by Allegra Gray
Her sister’s plight stayed with Elizabeth the remainder of the afternoon, and she was still dwelling on it when her uncle summoned her shortly before dinner.
“Elizabeth, I have excellent news.”
She eyed her uncle. Their definitions of excellent were considerably different.
“Harold Wetherby will be joining us for dinner. He’s been traveling, and, with luck, may not have heard of all your escapades. I urge you to behave well toward him. He may consider renewing his suit.”
“He’s hardly likely to forget I disappeared just before our engagement was announced.”
Uncle George folded his arms across his sizeable middle. “You were distraught. You were very close to your father, and his death had an impact on your already delicate sensibilities.” His lips twisted nastily around the words, making it clear he didn’t buy a word of what he was saying.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. Too bad her uncle hadn’t considered her “delicate sensibilities” when he’d castigated her and threatened to beat some sense into her upon her return.
“Uncle—” she began.
“Young lady, do not argue with me. Harold doesn’t move in the higher circles of the ton, so he may not be privy to the gossip concerning yourself and Beaufort. You do not deserve another chance, but you may get one. It would ease the family circumstances if you did not waste it.”
Ah, guilt. He was trying to shame her into being nice to Harold. Well, it might ease her uncle’s circumstances if she married Harold, but Elizabeth failed to see how it would ease her own. Although, there was Charity to consider. A renewal of Harold’s suit would take the pressure off her sister. If Elizabeth could stomach it.
“Comb your hair and put on a fresh gown. You must do your absolute best to appeal to the man. And do not think you can fool me with anything less. You’re attractive enough. Make him notice your charms.”
Harold was the last person she wanted noticing any charms she might possess. And what was wrong with the gown she was wearing?
She sighed inwardly. As the “ruined” ward of the family, she’d no position from which to argue. All the more reason to find a way to support herself—and soon. She gave a thin smile. “I’ll see what I can do, Uncle.”
He narrowed his eyes. “See that you do. And be prompt about it. I want you ready the moment he arrives. He mustn’t think you one of those vain, tardy women who deem it acceptable to keep a man waiting.”
Elizabeth grumbled but went to make herself presentable. She didn’t put any particular effort into it, but her uncle would find no fault with her pale gray silk gown, or the matching ribbon wound through the nest of hair gathered at her nape.
She drifted listlessly back down to the salon. The hour was yet early; it was unlikely Harold would arrive for some time. Her embroidery sat abandoned near the chaise. She eyed it distastefully. Who cared if there were rosebuds at the hem of her sleeves? Still, she picked it up, if for no other reason than to avoid an “idle hands” comment should her mother walk by.
She gazed vacantly at the fireplace, vaguely registering that the Limoges vase that used to sit on the mantle was gone. And the roses of the wallpaper were less faded in one square area where a painting had been removed.
Sold. A last, desperate attempt to slow the family’s descent into genteel poverty.
She swallowed. The lack of pretty things didn’t bother her nearly as much as the feeling she was trapped.
“There you are!” Charity entered, carrying a plateful of scones, which she thrust in Elizabeth’s direction. “I thought you might like some of these.”
The fact that her sister carried the tray—there were too few servants left—was another reminder of the changes.
“Thank you. Has Harold arrived yet?” Elizabeth asked.
“No. I just heard from Uncle that he was coming.”
The two young women stared at each other, each one’s misery mirrored on the other’s face. It pained Elizabeth to see her normally irrepressible sister so dispirited.
“I hate Father,” Elizabeth declared.
“Elizabeth!” Charity glanced around as if expecting a lightning strike or vengeful ghost. “You do not. ’Tis ill to speak so of the deceased.” She set down the tray and handed her sister a buttered scone.
Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sorry. I did love him. He laughed with me, took me on outings, and never scolded my lack of grace the way Mother always did at my lessons. But I hate that he put us, me, in this position.”
“I know.”
“He acted as though everything was perfect, and I could marry whomever I pleased, whenever I pleased. I would have much preferred he be honest about our circumstances.”
“Perhaps he truly thought his misfortune temporary, and that he’d recover without anyone knowing. After all, it would be a hard thing for a man to come to his family and tell them he’s let them down.”
“He wouldn’t be the first,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“True, but that doesn’t necessarily make it easier.”
“I know.” Elizabeth sighed and bit into her scone. “These are very good. I’m certain I won’t be able to touch my dinner. Not sitting across the table from Harold.”
“Let’s not speak of that yet.”
“You’re right. It’ll come soon enough.” She polished off the scone, then stood and paced. “I’m just so angry, Charity! At Father, Uncle, Harold, everyone. Even Mother. Couldn’t she at least have given Father a proper funeral? Surely that was more important than this charade she insists on, staying in town with her head high when we can barely afford to get by.”
Charity tugged at her hair, an old, familiar habit that signaled her own distress. Elizabeth sat again.
“I don’t understand it either.” Charity bowed her head. “I never got to tell him good-bye. I asked if she’d open the casket, but she’d had it sealed and locked.”
Elizabeth frowned. It had bothered her, too, not to see her father’s body as she made her final farewells. They said he’d been thrown from the carriage in the accident, but surely they could have cleaned him up enough for a proper funeral. Was her mother truly as cheap and uncaring as that?
Not wanting to upset Charity further with her misgivings, Elizabeth put an arm around her sister. “Oh, honey. I’m sure he knows we wanted to say good-bye. And I’m sorry I said I hated him. I’m just upset right now.”
“It’s understandable.” Charity nodded. “I’d be angry, too, in your place.”
“Ugh. Why does Uncle George hate me so much?”
Charity’s eyes softened. “It isn’t just you. He was beastly to Mother while you were gone. Berated her constantly—said she thought herself better than the rest of the family, marrying into nobility, as she did, and look where it had gotten her.”
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth wasn’t on the best of terms with her mother, but she disliked her uncle more.
“He sees us as a problem to be taken care of, preferably with as little of his own money as possible. That’s why he’s so unkind to you. Marrying you off to Harold would rid him of one of us, at least, but you won’t do it.”
“Not willingly.” Elizabeth gave her sister a quick squeeze, then pinned on a smile. “First things first. Help me think of a way to get through tonight.”
A spark of Charity’s usual spirit gleamed in her eyes as she quipped, “Lots and lots of wine?”
Charity may have been joking, but when at last Elizabeth was seated at the dinner table that evening, she clutched her wineglass as if it were the only lifeline between her and purgatory. The temptation to run again, to escape to anywhere but here, had nearly gotten the best of her.
Harold dominated the dinner conversation, relating the details of his recent travels to the Continent at length. It sounded to have been a rather dull trip, Elizabeth thought, but her uncle George kept plying him with questions about who he’d met and what promising connections he’d made.
Elizabeth hoped fervently one of those connecti
ons might be a fiancée, relieving her of any future obligations, but Harold mentioned nothing of the sort. Occasionally he paused in the monologue, shoveling food into his mouth and leering at her while he chewed.
Elizabeth quickly decided it was better to keep her gaze lowered to her plate. When one of the men addressed her, she answered succinctly, using as few words as possible.
Her mother and Charity remained mostly silent, though occasionally Elizabeth looked up to catch a sympathetic glance from her little sister.
Once, she saw Uncle George nod approvingly toward her. Apparently he was under the impression her behavior constituted an attempt to be demure. Well, no need to relieve him of that impression, Elizabeth thought, taking another long sip of wine. For now, all she had to do was get through this dinner. After that, she’d rather sew a thousand gowns for the women who used to be her friends than marry the swine sitting across from her.
Midway through the meal, Elizabeth was feeling pleasantly lightheaded.
Toward the end of the meal, however, she thought perhaps she’d been a bit too liberal with the wine…How many glasses had she drunk?
It hadn’t seemed like that many, but she dreaded having to stand when it was time for the ladies to retire. Her balance, never a strong point anyway, was certain to be off. Already her chair seemed to be floating in a bumpy sea.
“Elizabeth, why don’t you and Mr. Wetherby remain here while the rest of us retire?” Uncle George suggested. “He told me before dinner that he wished to speak privately with you, and I must say I approve.”
At the moment, Elizabeth thought drowsily, that didn’t seem such a bad idea, for it would save her the indignity of having to rise and reveal her tipsiness. Then again, she’d be alone with Harold. “I’m certain he won’t mind if you stay,” she asserted, though the words came slower than normal.
“No, no,” her uncle replied. He nodded at the other two women. “Come, ladies.”
Elizabeth watched as the hazy figures of her uncle, mother, and sister drifted from the room, until she and Harold were the only ones remaining.
Her toady suitor moved closer, taking the seat next to her. “Finish your wine, Elizabeth.” He held out the glass.
She shook her head, and the room spun. Bad idea. “No, Harold. I believe I’ve had enough. Why did you wish to speak with me?”
Funny. Her words were slurred, and the room seemed to waver in her vision. She blinked to clear it, then blinked again.
“We’ll talk,” Harold said. “But first I propose a toast. To us?”
Warning bells warred with her already pounding head. “There is no ‘us,’ Harold,” she informed him. Or thought she did. She couldn’t be sure, for the room gave a great lurch, and the table rose up to meet her.
Chapter Eleven
She was dreaming again. She knew it, but couldn’t seem to lift the thick sea of fog that held her down.
They were traveling. Occasionally a rough bump jostled her into consciousness, enough to recognize she lay on the floor of a moving vehicle, probably a carriage, her arms positioned awkwardly behind her. Tied. Her tongue felt thick, her throat dry. Once, maybe twice, someone held a flask to her lips, and she drank thirstily.
Inevitably, the fog would descend again, and carry her back to unsettling dreams.
This time, it carried her back to the night of her father’s death. She whimpered, knowing the events that were about to unfold, but unable to stop them.
She watched herself—another, more innocent self—descend the stairs, glance outside at the night storm, and move into the kitchen for a late snack.
And then she was the other self, and it ceased to be a dream.
“Bloody hell, Fuston, what’s happened?”
Never in her life had Elizabeth Medford heard the relentlessly formal butler use such language. Silently, she crept into a shadowed corner of the back hallway.
A shaft of moonlight from a small window fell on Fuston, the coachman, who trembled in his torn and stained livery. “Accident. Was naught I could do. The horses—they took a fright—” he stammered, eyes darting everywhere. “A creature, wolf, mebbe, ran out on the road…but the horses…out of control…went off in the ravine. I only just jumped clear before the carriage overturned. The master was—was—” Fuston swallowed audibly, unable to continue.
Icy dread flooded Elizabeth, but she dared not reveal herself before knowing what had happened to her father.
“How bad?” Even in his just-awakened state, the butler sounded imposing.
Fuston shook his head and wrung his hands, looking terrified.
Elizabeth’s breath left her and she sank to her knees, imagining the worst. The biscuit she’d nabbed for a midnight repast fell unheeded from her fingers, landing with a tiny thump on the floorboards.
Both men stopped and looked around at the noise, but the shadows kept Elizabeth hidden. Blood pounded in her ears as she strained to hear more.
“Did you fetch a physician?”
“There was no need,” the coachman whispered.
Growing dizzy, Elizabeth pressed her knuckles to her lips, muffling the tiny moan that escaped at the coachman’s words.
The butler sucked in his breath. “We’ll need to inform the baroness at once. She departed in Lady Jameson’s coach this evening, without leaving word of her actual destination. We can start at the Jameson residence.”
Elizabeth doubted they would find her mother there… Lady Jameson played whist with her mother often enough, but Lord Jameson did not approve, so the all-night games were hosted by others. She was on the verge of interrupting when the butler spoke again.
“There will need to be arrangements made. Where is the master’s body?”
Elizabeth’s insides seemed to hollow out at the blunt mention of her father’s mortal remains.
Fuston, however, looked truly panicked. Beads of perspiration pearled and ran down his face. “Here. But there’s a bit of a problem…”
He looked around, and Elizabeth pressed herself farther into the shadows. Finally he pulled the butler in close and whispered something she could not hear. The shaft of moonlight fell on both men now, and she saw astonishment on the older man’s usually masklike features before he turned and rushed out the door, dragging poor Fuston behind him.
Elizabeth remained in place, limbs numb, unable to absorb the conversation she’d just heard. Her father…He couldn’t be…She could not fathom a world without his reassuring presence. Her mind screamed for her to run after the two servants, beg them to tell her it wasn’t true. But they’d mentioned a body. Her heart and mind refused to reconcile this news with the only reality she’d ever known.
It could be hours yet before her mother returned, but Elizabeth had little interest in finding and offering solace to the cold baroness. Nor could she remain crouched in the hallway forever.
The fabric of her dressing gown whooshed softly in the now-empty hall as she stood, trembling, and went to wake her sister.
Where was Charity?
Elizabeth shifted restlessly. A sudden lurch shook her from the terrifying memory.
The carriage had stopped.
Feebly, she tried to push herself up. But her arms, tied behind her for so long, were too numb. She forced her eyes open.
The fleshy form of Harold Wetherby wavered before her eyes as he lifted her from the vehicle. A wave of nausea rolled over her as he tossed her over his shoulder and strode toward an unfamiliar house. She shut her eyes again.
Elizabeth sat bolt upright. She’d been dreaming. This time, she’d been back at one of last Season’s balls.
Her mother, admonishing her that a lady must always be polite to a gentleman, had nearly shoved her toward her pudgy, self-indulgent cousin. He’d led her onto the balcony, ostensibly for a breath of air…She could feel his fleshy fingers pressing into her rib cage…
No.
Better not to remember.
But as she blinked and looked about the unfamiliar bedroom, an awf
ul feeling of unease settled in her gut. Her mind was groggy. Why couldn’t she remember where she was? Or anything of how she got here?
Last she could remember, she’d been at home, sitting through an unpleasant dinner with her mother, Uncle George, and Harold. She’d drunk more wine than usual but surely not enough to muddle her head this much.
No. That wasn’t right. She had vague memories of traveling, of being horribly uncomfortable, but unable to move. Where was she?
The room she was in was small, the window shuttered. It was daytime, for cracks of light filtered in.
Elizabeth eased herself from the bed, using a small table to steady herself as an onslaught of dizziness struck her. She opened the shutter and breathed in damp country air. Frowning, she turned again to the room. It was decorated in pale blue, the bed and furniture adequate but not lavish.
She was certain she’d never seen any of it before.
Footsteps pounded outside the door. Someone was climbing a set of stairs. The door opened to reveal her cousin, a tea tray in one hand, his heavy face flushed with the effort of the climb. He’d changed clothing, she noted, though the absurdly embroidered waistcoat did nothing to improve his features. But the change of clothing proved one thing. He’d planned this.
He gave her an arrogant grin. She didn’t return it. “Harold.”
“Miss Medford.” His tone dripped with sarcasm at the formality. “I see you’ve survived the night.”
“Where am I? What have you done?” She hated the fear in her voice.
“Relax, Elizabeth. I thought it best if I took my fiancée somewhere quiet where we might renew our acquaintance.”
“I’ve no wish to renew your acquaintance. And I’m not your fiancée.” Anger, indignation, filtered through her fear.
“My, my.” He set the tray down on a side table, then leaned indolently against the door frame. “I see I was correct when I told your uncle you might need some time to adjust to the idea. But you are, indeed, my fiancée. We signed the betrothal two nights ago.”
