by Cheryl Holt
His life stretched before him, an empty void, and he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever be happy again. He suffered all alone, lamenting, mourning, so it was a great irritation when a ruckus erupted in the hall and footsteps marched in his direction.
“You can’t go in there!” a servant pronounced.
“The hell I can’t,” a very angry, very determined male replied.
Bernard frowned as the interloper tried the knob.
“Sir!” the indignant servant huffed.
Before Bernard knew what to think, the furious fellow began kicking down the door. Gad! Was it the law? Had they come to question him about Georgie and Britannia? What should he say? What should he do?
“Sir! Sir!”
The servant was shouting, but to no effect, as wood splintered and the man stormed in.
From the commotion, Bernard had been expecting a horde, so when he saw that it was only Ian Clayton he blinked and blinked, his mind struggling to make sense of the sight.
“Mr. Clayton?” he muttered as he rose.
There were two footmen on his heels, and they’d each clasped an arm, but Clayton was so irate that he shook them off as if they were a breeze of wind. They lunged to grab him again, but Bernard gestured for them to desist.
“We tried to stop him, milord,” one of them said.
“It’s all right,” Bernard answered. “Mr. Clayton is an acquaintance. I’ll meet with him. You’re excused.”
They departed, Clayton sullenly staring as their strides faded, and Bernard was irked by his presence. Bernard had no desire to talk to Clayton, but it was obvious that Clayton was in a state over some perceived slight. If he wasn’t allowed to vent his wrath, he’d likely tear down the entire house.
“What is it, Mr. Clayton? And might I suggest you be brief?”
Looking noble and splendid, like some ancient Celtic warrior, bent on mayhem, Clayton approached. They faced each other across the desk, and Bernard didn’t invite him to sit, nor did Clayton anticipate any courtesy.
Clayton braced his feet and announced, “I want to marry Lady Caroline.”
“You want to what?”
“I want to marry Lady Caroline—as rapidly as the details can be finalized. I ask for your permission and your blessing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never agree. Your appointment is concluded. Shall I have the butler show you out, or can you find your own way?”
“For the prior month, she and I have been having an affair.”
“You have not, and I would caution you to be wary of your wagging tongue. I won’t have my family slurred.”
“Even as we speak, she could be increasing with my child.”
Bernard studied him. He seemed very sincere, and though Bernard had heard many stories about his character, he’d never heard that Clayton had a penchant for fabrication or deceit. He was generally an honorable person, which—considering his blood relatives—was saying a lot.
Why would he lie about something so vital? What purpose would be served by telling tales and ruining Caroline’s wedding? Clayton wasn’t cruel in the manner his father or brother could be, so what was he hoping to accomplish?
A pathetic notion dawned. There’d been gossip that—having fought with Wakefield—Clayton was in dire financial straits. Caroline’s husband would receive a substantial dowry.
Would he spread rumors just to get his hands on her fortune? Was he that desperate?
Money—or the lack of it—made people behave in strange ways, and if poverty was driving him, he’d be capable of any treachery. He was half-Scot and half-Clayton, so there wasn’t a man in the kingdom who had a more contemptible lineage.
Bernard would put nothing past him.
“What are you really after, Mr. Clayton?”
“I told you: I wish to marry your daughter.”
“Why?”
“Because I … I … love her.”
Bernard was extremely surprised. He’d never expected such a strident declaration, especially one that had been so difficult for Clayton to utter. It seemed to have been wrenched from his very soul.
“You love her?”
“Yes.”
There was no prevarication, no hesitation. Could it be? Had Caroline commenced an affair with him? How could she repeatedly sneak out undetected?
If Clayton’s account was true, if the pair had instigated a catastrophe, heads would roll! Starting with theirs, then moving on to whoever should have halted the foolish flirtation but hadn’t.
“Does she love you back, Mr. Clayton?”
“I couldn’t say, Lord Derby.”
“You couldn’t? And why is that? Were there no promises made?”
“She is a woman. I couldn’t begin to guess her opinion.”
“If I accused you of sniffing after her dowry, I suppose you’d be offended.”
“I suppose you’d be correct, and if you ever again voice such a dastardly insinuation about my integrity, I’ll come around the desk and beat you to a pulp.”
Bernard eased down in his chair, frowning at the younger man. He perceived genuine emotion, and he was humored that Clayton felt so strongly about Caroline. If Bernard had possessed any fondness for her, he might have been proud that someone could love her as much as Clayton seemed to.
Bernard couldn’t remember ever being so passionate about anything. His life was all gray, smooth edges and always had been. There’d been no great swings from joy to despair, until Georgie, and even his grief was blunted. He simply didn’t know how to feel powerful sentiment.
Clayton loved her, did he? So what?
“No,” he murmured.
“No, what?” Clayton inquired.
“You may not have her. I’m amazed that you had the gall to ask. Please go home and don’t return.”
A weariness crept over him, and he wanted to drag himself upstairs, to crawl into bed and stay there forever.
“Summon her,” Clayton annoyingly commanded. “I would speak to her at once.”
“Get out!” Bernard motioned toward the door. “Go on your own, or I shall call for the footmen and have them cart you off like so much rubbish.”
Looking lethal, Clayton leaned forward, braced on his palms. “Do you think they could?”
They engaged in a visual standoff that Bernard was in no condition to wage. He just wanted to be left alone, but Clayton was in an awful temper, and Bernard couldn’t imagine the brawl that might ensue if he didn’t relent. People might be injured or even maimed, which was demanding too much of any employee.
“What are you assuming she’ll say, Mr. Clayton?”
Clayton dropped into a chair without its being offered, and the tense moment passed. “We were set to elope—”
“Elope!”
“She wrote to me that she was coming, but she never arrived.”
“Show me the letter.”
“I didn’t bring it with me.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Bernard smirked. “So what would you have me do?”
“I have to know if she was merely toying with me, or if your wife intimidated her into changing her mind. If Caroline didn’t mean any of it, then I’ll leave your family in peace, but I have to hear it directly from her. I have to know that she’s all right.”
“I must advise you, Mr. Clayton, that Caroline and I recently discussed her marriage. She’s not too keen on Mr. Shelton, but her reasons had nothing to do with you. Your name never came up in the conversation.”
“I want to hear it from Caroline,” he stonily repeated.
Another staring match developed, as Bernard tried to figure out the best path. With Caroline’s wedding only days away, Clayton was a loose cannon who could wreak havoc. Shouldn’t Bernard agree to a confrontation? Clayton had to be placated, then silenced, or he’d careen through London, spewing stories that couldn’t be retracted.
Bernard knew Caroline. She would never shame herself by admitting to such a filthy liaison. It was wisest to let the pair meet, and Carolin
e would put an end to Clayton’s drivel. Bernard wouldn’t have to do anything.
He rang for the butler and instructed the man to locate Caroline and escort her to the library.
“If she contradicts you, Mr. Clayton, and tells me there was no affair, you will be good at your word and go away.”
“I will be good at my word, sir.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“We’ll see,” Clayton said.
They watched the door, waiting for Caroline to step through and join them.
* * *
Caroline walked down the stairs, feeling like a felon at the gallows.
As she approached the room, her mother emerged from the shadows. Caroline pulled up short and they glared, a thousand hateful messages flowing between them. They were fighting a private war, and her father—without knowing any of the facts—had sided with Britannia.
Caroline hadn’t even had the chance to apprise him of Britannia’s claims that she’d killed his mistress—a pesky detail that would definitely interest him—and Caroline wouldn’t enlighten him now. He was no ally, and due to his odious conduct, he’d never receive the crucial information. He could go hang!
She was on her own, would have to chart her own course, and her primary goal was to ensure that Britannia hurt no one else.
“Remember what I told you,” Britannia said.
“And what is that?”
“If you don’t marry Edward, I will murder Mr. Clayton.” She raised a brow, her confidence alarming and sickening. “It might not happen today, and it might not happen tomorrow. But it will happen and soon. I guarantee it.”
Caroline ignored her and swept into the Earl’s library. She’d only been allowed in it on a handful of occasions, so she should have felt honored. Instead, she was disgusted by the pomposity and fake grandeur it symbolized.
He was seated at his desk in the rear, and there was another man with him, when she couldn’t fathom why he’d want anyone to overhear their conversation.
Head high, shoulders squared for combat, she marched toward him.
“Thank you for coming, Caroline.”
“Father.” She nodded.
“I believe you know Mr. Clayton?”
He gestured to his visitor, forcing her to look at him.
Ian was the last person on earth she’d been expecting, and his presence was so odd and so unanticipated that she was confused about what it indicated.
He was so beautiful, so angry and alone, and she’d just turned to throw herself into his arms, to beg him to save her, when he rose and furiously said, “Your eye has been blackened. Were you beaten?”
“I … I … ran into a pole.”
She had no idea why she lied. The thrashing administered by the Countess had been too humiliating, and she couldn’t admit to it. For some reason, she felt as if she was at fault for it having transpired.
“A pole?” he asked, incredulous.
“It was a stupid accident.”
“It certainly must have been.”
It was the moment when he might have reached for her to bridge the distance between them, but her coolly delivered falsehood restrained him. They seemed to be strangers, and the opportunity to stand united in front of her father evaporated in an instant.
The Earl interrupted her reverie.
“Mr. Clayton has made some wild accusations.”
“About what?”
“He claims that the two of you have been having an affair. Is it true?”
She was mortified to have her father mention such private business, and she had no background that would enable her to confer over salacious details. She scarcely knew her father, and as the past few weeks had revealed, he cared nothing for her or her welfare. She was merely a burden he was tired of assuming. How could he suppose she’d blithely confess to licentious misdeeds?
Footsteps sounded behind her, and she glanced around, dismayed to see Britannia lurking. Her eyes glowed, the insanity wafting out, smothering Caroline with her evil intentions.
Caroline’s heart began to race, her palms to sweat.
She thought about Ian, about how much she loved him, about how she couldn’t cause him harm. If she disavowed him to her parents, he’d never forgive her, yet if she spoke up, she’d deliberately place him in peril. What was best?
“I have sneaked off with him a few times,” she cautiously disclosed.
“So it was naught but a lark?”
She shrugged, which could have signified any number of responses. It mollified her mother, confounded her father, and exasperated Ian.
“He says it was more involved than that,” the Earl charged. “In fact, he says that the two of you were planning to elope. Were you?”
“He had suggested it,” she acknowledged. She felt as if she was negotiating a battlefield. One wrong move and she’d be blown to bits.
“He insists that you agreed to go, then didn’t arrive.” The Earl scoffed as if the story was ridiculous. “I’ve advised him that you didn’t follow through because you weren’t serious and that you’re proceeding with your wedding to Mr. Shelton.”
Ian butted in. “Tell me the truth, Caro. What has your mother done to you?”
“Stay out of this, Mr. Clayton,” the Earl snapped; then he addressed Caroline again. “Mr. Clayton is laboring under the mistaken impression that you were coerced into changing your mind, when we all know that you would never shame me by running off and doing something so horrid. Isn’t that right?”
He was so smugly confident of what her reply would be. He’d always terrorized her, had always cowed her, and he presumed that he could on this occasion, too. She peered at him, at her mother. When they hated her, and Ian loved her, was there really any doubt as to what her answer should be?
She had to pick a side, and Ian was the easy choice.
She opened her mouth to talk, when Britannia stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamp on the desk.
“I’ve counseled her on this topic,” Britannia said. “She understands that her actions have consequences, and she will behave accordingly.”
Ian hadn’t realized Britannia was present, and he whipped around and snarled, “Shut up, you old bat. No one asked your opinion.”
The Earl leapt to his feet. “That’s enough, Mr. Clayton. I’ve been more than courteous. Good-bye.”
“She bribed me,” Ian alleged. “She barged into my home and offered me a huge sum of money to disappear.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie!” the Countess sneered. “As if I’d lower myself!”
The encounter disintegrated, with Ian hurling more accusations, Caroline’s mother denying them, and the Earl bellowing for footmen to attend him. Several burly ones dashed into the room. They rushed for Ian, grabbed him, and started wrestling him out.
“Come with me, Caro,” he roared over the din. “I know you want to! Don’t stay here with them!”
Her mother leaned in and whispered, “If you go, I’ll kill him. You’ll be responsible for his death. Is that the conclusion you desire?”
Ian was shouting, her father was shouting, while her mother was murmuring a litany of the painful effects of poison. Caroline was dizzy, caught in a whirlwind. Ian’s affection pulled her to him, but her parents’ malice doused any display of bravado. She was paralyzed with indecision, yearning to flee with him, but desperate to protect him, too.
Ian was in the threshold of the library, struggling with the servants. He was so far away, as if at the other end of a long tunnel, and he was indistinct, his shape blurring, the edges fuzzy.
For a brief second, Time seemed to stop, and there was just the two of them.
“Caro!” he begged. “Come! Please! Don’t do this for them. You don’t have to!”
Britannia clasped her arm and brutally pinched it, her fingers digging deeply enough to bruise.
“I’ll murder him,” she hissed. “I mean it.”
Caroline blinked, and Ian was gone.
“Ia
n!” she cried, but he couldn’t have heard her over the commotion.
Britannia pushed her into a chair, then braced her hands on either side, blocking her in.
“Ian!” she attempted again, but Britannia clamped her palm over Caroline’s mouth, stifling any further outburst.
She and her parents were frozen in place, waiting as the noise in the foyer abated, as Ian was tossed bodily into the street. Silence descended, and Britannia glared over at the Earl.
“She’s completely out of control,” Britannia said. “What should I do with her?”
“Whip her, then lock her in her bedchamber,” he ordered.
“I already tried that. Obviously, it didn’t work.”
“Whip her harder,” the Earl urged. “If you have to, use a thicker belt. Now take her away and leave me be.”
Britannia jerked Caroline to her feet and led her out.
Caroline stumbled along, like a puppet on a string, terrified over what would happen next.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
“How dare you butt your nose into my private affairs.”
“I didn’t,” Rebecca insisted.
“Liar,” Ian hissed.
He was across the room, sitting in the dark, the light of a single candle illuminating him. He’d been drinking, and he was very, very angry. She kept her distance, nervous about approaching him when he was in such a state.
“Truly, Ian,” she persisted, “you seem upset, and I’m confused as to why. What’s wrong?”
“Jack tattled, Rebecca.”
Jack again! The bastard! What was his problem? Why was he so determined to ride a moral high horse?
“What has he said?”
He narrowed his gaze, focusing in, peering to the center of her wicked soul, but she didn’t flinch from his scrutiny. She wouldn’t cower to any man.
On seeing that he couldn’t rattle her, he shook his head with derision. “My God, but you’re a nasty piece of work.”
“You call it nasty; I call it pragmatic.”
She was weary of his superior attitude. By going to the Countess as she had, she’d acted out of self-preservation, and she wouldn’t be sorry for thinking of her own needs first. She had no regrets.
Well, maybe a few, but they weren’t worth noting.
“Have you any idea,” he snarled, “what her parents are like? Can you begin to imagine what they’ll do to her?”
