The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  * * *

  Milly had not been exaggerating to lure her mistress out of her chambers. Brook did not seem well. Not bothering to rise at the sound of Wynne’s approach, she sat on the sofa, her head lowered, hands clasped in her lap. Normally tidy in appearance, her peach dress was wrinkled, and there was a dark smudge at the hem. She was also overdressed for such a temperate day.

  “Brook, dearest, you must be stifling in that dress,” she said, her false cheer faltering when she noticed her friend trembling. “Shall I call one of the footmen for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I am just so cold.”

  Wynne laid a hand on her friend’s cheek. “Hmm, a bit warm. You should have taken to your bed instead of paying calls this afternoon.”

  Wrapping her arms about her, Brook shivered and rocked in a comforting motion. “I had no choice, you see. Pray, what was I to do?”

  The woman’s hesitant speech and puzzlement worried Wynne. “You are not well. I shall send someone for Lord A’Court.”

  “No!” She rose, her visage twisted in unimaginable terror. “I-I…” She panted, gasping for breath. Clutching her abdomen, she collapsed in a dead faint.

  “Brook!” Wynne fell to her knees, her frantic fingers unfastening the gold brooch at her friend’s neck that secured a diaphanous scarf to her pelisse. Something had upset her friend. Opening up her restrictive clothing would cool her, allowing her to breathe.

  Unwinding the scarf, Wynne made a tiny, defenseless sound as she stared down at the mottled bruising marring Brook’s throat. “No. Oh, no.” Her suspicions were unthinkable. Needing reassurance that her friend was merely unconscious, she seized her limp hand. The spreading bloodstain it had concealed provoked her into action. Screaming for Gar, she ran out the door, her mind already reaching out for the one man who could help Brook.

  * * *

  It was worse than she could have ever imagined.

  Tipton and his manservant Speck had arrived hours earlier, under the misconception that Wynne had been hurt. Relieved she was unharmed, her fierce brother-in-law had crushed her ribs with an unusual show of affection and then moved past her to see his patient.

  Poor Brook had remained unconscious the entire agonizing wait for Tipton. She barely stirred during his careful examination of her condition, or during the journey upstairs to one of the bedrooms. With Milly’s help, they had removed her dress and stays.

  Now Wynne understood that Brook’s choice of dress had little to do with comfort. From her wrists to her shoulders, she bore numerous bruises, all at various stages of healing. There was an infected bite on her right shoulder, and several more on her breasts. Beneath the bloodstained skirt, a horrifyingly larger stain covered her petticoats. While Wynne was politely offering her something to drink, her friend had been quietly bleeding to death. The smell and sight of all that blood churned her stomach. Rushing to the chamber pot, she disgraced herself by vomiting.

  Afterward, Tipton, once he had satisfied himself that he did not have two patients on his hands, had ordered her out of the room. Embarrassed by her weakness, she had dragged a chair near the closed door and waited.

  The door finally was thrust open. Tipton started at her presence. Sighing his disapproval, he hunkered down at her side. “I told you to rest.”

  “What is strenuous about sitting in a chair?” she argued, dismissing his objection. “Tell me the truth. How ill is she?”

  He stared at her face for a moment. Assured by what he saw, he reluctantly nodded. “The bruising, although cruel to the eye, is superficial. The bite marks are infected and have brought on a fever.”

  “The baby?” she whispered, seeing regret in his eyes.

  “She lost it. I am sorry, Wynne. I know she is your friend, and someone has treated her inexcusably.”

  “Not someone. Lord A’Court. Her husband. The man who should have been cherishing her. Instead, he … he…” Her voice hitched at the memory of Brook’s battered body. “I will not let him have her. The next time, he might succeed in killing her.”

  “You are too involved, Wynne, and are not thinking clearly,” he murmured, lowering his voice so their conversation did not go beyond the closed door. “No matter what you or I desire, the man holds all the rights.”

  Tears flooded her gaze. “Rights!” she said, seething. “What about Brook’s rights? Her unborn babe.” It was so awful, she thought. Too envious of what she thought was her friend’s perfect marriage to the man she loved, Wynne had not seen the desperation and misery.

  Tipton was pushing her back into the chair before she realized she had arisen to escape. “You are hysterical. I’ll send Speck after Devona.”

  Jerking her arms up and out of his grasp, she sobbed. “No, no.”

  He maneuvered her into his arms and held her. “Hush. You will distress the baby, crying so.”

  Wynne stiffened. Ignoring her damp cheeks, she glared, irritated that he was the one who had uncovered her secret. “How did you guess?”

  “Little clues, pet. You are not the first lady I have observed in the delicate condition.”

  She sniffled, feeling foolish. A year had barely past since Devona had given birth to her son. Logically, he would be more perceptive than most, considering his profession.

  “Milroy is the father?”

  The bout of tears over, she nodded. Noticing the menacing glint in his knowing expression, she felt pressed to add, “There is no need for that look. The moment you met my sister, you could not keep your hands off her.”

  “The man has laid more than hands on you, Wynne.”

  “My choice, Tipton. Not your concern.” Pride made her posture rigid.

  Thunderstruck, he sat back on his heels. “Protecting him, too? By this time, I expect your shoulders are wobbling from the strain.”

  “Stay out of my business. You are worse than Brock ever was,” she muttered.

  “Milroy has pride too, Wynne. No man wants to hide behind his woman. Nor does he want you to think he needs charity.”

  Her lips thinned at the sympathy in her brother-in-law’s defense, not liking that he was siding with Keanan. Still, she preferred it to the murderous outrage she had glimpsed earlier.

  She stood and moved past him. Cracking the door, she watched Brook sleep, the woman’s fear and grief banished by the sedative Tipton had poured into her.

  “Some men do hide behind women,” she mused softly, wondering how long before Lord A’Court would call upon the Bedegraynes. From her friend’s feverish rambling, Wynne had learned that Brook had dismissed her carriage and had walked in an attempt to keep her destination a secret. No matter what Tipton thought was right or legal, she would not return her friend to her husband.

  “Damn, uncompromising woman,” he swore, understanding that nothing he could threaten would prevent her from protecting those she loved. “Were you listening to me?”

  Drawing back, she closed the door. Assuming he was referring to Keanan, she said, “Oh yes, I heard, but you are mistaken. Women, also, despise charity—perhaps even more than men do. I certainly will not marry for it.”

  * * *

  Well into the night, Milly roused Wynne from sleep, telling her that Lord A’Court was waiting for her below. Checking the clock on her small mantel, she noted the late hour. It had taken the earl longer than she had expected to locate his wife.

  Preferring he should wait, she took her time dressing. With her maid’s assistance she donned a modest pale-blue muslin with a short train. Lace edged the rounded neckline, covering more flesh than it revealed. Milly covered her coiled and pinned hair beneath a lace-and-white-beaded handkerchief while she secured the clasp of her mother’s pearl-and-gold cross. Pleased with the effect, she made her way downstairs. The realization that Brook’s well-being depended on a convincing performance subdued her better than any skill she could muster.

  “My lord,” she greeted the earl, signaling her footman, Gar, with a subtle glance to remain close. “My family has b
een called eccentric, but visits at this hour are highly irregular even for us.”

  A properly tormented expression firmly in place, Lord A’Court clasped her extended hand. She felt him tremble. “Miss Bedegrayne, I regret the intrusion. Pray, forgive me, but I am too beset for pleasantries. My lady is missing.”

  Shocked, her hand closed over the cross over her heart. “Poor Brook,” she lamented, speaking from the heart. “You must tell me everything.”

  His gray eyes liquid with emotion, he said, “My business affairs of late have made me a less attentive husband. I was impatient, and we had a row. I locked myself in my study, and she left the house, presumably to shop. She foolishly abandoned the carriage and never returned.”

  “What a dreadful tale! I assume you have men searching the streets?”

  Annoyance flickered in his gaze and then was gone. “Yes, yes. She has vanished like mist in the dawn.” He rubbed the wetness from his eyes.

  She had to tread carefully now. The man was so expressive in his anguish. If she had not seen Brook’s injuries, she might have thought his torment genuine. “It was kind of you to bring this sad news to me in person. I love Brook as one does a sister. Is there anything our family can offer in assistance?”

  “Without a doubt, Miss Bedegrayne. You can tell me where my wife is,” he insisted. The cold demand had her taking a step backward out of his reach.

  She frowned, appearing confused. “My lord, you just told me Brook disappeared whilst shopping. Why would you assume I know of her whereabouts?”

  “Why?” He took a menacing step toward her and then halted when he noticed he would have to deal with the footman if he laid a hand on her. Dropping all pretense of distress, he curled his hands into impotent fists at his sides. “Where else would the stupid cow flee to, but London’s merciful angel for the downtrodden? Now tell me where she is.”

  The cross was cutting into her palm, but she did not release it. She was staggered that Lord A’Court knew of her private business. Perhaps Brook had guessed and had innocently confided her suspicions to her husband. Or maybe he had simply beaten it out of her. Wynne tried to conceal a shudder. If there was a manner in which he could use this information against her, this furious man would not hesitate.

  “Obviously, I cannot help you, my lord. Gar shall see you to your coach.”

  He lunged and grabbed her, stunning everyone with his brazenness. Gar ensnared him from behind, but the earl was extraordinarily strong. While the footman struggled to pry him loose from his mistress, Lord A’Court twisted her arm. She could hear Milly sob out her name as she tugged on the back of her frock. The handkerchief tied to her head slipped, falling unnoticed to the floor.

  “Let go,” Gar roared, striking Lord A’Court in the ear. He yelped, releasing Wynne. They fell away from each other into the arms of the servants.

  “Did he hurt you, miss?” the maid asked, helping her stand. Wynne denied it with a shake of her head, concentrating on drawing a steady breath.

  “If this is how you treat women, then I am not surprised your wife left you,” she said, still shaken by his abrupt attack. “Gar, escort his lordship from this house. Use whatever means necessary. Lord A’Court does not have time for pleasantries.”

  “Listen, you righteous bitch, I want my wife back. You cannot hide her from me for long. I will find her,” he warned, trying to lunge for her again. Gar’s impolite grip on the earl’s cravat held him in place. “Once I do, I will come back.” He sputtered as he was jerked backward toward the door. “You will regret your interference.”

  At least that is what she thought he said. The strain of her footman’s hold had garbled his final threat. A final savage heave, and he was gone.

  Milly fretted. “The fiend meant every word. What’ll you do, miss?”

  “Nothing. He cannot prove I interfered.” The tight hold on the balustrade betrayed her anxiety. Lord A’Court was not the first boorish male she had encountered. She would not bow to his intimidation. Protecting Brook took precedence over her own fears. Besides, she supposed that once Tipton and her father learned of the earl’s threats, the man would be more concerned about leaving town than plotting revenge. She clung to that small comfort, fearing the escape of sleep would be denied her this night.

  Nineteen

  “What were you thinking, allowing that man into our house?”

  Drake glanced pointedly at their man of affairs, Mr. Tibal, but the subtle warning for discretion was useless in his mother’s agitated state. “Spare me the hysterics, Mother. We have credited too much attention to a singular incident, nor do I have the patience for indulgence.”

  Still pale from that morning’s bloodletting, she sank into the small sofa, appearing fragile and beleaguered. “Something must be done. Without Reckester here to protect us, his bastard will try stealing what is rightfully ours.”

  The only mercy he had from her rambling screed was when she was sedated in her rooms. Unfortunately, the physician would sedate her for only so many hours. Setting aside the ledger, he said, “We have gone as far as we can with this today. You may leave us, Mr. Tibal, and you have my thanks.”

  “And you, my sympathy, Your Grace,” he replied, his gaze resting briefly on the dowager. It took him minutes to gather the papers into his portfolio and depart.

  “Tibal is a good man. He will stop Milroy.”

  “Stop him from what, Mother?” He spread out his arms, encompassing the study. “Taking this house, or the others in the country? He will have to fight his way through the creditors I have managed to stave off until now. Reckester managed to gamble away most of the family’s fortune. Be grateful. Had he lived a day longer, we might not have this house.”

  The dowager glowered, the look worthy of her former self. “Maligning him is beneath you, Drake. I was not blind to his faults. Still, your father was a selfish creature. He would not have enjoyed being poor.”

  “I have struggled, replenishing what he has frivolously lost. Instead of seeking a bride who stirs my blood, I have pursued women with the greedy eye of a damnable fortune hunter, all in the name of saving this family.”

  Chastised, she broke the hold of his persuasive stare. “My intention was not to belittle your sacrifices. You have always protected our name and honor.”

  “You are correct when you say Father was selfish. He would do anything to protect his interests. Milroy claims Reckester planned to offer him proof of his legitimacy. I believe him.”

  Visibly curling within herself, his mother hugged a small pillow. “Lies. All lies.”

  Drake closed his eyes, blocking out her image. His mother was as selfish as his father. He doubted she would willingly admit the deception. “I pray you speak the truth, Mother. If Reckester was truly searching for Milroy the night he died, can you guess what fascinating papers his killer has in his possession?”

  * * *

  “Lord A’Court has vanished,” Sir Thomas announced to Wynne, frustrated his quarry had eluded him. “His servants have not seen him for two days.”

  She followed him upstairs to his private chamber, not pleased to see the blunderbuss pistol in his possession. It made her very nervous seeing a weapon in her volatile father’s hand. This had been his third attempt to track down the earl. To her relief, even with Tipton’s and his manservant’s assistance, they had not discovered the man’s whereabouts. As far as she was concerned, Lord A’Court could remain lost. She wanted neither Brook nor her family confronting him.

  “Perhaps he left town?”

  Tossing the pistol on his bed, Sir Thomas barked out the open door for his valet to bring him his dressing gown. “Not likely, gel. You stood between him and his wife. He will be wanting her back, and a settling with you. Not that he will get a chance.” He sighed heavily. “It took courage defying him. Can you give me one reason why I should not put my hand to your backside?”

  It was time to tell him the truth. “I carry your grandchild.”

  His eyes boggled at the
news. “A stunning reason, it is.” He scowled at the appearance of his valet. “Why are you hovering? Get me a drink,” he ordered, sending the servant scurrying off.

  Wynne walked to the mantel, where the portrait of her mother beckoned. The resemblance was strong between mother and daughter. “You must be disappointed.”

  “That you anticipated your marriage bed? You are not the first,” he said gruffly. “I saw how that Milroy looked at you. Nothing short of death would have kept him from having you.”

  “I wanted him too, Papa.” Summoning the courage he swore she possessed, she turned to face him. Instead of the anger she expected, he seemed astonishingly resigned. “I want your oath you will not go charging after him, pistol in hand.”

  “Depends on when the banns will be posted.” His silver-winged brows drew together as his blue-green eyes narrowed. “Oath be damned. That rogue will marry you or face the consequences.”

  “Do I not have a say?”

  Sir Thomas frowned at her surly manner. “From my way of thinking, you had your say, my gel, when you chose the man for a lover.” His face darkened at the impropriety of their conversation.

  “I cannot marry him,” she said, bracing for the worst.

  Her father did not disappoint her. “You will marry him!” he roared. “Whether you continue on as his wife or his widow depends on his cooperation.”

  “You cannot bully me into accepting him. Neither of us would be happy with the results.”

  “Whoever said marriage and happiness shared the same bed?” he snapped, exasperated. “Most men I know barely tolerate their wives. Half have mistresses, and half again do not like even them.”

  Taken aback that he expected a similar fate for his daughter, she stammered, “W-what of you and Mama? Was it merely tolerance on your part? Did you rejoice in the arms of your mistress when she died?”