by Jaimey Grant
They sat in silence until the tray arrived. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence but there was some undeniable tension.
Bri poured and handed her friend a cup without first asking if she would even like one. This action was unusual considering the last time they had spoken, Bri had been Verena’s abigail. Lady Connor’s worry deepened.
The marchioness strove for a topic that would relax her friend. Bri saved her the trouble.
“How is Lord Connor? Oh, but he is Beverley now, of course. How is he?” Bri’s smile was bright and her eyes were blank of anything but curiosity.
“He is well. He refuses to use the title. You heard about his brother?” Verena asked a trifle reluctantly. It was not a subject she cared to talk much about.
“Only recently I was told that he died leaving Lord Connor Denbigh’s heir. Why should he refuse to be known as Lord Beverley?”
Verena looked down at her hands, which trembled slightly. She carefully set her cup and saucer down before replying to Bri’s remark. When she did, she was glad to note the emotionless quality of her voice.
“Beverley died suspiciously in France. I was living with Amelia, Connor’s aunt, when we heard of it.” Then she waited for the inevitable question.
Bri’s face took on a puzzled frown. “Living with Connor’s aunt? Where was Connor?” She paused briefly but hurried on. “Oh, don’t answer that, please. It was very impertinent of me to ask. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Bri. You are my friend.”
She left it at that. She picked up her teacup and sipped cautiously, willing her hands to be still. It amazed her how much certain memories still affected her.
Verena closed her eyes. She felt her cup being lifted from her suddenly nerveless fingers and her hand was tightly encased in Bri’s. “Tell me,” Bri requested gently.
“I came here to offer you comfort and friendship, not to beg it of you,” Verena replied in a quavering voice.
Bri grinned. “Yes, you did, my dear. But you will see that whereas you took no for an answer, I will not. I am stubborn, so you may as well speak.” Her voice softened. “And I can tell you need to.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she said with a careless wave of her free hand. “I just have trouble talking about it.”
“Why?”
Verena looked away again. Her voice was so low, Bri had to lean forward to hear her. “You know I was raped, Bri. I still have difficulty speaking of that time in my life.”
Bri commiserated with her but said nothing.
Verena visibly brightened. “But that is the past and I have no desire to speak of it anymore. Adam Prestwich was the one that discovered the truth, by the way.”
When she said the name, Verena watched for Bri’s reaction. The countess stiffened for a moment before dropping a careful social mask in place over her features. Verena had been hoping for a way to casually mention Adam and judge for herself the way things stood between her two friends. Bri’s reaction was not encouraging.
“Indeed?” Bri responded politely, releasing her hand and reaching for the teapot.
“Yes,” Verena responded with false lightness.
Bri sat very silently. Verena wondered what was going through her head. The countess moved to set her teacup on the table in front of her. Her movements were slow as if she were moving in a dream.
The two women sat in silence for a moment. It was a tense, rather awkward silence fraught with uneasy thoughts on each side.
Verena was the first to speak. “Why, until today, have I been denied admittance?” she asked softly.
Bri threw her an apologetic look. She was unsure what to tell her without either hurting her feelings or letting on that she, Bri, was in trouble just as the marchioness suspected.
She chose her words carefully. “I’m afraid it was all a dreadful misunderstanding. My uncle, Corning, thought it would be painful for me to be reminded of that time when I was away.”
Verena gave her an unreadable look. Her brow was furrowed slightly and she appeared to be thinking very carefully about the countess’s words.
The silence returned. Neither lady even made a pretense of ease by reaching for a biscuit or refilling her teacup. Lady Rothsmere finally broke it.
“Why did you not approach me at any of the parties we have attended?” She sounded hurt. She could hear it in her own voice. She tried to smile but failed. She was hurt. Very much.
Verena reached out and grasped her hand. “I wanted to, believe me. But Connor and I thought perhaps you would not want to be reminded either. I know what a difficult time you’ve had since you left us. And then, of course, you were always surrounded by so many gallants, I didn’t like to break up your enjoyment.” She paused and bit her lip.
“What?” Bri asked, seeing her friend wanted to say something but was unsure if she should.
“Why Steyne, Bri?” she blurted out finally. “I mean, he was a scoundrel when I knew him and I doubt he’s changed so very much.”
“He is my betrothed,” Bri responded tightly. “I am marrying him. That is an end to the matter.” She rose, signaling the end of the visit. “I really must return to my other guests, my lady. Please excuse me.”
Bri swept from the room with her head high. But Verena had caught the blaze of raw anguish in the depths of her friend’s emerald eyes just before she had turned away.
Lady Connor Northwicke departed deep in thought.
Chapter Twenty
Oh, it was all too much, Bri thought again as she tried to stop the perpetual flow of tears. She had noticed the hurt look on Verena’s face when she had left yesterday and she hated having to hurt her. But she couldn’t let anyone know of the perfectly miserable hell her life had become.
Brewster had proven to be a ruthless protector since the night of Bri’s rape and the countess was eternally grateful to the woman. But there was only so much the woman could do and she couldn’t be everywhere at once.
Bri shuddered as she remembered Steyne’s visit in the middle of the night. He had been furious when Brewster had adamantly refused to leave her mistress’s side—the woman had taken to sleeping in Bri’s room at night. Steyne had left swearing retribution but even he knew the power of servants’ gossip, so he had left with little more harm done than the threat.
Except the new bruise that Bri sported on her upper arm and along the outside of her right thigh. These had been acquired when the viscount had grabbed her arm and thrown her against the bed. Her leg had struck the bedpost and she ended up on the floor gasping and struggling not to cry. Her refusal to show her fear seemed to enrage him all the more and she had found herself being shaken roughly before her maid stepped in to put an end to the abuse.
That was when the viscount had taken himself off. Then Bri had once again found herself wrapped in the comforting arms of her maid and sobbing out her hurt and anger at the injustices of life.
Sunlight came through the part in the curtains and landed full on Bri’s sleeping face. She came awake slowly, reluctantly. Her eyes opened, bloodshot from the tears shed in the night, with dark circles under them. A walk, she thought groggily, pushing herself up and out of the huge bed. She needed a walk in the fresh air, in the park, before anyone else was there.
Brewster came in and stopped short at the sight of her. Bri was wearing a nightgown of demure length but with no sleeves and made of near transparent white muslin. It was unusual for a young unmarried lady to wear such scandalous nightclothes, but Bri preferred it. Until now, that is. The maid’s eyes widened in dismay and Bri looked a question at her before following her gaze.
“No,” the young woman said determinedly, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists against the onslaught of fresh tears. “I will not cry. He does not have that power over me.”
And so she smiled brightly, despite the purple and blue bruise marring the delicate flesh of her upper arm and the soreness of her right leg. She had little doubt she would find it just
as colorful. Brewster said nothing as she helped her mistress into a long-sleeved walking dress of dark blue. But she couldn’t keep the pity from her eyes.
The sun was shining just as brightly as it had been when she awoke. Bri paused and lifted her face to the warmth of the sun just after they entered Hyde Park. Brewster waited patiently with a resigned look on her plain features until they resumed walking.
The women walked sedately forward, the maid a few paces behind her mistress as was proper. Bri longed for someone in whom she could confide. Only Brewster knew the extent of her troubles.
But there was little a servant could do. They could have Brewster killed—and, no, Bri did not feel she was making a Cheltenham tragedy of the situation or seeing villains were there were none—or make her conveniently disappear. They were in London, after all, where the East End teemed with seedy characters trying to make a living in any way, however disreputable, that they could. Disposing of a disobedient maid would be child’s play to them.
Upon reaching a bench, Bri sat with an unladylike plop. She had never really cared very much for all the proprieties anyway. Brewster stood behind her.
“Sit down, Mary,” the countess commanded softly. “I have need of your calm good sense.”
The maid hesitated. “It wouldn’t be proper, my lady.”
“Hang the proprieties!” she exclaimed irritably. Then she untied her pretty straw bonnet, removed it, and threw to the ground beside her.
Brewster pursed her lips in disapproval and thanked the fates that the park was even more empty than usual this morning.
Bri scowled up at her. “Sit, Brewster, or find new employ,” she growled lowly.
“Well, put that way,” the maid said with a faint smile. She sat.
Silence prevailed for several moments. Bri sat and listened, entranced, to the peaceful, calming sounds of birds trilling, the occasional bark of a dog, and somewhere beyond the park gates were the sounds of men and women hawking their wares to the early risers of London.
She sighed. “Why cannot life be simple?” she asked wistfully.
“Probably because simple is boring, I dare say,” replied an amused voice behind her.
Bri swung around, eyes wide with fright, and encountered the serious blue-eyed gaze of Lord Connor Northwicke. His lips smiled but she could tell he wasn’t truly amused at all. His eyes were blank.
“Lord Connor, how do you do?” she inquired politely. She rose to her feet and winced slightly as her injured leg protested the sudden movement. Brewster rose as well and curtsied before stepping a respectful distance away from the pair.
Connor caught the look of pain that streaked Lady Rothsmere’s face. He said nothing, knowing instinctively that she would lie about its cause. Instead, he smiled and bowed before gesturing that she be seated again.
Brewster read a command in the marquess’s eyes and walked a short distance away. Bri watched her go with a little look of dismay twisting her lips. She really did not want to be left alone with Verena’s husband.
Connor sat down beside her, picked up her bonnet, and laid it carefully on the bench on his other side. He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and stretched his legs straight out in front of him with his ankles crossed. He then proceeded to stare at his boots. He didn’t look at her or speak.
“What brings you to the park at this early hour, my lord?” she asked with a bright, albeit nervous, smile. She realized she betrayed her nervousness in the way she fiddled with the ribbon of her pelisse and forced her hands to be still.
“Why does anyone walk early in the morning?” he replied with a shrug of one immaculately clad shoulder. “To commune with nature, to find a modicum of peace in an otherwise hellish existence, if you’ll pardon the expression.” He didn’t look up. His boots seemed to be the most interesting things he had seen in quite some time.
Bri wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed pose. She could feel the tension that seemed to radiate from him. He was waiting, biding his time. When he felt sure she had relaxed her guard, he would pounce. And she would be powerless to stop herself from telling him everything.
Fixing him with a steely glare, she intoned softly, “It really is no use, you know.”
He turned a look of polite inquiry on her, blue eyes wide and innocent.
“Everything is fine,” she lied. “I don’t know what Doll told you, my lord, but—”
“Con,” he said with a cheeky grin that she found thoroughly exasperating.
“Con, then,” she conceded. “Whatever she told you, she’s wrong.”
His grin disappeared. He looked very…pensive, Bri decided.
“It wasn’t Verena’s very relevant worry that brought me here, Bri. It was actually what Miss Emerson told me.”
“Miss Emerson?” she asked, startled.
“Yes, my dear Lady Rothsmere, Miss Raven Emerson. It seems she has taken quite a liking to you and has taken it upon herself to keep an eye on you. She’s worried. She shared her worries with me. I am asking you if I should be worried about you.”
Bri bit her lip to keep from crying out that she needed and wanted his help desperately, that she was likely to die without it.
But she said none of this and shrugged carelessly instead. “Any troubles I have are of my own making and trifling, I do assure you.”
Well, she lied just as he had assumed she would. He watched her rise from the bench, retrieve her bonnet, and walk away with her jailer of a maid walking closely behind.
He had dropped Raven’s name because he knew that Bri was more likely to seek out that woman’s help before she would ever seek out Adam.
Which reminded him, Adam was due to arrive at his London residence later this day at the earliest. And if Connor knew Adam, he was probably already there.
He was. And pacing furiously in Connor’s study. Verena was actually there with him, despite the queasiness of her stomach. She watched Adam pause, mutter something under his breath, rake a hand through his hair, and continue pacing. Her stomach protested and her head began to ache.
“Sit down, Adam, do,” she commanded irritably.
He stopped and cocked an imperious brow at her. She pursed her lips. “Don’t try to use your haughty look on me, Mr. Adam Prestwich, because I’ll not have it. I know you’re worried. I know you’re restless. You are also making me ill. Please sit.”
Adam grinned suddenly. Verena marveled at how very good-looking he was when he smiled. He didn’t hold a candle to Connor, of course, but he was still very attractive.
He sat in the chair opposite, his grin never faltering. “You’re increasing again, aren’t you?”
Verena frowned in disgust. “Is it written on my forehead? I swear everyone knows and I’ve told no one.”
An imp prompted Adam to inform her, “You are so moody when you are enceinte.”
Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “I am not,” she denied fiercely. Then she smiled. “Perhaps I am, a little,” she conceded. “Okay, a lot,” she responded to the look of patent disbelief on Adam’s face.
“I wondered if you were already here,” Connor remarked to Prestwich as he entered the room. He bent to kiss his wife on the cheek. “And irritating my wife, I’ve no doubt. Did she tell you our news?”
“No, I guessed,” Adam replied with a grin. Connor laughed.
Verena glowered at both of them. “Enjoy your jest, you great oafs. I am going to retire for a few more hours. I was only here to ensure Mr. Prestwich didn’t break anything with his incessant pacing and grumbling. Excuse me.”
“Was she this ill and crotchety last time? I was only present for the last few months, you know, and she didn’t seem quite so tetchy although she was far more irritable than normal.” Connor looked at the door and waited for his friend to answer.
A shadow crossed Adam’s face. It had been an unusual situation. Adam had been present in Verena’s life for the first five months of her first pregnancy instead of her husband. Con and Verena had a
ctually lived apart just after the identity of her rapist had been discovered. So Adam had spent those five months traveling back and forth from London to the Dover coast in Kent where Verena had been residing with Con’s Aunt Amelia. He was also using that time to search for Bri.
“Of course she was,” he said now. “She may have actually been worse,” he added thoughtfully.
Adam suddenly changed the subject. “Tell me what has happened to Bri.”
Connor sighed, sat down in the seat just vacated by his wife, and shoved a hand through his golden curls. Adam raised his brows at this gesture. The situation was serious, then. Connor did not have the habit of shoving his hand through his hair unless he was very agitated indeed.
“I’m glad Verena chose to leave and I didn’t have to force her to go,” his friend commented much to Adam’s surprise. The marchioness was usually completely in her husband’s confidence. “The situation is far more serious than I revealed in that letter, Adam. Far more than any of us think, I’d wager. The trouble is, Bri won’t talk to anyone about it. Not even Doll.”
“She won’t talk to Verena?” Adam echoed numbly. He felt suddenly very cold and a tingle of unease crept up his spine and into his brain to take up permanent residence there. “If she won’t talk to your wife, her only friend, than who will she talk to?”
“Your mistress, I hope,” Con replied. He looked at Adam and smiled faintly. “Sorry, she’s not yours anymore, is she? Greville’s mistress, now, from what I hear.”
“Who the devil is Greville?” Adam asked.
“Bri’s cousin and the only member of her family that seems to give a damn,” the marquess replied shortly. He rose to his feet and retrieved the brandy decanter and two glasses.
Adam’s brow furrowed. Her cousin? He couldn’t remember meeting any cousin with any sort of filial affection for the girl. He met Viscount Breckon, nobody by the name of Greville.