by Diana Ballew
Bethie stroked Corinne’s arms in an effort to comfort the poor child. Off to one side, tears streamed down Rowena Hollerfield’s pale face. Her fine black hair was completely out of sorts, her fingers trembling violently. A wave of compassion swept through Lorelei. The woman dearly loved her sister. It was written in every crease of her face.
Corinne’s tormented screams rattled the windows, competing with the fierceness of the storm beyond. “I need to check ye,” Bethie said gently.
“Don’t. Don’t hurt her.” The panic in Rowena’s pitch pierced Lorelei deeply.
Lorelei rushed over, desperate to help. “Miss Hollerfield, please. Why don’t you take yourself downstairs, have some tea? It’s freshly made up.”
Rowena glared at her. But Lorelei didn’t see anger, she saw fear. Rowena shook her head in a barely discernible move. A niggling suspicion took hold of Lorelei that refused to dispel. “She’s not your sister, is she?” Lorelei asked softly.
Alarm infused with panic flashed over Miss Hollerfield’s fine features. She froze.
Lorelei touched her hand. Miss Hollerfield flinched at the gesture. “I suspect she is—is she your ... daughter?”
Miss Hollerfield blinked and seemed to grasp at something within. “Yes, yes,” she said in a rushed, hushed whisper. “My daughter. She’s my—my daughter. I can’t lose her.”
Something akin to relief fell from Miss Hollerfield’s shoulders with the admission. Her reprieve was swift, Lorelei noted. Too hasty? With an inward shake of her head, Lorelei met Bethie’s worried frown. She looked back at Miss Hollerfield. “If God sees fit to grant your daughter her life, Bethie is the one person to see her through.” Lorelei spoke softly.
A surprised pause filled the chamber. Miss Hollerfield nodded then. “She is all I have. I cannot lose her.”
“Please, Miss Hollerfield, I’ll stay with her. No harm shall come to her.” The words were a silent prayer to herself. The Hollerfields' maid stood at the door, stark terror written on her face. Lorelei beckoned to her. “Come in, Agnes. See Miss Hollerfield to the parlor.” She turned to the maid. “And, please, send up fresh water.”
“No, I—” Rowena started.
“Please, Miss Hollerfield,” Lorelei said firmly. “You do your daughter no good if you have no sustenance or rest. She shall be fine with me and Bethie for an hour.”
Corinne writhed on the bed, moaning.
She turned from Rowena and moved to the bedside. “What can I do to help, Bethie?” To Lorelei’s relief and surprise, the door clicked closed behind Rowena Hollerfield.
“Bathe her face, my lady,” Bethie said. “I don’t hold out much hope, I’m afraid.”
“At least we can make her comfortable.” Fear threatened to paralyze her, but Lorelei breathed in, deep. “Miss Hollerfield?”
“Rowena,” Corinne panted.
Bethie handed her the dampened cloth. “I need to check her progress, my lady. Are ye sure you should be ’ere? This ain’t for the likes of ye.”
“Do what you need to, Bethie. I’m not leaving.”
Lorelei dabbed perspiration from her patient’s face. Corinne gazed up at her through pain-fogged eyes.
“You will make my baby a fine aunt,” Corinne whispered. Another pain ripped through her.
Lorelei swallowed tears, but inevitably some spilled over. The doubts gained root. Was Thorne the child’s father? No. There was something … she couldn’t think clearly and met Bethie’s eyes.
Bethie murmured quietly to their charge, pressing her palms against Corinne’s protruding stomach. “We gots to take this child, if there’s hope for either of ’em.” Bethie spoke softly.
Lorelei nodded, despite the bile that pinched the inside of her jaw. She breathed small, quick, shallow breaths.
“The babe is turned all which-a-ways,” Bethie said harshly. “We has to turn it.”
Chapter 13
Six hours. He hadn’t spent six hours in a carriage since his honeymoon, and that was by choice. Naturally, when he tried handing little Cecilia over to her nurse, she’d wailed as if she’d lost her best friend. Seven-year-old Irene only covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide and filled with mirth.
“Lady Irene, you find my predicament amusing?”
Refined young woman that she was, she managed to nod, dark curls bobbing. And to her credit, tried to contain her giggles.
Inside, his grin was wide, but he kept his expression bland. “I say, does Lady Cecilia scream every time someone attempts to relinquish her?” His voice light, he followed Irene’s glance to the maid. Irene lowered her eyes without speaking.
The maid’s lips held a tight grimace.
Resigned to the weight in his arms, he studied the maid through a hooded gaze. She was scarcely older than Irene. Well, that wasn’t quite true, but she couldn’t have been more than sixteen, striking with an upturned nose and full lips. He shuddered to think of her in Maudsley’s employ.
Silence grew heavy in the confined space. As heavy as the sleeping child on his shoulder, the other pressed firmly to his side. They smelled sweet, innocent, raising every protective instinct he’d ever thought to possess. He let the quiet grow, and as predicted, the young governess shifted as her comfort level lessened.
“Are we almost there?” They were the first words Irene had uttered since having left the Kimpton townhouse in London. Granted, she’d slept a good portion of the journey, which had him wondering what they’d seen—heard.
A sharp gasp sounded from the maid. Irene pressed closer to his side.
“Indeed, we are.” Thorne pointed to a large oak from the window. “That’s the oldest tree in Kimpton.” He smiled at her. “It signifies our arrival. We’ve reached the estate grounds.”
By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in the drive, the sun was on the descending side to the west, though not so far gone in the afternoon. He estimated the time as close to four.
The carriage jounced before Bons swept the door back. Thorne indicated to the maid to precede him. Odd, he hadn’t even asked her name. Tiny arms tightened about his neck, and the concern for the girl’s name dissipated. Lady Cecilia had wakened. He had a feeling she would not be letting go easily.
Quince met him halfway to the door. “My lord, it’s good to see you.”
“Lady Kimpton?”
Quince opened his mouth but his gaze moved to the two girls crowding Thorne. He cleared his throat. “Lady Kimpton is resting, my lord.”
Alarm prickled his skin. “Resting? She’s not ill, is she?”
“She was out rather late, assisting ... ahem ... the neighbors,” he returned.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed on him. “Fetch Mrs. Metzger at once. Come with me, ladies. Let’s see you settled, shall we?” As he started for the stairs, Mrs. Metzger approached them, her eyes full of questions. “Ah, Mrs. Metzger, please see to the feeding of ... of ... ” He flung a helpless gaze after the children’s chaperone.
Lady Cecilia lifted her head from his shoulder and tugged her thumb from her mouth. “Miss Elbins,” she whispered.
“Elvins,” Irene corrected. “Miss Elvins.” Her voice was barely above that of her sister’s.
“Feed Miss Elvins and have a tray sent up to the nursery, please. Send a maid as well, I’m sure the rooms will need a good airing.”
“Of course, my lord. This way, Miss Elbins.”
“Elvins,” the girl snapped.
Grinning, Thorne took Lady Irene’s hand and proceeded up the stairs. He stepped over the threshold and attempted to set Lady Cecelia on her feet, which she steadfastly refused, clinging to his neck with a deathlike grip. Not that she could hurt a flea.
Bright yellow dominated the chamber in the wall’s paper, the books, and the lined curtains. It was a bit like too much sun after a brazen night with a bottle of whiskey. With Cecilia still ensconced in one arm, he let go of Irene and pulled back the curtain, allowing the late afternoon sun in to compete with the glaring décor.
After
a moment he faced Irene. “Is there something you wish to confide regarding Miss ... Miss ... ”
“Elbins,” Lady Cecelia supplied.
“Elvins,” Lady Irene said.
“Miss Elvins,” he said. Thorne moved to the one chair large enough to accommodate an adult, shifted Cecilia onto his lap, and sat down.
Lady Cecilia’s thumb had found its place firmly secured in her mouth once more. Two sets of wide blue eyes, identical to their mother’s, watched him with caution.
“Come now, you are safe here. What is amiss?” he asked gently.
Tears glistened in Lady Irene’s eyes, but remained unshed pools.
Cecelia plucked her thumb from her mouth with a pop. “Papa hit Mama,” she whispered. “A lot.”
Thorne’s jaw set, and he had to breathe through his nose. “And what does that have to do with Miss Elvins?”
“Papa went into Miss Elbin’s chamber after he hurted Mama.”
Thorne inhaled deeply. “Did you see your mama?”
Cecilia lay her head back on his shoulder. He felt her nod. Irene's tears spilled onto her cheeks in silence.
“Irene?”
“Yes, it’s true. We heard a crash and ran to Mama’s chamber. Papa was yelling at her. Calling her ... her ... ” She hiccupped. “ ... a trollop. There was another crash after that one. I had just enough time to pull Celia into the chamber across before he ... he stormed out.”
Cecilia’s small body shook with sharp sobs. He tightened his hold.
Irene looked at her sister, then back at him. “We ran into Mama’s chamber. She was lying on the floor. There was—” She stopped and swallowed. “—b-blood on her h-head. She made us promise to go back to our rooms and pretend to sleep.”
Thorne fished out his handkerchief and handed it to Irene. “Go on, my lady.”
“We did as she bade, but Celia stayed in my bed with me.” Irene took a shaky breath, perusing the room. “But we heard Papa in Miss Elvin’s room. It’s connected, you see. They made theses awful grunting noises. Like dogs, growling. Then Papa left and Miss Elvin came into my room. We kept pretending to be asleep just as Mama told us, but she—Miss Elvin, she jerked my arm. Said she knew I was trying to deceive her. She said that if-if we ever said a word to anyone she would ... s-sell us.” Irene dropped her eyes. The tears streamed in a river down her cheeks though her voice remained soft and steady.
Thorne cleared his throat in an effort to stave off his fury. It didn’t belong here with these two. “I see.” And he was afraid he did. “Did you see your mama again, before Lord Brockway came for you?”
Irene lowered her gaze and shook her head.
“Has Miss Elvin disciplined you? Physically, I mean.”
Irene lifted her eyes to his. He didn’t need an answer; it was there in the depths of her frightened gaze. The rage of his anger shook him.
“What is a trollop?” Cecilia asked.
Thorne froze, unsure how to answer. “She’s ... she’s—”
“A tart,” Irene said. Her matter-of-fact response shocked Thorne speechless.
Cecilia pulled her thumb from her mouth, then nodded knowingly. “Yes, Mama can be very tart, not so sweet to make one sick.”
Irene looked as if she were about to contradict her, but Thorne cut her off. “Your mama is a grand lady, and indeed, somewhat tart. Many strive to follow her lead. Now,” he said, before the waters grew any more treacherous. He lifted Lady Cecilia from his shoulder and caught her chin. “Do you think you can stay here with your sister whilst I see to Miss ... ”
“Elbin?” Cecilia whispered.
“Yes.”
After a considerable pause Cecilia nodded. He set her on her feet as a knock sounded, and Peg appeared with tray in hand.
He dropped down to one knee before Irene. “Will you trust me, Lady Irene? Will you believe me when I tell you that you’re safe here? I shall set matters right—at least in this particular area.” There was not much Thorne could do for Lady Maudsley, for she was married to a monster. But he didn’t have to let their bullying governess run roughshod over her charges. Let Maudsley do what he would. “While I am gone, you shall entertain yourselves with Peg, and eat something, for God’s sake.” His tone came out a bit gruff at the end.
He was met with somber nods. “Brave girls.”
Mollified for the moment, Thorne made his way back the way he’d come with every intention of seeing Miss Elvin straight back to London. At the crux of a turn in the corridor, he paused. Miss Elvin was safe enough for five more minutes. His steps were silent on the thick runner.
Past the door of his own chamber, he tapped lightly on Lorelei’s. No answer. He turned the knob and glanced in. The room was dark but for a sliver of light stealing through a crease in the drapes. Only embers remained in the grate of the hearth. He couldn’t see her but was reassured by her soft, steady breaths. He crossed the threshold and walked to the bed.
His wife lay on her back, lips slightly parted, one arm flung out in the cool air, flaxen curls escaping their braid and strung over the pillow. The counterpane and sheets had slipped to her waist. The light allowed a tantalizing peek of her shadowed breasts beneath the sheer chemise.
Moving closer, he was allowed the detail of her puckered nipples. The rush of desire surged from deep within his belly straight down to his groin. His reaction was typical to her nearness. But he would not take advantage of her vulnerability again. That method had sent her running to the country in the first place.
Still, unable to resist completely, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles before tucking her arm in next to her body and pulling the covers to her chin. He stirred the coals in the grate and tossed on more kindling.
Miss Elvin. He hurried down the stairs as his steward crossed through the foyer, dropping a missive atop others for posting. “A moment, Quince? My study, if you please.”
Quince followed him into the study, ignoring a knock on the front door. Thorne moved behind his desk, planted both hands on top, and leaned forward. “There is a young lady in the kitchens. See her on the next mail coach to London, posthaste. And we shall need to look into the matter of a temporary governess or nursemaid.”
“A young lady?”
“Yes, yes. Send her back to London.”
“Ah, Miss Elvin, I presume. Mrs. Metzger mentioned her. Of course, I shall handle the matter.” Quince inclined his head.
“About the other situation?” Thorne said. “Is Lady Kimpton aware of ... ”
“I fear so, my lord. Miss Hollerfield went into an early labor just as Lady Kimpton’s carriage pulled into the drive in the wee hours of the morning.”
Thorne scrubbed a palm over his face. “Good God, man, you didn’t allow her to—” He broke off at the wince on his steward’s face.
“I had no choice, sir. I tried to stop her but, well, she was quite insistent.”
“Dear God. Are you saying she went to the hunter’s cottage?”
“The mother is still in danger. Lady Kimpton’s maid stayed behind to monitor the situation.”
“Danger.” Thorne dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Was the doctor summoned?”
“He was unavailable, sir. Lady Kimpton’s maid did not hold out much hope ... for either mother or child, I’m afraid.”
Thorne shook his head. Strange, Rowena hadn’t looked that close to delivery to him. But then his knowledge of those matters was slim at best.
“When did Lady Kimpton return?”
“Well after ten this morning.”
That explained the depth of her sleep, he supposed. His marriage was doomed.
Edward Ninnis, most recent Earl of Maudsley, stood just outside the Earl of Kimpton’s study in the entry hall at Kimpton’s estate in the godforsaken country. He sucked in sharp short breaths to calm his fury. His wife had deliberately defied him. Apparently, he hadn’t pounded his message strong enough into that feeble brain of hers that she belonged at his house, not traipsi
ng about the countryside with Lorelei, Countess of Kimpton.
While the butler disappeared with his hat and cloak, Maudsley took advantage of his momentary seclusion and moved closer to a door that was slightly ajar. What softly spoken words he could ascertain didn’t make sense, nor did they matter. Someone was at the hunter’s cottage. Almost dead. He put the words from his mind and concentrated his efforts on how to extricate his disobedient wife without losing his temper.
Her refusal to give him a son gnawed at him like a flesh-ridden disease. He squeezed his hand into a fist, vowing to finish her off at the first opportunity. Teaching her another lesson at the end of his fist had a certain appeal, but he meant to make it his last. In a concerted effort, he forced himself to calm, loosened his fingers, and felt for the lucky coin in his watch pocket. There were enough willing women about, able to sire an heir for an earl. Virginia would not have the last word in this.
Shuffled steps sounded, and Edward moved casually before a painting on the entryway wall. Its stark colors startled him. Sweeping strokes brought to life the scene of roaring storm clouds in shades from midnight blue to gray. Splotches of creamy yellow lightened the darkness and highlighted the water to another interesting shade of blue. A strip of orange stretched from one side of the canvas and tapered off at a slope to the other side. The effect was of a stream of brilliant sunset that burst through black clouds.
The scene looked remarkably similar to his Brighton sea cottage across England on the south-east coast. Edward tossed the coin up and caught it on its flipside. The motion never failed in soothing his frayed temper.
The butler stepped around him and tapped on the door. “Lord Maudsley, my lord.”
A long telling silence followed the announcement, bringing a bitter smirk to Edward’s lips. He had his answer then. Kimpton was harboring his wife.
“Of course, Metzger, send him in.”
Edward pocketed the coin and pushed past the butler, stepping into a sparsely furnished study. The effect presented was one of space. Surprisingly, it was no less opulent than those with clutter and knick-knacks scattered about. After he took care of the more pressing matter of Virginia, perhaps he’d consider redecorating his own study in similar fashion. “Kimpton.”