Читать книгу The Accidental Countess - Michelle Willingham - Страница 11

Cakes served at tea time must always be light and delectable. A hostess should smile and greet her guests with a gracious heart.

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

Later that morning, Dr Parsons checked the bandages and nodded his approval. ‘Your wife has done well caring for you,’ he remarked. ‘The wounds are clean, and your bruises are healing nicely. I should think you will be back on your feet within days.’

‘I intend to go to London,’ Stephen remarked. ‘Three days from now, if possible.’

‘My lord, I would advise against undue haste. If I may, I’d ask you to wait another week before you go.’

‘I do not recall anything of the accident,’ Stephen admitted. ‘Nor what happened to me during the past three months.’

‘Memory loss can occur with an accident.’ The doctor replaced the bandage, tying it off. ‘I have seen it in many patients, particularly those with traumatic incidents. Often a man’s mind will overshadow the event it does not wish to remember.’

‘When will the rest of my memories return?’ Stephen demanded.

‘To be frank, they might not. In cases such as yours, it is difficult to say. Your head wound and contusions are recent, but I doubt if they had anything to do with your memory loss.’ The doctor added, ‘I suspect that you were the victim of violence several months ago, judging from the knife wound. It may be that you won’t want to remember it. But I can say with all confidence, your headaches and pain should be gone within a few days more.’

Pain was the least of his concern. He was tempted to ask the doctor about the strange tattoo he’d found on the back of his neck, but decided against it. For all he knew, he had done something rash.

Like marry a woman he hadn’t seen in ten years.

After Dr Parsons departed, Stephen thought about his earlier conversation with Emily. He had not questioned her caring for the children, but her claim that he was now responsible for their welfare troubled him.

He decided to speak with the boy. If he could not obtain the answers from his wife, he would get them elsewhere. He summoned Farnsworth and ordered him to fetch the boy. Minutes passed, and no one came.

He waited longer, pacing across the carpet. Someone should teach the boy discipline and how to be prompt. It was never too early to learn good manners. When five more minutes passed, he opened the door to the hallway.

‘Come now.’ Farnsworth leaned down, holding out a sugar biscuit as bait. A sullen-faced lad gave the butler a defiant glare, but he took a single step forward. ‘It’s all right. Come here, please,’ the butler crooned.

‘Good God, Farnsworth. The boy isn’t a dog. Cease treating him like one.’ Stephen’s patience had reached its limit.

‘My lord, he won’t listen.’ The butler straightened, and predictably the boy disappeared behind a door.

‘I shall handle this.’ Stephen strode towards the bedchamber. When he tried the door handle, it was locked.

‘The key, if you please, Farnsworth.’

‘My lord, I am terribly sorry. I shall have to fetch it.’ The butler scrambled off, grateful to escape.

For a moment, Stephen listened outside the door while pondering his next move. Treating the boy like a child would not work. Instead, he knocked.

‘Go away!’

That was to be expected. Any proper opponent would be foolish to simply surrender. But he, of course, had the proper incentive.

‘You wish to leave my house, do you not?’

A pause. The strategy was not a move the boy had anticipated. ‘Yes.’

‘I suggest an exchange of information. You tell me what I wish to know, and I will see to your departure.’ He did not mention where, but school was a likely prospect. The boy needed an education, after all.

A longer pause.

The door clicked and opened slightly. Stephen hid his smile of victory. It would not do to upset the balance just yet. He needed answers, and he was counting upon the child’s honesty to get them.

Stephen entered the room while a pair of young suspicious eyes watched him.

‘Roland, is it?’ he began.

‘My name is Royce.’ The boy sent him a hard look and crossed his arms. ‘And I don’t like you.’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I can’t say as I like you much either.’

His response seemed to meet with Royce’s approval. The lines had been drawn, the enemy lines established.

‘Sit down.’ He gestured towards a footstool, but Royce refused. Stephan began with, ‘How long have you been living here at Falkirk?’

‘Since February.’ The boy’s attention moved to the door as though he were planning an escape.

‘Your aunt brought you here?’

The boy’s face softened at the mention of Emily, then grew defensive. ‘She sent for us, yes.’ He fidgeted, looking down at his hands. ‘You’re very tall,’ he said suddenly.

‘Do not change the subject.’ Stephen resumed his interrogation. ‘Why did your aunt marry me?’

Fear swept across Royce’s pale, thin face. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. You’d best tell me the truth.’

The boy’s attention lowered to the floor, and he clenched his fists. ‘I want my papa.’

Stephen gentled his tone. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’ He reached out to the boy, but Royce bolted for the door.

Stephen caught him before he could flee. The child’s shoulders trembled, and he broke into sobs. ‘I want Papa.’ Tears ran down his cheeks, and Royce fought to free himself.

It was useless. He should have known better than to demand answers from a child.

‘What have you done?’ The door flew open, and Emily swept into the room. As soon as she saw Royce, she bent down and gathered him into her arms. ‘You’ve made him cry.’

Like a furious mother lioness, she released the full force of her wrath. ‘He’s only a boy.’

‘I asked him a few questions,’ Stephen admitted. He felt sheepish, for the idea had not been a good one.

Emily mustered a smile for Royce. ‘Go and see Lizbeth. She has a slice of cake waiting for you.’

The promise of cake was all that was needed to send the child dashing from the room. When Royce had gone, Emily unleashed her fury. ‘You are heartless. What did you say to him?’

There was true fear in her eyes, not just anger. ‘I asked him a few questions.’ He took a step closer, watching her tremble. ‘What are you so afraid of, Emily?’

‘He doesn’t know his father is dead.’

‘Why not?’

A deep weariness edged her expression. The rage grew calm as she gathered her composure. ‘It’s my fault. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. He lost his mother when Victoria was born. And now his father.’

Stephen took her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken. Her hands were warm, and he smelled the light fragrance of vanilla near her nape. Like the sugar biscuits, he realised. And he found himself wanting to draw nearer. ‘Hiding the truth won’t make it go away.’

‘And sometimes no one will believe the truth when it is spoken.’ She held his scrutiny, jerking her hand away. ‘Go to London. You’ll find the answers you seek there.’

Her icy demeanour had returned. With her honey-gold hair tucked neatly into black netting, her face scrubbed clean, she appeared a paragon of virtue. She had changed her dress into an older gown, a dull black bombazine. Its hemline was frayed and it had been remade more than once.

He grew irritated at her martyrdom and seized both wrists. Taking her left hand, he gripped her palm so that the wedding ring pressed into her skin. ‘Stop sniveling and answer my questions. What happened to your brother?’

‘His creditors killed him while you were visiting your mistress,’ she spat. ‘He bled to death.’

‘I don’t have a mistress,’ Stephen contradicted. Emily tried to break free, but he refused to let go. ‘Do you truly believe I would let a man die if I had the power to stop it?’

‘No,’ she admitted. Even so, doubts clouded her face.

He moved closer, hoping to unravel her lies. But when his hand slipped around her waist, he saw the genuine grief in her eyes. Beneath the bombazine, the heat of her skin warmed his palm. His fingers touched one of the tiny buttons upon her gown, toying with it. ‘Who told you I was with my mistress?’

‘The men who brought Daniel’s body to me.’ She tried again to pull away, but he held her captive. Regardless of the means, he would have his answers.

‘And who were they?’ His hand moved up her spine, tracing the dozens of tiny buttons until he reached one at the nape of her neck. With the flick of a thumb, he revealed a bit of skin. He wanted to gauge her reaction.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I thought they were your solicitors or from your father. They were looking for you.’

Her hand clamped over his when he grazed her skin. ‘Don’t touch me.’

He ignored her, loosening another button. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t mean it. You don’t want me. Any more than I want you.’

A sudden flash of memory took hold. Emily stood before the fireplace in his bedchamber at Falkirk, her hair hanging down. Her fingers moved to unbutton his frockcoat, and her face was flushed with desire.

He dropped his hand away from her when the fleeting vision faded. Where had it come from? Was it real? Had they been lovers? Frustration clawed at his mind when the emptiness returned.

He leaned in close, so his face nearly touched hers. ‘Tell me why I married you.’ With her so near, he could smell the fragrance of vanilla. Her clear eyes were confused, her cheeks pale.

She gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened. With a light shrug she met his gaze. ‘You said you wanted to take care of me, to help our family. And like a fool, I wanted to believe you loved me.’

He studied her a moment. She looked so lost, so vulnerable. Behind her mask of bitterness he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d once known. She’d been his best friend, long ago. And now she was his wife.

The lost three months felt like a lifetime.

‘How did it happen?’ he asked. Had he courted her? Was it an impulsive move, or had he been forced into it?

‘It was just after St Valentine’s Day,’ she remarked with a hint of irony. ‘In Scotland. I have the marriage certificate, if you want to see it.’

‘Perhaps later.’ Documents of that nature could still be forged. He preferred to send a trusted servant to see the parish records.

He suspected that he would not get an honest answer from her, not when she was desperate to protect the children’s welfare. It had to have been an arrangement between them, a bargain of sorts.

But for her, there had been more.

Emily tried to pull away, but he refused to let her escape. She was so fragile within his grasp, like a glass about to shatter.

‘Were there feelings between us?’ he asked. He leaned in so close he could feel her breath upon his face. If he moved his mouth to the side, it would graze her lips in a soft kiss. He waited for her to push at him, to curse him for touching her.

She gave him no answer. Instead, her body seemed to conform to his. Her hands rested upon his shoulders while he idly traced a path up her spine. The years seemed to fall away until she was once again the young girl he’d practised kissing in a stable. Only now, he held a woman in his arms. A beautiful, hot-tempered woman who made him lose his sense of reason the moment he touched her.

He didn’t kiss her, though he wanted to. There were too many unanswered questions.

When he stepped backwards, Emily grasped her arms to shield herself. ‘Are you going to annul our marriage?’

The fear in her eyes made him hesitate. He wanted to say yes. Instead, he answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know yet.’

He traced the outline of her face with his thumb. ‘I am going to find out what happened to me, Emily,’ he told her. ‘Stay here until I return from London.’

Her broken smile bothered him. ‘Where else could I go?’

‘Sweet Christmas.’ Christine Chesterfield, the Marchioness of Rothburne, covered her heart with her palm when she saw Stephen. He embraced his mother, and she squeezed him tightly just before her fist collided with his ear.

‘I should have you horsewhipped. You frightened me to death. I thought heathens had kidnapped you and taken you off to some forsaken island in the middle of nowhere.’

Stephen rubbed his ear and managed a smile. For all he knew, his mother might have been correct concerning his whereabouts. ‘I sent word before I arrived.’

‘You should have contacted me long before then. You left Lord Carstairs’s ball, which made Lady Carstairs extremely cross, by the by. And then you vanished since February. Even the servants couldn’t tell me where you were.’

Lady Rothburne guided him to sit down, and poured a cup of tea. ‘Now, you simply must tell me everything that’s happened since you left.’

‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he admitted. He did not possess enough memories to offer an honest accounting, so he gave her what truths he could. ‘I’ve been convalescing at Falkirk House in the country.’

‘You were injured?’ Immediately she reached out and patted the ear she’d boxed. ‘Forgive me, Stephen. I didn’t know. But you’re well now?’

‘Better. I have little memory of what happened. I came to London to look for the answers.’

Lady Rothburne took a deep sip of the tea, and worry lines edged her mouth. ‘I don’t like the thought of some ruffian doing you harm. I shall call upon Lady Thistlewaite and ask for her assistance.’

At the mention of his mother’s dearest friend, Stephen suppressed a groan. Lady Thistlewaite had her sources of gossip, like most women. Her methods, however, left much to be desired. He could envision it now, a stout matron knocking upon an unsuspecting man’s door with her parasol, demanding, ‘Are you the barbarian who clouted Lady Rothburne’s son upon the head?’

‘And,’ his mother continued, ‘I think you should attend the Yarrington musicale next week. It will take your mind off matters.’ She put on a bright smile and took his hand. ‘Your father and I insist.’

At the mention of the Marquess, a gnawing irritation formed in his gut. ‘Mother, I really don’t think—’

‘Oh, pish posh. I know exactly what you need. A lovely young woman at your side, that’s what. Someone to share your troubles. And Miss Lily Hereford has missed you quite dreadfully. Why, the two of you make such a good pair. I have my heart quite set upon you marrying her. In fact—’ she leaned in close as if imparting a great secret ‘—your father and I have already begun drawing up the guest list for your wedding. Miss Hereford would make you the perfect wife, after all. She is a woman of impeccable breeding.’

At his mother’s assertion, Stephen’s mouth tightened. ‘Married?’

His mother laughed. ‘Well, of course, Stephen. If anyone is one of society’s most eligible bachelors, it’s you.’

She was serious. Blood roared in his ears as his mind processed what she had said.

It seemed Emily Barrow had lied to him after all.