by Cheryl Holt
"Why would you bother with her?"
"I don't trust you, Britannia. I haven't seen Caroline in days, and I'm suddenly wondering why not."
"She's having cold feet."
"Is she?"
"Can you believe it? She doesn't care to be your wife! I can't imagine why. Can you?"
She cackled like a witch stirring her cauldron. Her enjoyment of Caroline's dilemma was out of proportion to reality, and Edward was beginning to question whether she wasn't completely crazed.
"Get her for me."
"You don't need to—"
"Get her!" he hissed. "I'll wait here."
"Very well," Britannia huffed. "You may see for yourself that she's fit and present. She's merely being disobedient and I'm keeping her locked in a closet so that she doesn't run away. That's how desperate she is."
She stomped out, and a few minutes later, she returned with her daughter in tow. Caroline entered first with Britannia behind her, and Britannia blocked the door, as if fearful that Caroline would bolt through it and escape.
Caroline approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she appeared confident and stubborn, when in the past she'd been meek and submissive. From where had this adamant person sprung? How could she have metamorphosed into a totally different individual from the one he'd always known?
The alteration was unnerving and infuriating. He didn't want her changing! He wanted the timid, quiet girl she'd been previously. If she'd developed a backbone, it would be much more difficult to bend her to his will.
"Have you something to say to me?" he sneered.
Boldly, she replied, "I don't want to marry you."
He was so stunned by the insult that he was amazed he didn't slap her.
"Why would you consider your opinion to be relevant?"
"I've been told, over and over, that it's not. I simply thought you should know."
Her obstinacy spurred him to crave the nuptials more than ever, and he started calculating the ways he would punish her for her impudence, commencing on their wedding night
"Here's what we will do," he said to Britannia. "The ceremony will be held in three weeks—but only three— so don't ask for another extension. It won't be granted."
"I won't go through with it!" Caroline contended, but he ignored her.
He continued to Britannia, "We shall disseminate whispers that Bernard is sick. To quell speculation, Caroline, you, and I will show ourselves at Westmoreland's ball on Saturday, which would have been our wedding day."
"She shouldn't be let out in public," Britannia mentioned.
"Why not? What could she possibly do? Is she so out of control that her own mother can't make her behave as she ought?"
The jibe had its intended effect. Britannia rippled with rage. "We will be more than happy to attend the Duke's ball with you."
"Fine," he said. "I will pick you up in my carriage at eight."
I realize it's horridly presumptuous of me," Jack began, "but might I speak with Lady Wakefield?" .
"And you are?"
At the butler's question, Jack was disconcerted about how he should answer. He was loitering like a supplicant on the stoop of the great and notorious Viscount Wakefield, so he wasn't about to proclaim that he was a Clayton bastard son. Nor would he brag that he and the Viscount were half-blood brothers.
"My name is Jack Romsey. I met her once prior. I was introduced to her by Mr. Ian Clayton."
The reference to Ian brought a smile to the butler's stony face. "Are you a friend to Master Ian?"
"Yes."
"How wonderful. We've missed him terribly these last few months. Please come in."
From remarks Ian had made, Jack had assumed that alluding to Ian would get him tossed out, so he was surprised by the warm reception.
He was led into a fancy parlor, but at viewing the grandeur, he was hit by a wave of nerves. The ornate decor emphasized the disparities between who he was and who his siblings were. Luckily, he was dressed appropriately in clothes Ian's tailor had sewn, but no matter the extravagance of the garments, they couldn't alter the ordinary man within.
"I am Rutherford," the butler said. "May I pour you a refreshment?"
A hearty shot of liquor would have stilled his trembling, but he didn't think he should greet the Viscountess while sipping on a brandy.
"No, thank you."
"Very good, sir. Make yourself comfortable"— Rutherford pointed to a sofa—"and I shall notify Lady Wakefield of your arrival."
Jack tried to sit, but he was too anxious, so he ambled around, looking at the paintings on the walls, the flowers in the vases, the figurines on the tables.
He wasn't sure why he'd come. He and Ian had reached a truce of sorts; then Ian had departed for Scotland. He'd invited Jack to tag along, but Jack had declined, not being eager to intrude on Ian's homecoming.
Ian had urged him to remain in the London house, insisting that it was Jack's home, but without Ian in residence, Jack didn't feel that it was. So after Ian had left, Jack had packed a bag and left, too. He was at loose ends, at liberty to go wherever he wished and do whatever he wanted, but he received no joy in his freedom.
From the time he was a very small boy, he'd been alone, so it was his usual condition, but since he'd had a brief taste of family with Ian, the sudden severance of their connection was frightening and humbling.
He was sad and forlorn in a way that was different from ever before, and as he'd walked down the street— ready to flip a coin and pick a destination—he'd found himself proceeding to Viscount Wakefield's door instead.
During his previous encounter with Lady Wakefield, she'd been kind and unpretentious, so Jack doubted she'd be offended by his improper visit. If she was, at least he'd have tried, so he wouldn't have to fret over what might have been.
Much sooner than he'd expected, footsteps sounded in the hall, and like a ray of sunshine, Lady Wakefield rushed in. She was petite and beautiful and very pregnant She grinned, and instantly he wanted to know her better. He wanted her to consider him a friend.
"Jack Romsey! It really is you! When Rutherford announced you, I didn't believe him."
"Hello, Lady Wakefield."
She hurried over and held out her hands. He seized them in his own as she rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He hadn't had many women fuss over him in his life, and the sweet gesture made him feel welcome as nothing else could have.
She studied him, assessing his features. "My Lord, but I can't get over how closely you resemble my husband. If you were a few years older, you could be his twin."
"I've often been told as much." "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "So am I."
"You're not as stubborn as your two brothers, are you?"
"I'm hoping I'm not."
"After I met you that night with Ian, I was going to call on you, but I let John convince me mat I shouldn't. Can you imagine?" She chuckled in a merry way. "I actually listen to him occasionally—even when he's being foolish."
"Why was he being foolish?"
"We could see that Ian was still furious. John was afraid that if I went to his house, he might refuse me entrance, and then they'd have had another row, which would have been awful. There's already been such terrible talk."
"I thought Lord Wakefield was the one who was angry."
"Oh, he was. They both were. They said some dreadful things, but they're too proud to apologize, yet each is miserable without the other."
"Ian would never have snubbed you. He's very fond of you."
"I know. John was just being silly. It's a Clayton trait. I pray you were blessed with not inheriting it. Come!" She dragged him into the hall. "John is home today. He's been dying to meet you, but too pigheaded to do anything about it."
They halted at the end of the corridor and marched into the library without knocking, and Jack was amazed by the informal nature of the imposing residence and its occupants. They were like a normal couple, with a regular routine, and he didn't feel out of pl
ace. It seemed as if he'd always stopped by.
Lord Wakefield was across the room, seated at a massive desk and absorbed with reading through a voluminous stack of papers. He was aware of his wife's arrival and knew it was she without glancing up.
His nose buried in his work, he grumbled, "Emma, if you keep interrupting, how am I to get my chores done?"
"John! We have a guest."
"Will I be pleased?"
"I'm certain you will be."
"Does he want something from me?"
"Yes." Lady Wakefield winked at Jack and whispered, "I'm constantly bringing in people who need his assistance, when he hates doing good deeds. He assumes you're here for a charitable contribution. It makes him cranky."
"I can hear you, you know." Wakefield pushed his papers aside and sighed. "Very well. What is it this time?"
He stood, smiling at Lady Wakefield, as she beamed. "Look who's come!"
The Viscount stared at Jack, scowled in confusion, then recognition dawned, and he muttered, "I'll be damned."
"John!" Lady Wakefield scolded. "Don't curse! He'll think you're a barbarian." "I am a barbarian." "John!"
"Sorry. It slipped out." He didn't seem contrite. "Haven't I cured you of your bad habits?" "Not all of them. A man has to keep a few." "I don't see why."
He gazed toward the door, then frowned at Jack. "Is Ian with you?"
"No." At the news, Wakefield visibly deflated, and Jack hastened to explain, "He's moved to Scotland."
"Scotland!" Wakefield said.
"It's a long story."
"I hope you'll tell it. I'm eager for every detail of how he's been."
Wakefield rounded the desk and approached. They were the same height, the same build. The Clayton bloodline was strong, and Jack felt as if he were peering in a mirror and seeing how he would appear in another decade.
After a thorough evaluation, Wakefield murmured, "My goodness."
"Hello, Lord Wakefield."
"Your name is Jack?"
"Yes, Jack Clayton Romsey."
Wakefield reached out and laid a hand on Jack's shoulder, as if touching him to be sure he was real. His emotion was evident and genuine, and it was the strangest sensation, but Jack felt as if he'd always known the man, as if they'd merely been separated for a short while.
"Isn't it wonderful, John?" Lady Wakefield inquired.
"Yes, Emma, very wonderful indeed."
"It's like a gift," she said.
"I'm presuming"—Wakefield spoke to Jack—"that you have the most interesting tale to share as to where you've been and how you came to be living with Ian."
"Yes, I do."
"You must tell me all about your mother—and our father."
Lady Wakefield added, "We were just about to sit down to dinner. Will you join us?"
Jack's initial reaction was to decline, but they seemed to truly want him to stay, and his heart was aching with delight that he'd have the chance.
"I would love to stay," Jack replied.
To his surprise, his response caused Lady Wakefield to burst into tears and, as if her weeping was a common occurrence, Wakefield pulled out a kerchief and tenderly dabbed at her eyes.
"Why are you crying now?" he asked her. "I'm so happy for you."
She fell into his arms, and he hugged her tight as he glanced over at Jack.
"Have you had much experience with pregnant women?" Wakefield queried.
"No, sir."
"I've learned that they cry like watering pots. She might not stop for hours, so let's go eat. We could starve before she's finished." He started out, his wife safely tucked at his side.
Jack followed them, and as they stepped into the hall, Wakefield gazed over his shoulder.
"I'd like it if you'd call me John," Jack's older brother urged.
"I will," Jack said, and they proceeded into the dining room together.
I've had him kidnapped." "You what?" Caroline was stunned. Was there no crime Britannia wouldn't commit?
"You heard me: I've had Mr. Clayton kidnapped." "But... why?" "He's my insurance." "Against what loss?"
"Due to your father's reduced mental state, the wedding is twenty days away instead of two."
Thank God! Caroline muttered to herself. "Why would the date of the ceremony have spurred you to abduct Mr. Clayton?"
"You now have an eternity in which to thwart me.
Should you refuse to marry Edward Shelton, I will have Ian Clayton killed."
"Yes, Mother, you've been very blunt about what you would do."
"He will be my collateral to prevent any bad behavior on your part."
"Can you expect me to believe that you have him hidden away in some hovel, awaiting the moment I say my vows?"
"I don't care what you believe."
Caroline scoffed. "What did you do? Sneak into his home and club him over the head?"
"Actually, he'd fled London. He was sick of you and your antics, and he was scurrying back to Scotland where he belongs. I had a pair of ruffians attack him on the road. It was very simple."
Caroline studied her, but she couldn't decide if Britannia was lying or not. She had grown so crazed that any nefarious conduct seemed likely. Then again, Ian might be just down the street, sitting in his own parlor and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the Derby household. How could she know for sure?
She had to contact him, had to find out if he was all right.
He'd been fond enough to fight for her, to force his way into her father's mansion and demand that she leave with him. His show of support was the sweetest, kindest deed that anyone had ever done for her. He really was her knight in shining armor.
"I have a gift for you," her mother said, and she handed over three letters.
"What are these?" Caroline asked even though she knew. Her spirits flagged.
"They are messages you managed to pen and have delivered to Mr. Clayton. As you win see from the attached note, he has left the city, and his residence is shuttered ^definitely."
Caroline ran a thumb across the top letter, reading the words someone had jotted on the front. It was as her mother had claimed. He was gone, and Caroline felt his absence as heavily as if he'd died.
She clutched the small pile to her bosom. The letters were her last link to him, as cherished as if they'd been a strand of hair or miniature locket with his portrait tucked inside. On seeing her pathetic gesture, Britannia yanked them away and tossed them in the fire.
"I've been so cautious," Britannia mused, "so I'm perplexed as to how you were able to draft a plea for assistance, but you won't dare another such outrage. I have fired the maid and footman who abetted you. They've been turned out without a penny. If they apply for a new position, and a reference is sought, I shall say they were thieves. They'll never work again. Because of you, they'll probably starve in the gutter."
Tears welled into Caroline's eyes. Disaster struck whatever she touched. Was she tainted? Was she cursed?
"You are so wicked," Caroline charged, hating Britannia as she'd never hated anyone. "When did this happen to you? How is it that I didn't know?"
"Now that I'm aware of how sly you can be, I'll watch you even more closely. If you solicit aid from the other servants, I'll foil you, and the penalty to the involved employee will be worse than ever. Am I beginning to get your attention?"
"Yes, you are."
"You will marry as you've been commanded by your parents. You can't evade your fate." "I realize that."
Her father was lost in his sorrow. Her brother detested her. She had spurned Ian. There was no one else who might have been worried about her, who might have intervened.
She was on her own, floating free of what had tethered her to her prior life. She felt invisible, unloved and unwanted. What would become of her?
"And don't forget," her mother taunted, "in the end, I have your precious Mr. Clayton. Nothing would please me more than to kill him for his audacity. I almost hope you give me an excuse to proceed."
> She chuckled, sounding every bit like the deranged person she was, and she whipped around and walked out. The key spun in the lock.
Chapter Twenty
Don't turn around." At the sound of a female voice coming from directly behind her, Caroline stiffened but didn't move. The Duke's grand ballroom was packed with people, and oddly enough, whoever had approached her seemed to be hiding in the drapes.
Edward had vanished in the throng, but Britannia was a few feet away and observing her every second, so Caroline was pretending to be very meek. She'd hoped to beg someone for help, but the crowd was an unfriendly mob.
Any person present would think her mother to be perfectly reasonable in forcing Caroline into a horrid marriage. They would deem a refusal as childish and reprehensible on Caroline's part.
"Who's there?" Caroline asked, keeping her expression carefully blank.
"It's me, Rebecca Blake."
Though astonished, Caroline showed no reaction. "What do you want?"
"I'm the one who told your mother about Ian."
"Why am I not surprised? How wicked of you."
"It was, and I'm... I'm... sorry." There was a pause, and she added, "And I don't apologize very often, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't gloat."
"I'll try not to."
"Are you in trouble because of me?"
"Of course I am. What would you suppose?"
"I've heard terrible rumors—that she beats you, that you're being locked in a closet."
Caroline thought about denying the stories and asserting that everything was fine, as was her tendency, but Mrs. Blake was the type of individual who'd be brave enough to assist. Caroline had to seize what might be her only chance.
"It's been awful," she admitted.
"I figured as much."
"Do you know where Ian is?"
"He's left town," Mrs. Blake confirmed.
Caroline nodded, calculating the response and what it meant for her future, what it meant for his. Did Britannia have him as she claimed?
"I need your help," Caroline said.
"I suspected you might. Is your mother watching you?"
"Like a hawk. I can't take a breath without her noticing."
"I just saw John Clayton go into the parlor down the hall. He's sitting alone, having a brandy." "So?"
