by james
The two men froze.
Pistol still at the ready, Vincent pulled Bridgett close. She trembled in his arms, and he cursed.
“Vincent, what . . .?” Marie flew into the room,
Thomas hot on her heels.
She skidded to stop. “Oh, my God.”
Vincent ignored her, and handed Thomas the gun. “Lock them in the cellars, and send someone for the constable. At Thomas’ grim-faced nod, Vincent turned his attention back to Bridgett, lifting her in his arms.
“Tell the constable I’ll be by first thing tomorrow morning,” he said, striding to the door, “but Bridgett is not to be disturbed.”
* * * * *
Vincent tossed another shirt into his bag, then
secured its buckled strap. Tossing it over his shoulder,
he strode into the hallway. He paused at his sister’s door and tapped lightly before he entered.
Marie sat near her bed. She looked up, raising a
finger to her lips. Vincent nodded and motioned for her to join him in the hall.
“She’s sleeping?” he asked, as Marie pulled the door
closed behind her.
“Yes, finally, poor lamb.” She looked up, smiling
sadly. She shook her head. “How did they ever find her?”
“They bribed the maid. Carrington found her sneaking out the servants’ entry, carrying a bag.”
“Susan? But why would she do such a thing?”
Vincent grimaced. “They lied to her, said they were old friends. Of course, the money they gave her helped ease any pangs of disloyalty.”
“I’ll see she’s dismissed immediately.” Marie started to move away, but then her gaze fell on his bag and she frowned.
“You’re leaving.” A statement, not a question. She
didn’t even sound surprised.
Vincent nodded. “You’ll take care of her?”
“Of course I’ll take care of her,” Marie scathingly
said, “but why are you leaving?”
Vincent couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked beyond her
shoulder.
“He raped her.” He nearly choked on the words. “He
used her, and it’s my fault.”
Marie gripped his arm, giving it a good shake. “It’s
not your fault! How could you have known?”
“I knew they were up to something,” he said, gritting
his teeth against his rising anger. “I should have thrown them out the minute I knew they were here!”
“If you feel this why, then why are you leaving? Stay here. Apologize for whatever it is you think you did wrong, and help her heal.” Marie’s voice rose in a
furious whisper.
Vincent shook his head. “You were right.”
“Of course,” Marie quipped, then smiled. “What was I
right about?”
“I brought her here. It fell to me to protect her.”
“From Worth? Or from yourself?”
Vincent sighed, searching his sister’s face, then
nodded. “You understand why I must leave.”
She shook her head. “No, I only understand what
drives you. And I know you’ll go, no matter what I say.
But at least stay until she wakes up. Say good-bye.
She’ll be devastated if you go without telling her.”
Vincent shook his head, sensing her motives. “It
won’t make any difference, Marie. I’m still going to
leave.”
Marie turned away with an angry shake of her head.
Hand on the doorknob, she threw a scathing glance over her shoulder. “Then go. Run away. We’ll survive without you. We always do.”
She strode down the hall. Vincent stared at her stiff back until she disappeared down the stairs then, mind made up, walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
Vincent started up the tavern steps, stomping the snow from his boots onto the risers. He pushed open the door and a blast of warm air hit him in the face. Several heads turned in his direction, but he ignored them and headed straight for the bar.
“What’ll you have?” The barkeep asked.
Vincent settled on a low stool and nodded toward the row of bottles on a shelf against the wall. “Give me a whiskey.”
While the barkeep turned to pour his drink, Vincent glanced at the man sitting next to him, his head bent over a mug. The man, obviously a gentleman judging by the cut of his coat, chose that moment to look up.
“What’s a fine dandy like yourself doing in a place like this?”
Vincent shrugged. He’d asked himself that same question a half-dozen times since he’d turned into the tavern’s wide front drive. He took a long swig of whiskey, shuddering as it burned down his throat.
“I know a few people hereabouts,” he said, keeping his answer deliberately vague.
The man perked up. “Oh? Who?”
Vincent cringed, recognizing his mistake. “I misspoke,” he said, “I should have said I knew someone from here. Man named Morton.”
“Well, isn’t that somethin’? I’d say that’s quite a coincidence. Just so happens that’s who I came to see.” The man extended his hand. “Name’s Pickering. Lawrence Pickering, Esquire, at your service.”
Vincent took Pickering’s hand, keeping a straight face to hide his surprise. What business did Bridgett’s father have with a solicitor? “Vincent Renault.”
“He just left.”
Vincent frowned. “Who just left?”
“Morton. Didn’t you say that’s who you’d come to see?” Pickering’s tone echoed Vincent’s confusion.
“Oh, yes. I mean, no. I didn’t come to see him. I was just passing through,” Vincent told him. “But you say he just left?”
“Yep. Went to fetch his daughter.”
A slice of unease raced up Vincent’s spine. “His daughter?”
Pickering’s gaze turned wary. “Thought you said you knew him.”
“I meant, which daughter?” Vincent said, hurrying to put the man at ease. He hid his growing anxiety behind a friendly smile, and took a fortifying sip of whiskey before adding, “I know he has more than one.”
Pickering seemed to relax. “Ah, that he does. Perhaps I should have said stepdaughter. Bridgett’s the youngest.”
Vincent gripped his glass in his fist, struggling to remain calm. Bridgett’s father had gone to get her. When? For what purpose. The man beside him held the answers. Vincent plastered a friendly smile on his face and signaled the barkeep. “Another round,” he said, “and bring one for my friend, here.”
Pickering grinned, raising his mug and draining it in one long gulp. Tiny rivulets of ale dribbled down the corners of his mouth and he wiped them away with his sleeve. “Mighty kind of you, stranger. Mighty kind.”
Vincent waited until their drinks were replenished, then raised his shot glass in a salute. “To new friends,” he toasted.
As he’d hoped, Pickering drained more than half his glass. Counting on the ale to loose his companion’s tongue, Vincent nodded his encouragement. “Nothing like a fine ale on a cold winter’s day.”
“Aye, that’s for certain,” Pickering said, and took another swig.
Vincent noted the way his speech had turned a bit sluggish, and the slight slur of his words.
“So, why did old Harry go for Bridgett?” he asked. “Last I heard, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.”
“Is that so?” Pickering’s brows raised and his mouth turned down at the corners. “Didn’t know nothing about that. Morton said she’d left a while back. He seemed real concerned for her safety.”
Vincent nearly choked on his whiskey. Coughing lightly, he shrugged, hoping for an air of nonchalance. “I see. Well, what made him decide it’s time to bring her home?”
Pickering smiled. “Now, you know I can’t tell you that. That’s privileged information.”
Vincent pushed back his anger and gritted
his teeth against the growing sense of urgency. Switching tactics, he asked, “How long ago did he leave? I’d like to see him before I move on.”
“Should be any day now. He told me he’d be back in a week, maybe less, and it’s nigh on that now.”
“You’ve been waiting on him all that time?”
“Actually, I only just arrived. He’d been looking for her for the last several months. Sent me a post last week saying he’d finally found her, and would be bringing her home. I’d have stayed in London until he got back, but I’m anxious to get this settled.”
Vincent nodded his understanding, though he had no idea what the man was talking about. “I imagine you are, since it’s been dragging on for months.”
“These things are always delicate, even under the best of circumstances. I don’t feel right about it. Should have had the will read by now,” Pickering said, then ducked his head, his face reddening.
Vincent smiled his most reassuring smile and signaled for another round. “A will? How intriguing. Who died?”
“Well, guess it can’t hurt to tell you that much. After all, deaths are a matter of public records. ‘T were the girl’ maternal grandparents that passed, nearly five months ago.”
“Her grandparents. Were they from around here?” Vincent asked.
“No, from London, actually. Old Alex Roth was a cloth merchant. Dealt in silks and satins, mostly. The way I understand it, Ashlyn Roth, Bridgett’s mother, got herself mixed up with some peer of the realm.” Pickering lowered his voice and leaned close, and Vincent struggled to hear him over the crowd. “Got herself in trouble, if you know what I mean. The family disowned her and when her lover wouldn’t have anything to do with her, she ended up here, married to Harold Morton. I guess her father had a change of heart before he died, though. Must’ve been pretty successful, judging by what he left his granddaughter.”
Vincent sipped his whiskey, his mind racing. Bridgett’s maternal grandparents were merchants. Why hadn’t she ever mentioned them? That thought was followed swiftly by another. His Bridgett was an heiress. And that would explain her stepfather’s hasty journey to bring her home. If he had control of Bridgett, he’d have control of her money.
Morton had been gone almost a week. If he knew where to look for her now, chances were he’d already reached her. Fear for Brigett’s safety brought him to his feet. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Pickering, but I must be going.”
Vincent ignored the man’s surprised stare and threw a handful of notes on the bar. “Have a few more on me,” he said, hoping to ease the sting of his abrupt retreat.
He turned away before Pickering could speak, and headed toward the door. It was time to go home.
* * * * *
Bridgett stood at the window, blinking at the sunshine sparkling off the new-fallen snow. With one hand resting lightly on her slightly hardened abdomen, she studied the horizon. Where are you, she wondered, and closed her eyes as a wave of loneliness washed through her. Was he safe? Did he think of her as much as she thought of him, every day these past three months?
“Bridgett, Christopher and I are just about to go into supper. Why don’t you join us?”
Bridgett turned, forcing a smile. “I’ll be along in a moment, dear.”
Marie stepped fully into the room, her brow creased in a frown. “It’s not good for you or the baby to stand by that window for so long every day. What would happen if you caught a chill?”
Bridgett stifled a sigh. Ever since she’d discovered her condition and shared her secret with Marie, her friend had turned into a mother hen. While Bridgett appreciated her concern, sometimes – like now – she wished she’d kept her pregnancy a secret a little while longer. With a heavy heart, she let the draperies fall back into place. Marie extended her hand, and Bridgett grudgingly took it.
“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep this up,” Marie chided. “He’ll be back, darling. I know he will.”
Bridgett sighed. “What makes you so sure? Even you said he’d never been gone this long before.”
Marie patted her hand. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I didn’t mean for you to worry. You mustn’t let yourself get upset like this.”
Bridgett forced a smile. “I’m fine, Marie, really,” she said, pulling her friend toward the door. “Now I’m starving. Didn’t you say something about supper?”
* * * * *
Bridgett retreated from the dining room as early as she could without drawing undue attention. She loved Marie desperately, but watching her with Christopher – their playful interaction and the smoldering looks that passed between them – only heightened Bridgett’s sense of loneliness. Christopher had been nearly a constant presence these past two months, appearing on the doorstep each morning and spending his days entertaining both Bridgett and Marie. Lord knew, with the coming of winter, they needed the distraction. Marie and Christopher were ever careful to include her in their daily activities, but Bridgett, at times, craved solitude. Times like now, when the flutter of a newly formed life quivered below her heart, reminding her of her untenable position. Unmarried, pregnant, uncertain of her future.
Unable to bear the thought of going to her room to spend another endless night alone, Bridgett headed toward the kitchen. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would soothe her tattered nerves. Her path took her past the door to the locked wing and, on impulse she stopped. Twisting the handle, she gave a small gasp when it turned. Why wasn’t it locked? Cautiously, she pushed open the door. Throwing a look over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t being observed, she slipped inside.
A low light burned on a table near the bed. Bridgett frowned. How odd. Had someone been in here? The metal tub still sat in its place before the fire, and a tray of half-eaten food still sat on the table. Wrinkling her nose, Bridgett took a wide path around the bits of moldy bread and cheese until she stood in the center of the room.
Turning slowly, she studied the décor with new eyes, trying to imagine the tortures the Count must have endured here. The day Vincent had left, Marie had finally shared the story of she and Vincent’s past. Of the abuse she and her brother had been subject to here in this room, under the careful schooling of their depraved father. Bridgett could barely comprehend the horrors they’d been subjected to, and her heart ached for the childhood that had been snatched away from them in such a ghastly, evil manner.
The memories so obviously pained Marie, Bridgett had tried to stop her from explaining, knowing that recalling the repeated molestation in such vivid detail must have been like repeating the torture.
But Marie had insisted, and in the end, Bridgett had been thankful for the telling of it, for the tale went a long way toward explaining the Count’s behavior.
Bridgett now viewed their relationship with new understanding. If only he’d return home, perhaps they could work through his fears together.
She wondered around the room, examining the different furnishings, trying to place her Count, as a boy, in this room. Low slung couches lined the walls, and large piles of pillows sat, dusty and long unused, in the corners.
Her gaze went to the tapestries covering the walls. Lamplight flickered, casting dancing shadows across their macabre, erotic scenes. Inexplicably drawn by one particular depiction, Bridgett stepped closer, tilting her head back and standing on her toes for a better look. Two young children, a boy and a girl, sprawled on a bed, their arms and legs wrapped around the body of a man. The children were naked, their expressions blank.
Bridgett shuddered and stepped back, repulsed by the images that rose in her mind.
A rustling sound came from behind her. Bridgett spun around, heart thumping wildly. “Who’s there?”
For a moment, she half-expected to see James Worth, stepping out from the shadows. An image of his leering grin rose in her mind like an evil specter. “He’s in prison,” she whispered, fiercely tamping down her rising terror.
The curtains billowed out, as if blown by a breeze. Bridgett wri
nkled her brow, hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. Those windows didn’t open. Lord knows she’d tried them all in the days she’d spent locked up, waiting for the Count to come to his senses.
Keeping her gaze pinned on the area where she’d seen movement, she backed toward the door.
The curtains moved again, this time sliding away as a man stepped from behind them.
“Where you think you’re goin’, girlie?”
Bridgett’s mouth dropped open. “Father?”
“Yessiree, it’s your papa, here in the flesh.”
“But, but what are you doing here?” Bridgett struggled to make sense of his presence. Not only here, at the castle, but in this room. “How did you get in?”
Her father took a few steps forward. “Now what kind of greeting is that for your dear old dad? Didn’t you miss me, girl?”
His question didn’t merit an answer, so she merely stared at him, waiting for him to state his intentions. Instinct told her to tread carefully, and she sidled back a few more steps, decreasing the distance between her and the door.
“Ye got more lives ‘n a cat, I tell ya,” he said, wagging a finger at her as if she were an errant child. “I should a known you’d manage to slither your way outta trouble. You always was a sneaky little brat.”
Bridgett struggled to make sense of his words. More lives than a cat? Her thoughts skated back to her encounter with Worth. What had he said? You should be dead by now.
Her father took another step, and Bridgett retreated until her back met the door. “What are you talking about? Why are you here.”
“What are you talking about?” He mocked her. “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about, girlie. I’m talking about twenty thousand pounds. And it’s mine. I took her in when they threw her out, married her, ‘n her carryin’ another man’s bastard. An’ what did it git me? Nothin’. Yer momma was an ungrateful bitch, always lookin’ down her nose at me. An’ she raised you up to be just alike.” He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “But I showed her, I did. Just like I’m gonna show you. Shoulda done it myself, ‘stead of sending that Worth feller.”
