by Olivia Drake
“I had a knack for trade and commerce,” Arkwright went on. “As George Crompton, I had the means to build his shipping company into an extremely successful enterprise. So you see, it is not so terrible a tale. Edith—Mercy—and I acted with the best of intentions.”
“The best?” James mocked. “You stole my cousin’s identity. You took my inheritance, as well. All of the property should have come to me upon my cousin’s death.”
Arkwright regarded him steadily. “No. Your father was still alive then, and it would have gone to him. He would have squandered the lot at dicing and cards. Instead, I have increased the Crompton wealth tremendously. The girls were able to make excellent marriages—”
He broke off, no doubt reflecting on the bad marriage his youngest daughter had made in being duped by James.
“We’ve done no wrong,” Edith said brokenly. “No one was harmed. George, he must not be allowed to take everything from us.”
“I’m afraid he has the right to do so,” Arkwright told her. “The wealth is not ours—it never was. It belongs to him—and to Portia and Lindsey. They are the blood relatives.”
Tears in her eyes, Blythe glared at James. “I see now why you eloped with me. You needed me as a pawn in order to lure my parents here. So that Mama could come face to face with”—she glanced at Mrs. Bleasdale—“my grandmother. You did it for the money.”
Damn it! Every word she spoke was true. James knew he deserved to be castigated by her. Yet it wrenched his chest to see her look at him so. “Blythe, let me explain. I did start out to deceive you. But then I fell in love—”
“No!” She stood up, her fists gripped at her sides. “There will be no more deceit. Not from you … not from any of you.”
At that moment, Edith also surged to her feet. “He mustn’t be allowed to ruin us,” she cried out. “I won’t let him!”
She lifted her arm and something glinted in her hand. A tiny pistol. It was pointed straight at James.
Chapter 30
Her mother’s feral-eyed look shocked Blythe to the core. James stood across the library, near the door. Too far away to save himself.
Blythe acted on instinct. She charged at her mother and seized her arm, thrusting it upward.
A shot exploded. The bullet went wild, striking one of the bookcases. Dust and bits of paper fluttered down from the top shelf.
In the ringing silence, Blythe felt her heart beating so fast that spots swam before her eyes. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air. Dropping the spent pistol, her mother sagged against Blythe.
Papa rushed to take hold of his wife. “Have you gone mad? You could have killed someone!”
“We’re ruined, George. Ruined. I can’t bear it. I simply can’t.”
Appalled, Blythe stepped back until she bumped into a table. Her legs felt as insubstantial as jelly. Sickness roiled in her belly. Her mother had nearly killed James. For the sake of money and status, no less!
Mrs. Bleasdale hovered in the background, her hands to her wrinkled cheeks. Looking at the stooped old woman, Blythe felt separated from reality. Because of her parents’ deception, she had never even known her grandmother existed.
Strong arms clasped her from behind. The scent and warmth of James enveloped her. For the barest moment, she leaned into him, craving his comfort. Only hours ago, they had found such perfect happiness together.
But he, too, had been deceiving her.
Swallowing hard, she thrust him away. Tears blurred her vision. “Don’t! Don’t come near me.”
Grim-faced, James regarded her. “I never meant to hurt you, Blythe. I’ve no excuses to offer except that … I had to find out the truth. I can only hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”
He extended his hand to her in supplication. As if he expected her to forget his betrayal just like that.
Holding her weeping mother, her father said, “This is my fault. I should never have embarked on such a deception. I blame myself.”
“As well you should,” Blythe said, needing an outlet for her pain. “Now I know why you and Mama pushed me to marry the duke. So that you’d be above suspicion and no one would ever dare to question your presence in society.”
Her father made no reply. He bowed his head, which told her more than mere words could never express.
Heartsick, Blythe glared at all of them.
At her mother, who would kill for profit.
At her father, who was a common thief.
At her husband, who had orchestrated her seduction.
Half an hour ago, they had been the dearest people in the world to her, yet she had not known who they really were. She had been living an illusion, believing herself loved, never doubting her place in the world. But it had just been a charade.
“You are strangers to me, all of you,” she lashed out. “I hope never to see any of you ever again.”
Then she turned and ran from the library.
* * *
Blythe found herself outdoors. She could not remember opening the door or going down the front steps. But she was sprinting into the hills, following a drystone fence, clutching her skirts to keep from tripping on the uneven ground.
She could scarcely see for the tears in her eyes. The world had become a watery blur of blue sky, green grass, and wretched despair. The need to escape drove her onward. She wanted only to put as much distance as possible between her and the people she no longer knew.
If only she could outrun the anguish in her heart.
Nearing a copse of willows by a stream, she grew aware of a thrashing in the bushes behind her. Had James come after her? How dare he!
Stumbling in a rabbit hole, Blythe caught her balance and furiously dashed away her tears. Devil take him! She would give him a dressing-down unlike anything he’d ever known. She hated him for being a liar, despised him for tricking her into loving him …
She glanced back over her shoulder. A small furry shape bounded in her wake. Minx!
Slowing to a stop, Blythe sank to the ground. Her breath came in ragged gasps that hurt her lungs. The mutt trotted straight to her, tail wagging.
With a cry of despair, she gathered the dog close. As if sensing her unhappiness, Minx solemnly licked her chin and snuggled in her arms.
All the wild energy of running abruptly left Blythe. Holding the dog, she lay on the bank of the stream and wept in great noisy sobs. Every thought stabbed into her; every memory caused fresh agony. Laughing with her sisters, who were not her sisters anymore. Playing with little Arthur, who was not her nephew. Holding baby Ella, who was no longer her niece. What if she never saw them again?
The possibility was too unbearable to contemplate.
What would happen to Mama and Papa? They were servants who had assumed the identities of a dead gentleman and his wife. They had stolen a fortune and two young children. The very notion of their deception made Blythe sick.
Would James bring charges against her parents? Would they be tried before a judge and go to prison? Or be transported to one of the colonies? Worse, would they be sentenced to death?
No.
No, she could not imagine even James being so cruel. Perhaps he would just take her father’s money and let her parents walk away free.
Where would they go?
She shouldn’t care what happened to them, but she did. Her affection for them was too deeply ingrained to ignore. But they were not the honorable people she’d believed them to be.
Nor was James.
How she hated him! He had tricked her into believing his words of affection. He had made love to her so passionately. All the while, he had been lying to her. He had lied about being a servant, he had lied about being poor, he had lied about saving every penny to go to India. He had just been trying to worm information out of her about her parents.
She recalled the night when he’d come into her father’s office and they had kissed for the first time. James had made an excuse about needing to check the lamps. But his t
rue purpose must have been to find proof to implicate her parents.
Dear God! James had ripped apart the fabric of her family. She had no one left. No one at all.
It was too much to absorb.
Hugging Minx, Blythe felt drained and empty. Weariness settled over her, and she didn’t want to think any-more. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the trill of birdsong, the burbling of the stream. The hard ground was more welcome than the pain in her heart. So was the blessed oblivion of sleep.
* * *
Upon awakening, Blythe didn’t know why she was lying outside beneath the trees. Pushing up onto her elbow, she felt stiff and chilled. The position of the sun told her it must be mid-afternoon.
Memory struck like a fist. The awful confrontation. The shocking discovery that her parents were criminals. The jolt of learning that James was a wealthy gentleman, and not an impoverished servant.
They had all lied to her.
Too heartsore to think about it, she rose to her feet. Where had Minx gone? If the dog had abandoned her, too …
As if summoned by her thoughts, a small furry shape appeared over a grassy slope. Tail wagging, the mutt yapped at her, then vanished again on the other side of the hill.
Blythe trudged after the dog. When she reached the top, she could see Crompton Abbey in the distance. Her throat closed with pain. There was no sign of life around the ivy-covered manor house. Her parents’ coach was no longer in front. Had they left—or had the vehicle merely been moved to the stables? And where was James?
She didn’t want to know. He could die for all she cared.
Catching a glimpse of Minx trotting away from the house, Blythe followed. She had no purpose in mind except to avoid those who had hurt her. She trudged across hillocks and through dips, uncaring that the undergrowth snagged at her skirts. Once, she crossed a brook by balancing on flat stones. The occasional grazing sheep paid her no heed.
Every now and then, she caught sight of Minx roaming far ahead. The dog would stop and look back as if to make certain Blythe was still in pursuit. Eventually, she came to a road and saw the dog trotting several hundred yards ahead. Cresting a hill, Blythe spied rooftops in the distance and the stone steeple of a church.
She had no wish to encounter people in her bedraggled, woebegone state. But she feared Minx might become lost, so she walked faster. At the last bend in the road before the village, the mutt sat down and waited. As Blythe approached, the dog ran briskly down a narrow lane that had been hidden by a field of daffodils.
“Minx! Come back!”
Worried, Blythe hastened down the dirt track. All of a sudden, she came upon a thatch-roofed cottage with roses climbing up the sides. A low stone fence surrounded the place, and a riotous garden grew in a pleasing tangle. Several chickens pecked at the earth.
Blythe stopped at the gate. It was opened a crack and Minx was heading up the flagstone path to the door. The dog barked. Blythe hurried into the garden to retrieve the animal just as the door opened.
A stooped old woman emerged from the cottage. Her white hair and frail appearance hit Blythe with a shock of recognition.
Mrs. Bleasdale. Her grandmother.
“My, look who’s here. Ye’ve come back fer another treat, have ye?”
The woman was speaking to Minx. Curious, Blythe ventured closer. “Have you met Minx, then?”
“Oh, aye. When yer young man came by.”
Her chest tightened. James had been here. Had he been looking for her? And Minx had accompanied him. It must have happened while Blythe had been napping by the stream. At least that explained the mystery of how the dog knew this place.
Mrs. Bleasdale beckoned with a gnarled hand. “Come in, dearie. Ye look fair draggled. I’ll fix ye a hot cuppa tea.”
The old woman shuffled back into the cottage.
Blythe hesitated. A part of her balked at the notion of accepting any companionship. Her emotions felt too raw for her to exchange pleasantries with the grandmother who had so abruptly appeared in her life.
But the bond they shared went beyond blood. They had both been duped by Blythe’s mother. Mercy Bleasdale.
Blythe went inside. She found herself in a snug room with a low, beamed ceiling and several windows that were open to the breeze. An earthenware vase of mixed flowers sat on a small table in the corner. Minx sat waiting on a rag rug that covered the wide-plank floor.
Mrs. Bleasdale stood at the large brick hearth on one wall. She ladled hot water from a bubbling iron pot into a mug, to which she added a pinch of tea leaves. She hobbled to the table, set down the cup, and pulled out a wooden chair.
“Come, dearie,” she said with a smile. “Do sit down.”
Blythe sat. Oddly, she found the invitation more welcome than any issued by a grand London hostess. Society would be agog to see her now, the premier heiress of the season drinking tea in her grandmother’s tiny cottage.
But Blythe was no longer an heiress. She was penniless. It didn’t matter that she had married James. He could keep his precious money. By heavens, she would not ask him for tuppence.
Mrs. Bleasdale bustled around the cottage, fetching a small pitcher of cream and a plate of golden scones. When Minx came begging, the old woman crumbled one of the pastries for her.
“’Tis still warm from the oven,” she said, using a knife to slather a scone with butter and blackberry jam. “There, ye’ll feel better when ye eat.”
Blythe had no interest in food, at least not until the delicious aroma penetrated the haze of her unhappiness. For the first time, she realized she’d had nothing to eat all day.
She took a bite that melted in her mouth. Trying not to appear ravenous, she consumed the scone quickly. “Thank you, Mrs. Bleasdale. You’re very kind.”
The old woman settled onto the other chair. “Ye must call me Granny. Such a wondrous day this is, to have ye here to visit.”
The waiflike woman had deep seams in her face and a sparkle in her hazel eyes. Blythe added cream to her tea and took the mug in her hands, hoping to warm the coldness inside her.
“Granny … how can you be so happy after what my mother did to you? She sent news long ago claiming that your daughter had died of cholera. How can you ever forgive her for doing such a terrible wrong?”
“Mercy has arisen from the dead. Is that not cause for rejoicing? ’Tis like the story of Lazarus in my Bible.” Mrs. Bleasdale buttered another scone and placed it on Blythe’s plate. “And she has given ye into my life, my only grandchild.”
Anger penetrated Blythe’s pain. “But she kept me from you. We’ve been back in England for three years. I could have been visiting you all this time.”
“Ye’re here now, and naught else matters. ’Tis truly a blessing.”
Blythe’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps her grandmother was right, and she should look on the bright side. She had gained a grandmother, after all. Yet there was so very much she had lost today.
Her parents. Her sisters. Her husband.
A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away.
Clucking in sympathy, Mrs. Bleasdale patted Blythe’s hand. “Ye’ve had a trying day, dearie. Just married, too, were ye?”
The floodgates opened and Blythe poured out the story of how James had taken the post of footman under false pretenses, charmed her into falling in love with him, and convinced her to run off to Scotland to be married. His elaborate scheme had involved luring her parents to Lancashire, all so that he could regain his inheritance by proving Mama was really Mercy Bleasdale.
“Even as a wee girl, my Mercy was never satisfied with her lot in life,” Mrs. Bleasdale said with a mournful shake of her head. “She always wanted more. Many a time I told her, ye’ll never be content that way.”
Blythe could see that her mother’s ambitions had sprung from a need to deny a lowly past. Yet she felt no sympathy. The shock of betrayal was still too painful. Bitterly, she said, “It’s no wonder my parents wanted me to marry a duke. It was to prot
ect their position in society.”
“’Tis better the truth has come out,” Mrs. Bleasdale said. “A wound left to fester will only poison a body. Now ye can heal. Come outside now and sit for a bit. The sunshine will cheer ye.”
Blythe doubted that anything could make her happy ever again. She settled herself on a stool with Minx at her feet, while her grandmother tended the roses and hollyhocks. The sun hung low in the sky. At this time the previous day, she and James had arrived at Crompton Abbey and she had looked forward to their wedding night.
Pushing away the memory, she stood up abruptly. “May I help?”
Her grandmother showed her how to pull weeds and trim the dead foliage. Having never gardened, Blythe found it a welcome distraction from her troubled thoughts. Her world narrowed to leaves and twigs and cool, pungent earth. Kneeling in front of a flower bed, she was feeling marginally better when the sound of hoofbeats came from the lane.
A man on horseback wheeled to a stop in front of the gate.
The sight of James caused a terrible lurch in her heart. She sat back on her heels, her hands dirty and her senses raw. It was too late to dash into the cottage. Blast him, she wouldn’t hide, anyway.
Their gazes met and held. His grave expression showed no hint of the deviltry that had lured her into loving him. He looked unbearably handsome in his coffee-brown coat and white cravat, a fine gentleman on a ride through his estate.
Fury broke free from the tangle of her emotions. She no longer knew who he was. The man who had claimed her heart didn’t exist.
He made a move to dismount.
Blythe surged to her feet. “Do not set foot here,” she snapped. “There is nothing you can say that I wish to hear.”
He gave her a cool nod. “I wanted only to assure myself of your well-being,” he said. “I am going to London for a week or so. You are welcome to accompany me if you like.”
He must be anxious to claim her father’s money, she thought in disgust. There would be legal papers to sign, perhaps even reports to be filed with the magistrate. What would happen to her parents? She could only hope that Portia or Lindsey had the connections to help them.
