by Royal, Emily
“Nobody knows, Federica, apart from me.”
She shook her head. “My mother hated me!”
“No, little one,” he said. “She would have loved you had she lived. Eleanor was a wonderful woman.”
“I mean the woman who gave birth to me.”
He drew his arms round her. “Your papa loves you, Frederica. He’s at Radley Hall now. Come back with me, and he’ll take care of you.”
“Does he know the truth about me?”
“No, and there’s no need to tell him.”
She shook her head. “He has a right to know.”
“I’d advise against it, Frederica, though I know he’d love you just the same.”
She must have heard the doubt in his voice. It was too great a loss to risk telling him the truth. Some secrets needed to remain hidden.
“I cannot stay with him,” she said. Her body shook as a sneeze overcame her. “He won’t love me. I’m nothing.” The despair in her tone tore at his heart.
“Don’t say that!” he cried. “There are people who love you. Your grandpapa loved you despite knowing the truth. And I…” He broke off, biting his lip. “I want you safe and well. Don’t tell your father the truth.”
She shook her head, and he grasped her chin.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “Listen to one who cares.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. He traced the outline of her mouth, and she parted her lips. His skin tightened at her warm, sweet breath.
“Hawthorne…”
“Oh, Frederica…”
He leaned forward and covered her mouth with his own. Her body softened in his arms, and she reached out to him, curling her cold fingers around his arms.
He claimed her sweet taste with his lips. A small groan escaped her lips, and he swallowed it, a natural response to her kiss.
“Frederica,” he breathed. “You need a protector. Let me take care of you.”
She pushed him away. Her face was still flushed from arousal, but fear flashed in her eyes.
“A protector,” she repeated, her voice hard. “The best offer a bastard can hope for.”
“Forgive me, Miss Stanford,” he said, forcing the emotion out of his voice. “I don’t know what possessed me. It won’t happen again.” He held out his hand. “Come, your father awaits.”
With a sigh, she let him lead her to his horse. Her compliance not out of regard for him, but because her spiritedness had diminished.
By the time they reached the hall, she had grown lethargic. Mrs. Briggs waited by the entrance armed with blankets, and she wrapped Frederica in them tenderly, as if she were her own child.
There was no possibility of her returning home in her current state. Stanford must wait until the morning to see her. With luck, Hawthorne would be able to speak to her in the morning before Stanford saw her, and persuade her to keep the secret of her lineage to herself.
Chapter Fourteen
Warm lips caressed Hawthorne’s mouth as vivid, green eyes drew him in. He reached out, and they disappeared, shattering into the darkness with a splintering crash which sharpened into a steady hammering.
He opened his eyes and sat up. He was in his bedchamber. The other side of the bed was empty. He hadn’t invited Clara into his bed and was unlikely to do so again. Last night she’d understood no invitation was forthcoming, and after their duet in the drawing room had finished, she’d drifted away from him, taking a glass of whisky to her own chamber.
The embers in the fireplace had long since died, but the flickering light of his candle told him he could only have been in bed two hours at most. Dawn was several hours away, and even the servants would still be asleep.
What had woken him?
A shadow moved underneath the door. Hawthorne climbed out of bed and padded across the floor, opening the door.
Watson stood in the corridor. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and his jacket was unbuttoned, the mark of haste.
“One of your guests has taken ill, my lord.”
“Have you sent for a doctor?”
“I took the liberty of rousing Bartlett. He’s already on his way to Doctor McIver.”
“Then I don’t understand why I needed to be disturbed.”
Watson shifted from one foot to the next. “Mrs. Briggs said you were very particular about the guest.”
Icy fingers clutched at his heart. Watson could only mean one person.
“I trust I did the right thing, sir,” Watson continued. “She’s been taken ever so bad.”
Dear lord…
Watson was not prone to exaggeration, unlike the rest of the staff, except, perhaps, for the stoic Mrs. Briggs.
If anything happened to her…
“Has her father been informed?”
“I sent Jenny for him as soon as I’d dispatched Bartlett.”
“I must go to her.” Panic tightened Hawthorne’s throat. “The moment Doctor McIver arrives, send him straight to her chamber.”
Fear reignited the impending sense of tragedy he’d seen circling round Frederica. Uttering a silent prayer, he set off at a sprint.
When Hawthorne reached her chamber, the door was open. Mrs. Briggs and the young maid she’d given the task of tending to Frederica, were moving about. The maid wrung out a cloth in a bowl of water before handing it to the silent man who sat on the bed.
Stanford.
Hawthorne had eyes only for the woman in the bed. Her breath rattled in her chest. Outside, the wind howled against the window.
“My child,” Stanford cried.
It transported Hawthorne to the past, to that long-ago evening when he carried her battered little body home and abandoned her on her father’s doorstep. Frederick Stanford was a broken man, his most precious possession, his beloved daughter, in danger.
Stanford lifted his head. He stared at Hawthorne. “What have you done to my child?”
Hawthorne moved closer to the grief-stricken man and took his hand. His fingers were ice-cold. Stanford withdrew his hand and resumed tending his daughter.
No, not his daughter. But he loved her. Because he didn’t know the truth.
Unwilling to let others witness the man’s disintegration, Hawthorne shooed Jenny and Mrs. Briggs out of the room with instructions they were not to be disturbed until the doctor arrived.
“Birds, birds! They’re smothering me. Keep them away!”
Hawthorne reached for a cloth, wrung it in the basin, and placed it over her forehead. The heat of her skin burned through the material.
“She has a fever.”
“I know,” Stanford said, his voice hoarse. “She’s been ill before but never this bad. What shall I do if she’s taken from me? My child, my life…” A low sob resonated in his throat.
Hawthorne drew up a chair and sat beside the bed. “The doctor is on his way, Mr. Stanford. He’ll do everything he can. I’m sure she’ll recover.”
“Can you guarantee that, Stiles? You cannot understand even the smallest proportion of what I’m feeling. You don’t have children. She’s my world.”
Stanford lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the scar on her wrist.
“I can’t untie the rope,” she murmured. “They said he’d rescue me. Where is he?”
“Hush, Rica!” Stanford soothed. He turned to Hawthorne. “She’s had nightmares ever since those cursed gypsies terrorized her.”
Guilt stabbed through Hawthorne’s heart.
“I can’t lose her,” Stanford croaked. “The Almighty is cruel if he wishes her to suffer any more.”
Hawthorne leaned over to place the cloth on her forehead again, and she opened her eyes. They were dulled with fever, unseeing.
“He raped her!”
Stanford squeezed her hand. “Who, Rica—who?”
“My mother!” she wailed. “You must tell Papa, I can’t lie to him!”
“Don’t listen to her, Stanford,” Hawthorne said. “Fever drives out reason, like a nightmare.”
“Ni
ghtmares are based on reality, are they not?” Stanford asked quietly.
Hawthorne placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Your late wife was not raped.”
“I know,” Stanford replied. “But Frederica’s mother was.”
“I don’t know what you…”
“Would you attempt to deny it, Lord Stiles?”
Hawthorne withered under the steel in Stanford’s voice, and he shook his head.
Stanford caressed Frederica’s hand. “I’ve always known she wasn’t my natural child,” he said. “She looks nothing like me or my Eleanor. The night my wife died, the doctor said to prepare for the worst, that both mother and child were at risk. As Rica grew, so did my suspicions. Tonight has only confirmed those suspicions.”
He turned to Hawthorne. “How did she discover the truth? Did you tell her?”
“Of course not. She found my papers.” He sighed. “I should have realized, she’s inquisitive and intelligent, unrestricted by the confines of society. She doesn’t deserve the hand fate dealt her. But Sir Benedict acted in your best interests, Stanford, not just hers, when he replaced your dead child with her.”
“I know,” Stanford said. “There are countless children abandoned and unloved. Sir Benedict united a bereaved man and an unwanted child, knowing we could save each other. And we did.”
Hawthorne nodded. “Sir Benedict begged me not to tell you the truth. He wanted you to believe she was yours so you’d always love her. It warms my heart that you love her, regardless. Do you wish to know who her father is?”
Stanford set his jaw into a hard line. “I’m her father.”
“But…”
“Speak no more, Stiles.” Stanford sighed and caressed her forehead. “I suppose this means you’ll renege on your promise?”
“Of course not,” Hawthorne said. “The deeds are with the copyist. Stockton will have them ready next time he comes. Your business, and your daughter, will be protected in the event of…”
“…my death.” Stanford said.
Before Hawthorne could reply, he heard voices outside the door, including the familiar Scottish burr.
“Doctor McIver has arrived.”
The door opened to reveal the welcome sight of the doctor.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” McIver said, the crisp efficiency in his voice exuding a tone of calm.
“Who’s he?” He gestured to Stanford.
Stanford issued Hawthorne a look of warning.
“He’s her father,” Hawthorne said. “Do whatever’s necessary for Miss Stanford. Whatever you need, I’m at your disposal.
The doctor moved toward the woman on the bed, touching her face and hands before he lifted the bedsheet. At length, he drew out a phial from his case and tipped the content into her mouth.
“She has an unnaturally high fever, but I’ve given her something to help ease it,” McIver said. “She’s taken a chill. Tonight should dictate whether she recovers. If she survives, I’d recommend a healthy diet. Plenty of red meat. She needs to put on weight.”
Stanford let out a low cry.
“I’ll return in the morning,” McIver said. “Have you someone to tend to her should she need it?”
“I can…” Hawthorne said, but Stanford pushed him aside.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I’ll always be here to take care of her.”
“Very well, Stanford. I’ll visit you in the morning. I pray she’ll recover.”
Stanford nodded, then resumed his attention to his daughter, as if Hawthorne were no longer in the room.
Shaking the doctor’s hand, Hawthorne retreated and closed the door.
*
Before sunlight broke through Hawthorne’s window, he was up and dressed. Still buttoning his jacket, he climbed the stairs to the upper floor toward Frederica’s chamber. He’d have to suffer his valet’s disapproval, but he couldn’t rest until he knew how she’d fared during the night.
A man stood outside her door. A beard darkened his features, and he looked generally unkempt. His eyes were closed, but Hawthorne knew how exhausted Stanford was, how sad he must be…
The breath left Hawthorne’s lungs, expelled by grief. His prayers had been ignored.
“Stanford.” Hawthorne held out his hand. “I don’t know what to say.”
Stanford opened his eyes. “There’s nothing to say, Lord Stiles. It was probably for the best.”
Dear God…
Hawthorne clenched his hands. “What’s happened?”
“The truth would have emerged eventually,” Stanford said. “We can put this behind us and enjoy a new life.
“We?”
Hawthorne pushed past Stanford and opened the door. She lay on the bed, propped up against the pillows, eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell with a gentle, rhythmic motion.
“She’s alive,” Hawthorne breathed. He turned to Stanford, moisture blurring his vision.
“Her fever broke in the night,” Stanford said. “She’s sleeping peacefully now.”
“Did she say anything of her origins?”
“Yes,” a female voice said. “I did.”
Hawthorne blinked and turned back to the bed. Clear eyes focused on him, the intensity of their gaze rendering him speechless with guilt.
“And it matters not,” Stanford said firmly, “does it, Rica, my love?”
Stanford approached the bed, and they embraced.
“I want to go home, Papa.”
“Of course, my love. But we must continue to impose on Stiles until you’re fully recovered.”
She visibly stiffened, and her eyes met Hawthorne’s. “We must leave today.”
“No, you must remain here, Rica. I’ll not risk your life again.”
“Your papa is right,” Hawthorne said. “Doctor McIver should be here shortly. Only when he’s declared you fit will I entertain the prospect of your going home.”
“Papa, might I have a word with Lord Stiles? In private?”
“I–I don’t know. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“I merely wish to thank him, Papa.”
“Very well.”
As soon as the door closed, she slumped back against the cushions, the mark of an actress playing a part to convince her father that her mind, as well as her body, had recovered.
Hawthorne sat beside the bed. “You’ve no need to thank me, Miss Stanford. If there’s anything I can do…”
“There’s only one thing I want from you,” she whispered. “A name.”
“A name?”
“Papa says he cares not. But I care. I want to know who my natural father is.”
“Nothing can be gained from your knowing.”
“That’s my decision, not yours.”
“Can’t you trust me to make the right decision for you?” Hawthorne asked. “I want what’s best for you. I’ve always…”
She lifted her gaze, and his resolve withered under her silent scrutiny. At length, she looked away.
“Send Papa in.”
“Miss Stanford…”
“Please.”
The pain in her voice tore at his heart.
“I’ll tell you, Miss Stanford, but no good will come from you knowing.”
He took her hand. Her fingers were cold.
“Your father is the Duke of Markham.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes. Hawthorne waited, but she said nothing.
“Miss Stanford, are you all right?”
“Send Papa in, please.”
“You won’t tell him, will you?”
“No. He’s suffered enough.”
Hawthorne opened the door, and Stanford rushed in. They were a true father and daughter, sharing the unconditional love Hawthorne could only dream of ever having in his life.
Chapter Fifteen
“Miss Stanford?”
Frederica barely registered the voice as she watched a blackbird cross the thin layer of snow in the garden, leaving behind perfect imprints of
his feet, the likeness of which she was able to capture with a few strokes of her pencil.
A month had passed since her ordeal at Radley Hall, and today marked the first signs of spring. Small green spikes had pushed through the layer of snow, stretching upward like drowning men gasping for air as they broke the water’s surface. In a week, the delicate flowers which everybody described as white but were really a subtle shade of green, would grow. She was already planning the combination of colors on her palette to replicate the hue. Snowdrops were her favorite flowers. Often overlooked yet resilient, they always marked the end of the cold season.
“Frederica!” Papa stood at the parlor door, the doctor by his side.
She stood and dipped a curtsey.
“Doctor McIver. How good to see you.”
The doctor gave her a warm smile.
“And you, my dear.” He took her hands and turned them over to inspect them.
“I trust you’re keeping warm? Winter may be on the wane, but you’re not out of danger. The chill could return.”
“She’s taking good care of herself.” Tenderness shone through Papa’s words. Since the revelation of her lineage, his love for her had intensified, not diminished. How could she have thought he’d disown her?
He gestured to a chair. “Will you take tea, Doctor McIver?”
“I cannot stay long, Mr. Stanford. I’m due home. I spent rather longer than expected at Radley Hall this morning.”
“A small brandy, then?”
“I’d appreciate a dram of whisky if you have it.”
“Of course.”
Papa filled a glass and handed it to the doctor, then settled into the chair beside Frederica.
“I trust all is well with the earl?” her father asked.
“I would imagine so.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“He’s spending the rest of the winter in town. But his steward has settled my account and has instructed me to tend to your daughter until you move to London for the season.”
Frederica’s stomach jolted. “London?”
“We’ve discussed this, Rica, my love,” Papa said. “A season in London will improve your health and your spirits.”
“Aye.” Doctor McIver nodded. “I’d recommend it. I will be in London myself for the season and can tend to your daughter there.”
