A Lady Undone
Page 7
• • •
Clare couldn’t believe the easiness of the next few days. Lord Wyndham, Byron, had seen to everything. A woman came daily with provisions from the village and for the first time in her whole life, Clare did nothing but eat, read, and make conversation with a man who had stolen her heart.
It was the only thing that gave her fear, for her heart had indeed been stolen.
What was she to do now?
She’d not let herself think on it, but with each day that passed, drinking good wine and listening to him recite Shakespeare’s sonnets as they sat wrapped up in blankets by the playful late-winter stream, she felt her heart becoming ever more his.
It didn’t matter that in the back of her mind was the ever pressing fear of what was happening in London.
Byron had kept true to his words. Missives came to him through secret messengers and she’d learned that her home for women was proceeding without any threat. Indeed, her disappearance seemed to have done the trick.
It was the one thing that saddened her. She hated to think that whoever had threatened her had won. But Byron insisted that he would discover who it was.
She turned her face up toward the sun and tucked a thick shawl Byron had found about her. This place was heaven. All her life, she’d lived in great houses with hundreds of rooms and servants scurrying every which way. Yet, somehow as large and full of people as those places had been, they had been so lonely.
Here at this cottage, with just the two of them, she felt the most peace she had ever known. How long could it last?
Forever, a little voice whispered inside her. If she would let it. Oh,Lord, if only that could be true. But she was not as naive as she once was.
For this to last forever, she’d have to trust that Byron would never betray her.
No. She almost laughed at her own attempt to place doubts on Byron. If she was truthful with herself, she knew he never would. Lord Wyndham was a man of honor. He would never control her the way her husband or her family had tried to do.
He cared about her, not her status or her role as a good lady. The awful, heartbreaking truth was that to keep him, she would have to lie to him for the rest of her days. For how could she ever confess what she had done?
No man, no one, would ever forgive her, even if she had done it to save herself.
Tears stung her eyes. It seemed so unfair that she should finally find happiness and not be worthy of it.
“Clare?”
She whipped around to the sound of his deep voice calling from the cottage.
He held up a note. “I have news.”
She nodded and ran toward him, her feet skipping lightly over the grass. She ran right into his warm embrace, tilting her face up for his. His strong, tender mouth closed over hers. After the soft exchange of their kiss, he wrapped his arms and the long tails of his greatcoat about her and tilted his head away.
Today, his face was serious, holding none of usual joviality.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We must go to London.”
She searched his features, wary now. “Will it be safe?”
“You’ll be with me for the entirety of the time.” He glanced away. “I think I’ve discovered who is behind all this.”
“But you’ve been here with me,” she exclaimed.
“Indeed, I have, but I have a network of spies that are far more skilled at discovering that which lurks in the shadows than I.”
She nodded. Why wasn’t he pleased? Dread formed a hard knot in her stomach. “And they have discovered something?”
As serious as she could ever recall seeing him, he wrapped his arms around her. “They have, sweetheart. In fact they’ve discovered who is almost certainly behind all this, and we’re going to confront him right now.”
• • •
The carriage pulled up before the imposing limestone town house near Green Park. Byron stared at it for a moment, his gut tense, and then he looked back to the lady he’d so quickly fallen in love with.
He’d been half in jest when he’d quoted Shakespeare and that line about love at first sight. Now, he couldn’t deny it. His own insides were in absolute turmoil at her potential distress.
Clare looked out the window, her lips parting. “Why are we here?”
“Because this is where my information led,” he said flatly. “Now, we must confirm it.”
She nodded, but her face was pained, as if someone had grabbed hold of her and shaken her brutally. “I don’t want to believe it’s possible.”
Byron could tell from the drawn, resigned pallor of her skin that she knew all too well that some people could do the worst things.
Damnation, how he longed to change that. If he had his way, no one would ever be able to betray her again, and she need never fear such a thing.
The footman opened the carriage door and Wyndham descended quickly, desirous that the whole terrible affair be over with. He offered her his hand, determined to give her comfort if his information proved true.
Together, they quietly ascended the brief steps, and the tall green door opened before them.
“Hello, Bartlet,” Clare said with surprising strength.
The blond, middle-aged butler inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
“I am here to see Lord Soames.”
“He is in his study, Your Grace.”
It was a damned nuisance, but they waited for the butler to lead.
Keeping a careful look on Clare from the corner of his eye, he weighed his options.
Before Byron could decide how best to attack, they were ushered into the large room, decorated with imposing mahogany furniture and towering portraiture of dogs with dead birds in their mouths and announced.
Lord Soames sat before his fire, drinking a brandy and reading the evening paper. But as soon as the butler had departed, he snapped the paper shut and stood. His brandy sloshed dangerously near the rim of his glass. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Your Grace,” Byron added, his voice low and even.
Lord Soames blinked, “What?”
“The proper way to address your niece is either with ‘Your Grace’ or referring to her as ‘duchess.’”
“Lord Wyndham, I appreciate your position in society, but I hardly think it your place to dictate my relationship to my niece.”
It took all his reserve not to cross the room and slam his fist into the offending man’s face. “Who else shall do it then since you appear to treat her with so little respect?”
Soames’s cheeks burned red, but then he let out a slow breath. “Forgive me, I’ve been concerned. Last I saw you, Your Grace, a stone had been thrown through your window.”
Clare’s eyes, usually so kind and compassionate, were hard sapphires now. “You must be relieved that I’ve ceased going to the East End.”
“Well, yes.” Soames took a large sip of brandy. “But it was extremely irresponsible of you to not tell me of your whereabouts. You are still far too young to be living on your own and without the guidance of a husband, submitting to my—”
“You’re a man who likes to have his own way, aren’t you?” Byron cut in.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were determined that Clare cease working with those women in the East End, women who need her help.”
“It’s scandalous,” Soames said simply. “Her reputation will suffer for it and I’m sure you can help her to understand that as a duchess her role is to host charity gatherings, not throw herself in the muck.”
Byron leveled a stare at the man, filled with all the contempt he could muster. “It really isn’t my place to judge what she does.”
Soames snorted. “Well, it’s mine. She’s a member of my family, and I’m the head of it.”
“You were young. A girl needs a husband who will—”
“Knock me down?” she gritted. “Beat me? Choose all my gowns and my friends, and bring the doctors in when I didn’t acquiesce to his every whim?”
“Clare,” Soames chided. “If you did not do as the duke asked, of course he beat you. You provoked him to anger. A good wife knows—”
“My God,” Byron seethed. “I never realized how entirely alone Clare was married to that monster. Now I see. You would have thrown her to the cruelest of men for a dukedom and the power it brings.”
“Alone?” Soames echoed, his voice brittle. “I arranged that marriage. It was one of the last things my poor brother wished for and all I want is to see his daughter well looked after and behaving as a lady ought. And don’t you dare paint me the demon. The law, the church, and society commands that a wife obey her husband in all things. To not do so is to go against nature.”
Clare’s gaze grew steely. She lifted her chin. “I know you care for me, Uncle, in the only way you know how, but how far would you go to see I am looked after?”
Soames blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Wyndham shook his head theatrically, almost savoring the coming moment. “Your arrogance is quite astonishing. You demanded your niece receive some form of protection, and it was you she needed protection from, was it not?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Am I? Absurd? Or didn’t you send your man to the East End looking for someone who’d be willing to do a bit of rough work? If the Duke of Fairleigh had found a simple guard for her as you wished, you might have succeeded. Instead, he asked for my aid. Luckily, Fairleigh is clever man and wanted to know who wished to harm his wife’s stepmother. So did I. It was almost pitiable, your attempt to hide your role in all this.”
Soames faltered. “Nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” he challenged. “My informants were quite clear about the identity of the man soliciting the aid of a confidence man. It’s your misfortune that I simply know more ruffians than you. You see, it took me less than twenty-four hours to surmise it was someone close to Clare. After all, they knew the whereabouts of her chamber and they knew her schedule. Both things a family member might know. It saddens me, but when a woman is in jeopardy, the threat almost always lies in either her husband or her family. Now, Clare has had the misfortune of being threatened by both.”
“Clare, you can’t believe—”
“Can you truly deny it?” Clare demanded, her tone surprisingly calm. “Can you look me full in the face and deny you didn’t send your man to arrange it all?”
Soames started to protest, but his words sputtered out. “No. And I assume that the earl has sufficient witnesses. Otherwise he never would have come. Wyndham is also correct in that I assumed the duke would hire you a capable guard.” Soames glared at Wyndham. “Not some damned spy. With a guard keeping you away from the East End, the attacks would have ended. Clare, you must understand, I needed you to cease going there and you wouldn’t listen to reason. You gave me no choice.”
“Don’t you dare blame her Grace for your weakness of character. A man of honor would have stood beside her, aided her.”
“What?” Soames’s genuine horror tensed his features. “You would condone such behavior in a woman, tending to whores and women who don’t know their place?”
“Yes. I would,” he replied in the face of the other man’s poison. “Clare is the bravest, best lady I have ever known and her work only raises her in my esteem. Whatever Clare does, she deserves the support of those who love her.”
When he turned to her, Clare’s eyes were fixed, glossy with tears.
“I’m ready to leave now, Lord Wyndham.”
He held out his hand, and she took it, her delicate fingers trusting in his.
Still, before they could depart there was one last thing to be said. “Lord Soames, you are going to be watched. Anyone you see will also be watched. I have the means to ensure this, and if anything seems at all amiss, I will expose you to all of London for your nefarious behavior. Do you understand?”
Soames’s fingers gripped his brandy glass so tightly, it seemed possible the glass would shatter. But he nodded.
Without another word, he led Clare out of that house, away from her uncle and away from the cruelty of the men who should have been her dearest protectors.
Chapter 10
They arrived back at the cottage in silence. Byron had offered to take her to Mary and Edward if she wished, but to her astonishment the only place she wished to be was there, in the hideaway that had given her her first taste of true happiness. And it was there that she might lose it all.
As she sat in one of the great old-fashioned chairs in the room where they had first made love, Clare hardened her resolve. She couldn’t lie to him, not when he believed in her so much. The pain of it was more than anything she’d ever known, for finally, she’d found love. It hardly seemed fair that she wouldn’t be able to keep it.
Byron entered the room, two glasses of red wine in his hand. “You need this, sweetheart. Your cheeks are nearly white.”
She took the offered glass and waited for him to sit across from her.
Once he sat, he gazed on her with such kindness she almost cried out.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There is something I must tell you.”
“Then tell it,” he said easily.
“You seem to think so highly of me.”
“Clare, I have seen inside your heart. It is pure—”
“I am a murderer,” she burst out.
He lowered his wineglass and stared at the deep red liquid for several long moments.
Those moments stretched into a horrifying eternity. He must hate her now.
“Your husband, I assume.”
“Yes,” she said, fighting back a sob. She started to place her glass down, ready to leave.
Byron looked up, his face hard. “Good.”
“What?”
“Good, I say. Clare, he was making your life hell. His first wife died in suspicious circumstances and what you said to Soames? I’m sure that was only half of what you endured. You survived, my love. You chose life, and I am so grateful.”
“I love you,” she said suddenly, the words unbidden but more true than anything she’d ever said.
“I love you too, Clare. I know you’ve been hurt by men, by your husband and uncle, but I hope you will consider that I am different.”
“I do,” she said, flying out of her chair and kneeling next to him. “You listen to me in a way no one ever has done before.”
“I always will, if you’ll let me. Spend the rest of your life with me, Clare, as my wife? I’ll sign away all my rights or live with you in sin if you insist, but now that you are in my life I cannot imagine it without you.”
“How could I ever deny you? You, who have brought joy into my heart. I’ve told you the very worst thing about myself, something most could never forgive, and you didn’t even flinch. If you truly mean it, then yes. Yes, please, let us spend our lives together.”
He leaned forward and yanked her into his lap. “Then, my love, we have both found our dream.”
“I never thought it possible,” she breathed.
He tilted her head back. “We must never give up on our dreams.”
Her lips parted in the smile that only he seemed able to evoke. “Never, I will never give up again.”
“Nor I, my love, nor I.”
Read on for a sneak peek at a tale of redemption and love,
Máire Claremont’s
The Dark Affair: A Novel of Mad Passions
Available fro
m Signet Eclipse in March 2014
London
1866
Lord James Stanhope, Viscount Powers, was going to kill the ridiculous Irishwoman standing before him. In slow degrees. He was going to kill her for daring to mention his wife. For daring to even whisper his daughter’s name. He was going to rip her to bloody pieces for insinuating that he, the son of the Earl of Carlyle, was insane.
“My lord?” she asked, her voice rising above the howling, barking voices scattered through the warrenlike rooms of the asylum.
James blinked. The shadows of the cell’s single gas lamp danced over her. His mind abruptly skittered. Skittered to the swish and sway of her pressed grey skirts. The way they molded over her hips and the tiny form of her corseted waist. Astonishing. She was such a tiny thing. Barely coming up to his shoulder. Perhaps she stood as tall as his sternum. Perhaps.
Yes. One of the fairy folk.
He shook his head, but the motion felt as defined as movement through muddied water. What had he been thinking? Oh, yes. He’d been angry with the petite creature. Furious. But now? He swallowed, and the room swung on its axis and his body whooshed through the air . . . and yet he didn’t fall. He stayed upright on his boots, planted, despite the treacherous feeling of being adrift. He opened his eyes as wide as they would go and grunted against the unpleasant, rolling sensation. “What did you say?”
She stepped forward, her soft, crimson hair glinting in the half-light. “I’m askin’ only that you allow me to call you by your given name, my lord, not for the personal history of your opium exploits.”
Christ . . . the way her mouth worked as she spoke . . . Her rich, lilting voice sounded as if she were fucking every single word . . . Even her pink lips were lush. Soul-seducing erotic art. Gorgeous. Slightly pursed. Not for a kiss but in disapproval. He arched a single brow, determined to put her in her place. A damned difficult thing, considering he was the ward and she the interrogator. And the fact that his brain seemed entirely at its own command with very little rhyme or reason to his thoughts didn’t aid him.
He hadn’t taken any opium in days, but he still felt in the throes of it. It was most distressing. “Powers,” he said tightly.