She huffed and snapped one slippered foot against the floor, but she kept quiet, at least. Rolls of fat jiggled and bounced at the movement. Disgusting.
Years ago, old Plumridge should have done himself a favor and suffocated her with a pillow in her sleep. Then he could have found some other young thing, a pretty chit at least, and brought her to his bed. Instead he was forced to lie with this pig of a woman, who’d been using his fortune to support her rapidly growing stomach, all the while doing her best to keep London’s gossip mill afloat.
Utley took another long drag. Tonight, his fortunes would continue their recent change for the better. Who cared if his target might someday become as obese as the hag before him? Once he had the settlement Somerton had offered for her, he could send her to live in Surrey and never look upon her again.
Or better yet, he could suffocate her, much like Plumridge ought to have done.
Either way, he wouldn’t have to look at her. He could simply put her dowry to good use.
In fact, the funds he would soon add to his fortune would be more than enough to fund a mistress, if he desired one. Which he did. Anyone would be better than that uncouth, vulgar woman, Jane Matthews. And with her fortune in his control, he could afford nearly any mistress he so chose.
He would simply get her alone and build a scandal, and his success would be ensured. As would his future.
Not to mention Somerton’s downfall.
“Are you quite finished?” Lady Plumridge asked, interrupting his revelry. “I should like to return to the ballroom sometime before I catch my death from cold.”
Utley tossed the cheroot to the ground, stubbing the embers with his booted toe.
“Excuse yourself from the ballroom at the end of the supper dance. Go above stairs to the family’s apartments. You’ll encounter your scandal there.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s all?” Her voice shook, along with the rest of her.
“That’s all.”
She turned and hurried back toward the warmth of the house, stopping only when he called out to her again.
“Lady Plumridge? You won’t fail me, will you? The entire party must learn of the scandal you find this evening. I want it in tomorrow’s society papers.”
“You selected me and not someone else for just that purpose, didn’t you? Trust me.”
He inclined his head, aggravation etching his eyebrows together in a fierce knot, and she nodded before resuming her jiggling, bounding stride.
By tomorrow morning, Utley’s mounting financial concerns would be gone, and his retaliation against Somerton would be complete. Rawden would finally be avenged.
~ * ~
“Shall we go in to supper, then?” Lord Sinclaire tucked Jane’s hand into the crook of his arm and started leading her without waiting for a reply.
With her smile from the afternoon still planted firmly on her face, she nodded. “That would be lovely. Perfectly lovely.” Drat, would she ever not sound like an imbecile again? Nothing seemed to be coming out of her mouth the way she wanted any more, but she hadn’t the slightest idea how to change that.
Ahead of them in the sea of hungry people, Sophie stood at Lord Pottinger’s arm, gesturing to them with her free hand.
The crowd moved almost as one, herding them all toward the dining room.
A small voice, young and female, called out, “Miss Jane? Miss Jane?”
It had to be Sarah. “Sarah? Where are you?” But what on earth was Peter’s little girl doing out of bed at this hour? Jane stopped and scanned the crowd behind her. How would she ever find the child in the midst of the large, adult bodies surging toward her like the tide?
Lord Sinclaire also stopped and helped her search.
“You heard her, too? Tell me you heard her.” Jane pushed through the onslaught, ignoring the startled calls and surprised expressions her actions incited.
Sinclaire stayed close behind. “She’ll be crushed in the middle of this,” he said. “We have to get to her. Sarah?”
“Miss Jane,” she heard again, much closer this time.
Four more bodies moved aside, trying to get past them and to supper, and finally Jane could see the little girl, reddish-blonde curls flopping about her head. Sarah’s feet trod along the bottom of her nightgown, nearly causing her to trip over the fabric. Tears filled her eyes and fell in a trickle down her cheeks.
Jane rushed to her side and knelt to the floor. “What is it, sweetheart?” The little girl wrapped her arms around her neck and held on so tightly breathing grew difficult.
Lord Sinclaire stood behind them, presenting a large, immovable force to ensure no one trampled them.
“I had,” Sarah said and sniffled, “a bad...dream.” A hiccup followed soon behind. “Where is Papa? I want my Papa.”
The poor, little dear. Jane took a cursory look across the ballroom to where the guests were headed for supper. She would never find Peter in the mess. Drat.
How on earth had the child made her way to the ballroom without being discovered and ushered back to the safety of the nursery by one of the countless servants about? Fat lot of good they were doing.
She rose and pulled Sarah up into her arms. “Lord Sinclaire, would you be so kind as to inform His Grace? I’ll just take Sarah back up to the nursery and settle her in bed.” And then once the child was asleep again, she’d pull the nurse out into the hall for a blistering set-down for allowing the little girl to wander about a house full of adult strangers...unless Peter took over that particular responsibility when he arrived. But Lord Sinclaire need not know all of Jane’s plans.
“Of course. I’ll send him along as soon as possible.” He inclined his head before hurrying away.
Jane watched long enough to see that no one was paying them any mind, then carried her new charge up the winding staircase.
“Was it an awful dream?” she asked, hoping to get the child talking.
“Dreadful,” Sarah answered on a sob.
“Terrible?”
The little girl’s eyes widened and she nodded solemnly.
“Would you like to tell me about the dream, Sarah?” Surely it would help her go back to sleep if she could tell what had happened and then have it all banished away.
“No,” Sarah wailed. “Please, he’ll come back. Don’t make me tell you.”
“All right. You don’t have to talk about it.” Double drat. Now what?
They had reached the children’s nursery, still with no sign of Peter or Lord Sinclaire. For that matter, there was no sign of Mrs. Pratt. What sort of nurse would leave her charges alone on a night such as this, with a house full with people the children didn’t know?
Something would have to be done about that, to be sure. Jane would take the matter up with Peter first thing in the morning.
She turned to close the door behind her, but Mr. Cuddlesworth streaked past her and into the room at the last moment, nearly toppling Jane in his haste. She stumbled to Sarah’s bed in the dark, carrying the child the whole way, then lay down beside the child and held her. Mr. Cuddlesworth leapt to the bed and shoved his way between them, purring contentedly.
“So you intend to spend the night with Sarah, then, do you?” she whispered in the darkness. “Very well. I imagine she needs you tonight more than I do.”
Between the cat’s purring and Jane’s stroking of Sarah’s back, the child was back to sleep in no time. Jane eased out of the bed, careful not to wake the girl. “You stand guard, Mr. Cuddlesworth, since Mrs. Pratt has gone missing.”
Of course, her cat made no response other than to curl up closer to the warmth provided by Sarah and flick his fluffy tail in her direction.
Still, Lord Sinclaire and Peter had not arrived. Good Lord, what was taking them so long?
Jane moved carefully over to Joshua’s bed, checking to be sure he was both present and asleep before she left. He was breathing heavily and tucked snugly into his sheets, so it was safe enough for her to leave. She’d find Pe
ter and he could arrange for a servant to stay with the children. Or if she couldn’t find Peter, she would fetch Meg from her chambers. That would be a better use for the girl, anyway. She should have thought of that long ago.
Jane slipped out of the nursery, struggling to see in the dim glow of candlelight in the hall as she pulled the door to a close behind her.
Really, the nerve of that Mrs. Pratt, leaving those children alone on a night like this! It was all Jane could do to keep from marching through the entire house right that moment to find the woman and tell her what for.
A familiar scent hit her nostrils—cheroot and whiskey, and a rather foul odor that smelled more like the streets of London than the inside of Hardwicke House should, what with all the flowers strewn about.
She squinted to find the source of the smell in the dim light, but couldn’t discern anything out of the ordinary. Gracious, had it been so dark in the hall when she arrived with Sarah moments ago? She didn’t think so, but couldn’t quite recall. The footmen must be enjoying the revelry of the night, too, for them to have neglected the lighting. But then again, with Mrs. Pratt missing, too… She’d best proceed carefully. Lord only knew what was afoot in the townhouse tonight.
Taking a lit candle from its sconce on the wall, she turned to relight a few of the nearby candles. It wouldn’t do for one of the children to wake again and be unable to see to find someone, and she could stand to see more clearly, herself, as she found her way back to the stairs.
Once two candle flames flickered back to life, that same foul scent struck her nostrils again. What on earth could be causing it? Jane held her candle up into the air, hoping to cast its glow upon the source of the odor.
“Looking for me, sweeting?” drawled a sickeningly familiar voice from the shadows. “How fortuitous for us both. I was looking for you, as well.”
Utley. It had to be him. No one else in her acquaintance could make her want to scream and cast up the contents of her stomach at the same time.
Her eyes darted about the long expanse. Maybe Mrs. Pratt or one of the missing footmen would miraculously reappear in the hallway. She hoped. Probably foolishly, but she hoped, nonetheless.
No one came.
Drat. Drat, drat, drat!
She could scream. Hopefully, someone other than the children would hear her. Surely Peter and Lord Sinclaire were on their way up the stairs by now. Somewhere—perhaps somewhere on this floor—a servant must be at work. Jane’s screams would be heard. Wouldn’t they?
Or she could toss her candlestick at him and run. The flame wouldn’t burn him much, so it likely wouldn’t really slow him down. She might make it to the stairs before he caught her. If she was lucky.
Oh, lud, why couldn’t she make up her mind, or have someone else around to make it up for her? It would all be so much easier to act if Sophie was standing beside her and telling her what to do.
What would Sophie do?
Jane’s internal debates took too long. Utley emerged from the shadows faster than she could react, placing a hand firmly against her mouth, rendering it impossible to scream, and pulling her back hard against him.
Damnation, she had finally decided to scream and run. Now all she could do was kick.
Finally, two sets of footsteps raced up the stairs. It was about time.
“Bloody hell,” Utley muttered, then yanked her backward, into a seldom-used study.
Chapter Fourteen
Peter’s stomach settled in his toes as he rushed from the supper room. Sarah needed him.
The larger concern—the one that had him shoving Sinclaire aside and running, instead of walking—was that she’d come downstairs alone.
Without Mrs. Pratt.
With none of his countless servants seeing her and stopping her.
Something was very, very wrong in his home.
Without paying attention to whether Sinclaire was still following him or not, he raced ahead. All he knew was he had to get upstairs to his daughter. Now.
Peter took the stairs two at a time. The third floor, which housed his nursery, was almost completely dark. “Deuced footmen. What the blazes are they doing instead of their jobs?” A sparse two candles near the nursery door cast an eerie glow upon the hall in the absence of the usual lighting, providing just enough to see the doorway to his children’s nursery.
He took one from the sconce and used it to light his path.
Slept. Thank God. He held the candle aloft in the room, checking both beds again to be certain that both of his children were in their beds where they belonged.
A heavy clomping of boots in the hall signaled Sinclaire’s arrival. Peter took great care to silently exit the nursery, then closed the door behind him.
“You could stand to walk with a lighter touch.” Peter glared upon his friend, even as another brash set of boots came up behind Sinclaire.
Neil skidded to a stop beside them. “I saw you two running off. What’s wrong?” The excitement in his tone was impossible for him to hide, as though he were spoiling for an adventure.
“Sarah’s all right?” Sinclaire asked, ignoring Neil.
“Asleep. Lower your voices or you’ll wake her again.”
“And Miss Matthews?” Sinclaire’s voice echoed in the deserted hall.
The man clearly didn’t understand how to follow orders. Granted, this was nothing new. Sinclaire and Peter’s younger brother, Alex, had done as they pleased as boys.
Blast the earl for his impudence.
Neil looked back and forth between them. “What’s happened to Jane?”
“Well?” the earl prodded, his tone a touch more reserved than it had been before.
“Well what?” Good Lord, Peter was supposed to be hosting a bloody ball. Neil and Sinclaire couldn’t expect him to piddle around in the hallway answering inane questions all night. His guests would be waiting for him, and Mama would be furious if he was gone too long.
“Well, is Miss Matthews all right?” Sinclaire’s glare matched his own. “Is she still in the nursery with the children?”
Christ, he’d forgotten about Jane in his worry over Sarah. “I am... She wasn’t there.”
Just like the minx to disappear on him. It was her bloody come-out ball going on downstairs, and now she was missing. As though he didn’t have enough other concerns weighing on his mind at the moment. All of his servants had up and abandoned their posts during the ball.
“Something isn’t right, here,” Sinclaire murmured. “She wouldn’t have left the children alone. Not with the nurse missing and Lady Sarah being frightened.”
Peter sighed. Of course, he was right. Blast it.
“We have to find her, Peter,” Neil said. “She could be in trouble. I should have—”
“She bloody well is trouble,” Peter said, cutting his brother off without thinking about what he was saying. He punched the wall beside him, causing the candle still burning in its sconce to bounce around.
A soft moan sounded in the hall—feminine, afraid. “Blast, I just woke Sarah again,” he muttered.
“That wasn’t Sarah.” Sinclaire’s voice was low—so low Peter had difficulty making out his words. The earl jerked his head toward the unused study behind where Peter had just assaulted the wall, his eyes huge and black, and realization settled over Peter.
It couldn’t be happening again. Not like with Mary. Not in his own deuced home.
Not with his family—his children—present.
But Jane’s muffled whimper told him it was.
His jaw tensed and he held his arms at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists. For a moment—only a moment—he tried to calm himself.
Peter strode to the study, Sinclaire and Neil close behind. He reached to wrench the door from its hinges, but it was already wide open, as though it was waiting for him.
He thrust his candle inside, sweeping it about. Even with what had happened to Mary, he couldn’t have ever prepared himself for what stood before him.
U
tley, the licentious bastard, had one hand covering Jane’s mouth to stifle her cries. His other hand held her arms captive even as she struggled against him. Her eyes were wide and her legs shook. She had to be frightened out of her wits. Thank God she wasn’t crying. Peter would lose the very thin veil of control he had over his sanity if she were crying.
“Somerton,” Utley said, his voice high and shaking. “I had planned to be caught, but not by you.” The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed once, then again.
What game was the bastard playing? Wasn’t ruining one woman and leaving her to suffer the consequences alone enough? Peter narrowed his eyes at him, but faced him full-on. “You have precisely sixty seconds to unhand Miss Matthews and leave my home before I seek retribution.” Which raised another question—how did Utley even get in to Hardwicke House, in the first place? The bastard was most certainly not on the guest list for the evening.
“Ha. Don’t you see?” Utley asked with a cackle. “I’ve already won. Your Miss Matthews is ruined now. In moments, your guests will be coming upon us and she’ll have no choice but to marry me. The scandal will be all over Town by morning.”
Peter would allow Jane to marry that scoundrel about as soon as he would swim to France and join Napoleon’s army, pulling his family along behind him. The man was daft. Which, of course, Peter already knew. Something in Utley had cracked back on that day…that day that haunted Peter’s dreams since he was only a boy.
Losing one’s sanity, however, did not give one leave to ruin countless other lives. Rawden’s death, no matter the cause, couldn’t be enough to justify ruining other innocents. “Forty-three seconds. I suppose you expect to receive her dowry as well? Is this about money, Utley? We all know you’re well on the way to squandering the fortune you inherited.”
Utley made no move to release her. “You’ve boasted quite a sum for her. Any gentleman in need of some...assistance, shall we say...? would be a fool not to do the same.” He licked his lips and ran a hand over the sweat beading over his brow. “I’m no fool.”
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