CAD'S WISH

by Cheryl Holt

  “Gad, no,” Warwick replied. “I spent the night snuggled in bed in the manor. I have no clue where he is. Is she daft in the head?”

  “Yes,” Hunter answered. “There have always been stories that she’s a bit mad. Clearly, she can’t tell truth from fiction, so she must be having a mental breakdown.”

  Mrs. Webster started to wail and complain, and Hunter said to Warwick, “Take her down to the wine cellar. Tie her to a post—the same one where they tied Hannah—and we’ll deal with her shortly, after we have a verdict.”

  Hunter waited while Warwick hauled her out. Once it was quiet again, he looked at Rebecca. “We have to determine what’s to be done with her, and it’s up to you.”

  Rebecca blanched. “Why would it be up to me? I’m not the person to decide such an important issue.”

  “Well, I have my view of what should happen to your mother, but I’m afraid it would be a much harsher conclusion than you would like to have implemented.”

  “What are my choices?”

  Hunter counted the options on his fingers. “She can be placed in a nunnery forever. There’s one in Scotland we could pay to admit her. Or we could have her committed to an insane asylum, but those facilities are violent and disgusting. Or she can be arrested and imprisoned. We could request that she be transported to the penal colonies, but then, the scandal might wind up in the newspapers.”

  “I wouldn’t like that,” Rebecca said.

  “Or I could book passage for her on a ship and send her out of the country on my own. We wouldn’t have to bother with a trial and all the rest.”

  Rebecca asked Jackson, “Which of those would be best?”

  “I wouldn’t like the situation to be reported in the newspapers. I’d just like her to depart and never return, and I’m not particularly concerned over how it’s accomplished.”

  “No matter what we select,” Hunter said to Jackson, “she would never be allowed to return to Parkhurst. It’s why I need to hear what Rebecca wants. I hope she and I will be friends far into the future, and I would hate to have her upset with me later on.”

  “If we had Mrs. Webster arrested,” Jackson said, “might Rebecca have to testify against her mother?”

  “Yes, and Hannah would too. And it might drag on for ages, so they’d have to fret and worry. It would be very public and very lurid.”

  Jackson pondered for a minute. “If that’s the case, then it should probably be either the convent or the ship out of the country. What do you think, Rebecca? Does that sound all right?”

  “Mother is awful at taking care of herself. If Lord Marston put her on a ship, how would she survive in a foreign land?”

  “She might not,” Hunter said, “so maybe it should be the convent.”

  Rebecca and Jackson stared at each other, then Rebecca nodded. “Yes, the convent would be fine—so long as she’s gone for good.”

  “They’ll never let her out,” Hunter said. “I can promise you that.”

  “When will you leave with her?” Jackson asked.

  “In a few days. I have to make the travel arrangements first.”

  “May I accompany you?”

  “No. You have to watch over your sisters for me.”

  “I will, but what if Mrs. Webster doesn’t agree to what we’ve picked?”

  Hunter scoffed. “She doesn’t get to have an opinion.”

  ****

  Hannah glanced up, delighted to see Hunter approaching. She was sitting in Rebecca’s solarium, and she loved the quiet spot. There were flowers everywhere, and the air was fresh, the sun shining on the glass, raising the temperature to a balmy level.

  Since her ordeal had ended, she was ridiculously weepy and emotional. She jumped at the littlest noises, and her heart would pound for no reason. Her anxiety would spiral, and she’d feel as if she couldn’t breathe.

  In the solarium, she could rest, read, and think about what she’d like to have happen next. Unfortunately, the future was now a nebulous concept, and any planning was beyond her.

  Hunter had become a rock upon which she was leaning. While she’d slept and healed, he’d dealt with Winston, Amelia, and Nate Carew so she wouldn’t have to. He’d assumed control of the property, had reviewed the staff and the ledgers. He was bringing some of his servants from Marston to stabilize her affairs, to get her back on a sounder footing in ways she could never have managed herself.

  He’d been wonderful about it. Not pompous. Not overbearing. He’d simply leapt into action. Occasionally, she’d observe him at breakfast or supper or, in the middle of the day, riding about the estate, with his brother or Jackson glued to his side. When she crossed his path, he’d be polite and chatty, always asking about her condition and how her recuperation was proceeding.

  He was treating her as if they were fond cousins, and his behavior was extremely confusing. He hadn’t been flirtatious or charming. He hadn’t mentioned her sojourn at Marston Manor or that they’d once been a few hours away from eloping. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that he’d ruined her.

  He was carrying on as if the entire debacle had never occurred.

  She figured she should still be very angry with him, but her fury had floated away the minute he’d arrived at Parkhurst—just when she’d needed him the most. She felt so safe with him around. She felt protected and even a bit cherished.

  What was he feeling?

  She wouldn’t try to guess. The man was a mystery and always had been.

  He smiled and waved. She waved too, and she studied him as he walked through the door. It dawned on her that he was dressed for traveling.

  “Don’t get up,” he said. “You look much too comfortable.”

  “I’m being lazy.”

  “You’re allowed.”

  “Are you leaving?” As she asked the question, her pulse raced with fear, which was so exasperating.

  She wasn’t a baby, and she had to stop quailing with terror at the drop of a hat. He was an adult male with a full life in town. She didn’t require a nanny, and he’d set plenty of changes in motion that would vastly improve Parkhurst.

  She merely had to grow stronger, so she could seize the reins and take charge. At the moment though, she liked loafing and not thinking about much.

  “Yes, I’m leaving,” he said, “but only for a short interval. Maybe two weeks? Maybe three? I’m transporting Mrs. Webster to the convent in Scotland.”

  “Oh.”

  She never contemplated Amelia if she didn’t have to, and she had no opinion about the conclusion he’d arranged with Rebecca. So long as Amelia was removed from Parkhurst, Hannah was fine with whatever decision was implemented.

  “Once I’m finished,” he said, “I’ll be back. I have a lot of chores though, so if I’m delayed, don’t be concerned.” He laid a palm on her shoulder. “You can’t be afraid simply because I’m gone.”

  “I won’t be afraid.”

  “I have to rid us of your stepmother, then I have to handle a lengthy list of tasks in London that are dreary and complicated. You’ll be all right while I’m away.”

  “Of course I will be.”

  “Jackson will watch over you, and you couldn’t have a better sentinel—except for me.”

  “What if…if…”

  She couldn’t complete the sentence. She wanted to inquire about Winston, but it was her specific intent to never speak his name ever again.

  Hunter understood her predicament. “Don’t worry about him. He won’t bother you in the future.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Not ever. I swear it to you.”

  Hunter stared at her for an eternity. It was a silent communication that contained a thousand messages he would never voice aloud. He seemed to be telling her Winston would never come back because he couldn’t come back.

  She wasn’t certain what had happened to him. She’d heard whispers that he’d escaped his fetters in the night and had run away, but she couldn’t imagine Hunter permitting that to transpire.<
br />
  She suspected he’d perpetrated a violent act against Winston, and she probably ought to be upset about the possibility, but she wasn’t. Apparently, she had bloodthirsty tendencies, and if Winston had met with a bad end, she wouldn’t complain.

  “Promise me you won’t overdo when I’m not around to scold you,” he said.

  “You needn’t fret. I shall lounge in the sun and accomplish little else.”

  “I’ll hurry.”

  “You don’t have to hurry, not on my account.”

  “Don’t rush your recovery. You’ll make progress, but slowly. It’s difficult to heal from a situation like this. I learned that after I was wounded in the army.”

  “I have much more patience than you, so I won’t become frustrated.”

  He grinned his devil’s grin. “When I return, I’ll have a surprise for you.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  She’d sounded terribly churlish, and he clucked his tongue with mock aggravation. “What kind of ninny hates surprises?”

  “Well, I don’t hate them precisely, but please don’t embarrass me.”

  “Me? Embarrass you? You’re mad if you suppose I would.”

  His hand was still on her shoulder, and she laid hers over the top of his, the gesture rocking them, bonding them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For your assistance? You’ve been a true blessing to me.”

  “I’ve been a blessing? My goodness, Hannah, I think that knock on the head has left you silly.”

  He bent down, and her breath hitched, as she thought he would kiss her. And he did, but on the cheek, once again pretending they were fond cousins.

  Then he straightened and walked out.

  She watched him until he disappeared from view, and she was wretched over his departure, was alarmed over it, was bereft over it. She nearly leapt up to chase after him, to pull him to a halt, to tell him he should never go away. Not ever! Not for a single second for the rest of her life.

  But that would be deranged behavior, and she had to calm down. He’d just be away for a bit, then he’d return. She was positive he would.

  She tipped her face up to the sun and let the warm rays work their magic.

  ****

  “I don’t agree to this.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

  Amelia glared at Viscount Marston, her loathing flowing out and over him, but he simply gazed at her with a bland expression, her animosity bouncing off him. Men had always been stronger and more powerful than she was. Her relationship with him was no exception.

  Without warning, he’d blithely announced she was being locked away in a convent. According to him, her daughter had arranged it, and Amelia hadn’t been consulted or heeded. After several days on the road, where she’d been bound, gagged, and transported against her will, she was at the end of the line.

  “I demand to speak with my husband,” she said.

  “No one knows where he is.”

  “You know,” she fumed.

  “I have no idea why you’d assume that. When he slithered away, why didn’t he take you with him? Aren’t you curious about that? It seems to me that he’s deserted you.”

  “Winston wouldn’t abandon me,” she said with much more confidence than she felt. How frequently had she wondered if he’d leave her?

  The instant the question arose, she shoved it away.

  Lord Marston was confusing her, was tricking her. He’d whisked Winston out of the Dower House, and he’d come back alone. She didn’t care how often he claimed otherwise, she wasn’t wrong about what she’d witnessed.

  She was seated in his carriage, and he was standing outside. Behind him, she could see the stone walls of the convent, the barred, heavy gate. No woman whose fees were paid was ever released. It was a life sentence.

  He’d already conferred with the Mother Superior, and their discussion had dragged on forever. But their conversation was over, and he believed Amelia was staying—even though she’d vehemently insisted she wouldn’t.

  “I want to talk to Hannah or…or…even Rebecca,” she said.

  While they’d still been at Parkhurst, he’d kept her imprisoned in the wine cellar. She’d begged to speak to Hannah, but he’d refused her requests. Amelia was certain—if she and Hannah could have chatted—the whole debacle would have blown over.

  After all, what had really happened? Hannah had quarreled with Winston. He’d lost his temper and had given her a little tap on the head, but she was fine! It wasn’t as if she’d suffered any genuine injury, and Amelia couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

  Marston had quashed any meeting with Rebecca too. Amelia had intended to order Rebecca to go to the authorities, to file a report over Winston’s disappearance, to tell people Lord Marston had harmed Winston somehow, but supposedly, Rebecca wasn’t interested in how Amelia was faring.

  Her own daughter! Being awful to her mother! It was such an outrage, and with Rebecca snubbing her, and Winston having vanished, who was there to be an ally?

  “I didn’t do anything to Hannah,” she said.

  “You tied her up and hauled her down into the cellar. Did you think she was dead when you dumped her down there? Were you waiting for night to fall so you could bury her after dark? Or were you planning to kill her after it was dark and then bury her?”

  Amelia’s cheeks heated, and she didn’t respond. She still didn’t comprehend why she hadn’t intervened to stop Winston. The event had played out like a strange dream from which she couldn’t awaken.

  “Hannah wouldn’t like you to be so cruel to me,” she said. “If she was aware of how you’ve been treating me, she’d be very upset.”

  Lord Marston snickered. “Hannah asked me to bring you here. Rebecca too. They both felt it was the best way to be protected from you.”

  It was the harshest comment he could have uttered. “I should have a lawyer! I wish to plead my case to a judge, and he’ll listen. There must be someone who could save me from your wicked machinations.”

  “If you had a trial, Mrs. Webster, you would be hanged after your conviction. Would you rather have an execution as your conclusion?” He grinned evilly. “That’s what I would have preferred, but your daughter and stepdaughter were worried about your sorry hide.”

  “I need to talk to my husband!”

  “And I repeat: I don’t know where he is. Now, I’m tired of your dithering. Are you climbing out or not?”

  “I’m not!”

  She pressed into the seat as if she were a spoiled toddler, so he reached in and lifted her out. There was a door next to the gate, and he escorted her over to it. He knocked briskly, and it was opened by a nun. The woman didn’t greet her, but she studied Amelia as if she was a peculiar problem that had to be solved.

  “This is Mrs. Webster,” Lord Marston said. “Good luck with her. She’s quite mad, so I hope you can manage her without too much trouble.”

  “I’m not mad!” Amelia roared like a lunatic, but they ignored her.

  The nun motioned for Amelia to enter, but Amelia didn’t move. She had a brief second to imagine jerking away and running for freedom, but she was prevented from fleeing when he shoved her inside.

  “I curse the day I welcomed you into my family,” she said to him, then the nun shut the door before she could add any other insults.

  The last glimpse she had of the outside world was his smirking, smug face.

  “He murdered my husband,” she told the nun. “Can you contact the authorities for me?”

  “Lord Marston explained that you’ve grown deluded in your thought processes, so the peace and quiet here will be very beneficial for you.”

  The nun walked down a path toward the grim, grey buildings of the compound, and clearly, she expected Amelia to follow. Amelia spun to the door, and she screamed, cried, and hammered on it. She wailed at Lord Marston for his duplicity, wailed at Hannah and Rebecca for their betrayal, wailed at Winston for abandoning her.

  She k
ept on and on until her hands were bloody and her throat raw, and she was so exhausted she couldn’t continue. She collapsed to the ground, a limp, confused rag of fatigue.

  As she huddled in the dirt, a group of nuns scurried over, picked her up, and carried her away. She was too stunned to fight them.

  ****

  Isabella headed to the house that had been her home for the prior year. It was centrally located, near her favorite shops and parks.

  She shouldn’t be so attached to it, and it was time to leave, but she couldn’t force herself to make any preparations. From the minute Hunter had inherited his title, she’d clung to a thrilling fantasy where she’d become his bride. She’d be Mrs. Hunter Stone, Viscountess Marston, and eventually, Countess Swindon.

  She’d let the vision blossom to the point where she truly believed it could occur, but he’d been so angry about her trip to Marston. She’d been tossed in a carriage and sent away in disgrace. She hadn’t seen him since, so she hadn’t been able to beg his pardon.

  Where was he? Why couldn’t she find him? What if he’d eloped with Miss Graves? What if he returned to London as a married man? The notion left her dizzy with offense.

  She slipped into the foyer and was taking off her bonnet when a housemaid rushed up. She was a girl Isabella had hired herself out of the pin money Hunter gave her. The other servants were his servants, but she’d needed one of her own who would be loyal to her rather than him.

  “Miss Darling!” the girl murmured. “Viscount Marston is here!”

  Isabella gasped. He’d arrived when she was out! What dastardly luck!

  “How long has he been waiting?”

  “Almost an hour.”

  She patted her hair and clothes and frantically asked, “How do I look?”

  “It doesn’t matter how you look,” the girl bizarrely said, “but may I come with you?”

  It was a strange question, and Isabella frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You told me we were staying past the deadline, so I haven’t applied for any other positions. With this one over, I’m not certain what will happen to me.”

  Isabella couldn’t listen to complaints about any future employment, and she pushed by her and hurried up to her boudoir. Hunter was standing in the middle of the room, and several burly footmen from his town house were present. There were crates and traveling trunks stacked everywhere, and it appeared her belongings had been swiftly and haphazardly packed.