Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  “Forever. How long would you suppose?”

  “But what does that mean?”

  “It means that, from this point on, he’ll reside with his father’s family and enjoy all the privileges of being the Duke’s only grandchild.”

  “But when will we see him?”

  “Never.”

  “Camilla, are you insane? You should have asked me. We should have discussed it.”

  “There was naught to discuss. He’s not your son. He’s mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “The Duke has bought me a house in London, and in a few minutes, Lord Henley is sending a private coach to escort me to town. So Fanny, despite how you always harangued, dreams really can come true.”

  She walked away, humored by Fanny’s dismay, and she proceeded to her bedchamber. She ignored her clothes, family portraits, and the like, for there was nothing of that nature that she wanted to take.

  Instead, she tossed some personal items into a bag: a brush, some combs for her hair, a necklace from John—the only gift she had from him. Poignantly, she traced her thumb over it, remembering the night he’d given it to her. She’d thought she would die of happiness.

  He’d been so vibrant and alive, so merry and carefree. She couldn’t imagine a world without him in it, and it would be odd to go on without him, but go on she would.

  He’d been her savoir after all.

  She felt reborn, as if she’d arisen in the morning as one sort of woman, but she’d shed her skin, and by afternoon, she’d become someone else entirely.

  At the foot of the bed, she knelt down and lifted the loose board, revealing the secret hole where they hid their remaining valuables. After peeking over her shoulder to be certain Fanny hadn’t entered, she hauled out the strongbox, fiddled with the lock, and opened it.

  Without a shred of remorse, she stole the last of their cash, replaced the box, lowered the board, and rose.

  She made a final search, checking to see if she’d missed anything, and by the time she returned to the yard, her carriage was rolling down the lane—as Henley had promised it would. Fanny was still standing where she’d been, and she looked thunderstruck, in a state of shock.

  The coach rattled to a halt, and Camilla was furious to note that it was a rented hackney and not one of the Duke’s grand vehicles at all. There wasn’t even a footman to help her in. When she arrived in the city, there’d be no ducal coat-of-arms to indicate that an important dignitary was sequestered in it, and if Henley had been there, she’d have refused to get in until he supplied something finer.

  But he was gone, and she wasn’t about to pay for her own transportation, so she couldn’t be choosey. She hoisted her bag to the driver, then fussed with the step herself.

  Fanny shook off her stupor and approached.

  “Where will you be?” she nagged as Camilla hefted herself in.

  “I told you: in my new town house.”

  “What if I need to contact you?”

  “I can’t see why you would.”

  “Camilla! This isn’t funny. Where will you be?”

  “I left my address on the table in the kitchen,” she lied. “Write to me. Let me know how you’re doing.”

  Fanny studied her, her displeasure clear, her censure annoying, but fortunately, Camilla didn’t have to put up with it another second.

  “So...” Fanny fumed, “just like that, you’re going.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Without a moment’s thought to anybody else.”

  “No. Not a moment’s thought. You’re shed of me; I’ll no longer be a daily burden. You should be celebrating.”

  ”What about Thomas?”

  “What about him?”

  Tears surged into Fanny’s eyes. “How could you, Camilla? How could you? If Father could see you now, what would he say?”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn what the pious old codger would say. He never had a kind word for me his whole life. Neither did you. I’m well rid of you and this beastly village. I’m off to London, where no one will criticize or judge me.”

  She barked at the driver to get a move on. With a crack of the whip, the horse jumped, and the carriage lurched forward.

  “Camilla!” Fanny shouted.

  “It’s a cruel world, Fanny,” Camilla called out the window. “You always said so. Good luck.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “This is it, Miss. This is the place.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fanny flashed a wan smile at the teamster who’d given her a ride for the last few miles of her lengthy journey. She was so hungry and exhausted that she barely managed the climb to the ground. As her feet hit the bricks of the driveway, she stumbled and braced herself against the box of the wagon.

  “Are you certain about this, Miss?” The teamster eyed her nervously as he studied the huge mansion nestled beyond the trees. “I hate to leave you. I can wait if you’d like.”

  “No, no. You go on home—to your family and your supper.”

  “It’s getting dark. It’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself.”

  She peered up at the sky. The late summer day was swiftly waning, stars beginning to twinkle. A cool breeze whipped at her worn shawl, hinting that autumn was just around the corner. She shuddered and tugged at the tattered garment.

  “You’re kind to worry,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure, Miss...”

  “I am. You go on.”

  He hesitated, then lowered her portmanteau, and she caught it and dropped it at her feet. With a concerned scowl, he sighed and cracked his whip. His horses lumbered off, and she stood, watching until he disappeared down the road, then she walked through the gate.

  She’d had no idea how to find Camilla in London, but the Duke of Clarendon was an infamous scoundrel, so it hadn’t been difficult to be directed to his sprawling property located just outside the city.

  Off in the distance, it glimmered like a diamond in the fading light. It looked like a castle, like a residence where the King and Queen might live. There were high walls and ivy and turrets, and it was surrounded by acres and acres of manicured gardens. The windows were ablaze, candles burning in every room. Out front, many carriages were parked, as if the Duke was entertaining guests.

  With her destination finally in sight, Fanny hastened toward it—her pulse pounding with relief in knowing that her trek was at an end.

  After Camilla and Thomas had left, Fanny had suffered one catastrophe after the next. Camilla had stopped in the village and bragged about her windfall, so everyone had assumed that Fanny would share in it, too.

  The people who’d paid her to sew had politely advised that since she and her sister were to be rich and indolent, they would give the work to poor women who needed the income, as Fanny apparently did not.

  Fanny had been too ashamed to confess that she hadn’t been invited to London, and she’d returned to her cottage and waited for something to happen. For a letter or news. From Camilla. From Thomas. From Lord Henley.

  She’d been anxious to write to Camilla, to learn that she was all right or that she’d heard from Thomas, but Camilla had provided no forwarding address as she’d promised she would. Camilla seemed able to coldly sever her family ties without a backward glance, but Fanny didn’t know how to behave so callously. The separation hurt and worried her, and she simply wasn’t the type of a person who could walk away from the only two people in the entire world to whom she could claim a connection.

  Weeks had passed, with no word received from anyone, and Fanny had no way of contacting Camilla or Henley.

  Though Fanny had scrimped and hoarded her dwindling provisions, she’d gradually eaten the last of her food, but with Camilla having taken their money, there’d been no cash to purchase more. Eventually, the landlord had come for the rent, and when Fanny didn’t have it, she’d been evicted. He’d let her keep a bag of clothes, but
that was all, and it had been the greatest mortification of her life to trudge away and abandon what remained of her beloved mother’s dishes and other items.

  As she’d dawdled in the quiet forest, bewildered and heartbroken and wondering what to do, she’d gotten very angry.

  She wasn’t surprised by Camilla’s and Lord Henley’s perfidy. Camilla had always been selfish and greedy, and Fanny had heard enough stories about the Wainwrights to recognize that Henley could be ruthless. He’d acted precisely as she’d have predicted had she actually known who he was, but she hadn’t known.

  He’d tricked and misled her, had deceived and deluded her, and she had fallen for every one of his lies. She felt like a fool, like the biggest ninny ever. She’d been vulnerable and unhappy, and when he’d dangled his friendship in front of her, she latched on with the desperation of a drowning woman.

  Of all the things he’d done, of all the sins he’d committed against her, his false pretense of affection was the worse betrayal of all. She’d thought he cared for her; she’d thought his fondness was genuine, and to discover that it had been a total charade was humiliating. He ought to be ashamed.

  He’d used her horridly, had prevailed on her trusting nature to steal Thomas away, but that didn’t mean Fanny had to blithely accept his despicable treatment.

  She’d frittered away a good portion of the summer, hoping for a miracle, hoping someone would rescue her, but no one was going to. She had to save herself. If she wanted Thomas safe and secure, she had to take drastic action.

  She’d set off for London, walking, catching rides, hiding in ditches and sleeping in hay fields. She was thin as a rail, beaten down, bedraggled and fatigued by events, but she was determined to fight for what was hers.

  Camilla might have been Thomas’s birth mother, but Fanny was his mother in truth, and Lord Henley would not have him!

  If Fanny had to learn the law herself, if she had to battle the powerful family in the courts—a female David against Goliath—she would see justice done on Thomas’s behalf. If it took the rest of her life, she would regain custody of him, though she hadn’t quite figured out what they would do or where they would go.

  Hunger was clouding her choices, and her reasoning wasn’t exactly sound.

  “One step at a time,” she muttered to herself. “One step at a time.”

  The immoral, pompous Wainwrights could not be allowed to keep him! Fanny would retrieve him for herself, for Thomas, and for her dear, departed father who had been a decent and kind man. He wouldn’t want Thomas subjected to the sloth and depravity that the Wainwrights would supply.

  She approached the mansion, and she craned her neck, peering up at it. The walls towered above her, seeming impenetrable. She felt as if she’d arrived at the Pearly Gates and would never be welcomed inside. What if she wasn’t? What if the butler refused to admit her?

  She had no second option, no backup plan, but she couldn’t conceive of failure.

  Her shoulders squared, she started for the door when a carriage driver came forward. He flung his cheroot on the ground and crushed it under his boot.

  “Miss, you can’t enter through the front.”

  “What?” she asked, confused.

  “If you’re here to help with the party, you’re to enter through the rear. I heard the butler tell another girl. It’s that way.”

  He pointed at the side of the house, where the kitchens were likely located, and it dawned on her that she was so unkempt in appearance that he thought she was a serving maid.

  She pondered, then decided it might be best to pretend to be a servant. She hadn’t seen a mirror in ages, and if she was as disheveled as his remark implied, no sane person would heed her request for an audience with Lord Henley.

  “Thank you,” she said to the man, and she headed down the path in the direction he’d indicated. As she passed a thick bush, she concealed her portmanteau under the branches.

  It was a fair hike around the large building, but there were torches lighting the route, and soon she was at the back door. A girl had just gone in, and Fanny waltzed in behind her.

  A frantic footman handed them both a starched white apron.

  “You’re late,” he scolded. “Here. Put these on, then come with me.”

  He hurried down a dim hall, talking all the while. “The first course has commenced, but only men are permitted in the dining room, so you two will carry food back and forth. You’ll give it to the footmen, then return to the kitchen for more. Any questions?”

  “Is the Duke at home tonight?” Fanny dared to inquire.

  “Yes.”

  “How about Viscount Henley?”

  “Yes, yes,” he impatiently said.

  “How about Henley’s young nephew? Thomas is his name. Is he about?”

  The footman gaped at her as if she were mad. “I have no idea who you mean. Get going! Get going!”

  He led them into the kitchen where organized chaos reigned. A line of maids was marching past a table as cooks set covered dishes on their trays. The girls dashed off, rushing to lug the hot food upstairs.

  A woman of some authority glanced at Fanny and grumbled, “For pity’s sake, couldn’t you have washed before you arrived?” She leaned in and threatened, “You stay out of sight. I swear, if any of the family sees you, you won’t be paid. I personally guarantee it!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Fanny feigned a meekness she no longer felt.

  She was finished with bowing and scraping, with courtesy and civil behavior. It had never brought her anything but misery.

  She took her place in the line, her stomach growling at observing so many delicacies, and pathetically, she wondered if they’d notice if she snuck a bite. It had been an eternity since she’d eaten, and she was ravenous.

  When her tray was filled, she snatched it up, and followed the others, though her arms were wobbly and she worried that she might drop it. She had no energy and scant strength remaining, but her fortitude kept her moving forward.

  Like automatons, the maids approached the closed door to the dining room. They tarried as it was briskly opened just enough for their load to be shoved through, then they scurried off before anyone saw them.

  As Fanny neared, she slowed, pausing, so that she could survey the scene inside. The space was long and narrow, grandiose in its furnishings, with red and gold wallpaper, high ceilings, and chandeliers that sparkled with hundreds of candles.

  There was a table running down the center, decorated with pristine linens, expensive china, and crystal goblets. An imposing older man, who had to be the Duke, sat at one end, and a pretty dark-haired woman sat at the other. Thirty or forty guests were seated on both sides.

  It was a formal affair, a sea of silk, satin, and glittering jewels. There were no children present, so she didn’t see Thomas, but Lord Henley was at the other end, too, sitting at the Duke’s right hand.

  “Get out of the way,” a footman snapped at her. “You’re holding everybody up.”

  Fanny stepped away as if to proceed down the stairs, but instead, she hid in the shadows to muster her courage. Finally, the course was served, and the hall emptied.

  She was alone, and she peeked both ways, then slipped into the dining room. As she did, it occurred to her that she was fatigued and famished, and in her deteriorated condition, it was possible that she was making a bad decision. But she didn’t care.

  She’d just traveled so far! It seemed as if she’d been waiting years to confront Lord Henley, and if she wasn’t allowed to talk with him—at once!—she didn’t know how she could go on.

  To her surprise, it was very quiet, despite the large company. They were all chatting, but softly, as if they were in church. There was a buzz of conversation, and the clink of forks scraping the china. Lord Henley and the Duke seemed a long distance away, as if she was viewing them through a dark tunnel.

  Several footmen were pouring wine. One of them saw her, and he frowned and gestured frantically for her to depart, but
his alarm meant nothing to her. He might have been invisible.

  He started toward her, ready to shoo her out, as she took a deep breath and said, “I’ve come for my nephew.”

  Everyone froze, scowling, forks suspended in mid-air, as if they weren’t sure someone had spoken, so she said it again, more loudly.

  “I’ve come for my nephew, and I’m not leaving without him. Where is he?”

  All heads swiveled toward her, and suddenly, dozens of people were critically assessing her. There were excited whispers, nervous chuckles, feminine titters.

  “Who the devil are you?” the Duke asked.

  “I am Frances Carrington.”

  “Frances...Carrington?” He looked as if he couldn’t place the name, then recognition dawned. “Who the hell let you in?”

  “You stole my nephew. You’ve kidnapped him, and I want him back.”

  “Listen here, you stupid little hussy—”

  He stood, but Lord Henley stood with him.

  “I’ll handle this, Your Grace.”

  There was a woman seated across from Lord Henley, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. She was about Fanny’s age and very beautiful, with striking blond hair, icy blue eyes, and she was wearing a diamond tiara as if she were a princess.

  “Really, Michael,” she indignantly complained, “must you bother with her? Can’t the servants deal with it?”

  Lord Henley flashed a furious glare, then threw his napkin on the table.

  “No, they can’t. If you’ll excuse me...?”

  He stormed round the table and marched over to Fanny, and she supposed they painted an odd picture. He was attired in his formal black evening clothes, with velvet fabric on the collar and cuffs of his perfectly-tailored jacket. A red rose added color to the lapel, and his shirt and cravat were blindingly white.

  In contrast, she was rumpled and dowdy in her plain gray dress. Her shoes were muddy and scuffed, her hair windblown and snarled, her cheeks sunburned from her journey.

  The differences between them were blatant and stark, and she had no idea how they’d been so compatible when they’d first met in the country.