by Cheryl Holt
“A princess?”
“A very rich princess.”
“When did all this happen? I had no idea he was contemplating an engagement.”
“He and his father have been in negotiations for months.”
“Months,” she wanly murmured. “My goodness.”
“Price and I went to London last week, and the reason for the trip was so we could meet her. There was a ball and some private suppers. I didn’t think she was anything special, but money makes a female look prettier.”
“Yes, it does.”
“And he’s so broke. He couldn’t resist glomming onto her fortune.”
She was so stunned by the news she was amazed she didn’t faint. Her breakfast gurgled in her stomach, and she was afraid she might vomit on the floor.
He scowled. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m tired. I was up late painting, and I need a nap.”
An awkward silence ensued, and he studied her in a way she couldn’t abide. Eventually, he said, “There have been rumors about the two of you.”
“Rumors?” She scoffed. “From who?”
“Various people. They claim you and Price have been enjoying a flirtation.”
“If that’s what people are claiming, they’re insane.”
Alex placed the canvas on the floor, and he laid a palm on her shoulder. “Tell me you weren’t counting on him. Tell me it was harmless fun.”
“Gad, Alex, we’re just friends.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Because if you thought it might have been more than that, you should understand how those aristocratic families view these things.”
“I know how they view things.” More harshly, she added, “I also know how they view females like me.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. I simply meant he’s destined to wed his own kind.”
“I know that too.”
“Promise me you won’t pine away over him. He’s not worth it.”
“Of course he’s not,” she agreed, but she couldn’t hold his gaze.
“Was it more than a friendship?” he quietly asked. “You can confide in me, Faith. Don’t fret by yourself. I can’t bear to have you so upset.”
“Return to the manor, Alex.” She spun away and walked across the room to stare outside. “Leave me alone.”
“He had no business leading you on. If he misbehaved, you shouldn’t keep it a secret. You have to tell me right now.”
“Why would I?” She chuckled nastily. “Will you gallop to London and challenge him to a duel? Will you shoot somebody else over one of the women in your life? Maybe your aim will improve this time and you’ll actually murder a peer of the realm instead of maiming him.” She waved to the door. “You’re annoying me. Go away.”
“You’re so forlorn. How can I help you?”
“You can’t. Just go!”
He hesitated, but ultimately he grabbed his painting and strolled out.
She stood frozen in her spot, probably for hours. Certainly long enough for the day to wane.
All the months Lord Pendergast had been wooing her, all the months they loved and played, he’d been drafting his marriage contracts. When she’d finally climbed into his bed and surrendered her virginity, he’d just been attending balls and private suppers with his fiancée.
When they’d discussed Spain and their little village on the beach, he’d been betrothed. After they’d fornicated, he’d gotten up and headed to the city to be with his princess, and he hadn’t bothered to stop by the cottage before he left. He’d been that eager to arrive in town, and Faith had been so inconsequential she hadn’t merited a farewell.
Gad, how pathetic she must have seemed to him! Talking about Spain! Begging him to elope with her!
The only benefit—if it could be called a benefit—was that he’d never sired a child. She would pray she slipped through her moral lapse unscathed, but her luck had never been good. If she wound up with a babe in her belly, she would purchase a pistol, seek him out in town, and shoot him in the middle of his cold, black heart.
She had several knives tucked away in a drawer. She opened it and pulled out the biggest one. Then she marched over to the stacks of canvases and started cutting them to bits. It was extremely cathartic to ruin them, to slash and slash and slash until her arm was too tired to continue.
She stomped outside and heaped the destroyed pieces into a large mound. She would burn it all, and she would stay up all night watching the fire. By morning, it would be a pile of ash, but that was for the best.
She shouldn’t dream. She shouldn’t hope. She knew better.
* * * *
Eugenia Wallace Pennywhistle relaxed on a chair in the front parlor at Wallace Cottage. She hadn’t requested permission to visit, and she supposed Alex would fly into a temper when he learned of it, but she didn’t care.
It was a bone of contention between them that she had to debase herself to see her own daughters. It didn’t really matter to her if she saw them or not, but the fact that he insisted permission was required made her want to show up merely to prove he couldn’t prevent her.
Fortunately, Faith hadn’t been there to answer the door. A housemaid from the manor had been there instead, and she wasn’t acquainted with Eugenia and wasn’t aware of the restrictions Alex had placed on her. Eugenia had introduced herself, and she’d been promptly escorted in. The girl had hurried up to fetch the twins.
She could hear them rumbling about, probably brushing their hair so they’d be a tad presentable and not the ragamuffins they’d grown to be.
When Alex had demanded his guardianship, she’d relinquished them with scant protest, but if he was simply going to ignore them, why had he been so adamant about stealing them from her?
In her view, the twins were a means to an end. She led an adult existence that could never include them and, with her having wed Bertram, she was too busy to properly mother them. And of course, when she took her medicine, she was too lethargic for any endeavor.
They were worth a pretty penny though. Even though Alex wasn’t their father, the courts and the Church considered him to be. He paid Eugenia alimony, but when the twins lived with her she received an extra stipend.
She’d enjoyed the ease all those additional funds had brought her, and she was anxious to persuade Alex to let her have custody again because she would have more coins in her purse.
Bertram was an amusing and exciting husband. He loved to gamble and revel and bet at the races, as did she, but he was poor as a street urchin. As she’d discovered after her divorce—but hadn’t grasped before then—money really did buy happiness.
She and Bertram didn’t have any, and they weren’t happy.
She went over to the sideboard and helped herself to several quick glasses of liquor from Faith’s whiskey decanter. It was always unnerving to converse with her children, to be reminded of how they’d ruined her life, and she fortified herself as necessary.
By the time they tromped down the stairs, she was seated again. She thought about reaching in her reticule to grab her perfume and put a drop on her tongue to mask the odor of the alcohol, but they were only nine. If they noticed the smell on her breath, they wouldn’t comprehend what it indicated.
“Hello, girls,” she said as they entered the room.
They dipped into a swift curtsy that was barely polite. “Hello, Mother.”
“Give me a hug.”
She extended her arms, and they trudged over. She wasn’t much for cuddling and cooing, but in case others were watching she liked to play the part of the devoted parent.
She delivered the lightest hug she could manage, and as they pulled away, she said, “A kiss too. You know what I expect. Don’t make me scold you.”
They kissed her cheek, then stepped away and stood before her, their hands clasped behind their backs as if they were soldiers at attention
.
She studied them, disturbed to note that their condition had improved dramatically. Their faces were washed, their hair brushed and braided, and they appeared to be wearing new dresses and shoes. Their petticoats had been starched, and the garments swished when they walked.
What could have happened? Clearly, someone different was tending them.
“You’re looking very smart,” she said.
“Thank you, Mother,” they replied in unison.
“Are those new dresses?”
“Yes.”
“Who bought them for you?”
“Mr. Wallace,” Mary said.
Eugenia scoffed. “Don’t lie, Mary. I’ve explained about Mr. Wallace. He doesn’t care about you, and he wouldn’t waste the funds.”
“He did buy them,” she dared to insist. “Miss Barrington convinced him.”
“Who is Miss Barrington?”
“She’s our governess.”
Eugenia flashed a tight smile and made a twirling motion with her finger. “Turn around. Let me see you.”
They spun in a slow circle until they were facing her again.
“You resemble your father exactly,” she said. “Lord Henley was very handsome. Have I told you that?”
“Yes, Mother,” they said.
“He was a viscount, and he would have eventually been an earl. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” They shook their heads, and she added, “If you’re ever asked, you must be sure to tell them it’s Lord Henley. Not Mr. Wallace. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” they claimed, but they frowned.
Obviously, they were confused, and she wondered—once they were older—what they would think of her conduct. Would they condemn her? Or would they be impressed by her zest and wild ways?
She often reflected on that exhilarating, romantic period when all the young bucks had doted on her. It had been marvelous to have a wife’s freedom, but to have Alex off fighting in Europe. She’d had all the benefits of a husband without the bother of one! She’d been rich and stylish and beautiful, and men had rippled with desire when she strolled by.
She probably shouldn’t have dallied with Lord Henley, not with her being married and her husband such a jealous wretch, but Lord Henley had been so dashing and gorgeous. How could she have resisted?
She took a moment to pity him for his early demise. Might their tryst have blossomed into a love affair? He’d been so exotic and full of life. If he’d won the duel, if he’d killed Alex, perhaps he might have wed her after the scandal died down. This very day, she might be at Middlebury, loafing and preening as Lady Middlebury.
Her daughters might be the daughters of a peer of the realm. They might be friends with princesses instead of their languishing as bastards in a drafty cottage on the edge of nowhere.
She sighed with regret. Nothing had ever gone as she expected, and Bertram was pressuring her to regain custody so Alex would have to give her more money. She wasn’t certain how to sway him, but she thought it best to get the girls on her side first. The fact that she had no maternal tendencies and no ability to care for them was irrelevant.
“I have thrilling news for you.” She waved to the sofa across from her. “Sit, sit, and I’ll tell you what it is.”
They glanced at each other in that stoic manner they had, then they eased down. They were holding hands, appearing anxious and wary as if Eugenia were a feral animal about to bite. She felt as if—should she make one wrong move—they would scream in terror and bolt from the room.
“I miss you so much,” she said, “and I’m headed over to the manor to meet with Mr. Wallace. I hate that we’ve been separated, and he has to let you come home with me. We belong together, and I intend to inform him of my plan.”
“When would we have to leave?” Mary asked.
“Today—if he agrees.”
She smiled and leaned forward, her hips on the edge of the sofa. They didn’t smile back which aggravated her. She yearned to flit over to the sideboard and down another stiff whiskey.
“Well, say something! Aren’t you excited?”
She gestured to them, urging them to comment, but they simply gaped at her as if she was a stranger. Finally, Mary nudged Millie, and Millie said, “We don’t want to leave with you, Mother.”
Eugenia’s smile slipped. “Of course you do. Don’t pretend. It’s not funny.”
“No, we want to stay here,” Millie declared. “Mr. Wallace is marrying Miss Barrington, and we’d rather stay with them.”
“Mr. Wallace is marrying…who? Miss Barrington? Isn’t that your governess?” They nodded, and Eugenia bristled with disdain. “I have no idea where you heard such nonsense, but Mr. Wallace would never lower himself.”
She’d been consoled by the realization that Alex hadn’t remarried, and she’d persuaded herself he hadn’t chosen another bride because he hadn’t gotten over her and couldn’t bear to completely sever their bond. There had never been any indication that he suffered lingering sentiment, but she believed it anyway.
He couldn’t have decided to wed! The prospect had her rippling with fury.
“It’s true, Mother,” Mary insisted. “He mentioned it to Faith this morning. He’s proposed and everything.”
“It won’t happen!” Eugenia snapped so brusquely that they stiffened with alarm. She stood and loomed over them, and they shifted into the sofa cushion. “You listen to me, and you listen good! You’re coming with me. I will not argue about it, and you will not sass me. I will not tolerate any defiance.”
“But we don’t wish to go with you,” Mary said.
“Your opinion doesn’t matter!” Eugenia hissed.
“Mother,” Millie calmly inquired, “have you been drinking? Last time you visited, you promised you would quit.”
Eugenia was so taken aback by the snotty remark that red dots swarmed in her vision. “You little monster! How dare you be impertinent!”
She grabbed Millie’s ear and twisted very hard. Millie evinced no reaction, but Mary moaned as if she was the one who felt the pain.
“You will obey me,” she warned Millie. “You’ll both obey me, or you’ll be sorry.”
“Mother!” Mary protested. “Stop it! You’re hurting her!”
“When I talk to Mr. Wallace,” she told Millie, “I’ll tell him how bad and disrespectful you are. He’ll send you away, and you’ll never see your sister again. You’ll be separated from her forever. Is that what you want? Is it?”
A door open somewhere in the house, and she released Millie. The moment she stepped away, Millie slid off the sofa and ran out. Eugenia sat down, and Mary glared with a reproachful expression that would have shamed her if she’d been capable of that sort of ridiculous emotion.
A beautiful young woman sauntered in. She was dressed in a fetching sapphire gown. With her glorious blond hair and big blue eyes, she looked exactly how the twins would look when they were grown. She could have been their mother.
“Hello. I am Miss Barrington.” She turned to Mary. “Will you introduce me to our company?”
Mary dawdled for an eternity, providing clear proof that a difficult discussion had occurred and tensions were high. Ultimately though, she rose and politely stated, “Miss Barrington, this is my mother, Mrs. Pennywhistle.”
Miss Barrington blanched with astonishment, her dislike of Eugenia patently evident. She wasn’t able to conceal her contempt. Alex must have regaled the woman with lies, and Eugenia was more incensed than she’d been in ages.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pennywhistle?” Miss Barrington said. “I am the new governess. I’m teaching Mary and Millie and enjoying it very much.”
Eugenia let her uncouth gaze wander down Miss Barrington’s torso, then she smirked. “Alex is hiring girls quite a bit prettier these days. Camilla must be having a fit.”
Miss Barrington didn’t reply, but spun to Mary. “Where was Millie going? She ran out the back as I was coming in the front
. What’s wrong?”
Mary’s demeanor was so mulish that Eugenia suspected she might tattle, and she flashed a dangerous glower, visually threatening her to silence.
“Nothing is wrong, Miss Barrington,” Mary said. “She just…went outside.”
But the governess was no fool. She asked Eugenia, “Have you spoken to Mr. Wallace at the manor? I’m not certain of the protocol, but he once apprised me that you are not to visit your daughters without permission. I also assumed I would be notified before you were allowed to call on them.”
Eugenia pushed herself to her feet. She and Miss Barrington were about the same height, but Eugenia was much thinner, dissipation wasting her away.
“I’ll be conferring with Mr. Wallace the minute I depart,” she fibbed.
Bertram had demanded she bring the twins with her, and if Alex refused to hand them over she was to obtain a guarantee that he would increase her alimony. Yet she’d lost the energy it would take to quarrel with Alex. Their conversation would have to wait. She felt a headache starting to pound, and a hefty dose of her special medicine was the only potion that would chase it away.
“I’ll just be off,” she mumbled to no one in particular.
Neither Mary nor Miss Barrington responded or offered to show her out. In fact, Miss Barrington moved slightly so she was between Eugenia and Mary—as if she was blocking Mary from view, as if Eugenia might harm her.
Honestly, the girls were her children. Why would the idiotic servant worry?
She grabbed her wrap and bonnet and swept out without glancing back.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Millie!” Abigail called. “Where are you?”
Mary was with her, and she called too, “Millie! Stop hiding.”
“You can come home,” Abigail hollered. “Your mother is gone. It’s all right.”
“We don’t have to leave Wallace Downs,” Mary added. “Miss Barrington said so.”
They were in the forest, pausing every few feet to yell and listen for her. But so far, they’d had no luck.
It had been hours since her mother had departed, and initially Abigail hadn’t been worried. She’d been positive Millie would stroll in on her own. If nothing else, she’d assumed Millie would get hungry and her tummy would bring her back.