The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

by Vivienne Lorret

The viscount took her elbow and escorted her to a chair. “Unfortunately, it is true, my dear.”

  No. It couldn’t be. She rejected the very notion. Lucan wouldn’t do something like that. Not to his friends. He wasn’t a man who would have such a debt and then not honor it.

  Refusing to sit, she stood in front the chair and faced Whitelock. She knew the real Lucan now. And yet . . . she knew how important the wager was to him. “How did you come by your information, my lord?”

  “Lucan Montwood borrowed the money from me.” Lord Whitelock’s expression turned gentle and apologetic.

  Her world came to a sudden halt. The blood in her heart froze. The warmth of her skin turned cold and clammy. She slumped down and put her face in her hands, her stomach churning. “From you?”

  “Sadly, yes,” he said, stroking her shoulder as if to reassure her. “I have been accused of being too generous at times. It is my own failing. I only warn you so that you are not too generous with your favors. It would not be prudent for an intelligent woman to involve herself with a man who cannot support her, as you no doubt already know from experience.”

  Though she bristled to hear it, she could not deny the truth. After all, her father was in gaol for his debts. Suddenly, she felt like a fool for putting her faith in the wrong man once again.

  The shred of hope that she’d clung to—that she’d found a noble man in Lucan Montwood—dissolved into dust. A wager for ten thousand pounds . . . fleecing his friends . . . and all the while, Lucan had cast a shadow of suspicion over Lord Whitelock. The only reason he would want to do that would be to distract her, so that she didn’t look too closely at his own character. It was a magician’s parlor trick to make the audience focus on one hand while the other worked the trick.

  She’d fallen for deception once more. “If you’ll forgive me, my lord, I would like to retire. My headache seems to have returned.”

  Frances felt a keen, sharp pain beneath her breast as she left the room. She knew that her heart was shattering. This time, there would be no way to mend it.

  After spending a few hours writing letters and speaking privately with Everhart and Danvers, Lucan strode into the foyer at Fallow Hall. “Valentine, I need this letter sent out post haste.”

  The letter was addressed to Theodosia, asking for her assistance—or rather, the use of her connections in London—in order to have Hugh Thorne released from Fleet. He knew that he’d given his word to Thorne to allow him three months to sort himself out, but now circumstances were different. Thorne was at risk from far more than sitting in a cramped cell. Once Lucan confronted Whitelock about his suspicions, there was no telling what the viscount would do.

  If Theodosia’s friends declined, then Everhart had already offered to press his connections. And Danvers knew of an empty house where Thorne could hide out until this matter with the evidence against him was sorted.

  The butler inclined his head. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  Lucan was confident that after he spoke with Frances, she would return with him and leave Whitelock Manor for good. “Yes. Have the Raven chamber prepared.” In his opinion, it was the finest room in Fallow Hall. Not only that, but it was near his suite of rooms.

  “Very good.”

  Lucan watched the butler carefully. “Was that a grin, Valentine?”

  There it was, that twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m certain it couldn’t have been, sir. The shadows in the foyer are quite deceptive at times.”

  Hmm . . . In recalling his last conversation with Theodosia about her spy, Lucan eyed him shrewdly. “Tell me, have you always worked at Fallow Hall?”

  “No, sir. As a younger man, I worked at Thistlemane.”

  Ah. Now, he understood how his aunt was receiving information. Thistlemane was an estate not far from where his mother and aunt were raised. “Do you keep in contact with the people of that area?”

  That smile flickered again. “Not as often as one would like.”

  Lucan settled his John Bull atop his head and studied Valentine. He couldn’t believe he’d been blind to it all this time—the glint in his eyes and the way his last comment was edged with longing. However, Lucan supposed it took a man in love to recognize the symptoms in another.

  “My aunt is a remarkable woman.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir.”

  Shortly afterward, Lucan left for Whitelock Manor. The sun had set, and the dinner hour for country dwellers approached.

  Once at the manor, he slipped through the passageway and climbed the narrow stairs to the gallery. Surprisingly, Frances was already there, waiting for him. She was sitting in the dim light of a single lamp at her feet.

  “Shouldn’t you still be at dinner?” he asked, curious about the change in her schedule. Then again, perhaps she was as eager to see him as he was her.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  He peered around the gallery to ensure they were alone. It was still early enough that a servant might make a final pass, but when he was satisfied, he knelt in front of her and took her hands. They were like ice. He brought them to his lips to warm them. Then he looked into her face and noticed the puffy flesh around her eyes.

  He was instantly alarmed. “What has happened? Are you unwell? Did that blackguard—”

  “Blackguard?” she asked, her irises hard and flinty. “You would accuse the man who loaned you ten thousand pounds of unscrupulous behavior?”

  Slowly, he felt the cold seep into him, and he removed his hands from hers. “How did you hear that?”

  “The generous man who loaned you the money so that you could gamble it away told me,” she said, already damning Lucan. She didn’t even ask for a denial or reason. “It is no wonder that you have spent all your time trying to persuade me to see the ill in him.”

  Lucan loathed Whitelock and his methods. First, he made Frances feel as if she were indebted to him, and now he wanted to poison her mind so that she couldn’t see the people who truly cared for her. Who loved her.

  “Do not be fooled by what you learned today. It is true that I am in debt to Whitelock for ten thousand pounds, but the nature of the bargain that I made is that I was never to speak of it. He was to adhere to the same bargain.”

  Lucan wanted to tell her everything now, but his need for her to trust his words above Whitelock’s made his tongue stubborn.

  “I can think of only one reason you can never speak of it and that is shame,” she accused, her voice breaking.

  He longed to haul her into his arms and reassure her. All she had to do was trust him. Instead, he stood. Turning on his heel, he faced the back of that damned sculpture. Something in the vicinity of his heart was tearing apart. The pain of it made him want to shout loud enough to shatter the windows. Yet, somehow, he managed to keep his voice low and even. “Yes, Miss Thorne, you should have known better. I am the type of man who is all charm and no substance.”

  “Your self-deprecating comments will not make me fall in love with you again. I am finished loving you,” she hissed.

  His heart seized. Joy and agony hit him at once. Her confession nearly brought him to his knees. Steeling himself, Lucan clenched his fists and looked straight ahead. Her words would forever be caged in his mind, torturing him.

  “Finished so soon?” He tried to make light of it, but his tone was harsh. “Might I ask when it began so that I am able to mourn it properly?”

  “I doubt you could. It is my own burden to know that love does not come from a place of sound judgment, nor did my actions earlier today.” Her breathing staggered and the candlelight wavered as she stood. Then, she stepped around to face him, pushing her spectacles up along the bridge of her nose. “I put my trust in you. I felt safe with you, but it was all part of a deception. I was naïve to think I was worldly, that I knew better. Though perhaps, I do now.”

  Seeing his own anguish mirrored in her lenses, it panicked him. He couldn’t let this be the last thing between them. He took hold of her ar
ms. “Don’t say that, Frances. Please. You don’t understand everything. Whitelock is trying to manipulate you.”

  Frances took a step back until his hands fell away. “That is far too convenient of an answer.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know for certain about Henny Momper. I will find out more tomorrow when I travel to Shalehouse. However, I do know that Whitelock is hiding things from society,” Lucan said, agony clawing at him. “He has underhanded dealings with a physician whom I know is untrustworthy. Whitelock also owns property in China. It is entirely possible that it is an opium farm. He could be keeping his wife an invalid to suit his own purpose.”

  “Enough!” she shouted. “Don’t you hear yourself? You have no proof of any of it. This is all speculation, conveniently aimed at a man to whom you owe ten thousand pounds.”

  “I know what it sounds like, which is precisely why I’ve kept it all to myself. But you’ve turned me inside out. I am a desperate man—desperate to make sure you don’t choose a cunning devil over me.” He shook his head, taking a step toward her. “Choose me, Frances.”

  She looked stricken. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Lucan, I don’t—”

  “Wait. Before you decide, there is one thing I know for certain.” He swallowed hard, hating that he was telling her this way. But this might be his last chance to get through to her. “When I spoke with your father, I learned that there was a reason why he never mentioned Whitelock to you. It’s true that they were once rivals for your mother’s hand, but Whitelock lured her into being alone with him. He did something despicable, heinous, to her . . . Then, later that same summer, she married your father.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything. And how could you mention my dear mother in such an unforgivable manner?” She swiped at her tears with a closed fist. “I never want to see you again.”

  Then she rushed away, taking the light with her and out of his life.

  He returned a short while later, but he did not bother her with a renewal of his plea. Without a word, he left RJ to stand guard at her door and slinked back into the shadows.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lucan left that same night. His path was lit only by the moon. He rode hours without a break, as if demons were on Quicksilver’s heels.

  Shalehouse was inside a small parish, hidden away near the outskirts of the Brindle Forest with no other surrounding villages for miles. It was suspiciously secluded. The house itself was more of a farm and less of a manor. It certainly didn’t appear to be a place that a noble would send his staff for training—if that was truly what Whitelock did.

  Tying Quicksilver to the branches of a twisted yew, Lucan skirted through the predawn shadows toward the house. With the morning as warm as it was, the kitchen windows were open, revealing lamplight spilling out onto the garden. The scent of porridge and ham drifted outside. An older man and woman sat at a rough wooden table, their cups and bowls set before them, a stack of papers nearby.

  Lucan crept low, crouching near a honeysuckle as he overheard bits and pieces of conversation. He concentrated, tuning his ear to the rustic accents.

  “In that letter, it seems Cora’s done well for ’erself, wouldn’t ye say? Managing a fine ’ouse, she is. Couldn’t do no better,” the man said as he shuffled paper.

  “That boy o’ ’ers is nigh on three years now,” the woman added. “The farmer what took ’im came by here yestermorn and said ’e wouldn’t mind another like ’im. So if the next girl o’ ’is lordship’s bears an ’ealthy boy, we’ll know just where to put ’im.”

  The next girl of his lordship’s? Lucan felt a jolt of panic rush through him. If this was the house where the driver always brought the companions, then it sounded as if it wasn’t for training at all. But who was Cora—one of the first of Lady Whitelock’s companions?

  If that was true, then Whitelock had been sullying his employees for quite a while. At least four years, if the first boy was three.

  “Couldna been more surprised that Molly found ’erself a husband. Right stubborn minx. Wanted ’is lordship or nuffin. They all want to please ’im, e’en after ’e’s done wi’ ’em,” the man continued. “I just learned that she runs a shop in London now. ’Is lordship bought it and even let Molly put ’er ’usband’s name on it. Tuttle’s Registry. Sounds right fancy, once you say it.”

  Tuttle’s Registry. The shop that had opened down the street from Mrs. Hunter’s. So Whitelock now had his own servant registry. He would have a never-ending supply of unsuspecting maids in the future. Not only that, but he likely helped force Frances from her employment.

  Though Lucan had sought to find proof, this news was far worse than he’d ever imagined.

  “We could do wi’ a bit o’ ’elp in the kitchen. Mayhap ’is lordship could send a cook from the registry. Or send us a cook with a babe in ’er belly,” the woman said with a laugh.

  The man laughed too but then tsked. “Such a shame the last one didn’t live through the birthin’. She was a fair cook. Ah, but ’tis for the best since ’er babe woulda been a girl. Saved us the trouble, she did. Rest ’er poor soul.”

  Lucan didn’t need to hear her name. He already knew. Henny Momper was dead.

  Leaving the same way he came, only with a heavier burden, he made it back to Quicksilver. Only now, with dawn creeping low in the sky, did he notice that the yew tree stood beside a small graveyard. There were several older stones, sinking in the soft ground. But there was also one wooden cross that hadn’t yet weathered. All the marker read was MOTHER AND CHILD.

  Anguish and injustice flooded him. Arthur Momper had lost the only family he had left. Whitelock, in his lecherous seduction, had stolen Henny Momper’s innocence and her life. He was worse than Lucan’s father. At least the Marquess of Camdonbury was terrible at disguising his monstrous nature, while Whitelock was far too good at it. Hell, even the older couple had sounded as if they admired him.

  It was more than Lucan could take. He was going to confront Whitelock once and for all.

  Like his mother, Lucan had been unable to save Henny Momper from a monster. But he was determined to save Frances. He loved her and refused to let her come to harm. Even if she didn’t choose him in the end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Frances had not slept at all. The morning offered no reprieve for her aching heart either. She’d arrogantly clung to the idea that she could easily spot the cads and bounders. Yet it was all too clear that she was a horrible judge of character. Not even being cynical had kept her safe from anguish.

  Foolishly, she’d given her heart to Lucan too soon, like a cloud set adrift amidst the heavens. Sadly, she’d discovered that it was merely a painted façade—a creation contrived by a cunning deceiver. Summarily, her heart had fallen back to earth, landing hard enough to cripple her.

  The worst part was, she still wanted to believe Lucan. Her broken heart yearned for him. Especially after she’d discovered RJ standing guard outside her chamber door this morning. Just when she thought she’d spent all her tears throughout the night, the moment she saw the lovable beast, she sank to her knees, hugged him, and wept some more.

  Afterward, she led RJ to the back stairs in order to let him out. Since it was Sunday, the entire household typically attended church services. Therefore, she didn’t need to worry about being caught. At the garden door, she gave RJ one final pat and sent him on his way, certain he would know the path back to Fallow Hall.

  Climbing the stairs, Frances went to Lady Whitelock’s bedchamber. She could use the distraction of Mrs. Darby’s conversation. However, when she entered the room, the nurse was not there. The viscountess slept peacefully in her pastel silk bed. Frances had always assumed that she was never left alone, but obviously that wasn’t true. Yet not wanting to return to her own chamber, Frances decided to sit in a corner chair and wait for Mrs. Darby’s return.

  Soon enough, however, Frances felt her eyes grow heavy. As her lids drifted shut, she recalled how she’d sat in her mother’s
room like this. It was a comforting thought, and soon she found herself lost in a dream.

  “Come here, my angel,” her mother said from the bed, beckoning her from the corner chair and trying to lift her arm from the coverlet. But the strength had all but left her.

  Frances crossed the room and sat on the edge of the feather mattress. Automatically, she withdrew a cloth from the bowl waiting on the nightstand and cleansed the perspiration from her mother’s face. “What is it, Mother?”

  “There is something I need to tell you,” she rasped, her face pale but full of determination. “Be on your guard, always. My greatest fear is that I will not be here to protect you from life’s cruelties.”

  “Don’t speak like that, Mother. You’re going to be well again.” But they both knew differently. “You’ve already taught me so much . . . ”

  “There is more.” Her mother clutched her hand, squeezing it tightly and shaking from the effort. Even her voice trembled. “I had . . . a dear friend who trusted the wrong man. She believed he was good and honorable, only to have her naiveté stolen in the most vile manner imaginable for a young woman.”

  A glacial cold crept over Frances as she saw the horror in her mother’s eyes. In that instant, she knew what had happened to her mother’s friend. Yet the word was left unspoken. In fact, not many women ever dared to whisper about that particular evil. No woman could recover from such ruination, she was sure.

  “I will be cautious,” Frances promised.

  Her mother released a slow breath. “Good. My wish is for you to know only love.”

  Frances lay down beside her and was quiet for a while, thinking. “In the end, whatever happened to your friend?”

  “She married the kindest of men who cherished her in spite of everything. She married for love.”

  “Just like you and Da.”

  Her mother pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, my darling. Exactly like your father and me.”

  Frances awoke with a start. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the room. When she saw the furs on the floor and the cherubs overhead, she realized she must have fallen asleep in the viscountess’s bedchamber.