When the little girl passed the cat into her arms, she knew.
Mr. Cuddlesworth had passed on. His body hung limp, lifeless in her arms—no breath, no purring. He was simply gone.
Mrs. Pratt looked on, with tears staining her gray dress.
The children were staring up at Jane. She had to do something. She had to tell them. But how?
“Miss Jane?” asked the little girl quietly. She still hadn’t adjusted to calling her by any other name. “Is Mr. Cuddlesworth all right?” Sarah’s chin quivered as she looked back and forth between her step-mother and her nurse.
Jane tried to answer, but nothing came out of her mouth.
“He isn’t sleeping, is he?” Joshua asked.
Jane took a breath to calm herself. She had to be strong. She was the adult. “No, Joshua. He’s not asleep.” Taking the boy by the hand, she led him to a seat in front of the hearth. Mrs. Pratt did the same with Sarah.
She sat with one child on either side of her and Mr. Cuddlesworth on her lap. “Do you remember how I told you that he was just like a little old man?” The children nodded their heads. “Well, he got to be too old and couldn’t stay with us any longer.”
“Is he dead?” asked Joshua on a whimper.
Lying would serve no purpose. They deserved to know the truth. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Sarah fell to her knees and laid her head across Mr. Cuddlesworth’s limp body, her tears wetting his fur. Josh wrapped his arms tight around Jane’s neck, sobbing loudly.
She held them both, doing her best to console them, all the while wishing she could follow their example and bawl openly. But now was not the time.
“I’ll fetch His Grace, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pratt with a sniffle, then she pivoted on her heels and fled the room.
The force of the children’s grief slowly began to subside. Thunderous sobs had faded to sniffles by the time Peter arrived, the heels of his Hessian boots echoing in the cavernous hall.
“Jane,” he said softly, “are you all right?” He moved in and sat beside her, where Sarah had been, slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her near.
“Yes, of course. But the children...” She needed to know the children were well looked after. “They mustn’t be alone right now.”
“The children will be fine. They’ve loved Mr. Cuddlesworth for these last months. But you loved him for his entire life.” His hand slid up and down her back, caressing and coaxing her to respond.
But Jane couldn’t. She couldn’t let herself cry right now. If she did, she would fall apart and might never be able to put herself together again. All she could manage was a nod.
“May I take him from you?” Peter asked. “We should bury him.” Ever so gently, he pried first Joshua’s fingers free from Mr. Cuddlesworth’s fur, then lifted Sarah from her position at Jane’s lap, and finally slipped the cat out of Jane’s grasp.
“Yes,” Jane finally said. “Yes, we should do that.”
Her sweet Mr. Cuddlesworth was gone. Jane let Peter lead her from the keep out into the rain in the courtyard, then beside the stables. She stood with Joshua and Sarah and watched him fashion a tiny coffin and dig a small grave, holding on to the children when they cried and wiping the tears from their eyes.
Sniffles sounded all around her, from Mrs. Pratt, Meg, Mrs. Dunstan, Mrs. Prichard, and so many of the other servants of Carreg Mawr as they came out in the rain to support her.
Then Peter carefully laid Mr. Cuddlesworth’s body in his coffin and placed it in the earth. When the wet dirt was tossed in atop the wooden box, Jane felt the first tear fall.
She feared they might never stop.
Until a gunshot sounded behind her.
~ * ~
Peter cursed beneath his breath as he bodily flattened Jane and his children to the ground. “Get down! Everyone, get down.”
A chorus of screams echoed all around him. Why on earth had such a crowd of his servants amassed over the death of his wife’s cat? Clearly, Jane had made quite an impression upon them all. Damnation. There were too many people out in the open—too many people in danger of being shot, when an obvious madman like Utley had a rifle in his hands.
How had he gotten into the castle without someone seeing him?
He lifted his head and tried to see through the pelting rain. Utley had shot at him from somewhere in the upper turrets, but thankfully, the distance had been too great for an accurate shot. Wherever he’d gone, the bastard would have to reload.
Peter pushed himself up from the ground and took off toward the castle. “Stay down, all of you.”
Jane struggled to her feet behind him. “What…? What’s going on?”
Blast, he didn’t have time for this. “Stay down, Jane! I need you to stay with the children.” Without waiting for her to respond, he raced through the courtyard and into the castle. If fortune was on his side, Utley was not so far gone that he’d intentionally injure someone else—it was Peter the bastard wanted.
He tore through the inner bailey and up the stairs to the closest turret, cursing the noise made by his Hessians all the way. Rushing up the circular stairs, his heart felt ready to burst from his chest from the exertion. He checked every nook and cranny as he went. There was no sign of Utley anywhere.
A flash of movement brushed before him just as he stepped out onto the parapet to move to the north turret. Peter flung himself back against the wall and tried to slow his breathing. With a slow stretch, he moved his head around the stone corner.
His brother, Neil, stood across the way, holding a finger to his lips. What in God’s name was his brother doing in Wales? Neil shook his head ever so slightly, just enough that Peter could make the movement out, then gestured to the left with his head.
Peter craned his head to see further along the crenellated parapet. Utley stood there, frantically trying to load another ball down the barrel of his rifle. It looked like grime might be blocking the ball’s path, and try as he might, Utley was making no progress.
Neil caught Peter’s eye, gestured some more with his hands, and pulled a pistol from the inside of his coat. Good Lord. This couldn’t be happening. Neil stealthily climbed over the parapet and moved soundlessly down the wall, facing Utley’s back.
When he finally reached his new position and climbed back over the stone, Peter sucked in a breath. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment, then took a step toward the bastard. It was time to end this, once and for all.
Utley still hadn’t noticed either Peter or Neil…but he was making progress on his reload.
More footsteps pounded up the stairs where Peter had just come from.
Utley’s head snapped up with a maniacal look of glee. “Finally come to pay the piper then, have you Somerton? Come to atone for your sins?”
“What sins, Utley?” Peter needed to keep him talking. “What have I done that you seem so intent on seeking retribution for?”
Jane skidded to a stop just behind the wall, just out of Utley’s sight. Peter’s heart thudded to a complete stop. What in bloody hell was she doing up there? He’d asked her to stay with the children. To stay where she would be safe. His gaze locked onto hers. She was terrified, yet once again she was rushed in to face her fears even when she oughtn’t.
He implored her with his eyes to remain silent. She gave him a tiny nod, and pressed her back against the wall.
“Like you don’t know. You’ve gone around most of your life, pretending you’re this perfect gentleman, the ideal of honor and duty and valor.” Utley’s upper lip lifted in a sneer. “Where was your honor when you dared my brother to his death? Where was your sense of duty to him when you knew the challenge he was up against, and didn’t stop him?”
There it was again—those same questions Peter had asked himself over and over again since that blasted day almost twenty years ago. “I did dare Rawden to jump the hedge that day. There’s no denying it, not that I’ve ever tried, Utley. But you and I both know I’d never been on that property bef
ore. None of us knew about the cliffs.”
“Lies. As usual. What else should I expect? You’ve been lying your entire life.”
Neil took two slow, deliberate steps closer, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat.
“It isn’t a lie. I’d been to Rotheby’s principal seat countless times, but never to any of his other estates before. It was my first time in Dover.” And his last.
Utley let out a nervous laugh, one that sounded like an attempt at a cackle but which came across more as a bleat. “That old goat told you and your brothers everything about everything. Whether you’d been there before or not, you knew.” He made another push to load the barrel, and then grinned as he raised it and pointed.
A second shot rang out in the stillness.
“No!” Jane screamed and dashed around the corner. Peter put his arms out and caught her, stopping her progress.
Utley fell forward as a trail of bright red blood poured from a wound in his shoulder. The rifle in his hands clattered to the ground. Neil rushed out, took the rifle, and placed his pistol back in his waistband. When Utley sputtered and started to stand, one of Neil’s boots stopped him and pressed him back down.
Where on earth had Neil learned to do anything remotely like that? But he seemed to have it well in hand. That meant Peter could return his attention to his wife.
“You’re shaking,” he said. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, then drew her into his arms.
“He—he shot—”
“Utley intended to shoot me. Neil shot him first.”
“But…” Jane shook her head from side to side, utterly bewildered by the day’s events. It had been too much for her. Far, far too much.
He needed to get her back inside. She’d catch her death if he didn’t get her warm and dry soon. Joshua and Sarah, as well, for that matter.
“Neil, can you handle things from here?”
“I think I’ve got it sorted out,” his brother called out.
Peter nodded, then picked his wife up in his arms and carried her back into the castle.
He took the stairs two at a time, when he discovered that Jane was finally crying. She wouldn’t want the staff to see her in such a state. For that matter, she might not want him to see her that way either, but she obviously could no longer hold back.
The fire in his chamber was still burning, but low. Peter stood Jane on her own feet, then added more logs and hoped they would quickly catch.
“Take off your wet clothes,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
When she meekly nodded, he rushed out the door, sent Mrs. Pratt inside with his children, sent his butler out to fetch the magistrate, and made sure the rest of his servants were all safe. On his way back up to his chamber, he stripped his own coat off. As he came through the door, he followed it with his shirt. Jane was still standing where he’d left her, fully dressed in her soaked gown, with tears pouring down her cheeks.
This was precisely what he’d wished he could avoid. Christ, she looked so fragile at that moment, and he could do nothing to take the hurt or shock away.
He crossed the room to stand before her. “Let me help you. Sweetheart, I can’t have you taking ill.” With one hand, he untied the sash about her waist, removing the pins from her hair with the other so it could hang loose to dry.
Jane stood still, allowing him to do as he would. After he removed her gown, she was still shivering before him. Even her shift was soaked through. He pulled that over her head and dragged a blanket from the bed to wrap her in before carrying her to the wingback chair next to the hearth.
He kicked his Hessians off as quickly as he could manage, and then his wet pantaloons and breeches. If he was going to warm her, the surest manner of doing so was with his own body heat.
“Come to me,” he said, pulling Jane to her feet. He took her in his arms and draped the blanket around them both.
Jane buried her face against his chest, her tears combining with the rain water still covering them both. He held her there, stroking her back, until the warmth returned to his limbs, until her tears dried in her eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jane shook her head. “Just hold me.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, drawing closer to him.
He was hard and uncomfortable with her body sliding against him, but he’d be damned if he would take her at a time like this. She needed him. She needed his love, not his lust.
She sat there with him, using his chest as a pillow, for what felt like hours. She smelled of summer and rain and sweetness. And again, warm tears fell and gathered on his chest.
“I’m sorry, love.” Peter took her face in his hands and tilted her head so was facing him. “Christ, Jane. I love you so much, sweetheart. I can’t stand to see you hurting.”
“You’re sorry?” she demanded, standing up and allowing the blanket to fall. “Why on earth are you apologizing to me now? For holding me? For helping me to grieve?” She shoved away from him and fled to the other side of the room.
“No, that’s not what I apologized for. I’m sorry that Utley tried to hurt you in order to hurt me. I’m sorry that I can’t take the hurt away. That I couldn’t protect you from this pain.”
“I’m not finished.” She punctuated each word through gritted, chattering teeth.
He picked the blanket up from where she’d dropped it on the floor and carried it to wrap around her.
She shrugged his hands away again, causing the blanket to fall to the floor. Goose flesh peppered her skin as she shivered.
“Please, Jane. I’ll leave you alone, but please cover yourself. I don’t want you to catch a chill.” He couldn’t lose her. Not for anything.
“Fine.” She picked the blanket up and wrapped it around herself. However desperately he wanted to put her back in his bed or seat her near the fire, he refrained.
“Go on,” he encouraged. When she neglected to immediately resume where he’d interrupted, he held his hands up. “I promise. I’ll remain silent until you’re finished.”
His wife nodded. “You can’t protect me from everything, Peter. Certainly not from life itself.”
“I know—”
She gave him the fiercest glare anyone had ever dared to issue him in his entire life.
“Pets dying? That’s a natural part of life. You know this. But what you don’t seem to recognize is that needing to do something—anything—is also a natural part of life. For everyone.”
Jane took a seat in a wingback chair and tightened the blanket about her shoulders. “I grew up having to work. It was simply my lot in life. We aren’t all born to privilege, you know, and the rest of us have to find a way to make ends meet. So I helped around the house and the garden, and I did some sewing work for the neighborhood. Again, you know all of this. But the part you seem to not understand is that I didn’t just do all of this because I had to do it—I actually enjoyed it. I like feeling useful—feeling needed. It gives me something to do.”
“But—“
“Do not interrupt me.” Her imperial tone impressed him. “When I agreed to marry you, I only did so because you promised me—promised me, Peter—that you would give me responsibilities. You have enough responsibilities to occupy three normal people, yet what have you allowed me to do? To play with your children without taking part in their rearing, to work on some mindless embroidery that no one will ever look at, and to plan the menu with Cook. I will have you know, I’m not a mindless twit. Nor am I content to live an idle lifestyle. I understand that I have a new role, but there’s no reason I can’t fulfill the obligations of that position and also have something meaningful with which to occupy my day.”
He had a hard time thinking of the last time even his mother had delivered him such a blistering set-down. Good God. All of this time, he’d been trying to take away her burdens, to make her life easier—and all he’d accomplished was to make her feel useless and miserable. Quite the opposite of his intentions.
“If we’re to make this work, Peter, there will have to be some changes. Not the least of which is that if you ever dare to apologize to me again for not being able to protect me from life itself, I will throttle you to within an inch of your life. Understood?”
“Understood. May I speak?”
“When I’ve finished.” The passion still blazed in her eyes, much the same as it did in the throes of passion. “You also need to understand that I’m not only capable of hard work, but I need it. I can work just as hard as any man or woman in your employ. Menu planning isn’t enough. I need a purpose—something more than just being your wife.”
“But you are my wife,” he growled.
“Precisely. Which is even more reason to keep me content.”
“Fine.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Of course there was. He inclined his head.
“I love you. Against my better judgment and all of my efforts, but there you have it. I love you. And how dare you tell me that you love me in the midst of issuing me the most idiotic apology known to man, burying something as monumental as that in a manner I was highly likely to miss entirely? That is unacceptable. Bloody ignorant man. It’s not like I would have figured that one out on my own, since you’ve been determined to make me miserable lately. Granted, the way you handled burying Mr. Cuddlesworth for me when you clearly don’t even like cats ought to have been a clue.”
She loved him. The rest of what she just said floated away, but the one tiny little sentence stuck with him. Jane loved him.
Thank God.
Epilogue
After putting Erasmus Coburn in place as the new steward of Carreg Mawr, Peter and his family had returned to London. For once in his life, Town life actually represented sanity for him. He’d never expected that to happen.
Since the day Jane’s cat died and Utley made his final attack, the marriage between Peter and Jane had become much more manageable. Not that he was glad about Mr. Cuddlesworth’s death—not at all. But it had proven to be a catalyst of change for the two of them.
A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle Page 89
