The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8)

by Heather Boyd

  “Your mother is here,” she whispered to the marquess.

  He kept his attention on his son. “Yes, I know.”

  Whitney nodded politely to the older woman and then regarded the marquess with suspicion. “How long has she been standing there alone?”

  His jaw firmed. “An hour or so.”

  An hour? “Why are you not standing together?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  Whitney glanced between the pair again. The older woman wasn’t exactly the warmest, but as she had learned earlier that day, family was extremely important to Christopher. If his father was rude to his own mother, might he not notice and do the same one day to Miranda when they disagreed? “You risk setting a bad example for your son by ignoring her,” Whitney murmured. “Christopher looks up to you.”

  The marquess pursed his lips and said nothing to her criticism. But as he glanced toward his mother, a frown line appeared between his eyes. At least he appeared to be thinking about what she had said.

  Whitney bid him goodbye to let him stew on her words a while.

  She strode toward the dowager quickly, and dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, my lady. I was just on my way to see you this morning.”

  The dowager spared her the briefest glance. Her attention was fixed on her grandson. “It’s nearly noon.”

  She smiled. For all the dowager’s prickly nature, Whitney admired her consistency. She had never been one for small talk. “I imagine it must be. I’ve been out riding for hours.”

  “Yes, I saw your return, and that you rode astride, too,” she huffed indignantly, her eyes flicking over Whitney’s cleverly made gown.

  Whitney had found the most ingenious dressmaker who understood Whitney’s needs perfectly. This gown was in fact wide-legged trousers, concealed by an overskirt split up each side. She was perfectly covered when mounted astride, and when standing, her attire gave no hint that she was wearing anything out of the ordinary.

  Whitney turned to view Christopher as he rode now at a slow trot. A groom was still leading him, but he looked very happy with his new horse. “I prefer to be careful when in the country, and particularly when riding unfamiliar fields.”

  The dowager, unconsciously perhaps, swayed forward on her cane as her grandson spoke to the marquess. She smiled briefly and sighed. Whitney couldn’t hear them and she wondered if the old woman could read lips.

  “Where did you ride to?” the dowager asked.

  “Christopher took me to the peak,” she admitted.

  “The peak, you say?” The older woman glanced her way again as Whitney nodded. “My grandson came back alone some time ago.”

  “Hardly alone. He had a groom with him.”

  “And you had but one with you, and no proper chaperone, either.”

  “I tried to send Mr. Landry back too, but he refused to leave me when I rode down the other side of the peak,” Whitney confessed. She met the dowager’s gaze directly. The groom had hinted the dowager was aware that Acton was keeping his sister at that cottage. The dowager would know what views Whitney would have seen from up there, too. “I have never enjoyed being coddled. I also do not appreciate being deliberately kept in the dark about certain risks to my friends. I wished to ride farther and investigate all the hidden mysteries of the district, so I did.”

  The old woman swallowed. “And were there many mysteries to be found to the south?”

  “One,” Whitney said, and then said no more. She would let the old woman decide if they would discuss Lady Brighthurst or not today.

  At her side, the marchioness stirred, finally giving Whitney her full attention. Lady Taverham hobbled around with the use of her cane and stood before her. “And,” the dowager demanded irritably.

  Whitney met the woman’s gaze and saw anger in her old eyes. The dowager had been much around Lady Brighthurst in past years. Learning the woman had tried to harm her grandson must have angered.

  Whitney nodded slowly. “I spoke to her.”

  The dowager exhaled sharply. “You saw her.”

  “No,” Whitney said as she noted Christopher was dismounting. “I only spoke to her through the wall, but she does not sound at all well. Have you not visited her?”

  “No, and if you value your friendship with my son and his wife you will not do so again,” the dowager warned. The older woman took a few steps toward the distant dower house and then turned back slightly. “I believe it will rain soon, Miss Crewe. Good day.”

  “My lady,” Whitney said. At the sound of running feet, Whitney turned and discovered Christopher racing toward her, hat in hand. She smiled at the boy’s happiness. “How was your lesson?”

  “Smashing,” the boy said as he grasped her hand. “He is so tall I was afraid I’d fall off at first.”

  “Most horses are tall. But you didn’t fall and you will get used to him soon enough.”

  “He will indeed.” The marquess agreed as he joined them.

  Christopher tugged on her sleeve urgently. “Did you ask?”

  For a moment, she hadn’t a clue what the boy meant. She was still thinking of Acton’s deception.

  “Not yet.” Whitney ruffled Christopher’s hair. “Shall I ask now?”

  He nodded.

  She faced the marquess. “Forgive the impertinence, my lord, but I was wondering if you might consider inviting the Carrington children to visit in the near future. Perhaps next month.”

  “Can they come, Father? Please. I’d very much like to see them all again.”

  The marquess frowned at Whitney, but then leaned down to his son’s level. “Next month sounds like a long time to wait. How about they come now instead?”

  The boy whooped. “Tomorrow?”

  “Not quite tomorrow. In the next few days perhaps.” The marquess nodded. “I have already invited the Carringtons to visit for the next month, and also some other friends of ours. Your mother and I thought to surprise you, but the first guests arrive soon.”

  “It is still a surprise. The best one.” Christopher threw himself around his father and the pair hugged for a long moment. “Thank you, Father. I cannot wait to see them. I have to tell her.”

  Christopher bolted after his grandmother, who hadn’t gone very far at all on her cane.

  The dowager turned at the sound of his approach. Christopher stopped at the dowager’s side, and clearly told her his news in great excitement, given the way he waved his arms about. She smiled too, which was nice to see. But by the way the dowager suddenly looked back at the marquess, and then shook her head, Whitney knew that she’d been excluded from any discussion of guests coming to the estate.

  How much of what went on here was now hidden from the older woman out of spite? That did not seem fair when she lived here, too. “He’s fond of her.”

  Kit shrugged. “He’s fond of everyone.”

  “No, he’s not,” Whitney disagreed. “Your son is very selective about who he befriends.”

  “You are right, he is careful,” the marquess conceded. “More careful than I ever was. What did my mother have to say for herself today?”

  She glanced up at Kit to see him watching his mother and son make their way slowly toward the dower house just as the rain began to fall lightly over them. The dowager leaned heavily on her cane and the boy slipped under her other arm to support her, helping her along at a quicker pace. Judging by the frown he wore, Kit was concerned about his mother too, but would not admit it.

  “Families should not squabble. Time together is short and should be treasured,” Whitney murmured, thinking of her own parents. They had died when she’d been too young to understand how great their loss would be. “If you want to know how your mother does, you should ask her directly.”

  Kit frowned at her. “It’s complicated.”

  “For Christopher’s sake and happiness, perhaps you should un-complicate things before it is too late. She’s not a young woman anymore. Traipsing about the estate in all kinds of weather just to see her grandson
will wear her out.”

  “She’s as fit as a fiddle,” he protested.

  “How could you possibly know that is still true when you won’t talk to her anymore? You could hardly expect her to confide in you if she wasn’t feeling her best when you keep secrets,” Whitney argued, as the rain came down harder. “If I still had my mother around, or my father, I would never let a day pass without speaking to them. No matter how angry I was with them. Excuse me.”

  Whitney hitched up her skirts and made a dash for the nearest shelter. She had meant to say something about Acton’s lies and Emily’s location, but decided against it for now.

  If Kit and his mother had been talking, would the dowager have brought the matter up on her own? But then Kit would have even more reason to be displeased with the dowager for keeping Emily’s location a secret from him.

  She bit her lip, debating with herself. What Whitney knew could cause further trouble between the pair, but she decided there and then to stay out of the situation.

  However, when it came to Acton, she was not ready to let his actions slide so completely. She would give him a piece of her mind the next time she saw him, and give him a chance to volunteer to set the record straight himself.

  Chapter Ten

  Acton reined in his horse and stared up the grassy slope at an unexpected sight. High above him on one of his hills sat Miss Whitney Crewe, pink gown spread about her, red hair shining like a beacon in the sunlight after a day of dreary rain.

  Alarmed by her presence on his land, and this field in particular, he turned his mount toward her.

  “I’ll return shortly,” he called to Thompson, who’d been helping him drive his cattle into this very field.

  He urged his mount up the steep incline, intent on removing Miss Crewe immediately.

  Whitney was sketching in a large book, obviously without thought to her surroundings. He had not spoken to her since the night of her arrival. Whitney Crewe had been keeping to herself—painting the portrait of their mutual friends.

  He tied his horse to the twisted branch of a nearby tree and rushed toward her. This high up, the views were breathtaking and Whitney appeared enthralled. The lower part of the field, however, was full of his hungry cattle grazing on lush, fresh grass and doing the usual things cows did. Whitney did not look around, but the slight hitch to her posture suggested she knew he was there.

  He crouched down a few feet away, keeping one eye on the herd, and waited until she lifted her hand from what she was sketching. “Good morning.”

  She scowled. “How have you managed to hide what you do for so long?”

  He blinked. “I’m not hiding. I am moving the herd.”

  She huffed. “I spoke with Lady Brighthurst a few days ago,” she told him, frowning at her drawing. “She invited me to visit her again and take tea. Should I go?”

  Acton was on his knees before Whitney the next moment, pulling the sketchpad from her hands and looking closely at her appearance, her pretty face. She did not appear sick or fevered yet. Of course, he could not check her temperature without first removing his gloves, which he absolutely would not do. “Are you mad, woman?”

  “Good God, no,” Whitney said, finally meeting his gaze with displeasure written all over her face. She pulled away. “But she must be by now.”

  He backed away slightly. “Where did you say you saw her?”

  She looked down her nose at him. “At Rose Cottage, of course!”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “What the hell where you doing on my land?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said as she smoothed her page. “Perhaps I wanted to know how far to trust you. I had to discover if my friends are safe or not. Shame on you!”

  “They are safe,” he promised. “Emily cannot leave the garden unless someone lets her out. And no one should have let you enter.” He drew back a little more, worried that his instructions had been ignored. “Did she cough on you?”

  “Of course not.” Whitney scowled again. “Your servants followed your instructions to the point. A very sharp and pointy pitchfork, actually. I was warned away. Your sister favored me with conversation but we only spoke through the wall.”

  He slumped in relief. Whitney was safe, but that did not excuse her for trespassing. He jabbed his finger at her. “I apologize if you were frightened, but never visit her again.”

  “Concern, Acton? It’s a little late to worry about me after the way you behaved the first time we met.”

  Her remark set him aback, and he stared at the woman he’d lost his head over one wild night. He’d often wondered what she thought of what had happened between them, but this was the first time she’d ever alluded to it. It might be unwise, but he wanted to get the topic out in the open at last. He was tired of waiting for her to reveal his indiscretion to his future bride. There was no one to hear them today. No one to know if they argued about it, should the conversation go that way.

  “I recall the terms of our first meeting were quite openly discussed,” he said quietly. “You wanted me that night, and I wanted you.”

  “True, and then I discovered your plans for matrimony. Now it is an encounter best forgotten,” she promised. She began packing things away in her little painter’s box, and then frowned at him again. “But do not change the subject. Surely you have a heart. How frightened will young Christopher be when he discovers your sister is living so close to his home? My cousin has let enough slip for me to know she tried to harm the boy.”

  Everett closed his eyes in a bid to be rid of his family shame. He’d hoped no one else would learn what his sister had tried to do to Christopher, but of course, Lord Louth must have told his cousin. He could barely believe Emily capable of such villainous acts himself, except he’d seen Christopher’s terror with his own eyes. Emily’s feeble attempts to explain had only convinced him it was entirely true. She’d tried to kill the boy. It was only because of Taverham’s kind heart that she’d not been put on trial.

  Lately, though, she’d given up any veneer of innocence on the matter.

  “He will not find out, and it will only be for a while.”

  “A day or a year will make no difference to the boy. He is still afraid,” she protested, and then narrowed her eyes. “Does Lord Taverham know she’s there?”

  “No,” he admitted, hating that he was lying to his best friend. If Taverham and Miranda had stayed in London, as he’d expected them to, Everett wouldn’t be in this situation. Emily was too weak to be moved now. It was safer all around if she came into contact with as few people as possible, which was why she was confined.

  “His mother does.”

  “The dowager knows everything that goes on here,” he told her. “I used to think she had the sight.”

  Whitney snorted, an inelegant sound that strangely set him at ease. “Then why is Lady Brighthurst still here? Miranda told me the night of my arrival that Lady Brighthurst had gone to Bath.”

  “Emily was in Bath, and then she returned to me.”

  “Do your promises mean nothing?”

  “I am well aware of the promises I make.” He slumped in defeat. “I do not wish to talk about the matter.”

  “Well, I gave you a chance to explain.” Whitney began to get up. “I have no choice now but to warn my friends about your sister, and let them know they have been put in danger.”

  “Don’t!” Everett unwisely caught her hand and prevented her flight. A shock of sensation shot up his arm at the contact. He pulled her back down to sit close to him. “Wait.”

  Whitney lifted her chin, and when their eyes met, he was filled with an unreasonable surge of yearning for this eccentric woman. She was so fierce in her loyalty to their friends. Passionate about everything that mattered to her. But it was the unexpected rush of desire for her that nearly took his breath away, reminding him of the way they’d been together at the Fairmont Ball. His attraction to her had been instant and overwhelming that night.

  Whitney must have felt somethin
g too, because her expression softened. “Wait for what?” she whispered.

  “I want you to understand.” He forced away his desire ruthlessly. “Something has happened to my sister, and that is the only reason I keep her at Rose Cottage.”

  She blinked. “What reason could there possibly be to explain your lies?”

  He released Whitney. “Emily is ill. I’d hoped she’d improve in the country air and familiar surroundings but…they say it is consumption.”

  Whitney stared at him in horror then scrambled away. She flipped open her box of paints one-handed and removed a black cloth. “You fiend! Are you trying to harm me now?”

  She held the cloth across her nose and mouth.

  “Of course not.” He winced and put his hands back into his lap. “I am very careful. My London physician explained what steps I might take to protect myself and others. I bathe after each visit with Emily, scrub my hands with lavender and rosemary oil, and never wear the same clothes around other people. These gloves are entirely new, too.”

  “There are other ways it spreads,” she warned. “A breath, touch, intimacy.” Her eyes widened in horror.

  Was she thinking they had been very close the night they first met?

  He winced. “I believe you are safe. She was not ill when we first met, and it was your wish that we did not kiss.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And what of Miss Quartermane, then? You would have certainly kissed her a dozen times by now. What have you told her about your family?”

  “I’ve not kissed Miss Quartermane, so she is safe,” he promised quietly. Given Whitney’s reaction just now, he decided it might not be wise to risk trying to kiss his bride for a while, either. He had not considered that when he’d announced their wedding date. “How can I tell her about Emily’s crimes when I barely understand how I could not have known what she was doing?”

  Whitney slowly lowered the black cloth, sitting back on her heels as she faced him across a greater distance. “You must tell her. You must tell everyone to take precautions.”

  He nodded, knowing she was right but dreading the confession. Emily wasn’t getting better. If Whitney had stumbled upon Emily, then it was possible Miranda and her son, or one of their gossip-loving guests, might too one day. Consumption was said to be easy to catch if one was young or unwell. He didn’t want anyone to suffer a similar fate to Emily. “I will.”