by Cheryl Howe
“I could not agree more.” Ivy stood, anxious to attend to Melody. “Except that I will require fifty thousand pounds to humiliate your son instead of thirty. I’ll be awaiting notice from my banker that the funds have been delivered. I still use the account you were so gracious enough to open for me. Good day, my lord.” And the moment he deposited the fifty thousand pounds, she would be off to Italy with her daughter and would renegotiate from there.
But you shall have your beloved Ivy by your side,
CHAPTER SIX
Ivy almost sobbed at the comforting sight of the forest-green front door of her leased Chelsea Square home. Darien jumped down from the railing where he had been hidden from the street view by a black newel post. “You left the house early this morning.”
“I did not want to be hounded by reporters.” Ivy yanked off her wilted hat once in the privacy of her shrub-shrouded brick porch. Her spirit had faired no better. Not even fifty thousand pounds could dislodge the feeling that Westhaven had won again.
“I think my father paid off The Times.” Darien held up a newspaper. “No one has been by this morning. Except for one of my father’s servants, who left his visiting card. I’m not sure if the threat was meant for you or me.”
Ivy found it difficult to look at Darien. Though she justified the payoff as owed Diana and Melody, she was sure she had lost another chunk of her soul by using Darien’s heart as ransom. She banged on the door with her palm. When dependable Samuel did not answer, Ivy laid her forehead on the locked door’s cool, lacquered front.
“Did you get any sleep last night? I came back later but the windows were dark and all was quiet. I didn’t want to wake you. I have a key.”
Ivy glanced at Darien and did not bother asking how he came into possession of the large brass key that he fit into the lock. No doubt Samuel gladly handed the responsibility over at Darien’s request. Lord Blackmore had never toppled from his list of potential heads of Ivy’s household.
“And how is Marcus?” Ivy asked.
“Splendid. He sends his regards.” Darien held open the front door.
“No scrapes or contusions?” Ivy gave his clean-shaven face a thorough examination. Darien had changed from his evening wear and wore a simple yet well-cut ensemble that lent him the air of a proper country gentleman. Tan breeches, polished knee boots and a crisp white shirt covered by a simple waistcoat and topped by a burgundy jacket that hugged his broad shoulders but had been tailored for his narrow waist. Since all things French had been snubbed in fear that the plebian revolt might find a foothold in England, Darien was in the height of fashion. Even Darien’s disgust for wigs worked to his advantage in his accidental imitation of London’s latest trend.
He followed behind her. His lime soap scent toyed with Ivy’s weakened resistance. Another quick sniff let her easily imagine the musk of his body heated by her own. She had a wounded animal urge to drag him up to her bedroom and let him make love to her until she was too exhausted to think.
“Just a scuffle between friends,” he said, prompting Ivy to turn a sharper gaze upon him.
“You look like you fared well.” Ivy lightly touched his face, but the feel of his jawbone beneath her fingers forced her to drop her gaze so as not meet his own. The hint of his taut physique beneath the billowing of fine white linen heated Ivy’s cheeks.
“I hit him when he didn’t expect the blow. He’s bigger than I am.”
Ivy grinned despite herself. She could never resist the mischievous glint in his almost black, unreadable eyes. “And did he clear up any misunderstanding you might be having about my tiny house guest?”
Their hushed voices echoed in the quiet house. Ivy assumed everyone must be sleeping. Even Melody. Instead of relief, a sobering chill chased away her warmth at Darien’s nearness. She suddenly needed to see Melody, assure herself her small chest rose and fell with steady rhythm. Hold her and let her know she was not alone in the world. Tears choked Ivy’s throat. Grief for Diana descended like a summer downpour. Ivy had paid the landlord her missed rent and promised even more when she had word that Diana was safely with a reputable undertaker. She would make the funeral arrangements before she left for Cornwall.
“Is the child better?” he asked, the concern clearly in his voice pulverizing Ivy’s last shred of control. It was all she could do not to throw herself in his arms and plead with him to hold her through a good cry.
“Yes,” she heard the waver in her voice and quickly turned toward the steps. “I’m exhausted, Darien. If you’ll excuse—”
“Marcus said the child could not be his. I won’t bother you more on the subject if that’s your wish.”
She turned to find him still standing in the middle of her black and white tiled entry hall, making no move for the door.
“Thank you.”
“Let me help you. I don’t want you to be alone.”
She shook her head, unable to speak. All her bravado was slipping away. The idea of her and Darien…together… That dream had been tightly imprisoned in her heart for so long, the very notion of setting it free terrified her.
“My motives are not completely selfless if that’s what’s troubling you.” He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to her. For a moment her blood went cold. She tightened her grip on the small velvet valise that matched her fitted mint-green jacket. The crinkle of paper echoed in her ears above her beating heart.
Ivy took the folded letter with a quick glance at Darien’s unusually serious features. A single sentence was scrawled on the wrinkled piece of paper. Philip was murdered.
“Dear God.” For a moment, Ivy wished she had dropped her letter from Diana after all. “Where did this come from?”
“I received it in the post a week after the invitation to the ball.”
“Darien,” she shook her head, “I would not read too much into this. People are cruel.” Though Ivy could not contemplate such a sick joke, whispered speculation had circulated about Philip’s tragic death for several years afterwards. She tried to catch Darien’s gaze to silently plead with him for once in his life to abdicate to reason.
“It’s true. I know it is.” Darien tore his desperate gaze from hers, turned slightly away, and ran his finger through his black, shoulder-length hair. He ground his jaw, making the hollows of his sunken cheeks more pronounced.
Ivy slipped off the step and silently approached him. She stopped short of laying her hand on his tense shoulder that seemed to stiffen at her approach. She stood motionless. Close enough to see the flare of his nostrils with each deepened breath.
“There were only rumors and your father’s word is almost impossible to contradict.” How clearly she had learned that painful lesson. Though there was no evidence other than the sudden disappearance of her father’s gambling debts, she had been eternally branded an outcast with a few crude jokes over port and cigars by men who called themselves gentleman.
“But I should have,” he abruptly turned to face her, stared down into her eyes. “I should have called him out if I had to.”
“Your father claimed the incident a hunting accident. He even admitted that he pulled the trigger.” She swallowed the bitter taste of defending Westhaven, but the alternative was too awful and would only hurt Darien more. And the idea that Darien’s father had far more threatening tactics than ruining one’s reputation to get what he wanted terrified her too much to contemplate.
“I received the first note almost immediately after Philip’s death and assumed that it was an ugly prank.” He shook his head. “That’s a lie. After I had begun to drink myself into oblivion on a daily basis, I talked myself into believing the first note was a joke, but somewhere I always knew better. Then the second letter arrived. I will not rest until I find out what exactly happened to Philip.”
“Who do you think wrote the note?”
“I have an idea, but I think the person in question is in hiding. Philip was not alone at the hunting lodge that night.”
“What? Then why did he not speak up?”
“Philip was not hunting,” he said heavily. “He was with someone. I don’t know exactly what took place, or who was involved, but I have my suspicions. I do not want to accuse anyone of anything without actually knowing the details first.”
“Since when?”
“Since it could hurt someone Philip loved.” He lowered his gaze. “My father knows the truth and I want it. Will you help me, Ivy?”
“What can I do?”
“You have a level head about these things. Westhaven has not hunted on the estate since Philip’s death. He cannot be so removed from feeling to be unaffected by the experience. It is my best chance to discover what happened to Philip. I won’t have peace until I find the truth, and neither will the person who wrote this letter.”
“I have other obligations.” She needed to whisk Melody out of the country on the off chance that the earl knew of his child. News of Diana’s death would be public fodder sooner than later. Speculation might jog someone’s memory about a child and Ivy intended no connection would be made to Melody. It was the least she could do for her friend.
“That’s where I was, Ivy.” Darien shoved his hands in his pockets. He glanced at his boots. “I did not desert you. Westhaven had summoned me to tell me of Philip’s death and that I must break our engagement so I could marry Maddox’s daughter. I was in shock and of course I refused.”
“And he cut you off financially unless you complied.” Ivy folded her hands over her chest, steeling herself for whatever confession Darien might make, remembering her loyalty to Diana above Darien. Darien was a man in line to be an earl. He could have what other men dreamed of, power, wealth, title. Women like Ivy, Melody and Diana were left to the whims of men like him. They did not have the luxury of wild adventures or missteps, and most definitely not forgiveness and understanding, even for a wee babe who had never done a thing wrong in her life.
“That was after I got back from trying to find out who sent the note. I had suspicions but no real proof. When I returned, I received your letter bowing out of our engagement and heard you had become my father’s mistress.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know that now, but then…I was enraged at the world and I saw no way to set things right. Why did you not wait for me before you made such a rash choice?”
“Your father would have ruined us. My father had his gambling debts. You knew that. You paid enough of them.”
“And then Marcus paid them.”
“I was alone and he was there. I will not apologize for that.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Are you, Darien?”
“Yes. I do not want us to be at odds for another ten years. You have that child now, Ivy, wherever she came from and…I need to find out what happened to Philip. Come with me to Westhaven.”
“Don’t be daft.” Lord, but she would be playing right into Westhaven’s hands. “I plan to take Melody to Italy. I have a villa there. You have made me even more the center of speculation, and I don’t want Melody caught up in it.”
“How will you get there? You cannot travel through France. It’s too dangerous. The king is imprisoned and civil unrest is raging.”
“Samuel will accompany me, of course.”
“Does Samuel know how to shoot? I doubt it. Come with me to Westhaven. The baby is in no condition for a long journey. I have friends who can help nurse her back to health. Everything thrives there. Come with me, Ivy, and I will get you and your …the child to Italy with no questions asked or answers expected. You need help and I can give it. Please. Do this for me and we will be even.”
He looked so sincere. She touched the side of his face, brushed her lips to his. His arms came around her and he pressed her close.
“I have missed you so much.” She laid her head against his shoulder and wanted to melt into him. Melody let out an ear-splitting wail from the top of the stairs.
“I realize you will never forgive me, Darien. You must also understand we can never go back.” She ran up the stairs to comfort her recently discovered one and only priority. Keeping Diana’s child safe and secret was too important to trust to a man who could nonchalantly destroy the life she had so carefully pieced together.
***
Darien folded his arms over his chest, still seared by the press of Ivy against him. She was right, of course. He might not be able to forgive her completely, but that did not stop him from wanting her. Of that he was certain. And it was past time he had Ivy in his bed. He no longer cared about what had happened in the past, nor who the father of her child might be. He wasn’t here. Darien was.
His conversation with Marcus troubled him in a way he had not expected. A vague memory of Ivy fearing she could never give him children nagged at him. He had brushed off her worries with a quip about progeny not being as valued in second sons. Or maybe he just kept recalling that particular exchange along with her long confinements and doctor’s attention during her time of the month because he hated the idea that Ivy had born some other man’s child. If only Ivy’s behavior confirmed his theory. Ivy had a baby that ruled her by mere lung power alone. She certainly acted like the child’s mother.
He glanced at the front door, locked it, then strode to the kitchen. Whether Ivy liked it or not, he was not leaving her side. Perhaps Darien could not erase all that lay behind them, but neither could he let Ivy slip from his life again so easily.
Darien walked down the narrow hall papered with dark pink stripes and an artful display of botanical prints. The home Ivy created for herself appealed to his simple tastes. He could see himself easily among her casual elegance.
A knock sounded at a back door, and Darien strode through the compact yet warm kitchen that held vases of flowers and bowls of fruit on every surface, to answer it. The smell of freshly cooked muffins wafted from a basket covered with a white cloth, and Darien made a note to investigate further after he saw to the intrusion.
Faith stood on the lowest step, her head bent, a large straw hat covering her face. She glanced up and stared wide-eyed at Darien. “Excuse me, my lord. I’m here…” She paused. “I shall return later.”
“Faith,” he said and reached out to drag her in. “It’s Darien, remember? Do come in. Why are you hovering at the back door like a rag peddler?”
She hurried in and quickly skirted away from him to a far part of the kitchen.
“My husband does not like me to visit.” She refused to meet Darien’s gaze. And then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she whirled abruptly to face him. A smile lighted her features, making her look fourteen again, the age when Darien had last seen her. “It’s true then, is it? You and Ivy have patched things up.”
“It’s true,” he said, hoping Ivy would not skin him for it, but the white lie made Faith laugh with pleasure.
She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him in a sisterly embrace, but then quickly pulled away. “Is your father furious?”
“Of course. That’s half the fun of it.”
Faith sobered, her face serious. “This is not a joke, is it, Darien? We are too old for jokes. More things are at stake here.”
Darien suddenly realized she was right. They were too old for jokes back then, too, but Darien had not realized it until it was too late.
“Ivy is considering my proposal.” He shrugged with a slight apology for his quick tongue. He had never realized how much their broken engagement had strained Ivy’s relationship with her sister. “We haven’t made amends quite yet.
“You must not take no for an answer.” Red splotches shone on her cheeks, only emphasizing the wan pallor of the rest of her exhausted features. “If Ivy married, especially you, Gerome might think she had seen the error of her ways and let her see the girls at least.”
“Gerome, that’s your husband, isn’t it?” Darien stiffened and tried to rein in his temper. “Tell me about him.”
A faint wailing drifted down the ha
ll, growing increasingly louder. Darien slipped to the entryway that linked the kitchen to the rest of the house. A door had been propped open and he nonchalantly kicked at the iron rabbit doorstop to shut the damned thing. Quite likely, Ivy would rather not introduce her little secret to Faith under such circumstances.
“Have you seen my new carriage?” Darien braced a hand on the threshold, blocking Faith’s view, while he had to give the rabbit another forceful shove to clear the door’s width. “You shan’t have to worry about Ivy not being seen in style.”
“Gerome does not like a lavish display of riches. Style is definitely to be frowned upon. Is that a baby’s cries?”
“Darien, could you help me search for Melody’s tincture?” Ivy appeared at his back giving him a hard nudge to clear her way. “It’s in a small brown bottle with a clear glass stopper. Hurry.” Her little bundle of joy sucked in a wet gasp.
Darien stumbled forward not wanting to risk being an obstacle to Ivy’s determined stride with the child in her arms.
“Faith.” Ivy stilled the moment she spotted her sister. “How good of you to drop in. My seamstress came by to show me her daughter. Isn’t she adorable?”
Ivy held Melody away from her chest as if admiring her for the first time and the infant’s earsplitting scream of complaint instantly numbed Darien’s hearing.
“Good Lord!” Faith said, appalled. She searched the kitchen, spotted the bottle and rushed to Ivy.
“Here, give her to me,” Faith insisted.
“I can do it.” Ivy pulled Melody passionately closer. She took the bottle from her sister, shifted Melody to open the container then aimed the drops.
