Chapter 29
Unable to help himself, Caleb turned back to the two women. Imogen’s words swirled through his head. Had Emily been working at hurting his suit? Had she purposely sabotaged his chances with Imogen?
The answer was glaringly obvious. Of course she had. He was guilty, deserved every bit of pain he had received for it. But when would it end? Was he forced to pay for one mistake—as heinous as it had been—for the rest of his life?
Hurt, followed quickly by fury, lanced through Caleb, consuming the confusion that had overwhelmed him but moments before. He ignored the desperate reasoning in his head that told him Imogen had always been opposed to marriage to him, that her words could well be nothing more than a reflection of those earlier thoughts. Instead his heart took over, silencing all else.
He marched toward them, each step sending a jolt up through his limbs, feeding the rage that hummed through his body. He was hurting; he wanted to make someone else hurt as well.
He could tell by the stiffening of her shoulders that Imogen sensed him first. She released Emily’s hand and turned to face him, starting violently. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles.
“Caleb, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?” she exclaimed, attempting a smile. But she had always been an abysmal actress. The remembrance made his chest ache, and he pushed it aside.
Her voice, normally so quiet, was overloud in the hush of the early morning air. Emily faced him with a sharp pivot, her surprise evident.
Caleb remained silent. He watched with narrowed eyes as Imogen’s false smile wavered on her lips—lips he had kissed just the night before—and she peered sideways at Emily. His sister, for her part, had gone uncommonly pale. Her scar stood out, angry and red on her cheek. Pain overwhelmed him, as it always did when he looked on his sister’s injuries. It was a visible reminder of the sins of his past.
“I could ask the same of you,” he finally stated with barely controlled fury in his voice. “It is not a common place for two young ladies to walk at the break of dawn.” He took a step closer.
Imogen watched him closely, guilt evident on her sweet face. “It is not uncommon to pay one’s respects to the departed,” she said, her voice full of false bravado.
“Am I to understand that you typically walk out of doors before breakfast to visit the grave of someone you never knew? My goodness, I seem to learn something new about you every day, my dear.”
At his tone Imogen’s eyes narrowed. “It is not unheard of, if one’s friend was close to the departed.”
The words shot like a barb. His guilt made him harsh as he turned to Emily. “Ah yes. Your friend. How could I forget that you two have grown so close in the past days?”
“We have,” Imogen answered, a new caution coating her words.
“I wonder just how much my dear sister has told you of that long-ago day when Jonathan died,” he mused, his voice cruel. Emily made a strangled sound in her throat and backed up a step.
He clenched his teeth. Her reaction was answer enough.
“Yes, I see you have been filling Imogen’s ear with every detail,” he choked.
Imogen stepped into his path, her eyes turquoise flames. Her action was blatant; she was protecting Emily from him. The thought was almost laughable. It had been Emily who had done the damage this day.
“She has told me nothing of how your brother died,” Imogen said, her voice tight. “And, indeed, I do not know why you are attacking your sister, my lord. She has been nothing but your champion.”
This he did laugh at, the sound harsh and raw even to his own ears. “My champion? Is that what you call ruining one’s chances for marriage?” He turned back to Emily, his anger mounting. “You must have seen how I’ve been suffering all this time. Why did you do it? Why have you punished me even more?”
Suddenly Imogen’s hand was on his arm, tugging him back. “Caleb, what in heaven’s name are you talking about? What is wrong with you?”
He spun on her, his anger spiraling out of control. “And you,” he said through gritted teeth, “I thought you were unlike everyone else. I thought you would not hold it over my head, would at least attempt to hear the story from my own lips before you rushed to judgment. But you could not give me even that, could you?”
A sudden movement drew his attention. He caught sight of Emily just as she crumpled against the smooth stone of their brother’s tomb, her head bowed. Before he could move toward her, however, Imogen was there. She pulled Emily’s arm up and over her shoulder, supporting her around the waist with the other. Emily’s head lolled on her shoulder.
When Caleb made an instinctual move to help, Imogen looked at him. Her beautiful gaze was full of disappointment, confusion, and condemnation.
Suddenly an overwhelming weariness pressed down on him. All was lost. Imogen was lost.
He stumbled back, his hip ramming against the elegant, cold grave of an unknown ancestor before he turned and moved through the tombs to the gate. His feet felt as if they were encased in lead, his shoulders weighted with the burden of his sins.
As he left the two girls behind, he reminded himself he should have known, should not have allowed himself to hope. His past would never let him go.
• • •
Imogen watched in disbelief as Caleb lurched away from them, through the iron gate and into the trees, her heart aching. There was something that teased her just out of sight, something she knew was not quite right, a detail that would explain everything. She longed to go after him, to force him to explain. But Emily moaned in her arms, and she knew it would have to wait.
“Emily,” she said urgently as the girl’s weight settled more heavily in her arms. “You must get a hold of yourself.”
But she made no indication of having heard her. “All my fault,” she mumbled, her eyes closed, as if in pain. “I should have known, should have stopped him.”
“Emily,” Imogen barked, knowing she could not manage to get the girl home without some help from her. When Emily still made no sign of coming to her senses, Imogen released the arm that she had secured around her shoulder and slapped her. Hard.
Emily gasped, her eyes flying open, hurt and bewildered but cognizant of the world again.
“I need you to gain control of yourself until we reach home. Can you do that?”
Emily nodded, scrubbing at her wet cheeks. Soon they were heading out of the churchyard, past the parsonage and toward home.
By the time they arrived back at Willowhaven, Imogen was sweating from the exertion of half guiding, half supporting Emily as they stumbled along.
“Just a small while longer, dearest,” Imogen panted. “Let me get you to bed, and then you may become insensible to your heart’s content.”
Emily merely nodded, but she seemed to rally. They managed to get through the house and to Emily’s chamber, though not unseen. After Imogen tucked the girl under some blankets and left, closing the door softly behind her, the butler approached.
“Miss Duncan, I have heard reports that Lady Emily is unwell. Is anything amiss?”
“Lady Emily has had a fright and is overcome,” she replied. “Please have a maid come and sit with her while I fetch her ladyship.”
“Of course, miss,” the butler responded, the slight widening of his eyes the only indication of his alarm. He turned to go, but Imogen stopped him.
“Has Lord Willbridge returned?”
He looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe Lord Willbridge has risen for the day yet, miss,” he said before hurrying off.
Imogen stood in the now empty hall, at a loss. Caleb had obviously not yet returned, or the staff would have been aware that he was awake.
Shaking her head, she hurried off to find Lady Willbridge. She had Emily to care for first. Only then would she search for Caleb. He could not be far.
• • •
Later that evening, however, Imogen still had no idea where Caleb was. He had not returned to the house, though she had been m
ade aware sometime in the late morning that he’d stopped off in the stables and had a horse saddled before riding off at great speed for parts unknown.
Imogen took another look out the window of the drawing room before resuming her pacing. Dinner was over an hour past, the sky dark and starless. She was frustrated and worried. And angry. How inconsiderate he was being. The least he could do was be present so she could rail at him.
“Imogen,” her father called to her from across the room, “you’ll worry yourself sick if you keep that up. Please, sit down and relax dear.”
“Your father is correct,” Lady Willbridge said, lowering her embroidery. Her face was pale, new lines of strain radiating from the corners of her eyes. “My son is a headstrong young man. He will return when he’s ready.”
Instead of doing as they bid, she asked in a distracted voice, “Do you suppose we should send grooms out to search for him? It is quite dark; if he went riding in this, his horse may have stepped in a hole and taken lame.”
At that Daphne rose and went to her. She linked her arm through Imogen’s, giving it a small squeeze. “Come and sit. Your worrying certainly isn’t going to bring him home any faster.”
“Lady Daphne has the right of it,” her father said. “Lady Emily is resting soundly, and Lord Willbridge is a grown man who has taken care of himself for years. He is certainly too smart to take dangerous chances on the road on such a moonless night. He’s likely staying with a friend and will return after daybreak.”
“Very well,” Imogen replied, reluctantly allowing Daphne to lead her back to the couch. She took up the glass of ratafia she had left there earlier, before her vigil at the window. The cloying taste washed over her tongue, but she welcomed it. A horrible dryness had settled in her mouth since her return with Emily that morning and she couldn’t seem to rid herself of it.
Caleb’s strong reaction to their presence at the cemetery only reinforced Imogen’s suspicions. Jonathan’s death was, indeed, the cause of the unrest here. It seemed, however, she had more questions than ever. What had happened when Jonathan had died? Why had Caleb attacked his sister because of it? She had tried to talk to Emily, but the girl had been given laudanum to help her rest and was beyond conversation at the moment.
Her fingers tightened on the delicate stem of her glass. If only Caleb would return. There were answers he owed her, answers he owed his family. She looked into the dark burnt orange liquid, swirling it in her glass, her jaw tensing as she watched the light struggle through it.
Once she saw him, she would get those answers or die trying.
Chapter 30
Dawn was just beginning to break when Imogen heard it: a pounding at the heavy front door, not loud enough to wake the entire household but with enough sound to capture the attention of someone who had lain awake all night long, listening for something just like it. Her eyes flew open and she threw off her covers, bounding from bed. She quickly donned her spectacles, night robe, and slippers before hurrying from her room.
Billsby was just opening the door when Imogen raced into the front hall. The sight that greeted her eyes, however, had her skidding to a shocked stop.
Large, jolly Donald Samson, proprietor of the Regal Swan Inn, was propping up a very disheveled, very inebriated Caleb.
“Dear me,” Imogen breathed. She stepped forward. “Mr. Samson, is Lord Willbridge injured?”
“Miss Duncan, lovely to see you, though perhaps not under the circumstances.” He grinned at her. “No, he’s not injured, though it’s not from lack of trying.”
“Perhaps we’d best get him to bed and you can tell me what has become of the good marquess.” She turned, Donald trudging along behind her, half guiding and half carrying Caleb.
Suddenly the butler intervened, his hands flapping frantically. “Miss Duncan, you cannot accompany Lord Willbridge to his bedchamber. It isn’t proper.”
“Nonsense,” Imogen said, stopping to face Billsby. Donald halted behind her, heaving a bit at Caleb’s weight. “Lord Willbridge is in need of care, and I would rather it not be common knowledge below stairs what has become of him. I also would not want to upset his mother any further with his behavior.”
Luckily the butler reacted to the note of command in her voice and dropped back. Unluckily, Caleb chose that moment to realize she was there.
He raised his head, gazing at her blearily. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, a day’s growth of coppery beard shadowing his face. “’S that you, Imogen? Donald,” he said in a loud whisper, “it’s my Imogen. I want t’ marry the girl but she wo—won’t have me. Can’t figure ’t out, m’self.”
Donald turned his head away from his friend and wrinkled his nose, presumably from the strong odor of liquor on Caleb’s breath. “I don’t know, I can think of a few reasons right now.”
He grunted as Caleb suddenly made to step toward her. The loss of balance almost sent them both tumbling to the tiled floor, but the larger man kept his hold on the marquess, widening his stance to provide support. Even so, Caleb was a tall man, and Donald was breathing hard from the exertion of holding him upright.
Imogen stepped toward Caleb, her face burning. “Now you listen here,” she said firmly. “You are going to help poor Mr. Samson as he brings you to your room, and you will remain quiet to keep from waking the rest of the household. Am I understood?”
To her surprise Caleb nodded meekly. Just catching Donald’s approving look, she turned and marched away, the two men lurching along behind her, slowly but blessedly quiet.
Several stumbles and near topples later and they finally reached the master bedchamber. As Imogen opened the door and made to enter the room, Donald stopped and made a distressed sound in his throat. She raised one brow in question.
“You shouldn’t be going in there I think, Miss Duncan.” His face was red, and not just from his exertions.
“I assure you, Mr. Samson, I am no milk and water miss. Lord Willbridge requires my help at the moment, and I have no qualms helping him into bed.”
She entered the room and Donald reluctantly followed. He reached the bed, heaving Caleb onto it. Caleb fell into the soft mattress with a grunt.
“M’ heads spinning, Donald. What the devil?” he said before his head fell to the side. At first Imogen thought he was unconscious, until a healthy snore reverberated from his chest.
Imogen sighed and took hold of Caleb’s foot, pointing to the other. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Samson? And while we’re at it, perhaps you can fill me in on Lord Willbridge’s whereabouts over the past day.”
“Well,” he began, grabbing Caleb’s leg and working at removing his boot, “as you probably know this one’s as stubborn as they come. He came to the inn early last evening, his horse in a lather, calling for drink. We sat about for some time talking, and before I knew it he’d gone through a good portion of a bottle of my best scotch. By then he was more than a bit drunk. Even though the hour was late and it was darker than the inside of a witch’s cauldron, he insisted on returning home. I tried to get him into a bed at the inn, but he would have nothing to do with it, said he wanted to return home.”
He’d finished with the boot and together they moved to his jacket. While Donald rolled Caleb onto his side, Imogen worked the material from his arm. “And so, though I hate to admit it, I kept him at the inn drinking, hoping he’d just pass out and that would be an end to it. It was either that or risk him toppling from that beast of his and breaking his damn foolish neck. Oh, my pardon, Miss Duncan.”
Imogen waved one hand in the air. “Please, think nothing of it. I am just grateful you were there for him.” She looked up at him. “You are a very good friend to his lordship.”
Donald blushed, dipping his head in acknowledgement before turning Caleb on his other side so she could reach his other sleeve.
They worked in silence for a time, the only sound their labored breathing as they worked to divest Caleb of a portion of his clothes, and Caleb’s own soft snores. Finall
y they had him down to his breeches and shirt. Propping him on his side with a pillow behind his back in case he vomited while sleeping, Imogen and Donald stood back, looking down at the blissfully slumbering marquess.
As one they turned for the door. Imogen closed it quietly behind them and they started down the hall to the main staircase.
“What I cannot figure,” Donald said in a hushed voice, “is what got him so riled up to begin with. I’ve never seen him in such a state.”
Imogen’s eyes narrowed. “You can be assured, Mr. Samson, that I will find that out.”
• • •
The first thing Caleb was aware of was a bright, burning light. It shined through his eyelids in a haze of red, tearing into his head with a searing, hot pain.
“Close those damn drapes,” he growled. But even that sound made him gasp as it ricocheted about his skull. He winced, and at the indrawn breath felt the dryness in his mouth. He smacked his lips together ineffectively. His throat felt raw, his mouth like cotton.
He sensed movement at the side of his bed—it was his bed, wasn’t it? Must be his valet. Several violent thoughts coalesced in his head. He’d be sure to dock the man’s wages after this. What kind of a human being woke a man up in so brutal a manner after he’d spent the better part of the night drinking himself into a stupor?
He received an answer to that a moment later.
He sputtered and gasped as what felt like the entire contents of the River Spratt was poured over his face. The utter unexpectedness—as well as the chill—of it shocked him to complete wakefulness. His eyes flew open in outrage, his hand coming up to slough the water off of his face.
Who he saw standing over him, however, was not anticipated.
Of course, he’d really had no idea who would be nearly drowning him in his own bed. But he certainly hadn’t expected Imogen. Holding an empty water pitcher. With a glare like an enraged Fury.
“What the devil are you doing?” he bellowed.
With Love in Sight Page 23
