The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “And you wonder I should call you a cad,” she taunted, her voice husky with unspent passion. She touched trembling fingers to her bleeding lip.

  “No,” he said hoarsely, and shook his head. “I don’t wonder in the least.”

  He turned back to the window and waited, then heard the door latch release and catch. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he released a long breath and stared hollowly at his reflection.

  He hardly recognized it.

  *

  Elaine looked up at the library mantel clock again. Apparently she was to have no company this evening.

  And as quiet and respectfully distant as her companion would have been, she felt his absence with a depth and an ache that left her nearly ill.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “What a greasy, despicable man,” Gwynneth muttered as the coach lurched forward on the road to Northhampton.

  “Who?” Caroline demanded, halting her fan mid-stroke.

  “The Earl of Whittingham. He and my father have come calling, after a fortnight in London doing heaven knows what. Which is why, when Thorne suggested I take you into Northhampton and shop for the day, I leapt at the chance to escape.” Gwynneth shivered. “How that man looks at me with those beady black eyes, as if I were a prize thoroughbred on the block and he about to bid! Thank Providence they are leaving tomorrow.”

  “Did you say…Whittingham?”

  “Yes, I—why Caroline, you are white as a sheet. What ails you?”

  “Turn the coach ‘round.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Turn it ‘round or I shall be sick on the spot.”

  Once inside the Hall, Gwynneth ordered an herbal concoction and some broth and took her friend up the service stairs. “Stop fussing,” Caroline said. “‘Tis nothing, I’ll be fine in a day or so. Give your husband my regrets at supper.”

  Seeming delighted to learn Caroline was visiting and disappointed to be deprived of her company, Radleigh praised “the Widow Sutherland’s” attributes to the earl. Lord Whittingham expressed polite regret at missing an introduction to the legendary society maven.

  Radleigh retired early, and as Gwynneth followed soon after, Thorne found himself alone with the earl—all according to plan, he suspected. His suspicions were shortly confirmed. With little prodding, Lord Whittingham admitted that he had, “only because of a long acquaintance with Radleigh,” recently provided additional capital for the viscount’s gaming pursuits.

  Thorne’s expression turned stony. “I thought I’d made myself quite clear, my lord. I asked you, in the interest of your old friendship with my father, not to loan money to Radleigh again.”

  The earl shrugged. “I tried to discourage him, but he was certain luck would be with him at the tables. I had accompanied him”—he leaned forward and lowered his voice—“to a certain establishment the evening before…perhaps you know of it, the lovely home of Madame Claire DuFoire? All Radleigh’s idea, of course.” Lord Whittingham settled back in his chair and smiled crookedly. “One of Madame Claire’s young protégés read his fortune in a teacup. Puffed him up a bit, you might say, in more ways than one.” The earl chuckled, then sobered. “Alas, after a couple of wins, Lady Luck departed.”

  “Just how much damage did she leave behind?”

  “Four-thousand seven-hundred sixty-three pounds.”

  Thorne arched his brow. “In one evening?”

  “Over several evenings. Very persuasive Radleigh is, as you know. I happen to have the receipts with me.”

  “I thought you might. In my study, sir, if you please.”

  Thorne’s study stayed ominously quiet but for the crackling fire and the scratching of his quill. Keeping the note in hand, he withdrew another document from the drawer. “You’ll take no offense, I trust,” he said as he handed the latter over to Lord Whittingham, “to my requiring your signature on this agreement I’ve prepared. Read it at your leisure. I’ve the entire evening if necessary.”

  “What’s this?” The earl eyed it with obvious suspicion.

  “Only your pledge that you will no longer serve as my fatherin-law’s moneylender.”

  Lord Whittingham reluctantly traded his signature for Thorne’s note of payment.

  “This is the second and last of these,” Thorne warned. “Be advised that if Radleigh persuades you again, you’ll find a suit on your hands.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A lawsuit, my lord. I would bring you before the magistrate on charges of pandering, as well as for breach of contract.”

  “You would do no such thing!”

  “Try me.”

  “Pandering?” Lord Whittingham’s chin folded on itself as he drew back incredulously. “You’d be obliged to expose your fatherin-law as a drunkard and a gambler, incapable of holding his own estate. Would you bring such infamy on your wife’s family?”

  “If it keeps you from bleeding me dry.”

  For a long moment the two men stared at one another, then Lord Whittingham blew out a sigh. “Well.” He slapped the arms of his chair. “You are your father’s son, I’ve no doubt of that.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  Lord Whittingham snorted, rising from his seat. “You’ll excuse me, then. The hour grows late, and we must leave tomorrow.”

  “‘Tis unfortunate you can stay no longer,” Thorne said pleasantly, and rose to bow.

  “Indeed,” was Lord Whittingham’s surly reply as he strode from the study.

  *

  Jerking awake, Thorne heard it again—a scream he recognized all too well.

  He sprang from the study settee and ran into the great hall, then bounded up the stairs three at a time. Gwynneth met him in the gallery. She stood back as he pounded on Caroline’s door.

  “Damnation, Ashby, let me in!”

  Again the scream sounded from within. Thorne rammed the door repeatedly with his shoulder. The old oak splintered under the stress. With two more teeth-gritting shoves, the latch and bolt hung useless.

  Cowering in a corner, hair in wild disarray, Caroline clutched pieces of her ripped shift together at a shoulder. “Thank God you’ve come!” she cried, then pointed a quaking finger at the drapery folds between the bedchamber and the sitting room.

  Thorne froze. Lord Whittingham had just stepped out from behind a velvet panel.

  “What on earth…?” Gwynneth began, and then cried out, “Thorne, no!”

  But his fist had already smashed into Lord Whittingham’s face.

  Blood sprayed from the earl’s nose, while his lips split against his teeth. With surprising strength, he lunged at Thorne with a well-placed body punch, then found himself pinned to the floor.

  “What,” Thorne growled into his guest’s florid face, “in bloody, blazing hell are you doing in these chambers?”

  Lord Whittingham only wheezed and groaned, helpless beneath a knee-lock and the iron hand at his throat.

  “Answer me, damn you!” Eyes blazing, Thorne tightened his grip on the earl.

  “My lord.” Gwynneth sounded shaken. “The man cannot speak while you’re strangling him-”

  “He’s lucky I haven’t slit his worthless throat,” Thorne snarled, nevertheless relaxing his hold a bit. Lord Whittingham coughed, one hand under his dripping nose.

  “Wet this.” Thorne glanced about the room as he whipped a linen handkerchief from the earl’s breast pocket and gave it to Caroline, whose wrapper now concealed her torn nightclothes. “Where the devil is that maid of yours?”

  “I…I don’t know…she was to spend the night on the chaise. She was here when I fell asleep-” Caroline broke off, but Thorne heard her whispered curse.

  “I’ll see if she’s gone topstairs,” Gwynneth said hastily, and fled the chamber.

  Caroline wet the handkerchief at the washstand and held it out gingerly to Thorne, then withdrew a safe distance.

  “Your visitor seems reluctant to talk,” he told her grimly. “Suppose you tell me what the
illustrious gentleman had on his mind. Did you let him in?”

  “Of course not! I was sleeping, though not very soundly, and I heard a noise. I opened my eyes, only to see him standing over me…God’s teeth, what a fright!”

  Thorne stood up without bothering to extend a hand to Lord Whittingham, who was still nursing his bleeding nose. “Did he hurt you?” he asked Caroline in a tight voice.

  “No, but if I hadn’t wakened when I did…” Eyes wide and brimming with tears, Caroline bit down on her swollen lip.

  Thorne dragged his gaze off that ripe, forbidden fruit that he himself had bruised just hours ago. He turned on the earl, who was lurching to his feet. “I’ll have the rest of this bizarre story from you, sir. How did you enter these chambers?”

  “The door was unbolted,” Lord Whittingham grumbled. “The missing maid, I suppose.”

  “And what the devil were you thinking when you let yourself in?” Thorne demanded, more incredulous by the second. “Were you sleepwalking? Did you somehow confuse my home with the brothel?”

  “Thorne!” Gwynneth stood slack-jawed in the doorway. “Please, mind what you’re saying! I couldn’t find the maid,” she told them. “Caroline, haven’t you some notion where she’s gone?”

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’ve a notion, all right. You might try the stables. Her head has been turned more than once by your stable master.”

  Gwynneth’s face drained of what color it had, but Caroline had no time to wonder as Thorne broke in impatiently. “My lady, have Byrnes wake William, and then send him to the stables to inquire…no, on second thought I’ll go myself—after our guest accounts for his actions.”

  If the Nevilles had been incredulous over the earl’s behavior up to now, they were utterly stunned when he turned his beady eyes on Caroline and said with a sneer, “Well, Mistress Sutherland, shall we tell our host of our past acquaintance?”

  Caroline drew herself up to her considerable height and gave Lord Whittingham a scathing look before meeting Thorne’s stare. “This blackguard,” she said with a shudder, “was once my husband.”

  Gwynneth gasped and made the Sign of the Cross. Thorne nearly did the same. “This,” he said hoarsely, “is the perverse tyrant of whom you told me in London?” At Caroline’s reluctant nod, he fixed Lord Whittingham with a glare of fast-building fury. “I suppose that, in your twisted mind, prior claim on the lady gives you the right to enter her chambers uninvited?”

  “Lady!” Lord Whittingham seized on the word, then cackled like a crone. “She’s anything but a lady, Neville, mark me.”

  More than his words were marked, as Thorne’s fist undercut his jaw and sent him sprawling and sliding across the polished wood floor, where Lord Whittingham’s skull met the plaster wall with a satisfying “thunk.” Thorne turned to Gwynneth, who stared at him with hollow eyes. “Take Caroline to your chambers for the night.”

  “Very well…but then I shall accompany you to the stables.”

  He scowled. “What for?”

  “Ashby is a woman,” Gwynneth said, looking pale but resolute. “If you must confront her, I think it best I be there.”

  “Very well,” Thorne muttered, “but be sure Caroline fastens the bolt on your chamber door. And put on some proper clothing.” When the women had gone, he turned a jaundiced look on Lord Whittingham, who had struggled to his feet and was gingerly feeling his jaw.

  “You needn’t worry, I’ll take my leave now,” the earl said nervously. “I’ll just wake Radleigh-”

  “You will not go near my fatherin-law. Not now, and in the interest of your good health, never again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Quite.” Lord Whittingham indicated the door with a jerk of his head. “By your leave.”

  “Mine and everyone else’s,” Thorne said sharply. “I’ll see you off myself.”

  *

  “Hobbs, open the door.”

  Nothing sounded from within. Thorne glanced over his shoulder. “I think it best you wait here, my lady.”

  “I am a grown woman, my lord.”

  “A frightened one, I’d say, from the tremor in your voice. Get behind me, then.”

  He knocked sharply and listened again. This time he heard feet shuffling on the plank flooring. Someone drew the bolt, and the door slowly opened a crack.

  Blinking in the light of the tallow candle he held, Tobias Hobbs ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Aye, M’lord?”

  “Send the girl out.”

  “The girl, my lord?”

  Thorne knew Gwynneth had moved out from behind him when he saw Hobbs’ eyes shift and widen. “Ashby,” Thorne said curtly. “Send her out, she’s needed by her mistress.” He was amazed to see Hobbs’ cheeks turn ruddy. Perhaps bringing Gwynneth had been wise. Her presence seemed to embarrass the stable master.

  The door shut again, practically in Thorne’s face. Loud whispering ensued from the other side. Gwynneth looked about to faint. No doubt her morals were highly insulted. Thorne had no time to muse further as the door opened again and Ashby appeared with a sheepish expresion on her pretty face, her employer’s shawl clutched tightly about her shoulders.

  After leaving his ashen-faced wife in care of Byrnes, Thorne sent Caroline’s maid topstairs to face her mistress’ wrath. Back in bed, Thorne tried to sleep, but found it impossible after something struck him like a thunderbolt. When he had told Caroline about Lena, he had mentioned that Lena’s father’s pet name for her was Maddie. If indeed Caroline and Lord Whittingham were once married, why had Caroline failed to react? She was too bright not to have made the connection.

  Then she must have known all along. The perfect actress, indeed. Thorne felt his anger rising. To think that he’d felt like such a cur for his behavior in the drawing room! He’d even planned to apologize at the first opportunity.

  His visit to the kitchen at the crack of dawn garnered fresh-baked scones, potatoes fried in bacon fat, and a fresh pitcher of milk. After bussing a flustered Bridey on the cheek, he headed across the great hall, then heard the officious tones of Dame Carswell hail him from her office under the stairs. He waited as she approached, her mouth pinched in obvious disapproval.

  “What is it, Carswell?”

  She curtsied. Only then did Thorne see the odd glow in her eyes, a glow one could only call triumphant.

  “I have just spoken with Markham and thought you should be informed, M’lord. Elaine Combs has disappeared.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Where the deuce could she have gone?” Thorne heard his voice—taut, demanding, the second time he’d asked in less than a minute. Carswell’s expression had turned bland, but he had little doubt she was enjoying herself.

  “As I said, I’ve no notion, M’lord.”

  He tried to look nonchalant. “References, then. Surely she had them. Who were they? Where is her family?”

  “There was but one reference, M’lord, that of her last employer, in Sturbridge. Combs is an orphan. She has no known living relative.”

  “Friends, then?” Thorne tried to ignore a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Perhaps she went to visit someone who’s sick, or dying.”

  “I doubt it, M’lord. There has been no courier, and Combs retired quite as usual for the night. However, this morn she is nowhere to be found, and what few possessions she had are missing.”

  Thorne nodded, his mind racing. “We would be remiss if we made no effort to locate her, particularly considering her delicate condition.”

  The housekeeper said nothing.

  “I’d planned to make rounds today,” he said, more to himself than her, and ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “Very well, I’ll make inquiries along the way. Tell Pennington he’ll have to catch up, that since I was up early I saw no point in wasting time.” He forced a chuckle. “Tell him to keep an eye peeled for wandering maids.”

  “Aye, M’lord.” Carswell’s expression told Thorne she wasn’t the least bit fooled by his casual tone.


  He hurried to the stables to inform Hobbs of Combs’ disappearance. “You will help me search for her,” Thorne added flatly. “Father of her child or not, you must realize the difficulty she might encounter away from home and on her own.”

  Surprisingly, the stable master looked uneasy. “Regarding last night, M’lord…”

  Ah, you first look after your own ass! “I’ve no interest in your peccadilloes, Hobbs.”

  “Please, M’lord, let me say this. The girl came to me, you see. I was quite shocked to find her here.”

  “No doubt she overpowered you, rendering you helpless to resist,” Thorne said dryly. “But why defend yourself to me?”

  “If I had known that Lady Neville would come seeking the girl, I would never…what I mean to say is I’m sorry to cause her ladyship such embarrassment. Perhaps you’ll tell her so for me.”

  “Surely you’ll have the opportunity to tell her so yourself, Hobbs, since she’s in these stables as much as she is anywhere. In the meantime, I expect a sincere effort in this search. And should you find Combs, you had best treat her with the gentleness due a woman in her condition…because if you think to take revenge on her for having ‘slandered’ you, you might as well put yourself in the sights of my flintlock here and now.”

  *

  Radleigh listened in apparent disbelief as his daughter recounted the events of the past night, his face flushing with indignation as she told him of Lord Whittingham’s connection to Caroline.

  “So, Father, you may remain here as our guest as long as it suits you, or you may go as you please. No doubt Thorne will lend you a coach and team.”

  Gwynneth sailed past her speechless sire and slammed the door behind her. She strode up the long gallery and stomped up the stairs to the servants’ quarters, where she encountered a slug-a-bed parlor maid on her way downstairs.

  “Milady,” the woman gasped in obvious alarm, then curtsied. “Might I fetch someone for you?”

  “You might indeed,” Gwynneth said, lifting her head to look down her nose at the taller woman. “The Ashby girl was sent up here by her mistress to finish the night. Tell her to come at once to my day room.” Gwynneth’s eyes narrowed. “Then report to Dame Carswell. I would have her know of your tardiness.”