by Cheryl Holt
“It is not up to you, Esther.” John rose, a signal that the meeting was over. “Edward understands my feelings in the matter, and he’s aware of the consequences if he refuses me. Aren’t you, Edward?”
“What consequences?” Esther fumed. “How has he coerced you, Edward?”
“I . . . I ...” Edward stammered, so John explained for him.
“He will wed her, or he will be prosecuted and beggared. By me.”
Had she been holding a gun, she’d have shot him. “You will not do this.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I’ll see you dead before it ever transpires.”
“You can certainly try to kill me, but you shouldn’t count on succeeding. I intend to live a long, long time—just to spite you.”
He walked to the door and flung it open, hollering for the butler. When he hurried up, John instructed, “My stepmother is moving out. Until further notice, she’ll be staying at the Carlyle Hotel. Have the maids pack her bags.”
“This is my home,” Esther raged. “I won’t go.”
Her protest went unheeded as John continued speaking to the butler. “My brother is leaving, too, to return to his bachelor’s lodging. Have the carriage brought ’round, so they may depart together.”
The butler dashed off to implement John’s commands, and a dangerous silence ensued, the three of them frozen in place. John cocked a brow, indicating they should exit, but Esther didn’t budge.
Grimly, she comprehended that if she vacated the premises, she might never be allowed back inside.
Edward took her arm, smoothing over the tense moment. “Come, Mother. Tempers are running high. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, when cooler heads have prevailed.”
“It won’t do you any good,” John asserted. “One way or another, you’ll pay for your transgression.”
As if they were an unwanted pile of rubbish, John pushed them into the hall and closed the door.
“HOW dare you!”
“What?”
Violet raised a hand and slapped Edward as hard as she could.
“Violet!” Esther gasped as Edward rubbed his reddening cheek.
“You little witch!” he seethed.
“You said you loved me,” Violet accused. “You said you’d marry me.”
“I said that?” Edward hedged. “How could I have? You’re engaged to John. You have been for months.”
They were in the vestibule, Esther and Edward with their coats on as they prepared to leave. Violet had just managed to catch them.
“I believed you!” she shouted. “I believed every word that spewed from your lying, deceitful mouth!”
“Mother”—Edward rolled his eyes in feigned amusement—“this residence has become a madhouse. Let’s go.”
He tried to escort Esther out, but Violet lurched into the threshold, blocking their way.
“I spoke to the twins,” she told him. “You were having an affair with them the entire time we were in Scotland.”
“The twins are renowned liars,” he claimed. “Everybody knows it.”
“You were carrying on with them, while making love to me! You despicable cad! I trusted you! I thought you were sincere!”
“Sorry,” he simpered, “but I really have no idea what bee has gotten into your bonnet. Now then, if you’ll excuse us? We’ve been hideously insulted, and we’d like to be off.”
“You proposed to me! The instant we learned of John’s accident, you proposed and I accepted. I loved you, when I never loved John, and this is how you repay me?”
Edward leaned in and hissed, “My dear, may I suggest that you shut the hell up? No one cares about you or your paltry romance. Shut your mouth and save yourself.”
From down the hall, a man cleared his throat, and she, Edward, and Esther whirled around.
“What an interesting tableau,” John commented. “Apparently, I missed a few details of what occurred in Scotland.”
Violet blanched. “John! How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” he replied.
“She always loved me,” Edward boasted. “I worked incessantly to steal her away from you.”
“It appears you succeeded.”
“I played her like a master at his violin. She was my greatest symphony.” Edward shoved Violet out of the way. “Mother, let’s flee this house, where we’ve never been welcome.”
They stomped out, and Violet had to face John all alone.
He frowned until she began to squirm with alarm.
“Whatever you heard,” she maintained, “it wasn’t true. I’m simply overwrought by what I witnessed upstairs.”
He studied her, her future hanging in the balance. “Answer one question for me,” he finally said. “Did you betroth yourself to him while I was buried down in the grotto?”
“Well . . . not betrothed precisely.”
“What would you call it then?”
“We were just . . . just talking about what could happen.”
“Before you knew whether I was dead or not?”
“It seemed likely that you were deceased. We didn’t mean any harm.”
“No, Edward never does.” The butler was marching toward them, and John glanced over at him. “Esther and Edward have left. Summon another carriage, would you? Lady Violet is leaving, too.”
The butler nodded and kept on.
“Please, John, can’t we discuss this?”
“I believe we already have. Go home, Violet. Go home, and tell your father that I will visit him tomorrow.”
Panic flared in her breast. “Why?”
“Why would you suppose? I’m once again a bachelor, and I must inform you that the feeling has me greatly relieved.”
“ARE they gone?” Miranda asked.
Melanie stared out the window as Edward’s coach pulled away.
“Yes.”
“I listened to the maids gossiping. John has demanded that Edward wed me.”
“You’ll have your money very soon.” Melanie peered over her shoulder. “What about mine?”
“John will have to find a husband for you, too. We’ll select somebody on our own and have him tender an offer. I don’t imagine John will fuss about it.”
“Let’s make it a clerk or secretary—an ordinary fellow who will deem my dowry to be huge. I don’t want anyone too high in the in-step.”
“No, that wouldn’t do at all.”
“And we’ll need a man with no family, so if he passes on, no one will notice.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have my money very soon, too.”
“Very soon.”
They held hands and grinned.
“HAS John departed for England?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“I spoke to Angus personally.”
Phillip watched as Barbara went over to the wardrobe, retrieved a satchel, and began tossing clothes into it.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What do you think? I’m going to London. If that’s where John is, then that is where I must be.”
For a few minutes, he observed her frantic packing, but he couldn’t bear it. He walked over and stopped her, yanking the satchel away and pitching it on the floor.
She glared up at him, her gaze angry and hurt.
“Don’t chase after him,” Phillip insisted. “Let him go.”
“Let him . . . go? No. I never will.”
“He loathes you! He’s been very clear!”
“He doesn’t know what he wants. Esther has blinded him to what matters.”
After Penworth had kicked her out of the castle, she’d spent weeks trying to worm her way back into his life, but to no avail. She’d always been able to wrangle the best ending for herself, so she’d been stunned to learn that she couldn’t soften her son’s heart.
Ultimately, he’d left for England without a good-bye or penny of support. What was she to do? And where did Phillip fit in to t
he entire scenario?
He couldn’t decide, but one thing was certain: She shouldn’t throw herself at the arrogant oaf. She had an enormous amount of pride. Why didn’t she draw on it?
“Don’t humiliate yourself over him,” he seethed.
“If I don’t follow him to London, what will become of me? It’s not as if I have a carriage-load of options.”
“Stay here with me.”
“As your what?”
“As my wife. Marry me.”
It was the proposal he should have tendered when Penworth caught them in bed together. It was the appropriate remedy, but the words felt like ashes in his mouth.
While he loved her very much, it was in the detached, general way he loved all women. He never wanted to be bound to any female. He was too independent, too accustomed to being on his own.
“Marry you?” She was extremely shocked.
“Yes.”
She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he grouched.
“You. My Lord, but you are such a sweet boy.”
She reached out and cradled his cheek in her palm. “No, my darling, Phillip. I will not marry you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I don’t ever plan to wed again, and I don’t love you.” At seeing his scowl, she said, “Surely, you knew that. You couldn’t have hoped that I . . .” She laughed again. “I was using you, Phillip. For sex.”
He was a man with a substantial ego, so her remark was incredibly aggravating.
He was the great lover and user of women. He made a habit of it; he’d developed it into a fine art.
“Now you tell me,” he grumbled.
“Oh, don’t pout. You don’t want to marry anyone. Especially me. Admit it. You’re glad I said no.”
“Perhaps a tad.”
A grin tugged at his lips. Relief washed through him. She was correct: He didn’t want to wed her, but had felt obliged to ask. Lucky for him, she’d saved him from himself.
Whew! He’d dodged a bullet.
“I have to get to England as fast as I can,” she explained.
“He won’t let you in the door.”
“His London servants won’t be expecting me. He won’t have warned them to keep me out. I’ll be ensconced in his parlor before he realizes I’ve arrived.”
He scoffed, “You’re mad.”
“Yes, I am. Will you help me?”
“How?”
“Will you take me to London? I don’t wish to travel so far on my own.”
He only considered for a few seconds.
He was weary of Scotland, weary of Odell’s house, and the stuffy socializing that went along with it. Clarinda had thrived, but he was suffocating.
“Why not?” He shrugged. “What else do I have to do?”
“BARBARA refused you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” Clarinda mumbled.
“Yes, thank God,” Phillip agreed.
“I can’t believe you asked her.”
“I thought—if she wed me—it might smooth over the rift with her son.”
“Who cares about her son? You’d have been shackled to her until you took your dying breath.”
“My worst nightmare”—he gave a mock shudder—“is to ever be the sacrificial lamb on the matrimonial altar.”
Clarinda chuckled, then she quieted.
They were in Odell’s cozy drawing room. A cheery fire crackled in the grate. Supper was over, Barbara in bed, and he and Clarinda were sitting, like an old married couple, enjoying a whiskey.
In the firelight, she looked so beautiful, so much like their mother. Clarinda didn’t remember her, but Phillip did. She had passed away when he was seven and Clarinda two. Since then, he and Clarinda had never been separated. They were two peas in a pod, the best of friends, the closest siblings ever.
How would he get on without her?
“You’re about to tell me something I won’t like.” She was astute as ever, able to read his mind. “What is it?”
“I’m going to England.”
“I guessed as much. With Barbara?”
“Merely to escort her.”
“You won’t stay with her there?”
“No. I’ll convey her to Penworth’s London residence in one piece. Then? I don’t know.”
“Will you come back to Scotland?”
For a lengthy interval, he stared, committing her face to memory, then he shook his head.
“No, I’m not ever coming back.”
“But we’re a team. You always said so.”
“We are a team. Will you join me in my adventure? We could pull the wagon out of storage and take off again.”
“Just like old times?”
“Yes, just like old times. I have some new scams I’d like to run, and I’ve conjured up some new potions we could try.”
It was her turn to stare. Finally, she admitted, “I wouldn’t like to go out on the road again. Is that your plan?”
“I’m debating.”
He peered around at the furnishings and drapes, at the paintings and rugs. It was a fine house—as far as houses went. Odell was a man’s man, and whoever had decorated it for him understood that fact.
There were no frilly objects or fussy fabrics. There was no feminine touch. It was a comfortable abode where a fellow could relax after a hard day’s labor, but Phillip was bored to death and itching to escape.
“I have to go, Clarinda.”
“I know. I’m surprised you remained as long as you have.”
“Will you miss me?”
“No,” she churlishly retorted, which they both knew was a lie.
She’d miss him every minute, and he hated to imagine her on her own, having to carry on without him. She was smart and tough and as independent as he was, but she was a female, and she wouldn’t have him nearby if trouble brewed.
He asked, “What will you do with yourself once I’m gone?”
“I’ll tarry here through the winter, but I have some money put aside. Come the spring, I might buy myself a cottage.”
“You’ve always wanted that.”
“Yes.”
“You could grow a garden and sell herbs and tonics.”
He could practically see her, puttering over her plants, mixing her medicines and delivering them to the neighbors. She’d be satisfied with that life. She’d be content.
Would he ever be?
“If you need to come home,” she said, “I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”
“Watching my back?”
“As you have watched mine all these years.”
He smiled and nodded, then hurried to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, anxious to hide his expression so she wouldn’t note the tears in his eyes.
Chapter 23
“I’M sorry, Miss Lambert, but further attempts are futile.”
“You must have a position for me, Mrs. Ford. I’ve always been a model employee. I’ve always worked hard for you.”
“That was . . . before.”
Before . . .
Before the Earl of Penworth’s roving eye had fallen on her. Before she’d stupidly leapt into their destructive affair. Before Violet Howard had written to Mrs. Ford at the Ford Employment Agency to inform her of Lily’s disgrace.
Violet had also corresponded with her extensive coven of acquaintances, which comprised practically every woman in the kingdom. Her revenge had been personal and pernicious.
Lily—who had so furiously guarded her reputation—had no reputation remaining to speak of. She was completely compromised so all respectable avenues of service were lost to her.
“What should I do?” she asked Mrs. Ford.
They were in Mrs. Ford’s office, facing each other across her tidy desk.
“You could try to find a post out of the country.”
“Where?”
“Perhaps India.”
“India!”
“It’s a far distance, but
then, you carry the stigma of home-wrecker. You need to move to a location where no wife has ever heard of you.”
“I did nothing wrong,” Lily lied. “I don’t care what Lady Violet alleged.”
Mrs. Ford simply raised a brow. Lily wasn’t the first female to be seduced by a great lord, but she was definitely the first to have her good name so thoroughly besmirched.
There seemed no way to counter the swath of devastation Violet Howard had leveled. Lily had assumed—foolishly, it turned out—that no one in England would have learned about the cave-in at the grotto, about Penworth’s brush with death, about Lily’s being trapped with him.
How mistaken she’d been!
People were agog over the tale, so gossip hadn’t waned. Men, in particular, were titillated by the notion of a single woman and a hot springs pool. The entire story was too salacious, and Violet Howard’s angry missives hadn’t helped.
For two months, Lily had traipsed about London, searching for a job, but to no avail.
Mrs. Ford had tried her best, had sent Lily’s resumé for dozens of potential situations, but no interviews had been granted.
The severance Esther Middleton had promised was never paid. Esther had given Lily an envelope, supposedly containing the money, but Lily hadn’t peeked in it until she was on the public coach whisking her to London. The envelope had been empty.
Using her meager savings, she’d been staying at a boardinghouse that provided one meal a day. But the rent was due, and she didn’t have it.
Her worst nightmare had come to pass: She was alone and broke and about to be tossed out on the streets.
It she wasn’t so afraid, she’d have been livid.
Lord Penworth had wreaked such havoc. Did he ever think of her? Did he ever—for the tiniest instant—wonder what had become of her?
She scoffed.
He’d coerced her into leaving so his dearest Violet Howard wasn’t discomfited, but he’d been too much of a coward to tell Lily himself. He’d had his wicked stepmother do his dirty work. Why would he ever think of her?
He had to be glad she’d resigned without a fuss, that she had meekly acceded to his request she vacate the premises. Despite all they had shared, he’d gone on with his life as if Lily had never existed, and she’d been left to deal with the aftermath.
“Would you loan me some money?” she humiliated herself by asking. “Just until I receive wages at my next job?”
