by Diana Ballew
The man stilled. Nothing overt, but Brock noted his reaction with interest. “Yes. I had heard.” Griston hid his aggravation fairly well. He tipped his head in the direction of a group of women. “If you’ll excuse me, Brockway. My mother is angling for my attention.”
Brock stepped aside. “Of course,” he murmured. Griston made his way across the room. He leaned in and spoke to the aging countess. She nodded and slipped from the room.
Ten minutes later, supper was announced.
Brock edged his way to the terrace doors, ready to leap the terrace wall in a single bound. Maudsley had Lady Alymer cornered. Grimacing, Brock changed directions. “There you are, Lady Alymer. You promised supper to me.”
Relief emanated from her. “Yes, Lord Brockway. I’m most vexed with you. You are late.”
He swallowed a bark of laughter and placed her hand on his arm. “Sorry, Maudsley. I’m famished.” He winked at her. “Shall we?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Welton sauntered past, waylaying Maudsley.
Brock escorted her from the parlor, following the crowd to the ballroom, of all places. The layout was not a normal one, with tables sprinkled about, leaving an open area for dancing. “Thank you, Lord Brockway,” she whispered.
He hadn’t placed any credence on Welton’s marriage announcement, but now he wondered about Welton’s interest in Maudsley. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Alymer.”
Freckles stood out across her pale complexion. “I’ll be fine now.” She didn’t look fine. She looked as if she might swoon at the slightest sound.
“It would be remiss of me to desert you now, my lady.” He guided her to a table farthest from the door and pulled out a chair. “Please sit. I’ll bring you a plate.”
She nodded and he hurried for the buffet.
Keeping an eye on her, he filled two plates, then sauntered back. He had questions. “I hope you like salmon, asparagus, and fresh berries, Lady Alymer.”
“Er, yes. Thank you, my lord.” Her eyes darted about.
“Don’t worry about Maudsley. He won’t come near you with me present.” He bit into a blackberry.
Dark red infused her cheeks; it clashed horrifically with her hair. “I-it’s not that, sir.” She inhaled and her hands steadied. She looked about, then turned a bold gaze on him. “Where is Lady Maudsley these days? No one has seen her since the masquerade party.” She took a dainty bite of her salmon.
He frowned.
She huffed out her exasperation, then leaned in. “Everyone knows your heart is not free, my lord.”
His fork paused, midair. “I don’t know what you are implying.” He shook his head and slipped the forkful of asparagus in his mouth. That was not a subject on which he wished to converse. “I understand Lord Welton is to marry. Who’s the lucky young woman?”
A pronounced shudder rippled through her. “Not me, thank heavens,” she muttered.
He bit back his laughter. “Pardon?”
“Forgive me. I speak out of turn. Welton’s bride is quite the mystery. No one seems to have any idea who she is. In fact, it’s being bandied about that the whole thing is a ruse.”
“Interesting.” They ate in silence. Minutes later Maudsley strolled in, and his eyes narrowed on Brock. He was free to depart.
“What is truly odd is how closed-mouth the man is.” She set her fork down and pierced him with grave eyes. “Welton is not known for his lack of chatter.”
“Yes. I see what you mean.” The woman was shrewd. He pulled a card from his pocket, laid it on the table, and pushed it toward her. “Lady Alymer, if anything regarding this mystery woman reaches you, I would appreciate hearing from you.”
Her gaze fell on the card. She nodded slowly, slipping the card in her reticule. A long moment passed. She raised her eyes to him. “Is she alive, my lord?”
Brock stilled. Answering was too risky. His glance fell to the half-eaten food on his plate. “I don’t know—”
She cut him off. “—take good care of her. She deserves much better than she received.” She tapped her lips with her serviette. “I must be on my way, my lord. Thank you for ... everything.” She slipped from the ballroom through another door.
Brock didn’t waste any time stealing through the terrace doors and the garden gate. He needed to see Ginny. Too impatient for the longer ride through Somers Town, he saddled his own mount and took off at a gallop.
The ride took all of ten minutes. Punkle met him at the door. “How is she?”
“She’s asking for her daughters.”
He tore off his hat and pitched it to his butler. “She’s awake?”
“Last I looked.”
“Bring me brandy.” He took the stairs two at a time. “And tea. Bring her tea.”
Brock stopped at the guest room door, his hand on the knob. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood. Would her words still slur as they had the day before when she’d finally spoken after four days of agonizing silence? Would her eyes go blank, with no recognition of him? He could not imagine a worse form of torture. Ginny never remembering him.
He turned the handle.
The room was stuffy and dark but for a low-lit lantern on the bedside table. Brock moved to the drapes and pulled them aside. Street lanterns gave off an eerie glow that matched his mood. Here, at least, she was safe, he decided, unlatching the window. He pushed out the glass and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair.
“Much better.” Her croak sounded hardly above a whisper and the bed creaked.
He hurried over. “Don’t move. I’ll help you. Fool woman, you’ve been out for days.”
Brock braced his hand on her back and assisted her up. He leaned her forward and arranged the pillows, then gently set her back.
He eased down beside her and brushed the hair from her face, revealing a shaved patch. Dark stitches at her hairline gave her a slightly monster appearance. Joy soared through him. She was alive, indeed.
His relief left him feeling as helpless as a newborn kitten, at the same time, furious enough to take on Napoleon and his army single-handedly.
Her eyes remained closed, partly due to their swelling. The bruising was turning from black to purple and, in some places, yellow. A good sign. Her lips, slightly parted, looked cracked and parched. Punkle pushed through the door, loaded tray in hand. Brock remained silent while his valet, manservant, steward, confidant, and now, nurse, set the tray on a table and backed from the room. He trusted no other with Ginny’s location. A snick from the door sounded. They were alone.
“Punkle says you’ve been awake much longer today.” Brock poured out a half cup and added a lump of sugar and stirred. He set the cup to her lips. “Drink, my dear.” To his relief, she managed a small one.
“He’ll kill you when he finds out you’ve sheltered me. And I’m just as good as dead.”
“He won’t find you. No one knows where you are. I realize the danger.”
“What of my girls?”
“They are as well as can be expected.” He put the cup to her lips again. “More, sweets, you need sustenance. Irene is concerned.”
“She’s much too serious, my little Irene.” She frowned. “And Cecilia?”
“At the risk of hurting your feelings, I hear she was frolicking through the flowers in the garden all afternoon.”
Her lips curved in a simulated smile. It warmed his chilled fingers. “When can I see them? I miss them terribly.”
Brock set the cup aside, then carefully took her bandaged hand. It was broken at the wrist. Clearly, she’d defended herself. He was proud of her. He thanked the Almighty she’d remained unconscious when he and Punkle set it. “Soon, darling, very soon,” he vowed. Once I kill that bastard.
Her other hand clutched his sleeve. “You must promise me you’ll look after them if something should happen to me.”
“Nothing will happen to you,” he growled.
“Promise me,” she demanded. “Especially Irene.” Panic reeled against the dark walls
.
“Yes. Yes. I promise, darling. You must stay calm.”
Air deflated her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Brock dropped his forehead to the back of her hand. How had he let this woman slip from his grasp? He loved her so much it hurt. He raised his head and gazed at her closed eyes. The swelling would dissipate; the bruises would fade. She might have a scar, but her hair would grow back to hide it. Yet she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Will you read to me?”
“Always,” he said.
Chapter 21
Irene stood before Lorelei, rocking Nathan with a graceful sway of her body, back and forth, to and fro. “Lady Kimpton, I believe you are frightened of him.” Her scrutiny and her words sent a frisson of ice through Lorelei’s veins. The attempt to swallow was harbored by an unspeakable fear. She glanced around. Peg, Sarah, and Corinne were still as statues. Even Cecilia stood unmoving, her thumb poised for her mouth. The rush started in her ears, progressed up, swarming her vision with bright then dark light. Bethie. Where was Bethie?
“Don’t worry, Lady Kimpton. I’ll stand right here and make sure you don’t drop him.” To her absolute horror, Irene moved forward and set the infant right in Lorelei’s lap.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was a staccato of pants.
Irene adjusted Nathan, making certain his head was cradled in the crook of one arm. She draped the other across the baby. “Hold him like this,” she said. She stood back to survey her work. “See? He is quite sturdy for a baby.”
The door crashed back, and Bethie was suddenly standing there, her face tight and strained.
“Look, Miss Bethie. Lady Kimpton is holding Nathan.” Irene’s statement jarred Lorelei. She looked down. Big blue eyes blinked up at her.
“Keep your arm under his head, my lady.”
Lorelei dared not move. He was too fragile. If she held him wrong, he could ... he could die.
“Yer doin’ fine, my lady.” Bethie’s whisper was a prayer of hope. Lorelei’s eyes jerked to her. The older woman nodded slowly, encouragingly.
“He likes you, Lady Kimpton.” Irene’s smile beamed with pride.
Her gaze fell to the bundle in her arms. What did one say to such a tiny being?
Cecilia peered over the arm of the chair, looking at him. “I think he’s sleepy,” she said.
“How can you tell?” Lorelei was bemused.
“His blinks are slow. I blink slow when I’m sleepy, too. Sometimes I count them.”
“Really?” She thought Cecilia might be duping her. She glanced at Irene.
Irene giggled. “She knows because I told her that’s how I could tell she was sleepy.”
Her laugh caught Lorelei off guard and tears burned. For the first time Lorelei could recall, she sounded so innocent, so sweet. Lorelei blinked.
“Are you sleepy too, Lady Kimpton?” Cecilia asked.
A quick crack of laughter burst from her, and she shook her head. There was a tap at the morning room door, and Peg peered in. “Lady Dankworth to see you, my lady.”
“Oh, my.” Visitors. Lorelei hadn’t had visitors in so long, she’d quite forgotten how to receive them. “Thank you, Peg. Send in Mrs. Wells. And ring for tea.”
“Who is she?” Cecilia asked.
“A very interesting society lady,” Lorelei told her.
“Oh,” As if that answered all.
“Why don’t you assist Mrs. Wells in the nursery, darling.”
“I’ll take Nathan, Lady Kimpton,” Irene said. “Oh. Look, he’s fallen asleep.”
Lorelei remained quite still while Irene took the baby in her small yet capable hands. Lorelei carefully rose, on trembling knees.
“Ye did fine, my lady.” Bethie spoke gently. “Just fine.” Color was edging back into her face. She seemed as surprised as Lorelei.
At the door, Lorelei paused, looking back at her vacated chair. “Yes. I-I did, didn’t I?” Outside the parlor, she drew in several deep breaths. Her pulse evened out. She pinched her cheeks, and with one last strong pull of oxygen, she pushed her way through the door, practiced smile firmly in place.
Lady Dankworth sat with her frothy pink skirts spread out, a basket at her feet emitting suspicious noises.
“Lady Dankworth, how lovely to see you. I see Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles saw fit to accompany you.”
“I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenience, Lady Kimpton. It’s been so long, I wished to pay my respects.”
“Ah, yes. My husband and I spent a week in the country.”
“How lovely, dear. I was reminded last evening that I hadn’t seen you since ... since ... ”
“Since I fainted in your drawing room after too much brandy?” Lorelei said, wryly.
“Well, yes,” Lady Dankworth agreed, bluntly.
Peg tapped at the door and rolled in the teacart. “Thank you, Peg, I’ll pour.” Lorelei proceeded to do just that, and handed Lady Dankworth a cup. “Now, what of last evening reminded you of me?”
“Well, it occurred to me that Lady Maudsley was too ill to accompany you to my tea, and, well, no one’s seen her since.” She lowered her voice. “I sent a note inquiring after her ill-health, but have yet to receive a response.”
Lorelei managed to keep her expression relaxed. “Perhaps she and Lord Maudsley were out of town as well.”
“I thought that very thing, you know. Until I looked up and saw Maudsley laughing with that idiot, George Welton, at Gristons.”
Lorelei coughed in her hand. “Idiot?”
“The boy is spreading it about he’s to be married.”
“He’s of an age, isn’t he? What’s so strange about that?” Though Lorelei had no argument regarding the ‘idiot’ remark.
“No. No, of course not. It’s just that the rumor is he’s marrying Maudsley’s daughter.” The shock in her tone would have been laughable if the thought was not so horrifying. “The gel can’t be more than five.”
Spots swarmed Lorelei’s vision. “She’s seven.”
“Exactly. Much too young.” Lady Dankworth flung out a hand. “And there was Lord Maudsley, cornering Mauve Alymer’s—”
“Er, yes, I get the picture.”
“Before the scoundrel could reach for her again, a young man jumped right out from behind one of those strategically placed potted plants. Heavens, I don’t know why his mother places those ridiculous fake trees about. I told her they attract nothing but reprobates.” Lady Dankworth leaned in. “Personally, I think she welcomes the notoriety they wrought.” She sat back again. “Imagine my surprise when Maeve is saved from one rogue only to be accosted by another. Lord Brockway.”
Lorelei straightened. “Lord Brockway was there?”
“Swept the gel away from Maudsley right into supper.”
Smoothing a hand over her thistle-colored muslin, Lorelei fought to hide her fury. “Is that so? I’m sorry I missed it,” she murmured. She reached for the teapot to refill her cup, instead she pulled back, quickly curling her trembling fingers in her lap.
Lady Dankworth’s brows drew together in one long line above her eyes. “I’d always believed that man half in love with Virginia Maudsley, but I declare, I’ve seen him at more parties in this one week than I have in the whole of his two years since returning from the Continent. Chatting and flirting away with a different chit at every single one.” She held out her cup. “More tea, dear, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Lorelei slowly took her cup. “A different woman every night, you say?” She poured, mindful she didn’t spill the contents in her lap. She handed Lady Dankworth her tea. “Any one person in particular?”
“No. No. Young, old, eligible, ineligible. He spreads himself about, that man.”
“And Maudsley, he was there? Has he been about every evening as well?”
Lady Dankworth seemed surprised at the question. Or perhaps, more accurately, surprised at the answer Lorelei’s question provoked. “No,” she said softly. “Last ni
ght was the first I’d seen of the man since the night of the Martindales’ masquerade.”
Was it possible Lord Brockway was covering for Ginny? A disappearance from the social events of the season coinciding with her friend's would send talk rampant, and in a much different vein.
A chill snaked up her spine. And where had Lord Maudsley been this past week?
The drawing room drapes were drawn back, letting in overcast skies from the late afternoon. The fire in the hearth, however, warded off the chill. Cecilia lay on her tummy, chin propped in her palms held up by her elbows; she slowly turned pages in another large tome of botanicals.
Irene, of course, sat ladylike in a chair near the hearth, thumbing through a book of something Lorelei hadn’t selected. Sarah held a book, too, but her gaze stared into the fire.
“Lady Kimpton?” Corinne spoke softly, leaving Lorelei to wonder if Corinne would ever relax in her company.
“Yes, Miss Hollerfield?”
Corinne lifted a guilty gaze. “I-I ... ”
Lorelei smiled, doing her utmost to set her at ease. “Please, Corinne. I’d hoped by this time, and after all we’ve endured, you could ask me anything.”
A blush tinged her cheeks. “Of course, Lady Kimpton.” She took a deep breath as if preparing for a walk off a plank on a pirate’s ship for the frigid depths of the Atlantic. “It’s just that, well, I’d like to send a note to my sister’s household informing them of her ... ” Tears shimmered in her eyes.
“Of course, my dear. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself. They deserved to know.”
Corinne nodded.
“What happened to your sister, Miss Hollerfield? Is she dead?” Cecilia’s blunt questions hung in the air.
Corinne’s effort to hold back tears was valiant but unsuccessful; they spilled over at her sharp nod.
“It was very recent, Cecilia. Miss Hollerfield has not had much time to deal with her grief,” Lorelei said, gently.