0764213512 (R) (41 page)

Sometimes she had pretended that the passersby wouldn’t know, to glance at them, which was the real Lady Ella—as if all of Sussex hadn’t been exclaiming since Ella’s birth—sometimes in admiration and sometimes in disgust—about her brilliant red hair.

It was no wonder she always tried to claim it was auburn. Though she never minded being the center of attention, Ella had always preferred to earn the spotlight, not to be forced into it. As children she would sometimes hide behind Stella. Push her forward. As if she, too, wanted her to be the duke’s daughter.

Stella checked the direction on the letter she’d stashed in her handbag, the street sign at the corner, and turned her borrowed mount down the avenue. She would never be a duke’s daughter. But she could be a duke’s wife. A duchess. Higher than Ella, higher than Geoff, higher than the insufferable gentlewomen she’d had to kowtow to at school. Then it would be
she
Brighton bowed to as she passed.
She
people sought out for favors, for friendship.
She
Brice took into his arms and gazed so fondly at.

After securing her horse outside, she mounted the steps before the front door and rang the bell. It took a long moment before a servant answered it, no doubt not expecting any callers for another hour.

He greeted her with a sneer that would have gotten him sacked had he been
her
butler. “Servants around back.”

Servant!
Stella lifted her chin and realized only then she had been dressed to help Grandmum prepare their little garden plot for autumn. Why had she not thought to change before she came here? “Only one of us is a servant, and I assure you it isn’t me.”

The butler made to shut the door in her face—she stopped it with both hand and foot. “Your mistress gave me instruction to come.” She thrust forward the letter she’d received two weeks ago. The one Stella had nearly ripped up, in which Lady Pratt had arrogantly demanded news of her progress.

Snatching the missive from her hand, the butler studied the handwriting for a moment and then grunted and let her in. “I’ll thank you to exit from the rear. We can’t have the ladies who will be calling seeing riffraff going through the front door.”

Curses upon dull cotton dresses! She should have donned her linen morning suit, the one whose embroidery she had slaved over for two solid weeks. Then he would know with whom he dealt. Then he would fawn over her as he would those insipid ladies who would be laughing their way up the stairs in an hour. She snatched the letter back. “Just show me to your mistress.”

He directed her toward the drawing room, from which came the sound of a squealing brat. Stella paused just inside the threshold, trying to curtail her disdain. As if she needed any crawling, gurgling reminders of why she was here.

And hadn’t the lady funds enough for a nursemaid? Why did she soil her frock by rolling about on the floor with her baby?

Catherine, Lady Pratt looked up—and sneered. “What are you wearing?”

Blighted cotton. “Never mind that. You wanted news?” She waved the letter. “I’ll give you news. But you have to swear to me you’ll take immediate action.”

She outlined it all quickly as she could, the fire inside banking a bit more with each new spark of interest in Lady Pratt’s eyes.

When the lady smiled that mean little smile, Stella knew she had done right in coming.

“Don’t worry.” Lady Pratt set her son upon her lap and motioned Stella toward the door. “I’ll take care of everything. I know
just
how to use this.”

For the first time in days, Stella breathed easy. Soon Rowena would be gone. And Stella would be stepping into her rightful place.

Rowena followed the servant into a drawing room in the rented house, wishing she hadn’t handed over her handbag and wrap—she could have done with something to clutch. She had been so sure that she was meant to come here, to try one more time to help Catherine. She had been so calm as she bade Brice farewell with a soft, lingering kiss and climbed into the carriage.

But seeing one of the burly guards surveying the rented town home, receiving his instructions on where to sit and how to signal if there was trouble . . . her stomach knotted, and she knew that it wasn’t to be blamed on the bairn.

Inside the drawing room Catherine was laughing and tickling her wee one, who gave a great belly laugh in return. He crawled up into her lap with all the familiarity of a child who knew his mother better than his nurse and settled happily there.

Could she be a monster
and
a good mother? Rowena was none too sure.

The servant cleared her throat, disapproval in her eyes. “The Duchess of Nottingham, my lady. Shall I take the boy up to his nurse for you?”

Joy lit Catherine’s eyes as she looked up, soothing a bit of the concern in Rowena’s heart. The lady waved the servant away. “No, no, the duchess doesn’t mind my little Byron. Do you, dearest?”

“Not at all.” Rowena smiled and hoped the sincerity of that statement came through, rather than the conflict within her. Settling onto a chair near her hostess’s spot on the floor, she couldn’t help but gaze at the wee lad and wonder what her own babe would look like. Would he or she have the dark hair of Malcolm? No, of Brice. They looked enough alike that anything inherited from the monster they could attribute to her husband instead, and happily. Brice’s hair. Brice’s height. Her grey eyes?

Catherine transferred herself and little Byron to the chair beside Rowena’s. She grinned. “I see you’re not wearing the rubies to be slobbered on today. Wise of you.”

Laughing before she could check herself, Rowena touched a hand to her throat and the simple pendant she’d chosen for the day. Well, the one Brice had chosen, had fastened around her neck for her. He’d even pressed his lips to where neck and shoulder joined, sending a flurry of happy tingles down her spine. “Not for fear of drool, I assure you.”

Catherine smiled. “I’m so glad you could come by today, Rowena. I was beginning to worry for you. Have you been sick this whole time?”

“I have, yes. I . . .” It would be so easy to fall into small talk. But would small talk lead her to true revelations? She had so little experience in honest friendships.
Please, Lord, guide me. If I can help her, help me to know how.

The babe squealed and stood on his mother’s knee, clapping chubby hands to her cheeks. Catherine laughed. “Well, By is happy you are feeling better. Aren’t you, my little darling?” She anchored him with one arm but focused her smile on Rowena again. “I was afraid your husband would have been upset with you after that soiree. He was none too pleased to find us in Brighton, I know.”

“You needna have worried.” Rowena clasped her hands together and forced a smile—told her tongue to deliver only English syllables, to leave her Scots at home. “I didn’t realize your brother would be joining you here.”

“I do detest traveling alone. Though, of course, when Rush is going ever on about the expense of letting a house, I almost wish I had.”

Though she was listening for it, Rowena couldn’t tell if there was anything hidden in the tone of voice. Catherine spoke evenly, off-handedly, a laugh seeming to hover on her lips.

How often had Rowena laughed off dread and disappointment? But she had never been so skilled at it. “Your brother . . .” She swallowed, moistened her lips, and forced a smile. “He reminds me in some ways of my father.”

“Your father’s a miser, you mean?” Catherine tilted her head back with a laugh.

No mirth, even feigned, would come. Rowena nodded. “Aye, that he is. And controlling and stern and always hovering to make sure I didn’t do anything that would reflect poorly on the clan.”

Catherine laughed again. “Rush
can
seem stern, I imagine. But you needn’t be concerned over his scolding of me, dearest—and you are concerned, aren’t you? Sweet of you. But he is all bark.”

“No, he isn’t.” That she could state evenly, without a trace of shaking. That she knew to the very core of her soul. “I know the look of a man who is all bark, Kitty. And I know the look of one who takes his greatest pleasure in hurting others.”

“You . . .” Now Catherine’s good humor faded, hardened. But it wasn’t gratitude that filled her eyes, nor sympathy. It was . . . fury. “You little twit. You think my brother is cruel to
me
? That he—what? Controls me? Hurts me? You think me so weak that I would
let
him?”

A sting, but she ignored it. “’Tisn’t a matter of weakness—”

“That is exactly what it is! I would think you would recognize it, given that you haven’t a backbone to speak of.”

Rowena snapped straight. But
she
had lashed out before, hadn’t she? Attacking the one who wanted to help rather than the one who was the problem. “Kitty, I—”

“If you want to save someone from violence, you’re about a decade too late.” She put little Byron onto the floor and sat back up with blazing eyes. “And it’s
he
you would have had to offer your pathetic aid to. You want to bond?” She swept an arm out. “My brother isn’t like your father—my
father
was like your father. My brother is the only reason I never felt his fist.
He
always took it for me. For our mother. He is the only one in this world who has
ever
fought for me, and if you dare to insult him—”

“I’m sorry.” And yet Lilias’s words clanged about in her head.
“He wanted to make you stronger . . . and that’s how his father taught him.”
“I don’t mean to insult him, or you. I just recognized—”

“You’re too stupid to recognize the nose on your own face.” Catherine surged to her feet. “I am not a victim,
Duchess
. I don’t need your help in managing my brother, or whatever you came today thinking to offer. There’s only one thing I need from you.” She leaned in, towering over Rowena’s chair much like Father would have done. “The diamonds.”

Much like Father . . . but not. His tone, but not his voice. His posture, but not his build. Catherine was but a few inches taller than Rowena, a few pounds heavier.

And if she clapped her hands, her guards would come bursting in.

Nothing to fear. Which was, perhaps, why it was more sorrow than terror than filled her. “You don’t want the diamonds, Kitty. Not if you really think their worth will fix what’s wrong with your life. Not when their curse feeds on that very thing.”

Catherine straightened and let out a disgusted breath. “I should have known a Highlander would latch ahold of the ridiculous curse nonsense. They are just jewels, Rowena. Lovely, rare jewels that will soon grace the throat of a Russian princess and in so doing set me for life.”

“Ye’re wrong.” Rowena stood too, slowly but without qualm. “If ye want them for only selfish purposes, ye’ll taste nothing but the curse.”

“You want to talk about curses?” Catherine’s lips curved up into a smile small and mean. “Let’s talk about Malcolm Kinnaird.”

“What?” Now she froze, all blood seeming to rush from her head so quickly it left her dizzy. Frost blew across her heart.

Catherine laughed, but there was nothing light in it, nothing pleasant. “Let me make this so clear there is no mistaking it, even for a dolt like you.” She leaned forward, somehow still looking like the doting mother with her babe hanging on her leg—but for the utter disdain in her green eyes. “Find the gems, or I send a little note to one Malcolm Kinnaird saying you’re carrying his babe and trying to pass it off as Nottingham’s.”

Her stomach lurched, the bile rose, panic clawed at her neck. But through it cut another dagger altogether. How could she know that? How? The only people who knew she was with child at all were the staff at Midwynd, the family, and surely,
surely
none of them would have rushed over here and told her.

Would they have?

Catherine smirked, even chuckled low and deadly in her throat. “Wondering how I know you’re with child? Oh, I have my sources, my dear Rowena. Remember that. I know your every move.”

Please, Lord God.
Give me strength. My own is never sufficient, but yours . . . please. Please.

“I know your comings. Your goings. I know that the duke just announced the
good
news this morning, never guessing how you’ve duped him. Do you think he would be any less upset about that than about the Fire Eyes?”

Rowena sucked in a breath. Catherine didn’t know quite as much as she thought, whoever her source. “You’ve got it all wrong. I am with child, yes, but the babe is my husband’s.” He had claimed the wee one—and more, wanted no one to know otherwise. Certainly didn’t want Catherine spreading such terrible things around the society he so enjoyed. Having everyone, for generations, speaking of how he’d been cuckolded.

But Catherine just smirked. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But what, do you think, will this Malcolm believe?”

A shudder overtook her, too fierce to be controlled.

Catherine obviously noted it, given her mean little laugh. “Oh, this
is
good. The self-righteous duke who always made a point of being so much better than the rest of us ends up with a wife who’s already given herself to another.”