Where had she gone and when? She must have left early this morning. How much of a head start would she have on him? Five, maybe seven hours. He remembered the dead kittens and felt sick.
Turning, he cried to Mrs. Needham. “Send someone down to the stable. I want to know when and how my wife left and where she said she was going. Question all the servants to see if they know anything.”
He went into his own chamber where he scrambled into riding clothes, then headed downstairs.
Ferris was coming in the door, his face worried. “No one has seen your wife at the stables since she came back from London. No horse or tack is missing, and she requested no help of anyone. She must be on foot. She could not have gone far.”
Relief flooded Jerome. His greatest fear was that Rachel might try to go back to Wingate Hall. But if she had walked away, she must mean to stay in the area—perhaps in the hope that he would come to his senses.
He ordered, “Dispatch men along every road and path to look for her. Tell them to ask everyone they come across whether they have seen her.”
He hurried down to the stables and ordered Lightning saddled for him. As he waited, he considered where Rachel might go to seek shelter. A few minutes later, he was galloping at breakneck speed toward Bill Taggart’s farm.
But the Taggarts had not seen her.
Ferris met Jerome as he returned to the house. “All but one or two of the men are back. No one has seen your wife.”
How could Rachel have seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth? Thoroughly worried by now, Jerome ran into the house where he was met by the housekeeper. “What do the servants say?”
“Jane, the scullery maid, thinks she may have seen her grace leaving yesterday evening on foot.”
“What do you mean she thinks?” Jerome’s fear sharpened his exasperation. “For God’s sake she knows what her mistress looks like.”
“Except,” the housekeeper said tartly, “when she is wearing a voluminous black cloak and a hat so heavily veiled that her face could not be seen.”
Jerome’s stomach knotted, twisting with dread, as he remembered the woman he had seen on the northbound stage the previous evening. Hellsfire, could that have been Rachel?
He closed his eyes as fear engulfed him. She was going to Wingate Hall.
Jerome had to stop his wife before she reached it, or she would be a dead woman. He headed for the door, yelling for Morgan, George, and Ferris to come with him. They came running.
As the four men pounded northward, Jerome prayed for his wife’s safety as he had never prayed before in his life. He would happily trade his dukedom, fortune, and everything else he owned to have his wife back safely in his arms.
Two awful images haunted his mind. The first was of the dead kittens. The second, and even more painful, was of his wife’s shattered expression when he had told her he did not believe the child she carried was his.
If anything happened to her, if he were not granted the time to erase that awful look and see her happy and laughing again, he did not think he could live with himself.
Certainly he would never be able to forgive himself.
Jerome tried to calculate the speed of the stage versus the many hours head start it had. He concluded that they ought to catch up with it before it reached the White Swan Inn where she would disembark for Wingate Hall. But it would be a near thing. And even if he managed to save Rachel from Sophia, he knew that it would be no guarantee that his wife would ever forgive him for his unjustified distrust of her and for his repudiation of the child that he knew could only be his.
I would rather be dead than ever again live with a husband who could believe he is not the father of my child. Our child deserves better than that, and so do I.
If only she would let him, Jerome would spend the rest of their lives trying to make up to her for what he had done.
If she would let him. She could be as stubborn as he. His heart ached as he remembered her standing so proudly when they had returned to Wingate Hall after she had abducted him.
Would she ever again look at him with love and happiness in her eyes? Would he ever again see her glowing with passion and pleasure as he made love to her?
His heart bled for what his foolish distrust and jealousy had cost them both.
Rachel started toward the Wingate Hall stable to find out how the two motherless kittens she had entrusted to Benjy’s care were faring.
When Rachel had arrived at her old home in the post chaise that she had hired after leaving the stage at Leicester, her reception had been far warmer than she had expected. The Wingate Hall servants had all been delighted to see her, which had not surprised her, but even Aunt Sophia had seemed pleased.
That was as fortunate as it was surprising because Uncle Alfred was in bed, suffering from a mysterious malady that had been plaguing him for several days, and he was too ill to be bothered about anything.
Astonishingly Sophia, who loved to haggle over every groat, had paid off the postboys’ charges without so much as a quibble.
Once Sophia had heard Rachel’s story she further astounded her niece with the sympathy she showed for her plight. “You cannot go back to such a man. It is an outrage that Westleigh could think such a thing of you.”
Then Sophia honed in on what had been the deciding factor in Rachel’s decision to flee her husband. “Only think of your poor unborn babe. Believing what he does, Westleigh is certain to tear the child from your arms and send him away. I shudder to think of what the poor infant’s fate would be. You cannot let that happen, dear girl. No, you must stay here at Wingate Hall.”
This was so unlike the Aunt Sophia Rachel knew that she could only give thanks that at last someone understood her fears and believed her to be telling the truth.
Perversely, Rachel also felt compelled to defend her husband. “I cannot entirely blame him after I saw the letters he has. You would not believe it, Aunt Sophia, but I could not tell the handwriting from my own.”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who could be responsible for them?”
“I have given it a great deal of thought on the journey here. I can only think of one possibility, and even that seems so highly unlikely I can hardly bring myself to mention it, but Lady Oldfield has taken a great dislike to me.”
“I have heard unpleasant things about that woman,” Sophia said. “Does your husband know where you have gone?”
“No, I did not tell him I was coming here, and I begged him in the note I left him not to try to find me.” Rachel’s voice cracked with emotion. “Not that he is likely to bother. He hates me so that I am quite certain he will be happy to be rid of me.”
Now, as Rachel reached the stables, her thoughts turned back to the two kittens that she had hidden in the maze. She hoped Benjy had taken good care of them.
When the young stable hand saw her, he came running up, a wide grin splitting his freckled face. “M’lady, m’lady, you come back! Me missed you. Everyone has.” His smile faded. “Sorry me am about them poor kittens in the maze. Me knows how you loved them.”
“What happened to them?” Rachel demanded in alarm.
The youth looked surprised. “Me would o’ thought his grace or his brother would o’ told you.”
“Told me what?”
“They’s dead, poisoned they was.”
“What!” Rachel gasped, an unhappy shadow falling across her return to Wingate Hall. “Where?”
“In the maze. Me found them lying all stiff aside their dish and an empty pitcher o’ milk.”
“But no one except you knew I had hidden them in the maze. When did you find them?”
“Why the day you left with his grace. Was him what found ‘em first. That’s what led me to ‘em. Me seen him come out o’ that maze. Ne’er afore seen such a look on a man’s face as him had. Then him marched into the house and carried you off. Did him not tell you about them being dead?”
“No, surely he could not have known.”
<
br /> “Oh, him did,” Billy assured her. “When his brother come, him asked me whether me had buried the poisoned kittens and me told him me had.”
Rachel remembered the shadow that had crossed Morgan’s face when she had asked him about the kittens. Why had neither he nor her husband told her the truth?
Slowly she turned and made her way back to the house.
Jerome and his companions finally caught up with the northbound stage on a desolate, windswept moor. The driver was reluctant to stop at Jerome’s command, being under the mistaken impression the four riders were a gang of highwaymen attempting to rob him.
Finally, after much shouting back and forth, he was persuaded to stop.
As Jerome dismounted, he explained to the still wary coachman, “I am seeking my runaway wife, who is your passenger.”
“That be yer wife?” The coachman looked incredulous.
Wild to see Rachel again, Jerome threw open the coach door to be met by the glare of the only female occupant, an enormously fat, middle-aged woman. He cursed under his breath and slammed the door shut.
“Did you not pick up a woman at the Crown Inn in Bedfordshire wearing a black cloak and veiled black hat?” Jerome demanded of the coachman.
“Aye, but she left at Leicester. Hired a post chaise there, she did, to carry her the rest o’ the way to Yorkshire. ‘Twas near a full moon last night, and she intended to make use o’ its light to continue her journey. Must o’ beat us by many hours.”
“Oh, God, no!” Jerome exclaimed in despair as the one hope he had clung to during the long ride north was demolished. It had not occurred to him that Rachel might leave the stage and travel through the night in a faster equipage.
Behind him, he heard his companions cursing softly. He vaulted into the saddle, and urged his tired mount on toward Wingate Hall. Terror for his wife’s safety constricted his chest, and bile rose in his throat at the thought of losing her.
Would they be in time?
Rachel sat on the terrace of Wingate Hall, staring up at the stars brightening the night sky. She was trying to sort through her confusion over all that had happened to her.
Sophia stepped out on the terrace. “You should go to bed. You need your rest.”
“Yes,” Rachel agreed, but she made no move to rise. “I think, though, I will stay out here for a little while. It is such a pleasant night, and I do not think I would be able to sleep if I went to bed.”
Too many memories to haunt her; too much pain to rip at her heart. Her marriage was over. Even if Jerome came after her, and she doubted that he would, she would never again be his wife. When he had repudiated their child, something within her had died. And she would never, ever allow anyone to separate her from her baby when the child was born.
Even if he did not try to do so, even if he eventually accepted that he was the father, she would not be able to forgive him.
Her aunt went back inside, leaving Rachel alone on the terrace again.
But within ten minutes, Sophia was back again, carrying a glass in her hand. “What you need, dear girl, is this warm milk to help you relax and sleep.”
“Why, thank you.” Rachel had never particularly liked warm milk, but she was touched by Sophia’s thoughtfulness and she would drink it to please her.
“I have some letters to write tonight for the morning post,” Sophia said. “If you want anything I will be in my office.” She turned and went into the house.
Her aunt was being so nice that Rachel could scarcely believe it. The change in her was nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps that was why it made Rachel a little uneasy.
She glanced up at the stars again and yawned. Her exhaustion was catching up with her. She might as well drink down the milk and go to bed. Perhaps, as Sophia said, it would help her sleep.
Rachel, an odd, indefinable unease nagging at her, reached for the glass.
When Jerome and his companions reached Wingate Hall, he did not bother to knock but threw open the great front door and dashed inside.
Kerlan came running. “Your Grace!” he gasped.
“Where is my wife? In her old room?”
“Nay, out on the terrace.”
Jerome sagged in relief. Thank God, he was in time.
Sophia Wingate hurried into the hall from the room she used as her private office.
“Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you.” From Sophia’s dismayed expression, however, it was anything but. “What brings you to Wingate Hall? Surely, not your unfaithful wife. She told me that you had somehow gotten hold of her letters to Anthony Denton, and then guessed the truth—that the babe she carries is his.”
“You mean the letters you forged and had your brother, Leonard Tarbock, try to sell to me.”
Sophia gasped, and the colour faded from her face. Then she visibly rallied, saying unconvincingly, “I do not know what you are talking about. I will not allow you to make such slanderous statements about me. I order you out of this house.”
“You have no authority at Wingate Hall.”
“Lord Arlington left my husband—”
Jerome interrupted her. “No, he did not. The document you forged left your husband in charge of the estate until George Wingate returned from America.”
“And I am here now.” George came up to stand beside Jerome.
Sophia’s composure deserted her. “No, you cannot be back!”
“But he is, and I am having the bodies of your three former husbands exhumed for traces of the poison with which you killed them. You will hang for their murders.”
Sophia turned and darted back into the room from which she emerged. Jerome followed in time to see her open the drawer of a pretty French writing table. She yanked out a small dagger and ran toward him, her eyes glittering with madness.
She ran at Jerome, slashing viciously at him with the dagger. “I will kill you, too!” she shrieked.
The blade narrowly missed his face as Jerome grabbed for her wrist but could not catch it.
They danced about each other as she lashed at him with the dagger and he dodged its lethal blade.
At last he managed to capture her wrist. Her eyes gleamed with a crazed light as she struggled to break his grip.
He tried to force her to drop the weapon, but she was possessed of a devil’s strength. Hellsfire, he had fought men twice her size who had less, but he had heard madness often gave its victims superhuman might.
Over and over as he struggled with her, she slashed at him with the tip of the dagger.
Once she came within a hairsbreadth of his cheek.
Then she sliced at his chin.
Odd, Jerome thought, the way she was wielding the dagger. If she wanted to kill him, why did she seem more intent on scratching him with its tip than plunging it into him?
Morgan finally succeeded in grabbing her arms from behind. Between the two brothers, they managed to subdue her frenzied strength.
Slowly Jerome forced her wrist back to make her drop the dagger that she was clutching so tenaciously. For an instant, her resistance flagged, and the tip of the blade snaked up, scratching her chin.
A blood-curdling scream escaped her lips. The craziness in her eyes gave way to terror, and she went limp. Morgan caught her and lowered her to the floor. With mounting horror, Jerome understood why Sophia had been frying so hard to use the point of the dagger.
“The tip is poisoned, is it not?” His voice was so hoarse he hardly recognized it.
“Aye, and there is no antidote,” she whimpered. Then her eyes grew bright with hatred. “Just as there is none for the poison in the milk I gave your wife tonight.”
“What?” Jerome whirled on Kerlan, who was standing frozen in the doorway.
“You told me my wife was on the terrace.”
“She is.”
Jerome’s throat was suddenly so dry and constricted that he could scarcely get the words past his lips. “Did Sophia bring her a glass of milk there?”
Kerlan nodded. “To help h
er sleep.”
The words were like a knife carving Jerome’s heart into mincemeat. The milk would have brought Rachel eternal sleep.
He sprinted past Kerlan, running toward the terrace and calling himself every kind of fool for not having told Rachel about the dead kittens and the poisoned milk. Jerome had wanted to protect her from the pain and sorrow it would cause her.
What he had meant as a kindness might have unwittingly caused his wife’s death—and that of her unborn child.
His child.
“Rachel,” he called, frantic now.
Only silence answered him, and he knew that he was too late after all. Jerome ran onto the terrace, illuminated by two flambeaux on either side of the door.
It was empty.
Kerlan followed him. “She was sitting there.” The butler gestured at a vacant chair.
On a low table beside it sat an empty glass. Jerome picked it up and examined it.
Only a few drops of milk remained in the bottom.
Chapter 32
In his rage and grief, Jerome picked up the empty glass. With a violent curse, he flung it down on the stone terrace, smashing it into fragments.
Then he turned and ran back into Wingate Hall. He heard footsteps pounding behind his own as he bounded up the broad staircase to the room from which he had carried Rachel the day he had married her. He threw open the door, frightened and uncertain of what he would find there.
He found nothing. The room was empty
Wherever Rachel had gone, it was not there. He turned back to the door. George, Morgan, and Ferris stood there with faces as bleak as his own heart.
“Search the house from top to bottom,” he ordered. “We must find her.”
But the search turned up nothing. Jerome met George and Ferris at the foot of the main staircase. Tears of grief streaked George’s cheeks. He said in a choked voice, “Kerlan is certain that Rachel did not come back inside from the terrace.”
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