"They say his father banished him on The Grand Tour," I replied. "That the old earl could not tolerate the scandal being caused by his heir."
"That is correct." Mrs. Beecher hesitated, before continuing, "But what most people don't know is that the master was not born the heir."
The startling announcement widened my eyes. "You mean to say he has an older brother?"
"Had. Once, whilst tidying the master's study, I came across a document beneath the settee. It had been crumpled into a ball, its ink splotched. As he was wont to do in those days, the earl had been drinking heavily the night before. 'Twas no leap to guess he'd flung it there in fit of drunken temper."
"What was written on the paper?" I asked.
"'Twas a depiction of his family tree. It showed the distinguished line of his ancestors rooting all the way back to William the Conqueror. From its newest branch budded the names of two brothers: Lucien and John. The latter's birthday showed him the elder by three years, so he would have inherited the earldom, had he not died. At the age of thirteen, according to the date."
As I digested that information, I noticed Mrs. Beecher gnawing on her bottom lip. Her knuckles were white from the tight grasp she had upon herself.
"What else?" I asked quietly.
She inhaled, the sound sharp and shaky. "There ... there was something else scrawled beneath John's name. In the master's hand. Words so forcefully inked that they tore through the paper. Forgive me, he'd written. Over and over, those two words."
The palpitations of my heart amplified, so that the throbbing possessed my breath, pulsated in my ears. "That ... that could mean anything," I managed to say.
"Yes, it could," Mrs. Beecher said, straightening her shoulders. "And I would not have given it further thought, had I not known of the other rumors. You've heard the ones concerning his parents?"
Numbly, I shook my head.
"Despite the master being sent abroad, news of his exploits continued to filter home. Then came news of his marriage. He'd married in Italy, you see, without his father's approval. Some say 'twas the shock of the news that caused the late earl to fall dead of apoplexy—and sent the countess to an early grave not long thereafter."
My hand went to my mouth. Good heavens. Hux.
In that instant, I glimpsed two of his ghosts fleeting by. His own parents. The guilt he must have felt—the unimaginable pain of that burden. Mrs. Beecher's next words deepened my shock.
"He did not return to England, not even for his own parents' funeral," she continued in voice not quite steady, "or so they say. Supposedly he remained in Italy with his new bride."
Such an absence of filial sentiment struck a jarring note. From everything I knew of Hux, I had come to see him as a passionate man. A complex one, to be sure, one who hid his emotions beneath cutting cynicism and uncanny humor. But he was a man who felt—deeply, painfully. How could he not have mourned his own parents?
Unless something—or someone—had stopped him.
She won't let me go ... she corrupts everything I touch, I desire ... she laughs at me ...
Shivering, I asked, "Wh-who was she? His wife, I mean."
"I cannot say for certain." The circumference of Mrs. Beecher's mouth whitened. "But you have seen the painting in the library. If she is who one must suspect her to be, then Countess Huxton was obviously a great beauty."
Hux's dead wife was more than a beauty, I thought with a quiver. I saw the cutting edge of the ruby lips, the cunning slant of the sea-green gaze. A snare of softness, luring with white flesh and desire. Out of nowhere, a voice inserted itself into my head, clear feminine tones too familiar to be imagined: Watch me comb my hair, my love, and I shall watch you burn. Can you feel the lick of rose flame, the heat of silk upon your throat? Watch me, as I am watching you now ...
Mrs. Beecher's voice returned me with a start.
"Everything I've said to this point is speculation, and we could hold it false. But there is something else. Something I haven't told a soul. I will tell you now, Abigail, and God hope it protects you. You must give me your word, your most solemn promise, that this will never be repeated to another living being."
I swallowed, my head bobbing.
She took a deep breath. "Mayhap a year ago, I had cause to fetch something from the library. I had barely passed through the servants' door when he entered the room. His countenance, the clear agitation of his actions stymied my flight. Hidden as I was, I could not look away; I watched on, transfixed, as he stalked to the portrait and raised his fist before it."
Mrs. Beecher's chest moved in a halting cadence. I had the premonition that her next words would shake my very foundation. I sat, perched on the edge of dread and anticipation.
"He looked straight at that portrait and spoke to it as if it was a living, breathing being. The look of rage he visited upon her was one I have yet to see upon another mortal. And I shan't ever forget his next words. Oh, Abby,"—the housekeeper's sensible eyes flooded with terror—"I hear them in my dreams to this day."
"What did he say?" Words forced from the tightened ring of my throat.
"His voice came to me, clear as a bell, for he did not shout in heat as another would have. No, he looked at her, his dead wife, and uttered these words with the quiet lucidity of a promise. I'll keep killing, he said. Again and again, if I have to. I swear it upon my Godless soul."
SIXTEEN
All that week I thought of running. During the day time, Mrs. Beecher's revelations played ominously in my head as I worked through the correspondence, sketched plans for the library, and picked at the trays brought up by Ginny. At night, as I lay upon the pillows, the slumber that came was not tranquil—no, I was chased through those dark hours. Only this time the demons were not mine, but another's: I had the fleeting impression of coppery tresses and a blood-red smile. I awoke at dawn, heart racing, more exhausted than restored.
It did not help things that I saw hide nor hair of my employer. He stayed away and with each day that passed and I did not see him, my imagination and fear of him grew. Trapped in the luxurious bed, I strained to hear any sound that might come from him—the echo of an imperious baritone, the tap of his distinctive stride. But I heard nothing of him. When I subtly plied Ginny for information, she shrugged and said that the master had made himself scarce this week, taking several trips to the City. When he was at home, he ate his meals in the solitude of his study.
As Hux faded from my days, I began to doubt the tenderness I had glimpsed in him. The sense of connection between us. Instead, I recalled his brooding nature, his sinful eyes. I saw him in flagrante with Lady Priscilla—and by himself. I gave rein to all I had heard about him, all Mrs. Beecher had shared, and I envisioned him with the woman in the portrait. Making love to her, locked in anguished passion, her hair ropes of flame surrounding him, his hands wrapped around her swan-soft neck ...
With each passing day, the elegant walls seemed to close in. The bed became the center of my existence; there was nowhere else to go. Though the cuts on my feet had scabbed over, it still hurt to walk. My arm did experience some improvement, enough so that Ginny was able to help me into my remaining gown. But I had to keep the motions of that limb small, and there was no question of carrying or lifting. Not one born to idling, I found myself at loose ends, with naught to keep me company but the never ending, perfumed stream of letters from his lordship's inamoratas.
It felt like the week would never end. As a testament to my state of mind, I was actually looking forward to spending the weekend with Mrs. Simon. I told myself leaving Hope End would allow me to clear my head. Away from this place and its master, I could think with greater clarity about what I needed to do—and make plans for leaving, if it came to that.
When Friday morning arrived, it brought unexpected company.
"You have visitors, Abigail," Mrs. Beecher announced from the doorway with a smile.
"Abby!"
Mary Jane ran toward the bed, red curls bouncing beneath h
er straw bonnet. She was wearing her Sunday best, I saw, a flounced navy dress with a wide skirt. With her flushed cheeks and leaf-green eyes, she brought the freshness of the outdoors into the stuffy room. I smiled in surprised delight to see her. Behind her followed Jack with a wide-brimmed hat in one hand, a basket in the other, and an uncertain expression upon his tanned face.
I smiled at him, too.
"Mary Jane, make your proper how-de-dos," he said, clearing his throat. "We're in a fancy place."
His sister stuck her tongue out at him. "We're just in Abby's room, and she doesn't give a lick, does she?"
"It's not my room," I said quickly. "I'm only staying here until I'm well enough to move."
"I've ne'er seen anything like this bed!" Mary Jane exclaimed.
Without further ado, the girl climbed upon the mattress and lay next to me. She gave a blissful sigh. "This bed belonged to a princess, didn't it, Abby? The one you told me about in the story? Do you s'ppose there's a pea beneath the mattress?"
I couldn't help but smile. "Do you know, I haven't looked, Mary Jane."
Darting to the edge of the bed, she dangled her head over in search of the mysterious legume. Her actions rocked the mattress, and I winced at the sudden motion.
"Be careful, dolt-head," Jack said from the foot of the bed, "Abigail's hurt."
She sat up instantly, her tip-tilted eyes bright with concern. "Oh, I'm sorry, Abby! Did I hurt you?"
"My arm is better," I assured her, "though I won't be able to make much use of it for another fortnight or so. I'll need your help with Tommy this weekend, Mary Jane, if you can spare it. But you needn't have come all this way—one of the footmen was going to drop me off at the farm on his way to the village."
Mary Jane's gaze shifted to Jack. They shared an unhappy look.
I felt my shoulders tensing. "What is it?"
Jack cleared his throat. "We brought you a basket, Abigail. From our Ma. She sends her regards and ... well, there's a note. Best read it yourself."
Mary Jane moved aside so that Jack could place the handled wicker basket within my reach. I saw that it contained a small jar of preserves, a hunk of cheese, and some wrinkled-looking biscuits wrapped in cloth. Wedged between the cheese and preserves was a slip of paper. I unfolded it with fingers gone cold.
Dear Miss Jones,
Please accept the condolences of the Simon family on your Misfortune. Whilst we were not apprised of the details in their entirety, we regret to say certain Rumors have circulated amongst the Good Society of St. Alban. These Allegations have regarded the nature of your Indiscreet Conduct with the Earl. We cannot, in Good Faith, allow the Children to be tainted by the whisper of Wrongdoing and so must release you from our previous Arrangement (Effective Immediately).
Sincerely,
Mrs. Elijah Simon
"What does it say, Abigail?" I heard Mrs. Beecher ask.
"I'm not to go back to the Simons' this weekend," I said, as the inked loops swam before of my eyes. "Nor ever again."
"Why ever not?"
I could not answer the good housekeeper for the humiliation washing over me. She snatched the paper, her face reddening as she scanned it.
"Blessed Mary! Why, the nerve of that—" Casting a glance at Mary Jane's rounded eyes and Jack's morose expression, Mrs. Beecher caught herself. "I have a mind to speak to Elijah about this."
"No, please, Mrs. Beecher, do not involve yourself. 'Tis not Mrs. Simon's fault ... and you did warn me of it, after all. Of what might be said if I chose to remain here," I said, my throat constricting. "'Tis no one's fault but my own, and I am willing to accept the consequences."
"I meant the gossip of other people—not friends of mine," Mrs. Beecher snapped. "I have known Elijah and Stella for years, and I don't mind saying I came to their aid when the land steward refused to renew their lease. I spoke to his lordship on the Simons' behalf, I did—got them their land, too, and with better terms than before. And this is how I am repaid?"
"We Simons don't balk on our debts," Jack said gruffly. Beneath his tan, color deepened upon his broad cheekbones. "I reckon it's a misunderstanding, that's all. Abby, if you could just talk to Ma, explain the circumstances, whatever they are—"
"Why should she have to explain herself at all?" Mrs. Beecher demanded, her hands planting on her hips.
"An excellent question, Mrs. Beecher."
The quiet voice sliced through the room. My breath jammed in my throat at the sight of the earl. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his waistcoat of sapphire blue brocade matched the shade of his eyes, though not their intensity. With one shoulder propped against the doorframe, his posture was one of indolent ease. I was not fooled.
Mary Jane crept closer next to me on the bed. "Mum says you are tempted by the devil," she whispered. "Is that him, Abby?"
I winced. Though Hux was standing in the doorway, I was certain he overheard the girl's question. My suspicion was confirmed when a dark brow winged upward, giving him a demonic look indeed.
"Scared are you, young miss?" he asked with deliberate softness. "You are right to be so."
Mary Jane huddled closer to me; I could feel her trembling and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. Despite my own apprehension, I said, "There's no need to tease her, my lord."
"Who says I am teasing?" With a languid stride, he entered the room. He held a large striped box tucked against his side, which he tossed carelessly upon the mahogany dresser. "I'd say the girl has more sense than you, Miss Jones."
"My lord." Mrs. Beecher made a brief curtsy. "These are Elijah Simon's children: his daughter Mary Jane and eldest son Jack. They have come to visit Abigail. Make your how-de-do's to the earl now, you two."
Mary Jane scrambled obediently to her feet. She stayed at a distance, however, bobbing a surprisingly precise curtsy by the foot of the bed. Next to her, Jack performed a curt bow, his good-natured face creased in a frown. He eyed the earl warily; the look was returned with one of bored indifference. A tense silence filled the room.
I searched for words; in the days past, my mind had bubbled over with the things I had imagined saying to Hux when I next saw him. Questions such as: Why did you kiss me? What happened to your family? Or, more plainly: Are you capable of murder?
I shivered. None of those things were fit for public consumption. And now that he was here—his living, breathing, larger-than-life self—I doubted my ability to utter those questions, even had we been alone.
He walked by Mrs. Beecher, coming toward the bed. As he passed, Mary Jane sidled closer to her brother. Hux paused, turning back to look at her. He held his hand out suddenly; like a scrap of metal drawn to a magnet, the girl extended her hand in return. I could see the quivering of her small fingers in his powerful grasp.
"You've nothing to be afraid of, Miss Simon. Your friend Miss Jones will protect you." When Mary Jane sent a doubtful glance my way (and I couldn't say I blamed her), Hux said mildly, "Don't be fooled by her modest demeanor—Miss Jones would spit in the devil's eye if it pleased her."
Mary Jane gawked at him, turning beet red when he bent over her hand and kissed it. When he released her a moment later, her hand fluttered to her chest. In that unconsciously feminine gesture, I witnessed first-hand the potency of Lord Hellfire's charm. No member of the gentle sex could resist him—not young or old, nor in between. Even I, who had every reason to know better, felt myself trembling as he stalked toward the bed.
"I will protect my sister." Jack's voice emerged in a low, terse tone I had never heard from him before. It was almost a growl, the kind a dog gives when a stranger has wandered too close to his terrain. "I will protect her as I protect all who I care about, my lord."
Hux did not bother to look at Jack; his gaze remained upon my face. "Do you require protection, Miss Jones?" he inquired in silky tones.
"Of course not." My heart thrummed at the liquid flame in his eyes. Do not weaken. Do not let him see how he affects you. "I can take care of myself."
> My breath hitched as he stopped by the side of the bed. Before I could pull away, he reached out and tucked a wayward tress behind my ear. A tremor traveled over my skin as his fingers lingered, almost imperceptibly, against my ear lobe. The gesture spoke of stunning familiarity, and I could not deny its impact. My pulse took off in a sprint, my face flushing with heat. The looks from the others rained upon me sharp as arrows.
My thoughts swam. What was Hux about? Why was he here, wreaking such havoc upon my equilibrium? More to the point, how I could allow it, knowing what I did about him?
"I do not doubt your resilience in most matters, Miss Jones. Gossip, however, is a different kind of foe altogether. Trust me," he said, his eyes transforming from fire to ice in an instant, "I have encountered its power myself on more than one occasion."
"'Tis naught but village talk," Mrs. Beecher said quickly. "Nothing Abigail needs to concern herself over."
Hux's brows lifted. "Except for the fact that it has deprived her of a place to stay with the Simons."
"I'll speak with Ma," Jack said to me.
I gave him a weak smile. Much as I appreciated his being in my corner, we both knew that even Jack's best efforts would have little influence on his mother. A mountain was more like to budge than Mrs. Simon once her mind was made up.
Jack flushed, but he squared his wide shoulders. "Don't worry, Abby, I'll think of something. Another place, mayhap, for you to stay—"
"She does not require another place. She will stay here."
Hux's calm pronouncement had the impact of an explosion. There was a moment's silence, when all air seemed to be suctioned from the room. It came rushing back in a torrent of protests.
"I can't—" I began.
"'Twould not be proper," Mrs. Beecher said.
"Over my dead—" Jack muttered.
The earl cut us all off with a slice of his hand. "She lives here the rest of the week. Two additional days hardly makes any difference."
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 13
