What she thought had been a dream was actually a memory. Only now, years later, Frances realized something she’d missed before. Her mother had never once mentioned her friend’s name but spoke of the naïve girl as if they were close. Close enough to be the same person? Could it be that her mother hadn’t been speaking of friend at all but of herself instead?
Even before the question whispered through her mind, Frances knew the answer. Her mother had been diligent in teaching Frances to pay close attention to everything and everyone around her and to keep a wary eye on every man. Now, she knew why.
Frances covered her mouth on a sob, fearful of waking the viscountess.
She recalled Lucan’s warnings. And she thought of how she’d discounted her instinctive uneasiness around Whitelock, time and again. How could she have been so stupid?
Then, another suspicion came to mind. Rising unsteadily from the chair, she opened the drawer where Mrs. Darby kept the brown vial. Turning the lid, she opened it and inhaled. The fragrance was cloying but also unbearably bitter . . . like the tea she’d drunk at Whitelock’s Mayfair townhouse.
Frances gasped. The tea . . .
Soon after she’d finished the tea that day, she’d fallen into an exhausted, hazy sleep. Had Whitelock put these drops in her tea?
A cold chill ran through her. Dear Lord, was Whitelock truly drugging his wife with opium, like Lucan had said?
And Whitelock had drugged Frances too, but why?
“Elise had a strong will and a feisty spirit. It’s what called me to her. Alas, she chose your father, and our friendship ended. Yet I still hold her memory in my heart. I am pleased—perhaps selfishly so—that I can claim part of her spirit once more by having you here.”
Frances felt ill. Bile churned in her empty stomach, rising up her throat. Whitelock had raped her mother. Had that been his intention when he’d drugged Frances? Yet thankfully, she remembered that when she’d woken at his townhouse, all her clothes had been in order. She’d even had her shoes on. So then if his design was to get her away from London in order to claim her, then why bother drugging her after she’d accepted the position?
At the time, her only plan had been to speak with her father first and to tell him that she was going to work for Whitelock. Even though her father had his flaws, she knew without a doubt that he would have warned her away from the viscount. However, because she’d been drugged, she’d never had the chance. That must have Whitelock’s reason that day.
Hearing distant voices, Frances put the vial back in the drawer. She walked to the door and cupped her ear to it. She could hear the two distinctive tones. One clearly belonged to Lord Whitelock, while the other sounded almost familiar. In fact, the voice nearly sounded like Lucan’s. Surely not. Lucan despised Whitelock.
“Unless you have come to pay your debt,” Whitelock said, “this borders on dissolution of our agreement.”
“I believe the agreement was for both parties to remain silent. From what I know, you have not upheld your end of the bargain.”
It was Lucan! She knew his voice like a melody inside her heart. But what was he doing here? A shiver rushed through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms.
“Sampson! Hershell! Take hold of this man,” Whitelock called, summoning his valet and the footman. “Greggs, send for the magistrate. This man is trespassing.”
Frances opened the door quietly. The voices sounded close, as if the men stood around the corner near the stairs. When she peered out into the hall, she saw Nannette frozen and wide-eyed in the doorway of the servants’ stairs. Frances held her finger to her lips and earned a stiff nod.
Other than the two of them, this hall was empty. Frances crept forward.
Lucan grunted, as if struggling. “You have many men who owe you favors, I’m sure. Otherwise, the evidence against Thorne never would have been lost so conveniently.”
Evidence against her father? Frances stiffened. What could Lucan be talking about? Their conversation sounded like they were speaking of the Marquess of Camdonbury’s accusation against her father. But since he was acquitted . . .
No, not acquitted, she remembered. Her father had been released because the evidence had been lost. But what if it hadn’t been lost . . .
“And it can be found again with ease,” Whitelock answered in a dark, threatening tone that she’d never heard before. “It is surprising, however, that you haven’t figured out how, with a small manipulation, your name proves equally as guilty of the treasonous offense.”
Guilty of the offense of coining? No. Frances was certain Lucan never had a part in his father’s scheme.
“There is nothing to support the claim. Even at that time, I hadn’t lived at Camdonbury Place for years.”
“That matter is easily cast aside when your recent, crippling finances are taken into account. In fact, you’ve had little money since you were cut off from your family. I believe most of society is aware of your current insolvency. And once the evidence reemerges, soon everyone will believe that you and Thorne worked together. Besides, what better way could you have planned to punish your father for your mother’s death than to have him appear guilty of treason?”
“Then your bargain from the very beginning was to ensure I went to the gallows beside Thorne. You made this arrangement with my father.”
Frances covered her mouth on a gasp. Why would Lucan go to the gallows beside her father?
“Camdonbury paid me handsomely to ensure that all the loose ends were tied. Far more than the ten thousand pounds you accrued on Thorne’s behalf,” Lord Whitelock replied. “Did you really think he was going to let you go unpunished after the scandal you caused?”
Frances felt weak. She’d been wrong. Lucan hadn’t gambled away the money. He’d taken on her father’s debt. She’d been a fool to allow Whitelock to persuade her to ignore what she already knew in her heart . . . that Lucan was the noblest man she’d ever met.
“So my father sold you the land that was once my mother’s.” Lucan’s voice sounded strained and distant. “Then why did you wait three years for your fait accompli? Why not kill me in a duel, arrange a carriage accident, or have me hanged earlier?”
“It takes time to ensure all the pieces are in play. You should know that better than anyone. One cannot rush the downfall of a reputation, after all. It raises too many questions if it happens overnight.”
“Ah yes, all the pieces. When did one of those include your new shop in London, Tuttle’s Registry? My guess is that it was shortly after you met Miss Thorne.”
Again, Frances smothered a gasp. Lord Whitelock owned Tuttle’s, the very registry that helped to force Mrs. Hunter’s hand?
“You are well informed,” Whitelock snarled.
“Yet instead of rescuing her from dire circumstances, like you do with the others, you created the events that led Miss Thorne directly to your door.”
The viscount issued a low, sinister chuckle. “They’re all so grateful to me. I’m their savior, you know. I’ve snatched them away from certain death or other cruelties of life. You won’t find a single one who would speak out against me.”
“What about the women you’ve sullied?”
“How can I help it if some choose to . . . give of themselves to the one man who has provided them a means for a better life? None of them has been forced. In fact, they are grateful afterward that they were of service to a man such as myself.”
“I think Henny Momper would disagree. It is a pity that her death prevents her from doing so.”
This time, Nannette also gasped. Unfortunately, she didn’t cover the sound. Frances rushed back to the servants’ stairway door and urged Nannette inside. She closed the door behind them. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to be caught here, and it was entirely likely that there were some in Whitelock’s employ who knew of his nefarious acts and sought to protect him. Frances did not want her friend to suffer.
Complete shock showed on Nannette’s face, and Frances’s own illus
ions were shattered as well. Whitelock only possessed the appearance of goodness. She should have trusted her instincts. She should have trusted Lucan. Would he ever forgive her?
Nannette shook her head. “Whitelock was so convincing.”
“He was. But now we know differently. Go,” Frances whispered to her. “Sneak back down the stairs. When the others return from church, tell Bess and Penny what you’ve learned, but be wary of trusting anyone else. There are likely a few who must already know of his baser actions and have helped him in the past.”
Nannette began her descent, and Frances followed but slipped out at the next floor, hoping to catch up with Lucan before he was escorted out. She needed him to know that she’d heard everything. She needed to beg his forgiveness. And most of all, she simply needed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The servants’ stairway door on the first floor opened to a wide landing decorated with potted trees in urns and sculpted busts on marble pedestals. From behind one of the trees, Frances listened carefully in order to find Lucan and Whitelock. She was fully prepared to confront the viscount and tell him that he could no longer keep his secrets.
“It takes three of you to do his evil deeds!” Lucan shouted from below.
She could hear him, but she couldn’t see him from this vantage point. Then she looked toward the wide staircase, leading to the main hall, and stepped out into the open. While standing near the railing, she saw a scuffle in the corner of the main hall. Sampson and Hershell had Lucan by the arms and were dragging him toward the door. They weren’t getting far. Lucan fought them every step, tripping them, punching when he could get his arm free. But then Mr. Greggs grabbed a letter knife from a table. “Lucan, behind you!” Frances shouted.
The men stopped, surprise showing on their faces when they looked up to see her. It gave Lucan enough time to get in a few more punches and earn his freedom for a moment. Then he looked up at her, his expression twisted in a grimace as Sampson kicked him, low in the back.
But Lucan pointed to her. “Frances, look out,” he groaned.
The warning came too late. Before she could turn, she was grabbed from behind.
“It is a pity that you are sneaking around instead of sitting in church this morning,” Whitelock hissed in her ear.
She struggled against him, remembering her training. But he had her arms pinned to her sides, and she couldn’t claw, scratch, or hit. He dragged her to the wall, pushing her face up against it, forcing her to turn her head or else smash her nose. She tried to lift her leg to stomp down on his foot, but his legs bracketed her. How could a man as old as her father be so strong?
“Unhand me. I heard everything. I know what you’ve done. I know about the opium in your wife’s tea. I know about my mother . . . ”
He laughed, a low sinister sound. His lips grazed her ear. “You are so like her. So independent. Such a fiery temper. But ineffective in the end.”
“You cannot claim my spirit or any part of me. I know your evil deeds, and I despise you.”
He pressed against her, forcing her harder against the wall. “That’s what makes you perfect. I no longer have to pretend with you.”
“You sent my father to prison.” Frantically, she took in her surroundings. There was nothing within her reach—no table, no fan, no fire poker. Below, she could hear more grunts, only some of them Lucan’s, and she hoped he was winning his battle.
“And he will hang if you don’t cooperate. Now, be still. I will keep him alive for you. All you have to do is come with me to my hunting box in Wales. As long as you are good to me, I’ll be good to you and to your father. You’ll never want for money. Never be hungry. Never live in squalor.”
She refused to give him any of her tears, but she knew there was only one chance for her now. Frances went still.
“There now,” he said, his breath coating her cheek. It smelled musty and old, as if he was rotting from the inside. His mouth opened over her neck. He ground his hips against her buttocks, pressing his erection into her soft flesh through her skirts. “I would take you now, here, with Montwood to witness, but the other servants will be back soon. I want you in my bed. All day. Willing. That will be your first payment of our bargain. Once I am satisfied of your cooperation, I’ll have your father removed from Fleet and set up in a comfortable house.”
He shifted slightly. His hand splayed over her abdomen and slid upward toward her breast.
Now that he was distracted, Frances jerked her head back hard against his face. She heard the crack of bone, followed by his shocked, pained gasp. He reared back. Frances twisted away and sprinted toward the stairs, dodging statues along the way.
Whitelock bellowed, close behind.
Rage coiled tightly inside Lucan.
At first, it frightened him. He didn’t want to be the same man his father was. He didn’t want Frances to witness the violence he needed to unleash.
But when she appeared, he suddenly knew that he still had control of himself. There was no monster within him. Only a man willing to do whatever it took to save Frances.
Lucan slammed a fist into Hershell’s gut, sending him to the floor on a wordless groan. Greggs was in bad shape, down on all fours, spitting blood. Sampson was the only one left.
Lucan pummeled him. Sampson held strong, giving back blow for blow. A movement from upstairs drew his attention. He saw Frances running toward the stairs and Whitelock holding a hand to his bloody nose, murder in his eyes.
Having no more time to subdue Sampson, Lucan rushed across the hall. He was not going to stand by and watch his worst nightmare unfold. He was not going to lose another woman he loved to violence.
Horror filled him as Whitelock caught up with her. Reaching out, he pulled Frances’s hair, jerking her to a stop. She cried out.
Sampson tackled Lucan, taking him down to the floor, punching him in full view of what was transpiring upstairs. With desperation driving him, Lucan blocked Sampson’s next blow. Then with one uppercut, he sent the footman sprawling to the floor.
Frances grabbed hold of the railing while Whitelock took hold of her arm and twisted it behind her back. Crying out, she let go of the railing, and they both staggered.
Whitelock rammed into one of his pedestals, a bust of King George. It wobbled, clacking audibly on its marble base. The bust teetered, toppling forward, and Whitelock suddenly moved to save it. Apparently, he didn’t realize how heavy the head of a king could be. He staggered again. Before he could gain his footing, he crashed against the rail. He lurched backward over the edge—
On a sharp gasp, the room fell silent. Then it filled with Whitelock’s abrupt shout as he fell to the tile floor below. A sickening crack-thump echoed in the hall.
Focused on Frances, Lucan rushed up the stairs. Frances descended, tears streaming down her face, as she fell into his arms.
“I never should have doubted your honor,” she said on a sob.
He shook his head, crushing her to him. “No, you were right. I should have told you everything from the beginning.”
A low, warbling groan came from main hall. Lucan looked over the edge of the stairs to see Whitelock move his head back and forth on the floor. The bust of King George lay in pieces, scattered all around him. The viscount’s legs looked to be in similar shape but twisted at odd angles. And his hips were turned unnaturally as well. It was obvious his back was broken. While he might live, there would be no full recovery for him. He would likely spend the rest of his days confined to bed, with only a nurse to watch over him.
“My legs . . . ” the viscount croaked.
Mr. Greggs took one look at his lord and master lying crippled on the floor, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door. Sampson was still out cold. Hershell was just starting to stand up when the other servants came in from the back entrance.
There was a collective gasp at the scene. A maid with ebony hair looked up at Frances. “I told them everything. Mrs. Riley just . . . walked away. Burt is in the
stables, comforting poor little Arthur.”
“Are you all right, child?” an older woman asked Frances.
“I am now.” Frances wrapped her arms around Lucan’s waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I imagine the magistrate will be on the way soon.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the woman said with a flit of her fingers. “We’ll see to everything.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darby,” Frances said before she lifted her gaze. “Take me home, Lucan.”
On top of Quicksilver, they were both quiet on the ride to Fallow Hall. Frances leaned back against Lucan, taking pleasure in the steady strength of his embrace. She always felt safe with him, even when she had battled her better sense. Yet somewhere deep inside, she must have recognized his noble character. He was a good man. To have her faith restored, she’d needed only to open her eyes and trust what her heart had told her.
“I lied to you last night in the gallery,” she admitted. “I never stopped loving you.”
Lucan pressed a kiss to her head. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me one confession as well?”
She lifted her head from his shoulder. “You can tell me anything, Lucan. I will trust whatever you tell me. Or at least, give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“So then, if I were to tell you that I love you beyond reason, you would take the matter under consideration?”
Her breath left her lungs in one soft whoosh. Her heart felt light as vapor once again. “Well . . . it would have to be said in a convincing manner.”
He grinned, flashing a dimple. “Would it be convincing enough if I said the words over a blacksmith’s anvil in Gretna Green?”
He didn’t allow her to answer. Instead, he kissed her, tender and poignant at first, and then with a promise of passion.
In the end, she was thoroughly convinced.
EPILOGUE
Ten years later. . .
“A game of hide-and-seek was a brilliant suggestion,” Lucan rasped as Frances clung to him, urging him back against the music room door. It clicked into place as his mouth descended on hers. Eager, they reached for the key at the same time.
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 22