Alone at last, Lottie sat in her old bed, a mountain of snowy white pillows plumped behind her back. Although it was a balmy summer evening outside, a cozy fire crackled on the hearth, warming the spacious bedchamber. Cookie had even tucked a heated brick wrapped in flannel beneath the blankets at the foot of the bed to warm her toes. Pumpkin and Mr. Wiggles were currently glaring at each other, trying to determine who was going to have the privilege of stretching out on top of it.
Once Lottie might have taken shameless advantage of her family’s pampering, but tonight she’d felt only relief when Laura had finally shooed them all from the room. She didn’t think she could bear another minute of Diana and Cookie’s sympathetic clucking or Sterling, George, and Thane’s threats to hunt down her scoundrel of a husband and rip his heart from his chest for making her cry.
Laura had been the last to go, giving Lottie’s hand a gentle squeeze before promising, “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.”
Throwing back the smothering weight of the quilt, Lottie climbed out of the bed. As pleasant as her family’s cosseting was, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was past the age where a broken heart could be mended with a cup of warm chocolate and a steaming hunk of Cookie’s gingerbread.
It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Her writing case was the last thing she had shoved into her hastily packed valise. She perched on the end of the bed, her feet drawn up so Mirabella couldn’t dash out from under the bed and attack them, and unlatched the case. She had crammed the pages of her manuscript back into it without ceremony, no longer caring if they got wrinkled or torn.
If Hayden hadn’t found them, she might be settled in the marchioness’s chamber at Oakwylde right now, awaiting her husband’s pleasure. Lottie closed her eyes for an aching moment, knowing that Hayden’s skillful hands and oh-so-clever mouth would have made sure that his pleasure was also her own.
Opening her eyes, she gazed down at the manuscript. Her brilliant prose now seemed like nothing more than the meanderings of some overindulged child who had been told her every scribble was a masterpiece. As she flipped through the pages, the silky rasp of Hayden’s voice haunted her more surely than any ghost.
It’s a bit late in the tale to reform the Deadly Duke, don’t you think?
It’s never too late, she had told him. Not if he has someone to believe in him.
But she hadn’t believed in him. No one had. Not the scandal sheets, not society, not even his own daughter. And she had proved herself no different from any of them by demanding a truth she already knew in her heart.
Suddenly Lottie realized why her family’s attention had made her squirm. She didn’t deserve their pity, nor did Hayden deserve their contempt. She was just as much to blame for their parting as he was.
She also knew what she had to do. Dumping the pages out of the writing case, she gathered them into her arms. She’d never willingly destroyed a single jot of her handwriting, but her steps were steady as she rose from the bed and marched to the fireplace. She held the pages to her heart for the briefest moment before tossing them into the dancing flames.
She didn’t linger to watch them burn. Instead, she returned to the writing case and drew out a clean sheet of paper, a pen, and a fresh bottle of ink. Using the case as a makeshift desk, she settled herself against the pillows and began to write, her hand flying across the page as if winged.
“What in the devil do you think she’s doing up there?” Sterling stood with hands on hips, scowling up at the ceiling of the drawing room. “Burning her lamp until the wee hours of the morning, dressing like a charwoman, taking all of her meals in her room.”
“At least she’s eating,” Laura pointed out from her place on the sofa. She smoothed the sampler she was stitching over her knee. “Cookie swears every tray comes back to the kitchen all but licked clean.”
“It’s not her appetite I’m worried about. It’s her state of mind. She’s been back in London for nearly two months and she hasn’t attended a single tea or soiree. Poor George is so bored with entertaining Miss Dimwinkle that he’s about to pull his hair out. Or hers. Yet still Lottie refuses to leave the house and the only caller she’ll receive is that rascal Townsend.” A pained frown clouded his brow. “She never did say why Oakleigh sent her away. You don’t suppose…”
“No, I don’t.” Laura jabbed her needle firmly through the fabric. “And nor should you. Lottie’s whims may be fickle, but her heart never has been.”
“If I’d have known the scoundrel would send her back with it broken, I’d have shot him on sight.” Raking a hand through his tawny hair, Sterling sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I can bear all of this mystery. I only wish she would confide in us.”
Laura rose to tenderly link her arm through his. “Be patient, my love,” she said, giving the ceiling an enigmatic glance of her own. “Perhaps that’s exactly what she’s doing.”
“Aunt Lottie! Aunt Lottie!”
Laying aside her pen, Lottie sighed. She might be able to shut out the rest of the world while she worked, but it was impossible to ignore her nephew’s exuberant bellow. He rarely spoke in anything but a shout, but he had a particularly deafening bellow reserved for special occasions.
Rubbing her lower back, she rose from the writing desk and hurried to the window, sweeping the voluminous folds of Cookie’s apron out of her way. She’d given up any hope of ever scrubbing all the ink out from under her fingernails, but she still possessed enough vanity to want to protect her pretty gowns.
She threw open the sash and leaned out, blinking as the bright afternoon sunshine blinded her. She’d only managed to steal three hours of sleep last night and she felt as dazed as a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon. She finally located her nephew dangling from the lowest branch of the elm tree that shaded the broad tree-lined street.
“What is it, Nicky? Have you caught another shiny bug?”
Grinning, the boy pointed down at the street. “This time I caught a shiny carriage!”
Lottie squinted down at the vehicle parked in front of the mansion. A crested carriage certainly wasn’t an uncommon sight in this posh corner of London. Sterling maintained half a dozen of them in his own carriage house. But none of them had the heraldic emblem of an oak tree with spreading branches etched on their lacquered doors.
Lottie’s heart doubled its rhythm.
The next thing she knew, she was flying down the broad staircase, whipping off Cookie’s apron as she went. She shoved it into the hands of a startled maid at the foot of the stairs, then went barreling toward the wide-eyed footman standing beside the front door.
“Will you be going out, my lady? Shall I fetch your—”
When she showed no signs of slowing, he swept open the door, obviously fearing she was going to run right through it if he didn’t. Lottie stumbled to a halt on the front stoop, frantically shoving a loose curl back into her untidy topknot.
If not for the black-garbed figure who accompanied her, Lottie might not have recognized the child descending from the carriage. Miss Terwilliger leaned heavily on her cane, but the girl stood straight and tall, wearing a fetching blue bonnet and frock. Her hair had been gathered into glossy dark braids. Despite the proud tilt of her chin, she clutched the doll in her arms in a white-knuckled grip, clearly uncertain of her welcome.
“Allegra!” Lottie raced down the front steps and swept Hayden’s daughter into her arms.
As she crushed the child to her, she would have almost sworn she could smell the scent of the moor on her—that elusive breath of wild wind and growing things. Lottie inhaled deeply, praying she would detect a thread of bayberry winding through it.
“Just look at you!” Holding Allegra by the shoulders, Lottie set the girl away from her. “I swear you’ve grown two inches in as many months!”
Miss Terwilliger sniffed. “That shouldn’t surprise you. Most children thrive on equally strict doses of affection, discipline, and fresh air.”
/> Lottie glanced over Allegra’s shoulder at the carriage, unable to completely disguise the hope leaping in her heart. “Surely you ladies didn’t travel so far without an escort, did you?”
Instead of answering, Allegra reached into the reticule looped around her wrist and drew out a square of folded vellum.
She held it out to Lottie. “This is for you. He sealed it before I could read it.”
Her heart sinking, Lottie took the note and drew her thumbnail along its seam, breaking the wax seal she recognized as her husband’s. She slowly unfolded it.
My lady, it read in Hayden’s tidy scrawl. My daughter has done nothing but mope since you left. Her morose countenance is beginning to play havoc with my digestion. Please look after her. As a postscript, he’d added, You were a much better mother to her than I ever was a father.
When she lowered the note, Allegra was gazing up at her, her violet eyes beseeching. “He’s all alone now. I’m frightened for him.”
“I know, sweeting,” Lottie whispered, gathering the child into her arms. “So am I.”
They might have remained that way for a long time if Ellie hadn’t come skidding around the side of the house at the precise moment Nicholas swung down from the tree and landed right in front of them.
“What on earth are you bellowing about now?” Ellie demanded of her brother, giving his shoulder a shove. “One of these days you’re going to catch fire and no one is going to throw a bucket of water on you because you’re always going on and on about nothing at all.”
Before Nicky could shout a retort, Ellie spotted their visitors. Allegra was openly gaping at her, wide-eyed with astonishment at finding herself face-to-face with a living, breathing duplicate of the doll in her arms.
Scowling at the doll, Ellie planted her hands on her hips and tossed her topknot of golden curls, her snub nose fixed firmly in the air. “Where did you get that? Aunt Lottie would never let me play with her.”
To Lottie’s surprise, instead of snarling back at her niece, Allegra ran to the carriage and retrieved the doll her father had given her. “Here,” she said, shoving the raven-haired beauty into Ellie’s arms. “You can play with her if you’d like.”
Ellie studied the doll, then stole a surreptitious glance at Allegra, caught off guard by the uncanny resemblance. Although she was younger than Allegra by at least a year, she finally sighed and said, “Well, I’m too old to play with dolls, but if you insist, I don’t suppose it can do any harm. Would you like to see my kittens? I have a dozen of them in my bedchamber. They don’t care for anyone but me, but perhaps they’ll let you pet them if I tell them it’s all right.”
“I have kittens, too,” Allegra said, running back to the carriage to fetch a woven basket. She flipped open the lid and four bewhiskered faces popped into view. Recognizing the cats she had given Hayden, Lottie knew Allegra had not exaggerated. Her father was well and truly alone now.
While the girls went off, hand in hand, each clutching a replica of the other, Nicholas was left standing forgotten on the pavement. He wrinkled his freckled nose and spat in disgust. “Girls!”
Lottie rumpled his hair. “They’re not nearly as pleasant as bugs, are they? While the girls are playing with their dolls and kittens, why don’t you escort Miss Terwilliger into the house and ask your mother to prepare two guest chambers?”
Dragging his feet, Nicky obeyed. As he and the governess disappeared into the house, Lottie unfolded the note again, gently smoothing her fingertips over Hayden’s words. “I’ll look after her,” she whispered. “And I’ll look after you, too. You just see if I don’t.”
Tucking the note in the pocket of her skirt, she hurried up the front stairs, more eager than ever to get back to her work.
A crisp autumn breeze drifted through the dormer windows of the fourth-story office, mingling with the acrid scent of soot from the nearby chimney pots. Lottie kept her gloved hands folded tightly over her reticule to keep them from fluttering all over the place and betraying her nervousness. She could hardly believe she was sitting in the offices of Minerva Press.
She had often frequented the legendary publisher’s lending library and bookshop on the first floor of the brick building, but she’d never before dared to breach its inner sanctum. Here in this magical and somewhat shabby place, where the air was perfumed with the intoxicating aromas of dust, ink, leather and paper, one’s dreams could be bound and sold to provide endless hours of pleasure. Perhaps Mrs. Eliza Parsons herself had once sat in this very chair while she nervously awaited the publisher’s verdict on The Mysterious Warning or Castle of Wolfenbach.
Ned lounged in the ladder-backed chair across from Lottie, rhythmically tapping his walking stick on the hardwood floor. Catching her eye, he stopped tapping. “It’s not too late for us to duck out of here, you know. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want to do?”
She nodded. “It’s what I have to do.”
“You realize he may throttle me for allowing you to do it? That is, if your brother-in-law doesn’t throttle me first.”
Lottie crinkled her nose at him. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
They both sat up straighter as the door behind the desk swung open. A stoop-shouldered, balding man entered the room, a manuscript tucked under his arm. He wore an unadorned frock coat, a moth-eaten cravat, and a waistcoat and trousers of mismatched plaid. Lottie found it somehow comforting that his neatly trimmed fingernails were rimmed with half-moons of ink.
Sinking into the chair behind the desk, he placed the manuscript in front of him, then drew off his spectacles to wipe his eyes.
“Come now, Mr. Beale,” Lottie said with a halfhearted laugh. “Surely it wasn’t as bad as all that.”
The publisher pinched the bridge of his nose before slipping his spectacles back on. “My dear lady,” he said, fixing her with an earnest look, “surely you must be aware that this is not the sort of novel we usually publish at Minerva. Our readers are accustomed to more…how shall I say it…?” he steepled his fingers beneath his chin “…sensational fare.”
Ned started to rise. “We’re very sorry to have wasted your time, sir. I do hope you’ll forgive us for—”
Glaring at him, Lottie cleared her throat pointedly. Sighing, he dropped back into his chair.
She leaned toward the desk, seeking to charm the publisher with her warmest smile. “As one of Minerva Press’s most devoted readers, I can assure you that I am well aware of what you usually publish. But under the circumstances, I was hoping you might at least consider my manuscript. Surely you can’t deny that it would be a profit-making endeavor for your company.”
“But at what cost? You must realize that the publication of this work is bound to engender a certain amount of notoriety for its author. Unless you’re willing to publish under a pseudonym—”
“No,” Lottie said firmly, settling back into her chair. “Absolutely not. I want my name to be the first thing the reader sees when he or she picks up the book.”
Mr. Beale shook his head sadly. “I’ve searched my heart, but I just can’t see any way to make this endeavor work.”
“Please don’t dismiss us so easily,” Lottie entreated him, no longer able to hide her desperation behind a gracious smile. “I realize the quality of my writing may not be up to your usual high standards, but I still feel that with some drastic cutting and some extensive revisions…”
She trailed off. The publisher was blinking at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. She exchanged a baffled look with Ned.
“You misunderstand me, my lady.” Mr. Beale rested a hand gently on top of her manuscript, his rheumy brown eyes going damp again. “This is one of the most profoundly moving pieces of fiction I’ve ever read. I would dare even the most cynical of our readers to finish it with a dry eye and a cold heart toward his fellow man. I wasn’t implying that the book was below our standards, but above them, suited to a far more prestigious publishing company than ours.”
Lo
ttie gazed at him in open-mouthed disbelief, wondering if she’d somehow dozed off and drifted into a dream. She didn’t realize tears had welled up in her own eyes until Ned handed her a handkerchief.
“But if I prefer your company over the others,” she asked, stealing another glance at his ink-stained fingers, “would you consider publishing it?”
Mr. Beale nodded, a smile breaking over his long face. “It would be both a pleasure and an honor.”
“Did you hear that, Ned?” Lottie turned to her friend, laughing through her tears. “I’m going to be notorious!”
Chapter 20
I could feel the Devil’s icy breath against the back of my neck…
AN ILL WIND WAS BLOWING AT OAKWYLDE Manor.
It came whipping across the moors and down the chimneys, poisoning every breath with its bitterness. It wrested the leaves from the trees with ruthless fingers, leaving them stark and bare. It stripped away every trace of summer until that brief season seemed nothing more than a dream.
Some claimed that if you stepped outside and tilted your head just so, you could even hear the distant tolling of the bell the wreckers had used to lure unsuspecting ships to their doom on the jagged rocks a century ago. Others whispered that it was the same wind that had blown the night the master’s first wife had taken her fatal fall, the same wind that had carried his agonized cry to their ears.
The servants once again took to locking themselves in their quarters as soon as dark fell. It was no longer a ghost they feared encountering in the gathering shadows, but a man. Although he spent his days barricaded in his study, their master would stalk the deserted corridors of the manor at all hours of the night, his savage countenance and burning eyes making him look somehow less than mortal.
Although no melodies, ghostly or otherwise, emanated from the music room after he sent his wife and daughter away, the maids still dreaded entering the chamber. None of them could shake off the eerie sensation that they were being watched. They would whirl around, their hearts in their throats, only to find themselves all alone with the portrait of the first Lady Oakleigh. One young girl swore that while she was dusting the piano, a choking cloud of jasmine had arisen from the keys, sending her staggering from the room, fighting to catch her breath. After a porcelain figurine went flying off the mantel, barely missing Meggie’s head, neither Martha’s pinches nor Mrs. Cavendish’s threats of immediate dismissal could coax any of the terrified maids into returning to that room.
One Night of Scandal (Avon Historical Romance) Page 24