As an earl, Nick had influence that far exceeded Ethan’s, and maybe this was why the truth had remained Ethan’s secret for so long. That Nick would not wield his power unfairly came as a relief and brought with it a burden of compassion. “If you were his father, Nicholas, what would you wish for Joshua now?”
“Love him,” Nick said, voice breaking. “Love him like he was your own, because as far as I’m concerned, he is your own. He’s such a busy little man, all smiles and energy and galloping everywhere… Jesus.”
He dropped onto the sofa like a stone, looking bewildered and uncertain for all his size and muscle. “Can’t you at least call me out?”
Ethan knew the exact contour of his brother’s sorrow: for the little boy created so carelessly, for the brother betrayed, for the stupid young man who might have sired a child without thought, and for the father who hadn’t known his own son.
And Ethan could not allow Nicholas to hold that sorrow too closely. “We’ll manage. I didn’t want this to hurt you, too.”
“How could it not?” Nick pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “You can’t tell him, Ethan. I won’t have the child suffer what you went through because I couldn’t keep my damned pants on.”
Ethan sat beside his brother. Any closer than that, and Nick would likely have tossed him through the window. “You and I are the only people who know the shadow on Joshua’s paternity. Alice knows I may not be his father, but she will take that knowledge to her grave.”
“You never told anyone?” Nick rose and went to stare out the window. “No one at all? Not in a bitter, drunken moment, not when you wanted to fling it in Papa’s face, not when a sympathetic mistress tried to pry it out of you?”
“I’ve had no mistress since I married,” Ethan said. “The whole business was too much bother, and it would have made me a little too much like my wife.”
“Like me, you mean. You’ve been a damned monk, just as I suspected.”
“Not a monk, Nick.” Ethan sighed, sensing they were going to plow through more rough ground. “I had experiences at Stoneham— one experience, really—that rendered me all but indifferent to the pursuits you found so enjoyable before your marriage.”
Nick’s gaze shifted from the grounds beyond the window to his brother.
“What sort of experience?”
“One Hart Collins, now Baron Collins,” Ethan said, and it was no relief, no relief at all to embark on this recounting—though neither did it engender the kind of choking shame it might have even a year ago.
“Collins rounded up his cronies, assaulted me in the stables my first week at school, and while they held me over a pickle barrel, raped me in the only manner one male can rape another. Heathgate came upon the situation while Collins was goading one of his minions to further violate me, and between us, we managed to break a number of bones.” Ethan fell silent for a thoughtful moment. “I understand the term ‘killing rage.’”
The words had come, Ethan marveled. They hadn’t been delicate words, but saying them, saying them to Nick, had left him lighter, not heavier, in his heart.
“You were…” Nick sucked in a breath. “Buggered. Raped.”
“Not a pretty word and not a pretty deed.” And thank a merciful God, Nick wasn’t scoffing at “school boy nonsense” or otherwise trying to diminish the vileness of the act. If he had, Ethan would have tossed him through the window. “It happened half a lifetime ago, Nick. I try not to dwell on it.”
“You never said.” Nick tone was accusing, quietly furious. “You never said a word, Ethan. You would not accept my letters. You would not see me. You shut me out, completely.”
“This is why. It’s hard to explain, Nick, what that kind of experience does to a young man. Ladies can be raped, and as gentlemen we protect them because they are vulnerable. A man does not conceive of himself being vulnerable in the same fashion. He just… does not conceive of it.”
“You were raped at the school our father sent you to. Surely, somebody told him?”
“I assume they did, and he did nothing. I can hope he didn’t know, but Heathgate’s parents got involved, and the other boys were quietly sent home to recover. I haven’t seen them since, nor have I wanted to.”
“Hart Collins is a dead man.”
Oh, Nicholas. He sounded every bit as fierce as Joshua or Jeremiah, and yet Ethan could not indulge him.
“No. You cannot kill him out of guilt over what he did to me, Nick. And I will not take justice into my own hands. If I accused him publicly, he’d be tried in the Lords, and I am, after all, merely an earl’s by-blow. Then too, for all I know, the statute of limitations has run. If he keeps a wide berth from me, I’ll let it lie.”
The ire in Nick’s gaze did not diminish, and that was good to see, too. Misguided, but good to see. “That is not right, and you know it. You have been wronged—by me, but apparently by others as well—and Collins should at the least be gelded for what he did.”
“He should, for he left me all but gelded in spirit. It was part of the reason I was so willing to enjoy what Barbara offered.”
“And what was my excuse?” Nick said, self-disgust resurging. “I went larking and swiving on my merry way, content to leave you to your suffering.”
“That is your heartbreak talking,” Ethan said gently. “You were the one who arranged for us to meet at Lady Warne’s after so many years of silence. That… was timely. I was done with university, and I still hadn’t been able to regain my balance in certain areas.” The word for it was impotence. Ethan had read the medical treatises, hoping desperately it was a medical problem, knowing it was not. “I was on the verge of”—he looked for another delicate phrase, and abandoned the search—“making a permanent mistake. I felt hopelessly dirty, unlovable, useless, and ugly. It was five years later, and I still felt… Then I got your note, and you said you had to see me again, that my siblings worried for me and asked for word of me. It was more timely than you will ever know.”
Silence stretched, while Ethan’s gaze sought the miniatures of his sons. A man could not promise to keep his loved ones safe from all harm, else Joshua would not have fallen ill. If any son of Ethan’s had endured what transpired at Stoneham, then Ethan could only hope he’d be the sort of father to know about it and take appropriate measures.
Somewhere in that sentiment lurked forgiveness for the old earl—an astonishing notion, and welcome.
While a weight rose from Ethan’s heart, Nick remained by the window, staring down at the Tydings park. “Ethan, what is that pony doing without its rider?”
Ethan was at the window in two steps, a father’s dread congealing in his gut.
“That is Jeremiah’s pony,” Ethan said, “and he said nothing about riding out this morning, Nick. I don’t think he’d leave the stables while his brother lies ill, not without a gun to his stubborn little head.”
“Let’s go.” Nick beat Ethan to the door. “Alice went down to the stables with him, and I doubt she’d get on a horse without you there to supervise.”
“For God’s sake, make haste. We’ve trouble afoot.”
* * *
“Why in the hell did you turn the damned pony loose?” While Alice watched in horror, Hart Collins turned his gun barrel on his own minion.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Thatcher drawled back. “You were going to shoot the pony, and that would have brought half the shire down on us in a heartbeat, since Grey is known not to hunt game. The little beast will stop and graze hisself into a colic as soon as he’s over the rise. Now, we’d best stop arguing and get moving, or your little plan to hold the brat for ransom will be over before it starts. With these two”—he gestured to Alice and Jeremiah doubled up on Waltzer—“we’re not going to move quickly.”
“Oh, yes, we are.” Collins’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Grey’s mounts are prime flesh, and we’ve got three of his best horses here. If anyone slows us down, it will be you, and if you’re caught, you’ll hang for hors
e thievery.”
Alice knew not how it was possible, but in twelve years, Hart Collins had become uglier, meaner, and stupider. She sent up a prayer that Jeremiah at least came through this debacle safely.
“Let’s go.” Collins kneed Argus sharply, as Thatcher kept a sullen silence. “And you.” He turned an evil smile on Alice. “Keep the boy quiet, or it will be a well-used body Ethan Grey ransoms—or two.”
Alice nodded, but inside, her guts were churning as the horses cantered off at Collins’s direction. Twelve years without laying eyes on Collins, and still, she became a terrified fourteen-year-old at the mere sight of him. He’d gained weight, and his hair was thinning, and the air of pure evil was thick around him, like a stench.
His plan was clear: hold Jeremiah for money, lots and lots of money. Ethan had the money and would turn it over along with both of his arms, his eyes, and his very life if it meant Jeremiah would be safe.
When Collins sent them pelting off through the woods, she clung to that thought, even as Jeremiah clung to her, his arms locked around her waist. He managed to whisper the occasional word of advice to her regarding control of the horse, but mostly, Alice sought not to fall off. She held the reins, but her control was limited by the lead rope kept in Thatcher’s gloved hands and by the skirts she’d had to bunch awkwardly in order to sit astride the horse. Thatcher was mounted on Bishop, the gray nervous but still sane. Collins had appropriated Argus for himself and was apparently enjoying the horse’s fights for control—enjoying the excuse to use crop and spurs on a high-strung animal.
“How much farther are we going?” Thatcher shouted to Collins. “Ye can’t run the horses like this much longer.”
A quarter mile later, Collins halted Argus with a jerk on the curb and led the way through a break in the trees lining the bridle path. Thatcher followed, with Waltzer on the lead rope bringing up the rear.
“Don’t go inside the building,” Jeremiah whispered. “I’ll say I have to use the bushes.”
Alice nodded, keeping her eyes forward. Her hip hurt like blazes from riding astride at breakneck speed, her hands ached from gripping the reins, and her head pounded with fear.
And anger.
She knew Hart Collins, knew him and hated him. She owed him two years of barely being able to walk, ten years of recurring pain in her hip, twelve years of not being able to look her only sister in the eye, and a lifetime of never feeling quite safe.
But Ethan would come. She’d stake her life on it. The question was, would he come in time?
* * *
“Miller!” Ethan’s bellow elicited a groan from an empty stall. Nick, Fairly, and Davey crowded on Ethan’s heels.
“I’m aright,” Miller muttered, but he needed Ethan’s assistance even to sit up.
“Fairly, you’d best have a look at him. Nick, help me saddle whatever’s in here of the riding stock.”
A big grey mare stood in her saddle and bridle in a loose box, her ears twitching in the direction of any sound.
“The bastards coldcocked me,” Miller said as Fairly peered into his eyes. “I wasn’t all the way gone. I heard ’em, and they got Miss Alice and Master Jeremiah. Damned if Thatcher didn’t saddle the horses hisself.”
“How many?” Ethan asked, barely able to keep from pounding something.
“Two, Thatcher and some nob.” Miller winced as Fairly’s fingers probed the back of his head. “Thatcher’s on Bishop, Miss Alice was on Waltzer, the boy on his pony, and some fat, prancing ninny took Argus, gut rot him.”
“Some fat, prancing ninny?” Ethan pressed. “Did you hear them address him? Did he have a name?”
“His lordship.” Miller squinted, as if trying to force memory into the light. “Collard? Collar? No, Lord Collins. And baron. Thatcher called him baron. His lordship was not getting along with Argus.”
Fairly glanced up from his patient. “Miller will be fine, eventually. If you’re prudent, you’ll wait for me and Nick to find mounts. If you’re going to go off like a one-man column of dragoons, you’ll take my mare and follow the pony’s back trail.”
Ethan nodded his thanks. “I’ll need weapons.”
“Pistols are in the coaches,” Miller reminded him. “You can have my knife.” He extracted a wicked-looking bone-handled weapon, provoking raised eyebrows from the other men. “You can’t always shoot a horse what needs it, which means you have to cut the poor bastard’s throat.”
“Take mine as well.” Nick held out a more delicate weapon, while Davey loped off in the direction of the coach house.
“Take mine too.” Fairly’s knife was plain, conveying its deadliness all the more effectively for the lack of ornamentation. “And the lady’s name is Honey. Don’t argue with her, ask. She’ll take care of you if you’re deserving.”
“Honey.” Ethan stuffed knives in his boots and at the small of his back. “Don’t argue.” He speared Nick with a look. “Heathgate’s often out hacking at this hour. If you fired a shot, you might rouse him. I’ll leave as much of a trail as I can, but they can’t have gone far. Alice will slow them down if at all possible.”
Nick led the mare from her stall. “I know this mare. You let harm befall her, Fairly will call you out.”
“I’ll send her home when I’ve found my quarry,” Ethan replied, swinging up onto the horse right there in the barn aisle.
“Godspeed,” Nick said, stepping back.
The mare trotted out into the brisk, early morning sunshine, responding to the tension around her despite the previous day’s long journey. Ethan saw when he gained the lane that luck was with him. A layer of hoarfrost lay on the grass, the pony’s little hooves leaving a clear trail to where a bridle path emerged from the trees. In the woods, the size of the group made the trail equally easy to follow. They’d been heedless of their trail, traveling two and three across, snapping branches, shuffling through fallen leaves, and stomping through damp ground at every turn.
At one point, Ethan thought he heard a twig snap behind him, but he wasn’t about to pull the mare up and investigate. Collins had forced his party to move through the woods at a brisk canter, then stopped, paused, and turned the pony loose. He should have at least kept the pony with them, unless he wanted to invite pursuit.
But Collins was evil, and according to Heathgate, in need of coin—not brilliant. Ethan pressed on, one eye on the trail, one eye looking ahead for sign of the kidnappers. He wasn’t even off his own property when he heard voices up ahead and brought his mare to an abrupt halt.
* * *
“For God’s sake, we’re not even off Tydings land, Baron. Ye cannot stop here.” Thatcher’s tone was equal parts pleading and exasperation.
“He won’t look in his own backyard,” Collins retorted from atop a dancing Argus. “They never do, and there’s no point haring all over the countryside when we can spend the morning in more enjoyable pursuits. Come nightfall, we’ll meet up with my coach.” His eyes landed on Alice, still glued to Waltzer’s back, then his gaze narrowed, some of the avarice receding.
“I know you,” he said. “I don’t like you, but I know you.”
“That be the governess, ye fool,” Thatcher said. “Not somebody ye’d know.”
“Baron Collins to you.” Collins regarded Alice steadily. “Take off your glasses, governess, and be quick about it, or you’ll regret it.”
Her hands being tied at the wrists, Alice pulled her glasses off and handed them awkwardly over her shoulder to Jeremiah, whose hands were not bound.
“By God.” Collins’s face broke into a parody of a smile. “If it isn’t little Lady Alexandra, slumming in the schoolroom. I knew her sister,” he informed Thatcher. “In the biblical sense. Bitch threw me over just as we were about to cry the banns, if you can credit such a thing.”
His jocular tone made Alice’s flesh crawl, as did the surge of lust in his eye. Fortunately, he was enjoying his boasting and very likely enjoying the fear he saw in Alice’s eyes as he nudged Argus over to
stand next to Waltzer.
Collins used the butt of his crop to raise Alice’s chin. “This one could have sworn out information against me, but she didn’t. Probably hoping I’d be grateful, weren’t you?”
“You are vile, and I should have laid information.”
“You still could, but you won’t, because there won’t be enough left of you to speak coherently when I’m through with you. We’ll let the lad watch, so he’ll learn early the true purpose of a female.”
“Not so fast, my lord.” Ethan stepped out of the surrounding woods. “She might not be willing to swear charges against you, but I certainly am, now that you’ve been foolish enough to return to English soil.”
Twenty
“Well, if it isn’t Bellefonte’s by-blow, all grown up and calling me foolish.” Collins sneered, dropping his crop. “I’m armed, I have the child, and I’ve reinforcements available. You’re one man—half a man, if memory serves—and I’ve your son quite literally in my crosshairs.”
Collins raised a pistol and cocked the hammer, the barrel aimed directly at Jeremiah. Alice succeeded in shifting Waltzer so her body was between the gun and the child, but Collins only grinned.
“Oh, well done.” He leered at her over the gun, and Alice felt her gorge rise. She did not, however, feel her breathing hitch—not in the slightest. “You won’t do the boy any more good than you did your sister, your ladyship. At this range, the bullet will pass through you and make quite a mess of him as well.”
“Shoot them both,” Ethan said, sauntering forward. “She’s a governess, and he’s a brat. Why on earth would you trouble yourself to make off with a little pismire pony like him anyway? It’s my horseflesh I object to parting with.”
It was an odd way to refer to one’s firstborn son, but Jeremiah was small, if not quite ant-like. He was also paying attention; behind Alice’s back, she felt him tense, as if readying for something.
“His pismire pony of a brother is just as bad.” Ethan’s tone was bored, while Alice felt the child’s arms tighten around her waist and wondered what had just passed between father and son. If somebody yelled that particular phrase, there was a good chance…
Ethan: Lord of Scandals ll-3 Page 28