A Lady Undone

by Máire Claremont

  Wyndham stared at her, silent, captivated.

  She looked away, unable to maintain the intensity of his amber gaze. How had she let herself become so carried away? She prided herself on the coolness she had cultivated since the death of her husband. She would never, ever have anyone call her reason into question again because she spoke with too much feeling.

  “You are not worried for your own person then?” he asked carefully.

  How could she explain that she’d faced a daily danger in her own home? One misguided blow or a loss of her husband’s temper in the wrong place could have easily seen her dead. Hadn’t his first wife tumbled down the stairs? Hadn’t her own cheek nearly cracked her dressing table on more than one occasion? She was not afraid of a violent end. She’d stood and seen the face of danger and death.

  Nor would she run to it, for she had a purpose now. A purpose far superior to any she might have had if she hadn’t married such a man as the Duke of Duncliffe. Just today, that purpose had been renewed when she’d been able to ensure a place with a good family for Amy in Devon. The girl would be able to begin again with support and kindness, money in her pockets, and the knowledge that someone believed in her. She couldn’t fail the Amys of the world.

  “While it is in my power, sir, I will not allow one woman who comes to me for help to return to a man who will abuse her, no matter what the church or law might say.” She forced herself to look back to the calm man who appeared as if a canon might fire beside him and not alter a hair upon his unflinching head. “If I must put my life in jeopardy to do this, so be it, but I will not risk the women who need me or the place they come to.”

  “Then you do think you may be in danger,” he said simply, “and you do need my help.”

  “If you had been a different man, I think I would have said no.”

  “A different man, Your Grace? What sort of man did you expect?”

  She put her brandy down upon the table and said honestly, “One that would not listen to me, who had all the answers, who gave not a jot for a woman’s wishes.”

  He nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I do have many answers, but not all of them. I will always listen to you. I care deeply about a woman’s wishes, they are as valid as my own and . . .”

  She held his gaze, suddenly on edge, holding her breath. “And?”

  “I am nothing like your deceased husband.”

  With those words, she wondered exactly how much he knew. It was galling, seeing the sympathy upon his face. He pitied her. She knew he did. “How do you know . . . what was he like?” she demanded.

  “He bullied women, he was a weakling, and he got his power from hurting those he could control. He hurt you. He controlled you. If you allow me to help you, I will do none of those things.”

  She lifted her chin, her heart aching with the abrupt pain of memory and shame. She’d never felt such shame before. How could he see so deeply inside her? Did he also see that her husband had beat her, forced laudanum down her throat, and slowly stolen her will away until she’d almost been nothing more than a shadow?

  Wyndham didn’t look away. He didn’t smile or reach out. He simply sat, allowing her to take in his words and to reply as she may.

  It was so tempting to tell him to get out. She had no desire for anyone to know the kind of pain and humiliation she had suffered. He thought he knew her. Perhaps he almost did. He thought she was a victim. A girl who had been swept up in marriage to an old man who had abused her.

  He was right to a point.

  A slow smile lifted her lips. “We won’t speak of this again, but you have convinced me that you will help me. Not the Duke of Fairleigh, not my uncle, or even your seeming sense of nobility toward a woman in distress. I thank you for it.”

  “Your Grace, it is an honor.”

  She gave a small bow of her head and hid the dangerous thoughts dancing through her head from his view. Would he still feel so honored if he knew the truth?

  What man could?

  Chapter 4

  Whitechapel was a place out of hell. If one ever doubted that there was evil in this world, all they needed was to take a trip down the lanes of this part of town. Wyndham’s boots trudged over the muddy cobbles, wet with piss, ale, and God only knew what else.

  The boy Billy stood in the doorway of the Merman’s Tail huddled against the paneling, his bare feet blackened as he scuffed them back and forth to keep warm.

  “I thought I gave you a few shillings to buy some decent shoes, lad.” Wyndham fought a sigh. The street urchins made the best informants, but it wore his heart ragged to see their constant pain.

  Billy shrugged. “Ma needed the money. Me and the other babies aren’t going to the workhouse, ya know.”

  “I know,” Wyndham said firmly. It was so tempting to speak softly, but Billy wouldn’t respond well to such a thing. Creatures who had to claw their way daily to survival hated sympathy with a singular passion.

  He wished he’d recalled that when speaking with the Duchess of Duncliffe. Though she mightn’t be a street urchin, he’d seen the anger flash in her eyes when he’d made it clear he understood what her marriage had been like.

  It had been a foolish thing, but he’d wanted her to see how much he admired a woman who could rise above such a tyrannical husband.

  He ran his hand over his coat, allowing a slight chink to pass the muffling folds of wool. Just loud enough for Billy to hear. “That’s for you, a few of the other lads, and your family if you can aid me with information. Are you interested?”

  “Don’t be daft, gov. Course I am. Beats standing in this corner waiting for someone to pass me a few pennies to buy gin.”

  “I’ve told you to stop drinking gin.”

  Billy gave him a broad brown toothy grin. “You told me to buy shoes and all too.”

  “So I did.”

  Billy scrubbed his dirty fingers under his nose. “What you after, then?”

  “I need you to ferret out who’s resentful of the Duchess of Duncliffe’s charitable home.”

  Billy’s lip curled. “What, you mean the home for beat up skivvies?”

  “A home for abused women, Billy.”

  “Well, there’s lots don’t like it. Lots of mums running out on their men, taking the babies with them, leaving the men to shift for themselves. Lazy cows the lot of them.”

  Wyndham stared at the boy, holding back a quick censure. “Is that what you truly think?”

  Billy shifted on his feet. “Sometimes me dad hits me mum. She cries.”

  “Is she lazy?” Wyndham couldn’t bring himself to use the words Billy had no doubt been spoon-fed.

  “Me mum? Works herself like a horse. She . . .” Billy broke off his young voice cracking. “Yeah. Well, it’s a tough life this.”

  “It certainly is, my lad. Now, you’ll listen for anyone in particular who wishes to do the duchess or her building harm?”

  Billy gave a tight nod. “Word was all over about the stone being chucked through her window. I’ll get it sorted. It’s a good night for it, payday for most the men. They’ll all be drunk off their arses come sundown.”

  Which was exactly why he’d come at this hour. “No gin for you tonight, then. You’re working.”

  Billy smiled. “Yeah. I don’t really like the stuff anyway. Burns me gullet right proper.”

  Perhaps because half the gin in Whitechapel was treated with various properties that were basically poison. “You’ll live a lot longer, Billy, if you lay off it.”

  Billy pushed out from under the awning and stopped in the street. “Who wants to live longer, gov? This world’s bad enough for the short stay I’ve got.”

  With a cheeky salute, Billy ran off through the growing crowd of men and women eager to drown their sorrows now that their pockets held their pay packets. It was t
empting to give Billy a little extra something, but he couldn’t risk the boy getting drunk, no matter what he said.

  God, how he wished there was something more he could do. But Billy was a drop of water in an ocean that couldn’t be held back. Besides, he helped the boys on the street and their families as best he could.

  The irony that a street boy might now save a duchess didn’t escape him. At least, the Duchess of Duncliffe would be grateful. So many others of her rank would see Billy as little more than refuse beneath their slippers.

  He turned west and began the walk home. His feet ate up the ground as he easily avoided the unwashed and filthy bodies of the damned, leading him to the quiet townhome that had been his father’s and his father’s before him.

  Empty now.

  Over the last months his dream for the sort of family that his grandfather and father had had re-awoken. It had been a dream he’d put aside when he’d gone to war and delayed when he’d returned home. He’d been in no state to begin a family then. But now?

  Suddenly, Clare’s beautiful face came to mind. He smiled to himself. Surely, he was mad to even contemplate the possibility. He’d known her for moments, but perhaps a few moments was all it took?

  • • •

  “You met him, then?”

  Clare’s stepdaughter’s face was alight with purpose and concern. Mary and she had become unlikely friends after the events of the duke’s death. It was not uncommon to be a stepmother younger than her stepdaughter, but in their circumstance it was most odd.

  For Clare kept a secret from Mary, one she wasn’t entirely sure the young lady would approve of. Still, they’d shared a mutual hate of the man who had nearly destroyed them both. It was this bond which kept her from most rudely booting Mary out the door at hours that were not meant for calling. “Yes, I met him.”

  “He was supposed to be looking for me years ago, you know.”

  Clare raised a brow. “Did he find you?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps he is not so skilled as I have been led to believe, then,” she teased.

  Mary laughed. “The earl can hardly be blamed. I’d escaped from the asylum after all and disappeared into Edward’s household. I didn’t wish for anyone to find me.”

  Escaped from the asylum. How many ladies could say such a thing? How many had been sent there and would die there? Too many. Too many would be lost in the relentless tide of men’s will.

  Clare brushed a lock of hair back from her face and turned to the fire, allowing the warmth to penetrate her skirts. Even in her great town home, the walls couldn’t quite keep out the winter cold. “Do you ever wonder why we were so lucky, Mary?”

  “Lucky?” Mary echoed, her full skirts brushing against Clare’s as she too neared the flames.

  “To have escaped with our lives. To have survived whole.”

  Mary drew in a slow breath. “We have survived and we have escaped, but whole?”

  Clare bit her lip. Her suffering didn’t begin to compare to Mary’s. She had discovered the atrocities slowly, over months of discourse and the careful building of a friendship more dear to her heart than any she’d ever known.

  Carefully, she stretched her hand out and took Mary’s palm in hers. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we shall never be whole, but at least we are not conquered.”

  A gentle smile tilted Mary’s lips. “We could never be that. Not you or I. When my father decided to make our lives a misery, he had no idea what he had done, did he?”

  “No,” she whispered. How could her husband have known that a shy young wife beaten almost entirely into submission could turn upon him so drastically, so fiercely?

  Mary squeezed Clare’s hand. “Now, enough of my father. He darkened our door for too many a year. Did you approve of Lord Wyndham? Will he do? If you dislike him, I shall speak with Edward.”

  Clare quickly shook her head. “No, he is perfect.”

  Mary’s slim dark brows rose. “Perfect, is he?”

  Clare blew out a theatrical sigh. “Mary, you know full well I shall never marry again, and I certainly have no intention of looking at a man the way you seem to intimate.”

  Mary shrugged slightly. “You needn’t marry him to look at him or to do other things.”

  “Mary!” Clare pulled her hand from her stepdaughter’s, her cheeks burning. “I have gained true independence. What a fool I should be to put a thing at risk.”

  “I suppose,” Mary admitted. “But, my dear, he is handsome and a good man. Though no one could ever surpass my Edward, Wyndham did aid my friend Eva, and now he aids you. I think we can consider him safe from the usual unpleasantness that is the male sex.”

  “Lord Wyndham is a very interesting man and, as you say, a good one, no doubt. But even the best of men couldn’t tempt me. Though . . .” Her throat tightened. “Sometimes, I do wish I could find what you and Edward have found.”

  Mary’s face brightened. “Everyone should know the kind of love Edward and I have. I pray that you will. For you deserve it, Clare. Few deserve it as much as you.”

  Clare took Mary’s hand and squeezed. She was so blessed to have a friend whom she could bare her heart to, if not her darkest secrets. “Now that you’ve heard my secret longings, you must go back to Edward. It’s late.”

  “How true.” Mary turned away from the fire, glancing toward the hall. “But I had to discover for myself if all was well and that you would be well taken care of in your endeavors.”

  “You must cease your worrying.”

  “You’re my friend and I must look out for you,” Mary said firmly.

  “I’m grateful.” Clare leaned forward and kissed Mary’s cheek. “Now, good night.”

  With a smile, Mary swept out of the room toward the foyer and her waiting coach.

  Clare didn’t linger. It had been an exceptionally long day.

  If the rock through her window hadn’t been disturbing enough, her encounter with Lord Wyndham had been surprising. He’d managed to speak to some part of her she’d assumed was dead. In all truth, she was certain it would be best if that part stayed that way. And yet . . . she found herself hoping to see him again soon.

  She bustled out into the hall and the wide steps which led to the different wings of the grand house. As she always did, she paused before her predecessor’s portrait.

  The last duchess, Esme, had died on those very stairs. She too had been hounded by the duke. Because of that, she felt a very special bond with the woman she had never met. It felt important to remember her whenever she passed the portrait and be grateful that her life had not ended in her marriage as Esme’s had.

  After a moment, she followed the staircase to her left and wound her way through the darker halls to her bedroom.

  The candles cast their golden glow in the barely penetrable shadows and she tucked her arms about her waist, fighting a shiver.

  She hoped winter would be over soon. An early spring would be most welcome not only to herself, but to all in the East End. It was a brutal time of year, one she hadn’t even been truly aware of. She’d always assumed winter was for snow, and parties, and Christmas.

  For some, it was.

  For the many, it was a chance to die in the open air, a gin bottle clutched in a frozen hand.

  She turned down the last, wide corridor then slipped into her large chamber, glad of the heat already emanating from the large fire next to her bed. It crackled and snapped, heaped with oak brought down from one of the ducal estates.

  Her blessings were more numerous than she could count. On this freezing night, thousands were huddled in their rooms, barely surviving the cold. Or worse, they spent their nights in the unforgiving streets with nothing but stone for their pillows.

  She looked to her own great bed, the velvet counterpane and linen alrea
dy turned down and stopped. Something wasn’t right. She took a step closer. And then another.

  Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she could hear nothing but its unrelenting beat.

  The sheet of parchment on her pillow was scrawled with thick black ink. The words were at first difficult to discern, given their poor writing.

  At last, she read the words. “Do not come back.”

  But that was not what sent a stripe of icy terror down her spine. The note might as well have read, “You are not safe.”

  Whoever had written it had managed to enter her home, find her bedroom, and leave it without discovery.

  She whipped around. Could they still be in her room?

  With a muted cry she ran for the hallway, furious that she felt an emotion which had not occurred within her breast since her husband had breathed his last. Fear.

  Chapter 5

  Clare paced before the fire, absolutely enraged that she had had to ring for her staff in the downstairs drawing room and gather them about her like a rescue party. They’d come quickly, of course, and then she’d sent word to Mary and her husband the duke. Her uncle would be livid that she had not included him, but the idea of dealing with his shouting this evening was beyond her patience.

  Now, Mary and Edward were sitting quite close on the small couch behind her pacing and Lord Wyndham was in the kitchen questioning her staff.

  “My dear,” Mary’s insistent voice cut through the air, “you might wish to sit.”

  Clare stopped her agitated movement and allowed herself to focus on her worried friends. She brought her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes, her head aching at this new and unfortunate event. “My apologies, but I feel so . . .”

  “So violated,” a voice said from the doorway.

  She tensed at the sound of that deep rumble. Much to her consternation, a great deal of the worry which had driven her back and forth on her jaunt before the fire dissipated. How could he do that? With two words? How could he somehow wrap her up in the safety of his voice and presence?