Grabbing his arm like a madman, Jasper kept him from leaping out of the carriage. “I’m sorry, but it is true. I won’t say it again. Have one meal. Get his complaints off my shoulders for a day. See my girls.”
His brother had always tried to keep the old man at bay, even slipping Ewan a fiver upon occasion. “One quick meal, but as soon as he starts in, I’m gone. I’ll steal a horse and return to London. In fact, give me money to stable a stallion now. For you know it won’t take long for Father’s harangues to start. It’s about three jokes before he fumes.”
“Fine, that will take care of one problem. For the second, you must also agree to help me with my potential newspaper bride, lady number four. I want to know more about her before I ask for a meeting. She’ll respond to your quip. We’ll need a clever note to follow. Help me write something to keep her attention. You’re the clever one.”
“You want to see her true character, then ask a question of substance. Let me think on it.”
“Well, come up with something to match your riddle, Ewan. Maybe it will be so good you’ll use it in your next play.”
Avoiding the temptation to roll his eyes, Ewan nodded. “All right…I’ll help.”
“You think you’ll find the owner of the package, or do you think my girls might like it? Is it too personal?”
Anything regarding Theo was too personal. Yet, returning this package intrigued him. She had obviously purchased this in the Burlington Arcade. Perhaps, the perfumer knew where Mrs. Cecil resided. Ewan eased his head onto the seatback, preparing to sleep all the way to Grandbole Manor. Since she’d be in his brain, he piled up all the questions he wanted to know of Theo. Perhaps, he’d ask them the next time he saw the flower seller. “It should be returned to its rightful owner.”
And there would be a next time. Fitzwilliams were good at finding things—weaknesses and secrets. Nothing else brought a smile to Ewan’s jaded heart than the thought of improving his characterization of his play’s villainess by visiting Theo, his personal Circe.
Chapter Two
Family, Friends & Enemies
Theodosia’s carriage rumbled forward. With each passing second, her lungs constricted a little less. Her driver and horse team didn’t know she’d fled a ghost. Surely, they assumed she needed to hurry back for her dinner guests. She wouldn’t correct them.
By the time she’d passed Tottenham Road, the jarring and swaying of her ivory seat had jostled every bone in her body. The ache, however, didn’t compare to the pain of seeing Ewan again. All these years, and the man was alive. How could he not be dead?
Six years of mourning him, of feeling ashamed for living and finding some happiness with Mathew, all while thinking a bullet had felled her poor dreamer.
How many times had she looked in those fancy glass mirrors at Mathew’s Tradenwood, the home they’d shared, and had seen a traitor to the future she’d envisioned with Ewan? The man with the crooked smile that had set her heart pounding. Today, that crooked smile had crushed the useless muscle in her chest to dust.
Wait.
If Ewan didn’t die in the war, where has he been?
Why did he stay away when I needed him?
Her stomach soured, thinking and rethinking their foolish dreams. His plays would be performed on London’s grandest stages, and her flower shop would provide roses, the best ones—without a single thorn—to his actresses. And Theodosia’s Ewan wouldn’t be tricked by those ladies’ beauty. He’d said he only had eyes for Theo, his Theo.
Lies.
Dreams were lies.
Ewan had gone to war and hadn’t come back to her. The life they had whispered in secret was nothing but deceit, lines from a play he hadn’t yet written. Her heart burst all over again.
Had he laughed with his brother at getting her to love him? Did he smile to his circle of friends about taking her virtue? Had he said pretty words about loving her to lower her guard, making Theodosia forsake her vow not to be like her mother? Theodosia had given Ewan all of her, and then he’d left.
She’d become Theo the Harlot because of him.
Her pulse raced and whirled so loudly, her ears hurt. Almost panting, she forced air into her hurting chest and gripped her reticule to her bosom. Her eyes were already weak from sitting at her son’s bedside till well past midnight. Crying now about lies would only make them sting. Ewan Fitzwilliam wasn’t worth another droplet.
Her hand clenched. Her nails dug into the fringe of her reticule. That ache should have died six years ago. Ewan and his lies were no more. He couldn’t affect her future or destroy the life she’d built for her son.
Another two hours of ridiculous fretting occurred before her carriage passed the Fitzwilliam flower farm. Squinting from her window, she could see their house, Grandbole Manor. The cold gray stone looked small at this distance, but it overshadowed the lilac-colored flowers in the orderly fields. Hard to believe it neighbored Mathew’s warm Tradenwood, with its pinkish stacked stones. Tradenwood wasn’t as grand, but she believed it held more peace and much more understanding. Things Ewan had always complained were missing at Grandbole.
She slumped onto the seat. Ewan couldn’t be staying at his father’s estate. She would’ve seen him at least once these six years if he’d resided there.
The urge to know why he’d played her false might cause her to be rash, to do something crazed. No, Theodosia Cecil didn’t look for trouble anymore. She glanced at her rows of flowers. She thought of walking in those fields, of finding answers and strength there. She’d found Mathew there, or he’d found her. If she were to go out there now, she might find peace, the peace he had so often talked about growing, like buds in those fields.
Her carriage began to slow. Peeking out the window, she saw the grooms and proud horse teams of vehicles lining the drive of Tradenwood. Her dinner guests awaited her inside the parlor. They couldn’t see her so broken. The ladies were there for an early meal to discuss the Flora Festival, the grand picnic Mathew had started as a reward for his workers, one that had evolved to also include every one of his vendors and their workers. She chuckled, wondering if the perfumer she’d met today would come. She prayed the girl Sally would, and she wondered if she would seek employment with Cecil’s Farms.
The carriage stopped and one of her attendants came to free her from her stewing. Marching through the doors of Tradenwood, she slowed her steps and stopped at the console. Her butler stood near.
Pickens, with his starched livery of dark crimson and gold braid, held out his hands. “Welcome back, Mrs. Cecil. I’ll take your bonnet and bag. Your guests are waiting for you in the parlor.”
She unpinned her hat and gave it to him, but held on to her reticule. She wasn’t prepared to relinquish her letters.
Pickens’s brow raised, but he didn’t try again for her bag. Six years had given them a routine and, hopefully, a measure of mutual respect. If memories hid in the wizened creases of his forehead, he knew Theodosia held on tight to things that were hers, only relenting when she was good and ready. “Thank you, Pickens.”
He pulled a folded paper from behind his back. “This came for you while you were out. The footman said it was important. It’s from the Fitzwilliams family. The earl himself.”
Swallowing her newfound reservation upon hearing the name Fitzwilliam, she slid off her gloves, stashing them on the console, then clutched the thick parchment. “Thank you.”
Emotionless, always about his duty, Pickens bowed his graying head and pivoted toward the long hall leading to the parlor. “And Mr. Lester is visiting. He’s in the nursery with Master Philip.”
Lester. The name sent shivers of fear and hate up her spine. Who knew Mathew’s faithful steward would turn into a vengeful frog the moment he understood the powers Mathew’s will had given him.
The tapping of the butler’s footsteps moving toward her dinner guests sounded like a muffled drumbeat, but the decision to go to the birds in the parlor or to the vulture near her boy, wasn’t a qu
estion.
In as dignified of a manner as she could muster, Theodosia’s short heels clicked hard against the polished marble with its shiny cranberry veining. The moment her foot dropped upon the first mahogany tread, her false calm shredded. Visions of Lester taking her sweet boy and shaking him for a response froze the blood in her veins. She lunged up the steps and sailed on fretful wings to the door of the second-floor nursery.
She didn’t see the leech in the hall. He had to be inside with little Philip. How long would it be before he discovered the boy’s illness?
Theodosia couldn’t blow into pieces like a dandelion in strong wind. She steadied herself, clasping the molding. The stupid parchment crunched against the raised wood before relenting and curling about it. With a strangled breath, she pushed open the door.
Scanning to the left and then to the right revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Polished pine planks on the floor and a thick jute rug of blue yarn warmed up the pale beige walls. A huge closet hid enough space to house a small family.
In the middle of the wide room, swimming in a pinafore of cream and blue threads, sat little Philip alone with his governess, Miss Thomas. No Lester.
Fanning the paper, hoping to chase away the fear fevering her brow, Theodosia took a few steps inside. A hungry panic of losing Philip was stirring, growing, pressing at her temples.
Lovely, honest Mathew had protected Theodosia and Philip, writing his will to withstand the challenges his young family would face in his absence. But a dead man could only do so much from the grave. Her own wit and a new, trustworthy husband, someone as honorable as Mathew —that would have to be enough to keep vultures like Lester away. Where was the pushy brute?
Coughing from the growing knot in her throat, she moved closer to her son. She wanted to look in the closet or under the bed for Lester as she would hunt for a ghost. Lord knew she’d happened upon enough apparitions for one day.
Little Philip scooted forward, pressing his lean fingers against a carved block. His eyes were on the wooden toy, not looking at her.
That was good. He shouldn’t see sadness on his mother’s face.
She put a finger to her lips to keep the governess from announcing her. One heavy step after the other, clomping, stomping, she made her heels pound as loudly as she could as she approached his weak side.
The five-year-old didn’t flinch. Never turned.
Her heart clenched.
The boy didn’t hear her approach. The physicians, the old ones with gray on top, the young ones, trying to run experiments on the mulatto boy, even the ones who wouldn’t see him until they heard his surname Cecil, all their words had been true. Philip was deaf on on his left side and losing his hearing on the right. This was the most painful consequence of her many sins.
Looking up to the ceiling, she counted her wrongs. Trusting Ewan—wrong. Holding on to pride too long—wrong. Not becoming a mistress to Mathew sooner, not trusting him sooner—wrong. Of keeping Ewan on a pedestal for so long, it had made it difficult for a good man to reach her heart—very wrong.
She lowered her gaze and looked at Philip. The boy jostled the toy between his small fingers. He still hadn’t caught up to the size of other five year olds.
This punishment of barely hearing, of perhaps losing all of it, tore her up inside. Would he forget the sound of words? Would he remember an impatient giggle? It was too much for an innocent boy. Living as she had, speaking lies, listening to her dreaming heart, were the reasons her child suffered. She cleared her throat. “How’s my Philip?”
The governess tapped the little boy on the shoulder and pointed. “We had a good day today. No more fever from last night.”
Philip spun toward Theodosia and showed a toothy grin. Her worn-out heart stirred. His bright blue eyes opened wider. He rushed to her, stepping onto her feet, embracing her legs. A smile she no longer thought she possessed lifted her lips. “Love you, son.”
She scooped him up. His pinafore bunched in the crook of her arm as he wiggled his way to her cheek, placing his face there. His pulse pushed against hers. She wove her fingers into his dark, straight hair. She’d do anything for Philip, the only person in this world who was truly hers. For the first time today, she breathed easier. Maybe her withered heart had a little more living to do.
“M-mmm-m,” he said, before giving her a big, wet kiss.
The boy offered another hug about her neck. Theodosia needed to keep him safe, to keep his world secure and beautiful, even if that meant selling herself in a new marriage.
Footfalls sounded behind her.
She spun with her precious cargo, tucking him deeper within her stiffening arms. Anger rose inside seeing Wilhelm Lester, her late husband’s steward, smirking at the threshold.
“Well, isn’t this lovely? Mother and son. The usurper and her spawn.”
Theodosia leaned down and gave Philip back to his governess. “Come with me, Mr. Lester.”
She squared her shoulders, tightened her grip about the paper, and waltzed past the scourge who had dared to be Mathew’s confidant. She kept moving until she stood yards from the nursery.
The beast followed too closely. Was it onions and mutton on his breath?
“Theodosia, what was it? How did you bewitch old Cecil and convince him to make his mistress his wife? Usually only fools do that and Cecil was no fool.”
“Maybe the same reason you’ve been asking to marry me? You didn’t even wait for my dear Mathew to be cold in the grave.”
The tall man laughed and flipped back a reddish-brown curl from his flat forehead. He would be handsome, if not for all the ugly evil spouting from his thin lips.
“No, can’t be the same, my dear.” His voice sounded like a fat cat’s purr, one that had eaten its mouse. “You were penniless then. Now, you are a wealthy woman sharing the Cecil fortune. Yes, fifty-thousand pounds annually is more than enough reason to marry you, Theodosia.”
“It’s Mrs. Cecil to you. And I told you, you are not welcome in the nursery. Stay in the parlor.”
“Can’t. Your gaggle of hens is down there. Where did you find more educated dark ones?”
Ester and Frederica? Knowing her friends were near gave Theodosia more strength. “You heard what I said. Go downstairs.”
“Then come with me.” He held out his arm for her.
The thought of touching or being touched by Lester made her skin itch. It’d be like fiery ants who had stung her hands in the fields when she hadn’t been careful cutting flower stems. Around him, she needed to be extra careful. She scooted past him and started down the treads, but he fell in step with her.
“The boy? Is he breeched yet?”
“No, he’s five.”
“Well, Cecil wasn’t that tall of a man, but this one seems a might scrawny. As his guardian, I will need to make sure you’re not coddling him too much. He might need to be sent away, if you’re not taking good care of him. That’s a guardian’s job to make sure his ward is well protected.”
She lifted her chin as she cut her gaze to the fool. “Philip is fine. Growing well. Don’t threaten me.”
Lester grabbed her and yanked her close.
Her reticule swung around her elbow swatting him in his midnight blue waistcoat. “Let me go, you bounder.”
His grip didn’t slacken. He leaned near her ear. “Things would be better for the boy if we worked together. You’re not so bad with that mouth of yours closed or given to a common purpose.”
She shook free and stared into his beady blue-gray eyes. “Don’t touch me. Some of the coloring of my hand may slap onto your sallow flesh. It will leave you black and blue. You wouldn’t like that.”
He clamped her shoulder, shaking her. “The hellcat protests too much. And I’m an improvement over an old man. It’s been too long for you, hasn’t it, dear? It’s almost been a year since his death.”
She made herself stone, forcing away the disgust threatening to spew vomit from her mouth. “How dare you? I’m not even
out of my mourning for Cecil, the man you claimed to love. What would he say to you if he saw this?”
Lester’s sneer shifted into a frown as if for a moment a bit of humanity filled him. Mathew’s endless kindness had made him a weak spot for many. Theodosia had noted Lester’s affection for Mathew during her husband’s illness. At the man’s first threat, she’d invoked Mathew’s memory, Lester’s Achilles heel, but how much longer would it work?
The blackguard lowered his hand and yanked the parchment away from her fingers. “This looks important.” He ripped it open and held it to the light. “Another offer to buy our flower fields. You’re not considering this?”
Theodosia put a hand to her hip. “All the fields are mine and Philip’s. Cecil left you an income to be an advocate.” She softened her tone to keep the man’s fragile ego intact. “It’s hard to consider something I haven’t had a chance to read, but you know I will consult you.”
He ripped up the offer into bits, balled them up, then stuffed the pieces into her palm. Lester stepped very close, his shadow falling upon her. “The Fitzwilliams ruined my father’s business and took his lands. Land is everything. I won’t let that happen here, and I’ve taken steps to ensure it.” His brow rose. “The earl must think you stupid for such a low offer, though I think you know low.”
He moved out of slapping range. “When you’re done playing a lady and see that our interests align, mine for the Cecil business, yours for nurturing the heir, send for me. I’ll come to you, Theodosia.”
Lester grinned again, more evil than the first, and headed out to the hall. With a final smirk, he grabbed up his coat and cane. “See you soon, Mrs. Cecil, dearest woman. It will be good to see you out of your mourning garb. Maybe you and the lad shall come with me to Holland. Your head for numbers might come in handy.”
No. Never would she go anywhere with him. Holding her breath, she made her response soft. “This is our first overture to those growers. You must go alone and represent us. I need you to do that.”
The Bittersweet Bride Page 3
