Читать книгу Bound By Their Secret Passion - Diane Gaston - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Dell leapt down the steps to the stricken man.

‘My lord!’ The butler dashed out of house right behind him.

‘What happened?’ Lorene appeared in the doorway.

Dell turned to her. ‘He fell.’

‘Fell?’ the butler cried. ‘I think not! You pushed him.’

One of Dell’s coachmen jumped down from the carriage’s box. ‘Lord Penford did nothing! I saw the man fall.’

‘You’d lie if he told you to,’ the butler shot back.

Dell’s heart pounded as he pressed his fingers against Tinmore’s neck, but he already knew he’d feel no pulse. As a British army captain in the Peninsular War Dell had seen enough death to recognise it instantly. He opened one of Tinmore’s eyes. It was blank and dilated. There was nothing he could do.

He glanced up at Lorene. ‘He’s dead.’

She covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Dead?’ The butler kneeled at Tinmore’s side and took his hand. ‘Dead?’ He glared at Dell. ‘I am sending for the magistrate!’

This would not be easy. ‘Send for the coroner, too. And a physician. The coroner will want to know the physician’s opinion as to the cause of his death.’

‘There can be no dispute.’ The butler sounded near tears. ‘You pushed him!’

Lorene came down the steps and stood at Dell’s side.

‘I did not push him,’ he said to her. Would she believe him? Would any of them? ‘He tried to strike me with his cane. I grabbed it. He clutched at his head and fell.’

She knelt down next to Tinmore’s body and tentatively touched his hair. ‘He was so angry.’

By this time two footmen stood at the door.

Dell gestured to them. ‘Come. Carry him inside.’

The two men did not move.

The butler swung round to the footmen. ‘Do not move him! The coroner will wish to see his lordship where he lay.’

‘We cannot leave him here!’ Lorene cried.

Dell spoke to the butler in a commanding tone. ‘It is already late and it is Christmas night. The coroner is not going to come. We will not leave Lord Tinmore out in the cold all night. He deserves some dignity.’

Lorene faced the butler. ‘We will move him, Dixon.’

The butler’s face was red with anger. ‘Then you must stay, sir. I’ll not have you escaping to the Continent!’

‘Enough, Dixon!’ Lorene’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not speak to Lord Penford in that manner!’

The butler clamped his mouth shut, but his expression was unrepentant.

‘He is right,’ Dell addressed Lorene. ‘I should stay. It will simplify matters when the coroner arrives.’ He stepped over to his coachman. ‘Jones, return to Summerfield House and leave word of what happened. Lady Tinmore will need her sisters here in the morning. Make sure they know that. And I expect the coroner will want to speak to you and Samuel, so you both bring Lady Tinmore’s sisters in the carriage.’ Samuel, the other coachman, held the horses, but nodded his agreement.

Jones gestured for Dell to step away from the others. Dell walked him back to the carriage.

The coachman frowned. ‘I did not actually see what happened, my lord. I saw the man fall, though.’

Dell could not think about that now. ‘Very well, Jones. When the time comes just tell the coroner precisely what you did see.’

‘As you say, m’lord.’ He climbed back on to the carriage.

Lorene twisted around to face the footmen. ‘Why do you stand there? Carry Lord Tinmore to his bedchamber and lay him on his bed.’

The butler, still thin-lipped, nodded to the footmen who scrambled down the steps to pick up Tinmore’s lifeless form.

Dell helped Lorene stand.

He walked with her behind the body. As they entered the house, another servant, almost as ancient as Lord Tinmore—his valet, perhaps—stood on the landing and screeched at the sight of his master. ‘My lord! My lord!’

Lorene ran to the man and held him back as the footmen passed him with Lord Tinmore’s body. ‘Wicky, his lordship had a terrible fall. It has killed him.’

The valet burst into loud sobs and Lorene’s chin trembled, but she made him look at her. ‘Calm yourself, Wicky. Your lordship needs you. One last time. Make him presentable.’

The old man nodded and followed the footmen up the stairs.

Other servants emerged, looking alarmed. Lorene turned back to the butler. ‘Tell them, Dixon. Make certain all the servants are informed. And kept calm.’

Another old man dressed in nightclothes and a robe came from the floors above. ‘Ma’am?’ he said to Lorene.

She put a hand on his arm. ‘He is gone, Mr Filkins. He fell on the steps outside.’

The man’s face twisted, but he quickly composed himself. ‘May I be of service to you?’

She stared blankly for a moment, then said, ‘Ask Dixon if he might need you. And, if you would be so kind, find Mrs Boon and have some tea brought to us in the yellow sitting room.’

‘I will do so, post-haste,’ the man said.

She turned to Dell. ‘Come. We can sit in here.’

He followed her to a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, its walls decorated with a cheerful yellow wallpaper with birds and flowers abounding. The bright setting could not be in greater contrast to Dell’s feelings inside. Lord Tinmore was dead and, though he’d done nothing to cause the man’s fall, it never would have happened if he had not entered the house.

‘Please sit, Dell.’

He placed his hat on a nearby table and removed his gloves and topcoat. She lowered herself on to a sofa upholstered in gold brocade. He sat near in a matching chair.

‘That was Mr Filkins, Lord Tinmore’s secretary,’ she explained. ‘It was kind of him to do as I asked. He is not a servant.’

No, a secretary would be one of those unfortunate souls who fell somewhere between servant and family. Like governesses and tutors.

Lorene averted her gaze. ‘He is the only one who likes me a little.’

Her words broke through his own worries. ‘The only one?’

She gave a wan smile. ‘The servants are very attached to Lord Tinmore—’ She caught herself. ‘Were attached to him. He was not warm to them, of course, but he paid them well and most have been with him longer than you and I have been alive. They considered me...an outsider, I suppose.’

He’d heard members of the ton describe her as a fortune hunter. Unfair when her marriage was more properly a selfless act. Besides, she’d paid a high price. Her husband neglected and belittled her by turns. And the servants resented her?

What a lonely situation to be in.

She wrung her hands. ‘I—I am not certain what I should be doing. I feel I should be doing something.’

‘If you need to leave, do not hesitate. You do not need to stay with me,’ he assured her. ‘This room is comfortable enough.’

‘No.’ She pressed her fingers against her temples. ‘I should have ordered a bedchamber made ready for you. I had not thought of it.’

‘No need. I do not want you burdened with me.’ He paused. ‘Especially because what—what—happened was because of me.’

Her face turned paler. ‘No. Because of me. Because I defied him.’

His anger at Tinmore flared once more. ‘He refused you a visit with your sisters on Christmas Day. That was very poorly done of him.’

‘Still...’ Her voice trailed off.

What would happen to her now? Had Tinmore provided for her? Or did Tinmore neglect to do so, the way he neglected her in other ways?

Tinmore’s accusations would not help. No doubt she’d become the victim of more gossip because of the way Tinmore died. God knew she did not deserve that. Would anyone truly believe he and Lorene were lovers? Or, worse, that he’d caused Tinmore’s death?

They would not be entirely wrong. He’d certainly been the catalyst for it.

She rose from the sofa and began to pace. Dell stood, as well.

‘I wonder...should I have stayed with him?’ Her voice rose, but fell again. ‘I do not know what is expected of me.’

‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘If you wish to be with him, do not let my presence stop you.’

She glanced at him with pained eyes, but looked away and paced to the marble mantelpiece, intricately carved with leaves and flowers.

It was agony to see her so distressed. He ought to comfort her somehow, ease her pain, but how could he do so?

When he’d caused it.

‘I am sorry this happened, Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’

She glanced at him again with those eyes so filled with torment. ‘Sorry? You are sorry?’

He stepped closer to her and wanted to reach out to her, but did not dare.

Death arrived when least expected.

Tinmore’s death had been quick, but death had not been as kind to Dell’s family. His father, mother, brother and sister, as well as several servants, perished in a fire in their London town house in April of 1815. Think of the terror and pain of such a death.

He shook himself. If he thought of that, he would descend into depression and this time not come out. ‘I never anticipated this would happen,’ he forced himself to say.

She leaned her forehead against the white marble. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed he would think—’

That they were lovers? Who could think such a thing? He had been nothing but polite to her.

With a cry of pain she flung herself on to the sofa again and buried her head in her hands.

He sat next to her, his arm around her. ‘I know what it is to grieve,’ he said. ‘Cry all you wish.’

She turned to him, her voice shrill. ‘Grieve? Grieve? How little you understand! I am the most wretched of creatures! I do not feel grief! I feel relief.’

She collapsed against his chest and he held her close, murmuring words of comfort.

The door opened and she pulled away from him, wiping her eyes with her fingers.

‘Your tea and brandy, ma’am,’ a footman announced in a tone of disapproval.

‘Put it on the table,’ she managed in a cracked voice. ‘And please tell Mrs Boon to make a room ready for Lord Penford.’

The footman put the tray on the table next to the sofa and bowed, leaving without another word.

‘Brandy?’ she offered, lifting the carafe with a shaking hand.

He took it from her. ‘I’ll pour. Perhaps you would like some brandy, as well. To steady yourself.’

She nodded and another tear rolled down her lovely cheek.

He handed her the glass and she downed the liquid quickly, handing it back to him for more. He poured another for her and one for himself, which he was tempted to gulp down as she had done.

He sipped it instead.

She blinked away more tears and took a deep breath. ‘You must think me a dreadful person.’

‘Not at all.’ The dreadful person had been her husband. ‘Perhaps you have endured more than you allow others to know.’

She shook her head and took another big sip. ‘He—he was not so awful a husband, really. He merely liked for people to do as he desired. All the time.’

Tinmore had been autocratic, neglectful and, at times, extremely cruel, from Dell’s observation, no more so than this day when he sought to deprive her of her family on Christmas Day. His accusation that they were lovers was unjust and unfair. Tinmore should have known his wife was much too honourable to be unfaithful.

She swallowed the rest of the brandy in her glass. ‘So it is terrible of me to feel relief, is it not?’ Her chin trembled and tears filled her eyes again.

Dell felt as helpless as when he’d watched Tinmore tumble down the steps. ‘You are merely numb. It is not unusual to feel numb after such a tragedy.’ Dell had felt numb when he’d been told the news about his family. It took time for the wrenching grief to consume him.

He finished his brandy and poured another for himself, offering her a third glass.

She refused. ‘Perhaps I should go to him. Perhaps that is what is expected of me.’

He hated for her to leave. Not because he needed her company, but because he felt she needed him in this house with no allies. But, thanks to Tinmore, the false rumour of them being lovers had been heard by the servants and one footman had witnessed what must have seemed like an embrace between them. He must distance himself from her.

For her sake.

And his.

* * *

Lorene rose from the sofa and reached for Dell’s hand. She held it between her own. ‘I will go to him now. Thank you for sitting with me.’

He covered her hands with his. ‘You mustn’t thank me. But do not concern yourself with me. Take care of yourself.’

His hands were warm and strong and she relished the feel of them against her skin. And instantly felt guilty for even noticing.

She pulled away. ‘Someone should come to show you to your room. At least I hope they do...’ Tinmore’s servants were so loyal to him. But not to her. Never to her.

He looked at her with such an expression of sympathy it almost hurt. ‘I will see you in the morning. You must get some rest.’

The day would not be easy, would it? A magistrate. The coroner. Things she must do but, what? She could not think. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight then.’ She curtsied.

He bowed.

She turned and fled from the room.

Lorene forced herself to make her way to Lord Tinmore’s rooms on the same hallway as her own, but thankfully not too close. She knocked before opening his bedchamber door.

Wicky was seated in a chair next to the bed. The bed curtains blocked a view of the bed. She was glad. She had a sudden horror of seeing the body again.

‘How are you faring, Wicky?’ she asked from the doorway.

He turned his head slowly to face her. ‘I would like to stay here if I may, my lady.’

Her heart went out to the old man. Wicky had loved her husband. Wicky, Dixon and Mr Filkins were especially devoted to Tinmore. Goodness. They’d served him for decades.

‘Of course you may stay,’ she said, backing out of the room and shutting the door.

She walked down the hall to her own bedchamber where her lady’s maid, grim-faced, helped her prepare for bed, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. Finally the woman left and Lorene burrowed under the bedcovers.

Her heart pounded rapidly as if she’d run a great distance and she realised she’d felt that way since seeing Tinmore at the bottom of the steps. How could she calm herself? She tried to sort through the emotions twisting inside her. Uncertainty about the following day. Would there be trouble with the magistrate or the coroner? Would they question what Dell told them? Would they believe she and Dell had been lovers?

Why had Tinmore thought such a thing? Her infatuation with Dell had always been her private delight. She’d never talked about Dell. She’d always schooled her features when around him. Tinmore could not have guessed. No one could.

Tinmore had never cared a fig when she was thrown into Dell’s company. At social events Tinmore always left her as soon as it was expedient. He’d never shown any interest in whose company she kept while he played cards or conversed with his cronies. He’d shown little interest in Dell, a mere earl, much preferring Dell’s friend, her sister Genna’s husband, the Marquess of Rossdale, a duke’s heir. Or the Duke himself. What had worked its way into Tinmore’s mind for him to make that outrageous accusation?

When Tinmore told her to go to her room, she’d known that would not be the end of it. At least now she didn’t have to listen to him rail at her.

She suddenly felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was free! She would wake in the morning with no one to answer to but herself. No worries about being accused of having a lover, or of saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way. No more pushing down her feelings. No more biting her tongue. She was free to dream again.

If she were ever able to get to sleep.

She tossed and turned in the bed and finally threw off the covers and walked barefoot to her window. She curled up on the window seat and gazed out at the snow-covered park. How bright it looked even at this late hour, so white and clean. It was a new landscape, changed from before the snow.

And now she would have a new life.

She thought over the almost two years she had been married to Tinmore.

He’d done what she wanted most. To provide for her sisters and brother. He’d also given her a home, beautiful clothes, jewels, a comfortable life in so many ways. She’d been grateful to him for that. She never complained about him for that reason. Except maybe that little bit in the carriage when she’d spoken to Dell. That had not been complaining, really. How awful it would be to complain about Tinmore when he’d been the rescue of her family.

After a fashion.

She could say with absolute sincerity that had she not married Tinmore, her sisters and half-brother would not have found their spouses.

What’s more, they’d found love.

Lorene asked very little for herself, only that Tinmore provide her with the means to live in simple comfort after he was gone. She had no idea if he had done so.

Even if not, the jewellery he’d given her would be worth something, she figured. Tomorrow she would make certain she had it safely in her possession. Filkins would help her. Who knew what the servants might do, with their loyalty to Tinmore and resentment of her.

She did not know where she would go or how she would live, but, even so, wretched woman that she was, she would be glad to leave this place.

She left the window seat, found a shawl to wrap over her shoulders and slippers for her feet. Carrying a candle, she made her way to the formal drawing room Tinmore called the Mount Olympus room, because of the murals of Greek gods and goddesses painted by Verrio and commissioned by some earlier Earl of Tinmore.

Placing the candle on the opulent gold gilt pianoforte Tinmore bought for her, she pulled out her favourite music, Mozart’s Quintets in G Minor, and began to play.

Someone had sent her the music after a musicale last Season. She did not know who. Not her husband, though. He’d fallen asleep during music so wonderful, Lorene felt its indelible stamp on her soul.

She played at a slow tempo, appropriately mournful, but the chords she thought of as sword thrusts, piercing what otherwise would have been a typical minuet, perfectly reflected the pangs of anger she felt towards Tinmore for accusing her of infidelity, for involving Dell in his death, for all the times Tinmore had been thoughtless and hurtful.

The music filled the room and it seemed as if the murals of Greek gods and goddesses were watching her and absorbing the music. If her playing could be heard outside the room, she did not care.

She needed the solace only music could bring her.