by Julia London
“Have you fallen in love, then? Have you lost your esteem for your Lady X, and found it for a woman who is scarcely more than a girl? And before you answer that,” he said leaning forward and pointing at him, “I must warn you that I will not believe you if you say you have. Miss Hastings is comely and she might be quite agreeable, but I would wager all that I have that she is not as enticing as your Lady X.”
“I can’t deny it,” Harrison said. “She is not. Nevertheless, Miss Hastings finds herself in a bit of a bind, and I, in my infinite wisdom, agreed to help.”
“Why?” Robert demanded.
“Why not?” Harrison countered. “It’s not as if I might ever have Lady X.”
“I do not see why that is so,” Robert said stubbornly.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Harrison asked impatiently. “She is married. And not to me.” He drained the rest of his ale.
“Aye, I’ve had my suspicions,” Robert said. “Yet you’ve managed well enough until now. You’ve seemed perfectly happy until now! And now, out of the blue, you decide to marry someone you hardly know?” He shook his head. “It hardly sounds like you.”
“It is not my first choice,” Harrison said flatly. “But I have put myself into a corner. By the bye, how in blazes did you hear of it?”
With a roll of his eyes, he said, “Bernadette Shields rather enjoys the sound of her own voice.”
Harrison groaned and signaled for more ale. “I haven’t the slightest idea how Miss Shields learned of it, but I would wager Miss Hastings is equally fond of the sound of her voice.”
“By all that is holy, Harry,” Robert said with great exasperation. “If you are not inclined to marry this girl, do not shackle yourself. It will only lead to resentment and unhappiness. Are you prepared to live the rest of your life in that manner?”
God no, he was not prepared—not at all. He didn’t want to speak of it; he did not want to think of it. He wanted an hour or two of freedom from it. “No, I am not, but I gave my word. Bloody hell, it is even worse than that—I offered, Robert. In a moment of pity for the girl, I offered, and now it is impossible to extract myself from my word.”
Robert gaped at him. After a moment, he shook his head and looked sadly at his friend. “When?”
“In a matter of days,” Harrison muttered. “As soon as the rain lets up.” He shifted in his seat, chafing at the invisible binds cutting into him. “Come then, give me some news. Let me drink an ale and not think of my troubles for a few minutes.”
“I do not think I can best your news, but I shall try,” Robert said with a sigh, and settled back. “Andrew Penstock has been accused of poaching,” he began, and was in the midst of telling the story of Mr. Penstock’s unfortunate encounter with a constable when the door of the public house opened with a loud bang, startling everyone. The entire room of men twisted about to see who had come.
Lord Carey walked into the public house a bit unsteadily, but his gaze calmly surveyed the crowded room as he pulled the fingers of his glove from his hand one by one.
The sight of him confused Harrison. He couldn’t recall ever hearing of the marquis stopping at the public house. When the marquis’s gaze landed on Harrison, and he began to noisily push through the tables to him, Harrison believed it must be something to do with the estate.
“He looks as if he’s been swimming in a keg of ale,” Robert muttered.
“I imagine he has,” Harrison said low, and stood up. “My lord?” he said as Carey clumsily pushed one last table out of his way with such force that it toppled over. Harrison heard Robert rise behind him.
Carey looked at Harrison with venom. He grabbed the back of a chair to brace himself against it and said, “Did you honestly believe that you could strut around Everdon Court like a bloody peacock, and I wouldn’t learn of your betrayal? Did you think you, a bastard, could cuckold me and not suffer the consequences?”
The room was suddenly so silent that one could hear a coin fall. Good God! Harrison’s pulse began to pound with raw anger. He gestured to the table. “My lord, perhaps you might be more comfortable if you were to sit—”
“I do not want to bloody well sit!” Carey snapped, swaying a little against his chair. “I know you have lain with her, Tolly! I know you have put a child in my wife!”
“God in heaven,” Robert muttered.
“You are quite mistaken, my lord,” Harrison said sternly. “Please sit before you embarrass yourself further.”
“Traitor,” Carey said acidly. “After all I have done for you—”
“I will not stand here and allow you to besmirch your wife’s good name or mine with your slander. You are mistaken.”
Something sparked in Carey’s glassy eyes. He lunged forward and poked his finger in Harrison’s chest, pushing him. “I will see you hanged, Tolly. I will bloody well see you hanged for taking my wife to your bed!”
Harrison slapped the marquis’s hand down and grabbed his arm, holding it in a vise grip. “That is enough,” he said low. “You are making a grand fool of yourself. Sit down now, before you do irreparable harm.”
He was aware that Robert had moved to stand beside him, aware that everyone in the room was watching with mouths agape.
Carey didn’t seem to understand. He looked as if he would swing at Harrison at any moment, and Harrison prepared himself for it. But Carey was a coward through and through. He jerked his arm free of Harrison’s grasp and stumbled backward, colliding with a table. “You do not know what you have done,” he said. “You do not yet understand how you will pay for this.” He jerked around, colliding once more with the table, and with cry of rage, he sent it sliding across the room before he pitched out into the night.
No one moved; no one as much as breathed. When a few moments had passed and it appeared that the marquis would not return, people slowly began to take their seats. A din of whispering voices began to rise, and then looks were cast in Harrison’s direction.
Harrison jumped when Robert put his hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. The longer you stand there, the longer they stare,” he said, and pushed Harrison down into the seat, and his tankard of ale into his hand.
Harrison curled his fingers around the handle; rage tightened across his chest. “I should take my leave,” he said. “I cannot imagine what he has done to Lady Carey, if this is what he shows me in public.”
“Wait,” Robert counseled him. “Find your bearings. You won’t be of any use if you are as angry as he.”
Robert was right, but Harrison couldn’t stop imagining the many ways Carey might have harmed Olivia. His blood pumped that much harder.
“Well then,” Robert said as he lifted his tankard. “I suppose the secret of Lady X has been revealed.”
“Christ in heaven,” Harrison muttered, then lifted his tankard. “Ale!” he called to Fran. “Bring me ale!”
He had to take Olivia away from here.
Ashwood. It was all he had, the only place he might escape to. He thought of Alexa, of Olivia, of the loyal staff of Everdon Court. Robert was speaking earnestly about something, but Harrison’s thoughts were whirling, the blood rushing like a river in his ears. Everything had just spun out of control and he didn’t know how to get it back.
The door to the Cock and Sparrow flew open again, and Harrison instantly came to his feet, whirling toward the door.
It was not Carey; it was a young man who shouted, “Help! Someone come, there’s been an accident!”
“What is it?” Harrison demanded as several men rushed out to see what had happened.
Another man stumbled in, his eyes filled with horror. He looked around the room, finally finding Harrison. “You must come, Mr. Tolly! It is the marquis! He rode too fast, and the horse slipped in the mud—broke her leg.”
The loud report of a gunshot sent a shock through Harrison. “Where is the marquis?” he asked quickly. “Is he harmed?”
The man gulped. “I think he’s dead, sir. Broke his neck.”
CHAPTE
R TWENTY-THREE
You have violated my trust,” Olivia said angrily to Nancy.
Her tone caught Nancy off guard; the young woman paled and gaped at Olivia. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean, mu’um.”
“Don’t you?” Olivia asked. “Who else in this house would be so presumptuous as to think they know something as intimate as a pregnancy?”
Nancy looked as if she might be ill.
“I am not with child, Nancy,” Olivia said, her hands curling into fists to keep from shouting. “But your unseemly speculation has caused a horrible rift between me and my husband.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Carey,” Nancy muttered tearfully with a curtsy.
“It is too late for that.” She pointed to the door. “Go. Leave me.”
Nancy’s chin began to tremble as she fled. Olivia could hear her sobs as she ran down the hallway. She had never raised her voice to any servant, but the old accommodating Olivia—the one who feared angering her husband—was gone. She didn’t know what would happen next, but she would meet it head on.
She began to pace, her mind racing through all the possibilities. She’d never seen Edward so angry. She grabbed the iron fireplace poker and hid it behind the chair where she could reach it. She was prepared to use it—Edward would never force himself on her or lift a hand to her again, not if she could help it.
The sound of voices downstairs reached her. Her heart was racing so badly that she feared it might leap out of her chest. It sounded like several men had come with him. Olivia strained to hear. The voices were growing louder, and it sounded as if someone cried out. That was followed by footsteps moving swiftly down the corridor toward her room.
Olivia reached for the poker, her hand closing around the handle. Her breath was coming so hard and fast now that she was afraid her heart would stop. The hard rap on her door shot white-hot fear down her spine.
Another hard rap, and she lifted the poker.
“Lady Carey!” Brock called through the door.
Olivia dropped the poker.
“Lady Carey!”
She hurried to the door and yanked it open. Brock’s face was ashen. “Brock! What is it? What is wrong?” She had never seen him like this; the poor man could scarcely speak. She put her hand on his arm. “Brock! Brock, it’s all right. Tell me what has happened.”
He swallowed and put a hand to his neckcloth. “You must come, madam. There has been a horrible accident.”
Harrison. Edward had killed him! Her knees began to weaken, and her stomach dipped. She grabbed the door frame to keep herself from collapsing. “Edward—”
Brock nodded, and her heart constricted painfully. “His lordship was thrown from his horse,” he said, his voice cracking. “The horse slipped in the mud and they both went down.”
Not Harrison. Her head spinning, Olivia released the breath she was holding. “Dear God, Brock, is he badly hurt?”
Brock shuddered. “Madam, he is . . . dead.”
Olivia stared at the butler. It wasn’t possible. Someone else had been killed—not Edward. When Brock didn’t speak, she blurted, “My husband is dead?” unable to even grasp those words.
“Lady Carey.”
Harrison! He was suddenly there, her haven, very much alive, his expression grim. His cloak was wet and the hem muddied. His wet, dark hair was mussed. Olivia wanted to fling herself into the safety of his arms.
“It’s true?” she asked, her voice scarcely a whisper.
He nodded.
“Where?” she said, her voice breaking. “Where is he?”
“He has been taken to the morning room,” Brock said hoarsely.
“I must see him.”
“I would not recommend it,” Harrison said, his voice steady and strong. “His neck was broken in his fall.”
Olivia looked directly into Harrison’s eyes. “I must see him,” she insisted. She had to see with her own eyes that he was really dead.
Harrison exchanged a look with Brock, then held out his arm. “I will take you.”
There were men in the foyer, all speaking in low tones. They stopped talking when Olivia and Harrison began their descent down the stairs, looking up at her with expressions that seemed almost suspicious. Only one of them spoke as she moved through. “My sympathies, madam,” he said.
Harrison swept her past them, down the long hallway to the morning room.
Two men were inside and she could see Edward’s boots sticking out from the end of the table where they had laid him. His boots were still wet. He hadn’t been dead long enough for his boots to have dried.
Olivia let go of Harrison’s arm and walked forward, her eyes fixed on those boots until she reached his side. His clothing was thoroughly soaked; his dark golden hair was stuck to his forehead. Blood trickled from a gash across his cheek and the mud had made his neckcloth brown. His waistcoat was torn, and Olivia irrationally wondered why.
She made herself look at his face. His skin was gray, his lips blue, and his head lolled to one side at a peculiar angle. He was dead, truly dead.
Edward was dead.
Olivia covered her mouth with her hand and stared in horror at his corpse. The gentlemen around her shifted and avoided looking at her.
He was gone. He could not hurt her again. Yet Olivia would never have wished death on Edward. He was young; he’d had his entire life ahead of him. Still, she felt such an overwhelming rush of relief that she sank down on her knees beside him. In death, he looked so relaxed. There was no frown between his eyes, no gripped fist. He looked like the young man she’d met seven years ago. He looked like the man she’d believed she could make happy.
She stepped back, away from his body, and somehow managed to turn around.
Harrison stood a few feet away, his hands clasped tightly at his back, his gaze fixed on her. “We must send for the family,” she said softly. “And the vicar.”
“Of course.”
“And the undertaker.”
“You mustn’t worry, madam. I shall mind all that needs to be done.”
“Thank you.” Olivia made herself look at Edward once more. Dead. Thank you for bringing him home,” she said. “If you will excuse me . . .” She suddenly needed to be alone. She put her head down and walked out of the room, away from her dead husband and the oppression she had suffered, had believed she would always suffer. She walked down the hallway away from the foyer, almost unseeing.
Her thoughts were racing along with her heart; she still had not caught her breath. Olivia walked to the service stairs and ran up one flight of stairs, and then another, and made her way to the nursery.
The room was cold and so dark that she could just make out the furnishings. She walked into the room, then sank onto the end of the little bed and began to gulp air into her lungs.
How was it possible? What miracle was this, that she had been freed from her prison? He was dead! A surprising swell of sorrow rose in her, but was quickly overcome by the stronger swell of relief. The tension began to seep out of her body as the reality began to sink in. She was free of him. She was free.
Olivia remained in the dark, cold nursery, staring at the pattern of rain on the windows, feeling something she had not felt in so long that at first she didn’t recognize it.
It was hope. The tension was gone, and in its place, she was filling up with hope.
But there was something else there, too; something nibbling at the edges of her relief—guilt. She had said things she knew would anger him. She had caused him to rush from Everdon Court in a state of inebriation. Was she not, in part, responsible for his death? Had she not fantasized about it time and again?
The relief, the guilt, the confusion, was overwhelming.
The house was quiet when Olivia finally quit the nursery and walked down the steps. How long had she been in the nursery? She moved silently to the ground floor, and as she turned the corner into the main corridor, she saw the light of a single candle.
Harrison was sitting outside
the morning room beneath a wall sconce. His elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands.
As Olivia walked down the carpeted hallway, he didn’t lift his head.
“Harrison?”
He jerked upright at the sound of her voice. When he saw her, he hastily stood.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am fine,” he said. “A bit stunned.”
“As am I.” She looked at the door of the morning room.
“The undertaker has come,” he said. “He and his wife are within and Brock is with them now. Messengers have been sent to London to give the news to his family.”
He’d taken care of everything, just as she’d known he would.
“Olivia—”
“I can scarcely believe it, Harrison,” she blurted, before he could speak, before he could say things that she could not answer. “It feels as if I am moving in a dream.”
“I understand.”
“I am free of him.” Tears suddenly clouded her vision. “I dreamed of freedom, but I never wanted to be free of him like this.”
Harrison nodded. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but he pressed his lips together and touched her face. “There are many things to consider. But at present, there are many arrangements to be made.”
“Yes.”
“You should get some rest while you can.”
“I cannot possibly rest!”
“Try,” he urged her. “Scores of people will begin to arrive in the morning, and the marchioness must be on hand to meet them and direct the funeral proceedings.”
He was right. Olivia nodded and caressed his hand, then walked past the closed door of the morning room, half expecting Edward to come lurching out, demanding to know where she was going and why she didn’t maintain a vigil by his side.
But the door did not open. He was truly dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sound of sniffling woke Alexa the next morning. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. Rue was standing at the wardrobe, her cap on backward, folding Alexa’s things and putting them away.