Her words created a stir. Lady Kenrick was quick to note the reaction. “How long ago did Rothwood leave to come to find me?” she asked the housekeeper.
“He left here two hours ago, m’lady.”
“Two hours?” Lady Kenrick seemed stunned, then shook herself, as if shaking off the emotions. Her voice turned brisk as she said, “You must send another footman out to find him. Indeed, send several. No doubt he got distracted along the way, for he never arrived at my townhouse. Perhaps he didn’t realize I was at home and went elsewhere in search of me. Perhaps his friends have seen him. In any case, he ought to be back here with his wife. Well?” she said to one of the maids. “What are you waiting for? Go tell Henry I said to send some footmen in search of Lord Rothwood!”
That made Beatrix smile as she drifted back to sleep, hearing Lady Kenrick take charge with all the certainty and skill of a seasoned commander. The last thing she heard was Lady Kenrick saying to the housekeeper, “I will come and speak with your cook shortly as to what to prepare for Lady Rothwood. Don’t take that look with me! I am certain your cook is all very well with what she does, but I have known Lady Rothwood since she was a baby and will feel much better if I do what I can for her. I want clean water and clean cloths to bathe her face.”
The next time she woke, Beatrix saw Lady Kenrick bending over her, a most anxious expression on her face. She felt her forehead and frowned. “No fever,” she murmured to herself. Aloud she said, with the sort of smile one gives a sick child, “Now don’t you worry about a thing, Beatrix. I shall take care of you until Rothwood returns, which I am certain will be any moment.”
Beatrix struggled to sit up. The moment she saw they were alone, she grabbed Lady Kenrick’s hand. “Lock the door!” she said.
The older woman raised her eyebrows but did as Beatrix asked. “What is going on?” she asked when she returned to the bedside. “Had you been married longer, I might have thought . . . but no, you were in the country and my nephew was here in London. But you must tell me now if there was another man. Quickly, before the servants return. Are you, could you be with child?”
Beatrix did not even have energy to be indignant. “I’d not been with any man before my wedding night,” she answered with quiet dignity.
Lady Kenrick heaved a sigh that was not quite relief. “I am glad to hear it,” she said, “but if you are not, then this illness of yours is most worrisome.” She paused, then said, “I hope you are not offended that I asked. I had to, you know. If you were with child we would have to take steps at once to conceal the matter. Rothwood would not be at all pleased. I do hope you are not lying to me.”
“I am not lying,” Beatrix answered grimly. “It is something far worse. I think I may have been poisoned.”
Lady Kenrick shot her a look of disbelief. Beatrix struggled to explain, her thoughts still jumbled. “I was feeling fine. I had just come upstairs for a moment to prepare to go out with Rothwood. A maid was here and insisted I have some tea and biscuits. Moments later I was violently ill. I am only now, hours later, beginning to feel myself again. That is why I asked you to lock the door. I have no idea who can be trusted and who cannot.”
Lady Kenrick sank onto the chair next to the bed. In a moment she made up her mind. “Where the deuce is Rothwood? Perhaps I should send for my own physician to examine you. You may have imagined all of this nonsense about being poisoned, but if you have not . . . I think it best if you only eat the food prepared by my cook, brought to you by my servants. No, better yet, if Rothwood does not return directly, I shall remove you to my own house where I can look after you more easily. For now, rest and regain your strength. I shall unlock the door, for I don’t wish whoever did this to realize we have guessed what they are about. But I shall not leave your side.”
It was with relief that Beatrix let herself lie down again and drift back into sleep, comforted to know she had such a veritable dragon guarding her.
* * *
Edmund never made it to Lady Kenrick’s townhouse, of course. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have questioned that his own carriage was not waiting outside, but rather a hired hack. Distracted as he was, however, he merely assumed something was wrong with his carriage and Henry had summoned an alternative. What did he care, after all, how he got to Lady Kenrick’s townhouse so long as he did?
He hoped he would find his aunt at home. He was in no mood to go out and about to try to find her. The last thing he wished was to see anyone he knew, to have to answer questions about his marriage or his bride. He did not want to have to endure well wishes or jests, either. Not when he was so worried about Beatrix.
Because it was too terrifying to think of losing her, Edmund made himself think about his father and what he would have said. No doubt he would think it foolish Edmund was fretting so much and that he was going to fetch Lady Kenrick himself rather than sending a footman to do so.
A man was supposed to be rational. A man was supposed to stay aloof from the emotional nonsense women indulged in so often and so loudly. As for love, Father had always called it a foolish illusion and one that could bring a man to his knees if he was not wary enough to evade it. And Edmund had always believed him. Until now.
Now, as he thought of his wife lying so ill, he did not care what his father would have thought or said. He cared for Beatrix in a way he had not known was possible. He wanted to see her laugh, he wanted to hear her cry out again in the midst of passion, he wanted to feel her touch a hundred times a day and still it would not be enough.
His father would have called him weak to care so much—and yet he did not feel weak when he thought of her. Indeed, he felt that with Beatrix at his side, he could climb mountains, vanquish dragons, and perhaps even face the demons within himself. With her by his side, he felt he could be a far better man than he otherwise might have been. And all of that was nonsense by his father’s rules.
Edmund was beginning to realize his father might be wrong. What if there was another way for a man to be with his wife? Certainly not every marriage was as his parents’ had been. He tried to remember how many times he had heard his mother laugh when she was with his father, and he could not think of one. She knew how to laugh, for he remembered her laughing with him. But he also remembered the way she would fall silent the moment his father appeared.
He had never seen his parents laugh together the way Mr. and Mrs. Trowley did. He had never seen them smile with affection at each other. He had never heard his mother talk about being happy—except when she was with Edmund. And even then there had been a sadness at the back of her eyes and he knew he was not enough to banish it. No matter how hard he tried.
He would, Edmund realized, be horrified if Beatrix were to change into a woman who never laughed with him or looked happy. And yet, he had a routine. He had friends. He did not want his life to change. But it had, inexorably, the moment they spoke their wedding vows. Things could not go back to how they once were, not even if he could banish Beatrix to the countryside, something he was beginning to think might prove far more difficult than he had anticipated. Worse, he did not want to banish her to the countryside. If he did, who would laugh with him and teach him how to play again?
What was he to do? Make a fool of himself and have her laugh in his face as his father swore women did if given even the slightest encouragement to forget that he was in charge?
But Beatrix wouldn’t laugh at him. Edmund knew it as well as he knew himself. He could not have said how he knew, but he did.
For the first time, Edmund found himself wondering what his parents’ marriage had been like before he was born. If there had ever been a time his father doted on his mother and said he loved her. If she had laughed in his face.
It would explain so much if that were true. The late Lord Rothwood had been a proud man. He would not have forgiven such humiliation, no, nor ever again allowed his wife the slightest bit of freedom. He would have spent the rest of their marriage punishing her for daring to do so. H
e would not have rested until he had broken her spirit.
Edmund went still as memories began to fit into place; as he began to realize just how different things might have been than what his father claimed, and what he had seen as a child growing up after the battle lines had already been drawn.
Not that his parents had ever fought battles. His father spoke his decrees and everyone hastened to carry them out, even his mother. He had never seen his father be unkind to her, and yet neither had he ever seen him be truly kind. If anything, he would have said his father was indifferent and his mother resigned to quiet rebellions that never reached his father’s eyes or ears.
So lost was Lord Rothwood in his own thoughts that he never noticed the carriage was driving in a very different direction than the one that would have taken him to his aunt’s townhouse. Not, at any rate, until it was far too late.
Chapter 13
When Rothwood did finally recognize that the carriage was headed away from Lady Kenrick’s townhouse instead of toward it, he found himself locked in. The carriage door must have somehow been fastened on the outside. No amount of pounding on the roof of the hack made any difference or garnered any response. Still, when it finally came to a halt and the door was opened, he gave a good accounting of himself before his abductors were able to subdue and bind his wrists with rope.
They were not in a place Edmund recalled ever visiting. He noted grimly that the house itself seemed isolated from other homes and was some distance from the main road. He could not see it from where he stood, only the dirt road that led away from the house, and it did not look well traveled.
“What’s going on?” he demanded of his captors.
“Dunno,” one said. “We was only paid to deliver you.”
“Shut up!” the other snapped.
It didn’t really matter because inside the house he had his answer. They half dragged him into a small library, shabbily furnished and thin of books. An older man sat behind the desk, polishing his spectacles. “You may go,” the man said to Edmund’s captors. To Edmund he added, with some asperity, “You may as well sit. Can’t have you keeling over before you comply.”
“Comply with what?”
“We shall get to that in a moment. First, sit. And no, I am not going to remove your bonds. You are bigger than I am and if you had your hands free, I’ve no doubt you would quickly overpower me. I have no desire to experience such a thing, so sit and be grateful your situation is not worse. Which is not to say it won’t be if . . . but there is no need for further unpleasantness so long as you are sensible. And all accounts say that you are a man who prides himself upon being sensible.”
Edmund stared at the man, feeling very befuddled. “Do I know you?” he asked at last.
“Know me?” the other echoed. “How typical that you do not remember. Never mind that you saw me twice a year, every year that you were growing up. That you have seen me more often since. But no, I am evidently a stranger to you. Someone you cannot recall ever meeting. No wonder your father set the provisions he did in his will. He must have considered you to be wanting in wits. An utter disappointment. Why he should have given you any opportunity at all to . . . but that’s neither here nor there. At least, it no longer matters what he intended. What matters is what we are going to arrange here today.”
“So this is about my father’s will. And the provisions regarding my inheritance,” Edmund said slowly.
“About the will you want written now. About my inheritance and the inheritance of certain other interested parties!” the other man retorted sharply. “I shall not leave you penniless, and of course you will still have your title. I just want what should have rightfully been ours. Would have been ours if you had not embarked on this ridiculous course of . . . of marrying a girl you don’t even know! And now wanting to create a will in which she gets everything save the title if you die! Your father would have been appalled, I can tell you that much! He meant for you to take your time and choose carefully. Not wed practically at random at the last moment allotted to you to do so and then toss away your inheritance without a second thought!”
“And how would you know what he wanted?” Rothwood spat back, trying to understand how he could already know about the will Edmund had planned with his solicitor just that morning.
The other man smiled and it was not a pretty sight. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one hand, as though pondering how to answer. “You really don’t remember me?”
It was evidently a sore point with the man. Edmund tried to recall where he would have met the man, and suddenly a picture popped into his head. First a skinny young man who always came with his father’s solicitor, carrying the older man’s things and running errands for him. Then a brief glimpse of the man much more recently.
“You’re my solicitor’s clerk. Lawton used to bring you to fetch and carry for him when he called upon my father. You still work for him. I think I saw you there this morning,” Edmund said triumphantly. “Adams, isn’t it?”
The other man’s eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists. “You needn’t say it with such disdain! And very foolish of you it is to do so. You are in my power now and whether you live or die is up to me.”
Adams began to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back, being careful to stay out of the reach of Rothwood’s feet. Abruptly he rounded on Edmund. “Why aren’t you pleading for your life?” he demanded.
“I am waiting for you to tell me what you want.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
Edmund shrugged. “If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead by now. Besides, you’ve told me you won’t harm me if I do what you want. So, tell me. What do you want?”
“I want you to sign over everything I and others would have received if you had not married by the deadline your father set.”
“So my cousin Harold is behind all this!”
“Your cousin? You think he could have thought of this? He hasn’t the stomach for it, nor much of anything else. Nor will he benefit. He has always been decidedly rude to me. It is I who conceived this plan. I who will distribute the funds to those I believe worthy. Do you honestly think I would have risked letting anyone else know what I planned? No, those who have been kind to me will benefit just as they ought to have done to begin with. The others,” Adams paused to smile thinly, “well, the others shall have to look elsewhere for a benefactor.”
“So you mean to keep what is left over after you have dispensed the largesse?”
“Why should I not?” Adams demanded. “I am the one who conceived the plan and am carrying it out. I am the one taking all the risks. Those who benefit will have a pleasant surprise. You’ve no notion how little can make an extraordinary difference in the lives of those less fortunate than yourself, Lord Rothwood.”
“And in yours?”
“Of course.” Adams paused and a bleakness came into his eyes. “Do you know that I lost my son because of illness? That I could not afford to get him the care he needed in time? That your father refused me a loan when I needed it most?”
“I—I did not,” Edmund answered, shaken.
“Of course you did not,” Adams said, not troubling to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I lost my wife, too, that day. She was not the same afterward. Stepped off a cliff and died when I took her to the countryside, hoping it would cheer her spirits. That is what lack of money will do and I have sworn I shall never be so poor again. Now sign these papers!”
“I think not.”
“If you die—”
“If I die,” Rothwood snapped, “all that I have already inherited goes to my wife.”
Adams shook his head. “You forget. I know that your new will has not yet been signed. Besides, I have taken steps to ensure that cannot happen, no matter what.”
Edmund sat up straighter. “Her illness?!”
“Such a pity,” Adams said, with mock sympathy. “By the time you return home—unless, that is, you see reason and sign
the necessary documents—your bride will have expired of a sudden, violent illness. As I said, such a pity. But then, you never wanted to be married anyway, so why should you care? It will not be like my situation, after all. I adored my wife and your father killed her as surely as if he had pushed her off that cliff himself.”
For a moment time seemed to stand still. Edmund fought to breathe, much less find a way to answer.
“Silent? Wise of you. Now, if you did care, well, let’s just say that if you were willing to cooperate, there might still be time to save her. Your choice. Once we have what we want, you can save her or not, as you please. If there’s still time to do so.”
The man was mad, utterly mad. “How do I know you won’t just kill me the moment I sign these papers?” Edmund demanded.
“I am not a murderer!”
“You are willing to murder my wife.”
“That’s different. You’ve given me no choice. Not unless you do as I ask. You are Rothwood and I have served your family for years. I feel a certain loyalty. It is a pity you do not feel the same loyalty to me and to the others named in your father’s will, who would have benefited had you not married by the deadline your father set.”
Edmund shook his head. It made no sense. “But my carriage wheel. My saddle. Those could have killed me.”
That caused Adams to look uncomfortable. “My, er, associates were a tad more energetic in their efforts than I intended. I only wished them to delay you so that you could not marry by the deadline.”
“Yes, well, forgive me if I do not fully trust you,” Edmund replied, and this time he was the one not trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.
Adams seemed almost to quiver with indignation. “You may not trust me,” he said, “but take comfort in the knowledge that these documents will only be legal if they are executed while you are proven to still be alive.”
“And if I refuse to sign?”
April Kihlstrom Page 14