She jumped from the bed and ran to her dressing table. She peered in the mirror, searching for visible signs that she was now a real woman. Strange, she looked exactly the same, except her lips looked swollen and there was a happy gleam in her eye.
Feeling as if she were floating on a cloud, Hayley hurriedly dressed. She wasn't sure what she was going to say to Stephen this morning, but she knew she couldn't wait to see him. Surely after their wondrous night together she could convince him to stay in Halstead. He couldn't possibly consider leaving after what they'd shared.
He'd said he had nothing to offer her, but all she wanted was him. She hugged her arms around herself and spun around the room. Nothing was impossible this morning! And there were countless plans to make! They needed to find Stephen a tutorial position in the area, he had to write and resign from his upcoming post. And dare she even dream there might be a wedding to plan? A tingling shiver ran through her at the thought. There were just so many wonderful things to do!
She'd just finished buttoning her gown when she heard a knock on her door.
"Come in," she called.
Pamela entered the room, an odd, unsettled look on her face.
"Pamela!" Hayley rushed to her and gave her a hug. "How did you enjoy the rest of the party with Marshall?"
A brief smile touched Pamela's lips. "It was wonderful. Hayley—"
"I can't wait to hear all about it. Let's go downstairs and talk over a nice cup of tea." She tugged at Pamela's hand.
"In a minute, Hayley. There's something I need to tell you first."
For the first time since Pamela had entered the room, Hayley noticed her stricken expression. "Is something wrong?"
Pamela handed Hayley an envelope sealed with wax.
"What is this?" Hayley asked in a puzzled voice, turning the letter over in her hands. Her name was written on the front.
"He's gone, Hayley."
"Who?"
"Mr. Barrettson."
Hayley stilled. "What do you mean, gone?"
"His horse is missing from the stable—"
"Perhaps one of the boys or Stephen himself has gone riding," Hayley interrupted, a prickle of dread tensing her shoulder blades.
Pamela shook her head. "Andrew and Nathan reported the horse missing. I went to Mr. Barrettson's bedchamber to see if he'd gone riding. The door was open, so I entered." Pamela took a deep breath and squeezed her hands together. "The room was empty, the bed made. This note, addressed to you, was propped on the mantel."
"That doesn't mean he's gone," Hayley protested.
"His clothes are gone, Hayley."
Nausea gripped Hayley and she pressed her hands to her stomach. "How do you know?"
"The dresser drawers are empty, as is the armoire." Pamela reached out and touched Hayley's sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Hayley."
"I … I must read this note," Hayley said, her mind spinning. "I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation. Would you excuse me for a moment, please, Pamela?"
"Of course. Perhaps I could fix you a cup of tea?"
"Yes," Hayley said, forcing a smile. "A cup of tea would be most welcome."
Pamela left, closing the door softly behind her. Hayley immediately broke the seal on the envelope, her fingers trembling so badly, she nearly tore the paper. Her knees too weak for her to stand, she sank into a chair and pulled out two sheets of paper.
My dearest Hayley,
By the time you read this, I shall be gone from Halstead, a decision I know you won't understand, but one, I pray, you will someday forgive.
Let me begin by saying last night was the most beautiful night of my life. Because of my sudden departure, I realize you probably will not believe that, but I assure you it's true. I know my leaving will hurt you, as it hurts me. Please know that I hate hurting you, but it cannot be helped. My leaving is in no way your fault, nor could you have done anything to prevent it. I knew, we both knew, I would leave someday. That someday just came sooner than we expected.
Or perhaps it came too late. If I'd left before today, last night would not have happened. I will forever cherish the memories of our incredible night together. I'm a selfish bastard for allowing it to happen, but still, I cannot regret it. Obviously I'm not as wonderful as you thought, but then, I never claimed to be.
You are a remarkable, loving woman—the only person I've ever met in my entire life who is truly good. Please find someone else to love—someone who is worthy of you.
If circumstances were different—if my life was not so complicated—perhaps things could have been different, but there are things about me, about my life, you do not know, things that make my staying impossible.
Please forgive me for leaving this way, for saying goodbye with a note, but I wanted my last image of you to be what it is—an angel asleep in my arms. I couldn't bear to see hurt or pain in your eyes.
I thank you and your family for all the kindness you've shown me. You shall always have my gratitude for saving my life. You touched me, Hayley, in places that no one else ever has. And, for what it is worth, I shall never forget you.
With great fondness,
Stephen
Hayley stared at the letter, dry-eyed, hollow, and numb. She forced her breathing to remain steady, refusing to give in to the raw pain cutting through her. If I can make myself feel nothing, I'll survive. If I start crying, I'll never stop.
She could almost hear Stephen's voice from last night, tenderly asking Did I hurt you? Hot tears pushed at the backs of her eyeballs and she impatiently brushed them away.
Yes, Stephen. You've hurt me.
Yet she had no one to blame but herself. He'd made her no promises and had merely given her what she'd wanted—the chance to be a woman. With a supreme effort, she calmly folded the pages before tucking them into the envelope. She had trouble putting them back in and peered in to see what the problem was. Something was in the bottom of the envelope. She turned it upside down and its contents fluttered into her palm.
The bottom of the envelope was filled with wilted pansies.
And she could no longer stop the tears.
Chapter 23
« ^ »
Stephen sat in the study in his London town house, going over estate accounts with his secretary, Peterson. He massaged his temples, willing his pounding headache away, but it didn't work. Peterson's voice droned on, bringing Stephen up to date on what had occurred during his absence. He'd been home for nearly two weeks now, but he still hadn't caught up on his work.
He stared unseeingly at the papers in front of him, the small rows of numbers swimming before his eyes, making no sense to him at all. For the first time in his life, he didn't care about his business interests. Truth be known, he cared about very little.
"Would you like to review the figures on the Yorkshire estates, my lord?" Peterson asked, peering over the rim of his spectacles.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Yorkshire estates. Would you like to review—"
"No." Stephen abruptly stood up and ran his hands through his hair. "We'll have to finish this tomorrow morning, Peterson."
"But, my lord," Peterson protested. "The Yorkshire estates—"
"Do what you think is best." Stephen nodded curtly at the dumbfounded man, dismissing him.
Peterson hastily gathered up his sheaf of papers, his amazement apparent. He quickly left the room.
Stephen drained his brandy down his throat, and pushed himself away from the fireplace, replenishing his glass. The last two weeks had been the most miserable time of his life. His town house was perfectly run by his impeccable staff, and his meals formal culinary masterpieces. No children, no dogs, no noise or chaos.
He hated every bloody minute of it.
On his first day back, he'd wandered into the kitchens and struck terror into the hearts of his staff with his unprecedented visit. The marquess would never visit the kitchens unless something was horribly wrong with a meal.
On his second day back, he'd asked S
igfried to teach him how to shave himself. The valet had looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses, then immediately requested a restorative tisane for his lordship.
Now, sipping his drink, his mind drifted back to the evening he and Hayley had spent in the study. A smile touched his lips when he recalled her tossing back the brandy then nearly choking when the powerful liquor burned down her throat. Then he'd recited a poem to her. And kissed her. He closed his eyes, and was almost able to feel the soft caress of her lips beneath his, her hands encircling his neck, her tongue—
"I don't know what you're thinking about," Justin's dry voice came from the doorway, "but it must be fascinating. I've been trying to get your attention for nearly a minute." He entered the room and helped himself to a brandy. "Care to share your thoughts?"
"No." Stephen frowned at Justin, then completely ignored him.
"I thought you'd be hard at work," Justin remarked casually. He took a sip of brandy and studied Stephen over the edge of his snifter.
"I dismissed Peterson for the day."
"Indeed? Why?"
"Because I couldn't concentrate and I was wasting both his time and mine." Stephen pinned a hard look on his friend. "Is there any particular reason you've invaded my privacy, other than to drink my brandy?"
"As a matter of fact, there are two reasons. The first is we need to discuss the latest attempt on your life."
Stephen heaved a sigh. "What is the point of discussing it again?"
Justin cocked a brow. "Someone tried to run you over last evening outside White's. You don't think that warrants discussion?"
"It seems to me we spoke about it last night."
"The fact someone has once again tried to murder you demands our attention. Clearly we need to watch Gregory very closely."
"Gregory was inside the club when the incident occurred," Stephen reminded him. "I left him at the faro table not five minutes earlier."
"He easily could have hired someone," Justin pointed out.
Stephen shrugged. "I suppose."
"I must say, you appear quite calm under the circumstances."
"How would you have me behave?" Stephen asked. "Perhaps you'd prefer it if I swooned or burst into tears?"
"It would ease my mind if you appeared even the least bit concerned," Justin said. "We must find out who is behind this before they strike again. We may not be so lucky next time. We've delayed long enough. Gregory is our best suspect."
Again Stephen shrugged. "Yes, I suppose he is."
"Then it's time we set a trap for him. I've taken the liberty of setting up a situation where the two of you can be alone together. I've arranged for you to be watched, and when he makes a grab for you, we'll nab him."
"Fine," Stephen said, not caring one way or the other.
"I know it's dangerous," Justin said, frowning, "but we must do something, and fast. If our plan is properly executed, we'll catch him and not a hair on your head will be disarranged."
"And if not properly executed?" Stephen asked dryly. "I suspect in that case more than my hair will be disarranged."
"That will not happen, Stephen," Justin vowed quietly.
"What sort of scenario have you set up?"
"A party. At my home just outside London. Large grounds. Lots of people. Gregory will likely attempt to get you off somewhere by yourself and do the deed."
Stephen raised his brows. "Don't you think it unlikely he'd try something with so many people around?"
"I think he'll view this as his perfect opportunity. I believe he'll adhere to the axiom of 'hide in plain sight.' There is more confusion in a crowd, more chance to slip away unnoticed, just like last night. He could leave the room, kill you, and return in a matter of minutes, and undoubtedly find half a dozen guests who would swear they'd seen him the entire time.
"If that fails," Justin continued, "we shall simply make sure you wander off alone into the gardens, far away from the house to allow whoever is behind this a chance to pop you off. I and several Bow Street Runners will have an eye on you at all times. With half the ton at the party, even if Gregory should turn out to be innocent, no doubt the true culprit will be present."
Stephen mulled over Justin's words. "All right. Let's just get it over with. When is this party?"
"In four days. I wanted to have it immediately, but Victoria insisted she needs that long to make the arrangements. She actually insisted she needed two weeks, but I gave her four days."
"She doesn't know about—"
"Of course not," Justin broke in. "But I could hardly plan a party without her. In the meantime, I have engaged several Bow Street Runners to keep an eye on your brother."
"It seems you have my safety well in hand," Stephen remarked between sips of brandy.
"Someone has to. Your mind is clearly on other matters."
Stephen shot his friend a quelling look. "You said there were two reasons you invaded my sanctuary. What is the other one? Or do I not want to know?"
"I was sent by my dear wife to request your presence at dinner this evening."
"She could have sent a note."
"She believed you'd refuse, thus she convinced me to ask you in person. You've turned down her last three invitations."
"I can't make it."
"It would mean a great deal to Victoria," Justin said quietly. "And to me as well."
Stephen polished off his brandy and slammed down his snifter. He strode to the window and looked outside. Across the street stretched the expansive lawns of Hyde Park. Fancy carriages and glossy horses carrying esteemed members of London's ton passed before his unseeing eyes.
"Can we expect you at seven?" Justin asked.
Stephen wanted to refuse. He had no desire to make polite conversation. In fact, he felt wholly incapable of it. But there was little he would refuse his sister, and as he had begged off from her last several invitations, he felt he had to accept.
"Will anyone else be there?"
"Actually, yes. We invited your parents and Gregory and Melissa."
A bark of incredulous laughter erupted from Stephen. "A cozy family gathering? Forget it, Justin."
"I want to observe Gregory's reactions to you in a private setting. You don't have to do anything at all except sit, eat, and drink brandy."
"How much brandy do you have?"
"Enough."
Stephen doubted there was enough brandy in the bloody kingdom to dull his pain. "Very well. I'll be there at seven. This is sure to be a delightful evening."
* * *
The luxurious carriage moved slowly through Hyde Park, the lone occupant staring through the window with hate-filled eyes. You survived again, you bastard. Why won't you die? Black-gloved hands clenched into fists. You're the only thing standing between me and everything I've always wanted and deserved. No more mistakes. No more hiring fools. I will kill you myself.
* * *
"You're looking rather pale, Stephen," his mother observed over the rim of her wineglass. "Are you ill?"
Stephen stared across the dinner table at the woman who had given birth to him and then promptly forgotten her son except for such times as suited her. She was undeniably stunning, was a charming hostess, and graced the guest list of every Society function. She was also completely selfish and blatantly uninterested in anything that did not directly concern her own wants. Stephen knew she wasn't really concerned about his health—only the possibility that she might catch whatever sickness he might have, thus interrupting her social engagements. He noticed she wore a new bauble around her neck, a large square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. Obviously a token from her latest lover—her husband had ceased purchasing her jewelry years ago.
"I'm fine, Mother. How kind of you to inquire."
His sarcasm sailed over her head, as he'd known it would, and she smiled, clearly relieved.
"Are the accounts of the Yorkshire estates ready for my review?"
Stephen turned to his father. At fifty-two, the Duke of Moreland s
till cut a tall, imposing figure. Gray streaked his dark hair and deep lines bracketed his unsmiling mouth. He had the coldest eyes Stephen had ever seen. "No. I need another day to finish them."
"I see." The duke accompanied those two words with a long, silent, frigid stare that clearly indicated his disapproval. He returned his attention to his dinner, dismissing his son as effectively as slamming a door in his face.
Stephen realized that that exchange was the longest conversation he'd had with his father since his return to London.
"I heard an interesting bit at White's this afternoon," Gregory said, accepting more wine from a footman. "The betting book is filled with wagers on the outcome."
Stephen's gaze moved down the table and settled on his brother. Signs of Gregory's dissipated lifestyle were taking their toll, marring his handsome face, and the alcohol-induced bleariness never completely left his eyes anymore. His high color announced his inebriated state. If Gregory weren't such an immoral bastard, Stephen would feel sorry for him.
"What did you hear?" Victoria asked.
"There's talk that a woman has been writing a series of stories appearing in Gentleman's Weekly magazine."
Stephen froze. "What?"
Gregory gulped his wine, spilling burgundy drops on his white cravat. "Do you read A Sea Captain's Adventures by H. Tripp in the Gentleman's Weekly?"
"Indeed I do," said Justin from the head of the table. "You read them as well, Stephen."
"Yes. Continue, Gregory."
Clearly confident that he held his audience spellbound, Gregory said, "Of all the stories serialized in the magazine, H. Tripp is the only author who has never been seen in person. Why is he not a member of any writing society? Why does he not attend any social functions? There is speculation that the reason is because he's a woman."
"Perhaps he's merely shy, or infirm, or lives too far away," suggested Melissa in a quiet voice.
Gregory fixed his wife with a watery, baleful stare. "Why, what a brilliant suggestion," he taunted, his words thick with sarcasm. "I cannot imagine how we'd carry on without your sparkling insights."
RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 25
