The thought brought no bitterness, only resignation. If one must be married, and she had reason to believe she must, mutual convenience seemed as appropriate a reason as any. Lord Ambrose needed funds to keep his estate. He had made no secret of this; his solicitor had explained the situation to her father’s solicitor. She rather admired him for his honesty; he could have tried to win her affection through flattery and a show of admiration at Lord Tates’, but he had shown the walls more attention than her.
This, she admitted to herself, did bring a slight touch of pique to her vanity.
Perhaps he found her unattractive. Well, many had not. She had had her share of proposals in her three-and-twenty years, and she believed some were spurred by genuine affection. It was difficult to know, however, when one was the sole heiress to an unencumbered fortune. And though that fortune had been made in business, their name was not tainted as some, for her father was regarded as a gentleman, not a businessman. Grandfather Murrow had been the one to dirty his hands in coal, while Papa expanded his earnings through wise investments.
Even so, not all of Society opened its doors to them. This bothered neither her mother nor herself, but she knew her father longed for ultimate respectability—the kind a connection to the peerage would bring. He tried to keep it hidden, but it was one of the things she understood about him. Her father may have attended Eton and Cambridge, but his father went to his grave illiterate and with the flavor of the London streets forever ingrained in his speech. She could only guess at how much this had affected her sire’s life among his peers.
Although she sympathized with him, this alone would not be reason enough to sacrifice herself. There were others.
She gazed at her mother, who looked to be on the edge of total exhaustion. Fortunately, the butler returned at that moment to say the maid was turning out Mrs. Murrow’s bedroom.
“Perhaps I could go upstairs now?” asked that lady. “If the bags have been brought up, I could ...”
“Prepare yourself for bed, yes,” finished her husband. “A capital idea. Will you allow us, Mr. Brandt?”
Madeleine saw worry flicker in the young man’s eyes.
“Naturally, sir,” he said, finally. “I only hope the servant is done.” He motioned toward the door. “Please.”
Burns stirred himself to lead the way. “If you will follow me.”
Goodness, but things seemed formal here. Madeleine’s father scooped her mother into his arms, carrying her as if she possessed the weight of a small child. Madeleine followed behind, and Mr. Brandt accompanied her.
Before she began to ascend the stairs, Madeleine noticed a short hall running to the left, at the end of which was an open door leading to a small room. From here she could see a fireplace and a large painting of two young men above it. The room had only the light from the hall for illumination, but she saw identical shocks of flaxen hair, blue eyes ... the same face. She thought she recognized Lord Ambrose in the look of the youths. Was it possible he had a twin?
“Miss Murrow?”
She could not help feeling irritated at poor Mr. Brandt and his genteel look of disapproval. How she wanted to examine that beautiful portrait! But there was nothing to be done but walk docilely upward.
They found her mother’s bedroom near the turning of the stairs. Inside, a young woman in a wrinkled uniform was floating a sheet over the bed, her wispy hair rising and falling with it.
“Woosh, and I’m not done yet,” she said in an aggrieved voice as they entered.
“Quiet,” Burns whispered heavily.
“You be quiet yourself,” returned the maid. “Some of us have been working since dawn this morning and might only have just closed their eyes when scoot! they’re told to get up again and earn their keep. Well, that’s all I’m earning, I can tell you that much, and a fine keep it is, too, when the pigs at my uncle’s farm has better to eat than such as I.”
Mr. Brandt turned mortified eyes toward the Murrows. “I do beg your pardon for Betsy; she’s been with the family a long—”
“Out, woman,” Burns commanded. “I shall finish the bed myself.”
“No, you won’t,” Betsy said. “Can’t any man make a bed better than meself, and look at that poor lady there, ready to sink.” She smoothed a coverlet over the sheets. “There now. All done.”
“Is there no one to attend my wife other than this overworked young woman?” asked Thomas.
“We are expecting help on the morrow, sir, from the village,” Mr. Brandt said.
“Had I known, I would have brought my wife’s maid. Never mind; Burns, inform my driver that he is needed to fetch Zinnia straightaway. He’ll know whom you mean.”
Antonia slid from her husband’s arms to stand beside the bed. “No, let Lindon sleep tonight; he’s not feeling well. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
When Madeleine said she would help her mother dress for bed, the men moved from the room, following the maid like ducks as she announced her intention to prepare the adjoining chamber for Mr. Murrow, then the young lady’s. Madeleine found their valises stacked against the wall, and she opened the one reserved for Antonia’s night wear. A short while later, she tucked her mother in for the night and entered the hall.
To her consternation, everyone seemed to have gone to bed, and she hadn’t the foggiest notion which chamber was hers. She could, however, see that one door remained opened halfway down the corridor. Treading softly, she headed toward it.
As she moved to enter what she supposed must be her room, for the bed had been turned down and a fire lit in the grate, she heard a sound at the end of the hall. She paused and watched as the door to the furthermost chamber swung open. A hand grasped the frame, and then, as if he’d found it necessary to pull himself through, Lord Ambrose appeared. He leaned weakly into the corridor, unaware of her at first. When his eyes finally met hers, he reeled slightly, then straightened. She had the sense of one ready to challenge.
Unmindful of what he might think, she regarded him intently. He certainly did look ill. In the two months since she had met him, he’d lost weight, and the shadows beneath his eyes matched the aching blue in them. Golden hair fell across his forehead; he wore neither boots, jacket, cravat, or waistcoat, and his shirt and pantaloons looked as if he had slept in them.
She could not help noting that a hole had worn through his left stocking at the biggest toe.
Disheveled though he might be, he truly was quite striking.
She felt a strange sensation inside, as if her heart were turning inside out.
He moved slightly closer, although he did not leave the support of the doorway. “How good to meet you again, Miss Murrow,” he said with a mocking little bow, “even if it is before I expected. Are you pleased with what you see?”
She almost stopped breathing. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were gawking at me as though I were an insect beneath an entomologist’s glass.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks burning, she added, “I’m sorry if I seemed to—-if you thought I—” Oh, bother it; how dare he be so rude? “I was not gawking. You look ill, and naturally I was concerned.”
“You are … most considerate.”
By the cynical expression on his face, she could see he did not believe her. Was he so conceited he thought she had stared because he was pleasant to look upon? Surely be did not imagine she had never seen attractive men before, not to mention enjoyed their attentions!
“Thank you.” She drew out the words, imbuing them with a sincerity too strong for belief. “Would that my consideration matched your gracious hospitality.”
His eyes sparkled; she could almost think in appreciation if her opinion of him had not sunk so low. Suddenly, he clutched the doorknob, his pallor increasing.
“Lord Ambrose!” Remembering her father and mother and perhaps Mr. Brandt were trying to sleep on this floor, she stepped a few paces closer to him and stopped beneath one of the wall sconces. In a softer voice she continued, “Are you all r
ight? Shall I send for someone?”
He ran his free hand—the one not holding onto the brass knob—across his face and the back of his neck and made a wan attempt at a smile. “I thought to go outside for a while, but I believe I must lie down again. Forgive me; I’ve been ill.”
Indeed, he was. She now stood closely enough to scent the origin of his sickness. He was ... he was inebriated.
Why, on the eve of the day he expected her, did he find it necessary to drown himself in drink? There could be no good reason; certainly not a flattering one.
Making no attempt to hide her shock, she stepped backward. He saw her distaste and disillusionment, and worry crept into his eyes.
And well it might, she thought.
* * *
Fool! Idiot!
Too much planning had gone into this betrothal-to-be for him to blast his chances at the first draw.
With his back pressed to the closed bedroom door, Ethan gathered strength to return to bed. His chamber pot lay where it had shattered; fortunately, another was hidden in the wardrobe. The two wide windows in his bedroom had been painted shut long ago. He wished he could have escaped the house for that breath of outside air, but so be it. Small enough punishment for the manner in which he had treated Miss Murrow.
He might be soused, but the velvet haze that had sent him into hilarity earlier that evening had dissipated before he spoke so rashly to the young woman. Although he had little respect for a chit willing to sign away her life to a stranger for the privilege of being called viscountess, he could not imagine why he’d felt driven to lessen his prospects by embarrassing her.
The effect of long habits, perhaps, he thought, remembering his brother’s reproaches. Or his disgust at selling himself to the highest bidder. No, he modified with a mirthless laugh. The only bidder.
He had better cover his disgust, and quickly. Otherwise, the paralyzing weekend he’d spent at the Tates (and others like it) had been for naught if he frightened away the first heiress willing to have him. He could not delude himself into thinking more would be forthcoming. Even this one would not have been possible had Lord Tate not assisted him. He recalled how Tate had chafed at his petition to keep quiet the darker aspects of his history; he could not rely on him to do so again.
He moved toward the bed. Tomorrow was another day. He would make a better accounting of himself then.
* * *
Far into the night, when she was certain the house lay sleeping, the woman crept up the stairs with a basket clutched in her hands. When she arrived at the first-floor balcony, she stopped, transferred her burden to one hand, and removed her slippers with the other. Padding down the hall, she walked to the final door and paused, cradling the basket in the crook of one arm. The note, she saw, was still attached to the handle. Tenderly she parted the blanket, gazed at the face of the sleeping infant nestled there, and wished to die. She pressed a kiss to each cheek, lightly so as not to wake the baby, and slowly, soundlessly, turned the knob.
Chapter 2
Had his skull been caught between a pair of grinding rocks, it could not feel worse, Ethan decided the next morning.
It’s what you deserve. Don’t give in to it.
He rose, stumbled to the mirror above his dresser, and groaned at the wretched-looking man staring back.
“I see you less and less often, Lucan,” he mumbled to his image.
Bad as he appeared, he smelled worse. He must have a bath and shave before presenting himself at the breakfast table. The sun had only just cleared the horizon; mayhap he had a hope of service before the guests arose. Grateful for whatever had awakened him so early, he pulled the cord.
He stretched and forced himself to the window. The untamed garden abutting the side of the house looked dismal on this cool morning; even the weeds appeared lifeless. The greenery, such as it was, melded to a barren field that stretched into the distance until meeting the wood that bordered their land and the Redding estate.
As always, the thought of the owner of that estate, William Leed Redding, brought a flare of anger. Fortunately, Redding’s daughter, Alice, and son, George, brought more pleasant feelings. The two younger Reddings, Lucan, and himself had been friends forever, and nothing the father did or ever could do would change that.
A sudden, high-pitched noise put a rude end to his reflections, and Ethan grabbed his head in agony and swerved. He had no difficulty locating the direction of the sound; a basket in the corner. Where the devil had that come from? He crossed the room instantly, yanked the container from the floor, and looked inside.
An infant?
A very angry infant, who met his eyes in full-blown rage, mouth open to emit cries that curdled the blood in his veins.
Deuce take it, what was this thing doing here?
Cursing descriptively, he went to the door, basket in hand, recalled the Murrows sleeping down the hall, and stopped. With a look of horror for the squalling baby, he put the basket down, covered his ears, circled the room, and returned.
“Quiet!” he demanded.
If anything, the babe redoubled its efforts.
“God help me!” he pled, and knelt beside the child. “Please, please stop crying.”
It was then he saw a note attached to the handle with string. With fingers that trembled, he opened it.
There was only one line, printed in ink and written very plainly, without a distinctive style; he did not recognize the handwriting. He read it once, twice, a third time, and could make no sense of the words. Refused to do so.
Please take care of our little one, for I cannot.
Our little one?
Had he spawned this atrocious brat?
Despite the cacophony, he threw his mind backward over the last nine or ten months. Naturally he’d had encounters, but he prided himself on careful selection, confining himself to bored widows and expensive Cyprians. Surely none of them had been so careless. And after Lucan’s death, no one had interested him. He had to admit the possibility of fatherhood, though, and he could almost hear his brother’s warnings and disapproval.
But just as likely, some hapless female ruined herself with a blacksmith or a peddler and decided a viscount’s house was her orphanage of choice.
The more he thought, the more it made sense. What wench wouldn’t prefer it put about that her offspring possessed noble blood? It would not be the first time such a thing happened. And, given his reputation, none of the inhabitants of Brillham would doubt the story.
While he tried to think, the baby continued to howl. He would admit to siring the entire village if only this child would stop screaming.
His eyes wandered to the door. He could not understand why people were not flooding his room to investigate, although he was thankful they were not. Maybe the cries were not so loud as he first thought. Every sound did tend to magnify with his head in its present state, and this wriggling, thrashing pestilence was quite small. He had no experience in judging the age of infants, but he didn’t think it possible for a human being to be much tinier than this; its arms were no thicker than his thumbs.
No, blast it! Diminutive it might be, but those cries could wake the dead. Where was Betsy when she was needed? Why had no one answered his summons?
He gazed wildly at the baby, tapping his chin with his fist. In swift decision, he loosened his fingers, flexed them fastidiously, and settled his hand over the infant’s mouth. Although this muffled the sound slightly, the feel of tiny lips moving beneath his skin appalled. He snatched his hand away and wiped vile wetness on his sleeve.
In nearly the same motion, he pulled the edges of the blanket higher and covered the baby’s face. The resulting quiet was so immediate and profound he almost wept.
Nothing could contain its rage that quickly, though, he thought in sudden unease. Had he suffocated it? He flung back the blanket in time to see and hear a bellow of outrage; the monster had quietened only to draw breath for its loudest protest yet.
In a frenzy, he seized the
basket, strode to his wardrobe, opened the doors, stuffed babe and basket within, and slammed it closed. Feeling near death, he stumbled to his bed and sprawled facedown.
No one is coming. Go find Betsy or Burns! He would in a minute as soon as his brain stopped rolling like a runaway coach.
God help him, he could still hear it. Without moving his head, he patted the bed until his fingers found a pillow. He clutched it over his ears. Still the sound seeped through. The cries were diminishing, though, the voice weakening. He fancied he could hear heaving breaths in between the wails. The edge of anger had left its tone to be replaced by pathetic, mewling sobs.
The pillow grew loose over his head. He nudged it aside. His fingers clawed the counterpane for an instant, and then he pushed himself upward.
When he opened the wardrobe and removed the basket, the babe did not heave a renewed assault on his ears as he’d feared. Crying softly around its fist, it had closed its eyes against him, as if abandoning all hope.
Where in the name of thunder was the maid?
Ethan laid the basket on the bed. He had seen babes and their mothers in cottages. If he could jump hedges on Viking, surely he was able to make his unwelcome guest more comfortable and thus render it quiet.
First, he had to wipe the disgusting moisture from its eyes and nose. He poured water from his bedside pitcher into the washbasin, then moistened a towel. The water was very cold; it probably wouldn’t like it. Cringing in anticipation of howls, he dabbed the face. Eyes opened in surprise and worry, but soon closed again. The hopeless whining continued.
Gingerly, he slipped his fingers beneath the child and lifted. When the head bobbled back, he cupped it with one hand and held the baby at arm’s length. The child wore a white dress, the embroidered cloth of good quality although not expensive, and a matching bonnet. Beneath the garment he could feel the babe’s damp napkin, but there were limits to his hospitality.
“Who are you?” he asked the infant, who opened blue eyes to give him a wobbling squint, then shuttered lashes almost as long as the wisps of hair escaping the bonnet. Its mouth curved downward into a perfect little pout.
The Bridegroom and the Baby Page 2