by Cheryl Holt
“What’s this?” Cassandra asked.
“It’s a love potion. Drink it when you’re staring at some man who tickles your fancy. It’s supposed to make him fall in love with you. Maybe it will work better for you than it worked for me.”
She walked on.
“Will you write to me, Mary? I’ll be anxious to hear how you’re faring.”
“No.”
“You can’t want that.”
“I do. I want it very much.”
“Will you at least drop me a note when you’ve arrived safe and sound?”
“No.”
“How about an address—after you’re settled.”
“Why would I let you know? If I was in trouble, what could you do?”
She continued on down the drive.
“Miss Barnes! Good day to you.”
“Hello, Mr. Dubois.”
He scrutinized the petite, pretty woman with whom he’d been acquainted for several weeks. She seemed different somehow: beaten down, unfocused, wary. Her distracted condition worried him.
She was attired as if for a journey, carrying a portmanteau.
“Are you leaving us?”
“Yes.”
“You look upset. Has something happened?”
“Nothing more than usual.”
“I see . . .”
He went over to her and clasped her elbow, subtly urging her over to the wagon.
“Would you like a cup of tea? My sister, Clarinda, is brewing a pot.”
“No, thank you. I have to make the London coach. I’m late as it is.”
“You’re off to London? My, that’s an adventure. Are you visiting family?”
“I have no family.”
The pronouncement was desperately bleak, underscoring his sense that she was very distressed.
“Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been to Town?”
“No.”
“What are your plans when you arrive?”
“I suppose I’ll ... I’ll ... get a job and find a room to let. Mrs. Barnes—she’s my father’s second wife—gave me a few pounds. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
She was such a gentle soul. The large metropolis would chew her up and spit her out. Did she have any notion of the dangers a single female could face?
“This seems rather abrupt, Miss Barnes.”
“Doesn’t it, though?”
“What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
She snorted, and she studied the shelves filled with bottles and jars. “You mentioned that your sister is with you. Might I speak with her privately?”
“Certainly.”
Clarinda was over in the trees, by the stream where they had their campsite.
“Clarinda,” he beckoned, “would you come here for a minute?”
Momentarily, she appeared.
“Yes?” she inquired.
“Miss Barnes has stopped by. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
He flashed a curious, concerned glance at Miss Barnes. “She’d like to have a confidential chat with you.”
Clarinda’s eyes were wide with queries she couldn’t voice. She walked around the wagon as he huddled out of Miss Barnes’s sight, but remained within earshot.
“Hello, Miss Barnes,” Clarinda said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I have a question,” was Miss Barnes’s reply.
“What is it?”
“Your brother once claimed you had a potion that could keep a babe from taking root.”
“Well . . . yes. I do.”
“Have you one that might work if the babe is already planted?”
“You mean . . . to wash it out?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause, and Clarinda shifted so that she could see Phillip. She scowled, visually asking how to proceed. Their mother had been a renowned healer, and Clarinda had learned many of her techniques.
Clarinda was an accomplished apothecary and midwife, knowledgeable in the ways of a white witch, but she also kept some darker remedies on hand.
It was a hazardous business, meddling in pregnancies, assisting in their termination. Clarinda could wind up on the bad end of a murder charge. Yet despite the risks, she occasionally aided desperate women.
Phillip liked Miss Barnes, and he felt somewhat responsible for her predicament. After all, hadn’t his tonic pushed her into the path of the wicked Lord Redvers?
He shrugged and nodded, silently granting Clarinda permission to provide the purgative.
“I have what you need,” Clarinda advised.
She unlocked her box of special herbs, dumped powder into an envelope, and gave it to Miss Barnes.
“Mix it in a liquid,” Clarinda instructed. “Tea or whatever.
It will bring on your monthly courses and clean out your womb. Drink it right away. Don’t let any more days go by.”
“I won’t. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Just . . . promise me that you’ll never admit taking it—but if you’re found out, you can’t ever tell anyone where you got it.”
“Don’t worry,” Miss Barnes said, “I would never cause you any trouble.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Miss Barnes turned to depart, and Phillip emerged from his hiding spot.
“Miss Barnes?” he called, and she stopped.
“What?”
“The grand gentleman up at the manor, Viscount Redvers, whatever became of him?”
“I told you: He’s marrying my sister. The wedding is tomorrow.”
“Oh, you poor dear.”
He’d been at the village dance, and he’d seen Redvers watching her. The nobleman had been positively besotted. Where was he in all this? Why had he allowed catastrophe to crash down on Miss Barnes? Obviously, their affair had been discovered, and she’d been kicked out of her home because of it. What sort of gentleman was Redvers if the exalted ass would let this be done to her? Or had he been complicit in the harsh resolution?
This was a rich snob’s version of a tidy conclusion. Redvers would wed his wealthy wife, and everyone would live happily ever after—except for Miss Barnes, who was suffering all of the consequences.
If Redvers had been standing there with them, Phillip would have beaten him to a bloody pulp.
“Are you sure you should go, cherie?” he asked. “Are you sure this is what you should do?”
“I’m twenty-five years old, Mr. Dubois. I can fend for myself.”
“But London, Miss Barnes.”
“There’s no future for me here. There’s no reason to stay on.”
The remark was so sorrowfully voiced, that he could barely keep from drawing her into his arms and giving her a hug.
She was such a tragic figure, with her worn cloak and hat, her tattered bag. What was the world coming to that such a sweet person could be so ill-used?
“What about your Mr. Talbot?” he suggested. “Have you spoken to him? Perhaps he could help you.”
“He got married, too. Spur of the moment. I had counted on him for such a long time.” She gazed off in the distance, as if she could see her life vanishing right before her eyes, then she physically shook herself back to reality. “It’s pointless to fuss about it. He didn’t deserve me anyway.”
“No, he didn’t.”
She reached out to him, and he clasped hold of her hands and squeezed tight. “You were always kind to me, Mr. Dubois. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, and don’t fret. These difficulties will pass.”
“I’m certain they will.”
It was clear that she didn’t believe it, just as he knew from experience that—once she arrived in London—things would go from bad to worse. The filthy, sprawling city would likely be the end of her.
She pulled away, ready to trek on again when a carriage rumbled toward them.
Phillip braced, afraid it migh
t be Redvers chasing after her, but as the vehicle slowed, a beautiful, auburn-haired woman opened the door and leaned out.
“Hello, Miss Barnes.”
“Mrs. Bainbridge,” Miss Barnes frostily replied.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
A blond man peered out, too. “Where are you off to, Miss Barnes?”
“Hello, Mr. Adair. I’m catching the afternoon coach to London.”
“I didn’t realize you’d left Barnes Manor,” Mr. Adair said.
“It was rather sudden,” Miss Barnes responded.
“Why don’t you ride with us?” Mrs. Bainbridge offered. “It will save you coach fare, and you’ll be much more comfortable.”
Bainbridge smiled a smile that was false and amused, as if she was humored by Miss Barnes’s reduced situation.
“Lauretta is correct, Miss Barnes,” Mr. Adair asserted. “You must ride with us. I won’t take no for an answer.”
He leapt down and lowered the step, appearing gallantly eager to assist her.
Phillip studied them. Adair seemed genuinely cordial, but the woman made him shudder. No benefit could accrue to Miss Barnes from an association with her.
“Do you think you ought to, Miss Barnes?” Phillip murmured. “Maybe you’d be better off sticking with the public coach.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Dubois. Nothing matters anymore.”
He sighed. “Au revoir then, cherie.”
He walked her over, observing with Clarinda as Adair guided her in, as the driver clicked the reins, and they rattled away.
“That’s a dirty business,” Clarinda fumed.
“Yes, it is.”
“The blond fellow was friendly enough, but I didn’t like the looks of that doxy.”
“Neither did I.”
“I feel sorry for Miss Barnes. Do you suppose she’s pregnant?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Have they kicked her out to avoid a scandal?”
“Apparently. The rich are so strange.”
“I’d like to have a chat with that grand lord who seduced her. I’d tell him a thing or two.”
“I’d like to talk to him, too—with my fists!” Phillip stared down the road, muttering, “Good luck, Miss Barnes. You’re definitely going to need it.”
Chapter 20
“THERE now,” Vicar Martin cheerily said. “I believe we’re ready to start.”
Prayer book in hand, he stood in front of the hearth, trying not to look impatient, but he’d been waiting forever.
Jordan was over by the window and gazing out across the park. He kept recalling his first afternoon at Barnes Manor, when Mary had marched into the trees, bent on kissing Harold Talbot. He pushed the memory away.
He had to stop thinking about her. With his wedding—to her sister—about to begin, it was pointless to reflect.
Felicity, Victoria, and Cassandra had finally entered the room—nearly an hour late—but Jordan couldn’t complain. He’d just arrived, too. No one seemed in the mood to hurry.
He’d only been able to follow through after imbibing an ample quantity of whiskey before coming downstairs. He felt numb, as if he was watching some other man suffer through the event.
“Lord Redvers,” the vicar instructed, “please stand on this side of me. And Miss Felicity, if I could have you over here?”
When they didn’t move, Victoria forced a brilliant smile.
“We’re all a bit unnerved this morning,” she claimed. “How about if we drink a toast to the bride and groom? It might put everyone at ease.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” Vicar Martin said.
Victoria motioned to her butler, and they dawdled in an uncomfortable silence as he filled a tray with glasses of sherry and delivered them, which wasn’t much of a chore. The only people present were the three Barnes women, Vicar Martin, and himself.
Jordan hadn’t thought he’d mind the small, private service, but to his dismay, he found that he minded it very much.
Someday, he would be Earl of Sunderland. He should have been at the cathedral in London, the grand organ blaring out hymns. The church should have been packed with family and guests. His proud father should have been sitting in the front row. Sunderland House should have been open to accommodate a week of parties.
Paxton’s absence was most glaring. Jordan hadn’t had the foresight to ask him to stay and be best man.
If Mary could have seen the empty parlor, what would her opinion have been? She’d probably have . . .
He had to stop thinking about Mary!
He’d cruelly used her, then broken her heart and tossed her aside. After the ghastly scene in the library with Victoria, he hadn’t even tried to speak with her again. He’d been too much of a coward.
What would he have said anyway? That he was a total and unrepentant ass? That every terrible thing she’d heard about him was true?
There’d been no reason to talk to her, and besides, he’d promised Victoria he wouldn’t. He’d behaved badly all around, and he didn’t deserve a last chance to beg her forgiveness, but still, he hated how their relationship had ended.
He’d asked Victoria how Mary was faring, but was informed that Mary had already left the property and was traveling to commence her exile at Victoria’s cousin’s residence.
So ... even if he’d mustered the courage to seek her out, she was gone.
A commotion erupted in the hall, and he glanced over to see Harold Talbot strut in, his homely cousin clutching his arm.
“My dear Mrs. Barnes,” Harold said, “I hope we’re not late.”
Victoria was disconcerted. “Actually, you’re early. We’re running behind, so we haven’t held the ceremony yet.”
“Oh, how embarrassing. I apologize.”
Jordan glowered at Victoria, demanding an explanation.
“As they are our closest neighbors,” she advised, “I invited them to the wedding breakfast. Is Mother Talbot with you?”
“You know she doesn’t like to go out,” Harold replied.
The moment was incredibly awkward. Now that the Talbots had arrived, it would be the height of rudeness to insist they tarry in the foyer while the vows were exchanged, but Jordan despised Talbot and refused to have him in the room during the service.
Victoria sensed Jordan’s fury, and she averted disaster by gesturing to the butler again.
“Why don’t you refill everyone’s glass? And pour some for Mr. and Miss Talbot.”
Harold puffed up. “Mrs. Barnes, I must make a slight correction to your mode of address.”
“What do you mean, Harold?”
“I am pleased to announce that I have married Gertrude, so she is Mrs. Harold Talbot.”
The new Mrs. Talbot giggled like a debutante, and the moment became even more awkward.
No one rushed to congratulate them. No one said a word.
“How . . . nice,” Victoria finally murmured, searching for the right tone. “Isn’t this rather sudden? I didn’t know you were engaged.”
Jordan was delighted that Talbot had wed Gertrude instead of Mary, but he was incensed, too. Mary had pinned her hopes on Talbot, had waited an entire decade for the smarmy man to publicly reveal their understanding.
“How could you have married your cousin?” Jordan asked.
“As far as I’m aware, you’ve been quietly betrothed to Mary Barnes for years.”
At his speaking Mary’s name, everybody stiffened, except the vicar, who was clueless as to the details of the unfolding drama.
Talbot blushed and stammered, “I haven’t any idea where you’d have come by such a ludicrous notion.”
“Haven’t you? Miss Barnes admitted it to me herself. She was just about to discuss wedding plans with Mrs. Barnes.”
“That’s not true,” Gertrude Talbot declared.
“How would you know?” Jordan snidely said. “You’re not from around here. Why would you have any information as to how Mr. Talbot trifled with Mary’s
affections?”
“Harold told me how it was.”
“Harold was lying.” Jordan disdainfully studied them, pretending great offense. “I’ll have my attorney contact you as to the amount of damages you owe Miss Barnes for breach of promise.”
“You wouldn’t!” Gertrude Talbot seethed.
“Wouldn’t I? Your husband is a sniveling coward, who constantly took advantage of Miss Barnes’s kindly nature.” Jordan scowled at Victoria. “Get them out of here, and I don’t want to see them back.”
Victoria looked as if she might lecture him on neighbors and rural villages, but on viewing his livid expression, she herded them out.
“Well, I never!” Gertrude exclaimed as their footsteps faded.
Jordan went back to the window, so angry that he yearned to throw something.
Why was he tolerating these horrid people? Why not walk out? Was he insane?
Mary had warned him that Felicity’s money wouldn’t make him happy, but he . . .
Ah! If Mary rambled through his mind again, he couldn’t predict what he might do.
Behind him, someone approached, and he whipped around, eager to hurl a scathing remark. On discovering that it was Cassandra Stewart, he bit it down.
He’d spent minimal time with her—or rather she had spent minimal time with him. She didn’t like him, and she’d been clear that she didn’t care to socialize.
What was she up to? If she scolded or nagged, he wouldn’t be civil.
“Is there something you need?” he asked.
“Yes, there is. I’m thrilled by how you put Harold in his place. I wish I’d done it myself. I wanted to say thank you.”
“Oh ... hmm . . .” He was embarrassed by her praise. “It was easy enough. He’s a horse’s ass, and I loathe him.”
“I’m relieved that Mary didn’t end up with him. She’d have been miserable.”
“I agree.”
“I should probably keep my mouth shut, but Mother mentioned that you had been involved with Mary.”
“Dammit!” he cursed, then flushed with chagrin. “Pardon my rough language.”
“I’ve heard worse. I won’t faint.”
“Good.”
“Felicity was present during the conversation, so she’s aware of the affair.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Mother thought Felicity should know, so she wouldn’t have any illusions about you. It will make for an odd beginning to your marriage, don’t you imagine?”
