by Cheryl Holt
Hidden from prying eyes, they were sequestered in what had been John’s library. Edward forced a pained expression, then he lurched forward and clasped her hands, crushing them to his chest.
“It’s the very worst time to speak up,” he said, “but I have to ask. Now that he’s gone, is there any chance for me?”
Violet smiled tremulously, and he knew he’d read her emotions correctly. He’d been secretly courting her for months. How could she not love him?
“Yes,” she insisted, “of course there’s a chance for you.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Should I . . . I write to my father and tell him about us?”
What harm could there be? Edward mused.
At his mother’s urging, he’d sent several letters himself, informing the king and prince regent of the tragedy, as well as the family’s bankers, lawyers, and land agents.
The news would quickly spread, and Edward was panicked that Violet’s father might have already been apprised. The duke would immediately begin plotting as to who Violet’s next fiancé should be. Edward had to move swiftly so the duke didn’t dump her on someone else. And really, what was there to worry about?
By proposing, he was implementing the perfect solution. After all, Violet had been slated to marry the Earl of Penworth, not John Middleton. What did it matter who the groom was so long as he was the earl?
Currently, Edward was only the acting earl, but with minimal effort, he would become the earl in fact. John was buried so deep in the ground, the collapse so complete, that his body would never be found.
A coroner’s inquest would be scheduled to determine John’s status. Angus and Cook would be excellent witnesses as to his whereabouts: flattened under tons of rubble. The servants would try to dig him out—fruitlessly—and they would testify as to the extent of the calamity, the impossibility of rescue.
With ease, John would be declared legally deceased, and all Edward’s dreams would come true.
“Yes, my sweet,” Edward gushed, “write to your heart’s content. Tell your father how devastated we are, but also tell him that great joy has risen from the ashes of despair. We’re in love and prepared to proceed to the logical conclusion—with his blessing, which he’ll be happy to bestow.”
“He’ll give us his blessing. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Why wouldn’t he, indeed?”
Out the window, he saw the twins in the garden, walking toward the castle. They’d been out at the west tower, where the entire staff was milling about, waiting for orders.
Gad! In the chaos of the moment, he’d forgotten all about them and their absurd request that he wed one of them. He was now their guardian, so his furtive sexual relationship was even more depraved, but he wouldn’t reflect on it.
With Violet’s capitulation so near, he’d have to put them off for a bit. Hopefully, before they demanded an answer, he’d be married to her. Then he’d find a way to be rid of them for good.
He’d heard that, after the incident with Miss Lambert, John had threatened to imprison them in a convent. It was definitely worth pondering, locking them behind thick walls. He had no doubt—once they learned how he’d tricked them, how he’d snatched up Violet the instant she was free—they’d be out for blood, and he wasn’t about to shed any for them.
“Listen, darling,” he said to Violet, “I just had a thought.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not certain you should notify your father about our betrothal. For the time being, we should probably keep the arrangement to ourselves.”
“Why?”
“Circumstances with regard to John are so recent. There might be some who would view our decision as a tad . . . precipitous.”
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“Appearances are important.”
“When will we marry then? John insisted we delay a whole year.”
“Where you were concerned, John was a buffoon.” Edward’s eyes burned with a lover’s fervor. “I’m anxious to make you mine right away.”
“Oh, Edward ...”
He leaned in and brushed a chaste kiss across her cheek, even as he wondered what sort of cold fish she’d be in bed.
She was a trembling, timid maiden, and after his escapades with the twins, she’d be a bore. Their wedding night would be amusing, as he stripped her naked and taught her conduct she’d deem disgusting, but he’d rapidly weary of her tears and begging.
He’d be eager for degeneracy but shackled to Violet, and the notion was depressing. Then again, he’d never been partial to monogamy or fidelity.
Why couldn’t he wed Violet and continue on with the twins? Why not? He was about to be Earl of Penworth. He could do as he liked. If the twins complained, he could whip them to shut them up, and no one could gainsay him.
“You still haven’t told me when we’ll marry,” she nagged. “Shouldn’t I give my father some hint of our plans?”
“I wouldn’t,” Edward asserted.
“Why not?”
Edward’s reputation wasn’t the best. What if the exalted ass had reservations about the match? What if he forbade Violet from marrying Edward?
“We’ll forge ahead on our own and surprise him when we return to London.” She didn’t jump to agree, so he hurriedly added, “Won’t that be fun, Violet? Just imagine: a secret wedding! Your friends will be green with envy.”
“What if the duke doesn’t want me to go forward?” she inquired. “I should at least ask his opinion.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“If you’re not sure, talk to my mother. She always gives you solid advice.”
At his prompting, she was once more firmly in his camp. Being stupid as a post, she swayed in whatever direction the wind carried her.
“Yes,” she concurred, “I’ll speak to Esther, and see what she says. She’ll know what my father would choose.”
“She’s in the solarium. Why don’t you confer with her immediately?”
Violet scurried off, and he went outside to confront the twins.
“Hello girls,” he said as they neared.
“Hello, Edward,” they replied together.
“How are things over at the west tower?”
“Everyone is waiting for you to arrive so the digging can begin.”
“I’m on my way now.”
“What took you so long?” They shrewdly gazed at him, as if aware of his ploy, but they didn’t seem overly concerned about John’s fate. John had crossed them, and they never forgot a slight. If he was dead, they wouldn’t fret.
“I’ve been busy,” Edward claimed, puffing himself up. “What with my pending ascension to the title, I’ve had many matters to attend.”
“You’ll really be the earl?” Melanie asked.
“I really will be.”
“So one of us,” Miranda declared, “is about to be a countess.”
“Yes,” he lied.
“Will you still need two weeks to decide who is to be your bride?”
“I’m afraid I will, and with the tragedy so fresh, I may require more time besides. I’m thoroughly occupied with arranging John’s final affairs.”
The twins stared at him in that way they had, as if they could peer to the center of his black heart. He actually squirmed with discomfort.
“Is our contest still on?” Miranda inquired.
“Of course.”
“Will you meet with us tonight?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But tonight! You’re not grief-stricken? You’re not in mourning?”
His answer was a tad too slow in coming, and they giggled and strolled away.
Ignoring them, he continued down the drive toward the west tower. He was eager to play lord of the manor, to order everyone about and have them obey, but after he’d taken a dozen steps, a rider barreled up the lane on horse-back.
The mount was a fine animal, the type that would be owned by
a gentleman, so the fellow had to be a neighbor who’d heard of the calamity and had rushed to assist Edward in his hour of need. It would be Edward’s first official visitor as earl, and he grinned, then tamped down his excitement, not wanting to look too happy, which would set tongues to wagging.
The man raced up, stirring a cloud of dust and gravel. Edward registered that it was Phillip Dudley, as Dudley leapt to the ground and marched over.
“You pathetic swine,” Dudley snapped, “why haven’t you started the excavation?”
The comment was so at odds with what Edward had been expecting that he stammered, “What . . . what . . . ?”
“Let me guess: You’re hoping a delay will bring about the divine intervention you were too much of a coward to orchestrate yourself.”
“I have no idea what you talking about.”
“Don’t you? If nobody digs him out, you’re certainly sitting in a fancy chair.”
Dudley had exactly gleaned Edward’s scheme, but Edward was astute enough to react as if he was innocent of any malice.
“What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m flat-out saying you’re deliberately dawdling so your brother dies.”
“How dare you, sir!”
Before Edward realized Dudley’s intent, Dudley punched Edward in the stomach as hard as he could. Edward teetered on his heels, then Dudley punched him in the face. He collapsed in a stunned heap and curled into a ball. Edward was wheezing, struggling to catch his breath.
Dudley grabbed him by the collar and explained, “That was for Barbara.”
“Barbara? Who the hell is Barbara?”
“The true earl’s mother, you little weasel.”
Edward tried to stand, and Dudley hit him a third time and then a fourth. Edward gave up and slumped down, his mind discombobulated, his limbs not working. “You have struck the Earl of Penworth,” he spat. “I’ll see you hanged for your outrage.”
Dudley pulled him up till they were nose to nose.
“My sister is a witch,” Dudley informed him. “If you lay a hand on me, she’ll poison you. You’ll be dead before you have a chance to spend a single farthing of your brother’s money.”
Dudley dropped Edward in the dirt, jumped on his horse, and cantered toward the west tower, where he would steal Edward’s thunder by assuming control of the rescue effort.
Edward leaned over and vomited up his breakfast.
“BRAWLING with Edward Middleton,” Clarinda scolded. “Are you insane?”
“Oh, please,” Phillip grumbled. “As if that pitiful mama’s boy would fight me. It’s only a brawl if at least two parties are exchanging blows.”
“What would you call it then?”
“I beat him senseless, then trotted off. He never threw a punch.”
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
Clarinda jammed his bruised knuckles into a bowl of disinfecting whiskey, which Phillip considered to be a waste of perfectly good liquor.
He’d endured a long day directing the servants at the west tower, so he hadn’t had occasion to worry about his injuries.
Clarinda, however, was a fastidious healer, and the moment he’d walked in the door—filthy and sweat-stained and exhausted—she’d dragged him to the kitchen and begun her doctoring.
The alcohol stung the cuts, and he hissed with pain as Clarinda enjoyed her petty torment. She never liked his displays of temper, had never approved of his tendency to lash out at those who deserved a sound thrashing.
“What if Penworth is never found?” she grouched. “What if Edward actually becomes earl? His threat to have you hanged wouldn’t be an idle boast.”
“If that sniveling coward ever has the gall to move against me, you must follow through and poison him. Give him a fatal dose, but one that works slowly so he suffers for weeks before he expires.”
“What makes you think I’d avenge you?”
“If you don’t, I’ll haunt you from the other side.”
She grunted with aggravation. “I won’t have you pestering me from beyond the grave.”
Clarinda lifted his hand, saw the raw spots still flecked with grime, and retrieved a brush and scrubbed across them. He yelped in agony and yanked away. “Your cure is worse than the illness,” he complained.
“I’m just trying to ensure that I have your attention.”
“You have it, you have it!”
“Aren’t you the one who always tells me we shouldn’t immerse ourselves in the troubles of the rich?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Take your own advice: Don’t antagonize Edward. Don’t get yourself killed for Barbara Middleton. She’s not worth it.”
“I’m not doing it for her.”
“Who are you doing it for, then?”
He thought and thought, then snorted with disgust. “Maybe I am doing it for her, but I’m also looking out for Miss Lambert. She doesn’t have anyone to speak for her. In all the uproar today, not a single person mentioned that her life is in jeopardy, too.”
“Are you certain she’s down there?”
“The butler and housekeeper insist she is, but no one cares about her. If they decide Penworth is dead, there’ll be no reason to keep digging. They’d leave her to suffocate and starve.”
“Why would she be with him? It makes no sense. Not when she was so desperate to escape.”
“She loves him.”
It was the simplest, most obvious explanation, but Clarinda rolled her eyes.
She’d never been bitten by the bug of amour, and most likely never would be. She counseled women on the perils of passion, deeming it all so much foolishness.
He studied her, feeling morose in a way he never was. Every bone in his body ached, his physical fatigue overwhelming his mood so he was pensive and reflective in a manner he hated.
Had he done right by Clarinda? Had he been a good brother to her?
She’d spent her girlhood tagging after him, participating in his schemes and keeping him out of jail. What sort of path was that? Why had he picked it?
And what about himself?
He was thirty years old. He’d never married, and while he’d loved many, many women, he’d never been in love with any of them.
He had no ties, no friends, no family but for Clarinda. Suddenly, the lack seemed unbearably sad.
Clarinda grabbed for his hand again, but he jerked it safely out of range.
“Should I stitch that cut?” she asked.
“With the temper you’re in, I won’t have you near me with a needle or sharp pair of scissors.”
“How about a bandage?”
“I’m fine, Clarinda. Stop fussing.”
“If I didn’t, who would?”
She stood and patted him on the shoulder, and she was gathering up her supplies when a maid peeked in to inform him that his bath was ready.
There was a small chamber off the kitchen, where water could be easily heated behind the stove and quickly transferred to the bathing tub. Just then, it sounded like a slice of heaven.
“Don’t fall asleep and drown,” Clarinda warned, tugging him to his feet and urging him on his way.
“I’ll try not to.”
He retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, then went into the room and shut the door. He was dirty and grubby and grumpy, and his battered hands were stiff, so it took some doing to remove his clothes.
There was a manservant on the premises who claimed to serve as Odell’s valet. Phillip could have summoned him to assist, but he’d be damned if he’d have some oaf poking around at his trousers. On his own, he flung them off, then wrestled with the remainder of his garments.
He climbed into the tub and sank down, and he pulled the cork from the bottle and downed several long gulps. His eyes closed, and he was dozing off when the door opened and someone tiptoed in.
Recognizing Barbara’s stride and perfume, he smiled and gazed over at her. She was dressed in a nightgown and
robe, her hair down and brushed out.
Though he’d never admit it, she looked ghastly and seemed to have aged. She was chasing fifty, after all, but usually her years were carefully concealed with cosmetics and a brazen attitude.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No.”
She drew up a stool and sat, and he held out his damaged hand to her.
When Esther Middleton had tossed her out, Barbara had come straight to him, and he was glad that she had. But if her son was never found, what the hell was he to do with her?
“What happened to your hand?” she inquired.
“I beat Edward to a pulp.”
“My hero!” She leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Early that morning, she’d stumbled in, frantic and homeless and indescribably angry. She’d begged him to go to the castle, insisting Edward and Esther would never truly search for John, and she’d been correct. Phillip had arrived to discover that nary a shovel of earth had been turned.
He’d formed lines and bucket brigades, had sent women scurrying to bring food and ale, and they’d made enormous progress. Edward had eventually showed his sorry face, but the servants weren’t stupid. They’d flashed such dangerous glares that he’d mumbled a few words of faint praise before skedaddling back to his mother.
If Edward was ever installed as the earl, how would he overcome the day’s debacle? The servants’ disdain would spread from Scotland to his properties in England. His dearth of endeavor on John’s behalf would never be forgiven or forgotten.
Barbara clasped his bruised hand and kissed each of his sore knuckles.
“Better?” she asked, to which he replied, “Yes,” even though the gesture hadn’t helped.
He was miserable, and he swallowed a swig of whiskey. He offered her the bottle, and she did the same.
“What is the news?” she queried.
“It’s more optimistic than I’d imagined. Angus tells me it’s only the bottom section of stairs that collapsed.”
“The last one? After you pass the dungeon?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s not a huge amount of dirt.”
“No, and one of the men swears he heard tapping on the other side.”
