by Diana Ballew
“I don’t understand.” Lady Kimpton's words slurred. “Why is everyone so tired?”
Sarah was stunned. The contents of the brown bottle were working. Each person’s head was either back against her chair or face down on the table. Lord Maudsley had said they would sleep.
Sarah wanted to turn back the clock. It was too late. Too late to change her plans, her fate. She darted to the gate at the back of the garden. There was nothing she wanted from anyone, anywhere. Only her fifteen pounds. She would hand Nathan to Maudsley’s man, take her money, and run, as far as her new fortune would carry her.
“Miss ... Miss ... Sarah ... ” Lady Kimpton’s whispers shattered her heart into a million pieces.
It was too late. Too late. Too late. She ran for the gate. What if the man wasn’t there? What would she do? She didn’t have the resolve to sell Nathan. She would leave him on the ground. When they woke they would find him. Yes. That’s what she would do. If the man wasn’t there. Please don’t be there.
Nathan whimpered in her arms. “No. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” she soothed. It came out more as a command. A burst of hysteria roared through her chest. As if one could command a tiny baby not to cry. Tears burned her throat in a bout of irony. She swallowed them back as the gate came in sight. Her fingers fumbled with the latch, but it swung open, and a man with a stubbled chin stood over her. She backed away.
“Bring the child,” Maudsley’s voice barked the order from the coach.
Sarah edged around the hulking brute, and Maudsley reached through the window, swooping Nathan from her arms. “Bring the others.”
Both the brute and another man she recognized from Maudsley’s household carried coverlets and disappeared into the garden. Terror swallowed her. Miss Hollerfield never made it to the picnic. Maudsley would kill her once he realized. The need for her small fortune ceased. Sarah swung around. They were back, each carting a victim. Irene’s small body was obvious, but who was the other? What did it matter now?
If she didn’t ask for the money, he would know something was wrong. She couldn’t get in the carriage. She’d never make it out alive.
The carriage rocked with their ascent. Sarah stood by, unable to move, horrified by the event, speechless. One of the men clamored atop, took up the reins, and snapped them. The horses started forward, and Sarah stared after the moving conveyance.
Maudsley leaned out the window and pitched out a small bag that landed at her feet. The chink of coins echoed against the garden walls. “For your trouble, Miss Elvin.” The carriage turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
In a fog she reached for the bag, then slowly stood. Her walk to the corner was sluggish; dead weight lay where her heart once belonged. Free. She was free. She blinked away the fog and took in her surroundings.
A man leaned against a tree, burning cheroot dangling from fleshy lips, ankles crossed. Dread shot down her limbs, rendering her momentarily immobile. “Good day, Miss Elvin.” His voice was nasally, his hair oily.
Goose pimples pricked her skin. She backed away but he was quick. He snatched her arm in a bruising grip. “My fifteen pounds,” she whispered. “Please, take it. Take it all.” Terror gripped her knees, and they buckled beneath her.
He laughed as if genuinely delighted. “I will indeed,” he said.
He watched her with the warmth of a reptile, but what she saw in his eyes chilled her to her depths. Her life was over. But hadn’t she already realized the same? He crushed his mouth over hers.
The sun settled into dusk. Thorne looked across Brock’s desk. “So all is finally in order now?”
“Yes,” Brock said. “The bulk of my funds, under your direction, is for Ginny and her daughters should the bastard get lucky. But, by God, Kimpton, if she ends up in his hands again, I’ll haunt you to your own grave.”
“You have my word. If you don’t kill him, then I shall. Does that help?”
“Indeed.”
Thorne frowned. “I would have sworn Lorelei could not resist my taunt and would have responded.”
“Perhaps she hasn’t read your message. There was a picnic today, you said.”
Thorne looked out at the darkening sky. “I think perhaps I shall swing home. I’ll meet up with you at the solicitor’s office for any final details.”
Brock straightened the stack of papers and slid them into a carrying brief. “Fine. And that will be the last of it.”
Apprehension tugged at Thorne; he tore out of Brock’s. By the time he crossed Mount Street, Honor was urged into a full gallop. Nothing justified the hovering sense of doom he couldn’t seem to shake; still, by the time he reached Culcross, his trepidation had shifted into a full anxiety attack. Not a single light peered from the house. He slid from Honor, ran up the stoop, and tried the door. Locked. He darted to the side of the house. Deep in his gut, coiled snakes released their venom—the garden gate stood ajar. He crept into the yard, staying in the shadows.
A shaft of moonlight highlighted the center with an odd sort of halo effect. It took Thorne a moment to pick out the details of the silver tea service, the turned over cups on the table and on the ground. Flatware in the grass reflected the moon’s beam.
Mrs. Wells and Liza lay awkwardly slumped over their chairs. Nowhere could he pick out Cecilia, Irene, Miss Hollerfield, or Miss Elvin. A sharp pain pierced his chest. The sensation dipped lower, burning deep, deep within his belly. He glanced back to the open gate. Where was Lorelei?
He darted to Liza and placed his fingers on her neck. Her pulse was strong and steady, thank God. He shook her. “Liza!” Her eyes remained closed, but the rumblings of a small groan sounded. He shook her again. “Liza, wake up.”
Nothing. He lifted her from the chair and entered the drawing room from the terrace. He set her in a deep wingback chair, tugged on the bell pull, then ran back out for Mrs. Wells. Her reaction was identical. By the time he’d brought in the wet nurse, Oswald still hadn’t made an appearance.
Thorne lit a candle and hurried to the foyer. Muffled sobs sent an icy stab of fear coursing through him. He lit the sconces and turned to the stairs. “Miss Hollerfield?” he demanded. On the fourth stair up, she sat hunched over— “What the devil is going on here? Is that Cecilia?”
“I-I think she’s dead,” she whimpered.
He lifted the child from Miss Hollerfield’s lap and felt for her pulse. The rush of relief was short-lived. “What happened? Where is Lady Kimpton?”
“I-I don’t know. None of the servants are about. I was late to the picnic, and they were all dead. I carried Lady Cecilia in but I couldn’t find Irene or Miss Elvin. Or, or Nathan. My baby ... my baby is gone.” Her cries rattled the glass in the chandelier.
He took her by the upper arms and shook her hard. Once. “Miss Hollerfield. Listen to me. Are you listening, Miss Hollerfield?”
Eyes glazed with shock stared at him, unblinking. She nodded.
“Lady Cecilia is not dead. She’s been drugged. I found Mrs. Wells and Liza in the garden. They are not dead,” he repeated. “Where’s Oswald?”
Her bottom lip trembled, and she shook her head, quietly.
“Why were you late to the party? Where were you?”
“I-I was upset. I read the letter and ... ”
“Letter? What letter?”
“The letter I received this morning,” she whispered.
“What the devil was in a letter that could upset you so?”
She picked up a crumpled parchment next to her he hadn’t noticed and held it out.
Thorne anchored Cecilia against his chest, took the missive with his open hand, and strode to the light.
My dearest Corinne,
If you have his letter, then I know something dire has happened. I would never divulge the information I’m about to impart otherwise. I must ask your forgiveness, first and foremost—not for taking you, but for my lack of honesty regarding your heritage. The truth is, darling, you are not my sister, nor my daughter. You are the survivin
g child of Edward Ninnis, Earl of Maudsley, and his late wife, Lady Hannah Maudsley.
Lady Maudsley hired me when I was but ten-and-four years of age. I realize now that her husband raped and abused me, Corinne. That is my only defense for my egregious actions. For the longest time, I truly believed he loved me. He seemed so sad that did not have a son. You see, Hannah had born two, both stillborn, and he believed she did so purposely.
On the night of your birth, the midwife placed you in my arms, and darling, I fell in love. With you. Lady Maudsley barely survived her ordeal. When Lord Maudsley discovered your gender, he hit his wife. He killed her, Corinne. I saw him.
I was terrified for both you and me. I locked the two of us in the sitting room. Thankfully, he never tried the door.
With the midwife’s invaluable assistance, I was able to hide you. No one suspected a thing for years. But, my dearest child, I write this note as you fight for your own life, bearing your own child. You must take great care that Maudsley never learn the truth. If he does, dearest, you must run.
Look for me in your dreams, Corinne. You saved my life in more ways than you can possibly know.
Rowena.
Thorne raked a hand through his hair. Rowena must have penned this at Kimpton -during Miss Hollerfield’s lying-in. He glanced at the distraught Miss Hollerfield. She looked more like a child than a new mother. “Miss Hollerfield, I beg you to listen carefully.”
She nodded, mutely.
“You are safe here with us. I am not certain what is going on, but I have every intention of finding out. Come with me to the parlor. I must leave Lady Cecilia in your capable hands. Do you understand?”
Again, she nodded.
“Liza and Mrs. Wells are there as well. I want you to stay with them in the event they wake. Cecilia will likely be terrified. Can you do that for me, Miss Hollerfield?” He spoke gently. “I must locate Oswald and Cook.” Mentioning the need to look for intruders would likely send her screaming in astronomic proportions. He needed her focused.
Thorne guided her to the parlor and lay Cecilia across her lap. “If she wakes, Miss Hollerfield, I’m depending on you to reassure her.” When she nodded yet again, he strode to the terrace doors and latched them.
Up to now, he’d been able to push Lorelei’s disappearance to the back of his mind. Once he stepped from the parlor into the foyer, her disappearance hit him with the force of a tidal wave. The urge to kill seized his reflexes. He squeezed his hand into a fist and forced himself to calm.
He found Oswald sitting face-down at the servants' table in the kitchens below. He shook him by the shoulders. “Oswald, man.”
“My lord?”
“Oswald, you must wake.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man shook his head. After a couple of excruciating moments, the fog weakened. “My apologies, my lord. I don’t quite understand what happened.”
“Think Oswald. Did Brock’s man make it by with my note for Lady Kimpton?”
“I-I don’t believe so, sir.”
“Do you remember anything at all?”
“No, sir. After the ladies were situated for their picnic, I paused for a spot of tea.”
“Just you?”
“Well, my lord, two of the cook’s assistants were working diligently. I invited them—” He glanced around, then pointed. “My lord?”
Thorne followed his direction. “Christ,” he said under his breath. Both kitchen maids lay sprawled on the floor near the fire.
“If Cook sees those girls—” Oswald broke off, his face beet red.
He jumped up and darted to the servants’ dining hall. Cook and Peg were at the table, heads down on their crossed arms, and, shockingly, Bethie, the general, was slowly stirring. He strode back to the kitchen. “Nothing will happen to them. I’ll see to it. I’ll send Andrews—damn, he’s not back. Cook and Peg are at the table. Help me right them. Can you stand?”
He sniffed as if insulted. “Certainly, my lord.” He did, if somewhat slowly.
Together, they lifted the girls and set them at the table. “I’ll see to the others, my lord. I’m terribly sorry, my—”
“Enough, Oswald. Lady Kimpton was not with the others. Nor was Lady Irene.” Thorne reached for the pot of tea. He looked about for clean cups—then an ominous thought occurred. He lifted the pot's lid and carefully smelled the contents. Sweet—very sweet tea, masking the distinct odor of laudanum.
“I’m sorry, sir, did you say—”
“—Lady Kimpton and Irene were not in the garden where I found Liza and Mrs. Wells. Miss Hollerfield apparently hadn’t yet joined the others. She escaped their fate. We need to search the house, Oswald. I have a very bad feeling about this.”
“Lady Kimpton is missing?” Bethie demanded.
Chapter 23
Lorelei’s head throbbed like the drums during a never-ending ceremony of some ancient ritual. Her tongue felt swollen and stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes were heavy, her limbs sluggish. She fought her way through the confusion, but that proved as difficult as swimming in full petticoats. She feared the worse if she moved too quickly. She had a particular aversion to laudanum. But she didn’t recall having taken any opiates.
Heart-wrenching cries penetrated, forcing her fully to the land of the conscious.
She strove to focus. She and the girls were enjoying a picnic after several days of the steady barrage of rain.
Cecilia was desperate for activity, having been confined indoors for so long. Lorelei listened for her squeal as she traipsed through the garden chasing Liza. Poor Liza, the girl deserved a raise. Lorelei tried to smile, but her mouth did not seem to be working properly.
She lifted her hands to her head. Who was screaming? Nathan. Mrs. Wells was here a moment ago. “Corinne?” she finally managed, though it came out more a croak.
“So that is her name.”
Adrenaline shot to Lorelei’s brain. Her eyes flicked open, as the pounding in her head transitioned to an all-out assault. “Lord Maudsley?” Good heavens, why was she lying down in the presence of that scoundrel? She squinted against the candlelight, peering at him.
Irene lay curled against his chest, her fist beneath her chin. The atrocities that showed in her eyes were hidden in the innocence of sleep. Maudsley sipped from a glass, then rested his chin atop her head, looking like the perfect doting father.
A sense of morbid horror choked her. “Where is Nathan?” she managed.
“Ah, the child. There.” He angled his head to a chair. “Annoying little bugger. Does he cry like that all the time?”
“When he’s hungry or ... or uncomfortable.” She glanced around. “Might I ask where I am and how we got here?” Her tone was as breathless as if she’d taken a brisk turn about Regent’s Park without a pause.
“Laudanum. Miss Elvin was not the most reliable assistant, I regret to say.” He sighed. “You were taken by mistake, Lady Kimpton. Alas, once I realized the error, it was too late to return you and retrieve my daughter in your stead.”
Lorelei struggled to sit. It took every ounce of her strength. She inhaled slowly to steady her queasy stomach and put a hand to her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Maudsley. I don’t understand. How could one possibly mistake me for Lady Cecilia?”
He chuckled, a maniacal sound that sent chilled prickles down her spine. “Not that daughter.”
Lorelei shuddered.
Her eyes focused on his hand stroking Irene’s hair. There was nothing offensive about his action, except for his renowned womanizing tendencies. Perhaps that is what threatened the contents of her stomach. His words infiltrated her dimness, and she frowned. “I’m afraid my thoughts are refusing to accommodate me. To what other daughter are you referring?”
“I believe you called her Corinne.”
“Miss Hollerfield? But she is Rowena Hollerfield’s daught—Oh. I see. Miss Hollerfield ... I mean Rowena Hollerfield was your mistress, too.” A sudden sympathy for Rowena Hollerfield swept through her. The woma
n’s choices would have been limited.
Again he laughed. Delightedly so. “Indeed she was, Lady Kimpton, many, many years ago. But you misunderstand. Rowena worked for the first Lady Maudsley, my dear late wife, Hannah. She expired in childbirth. Corinne is the result of that union. Not a bastard child of Rowena’s and my making.”
Lorelei searched her mind for any mention of a previous Lady Maudsley. A vague recollection Ginny mentioned years ago touched her.
“Rowena turned out to be most resourceful indeed. How else could she have hidden my own child from me for nigh on eighteen years?” He huffed out an indignant breath. “And, at the blackest moment of my life. Why, Hannah had just suffered a difficult birthing episode.” He tapped his chin, while his other hand continued rubbing Irene’s deeply sleeping form. “Perhaps Rowena killed her.”
Lorelei had met Rowena. “Experiencing such an ordeal, my lord, can play havoc with your emotions. I quite understand how blurred the events can become over time.”
The hand on Irene’s back stilled. Glacial eyes seared her. Nathan’s cries deepened.
Lorelei cleared her throat. “You didn’t perhaps think to abscond with the wet-nurse as well, my lord? I fear nothing else will quiet him.”
His hand resumed its caress over Irene, and Lorelei shuddered. Maudsley was mad. She had to find a way to retrieve the girl from him.
“A little brandy might do the trick,” he mused, jerking her gaze from his roving hand to his face. “Perhaps you might hold the baby?”
She glanced over at Nathan, panic crawling over her skin.
“Please, my dear. If you could satisfy the future earl, I would be most gratified.”
The words startled her. Future earl? Followed by the double entendre. She rose slowly, her stomach quite unsteady from both the laudanum and the prospect of picking up the baby.
“Perhaps we should wake Irene, my lord. She is very good with the baby.” Lorelei gripped the back of the chair to quit from swaying. The cries grew louder, and her stomach churned. She could feel Maudsley’s gaze dissecting her every move. His chair creaked, but her eyes stayed on Nathan.