Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

  He knew better.

  The drive came up suddenly, simple packed dirt that appeared to bend into the trees. He turned up that drive and followed that well-traveled track, slowing his mount as he rounded the turn. The house stood back from the road, a two-story brick dwelling that clearly indicated its inhabitants were more than simple working folk. No groom came out to meet him, so he dismounted and tied his horse to the post himself. Then he walked up to the door and raised the knocker.

  As soon as he heard echo of his knock inside the house, he wanted to call it back. Mount his horse and leave the way he came. This was madness. What had he been thinking? Sunset was imminent, and he had yet to find any clue to Annabelle’s attacker. He should not be here. He should be at Nevarton Chase, guarding Annabelle—

  The door opened, and a young girl in the dark colors of a servant looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

  “Is . . .” He took a breath. He could do this. “I am looking for Lady Phillip St. Giles. Do I have the correct residence?”

  The maid’s face gave nothing away. “I will see if Lady Phillip is at home. Your card, please?”

  “No card. My name is John Ready.”

  “One moment.” She closed the door in his face.

  He fisted his hand, glancing around him at the familiar surroundings. He was a blundering fool. This was the last place he should have come. But after what Tim had told him, he simply had to know where things stood now. What had happened over the past seven years? This was the only place where he might get the truth.

  The door opened again, wider this time. “Lady Phillip will see you, sir. Please come in. I will have Bertie take care of your mount.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped through the doorway and was immediately engulfed in the fresh scents of soap and vinegar. He shut his eyes as memories swamped him. Of course. It was Thursday. The day the servants cleaned the floors in the foyer and halls.

  The maid held out her hand for his hat. “Just up the stairs, sir. Lady Phillip is waiting for you on the first floor.”

  “Thank you.” Surrendering his hat, he hurried up the curving staircase, his heart pumping.

  As the maid said, his hostess stood at the top of the steps, waiting to greet her guest as he reached the first floor. Small in stature, Lily St. Giles wore her age as gracefully as she did her simple lavender dress. She was the picture of elegance, the perfect lady. As he drew closer, he watched her calm, polite expression give way to hope, then shock, then finally joy.

  She raised her trembling hands to her lips, then stretched them toward him. “John,” she whispered.

  He hit the top step and reached her in one long-legged stride. She took his face in her hands, smoothing her thumbs over his beard. Tears glimmered in her soft blue eyes. The scent of jasmine clung to her skin and clothing. Nothing else felt as much like home.

  He closed his eyes and rested his face in her hands. “Mama.”

  For one moment, everything in his world settled into perfect alignment. Then the sound of footsteps in the foyer below made them both jolt.

  “Come into the Chinese drawing room,” his mother said, placing a hand over her heart. She sniffled. “I do not want anyone else seeing you.”

  She turned and hurried down the hallway to a room that had once been known as the Blue drawing room. He followed behind her. She still moved as quickly as ever, but there was a lot more gray in her dark hair than he remembered. And faint lines around her mouth that had not been there before.

  Time went on, aging all of them. He looked different, too.

  “In here.” She stood in the doorway and waved him into the room.

  When he stepped in, he saw why it was referred to as the Chinese drawing room. Red, black, and yellow dominated the color scheme, along with gold statues of dragons and a huge blue vase painted with delicate white flowers. “This certainly is a Chinese drawing room.”

  She shut the door behind them. “What do you mean? Oh, I remember. The last time you were here, it was blue.”

  “Very blue.”

  “Hmmm.” She looked around. “Well, I have outgrown my blue phase. I enjoy the boldness of the Chinese colors. Now come, sit down.”

  His mother moved to a sofa covered with scarlet and black pillows embroidered with various scenes of China, while John chose an armchair of blazing purple that looked less alarming than some of the other furniture.

  Once they were seated, his mother just stared at him, her hand pressed to her mouth. “I cannot believe this,” she murmured. “I thought never to see you again.”

  “I never intended to return to England, but a mission to help a friend brought me back.”

  “I simply cannot get over it. You look so . . . so different. Then again, you were so young when you left—”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three. And now . . .”

  “I’m thirty, Mama.”

  “Thirty,” she whispered, as awed as if he had just revealed the secrets of turning lead into gold. “You have become a man.”

  “Every boy does.” He leaned forward, reaching out to close his fingers around hers. “Mama, I do not have much time. I should not even be here.”

  “Oh my heavens, you are right. What were you thinking? You came right to the front door!”

  “I admit I was not thinking very clearly. We have a little time, but I will have to leave shortly. Mama, I heard some things today . . . What has happened since I have been gone? Today someone told me that Father—”

  “Yes.” She pressed her lips together and pulled one hand from his to search her pocket for a handkerchief. “He died four years ago.”

  “How?” His voice sounded as battered and torn as his stumbling heart.

  “It was winter. His phaeton went into a frozen lake.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  Emotion nearly choked him. “I do not understand. He was an excellent hand at the reins.”

  “No one could tell me. Ice, perhaps.” She shrugged, her damp eyes reflecting the same sense of emptiness that he felt. She crushed the handkerchief in her hand.

  He came to kneel before her as he had when he was a little boy, but now he was tall enough to look her in the eye. “I heard other things, too. The Duke . . . ?”

  She nodded. “Just over a month ago. He was very ill.”

  “So the Duke is dead. Father is dead.” His voice hitched. Saying it made it all that more real. “And the Duke has no son?”

  His mother gave him a puzzled look. “No, dear.”

  Her innocent confirmation of Tim’s story made a mockery of everything he had thought of as truth. Lies. All lies, piled one on the other like bodies on a battlefield. He bowed his head, crushed by the weight of betrayal. “Damn that old bastard. He lied to me. He lied to make me go.” His voice broke. Sobs clogged his throat. He fought them. Lost. “I was not here when Father died. Because of him.”

  His mother gathered him into her arms, rocking him as she had when he was a child. “Now, John-John. It is all right, my dear.”

  Her voice murmuring his childhood nickname, the scent of her . . . He wrapped his arms around his mother and wept for the father he had lost. The life he had lost.

  “Shh. Everything is going to be fine.” She stroked his hair. “The Duke did what he thought must be done. He always did.”

  “Stubborn old goat,” John mumbled.

  “He was. But he was your father’s brother and the head of the family. In his way, he was trying to protect you.”

  “He knew.” John pulled back and searched for his own handkerchief, sniffing as he rubbed it across his eyes. “He knew that if his wife did not birth a son, I would never leave. So he lied and told me she had given him an heir.”

  “Your loyalty to your family was always something he took pride in.”

  “Pride? Him?” He gave a disbelieving snort.

  “The Duke was a man who conveyed his feelings through actions, not words.”

  “Actions?” The anger energized him, pu
shing past the grief. He got to his feet. “He sent me away, Mama.”

  “He was trying to protect you. You know how it looked. What people thought.”

  “I know.” He moved back to the hideous purple armchair and dropped into it. “People were wrong.”

  “Of course they were. But there was no proof. Your father worked right up to the day he died to exonerate you—”

  “What?” John sat straight up. “Father was trying to clear my name when he died?”

  “I believe so. He would not give me details, but he worked tirelessly. He wanted you to be able to come home.”

  “Oh, my God.” Leaning his elbows on his knees, he laid his head in his hands. As if the guilt of missing his father’s funeral were not enough. . .

  “There is something else you may not have realized.”

  “What else?” he said, not raising his head. “I feel as if my entire world has spun out of control.”

  “Darling, your uncle had no son. Your father was next in line for the title, but he predeceased the Duke. Which means—”

  John slowly lifted his gaze to hers. “Which means I am the next Duke of Evermayne.”

  His mother nodded.

  “This is madness.” He jerked to his feet, began to pace. “I cannot claim the title. You know as soon as I make my identity known, the whole mess will start again. I could be hanged.”

  “Then why did you take the risk of coming here today?” She leaned forward, clenching her hands together in her lap. “Walking up to the front door as if you are simply another caller. That is madness!”

  “I had to know the truth. And you were the only one I could trust to tell me.”

  Her expression softened. “I will allow you that.” She tilted her head, pursing her lips as she turned the matter over in her mind. “What if you did come forward? Perhaps accepting the title will help you clear your name. If you had the power of the title behind you—”

  “No, it will not help.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Nothing but the truth will clear me, whether I am the Duke of Evermayne or plain John Ready. It is better if I stay hidden.”

  “Well, the next in line after you is your cousin Randall.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have never liked him. I have heard disturbing reports that he is already acting as if he is the Duke. Borrowing money against his expectations. And he plans to petition the queen to declare you dead.”

  “Well, that is one way out of this mess.”

  “John!”

  The shock in her voice added to his guilt. “Listen, Mama. If they declare me dead, then they will stop looking for me. I will be able to return to America and live my life as John Ready. Maybe give you grandchildren.”

  “Whom I will never see!” she snapped, rising. “Because my son will be dead to the world. John, surely you do not intend to walk away without fighting for the truth?”

  “It might be easier for everyone involved if I did. It was what the Duke wanted.”

  “But it was not what your father wanted. He died trying to prove your innocence!”

  He took the hit with a flinch. “I know.”

  They stood looking at each other for a long moment. In the hallway, the clock struck the hour.

  “I should go.” He started moving toward the door.

  “No! Wait.” She hurried after him and locked both hands around his arm. “Please think about it, John. I still have your father’s notes. There must be something in there to help you.”

  “Good, then I will have plenty to read while I await the executioner.”

  “Do not be impertinent, young man!”

  Beneath the sharp, parental tone hid the plea of a frightened mother. He stopped before opening the door and laid a hand over one of hers. The fear in her eyes—fear for him—twisted him up like a rope. “I wish things could be different, Mama.”

  “Take his notes and journals. I absolutely insist. Maybe you will find something to clear your name.”

  He sighed. “Ever the optimist.” He kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mama. I am glad I was able to see you again even if it was a risk to come here.”

  She blocked the doorway and stopped him cold with her hands on his chest. “You are not leaving this house without your father’s work.”

  “I have already been here too long.”

  “Did you not hear me? You are not leaving without it.” She folded her arms and glared.

  He recognized that look. Nothing was going to move her, and he did not want to have her last memories of him to be negative ones. “Very well, Mama. I will take his notes with me.”

  “Good. Now come with me.” She left the room and headed for the staircase. Dutifully, he followed her down the stairs, feeling six years old again.

  On the ground floor, she went to his father’s study and opened the door, then indicated that he should go in first. He stepped inside. Even after four years, the scents of lemon and beeswax could not mask the sweet scent of the pipe tobacco his father had favored. A lump formed in his throat, and his eyes misted. How many times he had stood right there, either to visit with his father or receive his lectures? The room looked exactly the same, as if Lord Phillip St. Giles would return any moment.

  “I have allowed the staff to clean in here,” his mother said, remaining in the doorway, “but that is all. Nothing has been removed.”

  “Where—” He had to clear his throat. “Where did he keep the notes?”

  “Here.” She moved to the desk, pausing for just an instant to touch the spectacles sitting beside the lamp, before she opened a large drawer. “This was his journal. He noted everything in here.” She took a thick, leather-bound book from the drawer, the pages dog-eared and ragged in places. “There were also these letters.” A stack of correspondence tied with a ribbon came next. “Something in one of these letters or this journal sent him to Elford-by-the-Sea.”

  John took the stack of letters and turned it over in his hand. “Elford-by-the-Sea? Where is that?”

  “Somewhere in Cornwall. It is where he died.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, the vicar from Elford-by-the-Sea came by here a few days ago.”

  “The vicar? That is odd. What did he want?”

  “I do not know. I was not at home; the maid informed me. He probably had your father’s name and was looking for a donation. ” She picked up the journal and pushed it into his hands. “Guard this, John. It might be the key to your freedom.”

  “I will.” Gripping the book in one hand, he tucked the packet of letters into his coat pocket with the other. “I should go, Mama, before the servants start speculating.”

  She came and kissed him, then looked into his eyes. “Be careful, John. You are all I have left in this world. Do not give up on the truth.”

  He forced himself to back away a step, far enough that he could not touch her. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” she whispered.

  He turned and hurried from the room that looked and smelled so much like his father, suddenly eager to get out of this house he had once loved so well. This house where he had been loved. A footman saw him coming and fetched his hat, then he was forced to wait at least five interminable minutes outside in the cooling evening air while the young groom brought his gelding to him.

  He tucked the book into his saddlebag, then mounted quickly and tapped his horse with his heels, determined not to look back. But as he came up on the bend in the drive, he did indeed stop and look over his shoulder. There she stood, watching him from the window. She waved, but he did not return the gesture. Instead, he turned his back and urged his horse to a trot down the drive, around the bend, and out of sight.

  Perhaps it was cruel to leave her like this. Perhaps he should have allowed her some hope that he might someday be vindicated. But despite his father’s research, was there any hope for a miracle that would restore his life to him? He doubted it. And he preferred that she remember him leaving under his own power, alive and healthy and well.

  Because the alternat
ive was watching him hang for the murder of his wife.

  Chapter 10

  “This play is going to be a disaster unless someone can locate Mr. Ready,” Sir Harry said. “We simply cannot rehearse without him. Has anyone seen him today?”

  Genny looked around at the others, hoping someone would admit to seeing the elusive man. But no one raised a hand or said a word. And that worried her.

  Last night, she had waited for John to come back from chasing Annabelle’s attacker, but dinner came and went without him, rendering her extra efforts on her appearance wasted. By the time the evening came to an end—after Genny’s adequate performance at the pianoforte and Annabelle’s overly dramatic recitation of poetry—Genny had begun to worry. Had he found the brigand only to be done in by him? The possibility grew more plausible as the big grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight.

  Then, in the wee hours, she heard footsteps in the hallway. Slipping from her bed, she went to the door and opened it a crack—just in time to see John slip into his room at the end of the hall.

  So, based on last night, she knew he was alive. But why was he not at the rehearsal?

  “I know he came in last night,” Virgil finally said. “I checked with the stables, and his gelding, Veritas, is there. Perhaps he simply got back so late that he is still abed?”

  “Oh, do you suppose he caught the horrible man who tried to capture Annabelle?” Dolly asked.

  “That would certainly be a relief,” Sir Harry said.

  “I’d like that,” Annabelle said. “I hate being stuck in the house.”

  “But darling,” Dolly said. “You haven’t been stuck inside the whole time. Just this morning, we went to the village to see the new shipment of silk that came in from London.”

  “And we had four footmen with pistols,” Annabelle complained. “People were staring.”

  “If people were staring, that makes it less likely our villain will try again,” Sir Harry said. “All the better.”

  “I just hate being trapped.”