by Juliana Gray
A thump sounded from the room upstairs, and a high trill of laughter. The sound made Lilibet’s chest strain with yearning.
“I presume you have a nursemaid of some kind with him,” she said.
He turned from the window and leaned against it, bracing his hands against the old wooden sill. “Of course. His old nursemaid, the one you left behind in Milan.”
“After I discovered she was carrying your child.”
He shrugged. “Not mine, in fact. I always take the most scrupulous care to avoid such nuisances. A footman, I suppose.”
She felt the heat invade her cheeks again, and spoke in a high, matter-of-fact voice to cover her embarrassment. “In any case, I suppose we should return to business.”
“Business?”
“The terms of our divorce. I should like to conclude the matter as swiftly as possible.”
“Yes, of course.” He pushed away from the window and returned to the chair, placing his hands atop the back and regarding her with his dark gaze. “Will a thousand pounds a year be sufficient?”
“I don’t require your money.”
“Should you remarry, of course, or accept another man’s protection, I shall be obliged to cease payment. But with your face, I should imagine you’ll find a deep enough pair of pockets to keep you in style, even with a divorce attached to your name.” He spoke steadily, but his knuckles were white against the curved gilt back of the chair.
“I told you, I won’t accept your money.”
“I shall provide you a house in town, if you like, though I expect Philip to spend at least six months a year in the country, both for his health and for his moral development, until he begins at school.”
“Moral development? Oh, that’s rich,” she said. “Coming from you.”
“The dowager’s house, on my estate, shall be made available, if it suits you. As the future earl, Philip ought to know something about the land he will inherit. I will assume, for legal purposes, he is in fact my son.”
“You may submit all these matters to my lawyers. They will be happy to draw up an agreement to our mutual satisfaction.” She rose from the chair. “Really, I don’t see why any of this was necessary. You had only to send a letter, not kidnap my son and force me to ride through the hills on a . . .”
“Wait a moment, my dear.” He held up his hand. “I haven’t quite finished. In exchange for my cooperation, I shall expect a few concessions.”
Something about the way he said the word concessions—the hint of a silky drawl in his voice, the accompanying gleam of light in his eyes—made her blood turn to ice in her veins.
She twisted her fingers together. “What sort of concessions? If you mean visits, I will of course allow Philip . . .”
With one hand, he waved at the escritoire, and the pen and paper lying on its well-polished surface. “First of all, I should like you to write me a letter.”
“A letter? What sort of letter?” she asked warily.
“I shall dictate it to you, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated. “For whom is the letter intended?”
She knew the answer in an instant, even before he replied. She saw it in the faint satisfied curl of his lip, in the triumphant arch of his eyebrow.
“Why, to your lover, of course. To Lord Roland Penhallow, our gallant hero, valiant debaucher of other men’s wives.” Somerton made another wave of his hand, in the direction of the escritoire. “I think he deserves at least a friendly note of thanks for his exertions in my marital bed, don’t you?”
“Leave him out of this, Somerton. He has nothing to do with the ruin of our marriage. I knew, long before I saw him again, that I could no longer live under your roof.”
“Tell me,” the earl said conversationally, returning his hands to the back of the chair, “did he please you? Did he make you cry out, in that demented way you have, when you reach your culmination? Did he . . .”
“Stop it! Stop it at once! How dare you!”
“Was he gratified to discover your whorish appetites? Tell me, Elizabeth. I want to know every detail. Did he suckle on your teats? Did he put his tongue between your legs?”
She put her hands to her ears. “Stop it! Stop it!”
He lifted the chair and flung it across the room with a crash of splintering wood. “Was his cock as satisfying as mine, Elizabeth? Did you scream with pleasure when he thrust it inside you, as you did with me?”
She stood her ground and let her hands drop to her sides. Her pulse knocked against the side of her throat. “Stop it,” she said, in a low voice. “You disgrace yourself.”
He stood still before her, broad and furious, chest heaving, eyes glittering in his rough-hewn face. His right fist began to clench and unclench in a steady, expectant rhythm, as if his heart were beating outside his breast.
She went on, more gently. “Can we not be civilized about this, Somerton? Can we not simply agree to part, and wish each other well?”
He took another deep breath, and another. His voice, when he spoke at last, had been schooled back into calm. “The easiest thing in the world, madam. Only write that note, as I requested, and we may proceed.”
“I will not. Roland Penhallow has nothing to do with this.” Her palms were growing damp; she closed them around the folds of her dress.
A smile crept across Somerton’s lips. “My dear, dear wife. Did you think I had brought you here, brought your son here, merely to discuss our divorce in amicable terms?”
“I’ve no idea why you brought me here.”
“Or did you think I hoped to lure you back? To have you again as my wife? Or that I meant to take Philip home with me, and raise him myself?”
She said nothing, only returned his gaze, waiting with dread to hear his words.
He reached out to grasp her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and leaned in close, his brandy-laced breath brushing against her nose. “Far too late for that, my dear,” he said. “I don’t want you back in my bed, another man’s whore. I don’t want your brat clinging to my legs.”
She slapped his hand away. “Then what do you want, you damned insufferable bastard?”
His eyebrows lifted at her words. “Such language, Elizabeth.” He chuckled.
He went to the escritoire, picked up the pen and paper, and held them out in her direction. The expression on his face glowed with triumph. “I want Penhallow, my dear. I want your lover. And if you want to see young Philip again—if you want, in fact, to see him leave this building alive—you will agree to serve as the bait.”
TWENTY-TWO
Of course, she’d capitulated.
What else could she do? She knew, as a matter of logic, he wouldn’t kill his own son. Not even Somerton was as deranged as that. True, he’d expressed doubt about the boy’s parentage, but that had been intended merely to insult her; no one, looking at Philip’s black eyes, could possibly think he sprang from the loins of any man other than the Earl of Somerton.
She also knew, as a matter of logic, that she had her tidy, well-annotated list on file with Bellwether and Knobbs, that she was not without her own power.
But the fear in her heart could not be ruled by logic. She was, at that moment, within Somerton’s physical power, and so was her son. And Roland, she’d reminded herself, was at least a day away, assuming he were still at the Castel sant’Agata and hadn’t tried to follow her. Somerton would have to find him, wherever he was, and he’d have to make his way here. Plenty of time for her to change the earl’s mind; hours and hours for her to plot an escape.
“I want to see Philip,” she said, when she handed him the note. She looked him full in the face, to let him know she couldn’t be cowed this time.
“But of course.” He folded the note with a single sharp crease, put it in his pocket, and went to the do
or. “Madam,” he said, swinging the paneled wood wide and stepping aside.
He led her upstairs, up twenty-two broad marble steps (she counted each one, to keep herself steady) and around the stairwell to a door, on which he rapped his knuckles twice.
She didn’t bother waiting. She pushed past him, flung open the door, and ran forward to swing Philip into her arms. His warm body fit into hers, smelling of bread and jam and new linen. “Darling,” she said, into his hair. “Darling.”
“Mama! Mama! There you are! Look, it’s Miss Lucy! She’s back!”
Lilibet shifted her eyes to where Lucy Yarrow stood deferentially next to the window, the sunlight outlining the swollen curve of her pregnancy.
“Madam,” she said, bobbing a supremely awkward curtsy.
Philip whispered in Lilibet’s ear. “She’s going to have a baby, too!”
The blood left her limbs. She looked quickly at Somerton, but he hadn’t seemed to hear: His fingers tapped against his jacket pocket, and his gaze wandered around the room, until it came to rest on her.
She felt his eyes on her face, on her figure. She wore her traveling suit, jacket still buttoned; Philip’s body still pressed against her front. Could he see her thickening waist? Did he discern the bulge of her bosom, the bloom in her cheeks? The changes seemed so obvious to her.
She nodded at Lucy to break the silence. “She must be tired. I’ll watch him myself.”
“Very well.” Somerton nodded curtly at the nursemaid. “Wait downstairs, in the kitchen. I’ll send for you when you’re required.”
“Thank you, sir.” She bobbed another unbalanced curtsy and fled, as quickly as her body would allow her.
Somerton turned back to Lilibet. “I expect you’re hungry. A tray will be sent up in due course.”
“Where have you been, Mama?” Philip asked, next to her ear. “Where’s Uncle Roland? Did he come, too? Does he know Father?”
“Uncle Roland,” said Somerton, locking eyes with her. “Dear old Uncle Roland. He’ll be along shortly, I expect. And to that end, I suppose I must beg your permission to retire. Markham waits below.” He gave his jacket pocket another satisfied pat. The tweed strained under the movement of his powerful arm; his shoulders squared with confidence. Every organ in her body seemed to sink downward in despair at the sight of him, at the strength of his body and the cunning in his eyes. How could she ever think to outmaneuver him? How could she have betrayed Roland to him?
Courage, she thought. Faith and courage. He was a man, no more.
“Take as long as you need,” she said coldly. Philip was getting heavy; she allowed him to slide downward to the floor and took his hand tightly in hers.
Somerton went to the door and inclined his head toward her with courtly formality. “I shall, of course, apprise you at once with any news.”
He left with a firm slam of the door, and the soft snick of a key turning in the lock.
Damn him for that.
“Father seems very cross,” said Philip softly.
She turned to him and knelt on the floor. “Did he hurt you at all, darling?” she asked, fighting to keep the question as gentle and unassuming as she could.
He shook his head. “No. But I can tell when he’s cross.”
“Yes, a little cross, I suppose.” She drew in a deep breath of relief. “But you mustn’t mind that. Your father’s just . . . well . . .”
“He hates me, doesn’t he?” Philip’s voice was startlingly matter-of-fact.
“No! No, of course not, darling. He loves you very much.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Philip put his arms around her neck. “He didn’t say anything to me, in the carriage. I don’t think he likes children.”
“He doesn’t know what to say to them, that’s all. But he does love you.” She embraced him back, resting her chin on his head.
“Uncle Roland is much nicer. Uncle Roland . . .”
She stroked his hair. “Uncle Roland what, darling?”
“I wish . . . I think . . .” He sighed and drew back. “Was Father telling the truth? Is Uncle Roland coming?”
“I . . . Well, he might be.”
“Father doesn’t like Uncle Roland, does he?” Philip reached out and began plucking at her sleeve, his little fingers just brushing the skin of her wrist.
How had he known that?
She swallowed. “Not very much, no.”
“Is he going to kill him?”
Lilibet froze. She tried to laugh, but it came out rather more like a choke. “Goodness, no! Where do you get these ideas? Kill him, really. People don’t just kill each other, dear.”
Her words didn’t sound convincing, even to her own ears. What did Somerton mean to do with Roland, after all, if not to kill him?
Philip leaned silently back against her, the slight movement of his breath merging into hers. “If I go back to England with Father, will he not be angry with Uncle Roland anymore?”
“Oh, darling. It isn’t that. It isn’t your fault. Sometimes people just don’t like each other.” She set him away, so she could look at his face. The skin was pink, the eyes heavy, as if he were trying hard not to cry. “Uncle Roland will be just fine.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed into two worried slits. “Are we going back to England with Father?”
She hesitated, taking his hands into hers. “Do you want to go back?”
“Yessss,” he said reluctantly, as if it were an unwelcome duty, and then: “But I wish . . . Why can’t . . . I think . . .” He flung himself back at her chest. “I’m going to miss Uncle Roland! And Norbert! And fishing in the lake!”
“Oh, darling. Hush. It’s all right.”
“And Father’s so angry, and England’s cold and rainy . . .”
“Not now. It’s summertime. And Father . . . well, he . . . we won’t see him so much. Only when you want to. We’ll . . . we’ll find a house of our own, and you can visit your father . . .”
The little body tightened into a knot within her arms. “We won’t . . . we won’t live with Father?”
Oh, damn. Bloody damn. She didn’t want to talk about this, not yet. She hadn’t had time to prepare. She hadn’t practiced the words yet. She was consumed with worry for Roland, consumed with worry for herself and Philip. How the devil did one tell a five-year-old boy that his parents’ marriage was over?
“Darling, I think . . . well, your father wasn’t in the house very often before, was he? It won’t be so different. It’s just . . . because he was away so much, and so very busy, we thought . . . well, that it might be better if we had our own house. And you and your father would be great friends, and see each other whenever you liked. Sometimes that’s easier, when you’re living apart. You don’t get angry so much.” She stopped, trying to gauge his reaction.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. His cheek pressed against her breast, and his eyes seemed fixed on some far corner of the room. “Does Father want to marry someone else? Like that king?”
“Which king?”
“The one with all the wives. Uncle Roland told me about him. He had six of them, I think. And they were all named Katherine, which is rubbish, because how could he tell them apart?”
She couldn’t help laughing. “They weren’t all Katherines.” Her knees were beginning to ache on the hard wood; she settled herself on the floor and drew Philip into her lap, with her chin resting comfortably atop his head. “And your father’s not a king. I don’t think he wants to marry anyone else. He just . . .”
“He just doesn’t want to be my father anymore?”
“No! No, it’s not that at all. He’ll always be your father, darling. He’ll always love you.” She gazed across the floor, across the endless parquet pattern stretching into the wall. Sunlight flooded the enormous window opposite, warming h
er face and hands.
“I don’t want him to take me back!” Philip said, with sudden fierceness. “I don’t want to leave here! If he tries to take me back, I’ll . . . I’ll run away!”
“Shh. No, you won’t. You’ll . . .”
“I will! And Uncle Roland will come and get me, and . . .”
“Don’t say that!”
“Why not?” He struggled out of her arms and stood up, facing her. His dark eyes were bright with passion. “I want him to get me! I want to live with Uncle Roland! He’s much nicer, and he loves me. He told me so.”
“Hush, darling. Don’t say that. Your father may hear you; he may be standing outside . . .”
“I don’t care! I want him to hear me! I want Uncle Roland to come here on his horse and take us both somewhere where Father can’t find us. And if Father tries to stop him, he’ll . . . he’ll hit Father! He’ll shoot him with his revolver and . . .”
“Oh, heavens, Philip! No!” She reached for him, but he slipped away and ran to the window. “Philip, you mustn’t! Your father may be . . . be difficult, but . . .”
“I’ll bet he’s out there right now, looking for a way to spring us free.” His little head craned forward, straining to see the ground below.
She took him by the arm and pulled him away from the window. “Nonsense. He’s back at the castle, waiting for us. He . . .” She stopped. What could she say about it? She couldn’t lie, couldn’t tell him the truth. Couldn’t assure Philip that Roland was perfectly safe; couldn’t tell him she’d just written Roland a letter, luring him into Somerton’s clutches. “We’ll just wait and see, won’t we?” she finished lamely. “I’m sure everything will sort itself out.”
“Uncle Roland would lick Father for us,” Philip said confidently. “I know he would.”
Her heart sank. “Oh, Philip. Uncle Roland . . . he’s very clever, but he’s not . . . We’ll just hope he stays away from your father, won’t we? We don’t want any fighting. I’m sure we can all sort it out.”