Chapter Eighteen
A week passed until the Prime Minister was finally well enough to truly withstand much visitation. Thornton had been to sit with him in his sick chamber every day since his arrival in London and for the first few days, Gladstone had been virtually incoherent with fever and body-racking coughs. The outlook at the onset had been bleak. Thornton’s own doctor, along with the queen’s, had watched over him in an endless vigil and neither of the esteemed gentlemen had offered words of promise or hope. All had been cautious in their assessments of the Grand Old Man’s condition.
The delirium had been troubling—to see one so strong struck so low had been a blow to him, a reminder to grasp what was important while he could still do so. But by the conclusion of his first week in London, Gladstone’s condition finally improved. The fever had gone and with it the most prominent thunderclouds on the horizon. As the sickness gave way to hopeful signs of restored health, Thornton sat down with his mentor and old friend.
Although he’d been truthful in his words to Cleo when he’d told her he’d written the Prime Minister, stepping down from his duties, he had yet to send said letter. He’d not found the confidence to post it, truth be told. For such an enduring relationship, damn if he could break the old man’s faith in him down with a mere scrap of paper. No, he’d known that it needed to be face-to-face or nothing at all.
When Gladstone was well enough to take visitors in his study, Thornton made the pilgrimage there, feeling lower than mud. The Prime Minister was, of course, happy to see him. There was the rattle of a troubling cough yet in his weakened lungs, his coloring a wan white, but beyond that, little to speak for his illness.
“Lord Thornton,” greeted the hardy leader from a stuffed leather chair. “I understand you joined me in my sick room and that I owe your doctor a debt of gratitude.”
When he would have stood, Thornton gestured for him to remain seated. “Please, do not trouble yourself on my account, Prime Minister. I did nothing more than any other man would have done in my place. It is only my pleasure to see you so hale and fit once more.”
The Prime Minister growled. “I cannot say I’m fit, my boy, but I can say I’m a damn sight better than I was a few days ago.”
“You are looking well.” He lowered himself to a seat opposite Gladstone’s, feeling every inch the traitor. He knew in his heart it was what he must do, but his old loyalties cried out the shame of it.
“Thank you, lad, but I have a feeling you haven’t visited me to exchange pleasantries.”
“No.”
Silence stretched between them for a lengthy pause that could have been an hour or could have been minutes for its intensity.
“I gather,” began the Prime Minister solemnly, “this is about the lovely Lady Scarbrough.”
He stiffened. “You’ve heard, then?”
“Word travels, my lad.” Gladstone hesitated. “But I would have you know that regardless of how this romance unfolds itself, there is always a place for you here. London needs you. The Liberals need you. In truth, I need you. Your role may not be as pronounced, for reasons that are as unfortunate as they are obvious. But no man deserves happiness more than you, Alexander. I would certainly never wish to stand in your way.”
His throat threatened to close over with emotion. “Thank you, Prime Minister.”
“No need to thank me.” The stalwart leader waved away his words. “You’re an important part of this Liberal leadership. Without you, Disraeli would still be manning the ship. I know what butters my bread, eh?”
It was just like the Grand Old Man, Thornton thought, to write off a gesture of supreme generosity as one of selfishness. But he knew otherwise. There were scads of others who could replace him. There were any number of leading Liberal lights in parliament who would have been only too happy to supplant him and any number of men who would be only too willing to toss him to the rubbish heap given his less than circumspect dalliance with Cleo. But not Gladstone. The Grand Old Man was making it possible for him to follow both his loves without having to sacrifice.
“I thank you most sincerely for your consideration and kindnesses.” He rose, bowed and took his leave.
Now Cleo and all his dreams remained within his grasp. He would go to her without a moment of tarrying.
*
Cleo and Ravenscroft left together in a closed carriage for Scarbrough’s country holding, despite the angry protests of her sisters. She had known in leaving Thornton that she would need to do something irrevocable, something from which there would be no returning. And so she was carefully laying the groundwork for an affaire with Julian. Of course, it was to be an affaire in name only, as he had aptly phrased it.
Julian slept most of the trip, leaving Cleo to peer out the window at the passing panorama and fret. As the carriage drew into the grand driveway and lurched over a bump, he woke with a start.
“Snoring, was I?” His lips quirked into an unapologetic grin.
“A bit loudly,” she admitted, but could not force an answering smile to her lips.
“You’re wringing your hands like a passenger aboard a sinking ship.”
“Am I?” She stilled. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He leaned across the space between them to clasp her fingers in his. “Are you certain about this, Cleo?”
“Quite.”
“You do realize the hardship for me? I can’t recall when I last spent so much time alone with a woman without being in bed.”
“Your sacrifice is most appreciated.” Sarcasm laced her words, but she was grateful for his assistance.
He released her and turned to look out the window. “I suppose you’ve visitors awaiting you.”
Her mind reeled. Surely Scarbrough had not brought his den of iniquity here to the countryside. It would render her plan impossible to carry out. On one ground, she was immovable. She would be seeking a divorce from her husband, no matter the cost. She would pay him off if necessary to convince him to seek it, give him every last bit of her fortune. To remain tied to him for the rest of her life was the worst fate her mind could fathom. She could not have the man she loved, but neither would she endure Scarbrough’s officious influence.
“I sent word ahead to the servants of our arrival, but did not receive reply that others would be in the house as well. Why should you think that?”
“There appears to be carriage traffic about your portico, dear girl.”
Cleo shifted to better see and caught a glimpse of three carriages loitering around the entrance to Scarbrough House. “Heavens, are those footmen carrying trunks inside?”
“It would seem.”
“But that’s impossible. I’m expecting no one. Indeed, it’s quite imperative that only you and I should be in residence, else we’ll never cause enough scandal to convince Scarbrough to sue for divorcement.” She pressed a shaking hand to her heart.
“Precisely what is your plan?” Julian crossed his arms over his broad chest and eyed her in a considering way. “You neglected to mention we’d be creating a scandal to beat the royals.”
“Pray don’t pretend you’re a stranger to scandal,” she scoffed, turning her gaze back to the scene unfolding at the portico. Those were definitely liveried servants—Scarbrough’s by the colors—and they were hefting trunk after trunk into the front door. Supervising all was a tall, gaunt man dressed all in black who looked, unless she was mistaken, very much like Cousin Herbert, the prudish baron next in line to inherit the earldom. But that made no sense at all. Why would Cousin Herbert drop in without invitation? Surely Scarbrough would not invite the man, whom he had once disparaged as a cross between a ramrod and a door knocker when it came to intelligence.
“It’s not scandal that concerns me, but the wisdom of baiting your husband and your lover at the same time,” he quipped. “What if they both arrive at Scarbrough House?”
Oh dear. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d merely thought that for her own good, she could perhaps earn a divorce
and for Thornton’s own good, she could push him away from her. And all could be accomplished in one well-done scandal.
“They shan’t,” she told him with more conviction than she felt. “Scarbrough can’t be pried away from his drinking and his lightskirts.”
“You know I care for you, Cleo,” Julian said, his tone quiet but honest. “But I doubt your wisdom. I’ve seen your happiness with Thornton, arse though he may be. I don’t know why you wish to throw him over.”
“I care for you as well, Julian and I am truly grateful to you for what you are about to do. I could not ask it of another man.”
He laughed. “Because no other man has a reputation as stained as that of a male whore’s. I can be bought like a stud.”
“You are a good man for all that.”
“Christ, but you’d think I’m a saint the bloody way you look at me.” He hesitated. “You haven’t answered my question.”
She sighed. “I need to throw him over or else he’ll lose everything that he holds dear. He can be a great man some day and I would never take that opportunity from him.”
“Selfless of you.”
“And selfish too. I never want to be the one thing in his life that he regrets.” Emotion clogged her voice and she forced her eyes back to the window to compose herself.
The carriage pulled abreast of the other conveyances being unloaded and came to a halt. The man striding toward her carriage was indeed Cousin Herbert, she realized. Which meant that something was dreadfully amiss. A grim expression haunted his gaunt face.
The carriage door swung open and Julian handed her down. Sunlight shone in harsh rays into her face. She felt suddenly dizzy. The smell of the waiting horses sickened her. Cousin Herbert stepped into her swirling line of vision and bowed.
“My lady,” he intoned, “you’ve come sooner than anticipated. I myself have only just arrived after receiving the news.”
“News?” She blinked at him, growing sicker and more confused by the moment. Had he always been so very tall? Did her dress improver need to be laced so damn tightly that she could scarce catch a breath? Good heavens, she quite feared she was going to cast up her accounts again.
“You have not heard, then?” Cousin Herbert frowned, creating a deep vee of concern on his forehead beneath the brim of an outmoded beaver hat.
“I haven’t any idea what you’re speaking of, Baron. Pray enlighten me.”
“You have my deepest sympathy.” He bowed again, looking grave. “The earl has passed on to his rewards.”
Nausea roiled to a seething fury within her, competing with a terrible megrim that was beginning to make its presence known. Her husband had passed on? How was this possible? Why had she not heard? Good Lord, she was a widow. She was free.
She clasped a hand to her breast. “Scarbrough is dead?”
She was dimly aware of Julian’s presence behind her, keeping her from crashing to the ground in a dusty heap of traveling garments. Part of her felt immense relief and the other part of her knew a great, keening sadness for the man her husband could have been.
“Could you not have delivered such upsetting news in a more civilized setting, man?” Julian barked.
“What happened to him?” she asked Cousin Herbert, clutching at his coat sleeve, needing to know.
“Hit by an omnibus,” he said with a distinct mixture of self-righteousness and approval in his voice—approval for the omnibus, naturellement. Scarbrough and Cousin Herbert had never been friends. “Somewhere in the East End of London. The watch said he was passed out with drink when it happened. Doubt he felt a thing. They took him for a common street man initially, until they discovered his signet ring.”
Cleo doubled over and lost her lunch on Cousin Herbert’s boots.
*
Word of the earl’s death reached Thornton in London as he was preparing to return to the country. With the Prime Minister on the mend, there was no longer a reason for him to tarry in the city. Scarbrough’s death was the talk of town. No one could quite believe that a Peer of the Realm would be done in by an East End omnibus, but nevertheless, it was true. While he hated to admit it, the news was welcome. Now there would be no court, no scandal, no more impediments to intervene and prevent him from seeking Cleo’s hand.
He fully expected to find her yet at Marleigh Manor. He’d written her twice each day during the time he spent in London, once in the morning and once before bed and he quite feared he was getting maudlin. He had never received a response, which presumably meant that his mother was confiscating his letters.
Upon his arrival back at the manor, he strode through the house, opening doors and calling her name until finally, his mother approached him in the hall. She wore her customary dove-gray gown and a lace cap covering her hair. She fluttered to him like an irate bird.
“Alexander, do cease your hollering. Why, to raise one’s voice in the house is positively American. I do insist you send that intolerable Mr. Whitney on his way. He’s nothing but an ambonation.”
He pressed his fingers to his temples to ward off the approaching migraine. “Abomination, mother.”
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked, perplexed by his terse response.
“I believe you meant to say abomination. Ambonation is not a word.”
“Just so. That’s what I said, Alexander. Do you not listen to a thing your mother tells you? Clearly you do not, or you wouldn’t have entangled yourself with that horrid woman.”
“Where is she?” he demanded, patience running thin.
A pleased smile curved his mother’s lips. “She’s gone.”
“Hell.” He jammed his hand through his hair.
“Language, Alexander.”
He growled. “Where has she gone, damn it?”
The dowager shrugged. “She left with her vulgar sisters and claimed to be going to her father’s seat.”
Thornton had never touched his mother in anger in his life, but now he was mightily tempted to shake her. Instead, he clenched his fists. “What did you do to her?”
“Why, nothing, of course. Why should I bother myself with a grasping slattern?”
He slammed his fist into the wall above her head, sending a shower of plaster chips to the floor. “Never insult her again, madam. She is to be my wife and you will treat her to the respect she deserves.”
Although she had flinched at his outburst, she wore calm like a mantle now. “If she is to be your wife, I find it inordinately peculiar for her to be gadding about the countryside on the arm of the Earl of Ravenscroft.”
His gut sank. Sweet Christ, but Ravenscroft? That couldn’t possibly be true. Could it? Goddamn his trip to London. It could not have come at a worse time. Knowing the dowager as he did, a tad of creative deception on her part was not out of the question. Very likely, she’d tossed poor Cleo and her sisters from the house the moment he’d gone.
“What are you speaking of, madam?”
A pleased smile tightened her lips. “I’ve had it from Lady Grimsby, who had it from Lady Arbuthnot, who is a neighbor of Scarbrough’s, that she’s gone to Scarbrough House with the Earl of Ravenscroft. They’re said to be behaving scandalously, especially in light of the other earl’s death. I told you she was not fit to lick your boots, Alexander.”
Damn it, he would have the truth and he would have it now. There was only one way to obtain it. He spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving his mother sputtering, demanding to know where he was going.
“To Scarbrough House,” he answered curtly. “Be warned that if there is even a hint of prevarication on your part, I expect you to have your trunks packed by the time I return.”
*
The days following her husband’s death passed in a haze for Cleo. Ravenscroft stayed on and turned out to be quite the godsend as he helped to make funeral preparations with the increasingly odious Cousin Herbert. Cleo kept mostly to her chamber, alternately sick, sad and relieved. Tia and Helen joined her to offer her their support, given Cleo’s s
hock to learn of Scarbrough’s early demise. Tia declared his a fitting end. Helen added that no man deserved to be squashed by an omnibus more, in her humble estimation.
Cousin Herbert moved his family of eight into the estate, eagerly taking on his new role of earl. The children played tag in the halls. They broke china. They scuffed floors. They dribbled crumbs and tea on the furniture. This was another reason Cleo kept to her rooms.
Scarbrough’s body arrived from London the same day she and Ravenscroft had and lay in state somewhere in the house, but she had not the courage to ask its precise location. The mirrors were draped and the servants dressed in mourning, but the entire affair had the air of a celebration and not of sadness at all. No one, it seemed had cared for the selfish and frequently cruel earl. And no one would truly miss him.
Cleo was ashamed of herself for the great weight that lifted off her heart with his death. There had been no love lost between them. They had been largely strangers over the last few years of their alliance. But yet she would have fain divorced him than have him killed, despite what he’d done to ruin her happiness and squander her inheritance.
The afternoon of the third day of her new life as a widow, everything changed. She still suffered from a spot of illness, her stomach nearly always unsettled—she put it down to shock. Cleo hadn’t much in her stomach beyond dry toast and lukewarm tea, but she was feeling well enough to sit at her private sitting room and sift through correspondence when Tia rushed into her room in a waft of purple silk skirts.
“Darling, Thornton’s come,” she said in rushed tones. “He is determined to see you.”
Cleo froze, a letter of condolence from her great-aunt falling from her fingers to the floor. How eerily similar this moment was to their last breakup all those years before. She had been writing him a letter when he arrived and tipped the ink well in her upset, staining her hands. She’d been cruel to him then, her words cutting, her actions deliberate.
She met her sister’s gaze, hopelessness welling up within her. “What shall I do?”
“You must see him, certainement.” Tia crossed the room and placed bracing hands upon her shoulders. “Are you well enough, dearest?”
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