by Jaimey Grant
“If you are suggesting this for any reason other than a mad desire to travel, I would like to know,” she replied with a half-smile.
A wicked grin lit her husband’s features. “Well,” he drawled, “I must admit it is not a mad desire to travel that prompted my offer. I seem to have suddenly acquired this mad desire to be alone with you.”
She blushed but pointed out reasonably, “You can be alone with me here.”
The smile left Connor’s face. “I’ve been thinking that it is not a good idea for you to be in London, Doll. What if you were to meet the man who attacked you? I’d fear for your very sanity.”
“What do you mean I might meet with the man who…What do you mean?”
Connor frowned. “Verena, have you thought at all about the man who hurt you?” He possessed himself of her hand, curling his fingers around hers.
Her hand convulsed slightly. “I have to admit that I have not wanted to and, well, I suppose I have shied away from doing so whenever the memory happened to enter my mind.”
“I need you to think about it now, pet. What sticks out as exceptional in your mind about the whole damnable situation?”
Verena stared at Connor, not wanting to relive her nightmare past but something in his gaze told her how very important it was that she oblige him in this one request. So, closing her eyes tightly, she allowed her mind to go back to that pretty little wood with the babbling brook.
As things emerged from the deepest recesses of her mind, she said them aloud, whether they seemed important or not. She let Connor decide what was exceptional and what was ordinary.
“At first,” she said so softly that her husband had to lean closer to hear, “I wasn’t worried in the least. He was a rather large man on a huge white horse but actually non-threatening for all that. I greeted him cheerfully as I was always a welcoming child. He smiled back. It was the smile that alerted me to the danger but he was off his horse and upon me before I even had the chance to scream. He said that he thought I was pretty, that he would make me a woman and that I would thank him for it later.”
She shuddered as a single tear squeezed past her tightly closed eyelids. “At the time, I was too scared to notice very much about him other than the way he—the way—the pain and humiliation.” Her eyes flew open. “He spoke like a gentleman, Connor.” Her eyes met his briefly. “As if he had been around them his whole life, perhaps as an upper servant or maybe someone’s by-blow?”
“Perhaps,” allowed Connor, but she could see he wasn’t convinced. “Do you remember what he looked like, by any chance?”
Verena grimaced slightly, not really wanting to continue and not really certain exactly how much her husband wanted to hear. Perhaps…
“He had dark blond hair and dark blue eyes. That’s all I remember about his features. Other than his size, of course.” She furrowed her forehead. “He was about Adam’s height actually.” She met Connor’s concerned blue eyes again. “What else?”
“What happened afterwards? Before I arrived, I mean.”
“He rose to his feet and said, ‘Thank you, my dear. I’m much obliged to you.’ His tone was mocking and he strode to his horse. I cried out then and he turned back and hit me before he mounted and rode away. Then everything went black.”
With the tip of his finger, Connor lightly traced the near-invisible scar that marred her cheek. “What caused this gash, do you think?”
“He wore a ring. It was a large…” She froze, her eyes wide.
“What? What is it?” he asked in alarm. “Verena?”
“He wore a large ring, Con. It was—it was a s-signet ring.”
Of course it was, Lord Connor thought cynically. This little fact only confirmed that they were dealing with a very dangerous man. He was titled, evidently, and very sure of his power to save himself were he caught, which was unlikely. Especially if he thought Verena was a servant.
“He thought you were a servant, Doll, didn’t he?”
“I suppose he did. I was only ever allowed to dress becomingly when Carstairs had a dinner engagement or party to attend and I was required to go. Otherwise I wore the plainest gowns and severest hairstyles.”
“I thought you were a servant,” mumbled Connor almost to himself. He watched his wife’s frightened face as she digested this fact.
Then his own guilt forced him to say, “I am sorry I left you in your father’s care, my love. Can you ever forgive me?”
She looked stunned, her eyes wide and mouth open as if to deny the need. She pursed her lips and finally said, “You can hardly be blamed for what happened, Con. You saved my life, and one can hardly demand more from a person.”
“I would have taken you away with me, Doll. Please believe that I would never have left you there to fend for yourself against that monster.”
“I believe you, but I still think you can hardly be blamed.” She bit her lip suddenly. “Although, there was a time when I thought you had abandoned me,” she told him with a candor that surprised him.
He crushed her against his chest so that she could barely draw a breath. “I would to God that I could change that!”
She pushed away from him. “You cannot. I cannot. No one can. It is quite pointless to worry about what cannot be. We must simply go on from here to the best of our ability and pray that we do not hurt each other too often or too badly.” Pausing, she added, “I wish I had been strong enough to put my past in the past but I seemed never able to escape enough to do so.”
She reached out and clasped his hand. “I forgive you if it will make you feel better, but I do not hold you accountable for what you could not control then and what you cannot control now.”
“I don’t deserve you,” he said simply.
“I don’t deserve you,” she countered sincerely. “And if we continue on in this vein, we will be here all day assuring ourselves that we are two of the most undeserving creatures alive.”
He really should take her out of the country for a while, he thought again. With Napoleon safely vanquished, France was one again open for tourism. Perhaps Verena would like France. “How would you like to see France?” he asked casually, playing with an ebony curl that lay against her porcelain skin.
“No, Con.”
“No? No, what?” His confusion at her response was not feigned.
“I will not run. I will not let him chase me away as if I’ve done something wrong,” she explained patiently, but firmly. Reaching out to still her husband’s hand, she implored, “Do you not see? If I run, I will be forever afraid that he will be just around the next bend in the road. He will be at the next ball, the next fête, the next rout. If I face him down now,” she shrugged, “perhaps I can safely put the past where it belongs. In the past.”
“While I understand your logic and applaud your bravery, I cannot help but feel the need to get you as far away from the bastard as humanly possible.”
“I know, Con, and you are a dear for it. But I am done with running. Besides,” she added with a sunny smile, “I have you to protect me this time. What could possibly go wrong?”
*
Twenty-Five
Perhaps if the rest of the world had seen fit to settle comfortably into the background, Lord Connor Northwicke and his lovely bride may have been able to build on their relationship and thereby avoid the calamity that was about to befall them. But Society would intrude as people were wont to do and the young couple was soon caught up in the whirlpool of pre-Season parties and balls and preparations for the Season itself.
While Verena was delighted with the prospect of her first ball two weeks after that tumultuous night in her husband’s arms, she did experience some qualms that she would be rudely snubbed because of the rumors circulating about her. Although Meechum and Crummers had gossiped dutifully, the gossip had not stuck, people far preferring to believe the worst of her and forgiving Winters much. After all, he had money and Society loved money. While it was undeniable that they no longer looked on her as a str
umpet—How could anyone argue with bloody sheets?—they still considered her a jilt and an adventuress.
Verena wasn’t aware that Connor, in an attempt to subdue the slander, had already sought out Lady Jersey, with whom he shared a close friendship, and asked for her help.
Upon reaching Lady Jersey’s London residence the afternoon of Verena’s first ball, Connor was actually surprised to find that lady home. He had only come on the off chance that she was in residence early this year.
The Season didn’t officially start for several weeks and Sally, Lady Jersey was one of those members of Society that craved the presence of others. London could be cursed flat when everyone was visiting their estates in a perfunctory fashion so they would not be accused of being absentee landlords.
He was ushered into a charming drawing room by a stately butler and told that my lady would be down in a few moments. Would milord like some refreshment?
Connor accepted with alacrity. The butler poured him a stiff measure of brandy and withdrew.
He was a little unsure how to go about securing Sally’s cooperation. Being known as “Silence” for the simple reason that she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, he knew it would be foolish and wrong to tell her the whole story in an attempt to appeal to her humane side. He doubted, in a rare flash of cynicism, that Sally had a humane side.
He was sure, however, that if he used his vast stock of charm—no boasting, just the truth—he would be able to at least convince the high-stickler not to snub Verena. Being a patroness of Almack’s gave Lady Jersey nearly as much power as Brummell once enjoyed—before that man asked Alvanley who his fat friend was…meaning the Prince Regent.
Lady Jersey bustled into the room in a swirl of burgundy silk and smiled with great enjoyment at Connor. He gallantly bowed over her hand, kissing her fingers and grinning at her.
“My dear Sally, it has been far too long,” he murmured, a wicked smile playing about his mouth.
She blushed quite like a schoolgirl and swatted him playfully with her fan.
Connor actually liked Sally. She was despotic and a malicious gossip but a very good friend to have if you knew how to manage her.
“Rumor does say you are married, my lord. Quite havey-cavey from what I understand.” She seated herself on a handsome settee and urged him to join her. He was amused to note that her eyes positively gleamed with the possibility of a new on-dit to relay to the waiting ears of the ton.
“There were extenuating circumstances of which no one is aware,” he answered carefully, watching her expression change. Before she could speak again, he inserted with a forlorn air that he knew would appeal to her, “Alas, I am afraid my poor wife has been much maligned, my lady. Her father had no great love for her, you see”—her look turned a trifle hard, so he added quickly—“and he viewed me as unsuitable for his daughter.” Ah, that got her. “So, he has been spreading malicious gossip that is totally unfounded.”
“The poor dear,” Lady Jersey crooned dutifully.
“I would beg your help, my lady.” He took possession of her hand and sighed dramatically. “I am to take Lady Connor to the Dashwood ball this evening. I had hoped”—he turned a look of heart-wrenching appeal on her—“that you would be willing to tell some of your charming friends of Carstairs’ infamous behavior.”
She pulled her hand away and regarded him half-pitying, half-annoyed. “I do not gossip,” she said stiffly.
“Of course you do not. If anyone should happen to ask, could you…” he trailed off expectantly.
She capitulated. “I will do what I can, dear boy. I will be at Dashwood’s tonight,” she added with a meditative frown. Her brow cleared suddenly and she smiled. “I will take her under my wing and tell everyone how I quite dote on her.”
Connor kissed her hand again and thanked her from the bottom of his heart. He spent the next half-hour there, flattering and being flattered, the whole time wishing he could rush home and tell his wife that all would be well.
Verena was enduring an afternoon of dread. The normal tide of callers had come to an abrupt stop just that afternoon and she could only imagine what sort of hateful thing her father was telling people.
She had received a call from Connor’s godfather, Lord Charteris’s visit going far in relieving her fears, but they were back now and without Connor’s reassuring presence, she could do nothing but brood.
Her brooding over her selfish fear of being found unacceptable by a Society known for its very fickleness abruptly ended with the arrival of Adam Prestwich.
He’d been absent for several days, looking further into the death of her brother. Verena instantly forgot her fears over her father’s hateful behavior and went to meet her husband’s friend in the drawing room.
“Adam! What news?” she asked breathlessly, barely having entered the room.
Adam’s lips thinned but Verena detected a softening in his expression that filled her with foreboding.
Blushing with embarrassment, Verena urged him to be seated and offered refreshments. She breathed a sigh of relief when he sat but declined tea.
“Are you well?” he asked, his tone conveying far more than she was sure he’d meant it to.
“Yes, yes, I am well,” she replied shortly, too eager for news to care for the niceties. “What have you heard of Jeremy?”
Adam studied her expression for a moment, as if searching for some reassurance of her mental state. “I managed to locate several of Bainbridge’s comrades in arms who have found their way home.”
Verena leaned forward. “And?”
He didn’t answer her immediately. He just studied her, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts.
Then, his brow furrowing the slightest bit, he confessed, “Verena, they saw him fall.”
She sat back as if struck. “What does that mean?” she said choked out, suddenly wishing desperately for a cup of tea, or water, or anything wet to ease the sudden dryness in her throat.
As if reading her mind, Adam rose and moved to the sideboard to pour her a glass of sherry. He returned to stand beside her. Pressing the glass into her hand, he ordered her to drink.
He did not continue until she had drained the glass.
“It means he is dead, just as I told you weeks ago. He fell in battle and didn’t rise.”
“Oh, it cannot be true! Did they not go to see if he was—I mean, perhaps he was alive. Unconscious?” She searched his immobile features. “It is possible, is it not?”
He took her hand, a gesture Verena had not expected and shrank from accepting. To accept his comfort meant she accepted his claim that Jeremy was dead.
She refused to believe he was. It was not possible that where her father failed, Napoleon had persevered.
Then she realized he wasn’t offering her comfort at all. He pressed a hard object into her palm, the edges cutting into her delicate flesh.
Swallowing her tears, she stared down at the signet ring, her brother’s signet ring, and asked, “What of Carstairs? What did you uncover of his nefarious activities?”
Adam’s features smoothed and he moved away from her, withdrawing physically and emotionally. “I do not know what you mean,” he told her.
“I realize Connor asked you to look for Jeremy. I thank you both for that,” she said calmly. “But I also know you would not take my accusations against my father lightly and neither would my husband. You would both desire to know how dangerous he actually is, determine if the threat is enough to require more…permanent…action.”
Adam’s lips twisted into a smile that almost, almost reached his eyes. “I am impressed, my lady. You are correct, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We discovered nothing more than rumors. He tried to maintain an appearance of a doting father in the public eye but rumors have a way of trickling through. It was whispered that he despised the child who took his wife and made his life a misery behind closed doors. I could find no one to say he ever injured the boy or attempted to
have him killed.”
The rude sound that emerged from Verena’s throat was quite eloquent of her opinion of that. “No one would talk because he would kill them.”
She waved a negligent hand in the air and rose to her feet, forcing her guest to rise as well. “It matters little. My father will make a mistake and Connor will handle the matter nicely, I am sure. Meanwhile, as long as his threats remain verbal, there is little over which to worry.”
Verena walked away, saying over her shoulder as she went, “I must ready myself for the Dashwood’s ball. I will no doubt see you there.”
Verena went to her room, intent on finding the perfect dress for the ball, forcing her mind from the depressing news of her brother. The ring she stared at for a long moment and was reminded of her husband’s belief that her attacker was titled. It mattered little. What were the chances that she’d stumble across him in a city of so many?
Carefully laying the ring in her jewel case, Verena turned her mind back to the ball. It would not be a grand affair, she was told, since the Season was still too far off for many of the ton to be present in Town.
Never having enjoyed the Season before, Verena had no way of knowing that the less-publicized out-of-Season parties could still be quite crowded. Hostesses didn’t aspire to the hoped-for “sad crush” that they did of the Season, but they did hope for a reasonable squeeze.
Crummers duly arrived to find her mistress frantically tossing dresses every which way in her agitation. She stood in wide-eyed shock, never having seen Lady Connor in such a taking.
“Milady?”
“Oh, Crummers, thank God! Help me find something. I want to make Connor proud of me.” She suddenly wished Bri was there and a shadow of sorrow crossed her face. She had heard nothing from her or about her and Adam had refused to be drawn on the subject. As usual.
Crummers held up a beautiful high-waisted gown of the softest purple silk with an overdress of the sheerest silver spangled gauze. The dress had matching shoes and a reticule of silver silk with tiny purple rosebuds. With a fashionably low bodice and tiny puffed sleeves, Verena felt it would be perfect.
