by Darcy Burke
Realizing she was pacing, still toying with the poor, wrinkled and wadded handkerchief, she threw it down on the table and left the room. A bath, that would calm her erratic nerves.
Going to her room, she tugged on the servant bell cord.
“Yes, my lady?”
Evelyn opened her mouth to order the bath when she caught sight of her bed. Visions played in her mind of Tristan making love to her. Her ears began to buzz.
“My lady, are you all right?” Missy asked.
In the shadows of the armoire, she could have sworn she saw something move. She squinted her eyes to see through the darkness—a crazy thought, but it was in her mind.
There, she saw it again. A person. Faint, almost not there, an illusion maybe. Then it took form. It was Richard. He looked at her, and she froze. The face she saw was definitely Richard but pale and gaunt with his lips ruby red. His right shoulder looked dark in the white shirt he wore. She found it odd he was in her room let alone in her house, not fully dressed with a waistcoat and jacket. As she stared at his bleak face and to the dark stain, she realized it was blood from a tear, as if cut by a knife or bigger. Like a sword. She gasped.
“My lady!” Missy was behind her, holding her upright as she staggered.
“Don’t you see him?” Evelyn glanced at her maid. The girl looked frightened, but it registered with Evelyn that Missy was scared her mistress would fall and she’d be blamed–or be yelled at for crumpling her dress while helping her stay upright. Servants, she inwardly swore, and turned to see Richard again. But now, the space was clear, dark but no figures there–bleeding or not. She blinked. Still vacant. Pulling herself out of the girl’s hands, she gritted her teeth. Wonderful, now she was seeing ghosts…
She turned toward Missy to tell her something, but the buzzing in her ears grew higher and the world spun. Then all went black.
***
“Lady Evelyn, please…”
The faint plea grew louder with each second. Actually, it was close to annoying. So was the rapid fanning of the air above her face, probably by a fan swung rapidly. But she still felt like she was under a heavy blanket or water–and she hated swimming–her movements slow, lethargic. Opening her eyelids took every last ounce of strength she possessed. After several tries, they stayed opened. What greeted her was Missy, with a worried face, busy fanning her as she laid on the floor, though, she discovered as she moved her head, there was a pillow beneath it.
“Oh, mum, you made me so worried,” the girl sputtered, her speech now tinged with a touch of an accent from the country.
“I’m fine, just,” she pushed herself up. “Tired and hungry.”
“I’ll get you something to eat,” the girl exclaimed, leaping up.
“Missy, Missy, please. What I’d like is a bath, something to eat and then to rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl gave a short curtsy and sped out of the room.
Evelyn glanced at the corner of the room, near the armoire and saw nothing. She rubbed her temple. Lack of sleep and lots of worry was playing with her, she decided. It took the rest of her energy to bathe. The supper delivered to her room revived her by its smell alone, and she discovered how starved she was, devouring it and craving more, but the moment she settled back, she was depleted, exhaustion winning, and she fell deeply asleep. For once, it was a refreshing sleep—no ghosts or demons plaguing her, no interruption at all.
Morning came way too early. Aggravated she’d wasted the evening, she refused to fall prey to nothingness again. She threw herself into being the mistress of the house, designating the menus for the next few days, dealing with correspondence and the servants’ chores. Despite keeping busy, she constantly recalled her husband’s situation. She sent for his barrister, arranged for clothes and toiletries to be delivered to him and fought with herself continually about what to do or feel. He was her legal husband. Divorce was entirely out of the question. Besides, she had Mary to worry about and most certainly couldn’t abandon Nadir. And there was that constant tug at her heart, the love she finally had acknowledged–how could she ignore that? Was it still there? It must be, or the pain wouldn’t continue, she concluded. But what of Richard?
Take care of the child.
She frowned. The voice expressing that sentiment sounded like Richard. And at times, in the distant shadows of the house, she swore she could see him or at least, a variation of him—he was always pale, paler than in real life. His eyes clear and focused on her. The bloodstained shirt that still wept red at times.
Madness. Perhaps she’d finally succumbed to going mad.
The staff must have thought so too, for she saw them throughout the day, on the edges of the rooms and hallway, watching her. Missy wanted to call the doctor last night for her, but Evelyn refused. Couldn’t stand the idea of another medical quack—regardless of who they called, all physicians were quacks in her mind—touching her, prodding her, digging places no man should go, all in the name of health and well-being. In fact, she yelled at the poor girl for suggesting it. Just another symptom of her mental decline, she decided.
“My lady,” Stanfill spoke at the doorway to the parlor where she sat with the menus. “You have a visitor.”
“If it’s a physician, send him on his way.”
“No, my lady, it is Lord Dunsford.”
She glanced up. Charles. He’d said he’d be by. She stood, flattening her skirts with her palms, trying to calm the pleats on the overskirt as she nodded to the butler.
Within a second, Dunsford walked straight in, unannounced. Behind him came one of his footmen, carrying a small chest. Dunsford took her hands and kissed the back of them.
“You look elegant, my lady.” He smiled warmly.
“You flatter, my lord.” But she blushed anyhow.
“I also brought you a gift.” He turned to the chest the footman had placed on the floor.
She frowned. Gifts were wonderful, but somehow, it seemed inappropriate to receive one from another man. She chewed her bottom lip, fretting. He was a friend, and she’d accept it only on that sake.
“Silks! From the East!” Eagerly, he pulled a small rolled silk out of the chest. It was rich, vibrant blue, bolder than any color she’d seen before.
Intrigued, she stepped closer. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. Her hand ran down the bolt, the silk was the softest she’d ever touched, and it seemed to simmer, almost changing color, to a dark, virtually black hue under the sunlight, like a watered-shot taffeta. But this was way too luxurious to be taffeta—the brilliant colors, the markings, like the design of watered-shot blue silk. “I’ve never seen such a color.”
“No, no, not here in London. My tailor gets this from the East, through Russia, or so he tells me,” he chuckled. With a lower tone, he added, “It is from a distributor that might be frowned on by the Crown. In that part of the world, they use an ancient dying trick that makes it so alive. Quite the talk, if it was known.”
“Your tailor does silk suits out of colors like this for you?”
“No, not for me. In fact, he just got this shipment. It is odd, yes, but,” he smiled broadly, like a little boy giving sugar to a pony. “I thought it might make you feel better, to get such a lovely and original gift.”
It did lift her spirits, but it still struck her as strange. How, she couldn’t quite decide, so she let manners win. “I shouldn’t accept this…”
“But you will,” he laughed. “For what would I do with such material?”
She returned the grin. “All right, I will accept with reluctance.”
“Outstanding!” He took a step closer, though there was still a distance between them. “Perhaps I could take you for a ride, later?” He paused. “As friends, of course, to support you in your time of need.”
Ah, yes, her time of need—with her husband under such a charge. Her mind played with the thought. She should refuse him, but if Richard was haunting her, surely he’d advise her to avoid him. She stood
quiet, listening, but the walls were silent. “Tomorrow, my lord. For a short trip, depending on what the barrister reports.”
“Of course, my lady,” he bowed. “Enjoy the fabric.” And he left after kissing her hand.
Evelyn waited, curious but uncomfortable at the same time. Silk from Russia? Who ever heard of such a thing? China, yes, but…The throb started at her temple again. A waft of cool air filled part of the room near her.
Take care of the child.
A chill raced up her spine. She needed to get out of here and spun to leave, only to run right into Missy.
“Oops, sorry, my lady.”
“What is it?”
“You wanted to know when the children were dressed.”
She nodded, but her brows furrowed as she walked out the door to the nursery. The saying came right as the maid arrived. It made her shiver…
“Mama!” Mary squealed in her high-pitched toddler voice. Nadir, usually the more quiet of the two, was just as loud as they both bolted as fast as their stubby little legs could take them.
Evelyn laughed and bent as far as she could go with the restrictions of her corset and bustle to hug the children when they reached her. Their giggles and playfulness dispelled her sullen mood. Quickly they had her playing with their blocks, Mary’s dolls, the toy tea set and numerous other toys. Neither child could sit still long enough to play more than a few minutes before another object distracted them. Evelyn played with them, following them from one end of the playroom to the other, thoroughly enjoying herself. They made her forget her problems, mostly, and their giddiness, she realized, she needed—that and to spend more time with them. Perhaps if she did, they’d settle in one area for more than five minutes!
Mary and Nadir. Her responsibility. She’d married to protect Mary. But her love spread quickly to Tristan’s son. To her, they were her children, and she could never leave them nor separate them. Oh dear, what was she going to do?
Take care of the child.
The haunting voice boomed. It made Evelyn come to a screeching halt. The nursemaid almost ran into her from behind as they both trailed the toddlers.
“Did you hear that?” Evelyn finally whispered.
“Hear what, my lady?”
Evelyn’s nose scrunched as the chill snaked down her back and around to her belly. With a glance up, close to the fireplace across the room, she saw Richard. He stared at her and turned away, walking toward the door.
“Richard?” she called, but the buzzing in her ears grew louder and her sight turned fuzzy.
“My lady?” The nursemaid’s voice sounded strangely distant even though she stood right behind Evelyn.
It was the last lucid thought she had before the buzz grew overwhelming, and her lightheadedness won, making her collapse in a heap on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
Evelyn woke with a start. Her eyes opened to find herself back in bed. She frowned, not remembering coming into her chambers, let alone to her bed. What’s more, she wasn’t alone. Standing over her was Mrs. Peabody, the cook.
“How are we feeling, my lady?”
From the numerous servants fluttering about her, she gathered something had happened, but what, she didn’t know. With a sudden urge, she sat up quickly. It was too fast. Her stomach seemed to rise up her throat, and she turned, needing to retch. As the contents of her stomach hurled out, a bucket was under her mouth.
“It’s all right, my lady, I have you.”
The wave of nausea didn’t want to end, but finally, there was nothing left to get rid of. The vile taste was in her mouth, and she wiped her dry lips with the back of her hand. Pulling back, she fell across her pillows. “Thank you, Mrs. Peabody.”
The elder lady grinned.
“Out of my way. Let me see her now!”
Through the crowd of servants came a short older woman. Her gray hair was pulled back neatly into a knot. The dark brown dress, with its faded spots, and the dingy white apron, let Evelyn know the woman was not a servant in this house. As she bullied her way to Evelyn, she took the marchioness’ hand, touching the inside of her wrist and then her forehead. “Been sick, I’s seen. And a few fainting spells?”
Evelyn frowned. “Yes. Who are you?” Fear crept up her spine. She’d never seen a woman physician…
“Sam’s my name, or Sammy, if ya like,” she announced, her eyes fixated on Evelyn’s breasts.
“Whatever are you—”
“When was your last flow?” she boldly asked, one hand running down Evelyn’s corset to her lower abdomen.
“If you don’t mind,” Evelyn started, trying to shrink away, but the headboard was behind her.
“No, I don’t be minding,” the woman laughed. “I be a midwife, my lady. And, I’s be guessing your problem stems from you. When was it, huh?”
Her last cycle of menses? Frantically she thought. “Two months ago.”
The woman’s mouth turned up on one side in a lopsided smile that made her look not so hideous. “It’s what I’s be thinkin’, from what the staff here’s be tellin’ me.”
“What then?” She hated puzzles, especially when the pounding started up again on her temple.
Sammy stood straight, crossing her arms. With a snort she answered, “You be with child, my lady.”
Evelyn’s mouth dropped open. A baby? “No, I don’t think…”
“Thinkin’ ain’t what brings ‘em,” Sam chortled.
The woman was quite annoying. Looking beyond her to the cook, Evelyn raised a questioning eyebrow. The cook smiled. “She’s one of the best, my lady.”
“Charming, I’m sure.” She sat up straight, swallowing the bile that threatened her again, and began to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
“Ach, no, my lady, you needs to be restin’.”
Her body was tired enough. Evelyn wanted to rest, too; this is what Richard was trying to tell her about taking care of the child. She’d wanted to yell at the ghost just before the world went black that she was indeed taking care of the children, but now she understood. Well, he was a man and a ghost, no less, what did they know about expecting mothers?
She relaxed, her mind racing. Tristan. The baby. She glanced up at the midwife. “Are you sure I’m with child?”
The woman laughed. “My lady, you know it better than I or any other doctor claimin’ to know nothin’. You yourself admit it was a couple of moons ago you bled. You’re married,” her brows wiggled, indicating Evelyn’s bed hadn’t been empty. Evelyn knew her cheeks warmed. “Plus, you’ve got the signs! Light-headed, sick, not eating…so I’ve no doubt. Now, I need the exact date, and let me have a min’te or two so I’s can figure on when the birthin’ll be.” She shoved a calendar at Evelyn.
As she pointed to the date, Evelyn heard her heart pounding in her own ears. Despite the protest of the cook, Evelyn got out of bed and away from the women servants who fluttered about, closing her in. In the empty space, near the window, she turned. The servants were circled about the midwife now as she made her calculation. Her eyes wandered to the other parts of the room, daring Richard’s ghost to appear. Of course, he didn’t. She shut her eyes.
She’d been mad at Richard for leaving her, hoping he’d return, and had mourned his death. Then there was Tristan. He’d helped her when she finally let him close. Despite everything that went wrong in her life, he’d shown her tenderness, even hope. Love? All changed at the news that Tristan killed Richard, not denying the accusation nor offering any defense.
And now this. Her hand lay across her still flat abdomen. If she was to have his baby, she needed him here, with her. Love surged through her veins. Determination grabbed hold of her, forcing her to swallow her anger at him. She’d find the truth someday, but now, she heard Richard’s voice and knew it was true—she had to take care of the babe. And its father.
***
Michael Armbruster appeared, a bulging cache of papers and files in his hands, protruding from the leather sachet he shoved them int
o. His glasses rested on the edge of his nose as he struggled before Tristan. He was one of the best barristers in London—and also one of the shabbiest, Tristan decided.
“They can’t keep me here forever,” he stated. “Lords are not so imprisoned.”
“My lord, they can ‘detain’ you for as long as they like,” the man returned. He looked at Tristan straight. “They have it you killed Viscount Stauton.”
“You’ll get this charge mollified,” Tristan continued. “During war, deaths occur all the time.”
“Yes, my lord, but truly,” he dropped his voice. “If you had any hand in his demise, it would behoove me to know…”
Prissy little ant! “You know perfectly well what I was involved in.” He’d no choice but to tell this man he was in Afghanistan for the military, but that was all he could say.
“Yes, and if I can bring that to the table, perhaps…”
“You know you can’t. The War Office would deny it anyway.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled mane.
“My lord, you’re leaving me with few options to use.”
“This isn’t a matter for the courts! I am a nobleman!”
“If this was simply that,” the barrister said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He rummaged through his files intently, ignoring Tristan, who frowned at him.
“What the hell do you mean?”
The barrister glared at him. “Meaning this.” He shoved the newspaper announcement of his marriage to Evelyn under his nose. Blaring loudly from the gossip news sat his name and title with a comment to his “lowering himself” by marrying the baron’s “shelved” daughter, the implications obvious to readers and inviting ridicule.
“My marriage?”
“You married the Viscount’s fiancé.” Armbruster raised a brow.
Dumbfounded, Tristan slanted his head.
The man sighed loudly. “The charges involve you murdering him to have her.”
He stared as the news sank in. A laugh escaped his mouth. “He asked me to protect her. I had no idea who Evelyn was at first, but marrying her did exactly that.”
