“That might be best,” Chloe agreed and then smiled faintly at Julian. “We have been involved in your difficulties for quite some time, m’lord.”
Edgar nodded. “Leopold was the one who brought you to my house the last time you were attacked.”
“But did not stay until I could offer my gratitude for his aid?” Julian asked.
“Nay,” Leopold replied. “You were not as sorely injured as you were this time and I felt we still had time.”
“Time for what?”
“To gather the proof you will need to end this deadly game.” Leopold cursed softly. “It is time to be blunt, m’lord. You know who wants you dead. Edgar knows. We know. I can understand your reluctance to speak the ugly truth aloud.”
“Can you?”
“Oh, aye, most assuredly. Our family is no stranger to betrayal.”
“Fine,” Julian said between tightly gritted teeth. “My wife wants me dead.”
“Your wife and her lover.”
“Which one?” The bitterness in his voice was so sharp Julian nearly winced, embarrassed by the display of emotion.
“The only one who could possibly gain from your death—your uncle Arthur Kenton.”
Chloe clenched her hands together tightly as she fought the urge to touch Lord Julian, to try to soothe the anger and hurt he felt. She was relieved when Wynn arrived with tea and food, including a bowl of hearty broth for his lordship. It was best if the harsh truth was allowed to settle in a little before they continued. She proceeded to feed Lord Julian the broth, oddly relieved by the way he grimaced over such weak fare in the normal manner of most patients. Edgar and Leopold moved to the table set near the fireplace to sip tea, eat a little food, and talk quietly while she tended to Lord Julian.
“What are they talking about?” Julian asked between mouthfuls of the surprisingly tasty broth.
“You, I suppose,” Chloe replied. “They are probably making plans to keep you alive and bring down your enemies.”
“Edgar’s interest I can understand, but I still have to wonder what you and your cousin have to do with this.”
“What sort of people would we be if, upon knowing someone was in danger, we just turned our backs simply because we did not know him?”
“Quite normal people.”
“Ah, well, very few people have ever accused the Wherlockes of being normal.” After feeding him the last of the broth, Chloe set the bowl aside and retook her seat by the bed. “Perhaps we just feel that one cannot allow people to dispose of the gentry whenever the mood takes them. Tsk, think of the chaos that would result.”
“Enough of your sauce,” said Leopold, as he and Edgar rejoined them. “Shall we plot our plots, m’lord?” he asked Lord Julian as he sat down at the end of the bed again. “Unless, of course, you enjoy indulging in a slow, catch-me-if-you-can sort of suicide.”
“And you reprimand me for sauce,” Chloe muttered, but everyone ignored her.
“No, curse you, I do not enjoy this game,” snapped Lord Julian, and then he sighed. “I but wished to ignore the harsh truth staring me in the face. It is bad enough knowing one’s wife is cuckolding one—repeatedly. To think one’s own uncle is not only doing the cuckolding, but that he and said wife want one dead is a bitter draught to swallow. I am not a complete idiot, however. You are all right. They nearly succeeded this time. I am just not certain what can be done about it. Did the man you caught say anything useful?”
“Nay, I fear not,” Leopold replied. “He says the man who hired him was well hidden in a large coat, a hat, and a scarf. All he is certain of is that the man was gentry. Fine clothes, fine speech, smelled clean. All the usual clues. He also said that he was paid a crown to follow you about until an opportunity to kill you arose and then to grasp that opportunity.”
“A crown? Is that all?” Julian felt strangely insulted by that. “An earl’s life ought to be worth more than that.”
“To that man a crown is a small fortune and he was promised more if he could prove that you were dead. And, nay, there is no hope of catching anyone red-handed. A very convoluted way was set up to deliver the extra payment. One that easily allows your enemy every chance to slip free of any trap set for him. Also, proof of your death must be shown and we cannot feign that. I am assuming that you are rather fond of your right hand.”
“You could say that.” Julian frowned at his right hand, at the scar that ran raggedly over the back of it. “It was a near miracle that I did not lose it to this wound. A duel,” he said when he noticed the curiosity the Wherlockes could not hide. “The first and last I fought in the name of my wife’s honor.”
Julian was beginning to feel very tired and he knew it was not just because of his wounds. It was his own emotional turmoil that stole his strength, a heaviness of the spirit and the heart. Not only had his pride been lacerated by his wife’s betrayal, but also his confidence in himself and his own judgment. However, he had wallowed in self-pity long enough. Painful though it was to face the truth, he could no longer try to ignore it, not if he wished to stay alive. Soaking himself in drink and whores might have looked like a slow suicide to others, but that had never been his intent. He was certainly miserable, but not so much that he was ready to welcome the cold oblivion of the grave.
“Edgar and I think you should play dead for a while,” said Leopold. “Aside from us, the only one who knows you are alive is the man who attacked you. He will very soon be too far away to tell anyone the truth.”
“Your servants—”
“Will keep the secret.” Leopold smiled faintly at Julian’s look of doubt. “You must accept my word on that, m’lord. Our family and our cousins the Vaughns have servants whose loyalty and silence is absolute.”
“Something many would pay a fortune for. So, I remain dead. Do I hide here then?”
“Do you trust your servants to be silent?”
“Not all of them, no.” Julian sighed. “I still do not understand how you became involved in this mess.”
“We have been involved from the beginning, m’lord,” said Chloe. “From the night your wife gave birth—”
“To someone else’s child,” he snapped. “That was not my child.”
“I know, m’lord. It was my sister’s.”
Julian was shocked speechless. As he slowly recovered his wits enough to start asking a few questions, he became acutely aware of a new, very pressing need. He tried to will it away, but reluctantly accepted that his body was not willing to wait until he got the answers he needed.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “We need to talk about that, but, right now—” He hesitated then said, “I need some privacy.”
“Ah, I understand.” Chloe stood up, quickly guessing what he needed and moved toward the door. “I will have the answers to your questions when I return.”
“How can she know what my questions will even be?” he asked Leopold the moment Chloe was gone and Edgar quickly moved to help him tend to his personal needs.
“Oh, she can only guess,” replied Leopold.
Julian fought down a sense of humiliation as the two men helped him, washed him down, and put him in a clean nightshirt. He hated being so weak and helpless, but had to accept that he was both at the moment and that he needed all the help he could get. Once settled back in his bed, he needed a few moments to still the trembling in his body and will his pain to recede. When he finally opened his eyes again, he gave the two men watching him with concern a weak smile. Then he recalled what Chloe had said and frowned. Julian decided he must have mis-heard her.
“Did she really say that the child was her sister’s?” he asked. “That I have interred her sister’s child in my family crypt?”
Leopold sighed and nodded. “Her sister Laurel’s child. Laurel married a poor man who died whilst out fishing. She knew she would not survive the birth of her child, that she was too weakened by a recurring fever and grief. Two men came whilst Laurel lay dying on her childbed, her babe born dead, and they to
ok the child away.”
“But why? Was Beatrice feigning that she was with child? Was it all a lie?”
“Oh, nay, not all,” said Chloe, as she entered the room and walked to the side of his bed, allowing little Anthony to remain hidden behind her skirts for the moment. “Your wife was indeed with child. She and Laurel took to their birthing beds at the same time, something your wife was well aware of as she held the midwife in her power. S’truth, I think the midwife made certain that both women birthed their children at the same moment.”
“That makes no sense,” Julian muttered. “If Beatrice was with child, what happened to it? Where is it buried?”
“It is not buried, m’lord, although Laurel and I worked very hard to make your wife believe the child lies in a grave with Laurel. A trade was made. Lady Beatrice’s live child for my sister’s dead one.”
“Again—why? To what purpose?”
“Why? Because the very last thing your wife and uncle wanted was for you to have an heir.”
“If the child was even mine. That woman was never faithful.”
Chloe stared at him for a moment and then smiled. “Then it seems you won the luck of the draw, m’lord. The child is yours.”
“You have seen the child? You know what happened to the baby?”
“The baby has been well cared for.” Chloe tugged Anthony out from behind her until he stood in front of her. “The child is the very image of his father. My lord, meet Anthony Peter Chadwick Kenton—your son and heir.”
Julian stared into eyes the same verdant green as his own. Thick golden curls topped the boy’s head, sharply reminding Julian of his own boyish curls. Julian looked at the three adults all watching him intently and then looked into those eyes that marked the child as his own. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, he felt himself tumble into blackness.
About the Author
Hannah Howell is an award-winning author who lives with her family in Massachusetts. She is the author of twenty-nine Zebra historical romances and is currently working on a new historical romance, If He’s Wicked, coming in June 2009! Hannah loves hearing from readers and you may visit her Web site: www.hannahhowell.com.
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Copyright © 2008 by Hannah Howell
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ISBN: 1-4201-0798-4
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