by Cheryl Holt
“I don’t plan to ever see him again, so you don’t need to spy on him for me.”
“It appears that he might continue seeing you though. He pops up when we least expect it. Would you like him to court you? You might be happier. If he misbehaves with you, should I mind my own business and look the other way?”
She forced a smile. “What a silly question. I have no intention of misbehaving. Not with him or anyone.”
She couldn’t bear how he was studying her, as if he could dig down to the bottom of her soul and pry out all her secrets. She was blatantly fibbing, and he realized she was.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she was on the verge of weeping, as if Hunter Stone had made promises and had broken them. It crushed her to picture him consorting with trollops like Isabella Darling, but it was none of her affair.
She whipped away and kept on to her apartment, not keen to tarry and let her brother ask more questions that would leave her more distressed than she already was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“That’s a nasty cut. How did you injure yourself?”
“I had an accident while I was in town.”
“It must have been some accident.”
“It was.”
Rebecca sat in the dining parlor at Parkhurst, watching Mr. Carew chat with Winston. She’d snuck down to breakfast at an early hour when she’d expected the room to be empty, but to her dismay, both men had been present.
Winston had had pressing business in London, and he’d dashed to the city, spent the night, then returned with his hand injured. A towel was wrapped around it and tied tight, but she could see where blood had seeped through.
“Have you summoned a doctor?” Mr. Carew asked.
“Not yet, but I’m planning on it.”
“You’ll probably need it stitched.”
“Thank you for pointing that out. If you hadn’t mentioned it, the prospect wouldn’t have occurred to me.” Winston’s tone was very sarcastic, but then, he couldn’t be feeling very well. He said to Mr. Carew, “Aren’t you leaving this morning? It’s what my wife tells me.”
The comment wasn’t overtly rude, but at the same juncture, it was incredibly rude too. Mr. Carew had stopped by without an invitation, and because they had so few visitors, her mother had been accommodating.
Rebecca wanted to confess to her mother that Mr. Carew was urging her to run away with him, but she was afraid Amelia would blame her for fueling the situation. She was frightened of Mr. Carew, and she couldn’t seem to deflect his quiet seduction. A bigger worry was that he might approach Amelia with a proposal of marriage.
Or he might kidnap Rebecca and whisk her away without anyone recognizing what had transpired. At school, there had been stories about that sort of thing happening to heiresses. The kidnappers were always rakes who redeemed themselves, and the heiresses wound up being glad, but Rebecca didn’t think it would be romantic to run away with Mr. Carew.
She simply wished he’d quit bothering her, but he wouldn’t, so she’d started hiding in various spots where she wouldn’t be found. Luckily, her mother hadn’t remarked on her lack of socializing and hadn’t pestered her as to why.
She had to travel to London to speak to Hannah. Initially, she’d been scared to confide in Hannah, but Hannah would be able to advise her as to how she should proceed with regard to numerous issues.
Would her mother allow a trip to town? Rebecca would have to obtain her permission, and she doubted Amelia would agree.
“Would you excuse me?” she murmured.
She stood and fled, and neither man noticed her departure. She scurried up to her bedchamber, but as she went down the hall toward her room, Mr. Carew appeared at the other end. The fiend must have rushed up the rear stairs.
He hurried over and clasped her hands. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. Won’t you come with me? You don’t even have to pack a bag. You can meet me out on the lane.”
“My mother would find out, and she’d prevent me.”
“How about if you slipped away at night? You could tiptoe out when she’s sleeping.”
He was so determined, and she felt as if she’d never escape his machinations. She hadn’t responded to his suggestion, and he vehemently said, “You can’t stay here with them. Let me keep you safe!”
“I can’t imagine sneaking away. I would be so difficult.” Why wouldn’t he take no for an answer?
“It would be very easy. You’d creep out after everyone was in bed. We’d jump in my carriage and race away. You’d be free of your mother forever.”
“What would we do after we left? Would we marry?”
“Yes, I’d carry you to Scotland and make you my bride. Mr. and Mrs. Webster could never hurt you after that. You would belong to me. Not them.”
She pretended to ponder, then she lied to him. “All right. Mother is supposed to go to London in two weeks. You could return for me then.”
The truth was that her mother never went anywhere. She would be at Parkhurst just like always, so she’d furnish a bit of a barrier to Mr. Carew’s advances. Hopefully, Rebecca would have figured out how to get to London by then, and she would have Hannah to protect her. Jackson too.
If she told Jackson about how Mr. Carew had been annoying her, he might punch the horrid man in the nose.
“Are you sure about this?” he said. “If you don’t mean it, I’ll be crushed.”
“I’ll meet you out by the front gate. In two weeks.”
“Shortly after midnight, on Saturday. I’ll be waiting for you. Bring only a small portmanteau of the necessities. Don’t choose anything heavy that would slow you down.”
“I’ll pack carefully.”
To her great relief, footsteps sounded behind them, and she moved away from him.
“It was lovely of you to visit,” she said. “Have a nice trip.”
He whispered, “Two weeks from today! I shall be on pins and needles until then.”
She flashed a vague smile, then continued on as a maid appeared.
“Could you assist me?” She posed the question to the girl loudly enough that Mr. Carew would realize she wouldn’t be by herself and he shouldn’t follow her.
“Yes, what is it you need?” the girl asked.
Rebecca grabbed her arm and led her to her bedchamber.
“Would you tarry with me for a moment?” she said. “Then I’d like you to peek out and tell me if Mr. Carew is still there.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“I don’t like him!” she blurted out.
“Neither does anyone else.” The girl winked, then glanced out into the hall. “He’s gone, Miss Rebecca.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll head down to the foyer and watch to guarantee he rides off. I’ll come back and let you know, so don’t worry.”
The maid flitted out, and Rebecca locked the door. She walked to the window and stared at the horizon until she was informed that he’d departed. She breathed a huge sigh, feeling as if she’d dodged a bullet.
It was time to speak with her mother about Winston and his assertion that he was Rebecca’s father. When Mr. Carew had still been in residence, she hadn’t dared raise the issue, for it would have stirred a hornet’s nest while they’d had a guest.
She proceeded straight to Amelia’s suite and was glad to find her alone. She was seated on the stool at her dressing table. She constantly studied herself in the mirror to check for signs of aging that Winston wouldn’t like.
“What do you want?” she demanded when Rebecca entered. “You’ve been staggering about, looking as morose as an undertaker. What’s wrong?”
“You wouldn’t ever betroth me to Mr. Carew, would you?”
Her mother spun around and scoffed. “Gad, no. He’s too far beneath you. I would never consider it.”
Rebecca should have received some solace from the denial, but Amelia had tried to engage her to Viscount Marston, even though Rebecca had been deeply opposed. After that debacle, R
ebecca would never trust her mother again.
“Swear it,” Rebecca said with a particular intensity. “Swear you won’t give me to Mr. Carew.”
“I won’t; I swear. Will that be all?”
“No. I have to ask another question, but you won’t like it.”
“What is it? Please spit it out. Don’t dither and waste my time.”
“A few days ago, I heard you and Winston talking when I shouldn’t have.”
“Shame on you.”
“I was in the hall and your door wasn’t closed.”
“That’s no excuse for rude conduct.” Amelia was out of patience. “Spit it out, Rebecca. What is vexing you?”
“Is Winston my real father? I thought it was Sir Edmund, but is it Winston?”
Amelia gasped, then her expression grew sly. “No, Winston is not your father. What an absurd notion!”
“He said it out loud.”
“If you think so, then you’re gravely mistaken.”
“It’s why people are so awful to me, isn’t it? Everyone knows.”
Amelia waved her out. “Go away. I can’t abide you when you whine and nag.”
“I’m not whining. I just wish you’d tell me the truth.”
“I’ve told it to you your entire life: Sir Edmund Graves is your father.”
But while Amelia forcefully declared it, she couldn’t hold Rebecca’s gaze. Her mother could claim whatever she liked, but Rebecca wouldn’t believe her.
“If Sir Edmund isn’t my father,” she started, but her mother cut her off.
“He is your father, and if you utter such a ridiculous tale in the future, I will slap you silly, then lock you in your bedchamber for a month.”
Rebecca was undeterred. “If Sir Edmund isn’t my father, then it’s not right that half of Parkhurst was bequeathed to me. The property should have passed to Hannah. Maybe Jackson too, but not to me.”
Amelia’s temper soared, and she leapt up so fast that her stool toppled over. She grabbed Rebecca and shook her very hard.
“Your surname of Graves,” she said, “and your ownership of Parkhurst are the only things that make you special. You will not cast them off with false allegations. Cease your nonsense immediately!”
“I refuse to be Winston’s daughter.”
“We are not discussing it! Be silent.”
Amelia marched out, and she dragged Rebecca with her. They stomped to Rebecca’s room, and Amelia pushed her inside.
“You have enraged me beyond my limit,” her mother said, “so you will remain sequestered to reflect on how much you’ve upset me.”
“I demand to go to London,” was Rebecca’s reply. “I want to live with Hannah instead of you. If you won’t give me permission, I’ll run away to be with her—whether you like it or not.”
“You’re too much of a coward to behave rashly. Besides, you couldn’t stay with her.”
“Yes, I could! She invited me!”
“I simply mean that she’s had some difficulties in town.”
Rebecca scowled. “What kind of difficulties? What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Winston mentioned that there was a problem at her shop, so I imagine she’ll be moving home shortly.”
“She would never move back here.”
“Well, circumstances change, don’t they? And catastrophe can strike when you least expect it. Hannah had a lesson to learn.”
“What lesson? What did Winston do to her?”
“Winston? He was merely repeating gossip. Now then, you will be locked in until you can promise me you’ve adjusted your attitude.”
“I’m not a child anymore. You can’t treat me like this.”
“Can’t I?”
Amelia pulled the door shut, and before Rebecca could stop her, she spun the key.
Rebecca rushed over and jerked on the knob, but to no avail. She knocked and hollered for help, but no one heard her, or if they did hear, no one arrived to discover what was wrong.
****
Hannah was asleep when a noise down in the shop awakened her. She told herself a stack of books must have fallen. The only other option would be a burglary, and if it was, she couldn’t stand to know. She crushed a pillow over her head to drown out any other sounds.
She was roused by Jackson shaking her.
“Hannah!” he urgently said. “There’s a fire.”
“What?” She lurched up and glanced around frantically.
“Come! Let’s get out of here before we can’t get out.”
She’d been slumbering so deeply that she couldn’t process what was occurring. “I should put on some clothes. I should…ah…ah…”
“There’s no time.”
As he yanked her up, she noticed he was fully dressed, so he must have snuck out after she’d gone to bed. She was wearing just her nightgown. Her hair was down and hanging loose over her shoulders. The temperature was chilly, so she had floppy woolen socks on her feet, but that was it.
He found her robe and stuffed her arms in the sleeves, then he guided her out to the parlor. He opened the door and peeked out, but instantly, smoke drifted in and became intolerable. She coughed, struggling for air, and a wave of fright washed over her. She couldn’t see anything, and she was quaking like a leaf.
“Is the shop on fire?” she asked him. “Have you been down there?”
“No, I was in bed.” She had no idea if that was a lie or not. “But I heard a crash, then I smelled smoke, so I came to fetch you.”
“Can we still use the stairs?”
“We have to try.”
The stairs led down to a rear storage room, where there was a door into the alley. If the main portion of the building was ablaze, there was no other exit for them.
“Don’t move,” he said. “It’s so dark, and I don’t want to lose track of you.”
“What are you thinking?”
He slid away without replying, and he returned a second later. He’d grabbed a knitted throw off the sofa, and he pushed it over her face to block out some of the smoke, then he said, “We have to run for our lives. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll have to jump out the window.”
“I’m not jumping out any windows.”
“Don’t let go. Ready?”
“Yes, ready.”
He went down first, and she followed, clutching his hand as tightly as she could. They arrived at the bottom with no difficulty, but the whole shop was engulfed. The sight was incredibly distressing, but there was no time to lament. The flames hadn’t reached the storage room, so they staggered blindly past boxes and crates until they located the rear door.
He fumbled with the security bar, lifted it, and tossed it away. Then they practically fell out into the alley.
People were calling out with dismay, and somewhere, a bell was ringing the alarm. A brigade would be assembled, but it would take forever for a line to form and water to be passed.
They stumbled out to the street where the scene was even more chaotic. Her building was burning, but so were several others. The flames were visible on the upper floor where she and Jackson had resided. If they’d delayed another few minutes, they’d have been trapped.
On realizing the depth of the inferno, her knees gave out, and Jackson caught her around the waist. They huddled side by side, observing in horror as neighbors milled and mingled. Children were crying, dogs howling. Men were shouting orders, shoving spectators away, inquiring about others.
Were there any victims inside? Had everyone escaped to safety?
Eventually, a water wagon pulled up. Buckets were filled and water hurled onto the flames, but it was much too late. An entire block burned to the ground before they were able to get the conflagration under control.
Because London’s buildings were so old and so closely packed together, the loss of only a city block was considered a huge success story. As dawn broke on the horizon, men were patting themselves on the back, exclaiming over a good night’s work.
But Hannah had lost
everything. She sat, braced against the wall of a building across from her own, and she felt as if she’d been turned to stone. She watched as her roof collapsed, as the walls collapsed, and finally, her beloved shop was naught but a pile of ash.
Out of all her possessions, she had her nightgown and robe, the knitted throw wrapped over her shoulders, but that was all she’d managed to salvage.
There was nothing else.
****
“No, I won’t talk to him.”
“He’s not asking for you, Miss Darling. He’s asking for Lord Marston.”
“The Viscount isn’t downstairs yet. Last I checked, he was still in bed, and I have no idea why a strange boy would search for him here. He can bugger off.”
Isabella wasn’t usually crude in her language, but she was irked to have been bothered by someone knocking on her door. It was just after seven, and she rarely rose so early, but Hunter had a busy day ahead of him and had to leave.
She’d had to drag herself down to ensure he was fed a proper breakfast, and to deliver an even more proper farewell, but she was always grouchy when she didn’t get enough sleep.
While he was dressing, she’d come down alone, and she was seated at the dining room table. She grinned with approval over how perfect her life was with Hunter paying the bills, and she couldn’t imagine the situation ending. It wouldn’t end either. Not if she had her way.
He hadn’t visited her for several nights in a row, which she never liked. When he wasn’t with her, she had to jealously worry about who he was with instead.
She stretched and purred like a contented cat. She was wearing a negligee, a flimsy robe over the top. The ensemble was new and French, and she’d used it to great effect.
She smirked into her tea. Yes, he’d definitely been satisfied with her efforts, so she was certain she could raise the issue of the mistress interviews again, without his barking at her. She probably should have been packing her bags, preparing to move out of the house that had been hers for the prior year, but she was so positive she could persuade him to keep her that she hadn’t made a single arrangement.
The footman, the one who’d mentioned there was a boy at the door, hadn’t left. He was hovering insolently, and she glared at him and said, “What?”