Cheryl Holt (39 page)

Rendered speechless, she glowered at him, then conjured the gall to mutter, “You bastard! After all I’ve done for you! After all I’ve endured!”

“You were well paid for your whoring,” he crudely remarked, “so don’t try to make me feel guilty. It won’t work.”

Bitterly, idiotically, she blustered, “I’ll retaliate for this.”

“No you won’t.”

“I know all your secrets; you’ll be ruined.”

Enraged that she would dare threaten him, he stalked to her and gripped her by the neck, his thumb and fingers digging in. He supplied adequate pressure to temporarily cut off her air, and she clawed at him, but he was too strong.

“I’m grateful to you for your services, so I will remain silent in my opinions as you search for another protector. However”—he shook her roughly and hurled her onto the bed—“if I ever discover that you’ve discussed me, my brother, or any of the women in my life with another soul, if you disseminate a single story, I’ll personally see to it that there isn’t a man in the kingdom who will have you.”

“Bastard,” she repeated.

“Don’t push me, Georgina. You won’t like the result. I guarantee it.” He stomped away lest, in his fury, he take a belt to her. At the door, he glanced to where she lay. She looked older, her customarily smooth, lustrous skin lined and aged, her countenance worn and weary.

“I don’t want to hear from you again,” he instructed. “Leave with your dignity intact.”

Their gazes locked in an onerous battle, then she rolled onto her back and studied the ceiling. She laughed, an eerie, unsettling chortle, but he was disinclined to dawdle or debate so, on light feet, he spun around and flew down the stairs.

“I’ve already gotten even,” she flung after him. “You’ll learn soon enough what I’ve done. But it will be too late . . . too late . . .”

Her bizarre cackle trailed after him, but he ignored her, unconcerned by her idle gibberish, and he experienced a swell of exhilaration that he’d split with her. The sense of freedom was indescribable.

A creature of habit, he hated discord and strife, so he avoided them like the plague. He continued on in situations much longer than he ought, merely because he loathed the upheaval that change would engender. The fact that he’d sent her packing was another budding trait he could attribute to Emma.

Through her incessant wheedling, she made a new man of him. How depressing that he had no one to note the extensive alterations!

He climbed into his coach, signaled the driver, and they were off.

What a night! When they finally pulled up at the town house, for once he didn’t wince at arriving home; he’d treasure the solitude. But as he sprinted up the front steps, Rutherford, himself, opened the door. It had to be after midnight, so his presence was a sinister omen.

“You have a visitor, milord. In the library.”

Emma! She’d swallowed her pride! She needed him! How magnificent!

He tamped down his burst of excitement, scarcely able to keep himself from running down the hall like an ecstatic boy.

Feigning apathy, he queried, “At this hour?”

“It’s your brother, sir.”

“Ian?” he blurted out. After everything that had occurred so far that evening, he couldn’t grasp this development.

Ian is here! Does he wish to make amends? Is it bad news?

Since their row at Wakefield, he’d missed Ian terribly, had chafed and fretted over where he was and how he was faring. John regretted their separation, rued every vicious detail of their reprehensible quarrel, and he yearned to restore their relationship to its previous harmony.

“He showed up after you left for the theater,” Rutherford was clarifying. “I advised him of where you were, but he didn’t want to track you down. He said he’d await your return”—he paused, apprehensive—“and I told him it was all right if he stayed.”

“Of course, Rutherford,” John said. “Ian is always welcome here. Now, thank you for tarrying, but you may take to your bed.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I am.”

Rutherford nodded and departed, and John was alone in the foyer. He lagged as his retainer disappeared, then he breathed deeply, bracing for whatever was coming, and trying not to be overly optimistic. Considering their prior dissension, any reception was possible. He’d pray for an amicable conclusion, but if the encounter ended direly, he didn’t want to be too disappointed.

He walked to the library and went in. Ian was standing by the fire. Impatient and testy, he’d adopted a military posture, his hands behind his back, his fingers linked. Though he was frowning, John’s smile spread from cheek to cheek. He was so bloody delighted to see his brother, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise!

Despite their differences, they could mend their rift. He was convinced of it.

“Ian!”

“Wakefield.” He displayed no emotion.

“I’ve been so worried about you. How have you been?”

“This is not a social call.”

“Ian, for pity’s sake.” He was stunned and hurt by Ian’s attitude, but he wasn’t about to start off fighting. “I’m so glad you’re here. I hope you’re home for good.”

“This is not my
home
.” Acridly, he added, “It never was.”

John’s smile faltered and he sighed. Reconciliation would be much more difficult than he’d imagined. He crossed the floor, desperate to heal their wounds. “Then why have you come?”

“I bring tidings from Wakefield.”

From Wakefield? Something has happened to Emma!
He stiffened, geared to be battered by a catastrophe. “What is it?”

“Emma Fitzgerald is pregnant.” Full of malice and menace, he advanced until they were toe-to-toe. “In order to conceal the disgrace you inflicted upon her, she is about to marry Harold Martin, that slimy, weaselly
vicar
—and I use the term loosely—who was assigned to the parish after her father’s death.”

“Emma’s pregnant?” Weak in the knees, he couldn’t absorb the announcement, and he sustained various waves of ecstasy and dread.

He’d sired a child! With Emma! How fantastic! How terrifying!

Why hadn’t she written? Didn’t she know he’d have helped her? Did she truly have so little faith in him?

“As you could never be bothered to speak with Vicar Martin,” Ian was scolding, “you have no idea what
a horrendous outcome this is for Miss Fitzgerald, and I can’t allow her to suffer it.”

“When is the wedding?” was the only question that seemed to signify.

“In four days.”

“So soon?”

“Miss Fitzgerald has no male relative to act on her behalf, so I will be her champion.”

“She doesn’t need a
champion
, ” John contended. “I love her; I’ve always loved her. Now that you’ve apprised me of her predicament, I’ll assist her.”

Dubiously, Ian assessed him. “Let me make myself more clear: You have two weeks to rectify her circumstances. You will live up to your responsibilities, or you will answer to me.”

“What are you demanding? That I marry her?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t?” Facetiously, he inquired, “Will it be pistols at dawn?”

“Precisely.”

Ian’s hand lashed out. He was clutching a riding glove, and the leather snapped as it cracked across John’s cheek. His head whipped to the side, as his heart sank.

Could Ian engage in such a heinous deed? Could he aim a weapon at his only sibling? With intent to maim or kill?

John couldn’t. No matter what Ian did.

“Ian, don’t be ridiculous. I could never—”

“Place a wedding announcement in the
Times
,” Ian interrupted. “I’ll watch for it. If I haven’t seen it in the next fortnight, you may choose your seconds.”

He clicked his heels, a rude gesture of farewell, then he skirted John as though he were repulsive.

“Ian . . . wait!” John implored, but he kept on, showing himself out.

John turned and stared at the flames in the hearth, then he went behind the desk and plopped down in his chair.

Was a dark star following him? Was he laboring under an evil cloud? How had he warranted so much misery and woe on a single evening?

Bone-tired, dazed, shattered, and confused, he leaned against the tall chair and gazed into the fire. Obviously, it was going to take more than a brief conversation or fervent wishing to repair his relationship with Ian. Perhaps he never would, and he had to adjust to the reality that his brother might be forever lost to him.

But what about Emma?

She was about to marry. Could he stop her? Did he want to? Did
she
want him to? If he rushed to Wakefield, would she castigate him for his romantic foolishness? If he decided to block the wedding, was there ample time to intervene? And how should he go about it? Was he prepared to ride into the village, storm the church, and sweep her away in the middle of the ceremony like some crazed knight of old?

The notion made him grin.

God, but he cursed the day he’d met the irritating, aggravating wench.

“Emma Fitzgerald, here I come,” he murmured to the empty room. “Are you ready?”

J
ANE
Fitzgerald heard the horse’s hooves riding up the lane. There was a carriage or wagon rumbling behind, but she was scared to peek outside to see who was coming.

Emma was gone, and with the news that she would marry Vicar Martin, Jane was terrified that the minister had arrived while Emma was out. What if he planned to move the furniture? What should she do?

She didn’t want to be alone with him. Not here at the cottage and definitely not at the rectory. Though she’d never admitted as much to Emma, the man frightened her. She couldn’t clarify why. He’d never said or done anything rude, but from how he looked at her and talked to her, she couldn’t abide the thought of living with him.

When Emma had first broached the prospect of marriage to Mr. Martin, Jane had listened politely, but she’d been alarmed. She couldn’t understand why Emma would take such a drastic step.

They were getting along admirably—considering. Their situation could have been much worse. They weren’t starving. Their cottage was cozy and clean, and they didn’t need Vicar Martin.

Didn’t Emma recognize his strangeness? Didn’t she sense the . . . the . . . weirdness that emanated from him?

If only the viscount hadn’t forsaken them! Jane had been so positive that he’d been fond of Emma. She’d
witnessed their affection, and she was still smarting from his abandonment.

How could he have left them to the likes of Vicar Martin?

Her visitor dismounted, walked to the stoop, and momentarily, whoever it was knocked on the door. Nervous and afraid, she glanced over at her mother who was rocking peacefully in her chair, undisturbed by the intrusion.

The visitor knocked again. A fire smoldered in the grate, and smoke curled up the chimney, so she couldn’t pretend that no one was home, and she hailed, “Just a minute.”

She opened the door a crack, and a gust of chilly autumn wind whisked by her. The brilliant afternoon sun streamed in. She blinked and blinked, unable to believe her eyes.

Surely, she was staring at a phantom! A ghost!

“Hello, Miss Jane,” Viscount Wakefield said. He was smiling, his golden hair glowing in the bright light. “Do you remember me?”

“Viscount Wakefield?”

“In the flesh.” He spun from side to side, as though to convince her he was real. “I would be honored, Miss Jane, if you would call me John.”

“I will.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“Out. Delivering a baby.”

“So . . . she won’t be here for hours. Or perhaps days.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured mysteriously.

“Please come in.”

Suddenly, she felt better than she had in a very, very long time, and she held the door wide. He entered, silently
assessing her mother, then he pulled up a chair at the table as comfortably as if he’d always sat there. She shut the door behind him, but peered out at the yard, where there were several empty wagons, the drivers milling about.

“Would you like some tea?” she queried, as she sat next to him. “We have a bit. I’d be happy to share it with you.”

“I don’t need any, darling, but thank you for offering.” He leaned forward, his arms crossed over one another, and the manner in which he evaluated her made her feel special and important. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Certainly.”

“What is your opinion of Vicar Martin?”

“I don’t like him at all.”

“Why?”

“He’s mean to Emma.”

“How is he mean to her?”

“He’s so grumpy, and he harps at her constantly, about how she should be different, when I think she’s fine the way she is.” She bent forward, too, and whispered, “And he’s terrible to Mother.”

“How would you like it if Emma married him?”

“I would hate it.” Upon confessing her reservations aloud, relief swamped her. “You won’t let her, will you?”

“No, but she’s exceedingly stubborn. We’ll have to work together if we’re to stop her.”

“I’ll help you however I can,” she fervently volunteered. “What are we to do?”

John divulged his strategy, and when he’d finished, she grinned, deeming it a grand idea.

“What about Mother?” she inquired. “She’s easily
confused, and it’s difficult to persuade her to leave the cottage.”

“I’ll deal with your mother. You won’t need to worry over her ever again.” He stood. “Will you introduce me to her?”

He held out his hand, and she grabbed for it and squeezed tight, liking how safe she felt with him nearby. “Yes, I will.” She led him across the room. “Mother,” she softly beckoned, “this is my friend John Clayton.”

Her mother frowned, reflecting on the name. “Clayton? Clayton? Are you related to the Viscount Wake-field?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he remarked politely. “He’s invited you up to the manor for supper.”

“How wonderful,” she said. “It’s been ages since I’ve gone. Will Edward be joining us?”

John appeared stumped, and Jane confided, “Edward was my father.” She blushed, embarrassed to have him observing her mother’s befuddlement. “Sometimes, she can’t recall that he . . . well . . .”