One Wicked Night

by Shelley Bradley

Was she becoming more like Mama each day? That question had haunted her sleepless hours almost as much as the vision of Lucien in another woman’s bed.

  “There. Ye look right as rain,” Mildred declared after carefully applying a bit of rice powder to the small bruises on her cheek and forehead.

  Serena thanked the woman and went downstairs. She skipped the offer of a hearty breakfast, intent on finding her husband. If she was going to live under Lucien’s roof until Alastair could be stopped, they obviously needed to review some of the previously established rules.

  She just hoped her own resistance could hold out if Lucien proved uncooperative. And what of his nights? He would undoubtedly continue to spend them out on the town, as he had said he would if she disinclined to share his bed. She found it hard to decide which was worse, giving in to his enticement or knowing some other woman would.

  She descended the stairs and sought Holford. “Where, pray tell, is my husband?”

  A grim expression entered his eyes. “At St. George’s graveyard, my lady, where he goes every morning at this time.”

  Serena recalled that he had been grieving someone when they met, but had never learned whom. At the time, she had assumed he had lost a parent, sibling, or friend.

  “Who does he visit there, Holford?”

  The old man’s rheumy eyes widened with shock. “My lady, you do not know?”

  Serena sent the man an embarrassed grimace. “No, and apparently I should.”

  Holford raised silvery brows “Indeed.” He hesitated, then said, “Follow me.”

  Without another word, he led her up one flight of stairs, then another. Down a dark hall they walked, her curiosity intensifying with each step.

  Finally, he paused before a locked door. Producing the key, Holford said, “I had no notion his lordship had not informed you about Lady Chelsea.”

  Lady Chelsea? Another woman? Serena absorbed that apparent fact with a pang of jealousy she despised.

  Knowing she was frowning beneath Holford’s assessment, Serena tried to smooth her expression out, but the astute butler discerned its cause. “His daughter, my lady. She would have been five in October.”

  Everything within Serena went cold.

  Oh, God.

  He mourned not a woman, but his child. Squeezing her eyes shut as she imagined his pain, she whispered, “When?”

  Holford cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded hoarse. “About five months ago.”

  He opened the door before them. Its hinges squeaked, hinting the portal had not been used in some time.

  “Most of Lady Chelsea’s things remain as they were on the night she died.”

  The butler stepped aside and Serena entered the bedroom. It was obviously that of a child. Toys were scattered in every corner; a variety of dolls lay strewn across the bed. Serena touched the soft, faded clothes of one. The tears in its cloth skin said the toy had been the little girl’s favorite.

  Venturing farther into the room, Serena spied drawings obviously done by a child’s hand. One was of a large-petaled flower, the next a green blob with “Herman the frog” written below it in big, clumsy lettering. The last was a dark-haired stick figure titled “Daddy.” She lifted the paper, cringing at the crinkle of paper in the silence.

  “Chelsea was a laughing child, my lady. Everyone adored her,” Holford explained.

  Serena laid the drawings down, feeling the unmistakable sting of tears in her eyes for Lucien’s profound loss.

  His motive for forcing her to wed snapped into place with absolute clarity: He had lost one child and could not bear to lose the one she carried as well. And she, wrapped up in shame at her wanton behavior and the ton’s wagging tongues, had never thought to ask why the babe she carried was so important to him. She had fought their marriage, railed at his insistence, and given him the sharp edge of her tongue at every turn.

  And he was certainly still mourning the little girl’s loss.

  Serena’s gaze traveled the room once more, struck by a sense of loss, of grief.

  A moment later, a smudge on one window drew her attention, for the panes were usually spotless. She wandered closer until she could discern a small, sticky hand print.

  Seeing the object of her attention, Holford said, “Lady Chelsea left that on the day she died. She had been eating candy that afternoon. After she died, his lordship left strict orders that it was not to be wiped away.”

  Another wave of grief assailed her, and she clutched the skirts of her own mourning black dress, pressing her lips together, feeling tears burn the back of her eyes.

  Poor Lucien. Mercy, what he must have lived through, she could only begin to imagine. True, she had lost Cyrus, but with each day she was able to feel more and more as if she had lost a good friend and could hope he resided in the home of the Lord. But to lose a child, a little one he had seen in napkins, then walking shoes. One he had heard speak for the first time, one he had lived with and loved. The pain must be overwhelming.

  Suddenly, Serena wished she could replace for Lucien all that he had lost. Though she could not give Chelsea back, she could give him the life growing inside her and her compassion.

  Turning Holford’s way, she touched his shoulder. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

  Holford beamed. “Always glad to be of assistance, my lady.”

  Serena nodded. “When my husband returns, would you tell him I await him in his study?”

  The butler smiled in understanding. “I would be delighted.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  An hour later, Lucien’s arrival put an end to Serena’s nervous pacing. He entered his study, dressed to the nines, as always. But his usually robust complexion was pale, the light in his green eyes stark and dim. The smidgen of mud on one Hessian boot brought the reality of a little girl’s cold grave to Serena all over again. With her heart in her throat, she approached him as he stood in the threshold.

  “You wanted to see me?” He emphasized no word over another, his question an emotionless formality.

  She nodded nervously and swallowed. The simple meeting she had devised an hour ago now seemed a hopeless tangle of sympathy, regret, and another nameless ache underscored by the heavy pounding of her heart.

  Perhaps he didn’t want her understanding; maybe he wanted nothing more from their marriage than her body and an heir. It wasn’t impossible that his heart was involved with another woman, one he might have been with these few nights past. Though that prospect hurt, she realized they could not continue this hellish existence of living as enemies for the rest of their days.

  Lucien stood before her, staring. She cleared away the tight lump in her throat with a discreet cough. “Perhaps you could shut the door, and we could sit for a bit?”

  He scowled, his brows clashing together over suspicious eyes. “Is this about yesterday evening?”

  Blast him for bringing that up, she thought, folding her hands in her lap. “I would like to talk about . . . our marriage.”

  With a curt nod, he shut the door, then seated himself on the sofa. “You have my attention, but don’t think to ask me for an annulment. I’ve no intention of giving you one.”

  “That isn’t why I wished to see you,” Serena placated him as she sank into a Chippendale elbow chair. “Actually, I . . . I wanted to tell you that I understand now why you were so insistent upon this marriage, and I am very sorry for your pain.”

  He said nothing for long, excruciating moments. His face remained a blank mask as he drummed his fingers slowly on the table beside him. Serena feared she had made a dreadful mistake, that he didn’t care for her sympathy at all.

  Unable to bear the unresponsive silence, she rose from her chair. “I’ve nothing more to say. Good-bye.”

  She scurried to the door, thankful Lucien could not see the embarrassment in her flushed cheeks. She had been a fool to think her feelings mattered to him one way or another. Clearly, they did not.

  “Come back,” he commanded quietly.r />
  Hesitantly, Serena turned to face him.

  “Come here and sit down.”

  Serena scanned his face as she sat cautiously, hoping to read something of his thoughts, but Lucien gave away nothing. She deposited herself on the edge of the chair, breath held.

  “I apologize if I seem suspicious, but it was only a few mornings ago you could not bear my presence in your bedroom. After that, you accused me of ruining your life with this, how did you put it?” His voice turned acidic. “Ah, yes, this ‘mockery of a marriage.’ Yesterday, we almost consummated our union, until you pushed me away and ran. Now you want to give me comfort. What, pray tell, brought about this change in sentiment?”

  Serena chewed on her bottom lip, her gaze locking with his. Lucien’s direct stare was closed and challenging at once. Gathering her courage, Serena reached across the space separating them to touch his shoulder. She sighed with relief when he did not withdraw.

  “Holford told me about Chelsea,” she said quietly.

  He drew in a hard breath and jerked away with a curse. Serena felt Lucien’s hurt in the air between them. He slammed his eyes shut. A pained frown crossed his features as his hands curled into white-knuckled fists. “Damn it to hell and back.”

  Serena leaned close. “Her loss must hurt terribly.”

  Lucien nodded, wanting to say more, but the words tangled in his throat. The harsh sting of tears clawed their way to his eyes. Swallowing the unmanly emotions, he sat stiffly.

  Serena moved closer, her palm gliding between taut shoulders. Her gentle, comforting touch penetrated his coat, seeping under his skin to diffuse warmth throughout his chilled body. She reached toward him hesitantly with her free hand and curled her fingers around his own. Lucien closed his eyes as an aching warmth burst from his frozen heart and raced through his body. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

  Somehow, the fact Serena had committed adultery ceased to matter when she touched him so gently. She offered understanding and the comfort of her soft touch. She stayed beside him, warm, gentle—his wife.

  Lucien allowed himself to revel in the contact, the sense of togetherness. No anger or acrimony lay between them. No deceptions, no betrayal. Instead, he felt an understanding borne of mutual loss, he for Chelsea, and she, no doubt, for Warrington.

  Lucien leaned closer, until the hand that touched his shoulder crossed his back. He raised his palm to her cheek, bringing his face within inches of hers. “Her death hurts. I never knew I could hurt this badly.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “How did you ever bear it?”

  “Hour by hour. Losing her was so damned painful. One moment she was here, playing, laughing . . . Then she was gone.”

  He took a deep breath. “I am sorry you found out from Holford. I wanted to tell you myself, but we haven’t been on the closest conversational terms.”

  “I understand. It must be difficult to speak of.”

  “You have no idea.” He shot to his feet with a grunt. “I’m the reason she’s dead.”

  The raspy confession came out before he could stop himself, and maybe for the best. She should know the truth since she carried his child. Too bad his admission would slam the final nail in the dismal coffin of their marriage.

  “That cannot be,” she protested. “You clearly loved her. I cannot conceive that you did any such thing.”

  Lucien looked back to find shock and doubt on her lovely face. Odd, she had more faith in him than he had in himself. Then again, she did not know him all that well.

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “The night she died, she begged me to search for Ravenna with her.” He cast his gaze to the floor. “I refused. Then I left.”

  “Leaving for an evening can hardly be construed as killing the child.”

  He loosed a short, cynical grunt. “While I was gone, Chelsea apparently decided she would find Ravenna for me. She thought it would make me happy.” He hesitated, rubbing a hand across his tired face. “She sneaked past her sleeping nanny and wandered outside. A passing carriage struck her.”

  Serena hesitated, then crossed the room to his side. “You mustn’t think her accident was your fault. How could you have known she would leave the house?”

  She reached for his hand, gripping it with her own. In passion, her touch was explosive, consuming; in this gentle sympathy, she was a healing balm for his soul.

  A pity he wasn’t worthy of such compassion.

  He shrugged, breaking their contact. “I should have suspected the little imp would sneak out and stay with her instead. She had already lost one parent. What the bloody hell was I thinking, leaving her without the other.”

  “You could hardly confine yourself to this house every moment. This is not your fault.” She captured his hands once again.

  He smiled faintly, sadly. “Niles shares your sentiment. I am trying to believe it, as well.” Lucien paused, deciding her gentle understanding deserved some in turn. “I realize our hasty marriage has caused you pain. For that, I am deeply sorry. You must be feeling grief, too.” He peered into the golden face that haunted his sleepless nights. “Do you miss Warrington?”

  Pressing her lips together, Serena nodded. “I shall always miss Cyrus. He was my best friend.”

  “But not your lover,” he countered. “You cared for him, and he for you. So why did he never make love to you?”

  She dropped her gaze to her lap. An agonizing moment of suspense later, she said, “The reason is in the past. I would prefer to leave it there.”

  Though her answer was hardly what he had hoped for, Lucien nodded. He had been foolish to hope he could trade one confession for another. Confidences weren’t privy to any bartering system. Still, why did it bother him that she remained so closed? Unsatisfied curiosity. A wish to understand what had driven her into his arms, so he could prevent her from seeking another, he supposed. Still, some foolish part of him had hoped for more. That at least they could talk without arguing. That they could make some sort of civil marriage.

  Maybe she didn’t share his wishes.

  ****

  As loath as Lucien was to leave Serena that night, he knew Cripplegate was expecting him. He hoped the earl had been able to find something, anything, in the way of hard evidence that would point the accusing finger at Alastair.

  After ensuring that an armed man was stationed at every door of his home, Lucien climbed in his coach, giving his driver his destination.

  He leaned back in the seat and considered his conversation with Serena earlier. Her understanding of Chelsea’s death lightened his mood. Certainly, she had surprised him. He hoped they weren’t destined to quarrel for the rest of their days. Perhaps, in time, they could come to some mutually agreeable marital arrangement. If not happy, at least civil. Anything had to be better than the last few days.

  Yet one thought haunted him: Why did she insist on keeping the details of her first marriage such a secret? He couldn’t fathom why it had never been consummated. Had the duke preferred men? No. Though he hardly listened to the ton’s wagging tongues, Lucien knew he would have heard if Warrington’s tastes had leaned that way. And if such had been the case, the man would not have been such a respected member of the Lords. Besides, after a little digging, Lucien had learned that the man had sired three daughters.

  Lucien considered the puzzle from another angle. Perhaps Warrington had been impotent. But no, Warrington had illegitimate children, the youngest still very much in the schoolroom. So what had their problem been? The mystery behind Serena’s first marriage confounded Lucien.

  Should he simply let her keep her secret? Perhaps the nature of Serena’s relationship with Warrington was none of his affair. But something in him felt driven to dissect it and understand why Serena had sought a lover.

  He could not allow it to happen again.

  Upon arriving at the Beggars Club, Lucien seated himself at a table and watched the goings-on around him. The crowd assembled tonight was a motley one, including all walks of lif
e from sailors to smithies with one goal in common: to sink well into their cups.

  Across the room, the same dark-haired barmaid who had served him before swiveled her hips, her skirts swishing about trim calves, to dodge the groping hand of a customer. She made her way to his table, then asked, “Hello, guv. What can I get fer ye?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Another word with the earl. I believe he’s expecting me.”

  With a nod, the girl threaded her way to the far side of the room and disappeared into Cripplegate’s sitting room. A moment later, she returned. “Aye, he’s waitin’ fer ye. Go on in.”

  Lucien slipped a crown into her palm, then crossed the dirty, crowded floor to the privacy of Cripplegate’s domain.

  After Lucien closed the door behind him, the Earl of Barrymore bade him to sit. Not a moment passed before the hunch-backed man asked, “Did you bring the four hundred pounds Marsden owes me?”

  Lucien fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a roll of bills. Silently, he tossed it across the massive desk separating him from Cripplegate.

  The older man’s smile was feral as he pocketed the money. “Splendid.”

  “Now,” Lucien paused, leaning forward expectantly, “what do you know?”

  The earl laughed. “You’ll like this. Marsden hired two dirty culls named Jim Rollins and Dicky McCoy. For enough money, they’ll do anything. Perhaps if you paid them handsomely, they would be willing to testify about Warrington’s death.”

  Lucien could not hold back his smile of victory. He had the greedy bastard cornered. Once he talked to Rollins and McCoy, he’d likely have real proof of Alastair’s guilt that could end the cur’s threats on Serena’s life. “Do you know where I can find them?”

  Cripplegate took a swill of brandy from a half-full glass on the corner of his desk. Lucien waited impatiently for the old man to swallow and speak, and he was sure the earl knew it.