“It’s so perfectly romantic. I knew you’d see what a darling she is. You two are simply ideal for each other.”
She descended on her husband, wrapping her arms round him, and sighing. “Is it not wonderful, Trevor? Ian’s found love, too.”
Judging by the hungry look smoldering in Monroe’s eyes, Ian concluded his new brother-in-law had much more pressing matters on his mind than offering his congratulations. Namely how to courteously suggest Ian push off so Monroe could entice his wife into a satisfying afternoon tussle on the feather tick dominating the small rented room.
Obligingly, Ian bid them farewell, eager to return home to his own wife, and if fate were smiling kindly on him, mayhap begin his own honeymoon.
Twenty-two days after leaving Somersfield, Ian trotted Pericles into the paddock outside the extensive stables. It was past midnight. The night was wrapped in a cocoon of tranquility. A dove perched aloft in one of the massive oak trees looming over the main barn cooed sleepily.
Ian had always envisioned breeding the finest horseflesh in the north of England here. Now, with the acquisition of the Arabian blooded stock, he was pursuing that goal.
Gerard, the stable master, approached lantern in hand. His slow, shuffling gait gave Ian plenty of time to dismount. Another form plodded unhurriedly from the barn.
Gerard waved the sleepy groom away. “Go on with ye, Ben. I’ll see to the beasty.”
Mumbling an unintelligible answer, the young stable hand ambled back into the dark building. Soft welcoming nickers accompanied his return.
“Pleased to have ye home, Lord Warrick.” Gerard yawned sleepily, patting the lathered animal on his glistening neck. “Ye rode him hard, ye did.”
He began crooning softly to the stallion, his hands never breaking their soothing contact with the horse.
“Aye, I did at that.” Ian smiled. “I’ve a bride waiting for me.”
Slapping the dust from his thighs, he started for the manor. He called over his shoulder, “Rub him down well, won’t you, Gerard? And an extra portion of grain for him too. He earned it.”
Entering the silent manor, Ian made his way to his bedchamber. He ached to see Vangie, though he didn’t want to waken her this late. He sniffed, crinkling his nose in distaste. He sorely needed a bath. He’d not wake his valet nor disturb the other servants demanding bathwater at this ungodly hour. He’d have to wait until morning to greet his wife.
His wife. He’d missed her more than he ought after such a short acquaintance. How had she fared in his absence? And more on point, were her thoughts as consumed with him as his were of her?
Exhaling a deep breath, Ian toed off his boots before stripping his garments with swift efficiency. Padding to the bathing chamber, he poured water into the basin, then washed off the worst of the travel grime.
He smiled to himself. He hoped Vangie was an early riser, for Lucinda assuredly was. She’d be demanding his attention straightaway once she learned of his return. His smile faltered, and a scowl took its place.
She had better have removed herself to the dower house as he’d directed. He’d no intention of residing under the same roof with that termagant now that Charlotte wasn’t in residence. He’d have preferred to have been present for the transition, especially to ease the adjustment for Vangie. Instead he’d hied off in needless pursuit of his sister.
Shaking his head in self-reproach, he splashed his hair and his unshaven face with the tepid water.
Charlotte was blissfully happy. She obviously adored the man she’d married, and Monroe was completely agog over her as well. As a wedding present, Ian, despite being thoroughly piqued with her, had offered a generous purse to the newlyweds and sent them on a well-deserved wedding journey.
Well-deserved because he had never given Charlotte credit for any degree of intelligence—or thought her the least bit capable of standing up to her mother. That lamentable business with Pickering? All a wretched ruse Charlotte concocted to keep Lucinda off Monroe’s scent.
She hadn’t done poorly for herself, by half, Ian concluded, toweling his dripping hair. He quickly wiped his face, then finished drying off.
Bother and blast. Lucinda wouldn’t be pleased he’d returned empty-handed. He’d deal with that difficulty on the morrow, after becoming reacquainted with his bride.
Slipping between the cool sheets, he lay back with his elbows bent, hands beneath his damp head. He’d send a message to the dower house in the morning, requesting an appointment with Lucinda in the afternoon. Staring at the canopied bed, his eyes drifted closed, his thoughts shifting to Vangie.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Vangie tore to the chamber pot, casting up the contents of her stomach for the third time in the past week. She tottered to the makeshift washstand, then rinsed the foul taste from her mouth before running a damp cloth over her face. Hunched over the cracked basin, she drew in a deep breath. Another wave of queasiness assailed her.
Her stomach was empty. There was nothing left to vomit. The bland breakfast of watery porridge, tea, and dry toast she’d eaten moments before, now resided in the slop bucket. Dinner wasn’t much better. It usually consisted of a weak soup, a hunk of dry bread, and if she was lucky, a slice of cheese or a piece of fruit.
How much longer could she tolerate this unappetizing food? It often tasted peculiar, not unlike some of the medicinal herbs Puri Daj used to treat respiratory afflictions. No doubt Lucinda was feeding her half-spoiled leftovers which accounted for Vangie’s roiling stomach. She’d little appetite and ate less and less of the unappealing fare.
Wandering to the dilapidated armchair she’d tugged near the window, she flopped into it.
Jasper and Mrs. Tanssen had been absolute dears. They’d smuggled in candles, books, including Vangie’s Bible, her paints and crocheting, as well as more tempting, palatable foods whenever they could. It wasn’t often enough. According to Jasper, the dowager inspected every tray and bucket, and made the servants turn out their pockets before entering the tower.
Mrs. Tanssen had sneaked into the tower the first night. When the door creaked open, Vangie, huddled in a corner under a filthy blanket, had been terrified.
Seeing the housekeeper illuminated in the doorway she’d gasped, “Mrs. Tanssen? What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Holding a candle in one hand, Mrs. Tanssen dangled a key in the other. “I provided that she-dog the key to this turret.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “But, I don’t feel the least bit obligated to tell her I have a master key. I can open every door in the manor.”
She dropped the key inside her pocket, then bent to retrieve something outside the door.
“Here, my lady, it’s only a blanket, a candle, and a bit of bread. I couldn’t hide anymore beneath my skirts this trip.”
Vangie hugged her. “Thank you.”
“I’d best be going. I have several more things stashed in a closet at the bottom of the stairs. I want to get them to you while Jasper is keeping watch outside the dowager’s chamber.”
Two days later, he’d crept into the tower. He told Vangie, “The dowager is like a rabid watchdog. She monitors our every move.”
He withdrew a book from his pocket along with some biscuits wrapped in a washcloth. “We have outwitted her though. One of us distracts her and the other high-tails it here.”
The sweet-faced maid, Ailsa, who brought Vangie her food, often stayed to visit, even though she was under strict orders not to. With her sandy-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, the girl reminded Vangie of an unrefined version of Yvette. They were of the same age too, ten and seven.
“I don’t want you getting punished for defying the dowager, Ailsa,” Vangie told her.
“Her ladyship can blow biscuits out her bony arse. You’re the lady of the manor now, not that
witch.”
Despite herself, Vangie’s lips had twitched. Though her face was angelic, Ailsa’s speech was anything but. She had no qualms about speaking her mind and doing so quite crudely.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and across her lap, Vangie gazed at the scene beyond the window. It was early morn, not even eight yet, she guessed. She’d no clock, thus it was difficult to tell.
She was lonely, cold, hungry, and desperate for Ian to return. Each day that passed without his appearance, sent her further into the doldrums. A multitude of misgivings worked their wiles, whispering discouragement and filling her with hopelessness.
His continued absence gave credence to his stepmother’s claim he’d ordered Vangie locked away. The thought wrenched her heart. Despair squeezed her wounded spirit like an unrelenting vice. A tear trickled from her eye. She rubbed it away. No more tears.
She surveyed the travesty of a room the dowager had incarcerated her in. The window panes tossed thin shadows across the dusty floor. The cruelty behind her ladyship’s actions was beyond Vangie’s understanding. What drove someone to be so altogether vindictive?
It was evident the room was never used, except by a pair of bats that made their way inside each night. Vangie sneezed for a quarter hour straight the first day, such was the dust. Her bed originally consisted of a few moth-eaten blankets tossed on a lumpy, mildew-laden straw pallet on the floor.
Mrs. Tanssen smuggled clean blankets and a fresh tick over the course of the first few days, though how she managed without the dowager’s knowledge baffled Vangie. Except for the chair she currently sat in, and a rickety three legged pedestal table, the chamber was devoid of any furnishings.
Gazing out the window, a half-smile tilted the corners of her mouth. She was certain the dowager had no idea how splendid the view was from the tower. It was a perfect setting for drawing and painting—if Vangie had the desire.
She didn’t.
Scanning the formal gardens and mazes below, she settled on her favorite scene—a pond on the other side of a large expanse of grass glistened happily in the morning sun.
Vangie could see black and white swans swimming leisurely across the blue-green surface. A listing footbridge hugged the east side of the pond. It joined a meandering path to a glorious wisteria covered arbor. Everything was overgrown and neglected, but the underlying beauty of Somersfield’s grounds was undeniable.
A smaller stone cottage, barely visible through the trees, was nestled in a glen on the other side of the pond. She presumed it was the dower house.
Somewhere beyond her view, lay the Romani camp. She hadn’t remembered the note Milosh handed her in Brunswick until her eighth day of imprisonment. Retrieving her reticule, Vangie had dumped the contents on the table. Unfolding the note, she recognized her grandmother’s familiar writing. They were encamped in a meadow under a maple grove near the Ouseburn River.
Oh, how she missed Grandmother.
A week ago Jasper had brazenly dared to seek a few moments with Vangie. Puri Daj had come to call at Somersfield after visiting the Caruthers and learning Vangie was now Lady Warrick.
The dowager had refused to receive Puri Daj, going as far as to instruct him to forbid her access to Somersfield lands. The dowager had even threatened Grandmother with arrest for trespassing if she dared to attempt to contact her again.
Jasper, bless his heart, had attempted to reassure Vangie. “I promised Madam Caruthers I would personally see to your well-being, as much as I am able to.”
He withdrew an apple and a scone from inside his coat. Standing a mite taller he’d said, “I would consider it an honor to carry missives between the two of you.”
Vangie sighed, closing her weary eyes. They were gritty from lack of sleep. How she wished to explore Somersfield’s lovely acreage and to visit her Romani relatives. Grandmother was anxiously waiting, and Besnik, a dear Romani friend, was covertly watching the estate, lest Vangie attempt to communicate with her Roma vitsa, her kin.
Engrossed in her worrisome thoughts, she didn’t hear the door open.
Chapter 22
Ian descended the stairs feeling unusually optimistic. It was not yet half-past seven, but he’d a small, if somewhat unrealistic hope, Vangie might have risen early herself.
No sooner had he settled into his customary chair, teacup at his lips, than his stepmother strutted into the sun-streaked breakfast room. Her steps faltered, and the self-satisfied look dropped off her face.
Damn and blast. Why was she still here? It wasn’t bloody- well likely she just popped over for breakfast.
From beneath hooded eyes, he scrutinized her. What had his father seen in her? Blunt. Father would do most anything for money. But lie with that? No wonder his father was perpetually in his cups, though how he got his pizzle stiff when he was foxed and laying atop that squeeze crab was beyond Ian’s ken.
“I wasn’t aware you had returned, Ian.”
An obvious understatement if ever there was one. Cocking a brow, he said, “I arrived late last night, or rather, early this morning. No doubt you were abed.”
Helping herself to several hot cross buns and tea from the sideboard, Lucinda made her way to the table.
She avoided his eyes, making a show of buttering a roll, then adding the precise amount of sugar to her tea.
“Lucinda, I presume your presence indicates you didn’t do as I requested and move into the dower house?”
He made no effort to conceal his displeasure.
In the act of stuffing a large piece of warm bun into her mouth, she gulped it down, then took a hurried sip of tea. From the expression on her face, she’d burnt her mouth. He was positive she’d have spewed the mouthful onto the table if it wasn’t for his presence. Instead, she swallowed, her face pinched with pain. Composing herself, she heaved dramatic sigh as if greatly put upon.
He tapped the side of his mouth. “You—”
Meeting his eyes, she scowled, pursed her lips, and blew a large breath out her nostrils. “It was most impractical. . .”
Looking pointedly at her chin, Ian tried again, “Lucinda, there’s. . .”
“Ian, you asked me a question. Do let me speak!”
“You’ve a dab of butter about to. . .”
The blob rolled over her chin, then plopped onto her chest.
“Hell and damn,” she grumbled, wiping at the oily stain. “Now look what you’ve done. It’s ruined.”
She tossed her napkin on the table and slumped in her chair. Folding her arms across her bosom, she shot daggers at him with her eyes.
Ian ignored her, long accustomed to her blaming others, usually him, for everything. “You were saying?”
“Yes, well, it was most impractical for me to remove myself with the disruptions that half-breed gypsy was causing while you were absent.”
She drummed the fingers of her right hand on her bent arm. “I needed to remain here to maintain some degree of order.”
Ian glowered at her. “You dare to call my wife a half-breed gypsy to my face?”
Incipient anger crackled beneath the surface of his calm composure. “You go too far, Lucinda!”
She paled beneath her sallow complexion.
“Her name is Evangeline Warrick, Lucinda, the Viscountess Warrick.”
He stabbed her with his gaze while stressing each word, “You had best never call her anything else again.”
Jasper plowed into the dining room, his movements so uncharacteristically hasty, he skidded three feet across the floor before coming to an unsteady stop.
Ian quirked a brow in askance. Whatever was the man about? Jasper never moved faster than a rigidly measured gait.
A long wisp of hair flopped over his high forehead and dangled atop his nose. He calmly shoved the strands back atop h
is head, then smoothed them from one side of his balding head to the other.
Ah, that explains that.
For years Ian had wondered about the odd, waxy strand across the butler’s nearly bald pate.
“My bride has been troublesome, Jasper?”
“Really, Ian,” Lucinda objected, her thin face registering her annoyance. “Surely you’re aware how those below stairs are given to tittle-tattle.”
With an air of patronizing superiority, she tilted her head and attempted to look down her pointed nose at the majordomo. The affect was comical, and Ian fought to control the grin tugging at his lips. She looked rather like one of his hounds.
Nose in the air, Lucinda sniffed haughtily, “One simply cannot rely on candor from the likes of them.”
With great dignity, Jasper lifted his chin and cast a contemptuous glance at the woman. “Indeed, Lord Warrick. My lady’s imprisonment in the south. . .”
“That’s outside of enough. You may go,” Lucinda hissed, bolting upright in her chair.
“Her imprisonment in the south tower these three weeks past, has been severely troublesome to be sure,” the butler finished in a rush.
Ian froze, his fork half-raised to his mouth. He better have heard wrong. With deadly calm he asked, “What did you say?”
“Her ladyship has been locked in the south turret with barely enough food to survive on. No fire, no candles, no comforts whatsoever; except those which Mrs. Tanssen, Ailsa, and I have smuggled to her whenever she,” Jasper sent Lucinda another fleeting look, this one indisputably defiant, “wasn’t watching.”
Ian fisted his hands under the table. The urge to wrap them around his stepmother’s neck and strangle the life from her was overwhelming. He’d never felt such hatred toward another human.
At Jasper’s triumphant revelation, her face paled with shock. She swiftly masked her astonishment and attempted a light-hearted laugh. The smile faded from her lips when Ian, shoved to his feet, regarding her with unmitigated fury.
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 18
