by Sara Bennett
“Mother.” Nic moved as if to touch her, but she stumbled back, away from his hand.
“I cannot let this pass,” she whispered. “This time I cannot look the other way. There will be a price to pay, Dominic.”
And with that she turned and half ran across the terrace toward the house, her skirts rustling furiously. A door slammed, and afterward the silence seemed twice as loud.
Olivia was shaking. She wrapped her arms about herself, tucking her hands inside the cloak. “What will she do?”
Nic’s face was bleak. “I don’t know.”
“Should I speak to her?” Olivia offered. “Perhaps I can make her understand.”
“I doubt that.” He put his hand on her waist, urging her toward the terrace steps. “Come. The coach is waiting. When you are home, tell your family you had a fine time at your friend’s birthday. Say nothing of this, Olivia.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll try and smooth things over. When my mother understands that your reputation is safe, she will agree to leave the matter lie.”
Olivia doubted it. Lady Lacey had been so fired up with self-righteous anger, Olivia wondered if anyone could stop her from carrying out her threat.
“What did she mean, Nic? About last time? About the other one? And what promise did you make?” Olivia hurried after him as Nic increased his long strides.
He didn’t answer her.
“Nic,” Olivia murmured, “do you really think everything will be all right?”
But if he heard her, again Nic didn’t answer.
Abbot was beside himself by the time Olivia and Nic finally arrived at the coach. It was pulled up by the side of the road, half hidden among some elm trees. He didn’t give them a chance to explain or say good-bye, before bundling Olivia inside and banging his hand on the door as a signal to the driver to move. Then he and Nic stood and watched as the heavy vehicle trundled away toward the village.
“No one will know,” Abbot said, eyeing his master, who seemed very quiet. “The girl’s reputation is safe.”
Nic gave a strange breathless laugh. “Oh, do you think so, Abbot?”
“Yes, of course. Why not?” he asked curiously. “Have I forgotten something?”
Briefly, unemotionally, Nic told him what had happened.
After he was finished, Abbot stared at him for several long, horrified seconds. “But what will Lady Lacey do?” he said at last, trying to take an optimistic view of what was a catastrophic turn of events. “What can she do?”
“Don’t be deceived, Abbot. My mother may be old, she may be a recluse, but she has a great deal of power. The Laceys once owned this village and everyone knows it. She can do me, and Miss Monteith, a great deal of damage.”
“Would she be so vindictive, my lord?”
Nic turned to look at him, his eyes full of pain. “I think she would. I didn’t realize just how much she hated me until tonight. Stupid of me, perhaps, but I thought that, one day, she might forgive me. Now I know she never will.”
Abbot wanted to reassure him, but for once he could find no words to say. He felt drained and exhausted. Even when Nic began to walk back to the castle, and Abbot knew he should follow like the good servant he was—the good friend—he didn’t.
For years he’d protected Nic, tidied up after him, smoothed over his problems. Well, he was sick of it. Nic was old enough to look after himself. It was time he and his mother actually spoke to each other, face-to-face, instead of exchanging notes through him. Perhaps if they’d spoken to each other before, this situation would never have occurred.
Abbot began to walk in the direction of Bassingthorpe. He didn’t see the shadow against the window of the cottage on the opposite side of the road—he was too deep in his own thoughts. And even if he had, he would have thought nothing of it. Mrs. Brown lived in the cottage and she was almost blind, and her maid, Jenny, came in only during the day, returning to her home and family at night.
As far as Abbot was concerned they could not have been seen, and besides, he had other things on his mind.
Estelle opened her eyes, sitting up in her warm bed, and wondering what had woken her. And then she heard the sounds outside—a vehicle and horses. Voices. She knew one of them belonged to Miss Olivia. She had come home safe and sound from her risqué adventure. Estelle was glad about that—she was fond of Miss Olivia—and hopefully she had won Nic Lacey over, or at least forced him into making her a proposal of marriage. Estelle smiled to herself, imagining Abbot’s face when she told him they could finally live together as man and wife.
Her smile faded as she contemplated what he would say to her when he knew she’d been behind Olivia’s attendance at such a scandalous gathering as the demimonde ball. Abbot was far too straitlaced, but conversely that was one of the traits about him she loved the most. She accepted that it was up to her to take the risks and dodge around the obstacles, so that they could get the conclusion they both wanted. Surely the end justified the means? Well, it did in her book, anyway.
“Estelle!”
The hissing whisper had her out of her bed and reaching for the latch on her window. When she leaned out and looked down she saw Abbot standing below, his face a pale blur as he gazed up at her. Never before had he visited her like this, in the middle of the night. For one brief, excited moment she thought he must be so full of love for her that he couldn’t keep away, and then common sense reasserted itself.
If Abbot was there, then there was a practical reason.
“Wait there,” she called out softly, and hurried to the door, slipping on her robe and shoes as she peered out into the narrow corridor. No one else was about, and she was soon creeping down the back stairs. When she opened the tradesmen’s door, Abbot was waiting right outside.
He put his arms around her, drawing her against his body, and held on tight.
Surprised, but pleased all the same, she hugged him back. But this was so unlike him that she couldn’t help but worry that something was wrong.
“What is it?” she murmured, pressing her lips to his chin, which was the only part of his face she could reach. “Abbot, what’s happened?”
“I need you,” he groaned, with such longing in his voice that tears stung her eyes.
“Something’s happened,” she declared sharply, drawing away so that she could see his face in the moonlight. “Abbot, you must tell me what’s happened or I’ll go mad.”
His mouth was a grim line, and the heavy crease between his brows looked as deep as a valley. “Lord Lacey has ruined Miss Monteith. He told me he wouldn’t, but he did it anyway. I trusted him, Estelle. After all these years, I thought I knew him. I never thought he’d do something so unpardonable again, not after what happened the last time.”
Estelle hardly heard him in her mounting excitement. Wicked Nic and Olivia were lovers; he’d have to marry her now.
“You’re glad, aren’t you?” Abbot accused her, correctly reading her expression. “You think it’s a good thing.”
“I…yes, I suppose I do. But what did you mean, ‘after what happened’? I don’t understand.”
Abbot shook his head, turning stubbornly away.
She reached up to cup his cold face in her warm hands, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry if I’m not as upset as you. I’m glad because I love you and I want to marry you and live beside you. Is that so terrible?”
He shook his head, the grim line softening. “No, it isn’t so terrible.”
“Then tell me what you meant. What has Lord Lacey done that makes his compromising Olivia so much worse?”
He bent over her, urgency in his voice. “You must swear to me to tell no one else. Swear to me, Estelle.”
“Yes, yes, I swear.”
He took a breath, and she could see what a struggle it was for him, the loyal manservant, to break a confidence. “Before Nic’s father died there was a woman, a—a respectable young woman. Her parents were well-to-do, but that didn’t stop Nic. He seduced h
er…ruined her. Her parents hid her away, but one day she returned to Castle Lacey. She was carrying a child—a mere babe in arms.”
“Oh dear,” Estelle murmured, her spirits falling.
“Lady Lacey was out calling on friends, so the girl was taken to the library, to speak with the late Lord Lacey, Nic’s father. Nic arrived, and soon afterward the girl and the baby were taken away in the coach, to London. Nic and his father remained in the library—they had a dreadful argument. It could be heard all over the castle. His father kept shouting: ‘Swear to me. You must swear to me.’ It went on for a long time, and then Nic slammed out of the library and went to saddle his horse. He rode off across the park. When he came back, he seemed calmer, though he still looked dreadful. He went back to the library, but when he opened the door he found his father lying on the floor. He’d taken a turn and was close to death. In fact, he died moments later.”
“The shock killed him,” Estelle breathed.
“When Lady Lacey returned and discovered what had happened…well, I don’t think she has ever recovered from the shock of it. She blamed Nic entirely for what happened, which is why she’s never spoken to him since.”
“What happened to the woman and the child?” Estelle said, after a moment’s respectful silence.
“They live in London, and Nic visits them whenever he is there. He pays for their home and all their expenses.”
Estelle chose her words carefully. “This isn’t unique, Abbot. There are a great many gentlemen with bastards, and not all of them treated as well as this one. I’d be more shocked if Nic had abandoned the child into squalor.”
“I heard him swear to his father it would never happen again,” Abbot said stubbornly. “After his father’s death he was so consumed with guilt and grief, he got drunk and climbed the old wall. He fell and broke his leg, badly. When his mother regained her senses, she came to his bedside, and she made him promise he would never prey upon a respectable young woman again. It was the last thing she said to him for nine years.”
“You heard him swear?” Estelle said after a moment.
Abbot nodded. “I was in the room.”
“So he has broken his word.” Estelle shrugged. “I’m sorry, Abbot, but sometimes it is necessary to break your word. A promise is only good as long as it makes sense. Olivia Monteith is set on capturing Nic Lacey, and no promise was going to stop her, especially when he is wild for her, too.”
Suddenly Abbot looked exhausted. “Is that what you really think?” he said. “That promises are worthless?”
Estelle wrapped her arms about him and held him, cradling him against her. “I didn’t say that, not exactly. Besides, what are the Laceys to you? This isn’t your fault. Let them sort it out among themselves.”
His voice was muffled against her hair. “What was Miss Monteith doing at the demimonde ball, Estelle?”
Estelle felt a moment of panic, but it was brief and she pushed it firmly aside. She convinced herself that her interfering had not jeopardized anyone’s happiness, or harmed the man she loved.
“Never mind about the ball. You have more important things to think about. You’re going to be a father, Abbot. We’re your family now, and we love you. You need to take care of us.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I need to take care of you and the babe.”
Estelle longed to take him upstairs, but she knew she didn’t dare. The Monteiths were very strict about such matters, and if she was caught she would be instantly dismissed. It made her angry that she couldn’t lie down with the man she loved when he so desperately needed her. They must marry, and soon.
Chapter 17
Nic didn’t know where his manservant had gone and he told himself he didn’t care. Abbot would only give him one of his disappointed looks, and Nic didn’t need to be reminded of what he’d done. And he certainly didn’t want to think about why he’d done it. He bathed and donned his silk dressing gown and removed himself to the sanctuary of the library. There was much to think about and consider, and he preferred to do it alone and uninterrupted.
The scene on the terrace had been appalling. His mother, white-faced and shocked, and Olivia standing there, seeing it all. He could imagine how it had looked to her. What must she have thought? He admitted to himself now that he’d had an overwhelming impulse to spill everything into her sympathetic ears, all his secrets, all his lies. Olivia was so easy to talk to, so comfortable to be with. But how could he do that to her? How could he begin to explain?
Besides, she would never forgive him.
Suddenly he wanted to see her again. Her cool beauty had drawn him from the first, and when he discovered the hot and passionate woman beneath, Nic knew he’d already been more than half in lust with her. But love…well, that was another matter. He didn’t think he’d ever been in love.
There was a time he’d come close to it, when he was a callow youth at Cambridge. He’d been visiting with friends and set eyes on the sister of one of them. She was called Miriam, and although she was a “lady,” she was already a practiced flirt and more—she’d introduced him to the pleasures to be found in a woman’s body—and he’d dreamed of making an honest woman of her. But Miriam had other plans and soon lost interest in him, moving on to other conquests. It had been painful and for a time he’d been a mess—that was early in the summer when he’d pulled ten-year-old Olivia from the stream.
Nic remembered he’d taken a bottle of his father’s best brandy up to his room and drunk most of it. He was still tipsy when he wandered down to the stepping stones, but luckily not so far gone that he couldn’t play the hero and save Olivia Monteith. That afternoon, as he sat with her, basking in her admiration, Nic had come to the realization that there were more important things in life than Miriam, and he’d determined to be the son and heir his father wanted him to be.
Now he sat, alone, in the chair that was once his father’s, surrounded by the books his father had spent a lifetime collecting, and the past rushed in on him, try though he might to stem the tide.
There was his father, red-faced, furious, his mouth wide as he said things Nic had never heard him say before. It was like looking at a stranger, and the shock and shame Nic felt rendered him a stranger, too. They were father and son, how could this be? He heard his own voice shouting back, saying things he now regretted, intensely regretted. But how was he to know that his father would be dead before nightfall?
If one good thing had come out of it all, then it was the child: Jonah.
He hated the name. The child’s mother had named him, claiming it was a suitable punishment for them all. She had always been dramatic, nothing was ever simple when it came to dealing with her. The reason she gave for naming the boy was that they had flouted the laws of the church and man, and been punished for it, and Jonah would remind them of that, always. But Jonah himself was an intelligent, bright boy with Nic’s dark eyes and a laugh that was delightfully infectious. Nic preferred to think of him as a blessing rather than a curse.
Over the years he’d made certain Jonah wanted for nothing. The boy lived a quiet life, that was a necessary requirement, but it was a full one, a rich one in many ways. Jonah’s mother had been obedient to Nic’s wishes, well most of them, although lately she had begun to grow more difficult. Her family had long ago cast her off, but they still lived in the village. Nic saw them occasionally, when their paths crossed, but nothing was ever said about the past.
It was as if the seas had closed over the truth, leaving little trace. If you didn’t look closely you wouldn’t have known it had happened.
And now Olivia had come into his life.
In other circumstances he would have thought her the perfect companion—intelligent, beautiful, educated, knowledgeable in the ways of society, and eager for him to tutor her in the pleasures of the flesh. But how could he think of making a life with her, in the circumstances? And yet that was exactly what he was doing.
He’d known that to touch her was to ruin her, and st
ill he’d done it. Almost as if he’d planned to surrender his principles so that he could have her, despite what her parents, his mother, Abbot, Theodore Garsed, and anyone else might say. Was that why he’d taken her over and over again? So there could be no doubt that she belonged to him?
Nic’s musings were interrupted by a commotion in the hall. He could hear voices—for a moment he thought it was his mother, but of course he knew he must be mistaken. His mother hadn’t set foot in Castle Lacey for years, and after what had happened tonight he didn’t expect her to change her mind. But then he heard the voices again, and this time he was certain.
He rose to his feet, but before he could open the door, a wide-eyed servant burst in. “Lady Lacey is here to see you, my lord,” she said, as if she could hardly believe her own words, before scuttling away again.
And then there she was standing in the doorway—his mother.
Her face was flushed and her dark eyes snapping with anger, and in that moment he was thrust back into the past again, to that time after his father died and she blamed him.
Nic took a shaky breath. No, he wouldn’t let himself be drawn into those bitter, murky waters. He was older and wiser now, and he knew what he wanted and what was important. He forced his voice to be calm.
“Will you sit down, Mother?”
Her hand trembled as she rested it on the back of a leather chair, and he wondered if she was seeing his father sitting there. But like him she rallied, and when she answered, her voice was as calm as his.
“Thank you, I think I will.”
The good old aristocracy, Nic thought, with an inner smile. The rules had been drummed into them for generations. Don’t show your feelings, keep it all chained up inside, and under no circumstances be impolite.