The Virgin Who Vindicated Lord Darlington

by Anna Bradley

  What had ever possessed her to enter the late marchioness’s bedchamber when Lord Darlington had expressly forbidden it? Yes, she’d heard a sound, but now she’d experienced the result it seemed a foolish reason to have disobeyed his orders. She’d have been much better off if she’d kept to her yes, my lord, and no, my lord.

  Cecilia smothered a sigh, crawled under the covers of her little cot, and drew the blankets up to her chin, vowing nothing short of a blood-curdling scream would induce her to leave it again.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and waited for sleep to take her, but though her body was exhausted, her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest. A voice inside her head prodded and poked at her, enumerating all the reasons why she couldn’t simply turn her back on Darlington Castle.

  Cecilia rolled onto her side, then onto her other side, then tried to silence the voice by burying her head under her pillow, but it was no use. At last she squirmed onto her back with a heavy sigh. Her eyes popped open of their own accord, and she threw her arm over her forehead.

  “It’s not as if there’s a blessed thing I can do it about it,” she muttered aloud. “Lord Darlington’s dismissed me, and there’s rather an end to it.”

  There must be a way to change his mind, the voice insisted stubbornly. Why, you hardly even tried.

  “I did try. I stood there and argued with an enormous marquess who’s quite likely a murderer. What else would you have me do?”

  Try again, harder this time.

  “Short of simply refusing to leave, I don’t see how I can—”

  Ah. Now there’s an idea.

  Cecilia huffed out a breath. The voice was beginning to sound a bit like her friend Sophia, who never gave up on anything, regardless of how hopeless it seemed. She was the bravest person Cecilia knew.

  And yet…

  “What’s to prevent Lord Darlington from simply throwing me out?” Cecilia shivered at the memory of his dark scowl as he’d ordered her from his study. That scowl said more clearly than words he wouldn’t hesitate to toss her out the door.

  Or drown her in the moat.

  Nonsense. He’s not going to drown you in the moat.

  Cecilia snorted. “You haven’t seen him. He’s just the sort of man who’d drown his housemaid in a moat.”

  Don’t let him, then.

  “How am I meant to stop him? He’s the size of a horse.” Cecilia let her arm flop down onto the bed beside her. “I’m not brave. I can’t…do the things you can.”

  Cecilia waited, but when that argument seemed to have silenced the voice for good, she forced her eyes to close.

  Just as well. She wasn’t Sophia, or Georgiana, or Emma.

  Not even close.

  So, there was an end to it.

  She lay in the darkness and drew in calming breaths until a soft scratching sound disturbed the silence of her makeshift bedchamber.

  “Oh, no.” Cecilia squeezed her eyes as tightly closed as she could, then pulled the covers over her head for good measure, but the faint scratch of claws on wood persisted, growing more frenzied with every moment.

  Finally, it ceased.

  Silence fell, and Cecilia opened her eyes and peeked over the edge of the coverlet. All was quiet. But before she could release the breath she was holding, the silence gave way to a soft creaking sound.

  Cecilia’s gaze flew to the connecting door—the door that had caused all the trouble, the door that had been meant to be locked, and certainly should have been locked now, as it creaked open.

  Just a crack, then a little more, and a little more…

  Cecilia gaped at it with wide eyes. No, it was impossible—

  “Ahhh!” Cecilia gasped as something small and light landed on the foot of her bed. She kicked out at it, her fevered imagination conjuring images of tiny ghosts that leapt upon innocent maidens and smothered them with their own pillows. Another yelp left her lips, but the creature on her bed picked its way over her feet, then her legs, padding along until it reached her chest, where it stopped.

  Cecilia had ducked back under the covers, but when the tiny ghost sitting on her chest made no move to smother her, she peered cautiously over the edge of the coverlet again.

  A pair of green eyes stared back at her.

  “Seraphina! I should have known.” Cecilia frowned at the black cat, not sure whether she should be relieved or outraged. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one night?”

  The green eyes blinked.

  “Where were you when Lord Darlington was shouting at me, hmmm? Nowhere to be found, that’s where. You’ve a lot of cheek coming in here now after abandoning me so scandalously.” Despite her irritation, Cecilia reached out to stroke Seraphina’s head, chuckling a little as the beast nuzzled into her palm. “You’re a shameless creature, aren’t you?”

  Cecilia tried to nudge Seraphina aside with a gentle sweep of her hand, but the cat remained perched squarely in the center of her chest. She patted the sleek, black head for a moment more, then tried once again to shoo her off the bed. “Go on, then, and leave me to my rest. I’ve rather a busy day tomorrow, what with being dismissed and having to return to London in disgrace.”

  Seraphina remained where she was, looking loftily down at Cecilia as if she were the dimmest human imaginable. If cats had eyebrows, Seraphina’s would be quirked at her. “All right, then, since you insist on it, you may stay. It isn’t as if Lord Darlington can dismiss me a second time, is it?”

  Cecilia squirmed into a comfortable position without dislodging Seraphina, and drew the covers over herself. Seraphina settled down on top of her and commenced a low, rumbling purr.

  No doubt Lord Darlington wouldn’t approve of her having a cat in her bedchamber, but she wouldn’t lose sleep over this one last act of rebellion. In a few hours she’d no longer be his servant, and therefore not obliged to explain herself to him ever again.

  Until then…well, the less Lord Darlington knew, the better.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re making a damned foolish mistake, Darlington.”

  Gideon paused in the doorway of the breakfast parlor, taken aback. Haslemere was seated in his customary place, a cup of steaming tea in front of him, and a glare on his face that would curdle cream.

  “What, by coming downstairs to breakfast with you?” Gideon’s tone was mild. “I hadn’t thought so, but you don’t look as if you’ll be a pleasant companion this morning. What’s the trouble, Haslemere? Has that sour look on your face made the cream go off?”

  Haslemere ignored this. “You’ve no business dismissing your housemaids, no matter what it is you think they’ve done.”

  Gideon stopped on his way to his chair, nettled. “For God’s sake, Haslemere. I dismissed my housemaid less than eight hours ago. I fail to see how you’re even aware of it, unless you’ve been wandering about the castle pressing your ear to every door.”

  Haslemere scowled, but he didn’t deign to dignify this with a reply. “Your betrothed and her mother will be here in a matter of days, and your castle wants polishing. Look at it!” He waved a hand in the air, as if the breakfast parlor was no better than a cell at Newgate.

  “It’s not as bad as all that.” Even as the protest left his mouth, however, Gideon caught sight of a thick cobweb clinging to one of the heavy beams in the ceiling.

  “Bad enough. If you think I’m going to sweep floors and scrub silver, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “Pity. You’d look so fetching in a white cap and apron.” Gideon dropped into his chair and took up his teacup.

  “Is that why you dismissed Cecilia? Because she’s so fetching?” Haslemere arched a brow. “You did say she was too pretty to be a housemaid. Perhaps she’s proved too much of a temptation?”

  A temptation.

  Warm skin under a thin linen night rail, soft curves pressed against him,
her long, thick hair brushing his forearm, and that mouth, so sweet and pink, arguing with him, questioning him, challenges falling from the edge of that clever tongue…Gideon slid a finger under his cravat, which seemed to have gone uncomfortably tight around his throat.

  There was no denying he was attracted to Cecilia, but that wasn’t why he’d dismissed her. He never should have let her remain at Darlington Castle after that first day. He’d suspected her of being a liar even then, and now he’d caught her sneaking about the one room in the entire castle he’d warned her away from.

  A cat, she’d said. A cat had lured her into Cassandra’s bedchamber.

  A cat, of all absurd things.

  He’d been utterly justified in sending her away. “Not to worry, Haslemere. I’ll find another housemaid to sweep and scrub for me.”

  Haslemere snorted. “Forgive me, Darlington, but you aren’t precisely spoiled with choice.”

  Gideon paused with his teacup halfway to his lips, assessing Haslemere with narrowed eyes. Had Cecilia put him up to this? Because she’d said the same thing to him last night, when she was arguing to keep her place.

  How had she put it, again?

  Oh, yes. Gideon’s brows pulled down into a scowl.

  The challenges of the position.

  She hadn’t listed them, but on this matter, she could afford to be subtle.

  Every villager in Edenbridge, and a good portion of the London ton, imagined he’d murdered his wife and secreted her bones inside the walls of Darlington Castle. A White Lady was said to haunt his grounds, seeking revenge on him for his sinful deeds, and then there was the new moniker he’d been graced with. That alone had likely put off more than one prospective housemaid.

  No one wanted to work for the Murderous Marquess.

  Gideon fixed a steady gaze on Haslemere, but the hand resting on his knee had clenched into a fist. “It’s nothing less than I expected. Have you forgotten, Haslemere? I’m Edenbridge’s own wickeder version of Bluebeard.”

  Haslemere gave him a pained look, and Gideon’s conscience pricked at him. It wasn’t fair of him to torment poor Haslemere, but Gideon didn’t see any point in mincing words. He’d once been regarded as a gentleman of character, and then in the blink of an eye, he’d become a murderer. What was the sense in pretending otherwise?

  “The moniker certainly doesn’t help,” Haslemere allowed, retrieving his teacup with a resigned sigh. “It took you months to find Cecilia. It will take months more to find her replacement, if you can find one at all, particularly one as qualified as she is.”

  Gideon frowned. “Yes, about that, Haslemere. Does it strike you as odd Cecilia came to Darlington Castle in the first place? Why should a young woman with such a glowing reference from Lady Dunton wish to work here, given the rumors about me?”

  And that was to say nothing about the rumors of a vengeful ghost.

  That was the crux of the problem, right there. He didn’t trust Cecilia—her reference from Lady Dunton was suspect, as was her sudden appearance at Darlington Castle. Every instinct warned Gideon she was a problem in the making, a calamity waiting to happen.

  “I can’t imagine why Lady Dunton would lie about it,” Haslemere replied with a shrug. “But it hardly matters, even if she did. You can’t afford to dispense with Cecilia, regardless.”

  “Why not? She’s a dreadful housemaid.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said. She’s too pretty. Wasn’t that your complaint?”

  “She dropped the coal scuttle when she was making up my fire yesterday morning. It shocked the life of out of me. I thought the ceiling had collapsed.” Gideon stabbed a piece of toast with his knife under the pretense of buttering it. He was a devil for saying it, given it was partly his fault she’d dropped that coal scuttle, but it was the only excuse he could think of for dismissing her.

  Haslemere stared at him. “That’s why you dismissed her? Well, I daresay she looked far too fetching with coal dust smudged on her pert little nose. Very right and proper, Darlington.”

  Gideon snapped off a bite of toast with his teeth, wincing as the dry crumbs lodged in his throat. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t simply tell Haslemere he’d dismissed Cecilia because she’d entered Cassandra’s bedchamber. Haslemere would understand that, but for reasons he couldn’t explain even to himself, he held his tongue.

  “I don’t deny she’s pretty, Darlington, but she also happens to be an accomplished nursemaid, from what I hear. Mrs. Briggs and Amy are in raptures over her management of Isabella. It isn’t fair to them for you to dismiss her. They need the help.”

  Gideon set his uneaten toast carefully on his plate, fighting off a pang of guilt. “How is it, Haslemere, you always know so much about what’s happening in my house?”

  “Ah, now there’s a question. I’ll leave you to answer it for yourself, but if you won’t take my word for it, then ask your housekeeper her opinion on the matter. Mrs. Briggs and Amy say Cecilia has a way with children.”

  Gideon huffed. Of course she did, because it was too much to ask Cecilia to be impatient and short-tempered with Isabella, and thus easily dispensed with. It would have been a damn sight simpler that way, but no, she had to be pleasant and cheerful and win everyone over after a single day here.

  “According to Mrs. Briggs, she’s just what one wishes for in a nursemaid.” Haslemere dropped another lump of sugar into his teacup, studying Gideon as he stirred. “She has the patience of a saint, and a sincere affection for Isabella.”

  Gideon pushed his plate away, his appetite deserting him. Nothing was more important to him than Isabella’s well-being. If Cecilia made his niece happy, what was left to say?

  “You still haven’t found a replacement for the last nursemaid, I take it? The thief—what was her name again? Mrs. Vermin, wasn’t it?”

  “It was Vernon, not—”

  “I shudder to think what sort of woman you’ll have to settle for if you dismiss Cecilia.” Haslemere let out a dramatic sigh.

  Gideon shuddered to think what could happen if he didn’t dismiss her. He grimaced at the memory of the incident last night, of the horror on Cecilia’s face, the way she’d frozen with terror when he grabbed her.

  But even that paled in comparison to the tension between them in his study afterward. He’d touched her. He hadn’t meant to, but even now he could recall with perfect clarity the feel of her smooth skin under his fingertips. There was no telling what might happen next, or how he’d react to it. Darlington Castle simply wasn’t a safe place for an unpredictable young woman like Cecilia Gilchrist.

  He wasn’t safe—

  “You’ll end up with the worst of the lot. Worse than Mrs. Vermin, even, and she was a wretched old thing.” Haslemere’s tone was dark. “You could settle for Amy, but the girl’s as jumpy as a cat with Isabella. Have you tried the scullery maid? Perhaps she’d make a suitable nurse.”

  Gideon rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

  Haslemere’s spoon landed in his saucer with a clatter. “If you’re determined to dismiss Cecilia, at least you should send a footman to attend her to the stagecoach, Darlington. It’s the proper, gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Gideon pushed his chair back from the table, a sigh on his lips. He’d spent a good deal of time staring out his study window after Cecilia left last night, cringing as he replayed the events of the evening in his mind. A gentleman didn’t manhandle a lady, no matter the circumstances. He’d behaved like a blackguard, and it didn’t sit well with him.

  He owed Cecilia an apology. Not for dismissing her—she’d more than earned that—but for grabbing her as he’d done last night. “She’s meant to leave this morning.” Gideon retrieved his watch from his coat pocket and glanced down at it, frowning. Cecilia seemed to have no notion how to follow an order. “I told her to be downstairs by eight o’clock. It seems I’ll have to fetch
her myself.”

  He took a last gulp of his tea and rose from the table, but before he could move Haslemere jumped up, nearly toppling his chair behind him. “Perhaps it would be better if I speak to her. If you make a mess of it—”

  “It’s all right, Haslemere. I promise you I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” A grim smile twitched at Gideon’s lips. Occasionally he could still manage to behave in a manner that befitted a marquess. “Sit down and finish your breakfast.”

  Gideon made his way from the dining parlor to the entrance hall. There was no sign of Cecilia, but Amy was on her hands and knees at the bottom of the stairs scrubbing the floors, a bucket by her side. “Good morning, Amy.”

  Amy looked up at the sound of his voice. “Good morning, my lord,” she replied, politely enough, but Gideon didn’t miss the sour twist to her lips.

  Here was one member of his household who wasn’t pleased about Cecilia’s dismissal. Amy looked as if she was one second away from tossing her cleaning rag in his face. “Did you happen to see Cecilia this morning?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Amy’s voice was chilly. “She ran upstairs to bid Lady Isabella goodbye.”

  “Thank you.” Gideon moved toward the stairs, giving Amy and her bucket a wide berth, aware she was glowering at his back as he passed.

  He climbed the stairs and strode down the hallway to his bedchamber, but once he got to the connecting door he paused with his hand on the latch. There was a strange sound coming from Isabella’s room. That is, not strange, but not a sound that had been heard much at Darlington Castle these past twelve months or more.

  Isabella was laughing. Not the muted laugh of an anxious child who’d seen too much loss in her young life, but the carefree, joyful laugh of a child who, if even for only this brief moment, was happy in the way a child should be.

  Entirely, unabashedly happy.

  Cecilia was singing to her. Gideon pressed an ear to the door, his chest aching at the sound of her low, sweet voice. He couldn’t make out her song—something about a pale-faced visage and the darts of death. His lips quirked. Not a lullaby, then, but Isabella didn’t seem to mind, because she was laughing.