by Cheryl Holt
"Do you suppose he likes…men instead? It can happen—especially in the Orient or wherever it is that he’s been living."
"He’s not attracted to men, Susan. He loves women. He lusts after women. Just not you."
"You don’t have to be spiteful," Susan huffed. "I heard enough about my faults from your son."
She sat on the sofa across from Beatrice, and she poured herself a glass of sherry and sipped at it as she complained, "You dragged me in here when I wanted to head to my room and rest. It’s been a terribly depressing day. What has you in such a dither that it couldn’t wait until morning?"
Beatrice glanced toward the hall. There were no servants in the parlor with them, but the door was open. She went over and closed it, then returned to her seat.
"There is something you have to know," she stated. "It’s about Edward and Percival."
Susan froze, a look of panic on her face, but she quickly masked it.
"What about them?"
"I’ve been aware of this debacle for ages, and I’ve kept it to myself. I’d hoped to shield you, but it’s about to blow up. I’m sorry, but you have to be informed."
Susan frowned. "You’re being so vague, you could be speaking in a foreign language. What are you saying?"
There was no reason to beat around the bush, no easy way to tell her.
"Edward secretly married someone else before he married you."
Susan jerked as if she’d been poked with a sharp stick.
"He what?"
"He wed a commoner named Georgina."
"He couldn’t have. You’re lying."
"He did." Beatrice had never confronted Edward, but she hadn’t had to. She’d been able to generate sufficient evidence on her own—evidence which she’d promptly destroyed.
"Was it…legal and binding?"
"Yes."
"Wouldn’t that make my marriage to him invalid?"
"Yes."
"Why are we discussing it? Can’t we deny it as a false allegation?"
"It’s not false, Susan."
"So? Let’s say it is."
"It’s not that simple."
"Why not? What is it they want?"
"They want the title of earl of Milton."
"But…but…Percival is earl of Milton," Susan stammered, clearly not grasping the ramifications.
"There is another son, Susan. They’re claiming he was born first."
Susan lurched to her feet and tossed her glass of sherry at the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying crack.
"Edward wouldn’t have done that to me." Susan vehemently shook her head. "There was no other son or marriage. You’re cruel to suggest it."
"A woman is staying at the Abbey, a Grace Bennett. She’s shown Jackson the marriage license and the birth certificate."
"No!" Susan was practically shrieking. "She couldn’t have. It’s not true. It can’t be true."
"The boy’s name is Michael. Michael Scott."
Susan gasped. "He’s using our name?"
"They insist he has every right."
Beatrice had had years to come to grips with Edward’s indiscretion—Georgina had written several letters that Beatrice had ignored—so she was accustomed to the news about the marriage and no longer distraught over it. She could dispassionately observe Susan’s fit of pique.
"The boy is at the Abbey, too," Beatrice calmly advised.
"He’s here?"
"Yes."
"What about Percival? You can’t think he might lose his title."
"It doesn’t matter what I think. Jackson has begun to believe Miss Bennett’s story, and he’s a man. His opinion will trump ours."
"That’s preposterous," Susan scoffed. "I’m an earl’s wife, and you’re an earl’s mother and grandmother. His word can’t be more convincing than ours."
"He’s male, and we’re not." Beatrice shrugged. "There is a problem for you in all of this, Susan. We have to get it out in the open."
"There’s a problem? Do you mean more of a problem than your informing me that my husband was an adulterer?"
"Michael Scott is the spitting image of Edward. He resembles Edward in every way, right down to the manner in which he holds the reins when he’s riding a horse." Susan blanched, and Beatrice enjoyed a ripple of malice. "Percival has none of Edward’s traits."
"You know about bloodlines." Susan shifted uneasily. "I have a great, great grandfather who had red hair."
Beatrice studied Susan, her cold expression digging deep.
"Before this goes any farther," Beatrice murmured, "is there anything you’d like to tell me?"
"No." Susan glanced away. "Why would there be anything to tell? I have no secrets in my life."
Beatrice was certain Susan was lying through her teeth but about what? She couldn’t guess. She waited an eternity, trying to intimidate Susan into a confession, but to no avail.
Finally, she nodded. "Fine. We’ll go forward as a united front. We have to rid ourselves of Grace Bennett and the boy."
"Yes, the boy," Susan agreed. "Especially the boy."
"I told Jackson to send them packing, but he hasn’t."
"They’re still on the premises?"
"Yes. He refused to make them leave."
"Percival might cross paths with them! How would we explain the situation?"
"I’ll figure it out."
"When?"
"Give me a day or two to devise a solution," Beatrice said. "It will have to be swift, and it will have to be clean—and we’ll have to act when Jackson is away."
"Why?"
"I hear he’s fond of them."
Susan’s cheeks flushed with fury. "He’d better not be."
"My feelings exactly." Beatrice pushed herself to her feet. "Once my plan is in place, I’ll let you know—and I’ll expect you to help me bring it to fruition."
Susan stood, too, and headed for the door. Just as she was about to exit into the hall, Beatrice said, "Susan, what would you be willing to do in order to keep Percival’s title?"
"I would do anything to keep it. You can count on me."
Beatrice nodded again, and Susan continued on to the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"They’re an interesting pair."
"Who?"
"The Bennett sisters."
Jackson glared at Duncan as if he didn’t understand to whom Duncan referred.
It was very late, and they were out on the verandah, having a brandy. The night was dark, the moon a tiny sliver, and it was very quiet. Every sensible person had already staggered off to bed.
With his mother and Susan in residence, the house had taken on a more hectic character. Beatrice created tension wherever she went, so the servants were more brisk at their duties, more strained in their assistance and replies.
Jackson was stressed, too, and vividly remembering why he’d stayed away for so long. He was in hiding, avoiding his mother and ignoring Susan and her ridiculous attempts at seduction.
When he’d stumbled on Duncan, and they’d managed to sneak off together, he’d felt furtive and devious and incredibly relieved.
"The Bennett sisters?" he asked Duncan. "Why on earth would you be thinking about them?"
"They’re so different from the women who cross my path."
"I suppose."
Grace—who worked for a living—was oddly independent. As to her sister, she was polite and shy, and since there was no risk of Jackson engaging in carnal conduct with her, he’d deemed her beneath his notice.
"What would it be like," Duncan mused, "to attach yourself to a female like that?"
"Like what?"
"They’re both so headstrong and willful."
"The sister, too?" Jackson inquired. "She seems rather meek to me."
"No, she possesses all of Grace’s worst traits."
"It would be horrid to be shackled to her," Jackson said. "What fellow could tolerate such obstinacy? How would he ever be king of his castle?"
"So
you believe they’re hen-peckers, do you?"
"Yes."
"But couldn’t you imagine it going another way?"
"What way?"
"It might be fun and exciting. You’d never have a dull moment, and there’d be plenty of interesting conversation. The only girls I ever meet are debutantes, and they’re all simpering idiots."
"Stubborn shrews would be better?"
"They’re not shrews," Duncan insisted.
"What are they?"
"They’re just…not what we’re used to."
Jackson studied his friend. He was pensive and peculiarly wistful, and Jackson scowled.
"Apparently, you’ve spent enough time with Eleanor Bennett to have formed an opinion about her."
"Not really." Duncan shrugged and intently sipped his drink. "We’ve spoken in the dining room and…whatever."
"You’ve chatted?"
"Yes."
"She’s very pretty."
"She certainly is."
"And very young, Duncan."
"I realize that she is."
Jackson’s scowl deepened. Duncan was a cad who had no scruples whatsoever, but he was handsome and could be extremely charming. A naïve girl would probably describe him as dashing, but a naïve girl shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred yards of such a scoundrel.
Duncan would never have a platonic chat with a female, and Jackson could only assume Duncan was up to no good.
"You shouldn’t be speaking to her," Jackson scolded, "and forget about the whatever."
"It’s just been innocent banter."
"With the emphasis on innocent. You’re out of her league."
"Of course, I am."
"Leave her alone."
"Oh, for pity’s sake, Jackson, I’m merely trying to have a brandy and some pleasant conversation. I’m sorry I mentioned her."
"Swear to me that you won’t talk to her again. If you can’t swear, then I insist you jump on a horse tomorrow and head to London. With Beatrice and Susan in residence, I have enough on my plate without worrying that you might trifle with a houseguest. I won’t have you causing a big scandal."
"Give me some credit, would you?" Duncan huffed. "I don’t even like the accursed child, and I would never involve myself with her. Besides her being poor as a church mouse, she’s bossy and impertinent, and I was simply pointing out that she’s just like her sister."
"Point made," Jackson muttered.
For a few minutes, they drank in a strained silence.
Finally, Jackson asked, "Why are we fighting?"
"I hate my life," Duncan said, "and I’m sick of how everything has always been so easy for you and so difficult for me."
"Easy! You think I had it easy?"
"You think you had it hard?"
"I think both our lives were awful when we were younger."
"I’m tired of having you reprimand me as if you’re my mother. That was Edward’s job."
"Edward isn’t here anymore. and someone has to tell you that you’re on the verge of gross misbehavior with Miss Bennett. Stop it."
"I don’t need you lecturing me."
"So go to town. You don’t have to stay here and put up with me."
"I’m being hounded to death by creditors in London."
"Then remain if you must, but don’t let me catch you chasing after Grace’s sister."
"It’s Grace now, is it?" Duncan sneered. "It seems that you’re getting terribly friendly yourself. Better watch how you act, Jackson. You might misbehave with one of your guests."
"She and I are having very delicate negotiations," Jackson claimed. "It’s only natural that we’d have grown closer."
"Oh, it’s all bloody proper when you’re doing it, isn’t it?" Duncan pushed himself to his feet. "You’re an ass, Jackson. Have I ever told you I thought so?"
Duncan stomped down the stairs and out into the dark garden. There were no lamps to light his route so he’d probably break his neck. At the moment, Jackson wouldn’t be sorry.
He listened as Duncan’s strides faded, and he kept expecting Duncan to turn around, to trot back to the verandah and chuckle over his strange mood. Duncan never obsessed, never rued or regretted. He simply stumbled through life, eager to implement his next scheme, which would always end in disaster.
Why was he fretting? Perhaps his fiscal troubles were more dire than he’d admitted. If that was the problem, Jackson couldn’t help him. He wasn’t about to toss money at Duncan. He could pay off all Duncan’s debts, and the man would instantly begin accruing new ones.
The quiet settled in, and Jackson realized he was moping, too. But while he had no idea what was vexing Duncan, the roots of his own melancholy were easy to discern.
Since Susan’s foray to the library the prior afternoon, he hadn’t seen Grace.
She had to be angry over what she’d witnessed and was acting as if she was jealous, as if he’d been cheating on her. While her fury shouldn’t have mattered, he was desperate to explain himself.
With his having deflowered her, he felt they were unusually attached. When they’d copulated—and with her being a virgin—he’d worried that she would place more importance on the event than it needed to have. Evidently, he’d been overwhelmed, too.
He couldn’t stop pondering her, couldn’t stop mulling every detail of the encounter, and he couldn’t wait to be with her so they could do it again.
Yet she was nowhere to be found. Not in the dining room when supper was served. Not in the morning parlor when the breakfast buffet was laid out. Not at tea. Not walking in the garden. Not doctoring in the kitchen. Not sleeping in her bed—he’d checked when he shouldn’t have.
He’d heard from the clerk he’d sent to Cornwall, and Grace’s story appeared to be true. He still couldn’t decide how to resolve the situation. What was the best conclusion and how could he reach it with the least amount of upheaval? He supposed he could bribe Grace into going away—as Beatrice had suggested—but if Michael was really Edward’s first-born son, it wasn’t fair to deny him his birthright.
But it was also unfair to deprive Percival and Susan of the position they presumed to be theirs.
There was no equitable solution, and he didn’t possess the wisdom of King Solomon. Tricky riddles were beyond his ability to unravel.
He had to speak with Grace—about Michael and about Beatrice. It might be beneficial to move her into the village until Beatrice’s storm had passed, but he’d made one misstep with Grace after another. He’d had sex with her when he shouldn’t have. Immediately after, he’d written that idiotic note, ordering her to conceal herself.
Afterward, he should have sought her out, but he’d let himself be waylaid by other, less pressing responsibilities.
She’d caught him in Susan’s arms.
What must she be thinking?
To protect her from Beatrice, he’d asked her to stay in her room, but there’d been no cruel intent. And he’d had nothing to do with Susan’s ludicrous seduction. He’d been an innocent bystander who hadn’t encouraged her. He’d simply been there, and she’d taken advantage the exact moment Grace arrived.
His temper flared.
How dare Grace hide from him! How dare she assume the worst without bothering to consider his side of the story! Wasn’t that just like a woman? She’d deemed him culpable without ascertaining the facts.
Though he’d had too much to drink and was beyond the point where he could rationally reflect, he decided to find her.
He would begin in her bedchamber, and if she wasn’t there, he would tear down the bloody mansion—brick by brick—until she was located.
He was going to talk, she was going to listen, and when he was done, they’d have a bit of fun, which was what he’d been hoping to instigate since their first dalliance had ended.
He downed his brandy and hurried into the house.
DC
Grace had just finished packing her satchel when booted strides marched toward her out in the hall. It
was after midnight, but she didn’t have to wonder who was approaching.
Jackson. Coming to her. Sounding irate and determined.
After stumbling on him in the library with Susan, she’d managed to avoid him.
He’d been raised in a different world, where rules and morals didn’t apply, where a person could act however he chose simply because he was rich and entitled. That sort of person could cheat and deceive without consequence.
In the process, if lesser mortals were wounded, if they were shocked or saddened or aggrieved, who cared? He was Jackson Scott. He was permitted his foibles and indiscretions.
For a few brief days, she’d stupidly believed she could step into that world with him, then step out again, unaffected and unscathed. But she’d been fooling herself.
She was too naïve to trifle with someone like him. Shrewd malice was required, and she didn’t have it.
Where he was concerned, she had proved herself reckless and wildly negligent. She hadn’t the strength to fend him off or to resist his sly enticement. She was lonely and unhappy and fearful for the future, and he made her feel better, so she latched on to his dubious suggestions.
She’d forgotten her responsibilities, her ethical obligation to Michael, and she wanted her old life back. She was anxious to return to the spot where she’d been prior to meeting him.
They never should have departed Cornwall, but they had. Now, she had to figure out how they could start over in a similar place.
Villages were always on the lookout for good healers, and she had to remember that fact. To her dismay, Eleanor would have to work, too—there’d be no suitable marriage to a suitable boy—and the quicker they left, the quicker they could establish themselves.
Apparently, she’d have to fight with Jackson before she could escape. She didn’t relish the notion, but it was like a festering toothache that wouldn’t abate until it had been pulled. That’s what she needed. A swift, hard yank to reality.
He knocked three times, very forcefully and much too loudly. She might have cringed, might have worried that others would overhear, but in her mind, she’d already fled the Abbey and was far down the road. If the servants heard him, she didn’t care. She’d never see any of them again.
"Grace!" he snapped. "Are you in there?"