Читать книгу The Wilder Wedding - Lyn Stone - Страница 8

Chapter One

Midbrook Manor, Bedfordshire, England October 1889—

“Will you tell Laura she’s going to die, Lamb?”

The words halted Laura Middlebrook just outside the study door. She automatically sought purchase against the wall to keep from crumpling to the floor. Breath stuck in her throat. Surely to God, she had misunderstood!

James Maclin’s words to her brother reverberated in her head almost blocking out her brother’s answer. “No, no, of course not. The poor girl would be terribly upset. Little point worrying her about something she can’t possibly help. Wish I didn’t know myself since there’s nothing to be done for it.”

“Doc Cadwallader assured you of that?” James asked.

“Yes. Damned shame, isn’t it? Doc says the end should come quickly without any prolonged suffering. There’ll be progressive weakness. Then she’ll simply lie down one day and that’s that. All I can do now is make her last days comfortable as I can.”

Maclin’s grievous sigh echoed Laura’s own. She leaned her forehead against the flocked wallpaper and squeezed her eyes shut. She had not misheard. They were definitely speaking of her.

Dr. Cadwallader had attended her not two hours ago to ascertain what had caused last night’s fainting spell. He’d advised her to leave off lacing her corset so tight. The wretch should have told her the truth. But maybe he was right not to, considering her present reaction. She wished to heaven she hadn’t heard anything at all.

Maclin’s words jerked Laura’s attention back to their conversation. “Granted, she’s not much to look at, but I swear I’ve never seen another with such heart, you know? A real goer, admired by everyone, too. Must be quite a blow to face losing her like this. Shall I pour us another brandy, Lamb? You look pretty fashed.”

Lambdin grunted his assent and Laura heard the clink of crystal. So, that was all? They were going to dismiss her impending death as a “damned shame” and have another drink? For a moment she feared she would cast up her accounts right there on the foyer floor. Was the sudden nausea she experienced now a symptom of whatever sickness she had? Laura swallowed hard and sniffed. Tears dripped onto her bodice and she hadn’t even realized she was weeping.

“Shouldn’t she be isolated to keep this from spreading?” Maclin asked. “I shudder to think of all you have at risk here.”

“Doc swore it isn’t contagious. Quite a rare condition,” Lambdin replied. “Caused by an insect bite, he believes. Said it’s not terribly uncommon in some parts of the world. Certainly is hereabouts, however. The disease lies dormant, he says, for years in some instances. And then—”

Laura heard the snap of his fingers, followed by a few seconds of silence before he continued. “She’ll weaken toward the last, as I said. I really hope Laura won’t guess how serious it is until it’s over and done. Easier on her that way. Perhaps not knowing will prevent her dashing about unnecessarily trying to find a cure. There simply isn’t one to be had. Poor Laura, I dread it for her. You won’t let on to her, either, will you, James?”

Laura covered her mouth with a fist to stifle a wail of despair. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head in denial.

“You know I won’t. How long does Doc think before this runs its course?” James asked.

“A few months at most, maybe less,” Lambdin said sadly. “Damn it, James, I shall miss her, y’know.”

Laura pushed away from the wall and staggered back toward the stairs. She couldn’t think what to do next. Her first inclination had been to rush in and demand that Lambdin tell her everything Dr. Cadwallader had said about her condition. But she figured she had already heard as much as she could deal with for the moment.

Maybe the doctor was wrong. He must be mistaken. She’d never been ill in her life. That attack of vapors last night resulted from wearing tight stays, as he had said, and she had imbibed more wine than usual at dinner. Surely, the combination had caused her faint. But the doctor would never lie to Lambdin about such a matter. Why on earth would he?

When the door knocker sounded, Laura looked down and saw that she was gripping the newel post as though it were a lifeline. Her fingers wouldn’t obey her command to turn loose. Dumbly she watched Lambdin exit the study and answer the front door.

“Ah, Mr. Wilder! Father wrote to us about you,” her brother said. “Isn’t every day one gets a visit from a Scotland Yarder out this way. I’m Lambdin Middlebrook.”

“I am no longer with the Yard,” the man corrected quietly.

“No, no, of course you aren’t. Should have paid more heed. I thought Father said…well, you were to uncover something havey-cavey about the shipping, weren’t you?” Lambdin probed.

Lord, Laura wished Lambdin would stop nattering, pay the man and send him away. She needed desperately to learn more about Dr. Cadwallader’s predictions for her.

The visitor shifted his leather case to his left hand. “Yes. My business, Wilder Investigations, is an individual concern. Your father’s aware of that, if you are not.”

“Ah, yes, that’s it!” Lambdin gushed. “A private enquiry agent! Of course, I remember now. Well, come in, come in!”

The guest entered and shook Lambdin’s outstretched hand. Even as he did so, the man’s piercing green gaze fell on her. Dimly Laura registered the impression of emeralds set in gold. Golden skin, sun kissed, as though he dwelt in warm, southern climes. Soft, dark and wind tossed waves framed his strong features.

The stranger projected a gilded warmth that drew her, as though somehow he might banish this frightful coldness if she let him. Then, suddenly, he deliberately did something to shutter all that, and the intensity of his regard made her uncomfortable.

Laura sucked in a deep breath and tried to muster what composure she could. He made her feel like a bug pinned to a collection board. Pinned by those eyes. Eyes that seemed to ferret out everything. Once again, something flickered briefly in their jeweled depths. Compassion?

Could he see at a glance that she was doomed? Dying, even as he watched? She couldn’t bear it.

With a sob she couldn’t contain, Laura took to her heels and clattered up the stairs.

The upper hallway had never seemed so long. When she finally reached her room, Laura slammed the door behind her, turned the key and threw herself across her bed.

She was not going to die. She wasn’t! There was some ghastly mistake here. The doctor was old, confused. Or Lamb and Charles were playing some horrible joke on her. They knew she was eavesdropping and were teaching her a lesson. Perhaps she had imagined it all. Or her ears had deceived her.

Oh God, she couldn’t be dying. She flatly refused to die!

Sean Wilder looked a question at his host, though he didn’t bother to ask who the scurrying little rabbit might be. He didn’t usually affect women quite that profoundly. And—modesty aside—when he did so they usually ran to him, not away. True, his size intimidated some. That must be the case. She was a wee mite of a thing.

Pretty, too, he had noticed. Petite and curved in all the right places. He would bet the hefty fee from his last case that her shape was natural, and not the result of fashionable underpinnings. That umber hair of hers gleamed like flawless satin against her well-shaped head. Made a man wonder what it would look like loosened from that untidy chignon and swinging free about her shoulders. He recalled then that those wide gray eyes had already been wet when he first saw her. She hadn’t run from him, then. Perhaps she had just received a dressing-down from Middlebrook for shirking her duties.

“My sister,” the fellow explained, summarily dashing Sean’s theory about a rebuked servant. “Been off her feed here lately. Sorry if she seemed rude.”

“She seemed upset,” Sean said bluntly.

Middlebrook shrugged. “Oh, you know, women suffer these megrims time to time. Had the doctor to her just this morning.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” To his surprise, Sean found himself wishing very hard that the man’s answer would alleviate his worry. Why the hell should he care one way or the other? The girl meant nothing to him. God only knows he had seen scores of women in straits far more dire than this pampered pigeon’s worst nightmares. But for some reason, he needed to know what was wrong.

Middlebrook obviously took Sean’s question as a polite response and ignored it as he led the way into a well-appointed study. The young man introduced his friend who was busy pouring drinks. “This is Mr. Sean Wilder, James. Sir, my neighbor, James Maclin.”

Sean noted Maclin’s hands tremble on the decanter and glass and the fellow’s dawning expression of awe. So, this one was no stranger to London’s gossip mill. Affecting his most enigmatic smile, Sean slowly inclined his head in greeting. He rather enjoyed Maclin’s discomposure. Fostering his black reputation remained one of the small pleasures Sean allowed himself.

“Don’t mind James,” Middlebrook said. “He’s only hanging about to see my new foal when it arrives. Interested in breeding, sir?”

“Not at all,” Sean declared abruptly. He had little use for horses other than their getting him from one place to another. They were fractious beasts at best, and he had never had the slightest desire to own one. Besides, distractions from business at hand always bothered him and he did not intend to encourage this one. The lovely watering pot dashing up the stairs had proved distraction enough already. He could ignore fury, petulance, even outright seduction, but a woman’s tears stopped him in his tracks every time. What in the world could have set her off like that?

Middlebrook looked miffed at Sean’s disinterest in his stables. “Very well, then. Have a seat if you will. You have the information my father requested before he left? I recall I’m to forward it to him as soon as he sends word where to post it.”

Sean shook off thoughts of Middlebrook’s sister and drew the documents out of his case. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to get involved in anyone else’s problems.

Still the young woman had looked so confoundingly tragic, clutching that stair rail. He could still envision the white of her knuckles and the trembling of her full lower lip. Damn! He shook his head to clear it of the troubling image.

He knew better than this. Once a man let a woman get close enough to make him worry about her, he might as well go ahead and lift his chin for the throat-cutting.

No, a real attachment didn’t bear thinking about. He had already traveled that scenic route twice with young ladies of good name. The first time proved devastating. The second had only pinched his pride, of course. One learned.

If he had any driving ambition at all, it was to avoid any emotional entanglement with another female. Now, a physical entanglement would be welcome as hell, he thought, repressing a smile. But Miss Middlebrook was not that sort.

Best get his business completed and remove himself from the vicinity before the idea of seducing her took root.

“You should pass these reports along as soon as possible so your father can take action on them. He is losing a fortune even as we speak,” Sean advised the lad.

A pair of old Middlebrook’s shipping managers were skimming funds on both sides of the water. Middlebrook had specifically asked him not to kill anyone involved. Some wag or another must have added “paid assassin” to Sean’s list of dubious talents. The thought prompted a grin. Fear certainly had its uses.

“I assume he left instructions as to my remuneration?” Sean asked politely.

Sean had sensed the fear underlying the elder Middlebrook’s disdain the day he had hired him. But only once in this business had someone tried to cheat him. One of his clients—a banker, ironically—had refused to pay once Sean had completed a job for him. A neighbor discovered the man dead of knife wounds the very next day. Never mind that Sean had spent the entire evening with the chief inspector of Scotland Yard. Never mind that the real culprit had been caught and punished by hanging. The gossips would have it that Wilder “had his ways.” Sean didn’t mind. Reputation was everything in this business.

“Oh yes, of course. I’m to see to it.” Middlebrook stashed the folder of facts in the desk drawer and handed over an envelope containing a presigned cheque. Sean verified the amount and they shook hands. “Tea’s in one hour. You’ll stay, of course?”

The boy’s offer of refreshment was solely due to ingrained manners, Sean knew. He meant to refuse, but on second thought, accepted. He would see the girl one more time. Just once, to find out whether she was recovering from whatever had caused her tears.

Not that he cared all that much. It was that cursed curiosity of his. Besides, a four-hour trip loomed ahead and he felt sharp-set even now. He only hoped he wasn’t delaying his departure for a mere handful of cucumber sandwiches.

“James and I are just off to the stables. You’re welcome to join us,” the lad said.

Sean smiled at the halfhearted offer. He had put the lad off with his bluntness. Of course, that had been his intention, but it served no purpose now. He had the balance of his fee in his pocket and an hour to kill before a free meal. “Yes, I could use a brisk walk after that carriage ride. I’ll admit knowing nothing about the business, Middlebrook. What sort of horses do you breed?”

That did the trick. Middlebrook and Maclin carried the conversation, with Maclin darting anxious looks as though he expected Sean to make off with all the cattle. Suppressing satisfied laughter, Sean only needed to add polite grunts and hums of feigned interest.

Normally he would not have bothered with this little pup and his horse-mad prattle. He would have taken his leave the moment the boy forked over the blunt. Sean assured himself that only hunger had prompted his acceptance of the invitation. The young man’s weeping sister had little to do with his tarrying at Midbrook Manor.

Getting involved with a woman like this one, however intriguing she might be, would prove foolish at best. Camilla Norton had intrigued him recently, too, he reminded himself with a barely restrained grimace. And for all his experience with women, that relationship had proved fiasco enough for the year. Give him a good, honest whore any day of the week.

He had his life sorted out just the way he wanted it now and he wasn’t about to muck it up again. Control, that was the thing. He had worked damned hard to attain that and, by God, he meant to keep it, too. No more women messing about with his finer feelings, what little there was left of them.

This curiosity about Laura Middlebrook was only that, Sean decided firmly. Simple curiosity. The girl would be well over whatever was wrong with her by teatime. He would fortify himself with whatever culinary delights were offered at tea, see that she was fine, and then he would be on his way.

When the time came, tea proved interesting. Not the tea itself, Sean mused, but the serving of it. Miss Middlebrook poured. All over the table, as a matter of fact. He had to shove back sharply to keep from getting a lapful. She reacted strangely, as though the accident rated a distant second to whatever really concerned her. Even her brother’s sharp curse didn’t seem to register.

She summoned a maid and had the mess cleared away. Then she retired to her own chair with a cup and gave rein to her preoccupation. Sean wanted desperately to ask what that was.

Instead, he consumed every morsel set before him, absently answering Middlebrook’s questions between bites of delicious little spiced beef pies and cakes iced with lemon sugar. Very deliberately, he concentrated on the food, ignoring the girl.

“So, your mother lives in Cornwall? Lovely place, I’ve heard. Never been there myself. My betrothed has an aunt and uncle who reside in Trevlynton, though, on the coast,” Middlebrook chattered on. “Just got myself spoken for, y’see. Nineteen’s rather young to get myself yoked, but I was lucky to find a pearl like Jillian. Can’t let her get away. Are you wed, sir?”

“No,” Sean snapped. He had shot the boy a threatening look before he realized the question wasn’t meant as a taunt.

Suddenly Sean could not wait to get away. This empty-headed chatterbox and his gape-mouthed friend annoyed him. As did his own inclination to sort out the little Middlebrook beauty’s dilemma. “I am poor company this afternoon, and I do have things pending in town,” he said curtly. “I will excuse myself now and head back.”

“Of course,” Middlebrook agreed rather heartily. “Good of you to come all this way to deliver the results of your enquiries.”

Sean inclined his head. “Your father compensated me well for it. Part of the job.”

“Laura, fetch Mr. Wilder his hat and cane, would you? There’s a dear,” Middlebrook said. Maclin exhaled with what appeared to be profound relief.

The girl set down her cup with a clatter, rose hurriedly and immediately tripped on the edge of the rug. Sean caught her before she hit the floor. She shuddered in his arms like a wounded bird. He battled the urge to embrace her fully, to calm her trembling, to try to make her smile. A dangerous impulse, and a stronger one than he wanted to admit.

But what had her so flustered she couldn’t even take tea properly? Devil the little chit, she couldn’t even walk straight.

“There now,” he soothed. “Are you steady?” He lowered her to the settee, knelt and took her hands in his. “Did you injure yourself?”

Her head shook frantically. When she finally did speak, the words issued on a gasp. “Fine. I’m fine.” She snatched her hands away from his and buried them in her lap. “I’m all right.”

Middlebrook had gone around the back of the settee to rest his hands on her slender shoulders. There was nothing else Sean could think to do but rise and take his leave. Certainly the wisest course. “If you’re certain?” he said, still unwilling to leave her in such a state. He was definitely not behaving like himself at all. “I’ll see myself out.”

She nodded, seeming only a bit less muddled. Her shoulders squared like a little soldier’s, and a strained smile stretched her lovely bow-shaped lips. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilder.” She drew in an audibly shaky breath. “Do…do come again.”

Come again? Not bloody likely he’d do that. Sean located his hat beside an Oriental urn in the foyer. The cane was missing. His favorite sword cane, too. But after a few moments of looking about for it, he abandoned the search. The loss of it seemed a small price to pay for getting himself out of Midbrook Manor in a hurry. The need to hang about until he had satisfied his concern for Laura Middlebrook bothered him far more than the cost of a new cane.

He had concluded his business here and that was all there was to it. No need to think about Miss Middlebrook any longer. He would put her right out of his mind, where she belonged.

“Don’t you know who he is?” Maclin demanded of Lamb the moment they heard the front door close. “You haven’t any idea, have you?”

Laura leaned against the rolled arm of the settee, unable to shake the weakness in her limbs enough to rise. She only hoped Lambdin and James would leave her in peace and continue their visit elsewhere. With her eyes trained on the two, she tried to will them away. The effort to speak seemed too great.

“You heard him,” Lamb said idly as he nibbled on the last ladyfinger. “Enquiry agent. Dreadful old bore, wasn’t he?”

“Bore, my Aunt Fanny! That man is the talk of the town, he is! You wouldn’t know, stuck out here in the wilds as you are, but they say he’s directly out of the stews. Whitechapel, in fact!” He paused to shudder. “Born a bastard in a whor—uh…house of ill repute.”

Maclin narrowed his eyes and leaned forward to shake a finger under Lambdin’s nose. “And you’ll never in a thousand years guess who they say his father is!”

“Who?” Lamb asked, polishing off the last of the cakes. He licked a sticky finger and smiled at the prospect of James’s tattle.

“The prince. Yes, Old Bertie himself!”

Lamb laughed and waved off the idea as he stood up and stretched. “Nah, Bertie was straight as an arrow! A right prig of a fellow, else the queen would’ve sent him packing.”

“Little you know, you old rustic! They say Wilder’s mother suffered a comedown of one sort or another. Very wellborn, so I heard, but her family booted her right out, just disowned her, and then she…”

“Here now!” Lambdin interrupted, stepping around the end of the settee and laying a hand on James’s shoulder. “We’d best leave off with this. Laura’s not up to snuff at the moment and this is no topic to trouble her with. Not proper anyway.”

He leaned down and took her elbow. “Come on, old girl, why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie down, eh? Looks a bit peaked, don’t she, James?”

She allowed him to lead her to the stairway. With a murmur of thanks, she did as he suggested. Lord knows she felt good for little else at the moment. And James’s tale of Mr. Wilder’s ancestry made her slightly more ill than she already was.

Laura welcomed Lambdin’s belated concern. She knew he soft-peddled it so as not to alarm her further and she appreciated that. But she couldn’t stand that he had told James Maclin of her illness, even though his doing so did make perfect sense. He had wanted someone to talk to about it. She wished for the same, but Laura knew instinctively that anyone’s pity would undo her completely.

Had Lamb also told the man who stayed for tea? Did you know my poor old sister’s dying, sir? That’s why she tore off in such a snit. Can’t control herself. So sorry.

No, Lamb would never do such a thing. Even so, Mr. Wilder had seemed a trifle too curious with all that staring he had done. A handsome man of the world such as he shouldn’t have glanced twice at a clumsy country girl who was “not much to look at.” James Maclin had described her that way to Lambdin, and in exactly those words.

Wounded vanity ought not to mean much at this point, but it certainly did. Here she was, old, ugly, and…dying. She shrugged off her self-pity with no little effort, busied herself undressing, and then donned her best nightgown. No use to go on and on about it, she told herself sternly. She would just forget she had ever heard it. It wasn’t true in any case. She was fine. Just fine.

The bed felt too soft when she lay down. Would they cushion her coffin, she wondered? God, she had to stop these morbid thoughts. What use was it to dwell constantly on what would happen? She should concentrate on the time she had left, such as it was. If it was true. Could it be?

Laura yanked the covers over her head and curled into a ball. So many things she had yet to do. Her entire twenty-five years had been spent here in the country looking after Lamb and the estate while their parents either traveled or lived abroad.

She knew more about farm matters than most men. With her gone, the haughty Mr. Williams might have to live up to his post as manager, she thought with a smirk. Thus far, all the man had seemed capable of was warding off her suitors, few as they were, and bailing Lamb out of trouble now and again. He had certainly proved proficient at both. Perhaps with his task as watchdog cut in half by her demise, he would have time to see to the business of running Midbrook’s farms. God knows she was sick of paperwork. Perhaps He did know, and that was why…

She would be gone. No more. Dead.

For a long time—perhaps hours—Laura lay there contemplating. Slowly she came to terms with what she had heard. At least for the moment. Strange, how she could almost tolerate the horror of thinking about it.

Not that she looked forward to dying, but reluctant acceptance was better than outright hysteria. She could not allow herself to fall apart.

Her brother had borne the news with surprising strength. And she knew now that she would not ask him to discuss the matter with her. Somehow his determination to spare her the dread of death seemed conscientious, something Lambdin almost never was.

Dr. Cadwallader had obviously advised him, and both believed they were doing the right thing to pretend to her that nothing was wrong. The least she could do was humor them and appreciate their misguided thoughtfulness. She would not speak of it to them. Ever.

Laura decided the thing that bothered her most about dying was that she had never really lived. Life had slid right by her, day after boring day, year after boring year. She had not even had a happy family life to compensate.

Gifts had arrived, expensive things which hardly made up for the lack of parental involvement in her life or Lambdin’s. But some treats had been thoughtfully chosen—Lamb’s prized Arabian, Caesar, and her own beloved little mare, Cleopatra. Her parents had shipped them all the way from Egypt. Ostensibly, the horses were for breeding purposes, but Laura just knew her parents had their children’s pleasure in mind when selecting those two.

How had they known her one great joy was riding? And that she would adore the mare with all her heart? Perhaps Mother and Father did care in their own distracted way. Would they miss her when she was gone? Would they even know the difference?

Father was not really her father, of course. Not as he was Lambdin’s. Still, he had adopted her when he married her widowed mother, giving Laura his name. She had never dared ask for more than that for fear Father would change his mind and she would be an outsider. As it was, she received the same infrequent attention as he gave the son he had sired.

At times she believed Father originally purchased the remote manor and its accompanying acreage just to keep her and Lambdin isolated and out of trouble.

That had certainly been his motive for hiring Mr. Williams as manager. As for her situation, the number of available suitors had kept her opportunity for misdeeds to a minimum. Thanks to Mr. Williams’s vigilance regarding those few fellows, she had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday without any hope of a proposal, proper or otherwise.

Now she would die an old maid. Laura Ames Middlebrook, Proper Spinster. Unwed, untraveled, unremarkable. What a truly rotten epitaph.

Exhaustion finally took over and the next she knew, morning had dawned. The bright sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows seemed out of keeping. She wanted rain, lots of it. And cold, mourning winds soughing through the eaves.

Suddenly Laura leapt out of bed in an unexpected fit of rage. She threw open the windows and stalked out onto the balcony, beating her fists against the railing. Damn it all, this was unfair! When was she supposed to live? Really live, instead of existing in this bucolic little burg, counting sheep and cows, and worrying over crops that were not even hers? Why did she have to do all the work while her parents made merry abroad and her brother played with his horses?

Well, no more!

She slammed back into the bedroom. Lead crystal perfume bottles crashed against the wall leaving gouges in the plaster. No more! The piecrust table cracked beneath the weight of her heavy water pitcher, scattering knickknacks everywhere. No more! Her breath heaved out in furious pants. One swipe of her arm cleared the mantel.

She looked around desperately, hands fisted and lips tight. Panic overwhelmed her. She slid into a crouch by the bed, her nightgown bunched at her knees, glass from the photograph frames biting into her feet. And she wept.