“My dying wish, Maura,” the earl said, swallowing thickly. “I have always thought of you as a daughter. Honor me, and make the truth. Return to my bedside as my son’s wife.”
Rowan’s grip crushed her fingers. It was a silent warning not to upset his father by denying his last wishes. Maura took a deep breath and nodded. “I will marry your son.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Everod was the first to climb out of the coach. His brisk stride took him up the steps to the front door of his father’s town house. The closed door meant nothing to him. He had scaled the garden walls on several occasions for a chance to speak with Maura. Only hours earlier, he had entered the house, and walked the corridors as if he had the right to do so.
He was Worrington’s heir, and Maura seemed to be the only person in the family who cared to remember that fact. She had loved him for years. He had despised her just as long. When he had approached her at the bookseller’s, she had been terrified that he intended to hurt her. Nevertheless, she had forced herself to see beyond his resentment and tried to touch the boy she had loved. His motives had not always been so noble when it came to Maura, and yet, she had gifted him with her innocence.
It was the only thing she had to sacrifice that would truly cost her. She had gambled recklessly, trusting a man who had once planned to take her virginity and mockingly toss her gesture at her feet.
And how had he repaid that trust? He had allowed his anger and jealousy of Rowan to provoke him into publicly shaming the one woman who had loved him unconditionally, scars and all.
Maura loved him.
The realization seeped deep into his bones, warming parts of him that he never comprehended were cold. Maura had always loved him, but she had never given him the words.
Even if she had, Everod would not have believed her.
Lovers had whispered of their love into his ear, and he had given the words back to those now faceless specters, because the three simple words would have given him what he wanted.
The one woman who deserved those heartfelt words had never heard them from his lips.
Would she have believed me, if I had had the courage to utter them?
Everod sensed his friends coming up from behind.
“Are you going to knock?” Solitea asked.
Like the other men, he was tired and longed for his wife and his bed.
Everod scowled at the door.
His brother planned to marry Maura.
Not bloody likely.
Everod lashed out with his foot, and kicked in the door.
“Christ, Everod! I said ‘Knock’!” Solitea shouted at him as Everod used his body to complete the damage he had done to the door.
He shoved open the door.
Abbot, the Worringtons’ elderly butler, had heard the commotion at the door. The man clutched a walking stick in his hands like a cudgel. “Leave this house at once! We don’t want your sort here!”
Everod snatched the walking stick out of the servant’s hand and tossed it to Cadd. “We are not housebreakers, Abbot. Put on your spectacles. I am Worrington’s heir, Everod.” He looked past the butler to see if Maura was watching him from behind one of the doors. “I’ve come for Miss Keighly.”
Confusion furrowed the man’s brow. He stared at the five intimidating gentlemen, uncertain how he should proceed. “Miss Keighly? I—”
“Who is it, Abbot?” Georgette’s crisp tones from overhead had Everod backing up so he could see the countess’s face.
With one hand gracefully poised on the railing, she stared down at them all with condescension. “No one summoned you, Everod. This is still Worrington’s house. Begone, or I will have Abbot summon the watch.”
The butler hobbled forward. “It must have been Dr. Burke, my lady. The heir is usually sent for during these grave circumstances.”
Ramscar stepped in front of Everod before he could seize the butler by his nightshirt. “What circumstances, Abbot?” the earl inquired calmly.
“Say nothing,” Georgette hissed at her servant.
Abbot shook his head sadly. “Lord Worrington is dying, my lords. Dr. Burke tells us his heart—”
Everod had heard enough. He bounded up the stairs, willing to fight anyone who tried to prevent him from seeing his father.
His father was dying.
Their differences and animosity aside, Everod had never stopped loving his father. The lady who had guaranteed that Worrington had not returned the sentiment stepped in front of him like an avenging angel.
“Worrington does not want to see you,” she said, her words cutting him to the quick.
“Well, I love disappointing him,” Everod said, brushing by her. He heard his friends talking as they climbed the stairs. Likely, Abbot was giving them more details about his father’s ill health.
“No!”
Georgette’s shriek made his ears ring. Ignoring her repeated demands that he stop, Everod opened his father’s bedchamber door. He paused at the entrance, bringing his fist to his nose. Brightened only by a wall sconce, the interior smelled of vomit, unwashed flesh, and proof spirits.
Everod found his father on the bed. Something was very wrong. Worrington was awake, but he did not acknowledge his son’s presence. As he stared straight ahead, his pupils shone like flat glass buttons. The earl’s mouth was slack, and his breathing very labored.
“Father,” he said quietly, touching his shoulder.
Worrington squinted, trying to focus on his son’s face. Everod did not see recognition in the man’s gaze, nor did his rambling response make any sense. Half of what the earl uttered was not even words.
“I will get this Dr. Burke,” Brawley said, disappearing through the doorway.
Everod pressed his fingers to his eyelids. His father’s condition was worsening right before his eyes.
Allowing his hand to slide over his mouth, Everod’s cold forbidding gaze shifted from his incoherent father to the small side table near the bed. It was a dismal arrangement of used drinking glasses and medicinal aids for the sick. He picked up the glass and sniffed the clear contents.
Water.
The small colored glass bottles beside the pitcher of water were not so unassuming. He picked up the dark green bottle and uncorked it. He inhaled, and then winced. The liquid had a sickly foul scent. Everod corked the bottle, returned it to its place, and selected the other bottle. The brown bottle smelled little better, but he recognized it as laudanum. A half-empty glass of red wine was poised at the edge. Everod grasped the glass by its stem and sniffed. The wine had been adulterated with the contents from the dark green bottle.
He careful set the glass back down. His finger touched the cork of the dark green bottle.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Solitea said somberly. There was a gleam of unshed tears in the man’s eyes as he watched Everod. He was probably thinking of his own father. The old duke had died suddenly, depriving the Carlisle family of a death bed farewell.
“Can you not let Worrington die in peace?” Georgette whined at all of them. They had invaded her husband’s private rooms, and she did not want any of them there.
Maura was missing, too.
She loved his father as her own. If he was dying, she would be at his side, holding her uncle’s frail hand.
“Where is Maura?”
The countess yawned delicately into her hand. “Sleeping. If you recall, she experienced a rather traumatic evening because of you.”
What had he truly stumbled upon?
Everod curled his hand around the dark green bottle. Angrily, he stalked toward Georgette, his hand closing around her throat as he had done when she had slipped into his bedchamber unannounced.
“You have been busy, have you not, Lady Worrington?” Everod said, his voice pure menace.
“Are you mad? Release me!” Georgette struck his arm with her fists.
Cadd clamped his hand on Everod’s shoulder. “This isn’t helping.”
He glared at the mar
quess. “She has done something, likely poisoned my father, Cadd.” Everod brought his face close to hers. “Maura told me that you have been happily dosing everyone in the household with your teas and tinctures.” He recalled seeing one of those ominous colored glass bottles on the tray in Maura’s bedchamber.
“The welfare of the staff has always been my primary concern,” the countess said defiantly. “I have been gathering herbs for years. No one has perished from one of my remedies.”
“Brawley will bring Dr. Burke, Everod,” Ram said to his right. “He will verify the contents of all the bottles.”
Worrington screamed and thrashed against the mattress. Solitea went to him, attempting to soothe Everod’s dying father.
Everod’s fingers tightened around Georgette’s throat. “There is no time, and for all we know, Lady Worrington bought his cooperation.”
“Y-Your Grace, can you not see that my stepson is as ill as his father,” the countess pleaded to Solitea. “I have done nothing wrong.”
Everod grinned evilly. “Prove it. I propose a test.” He held up the dark green bottle. With his thumbnail, he removed the cork stopper. “If you have faith in your herbal remedies, than I insist that you drink it.”
Georgette eyed the bottle warily. “It is very potent.” Her throat muscles shifted against his hand as she swallowed. “I usually mix it with wine.”
“A few drops, then,” Everod said, bringing the bottle to her lips. “At worst, your stewed weeds will sour your stomach.”
She turned her face away from the bottle. “No!”
“A few drops or the entire bottle, Georgette,” Everod warned. “I do not care. You will imbibe your foul concoction.”
He pushed the lip of the bottle against her pressed lips. Ignoring his friends’ protests, he added more strength to his constrictive hold. Everod had no compunction about throttling Georgette.
Someone should have done it years ago. The lady was going to swallow some of the contents, even if he had to wait for her to lose consciousness.
“Wait! No!” She kicked and flailed as if Everod held her life in his hands. Her glare was venomous when she met his uncompromising stare. “I will likely die if I drink from that bottle.”
Everyone except his father froze at her hoarse confession.
“What is it?” Everod said through clenched teeth. He held up the bottle as if to warn her that her confession might not prevent him from forcing the contents down her throat. “The truth!”
“Several herbs. One of my own special creations. In small, controlled doses, it helps with heart complaints,” she said, her eyes cast down to conceal her defiance as she tugged at his fingers clamped around her throat. “Your father has been ill for years, Everod. There is nothing criminal about a wife looking after her husband.”
There was no doubt in Everod’s mind that his stepmother was lying. If his father had been indeed suffering ill health for years, his informants would have reported it long ago. Maura, certainly, would have told him. In spite of her wariness of his motives, she was too compassionate to keep such dreadful news from him.
“And when someone is careless?” he prompted.
Georgette raised her gaze; her brilliant blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Most certainly—death.”
Everod could not recall his anguished roar as he shoved the bottle between her parted lips. It took Cadd, Solitea, and Ram to drag him away from Georgette. One moment he was throttling her. Next, he was sitting in a chair across the room with Cadd and Ramscar holding him down by the shoulders. Georgette had fallen to her knees. Everod watched her sob and choke as she stuck her fingers into her mouth. Hunched over, the countess vomited on the floor.
So he had managed to pour some of the liquid down her throat, after all, he thought dispassionately.
Ramscar squeezed Everod’s shoulder. “I will summon the watch.” The earl strode out of the room.
“Cadd, I am worried about Maura. Find her. Wake her if you must, but return with her,” he ordered the marquess.
When his friend departed, Everod crossed the room to Georgette and crouched down in front of her. She had managed to rid her stomach of the poison. Wearily, she sat down on the floor.
“Why?”
His father loved her. Twelve years ago, the earl had banished his heir for her sake. If he had not believed his countess’s lies, Worrington would have been forced to accept that he had married a faithless whore.
Visibly shaken by Everod’s attack, Georgette gave up her pretense of innocence. “Worrington is thirty years older than I am,” she said sullenly. “By rights, I should have been a rich widow.”
Her bitter gaze drifted to her husband. The earl’s eyes were shut, and the laborious rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. “Healthy old goat,” she muttered, pulling her knees up to her chest. “He wasn’t supposed to suffer. Lord Perton …”
Lord Perton had perished by his young wife’s hand as well.
Everod clasped his hands together. “Twelve years is a long time to be married to a man you eventually plan to murder. Why did you wait?”
Her expression grew belligerent. “I do not expect you to believe me, Everod, but I love my husband. He treated me so unlike my other lovers. So tenderly. Anything I desired was mine. I only had to ask.”
“Love. Kindness. Respect. Most wives don’t become murderous when their husbands treat them well,” Everod said, not keeping the sarcasm out of his tone.
“Hypocrite. We are more alike than you will ever admit to yourself or your arrogant friends,” she said, leaning forward. She lowered her voice so the others could not hear her. “You were a fool not to accept my offer of a truce. Once your father died, and the title passed to you, I might not have been able to marry you by law, but I would have been your countess,” she purred.
Like a spider, Georgette had been weaving her web for so long, she had assumed everyone would blindly follow her. How disappointing it must have been for her when her husband did not die, Maura fell in love with him instead of Rowan, and Everod had not willingly returned to her bed.
Disgusted, Everod stood. He exchanged looks with Solitea. “You will hang for what you have done, Georgette.”
She smiled up at him. “I may surprise you. If Worrington lives, he will stand beside me. I will tell him that I had been so concerned about him, that I had carelessly given him too much. Your father loves me,” she said, pounding her bosom with her fist. “He will believe it was an accident.”
If his father lived.
“There are witnesses who will testify against you.”
“You are nothing to Worrington,” she said spitefully. “You and your friends can challenge me, but in the end, my family will support me.”
Everod cocked his head curiously at her. Georgette was not behaving like a woman who had gambled for her freedom and had lost everything. She was too confident, as if she had done something clever and he had not guessed her secret.
Cadd rushed into the room.
“Where is Maura?”
The marquess held up his hand to silence him. “I checked all the bedchambers. She wasn’t in any of them. So I spoke with the butler.” Cadd grasped Everod’s arm and shook him. “Rowan was here, earlier. Maura left with him.”
Everod whirled around, his amber-green eyes narrowing on his stepmother. “Where are they?”
The room filled with the countess’s laughter. “You thought you could take Maura from me.” She pushed herself up, staggering slightly as she used the wall to brace herself. “Well, you are too late. Rowan and Maura will be married before you find her,” she goaded.
Georgette only laughed at him, when Everod picked her up and shoved her against the wall. “Where did Rowan take her?”
“Across the border,” she spat in his face. Her eyes flashing with an unspoken challenge, she managed to look haughty and triumphant as he pinned her against the wall. “Oh, dear, now this is a quandary. Worrington is on his deathbed, and Maur
a has run off to marry your brother. What will you do? Dash off to rescue your lover?” Georgette shook her head. “A very heroic notion. However, if you abandon your gravely ill father, the magistrate might be swayed into believing that you seduced me, and together we poisoned your father. You have much to gain with his death, and considering our unsavory past—” Her abbreviated shrug quickly turned into a pain-ridden gasp.
Solitea’s hand griped Everod’s shoulder. “Don’t. If she taunts you into killing her, she will have won.” When Everod did not respond, he said, “Think of Maura and your father. They need you.”
Everod nodded at his friend. As tempting as it was, Georgette would not die by his hand. Somewhere, Maura was alone with Rowan. Bile burned his throat at the thought that he was partly responsible for her being there. “Where are they crossing the border?”
Georgette sneered at him. “If you have a fast horse and the devil’s own luck, you might arrive in time to kiss your new sister-in-law.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“We are about to be married, Maura,” Rowan said indulgently, when she froze at the threshold of the room he had just procured for them at the inn. “No one will think it untoward if we share a bed. Besides, this was the only room the innkeeper had available.”
They had been on their journey to Gretna Green for more than a day, and both of them were weary of being jostled within the confines of their coach. When Rowan had suggested that they rest for a few hours, Maura had readily agreed. She had prayed a hot meal and a little sleep would vanquish her increasing melancholy and growing doubts about their elopement.
The meal had consisted of boiled mutton, veal pie, peas and onions, watery potatoes, and a very bitter ale. While the bland food did not satisfy her palate, the hot meal and ale had filled and warmed her empty stomach.
Her brow furrowed as her gaze lingered on the narrow bed Rowan expected her to share with him. Maura doubted she would find the bed as satisfying as their dinner.
Rowan’s exasperation flared at her continued hesitation. On a muffled oath, he marched toward her and dragged her into the room. Maura moved to the small hearth, deliberately ignoring Rowan as he exhaled noisily. He was annoyed with her, but she was too numb to care.
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