by Diana Ballew
Somehow, she suppressed a flinch at the line this horrifying conversation took; keeping a cool head was imperative. He believed Corinne was her child, just as Lady Kimpton believed. “I’d rather be dead,” she said flatly.
“That can be arranged,” he said softly, strolling within touching distance.
She would not be cowed by this bastard. She stood her ground, willed her hands steady.
He lifted a finger, grazed her cheek. “A shame. I must say, time has been extremely kind to you, my dear. Your body doesn’t look as if you suffered through bearing a child.”
The coin pitched up again, but this time she snatched it from the air. Hate infused her, disgust surged through her veins. “True. But must I remind you, Edward? You prefer them ... much younger. Remember, darling? Surely, you do. How old was I when you first took me—raped me? Oh, yes. Fourteen, I believe.”
His fist landed across the cheek he’d brushed. The dainty cup tumbled from her grip, its contents scalding her fingers. Yet she clung to that coin.
Another violent lash sent her head snapping back.
He caught her up before she slid to the floor. Her eyes squinted against the pain. Yet she welcomed it. Pain scrubbed away the despicability of his touch. The salty, copper taste of blood touched her tongue.
“Yes, and it seems you’ve kept a tasty morsel from me all these years. How old is she, Rowena?”
She clamped her swelling lips together, refused to answer.
“She is mine, is she not?”
A toxic poison seemed to infiltrate her vein. A venom made up of malevolence and utter loathing. “What of it? She is yet another girl,” she hissed.
“Ah, but she bore a son, did she not?” he said calmly. His hands dug deep into her arms. She was sure to bear the imprint on the morrow. What of it? She strove to drive his madness to the surface. The bruises would fade, but perhaps he would be exposed for the merciless rapist and murderer he was.
Coarse laughter filled the room, hers. She lifted her eyes. Two Maudsleys danced before her. She shut her eyes against the sight. “You!” she bated. “You think you could sire a son? Everyone knows what a failure you are.”
His breath touched her face. The effect was nauseating. “You are a most unwise woman.” His voice was soft, harsh, deadly.
His hand slid along the base of her skull and sunk into her hair as he grasped with all the cruelty she remembered from the past.
His fleshy lips brushed hers. She recoiled, gagged at the bile. “Ah, darling, no one would know if I took—Corinne—is that her name? No one would know if I took Corinne in as mine and my long dead wife’s and claimed her as legitimate.”
“No.” Horror clawed her. “No. no. no. no.” It was the only word she could seem to utter. Large, dark spots swarmed her vision. Oh, God. He was winning.
He stilled and an evil light glinted from the four eyes before her. “Perhaps I’ve stumbled upon the truth after all.”
Shove him away. The words sounded like a mantra in her head. She tried lifting her arms, but her limbs refused to obey. She squeezed both fists tightly to hold on to the coin. She couldn’t be certain which hand it lay in. That damned coin would be his downfall, she vowed.
Maudsley jerked her head and slammed her against the wall.
Voices reached her ears just before the blissful blackness overtook her. A moment too late to save herself, and worse, Corinne. Always a moment too late.
“I don’t know why you insisted on accompanying me.” They were in the country for heaven’s sake. What on earth could happen, and on their own property? Thorne’s presence within the close confines of the carriage was irritating at best. Mostly because Lorelei wished to bury herself in the safety of his embrace. To stave off the impending sense of doom that suffocated her.
“It’s dark, my dear. I’ll not have a horse throwing a shoe over your pride in keeping me at bay. Besides, we must talk, and this is as good a place as any.”
She turned her gaze out to the moonless sky. “I fail to see what there is to talk about.” He was right, of course.
“For one thing, Lady Maudsley’s children.” His tone seemed bland to her numbed senses.
She jerked her eyes to his. The low-lit lantern gave off a subtle enough glow that showed the seriousness portrayed. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Virginia Maudsley’s children. Ladies Cecilia and Irene.”
“I know Ginny’s children are Cecilia and Irene,” she said impatiently, but her impatience was quickly replaced by a sense of dread. “They aren’t hurt, are they?”
He took her hands into his. They were warm, comforting, familiar. “No, they aren’t hurt.” he said quickly. “But they accompanied me to Kimpton.” He said this gently.
For a moment, Lorelei wasn’t sure she heard correctly. She leaned back against the seat, relief filling her. “So Ginny accepted my invitation after all. Thank, God.”
“I’m afraid Lady Maudsley didn’t accompany her daughters.”
Lorelei straightened. “I don’t understand,” she said. “She must have been more ill than I realized. I should have checked on her when Lady Dankworth said she was not well enough to attend tea.” She glanced up. The transformation of Thorne’s expression went from grim to one hewn of stone. Her apprehension soared. “How is it that you ended up with Irene and Cecilia, Thorne? The truth, if you please.”
“I’m afraid Lady Maudsley did not fare so well. Brockway discovered her reply to your invitation, and was … concerned for her. He returned to the house with the girls and their maid within an hour and asked that I escort them. Place them under your care.”
“But, of course.” A long silence followed and Lorelei swallowed. Unable to force the questions past her closed throat, she stared at their conjoined fingers. Yet she had to know. “Lord Maudsley hurt her, didn’t he?” she whispered. “Dear, God. I knew it would come to this.” She raised her eyes to his once more. “Where is Ginny, Thorne?”
“I don’t know where she is.” His mouth formed a grim line she longed to coax into something less stern.
She inhaled deeply, releasing the stream of air slowly. “Leastways the maid was able to accompany them,” she said, tugging her hands from his.
“About that—”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Yes?”
“I fear Maudsley was having his way with the maid.”
“Good heavens, the young woman is but a child herself,” she breathed, falling back against the seat. “And you learned of this how?”
“The girls told me.” He moved his hands to the top of his knees and shifted awkwardly on his side of the carriage.
There must be much more to this horrendous story if her husband’s apparent discomfort was anything to go by. “And?”
Thorne glanced out the carriage window, pushing his fingers through his hair. “There is the distinct possibility Miss Elvin threatened her charges.”
“Threatened!” She hadn’t expected that. “We must turn back. Right this instant. We can’t possibly leave those girls in her care another moment.”
The grim line softened into a small smile. “Lorelei, I am not completely daft. The girl is on her way back to London as we speak.”
Lorelei forced herself to take another deep breath. Her corset was unbearably snug. “My lord, perhaps you’d best give me the entire explanation. Starting with Miss Elvin.”
The grimace returned. “Once we entered the house, I had Mrs. Metzger attend Miss Elvin in the kitchen. Once she was out of hearing distance, the girls had plenty to say.”
“I suppose it had something to do with Maudsley’s lack of discretion.”
“Yes. But I fear there was something else.”
“I hesitate to even inquire,” she whispered.
“Yes, and as much I regret to expose you to such horrific information, I feel you should be informed.” His tone was as dark as the sky outside.
Lorelei could only nod.
“She scared them into silen
ce by threatening to sell them.”
The air rushed from her body. Quite suddenly, she was thankful for her husband’s presence.
The carriage clopped to a stop, and she squinted into the night. There was just enough candlelight spilling from the portico to see Agnes standing in the open door of the cottage. Lorelei looked over at her husband. “You are certain that the girls' governess—”
“Miss Elvin.”
“That Miss Elvin is on her way back to London?”
“Rest assured, she is nowhere near Lady Maudsley’s children.”
“Who is with the children now?”
“Peg.”
Lorelei nodded, sharply relieved. Peg was a good sort. “I suppose that will suffice for now.” The carriage door swung back. Lorelei accepted Andrews' outstretched hand and stepped down. Only to see Quince looking decidedly out of place atop a pony cart, most especially with a buxom woman beside him. Her uncombed hair looked as if it were hastily pulled to her nape, her cloak threadbare. “And, what have we here, sir?”
Quince hopped down and extended his hand to the woman in question. “May I present Byrn Wells, my lady, my lord?” He cleared his throat. “She is the wet nurse,” he murmured. “She lost her own babe just a few days ago.” Mortification colored his tone.
Lorelei was thankful the evening sky hid his embarrassment from her. He deserved his dignity. “Of course. How thoughtful of you, Quince. I should have thought ... ” Lorelei swallowed. Blast it, how much more inept could she be?
Agnes hurried out to greet them. “Thank goodness, Lady Kimpton, Lord Kimpton. Come quickly.”
Unexplained fear gripped Lorelei as she moved quickly inside. “Has there been some change?”
“It’s Miss Hollerfield. I found her in the drawing room.”
“The drawing room? Miss Hollerfield should be abed, Agnes.”
Agnes ignored her, running for the parlor. “She’s hurt, madam. Please, hurry.”
“I don’t understand. She was in no condition to rise.” Good heavens, the woman had just had a child.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. I only just found her.”
“Lorelei,” Thorne growled. “What is this about?”
“What of the child?” she said, momentarily stunned.
“The infant, ma’am? She is upstairs with—”
Her shoulders fell. That was a relief. “See the wet nurse to the babe, Agnes. Quince, Lord Kimpton and I shall check on Miss Hollerfield.” Agnes led Mrs. Wells up the stairs and out of sight.
Lorelei stepped into the parlor. A breeze cooled her face from an open window, but nowhere did Lorelei see Miss Hollerfield. In fact, the room was devoid of anyone.
Thorne was right on her heels. “Lorelei—”
A low pained groan caught her attention and she glanced to her left. The only thing she saw was that awful painting Brandon did of the tower. Oh, she could see it was special, her brother had a way with lighting that rivaled the masters. It was the subject matter that disturbed her. Enough so that she’d had it sent to this cottage so she would not have to see it. There was no question of not keeping the silly thing. The fact that it sent chilled pricks over her skin each time she looked at those gates with the strange circular latch revealed its very brilliance. The pained moan sounded again, but weaker this time. Her stomach dropped, as did her gaze, sliding down the wall to the floor. Her words lodged in her throat.
Quince was already moving. “Quickly, over here.”
“Good God, Rowena?” Thorne knelt beside her, touched his fingers to her neck. “She’s alive.” He gently lifted her. Lorelei ran for the settee and cleared it of pillows.
“Get some brandy, Quince,” she commanded. “Miss Hollerfield? It’s Lady Kimpton.” She touched her hand. “Can you hear me?” To Lorelei’s profound relief, Miss Hollerfield squeezed her hand. “Who did this to you, madam?”
“The eyes,” she gasped. Miss Hollerfield’s eyes fluttered. “Harlowe.”
Lorelei started, as that feeling in her stomach sickened. “That’s impossible. Brandon—h-he’s out of the country.” With a shake of her head, Lorelei reined in her panic. “Please, Miss Hollerfield. You must conserve your energy. We can sort out the matter later.” Miss Hollerfield’s urgent, fierce clutch terrified her.
“You must take care of Corinne. I-I beg you.” Her hand tightened on Lorelei’s and cut off her circulation. “You ... you must ... swear to ... me.” Her broken, breathless words tore through Lorelei.
“Of course, but please—”
A breath expelled from Miss Hollerfield’s body and her fingers loosened.
“Miss Hollerfield?”
Warm fingers closed over Lorelei’s shoulders and gently moved her aside. A ringing buzzed in her ears, spots edged her vision. A second later liquid fire burned down her throat, choking her. Her vision cleared only to blur with tears. “S-she’s gone, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so, darling,” Thorne said softly. “Come.” He guided her from the room into the library. Only a single candle burned. It was a library bare of books. How odd to notice such a thing. But then nothing would ever be normal again. She was sure of it.
He set her in nearby chair, then crouched down to meet her gaze. He pressed the glass into her hand. “What did she say, Lorelei?”
“Eyes,” she whispered. “She said to look for the eyes.” Lorelei raised her gaze to his. “What did she mean, Thorne? She said—” Lorelei stopped, certain she couldn’t repeat the rest. She sucked in a deep breath, then forced herself to say, “She said Brandon did this and to take care of Corinne.”
Thorne frowned. “Who is Corinne?”
“Her daughter.” Lorelei gripped the glass with both hands. “She barely survived childbirth.”
“Daughter? I don’t understand. I was under the impression Ro—Miss Hollerfield was with child.”
The statement startled Lorelei. Of course! She looked at her husband, registered his confusion. Her own shock made it difficult to put the pieces together. “Miss Hollerfield—Rowena Hollerfield,” she said slowly. “Was apparently covering for her daughter.” A bright light of hope stirred deep in her chest. “You were unaware of her daughter.”
“I knew of no daughter,” he said grimly.
“My lord?” Quince’s head appeared around the door.
“Go for the magistrate, Quince. Take a lantern. I pray that cart you were on is not your only means of transportation?”
“No, my lord. My horse is in the stable.”
“Best get to it then.”
A long silence ensued after Quince’s departure. “I-I need to look in on Miss Hollerfield,” Lorelei said. Her fingers shook so badly, she feared she would spill the contents of the glass she held.
“There’s nothing you can do for her, Lorelei. I’ll handle—”
Lorelei tilted her head, confused, before she took his meaning. “T-the other Miss Hollerfield, Thorne. Her name is Corinne.”
Thorne took the glass from her hands, and put it to her lips. “Drink,” he instructed gently. “We’ll talk in a bit.”
Lorelei nodded. She was beginning to dread the word ‘talk’. How did he manage to remain so calm ... so strong, when all she could think of was Miss Hollerfield’s dead body, lying less than ten feet away in a nearby room? Her throat clogged; she couldn’t swallow. Dear God. How she was supposed to tell the girl her mother was dead?
Edward landed deftly on his feet and put a hand to his pounding heart. The night had grown considerably cooler, but the adrenalin pulsing through his veins heated his skin from the inside out. Candlelight and low voices spilled from the window through which he’d just escaped.
Was it true? Could Rowena have absconded with his own flesh and blood? He was too shocked to feel anger. The raw fear in her expression pricked his instincts like nothing before. Even if it wasn’t true, and Rowena was the girl’s mother, and he her father, she’d borne a boy. A boy of his direct blood.
He could scarcely recall
the details of Hannah’s death. After bearing him two dead sons, he’d had no interest when the last child was announced a female. A man required sons. The turmoil was instinctive, roiling through him like the water rushing over a broken dam. He’d lashed out, catching Hannah on the cheek with his fist in one solid punch. Horror struck the old nurse’s face, but what care had he? Hannah deserved what she’d been dealt. It wasn’t like his wife had felt a thing in her listless state. The woman had only sisters. Something he would take under careful consideration after Virginia’s assured demise.
He’d rubbed his throbbing knuckles and shook out his hand, then glanced up and caught the accusations from the exotic eyes of his young lover searing through him. Her screams grew hysterical. Nothing of the loving pupil he’d taken to his bed showed in her stiff, frightened form. “You killed her, you bastard.” Her screams echoed through the chamber. “You killed her.”
“Get your things and get out.” His control had been phenomenal.
She had slammed the door to the sitting room and flung the latch. He’d almost laughed when he heard some piece of furniture being dragged across the floor. His fourteen-year-old lover had a fierce temper. There was no time to deal with her. He doubted her pliability after what she had witnessed; she would be gone by morning.
Days later, in a hazed stupor, Edward saw his wife buried in the family plot and Rowena—yes, gone—as he’d demanded. She’d run and he hadn’t chased her.
If he’d seen fit to find her, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult. There was no need once her life as a high-priced courtesan emerged. He was ensured of her whereabouts. He’d steered clear of her since those days, and never was a word uttered regarding Hannah’s death. No suspicions or accusations of murder had ever surfaced. The gossip would have run rampant.
Edward paused. She’d never said a word.
Rage ignited, and with it a slow burn gripped him by the throat. He forced it back, trying to recall the details. Had the babe passed? He couldn’t remember. Had he asked? Rowena held the crying child at her breast. Yes. Yes, the cry had been muffled. The terrified nurse had cringed away from him. His wife’s maid had stammered something unintelligible. He’d shoved her aside and strode out of the chamber to his study. He’d locked the door and grabbed the whiskey.