Lord Sinister (Secrets & Scandals Book 3)

by Tiffany Green

  Julian swallowed the hot lump in his throat and nodded. “Of course I will.” Then, as gently as he could, he lifted Amelia’s small battered body into his arms and carried her from the room.

  ****

  Amelia cracked open her eyes. Her entire body ached and burned as if on fire, an especially sharp pain in her right arm. The memory of Mr. Giles twisting that arm behind her back when she’d scratched his face came to mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping out. What had happened after she lost consciousness? What gruesome thing had Mr. Giles done to her? She shifted her weight carefully and another tear skidded down her cheek. That terrible man had not violated her. What stopped him from…?

  Alex? Where was her son?

  Her eyes flew open and she tried focusing on her surroundings. Everything looked a blur. She blinked, the urgency to see her son, to make certain he hadn’t been harmed, filled her with determination.

  When her vision sharpened, Amelia took note of the room and gasped. Instead of sickening purple and obscene pictures, she found a lovely apricot and mint-green decor. Her gaze traveled to the green marble surrounding the fireplace and the crackling fire casting a honey glow into the room. An ornately carved gold clock, no doubt French, ticked off the seconds on the mantle, flanked by matching candelabras dripping in heavy crystal pendalogues. So very opulent. Had she died and gone to heaven?

  But the pain pulsating through her body told her she did indeed still live.

  And she needed to find her child.

  With that mission firmly set in her mind, Amelia took a deep breath and lifted her head from the pillows. Her ribs screamed in agony, though none was broken. Bruised, perhaps, but not broken. And she was weak, her body feeling like a wrung out piece of cloth. She needed something to eat, but she needed to find Alex even more. Somehow, she managed to rise into a sitting position, panting from the exertion.

  She had to find her son.

  The door opened and she gulped back a yelp.

  “Mama!” Alex cried and ran up to her.

  “Oh, my son,” she whispered, pulling him close with her good arm. “Are you all right?” Tears distorted her vision.

  He leaned back, furrowing his brow. “You were the one hurt, Mama, not me. Are you all right?”

  Releasing a sniff, she nodded. “Much better now that I know you’re safe.” She relaxed back against the pillows, relieved beyond belief her son hadn’t been harmed.

  Sensing someone else in the room, Amelia turned to the open doorway. Her alarm receded when she noticed the lady standing there. The extremely beautiful lady.

  Alex, following the direction of her gaze, smiled. “Mama, this is Lord Julian’s sister, Megan Bradshaw, the Duchess of Claremont.”

  Lord Julian’s sister? Amelia didn’t know what to say as she watched the duchess, who was heavy with child, step forward.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wesson.” The duchess had a kind smile on her lips. “Though I feel that I already know you.” Her eyes traveled to Alex and softened with true affection. “Alex speaks of nothing else. You are most fortunate to have such a delightful son.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Amelia said, bewildered as to how she was speaking to Julian’s sister, “I am very fortunate.” She glanced around. “How did I get here? And where is here?”

  Moving to the side of the bed, the duchess answered, “This is my home. Julian and my husband brought you here yesterday.”

  “The duke and duchess have a lot of homes,” Alex said with excitement. “Can you imagine owning more than one house this size, Mama?”

  Yes. Yes, she could. Her father had been very wealthy and owned several mansions. But Amelia wouldn’t think of him. Instead, she smiled at Alex and replied, “It is rather hard to imagine.”

  Alex lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek, his expression turning solemn. “The swelling is almost gone. But now it’s blue and purple.”

  Oh, she must look a fright! Amelia wanted to pull the covers over her head when her son’s expression altered to surprise.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” He bounced to his feet.

  “What is it?” She had very little energy left. Her shoulders drooped.

  He started for the door. “Lord Julian told me to inform him the minute you were awake.”

  Amelia stiffened. “No, Alex, you mustn’t.”

  Jerking to a halt, he spun around. “Why?”

  The duchess approached Alex. “Your mother is terribly fatigued. I don’t think she wishes any more visitors for a while.” She turned. “While you rest, Mrs. Wesson, I’ll make certain you aren’t disturbed.” She motioned to the pull bell with her hand. “Just ring when you feel up to eating and a tray will be sent right up.”

  Seeing understanding within the duchess’ eyes, Amelia slowly nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  A tender smile spread over the duchess’ lips. “Please, call me Megan. ‘Your Grace’ grows tedious.”

  “Then I insist you call me Amelia.”

  Watching Megan place an arm around Alex as they left the room, a tingle of warmth bloomed within Amelia’s chest. Her eyes grew heavy. The aristocracy only offered the use of their first names when seeking a close friendship, she recalled as sleep tugged at her.

  And as she drifted further into blessed sleep, a thought surfaced. Julian had saved her.

  But what did that mean, exactly?

  CHAPTER 7

  “I have never seen bruises fade to this degree so quickly,” Dr. Kellerman said, leaning back from his inspection of her cheek. He shook his head. “You are a remarkably quick healer, Mrs. Wesson.”

  Amelia smiled, knowing the mark across her cheek looked as though it had been put there two weeks—not four days—ago. She reached for the jar on the table beside the bed. “Actually, it’s due more to this salve than my quickness in healing, doctor.” She handed him the jar.

  The spicy scent of lemons and vinegar filled the air. Amelia closed her eyes. Memories of her old friend, Dr. Rutland, flooded her mind. She missed the dear man fiercely and continued to mourn his absence. Oh, how different things would be if he hadn’t died.

  “What is this?” Dr. Kellerman sniffed the jar then dabbed the white paste with his finger.

  “It’s for the removal of bruises, freckles and spots of age. There are other uses for it, as well.” She shifted to find a more comfortable position. “Add coal ash and it rids lice. However, it discolors hair if it’s left in too long.”

  He glanced up, eyes lit with interest. “Have any idea what is in this?” he asked, bringing his finger to his nose.

  “Certainly. I mixed the salve myself.”

  The doctor’s brows sprang up. “You, Mrs. Wesson? You prepared this medicine?”

  “Yes, I did.” Amelia bit back her annoyance with Dr. Kellerman’s astonishment, although she should be used to such a reaction by now. Most, if not all, physicians had a difficult time accepting her as a healer. A damn good healer. She released a sigh. “For years, I assisted one of the most remarkable physicians in America. He taught me many things.” She nodded at the jar in his hands. “Preparing medicines was merely one of the things I learned from Dr. Rutland.”

  “Rutland?” he repeated, focusing inwardly as if trying to recall that name. Then it came to him. “Yes, Dr. Rutland.” His face clouded and he shook his head. “It’s a shame what happened. A terrible shame.”

  Amelia agreed, though she remained silent. Dr. Rutland had been banned from practicing medicine in England because of his so-called unorthodox measures. What fools. Those so-called unorthodox measures led to many advancements in medicine. Advancements most now used in their own practices.

  Cursed hypocrites.

  When Dr. Kellerman returned the jar, Amelia recalled something she’d wanted to discuss with him. “Doctor,” she waited for him to look up before continuing, “I appreciate your services, but feel I am no longer in need of them. So if you will produce the bill before you leave…” She halted when
he began to shake his head.

  “You needn’t worry about that, my dear,” he explained. “Lord Julian has already taken care of it.”

  Something within Amelia balked at the idea of being indebted to his lordship. First the dress, and now the doctor bill? “Pray, Dr. Kellerman, what was the total amount of the bill?” When he looked like he would refuse her request, she added, “Please. I must know.”

  With a sigh, he rose and removed his spectacles. “Twenty-seven pounds.” Scrubbing the glass lenses with a cloth, he said, “You must stay abed a full sennight further, madam. Rest your back and those ribs. And keep your wrist bound for at least two weeks longer. I believe one of the bones is fractured.” He placed the spectacles back onto his nose and reached for the black bag on the floor. “I’ll return once more next week, unless I’m needed sooner.” Then he wished her good-day and departed.

  Amelia hardly heard anything past owing Julian twenty-seven pounds.

  Twenty-seven pounds? Where would she get that kind of money? And she must not forget to add the cost of her now ruined dress.

  The newspaper she’d requested earlier caught her attention. Ignoring the sharp stitch in her ribs and wrist, she reached for the paper and sifted through the pages until coming to the want places. But after several minutes of reading, her spirits sank. There were no positions for a governess found. Only jobs for wet nurses, laundresses, and various maids. And the highest salary, that of a maid-of-all-work, paid a scant ten pounds a year.

  It would take at least three years to repay Julian, she thought miserably.

  That was still more than she’d been earning at the sewing factory in America, she reminded herself.

  With her mind made up, Amelia threw back the bedding and, ignoring the soreness all over her body, rose from the bed. She shuffled to the dressing room, her steps slow and painful. She halted in the doorway and closed her eyes, willing the white-hot firebrands piercing her ribs to subside. After a full minute of waiting, she abandoned any hopes of feeling better and staggered toward her small trunk. Thankfully, the duke had a servant retrieve it from that horrible Mr. Giles. She hadn’t asked how he reacted to having to give up her chest because she really didn’t want to know.

  Just as she managed to pull one of her gowns over her head, Amelia heard a woman gasp. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  Swiveling around, she found Megan standing in the doorway, hands pressed to her cheeks. “I’m getting dressed,” Amelia replied.

  “I can see that.” Megan stepped farther into the room. “What I don’t understand is why? Dr. Kellerman said you were to remain abed for another week at least.”

  As Amelia finished with the buttons down the front of her faded brown dress, she released a sigh, then turned to the duchess. “Your kindness toward my son and me has been above exceptional. However, I can no longer take advantage of…” She trailed off when Megan’s face leaked of all color. “Megan? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, though I feel a bit tired suddenly.”

  “Tired,” Amelia snorted, linking her good arm through Megan’s, “you look like you’re about to fall down. Come, you had better rest a while.” She assisted the duchess from the room, her injuries protesting with every inch she moved.

  Stopping a maid along the way, Amelia calmly directed the wide-eyed young girl to go and retrieve Dr. Kellerman. When the maid scrambled away, she continued to lead Megan into the duchess’ chambers, praying her strength would hold out just a little longer.

  “Here, Your Grace.” She assisted Megan onto the bed, the last of her own strength dwindling away.

  “What is this?” Dr. Kellerman demanded as he rushed into the room.

  “Her Grace looked ready to swoon,” Amelia said as black blotches swam before her vision. She breathed in slowly, refusing to collapse.

  “And so do you. Back to bed.” He pointed toward the door. “Now.”

  “Perhaps I could—”

  “Now.” Dr. Kellerman stabbed his finger toward the door once more.

  With a slight frown, Amelia turned and shuffled from the room, praying Megan would be all right.

  ****

  Joseph Westland, the Duke of Kenbrook, alighted from the carriage, grateful the rain had finally decided to stop. Although, he thought with a sly glance at his wife as he assisted her from the vehicle, spending the last four days indoors with her had very much been worth it.

  “Quit looking at me like that, Joseph,” Maggie said softly as she strolled past, “lest everyone will read your lewd thoughts.”

  Grinning wickedly, Joseph followed his wife toward the steps, his eyes fixed on the sashay of her hips. His blood heated. He caught up to her. “Perhaps, madam, if you weren’t so damn delectable—”

  The front door opened, bringing a quick end to his words. He found Dr. Kellerman walking out wearing a frown. Not liking the looks of that, he stormed to the man. “Kellerman, has something happened to my little girl?”

  Dr. Kellerman flinched. “Oh, Your Grace, you gave me a start.” When Joseph folded his arms and demanded to know what had happened, the doctor swallowed nervously. “Your daughter is not suffering from anything serious, Your Grace.”

  “What exactly is she suffering from?” he demanded, his voice rising with impatience.

  “Exhaustion.” The doctor removed a handkerchief with a trembling hand and mopped his face. He drew in an unsteady breath and continued. “For the last four days, your daughter has been taking care of a woman and her son. Mrs. Wesson—the woman—suffered a terrible beating from her employer, and Her Grace was kind enough to—”

  Joseph held up his hand, halting the doctor. “That is all I need to know.” He moved past the man and entered the house. Why his daughter thought she could save the entire world, he would never know. Even as a small child, Megan would bring home wounded fawns, birds, and even a baby fox that drove the dogs to distraction. His little girl was forever trying to save the wounded, poor, and helpless.

  “I’ll go see about Megan,” Maggie said from his side. She squeezed his arm slightly. “Don’t frighten the poor woman to death, Joseph.” She headed toward the stairs.

  With a deep breath to control his anger, Joseph turned to the butler. “Mrs. Wesson. I want to see her in the drawing room.”

  The man bowed. “Right away, Your Grace.”

  ****

  Amelia opened the door, surprised to find Carson on the other side.

  “A visitor to see you, Mrs. Wesson.”

  She shook her head. “Tell his lordship I haven’t the time—”

  “His Grace, the Duke of Kenbrook, has requested an audience, madam, not Lord Julian.”

  “The D-Duke of Kenbrook?” she whispered faintly.

  “Yes, madam.” Carson gestured she come with him. “He wishes a word with you right away.”

  “T-Thank you, Mr. Carson.” Having no alternative, Amelia forced her feet to move.

  As she approached the drawing room doors, her anxiety soared. What could the duke possibly want with her? She limped across the marble floor, her pulse pounding furiously in her temples. Reaching the threshold, two footmen opened the door and she paused, realizing she had no idea how she looked. She patted her hair, hoping every strand had stayed in the tight knot she’d fashioned earlier. Lord, what nerves. But she couldn’t turn and retreat. The large man standing just a few feet away had noticed her. And he looked as though he would throttle her.

  God help her.

  She limped forward. Hearing the door close behind her with a soft click, Amelia swallowed hard, her fear increasing. She knew she shouldn’t stare, but she couldn’t look away from the notorious Duke of Kenbrook—the most powerful man in the realm. Quite suddenly, her mind filled with those ridiculous stories she’d heard when she was a child. Although now, they didn’t seem ridiculous at all. Especially the one where the duke could turn a man into stone simply by staring at him.

  With that thought in mind, she jerked her gaze down to t
he Persian rug beneath her feet and studied the vivid gold and green fibers.

  “Mrs. Wesson.” The sound of his foreboding, deep voice nearly made her gasp. “I am Joseph Westland, the Duke of Kenbrook.”

  Gripping the sides of her dress, she performed a pitiful curtsy, mumbling an incoherent, “How do you do, Your Grace?”

  The duke unlocked his hands from his back and indicated the sofa with a sweep of his arm. “Come, have a seat.”

  Amelia licked her dry lips. Praying her legs would continue to support her, she shuffled forward, careful to keep her eyes averted. How she made it to the sofa without falling flat on her face, she had no idea. She sat and clamped her hands together in her lap. Unable to resist a quick peek at the duke, she watched him through the fringe of her lashes. As he sat in the wingback chair across from her, she tried not to notice his furrowed brow and deep scowl. Indeed, he looked ready to snap her in half with his bare hands. However, she stifled the urge to jump to her feet and run from the room, knowing she must hear what he had to say. Oh, but this would be difficult. Her breath caught. What if he had learned about Alex?

  She glanced back down, busying her thoughts with how white her knuckles had turned and how the thin blue veins on the backs of her hands started to bulge. Anything at all but how the imposing duke glared daggers right at her.

  “Mrs. Wesson,” he began, his rich voice firm and quite a bit frightening, “I think that what has happened to you is terribly unfortunate.”

  He thought what? Oh, God, did he know about Alex? What had Julian told him? Amelia raised her eyes, hoping that something in his demeanor would answer her questions.

  “However, my little girl is suffering with your presence. It is causing her much distress.” His stormy blue eyes glistened with a fierce protectiveness. “And in her delicate condition, that is something I will not abide.”

  Amelia glanced back down to her hands, his words ringing in her ears. Her guilt soared. She remembered how Megan had turned pale and nearly collapsed earlier. Perhaps the duke was right. Perhaps she was to blame.

  “Therefore, I am willing to offer you two thousand pounds to leave here and never return.” He removed a block of notes from his coat pocket, plopped it on the table between them, and slid it toward her.