by Tessa Candle
She could barely force her legs to carry her wretched being into the carriage. She was all but insensible to what went on around her.
When she had collapsed into the carriage seat, and they were rolling away down the drive, she noticed Mrs. Carlton looking nervously out the window.
Tilly wondered what trivial little problem might be added to her burden. She huffed. “What is it, Mrs. Carlton?”
The woman craned her neck, straining to maintain a view of whatever it was that had caught her attention. “It seems we were not the only visitors to Blackwood Manor.”
Tilly shook her head. "What you mean, Mrs. Carlton? Speak plainly."
"Did you not see the carriage that was pulling up as we were leaving? I am certain it was Lord Screwe's."
Tilly was once again struck by the fact that Mrs. Carlton was clearly not deaf. But she didn’t care.
She leaned her head back and held a hand to her eyes. Perhaps Screwe was only out there because he had heard from his spies that Tilly had gone to Blackwood to see Rutherford. But there was little she could do about it.
Mrs. Colling was Rutherford’s problem, now. Anyway, Screwe could not touch the pretty widow if she were under the protection of a duke. And when the conniving little vixen became a duchess, she could amuse herself by punishing the filthy bounder. Tilly’s heart cried out against this inevitability, no matter how unpleasant it would be for Screwe.
The fact that Screwe was their mutual enemy no longer mattered. The truth was that Tilly’s true enemy was her own glib arrogance. She thought she could always fix things. Now it was too late. The only thing fixed was the day of her wedding to DeGroen. She was rushing toward her destiny and away from the longing of her heart.
She wept miserably as her lavender-scented carriage rolled her back to London.
Chapter 52
Rutherford heard the gasp, and began trying to disentangle himself from Mrs. Colling’s blasted skirts, receiving several good cuffs, which he knew he deserved, in the process.
Why was he behaving like such an ill-bred child?
He stood and straightened himself, casting about for the person who had witnessed his ridiculous conduct. He looked down the staircase, only seeing a skirt disappearing into a hallway at the bottom.
A feeling of apprehension came over him. He rushed down the stairs, stopping to peek hopefully into the south parlour. It was empty except for Smythe, who was standing by a book shelf with his white gloves on.
Rutherford made for the front door, Smythe following behind. He hailed Sandes. “Who was here just now?”
Sandes looked uncomfortable. “It was Miss Ravelsham, my lord...” his voice trailed off. Then he corrected himself. “I mean, your grace.”
“Did she—” He wanted to say see me with Mrs. Colling, but that would sound far too much like an admission of guilt. “Did she come upstairs?”
“Yes, your grace. I showed her to the sickroom.”
Ruddy hell. He had really put his foot in things this time. Smythe’s snicker was audible, and Rutherford resisted the urge to turn around and yell at him to stop being such an irritating little turd.
Instead, Rutherford ran to the door and flung it open to see if he might still catch Tilly and stop her from leaving. The leprous pale face and grinning yellow teeth of Lord Screwe greeted him, as Tilly’s carriage rolled away down the drive.
“Well, well. Is the duke making economies by having his nephew do doorman’s duties?”
Rutherford only just restrained himself from letting his fist fly into Screwe’s face. “You have been told not to come here, Screwe. Do not make me take action against you in trespass.”
“You take action? Ah, I see. Am I addressing the fifth Duke of Bartholmer, then?” His lips pursed in a mocking smile. “My condolences, and my congratulations, Duke.”
“You disgust me, Screwe. I hate the sight of you. I will repeat and affirm the edict of my excellent predecessor, may he rest in peace, and tell you that you are not welcome here. You will not be received by me anywhere. Get off my property and do not ever return. You may expect a formal letter to this effect from my solicitor.”
Rutherford made to reenter the manor.
“Very well. I am banished. I will just say what I came to say.”
“Why should I hear anything from your filthy mouth?”
“Because it concerns Miss Ravelsham.”
Rutherford clenched his fist and turned around, staring at Screwe in seething silence.
“I hope you will use your influence with Miss Ravelsham to persuade her to return my property.” Screwe’s gaze was menacing. “It would very much be in her best interests to do so.”
“I have no idea what property you could be speaking of, but you are misinformed. I have no influence with Miss Ravelsham.” He did not add especially now, but the words still tasted bitter in his mouth. “If you wish to engage someone’s influence with her, why do you not petition Mr. DeGroen? No doubt if you catch him in a week he will be feeling in a benign mood, having secured his future marital happiness.”
“In a week?” Screwe’s laugh came out like the sound of a rusty nail scraped against a piece of slate. “Have not you heard? I assumed that was the felicitous news Miss Ravelsham came to tell you, for I saw her carriage departing as I arrived. She is to be wed tomorrow, happy girl. It is all the talk. Some say they are merely in a hurry to hush up rumours about you and her, but I know nothing of that.”
“Tomorrow?! You lie!” Rutherford felt like a cannonball had ploughed into his stomach. Could it be true? It must not be.
“I know you do not like me, Duke, but you must admit, in your heart of hearts, your dislike revolves around my tendency to tell the truth, rather than to tell lies.”
Rutherford’s fist swung back involuntarily.
This was enough to make Screwe step away quickly and head for his carriage, only speaking over his shoulder as he retreated. “If you care at all about Miss Ravelsham, you will try to persuade her to return what is mine before I expose her. Oh, by the way, I have posted Mr. Delacroix’s bond. He says he intends to press a suit against you for your assault against his person.”
Rutherford knew this last shot was meant to incense him, but it bounced off of him without notice. He stepped inside the door, closed it, and leaned his back upon it, sliding down until he collapsed on the floor.
He knew not how long he sat there. Smythe had began to hover nearby, but with a single look Rutherford sent him scampering away.
What could he do? His instincts were divided. On the one hand he wished to curl up in a ball with a bottle of soothing poison and make the realities of his life go away. On the other hand, he wished to dash after Tilly, catch her and beg her to jilt DeGroen—or, if she would not listen, to make off with her. This scheme was equally mad. He knew it. After the eyeful of him and Mrs. Colling that she had received, she would think him an utter cad.
There was no hope. And yet, something else was gnawing at his brain. What was it that Screwe had said about Delacroix? The little shit was taking legal action against him. Rutherford laughed bitterly. Good luck with that. No, something else.
Screwe had posted bond.
Delacroix was no longer rotting in the gaol. He was rotting in public, free to stink up the streets of London. Rutherford stood abruptly. What if Delacroix was still up to his old tricks? Could Lydia still be in danger? But if Screwe had posted bond, it was no doubt for some nefarious purpose of his own.
He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that Screwe’s plots would be directed at Tilly. And she probably was ignorant of her peril, thinking Delacroix was safely locked up.
“Smythe!” he bellowed, knowing that the man would be somewhere nearby. “Call for a carriage and the fastest horses! And round up Molly and the pups. Sandes, take care of—” He gasped. It was indecent for him to be running off now, so soon after his uncle’s death. But he forced himself to continue. “My uncle. I know you will make the very best arrangements.”
He dashed up the stairs. He should apologize to Mrs. Colling and reassure her of his protection before he left. But when he entered his uncle’s chamber, she was nowhere to be seen. The leather purse of money lay on the bedside table. The magnetism of the laudanum bottle drew his gaze.
He swallowed his bitter self-loathing and went back to the hallway, looking for the book that he had left on the floor. It was gone. A stream of curses cascaded from his mouth. He had meant to give her the ruddy book when he apologized. If she had made off with it, she had probably left the manor and was God knows where.
He knew that he had done wrong, hoarding it to himself and then tormenting her with it. He knew it, and was ashamed for his own sake, and for the sake of what his uncle would think of such conduct. Wrestling with her on the floor was an especially pathetic flourish to his asinine behaviour.
Just then Sandes appeared. “The Marquess Fenimore is calling, your grace. Is your grace at home?”
Now he ruddy-well asks. Why not just show him into his uncle’s chamber, as he had done with Tilly? Rutherford suppressed his bitterness. The situation was no one’s fault but his own. “Thank you, Sandes. I am always home to Frobisher.”
Rutherford made for the entrance room to greet his friend and led him to the south parlour, but in an afterthought, paused to call the butler back. “Sandes, see if you can locate Mrs. Colling. She probably has no desire to see me, but tell her I wish to apologize.”
Sandes’ face did not betray what he thought as he bowed and left again.
“Bish, it is good to see you.”
Frobisher’s face wore a mocking smile. “Apologize to the mysterious widow, eh? Whatever can you have done now, Rutherford?”
“Behaved like a bloody beast, is what.”
Frobisher suddenly gestured at Rutherford’s leg with a look of alarm. “You are bleeding.”
“Am I?” So he was. Blast it. “Well, the doctor did warn me about getting into fisticuffs.” The good physician could not have imagined that he would need to forbid wrestling with young ladies under Rutherford’s own protection. Rutherford winced at the memory. “I am sure it is nothing, for I hardly feel it.”
“And is this in any way related to your need to apologize to Mrs. Colling?”
Rutherford did not wish to make a full confession to Frobisher. “I regret to tell you that my uncle has finally passed. I shall just say that, in the despair of the moment… Well, I did not take it very well. In fact, I hardly know what I am about, even now.”
The smile fell from Frobisher’s face. “I am sorry, my friend. I am sure Mrs. Colling understands what you must have been feeling.”
“Perhaps, but I acted as though I was the only one grieving. She was very attached to my uncle, too. She loved him, I believe—no, do not give me such a look. It was not like that. Anyway, she was distraught, and I behaved like a perfectly savage brute. And even worse, I am sworn by my uncle to protect and support her.” Rutherford’s shoulders slumped. “I am such a failure, Bish. Such an arse.”
Frobisher patted his arm. “You are not a failure, Rutherford.” Then his old smile was back. “I say nothing about the arse bit.”
It worked. Rutherford laughed, though sadly.
“What can I do to assist you?”
Rutherford brightened at this query. “You may, indeed, be able to help. I must leave right away and return to London. I know I look flighty, but believe me I am not mad—not yet anyway. Only I have business of the greatest import and I must get back to town tonight.”
“I shall be ready to leave in a trice.”
“Ah, but I hope you shall do me a very great service and stay behind. I need someone to make certain all the matters relating to final arrangements for my uncle are properly handled. Sandes is a very competent man, but there are some things that need a gentleman’s touch.”
Frobisher nodded. “Very well.”
“And, more importantly, I have a somewhat delicate task for you. When Mrs. Colling is located, will you convey my apologies to her? Make her understand that I am sincerely sorry, Bish, and assure her in the strongest terms of my commitment to protecting and providing for her.”
“Consider it done.”
“You are an excellent fellow. I do not know how to thank you.”
“I shall stay here for the time being and reward myself for doing you these heavy favours by killing every pheasant in your forest and helping myself to the wine cellar. The Blackwood collection is legendary.”
“Good.” Rutherford’s smile was faint. “See what you can do to reduce it to mediocrity while I am away. Only now, I am sorry to say it, I must leave you. I have already delayed too long.”
He found Smythe and gave him orders to follow him to London with Molly and the puppies.
“I will leave now in the faster equipage. You may take my carriage, it will be more comfortable for the little darlings. Take good care of them.”
Smythe gazed in dismay at Rutherford’s attire. “Shall I not dress you first, your grace?”
“I’ve no time for it.”
Smythe looked crestfallen until Rutherford added, “And when you return, throw out all my colourful clothes, I shall not want them.”
Smythe’s face lit up with hope, as though he had just received a promise of a large raise and an extra ration of brandy. His voice quivered with joy. “Certainly, your grace.”
“Have everything made over in black.” Rutherford gave a comprehensive sweep of his arm. “Nothing but black. Neck cloths, too. See if you can have at least one set ready for tomorrow, and rush the other things.”
Smythe’s shoulders sank again. “Yes, your grace.”
As he rolled out in a light carriage pulled by Bartholmer’s four fastest horses, Rutherford sunk into sadness. His heart hurt to be leaving Blackwood. It felt like he was abandoning his uncle, which he knew was not rational. His uncle was gone. But still, some mad impulse taunted him to turn back, as though, if he returned and waited, his uncle might awaken.
The pain of the final truth was crippling. And rumination on Tilly, though slightly more amenable to some kind of hope, did not offer him any less painful distraction. He could only redirect his thoughts to how best he might protect her. At least that would keep him active and away from the laudanum.
Chapter 53
Tilly was exhausted when she awoke the next morning. She had returned to London in misery the day before. And now she faced the ravages of sleeplessness and tears as she looked in the mirror, preparing herself for her wedding day.
It should be joyous, shouldn't it? But there was no joy in Tilly's heart. She felt like an utter failure.
She had lost track of Clara and Sweep and could no longer protect them. She had failed Rutherford, even as she failed her own philanthropic vision, by getting involved in the trade of that insidious poison. She had broken his heart and, through her neglect, let him find consolation in the love of another.
Now all that was left to her was the one thing that she could do right for someone else. Mr. DeGroen would have his inheritance and his happiness. She had failed at all else, but DeGroen she would not fail.
Just as she was having this thought, a servant delivered her a note. There was no address, but she knew the writing.
It is not too late, my love.
That was all it said. If only it had been written by Rutherford.
But it was DeGroen. He was willing to give up everything only to see her happy. His good heart made her wish all the more to help him. And anyway, DeGroen was wrong. It was too late. Rutherford had moved on. There was nothing to be gained by cancelling the wedding, except to utterly scandalize Grandfather Fowler.
She threw the note into the fire, just as Miss Grey arrived to dress her hair. She was accompanied by a very modish looking lady, tall and willowy, with golden ringlets, and a young footman in tow—an archaically clad little boy, decked out in a powdered wig and cosmetics from the last century.
Tilly squinted at the woman,
then dismissed the servants. “You too, Marie.” Marie looked sullen, for fancy dress and weddings charmed her girlish heart like nothing else and gave her weak understanding a sparkly trinket to play with. Tilly actually felt sorry to deprive her, but out she must go.
Tilly locked the door behind them then rushed back to inspect the two newcomers. “Clara? Sweep?”
“Not at all, Miss,” supplied Miss Grey, with a little wink and a tap of her nose. “This is my house guest, Mrs. Steele and her boy servant, Oakley.”
“Ah.” Tilly smiled broadly at the subterfuge.
They really were all but unrecognisable. Clara’s petite form had been elevated by a very clever pair of shoes. Powder covered the darker undertones of her complexion, and her brows had been lightened to match the wig she wore. And no one would ever suspect that the perpetually grubby-faced Sweep resided somewhere under all that painted skin and frippery.
“Well, I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Steele.” She winked in acknowledgement at Oakley.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ravelsham. We have been living quite quietly with Miss Grey. But when we heard of your wedding, we could not be content until we came to wish you joy.”
“Thank you.” Tilly forced a smile. So Miss Grey had hidden and disguised them and kept it from Tilly. This showed some courage.
“You are not angry with me then, Miss?” Miss Grey sounded apprehensive.
Tilly could well imagine that Clara had frantically begged Miss Grey to keep her secret, even from Tilly. And, considering how closely Tilly had been watched, that secrecy was probably what saved them from Screwe’s detection.
“Not at all, Miss Grey, I assure you. I am only very happy for everyone’s good health.”
They all had a nice long chat as Miss Grey dressed Tilly’s hair. Then Tilly sent them all away, saying, “It might be best not to come here again, just to be safe. When I have sorted some things out, I will send for you, Miss Grey.”
When they were gone, Tilly permitted Browning and Marie to reenter and bring the dress.