The footmen began to complain to Giles about icy pockets of cold lingering in certain corridors. They would rush back to warm themselves by the kitchen fire, chilled to the bone and wracked by uncontrollable shivers.
When Martha reluctantly informed Hayden of the servants’ growing fears, he suggested that she hire less superstitious servants. He no longer believed in ghosts. Just when he longed for their company the most, they had deserted him.
Although he’d sent Allegra away nearly four months ago, he insisted that the maids keep a lamp burning in her chamber all through the night. He would ease open her door and expect to see her lying there, her cheeks flushed with sleep and Lottie’s doll nestled in her arms. But her bed was always cold and empty.
He would linger in the drawing room doorway in the wee hours of morning, hoping to hear the clinking of teacups, the echo of a high-pitched giggle, or a snatch of some ridiculous Scottish ditty. But all he heard was silence.
His aimless wanderings would eventually drive him to the third floor of the house, to Lottie’s bedchamber. The first time he’d pushed open her door, he’d been surprised to discover that she had left most of her things behind. Perhaps she had simply packed in haste, he told himself bitterly, desperate to be free of him. He had seen the fear in her eyes when he’d put his hands on her that day on the cliff. It was a fear he never wanted to see in any woman’s eyes again as long as he lived. Especially not Lottie’s.
He would drift around her room, haunted not by ghosts but by the way she had crinkled her nose when she laughed; the way her hair had gleamed like molten sunshine as she went flying down the drive on the hobbyhorse; the soft, broken cries she had made against his mouth when he had urged her over the crest of pleasure into sweet oblivion. Although he knew he should have Martha and Mrs. Cavendish pack up her things and send them to London, he would simply pull her door shut behind him each night, leaving everything exactly as she had left it.
In the first few weeks after Justine had died, Hayden had learned the dangers of seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. Yet late one night he found himself stumbling out of a French window in the study, gripping an open bottle of port by the neck.
He picked his way over the rocks, his steps none too steady, until he finally found himself swaying at the edge of the cliff, listening to the sea crash against the rocks below like the last of his dreams. The wind had scattered the clouds, freeing the shimmering orb of the moon to etch the waves in silver. Hayden took a deep swig of the port, then closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, all but daring the wind and the night to take him.
That was when he heard it—the echo of a distant melody drifting on the wind. The song was achingly sweet, irresistible in its simplicity. His blood curdling in his veins, Hayden slowly turned to look at the house. This time he knew there was no Lottie and no Allegra to stroke those piano keys to life.
“Damn you,” Hayden whispered hoarsely as that siren song drew him away from the edge of that cliff one inexorable step at a time.
Still gripping the bottle, he stalked through the darkened corridors of the house, both the music and his fury swelling with each step. But when he flung open the door of the music room, he found it exactly as he had expected to find it—dark and silent. He strode to the piano and flattened one palm against its closed lid. He could still feel the faint vibration of its strings, still hear the echo of that bittersweet melody hanging in the air.
He whirled on Justine’s portrait, roaring, “I hope to God you’re happy now!” Drawing back his arm, he hurled the bottle at the portrait with all of his strength. It shattered against the canvas, the port spattering like drops of blood over Justine’s white dress. “Perhaps your intention was always to drive me mad so that you’d never be alone again, not even in death!”
Justine simply gazed down at him, her expression both mocking and inscrutable.
“Hayden?”
Hayden whirled around to find a man standing in the doorway, his face shrouded in shadows.
For one frozen fragment of time, he thought it was Phillipe standing there, young and brash and full of hope. As he waited for his old friend to step out of the shadows, the scorched pistol-ball hole over his heart still smoking, Hayden knew he’d finally gone well and truly mad.
“Hayden?” the man repeated, a querulous note edging his voice. “You haven’t gone and scared off all the servants with that frightful bellowing, have you? I knocked and knocked and no one ever came so I finally went around to the back of the house, found an unlatched window in your study, and let myself in.”
As his visitor stepped forward, his hair shining silver in the moonlight, Hayden staggered backward and sank down on the divan, going numb with relief. He buried his head in his hands, a broken laugh escaping him. “Sweet Christ, Ned, I never thought I’d be so glad to have you barge in unannounced and uninvited.”
“That’s certainly the warmest welcome you’ve given me lately. That was a lovely piece, by the way. I never realized you played.”
Hayden slowly lifted his head, gazing at the piano keys with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. “Neither did I.”
“I’d ask you to offer me a drink,” Ned said, slanting the portrait a wry look, “but I much prefer a glass to having the bottle hurled at my head.”
Hayden sheepishly raked a hand through his hair. “Justine never was much of a port drinker.” He frowned at his friend, realizing for the first time how odd it was to find him there. “So what brings you to Cornwall in the dead of night?”
Ned sobered. “My apologies for arriving so late, but I brought you a gift from your wife—something she thought you needed to see right away.”
“What is it?” Hayden asked, a bitter snort escaping him. “Her petition for an annulment?”
“Not exactly.” Reaching into his valise, Ned drew out a slim leather-bound volume and handed it to Hayden.
Hayden examined the book, recognizing it as the first installment of a triple-decker novel. Even before he turned its scarlet cover to the moonlight, he knew what its florid title would read.
LORD DEATH’S BRIDE by Lady Oakleigh.
Disappointment welled up in his throat, more bitter than gall. Although he’d told Lottie to finish the novel, a part of him hadn’t truly believed that she would. He’d certainly never dreamed that she’d be so heartless as to throw the book in his face after it was published.
He held it out to Ned. “Thank you, but I don’t have to read it. I already know the story…and the ending.”
Ignoring Hayden’s outstretched hand, Ned tossed the other two volumes of the novel into his lap, a cryptic smile curling the corner of his mouth. “I’d read it anyway if I were you. Sometimes even the most predictable endings have a way of catching you by surprise.” Snapping the valise shut, Ned yawned. “Although I hate to deprive you of my company, I’ll be leaving for Surrey early in the morning. I’ve promised my dear mum a long overdue visit. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a bed and some pretty maid to warm it.”
“You might try waking Martha. She’s always had a soft spot for you.”
Ned shuddered. “I think I’d rather cuddle up to a warm brick.”
After he had gone, Hayden sat staring down at the three volumes in his lap. He could hardly blame Lottie for betraying him, but he couldn’t believe that she would betray Allegra so callously. By confirming the worst of what everyone believed of him, she had spoiled any chance his daughter might have had of escaping the sins of her parents, of marrying a decent man and making a life for herself in society.
His anger flaring, Hayden decided to seek out the first fire he could find and toss all three volumes in the flames. As he rose, still a little unsteady on his feet from the port, one of the books slid to the floor, falling open in a puddle of moonlight. He bent down to pick it up, not realizing until he saw the scrawled inscription on the frontpiece that it was the first volume of the set. Lottie’s handwriting was every bit as extravagant as he remembered.
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He traced the tip of his finger over the graceful dips and loops, murmuring aloud, “From my heart to yours…”
Unable to bear her mockery, he was about to slam the book shut when, against their will, his eyes were drawn to the very first sentence on the very first page—I’ll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on the man who was to save my life.
Chapter 21
Was it possible I had misjudged him so badly?
“DID YOU GET IT? DID YOU GET IT? OH, please tell me you got it!” Elizabeth Bly exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement as her best friend came running out the glass-fronted door of Minerva Press’s bookshop.
“By Jove, I got it!” Caro Brockway crowed, whipping the thin leather-bound volume out from under her cloak. The girl’s breath escaped in white puffs on the frigid air.
Before she could reach Elizabeth, a hulking footman garbed in navy livery stepped into her path. “I’ll give you three pounds for that book, miss.”
Caro stumbled to a halt, clearly taken aback. “But I only paid half a guinea for it.”
“I’ll make it five, then.” The man stole a desperate look at the long line of carriages parked just behind them.
The elegant carriages and public hacks were lined up all the way to Gracechurch Street. Swaddled in furs and muffs, their occupants were willing to shiver in the cold for hours, all in the hope of obtaining the third volume of London’s latest literary sensation, Lord Death’s Bride.
“Please, miss, take pity on me,” the man begged. “You heard what happened to Lady Dryden’s footman, didn’t you?”
The girls exchanged a wide-eyed look. All of London had heard what had happened to Lady Dryden’s footman. He had dared to return to the countess’s carriage empty-handed only to sheepishly confess that he’d let the last available copy of Volume Two of Lord Death’s Bride slip through his fingers and into Lady Featherwick’s grasping paws. Some said the countess’s outraged shriek was heard all the way to Aldgate. She had beat the poor fellow about the head with her parasol, then stuck her nose in the air and commanded her coachman to drive on without him. The footman had chased the carriage for ten blocks, begging for her forgiveness, before finally succumbing to exhaustion and falling face-first into a pile of fresh horse manure. Rumor had it that he was now seeking employment on the docks.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I can’t help you.” Clutching the book to her heart, Caro veered around him and backed toward Elizabeth. “I’ve been waiting in line since dawn and I promised my mother I’d bring the book straight home. She’s going to read it to the entire family after supper tonight. They’ve all been dying to know what happens after the noble duke realizes his new bride has betrayed his trust.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe what a ninny she’s turned out to be.” The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, a dreamy expression softening her features. “Why, I would have realized from the beginning that such a kind, generous, and incredibly handsome man would never hurt any woman, especially his wife.”
The footman began to stalk Caro, his countenance taking on a more menacing aspect. He stretched out one white-gloved hand. “Come on, gel. It won’t kill you to hand it over. Five pounds must be a fortune to a common chit like you.”
“Run, Caro, run!” Elizabeth shrieked, grabbing her friend’s hand and tugging her out of his reach.
As the two girls sped away, their cloaks flapping behind them, the footman tore off his top hat and shouted, “Seven pounds! I’ll give you seven pounds!”
At bookshops and lending libraries all over London, the same drama was being replayed. The author had insisted that an abridged version be published in weekly installments in the periodicals for those who couldn’t afford bound books. The second a new edition appeared, the milling crowds would rush the street vendors, snatching and grabbing until the flimsy pamphlets came apart in their grimy hands. Down on the docks where the penny broadsides were sold, even those who couldn’t read wept over crude sketches of a noblewoman on her knees begging for her husband’s forgiveness as he turned his sad face away from her and pointed toward the door.
The novel’s thinly disguised characters provided endless hours of speculation and delight among the ton. They could hardly believe that one of their own would lower themselves to pen such a thrilling and touching tale. It was the greatest literary scandal London had known since a married Percy Bysshe Shelley had eloped to France with sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin over a decade before.
When it was announced that the duke of Devonbrooke and Minerva Press would be jointly hosting a ball in the author’s honor at Devonbrooke House, they set out to beg, borrow, or steal an invitation. The families who had retired to their country estates for the winter ordered their footman to hitch up their teams and headed back to the city. None of them were willing to miss the social coup of the year or the chance to ogle the notorious bride of Lord Death himself.
As Lottie approached the marble steps that spilled down from the gallery into the vast ballroom of Devonbrooke House, she felt more nervous than notorious. A crush of guests milled around the ballroom below, eagerly awaiting her arrival. A string quartet was seated in the corner, their bows poised over their instruments as they awaited the signal to strike up the first waltz. Sterling and Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, looking even more uneasy than she felt, while George ducked through the crowd with his head down, trying to elude a persistent Harriet.
Lottie had dreamed of such a moment her entire life, yet now that it had arrived, she felt curiously empty inside.
She touched a hand to her upswept curls, wondering if any of their guests would recognize the girl who had once been known as the Hertfordshire Hellion. With Laura and Diana’s help, she’d chosen a gown of emerald green velvet that rode slightly off of her creamy shoulders. A matching choker encircled her slender throat. Shimmering gold banding edged the puffed sleeves and square-cut bodice of the gown. The waist was cut low, hugging the natural curves of her body. The strand of pearls woven through her hair added a touch of elegance to the demure ensemble, as did the whisper of lace peeping through a side slit in the skirt.
Addison was standing at rigid attention at the top of the stairs. The butler gave her a nearly imperceptible wink before clearing his throat and loudly intoning, “The Most Honorable Carlotta Oakleigh, the marchioness of Oakleigh.”
An animated murmur swept through the ballroom as all eyes turned to the stairs. Her fingertips grazing the iron balustrade, Lottie slowly descended, a gracious smile fixed on her lips.
Sterling was waiting for her at the foot of the steps. Lottie felt a wistful pang in her heart as she imagined Hayden standing there instead, his green eyes shining with pride.
Her brother-in-law offered her his arm. As she took it, Laura signaled the musicians. They launched into a rousing Viennese waltz and Lottie and Sterling began to glide around the floor.
“No word from Townsend yet?” Sterling asked as several other couples joined the dance, swirling around them in a riot of colors and chatter.
“Not even a whisper. I’m beginning to think Hayden must have tossed him off the cliff along with my book.”
Sterling scowled. “Better him than you.”
When the first waltz ended, he handed her off to a beaming Mr. Beale. The kindly publisher was only too eager to be seen squiring about Minerva Press’s brightest new literary light. The dazzling success of her novel had enriched both his coffers and his reputation. Lottie clutched one of his ink-stained hands, learning quickly that he was a much better publisher than he was a dancer.
“I believe we can pronounce the night a triumph, my lady,” he said, peering over the top of his spectacles at the whirl of excitement, “just as we can the seventh printing of Volume Three of your book.”
He was blissfully oblivious to the sly glances Lottie was receiving from behind their guests’ fans and quizzing glasses. It wasn’t admiration she saw in their eyes, but rabid cur
iosity and thinly veiled pity. Smiling at Mr. Beale, she held her head high. If Hayden could endure society’s censure for over four years, surely she could survive it for one night.
Occupied with keeping her delicate slippers out from under the publisher’s rather cumbersome feet, she didn’t realize a marked hush had fallen over the crowd until the music ground to an off-key halt.
Addison’s voice rang out in the sudden silence, lacking its usual clipped cadence. “The Most Honorable Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh.”
As a stunned gasp traveled through the crowd, Lottie whirled around to find her husband standing at the top of the stairs.
Chapter 22
It seemed the Devil had come to claim his bride…
ALTHOUGH EVERY GAZE IN THE ENORMOUS ballroom was fixed on the man at the top of the stairs, he had eyes only for Lottie. The burning look he gave her made several of the women standing nearby fumble in their reticules for their smelling salts.
As he started down the steps, a wave of excited chatter swept the room.
“Is that him? Could it be?”
“Look at those eyes! He’s even more handsome than she described.”
“Oh my! He looks rather savage and unpredictable, doesn’t he? I’ve always admired that in a man.”
For some of the younger guests, it was their first glimpse of the notorious recluse once known as the Murderous Marquess. Others still remembered him as the prized catch who had broken the hearts of their eager young daughters by marrying a penniless French girl. But to all of them he was now the hero of Lady Oakleigh’s infamous novel—a man wrongly maligned not only by them, but also by the very woman who stood watching his approach, as pale and silent as a statue. More than a few of them hoped he had come to give her the set-down she so richly deserved.
One Night of Scandal (Avon Historical Romance) Page 25
