by Cheryl Holt
What if, someday, Fanny fell in love and married another man? What if he ended up raising Michael’s son? Michael would die of agony. Better to never hear, to never know.
He clicked the reins, and his horse trotted down the lane toward the road. As he was swallowed up by the trees, he drew to a halt, and glanced over his shoulder.
Phillip and Anne were just going in, arm in arm, whispering, their heads pressed close. The door was shut behind them, and Michael scanned the windows, hoping he might catch a final glimpse of Fanny, but she was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Miss Camilla,” the butler said, looking extremely agitated, “I need you down in the parlor. Now!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Lord Henley is here, and he’s...he’s...taking inventory.”
“Inventory of what?”
“The furniture. He has several clerks with him, and they’re jotting down assessed value.
Henley was downstairs? He was snooping through her belongings?
The nerve!
“Did he say why?”
“No and I don’t have the authority to toss him out.”
She sighed with aggravation. “I’ll be right down.”
“Thank you.”
At her party the prior evening, she’d had too much to drink, and she was feeling poorly. She yanked a brush through her hair, and swiped some color on her cheeks and lips, then she started down, but as she swept into the parlor, the scene was every bit as bizarre as the butler had described.
Henley was standing in the middle of the floor while three men proceeded to inspect her possessions as if they planned on taking them.
“Henley, what are you doing?” she cried.
Over in the corner, a clerk was riffling through her desk, and suddenly, he chirped, “I’ve found it, milord. I’ve got it.”
“You’re certain?” Henley asked.
“Yes.”
Henley went over to scrutinize what the man was holding, and Camilla frowned. It seemed to be her copy of the contract that had given her the house and allowance in exchange for custody of Thomas.
“Yes, this is it. Good work.” Henley stuffed it into his jacket.
“What was that?” Camilla demanded. “What have you taken? Why have you come?”
“I’m here to right a few wrongs,” Henley cryptically replied, “and we’re selling the house.”
“Selling the...house? You can’t. You gave it to me.”
“We didn’t give it to you, Miss Carrington. We simply let you live here.”
“So...what are you planning? Are you buying me another?”
She rippled with anticipation, as she imagined something newer and bigger. Perhaps they were so delighted with Thomas that she was being rewarded!
“No, we’re not,” he responded. “In fact, I’m giving you notice.”
“Notice of what?”
“You have to move.”
“Move? But where would I go?”
“Anywhere you want. I don’t care.”
Swiftly, she calculated the income she received from the Wainwrights and how insufficient it was to cover her expenses. If she had to begin paying rent, how would she get by?
This was a disaster!
“You expect me to take on my own housing costs?”
“Yes.”
“But how will I afford it?”
“Fortunately, that is not my concern.”
“My allowance will never stretch that far.”
“Your allowance...” he reflected. “Did I neglect to inform you that it’s ending?”
She gasped. “You can’t stop it.”
“Yes, I can.” He looked at the men. “Would you go upstairs and complete the inventory? Be thorough, would you? When she vacates the premises, I don’t want her to take anything that’s not hers. I need a meticulous record.”
They scurried out, and as their footsteps faded, he closed the parlor door.
“Do you ever wonder where your sister is?”
“Fanny? No.”
“Do you ever worry as to how she might be faring?”
“Why would I?
“Why would you, indeed?”
“It’s a rough world out there for a single woman,” Camilla declared. “I can’t help it if she has no idea how to carry on. She certainly had plenty of suggestions for me after my parents died. She was so sure that she knew it all; if she’s followed her own advice, I’m positive she’s thriving.”
He stared at her as if she were vermin, as if she were a bug he’d like to squash. “I’m curious as to why—when you were aware that she was pregnant and destitute—you tossed her out on the street without so much as a coat to keep her warm.”
On the night she’d evicted Fanny, Camilla had been humored to have tormented her sister, but she supposed others might view her conduct as appalling.
Not that she’d admit as much to an ass like Henley.
“Fanny came to you,” he charged, “because she was desperate. And you threw her out because...?”
“I didn’t throw her out,” Camilla lied, determined to brazen it out. “She claimed she didn’t need my help. She left on her own.”
He snorted with incredulity. “I’m tired of supporting you. You have exhausted my generosity.”
“What generosity is that? I gave you my son, and in exchange, you gave me money and a house.”
“And now I’m taking them back.”
The remark rang like a death knell, frightening her, riveting her. “We had a deal, Henley. You promised.”
“Did I? Where is your proof?”
He gestured to the empty drawer that had contained the contract that was now inside his coat.
“Give me those papers!” she seethed.
She hurried toward him and wrestled to retrieve them, but he easily held her at bay while he pitched the document on the fire. She gaped in horror as it quickly burned to ashes.
As the final scrap vanished, he released her, and she lurched away, wheezing, “Why? Why?”
“Because you’re cruel and heartless.”
“But you have my son. You were paying me for him.”
“It seems I’ve changed my mind.”
“Then I want him back.”
“Sorry, but you can’t have him.”
“You can’t keep a boy from his mother,” she blustered.
“Can’t I?”
“I’ll fight you in the courts. I’ll tell everyone how you cheated me.”
“Can you actually think there’s a lawyer in the kingdom who would dare to go against my family? If you could hire such a stupid man, can you actually assume anyone would believe you over me?”
“I’ll say you kidnapped Thomas,” she boasted. “I’ll say I’m grief-stricken, and they’ll return him to me.”
“Please try. I would love to hear your defense as to why you suppose you’re a fit mother.”
They stared, combatants in a war she could never win. How had this happened? He was a Wainwright. Why had she trusted him to keep his word? Her entire life was ruined in an instant.
“What am I to do?” she inquired. “I have no funds. I have nowhere to go.”
“Ah...just like your sister, when you abandoned her in the country.”
Camilla saw red. If Fanny was his weak spot, then Fanny was the way to manipulate him.
“Fanny wouldn’t want you to be awful to me.”
“Fanny will never know.”
“I’ll inform her. She’ll be upset.”
“You’ll have to find her first.”
Camilla scowled. If Henley evicted her, she would need a place to stay. She’d have to worm her way back into Fanny’s good graces so that Fanny would assist her, but after Fanny had fled Camilla’s home, Camilla hadn’t thought about her once. She could be anywhere. How would Camilla locate her?
“Where is she?” she asked, feigning concern. “What have you done with her? If you’ve harmed her, by God, you
’ll rue the day.”
“Idle threats, Miss Carrington.”
He spun to go, and she was incensed by his disregard. She hated him for loving Fanny, as John had never loved her, Camilla. It wasn’t fair, and Camilla wanted to lash out, wanted to make Henley regret that he’d cared for Fanny, and as he reached for the door, she panicked.
She hadn’t said anything she meant to say, hadn’t proffered a single clever argument that might alter his decision.
“Wait!” she begged. “Let’s talk this out.”
“No.”
“Please.”
She laid a hand on his arm, and he shook it off.
“I don’t want to resolve it,” he said. “In fact, I don’t want to hear from you ever again. Don’t contact us; don’t pester us. Just go away.”
“I’ll pester you every bloody minute.”
“Then we’ll have you arrested and transported.”
“I am Thomas’s mother, but you’re throwing me out on the streets!”
“I certainly am.”
“How soon? How soon must I be out?”
“When your sister came here with Thomas, when she was in trouble and alone and afraid, how long did you tell her she could stay with you?”
“A month.”
“Yet you kicked her out the same day.”
“It was a...a...misunderstanding.”
“Well, I will show you a bit more mercy. You may have a month—as you originally offered to your sister. I’ll be back in thirty days to change the locks. Be sure you’re gone before I arrive.”
“But...but...”
He walked out, and she chased him into the foyer.
“I’ll be destitute!”
“That, Miss Carrington, is not my problem.”
“Bastard!” she hissed.
“Aren’t I, though?”
He strolled out, chuckling as he went.
“Where is everyone?” Rebecca fumed.
“It’s still early,” the Duke counseled. “Calm down.”
“The invitation was for seven. It’s half past.”
“It’s early,” he insisted, “now be silent. No one would dare snub me. They’ll be here, or I’ll know why.”
Her temper flared. It was to have been the greatest moment of her life—again—and the Wainwrights had ruined it—again.
That morning, she and the Duke had married, in a private ceremony in the front parlor. Her dream had been realized, her wedding supper about to commence. Why wasn’t she ecstatic? Why wasn’t she gloating?
She was so wretched! And she still had the wedding night to get through.
When she’d hinted to the Duke that perhaps they could delay the consummation until they were better acquainted, he’d simply laughed and told her to be quiet.
The butler entered, carrying a note on a silver platter, and she didn’t have to look at it to know that it was another letter of regret.
He approached, and when she reached for the envelope, he curtly said, “This one is specifically addressed to His Grace.”
Nose in the air, he marched by her and handed it to the Duke, and the Duke ripped it open. On reading the contents, he roared, “How dare she! How bloody dare she!”
He hurled his brandy glass against the wall, then he stormed from the room. As he passed the hearth, he crumpled the note and pitched it into the fire, but it bounced off the marble edge.
She walked over and picked it up, pressed out the wrinkles, and saw that it was from Anne. The Duke had been bragging over how she would slither home for his wedding, but apparently, he didn’t know his daughter quite as well as he assumed.
Your Grace, Anne had written, I am tickled to inform you that I will miss your wedding supper. Since you specifically mentioned that your invitation doesn’t include my husband, I’m sure I’ll be too busy to attend you. From this point on, I shall always be too busy to attend you. Congratulations on your marriage. I hope it brings you just what you deserve.
“’Just what you deserve...’” Rebecca mused aloud.
She was certain the phrase was meant as an insult, but she couldn’t decide who was being maligned—herself or the Duke—and she added Anne to the growing list of people from whom she would spend her life extracting retribution.
Suddenly, from down the hall, she heard the Duke cursing in his library, and she hurried after him, wondering what new catastrophe had occurred.
“What is it?” she asked as she swept in. “What now?”
He was clutching the newspaper, ripping it to shreds, and his expression was so filled with hatred that she blanched.
“That bloody child!” he bellowed. “That bloody school!”
“What child? What school?”
“Will that boy forever plague me? Will those Carringtons forever inflict themselves on my peace and sanity?”
He stomped to the fire and tossed the torn pages into the flames. Stunned by the outburst, Rebecca silently observed his antics, when he whipped around and advanced on her.
“This is all your fault,” he charged, malice in his gaze.
“My fault! What have I done?”
“I told you to find a school—the smallest, farthest, most inexpensive institution available.”
“I did. I found exactly that.”
“But Michael found it, too,” he shouted, “and it’s in all the papers.”
“What is?”
“Evidently, this...this...school was one step above a torture chamber. Michael had the authorities close it down, and he’s taken all the students to Henley Hall.”
“So?”
“He’s said we sanctioned and directed the abuse and that we are the major financial benefactors.”
“Well, I did give them a hefty stipend when they agreed to accept Thomas.”
“Ah!” the Duke wailed. “Michael tattled about my fiscal troubles. He’s claimed I was trying to deny the boy his inheritance so that I could keep the money myself.”
“Weren’t you?”
“Shut up!
“Is that why no one came to my wedding supper? Is that why we’re being shunned?”
“What do you think? I’ve been destroyed—by my own son, my own flesh and blood. How could he do this to me?”
He was pounding his fist on the desk, a habit he enjoyed too much, and over the noise, Rebecca was frantic to strategize a solution, when footsteps sounded in the hall. The butler strutted in.
“Lord Henley is here, Your Grace. Will you see him?”
“So he’s come to grovel, has he? Send him in at once.” As the butler fetched him, the Duke smirked at Rebecca. “Watch and learn from the master. Let it be a lesson to you in our marriage: Don’t cross me.”
Michael strolled in, looking haughty and proud and not cowed in the least, and as he marched over to his father, Rebecca was disconcerted.
Handsome, vigorous Michael should have been her husband, and as she stared at the much older Duke, it dawned on her that she’d chosen her spouse for all the wrong reasons.
Shortly, she would have to climb upstairs with the Duke, would have to lie down and let him do unspeakable things to her, and she couldn’t help but ponder how much more palatable it would have been with Michael as her partner.
Why couldn’t anything go right? She was already regretting her marriage and it was only nine hours old!
The Duke seized the offensive. “I presume you are here to apologize?”
“No.”
“To beg my forgiveness?”
“No.”
“Then congratulate me on my marriage.” Regally, he nodded his head. “You may begin.”
“You married her?”
“Yes, I did,” the Duke preened. “After you jilted her, someone had to uphold the family honor.”
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Michael chuckled, not behaving at all as the Duke had envisioned, and the Duke was so furious that he was quivering with wrath.
“I would hear your congratulations. Immediatel
y!”
“I have none to share,” Michael retorted. “None that would be sincere anyway.”
“Are you insulting us?” Rebecca inquired, aghast at his discourtesy.
“Yes.”
“I am the Duchess of Clarendon. I am your new stepmother”—this last had him guffawing aloud—“and you will show me the respect I am due.”
“But I don’t feel you are due any respect.”
“Ooh...you horrid, horrid man!” she squealed. “I realize that I asked you to our wedding supper, but I am rescinding the invitation.”
“You invited me to supper?”
“Yes, and I wish I hadn’t.”
“I received no invitation, and if I had, I wouldn’t have accepted.”
She was delighted to note that his rudeness had finally gotten the Duke’s attention. She hadn’t wanted to invite either Michael or Anne, and it was humorous to have them both defying him. He was astounded by Michael’s contempt and confused about how to regain the upper hand.
“You...you...ungrateful wretch,” the Duke sputtered. “You’ve spuriously ruined my good name—“
“Trust me: It wasn’t that highly regarded.”
“—and now, you would...would refuse to dine with me?”
“Absolutely,” Michael replied, “and here is how it will be between us from this point on.”
“Are you planning to order me about? Me? Your father and lord?”
“Yes.”
“I will not stand for it.”
“I don’t care,” Michael said.
“You will contact the papers, you will issue retractions, you will—“
“What you did to Thomas was despicable, and it shames me that you and I have the same blood running in our veins.”
“The child is a leech, a parasite on my wealth, a blight on my status. I told John, and I am telling you, that you will not speak of him in my presence.”
“I can’t believe you have the gall to admit your duplicity: John wanted to help Thomas, and you prevented him.”
“Yes,” he bragged. “I thwarted his every attempt at aid, and I’m not sorry.”
To Rebecca’s astonishment, Michael rounded the desk, until he and his father were toe to toe, and for a brief instant, it seemed that Michael would strike him. His fists were clenched, his feet braced.
