And all this even before she lost her daughter…
“Oh, don’t look like that,” the Baron chuckled. “I can see that shine in your eye. That anger at your father. But he was just doing what any man would have done. He was just seeking to uphold his family name. Find himself a fine wife.” He winked. “It just made it all the more sweet that he managed to tear down the Viscount to do it.”
“When did the Viscount leave London?” asked Ernest.
The Baron’s forehead creased in thought. “It was many years ago, boy. My memory’s hazy when it comes to dates and the like. But I imagine he did not stay around long after your mother married. Would have broken the poor fellow’s heart to see the lady he loved with another man.”
* * *
Ernest made his way back to Graceton Manor on foot, needing the walk to straighten his thoughts.
A rivalry between his father and the man who had loved his mother.
Lady Sarah, the grand prize.
It was a sorry tale, and one Ernest had never dared to imagine, but did the whole debacle have anything to do with his sister? He couldn’t be sure. Either way, it went some way to explaining the mournful air that had hung about his mother for all his life.
As he climbed the stairs to his rooms, he could hear voices coming from the Duchess’ bedroom. He paused outside the door, listening intently.
Another lullaby?
But no, this was no lullaby. The Duchess’ words were garbled and cracked. Beneath them, Ernest could hear her lady’s maid speaking gently, doing her best to calm her mistress.
He knocked, entering the room before the lady’s maid had a chance to respond. At the sight of his mother, he felt his heart lurch. Her hair was tangled and loose, spilling wildly over her pillow. Her skin was almost completely without color, and her eyes were wide and bloodshot, darting back and forth across the room. She was thrashing on her bed, as though something wild had crawled inside her, cries of distress and mumbled words spilling from her lips. She caught sight of Ernest but showed no recognition.
“What happened to her?” he demanded.
The lady’s maid pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, My Lord. I don’t know. I put her to bed earlier tonight, and she seemed perfectly calm.” The young girl sniffed. “Then I woke to hear crying out. I found her like this.”
“She’s not taken any more laudanum?”
The maid shook her head, knotting her hands in her apron. “I don’t think so, My Lord. Not that I’ve seen.”
Ernest leaned over his mother’s bed, gripping her skeletal hand in his. “Mother? Can you hear me?” He pressed a firm hand to her forehead, trying to still her.
The Duchess’ eyes met his and, for a moment, she was calm.
“What happened, Mother?” said Ernest. “What’s upset you?”
The Duchess began to writhe again. “Unity,” she coughed. “Unity. My little girl.”
The knot in Ernest’s stomach tightened. “Fetch the doctor,” he told the maid. He swallowed heavily. “And my father.”
* * *
Ernest stood edgily in the hallway, his back pressed to the wall. His father paced up and down the passage, not speaking. Finally, the door to his mother’s room clicked open, and the doctor appeared.
“I’ve given her an herbal tincture,” he said. “It ought to help her sleep.”
“What do you think has caused this?” the Duke asked, rubbing his shorn chin. His eyes darted momentarily to Ernest.
“The Duchess is showing signs of extreme anxiety. Has anything happened that might have caused her undue stress of late?”
The Duke stroked his chin again. “No. Nothing at all.”
There it is. Those smooth, polished lies. Pretending to the world that everything is as it should be. Keeping our secrets hidden behind an invisible curtain.
He said nothing.
“She will need to be kept under close supervision,” said the doctor, “and it’s vital she get as much rest as possible.”
The Duke nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”
The doctor buttoned his coat. “I’ll call on her again in the morning.”
Neither Ernest or his father spoke. They listened to the doctor’s footsteps echo down the staircase. Listened to murmurs between the doctor and the butler as he opened the door.
Ernest stared at the floor. “This is all my fault,” he said. “I ought never to have asked her about Unity.”
“No,” the Duke said finally. “You’re right. You ought never to have asked her about Unity.”
The name sounded strange on his father’s lips. Ernest realized he had never heard him speak it before. How strange to have never heard a father speak his daughter’s name…
How thoroughly Unity’s memory had been locked away until now. Little wonder digging into the past had rattled his mother so much.
Ernest saw now it was best that Unity stayed locked away. It was the way it had always been, and that was the way it would stay, for the sake of his mother.
All this prying, this searching, it simply had to stop. He had uncovered things about his mother, yes, but had anything he’d learned actually brought him any closer to the truth about his sister?
No, all it had done was see his mother writhing about in her bed, crying out in distress for the child she had lost.
He thought of her tangled hair, her blank, bloodshot eyes. Guilt tightened his stomach.
This search for the truth had hurt his mother. And it had hurt Rachel Bell. The two women Ernest wanted least in the world to hurt.
It has to stop.
He made his way wearily to his bedroom. The first hint of dawn was pushing at the bottom of the sky.
He kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at the pearly light.
Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps this restlessness inside him would be settled with a wife and children of his own.
In the morning, he sought out his footman. “I need a message delivered to the Earl of Landon’s house. Tell Lady Katherine I wish to call on her.”
Chapter 32
On Sunday morning, Rachel awoke to a cacophony of noise coming from Betsey’s kitchen. Pots and pans clattered loudly, and she could hear the endless thudding of children’s footsteps racing up and down the hall.
Betsey opened the door to Rachel’s bedroom and poked her head inside. “We’re going to church,” she announced. “Are you coming?”
Rachel closed her eyes. She had not left the house since she had arrived in a panic two nights earlier. Hadn’t dared step into the street for fear of seeing Burns’ flinty black eyes again.
Usually, she was a regular church goer. It felt like the least she could do, given the way she spent her nights. Though she was sure God had little time for a woman who sold her body for a few scraps of bread, attending church was a way to cling to that life of decency she craved. Every Sunday since she had begun working as an escort, she had hauled herself out of bed to sit through a service.
But not today. The thought of stepping out into the street still made the back of neck prickle, even if it was with Betsey and her family. Even if it was to maintain that fading illusion of her decency.
She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. I want to stay here.”
Half expecting a lecture from Betsey, Rachel was glad when she said: “If you’re sure. Will you be all right on your own? I can stay with you if you wish.”
“No. No need for that. I’ll be all right.”
Best I start getting comfortable on my own again. I can’t stay here forever.
She had spent the past two days following Betsey like a shadow, helping out in the bakery and stealing more than a few bread rolls from the cooling racks. It had been a comfort to be among her friend and her family, but Rachel knew she would have to venture back out into the world soon.
She listened as Betsey and her family clattered down the stairs and out the door. Silence fell over the house.
Rachel dressed we
arily. It was far too early for her liking. She stumbled out into the kitchen and hung the kettle over the remains of a fire. She poured herself a mug of tea and pulled a piece of bread from the loaf on the table.
She sipped her tea and roamed restlessly through Betsey’s house, trying to build up the courage to step back out into the world.
Come on now, Rachel. You can do this.
She had always considered herself a brave person. Difficult to rattle. And yet something about Burns’ eyes had given her a chill she’d been unable to warm from. They had sent her courage into hiding.
She trailed her fingertips absentmindedly across the doors as she walked the length of the hallway. The two children’s rooms lay on one side, Betsey and her husband’s room on the other, beside Mrs. Miller’s.
“Was it that nobleman who came after you?” Betsey’s mother had asked when Rachel had admitted what had happened. “The one I warned you away from?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He would never do something like that.”
Though there was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Jackson had not been involved, there were coincidences she could not ignore. She had begun to feel as though she was being watched immediately after the Marquess had turned up at White Lion in his cups that night.
The night I took him home to my bed…
Rachel stopped suddenly in front of the clothes rack that stood drying by the hearth.
What is that?
In the middle of the rack hung a small white smock, clearly belonging to one of Betsey’s young daughters. Tiny embroidered flowers were stitched along the hem.
Rachel yanked the smock from the drying rack and peered at it closely.
Purple tulips. Intertwined leaves.
She thought of the stitching on the underskirts she had been wearing the night she had been at the theater.
Purple tulips. The very same design.
Her heart began to quicken.
The very same design Mr. Jackson had been so fixated on.
Rachel took the smock back to her bedroom and sat with it in her lap, her thoughts racing. How had she ended up with the same embroidered pattern on her underskirts as Betsey’s daughter? And how had they both ended up with the same design on their clothes as Ernest Jackson’s sister?
A memory swung at her suddenly. A great deluge of rain breaking the roof of the tenement. Water had cascaded down her walls, soaking everything she had owned.
She had turned up on Betsey’s doorstep, shivering in her damp clothes. Betsey had ushered her inside and sat her by the fire. Given her dry things to change into. Dry stockings. A dry twill dress.
Dry underskirts with tulips stitched on the hem.
Rachel’s heart began to race.
When she had returned Betsey’s clothing after the leaky roof had been mended, she must have returned the wrong petticoats.
The skirts with the tulips belong to Betsey.
Her thoughts knocked together. The skirts with the tulips belonged to Betsey, yes, but she still couldn’t piece together why they might be decorated with the very same design Mr. Jackson claimed his mother had been so obsessed with.
She began to pace. She needed to see him.
She had promised herself, she would not go near the man again. Promised herself things would be over between them. Promised herself she would not let herself get hurt again.
But those damn tulips…
The design had been so important to him, she knew there was no way she could keep this revelation to herself. He needed to know the skirts had belonged to Betsey. Needed to know the same stitching decorated her daughter’s smock.
Rachel quickened her pace, her boots beating a rhythm against the floorboards.
How does an escort go about calling on a nobleman?
She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the thought.
Graceton Manor, Pimlico.
She could find the house. Could make it to his front gates, at least. And then what? Surely a woman like her couldn’t just sidle up to the front door and knock.
Could she?
It didn’t matter. She would work out how to get her message to Mr. Jackson when she arrived. She only knew she had to see him. Had to tell him about all she had discovered.
She slid the embroidered smock into the pocket of her cloak and, taking a deep breath, gingerly stepped into the street. Her eyes darted from side to side.
There’s no one here, Rachel. Just walk.
Sucking in her breath, she began to stride down the street, her heart hammering against her ribs.
I only have to make it to Bishopsgate. Then I can climb into a cab and hide myself from the eyes I feel watching my every move.
The back of her neck prickled. She whirled around. Felt a thick arm grab her around her waist. And then a second hand was clamped over her mouth to stop her scream escaping.
Chapter 33
Betsey threw open the door of the house and marched upstairs. She slid off her cloak and bonnet and tossed them over one of the chairs sitting by the kitchen table.
After church, her mother and husband had taken the children into town to watch the boats on the river. Betsey had felt a pressing need to return home and check on Rachel. Her friend, she knew, liked to portray a façade of strength, but it was obvious the incident with her client had rattled her. Rachel had been clingier in the past two days than Betsey’s three-year-old daughter.
She knocked on the bedroom door. “Rachel?”
Surely, she’s not still sleeping. It’s past noon.
Then again, perhaps she was. Betsey knew her friend’s lifestyle made her amenable to late nights and even later mornings.
But when she opened the door a crack and peeked into the room, she could see Rachel was not in her bed. She had tidied the covers neatly and straightened the pillow. The crimson gown she had been wearing the night she had arrived was laid out neatly over the rocking chair in the corner of the room. Betsey had lent her a dress of her own so she might not be forced to gallivant about the house looking like a woman of the night.
“Rachel?” Betsey poked her head into each bedroom, and she made her way downstairs into the bakery. No Rachel.
She tried to ignore the churning in her stomach.
There’s nothing to worry about. She’s likely just gone back to her apartment.
Not bothering with her bonnet or cloak, Betsey set out toward Rachel’s tenement.
She felt edgy, as though she herself was being watched.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she told herself again but was unable to still the restlessness inside her.
Rachel had left her crimson gown behind. Had left without a word, or a note. That morning she had been too afraid to even venture to church.
She made her way up to her friend’s apartment and thumped on the door. “Rachel? Are you there? It’s me.”
Silence.
Betsey tried again. “Answer the door, Rachel. I’m worried about you.”
An elderly man poked his head out of the room next door. “Stop that hollering,” he barked.
“Your neighbor,” Betsey said urgently. “Rachel Bell. Have you seen her.”
The man shook his head. “Ain’t seen her in days.”
Betsey nodded her thanks. She made her way downstairs and stood outside the tenement, wrapping her arms around herself anxiously.
Rachel had been taken?
She could sense it, could feel it as a tight knot in the pit of her stomach.
She’s been taken by that awful client of hers.
Despite Rachel’s protests, Betsey hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that this had something to do with that nobleman. This trouble had started around the time Rachel had begun to speak of him.
Perhaps he had not been the one to take her, but she felt for certain he was somehow connected.
She began to pace. He was connected, yes, but what could she do about it? The man was a marquess. A lowly baker from Bethnal Green could not just stride
up to his house and ask for an audience with the man.
But Rachel’s life was in danger. If this nobleman cared for her a scrap, surely he would be willing to hear what Betsey had to say.
Graceton Manor, she remembered Rachel telling her, giving an airy laugh. In the very heart of Pimlico. Can you just imagine?
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 19
