by Cheryl Holt
“John!” Barbara bellowed. “Stop it this instant.”
She scooted off the mattress, struggling to keep the blanket wrapped around her.
“Stay out of this,” Penworth warned her.
“For pity’s sake,” she scolded, “I’m a forty-six-year-old divorcée. I won’t have you brawling over me as if I was some virginal debutante.”
Penworth stared and stared, as if really seeing her for the first time, and Phillip waited on tenterhooks to learn what would happen next.
Finally, Penworth staggered away from her.
“Get out of my house,” he hissed. “Be gone when I awake in the morning.”
“You can’t mean it,” she pleaded.
“Get out!” he shouted, and he stormed away.
Chapter 22
“WELCOME home, milord.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.”
“I trust your journey from Scotland was uneventful?”
“Completely dull, with nary a bump in the road.”
John handed his gloves to the butler in his London house. Footmen traipsed in behind him with his luggage.
“We heard you had a spot of trouble up north,” the butler said.
“A small incident, of minor import.”
“So . . . all is well?”
“Yes.”
The butler’s inquiry—though casually posed—wasn’t an idle one. A master’s demise was always a time of great upheaval for his staff. John’s servants were probably still worried that he wasn’t hale or that he was suffering lingering effects.
In all actuality, so much had occurred since the cave-in at the grotto that it almost seemed as if it had never transpired. Considering the other catastrophes he’d endured in the interim, his near-death episode was downright blasé.
Lily had left him. He’d disavowed his mother. He’d split with Edward and had to make arrangements for Esther. He had to . . . marry Violet.
He wrinkled his nose with distaste. Perhaps Esther was correct, and he should wed immediately. If he forged ahead, the deed would be done, and he wouldn’t spend the next ten months fretting over it.
As he peered around the vestibule, he thought it looked different, as if he was in someone else’s residence. There was very little in the furnishings or décor to indicate the place was his.
“Who is at home this evening?” he asked.
“Your stepmother and Lady Violet. They’re planning to dine in about an hour. Will you join them?”
Would he?
He was exhausted and had no desire to socialize. Yet he had no excuse to skip the meal. When he’d just arrived in London after such a lengthy absence, fraternization would be expected.
“Yes, I’ll join them.”
“I’ll advise the chef.”
“How about the twins? Are they here?”
“Yes.”
They were another thorn in his side, another problem he had to solve.
“And my brother, I need to get word to him that I—”
“Your brother is here, too.”
“In the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Up in his suite.”
“Is he living here?”
“Well . . . yes.”
The butler was perplexed. Without his having received instructions to the contrary, he would have assumed Edward could remain, but John had been perfectly clear with Edward: He was to take himself off to his bachelor apartment and stay there.
Was Edward deaf? Or had he convinced himself that John wasn’t serious?
At Edward’s disobeying John’s specific order, John was angrier than he’d ever been, and he relished the surge of fury.
Since Lily had departed, he hadn’t been able to feel much of anything. No joy. No sadness. No irritation. No exasperation. He was dead inside, as if a vital organ had shut down and he couldn’t get it to function.
“My brother is no longer allowed in this house,” John curtly said.
The butler’s brows raised to his hairline. “I apologize, milord. I hadn’t been informed.”
“No, you hadn’t, but now you know. Please notify the staff. Should he show his face on my stoop ever again, you may call the law—if that is what is required to keep him out.”
John started up the stairs, ready to physically evict Edward, when Esther peeked out from a parlor down the hall. Violet stood behind her.
“John, is that you?” Esther asked. “We didn’t realize you were back.”
He ignored her and spoke to the butler. “Send two footmen to attend me. Edward is leaving, and I will need them to escort him out.”
“Very good, sir.”
“What is happening?” Esther demanded, and she hurried to the vestibule.
From the steps above her, John said, “Your son is not permitted on the premises. He’s been apprised of my opinion, yet he has defied me anyway.”
“Don’t be absurd. This is his home.”
“No. This is my home. And he is not welcome in it.”
“He will not leave!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.
“He tried to kill me!” John bellowed, which elicited a shocked gasp from Violet and the butler.
“That is a filthy lie!” Esther wheezed. “How dare you accuse him of malice!”
“How dare I? How dare I?”
John was so irate, it was lucky she was some distance away. If she’d been closer, he might have slapped her. He was that enraged.
“He will not go!” Esther insisted.
“He will not stay!” John shouted in reply.
He continued on, with Esther running after him, Violet dogging her heels. Esther grabbed at his coat, but she couldn’t stop him.
He marched to Edward’s door and entered without knocking, and the scene that greeted him was so astonishing—and so bizarre—that it took many seconds for it to register.
Stumbling to a halt, he muttered, “Oh, my Lord!”
He turned and shoved Violet away, but he wasn’t as fortunate with Esther. She was in the room before he could keep her out.
Frantically, she studied the disturbing spectacle, her eyes wide with horror. Then she screamed at the top of her lungs and fell to the floor in a stunned heap.
“WHO do you prefer, Edward?”
He was seated in the chair in his bedchamber, Melanie and Miranda posed for him like a pair of nubile slaves. One was nude, the other nearly so, and he was so titillated that he could barely breathe.
They’d caught him unawares, sneaking in as he was dressing for supper.
For weeks, he’d put them off with deceit and fabrication, but apparently, they were tired of waiting for his answer. His mind was awhirl with what he should tell them, but it would never be the truth.
He had begun marital negotiations with a wealthy American he’d met while gambling. The man was eager to be shed of his ugly, fat, but very rich daughter, and Edward was eager to have her. The contracts would be finalized in a few days, the wedding held a few days after that.
He just needed to fool the twins a bit longer, then he’d be rid of them and their constant badgering. In the meantime, if he could wrangle another erotic encounter out of them, so much the better.
“Miranda, stand behind your sister,” he ordered. “Fondle her breasts.”
Miranda didn’t move, and he was unnerved by her reticence. With these two, he had to keep the upper hand. He enjoyed their brand of punishment too much, and it was easy to get distracted.
“We won’t do anything else,” Miranda complained, “until you tell us which one you’ve selected.”
Drat it! He’d have to say something. If he refused, they’d stomp out, and he was too ready to fornicate. He had to stick his prick in one of them very soon, or his testicles might explode.
What was a small lie among friends?
“I pick”—he glanced back and forth, back and forth, the moment stretching to infinity—“Melanie.”
They didn’
t remark, but continued to observe him with an eerie expression.
Ultimately, Miranda asked, “When will you speak to John?”
“The instant he returns from Scotland.”
John wasn’t due back for several weeks, and by then, Edward would be wed to his American.
“Why can’t you write to him?” Miranda nagged.
“This isn’t the sort of subject I would discuss in a letter.”
“Why not?”
“The protocol is to do it in person.”
“All right.” Miranda nodded at her sister. “Melanie, what would you like to say to your betrothed?”
“I’m very happy, Edward.”
“It was a difficult decision,” he fibbed.
“It certainly seemed to be,” Melanie concurred. “Would you like to copulate with me? In celebration? Or would you like me to dally with Miranda while you watch?”
“Ooh . . . a luscious choice.” He mulled it over, then said, “I should like to see you and Miranda together. Then, after I’m sufficiently aroused, I shall join you.”
Intent on having a good view of the festivities, he waved them toward the bed.
Melanie held out her hand, and he took it and was helping her up, when suddenly, he was brutally struck on the back of the head. He staggered to his knees, and before he could regain his balance, he was struck again.
Dazed and befuddled, he clutched at the blankets, but his limbs weren’t working properly. He could feel himself being dragged onto the mattress, his wrists and ankles fettered, a stocking stuffed in his mouth. They cut away his clothes, and shortly, he was naked and fully trussed. He yanked at the bindings, but couldn’t loosen them.
Miranda loomed over him, wielding her riding crop. She prodded his face with it so he would focus on her.
“We know about your American,” she hissed.
He shouted, No, no, you’re wrong, but with the gag firmly in place, he couldn’t voice the denial aloud.
“We know what you planned,” she charged. “You were lying to us; you were never going to marry Melanie.”
No! Of course I’m going to wed Melanie. There is no American.
“Should I tell you about our father and the night he lied to us?” she asked.
Real fear danced in his eyes. What happened to him? Tell me!
“What do you suppose happened? He’s not alive anymore, is he?”
She slid to the floor, and she raised her whip and brought it down across his genitals. It was no playful lover’s pat, no erotic tap to spur arousal.
It was rage and pain, meant to wound, meant to terrify.
Edward yelped in agony, bracing as she hit him again and again.
The outer door slammed open. Angry strides pounded in.
Help me! Help me! Edward cried in his mind, not caring about discovery, but anxious for someone to come and cart the violent vixen off to Hell.
“Oh, my Lord,” a man muttered.
The twins froze, Miranda pausing in mid-strike.
Edward glanced over to see John swooping in like an underworld god, bent on destruction. Esther followed, then Violet, but John shoved her out. Esther screamed and fainted, as Miranda grinned and tossed the crop onto the bed.
“Hello, John,” she casually greeted. “Sorry to cause such a ruckus. We weren’t informed that you were home.”
John marched over, his curious, disturbed gaze moving from Edward, to the shackles, to the naked twins, to the shackles.
“Untie him,” John ordered.
“Certainly,” Miranda said.
She was all smiles and compliance, as Melanie began to fuss with the knots.
John glared at Edward, no pity or compassion in his expression as he seethed, “I will speak with you down in my library in fifteen minutes.”
Miranda tugged the stocking from Edward’s mouth.
“John, please,” Edward gasped, “listen to me: I can explain.”
“Fifteen minutes, Edward. Were I you, I wouldn’t be late.”
“WHAT have you to say for yourself?”
“They are the most vicious, dangerous girls who ever lived.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that’s not it. They shouldn’t be allowed out around decent people.”
John gaped at his brother, wondering how they could possibly be related. They’d had the same father, so half the blood flowing in their veins came from him. Their mother’s blood was from different sources, and in comparing Barbara and Esther, who would imagine that Esther would be the one to pass on any taint? Perhaps there was insanity hidden in her family tree.
“Edward, how old are you?”
“What a stupid question. You’re well aware that I’m twenty-seven.”
“How old are the twins?”
“Eighteen, but they’re monsters. Don’t let their big blue eyes fool you.”
They were in John’s library—again—with John haranguing at Edward—again. Sometimes, he felt it was all he’d done in his life, and he was tired of it.
Edward had always been a buffoon, but what type of man initiated the depravity John had just witnessed? And with two much younger women!
What was John to do with him?
He had to decide the best course of action, and he went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. He sat at his desk and sipped it, using the liquor as a delaying tactic while he pondered his options.
“Why are you still in my home?” he inquired. “I instructed you to retire to your bachelor apartment. Was I not clear? Did you not understand me?”
“I didn’t believe you were serious. We’re brothers, John! You were angry, and you’d been through a horrendous ordeal. You weren’t being rational.”
“So you presumed you could flaunt me with impunity?”
“I . . . uh . . . uh . . .”
“When did you start the affair?”
“I started nothing. They seduced me.”
“Really?”
“Before we even left for Scotland.”
“This was their idea? The bondage, the whips, the nudity? They thought it all up and encouraged you to participate?”
“Yes, yes! They’re devils, I tell you. Satan himself doesn’t have anything on those two.”
“Which one do you like better?”
“I don’t like either. They’re both fiends.”
“You need to pick one—or I shall pick one for you.”
Edward frowned. “What are you saying?”
“You’re going to wed one of them.”
“No, no. I won’t. I can’t.” Edward put out his hands as if warding off evil. “I’m pursuing an engagement with an American heiress.”
“Not any longer, you’re not.”
Edward studied John, taking in his resolute demeanor, and he began to tremble.
“I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
“You don’t think so?”
“My mother would never let you. She has huge plans for me, and they don’t include those two paltry girls, with their teeny-tiny dowries.”
“I’m picking Miranda,” John said, not missing a beat. “She’s the eldest. It seems only fair.”
“I won’t do it!” Edward repeated, his voice rising in volume and intensity.
“If you don’t, I’ll have you jailed for ruining them. It’s illicit fornication, and it’s against the law—in case you’ve forgotten. Since they’re my wards, you’ve damaged me. I’ll sue you and seize the amount remaining in your trust fund.” John sipped his drink. “Can you suppose your American heiress will want you after all that?”
“You can’t raid my trust fund.”
“I can if I get a judgment against you.”
Edward scowled, and John could practically see the wheels spinning in his head. He was struggling to figure out how he could garner the conclusion he sought—as he always had in the past—but this time, there would be no changing John’s mind.
Edward’s behavior was too egregious. There was no way
to fix this mess—except for him to marry one of the twins. Even then, where was the justice for the other sister?
“John,” he begged, “you have to listen to me: They murdered their father.”
“You’re being absurd. He committed suicide in a drunken stupor.”
“No, no, they bragged about it. They threatened me with the same bad end if I didn’t do what they said.”
John scoffed, “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”
“Please!” Edward beseeched. He came off his chair and knelt, his fingers linked as if in prayer. “I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t shackle me to Miranda.”
John stoically watched him, knowing he wasn’t sincere. He’d never been sincere his entire life, and John was sick of his antics.
“We’ll have the wedding on Saturday.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll run away. I’ll hide.”
“I’ll find you and drag you back. You can be married to her in chains if that is your choice. But married to her is what you shall be.”
ESTHER raced to the library. She pounded on the door, then rushed in without waiting for a summons.
Edward was on his knees, pleading with John, who sat in his chair, calmly drinking a whiskey, completely unfazed by Edward’s emotional appeal.
“Mother!” Edward leapt up and whipped around. “He insists I wed Miranda. Tell him I won’t!”
“Of course you won’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Esther had never been so shaken, and she fought to appear in charge and in control. Her stern manner had always cowed John into doing what she wanted. Hadn’t she been able to sway him with regard to Miss Lambert?
In light of his fondness for Miss Lambert, if Esther could get him to forsake her, she could convince him to do anything.
John had escaped peril in Scotland, but he could still perish unexpectedly. If he did, Edward had to have a suitable wife befitting an earl. It couldn’t be a nobody like Miranda.
“There will be no wedding to Miranda,” Esther declared. “Honestly, John, what are you thinking?”
“He will marry Miranda,” John said. “On Saturday. You’d best make the arrangements.”
“No, he will not!”
