Helen looked up to see, through the window, that the mail coach had arrived, spilling out its passengers to refresh themselves while the horses were changed and another bag of mail added to the load.

  She stood, and at once Marcus rose with her.

  “That is the coach,” she said lightly, holding out her hand. “Goodbye, sir. I didn’t mean you to come, but I can’t help being glad you did.”

  Muttering something under his breath, he seized her hand and placed it on his arm and swiped up the letter she had just written to Henrietta. “Is this yours? Do you want me to send it on for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The letter disappeared into his greatcoat pocket, and he guided her toward the door—not, however, to hand her into the coach, for once outside, he turned in the opposite direction.

  “I can’t miss this one, too!” she protested.

  “There is time,” he said impatiently. “Half the passengers are in the inn, swilling beer and coffee. But you don’t need to get it. That’s what I came to say. Come to Cotley Hall for Christmas instead. Invite your aunt if you wish—my own will be there to act as hostess—and there is plenty of room, even with the Robinovs. Come back to the Hart with me until Carla is able to tra
vel, or I can escort you now. I’m sure my aunt is already there, verbally flaying the servants. You would be doing them a kindness by distracting her.”

  She almost laughed, but what he was asking was more distressing than funny. Still, privacy seemed necessary, so she allowed herself to be drawn away from the bustle and around the quiet side of the inn.

  “My aunt cannot travel,” she said, coming to a halt. “And I cannot stay without her.”

  “You can if we are married.”

  The world tilted. She grasped his arm tighter to stop herself falling. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t offer you marriage? I assure you, it’s quite respectable.”

  “Stop making me laugh when I want to cry!”

  “Why should you cry?”

  “Because of course I cannot marry you!”

  He regarded her. “In that case, I’m not sure whether the crying is good or not. Look, I know I’ve taken you a little by surprise. Come and see Cotley Hall first, then give me your answer.”

  A frown tugged at her brow. “You think I will be so impressed by the grandeur that I will have to say yes just to become its lady?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all,” he retorted. “You can see if you like living there, if you think you would be comfortable there with me.”

  They had turned the corner into a kitchen garden, away from everyone else.

  She tried to laugh. “Sir Marcus, you are not a comfortable man.”

  “I’m better at home.” He swung on her with urgency, forcing her back against the side of the building, where he stood much too close, frowning down at her. “Marry me, Helen. It will solve everything.”

  For a moment, his words hardly mattered. There was only his nearness, the smell of him, his effect upon her body. And he had asked her to marry him. God help her, she let herself imagine that life with him as mistress of his house, his children, sharing laughter and companionship, kisses, love… His face was so close to hers, she could have touched his mouth with her lips.

  She closed her eyes.

  It will solve everything.

  “No, it won’t, Marcus,” she whispered. It will solve everything. Not I love you. For he would never say what he did not mean, and they had had no time to fall in love.

  But I love him.

  Perhaps. But men are different. It isn’t enough.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because you don’t want to marry me, and I’m afraid I’m too proud to be married for mere chivalry. Besides, I would like you to be happy.”

  “Then marry me.”

  “Marcus!”

  It was he who closed the distance, sinking his mouth into hers with deliberate, sensual tenderness.

  God, it was sweet, so sweet that tears started to her eyes.

  “Marry me,” he said again against her trembling lips.

  His hips pinned her to the wall, and desire flamed through her. She was already won, she already loved him. But she had to look after them both because he kept risking his happiness to help female friends. Last week it had been Dorothea Robinov; today, it was her. And she would not let him do it.

  Forcing herself, she detached her lips from his and pushed him physically away. The sharp wind chilled her at once.

  “I won’t marry you, Marcus. Thank you for everything, but I’m going to my aunt for Christmas, and then I will find a new post.” She hurried away from him before she changed her mind.

  “Without a reference from Lady Overton?” he asked furiously.

  “I have other references,” she said quietly and rounded the corner. There she paused to glance back at him. “I found the candlesticks, you know. In that woman’s trunk. But it was too late, would have made no difference.”

  He strode toward her with renewed purpose, but further discussion would not help matters. She was barely held together as it was. She almost ran the rest of the way to the coach and pushed her way on to it, in fear that he would simply carry her off if she didn’t.

  And as it turned out, she was only just in time. The door slammed shut behind her. She sat down between an ample lady and a vicar, and the horses sprang forward.

  She knew he stood at the corner of the building, watching her depart. But she would not look.

  *

  Both angry and hurt, Marcus could do nothing but let her go. Her stubbornness infuriated him, for he had glimpsed temptation in her eyes as well as her kiss. Oh, no, she was far from indifferent. But he could not make her believe…what? That he loved her? Did he?

  Although no stranger to women, whose charms he appreciated on many levels, and many of whom he counted among his close friends, he had successfully avoided falling in love with any of them. What the devil made Helen Milsom so different?

  He didn’t know or care. But he did want her, and that she could so easily reject him…

  But no, it hadn’t been easy for her at all. She had only just managed to push him away, because she imagined he offered only for reasons of chivalry. He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. He wanted Helen by his side, sharing his life, he wanted her safe and happy in his home and in his bed. Waking each morning to that half-teasing, enigmatic smile, those soft hands and lips just crying out for a taste of passion.

  He threw himself on his horse and set off at a gallop through the town, scattering wary pedestrians in all directions as he went.

  Why in God’s name was he hiding from this? Even Dorothea had seen it. Of course he loved Helen. Life without her had become unthinkable. Outside the town, he slowed in uncharacteristic indecision.

  He could ride after the mail coach. He could probably still catch it up and declare his love as he should have done before he let her leave. Imbecile. Though, of course, there was no guarantee that he could make her change her mind, make her believe that he loved her. No, he would have to show her, clear the path of everything that stood in the way of her believing it. So that there was no reason except love for him to ask her to marry him.

  He urged his horse on again toward the Hart, thinking intensely. She would be safe at her aunt’s for the next couple of weeks, but he would have to act quickly to set things in motion before she vanished into some other unappreciative household where they would not treat her half so well as the Overtons had—before their moment of idiocy.

  Riding into the inn yard, he left his horse with Jem and went in search of Dorothea, whom he found in Carla’s chamber. He smiled to see the girl sitting up in a chair by the fire while her mother read to her.

  “This is much more the thing,” he said approvingly. “We’ll have you downstairs and playing spillikins in no time.”

  “And I will beat you,” Carla declared.

  “That’s the spirit! Dorothea, if all is well here tomorrow, I thought I would ride over to Steynings. I’ll only be gone a night.”

  *

  Silford and Cromarty were out on the estate when he arrived at Steynings, but Lady Sydney greeted him with great friendliness.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Sir Marcus! I’m afraid Sydney will not be back much before dark but—”

  “Actually, it’s you I have come to see,” he said, dropping Helen’s letter into her hand. “To give you this and to recruit your help.”

  Henrietta sat, waving him to the seat opposite while she frowned in some bewilderment over Helen’s note. “Miss Milsom has left?” she exclaimed. “But why did they let her go? She was so good for Eliza, and, oh the devil, I liked her!” She raised her gaze to Marcus. “What on earth has been going on?”

  Marcus told her the tale of the Marshalls, including the Steynings candlesticks which Helen had discovered in Phoebe’s trunk. “At least, she thought they were yours.”

  By the end of the tale, Henrietta seemed stunned into silence. After several moments, she said, “There are several on-dits about the Marshalls circulating in town. I heard them when we had guests. One, of course, was that they had you in their sights for Anne, and connected to that, that they had finally frittered
away Phoebe’s fortune on extravagant living and art exhibitions. They had to sell their London house and took some much smaller place in Brighton. But even that they won’t be able to afford if Anne does not marry well.”

  “I gathered that. I presume that’s why Phoebe helps herself to trinkets wherever she goes, just to pay a few bills.” He frowned. “I wonder if I could track down their fence?”

  “Their what?” she asked.

  “The miscreant who sells on their stolen goods.”

  “Ah. Well, he would be foolish to testify against them, if it would land him in prison, too.”

  “True, but it would give us a trail to trace back.”

  “What are you up to, sir?” Henrietta asked when he trailed off into thought. “And why do you need me?”

  Marcus pulled himself back to order. “For two things really. Firstly, I’m hoping you know of, or can find out about, a new place for Miss Milsom, somewhere she will be treated with respect and not as a drudge.”

  “That is the least I can do. I have to say, I am surprised at Mama for believing that woman over Miss Milsom.”

  “Well, she is very plausible. If only because no one can imagine a person making up such a tale.”

  “But who could imagine Miss Milsom setting her cap at you in such a way?” Henrietta demanded. “Let alone you agreeing to take her to Brighton and set her up as your mistress—while you have just become engaged to a different lady entirely!”

  Marcus gave a rueful shrug. “Perhaps my deceit in pretending to that engagement helped them believe in my degeneracy. My brief talk with your father might have convinced him of the truth.”

  “Yes, but even if they ask Miss Milsom to go back, now, would she? She might, for Eliza, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think she could.”

  Henrietta sighed. “So, a good position for Miss Milsom. What is your second request?”

  He smiled apologetically. “An invitation to the Marshalls, somewhere I can catch them in the act of stealing. It would need, I think, to be a chance they couldn’t refuse, with an enticement such as a likely, highly advantageous match for Anne.”