Anything but Innocent

by Dayna Quince

The carriage pulled up to the house and the door opened. Lord Heath stepped out and Dean elbowed Rigsby awake.

  “We’re here.”

  “Don’t sound so bloody excited.” Rigsby rubbed his eyes and followed him out.

  Dean looked around the windswept grounds. There was nothing here but grass. No gardens, except the kitchen garden in the back, no lush lawns for games or fanciful statues to greet you. Chickens pecked at the dirt in the small courtyard. They at least looked happy.

  Dean approached the door and it opened, a hunched old man pushing it against a current of wind. Dean rushed forward to help him. The man looked up in surprise and gave him a weathered smile.

  “Is it really you or have I died?”

  Dean chuckled. “It’s me, Mr. Hale.”

  “By golly, look at the mountain you’ve turned into. What a sight you are.” Mr. Hale waved them inside. “Shall I have rooms prepared for your guests, sir?”

  Dean hesitated to commit to staying. He didn’t know what sort of temperament he would find his father in. “I haven’t decided as of yet. Mr. Hale, Lord Heath and Lord Rigsby.” Dean introduced them.

  “Welcome to Winchester Manor, my lords. Let me show you to the drawing room, and I’ll have Mrs. Hale put on a fresh pot of tea.”

  “Very good, Mr. Hale.” Dean followed the man into the great hall and into the drawing room that looked exactly as he remembered. It was like stepping back in time. The decor was the same, but that wasn’t surprising. The house had always had a medieval flare and his mother was not allowed to change it. Battle axes, suits of armor, and barren wooden chairs littered the house in abundance. There wasn’t a single embroidered pillow to be found. The house was stark, uncomfortable and cold, exactly like his father. Mr. Hale threw another log on the fire, stoking it into something that could compete with the ever-present chill in the room.

  “This place looks like the inspiration for a gothic novel.” Rigsby looked around in awe.

  “Or nightmares,” Dean muttered.

  “I hope we are not imposing on your father,” Lord Heath said as he warmed his hands near the fire.”

  “My father wasn’t expecting us, but you will be welcomed all the same,” Dean said.

  “What about you?” Rigsby whispered as he moved past Dean to the decanter.

  “I’m not certain of my reception.”

  “A father always rejoices the return of a son,” Lord Heath said with his back to them.

  Dean didn’t believe this would be the case, but either way, it was time to put the past to bed.

  Dean looked up as Mrs. Hale carried in the tea tray. She beamed at him, her face still full and round with her ever-present cheerful smile, but also carved with the lines of time and strain. She was as familiar to him as his mother had been.

  “It is good to see you again, Mrs. Hale.”

  “Oh, how we’ve longed for your return, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hale.” Dean stood and hugged the woman.

  She dabbed her eyes before pouring them cups of steaming tea and retreating.

  Mr. Hale returned shortly after tea was served. “Your father is awake now, and I’ve informed him of your arrival. He would like to see you now.”

  Dean’s stomach clenched uncomfortably, but he stood calmly and nodded to Rigsby and Lord Heath. “This won’t take long.”

  “Take all the time you need.” Lord Heath gave him a meaningful look.

  Dean followed Hale up the stairs. He didn’t need to be led to his father’s rooms. He’d been there frequently for lectures and floggings. Even before his father had become ill, the anteroom to the master bedroom was used more frequently than his study. He ate there, worked there, took meetings there, and always punished Dean there.

  Dean’s eyes adjusted to the dim corridor as they made their way down the silent bereft hall to the door. Hale knocked twice and then turned the knob, holding the door open for Dean.

  Dean felt twelve again, called to his father’s chamber for an offense he was never aware of. His feet felt heavy as he strode forward, the years of his manhood, confidence, and experience stripping away as easily as a silk scarf falling to the floor. He was a boy again.

  A man of wilted stature and thinning hair awaited him. He bowed to Dean.

  “My lord. I am Mr. Fisher. It is a pleasure to finally converse with you.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fisher. Your letters have been most informative.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is wonderful that you have finally come home. The reins of Winchester may now be firmly clasped in your hands.”

  “He isn’t dead yet, is he?”

  “No, sir!” Mr. Fisher blushed. “I only mean that, as your father’s health has declined so significantly, it has become increasingly difficult to manage the estate to its fullest capabilities.”

  “I understand, Mr. Fisher.” His father had a tight fist on the affairs of his estate. Things could be improved upon, but his father refused to change his ways.

  Mr. Fisher opened the door to the bedroom and waved him through. Dean entered slowly, surprised to find the room filled with pleasant sunlight, the curtains wafting in a gentle breeze. A woman hummed lightly as she rocked in a chair beside the bed knitting a garment. She looked up and smiled. The room even smelled of freshly baked bread.

  The maid leaned over and gently shook his father’s arm. Dean froze. He looked at the man who had terrified him most of his boyhood. He was a pale copy of the man, his hair white and thin, and his once thick square jaw bony with hanging bags of skin. His sideburns stood out comically like two bushy columns framing his face.

  Dean relaxed somewhat. He felt a sense of himself returning enough to feel comfortable in the man he was today. He was who he was, and this man couldn’t hurt him anymore.

  His father blinked his eyes open and focused on the maid. He smiled at her. “Mary?”

  “You have a visitor, my lord.” She nodded toward Dean.

  Dean stepped closer to the foot of the bed. “I’m here…Father.” The word was unfamiliar on his tongue.

  His father turned to him, blinking milky green eyes. “Is that so?”

  Dean felt the first chill of anger. How quickly it all returned. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Mr. Fisher has kept me apprised of everything.”

  “He’s told me as much,” his father mumbled.

  Dean closed his eyes and restrained the urge to walk out. “I’ve come to see how you’re faring.”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “I’m faring quite well, thank you.”

  Dean raised a brow in return. It didn’t look as if his father could even leave the bed.

  “Mary, will you leave us a moment? This is my nursemaid Mary,” His father patted the hand of the maid. “She is a balm to my soul.”

  Dean nodded. She was not young, but nor was she old. She smiled at his father and retreated from the room.

  Dean walked to the side of the bed and pulled a chair close. He folded his hands in his lap and crossed his ankles. His father studied him.

  “Where have you been all this time?”

  “Abroad, mostly,” Dean answered.

  “Abroad? Where?”

  “India for most of the years, Africa, China, wherever the wind took me.”

  “How have you managed such a feat with nothing?” His father frowned.

  “Believe it or not, there was more to me than procuring heirs. I took what little I had and invested it. I have my own fortune now.”

  The frown turned into a scowl. “Sounds disgustingly mercantile.”

  Dean shrugged. He wouldn’t dare mention how he worked on a ship to earn the money he invested.

  “Have you a wife? Children?”

  “No.”

  “You still loathe the idea of marriage?”

  For the briefest of moments, a flash of Lucy entered his mind.

  “I’ve never loathed the idea of marriage,” Dean returned.

  “You certainly did when I suggest
ed—”

  “You didn’t suggest. You ordered. You ignored that I was already in love—”

  “Bah!” his father yelled.

  It startled Dean into silence. For a bedridden man, his voice had not weakened, but his stamina had. That outburst had cost him. He breathed heavily and closed his eyes. He brought a hand to his brow.

  “Love means nothing,” he said after a moment.

  “It meant something to me.” Dean felt the familiar ache wash over him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to miss her.

  “Even she had more sense than you.”

  Dean didn’t respond to the barb. “I won’t be staying long unless you need me to.”

  “Be off with you. I haven’t a need for any wastrels.”

  Dean exhaled and stood. He walked to the door without looking back and closed it softly behind him. He found Mr. Fisher and Mary speaking softly.

  “It is so good of you to come, my lord,” Mary spoke softly. “His lordship speaks of you often.”

  “Nothing good, I’m sure.”

  Her smile faltered. “He often forgets what he says or what time of his life he is in.”

  Dean didn’t know what to say to that. All he knew was that there would be no reconciliation. There would be no forgiveness in either of their hearts. Dean nodded and proceeded to leave the anteroom.

  “Wait.” The maid put up a hand to stop him.

  “Mary, please,” Mr. Fisher warned.

  “I won’t let him go with such ugliness still between them,” she said sternly.

  Dean stiffened.

  Mary pulled an envelope from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “This will ease your pain.”

  Dean looked down at the letter. It was old and brittle. He nodded again and left the anteroom. He returned to the drawing room. Rigsby and Lord Heath turned expectantly when he entered.

  “We will depart tomorrow,” Dean announced.

  He could feel Lord Heath’s disappointment and didn’t meet his eyes. Why the man wanted reconciliation, he didn’t understand, but it was not to be.

  “Well, where shall we go? Home?”

  “The women have returned from Bath by now. I can only guess at the trial your mother endured with your sister there.”

  “I think Lucy’s learned her lesson. She’s growing up,” Rigsby defended.

  Lord Heath raised a skeptical brow. “If she is anything like your mother, it will take a babe in her arms to settle her down.”

  Rigsby cringed. “Don’t speak of such things. I don’t wish to know anything about babes or the creation of them with my mother or sister.”

  Lord Heath chuckled. “Squeamish pup.”

  “Pup?”

  Dean felt the urge to smile, but he swallowed it back. His father had gotten to him, and seeing the closeness between Rigsby and his father only made the sting worse. “You shouldn’t feel the need to stay. He is very ill. If he worsens overnight, I may decide to stay until the end.”

  They nodded with sympathy.

  “Well, why don’t you show us around this monstrosity?” Rigsby suggested.

  Dean really didn’t want to explore the manor. It would bring back too many memories. Never the less, he led Lord Heath and Rigsby from the room and into the hall.

  Chapter 20

  Lucy contemplated the invitation she held in her hand. It was for her brother, but the daring red script on the front called to her. She’d been looking for another quill in the study when she spotted it on the desk. It was clearly an invitation. But to what? She set it down again, at war with the urge to open it. She had a multitude of reasons to explain why she was here, why she could be mistaken and open it.

  Sometimes she wondered why they found her tales so believable.

  Lucy ambled about the room tapping the envelope against her hand. Should she do it? Was it worth the trouble? That was the true question. Lately, she’d been feeling…out of sorts…restless even. Ever since that night—her gut clenched as her memory took her back to the dark hall—she hadn’t felt right in her skin.

  She could still recall the feeling of his hands on her, and still feel the way her heart pounded in her chest and the way her skin had burned. She could close her eyes at night and almost relive the moment her body came to life, her nerves bursting in unison like bubbles of light.

  She blushed shamefully. She wanted it again, and it felt wrong. She felt like an imposter of herself. Here she stood, looking exactly as she always had, but on the inside, she was different. On the inside, she’d had a taste of desire, she’d experienced the clever hands of a rake and now she wanted more. The troubling part was she didn’t want just any rake. She wanted her rake. She still wanted Lord Winchester.

  It didn’t help that Thea had been called home by her family and now Lucy was alone. She didn’t like the idea that she couldn’t enjoy her own company, but Lucy just never could stand being all by herself. Who would she share simple observations with? Who would she enjoy a private joke with?

  Who would be her voice of reason?

  She looked down at the envelope again. What could this blasted thing be? Her fingernail slipped under the corner and the seal lifted.

  “Well, now I have to open it. It’s practically begging me to.” She tore the rest of the wax seal and unfolded the paper. Scanning the contents she frowned in puzzlement. It was an invitation to a masquerade? She sighed, her mischievous delight sinking. This little endeavor was not worth the questions that would arise. Thinking swiftly, she refolded the paper, held the waxed edge over the fire just long enough to soften it and pressed it closed again. It was not a perfect seal, but it would do if no one looked very closely. She left it where she’d found it on the desk and wandered out of the study. She was defeated by boredom. She entered the library and resolutely chose a book to read. If her reality couldn’t entertain her, she was going to get lost in fiction.

  * * *

  Lucy jerked awake to the sound of laughter. She blinked as she looked around, finding herself still in the library. The book slid from her chest as she sat up and thumped as it landed on the floor. She picked it up and set it down as she stood and walked toward the muffled voices. The Library and Study shared a door. She pressed her ear to it.

  It was Jonathan and her father, returned at last! She put her hand on the knob, about to turn it when a third voice stopped her. She froze. Fear, joy, and then sorrow pierced her. It was his voice. He’d returned. She put her hands to her face, swallowing the ache in her throat, the sudden rush of tears. She wanted to slap him and hug him like a madwoman, intent to never let him go. She rested her forehead on the door, hearing the jovial rumble of their talking, the dry banter shared between them.

  She spun away from the door, rushing past a small table and bumping it with her leg. A tower of books toppled to the floor. Drat! Why did she never put the books away?! She dropped to her knees and began to gather the books to her. Her hands shook and her mind raced with panic as the door opened.

  “Lucy?”

  Lucy turned at the sound of Jonathan’s voice. Tears rushed forward and she couldn’t stop them. He looked alarmed as he saw this, and she rushed forward to him, throwing her arms around him. She sobbed silently.

  “Lucy?” he said again with alarm. His arms came around her and he hugged her tightly.

  “What on earth is wrong?” Their father joined them.

  “I missed you both so much!” Lucy sobbed. She could feel her father patting her on the back and was grateful for Jonathan’s supporting arms, but she could feel the presence of Winchester just there in the doorway watching. It was he whom she wanted to run to, to cling to him, but for now, she would settle for a brother she hadn’t really missed, but was happy to see. He was an adequate decoy for her uncontrollable burst of emotion.

  Lucy mopped at her eyes and collected herself. She gave her father a hug and smiled at them.

  “Did you only just return?”

  “Just. I’ve seen to your mother already, but she
didn’t know your whereabouts,” her father said.

  “I’ve been here.” Lucy waved to the chaise lounge where a rumpled blanket still lingered.

  “We’ve brought Winchester back with us. We visited his country seat,” Jonathan announced.

  “Oh?” Lucy turned and pretended to be surprised by his presence in the doorway. He pushed away from the jam where he’d been leaning and bowed in greeting.

  “Good day, Lady Lucy.”

  So it was Lady Lucy again, Lucy grumbled internally. “Good day, Lord Winchester. How was your journey?” She pulled her gaze from his and encompassed her brother and father in her inquiry.

  “Beneficial, I should say. Now that I’ve done my personal accounting of the lands, I can better advise Mr. Higgins.”

  “How fortunate for Mr. Higgins,” Lucy murmured.

  “How was Bath?” Jonathan asked as he picked up one of the books from the floor and paged through it.

  “It was… enlightening,” Lucy stammered. Good God. Bath had been horrible. She could feel Winchester watching her, and it made her so nervous, she couldn’t keep her voice even.

  “Enlightening?” Jonathan looked up and frowned. “When has Bath ever been enlightening?”

  “Well…” Lucy hesitated. She was so focused on Winchester that she had lost her train of thought when he moved out of the doorway and into the Library, closer to her. Not on a physical level. He was still some space away from her, but on an emotional level, she felt him move closer.

  She shook her head slightly, willing herself to calm and return to normal. She briefly looked his way, testing her ability to react sensibly.

  He was perusing the bookshelves, his back to her.

  “Dare I ask your mother what enlightening means regarding Bath?” her father asked.

  Her mother didn’t know. Lucy smirked to herself, but her mother knew whom Lucy might be speaking of.

  “That isn’t necessary. I made some new acquaintances is all. Mr. Farris was there with his mother.” Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Somehow, Mother orchestrated that occurrence.”

  “Without a doubt.” Her father chuckled.

  “And his cousin Mr. Jeffrey joined us on occasion.”