Читать книгу The Vengeful Bridegroom - Kit Donner - Страница 13

“You want me go with you to Shropshire?” Mr. Leonard Brelford looked over at Sir Matthew Colgate with surprise, his drink forgotten in his hand.

“Yes. You’re the only one I can depend on to help me.” His friend stood by the Fleeting Stag’s fireplace with his brandy, staring distantly down at the amber light.

“I see,” Brelford said, but he didn’t. “You plan to save your sister from this Westcott bloke and bring her back here so I can marry her as we had planned?” he asked, dreading the answer. Although he much admired his friend, he had been greatly surprised and greatly relieved when someone else had married his sister.

Colgate frowned and shook his head. “No, no. I have to travel to Shropshire to collect something my sister mistakenly stored in her trunk. I have to take it to Canterbury within the month, and I am uncertain how long this endeavor may take.” He dropped his voice, clearly concerned someone might overhear their conversation.

“But your sister. Surely you’re worried about her welfare.”

“Of course,” Colgate responded. “However, the man who married her is known to me to be an honorable one and will see to her needs. But I promised a person of great power that I would recover this valuable dagger and deliver it to his family. In turn, I will receive a great deal of money.” He finished his brandy in one long swallow.

“I see.” Brelford paused. “A dagger. Why was this dagger in Miss Colgate’s trunk again?” Certainly it sounded like a far-fetched plan, which still didn’t sway Brelford’s admiration and affection for Colgate. If only he could show him how he really felt, the young man would have no further need for the female sort.

Colgate grunted before replying. “I had it on good authority someone planned to steal the dagger from me, which is when I decided to hide it in Madelene’s trunk, until I could safely hand it over to the—rightful owner. If I cannot return the dagger, I cannot even consider what might happen.”

“I see,” Brelford replied, not quite understanding Colgate’s lack of interest in his sister or his recklessness in willing to bargain with a nefarious person. Surely money was the root of all evil. “How long will we be gone and when shall we get started?” he asked, rising to his feet. He had preparations to make for their trip.

His friend looked over at Brelford with a smile. “Early tomorrow morning. Meet me at my house in Bloomsbury. We’ll leave from there, perhaps be gone about a week or more.”

Brelford nodded, then asked, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do if Miss Colgate sees you? She might want you to bring her home.”

Colgate waved his hand in the air, as if what his sister might want was inconsequential. “If we’re quick about it, she’ll never know we were there. That’s my plan.”

“And have you considered what to do if she or her new husband has already found the dagger before we arrive?” Brelford’s left eye began to twitch, which always happened when he became nervous or distressed.

With his empty glass in hand and a fierce look in his eyes, Colgate replied, “I mean to collect that dagger with or without my sister’s help. No one will stop me.”

Brelford could not resist chiding him. “Isn’t her new husband the man you fought a duel with and lost? Grateful he didn’t kill you. Leastwise, that is what you told me soon after.”

“I don’t plan to lose twice to the same man,” his young friend told him before heading in the opposite direction for more libation.

Another night, another inn. Bed warmers and any other potential weapons had been deliberately removed from their bedchamber. He grinned remembering how puzzled the staff looked when he requested any sharp objects be removed from their bedchamber, or any tools to start a fire. The idiosyncrasies of the gentry.

At the door to their room, he gestured for her to enter before him as he leaned against the doorjamb, glancing around the room. Nondescript, sparse of furniture with little décor or niceties, their bedroom resembled most inn accommodations.

She seemed nervous tonight, skittish, probably believing tonight would be the night he would truly claim her as his own. A desire he could not deny.

His body ached with wanting his nubile bride after spending much time in close proximity to her during their journey. He could smell the rosewater scent on her skin and shiny black hair. The previous night, he had glimpsed fair skin and graceful ankles in her borrowed robe and knew a fierce desire to possess her.

But he wanted her to want him with the same ferocity. After they consummated the marriage, it wouldn’t be long before he would be satiated with her and anxious for their sham marriage to end. Then he could begin his search for a more suitable wife.

Appreciating the fact they both wanted their journey to be over, Gabriel thought to ease Madelene’s mind. “Since I can’t trust you not to effect a plan of flight, we will sleep in the same room and in the same bed, as we did last night. However, I have no intentions on your body. You’re much too skinny for my taste, and your feet are a bit scrawny, almost like a child’s.” He ignored her blazing blue eyes and turned to remove his coat and boots before starting to wash.

Perhaps this will give her something else to think about. He heard Madelene’s footsteps on the creaking boards as she paced the room. Gabriel dried his face and turned to watch Madelene stop long enough to pull off her bonnet and gloves, her lips in grim impatience.

“Madelene, you must be exhausted. Tomorrow we should reach Westcott Close, which will certainly be a relief to both of us.”

She turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Sir, the only relief I will know is to return to my own home, and for an annulment to take place in the greatest of haste, if I am, indeed, Mrs. Gabriel Westcott.” She paused. Her words boiled in fury.

Gabriel sat on the bed and sighed. “You are truly my wife. After you signed your name to the registry, I had Caroline call you away in order that I might sign my correct name. I planned for you not to know my true identity until we were far from London.”

As he stretched his legs out on the bed, he realized again the painful cost he would have to pay to have her near him. “Please join me, or I will have to carry you over here.”

She must have believed he was serious because in no time, Madelene had washed, slipped into her bedclothes, and hesitantly climbed onto the bed. His eyes closed, he promptly rolled over and pinned her next to him. He actually felt more exhausted than he appreciated, because in little time, he let sleep overtake him.

The hour grew late. Madelene lay stiffly in bed, noticing the stars from the window and wondered what tomorrow would hold when they actually arrived at his estate in Shropshire. She blinked, remembering. Skinny? Child’s feet? Even with a cuff to his shoulder in indignation, he merely grunted, stretched, and continued slumbering. She finally drifted into slumber worrying why it seemed important he desire her instead of being relieved he didn’t.

She dreamt someone stroked her arm, then the curve of her cheek, and next her lips, the touch as soft as silk. She smiled, thinking this must be what bliss felt like, and snuggled deeper into the side of another warm body.

Body? She sprang into wakefulness and tried to pull away from strong arms that held her tight against him, her husband. Her husband? She was still unaccustomed to thinking of Mr. Westcott as her husband.

She struggled briefly until daring a glance at Mr. Westcott, who, with eyes closed, appeared to be sleeping. She watched him suspiciously, but his controlled breathing indicated he continued to slumber.

Had she imagined his touch? Or perhaps, Mr. Westcott himself dreamed he held another woman in his arms? She steamed, thinking her best revenge would be to roll him off the bed. But one glance of his strong physique gave a halt to that idea. If only she could stay awake, then he couldn’t touch her again without her knowledge.

But I can’t stay awake, and it really had felt quite lovely. With little choice, she fell asleep in his arms, missing the smile on her husband’s face.

Madelene couldn’t believe they had almost arrived. She felt like she had been riding in a coach for months instead of three days. A few miles back, Mr. Westcott had decided to exchange the carriage ride for a horse, anxious as he was to arrive at his home.

Earlier on the journey, Mr. Westcott had offered that he had inherited his uncle’s estate several years earlier. His wife Aunt Adelphia had raised his sister and him but she had been gone some time. After a sojourn in Italy, he now divided his time between his town house in London while managing his shipping affairs, and on his large estate on the border of Wales.

Madelene had heard about the death of his sister and thought it best not to mention it.

From the carriage window, she enjoyed the view of early summer’s green passion as they approached the village of Ludlow in Shropshire. The carriage rumbled on past the village, down a few more dusty roads, until turning into a long, graveled driveway. Passing through a large stoned archway, Madelene could see the terraced landscapes with a magnificent neoclassical home sitting atop a small hill.

She leaned out the window to delight in the subtly altered hills and valleys, naturalistic plantings of trees and breathe in the sweet if dusty spring air. There even appeared to be a serpentine lake nestled through a band of trees on the horizon.

Could this magnificent estate truly be her home for a short while? Madelene had heard rumors Mr. Westcott earned his money in the Far East trade, and he must have been successful in order to keep up such a large home in the country and a home in Town.

The clacking wheels on the cobblestones announced their arrival. When the carriage stopped in front of the grand stone steps, Mr. Westcott appeared and opened the carriage door to greet her and assist her from the carriage. As she walked up to the manor’s entrance, Madelene noticed more weeds than late spring flowers. She mused it would be a lovely place with the proper care and attention.

The house had almost a forlorn feeling, as if it had been neglected for too long and forgotten like a spinster’s heart. She couldn’t understand why it had not been better maintained.

As Mr. Westcott unlocked the large wooden doors and beckoned Madelene to enter, she heard the driver wheel the carriage around and clack out of the courtyard.

Following her husband inside, Madelene stepped farther into the small but high-ceilinged hall, admiring the grand staircase in the center, with a flight of steps flowing down on each side as if curtains parted for a stage. Although the wooden rails hadn’t been polished in some time, the railing had not lost its majestic splendor.

Studying her surroundings, she noticed through an open door to the right a drawing room with covered furniture, a large fireplace, and covered paintings on the walls.

No servants to greet them. Odd, that. Her husband made no comment or offered an explanation.

Unable to keep her curiosity contained, she inquired to the back of his head as he pulled linens off the few straight chairs standing sentinel in the hall. “Mr. Westcott, where are the servants?” Back at their house in Bloomsbury, they had had a full entourage of servants until their father passed on. Then with Matthew’s gaming losses, they slowly, one by one, released all their servants, housekeeper, butler, until they retained only Millie, who cooked and cleaned for them.

“The house has been shut for over a year, and the servants released. I could not be certain when I would return. I plan to visit the village tomorrow and bring our old housekeeper, Mrs. Henchip, and the assortment of cooks, gardeners, and groomsmen. We’ll simply have to handle matters ourselves until then. My man, Windthorp, should not be far behind. Tomorrow night in all probability.” His tone nonchalant as he headed for the mahogany doors to the right of the staircase.

Madelene hurried to follow him, lost in a fog of uncertainty. No servants? Who didn’t have servants to open their house for them and prepare for the master’s home-coming? Was this Mr. Westcott’s oversight, or had he merely been in a hurry to marry her and win the bet? Perhaps his investments had recently soured or he had empty pockets and couldn’t pay their wages? No matter. She had never before been without a servant.

“Mr. Westcott?” she called to him, in her attempt to halt his progress.

He turned around to look at her with hands on his hips. “Yes?”

“Mr. Westcott, this simply will not do. We could return to the village, spend the night at an inn, then return here tomorrow with the servants.” She thought it a sound and plausible idea, a pleading smile on her lips.

Her husband obviously thought differently because he looked at her cryptically as if to see if she intended humor, then shook his head. “Madelene, this is now our home. I’m sure one night without servants catering to your whims will do you no harm.” He turned and continued farther into the house.

Her boots tapped down the corridor as mistress followed master. It certainly appeared her new husband had not considered her needs in the slightest. Mr. Westcott had not heard the end of this untenable position in which he had placed her. What could he possibly be thinking? She had no intention of performing any duties. It wouldn’t do. She wasn’t a servant, she was a baronet’s sister. He needed reminding.

In his commanding stride, his long legs easily swallowed the length of the hallway, which permitted no dallying on Madelene’s part for peering into the richly colored rooms they hurried past. Late-afternoon shadows followed her following him, first down a short set of stone steps to two thick doubled oak doors, and then another short flight into the kitchen, the oblong room still warm from the day’s sun.

If he presumed that she would be cooking for him, she would start walking home. She began, “Mr. Westcott—” before he interrupted her.

“Let’s check the storeroom to see if Mrs. Henchip left provisions. I had sent her a note earlier this week,” he told her, proceeding into an open door to the left.

Unable to continue the conversation without an adversary, Madelene looked around at the stone kitchen. It was quite large with only the last remaining sunlight filtering from the ceiling windows and well stocked with tinned pots, stills, spits, and serving dishes. The room felt quite stuffy as she crossed her arms and leaned against the large wooden table, waiting for her husband to reappear.

In short shrift, Mr. Westcott managed to find bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine for their repast and pulled two wooden stools to the table.

Madelene warred within herself, trying to simmer her anger. They were eating, in the kitchen? Foraging for their own meal? This was totally unsupportable, and nothing could condone what she considered neglect.

She drew up her shoulders, planning to reject any of her husband’s offerings. If anyone found out about this, she would be an object of ridicule for weeks, maybe months, for the gossipmongers. As all of her arguments gathered like a storm in her mind, her stomach growled, reminding her of the need for nourishment, along with being overcome with simple exhaustion. Disheartened, she reluctantly joined him at the table.

Tomorrow. She’d state her position in no uncertain terms that he would have to provide staff to assist her, including a lady’s maid. He couldn’t expect her to dress her own hair. Or maybe he did. Maybe this was some sort of devious punishment. Was he capable of such? She didn’t know him very well to guess the answer.

Madelene began to realize that none of her assumptions about her husband had proved very accurate. But she did understand that he needed to know her expectations, including they would be sleeping in separate beds tonight.

“Please, Mrs. Westcott, eat, you must be famished,” he told her almost kindly, watching her with hooded eyes. Was it only three nights past she had requested the same of him?

She hesitated, then perched across from him and took a sip of wine, which slid down her parched throat. Next, she ate the bread and cheese, and almost moaned with delight, trying to refrain from devouring her food in an unladylike manner.

They continued to eat in silence until Madelene could no longer hold her tongue. She cleared her throat. “I intend to continue in this marriage only as long as the demands of the wager are met. Since you have odiously consigned me to this marriage, I do not believe it should be out of the question to request my own room.” She forced her stare into his surprised brown eyes. Surprised at her audacity? She held her breath, waiting for his answer. She didn’t know how she would respond if he negated her request.

Mr. Westcott shrugged his shoulders as if her demands were inconsequential and deserved no answer, while sipping his glass of wine as if he had all kinds of time on his hands.

Why did he not respond to her request? She had to gain some reaction from him. “How long do you intend to keep me here?” she blurted out.

He watched her intently before replying. Relaxed on the hard stool, his coat long since discarded, his white shirtsleeves rolled up revealing tanned, strong forearms, her husband leaned slightly away from her. “I have not yet decided. Your tenure here is based on many factors, which I do not choose to delve into tonight.” He broke off another piece of hard crust and offered it to her. She refused with a shake of her head.

“I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter?” she asked coolly. Before he could respond, she continued, “I must remind you that my brother will discover you have deceived him, and he will come to take me home.”

That threat appeared to have no bearing on Mr. Westcott’s enjoyment of his repast. He cocked his head slightly with a short smile. “Come, our first meal as man and wife in our home, and you choose to be disagreeable? Besides, I wouldn’t count on your brother saving you, when he’d have to return all the blunt he won in this bet.”

Madelene opened her mouth to disagree, then just as quickly closed it. She thought of the words she could toss at him in defense of her brother or his cowardly plan to force her into marriage, but decided to finish eating. Tomorrow she would show Mr. Westcott her true mettle.

Westcott’s friend and servant could have used more help in toting the new lady of the house’s trunk from the courtyard to the first floor. After pulling it up the stairs, one step at a time, he was convinced she had packed gowns lined with lead. But he wouldn’t find any assistance tonight. Just the three of them.

His steps quickened, pulling the trunk down the carpeted hall. He realized he didn’t have much time if he wanted to finish before the master and mistress retired to bed.

The mistress. She looked like her shoes would never become muddy in the rain, someone extremely hard to please, her mouth in a perpetual pout, as much as he could see from his vantage point above the stairs. How long must he endure her presence? As long as it took, he imagined.

His muscles sore, he had to rest and stretch his back for relief before dragging the trunk the rest of the way to her bedchamber. To his exasperation, the trunk stuck on the thick carpet in her bedroom as he tried to pull it farther into the room. Finally, one last heave, and he pushed it next to her bed and turned to leave.

He paused. It couldn’t possibly make a difference. It would only take a moment to discover what lay in the trunk. He fell to his knees, greedily unclasping the locks and flinging the lid open. His mouth turned grim at the sight of beautiful, soft, colorful gowns made for morning, walking, traveling, afternoon, calling, and evening wear. The satiny materials swished in his hands as he began fishing in the clothes for anything of value before he felt something hard and familiar.

Grasping the hard end, he carefully pulled the short-hilted dagger out of her trunk and stared at the sharp object in his hand in disbelief. Why was the dagger in her trunk? Not one to question the gods for his lucky fate, he quickly stuck the dagger in his belt, slammed the trunk lid, and ran out of the room, remembering to close the door. Providence had shined on him, which could only mean right was on his side, and perhaps soon, he could return to his home in Florence.

Finished eating, Mr. Westcott gathered the plates and placed them on the sideboard before returning to the table and handing her two lit candles. “If you will light our way, I’ll carry the water.”

She bit her lip, mutely accepted the candles, and led the way out of the kitchen. In his long strides, he soon overtook her to collect one of the candles and with pitcher in hand, headed to the large stairway on the ground floor. He ascended the staircase, probably assuming she would meekly follow. But Madelene remained at the bottom of the stairs in defiance, her lips pursed. She didn’t want to learn if they were sleeping together tonight.

Mr. Westcott looked down at Madelene waiting in almost complete darkness, quiet settling about the house. “Mrs. Westcott, your bedchamber is on this floor. Would you please attend me?” His tone brooked no argument.

She waited briefly to show him she wouldn’t do his bidding willingly or quickly, then gathered her skirt and climbed the stairs. Exhaustion pulsed through her and helped her decide that sleeping on the floor or stairs could not be entertained as a sleeping option.

Madelene walked down the carpeted hall to where they met in front of one of the many doors on the floor. She tried to face her husband bravely, with her shoulders back, defiance in her stance, but he maddeningly ignored her.

He opened the door and gestured her inside.

Madelene hesitated, then walked past him into a bedchamber of bright pink and green colors on silk drapes and the rich counterpane. A pleasant perfume of lilacs assailed her senses. She had never expected anything so very charming. As she turned around in a circle, she realized this room was a lovelier room than she had known even back in Bloomsbury.

“Mr. Westcott, I didn’t know what to expect, but this room is quite breathtaking,” she told him.

“I hope you will be comfortable here. It was my sister’s room. Earlier this year, I had all the colors and furniture changed for my new wife,” he told her shortly before walking over to the small table and pouring water in the basin.

“Do I understand you planned to marry me as early as January, before the bet was even made?” She could hardly credit this news, for it was illogical.

He stopped and looked at her, his brow furrowed. “Ah, I had planned to offer for a young lady this year to take as my wife. I had no notion it would be you. I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable here.”

His plans mattered naught to her, and a beautiful bedchamber changed nothing. He had still married her for the needed funds. Madelene deliberated what to say when he interrupted her thoughts.

“In the morning, we’ll begin setting the house to rights.” He walked toward her and stopped in front of her, studying her intently.

She lifted her chin, determined not to show lack of character or fear of his closeness, although she couldn’t quite manage her bottom lip not trembling. He was so very close—

But he didn’t kiss her. And she was glad. She didn’t want to know what his kisses tasted like. This man, out of necessity called husband, had brought her to a neglected estate with no servants. Madelene was unprepared to call her grievances trifling.

Probably tomorrow, he would have her cooking dinner or making soap or some such nonsense. Not Madelene Colgate. Madelene Colgate Westcott, she amended reluctantly. She hoped he noticed her steady glare at him.

His brown gaze seemed to search her face for something, but she couldn’t fathom what.

“Sleep well, Mrs. Westcott,” he told her before heading to the door. And then she was alone.

Was he actually leaving her bedchamber? Did he intend to return? That man certainly provoked more questions in her mind than he answered. After their hasty journey and sleep on lumpy thin mattresses, she felt the headache coming on. She gazed longingly at the large tester bed and wondered whether she had enough energy to change into her bedclothes.

When she saw her trunk by her bed, she frowned. Where had it come from? Mr. Westcott had certainly not carried it here, because he had been with her since their arrival. Someone must be here with them, but Mr. Westcott had chosen not to enlighten her. How very strange.

Simply too much to think about. I’ll worry on it tomorrow, she thought sleepily. Madelene laid on the bed fully clothed, prepared in case Mr. Westcott would return and claim his husbandly rights. She wasn’t exactly sure how she could keep him at a distance, particularly after a quick glance around the room showed an absence of bed warmers. She’d have to think of a better weapon for protection from her husband. An odd thought; she had never thought she’d need protection from her husband.

The thought of a husband brought back ugly memories of Aaron Winchester, a man who had professed unceasing devotion to her until Matthew had advised him that her dowry was more a pauper’s purse than a king’s. At first, he claimed this news meant nothing to him, that he couldn’t live a day without her beside him. He had used all the right words, and all the words she had waited forever to hear. Aaron had kept the farce right up until a week after the banns were announced.

She didn’t remember the banbury story he told her that night. She may have heard the words “his mother refused to consider Madelene for his wife, and he had acquiesced because after all, it was his mother.” He couldn’t look her in the eye, coward he, and suddenly his presence caused a sickness within her.

She had held her tears, determined not to show any distress at his words until he had left her life. The pain had felt like a slice through her heart, and she was filled with a saddening comprehension that no man would want her without a dowry. She later learned he planned to marry a young woman from a wealthy family in the north. Aaron, vain and obsequious, was more concerned over the style of his cravat then a possible Luddite protest or the never-ending war with Napoleon.

Madelene read in the Post the marriage of Lord Winchester to Miss Cecily Bryncome. Her father was Samuel Bryncome, owner of several mills in the north. His mother must have been pleased. Madelene refused to consider that he wouldn’t have made her happy, wanting, instead, to nurse a broken heart. It was better to feel something rather than a continued state of emptiness, she had thought at the time.

Months later found her in an unanticipated marriage, bonded to a man who again only wanted her for what money she could bring to the bargain.

I’ll close my eyes for only a moment.

Madelene sat up in bed with a start. Something had awakened her. With her knees clasped to her chest, she listened for any slight noise while keenly watching the doorknob.

Nothing.

A few more minutes. Still nothing.

Apparently she had imagined the noise.

She sighed in relief, blinking awake. If Mr. Westcott retired for the night, wherever that may be, she could conduct an exploration of the ground floor, which would be helpful when it came time for a quick departure.

Carrying the still-lit candle, she walked over to the door and opened it slightly to peek out. A window shutter banged, startling her, and she slammed the door shut. Holding tight to the doorknob, Madelene had to slow her heartbeat thundering in her ears to listen again outside her room. The wooden floor creaked outside her bedchamber. Surely this house wasn’t haunted or some such nonsense.

Several minutes went by and all was quiet. Terribly relieved, her pulse returned to normal, she opened the door again wide enough to see the dark hallway. Taking a deep breath, she decided to head back down the stairs. All doors exiting the house would be high on her list of places to investigate.

She stepped into the dark, her candle illuminating a small window of light, and pulled the door closed. Her eyes were still adjusting to the narrowed light when she tripped over a body in the hallway.

The candle flew out of her hand as she pitched forward.

“Staire attento, Signora!” commanded a low voice as Madelene yelped in surprise.

She slammed to the floor. Stunned. Out of breath.

Her candle, doused by the sudden toss, rolled down the hallway. In peril for her life, Madelene quickly turned onto her back and braced herself on the carpet. Her heart galloped in her chest, her breathing stopped.

Madelene swallowed hard, then gazed up at the stranger, a short, thin man who stood before her, holding his hand out to assist her.

She screamed.

Her scream must have frightened the stranger because he retreated against the wall and into the shadows. Madelene heard footsteps on the stairs and heard Mr. Westcott’s voice.

“Madelene, what is wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked roughly and slightly out of breath from running up the stairs in breeches and boots, his shirt missing.

In those brief moments, his comforting presence had slowed the beating of her heart and given her strength to rise to meet him. “Thank goodness. This person was outside my bedchamber,” she said, pointing to the figure in the shadows. “He probably plans to rob us or create some kind of havoc—”

He looked into the shadows, then surprised her by laughing. Walking over to the stranger, Mr. Westcott pulled him further into the light of a flickering hallway sconce.

“This is Alec, my friend. Alec, this is my, my wife, Mrs. Westcott.”

Madelene peered at this new house occupant. She could not make out his face in this poor light, particularly when he wore a dark hat low over his face. Slim of build, he dressed in a black shirt, vest, breeches, and boots, from what she could see in the wavering glow.

After patting her hair back into some semblance of order, she nodded at Alec. “Mr. Westcott had not mentioned you before, and I certainly didn’t anticipate tripping over anyone outside my bedroom door. Do you have a place to sleep here in the house?” She looked to Mr. Westcott for direction.

“Alec has watched the house these last few months. I met him during my recent stay in Florence. When he wanted to leave Italy, I offered him my home for as long as he needed one.” Mr. Westcott slung an arm around Alec before continuing, “He agreed to come with me to England as long as he could be of service to me.”

Madelene looked from one man to the other. “I believe I understand. However, I am still in confusion over one matter. What was Alec doing outside my bedchamber door?” she asked, her hands on her hips, her tone piqued.

Mr. Westcott hesitated before responding, “I’ve asked Alec to be your guard.”