Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  And he understood. “Do not worry anymore, you have been through enough,” he said softly, and in spite of his tone, it was a command. “I will take care of everything. You shall soon be reunited with your daughter.”

  “I know,” Olivia whispered. She shifted so she could look at him. “Garrick, I have needed you so. I love you so.” And the power of her love filled her eyes with tears.

  “I love you, too,” he said. “More than you can know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “My lady,” the footman exclaimed. “My lady! We were not expecting you!”

  Elizabeth swept past the flustered footman and marched into the foyer of Arlen’s town house, her sodden skirts leaving a trail of water behind her. She was exceedingly tired, very dirty, rather wet, as it had been raining ever since she had entered London’s outskirts, and not in the best of moods. Traveling all night was hardly a pleasant experience, much less in inclement weather. “Is he still abed?” she snapped as the butler appeared at the foyer’s other end. His face paled considerably.

  “I do believe so, my lady,” the uneasy footman said, his cheeks red.

  “Lady Houghton.” The butler came to life, hastening forward. “Please, let me take your wrap and gloves. I shall have a hot breakfast made up while we rouse His Lordship. Surely you wish to refresh yourself?”

  Elizabeth glared at him, removing two nearly black gloves, which had previously been white, slapping them against his chest, then nearly throwing her damp cashmere shawl at him. “I shall rouse him myself.” She strode toward the stairs.

  “My lady!” the butler cried, flying after her. “That is hardly decorous. Please, allow me!”

  But Elizabeth had just glimpsed her grimy reflection in the mirror and she faltered, crying out. Soot, dirt, and mud marred not just her exquisite pale gray gown, but her face as well. Her hair had turned itself into what appeared to be a rat’s nest. “Damn Olivia,” she said beneath her breath, hopelessly attempting to pat a few curls back into place. Then she was rushing up the stairs.

  The butler raced up behind her. “Lady Houghton! I strongly advise you to go to the dining room and allow His Lordship some time to rise and dress.”

  Ignoring him, Elizabeth gripped the brass doorknob of Arlen’s room and thrust it open without even knocking.

  And she stood on the threshold, arms folded beneath her chest, staring at the two occupants in the large, canopied bed.

  The red-haired woman woke up and screamed, clutching the covers to her chest.

  Elizabeth sighed, retrieved a flimsy garment from the floor—one that, she noticed, was quite torn—and towered over the woman as Arlen stirred. “Get up,” she ordered, tossing the garment to her.

  Arlen suddenly opened his eyes, saw her, and sat bolt upright. “Elizabeth!” His eyes popped from his head. His face had never been as deathly white.

  “Now get out,” Elizabeth said coolly to the other woman, “before I have you hauled out like a sack of rubbish.”

  The redhead jumped from the bed, blue eyes wide, using the wisp of silk to cover her breasts and loins, and ran from the room, past the aghast butler.

  “My lord, I beg your pardon,” the butler nearly wept from the doorway.

  Elizabeth turned. “You may leave us, Barnes,” she said. “Now.”

  The butler looked at his master for confirmation, and when he saw none was forthcoming, he turned and fled. Elizabeth marched to the door and shut it, then faced her brother again.

  Buck naked, he stepped from the bed, then pulled on a robe and belted it. His hands were trembling. “I can explain. Elizabeth—”

  “Do shut up,” she said. “Do you think I care about your French actress?” She eyed him. “Olivia has escaped, and her lover is with her.”

  Arlen stared as if her words were incomprehensible.

  “Arlen!” she shrieked. “I have spent half the night searching for her, and when I failed to find her, I have spent the rest of the night traveling here, posthaste! And De Vere was on the road to Ashburnham. It hardly takes a wizard to know that he was meeting her. What are you going to do now?” she demanded. “Clearly they are planning to run away together. You fool!”

  He inhaled, turned away, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Arlen! We could both be in trouble for what we have done—or, rather, what we tried to do!” Elizabeth cried. “What if she goes to the authorities and claims we were trying to murder her?”

  Arlen slowly faced her, his eyes were hard and bright, his face no longer pale. He smiled coldly. “Have no fear. I know exactly where they are going, my dear, and I shall meet them there.”

  And Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. “Bedlam,” she said.

  Elizabeth’s carriage turned into the drive in front of Houghton Place. Rain pounded down upon the rooftop, and the early morning was dark and gray. She had the shades up and was craning her neck to see out the window. She smiled, espying the magnificent coach already parked in the drive. He had received her message—he had come. Her impatience was so great that she could hardly refrain from opening the door herself when her own carriage finally came to a halt. Lifting her dirty, stained skirts, she hurried up the front steps of the manse and rushed into the foyer.

  Servants appeared, swarming around her, taking her gloves and wrap, their expressions impassive. No one seemed surprised by her unusual and disheveled appearance or by the fact that she had returned home without sending advance notice. “Where is His Lordship?” Elizabeth demanded of a servant.

  “He is upstairs, soundly asleep, my lady.”

  Hiding a satisfied smile, Elizabeth hurried into the salon, closing both doors behind her. “Lionel.”

  He was facing the windows overlooking the gardens behind the house, and he turned. He studied her. “I received your message and left immediately. You look terrible. What happened?” He strode forward.

  “This is my greeting?” Elizabeth murmured, standing on tiptoe and pressing her mouth to his. Even though he had made the same horrid journey as she, he was hardly disheveled, she noticed. But he barely returned the kiss, and she stood flat-footed again, eyeing him. “Olivia escaped, and she is with your brother. Arlen is certain they are on their way to Bedlam to rescue Hannah.” She had kept both hands on his chest and was now rubbing them there.

  His set expression did not change. As she slipped one hand underneath his waistcoat, he appeared not to notice. “This is intolerable,” he said beneath his breath.

  Elizabeth strained forward again and flicked his neck with her tongue. Her husband was upstairs, but he slept too soundly to cause concern. Her body pulsed and throbbed in favorite, hidden places as she thought of Lionel taking her in the salon.

  He jerked, caught both her wrists, and held her away. “Do I seem amorously inclined to you?”

  Her eyes widened. “No. You do not. But Houghton sleeps like a dead man.” She did smile. “Pardon the pun.”

  His jaw flexed. His eyes were hard, and still he did not smile. “What the hell happened? Your damned servant failed to do as she was instructed, Elizabeth,” he said, his tone cold and filled with anger.

  Her own smile vanished. “Do not talk to me that way, Lionel.”

  He stared. She stared back. Finally he softened, pulling her into his arms and against him. “I apologize.”

  “Good.” She turned her face and nuzzled his neck. “I dismissed the maid. And you are right, clearly she failed to do as she was told. Otherwise, your plan was brilliant, Lionel.” Elizabeth pressed her mouth against his neck, sliding her hands slowly down his torso, to the waistband of his breeches. After hesitating only briefly, she slid them lower, caressing the soft bulge of his flaccid manhood. To her delight, it quickly began to harden. “Put your mind at ease,” she whispered, her breathing deepening now as she played with him. “Arlen intends to meet them there. He will do our dirty work for us, darling.”

  He gripped her hand, stilling it. “Your brother is not infallible.”

>   She lifted her heated blue gaze to his. “Let us not speak of Arlen now.”

  Lionel stared, his chest beginning to heave, and then he cursed. He shoved Elizabeth away, so forcefully that she almost stumbled. “Lionel!” she exclaimed.

  He was hurrying to the door. “I have no time for this now!”

  She caught him from behind by the arm. “Halt! Why do you care about this so much? I do not think it is because you yearn for Olivia yourself! Why?” she demanded, her mouth set, eyes flashing.

  “Why did you wish to imprison and poison Olivia, my dear?” Lionel returned coolly.

  “I have many reasons. But do not avoid the question now.” Yet Elizabeth smiled and did not allow him to speak. “You are afraid of her, are you not, my dear? You are afraid of her and of her child.”

  His gaze was hard, brilliant, unwavering. It was a moment before he spoke. “You are jealous. You are jealous because Garrick is in love with Olivia—the way he never felt for you.”

  “That is not true.” Elizabeth released his arm. “You did not answer me, Lionel. Why are you afraid of Olivia and her child?”

  He smiled at her without mirth. “I am hardly afraid of them, my dear.”

  “The child is a witch, like her mother,” Elizabeth said, her gaze riveted on his. “We have already discussed this. She is more powerful than her mother. You can confide in me. After all, I am carrying your child.”

  He continued to smile. “Please. Do not take me for a fool. The child might be Arlen’s, and I am well aware of it.”

  Elizabeth paled. “Are you mad? Arlen is my brother,” she began.

  “Hush.” He placed a finger on her lips. “I know the truth. But your secret is safe with me.”

  She trembled.

  “Surely you do trust me, Elizabeth?”

  “Perhaps,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Perhaps we must trust one another.”

  His gaze slid over her. His smile, which did not reach his eyes, remained in place. “And why should I trust you, my dear?”

  “Because we are alike,” she said simply.

  He merely looked at her. “We will talk later. I have work to do.”

  She watched him throw open the doors, then followed him. “You are going to Bedlam,” she said to his rapidly departing back.

  At the front door, he whirled. “Be a good wife and take care of your husband,” he said, bowing. Neither footman, as still as statues outside the door, blinked. “Good day, my lady.”

  She watched him hurrying away. “Good day, my lord,” she said. But she hugged herself, staring after him. He knew too much, and she was uneasy. But perhaps she knew as much about him. That last thought reassured her. In any case, he would take care of Olivia and Hannah, and their secrets would be safe. Elizabeth turned and stared up the stairs, thinking now about her husband and what she must do. Her eyes were hard.

  Lightning cracked overhead. Garrick pulled Olivia closer to protect her from the driving rain, but it was no use: they were both soaking wet by now. He had purchased a small phaeton in Ashburn, and the wind drove the rain in upon them. Thunder cracked loudly not far above them.

  He could not help but think that this kind of day was an omen, and he was not a superstitious man. “We are almost there,” he told Olivia. “How are you faring?”

  She looked out at him from under the hood of the mantle he had purchased for her, tendrils of wet hair curling about her face. “I am afraid,” she whispered.

  “I know. You have nothing to fear. I have no doubts about my ability to gain Hannah’s release.” His determination knew no bounds, but he was lying, because he thought it likely that Elizabeth had sent a warning to Arlen. He only hoped that, in this foul weather, the messenger was taking his time—if not ginning it up in front of a warm fire in some public barroom.

  Bedlam loomed ahead of them. Garrick halted the phaeton, squinting through the gloom and the rain. The asylum was a low squat stone structure. Engraved in gray stone above the heavy wooden door were two words: Bedlam Hospital. In front of the building lay a small square empty courtyard, and an iron gate, closed and padlocked, barred the short, muddy drive. The low-storied, thrush-roofed tenements surrounding Bedlam belonged to the poor underbelly of the city. Smoke poured from numerous protruding chimneys, aromas abounded of onions and potatoes, but even with the wind and the rain, the odor of the sewage running in the streets was overwhelming. Not a soul was in sight, but somewhere not far from them, a couple could be heard shouting at one another from behind closed doors.

  “Oh, God,” Olivia whispered, clutching Garrick’s hand as he helped her down to the curb. Treve jumped to the ground from the backseat.

  .Lightning flashed again, this time just beyond the asylum, illuminating it starkly. Garrick gritted his teeth and pulled her forward, crossing the dirty street. He rang the bell beside the closed gates ceaselessly. Treve whined.

  The door to the building opened and a drably uniformed man came hurrying toward them. “Who be ye?” he growled at them from under his cap, glaring suspiciously.

  “I am Lord Garrick De Vere,” Garrick said, purposely not identifying Olivia as the countess of Ashburn. “We wish a word with your supervisor.”

  The big burly man eyed him.

  Garrick thrust a few coins in his hand.

  They disappeared instantly, and then the key was turned in the lock and the gates were open. “Follow me, me lord, me lady,” he said, ducking his head because of the rain.

  They hurried across the courtyard. Garrick ordered Treve to stay, and he and Olivia entered the asylum. The guard closed the door behind them, the sound loud and somehow ominous.

  Garrick looked around quickly, but there was nothing to see. The room was empty except for a fireplace and two scarred and rickety wooden benches. One single corridor led into the building’s interior; at its end was a solidly closed, barred door. But light was spilling from another room just beyond the entryway.

  The guard beckoned to them, and they walked after him to pause on the threshold of a small room. It was no larger than a maid’s closet, but a fire crackled in the hearth. Across from the fireplace a man sat at a desk, a single oil lamp glowing. The room was dark and gloomy; the lamp hardly shed any light. “Mr. Hepple, ye have visitors, a lord an’ ’is lady,” the guard said.

  Garrick stepped in front of him, throwing a warning look at Olivia to remain silent and where she was. “Sir. I am Garrick De Vere, the son of the earl of Stanhope,” he said, bowing.

  The tall, wiry, bewhiskered man rose, tugging at his stained frock coat. “Good day, me lord. What a surprise this is. I don’t get high ‘n’ mighty visitors very often.” He smiled, baring yellow teeth. An incisor was missing.

  “I’m sure you do not.” Garrick’s smile was brief. “I have come for the eight-year-old blind girl recently brought to you,” he said. “Her name, whether you know it or not, is Hannah.”

  “Hmm.” Hepple stared into space as if thinking. “I know of no sich girl, me lord. Blind, did ye say? An’ about eight years of age?” He shook his head. “Afraid I niver seen such a child—an’ I interview every inmate meself.”

  Olivia made a choking sound of despair.

  Garrick sent her a look, stepping closer to the supervisor of Bedlam. He towered over the man. His smile was hard. “Perhaps this will help you, sir.” He withdrew a personal note from his interior breast pocket and laid it flat on the desk, in the small circle of light cast by the single kerosene lamp burning there. Thunder boomed outside, just overhead. The sum of the note was completely visible—it was for ten thousand pounds. “Has your memory improved?” Garrick asked coldly.

  Hepple looked from the note to Garrick, remaining silent.

  Suddenly there was the sound of rustling cloth behind him, and Arlen Grey stepped out from the shadows behind the desk. “I’m afraid it does not,” he said harshly. Then he looked at his wife. “You whore.”

  And in that single brief moment, Garrick knew the urge to do murder. It would be so
easy now. But even as it flashed through his mind that he could strangle Arlen and hide the body, the burly guard stepped closer to Hepple and Arlen. It was enough for Garrick to regain his sanity. “I am hardly surprised to see you,” he said, his breathing deep and uneven.

  “Arlen, please let me take Hannah from this place! I will do anything, anything, please!” Olivia cried, dashing forward.

  Garrick caught her and dragged her to his side before she could fling herself at her husband. “Stop. I will handle this,” he cried.

  She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Will you? Will you?”

  “I am afraid the child stays here, where she belongs,” Arlen said coldly. “Your punishment, Olivia, for being such a loyal and loving wife.”

  “Punish me, but not Hannah!” Her bosom heaved. “How can you do this, no matter that you hate me? Hannah is your child—”

  “No!” he roared. “She is not mine. And we both know it!”

  Olivia’s face was suffused with shock.

  Garrick pushed Olivia behind him. “I will kill you, Ashburn, one day, some way, if you do not have your daughter released.”

  Arlen laughed and faced Hepple. “Did you hear that? De Vere has threatened my life. Is such a threat not against the king’s law? You will have to do better, De Vere. Your threats do not persuade me.”

  “I am going to expose you for exactly what you are,” Garrick said, low and furiously. “For an abuser of women and children, and a would-be murderer. You are the one who shall wind up behind bars when I am through.”

  Arlen laughed with real mirth. “Do you think your word could possibly be taken against mine? You, the savage from Barbados? The Stanhope black sheep? The seducer of innocence? A man even his own father despises? I am the earl of Ashburn. You cannot best me.”

  His pulse was pounding, his fists clenched. Garrick failed to find a suitable reply, because Arlen was right. No one would believe or support him. Except, perhaps, the earl of Stanhope—if he sold his soul to him first. In that instant, he knew that was exactly what he would do. There was no other choice.