The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “You might like to know,” the madam said, slinking around the door and closing it behind her, “there was a visiteur for you. I sent him away.”

  “And why need he be sent away?” Katy groused, tugging the covers up to her chin. “There are women enough in this house to accommodate one little man.”

  “Non, cheri. Not this man.” Madame Claire’s smile was grim. “Monsieur Adams would see none but you.” She dangled the fifty-pound note in front of Katy. “He kindly contributes to your keep. Quite chanceux, as you have refused all clients since you took ‘ill.’ He will visit again in November. Perhaps when he learns your ‘fièvre’ is not cured, he will open his purse again.”

  “You mustn’t take advantage of the poor man!”

  “He is anything but pauvres…and how else am I to support you in your idleness until the babe is born?”

  Katy threw the covers back and sat up, hand on her belly. “The babe’s own father has given you means to do so! In little more than a month he’s handed a hundred pounds over to us, and most of it from the kindness of his heart!”

  “Oui, but another such contribution two months hence will line the nest nicely. And when the babe is born, ‘twill fetch more than enough to make up for all my trouble…especially if ‘tis a boy.”

  “You’d be selling my own babe?” Katy whispered, horror in her wide eyes. “Why, you’re no better than my mum, selling me into service here.”

  “But you were a big girl of four-and-ten, quite ready for work. This is no place to raise un petit enfant! Or would you have me turn the two of you out into the street? ‘Twas careless of you to forget your vinegar sponge and your douche on that long day with Monsieur Adams in July,” the madam said crossly, “and as you won’t abide getting rid of the wee thing, you must payez le piper!”

  Despite the nausea and weakness that plagued her nowadays, Katy snarled a reply. “Like as not, I’m God’s own fool for telling you this, but ‘forgetting’ had naught to do with the making of this babe!”

  Madame Claire’s powdered eyelids folded upon themselves as her painted eyebrows arched. “What are you saying, Katherine Devlin—that you conceived this child intentionellement, with purpose? Is that what you are telling me?”

  “Aye,” Katy snapped, “and I’ll not foul myself or my babe with another man’s seed whilst I’m carrying!” Tears glazed her glare. “I cannot lay claim to Mister Adams’ heart, but he has mine, and for that innocent thievery I do lay claim to his bairn! And no one, not you or the midwife or anyone else shall take it away from me, I swear it before the Almighty!”

  Madame Claire sidled closer to the bed. “And what of Monsieur Adams? Has he no right to his child?”

  “He…he’ll never know,” Katy stammered, her gaze falling to the counterpane. “Not from these lips, at any rate. Saints above, why should he want to be saddled with my babe? For all we know he’s…he might be…”

  “Married?” The madam arched her brow again. “Oui, just married, little more than a fortnight ago. Hence childless.”

  Katy’s eyes flew to hers. “And how is it you’re knowing such things?”

  “One of my more prominent clients keeps me informed, in exchange for services more perverted than the usual.”

  “And did he tell you Mister Adams’ true name?”

  Madame Claire shook a finger at her. “Tsk, tsk, cheri, you needn’t know that. But when the time comes, I think Monsieur ‘Adams’ will quite willingly claim the enfant in return for his continued anonymity…for a considerable sum of cash, of course. No hardship to him, I assure you.”

  “You’ve no proof ‘tis his,” Katy argued, but she looked hopeful. “Not even a halfwit would take your word alone.”

  “Oui, cherie, but your Monsieur Adams has a conscience, unlike most of our clients. Even so, chances are greater he will claim the child than spurn it.”

  “How so?” Katy demanded. “By God’s own grace, what could truly convince the man that this babe is his?”

  Madame Claire smiled smugly. “By God’s own grace and the ways of nature, the babe will have its father’s eyes.”

  *

  “What the devil?” Thorne muttered.

  Returning to the Townsend’s at twilight, he found every window of the Palladian house lit from within. Was there a ball in progress? No one had mentioned any such event.

  Stepping down from the coach, Thorne saw a figure in skirts streak past the colonnade. “See if I don’t!” it yelled defiantly, and then called back, “Thorne, hurry! You’re on my team!” before disappearing behind the hedgerow. A larger figure in breeches dashed across the lawn to where Bernie had vanished. “Give it up, you little heathen!” shouted Townsend’s voice.

  “Good evening, M’lord,” said the Townsend’s straight-faced butler. “I have been instructed to relieve you of your waistcoat and bid you join Miss Bernice, whom I believe you shall find running for dear life in the gardens.”

  Thorne’s mouth twitched. “Surely Miss Bernice wouldn’t be overly upset if I took some refreshment first?”

  The butler didn’t bat an eye. “Suit yourself, M’lord, but I cannot guarantee the young lady’s leniency.”

  Chuckling, Thorne gamely relinquished his waistcoat and tricorne. “God forbid I should spark her temper.”

  Thorne headed toward the next shout he heard, in the rear gardens. Light spilled from the windows to his right. At his left, the tall hedgerow blocked his view.

  One minute he was walking, the next he was sprawled face-down in dewy grass. Picking himself up, he heard smothered laughter behind the hedgerow.

  He sprinted to the far end of the thick growth and rounded the last shrub, then paused as he spotted a tall shadowy form in skirts creeping back toward the other end.

  He closed the distance on silent, winged feet. “Think twice before knocking me down again, you redheaded rabble-rouser!” Grabbing the skirted figure by the waist, he swept her up under his arm.

  Even before she cried out in protest, he realized his mistake.

  “What the deuce did you trip me for?” he demanded, setting his captive down hastily. “I thought you were Bernie, I expect such shenanigans from her.”

  Caroline burst out laughing. “I’m sorry!” she gasped out, clutching her midsection. “But to see such a prig as you, lying flat on the ground and not knowing how the deuce you got there…oh, I am sorry!” Her words slid into another peal of mirth.

  “Give it up Caroline, you don’t sound the least bit sorry.”

  She sobered. “I thought you were Townsend. Bernice left me here to waylay him. I’d no idea ‘twas you.”

  “What game is this, who’s playing?”

  “Everyone is playing, at least ‘til the fog comes in off the river. ‘Tis a scavenger hunt! A bird’s egg is on the list. Apparently both Townsend and Bernice knew the location of a nest, but she beat him to it, shimmied right up the tree. When I saw her last, her brother was in hot pursuit.”

  “Indeed he was. So, now I’m a prig, am I?”

  “Not only now, but most of the time,” Caroline said with a wicked little smile. “Come find Bernice, she’s depending on us to help finish the list.”

  “Very well. For Bernie I’ll make an exception.”

  “To what?” Caroline tucked her arm comfortably into his.

  “To your otherwise immediate trial.”

  She slowed their pace. “I’m being tried? For what?”

  “Slander. You accused me of being a prig,” Thorne reminded her, an edge to his otherwise pleasant tone. “You may present your supporting evidence. But I shall prove you wrong.”

  “Evidence?” Caroline stopped to face him. “I rely on observation, ‘tis all the evidence I need.”

  “And what do you observe, Mistress Sutherland?”

  Squinting through the dimness, Caroline saw a wry twist to his sensual mouth and a gleam in his eyes. Her pulse began to race. “Only that you always do what is proper, Lord Neville.”

  �
��Always?”

  “Always.”

  Standing nearly toe-to-toe with him, she felt his warm breath on her face.

  “Tho-orne!” called a singsong voice from somewhere beyond the house.

  “Bernie,” Caroline murmured.

  “I should answer,” Thorne muttered, his gleaming eyes on her lips. “Since I always do what is proper.”

  “Thorne!” The insistent summons was fading in the other direction.

  Without warning, Thorne’s head swooped down on Caroline’s like a hawk on its prey, his mouth slanting over hers. Demanding entry, he gained it with a single thrust of his tongue, simultaneously drowning Caroline’s protest and evoking a moan as she closed her eyes in surrender to a thorough ravishment of her mouth. Their breaths mingled, faster, harsher by the moment, until Caroline’s head reeled and the ground beneath her seemed to fall away.

  As abruptly as Thorne had taken hold of her, he let her go.

  She swayed, then steadied herself, eyes opening wide. With one searching look, she slapped him roundly.

  Thorne’s smile was brief and brittle. “I rest my case, Mistress Sutherland.”

  *

  “What do you mean, she left?”

  Townsend sloshed some cream into his morning tea. “Took her leave. Departed. Said she’d some business in town, but she might return tomorrow. Very apologetic, very charming with her excuses.” He looked hard at Thorne. “And very anxious to know your whereabouts before she left.”

  “Probably looking to bid me farewell.”

  Townsend barely swallowed his mouthful of tea. “Not bloody likely. What the deuce did you say to her?” He set his cup askew in the saucer. “She kept her distance after the scavenger hunt. Didn’t look your way again all evening.”

  “You watch her closely.”

  “As if you don’t!”

  Thorne dropped into a chair. “Damnation, Townsend, are we to come to blows over the woman before the week is out? Bugger it all, get to the point.”

  “Very well. She called you a cad.”

  Thorne snorted. “Is that all?”

  Townsend’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve known you to deck a man for less than that. She slandered your reputation, Neville. You, who are ever the protector and defender of the gentler sex.”

  “Did she say what I’d done to deserve such an epithet?” Thorne flicked imaginary lint from his sleeve.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Well, the woman has a right to her opinion. What say we take Bernie riding this morn?”

  “Oh, so I’m to be left in the dark. Very well then, I’ll see if I can abduct the little hellion from her cousins. You’re a glutton for punishment, Neville, an absolute glutton.”

  *

  Standing in the foyer of the Sutherland mansion, tricorne in hand, Thorne felt like a schoolboy come to beg forgiveness of his governess.

  Old Marsh came trudging down the steps alone. “She’ll not see ye, sir,” she said, looking sheepish.

  “Why not?”

  Marsh shrugged. “She only says, sir, to tell ye she’s not at home to callers today.”

  Coolly studying the gallery, Thorne considered scaling the elegant stairway and barging into Caroline’s boudoir. “Tell your mistress,” he said casually, “that I look for her to return to Chigwell as soon as she’s able.” He donned his hat and left the house, Caroline’s butler, Gilbert, dejectedly holding the door for him.

  “‘Tis a rotten shame,” Marsh muttered, eyeing Lord Neville through the window as he climbed jauntily into the coach. “After all he’s done for her.”

  Gilbert shook his head. “Criminal, if you ask me.” He winced as Caroline’s voice chimed in from above.

  “No one asked you, you old coot, so keep your bloody tongue in your head!”

  *

  “Too early for tea?” asked Arthur, tossing a corf on the worktable. “Four good-sized trout, caught this morning. Nigh forgot to collect them.”

  “Hilly, draw a breath!” Bridey called out, dropping an armful of winesaps on the worktable. The butter churn’s rhythmic thump ceased, and Hillary came scurrying from the creamery.

  “Come clean these fish, lass.” Bridey eyed Arthur silently for a moment, then asked in an undertone, “Did ye perchance see Toby on your way in?”

  “He’s out,” Arthur said, buttering a fresh scone.

  “Aye, he’s out all right,” the cook grumbled. “Out with her ladyship. As usual, here of late.”

  Arthur paused, the butter knife in mid air. “What are you saying, Bridey?” he murmured, glancing Hillary’s way.

  The cook took a knife to the winesaps on her chopping board. “‘Tis not my place to say anything,” she replied flatly.

  “‘Twill go no further than my ears.”

  She eyed him grimly. “The pair o’ them ride daily now…and of an evening as well, Monday past.” She pursed her lips.

  “Evening, eh.” Arthur poured steaming orange-pekoe tea into his cup.

  “Aye,” Bridey chopped furiously. “Come in late, too. Found Combs in the reading room and raked her over the coals. Made her faint dead away, then turned her back on her.” She gave an apple a vicious whack.

  Arthur said nothing.

  “Master’ll be home soon,” Bridey muttered. “There’ll be no more midnight rides then, I’ll vow.”

  “Midnight, Bridey?”

  “Near enough. ‘Tweren’t more than two hours away when she sashayed in by the side door.”

  Arthur downed most of his tea, then pushed the trestle back from the table. “Well, as you say, Bridey, the master will be home soon. And that,” he added firmly, “will be the end of that.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  By Wednesday evening Thorne suspected Caroline wouldn’t return to the house party. By Thursday morning he was all but certain.

  He told himself he was merely restless when he took up a favorite book but couldn’t concentrate, or began a game of cards only to lose and curse his luck aloud. He even found Bernie’s impulsiveness more of a trial than an amusement, and it was Townsend who finally demanded an end to it.

  “She has you by the bollocks, man, admit it!”

  Thorne knew he wasn’t referring to Bernie.

  “You’re like a brother to me, Neville, so I say this with sincere affection—get the devil home and get your house in order before you see her again. You’re a lit powder keg at any rate, and damned if I want you around when you explode.”

  Thorne studied Townsend noncommittally. “Truly, I’m that much of a mess?”

  “Every bit of it.” Townsend softened his tone. “Not to say you’re at fault, just that your situation isn’t improving with time…although, who can tell? You might find Gwynneth’s attitude changed, now that she’s had some time away from you, and if that’s the case, your…obsession, shall we call it?…with Mistress Sutherland will be a thing of your more tawdry past.” He eyed his friend with fond annoyance. “Go home.”

  Thorne smiled crookedly. “I suppose there are worse ways of being put out of someone’s house. I wonder, though, what Lady Townsend would do if she knew you were giving me the boot.”

  Townsend winced. “I may be twenty-six years old, but she’d box my ears soundly, and you bloody well know it. And that would be a picnic next to what Bernie’d do when she got hold of me.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Bless her, she’s my champion all right.” His smile faded. “All jesting aside, Townsend, you’ve probably done me a favor. You’re right, there’s little I can do from here. I’ll collect my bag and find my hosts.”

  *

  “Stop your dallying and fetch Bartholomew to the smithy’s,” groused Hobbs. When there was no answer he looked up to see Gwynneth silhouetted in the doorway. “Milady. Forgive me, I thought you were Nate.”

  “He’s already gone,” she said softly, “or I wouldn’t have come.”

  Unable to read her expression in the dim light, Hobbs pulled a three-legged stool from under the worktable and
set it out for her. ‘Tis all I can offer,” he said ruefully.

  Gwynneth glanced about the room as she sat down. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not?” Hobbs laid aside the harness he was repairing. “Are these not your husband’s stables?”

  “Aye, but I believe I’m being watched. From the Hall.” She sighed. “Did you miss our ride yesterday?”

  Hobbs debated a reply.

  “I’d errands in town,” she explained, then smiled at his expression. “If you don’t believe me, Tobias, ask at the coach house. All my riding was done in comfort yesterday.”

  He picked up a narrow strip of hide and began weaving it into the damaged harness. “Aye, riding horseback is a poor second,” he said evenly, keeping his eyes on his work. “But some of us have little choice. I’m thus reminded, Milady, that I’m naught but a simple stableman, hence far too lowly to accompany you on your rides. I was mad to think otherwise. You needn’t say any more, ‘tis done. Henceforth, I’ll stay right here in the stables, where I belong, and leave the escorting to your husband.”

  Met with silence, he looked down to see reproach in Gwynneth’s gaze.

  “I came here,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “to tell you I hoped to ride with you today. I wanted to arrange the time around your schedule so that no one could accuse you of neglecting your duties. But never mind, now. I shan’t bother you again.” Tears in her eyes, she shot up off the stool, gathered her skirts, and fled.

  She was scarcely out the door when Hobbs seized her by the shoulder, but he let her go without a word as he spotted Arthur coming through the gate. Gwynneth never broke stride, giving the steward a nod and a terse “good morning” as she passed him.

  One look at Arthur’s face sent Hobbs back to his workbench.

  “You’ve some business with her ladyship this morn?” Arthur pulled out the stool and sat down. Hobbs resumed his harness repair with a vengeance.

  “Aye. What of it?”

  “I’ll not mince words, Toby. There’s talk at the Hall, and I want it stopped before his lordship returns.”

  “Talk?”

  “Aye, of you and her ladyship. Stay where you are and listen,” he said as Hobbs made to rise. “This is for your own good. ‘Tis up to you to prevent slander against the girl…and ‘girl’ she is, Toby, make no mistake. She’s led a secluded life, hence is ignorant regarding certain matters, such as daily rides with her husband’s stableman in her husband’s absence. Steady, keep your tongue and your temper,” he warned, seeing Hobbs bristle. “Hear me out.