by Gayle Eden
Monty had to look away from him. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Monty.” There was a steely plea in the man’s tone.
Unable to look at him, fearing the fire in his guts would ignite, Wolford stared out the window. It was dreary, raining, and bleak. He managed in a rasp, “Go home father. Go home.”
* * * *
Thaddeus, Duke of Crawford, took the journey home in heavy rain and mud.
The coach churned over miles that he neither registered nor noted. It was nightfall when he was stepping down, hurried in by servants who were fretting over the storm, ushering him to his rooms. Thaddeus waved off his valet once he was stripped down to trousers and shirt. He walked to his wife’s chambers, opening the sitting room door and passing through.
A candle flickered by the high four-poster. He noted Mary there, in her cap and a warm gown, her hair down and flowing, silver streaks attractively glinting. God, how he loved her. Deeply. Passionately. Loved her beyond words. He was not himself, no one bit, without Mary.
“Have you a cold, m’dear?” he asked, coming to the bedside, seeing she had a hanky pressed to her face.
Startled, she drew it down. “No. No, I am quite well. How was your trip? Dreadful weather we are having.”
Sitting on the mattress at her hip, he reached to tilt up her chin. “What distresses you, Mary? You’ve been weeping.”
She slid her eyes from his and confessed, as her hands rolled the hanky, “I was looking for Meg and found her doing some cleaning in Juliette’s old chambers.”
“Yes?” He kept his voice calm though his emotions were far from that.
“She gave me a journal she had come across. Something—that belonged to Ms. Henny.”
“And you read it.” He surmised.
She looked at him. “I should not have. I know. It is just that— I have never quite felt as if I did right by Juliette.”
“Nonsense. You were wonderful to her.”
“I don’t mean in quite that way.” She pushed up, and propped on the pillows looked at him in the flickering light.
The storm battered outside and rattled the shutters, but under it, he heard her say, “I never quite reached her. I did not know what it was I could not touch, or how to do so. But you know, Thad. Over the past months, I have thought much on her. I write to her but she answers only briefly. Warmly, but I am always somehow—disappointed. And I blame myself for it.”
“You should not.” He took her free hand. “You are the best woman I know, Mary.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I have been thinking of the little things I used to enjoy.” She grimaced. “shocking of me, but I used to worry so when she was out wondering, worry that she would not come back, or that something would happen to her. Moreover, there was no joy like the sound of her running up the stairs when she did. Oh, I had Tomas keep an eye on her. but even when I would be in the garden reading and spy her coming from the stables, always a mess, bits of twig in her hair.” Lady Mary smiled in reflection. “She was full of life. It was that child that I thought to shape into a young spirited woman. I failed. I failed her, and your dear friend.”
“We did our best.”
“Did we?” Mary squeezed his hand. “I told myself that. I thought so. Nevertheless, it was not until that scene—that dreadful moment in the study that I found myself agreeing with Monty. I did not particularly like that shell of a young woman either.”
Thaddeus closed his eyes and then got up heavy in body, and walked to the window.
Mary’s voice reached him. “I thought she would…be more. I wanted her to be happy and I couldn’t—”
She paused then offered, “Ms. Henny’s journal… it was like seeing Juliette for the first time. I wept. I knew she was hurt when she came to us, but do you know she used to run away in their home village? They would find her, the tenants, farmers, people would bring her home. She would be sitting on a hill watching them, or looking through windows, watching families together. Ms. Henny writes that even when she came home, her poor bereaved father had no words or comfort for her. She was confused over her mother’s death. Living with the impending loss of her father—I cannot imagine...”
“We discerned that, to some extent. We did well for her. We gave her affection.”
“Yes. Nevertheless, I never drew her out or talked, as I should have to her. I thought structure and training, giving her security— But though there were things I would rather had not known of the young girl she would become from that journal, I should have known others mocked her. I should have known—she cried herself to sleep. I should have known, Thaddeus, that she needed approval and not more criticism.”
“You take too much blame and guilt on yourself, my dear.” He turned and regarded her. “Her wounds closed her off. And how could we trust that her spiritedness would not lead her astray?”
Lady Mary held his gaze a moment, and then murmured softly, “We should have known—the way Montgomery did.”
Thaddeus went over and lowered himself into a chair by the bed. His frame felt leaden and his heart too. “We did not throw her away, or abandon her, Mary.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
He jerked his head up and regarded her.
Her sapphire eyes did not waver. “At the first provocation, we were ready to marry her off.”
“It was our duty. Aside from that, Monty assured she was not obligated to accept and was granted plenty of time to find someone she did care for.”
“How could she have, when her heart belonged to him?”
Throat flexing Thaddeus did not hide his surprise. “You knew that?”
“Only after I read Ms. Henny’s journal. The woman knew her better than anyone did. She knew it.”
Raking a hand through his hair Thaddeus, who normally protected Mary’s feelings, began to tell of his conversations with his son, and with Juliette. He told finally of his visit with Monty before leaving London.
“A mistress! To the Marquis of Feildon. What on earth!”
“Calm yourself.” He was on his feet, concerned because she clutched her chest.
She warded his attempt to soothe her. “No. No, I am fine. Just—” She drew a breath and then flung off the covers, getting out of bed and then pacing a bit. “Dear lord. This cannot happen!”
“Or, she says, to live with Ms. Henny.”
Mary whirled, her nightgown billowing out and looked at him. “What rot. One woman can barely survive on a pension. Where will they—?” She waved her hand. “It will not happen. Neither will happen. Our Monty—will save her.”
Thaddeus, who had moments ago been scowling, suddenly burst into a deep rumble of laughter.
After looking at him as if he were mad, Mary suddenly joined in.
Before long, they were laying across the bed, laughing hysterically.
Below, in the dark hallway, several servants leaned around and peered up the shadowy stairs.
“Whatever is amiss?” one of the younger ones looked around at the others.
One of the footmen, rags in his hands where he had cleaned his Grace’s boot prints from the marble foyer, uttered, “It’s the storms. People go right daft in storms.”
Meg, who had been let go only an hour past, went through the group with her carpetbag in hand. She had been given the privilege to use the coach to transport her to the nearest Inn. Bitterly she muttered, “It’s something that old bitch writ in her journal. If I could read…” She glared at the butler who opened the door to the rainy night to her. “What you are smiling about!”
“Good riddance.” One of the maids said, having still a sore head where Meg pulled her braids during the ironing that morning for not making the creases right.
The laughter died down from above. However, since his Grace did not leave his wife’s chambers for the rest of the night, there were smiles and giggles as the servants dispersed and breakfast—was shockingly late the next morning.
Chapter Five
The man was a right mess, co
nstantly changing his mind—aggravatingly late and driving her daft for days, making plans, changing plans, deciding at the last minute today that she must grab her cloak and come with him.
Wherever Juliette thought Deme was taking her, it was not too shabby rooms near a cockpit in Gray’s walk. Rank with the stink of sweat, and noisy with the yells and constant thumps against the walls, the room had grimy windows, a mattress on the floor, and God knew what in pan on a stool with a dingy towel draped beside it.
“I can’t stay here.” She turned to stare at him. “Have you actually lain in this filthy place?”
“No.” He shrugged and weaved on his feet, grinning. “I have lost a fortune at the cockpits, however.”
“I’m not amused, Deme.” She could hear heavy boots on the stairs. “We’ll be lucky if we get out of here alive.”
His green eyes were blinking. “Don’t get yourself in a fuss. I got the address from one of the footmen.”
“That figures.”
Someone fell down the stairs, roaring and cursing.
Juliette glared at him. “This is madness. Get me out of here.”
He blinked. “M’dear, I don’t think I can.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Never said otherwise.” He smiled but his hand clutched at the door when he weaved again. “You’ll have t’do the leading.”
Glad of her hooded cape, she ended up holding him up as they reversed their steps down narrow stairs and out into the wet streets. He had hired a hack, so she attempted to wave another one down. However, that was not so easy, given the noise and cluster of people around.
“I must have been mad to trust you.” She put her arm around his waist and headed up the street.
“I can make it, now. See to yourself.”
“So gallant,” she muttered and released him, shaking her head as he stepped in a dozen rank puddles and nearly fell over a broken umbrella on the street.
“Gallantry is overrated,” he declared with a wave of his hand.
“How would you know?” her tone was dry, because it was impossible to get too angry at Deme. He had been spoiled from the cradle, and it was easy to overlook his flaws. Not just because of his stunning looks, but because somewhere under the wit and hair, he was a brilliant mind and big-hearted rogue. It was just that ninety-nine percent of the time, foxed as he stayed, he was—a right mess.”
He slurred, “I know—because I had it once. Gallantry.”
“Did you?”
“Yes…shot my…no…can’t talk of that.”
She glanced at him. “You shot someone?”
“Killed him.” His handsome face suddenly turned white. “For a woman whose honor was as false as her heart.”
“I’m sorry, Deme.”
“Never be a fool, m’dear— unless you get to make the rules.”
Although she wanted to question him, having always wondered what was at the core of Deme’s self-destruction. Juliette felt nothing but relief when a familiar coach headed toward them.
At first, given the caped coat and hat, she thought it was Mulhern, the usual driver. However, Haven, the daughter of that Coachman, said dryly from her perch, “The next time you want an escort, I’d suggest Little Jon. This one—is fairly useless.”
She bounded down off her driver’s perch, damp coat billowing out, showing she wore the duke’s green livery. She opened the coach door and drew Deme’s arm over her shoulder, nearly tossing him in though. “In you go, Lord Dimwit.”
“Wear a dress, you unnatural woman!” He snapped back at her.
After helping Juliette in and closing the door, the redhead leaned in and told him, laughing. “The day you stop drowning yourself in brandy, I might. And don’t piss in my coach.”
“I own this bloody coach!” He propped his boots in the opposite seat.
“Piss in it and I will own your bloody arse!” she ignored his explicit curse and winked at Juliette. “If he rolls into the floor, leave him be. He’ll crawl out in the stables and sleep it off as usual.”
Juliette grimaced.
The woman was laughing a husky roll of laughter as she climbed atop and took the ribbons again.
Deme muttered a string of curses. The coach seemed to sway and fling him about. “She does that on purpose, the hateful bitch.”
“My Lord. I cannot believe how you two speak to each other.”
He was holding his stomach, looking a bit green. “Told father he spoiled her. Put her above her station. Mulhern is fine. That get of his—nothing but trouble from the day she was born.”
Biting her lip on a laugh, Juliette murmured, “And you’ve been a prince?”
“No. But then, I don’t have to—Bloody hell!” He heaved up, and was puking out the window.
Juliette was not sure, but she thought she heard Haven tell him not to vomit on the coach as it had just been cleaned. What he muttered back, in between losing his supper, and several quarts of brandy, would have made a dockside whore blush.
When they arrived at the mansion, Juliette stepped out as the coach was released and taken into the carriage house—Deme, passed out in the floor. She stood a moment in the drizzle and fog and laughed poorly, “I have the worst bloody luck on earth.”
Haven, who was folding back her cape. Next, taking off her driving gloves, then removed her hat and regarded her. “Love makes people do things they ordinarily wouldn’t.”
Juliette blinked at her. “I’m not in love with Demetrius.”
“I know.” The woman grinned softly. “You’re in love with him.” She nodded toward the entry.
“Wolford!” Juliette headed toward the caped figure. “What on earth are you doing here? It is three in the morning.”
Hair wet and face showing his anger, Wolford growled, “I bloody well know what time it is! I have been awaiting you.”
“To—”
“Take you home.” He grabbed her arm and began leading her toward a coach on the street.
“I am home. Wolford. What in heavens—”
He paused by Haven. “Is Deme in that coach?”
“Passed out.” She nodded.
“When he wakes, tell him I shall expect him early in the morning. And bring an extra shirt, because I am going to re-arrange that pretty face for him.”
“Yes, my Lord.” The woman smiled. “Delighted to.”
Juliette gasped at Haven, then at Wolford. “What? Why? He was just—”
“Shut up!” Monty half carried her across the street, and opened the coach door.
“I am not a child, Wolford. You cannot just…” She saw the older woman sitting calmly inside, a carpetbag at her feet. “Henny. What are you doing here?”
“Going home.”
Juliette whirled on Wolford, but he lifted her off her feet and put her inside, climbing in after her.
“I will not live with you. I will not live in your home with your wife!” She was trying to reach the door and get out even as the coach pulled away.
“Sit down, or I will tie you down!” Monty pulled her hand from the handle and told her, “You are still my ward, Juliette.”
“I don’t know why you do this!” she nearly screamed at him. “Why, do you expect me to be one thing, and here you treat me as another. I can live my own life! You cannot force me to live with you. I am not a child.”
“If that is so, then you will cease bloody screaming and waking half of London.” He retorted.
She looked at a too-calm Henny, feeling utterly betrayed. “I cannot believe you would take part in this. You know I should not be around him. You promised me.”
“Calm yourself.” Henny took her trembling hand. “All will be well.”
“All will not be.” She glared at Wolford. “He knows it too.”
He ignored the words—and the glare.
When they reached the mansion, Wolford helped Henny out first, and then hauled Juliette out to the curb. “You do not want to make a scene.”
“I could care less
if I awakened everyone on this street.” She jerked her arm from his hold.
His eyes and voice were steel. “I am not chasing you down, Juliette. I have stood in the cold rain an hour. My patience is very thin.”
Inside, Juliette held her tongue, her expression though, saying enough.
One of the maids took Henny above. The woman did not so much as look back at her, but simply went willingly—nay, happily.
“In my study.” Monty snapped.
Juliette ignored him and glanced back at the door.
He growled. “Do not even think about it.”
She grit her teeth. “What have you got to be angry about?”
“Your foolishness. Deme’s asinine judgment. This whole bloody farce you have perpetuated tonight. Did you not think that someone at the duke’s house would have a care for your welfare and alert me?”
She followed him to the study, watching him fling off the wet cape and noticing he had no coat under it. Only a white shirt and trousers, his boots ruined. It appeared he had come out rather hastily.
She retorted, “You should not interfere. Even if it was a stupid plan, you know I cannot live with you. I cannot, Monty.”
Raking his hand through his wet hair, he picked up a tea towel and dried his face, then as she removed her cloak, poured them two brandies.
She took hers, hating the tremor in her fingers.
“Drink it all,” Monty ordered.
“I detest your mood.” She drank half and coughed as it went down.
He finished his and set the glass aside.
“Who did tell you?” she wanted to know.
“Lisette.”
“Betrayed by all it seems,” she muttered.
Turning up the lamp, he leaned his buttocks on the desk, hands cupping the edge as she sat down on the edge of the chair.
Juliette hated that he was so tall, that she had to look up at him. She hated that his wet hair was finger combed back that way—which made him look all the more handsome. She really hated—that her body reacted anytime she was near him. The amber light caught the sheen on his hair, and mellowed in his brown eyes.
God, this night really was a farce.
He said, “There are rooms prepared for you above. The maids will show you to them. We’ll talk later.”