The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  “We’re here!”

  The sound of her voice fired his determination, and he took three steps at a time to the third floor. He found her with Molly in her arms, escorting three women from their beds in their nightclothes.

  “This way, hurry!” he said, addressing Mrs. Bixby, the cook, and the maid. He waited for Cassandra, who was bringing up the rear, and took the puppy from her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she replied as she hurried down the stairs in front of him. “The tree outside was struck by lightning,” she explained. “It came through my window. I ran out and shut the door behind me. The room must be an inferno by now.”

  “I believe it is, which is why we must get everyone out quickly. Is there anyone else?”

  “No, this is all of us.” She stopped suddenly. “Except for the maid who comes sometimes to clean the fireplaces.”

  “What maid?”

  “Her name is Iris, but she isn’t here, so she must be at the palace.”

  He looked at her uncertainly for a moment. “Aggie and June are safe outside,” he said, “and Devon is on his way with the coach.”

  On the second floor, they paused to look at the smoke filling the corridor. Vincent felt the heat blast on his cheeks, making his eyes and nostrils burn. He held the puppy close. “Hurry now!”

  They started off again to the main staircase and descended as a group. Cassandra held a fist to her mouth to stifle her coughing and wheezing.

  “Everyone outside,” he shouted, “and go straight down to the river!”

  They all ran out of the house just as the Pembroke coach arrived, followed by two wagons, each carrying close to a dozen tenant farmers, buckets in hand. Everyone spilled out of the wagon beds and ran down to the river, forming a line from the bottom of the hill to the house. Sparks flew from the rooftop up to the black, smoky sky.

  Devon stepped out of the coach and waved to Miss Callahan, who still held June in her arms. The young nurse ran toward him, while Vincent handed the puppy over to Mrs. Bixby.

  He turned to instruct Cassandra to hurry to the coach, but before he had a chance, a loud crack exploded overhead and sparks flew everywhere like fireworks. He looked up.

  An enormous burning branch from the oak tree had snapped and was plummeting to the ground.

  “Make way!” he shouted, stepping forward desperately, but his warning did more harm than good, for Cassandra stopped to look up.

  The branch came down on top of her. She was crushed to the ground.

  He charged forward, dropping to his knees at her side. “Cassandra!”

  She was not moving. Her scalp was bloody. His gut churned with dread.

  Then Devon was beside him, shouting, “Grab hold!” He took one end of the heavy branch—the end that was not yet ablaze—and together they tossed it aside. Three men immediately swung water from their buckets to douse the flames.

  “Is she all right?” Devon asked, kneeling down.

  Vincent pressed his ear to her chest. “Her heart is beating.” He took her face in his hands. “Cassandra!” She gave no response. He looked at his brother. “I must get her to the palace.”

  “Yes.”

  He slid his arms under her limp frame and lifted her off the ground.

  “I will take care of everything here,” Devon assured him. “There is no one else inside the house?”

  “They are all here,” Vincent replied.

  He carried Cassandra to the coach, where Miss Callahan was waiting safely inside with June, along with the other servants and Molly.

  “Set her down here,” Mrs. Bixby said, reaching out to help bring Cassandra in. Vincent laid her down gently on the seat, then got inside and pounded on the roof. “Go!”

  The coach jerked roughly forward as they made off for the palace.

  As Vincent carried Cassandra through the front doors, his mother rushed across the candlelit hall in her wrapper to meet him. She took one look at Cassandra, unconscious and bloody in his arms, and said, “Is she all right?”

  “She is alive. She was knocked down by a falling branch.” Charlotte came running down the stairs in her nightdress as well. “We’ll need the doctor,” he said.

  His mother nodded. “Charlotte, go and tell Mrs. Callahan what has happened. Have her send for Dr. Thomas, then instruct her to bring bandages and brandy up to the blue guest chamber. Quickly!”

  Charlotte hurried toward the servants’ wing, while Vincent, still dripping wet and covered in mud, carried Cassandra up the stairs. Aggie Callahan entered the hall with the baby, along with the other servants from the dower house.

  Vincent said over his shoulder, “Mother, see to June, if you please.”

  He was vaguely aware of his mother escorting Miss Callahan up the stairs behind him and turning toward the nursery, while he started down the dimly lit east corridor toward the blue guest chamber.

  Turning the corner, he stopped abruptly when he collided with Letitia. Her face was eerily illuminated by the flickering candle she held high in her hand. Her eyes widened in shock when she beheld his mistress unconscious in his arms. “What is she doing here?”

  “She is hurt.” Concerned only with getting Cassandra to a warm, safe place, he pushed past his fiancée and continued down the corridor.

  Letitia followed. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. Why didn’t you take her to the village?”

  His arms were straining by the time he reached the door. “I told you she is hurt. Now open the door if you please.”

  “I will not.”

  He glared at her. “We will speak about this in the morning, Letitia, but right now you will do as I say and open this door.” His arms were beginning to shake.

  Letitia returned his glare with her own heated ferocity, then did as he instructed. He promptly carried Cassandra inside to the bed and laid her down.

  “Is she dead?” Letitia asked. “I hope she is, and I hope she goes straight to Hell.”

  Vincent glanced at her over his shoulder. “I think it would be best for everyone if you left the room.”

  “No. I will not have you making love to your mistress right under my nose. I told you, this is my domain, not hers. She has no right to be here. Get her out.”

  He straightened and faced her. “Lady Colchester is hurt and requires medical attention. She will remain where she is.”

  “She needs to die, that’s what she needs to do.”

  Vincent regarded the shallow depths of his fiancée’s eyes with nauseating clarity, then grabbed hold of her arm and escorted her forcibly to the door. “Go and tell my mother she is needed here. Then go back to your own room and stay there.” He shoved her out into the corridor and slammed the door in her face.

  Cassandra moaned. Turning quickly, he went to the bedside and brushed her hair off her face. He noted with horror that the pillow was already stained with blood. “Cassandra, darling,” he said, laboring to remain calm, “wake up, you were hit on the head.”

  She did not respond. He gently patted her cheek, willing her eyes to open as the terrifying possibility of her death right there in front of him struck a deep chord in his gut. Wake up. Please wake up.

  The door burst open then and he jumped, startled by the brash intrusion. He whirled around. “Father.”

  The duke, wearing only a nightshirt and slippers, was breathing heavily. His white hair was wild about his head, his eyes flashing with fury.

  “Who is this woman?” he asked.

  “She is Lady Colchester,” Vincent replied, his heart already pounding with anxiety. “She is hurt. There was a fire.”

  “I know damn well there was a fire. I saw the lightning strike down upon us with my own eyes.”

  “She needs a doctor.”

  His father shuffled across the floor to stand over the bed. He looked down at Cassandra, unco
nscious. “She’s bleeding.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “The lightning struck a tree, and a burning branch fell on her.”

  Vincent swallowed uneasily as his father bent over Cassandra and sniffed around her head. His face was mere inches from hers as he studied her closely. “She’s pretty. Is she alive?”

  “Yes,” Vincent answered, wondering if his father could hear the sound of his own heart booming like thunder inside his chest.

  The duke straightened and stared at him with concern. “A burning branch you say.”

  The duchess entered the room and stopped in the doorway. “Theodore, what are you doing out of bed?”

  He turned. “Brother Salvador woke me. He said something happened. Look, it is the curse.”

  The duchess went to him, slid an arm around his waist and led him to the door. “There are no monks here, Theodore. You were dreaming.”

  “No, it wasn’t a dream. I told you, it’s the curse.”

  She smiled gently at him and nodded as she continued to usher him out.

  “Can’t you see it’s raining again?” His voice was now quivering with fear.

  “Only a little. The sun will shine again in the morning,” she said. “I promise.”

  “But that woman is bleeding.”

  “Dr. Thomas is on his way.”

  They left the room. Vincent shut his eyes and cupped his forehead in a hand. He turned to look down at Cassandra, still unconscious on the bed.

  How had it come to this? he wondered wretchedly. And why? He had just this night been wishing for a storm in order to help his case, not hinder it. Now he was certain that when his father learned that Cassandra was his mistress and a threat to his marriage to Letitia, he would blame her for the rain and thunder, believe she was provoking the curse upon the palace, and all hell would break loose.

  If only there was a way that he could bring an end to this insanity. If only there was a way around this bloody family curse.

  Chapter 19

  I wonder what turn of events will bring an end to this wild passion we feel? Surely it cannot go on forever. A mistress is only temporary, after all. Something will eventually snuff it out.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  July 8,1874

  By the time the doctor arrived, the first glimmer of dawn had brightened the sky and the rain clouds were moving on. Sunshine poured in through the palace windows—just as the duchess had promised—but Cassandra had not yet regained consciousness.

  When the doctor walked into the room at last, Vincent rose from his chair. “Thank God you’re here. She is in a bad state.”

  Dr. Thomas strode to the bed and set his satchel down on a chair. “How long has she been like this?”

  “More than three hours.”

  The doctor leaned over Cassandra, whose head was wrapped in a bandage tied at the side. He listened to her heart.

  Vincent’s mother entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said, moving silently around the foot of the bed.

  The doctor bowed to her, then commented on the bloody pillow. “I understand that the lady was hit by a falling branch.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she has not regained consciousness at all?”

  “No, but she has been making some sounds,” Vincent explained. “She was moaning earlier.”

  “Was she moving all her limbs?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is a good sign.”

  “Will she be all right, then?”

  The doctor gently lifted her eyelids and examined her pupils. “It is difficult to say. Head injuries can be unpredictable. The sooner she wakes up, the easier her recovery will be.” He untied the bandage and examined the wound at the back of her head. “This isn’t bad,” he said. “Contrary to how it looks, it’s just a small gash. Head wounds do tend to bleed rather profusely.” He turned to his leather satchel. “It won’t take but a moment to rebandage it.”

  A short time later, Vincent and his mother joined the doctor in the hallway outside the room. “There is not much to be done, I’m afraid,” he told them, “though it might help to talk to her.” He turned to Vincent. “Sometimes the sound of a familiar voice can work wonders in these situations.”

  “I will do that. Thank you.”

  “And when she wakes up, she will likely not feel well. Her head will ache and she might be dizzy or nauseous for a few days.”

  The doctor turned to the duchess. “I will return this evening to check on her again, Your Grace, though if you need me before then, you know where to find me. In the meantime, here is something that will numb the pain if she wakes and is uncomfortable.” He gave them some laudanum and advised them as to the proper dosage.

  “You have been most helpful, Dr. Thomas. Allow me to accompany you to your carriage.”

  Vincent shook the doctor’s hand and watched them go, then returned to the guest chamber where Cassandra lay sleeping. He sat by the window in the dawn light beaming in through the glass and thought about all that had transpired over the past month. He had met his daughter—a beautiful baby girl with the heart-warming light of the sun in her eyes—and had fallen in love with both her and her mother. His life was altered and would remain so forever. Nothing would ever be the same.

  And today he was in Hell.

  Recalling what the doctor had just told him, he rose from his chair and went to Cassandra’s side. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  He took hold of her hand, bent forward and kissed the back of it, and when he straightened, noticed her eyelids fluttering.

  “Cassandra,” he said, bending forward again, hearing the pathetic desperation in his voice. “It’s Vincent. Wake up, darling.”

  At last her eyes opened. “Vincent,” she said groggily. “Is it morning?”

  “Yes,” he replied, tears filling his eyes as he shook with sobs of laughter. “And the sun is shining.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re at the palace.”

  She looked at him with fear. “June...” She tried to sit up. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  He took hold of Cassandra’s shoulders and gently pushed her back down. “She is fine. Miss Callahan is with her in the nursery. Our little girl slept through the entire ordeal.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Yes, the fire...” She relaxed and lowered herself back down onto the pillow. “A tree fell on me.”

  “It was just a branch.”

  “Was anyone else hurt? Is the house still standing?”

  “Everyone is fine, and Devon has informed me that the house is in good stead as well, except for your room where the tree went through the window. You were wise to close the door. It kept the blaze contained.”

  She looked uncertainly around the room. “But if you brought me here last night...” Wetting her lips, she touched the bandage at her forehead. “Does anyone know I am here?”

  “Yes. Most everyone.”

  “But do they know everything? Do they know who I am? What about your father? And your fiancée? Oh, I cannot bear to think what she must be feeling right now, knowing her fiancée’s mistress is under the very same roof.”

  He hated the sound of distress in her voice. Leaning over her, he kissed her forehead. “Do not concern yourself, Cassandra. All you need to do is recover.”

  She cupped her forehead in a hand and squeezed her eyes shut. “What must they think of me?”

  “They do not think anything. I am not even sure Father understands who you are to me. He is not himself.”

  Her voice was fraught with concern. “Does he know about June?”

  Vincent shook his head.
“No.”

  “Then please let it remain so, Vincent. I think it is best.”

  “Why?”

  “What is the point in telling him? We agreed I would remain a secret. That was the plan from the beginning. I should not even be here. I do not want to be the cause of your ruin.”

  He was surprised she was so troubled by this and feared the doubts she was having might overcome the closeness that had at last grown between them.

  His temper rose suddenly because of this hellish situation in which he had become embroiled. His freedom to choose his own future had been taken away from him, and the woman he loved—yes, loved!—was not getting what she deserved.

  “You are not a dirty little secret,” he assured her, “nor is my daughter. You both deserve more. You will have more.”

  “But there is no more,” she said. “This is our reality. The house you purchased—Langley Hall—I should go there straight away before people begin to gossip. I will be content there, and no one will know about June and me. Your inheritance will be safe.”

  “I will not have you hiding away from the world like a criminal.”

  “But I am your mistress. That is my place.”

  “You are more than that. You have brought me back from the brink of despair. You have given me something to celebrate—a daughter. I owe you everything.”

  She blinked up at the ceiling. “I think I am going to be sick.”

  Vincent darted across the room to the washstand in the corner and returned to the bed with the bowl, just in time for her to sit forward and retch into it.

  She regained control of her breathing and lay back on the pillows again. “Why do I always end up in a Pembroke Palace bedchamber when I am ill?”

  Vincent set the bowl on the floor, poured some water from the pitcher onto a cloth, and wiped her forehead and face. “You’ll feel better soon.”

  Her eyes had fallen closed. “I need to rest.”

  He retreated to the chair by the window and sat for a long time, watching her until she opened her eyes again.

  “You look exhausted,” she said. “You did not sleep last night, did you?”