“As you say, m’lord—if she were not in trouble herself.” Birch shook his head gravely. “There is a great deal that we still need to discover about her. I will keep you informed as we learn more. How long does your lordship plan to stay in London?”
“I am meeting with Lord North tomorrow at noon. Unless something unforeseen happens before then, I plan to return to Solgrave tomorrow afternoon.”
“I do not expect any great advances in our inquiries for the next few days. But if there were any new developments…”
“Solgrave is less than half a day’s ride away.” Stanmore then ordered the lawyer, “Any news of significance about Mrs. Ford’s past, and you will notify me immediately.”
So much to clear up, he thought. Though Stanmore was certain that she had assisted Elizabeth, he could not bring himself to doubt her integrity. Rebecca’s devotion to James during all those years…her devotion now…was so pure.
For too many years that he cared to count, he’d seen façades at work in society and in politics. As a result, he’d developed a keen ability to recognize lies and identify ulterior motives. But in Rebecca’s case, from the first day, he’d been able to look onto her soul. She was good and pure, as beautiful inside as she was on the outside.
He’d demanded this investigation. He’d wanted the truth, but he realized now that with every layer of truth revealed by Birch, he’d been unconsciously preparing a defense himself. It was liberating to admit that after so many years, Rebecca had managed to pry open his own shuttered heart.
He had to get back to Rebecca. There was simply too much between them that needed to be said.
CHAPTER 22
“I am sorry, ma’am, but Lady Wentworth is not accepting visitors today.”
Rebecca refused to wither under the steely gaze of the bewigged and liveried footman blocking the main entrance of Melbury Hall. The man’s blunt refusal, however, only served to increase her growing concern that something was wrong.
Mr. Cunningham’s words about the squire of Melbury Hall, combined with the noticeable signs she’d seen yesterday in her friend’s demeanor, had made her think of a woman she’d known slightly in Strawberry Alley in Philadelphia. She’d seen her often, though, moving furtively along the alley, cringing from contact with anyone. She woman had been the wife of the candle maker, and the magistrates had hung him after they’d found her buried in the cellar of their neat brick house.
Now, Rebecca was becoming worried about the true nature of Millicent’s situation.
“Has she taken ill?”
“Good day to you, ma’am.”
She put a hand out to stop the servant from closing the door in her face. Mrs. Stockdale had taught her girls well how to be haughty with those in service, and the man’s abruptness brought out Rebecca’s training instantly.
“I am here by an invitation. How dare you close the door on me! Inform the squire that I am here…immediately.”
The man’s ruddy face took on a brighter hue beneath his powdered wig. “My deepest apologies, ma’am,” he said with a deep bow. “I was under the impression that you were calling for Lady Wentworth, ma’am.” He took a step back, opening the door wider. “If you would be kind enough to wait in the drawing room, I shall announce your arrival to the squire.”
Rebecca stared at the open doorway. Somehow, her plan of explaining her own twisted past had fallen by the wayside. In its place, Rebecca now found the desire to help her friend in whatever was plaguing her life. Perhaps meeting the squire would provide some answer. Perhaps.
Nonetheless, she still needed to find a way to see Millicent.
“Very well.”
“This is a most beautiful house,” she announced loudly, slowing her pace as the servant tried to usher her past a wide stairwell. Her voice echoed in beneath the vaulted ceiling. She only hoped her voice would travel up the stairs to where she assumed Millicent might be. “Tell me…have the squire and his wife occupied this house for very long?”
There was no answer, and Rebecca decided that the footman had exhausted his ration of civility for the day.
They passed a number of servants on their way to the drawing room, and Rebecca was instantly aware that the sullen mood of the lady of the manor was not limited to Millicent alone.
“Are you quite certain that the squire is expecting you, ma’am?” the footman challenged as he led her into the designated room.
“Are you questioning me?” she replied in her loudest and haughtiest tones.
At the sound of the door closing, Rebecca let out an anxious breath. Her palms were clammy, her heart beating unevenly in her chest. She decided against sitting on one of the plush, cushioned chairs, and—to calm her nerves—began pacing the room.
What was she doing? With every new Englishman she met, she thought suddenly, she was exposing herself to greater danger. Exposing Jamey to danger. And now, she realized, she was even exposing Lord Stanmore to public censure. And it was all her own doing.
It was true…since arriving in England, Rebecca had drifted with each passing day further from her original purpose. Settling Jamey with his father had been the sole reason for returning. But now, not even a month had passed since stepping foot on English soil, and she had already entangled herself in too many matters to count.
But then again, had life ever allowed her any other way?
Suddenly, a side door to an adjoining room opened a crack, drawing her attention. Rebecca stood still, waiting uncertainly as the door slowly swung back.
The face that peered through the opening made Rebecca gasp with dismay.
“Millicent!”
“Hush!” the other woman cried nervously, motioning for Rebecca to come closer. “Please do not say or do anything that would make my husband suspect that you have seen me. It would be dangerous…for both of us.”
A bruise of purple and yellow and green spread in an ugly crescent beneath one of her eyes. Her upper lip, too, was swollen and discolored. She did not appear to be able to stand straight.
“What happened to you?”
“Please do not ask. If anyone should know, I…I could not bear the shame.” The battered woman clutched at Rebecca’s arms, her eyes darting constantly toward the door. “But for your own sake…for mine…do not tell him we know each other…that we are friends.”
“But your face!” Rebecca raised a hand to touch the bruise above her mouth. Millicent caught her hand and pressed it frantically between her own.
“Make some excuses to him, but do not go. I need to talk to you…” She glanced nervously toward the door. “But he cannot know.”
“I am meeting Mr. Cunningham by the Grove in an hour. Could you come there?”
“I don’t know!” Tears sprang to desperate eyes. “I shall try! But I cannot let the schoolmaster see me like this. Please don’t say anything to him, either. Please, Rebecca…I need your help! I cannot live like this anymore!”
Her anguished plea hung in the air as she backed out of the room and pulled the door shut. Rebecca had had no time to gather her thoughts or compose herself, though, when the main door to the room opened. She whirled hastily and faced Squire Wentworth.
“Well! Mrs. Ford, I take it!”
Rebecca dropped a small curtsy. Quite unlike the monstrous giant she’d assumed him to be, the squire was a man of medium height. He had not yet completely dressed for the day, but was comfortably though carelessly attired in breeches, slippers, and a satin brocade dressing gown. His hair, thinning and fashionably curled, was tied in the back. His features were regular, cocksure, perhaps even handsome, and—though a heavy odor of spirits wafted across the drawing room—the squire’s face was certainly not the face of a brute.
But Rebecca was not fooled for a moment. Sir Charles Hartington had been considered handsome by many, as well. And as she thought this, the squire’s gaze swept downward from her face, taking in her attire in a way that reminded her very clearly of her dead employer.
“I would
like you to know that I have no intention of complaining. But unless my memory is failing me, I cannot recollect…” His lips curled into a smile. “And I would certainly remember extending an invitation to so lovely a visitor.”
“Allow me to apologize, sir,” Rebecca said quietly. “But I rode over to Melbury Hall this morning with the intention of assisting Mr. Cunningham with his lessons to those in your service.”
“I see.” The look of smooth sophistication slipped for an instant, but the squire quickly recovered himself.
“I thought it only proper to announce my presence to Lady Wentworth or yourself.” She tried to not show her discomfort under the man’s wandering gaze as he closely studied every inch of her face…followed by every curve of her body.
“I understand you are staying at Solgrave.”
“That is correct, sir.”
He walked toward her, and Rebecca fought the urge to take a step back. It was clear to her that he had already been drinking heavily, as early as it was.
“And you are a…friend of our illustrious neighbor, the earl of Stanmore, Mrs. Ford?”
The tone of his question conveyed an impertinence, a nuance of disrespect. His attitude and his disordered condition put her off, increased her discomfort…made her feel vulnerable. Considering those feelings, she welcomed his invoking of Stanmore’s name. There was protection in it.
“I am Lord Stanmore’s guest, sir.”
His careless look became a lecherous grin. “Damn Stanmore! His taste in women is damnably fine.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to retort, but shut it again immediately. She refused to be baited, no matter what this man chose to think. He motioned toward a chair, but she declined the offer and glanced at the direction of the door.
“I believe I shall just take my leave, Squire Wentworth, now that we have been introduced. So if you do not mind, I shall go and join Mr. Cunningham. It was a pleasure meeting--”
“But I do mind!” the squire replied seriously. Crossing the room to a sideboard, he picked up a crystal decanter from a silver tray and poured himself out a generous portion of amber-colored liquid. “You must join me, Mrs. Ford.”
She declined with a shake of her head. “I am not partial to drinking this early in the day.”
“This early, did you say?” He raised his glass to her with an impudent wink. “Then I must drink alone…to intoxicating beauty.”
Before she could move, the squire had drained the glass and banged it down onto the sideboard. As he sloshed more into the glass, she started for the door, but he moved quickly to cut her off, carrying his glass with him.
“Tell me, ma’am. What is Cunningham’s attraction?”
She stopped. “Pardon me?”
“Cunningham…the blasted schoolmaster. The dog is a Scot. He is poor. Has no place in society. Even his damned looks are no asset. So answer me.” His face was growing flushed from the drink. “Why do you women all throw yourselves at him?”
Temper heated the blood pulsing in her veins. “I hardly understand you. Your accusation, sir…and I believe I am not mistaken that you are accusing me…is entirely unfounded. I have known the schoolmaster only since this morning, and my offer of helping him in teaching some of your workers comes from charity and not from some…some infatuation, if that is what you mean!”
He laughed without a shred of mirth. “My deepest, humblest apologies. I am clearly mistaken,” he said with a facetious bow. “Then I must assume you are still the dalliance de jour of Stanmore. Indeed, I must be correct. I can see my good neighbor still has you blinded with his charm. Well, the time will come, my sweet—and much sooner than you think—when he will be replacing you with the next pretty face that happens to cross his path.”
She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to respond to such insolence.
“But there is a lot to be gained for a woman of your type in being my friend as well. A woman cannot have too many protectors these days, you know.”
“I appreciate the offer, sir,” she replied, infusing her tone with sarcasm. “But I am not presently searching for such ‘friends.’ And you are completely mistaken in Lord Sta…”
“But you should be, my dear woman. You should be.” He threw himself carelessly into a chair by the door and pointed at her with his glass. “I am told you met Lady Nisdale yesterday…in that God forsaken village down the road.”
Rebecca glanced at the door, wondering if the squire would physically stop her from leaving.
“Now she—very much like you yourself—was a woman with no title and even less means when we first met years ago.” He took another long swig of his drink. “Of course, she’d show a little temper if she ever found out what I am telling you right now, but Louisa’s conquests have gone right to her head. Now that I think of it, she may just be in need of a good setting down…”
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, Mr. Cunningham--”
“Let the bastard wait. I have important things to share with you…now that we’re to be neighbors…for a time…” He waved a hand in the air. “Did you know I was the one who broke in Louisa. Nay, of course you couldn’t know. Well, it was I who taught her everything that she knows about pleasing a man. It is an art, you know, to reduce a man to mere clay in your hand.” His eyes focused on her breasts. “After that, of course, she had no trouble in finding a husband. Old and rich, that is what she went after. And title. And wealth. Aye, Nisdale gave her all of it during the three years the doting old fool survived in her clutches.”
The fire in her veins quickly turned to ice. The man’s gaze appeared to have become permanently fixed on her body.
“Of course, Louisa has made a fatal mistake in thinking that simply luring Stanmore to her bed would make him her next husband. Now, if she had talked to me first, I would have saved her the heartache she is going through as we speak. You see, it is only as a good neighbor that I share these things with you.” His eyes were narrowed with mischief as he finally looked up into her face. “I know a secret about Stanmore’s past that will explain why the earl will never…hear me, my sweet…never trust a woman enough to take as a wife.”
It wasn’t for the sake of her own personal interest that she should listen, Rebecca assured herself, but for the first time, she was curious in hearing what this man had to say. He must have sensed her change in attitude, though, for a smile broke across his lips.
“Are you aware that the boy—that cripple that you raised in the colonies—is not Stanmore’s son?”
Rebecca stepped back, stunned by the man’s words.
“Are you also aware that Stanmore knows who it was exactly his wife opened her legs to, while he was away playing the hero against the French at Quebec?” He leaned forward and stared with malicious delight into her face. “Did you know that my illustrious neighbor knows that his own father cuckolded him?”
The room whirled around her.
“Aye, the cripple is the old earl’s bastard!”
Rebecca tasted the bile rise in her throat.
“So you see, Stanmore is not the marrying type, my pet. He has sworn on his father’s grave never to trust a woman again.” He sat back in the chair. “And who can blame him?”
The walls of the room were beginning to pulse, and Rebecca shook her head to clear it. Her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor.
“So, my sweet, that is why it is only in your best interest to sever your ties with the heartless cur of Solgrave…before he throws you over. I like what I see in you, and I am quite prepared to be your friend.”
An age seemed to pass before she could find her voice.
“I shall remember your offer,” Rebecca whispered, forcing her legs to move toward the door.
Nearly blinded by tears, she made her way from the room and pushed past a blur of stairs and arches and footmen. Suddenly, she found herself standing in the courtyard before the house, walls of brick and a high iron gate still surrounding her…and fields with black workers were visible beyond.
***
Leaving the half dozen servant children with admonitions to read a little each day and say their prayers, William Cunningham went out through the kitchens, the only way that he was allowed in and out of the house.
As he went, he glanced past the neglected, old style formal gardens—with its trellised roses and arbors—toward the more fashionable ‘natural’ vista stretching out from the house. The view had been under construction for a number of years now, though Cunningham wondered whether Capability Brown—from whom the design had certainly been stolen—wouldn’t think it somewhat hackneyed, vulgar, and overdone.
As he passed the entry to the formal garden, he was surprised to hear two voices coming over the enclosing wall. One voice he recognized, and he stopped with dismay, overhearing her words. Turning back to the gate, he looked in to see the two women inside huddled together on a stone bench. Neither noticed his approach until he was upon them.
“Please forgive me, m’lady!” the servant girl was saying. “I tried…I swear on my mother’s grave…but she is the devil! I know she meant all those horrible…”
“Hush, Vi! No damage done! It was my fault to burden you…”
Lady Wentworth stopped abruptly, as Cunningham drew up before them, trying to think of some apology for intruding upon them.
“Mr. Cunningham.”
“Lady Wentworth,” he bowed. The young servant quickly dropped a curtsy before running back toward the house. He watched her wiping her tear-stained face as she ran. “I am sorry for…for disturbing you.”
He stopped. The veil of a tall, brimmed hat covered the face to her delicate chin. Her dress was long-sleeved, the neckline high, in spite of the comfortably warm weather. She wore white gloves that hid every bit of skin. Cunningham, though, didn’t have to see her eyes to know that there was something terribly wrong. The way she had turned her face from him told him a great deal. He stepped closer.
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