“I’m at fault. I saw the storm coming. I should have insisted she stay with the priest, then fetched Dobson with the coach.”
The old cook nodded curtly. “Aye, so ye should’ve. But she fares well enough, and for that ye can thank your lucky stars, ‘cause if the master was home, ye’d never have took her to church today.”
“I accompanied Lady Neville at her request.” Defiance crept into Hobbs’ voice. “I’m obliged to obey her wishes in the master’s absence, just as you are.”
Sighing, Bridey shuffled to the hearth. “Aye. Enough said, then, and no real harm done.” She turned the spit. “Go on now, off with ye,” she scolded, as if he were a boy again, loitering about the kitchen in hopes of an extra meat pie. Watching the proud way he carried himself as he left, she felt uneasy.
A body heard things in a great house like this, things that over the years might be left alone but weren’t necessarily forgotten. And something was brewing, she could feel it—something that had lain dormant, like unleavened dough, until someone had come along and added yeast to the mix.
And that someone, she feared, was Lady Neville.
*
“Now what shall I do?” Caroline said breathlessly, having hooked a fair-sized trout on her line.
Thorne moved behind her and reached around to grip the bamboo pole between her hands. “Steady. It won’t jump into the corf on its own. You must leave it a bit of slack and let it play some, then give it a tug and haul it in a tad more.”
She leaned back for leverage; Thorne felt her shiver as his breath touched her bare neck. “Are you cold?” he murmured.
“No, just…excited.”
Was her voice a shade huskier than usual? Thorne’s pulse accelerated. Suddenly Caroline cried out, her ill-timed yank bringing the fish flying out of the water. Thorne chuckled as the poor creature swung into her skirts and she shrieked again.
“Bloody Hades,” Bernie groused further up the bank. “Would someone toss that woman in a boat without oars and give it a good shove?”
“Bernice Margaret Townsend, keep your tongue in your head or go sit beside your mother. Mistress Sutherland is our guest. You will treat her with respect.”
“Humph!” Bernice watched from a distance, hands on hips, as her brother and Thorne showed Caroline how to remove the hook and place the fish in the wicker corf. When Caroline scrubbed her hands in the water and looked around for something to dry them, Bernice doubled over with laughter.
“Actress or not, I was wrong about her,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “The only thing that woman ever fished for is a man!”
*
“Thank Providence you’re not ill, Milady. But perhaps we should wait until tomorrow. Darkness falls within the hour.”
“Then we must start now. I want to reach the hollow before dark.”
“Wait here.” Excitement thickened Hobbs’ voice. He’d no idea why it was so important to ride to Beck’s Hollow before nightfall, but he would manage it or die in the attempt.
The sun hovered just above the horizon as they reached the south bank. Lady Neville dismounted before an old ash tree. While Hobbs looked on from his horse, she touched some scarring in the scaly bark.
“T and L,” she murmured.
Hobbs drew Bartholomew closer. “What is it, my lady?”
“A heart. ‘T’ is my husband, no doubt.” She turned to Hobbs. “Who might ‘L’ be?” You knew his lordship as a boy.”
“He was fourteen when I came to the stables, no mere boy, my lady.”
“Then you’ve no notion?” Her face fell like that of a disappointed child.
“No, my lady.”
She went back to studying the crude carvings.
“The moon is on the rise, my lady. Shall we climb the ridge and ride to the clearing? The circle of stones I showed you is even more intriguing by moonlight.”
After a long moment, she turned to look at him, her eyes aglitter, her smile strangely fierce. “Aye, Tobias, do let’s ride to the clearing, indeed I shall ride all the night long if I choose…no one can stop me!”
His heart skipped a beat and then began to pound. It was the first time she had used his Christian name since the day they had met and Neville had quickly set her straight. “Very well, my lady,” he said, struggling to sound calm. “But the forest is already dark and we must beware low branches. Stay just behind me.”
*
Hearing Caroline’s laughter peal for the third time, Thorne couldn’t resist a glance toward the fire, where Townsend seemed to have her spellbound. Meanwhile, Miss Victoria Clifton cast doe-eyes their way and looked miserable as her mama encouraged her with urgent whispers to join them.
Feeling sorry for the girl, but at the same time finding his compassion highly suspect, Thorne sauntered up behind the high-backed brocade chairs and folded his arms nonchalantly atop the one in which Caroline sat. She immediately acknowledged him, to Townsend’s obvious irritation.
“Thorne.” Such a velvet voice she had, at the moment matched by her eyes. “Townsend has been telling tales on you.” Smiling, she eyed Thorne through her thick lashes. “I’d never have guessed you were such a tearaway at Oxford. I’d pictured you poring endlessly over your books and papers, scarcely taking time to eat and sleep.”
“He’d have done precisely that, if we had let him,” Townsend broke in, staring coolly at Thorne. “But under that quiet, studious exterior, there proved something of the devil in him after all.”
Thorne returned his stare. “Mark me, whatever Townsend lays at my door can be turned on himself thrice over.”
Caroline glanced from one man to the other.
“Despite the ashes just heaped on my head,” Townsend said with distinct diction, “I’m not quite the rake Neville would have you believe.”
“I propose,” Thorne said every bit as distinctly, “that neither of us further incriminates the other in the presence of the lady.”
“Agreed.”
Seconds ticked by in silence in their little group while other conversation carried on.
“Well, gentlemen!” Caroline stood, her eyes dancing. “I must beg your leave, I’ve promised Sir Kenneth a game of billiards.”
Townsend rose and both men bowed, then watched Caroline’s hourglass form float across the room. Miss Victoria Clifton followed her progress as well, a pout on her plump little mouth.
Thorne dropped into Caroline’s vacated seat. Townsend stayed standing, his steady regard anything but cordial.
“Shall I fetch the pistols?” Thorne deadpanned. “Or might we share a smoke and conduct a mature conversation?”
With no change in his expression, Townsend took his seat again.
What in the deuce,” Thorne asked coolly, taking two cigars from a slender case in his waistcoat and tossing one to his silent friend, “possessed you to invite her here?”
Townsend savagely bit off the cigar tip. “Rather a strong word, Neville…‘possessed’? I ran across her at the Exchange.”
“The Exchange?”
“Yes.” He lit up with a piece of kindling, then held the crude match out for Thorne. “Don’t you know? She’s become quite involved in her late husband’s business affairs.”
“There’s a shock.”
“You should have seen them—clarks, merchants, tradesmen—all agog at the sight of her! Damned funny, quite a scene. At any rate, she looked so…” Townsend shook his head.
“Stunning? Ravishing?”
“I was about to say ‘overjoyed to see me’…yes, me! And yes, I’ll admit to being flattered, damned flattered, in fact. You needn’t look so amused, Neville, I came to my senses soon enough, and realized she’d likely be glad to see any acquaintance from a happier time. But I could tell she was lonely—though ‘tis hard to imagine a woman like her being anything but plagued by men—and I found myself asking before it even occurred to me that, being in mourning, she’d properly decline my invitation. But as you see, she accepted! At any rat
e,” he added before Thorne could tease him further, “I thought your wife would be here, and that the two of them could have a pleasant visit together.”
Thorne looked into the flames, then met his friend’s intent gaze again. “Bear up, Townsend. I’m about to be blunt, if not downright rude.”
“Fire away.”
“Have you some romantic interest in Caroline?”
“Pardon?” Townsend’s face flushed scarlet.
“You heard me.”
Townsend flipped his cigar butt into the fire. “What, protecting the lady’s honor? Or me from certain heartbreak?”
Thorne shook his head, irony twisting his mouth. “You have it all wrong, Townsend. I’m hoping you’ll spare me.”
“How so?”
“By telling me you’ve serious intention of courting Caroline. Tell me that, and you’ll be the instrument of my salvation.”
Townsend stared at him in consternation. “Salvation from what?”
Thorne closed his eyes and rubbed his eyes and rubbed them. “From my own little hell, is what.”
“Christ, Neville.” Townsend lowered his voice. “What’s eating you?”
“Do you believe in sorcery?” Thorne looked up, and if Townsend had been about to laugh or ridicule, the torment on his friend’s face must have stopped him.
“Come on, steady now.” Townsend shifted to the edge of his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “God knows she looks at you as if you’re her next meal,” he muttered, “but has she gone so far as…has she tried to…”
“Seduce me?” Thorne shook his head. “I’m not sure. But we’re repeatedly thrown in one another’s path.”
“Then ‘tis nothing she does or says.”
“No,” Thorne said hesitantly, “and yes. She has a way of speaking…” He saw Townsend nod. “And a way of looking at a man, of searching him out in a crowded room. I sense that you empathize, but I think her effect on me is more profound…though the why is beyond me. And worst of all, she bloody well knows it.”
“Are you in love with her?” Townsend asked quietly.
“No. God, no. Heaven help any man who is.”
“And Gwynneth?”
Thorne only looked at him.
“She’s at Wycliffe Hall, isn’t she? Not with her aunt.”
Eyes on the fire again, Thorne nodded.
Townsend sounded pained. “Is the marriage in jeopardy so soon?”
“I wish I could say ‘no’…but I fear it is. My wife, you see, took the wrong vows.”
His friend’s blank stare begged explanation.
“You see, Radleigh forced her to leave the convent without telling her our plans. I’ve since realized she was gently coerced into capturing my fancy, my hand, and my purse—though not necessarily in that order. Radleigh is heavily in debt.”
“Christ.”
“Coincidentally, that name looms large in this farce as well,” Thorne said wryly. “Someone has impressed upon my wife that any pleasure derived from marital conjugation is a ‘mortal sin’. Hence she struggles against her otherwise passionate nature, and defends her position by saying she was meant for ‘a higher purpose.’ Aye, her very words,” he said, seeing Townsend’s dumbfounded expression. “My wife is convinced she should have taken the vows of the Sisters of Saint Mary.”
Townsend groaned.
“So you see why your serious intentions toward Caroline would be my redemption. She has me under some spell, Townsend. I don’t know what it is, but it cuts me off at the knees, and I don’t know how much longer I can resist. I’m human, for God’s sake.”
Townsend shook his head, looking both regretful and vexed. “I’ll confess I’m attracted to Caroline, what man wouldn’t be? But I’d never ask her to marry me. She’s far too headstrong, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust her as far as the door. You yourself said, ‘heaven help any man who is in love with her’…would you wish that on me? Besides which, let’s call a spade a spade—she’d very likely laugh in my face at the mere suggestion.”
“I doubt that,” Thorne mumbled, his hopes disintegrating.
“Oh, all right, she wouldn’t laugh, she’d just look at me with those incredible eyes and smile at me with that extraordinary mouth and tell me how sweet I was for asking, but…! So, no, my friend.” Townsend snorted. “I suffer no delusions that she’s drawn to me. I’ve quite entertained her this evening, not with tales of my escapades, but of yours, since there were many in which I took part. And by God, she hung on my every word, our cool Widow Sutherland…and not because of my voice.”
Thorne felt his heartbeat quicken in spite of his dismay. He’d never imagined Caroline’s interest in him was more than a game of wits and wiles for her own amusement. What Townsend had just told him only worsened the situation.
“So you see,” his friend was saying, “I can’t possibly pull you out of this pit into which you’ve fallen…and I’ll lay ten to one she’s good and ready to jump into it with you. She only awaits your beckoning.”
“Christ, don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth, and I think you know it. In the meantime, what of your marriage? Can you live with Gwynneth and have any true peace of mind? Are you willing to let her use your home as a nunnery?”
“She’d still manage the household well, I think.”
“Oh, there’s consolation. What of children, Neville—an heir? What of your marital rights, damn it?”
Raking a hand through his hair, Thorne gave his friend a withering look. “Do you think those things haven’t occurred to me?
“Appeal for an annulment!”
“I don’t want to shame her family—or mine, for that matter. Damn my stubbornness! Arthur warned me time and time again.”
Townsend sat back in his seat with a sigh. “So, what will you do?”
“Beyond pouring a stiff dram of your whiskey?” Thorne managed a smile. “Deuced if I know, Townsend. Ask me again at the end of my stay.”
*
Tiptoeing up the west hall at Wycliffe Hall, Gwynneth reminded herself she’d simply ridden later than usual, and it was no one’s business but hers. Changing her pace, she glided up the thick carpet runner with her head held high, then paused before the great staircase and frowned, seeing a patch of light shining from under the library doors.
She approached stealthily and pressed an ear to one door, then slowly opened it.
A startled gasp came from the vicinity of the hearth. Gwynneth spotted the hem of a muslin wrapper between the legs of a high-backed chair.
“Who is there?”
Slippered feet touched the floor. Silhouetted in the firelight, a tall slender form arose from the chair. “‘Tis I, Milady…Combs,” came the soft, hesitant reply.
Indignation heated Gwynneth’s blood. “What business have you in this room?”
“I beg your pardon, Milady, I was only curious to see one of its volumes. I shall go now.” Combs hesitated, seeming unsure whether to replace the book on the shelf or lay it on the table nearby.
“Bring the book to me,” Gwynneth said through her teeth.
“Aye, Milady.” Approaching, Elaine held out the volume. Eyes blazing, Gwynneth snatched it from her.
“Keep your filthy hands off what doesn’t belong to you…do you hear me, slut?”
The blood drained from Elaine’s face. She swayed on her feet.
“Return to your own quarters, and do not let me see your whoring face again!”
“Aye, Milady,” Elaine whispered…then fainted and fell to the floor.
TWENTY-ONE
On Monday the Townsend’s house party took coaches into London for lunch in a popular tavern and a comedic matinee. Afterward, Thorne apologized to his hosts, saying he had pressing business in Westminster and not to expect his return before nightfall.
In Fleet Street he hired a hackney coach, which drove him through Hyde Park to the stately residence of Madame Claire.
By the time they reached the gate, Thorne was questioning
his motives. Awaiting the madam in her luxurious parlor, he reminded himself he had quit this place for good and for all.
“Monsieur Adams,” cooed Madame Claire’s syrupy voice as she swept into the room. “Welcome. Whom are we visiting today?”
“Need you ask?” Thorne murmured. “Katy, please, if she is at leisure.”
The madam shook her head, her smile at once sad and patronizing. “Katy is malade…ill, I am sorry to say. You must meet Jeanette, come recently from Paris. Beautiful breasts, and lips made for pleasuring a man.” Her rouged mouth formed the pathetic pout of a coquette past her season. “Shall I send for her, monsieur?”
“May I inquire as the the nature of Katy’s illness?”
Madame Claire elevated her chin. “She has contracted la fievre…an ague, monsieur. But she is receiving excellent care. You need not be concerned.”
“Perhaps I could visit for a moment or two.”
The proprietress shook her head. “Impossible, monsieur. La fievre is quite contagious, and I dare not risk the lives of my clients. Katy is sous la quarantaine.”
Nor, Thorne realized, could he afford to bring illness into the Townsend home. Resigned, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and dug into his purse.
“Here then.” He held out his closed fist to the baffled woman—who was quick enough to open her own hand.
“Monsieur Adams,” she said with a gasp, agog at the fifty-pound note. “C’est trop d’argent!”
“For Katy’s care, I insist. And tell her…” Thorne paused, considering his words. “Tell her naught of the money. Say only that Mister Adams wishes her well and awaits her recovery. Say also that I might see her in November.”
“Monsieur, I cannot thank you enough for your générosité!”
Thorne waved her fawning gratitude away. “Just relay my message, please.”
Madame Claire nodded, her smile entirely genuine. “I shall, Monsieur Adams, sans faute.”
“Until November, then.”
*
Madame Claire watched her visitor exit the front gate and disappear from view, then climbed the stairs and rapped on Katy’s door.
“Come in,” came a glum voice.
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