“You asked me to be truthful,” he reminded.
“Yes, I did. I hadn’t realized how much it would hurt.”
This made him smile. “You would hold me accountable for my behavior before I met you? You’re very hard, Miss Murrow.”
“I’m trying not to be,” she whispered. “Why is it that women are expected to be virtuous, yet men are allowed to ...” She turned on him suddenly. “How would you feel if the situation was reversed?”
“Interesting you should ask,” he said, and told her of his previous day’s imaginings.
“You thought I might be Dorrie’s mother?” she repeated incredulously. “I cannot believe it! You’ve claimed to have deep feelings for me. Does your affection hold no trust?”
“Desperation can make anyone do unexpected things. Even an angel, I imagine.”
She appeared slightly mollified. “Well, in the event any doubts remain in your mind, let me assure you that I am not the mother. But yesterday, what did you think? Were you ready to send me packing?”
“To be honest, I was wondering if I could bear it. I concluded it would depend on the circumstances.”
She frowned. “The circumstances.”
“A woman does not always have a choice in these matters. If you had been seduced by a man you loved who promised marriage, for an example ...”
“You would have been able to forgive that?” she asked doubtfully.
“I believe so.” Actually, he was uncertain, but in this matter he could surely be pardoned for stretching. He knew he dare not give any other answer, not with her eyes so firmly alight. With greater surety, he added, “I wouldn’t have forgiven him.”
Looking skeptical, she turned her face forward. They moved toward the stable doors, pain radiating from Ethan’s head and leg at every step. Earlier, he’d found a bump at the back of his scalp. The thought of a bath and bed grew more pleasant at each breath, but there were things that must be settled first.
“And what of you, Madeleine. If it happens that I am Dorrie’s father ... would that finish things between us?”
“As far as my father is concerned, it would.”
“I’m not concerned with your father, only you. Could you forgive me?”
“I think it would depend on the circumstances,” she answered pertly.
“Madeleine ...”
“Yes, I believe I would.”
She said the words so rapidly and quietly that he could not be sure he heard correctly. But his heart must have; it was singing like a thousand birds taking flight. Painfully, he hobbled after her into the garden stretching between house and stable. Only one more thing need be said.
“If it does happen that Dorrie is my child ... I want to keep her.”
She stopped. “Yes, I suppose you would.” The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden light across her face. “What if it came to a choice between us? Who would you choose?”
“You,” he said without hesitation, although he felt a knot form at his throat.
“Correct answer,” she said with a tiny smile. “But I would not ask you to choose.”
“Correct answer,” he threw back, his relief profound.
Her grin widened briefly, to be replaced by a look of determination. “We cannot breathe a word of this to my parents, especially Papa. It seems to me we must make it our business to find who Dorrie’s parents truly are. It may be that your life depends upon it, if some jealous suitor has discovered the truth.”
“Or thinks he has. I’m not convinced that what happened today has anything to do with Dorrie.”
“If not the baby, then what? Have you made anyone angry?”
He thought for a moment. “I can’t imagine who. I’ve hardly had contact with anyone since Lucan died.”
“What of your list of possible mothers?” Her expression darkened. “Have you ... had contact with any one of them? Maybe an irate father means to punish you.”
“I’ve been nearly a recluse for the past half year. Before that ...” He closed his mouth, deciding to think to himself. A litany of lovers could hardly endear himself to his intended.
They had come to a halt beside a backless bench placed among the weeds. Chilly, sore, and tired, Ethan sat, and Madeleine joined him, her spine stiffly straight.
His gaze wandered across the stone walls of his home as he recalled his past sins. There had been Sylvia Sharpe, a widow. But she could not be the mother; she married shortly after their affair and moved to America. She would hardly have shipped her baby across the Atlantic. He’d kept an actress for a brief time, flame-haired Amethyst Subarro, but they had ended nearly a year ago; certainly longer than Dorrie was old. Had there been another? He could not think of anyone. After many lost years, Lucan’s entreaties had started to take effect; Ethan was beginning to settle down.
Lucan, whose life may have been more deceitful than his own.
“I don’t believe I’m the father.” Highly aware of Madeleine’s steady gaze, he said, “One thing is certain. If Leah Abbott is the mother, I know I’m not the father.”
“It’s good you can be sure of something.” This heavy irony did not go past him unnoticed, and he winced. “Well, it’s very hard to imagine a woman would accuse an innocent man without reason, and that’s what you’re asking me to believe—that someone would abandon her child to a third party.”
“Perhaps she made the mistake of thinking a title means wealth. Or her situation could have been so appalling that mine looked infinitely better.”
Her expression turned pensive. Glancing downward, she inhaled sharply at the sight of his leg. “We’d best go in; your wound needs tending.” He agreed and started to rise. “Oh! I had almost forgotten. There’s a woman inside who has been waiting for you all day, a Mrs. McDaniel. She’s seeking a position and hopes especially to care for the infant,”
“I’m sorry I’m not able to accommodate her, but—”
“No, you don’t understand!” She grabbed his arm. “You must hire her because it’s too peculiar that she has shown up just now, don’t you think? What if she is the baby’s mother!”
He could not follow her logic. “And has changed her mind, you mean?”
“Yes, or she could intend to be close to Dorrie by working here. There is only one way to find out.”
“Very well,” he said, and set his teeth against the pain as he struggled toward the house. “This will only work if she’s willing to labor for food and shelter.”
“Oh, bosh; as to her wages, I can pay them from my pin money.”
How the mighty have fallen, Ethan thought, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sad smile. In more ways than one.
* * *
During the next hour, Madeleine dressed for dinner, exchanging her day dress for a more formal gown of the palest green silk, hoping its long-sleeved velvet bodice would keep her warm in the viscount’s drafty house. With Zinnia’s help, she swept her hair upward into a crown of curls, twining an emerald bandeau among them.
Although it wasn’t quite time for dinner, she was anxious to see how the viscount fared and so hurried downstairs. She wasn’t in such a rush that she failed to gaze at the grand barrenness of the hall around her. She still did not know how to think of this residence, whether manse or castle or abbey.
With what she hoped was an objective eye, she studied the ceiling vaulting above her, the faded tapestries, the suit of armor, and the central table with its marble statue of Diana, bow and arrows gripped in one hand, standing companionably beside a reclining lion. There were several public rooms not in use because of economy; should she become mistress here, her first order of business would be to make them hospitable. Being restricted to the library, dining room, and her bedroom was beginning to make her feel like a prisoner. And color—how the house hungered for color! Now that she thought upon it, the lack of a warm palette was no doubt more responsible for her constant feeling of coolness than the temperature.
A trifle early for schemes of redecoration, s
he counseled herself wryly as she entered the library. There were more important things to think about. Somehow the viscount and she must discover the baby’s parents—or mother— and quickly. She was certain Ethan’s safety lay in that direction; and despite his denials, she was not entirely ready to dismiss the possibility of his fathering Dorrie. The viscount might wish to spare her feelings in denying parentage, but the rope across the path screamed hate and revenge.
She wished he would not be so reluctant to take responsibility. As he implied, she could hardly condemn him for past acts (although a woman would be, the thought stubbornly persisted). As Bettina’s sister, she had reason to understand indiscretions of the heart.
Her parents and Mr. Brandt were already waiting in the library. After greeting them, she asked about Lord Ambrose.
“I checked on him less than a half hour ago,” Mr. Brandt said, looking well in dark evening wear, his cravat crisp and white as a summer cloud. “Against his wishes, I fetched the surgeon to stitch up his leg. Afterwards, he had a good soak and was dressing when I left. I expect him down any moment.”
“Such an awful thing, his falling,” Antonia said. “I’m so glad he’s all right.”
“How’s his stallion?” Thomas asked.
“I just talked to Burns, and the groom says Viking should be right as rain in a few days.”
“That’s good news.”
Madeleine thought so, too, but wished Ethan would hurry. Although she conversed with civility during the next few moments, she fidgeted inside, growing wild to see him again. She could not stop thinking about his safety. When he finally appeared, coming not from the stairs as she expected, but from the back of the house, she beamed.
His eyes met hers and softened. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, raising the cane he used demonstratively. “Grandfather’s walking stick; Betsy insisted on finding it for me in the attic. And I confess I looked in on Viking. Then I interviewed a new servant briefly; she caught me as I passed through the kitchen.”
“Oh, did you hire poor Mrs. McDaniel?” Antonia asked, her expression eager.
Daring a playful look at Madeleine, he said, “In a manner of speaking.”
“I’m delighted you did, for I suspect there is more to her story than she’s telling. I see tragedy in her eyes.”
“You have too kind a heart,” Thomas said. “You see stories in everyone.”
She tilted her head to the side. “But does not every person have an intriguing history?”
“Indeed they do, Mrs. Murrow,” Ethan said, limping toward her.
“Some are more believable than others,” Thomas added with a pointed glance at the viscount.
Mr. Brandt rose. “Have you decided about tomorrow, my lord?”
Ethan paused, leaning on his cane as he pulled a bench closer to the older lady. As he sat beside her, extending his leg awkwardly to do so, he echoed, “Tomorrow?”
“You and Miss Murrow were scheduled to ride with the Reddings, I believe.”
“Scott, you’re better than a calendar. Thank you for reminding me; with today’s events it slipped my mind.”
Madeleine felt as surprised as the viscount looked. She, too, had forgotten their Friday engagement, although on her part she believed the loss of memory was spawned by an eagerness to forget.
“It’s obvious you’re not able to ride,” Brandt said. “Shall I send the groom to cancel? Unless Miss Murrow would like to go, of course; in which case I’d be pleased to offer my escort.”
“How kind of you to sacrifice yourself.” Ethan sent him a dark look, then rested his eyes on Madeleine. “Well, Miss Murrow, do you wish to accept Scott’s invitation?”
Madeleine had little desire to spend time with the charming, but untrustworthy, Alice. She thanked Mr. Brandt as prettily as she could, but declined, straining to keep relief from her voice.
The viscount appeared satisfied with her answer. “It seems neither of us can go, so we had better let them know as soon as possible. Thank you for volunteering to tell them we can’t be there. I’ll have Cook keep your dinner warm.”
Mr. Brandt gave a short laugh. “I’d thought to send the groom.”
“But how impersonal that would be, especially when a man of your elegant manners is available to soothe any ruffled feelings.”
“Ethan,” he said, coloring, “it’s raining, and I’m dressed for dinner.”
“I’m sure the Reddings will be even more appreciative of your message because of that.”
Brandt sent Madeleine a scalded look, but he said nothing, only bowed stiffly and left the room.
She studied Ethan with worry and more than a trace of ire. It was not the first time she’d noticed his unkindness to his friend, but this was the worst.
“Are you in pain, my lord?” she asked.
“Careful how you answer,” Thomas said grimly, his lips tight. “Only a headache the size of a volcano could justify such a display, and I’m not certain even that qualifies.”
“Scott is used to my ways,” Ethan said dismissively, and stood, offering one arm to Madeleine’s mother. “May I escort you to dinner, dear lady? You are looking uncommonly fine tonight.”
It was so, Madeleine realized despite her irritation. All day her mother’s voice had sounded stronger, her breathlessness hardly noticeable. Her cheeks, while not blooming with color, glowed faintly; and when she rose from the chaise lounge, she did so with less difficulty than usual.
As Madeleine took her father’s arm, she tried not to let hope run rampant. Her mother had rallied before, and she must not become overly optimistic. Still, she would have smiled as she went in to dinner, if she were not so appalled at the viscount’s behavior.
Dinner proceeded with an awkwardness that gradually diminished, although Ethan’s actions were not forgotten by anyone, Madeleine felt sure. Certainly Mr. Brandt had not, for when he joined them afterward in the library, dripping without apology on the viscount’s Persian rug, his smile was as cold as it was wide.
“The Reddings were very let down that you can’t ride tomorrow,” he said after greeting them briefly. “When I told them of your accident, Ethan, Alice extended an invitation for you and Miss Murrow to join them for tea instead. Since you were not there to advise me, I accepted on your behalf.”
“How good of you,” Lord Ambrose said, his mouth twisting dryly. “And you’ll be joining us, of course?”
Scott’s lashes veiled his eyes. “Sorry, my lord. The shipment of wheat seeds, remember? Someone should be here to receive them.”
Ethan smiled slowly. “Ah. Such a pity. You’ll be missed.”
Chapter 11
Word of the viscount’s accident spread quickly, and by eleven o’clock on the following day, Lord Ambrose had entertained several unexpected visitors. “Curiosity-seekers,” he told Madeleine after Mr. Tanberry, a gentleman farmer who lived nearby, departed. “All they want are the grisly details, so they can spread rumors and feel important in doing so.”
For the moment, they were alone in the library. Mr. Brandt was outdoors. Antonia, walking slowly but unaided, had gone upstairs to change for luncheon, with Thomas accompanying her. Madeleine sat alone on the settee, and Lord Ambrose sprawled in the chair opposite, his leg stretched upon an ottoman. She knew his limb pained him, for he walked very stiffly today, but one could make allowances for only so much.
“You’re very cynical, Ethan. Sometimes I despair of you.”
“Don’t, fair lady; you’re my only hope.” His smile faltered as he plucked a piece of lint from his cuff. “I’ve not seen even one of today’s guests since Lucan’s funeral. They are like vultures, only around when the scent of disaster is in the air. Although why that should surprise me when the majority still suspect me of doing in my brother, I don’t know.”
“Have you visited any of them?” she challenged.
His eyes narrowed dangerously, making her heart accelerate even though she knew he was playing. “How boldly you strike, Miss Murrow. I stand
before you guilty as charged. What sentence do you decree?”
She dared not answer what she was thinking, that she would favor a kiss above everything. Even his bad- temperedness could not put her off, because the delicious spark in his eyes showed he did not mean half of what he said. Besides, he had a right to be vexed; he could have lost his life yesterday, and from all appearances, someone wanted to kill or at least hurt him. And he still mourned his brother; she often caught the bleak look in his eyes when he forgot himself.
He was a complex man, the viscount, and not an easy one. But he excited her, and she could think of nothing more pleasing than kissing him at this very moment.
A fine idea, that. All her father needed was to return and find them so occupied; he could hardly maintain civility to Ethan as it was. Best to change the subject, she decided.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t mentioned the rope to anyone.”
“There’s no use in that. If someone intended harm, he would hardly confess.”
“But if the rope was left there unintentionally, perhaps someone would step forward and solve the mystery.”
“Oh, certainly, just as they did for my brother’s accident.”
His eyes grew distant and troubled. She decided to stir him from further morbid reveries about his twin.
“Have you any further ideas for finding Dorrie’s mother?”
“I thought you decided she belongs to that woman I hired yesterday. My pardon, but it seems too much the melodrama to me—the fallen mother hired to serve her child. Too trite by far.”
“Very well,” she said, irked at his criticism of her deductive powers. “Then how will you proceed?”
“My first plan is to recover full use of my leg.” He bent his knee slightly and pulled a face. Today he wore loose trousers rather than pantaloons; nevertheless, Madeleine could see the outline of bandages inside the cloth. “Or maybe I’ll send Scott in my stead, since he’s so worried I’ll lose respect in your father’s eyes. Surely he won’t object to knocking on all the doors in the district and asking the householders if they’ve lost an infant. Yes, a brilliant plan; I amaze myself sometimes.”
The Bridegroom and the Baby Page 13