by Allison Lane
“My God!” His face was white.
Max relaxed. While Richard was clearly shocked, his face revealed no condemnation. “Having nowhere else to go, she walked to Sussex, to the estate of the man’s father.”
Richard’s hands gripped the desk.
“The father forced his son to do the right thing, though the results were less than ideal. Marriage legitimized the child, but he turned his frustration on his wife, beating her several times. Fortunately, he drowned shortly after a daughter was born.”
Richard’s cry of horror reassured him.
“She raised the child alone. Her father-in-law did what he could to help her, but his younger son hated her.”
“Why did she never tell us?” He sounded bewildered.
Max’s voice softened. “She wrote home twice, but received no response. Sir Quentin knew where she was.”
“What do you want?”
“Her father-in-law died ten years ago, leaving her at the mercy of the son. With only her daughter left to support her, she has become increasingly melancholy. She is now suffering an inflammation of the lungs, but I fear she has lost the will to live. I am hoping that a kind word from the family she still mourns might help her. When delirious, she cries for someone named Dickie.”
Richard blanched, a sob escaping his throat.
“Will you recognize her?” Max asked.
“Of course. But what is your interest in this?”
“They lease a house from me, and I am courting the daughter. She will be devastated if her mother dies.”
Richard paced to the window and back, then emptied his glass and poured another. His hand shook. “My head is reeling,” he admitted when Max noted the tremor. “In minutes you have resurrected my sister, revealed a niece I did not know existed, then hinted that the very sister I thought dead may soon become so. It is too much.”
“I understand, but I have little time. Your own forgiveness – which is how she will consider your recognition – will help, but it will not be enough. I must convince your father to pardon her. She has carried the burden of his condemnation for too long.”
“And a deep burden it must be. He doubtless consigned her to hell for all eternity – a horrid end, for she was always very religious. Being a vicar gave his utterances a power unshared by others. When we were children, he considered himself the voice of God. Katy believed him. Even after we moved here, she accepted his edicts as coming straight from the lips of the Almighty. If Mother had lived, it might have been different, but she died bringing me into the world. Any influence she might have exerted on Father died with her.”
“May I see him?”
Richard nodded, leading him upstairs. “I’ve no idea what mood he is in today. His illness is advanced, with no cure possible. Some days he rails at the world. At other times he welcomes death, or frets about the family’s fate once he is no longer here to lead us. Occasionally he ignores us altogether.”
“I will manage. I am known for stubborn persistence.”
“It should be an interesting confrontation, then, though I won’t see it. He’s not pleased with me at the moment. You will have better luck alone.”
“Thank you.”
“But he may do something stupid – like try to stand,” Richard warned. “He is capable of unbelievable strength when in the throes of delusion. I will be in the hall if you need me.”
Sir Quentin’s appearance shocked Max. Only the faintest resemblance remained to the portrait in the hall. He looked at least a hundred, with parchment skin so thin it was nearly transparent. His problem was obviously a wasting disease, for most of the flesh had disappeared, leaving only a skin-covered skeleton.
“Who are you?” His voice quavered, but it was stronger than Max had expected. “Have you come at last to lead me into heaven?”
“No.” The question surprised him, but it suggested an approach that might prove effective. He quickly revised his plans, pitching his voice for maximum resonance. “I am here to enumerate your sins, Quentin Godfrey. Your time on earth is nearly gone. This is your last chance to repent if you wish to gain the admission you seek.”
“What sins? I have lived my life as a servant of God.”
“You have lived your life as a usurper of God’s authority.” He wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they seemed right.
“What?”
“Your daughter, Catherine. You sinned greatly against her.”
“She was a whore of Babylon, a Jezebel sent to tempt mankind. Such a one is unfit to live in a godly household.”
“She was an innocent girl, seduced by a cruel lecher because you failed to protect her.”
Sir Quentin screamed in protest, but his face had paled.
Max raised his palm in the direction of the door to prevent Richard from entering. “You failed her thrice, Quentin Godfrey,” he intoned. “You failed to teach her to recognize danger. You failed to provide chaperons to protect her from predators. And once she’d been ravished, you failed to offer compassion, taking it upon yourself to judge her.”
“She was a whore!”
“She was a child, an innocent victim of a man she would never have met if you had done your duty. A loving father would have helped her, just as a loving God instructed. You claim to be a man of God, yet you ignore His very words. What of the good Samaritan? What of Mary Magdalene, who was forgiven and accepted by Christ Himself?”
He cringed.
“You are the sinner, Quentin Godfrey. You are arrogant, holding yourself above all others. You are vengeful, striking out at anyone who fails to accept your opinion of yourself. And you are a fraud, choosing to follow only those Scriptures that support your own desires. But God sees all. And He holds the real power. He can judge. And he can condemn.”
“Am I to spend eternity in hell?”
Max remained silent for a long, tense moment. “You usurped a power that was not yours, consigning your daughter to hell.” He softened his tone. “But it is not too late to repent.”
“H-how?”
“You will write to her. Today. She has suffered greatly because of your harsh and unjust treatment, yet she still reveres you. She needs your forgiveness. Even more, she needs your apology. She, too, lies on a deathbed. Let her go with a peaceful heart. Then examine your soul for other transgressions and do what you can to atone.”
Sir Quentin nodded. “Paper.”
“Your son will bring it.” Max left the room. “Take him paper and pen, but do not tell him who I am. He might change his mind if he realizes I am not an emissary from heaven.”
Richard shook his head in amazement. “I would never have thought something like that would work. What made you think of it?”
“I didn’t. It just happened.” He pushed the question aside, uneasy with the answers shimmering in his head. “Will you come with me?”
Richard glanced toward the bedchamber.
Max shook his head. “You must choose. I am more concerned with your sister, but I doubt he’ll die just yet. He has a great deal to do before he quits this earth.”
“My man can pack while he writes.”
“Excellent. It is early enough that we can reach Redrock today.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hope stood at the window, her eyes barely registering the gardens spread below her bedchamber. She’d caught Agnes poking about in the stables yesterday – Rockhurst’s coachman and groom were the only ones there at the moment, making it easy to enter unseen.
“Liar!” Agnes had screeched, pointing to Rockhurst’s carriage. “Where have you hidden Merimont?”
“Go home, Agnes,” she’d ordered. “You are being a goose. That isn’t even Merimont’s crest. I’m storing it for the owner.”
It had taken half an hour to oust her, but the situation was growing serious. The longer she put Agnes off, the more determined the girl became. And the Porters did nothing to halt the girl’s antics. Did they hope to snare a future marquess?
At le
ast she no longer had to lie about Merimont’s whereabouts. He had departed several days ago, shocking her by acceding to her frantic plea that he leave. She’d wallowed in relief for nearly a day, though she’d been irritated that he’d left without a word. Even Rockhurst did not know where he was.
By the second day, fear had replaced relief. Wilkins remained, as did much of Merimont’s luggage, so he could not have gone far. Had he suffered an accident in a remote area of the estate? He’d planned a tour as soon as he could slip away without drawing Agnes’s attention. Perhaps her uncle had abducted him as part of a new plot. Or Dornbras might have discovered his ruse and struck back.
Fearing that he was hurt or in trouble had upset her so much that it had taken hours to realize how silly she was. Though Wilkins remained, his curricle did not. He could not have taken it into the fields. So he had left willingly, but planned to return.
That was when guilt had set in. She had overreacted. Yes, he’d tried to force her into marriage, but she could hardly blame him for adhering to the rules of his class. She had no proof that he was scheming for Redrock, and he honestly believed that he had wronged her.
In retrospect, she should have considered her response more closely. There was no hope of keeping his presence quiet, and she knew many who would build the news into scandal. If her mother had been well, there would have been no problem, but everyone knew that she had been bedridden for weeks. So failing to wed would tarnish both their reputations, leaving him under a cloud of suspicion and giving him a grievance.
Yet accepting him would give him a different grievance. No man wished to be saddled with an unwanted wife as her father and uncle had been. He would be frustrated, and she would be at his mercy.
“But would Max attack me?” she murmured, reviewing everything she knew of him.
He put his credit on the line every time he helped courtesans escape their masters. It was a different situation, but it showed that he cared little for society’s opinion – which made his claims suspect. Why would he care about his reputation this time?
But it was your reputation he sought to protect, protested the voice in her head.
True. He might not care on his own account, but he disliked harming others – which fit with what she’d learned of him from Missy.
Max helped courtesans escape because he despised the men who had forced them into the position. He had begun his crusade after one of his father’s tenants was abducted and sold to a brothel. He’d found her quite by accident two years later and brought her home. Her descriptions had angered him enough that he had sworn to help others who wanted to escape.
And he was not the only man who helped those in need. Missy had been quite candid about gentlemen before leaving for Plymouth – another of Max’s rescues. They came in all varieties – good to evil, gentle to vicious. Rank, fortune, reputation – nothing could predict how a man would behave. Her discourse had convinced Hope that arrogance did not always translate into violence, as her mother had claimed.
Thus her own observations had to be valid. She’d watched Max’s eyes when he learned of Missy’s injuries and when he mentioned Jeanette’s black eye. His fury had been genuine, but not aimed at the women. Could such a man condone violence in himself?
He had been out of control at their last meeting, she admitted, shocked. His anger had pulsed through the room, inciting her own until the air was almost thick enough to see. Yet instead of attacking, he had kissed her…
Her body flushed with the same exhilarating heat as when he’d held her. She paced to the fireplace and back, finding it impossible to remain motionless under the onslaught. Every touch, every sound, every sensation had lodged so thoroughly in her mind that she could relive the encounter all too easily – and had done so too often.
Squeezing her eyes tightly closed, she tried to banish the memories, but it did no good. She missed him. He had already inserted himself so deeply into her affairs that the house seemed lonely without him. He could brighten the bleakest day with a smile, or warm any room merely by entering. Talking to him lightened her heart more than talking to Rockhurst or even her mother.
Other memories surfaced, belying her insistence that he was an arrogant, unfeeling cad. He’d taken on jobs that even those of lesser breeding considered menial, because the work needed doing and there was no staff. But beyond his willingness to help was an ability to laugh at himself. Images paraded through her mind – Max scraping porridge from the hearth, Max swearing quite creatively at a chicken he was trying to pluck, Max grinning up from the puddle of soapy water he’d unexpectedly sat in…
Damn his blue eyes for twinkling when most men would be shouting the house down for having to suffer such indignity. He’d seduced her far more than she’d realized. For all her determination to avoid danger, she’d become yet another frustrated spinster who fell in love with the first man who paid her heed.
The admission was the last straw for her composure. She curled into a chair, hugging her knees to control her shaking.
Fool.
This complicated the situation immensely. She had nearly decided to accept his offer. He would be hurt no matter what she did, but the public pain of destroying her reputation had seemed worse than the private pain of accepting a wife he didn’t want. Now she couldn’t consider it. A marriage neither of them wanted could work after a fashion. They could negotiate duties and responsibilities that would keep them individually occupied much of the time.
But a marriage in which one loved and the other did not would be too painful. She would rather face censure than see pity in his eyes when he learned of her folly – which he would; it was not something she could hide in a moment of intimacy.
He would never return her feelings. She lacked the assets that high-ranking gentlemen needed. Red hair drew attention but could never appear elegant. Her breeding was respectable, but several ranks below his. Her accomplishments were limited to mediocre keyboard and worse voice. She had no experience in society and little tolerance for idle chatter. And her naïveté could never satisfy a rake.
So Max would be better off without her. He would survive the tempest – men rarely suffered the way women did – especially when people learned that he had offered. She would be lonely without him, but time would heal that particular wound. And it was better to be alone than live with a man who could never care.
In the meantime, he must never learn of her folly. She must remain aloof when he returned, giving him no opportunity to touch her. When he renewed his offer, she must refuse, calmly but with enough conviction that he would accept her decision.
* * * *
Hope set her mending aside as a carriage drew up to the door. It was probably Rockhurst returning from Oakhampton – he had escorted Mrs. Tweed to replenish supplies. Rose was with her mother, and Wilkins had just gone down to the kitchen. She would have to open the door herself, for she’d kept the house securely locked since the day Max had arrived.
But it wasn’t Rockhurst. Max was striding up the steps, another gentleman in tow.
“More friends?” she hissed, off balance from a surge of joy at the sight of his blue eyes and beguiling smile. She stifled all emotion, clinging to her decision to remain aloof.
“May I present your uncle, Mr. Richard Godfrey? Miss Hope Ashburton,” he added to his guest.
Her knees weakened.
“This must be a shock,” said Richard gently. “If I had known of your existence, I would have visited long ago, but I was away at school when Katy left home. Father informed me that she was dead. I heard differently only this morning.”
“Perhaps we should adjourn to the drawing room.” Max grasped her elbow and steered her in that direction. His touch burned through his glove and into her skin, but she could not pull away. Without his support, she would sprawl on her face.
Wilkins hurried into the hall. “Refreshments, Reeves,” ordered Max.
Hope fought to regain her composure. Seeing an uncle she had never heard of wa
s bad enough, but Max’s touch was playing havoc with her senses. For now, he would attribute her reaction to shock. She had to control herself before he suspected the true cause.
Her new uncle remained silent until a tray arrived and she poured tea. “Is Katy well enough to see me?” he asked.
She frowned. “I do not know. She is so weak that even pleasant shocks might kill her.”
“Has she suffered a relapse?” asked Max, looking anxious.
“No, but neither has she improved.”
His eyes captured hers, sending heat into her face. “Then perhaps she needs to know that you are not her only family,” he murmured for her ears only. He’d joined her on the couch. “Remember her anguish the night I fetched Dr. Jenkins.”
She stared, recalling those cries. Dickie … where are you … Dickieee. In a rush of relief, she made the connection. Richard. She had feared that her father had not been her mother’s only seducer. Now she knew better. Max must have tracked down this unknown uncle to improve her mother’s spirits. Tremors attacked her fingers, forcing her to set her cup aside.
“Let us see if she is awake.”
Max’s eyes warmed as he took her arm. “Relax,” he whispered. “He will not distress her.”
How had he known her fears? But that was a question for later. His closeness again threatened her composure. She stiffened her back. Only ignoring him could protect her dignity. It was all she had left.
“Wait here,” she instructed when they reached her mother’s door.
The draperies were drawn, keeping the room dim. But her mother was awake. “Hope?”
“I am here.” She sent Rose downstairs, then took one frail hand in her own. “You have a visitor, Mama. He would like to speak with you if you feel strong enough.”
“I cannot imagine who would call.” Her head twisted away to stare at the fireplace, but Hope knew that the motion hid fear.
“He claims to be your brother,” she said gently.
“Dickie?” She lurched back to stare at Hope.
“Katy?” asked a voice from the doorway. “May I enter your fairy bower?”
