Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  “I asked Thomas as well. He told me much of the same thing, all said in a voice so emotionless that it smote me.”

  “Poor Thomas. He finally told me that he remembered terrible fights between his parents. He did see his father a few times over the years, but never here, never at Bowden Close. It is all very sad. I believe he came to hate his father. His father never visited him at school, where he spent most of his growing-up years, only in London, at one of his father’s clubs. I know that Thomas doesn’t trust easily, certainly understandable. And I know that he was very hurt by his parents, not physically, mind you, but his soul. Naturally he will not admit to any of this. He merely pretends that he doesn’t care. Perhaps when we have been married for a while, he will grow to trust me more, to share his concerns, to share old secrets that have hurt him. He feels things deeply, that I do know. You did not see his face when he believed Rory would die. But there is this well of distrust that is very deep in him. These things take time, Papa.

  “I do know that Thomas Malcombe is a principled man, a decent man. He told me he wants to marry me because I make him laugh. I cannot think of a better reason.”

  Tysen lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, he could have told you he loved you.”

  “Somehow,” Meggie said slowly, looking up at the beautiful old church tower, wishing Mr. Peters would ring the bell at this very moment, “I cannot imagine him saying those words, at least not now. Actually, I didn’t say them to him either.” Meggie paused a moment, looking down at her clasped hands, and Tysen knew all the way to his boots that Jeremy was still in her head, perhaps even in her heart. Damnation.

  “Yes, Thomas laughs easily now, a smile nearly always near his mouth. I’ll never forget that first time when he laughed with me. I thought he sounded rusty, as if he were somehow surprised that such a sound could come from him. I’ve made great strides with him, Papa.”

  “Meggie, you are not marrying him out of some sort of misguided sense of gratitude, are you?”

  “For saving Rory’s life? No, Papa, but I was very grateful, and the result was that I spent more time with him initially than I normally would have. And I came to like him a great deal. He is an honorable man, I am quite sure about that.”

  “You won’t be living here, Meggie. Thomas was evasive. He said he has two other houses, both outside of England.”

  “One is in Genoa, Italy. He was living in Italy, making his fortune. He came back to England only to take over his father’s holdings. Can you imagine sailing to Italy, Papa? I should love to travel, to see other places, how other people do things, how they think. I wonder where his other house is.”

  At least Thomas Malcombe hadn’t told him one thing, then told his daughter something else. There were no inconsistencies that meant a lie. But it wasn’t the point. Tysen kissed his child’s forehead, rose, and crossed his arms over his chest, the father now, the authority figure.

  “Meggie, I am very sorry, but I must be blunt. I didn’t want you to find out about this, but now there is no choice. You have to know. I cannot believe that Thomas Malcombe is honorable, and therefore I cannot trust his word on anything of import and I certainly cannot trust him with you.”

  “He saved your son’s life.”

  “For that I owe him a debt that will never be repaid. However, I do not owe him my daughter.”

  Meggie knew something bad was coming, she just knew it. She drew herself up. “I’m ready, Papa. Tell me.”

  “As you know, Melissa Winters left last Thursday for an extended visit with her grandmother in Bury St. Edmonds. You know that, but not the reason for her leaving. I didn’t want to tell you this, I didn’t want to tell anyone this, and it is a confidence. I ask that you not betray it to anyone, even Mary Rose. Evidently Thomas Malcombe was in London before he came here. He met Melissa there. She was staying with her aunt and attending parties and such, sort of an informal come-out for her. There’s no easy way to say this, Meggie—he seduced her and got her with child. You and I and Melissa’s parents are now the only ones to know. And Lord Lancaster, of course.”

  Meggie said slowly, “Thomas didn’t tell me he was in London before he came here.”

  “He was. I asked. Because he wants to marry you, it was my responsibility to ask, to find out everything I could about him. Mr. Winters heard, of course, that you were to wed Thomas Malcombe. He searched me out. He told me about this, in confidence, just this morning. It was obvious he didn’t want to tell me, Meggie, but he has great liking for you and didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  There was fire in her eyes as she said the fateful words he would have given anything not to hear, ever, “I don’t believe it. Melissa is lying. She wanted him. I know that Thomas must have rejected her, and thus this is her revenge. I know that Melissa—to punish Thomas—was intimate with another man, to make him jealous, perhaps, and this is the result. I am sorry for it, but Thomas is innocent. Papa, if Melissa were truly pregnant with his child, then why wouldn’t Thomas marry her?”

  “You are not näıve, Meggie. You must know that Melissa’s birth isn’t high enough to tempt a man like Lord Lancaster, nor is her dowry an incentive to overlook her birth. Even though her mother is the daughter of a baron, her father is in trade. In short, there is nothing to induce Thomas Malcombe to tie himself forever to the Winters family.”

  She was shaking her head, back and forth. “I am convinced that Thomas wouldn’t behave dishonorably, Papa. Truly, he is all that is kind and honest and—”

  “Thomas Malcombe paid Melissa’s parents for the care of the child. Her father, although he was reluctant to do so, told me this. I have no reason to disbelieve Mr. Winters, Meggie. His pain over this was palpable. He tried his best to convince Thomas Malcombe to marry his daughter, but he wouldn’t do it.”

  He watched her face pale, the light of battle fade from her eyes. He hated it, but now it was done.

  “Oh dear,” Meggie whispered, “Oh dear.”

  “I believe,” her father said, lightly touching her fingertips to her smooth check, “that now is an appropriate time for you to say blessed hell.”

  Meggie just shook her head, pulled off her bonnet, and dashed her fingers through her hair, shining more blond than brown beneath the morning sun. There had been Jeremy, and she’d been sure her heart would never recover from that stomping. Then, thankfully, she’d seen Jeremy as a fatuous, self-aggrandizing clod, so superior to womankind, who would likely make Charlotte’s life miserable, something she probably richly deserved, unless she was a doormat and she’d met the ideal mate for her.

  And then Thomas had come along, and she’d realized that here was indeed a man she could admire, a man who admired her, who didn’t denigrate her, who teased her and made her happy. The soul-eating melancholia that had pulled her down for nearly a year had vanished. She’d felt so very blessed for nearly a week. Six full days, no black clouds in the vicinity. And now this. She was cursed.

  “Mary Rose and I would like you to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin in Scotland.”

  She turned on him, bitterness overflowing. “Won’t everyone think I’m pregnant?”

  He hated the hurt in her, knew that rage would come, and he wished with all his heart that it didn’t have to be like this. “I’m sorry, Meggie, but there are men in this world who are simply not worthy. I am so very sorry that you had to meet one of them, trust one of them.”

  Meggie felt pounded, felt the words hollowing her out, leaving her empty with only the bowing pain to fill her. She said as she slowly rose and shook out her skirts, “You know I must speak to Thomas, Papa. I must hear this from him.”

  “Yes, Meggie, I know you must.”

  “I will know the truth when I hear him speak.”

  “I hope that you will.”

  Meggie had turned away when he felt a sudden shaft of alarm, and called after her, “Do not go to a private spot with him, Meggie. I wish you wouldn’t go to Bowden Close without a chaperone, but I know that you feel you must.
So be mindful. Do you promise me?”

  “Yes,” Meggie said. “I promise.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d visited Thomas at his home alone before. She walked away, her head down, deep in thought. She wasn’t aware that her father was watching her, pain in his eyes for the pain he’d had to give her.

  Tysen rose from the bench, stared down at Sir Vincent’s tombstone, and wondered what Sir Vincent D’Egle, that medieval warrior, would have done to Thomas Malcombe if Meggie had been his daughter. Probably lop off his head.

  All Meggie could think about as she strode to Bowden Close was that she’d been wrong about him, that Thomas had fathered a child, that he’d professed to care for her when just a couple of months before he’d been intimate with another girl and fathered a child. That, Meggie knew, meant intimacy and that meant they’d caressed and kissed each other. Meggie stopped short. She touched her fingertips to the velvet of a blooming rose that climbed the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. She knew in that moment that there was an explanation that would absolve him. She wanted that explanation and she wanted it pure and clean and straightforward, with no questions, no doubts, left behind.

  12

  Bowden Close

  THOMAS WAS SMILING even before Meggie slipped into his library. It wasn’t at all proper that she came in through that old garden gate, but they would soon be married. Soon he would no longer have to concern himself with the vicar’s daughter bending society’s rules. It wouldn’t matter. That thought pleased him mightily.

  Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been fretting about something and had yanked on it, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, so expressive, bright and vivid, so filled with what she felt—oh God, something was wrong. It was like a punch to the gut.

  He was around his desk in an instant, his hands around her arms but a moment later, and he was actually shaking her. “What the devil is wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

  She looked up at him and said, without preamble, “My father told me about Melissa Winters.”

  A dark eyebrow went up, making him look like a satyr, emphasizing the arrogant tilt of his head, the go-to-the-devil look. His hands dropped away, his voice was suddenly colder than the Channel waters in February. “Your father, my dear, shouldn’t meddle.”

  Meggie sent her fist as hard as she could into his belly. He’d had an instant to tighten his stomach muscles before her fist landed hard and his breath whooshed out. At least the punch didn’t bowl him over. He grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again.

  “That hurt,” he said.

  Meggie tried to pull away, but he held her wrist tightly. She was panting even as she shouted at him, “I’m glad it hurt. Let me go and I’ll do it again!”

  He grabbed her other wrist and shook her. “Dammit, Meggie, what the devil is wrong with you?”

  “Thomas Malcombe, don’t you dare pretend that you’re bored by all this, that you’re indifferent to it, that you have no idea what I’m talking about, what I’m enraged about. Lower that supercilious eyebrow. Listen to me, Thomas, my father is the vicar. It is my father’s duty to meddle, particularly since you wish to be his son-in-law. He wants to protect me.”

  “All right, now it’s my turn to be angry. No, don’t try to get away from me. I’m going to hold you awhile longer, there’s still too much blood in your eyes. Now, your damned father should not have sullied your ears with this. It has nothing at all to do with you, Meggie, nothing at all. Melissa was a mistake, a very bad one, admittedly, but your father should not have told you about it.”

  “The mistake, as you so indifferently call it, has cost Melissa dearly. Now there will be a child to live with the consequences of that mistake.”

  He released her, walked over to the sideboard, and poured himself some brandy. She’d seen his indifferent act, then seen the anger gushing out, and now he was the controlled gentleman again. She watched him sip the brandy before he turned back to her. “I am sorry for it,” he said, all calm and smooth, “but it happened and I couldn’t prevent it from happening. If I’d known, I would have stopped it, but I didn’t know.”

  All his male beauty disappeared in that instant, all his charm with it. Jeremy was an insufferable moron, but Thomas was worse by far. He was treacherous. She was appalled both at herself for her lack of wisdom, and at him, for his indifference, his utter lack of remorse for what he’d done. Her own anger, her outrage at what he’d done, was fast drowning out her pain at his betrayal. “You couldn’t prevent it from happening? If you had known what? Are you mad?”

  “No, I’m not in the least mad. Won’t you sit down, Meggie?” His hand was shaking. He hated that. Even as he waved her toward a chair, he moved quickly behind his desk.

  “I don’t want to sit down,” she said, strode to his desk, leaned toward him, splaying her hands flat. “I want you to tell me why you couldn’t prevent this mess from occurring. Surely you aren’t going to blame Melissa for all of it? She seduced you? She, woman of the world that she is, forced you to be intimate with her? Blessed hell, Thomas, please don’t tell me that.”

  He remained standing behind his desk, leaned forward as well, his own palms flat on the desktop, his face not six inches from hers. He said slowly, “No, I won’t tell you that. You haven’t known me long, Meggie, but I had believed that you’d come to trust me. I gather your father told you that I am paying for the upbringing of Melissa’s child.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I had no control. I meant it. You see, I didn’t know what William had done until it was far too late. Hell, I didn’t even know he was in town.”

  Meggie drew back, now standing ramrod straight. “William? Who the devil is William?”

  “My younger brother, my half brother, actually. He is at Oxford. However, four months ago, he was in London, as I said, unbeknownst to me at the time. He and several of his friends decided to experiment with sin—whores and gaming hells. He did, unfortunately, attend one party, met Melissa, and things progressed rapidly from there.” He frowned at her, then the frown deepened as he stared beyond her to the enclosed garden. “You believed I was the one to impregnate Melissa Winters.”

  “Yes, I did. That is what my father told me.”

  “I did not. She is a child, a silly foolish girl.”

  “We are the same age.”

  “Only in years, Meggie, only in years. William didn’t admit it to me until Melissa’s father arrived here at Bowden Close to call me a philandering bastard. Of course, then I managed to figure out what must have happened.”

  William. It was William, his half brother, and she hadn’t even known he’d existed.

  It wasn’t Thomas.

  Meggie felt the sun break over her head. The explanation—it had burst forth and it was clean and pure with no murky gray to muck things up. She felt such relief, such profound joy, she wanted to shout. She said, “How old is William?”

  “He’s twenty-one, much younger for a male than it is for a female. Using myself as a measuring stick, I have determined that youth tends to encourage stupid behavior. Haven’t you done foolish things, Meggie?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation, “but I have never searched out a boy to seduce him.”

  This effortless charm of hers. It washed over him, whether he wanted it to or no. “No,” he said, “you wouldn’t.”

  “Why did you let Mr. and Mrs. Winters believe you were the one?”

  He shrugged. “Evidently Melissa was afraid to tell her parents the truth, so she told them it was me. Since I am now head of this family, I am responsible for William, and he knows it. He made a mistake. I have taken care of it. Hopefully, both he and Melissa are now a bit wiser.”

  “My father always says that one must be accountable for one’s own mistakes.”

  “Perhaps, but it is done and I cannot now change it. I will say, though, that William is on a much shorter leash now.”

  “He should have married her.”

&nb
sp; “He refused. However, I made it perfectly clear to him that if the child survived, then he would be its father. I told him I would cut him off if he did not agree to this. He agreed.”

  “Well, that’s something. I am sorry, Thomas, but I am not going to much like William.”

  “Perhaps not. I am hopeful that he will improve as he adds a few more years.” He paused a moment, then said, his voice every bit as austere as her father’s when faced with wickedness, “I am disappointed in you for not trusting me.”

  “Don’t put on that righteous act with me, Thomas. Actually the evidence would have hanged you.”

  She hadn’t apologized, just smacked him in the jaw with the unvarnished truth. “All right, I accept that. Now, would you like me to go reassure your father?”

  Meggie gave him a brilliant smile. “Yes, please do, sir. Oh, Thomas, will we live in Italy?”

  He said slowly, “Perhaps, Meggie. Perhaps. Would you like that?”

  “Immensely.” She ran around his desk, went up on her tiptoes, kissed his check, then stared at him a moment, kissed his mouth, hers tightly seamed, and it didn’t matter a bit. He watched her rush out into the enclosed garden, her skirts rustling, her bonnet dangling from her fingertips nearly to the ground. He knew she would snag it on a rosebush, and she did, but again, it didn’t matter.

  Glenclose-on-Rowan

  April 1824

  The wedding of Thomas Malcombe, earl of Lancaster, to Margaret Beatrice Lydia Sherbrooke, spinster, was attended by four hundred people, another hundred or so milling about outside the church for word of what was happening. The men who’d managed to beg off were in the tavern, drinking ale, listening to Mr. Mortimer Fulsome’s advice on married life, something none of them paid the least attention to since he’d buried four wives, none of them lasting more than two years, and he was eighty years old now and could barely be heard above the toasts.