He clearly hadn’t drunk enough.
With a groan he rolled onto his back and cracked open his eyes. Morning. Someone—probably bloody Roberts—had drawn back the curtains, restoked the fire and had thoughtfully thrown a tartan rug over him. Even the brandy decanter—the one he was sure he had drained last night after polishing off all the whisky in his room—had been refilled and was sitting on its tray with a fresh balloon beside it, on his desk.
As much as he wanted to suffuse his brain with the numbing fog of complete drunkenness again, he really didn’t think his stomach could tolerate it right now. Water, plain toast, and maybe some coffee were all that he was really up to. The brandy would have to wait until later.
Rothsburgh lurched to his feet and managed to make it to the bell-pull without losing the contents of whatever was left in his gut—which was probably mostly roiling despair and regret at how badly he’d treated Beth. Shock at her disclosure had clearly rendered him incapable of thinking straight, but it was a poor excuse for his blatantly self-indulgent, wounded dog behavior. Christ, she’d almost been raped, was injured and in pain. Even though she’d deceived him—played him for a fool—he shouldn’t have driven her from the room without even offering to call on one of the staff to provide her with assistance. There was no doubt about it, he’d been a thoughtless brute.
He crossed over to his desk and collapsed into his chair, clutching his spinning, aching head in his hands. As much as it would pain both of them—in fact he’d much rather face the prospect of having a limb amputated—and maybe it should be his head, it throbbed like the very devil—he knew he’d have to speak with Beth sometime today, if only to arrange an alternative situation for her. Despite what had transpired between them, he wasn’t completely heartless—he would never throw her out with no means of support, and nowhere to go.
But where would she go?
Would she want to return to her husband?
His gut told him that she wouldn’t.
In the long dark hours of the night as he’d single-mindedly worked his way through one of his strongest single malts, he had gone through their last fraught conversation in his head, over and over again before his thoughts had become too addled. What he’d failed to grasp then, and still didn’t understand now, was why. Why had Beth done what she’d done?
The question was like a burning bullet in his brain, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew the answer.
One thing was certain, there had to be more to Beth’s ‘complicated’ situation than she had cared to admit. But then, he hadn’t given her a chance to explain anything. The more he thought about what she’d said—or hadn’t said last night—the stronger his instinct became that the Beth he knew—sweet, caring, intelligent, loving—wouldn’t have left her husband on a whim. She must have had a damn good reason. But after his behavior last night—he cringed at the memory of how he’d lashed out at her—would she share it with him?
And neither did he think that becoming his lover was an inconsequential matter for her. Now, in the cold light of day, he realized he’d been wrong to think of Beth as some cruel, calculating jade. Beth was nothing like Isabelle. And fool that he was, he’d been too quick to judge. He hadn’t been fair to her. No, not at all.
After everything they’d shared, he couldn’t turn his back on Beth. However much it hurt to see her, he would help her in whatever way he could.
Rothsburgh was roused from his tumultuous thoughts by the arrival of Roberts—brilliant man that he was—bearing an already assembled tray of refreshments; a jug of water, a pot of coffee, and fresh warm baps with butter and marmalade.
“I didna think you would mind tha’ I took the liberty of bringin’ you a few things for breakfast, milord,” he said with the quiet gravity befitting a reverend at a funeral. Roberts obviously knew he had a splitting head. “’Tis close to eleven o’clock, an’ as you missed dinner last night…”
“It’s quite all right, Roberts. I appreciate your…thoughtfulness.” Rothsburgh gestured at the desk. “No need to set up the dining table. I’ll just have it here.”
“Verra good, milord…” Roberts carefully laid out each item, clearly taking care not to clatter the china or cutlery, but when he was done, he hesitated by the end of the desk, empty tray in hand, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Milord…”
Rothsburgh glanced up from buttering one of Mrs. Roberts’s excellent baps. “Yes, my good man?” He wasn’t sure why, but judging by the expression on Roberts’s face, what his butler was about to say wasn’t going to be something he wanted to hear. He put down his knife. “What is it?”
“I just thought ye should know that Mrs. Eliott…” The butler started to fidget and the sinking sensation in the pit of Rothsburgh’s stomach only intensified. “Weel, she left this mornin’, milord.”
“What?” Rothsburgh surged to his feet and gripped the table, partly to support himself, but also to prevent himself from throttling Roberts. “When?”
“At first light, milord, as soon as the tide was far enough oot. Todd took her over in the carriage to The Black Barnacle wi’ her trunk to wait fer the eight o’clock mail-coach south. I’m sorry, milord. I verra much wanted to tell you, but Mrs. Eliott made me swear no’ to. She said tha’ she wasna’ fit to be employed here any longer. Tha’ she had to go. An’ after the incident wi’ Lord Blaire yesterday…weel, I didna know wha’ to make of things. She seemed…no’ herself. I didna like to pry…” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a parchment envelope. “But she asked me to give you this, milord…when you awoke.”
Rothsburgh took the letter, not able to hide the shaking of his hand. “Before you go, Roberts, do you know…did she mention to you or to Todd, where she might be headed other than just south?”
“I dinna think so, milord. But I could ask Mrs. Roberts or Maisie per’aps. Might I also add, milord, even though it’s probably no’ my place to say, we are all verra…surprised an’ saddened to see Mrs. Eliott go. She is…a bonnie woman, milord. We shall all miss her.”
Rothsburgh cleared his throat, but failed to conceal the hoarse emotion in his voice. “Yes. Indeed.” Bonnie didn’t even come close to summing up the rare diamond that was Beth, but he appreciated the sentiment behind what Roberts had just said all the same. “That will be all, Roberts.”
As soon as the library door shut, Rothsburgh tore open the envelope.
Lord Rothsburgh,
God, she’d gone back to using his bloody title.
Although I am probably the last person you would ever want to hear from, now, at the hour of my leaving, I felt that I couldn’t go without expressing my sincere and humble gratitude for your care and kindness.
I will remember you always.
B.
Fuck. He didn’t want her sincere and humble gratitude. He wanted her love.
Rothsburgh flung the letter down onto the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose as biting despair threatened to take hold.
He was solely to blame for driving Beth away. If he had been able to rein in his anger. If he had shown some compassion and offered to help her instead of turning his back on her…
When Beth had said that she would go last night, he didn’t realize that she meant to abandon Eilean Tor—him—completely.
Despite everything, this couldn’t be the end.
He had to find her.
He drew in a shuddering breath and picked up the letter again, tracing the finely-executed, elegantly flowing letters with the tip of one finger as if they could provide him with some clue as to Beth’s whereabouts.
He didn’t even know where to forward her wages. Hell, the last thing he wanted to do was treat her like some common doxy by paying her for her ‘services rendered’. He wanted to give her his name, indeed everything he had. But he couldn’t, and if she wasn’t going back to her husband—as he suspected she wouldn’t—she would need a way to support herself. For that reason alone he had to locate her.
Christ, she probably didn’t even have a reference now.
Rothsburgh started to rifle through the stack of papers on one corner of his desk, praying that Lady Beauchamp’s letter hadn’t been lost. If Roberts or the other staff could recall any detail of where Beth was headed, when the tide was out he could attempt to return her reference to her. Or provide her with one from himself for that matter—if she’d accept it.
He’d do anything she wanted.
He’d almost given up, when at last, he spied the single sheet of thick cream parchment embossed with the Countess of Beauchamp’s own distinctive monogram, on the very bottom of the pile. He scanned the page quickly, looking for any piece of information that might give him another clue about Beth, where she came from, any former employers whom he could contact that might have a better idea of her background. If he had to, he would go all the way to bloody London to speak with Lady Beauchamp herself.
But there was nothing in the letter that he didn’t already know about Beth.
Releasing an exasperated sigh, he cast the reference down onto the desk beside Beth’s all too brief goodbye letter. Then blinked. Ran a hand over his eyes and looked again, hardly daring to trust what he saw before him.
Beth’s handwriting and Lady Beauchamp’s were exactly the same.
What the hell?
He picked up both pieces of paper, his mind reeling from the implications. There were only two possibilities; either Beth had forged herself a reference from a peeress of the realm—a seemingly impossible feat given that it was written on Lady Beauchamp’s own personal stationary, and the wax seal bore the imprint of the Beauchamp coat-of-arms.
Or the woman professing to be Mrs. Beth Eliott was actually Elizabeth, the Countess of Beauchamp.
And he’d stake his life on the second scenario.
It was as if he’d suddenly found the key to the puzzle box. Everything that had both intrigued and mystified him about Beth suddenly made sense; her innate poise and elegance in everything she did and said; her natural knowledge of staff management and running such a large household as Eilean Tor—unusual skills for a woman from the middle classes to have, but natural for a countess who probably ran at least two households; her intelligence and quiet confidence, her superb skills as a pianist. He’d always sensed she was someone from his own class, not the just the wife of a middle-class subaltern.
Other things fell into place in his mind. Blaire had once crudely likened Beth to the blonde Lady Beauchamp. And Beth had even admitted to him when they had first made love that her name was really Elizabeth; not that her disclosure was overly surprising, but at the time Beth had told him, he’d had the feeling that she was revealing something quite close to her heart, a well-kept secret about herself.
But perhaps most importantly, this revelation also meant that he now knew exactly why Beth had left her devil of a husband.
She ran away to save her life.
And nothing on this earth would stop Rothsburgh from finding Beth to tell her he understood. And to offer her assistance in whatever way he could.
Married or not—he loved her.
Chapter Fourteen
Dundee, Tayside, Scotland
Through his carriage window, Rothsburgh noticed that the horizon over the North Sea had begun to grow imperceptibly lighter as he approached the outskirts of Dundee. He’d been travelling since three o’clock the previous afternoon—the earliest time that he’d been able to safely cross the causeway—and between the jolting of his carriage over the rough roads and his turbulent thoughts, he’d barely slept all night. But being exhausted hardly mattered if he soon had Beth in his arms again.
After quitting the library yesterday morning, Roberts had learned that the young maid, Maisie had found something telling in the pocket of Beth’s ruined gown—a newspaper advertisement inviting suitably qualified young women to apply for a companion’s position for a Lady Dunleven of Dundee. Rothsburgh was certain that was where Beth was headed, especially when Geddes confirmed that she had indeed caught the south-bound mail-coach heading to Edinburgh, rather than the north-bound one that passed through Torhaven in the early afternoon.
According to Geddes, the mail-coach would have arrived at the Fife and Drum, Dundee’s largest coaching inn, at around ten o’clock last night. Rothsburgh guessed that Beth would have secured a room there; given who she really was, she probably had some funds to spare for accommodation for a short while. And if she hadn’t found lodgings there, or anywhere else nearby, he still had the advertisement containing the contact details of Lady Dunleven’s man-of-business, the person whom Beth would approach for the post.
If Beth wasn’t at the Fife and Drum, or didn’t contact Mr. Innes, Rothsburgh would turn Dundee and every town and village between Torhaven and Edinburgh upside down until he found her.
There was only one needling doubt that pricked at him. Beth had found the advertisement for the companion’s post before he had proposed to her.
So she had already been thinking of leaving him. And that worried him.
He’d thought that she cared for him. The way she’d smiled at him, kissed him, made love with him…He knew the difference between what they’d shared and just plain fucking.
But what if he’d been wrong? What if she hadn’t cared for him as much as he did for her. What if the intensity of his feelings—although unstated until a night ago—had frightened her away?
Rothsburgh glanced down at Beth’s goodbye letter in his hand, the writing barely visible in the uncertain grey light of dawn. She had expressed her gratitude. And that was all. And when he’d told her that he loved her, she’d never admitted any tender feelings for him then either.
Hopefully, within the next few hours he would find Beth. And after he had begged her to forgive him for judging her so harshly, he would ask her how she really felt about him. Selfish sinner that he was, he didn’t care that she was married. He still wanted her with every fiber of his being, and he had to know if there was any chance at all that she could love him in return.
* * * *
It was bitterly cold in the small room Elizabeth had hired at the Fife and Drum. The tiny fire in the grate had died overnight, and the wind blowing off the sea constantly rattled the shutters, and whistled with irritating shrillness through a crack between the window pane and the sill.
Between the noise, her physical discomforts and her overwhelming sense of wretchedness, Elizabeth had given up on sleep long ago. With nothing better to do than to toss and turn and shiver, she rose with the first light of dawn and rang for a maid-servant to request a pitcher of warm water to wash.
The sooner she dressed and ate breakfast, the sooner she could set about tracking down Mr. Innes, Lady Dunleven’s man-of-business.
Once the maid had been and gone, Elizabeth wrapped herself in her grey cashmere shawl, then curled herself up in a lumpy, shabbily covered armchair before the fireplace to wait for her water. Aside from freshening up, she needed to bathe and re-bandage her cuts. An infection was the last thing she needed.
As she watched the flames take purchase in the freshly stoked fire, she turned her thoughts to what she would tell Mr. Innes about herself, as well as wondering what Lady Dunleven would be like. Anything to stop herself thinking about the darkly handsome marquess that she had foolishly fallen in love with, and the cruel reality of never being able to see him, let alone be with him again. He must despise her now, and rightly so. They were the same painful thoughts that had pervaded her mind throughout the long journey to Dundee, and she imagined would torment her for a long time to come.
Her only comfort was that she was still a nobody, a shadow who could fade into obscurity again. Hidden from Hugh. That was all that should matter to her, being able to live safely.
If only her wayward heart would stop aching.
An abrupt, rather loud knock on the door made her jump. The maid must have returned. Roughly wiping the mist of self-indulgent, useless tears away from her eyes, Elizabeth rose and l
imped across the cold floorboards to admit her.
“Yes?” she called, not willing to open the door until the young girl identified herself. A woman travelling alone needed to be careful.
“’Tis Heather, ma’am, with yer water.”
Satisfied, Elizabeth clumsily turned the key in the lock with her bandaged hands, and stepped back a few paces behind the door to shield her body from view when it opened. There was no privacy screen in this room, and it wouldn’t do to be caught dishabille by anyone else who might be passing by in the hallway. “You may enter.”
The door swung half-open. But it wasn’t the maid.
Lord Rothsburgh stepped into the room.
Elizabeth froze, unable to utter a thing other than an inarticulate cry, while her heart leapt wildly with an electrifying combination of shock and ill-founded joy.
How did he find me? And why? Why would he bother?
Compelling, intense, devastatingly handsome as always, even with ruffled hair, an unshaven jaw and rumpled coat, the very room seemed to vibrate with Rothsburgh’s presence. He’d obviously bribed or charmed the young maid into gaining access to her room as he was bearing a jug of water, and a few towels were draped over his forearm. He swiftly raked his gaze over her, then turned his head and called over his shoulder into the hall. “Thank you, Heather. I shall look after the lady from here.”
Then he kicked the door shut behind him and bowed. His eyes were as soft as dark brown velvet. “Good morning, Mrs. Eliott. Or should I say, Lady Beauchamp?”
Oh God, no. Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth and she stumbled backwards a few steps, nearly tripping over the roughly bricked hearth. She couldn’t believe it. Lord Rothsburgh knows who I am.
The protective wall she had painstakingly constructed around herself had come tumbling down like a house of cards.
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