by Cheryl Holt
CHAPTER TWENTY
"It was all Beatrice’s idea."
"Was it?"
"Absolutely."
Susan stared at Jackson and told the lie with a straight face. Since Percival’s birth, she’d gotten very adept at prevaricating, and she wouldn’t falter simply because he was glaring ferociously.
They were in the library where Jackson had been holding an inquisition. Everyone had been questioned, and no one was safe from his probing and posturing. Beatrice’s spies had been uncovered and would probably be fired.
Their years of tattling on coworkers had created enormous strife in the household, and the rest of the staff would be happy to see them go. But if Beatrice lost her spies, how would she and Susan ever know what was actually happening?
"You had nothing to do with Grace Bennett’s disappearance," he sarcastically stated.
"No. Beatrice forced me to help her. If I’d refused, she’d have taken Percival away from me."
Duncan was over in the corner, and he snidely said, "I’m sure that would have been a great loss to you—you being so maternally inclined and all."
"Shut up, Duncan," she snapped.
"My lady looks a tad undone. Have I touched on a sore spot?"
They might have had a full-blown quarrel, but Jackson raised a hand in Duncan’s direction to silence him.
"Are you aware," Jackson said, "that I already spoke at length with my mother?"
"No," she cautiously responded, "I wasn’t aware of that."
She presumed he’d called her in first, before Beatrice could spread the blame, and Susan wasn’t about to take the fall for her mother-in-law. If Beatrice had talked, she’d be desperate to save her own skin, and she would name other culprits, especially Susan whom she’d never liked or trusted.
Susan started to tremble. "What…ah…did Beatrice tell you?"
"Must I list your crimes for you?"
"Crimes!" she huffed. "I’ve committed no crimes."
"Kidnapping is a crime, Susan."
"It’s a capital offense," Duncan added. "You could be hanged for it."
"Mr. Rafferty kidnapped her! Not me!"
"You hired him. That’s what my mother claims."
"No, no, Beatrice hired him. He can make people vanish. He’s really good at it. She uses him all the time."
"So it’s Rafferty’s fault."
"Yes—and your mother’s."
"You’re completely innocent."
"Yes."
Jackson leaned back in his chair, and he tapped his fingers on the desktop. He studied her, his disdain aggravating to witness. If he was angry, he’d never give her a farthing of support.
"Where has he taken Grace?" he asked.
"I have no idea," she truthfully said. "Somewhere in London, I guess."
"You guess?"
"She’s to be transported."
The news went through him like a lightening bolt. He lurched forward, eager to murder and maim, and Susan was in striking distance.
"Transported to where?" he demanded.
"Australia?"
Jackson peered over at Duncan.
"Get her out of my sight before I kill her."
"Gladly," Duncan said.
He came over and yanked Susan to her feet, but she shoved him away. Obviously, she hadn’t swayed Jackson to mercy, and she couldn’t concede until she was in a better position.
"You understand what Beatrice is like, Jackson," she frantically insisted. "You know how hard it is to go against her."
"I didn’t find it that hard. I told her to screw herself, then I boarded a ship and sailed to Egypt." He scoffed. "How did you try to thwart her? Tell me one thing."
"I…I warned you about Rafferty. That must count for something."
"We knew about Rafferty."
Duncan clasped her arm and led her toward the door. As they crossed the threshold, Jackson called, "Susan?"
"What?"
"I’ll locate Miss Bennett, and if she’s been harmed, you should be very afraid."
"I didn’t harm Miss Bennett!" she asserted, but Duncan kept on, cutting off her denial.
He marched her to the foyer, and she assumed they’d climb the stairs to her room, but he headed for the front door instead. A maid was there with a stack of bags packed for a journey.
"What’s happening?" Susan attempted to twist away but with no success.
"Jackson is sending you back to your father."
"I refuse to go."
"It’s not up to you."
"And I’m not feeling well. I couldn’t possibly depart for London."
"You’re not traveling to London. We’re dumping you at your father’s estate. What he chooses to do with you after that is up to him."
Her father had a property a dozen miles from the Abbey. It was rundown and decrepit, with lazy servants and awful food. Two of her elderly aunts lived there. They were piously crazy, and Susan couldn’t abide their loathsome company, kneeling for hours and listening to them read the Bible.
"I don’t agree to this."
"Your father’s carriage is waiting outside."
Her father’s country coach was a paltry, ancient vehicle that was barely drivable, and she was incensed that he would deem it appropriate for her.
"I demand to utilize the Scott family coach with the earl’s crest."
"Sorry but you can’t have it. As of this moment, you’re not entitled to use anything from the Abbey. Don’t slither back, either. Jackson has left strict instructions with the servants not to let you in."
Duncan was piling up insults faster than she could tabulate them. He’d always hated her, and she didn’t have to put up with him. Milton Abbey was her home, and she wouldn’t be treated like a beggar.
"Unhand me, you lout!" She jerked away and sneered, "You can’t force me to leave. I am countess here."
"You may be countess today, but you probably won’t be tomorrow."
"What are you babbling about? I am countess today, and I shall be countess tomorrow. I shall continue to be countess until Percival selects a bride."
From behind them, Jackson said, "You shouldn’t have harmed Grace."
"I didn’t!" She glanced over her shoulder, shooting a lethal glare. If eyes were bullets, he’d be dead.
"You royally ruined yourself, Susan," Jackson told her.
"How?"
"I had thought long and hard about Michael and Georgina Scott. To avoid a scandal, I had decided I would hide Edward’s marriage to Georgina. I would have cheated Michael out of his inheritance, so you and Percival could keep your titles."
"And now?"
"I’m taking legal steps to have your marriage declared invalid. On the day of your wedding, Edward was married to Georgina. He wasn’t free to marry you."
"But…but…that will make Percival a bastard. It will make him illegitimate."
"Yes, it will."
She lunged, eager to attack him, but Duncan restrained her as she futilely scrapped and fought.
"Hold on, you wild cat," he seethed.
"After how you tossed me over for Edward," Jackson mused, "I find this ending to be particularly satisfying."
"You swine! You ass!"
"Get her out of here," Jackson said to Duncan as he had in the library.
Duncan spun so rapidly that he lifted her feet off the floor. She was clawing at him, scratching and cursing, but she couldn’t escape.
The maid pulled open the door, and Duncan dragged her outside and down the lengthy flight of stairs that led to the driveway. Her father’s old carriage was there, and it was just as dilapidated as she recalled.
"I won’t let Jackson do this to me!" she fumed to Duncan. "I won’t."
"How will you stop him?"
"There are laws! There are courts! I’ll sue him! I’ll win!"
"With what money?" Duncan inquired. "Lawsuits are expensive, and you’re destitute."
They approached the carriage, and a footman leapt down from the box.
Susan peeked over at him and blanched. It was him—the one she’d trifled with in her father’s barn the week before her wedding. She hadn’t seen him in an entire decade, being absolutely careful that they—and her son—were never in the same spot at the same time.
She’d convinced herself that any resemblance was a mistake of memory, but gad! He was the spitting image of Percival. Red hair. Short and stout and chubby cheeked.
"Lady Susan, hello to you." The man gave a mocking bow.
He reached out to assist her, and Duncan—shrewd, awful, suspicious Duncan—looked at him very closely. Duncan gawked in amazement, then started to laugh. Susan elbowed him in the ribs and clambered into the coach.
Duncan asked the footman, "How long have you worked for Susan’s father?"
"Ten or eleven years."
"You’re positive?"
"I just received my ten-year service pin a few months past."
"Very interesting." Duncan went over to the stairs and hollered, "Jackson, are you still up there?"
Momentarily, Jackson appeared up above them in the doorway. "What is it?"
Duncan pointed to the groom. "Does this fellow remind you of anyone?"
Jackson studied him, then sucked in a sharp breath. "Percival."
"Once we have Grace home safe and sound," Duncan said, "you two should have a chat."
"I believe we’d better. Be sure to get his name."
"Oh, I will, Jackson. I definitely will."
Duncan leaned in the window, his horrid face blocking out the light.
"I knew Edward didn’t sire that boy," he hissed.
"You’re insane," she muttered.
"I’m not insane, Susan. In fact, I’ve never been more rational."
"I hate you!"
"My only regret is that Edward isn’t alive to learn the truth."
He began to whistle, danced a little jig in the dirt, then sprinted up the steps.
DC
"I’ll kill you someday."
Beatrice loomed at Jackson, her malice clear, but he simply rolled his eyes.
"Honestly, Beatrice, don’t threaten me. You’re embarrassing yourself."
"I will! You’ll see."
"Stop being so dramatic."
"You always thought you were smarter than me."
"I was smarter, and it wasn’t difficult. You’ve made a habit of doing some pathetically stupid things."
She was seated in the family coach, parked in the driveway. It wasn’t the earl’s grand vehicle, but the smallest, least pretentious one so she wouldn’t be noticed when she went by. She kept glancing out the window, wondering if she’d ever see the magnificent mansion again.
The coach doors were roped shut, so she couldn’t get out unless someone let her. Thankfully, Jackson hadn’t tied her hands, hadn’t humiliated her completely in front of the staff, but she was a prisoner all the same. She was being banished to their cold, drafty, tumbledown property in Wales, and the servants accompanying her were relatives of those she’d punished over the years.
They were a surly lot, bent on vengeance. Jackson had picked them specifically to guarantee that she was tormented by their sloth and contempt.
Most of them were following along in a second carriage, but two of the maids were riding with her. They sat on the seat opposite, assessing Beatrice with varying amounts of disdain, which she ignored.
"Goodbye, Beatrice," Jackson said. "Try not to cause too much trouble on the way."
"I’ll act however I please."
"You’ll act as I tell you or I’ll lock you in a convent. How would you like to spend the remainder of your days, praying and scrubbing floors?"
"I will not be disrespected by you!" she bellowed.
"Who’s disrespecting? I’m merely offering a comment about your bad behavior. Our people hate you, and they’re glad you’re going away."
"I made the estates thrive and prosper. I did it. Not your father. Not your lazy, insolent brother."
"I wouldn’t denigrate Edward if I were you. With the mood I’m in, I’m not inclined to listen."
"I won’t be treated like this!"
"If you didn’t wish to be ill-used, you should have been more cautious with Grace Bennett."
"Grace Bennett, bah! Who cares about her?"
"Me. I care."
"The servants said you’d lifted her skirt a few times. Apparently, you assume she was worth it."
"Yes, she was definitely worth it."
"Then I take great delight in informing you that her disappearance was thoroughly planned. You’ll never find her—even if you search the rest of your life."
"I’ll find her."
"You won’t." She grinned maliciously. "It’s my petty revenge for how I had to put up with you."
"I never understood your hatred, Beatrice. What did I ever do to you?"
"You were the only one who was never afraid of me."
"You wanted me to be afraid?"
"No matter how I disparaged or beat you, you wouldn’t bow down."
"You’re a woman and my mother. Why would you have needed me to bow down?" He shook his head. "I always thought you were simply a bully, but I’m beginning to suspect you’re crazy as a loon. I’m happy that Percival will be removed from your company and influence."
"That child is a trembling wreck. He has no spine or intellect. He required my brand of discipline to whip him into shape."
"No, he required kindness and compassion, and he’ll have them now."
"Who will provide it? You and your precious Grace Bennett?"
"Yes. I’m marrying her."
She snorted. "You are not."
"I am—if she’ll have me. She’ll fix your mess. She’ll change everything here."
"Isn’t she lucky? She waltzed into town, spread her legs, and rode off with the biggest prize of all. How much of our money will you let her squander?"
"She won’t squander our fortune. She’ll be too busy helping the new earl learn his role."
"The new…earl?" She frowned, and her heart pounded. "What are you saying? Are you saying what I think you are? Oh, you wretch! You swine! You will not elevate that common boy to earl of Milton. It will happen over my dead body!"
"I’ll make sure you have a lovely funeral."
She lunged through the window, her hand shooting out to grab him, but he stepped out of reach. She flailed about, her arm waving back and forth, so she appeared every bit as crazed as he’d just accused her of being.
"Susan will never permit you to get away with it," she ultimately insisted as she stopped her thrashing.
"Susan can’t stop me."
"Why is that?" Beatrice sneered.
"Because we have an affidavit from one of her father’s grooms."
"An affidavit about what?"
"About a drunken party Susan engaged in right before her wedding to Edward."
"What are you claiming?"
"You’re smart, Beatrice. Reflect on it. You’ll figure it out."
Images of dull, clumsy Percival and dashing, charming Edward flashed in her mind. Over the years, she’d heard all the rumors, and she’d studiously ignored them.
Yet after all this time, after all her effort with the bumbling, idiotic child, he was the wrong boy!
She started to giggle, then laugh, and gradually, the laugh grew into a howl of fury.
"Bring me to Susan," she told him. "Let me put my fingers around her slender, lying throat so I can choke her to death."
"I’ll deal with Susan. You simply need to go away."
She leered at him, her revulsion showing. "I should have smothered you in the cradle."
She’d been eager to wound him, but he merely grinned. "Ah, Beatrice, you’re such a maternal person."
"I loathe you."
"For no reason. Look where it’s left you."
"I always land on my feet, Jackson. Just you wait. I’ll survive this rough patch, and then, you’ll be sorry."
"I doubt it. I�
�ve never been sorry about anything in my entire life."
"I’ll come after you."
"You have no money, Beatrice, and it takes wealth to have any real power. You keep forgetting that you’re broke."
"I have friends in high places," she blustered. "They’ll help me fight you."
He chuckled. "When you line up this chorus of friends, be sure to let me know. I’m dying to hear who they are."
He walked to the front of the carriage, murmured to the driver, and the man clicked the reins. The horses pulled, and the wheels turned.
Up until that very second, she’d assumed she could engineer a different ending.
The wheels turned faster so they were passing the house, the barns, the manicured lawns. Very quickly, they would be out on the main road.
She climbed up on her knees and leaned out the window.
"Jackson," she shouted, "I apologize! I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever you ask. I’ll pay any penance. Please!"
"Goodbye, Beatrice," he called.
Duncan was standing with him, and he added, "Have fun in Wales."
"Shut your mouth, you rude oaf," she yelled at Duncan.
He laughed and waved as if she was off on a casual jaunt.
She shouted again, begging, cursing, and one of the maids tugged on her skirt.
"Sit back, Beatrice."
"It’s Lady Beatrice to you," Beatrice snapped.
"Sit and be quiet."
"I won’t. You can’t tell me how to act."
"Actually, I can. Mr. Scott says you’re under our arrest until further orders arrive from him."
The other maid said, "Behave. Or we’ll have the footmen tie you to your seat."
Beatrice glared at them, but for once, her stern glower had no effect. The moment was too humiliating.
She had no assets, no power, no friends, no family, and she was being whisked out of the country by a group of disrespectful, lazy servants.
There was no justice in the world!
DC
Rafferty didn’t have an office.
In his type of employment, it wasn’t a good idea to be too visible. People found him when they needed to find him, and he didn’t make it easy.
He kept a table at the Stag and Bull, his favorite taproom down by the docks. If he was out, he could trust the proprietor to take a message, to track him down and convey it accurately.
