So many times she’d tip-toed into her mother’s room, pulled the hidden portrait from its oiled cloth and cried. Prayed for a letter stating her father lived, was wealthier than the king and would be whisking them away from Sir Malcolm to a life of peaceful splendor. But of course a rescue never happened. And as the years passed she sought comfort in the portrait less and less, knowing it only represented what would never be again.
“Mama…” Caroline said sympathetically, reaching out to clasp her hand. To lose a husband was one thing, the great love of your life unbearable. No wonder her mother wool-gathered, especially with the daily miseries of her second marriage.
Emily shook her head and leaned forward. “Just be happy, darling. Cherish every day you have together. That’s all I—”
The parlor door swung open with a loud bang, and they both jumped as Sir Malcolm strode in. Speak of the devil.
“Bother!” her mother muttered, dabbing a tea splash with a starched linen napkin.
“What is the problem, Emily?” said Sir Malcolm coolly. “Spill your tea? Better go and change your gown.”
“No, no, it’s fine, thank you. Just a few spots.”
“I don’t think you heard me. I said you’d better go change your gown.”
Emily visibly tensed, her face paling. “I—”
“Before it stains and must be burnt.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Caroline felt her lips twist as Emily hurried from the parlor, her head lowered. Marriage might have saved Caroline from this bald-headed viper, but her mother still suffered at his hands.
God, how she hated him.
“Well, girl, you look well enough,” her stepfather said finally, when she deliberately sipped tea to stretch the silence far beyond politeness.
“My name,” she replied icily, “Is Lady Westleigh. And yes, I am quite well with no one threatening or beating me.”
“Give it time. No one is in more need of proper physical correction than you.”
“Proper physical correction? Is that what they call it down at the court docks? More like an excuse for a complete and utter low-life to abuse someone smaller and weaker than himself.”
“Well. There has to be some benefits to marriage, does there not? Especially when the woman brings nothing of note. At least you don’t have two mewling brats trailing along behind you.”
Caroline stilled, her fingers clenching around the tea cup. Information from the least likely source? “If marrying my mother was so distasteful, why did you do it?”
Sir Malcolm leaned against the mantelpiece and laughed. “Why do you think? They filled my bank account to overflowing, purchased me a knighthood, this house, and interesting employment.”
“They? Mama’s parents are dead.”
“Your father’s family, of course. Hated the three of you interlopers beyond words, promised extra if I formally adopted you and George. Despite the grievous annoyance I did so, anything can be achieved with the right connections.”
Unable to control her trembling, she gripped her cup tighter. “But why did they hate us? And who are they?”
“Between you, George and Emily, what’s there to like? As to your second question, that, my dear, is something you’ll never learn from me. The contract I signed swore total silence, forever.”
“Oh? So you do occasionally follow the law?”
He smiled. “When it suits. I must say, I’m enjoying spending your husband’s money. That was another profitable contract for me, although it resulted in your loss. I guess I shall have to increase discipline of your mother and brother to compensate.”
Rage overwhelmed good sense and she flew at him. “Bastard!” she screamed, flinging the contents of her cup into his face, anything to remove that cold, self-satisfied smirk. For a long second he stood there, liquid dripping from his nose and chin. Then in a frighteningly fast movement, one meaty hand encircled her throat and squeezed.
Gasping for air, her fingernails clawing at his hand, she lifted a foot to kick him. But despite a clear height advantage, her coordination and timing were no match for his and he easily sidestepped the off-balance attack, grabbed an arm and hurled her back toward the side table.
Caroline sprawled onto the floor, her left shoulder connecting sharply with the table edge, and the tea tray leapt several inches before crashing beside her in a heap of cake crumbs, sugar cubes and rattling crockery. A moment of total numbness, then pain. Shocking, jolting pain, travelling across her shoulders and down one arm.
She blinked and panted, determined not to cry no matter what.
“Foolish, clumsy little bitch. Excuse me, Lady Westleigh,” said Sir Malcolm as he crouched down, gripped her throbbing arm and roughly hauled her back up onto the chaise. “I suggest you forget your mother, forget your father, forget whatever other ‘things’ you have on your mind and go home. Concentrate on achieving what your husband bought and will keep paying for. An heir, as soon as possible. Understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered dully.
“I didn’t hear you.”
Caroline stared at him, silently vowing to make him sorry for this, sorry for what he’d done to her mother and George. However long it took, she would make him pay. “Yes!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Stephen, darling! How wonderful to see you.”
Nodding quickly at Pearce, the Edwards’ butler, Stephen grinned and strode forward to take his mother-in-law’s hands and kiss her cheek. Emily was a first class lady, warm, kind and possessing nerves of steel to make it through not just his and George’s Eton exploits, but far worse, marriage to a bastard like Sir Malcolm.
“Good evening. Apologies I didn’t come in before, I was frightfully late following a bankers’ appointment. If you leave them alone too long, who knows might they might do…your eyes look a trifle pink. Are you all right?”
She smiled brightly. “Of course. Just stayed up far too late last night with my sewing. Must learn to pace myself, but whenever I find a new pattern, I simply cannot resist! Now, if you come with me, we’ll fetch your wife. She’s in the parlor with Sir Malcolm.”
Stephen inwardly frowned at the news. George and Caroline both openly loathed their stepfather, and although they’d never said anything specific, he was fairly certain this house kept more than a few unpleasant secrets. If the cold-eyed magistrate had any friends they could be numbered on the fingers of one hand with plenty to spare, but his enemies certainly numbered in the thousands, across the full spectrum of London’s population.
“Well, lead on then. If he’s in several pieces, dusk is certainly the time for clean up.”
Emily made a sound that might have been a laugh, but quickly clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle it. Instead she linked an arm through his and ushered him across the foyer and through the parlor door.
“Caro, dear, look who I found loitering at the door,” she announced to the room.
“Good gracious, Mama,” said his wife from where she sat rigidly on a chaise, Sir Malcolm standing far too close behind her. “He looks a right ruffian. Whatever were you thinking, allowing the likes of him inside?”
“I did ask very, very nicely,” said Stephen, his gaze narrowing both at her wobbling tone and the mess. Not since Caroline’s figurine-smashing spree had he seen the room in such a state. “But why are the contents of a tea tray decorating the floor, my dear? Did the fruit cake not meet your exacting standards?”
Sir Malcolm chuckled, and yet again he was reminded why his mother referred to the man as Malevolent. “On the contrary, Westleigh. Our Caroline was reaching for yet another slice, overbalanced, and sent the whole thing flying. Very fortunate the teapot was nearly empty otherwise it could have been a lot worse.”
“Indeed,” he said coolly, his temper prickling at the patronizing nonsense. Not even Caroline was that clumsy. “Very fortunate. I apologize for the briefness of my stay, but we really must be going. Two balls to make an appearance at this evening, hate to be t
ardy.”
Stephen’s lips tightened further when Caroline gingerly got to her feet, walked over to Emily and wrapped her in a tight, prolonged hug. What the bloody hell had just happened in here?
“I’ll see you soon, Mama,” she said.
“Goodbye, darling. Goodbye, Stephen. Enjoy your dancing ‘til dawn!”
“We will.”
They walked in silence to his carriage, Caroline not even waiting for him to help her up the step, just scrambling quickly inside and huddling in the corner.
Frowning hard, he slammed the door behind him, tapped the roof and slid onto a leather squab opposite his wife as the vehicle moved smoothly away from the Edwards townhouse. Everything about her was wrong at the moment: a lack of chatter, her too-pale yet mottled skin, but especially the way she held herself.
“Caroline, what on—”
“Do we really have two balls to attend tonight?”
“No,” he said reassuringly. “I made that up. Got the impression you didn’t really want to be there any longer. We were tentatively booked to have dinner with Ardmore, Southby and a few others, but I can make our excuses. It seems newlyweds are given a fair amount of leeway for cancellations, even with little notice.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Thank heavens for that.”
“Indeed. One of the vastly underrated benefits of marriage. While it would have been nice to see everyone, to give them the opportunity to unleash all the patently unamusing comments they’ve no doubt been saving up since the night we abandoned our own ball, it’s been a hell of a day.”
“Yes, it has,” she replied, her voice and expression so strained his patience ran out.
Folding his arms, Stephen pinned her with a severe look. “Are you going to tell me the truth about the tea tray? I know even at the best of times you have the coordination of a young buck at the end of his first night out, but I don’t believe for a second Sir Malcolm’s story about you overbalancing. Do I need to lock him in Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room with Esther Hartley and a pianoforte? Beat him to a pulp and throw his carcass into the Thames?”
Caroline laughed, but it was the strangest, wateriest sound he’d ever heard, and seconds later she was sobbing. Great, wrenching ones which practically shook the carriage. Aghast, he could only gape. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her like this. His wife shrieked and threw figurines. Smiled sweetly and pulverized toes. But she never broke down.
“Caroline?” he said, at a total loss, his acute discomfort with feminine tears warring against a powerful desire to discover and resolve whatever distressed her. But she didn’t answer, merely buried her face in her hands and cried harder. Seconds later Stephen found himself moving across to sit next to her, curling an arm around her left shoulder and awkwardly pulling her toward him.
She screamed. Stunned, he jerked away. What the hell? What had he done wrong? She liked being held, didn’t she?
“Caroline,” he repeated sternly, battling through his confusion at the absolute oddness of the situation, a sting at the rejection, and anger that anyone could reduce his wife to a state of such despair. “Stop crying and start talking. Now.”
“I’m s-sorry,” she wept. “I want you to hold m-me. But my shoulder h-hurts so much. From where I h-hit the table.”
Hit the table?
His jaw clenched. “You’re hurt? Let me see.”
Equally as disconcerting as her tears, his wife obeyed instantly, shrugging off her pelisse and tugging down one puffed sleeve of her dark blue gown.
Jesus.
The start of some very painful-looking deep bruising was forming on her creamy skin. Lines and blotches of dark pink and pale blue, yet even now hinting at the yellow-flecked purple mess it would become. Rather similar to his own shoulder actually, which could only mean one thing. She had been helped on her fall by some sort of extra momentum.
“Did Sir Malcolm push you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle despite the full-blown fury now churning his gut.
“No.”
“Horseshit, Caroline.”
“Don’t you dare c-curse at me!”
He hardened his tone. “Don’t lie to me. Did he push you?”
“No.”
“Then what? Tables do not hurl themselves at shoulders.”
She looked away. “We were arguing about my real father. Sir Malcolm kept being his usual charming self and I was foolish…tipped tea over him. He put his hand around my throat. I tried to kick him but he twisted my arm and th-threw me backwards.”
Stephen went rigid, the urge to put a fist through a window or break something in half unendurable. That bastard. That fucking no-name piece of shit had actually laid hands on the Countess of Westleigh. No, not just laid hands on, thrown her across a room. What if Caroline had hit her neck on the table edge rather than her shoulder? Or her head? She could be paralyzed or dead right now.
“I’m going to kill him,” he snarled. “Slowly.”
She stiffened. “No. He’s not worth Newgate. Or Tyburn.”
“Of course he is. Although they would have to prove it was me and convince the House first. I don’t believe for a second I’m the only person in England who would spit on Sir Malcolm Edwards’ cold, mangled corpse.”
“True. You’d have to line up behind me, Mama and George at least. But you think you could outwit the entire British legal system?” she asked with a teary smile that constricted his chest, and some of his fury drained away.
“I’m staggered you could doubt that by even half a percent.”
Caroline shuffled closer to him, resting her uninjured shoulder against his chest. “I have heard tales you might be smarter than the average donkey.”
“As smart as that?” he mused, carefully curving an arm around her waist. “Then my legend has grown over the years. I do hope to make it as high as wolfhound one day. Or falcon perhaps.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“You’re right,” he replied, twining his fingers with hers to warm them. “One step up the creature ladder at a time.”
Remarkably, they sat in companionable silence for the remainder of the journey to Forsyth House. Helping her out of the carriage, they walked arm in arm up the stairs, but his mind had already leapt forward into planning mode. Sir Malcolm must suffer the consequences for today’s antics. It was just a matter of how and when.
~ * ~
“Good afternoon, my lord, my lady,” said Innes as he opened the front door for them.
“It’s practically evening, Innes,” said Stephen, before she could say a word. “But I need you to dispatch some footmen, Lady Westleigh took a nasty tumble while we were out and requires a hot bath at once. Along with whatever Mrs. Conroy has in her herb basket for compresses.”
“Witch hazel and St. John’s wort,” she said softly. “Distilled or in a poultice.”
“Exactly. Oh, and would you send an apology note to Ardmore telling him we won’t be making it to dinner tonight.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler began before sending her a worried glance. “Perhaps some cake, Lady Westleigh? Or a nice dinner tray for you after your bath?”
Instead of answering, she turned to Stephen. Knowing she probably looked a wild-eyed, pasty fright and hoping he wouldn’t run screaming at her next suggestion. “Two trays?”
He hesitated then nodded. “Yes. Two trays, Innes. And would you also tell the staff that unless the house is ablaze or Napoleon knocks on the door, we are not to be disturbed this evening.”
Innes bowed. “I shall inform the kitchens, my lord. And dispatch the footmen. I do hope you feel better soon, Lady Westleigh.”
Yet again Caroline gave thanks for the efficiency of her husband’s household, as in record time a giant copper tub was set up in her chamber and filled with buckets of steaming hot water. Mrs. Conroy brought in her well-stocked herb basket, along with soft linen bandages, washcloths and some lavender water ‘for her ladyship’
s pillow to help her sleep’. But when the housekeeper and Penny hovered to attend, Stephen politely but firmly shooed them away and shut the door.
Surprised, she immersed herself in the delicious-temperature bath until only the tops of her knees and head were uncovered, although she had to twist her body slightly to minimize the pressure on her wretched stepfather’s handiwork. But soon she blinked back more tears as Stephen pulled off his boots, jacket and cravat, placed them on a chaise and padded over to the tub. He was staying. Even better, he knelt down, picked up a washcloth, lathered it with citrus soap and began to rub her arms.
She sighed in pleasure at the soothing touch. “Continue that, and I might just keep you.”
“So my non-mathematical calling is a lady’s maid, hmmm?”
“I’d specify Lady Caroline Westleigh’s maid, not ladies in general,” she said acerbically, unable to stop herself.
But instead of irritation at her anti-mistress stance, Stephen looked like he might be suppressing a grin. Well. He might not smile if he knew exactly what she would do to any woman who sidled up to him with that particular glint in her eye. Snatching bald, crushing feet to the consistency of coddled eggs and heaving them over a balcony into a handy clump of shrubbery would be just the first hour.
“Legs,” he murmured eventually, startling her out of a rather uplifting daydream of a bald and blubbering Lady Beecham.
When Stephen had thoroughly soaped and rinsed every inch of her body he assisted her out of the tub and patted her dry, careful not to hurt her shoulder, although she could practically feel his eyes shooting daggers at the injury.
“Glaring at it will not fix it,” said Caroline, loosely wrapping a green silk robe around herself.
“Then sit yourself down on the stool and I’ll randomly mix various concoctions together and pour them over your shoulder. Be aware this process may also involve manic cackling and small gunpowder explosions, but no need to be alarmed. Everything is under control.”
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