A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  A knock sounded at the door. “Sir,” called a concerned voice from the outside. “May I help you with something?”

  It must be the maid Sophie had heard coming up earlier.

  “Bloody. Damn. Hell,” Fisk gritted out. “No thank you!” he called loudly. But he was out of breath. Surely the girl would have heard.

  He looked at Sophie, his eyes gleaming with hatred. In that moment, she knew he wanted her dead. Her terror grew, clawing at her chest, strangling her, helped along by Fisk’s strong arm. She choked and gasped, her eyes widening.

  Sighing, Fisk reached over and grabbed the crystal lamp sitting on the end table. Sophie saw the object flying toward her. She could do nothing to stop it. Then the splintering sound of shattering glass, and a sharp, sharp pain spreading over her skull. The smell of lamp oil drowned her senses.

  And then… nothing.

  Fisk was there to meet Garrett at the door as he returned home at dusk. He pressed a glass of brandy into his hand. “Drink up, Cal. You’re going to need it.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Sudden worry gripped him like a vise, so tight he could scarcely breathe. “Sophie? Miranda?”

  “Drink,” Fisk said.

  Thirsty from his walk, Garrett tilted his head and threw back the brandy in one gulp. It tasted awful, bitter, as if the maids had left a soap residue in the glass. He shoved the glass at Fisk. “Tell me what’s wrong, damn it.”

  “It’s Her Grace. No one can find her.”

  He frowned. “That’s impossible. Perhaps she has gone to make a call.”

  Fisk looked doubtful. “At this hour? It is possible, I suppose.”

  “Have you searched the house?”

  Fisk nodded. “She’s not here. Nor has she taken any of the servants. She said she’d be home when Lady Rebecca and Lady Bertrice returned, but nobody has seen her in over an hour.”

  “Have you questioned the staff?”

  “Not yet—we only just discovered she was miss—”

  But Garrett was striding away, taking the path around the house to the back flower garden. It was where he’d left her. Perhaps she was still there. But no, the garden was empty. He strode through it—perhaps she had fainted from the heat. But there was no sign of her pale skin or the cinnamon-colored fabric of the dress she’d been wearing. He stormed into the house through the back entrance, ignoring the servants who cowered from him. Perhaps she was upstairs in the nursery with the children, and they had neglected to look for her there. She had to be here. This didn’t make sense. Where would she have gone by herself?

  He nearly ran headlong into Rebecca as she was coming down the stairs. She recoiled from him as if he were a poisonous snake. Goddamn it. He had to do something about his sister’s reaction to him.

  Or maybe not. He was destined for madness. Perhaps it was best she feared him. Raking a frustrated hand through his hair, he gazed up at his sister, who looked ready to collapse from fright. “Have you seen Sophie?”

  He tried to sound gentle, but his voice came out as a growl. God, he needed his wife. She wouldn’t have left him. But she never left the house without a servant or a companion. Maybe she had left him.

  “No,” his sister whispered.

  He continued up the stairs. Rebecca pressed her body flat against the wall as he passed. Damn it, he couldn’t think. He came to the landing at the nursery and took a deep breath. Please let her be inside. But when he opened the door, the children were on the floor playing, and Miss Dalworthy was sitting on the rocking chair in the corner, sewing. They all stared at him.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered, and closed the door.

  One by one, he searched the bedchambers. By the time he’d finished, his muscles felt like pudding. He could scarcely stumble down the stairs. Then he saw her, at the end of the hallway. “Oh, Sophie, thank God it’s you.”

  “Your Grace?”

  He blinked hard at the figure. It was a servant—a tall, dark chambermaid. He’d mistaken a chambermaid for Sophie?

  “Sophie, where are you?” he called. Then louder, “Sophie!”

  Fisk came beside him. “Perhaps we should retire to your study, Cal.”

  He wrenched his arm away from Fisk. “Are you mad? We must find her! Something’s wrong. She wouldn’t go—she wouldn’t leave me.”

  There were people all around, all of them Sophie. No, none of them were Sophie. Oh, hell. It was happening again. He looked down at his feet, but he couldn’t feel them.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered. He had failed them. He’d failed everyone. Making one last effort to claw out of the madness, he focused on Fisk’s sympathetic face swimming before him. “Take me to my study, Fisk. For Christ’s sake, take me somewhere so they’re safe from me.”

  And then the darkness overtook him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her eyelids were weighted by iron. Mustering all the power she possessed, Sophie pried them open.Where was she?

  She blinked against the dim light coming in from the window, and, groaning, she rolled to her back. The action caused pain to shoot through her head, and she cried out, but the sound was low and scratchy, as if it had come from someone else.

  “Praise be,” murmured a soft voice. “Her Grace is awake.”

  Sophie squinted and saw that she lay on the narrow bed in the duchess’s bedchamber. Slowly, the pale faces wavering over her came into focus. Aunt Bertrice and Mrs. Krum, the housekeeper. Both women looked exhausted.

  “What happened?” Sophie managed to whisper. Her throat felt as if it was coated with glass, and then she remembered. There had been glass. Shattering everywhere, all around her.

  “You were attacked.” Worry flared brightly in Aunt Bertrice’s blue eyes. “We are certain it was Mr. Fisk.”

  “How—?”

  Aunt Bertrice blew out a breath. “Praise the Lord you are alive, Sophie. We’ve no doubt that if the chambermaid hadn’t interrupted him, he would have finished the deed.”

  “Where is he?” Sophie struggled to sit up, but Mrs. Krum’s firm hand on her shoulder held her down.

  “Best stay in a reclining position if you desire to remain conscious, Your Grace.”

  “He’s gone, my dear,” Aunt Bertrice said. “Disappeared.”

  “Where?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Did you call the watch?”

  Aunt Bertrice shuddered. “And have the scandal spread through the country like so much horse dung? Absolutely not.”

  Sophie breathed a weak sigh of relief.

  “Come, madam, take some of my healing broth now,” Mrs. Krum said. Propping her head, Mrs. Krum offered her the cool, salty liquid, in which Sophie tasted the distinct tang of wine. The concoction scraped against her throat, and she was glad when Mrs. Krum took it away and settled her back onto the pillow.

  She relaxed, closing her eyes. “Where’s Tristan?”

  “Tristan?” Aunt Bertrice said. “My dear, Tristan has been gone from London over a week.”

  “Oh, yes.” Sophie wished he were here. She longed for the comfort of his arms. But… her heart gave an alarmed lurch in her chest. She opened her eyes. “Garrett?”

  Aunt Bertrice’s lips thinned. “He had another of his attacks and was dosed with laudanum. He’s still sleeping. The doctor said it will be some time before he wakes, and when he does, he might still be altered.”

  “Oh, no,” Sophie moaned. Again she tried to rise, but feminine hands kept her pressed against the pillows.

  Tristan wasn’t here. Fisk had run off. Garrett was unconscious, and two old women wouldn’t allow her out of bed. Clenching her teeth tightly together, she closed her eyes. She tried to remember—had Garrett come home with Fisk? Could Fisk have done something to him?

  “Dr. MacAllister said he fell into the fit because he was overwrought that you were missing. You see, it was after midnight by the time we found you crammed in Mr. Fisk’s closet, and by then, Garrett had fallen into a stupor and the doctor was gone. I had n
o desire to call him back on your behalf.”

  “Why is that?” Pain thrummed through Sophie’s head, muddling her thoughts.

  “He gave Garrett far too strong a dose, in my opinion.” Aunt Bertrice gestured at the matronly housekeeper. “I’d rather depend on Mrs. Krum’s excellent hand at healing.”

  Sophie agreed. She trusted Mrs. Krum far more than she trusted the doctor. She smiled faintly at the housekeeper. “What time is it?”

  “It is nearly dawn.”

  “I slept all night?” She looked between the two women in dismay.

  “Yes, madam,” the housekeeper murmured. “It’s a little before six now.”

  Reaching up weakly, she fingered a bandage over her eyebrow. “I was cut?”

  “A shard of glass sliced through your eyebrow,” said Aunt Bertrice darkly.

  “It shouldn’t scar too badly, madam,” Mrs. Krum added. “It’s a shallow cut.”

  “You will have a mark to match Garrett’s, I imagine,” Aunt Bertrice said. “I mean the smaller hairline scar, of course, not that gigantic purple knot.”

  Sophie struggled up again, bracing herself against the swirling dizziness. “I must see him.”

  Heaving a sigh, Aunt Bertrice nodded in capitulation. As Sophie hauled her heavy legs to the side of the bed, Mrs. Krum came around to support her on one side while Aunt Bertrice stood on the other. She waved them off. “I’m all right. Truly.”

  She rose to her feet, balancing precariously on shaking legs, noticing for the first time that they had managed to divest her of her dress, petticoats, and stays, and she was only wearing her chemise. All of her clothes had been removed to Garrett’s room in the past few days, but there was a robe draped over the armchair. Gripping the chair back so she wouldn’t crumple to the floor, she pulled on the robe with Mrs. Krum’s help. They left the room and Sophie shuffled down the hall to the master’s bedchamber, the two older women following close behind. Garrett lay on the large, high bed unmoving, his arms spread wide as if in benediction.

  “He’s finally sleeping soundly,” Aunt Bertrice murmured. “He’s been up and down all night—one moment asleep like the dead and the next wide awake and spewing nonsense.”

  She shuddered. “Most disconcerting.”

  Like an old woman, Sophie hobbled to his side, mounted the step, and sat on the edge of the mattress. She stroked the backs of her fingers down his cheek, rough with the stubble of a new beard. His skin was pale and clammy, damp to the touch, and his breaths came in short, jerky gasps.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she whispered. She thought that his affliction was only in his mind, but now it seemed it had progressed to his body as well. Mrs. Krum spoke from the other side of the bed. “I am certain it’s the laudanum, Your Grace. The doctor gave him too large a dose.”

  Sophie frowned down at Garrett, trying to piece together her fractured sensibilities. All of a sudden, fear pierced her chest. She looked up at Aunt Bertrice, who stood at the foot of the bed, frowning.

  “Where’s Becky?”

  “Asleep in her room, I should imagine. She was fast asleep when I checked on her, and I decided not to wake her when we found you—it would only upset her more. And her presentation at court—”

  Sophie focused on Mrs. Krum. “Go check on her please, Mrs. Krum.”

  “Yes, madam.” The older woman left, and Sophie tucked her hand below the blanket to fold her fingers over Garrett’s. Closing her eyes, she muttered a prayer. Lord, please give him strength. Please give him the knowledge of his sanity. She merely sat, willing her own strength and her mental capacity to return. All was quiet for a few long moments. The only sound in the room was of Garrett’s labored breathing. And then Mrs. Krum burst into the room. “Oh, Your Grace. Lady Rebecca is gone!”

  “What?” Aunt Bertrice gasped.

  Garrett stirred but did not wake, but he drew his arms close to his body, shuddering. Sophie tucked the blankets tightly around him.

  She looked up at Mrs. Krum. The housekeeper’s white cap was askew, her silver-black hair hanging in limp tendrils around it. Her round face was flushed with distress. Was she really surprised Becky was gone? Sophie wasn’t. Not at all. Mrs. Krum held up a folded sheet of stationery in a shaking hand. “This was on the counterpane, Your Grace. It’s addressed to you.”

  Sophie bent to kiss Garrett’s pale cheek, then she rose and reached for the letter. My Dearest Sophie,

  Thank you for helping me to learn what love is, for it has only confirmed what I know to be true: The love that I feel for Mr. Fisk supersedes anything I have ever felt for another living soul. My love is taking me away. We shall first fly to Scotland so we can be married, and then sail to the Continent, where we can live the grand adventure we both crave. Thank you, sweet Sophie, for helping me become wise and brave enough to make my dreams come to fruition.

  And now we must go. I shall miss you, dearest sister. Please give my regards to Aunt Bertrice, and Cousin Tristan, too.

  With love, your sister-in-law,

  Becky

  The girl hadn’t bothered to mention Garrett. William Fisk had turned her completely from her brother.

  Silently, Sophie handed the letter to Aunt Bertrice. She felt nothing. All emotion had been wiped from her mind. She was a perfect blank.

  And perfectly rational.

  Fisk wasn’t so naïve as to believe nobody would eventually try to stop them, which meant he’d hire a carriage to transport himself and Becky quickly to Gretna Green, to be married and done with it before they could be caught. To travel north in the most expedient fashion, they’d take the post road. Which was what Sophie would do. She’d change horses often and forego sleep in order to either intercept them along the way or arrive at Gretna first and lie in wait. She could only hope Fisk wouldn’t anticipate she’d recover from her blow so quickly and chase after them on her own. If he thought her either dead, missing, or comatose, and Garrett overdosed with laudanum, he’d probably allow himself some leeway and take occasional rest stops along the way. Still, in order for her plan to work, she must move quickly.

  She focused on Mrs. Krum. “Rouse the household. I want every footman, groom, and maid to meet me in the drawing room in fifteen minutes’ time. Have Cook send an early breakfast to us there.”

  Clutching Becky’s letter to her breast, Aunt Bertrice sank weakly onto the bench at the end of the bed.

  “Don’t faint, Aunt Bertrice,” Sophie said. “I need you.”

  “I won’t,” Aunt Bertrice whispered, but all color had drained from her face, and her hand trembled as she pressed it to her temple. “I’ve failed her,” she whispered. “She was my only hope, my only true chance for success. I failed with Tristan and Garrett—the only reason they are honorable gentlemen is you, Sophie. But Rebecca, I thought if I gave her the attention I failed to give the boys, she would bloom. She’s so bright and lovely, had so much potential. But again, I’ve failed. I’ve failed her completely.”

  Sophie knelt before the older woman. “I need you to be strong, Aunt. I need you here for Garrett and the children.”

  Aunt Bertrice looked at Sophie with glazed eyes. Becky’s letter had sanded away the sharp edges of her disposition, and Sophie had never seen her so distraught. “Why, Sophie?

  Where did I lead her astray?”

  Sophie took the soft, wrinkled cheeks in her hands. “Listen to me. Don’t blame yourself. If there is anyone to blame, it is me. Becky used my own brazen behavior as her example.”

  “I tried, Sophie. I tried so hard to teach her modesty and sensibility, and… and…” Aunt Bertrice’s lower lip quivered.

  Sophie drew her into her arms. “Oh, Aunt. We’ll have her back, I promise. It’s not over. Don’t give up.”

  When Sophie pulled away, Aunt Bertrice’s eyes were glassy with tears. Sophie’s heart constricted—she’d never seen the older woman cry before.

  “Are you going after them?” Aunt Bertrice whispered.

  “I see no alternative.�
��

  Aunt Bertrice shook her head. “Mr. Fisk is dangerous, Sophie. You are no match for him.”

  Sophie cast a glance at Garrett, whose skin was sallow and sheened with a fine layer of sweat. In all the activity, he hadn’t budged. Her heart thumped dully in her chest. If he died, it would be her fault for not impressing her concerns about Dr. MacAllister and Fisk more strongly upon anyone who might listen.

  She turned back to Aunt Bertrice. “There is no one to do it for me. I don’t trust the authorities to be discreet. Garrett is ill and we still haven’t determined what’s wrong with him. Tristan isn’t here. I can’t allow anyone else to go—if I do, Becky’s disgrace will be exposed to the world. She’ll be ruined.”

  Aunt Bertrice shook her head and closed her eyes in defeat. “Rebecca’s already ruined, child.”

  Sophie squeezed the other woman’s hands. “I won’t believe that.”

  “Believe it.” Aunt Bertrice sighed heavily. “It is too late for her.”

  “No,” Sophie whispered. “I can’t accept it.” Not sweet, beautiful Becky, not the young, innocent girl she’d always adored. Becky might think she was happy now, but Fisk would make her suffer. He would hurt her, as he’d hurt Garrett.

  She’d allowed Becks to be duped by a blackguard. It was Sophie’s fault, and now only she could make things right.

  “I will bring Becky home.”

  “And what if Mr. Fisk should decide to attempt to murder you again?”

  Sophie stared at Aunt Bertrice for a long moment, then she rose and crossed the room, opening a small cabinet Tristan had brought from his visit to the Orient.

  “I know how to use a gun.” Kneeling, she retrieved Garrett’s pistol. Grasping it by the barrel, she heaved it up for Aunt Bertrice to see. “I’m taking this.”

  The old lady’s eyes widened. “No, Sophie.”

  “I’m a good shot. Once better than both Tristan and Garrett.”

  “Shooting a man is different from shooting grouse. You’re no longer the hoyden of Calton House.”