Cheryl Holt (39 page)

“I am every despicable thing you conceive me to be.”

“James!” Abigail scolded. She hated it when he disparaged himself in such a fashion. “Don’t act this way.” But no one was listening to her.

Jerald leveled his animosity on Edward. “Despite how he was raised,” Jerald grimly emphasized, “James Stevens is still your son. Will you let his behavior stand without reparation? Will you tolerate his refusal to make amends?”

“He’s an adult, Jerald,” Edward returned. “I’ve tried talking to him, but I can’t force him to do what’s right. I wish it were possible, but I can’t
make
him marry her. You know that.”

“He is of your blood! You fathered this . . . this . . .”—his eyes bulging, his nose beet-red, he directed a condemning finger at James—“this contemptible example of manhood. How can you bear to be in the same room with him?”

“I won’t dignify that with a response,” Edward snapped.

“Get OUT of my house!” Jerald shouted, pushed beyond his limits. “Take your bastard and go! And while you’re at it, be sure that Charles never shows his sorry face ‘round here again, either.”

“No, Jerald,” Abigail gasped, “don’t punish Caroline. She loves Charles!”

“Shut your mouth, Abigail!” he roared. Crudely, he said to Edward, “The apple never falls far from the tree, does it, Spencer? Well, I’ll not have any other of your detestable brood hounding the women of my family.”

James bristled and stepped forward. “You know,
Father”
—he emphasized his means of address—“I don’t care what this horse’s ass thinks about me, but it really bothers me when he denigrates Charles. Would you like me to pummel him for you? I’d be more than happy to.”

“No, James,” Edward murmured ruefully. “Jerald, I realize you’re upset, but please don’t make such a hasty decision about the children.”

“Go!” Jerald shouted again. “Before I call my servants and have the two of you thrown into the street like the carnage you are.”

“Come, James.” Edward sighed miserably. “You’ve caused enough damage here.”

They headed for the door, but, startling all—especially Abigail—James moved to her side. She was too humiliated—by her brother’s conduct and comments, by her own wanton, lustful comportment that had landed them in the middle of this dreadful scene—to look at him. He cupped her chin, raised her face to the light, and tipped her cheek back and forth. It was swollen and throbbing.

“Did he hit you?” he asked softly, ominously.

Afraid of what he might do if she divulged the truth, she didn’t reply, but then, she didn’t need to. The evidence was too conspicuous. He spun around, stormed behind the desk, and grabbed Jerald by the lapels of his jacket.

“With the amount of money you owe me, Marbleton,” he warned, “I make it a point to know everything that occurs in your petty little life. If I ever hear that you’ve laid a hand on Lady Abigail again, I will bring a few of your bastard children over and introduce them to Margaret”—their eyes widened at the implication, Jerald’s most of all—“then, I will kill you—slowly—with my bare hands.” He lifted Jerald off the floor until his toes were dangling and seams were popping, then James tossed him into his chair with a hard thump. “Think about it,” he cautioned.

He stomped away, but paused in front of Abigail. “If he touches you again, send me a note immediately. I’ll deal with him.” Amazing her, he took her hand and placed a tender kiss on the back, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “Now I must say
au revoir
, and I apologize for all this upset. I hope that someday you will be able to forgive me.” He straightened, but as he did, he was staring at a spot over her shoulder. “Let’s go, Father.”

They reached the library door just as the butler opened it. Caroline was waiting on the other side.

“What going on?” she queried anxiously.

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” Edward expressed.

“For what? What’s happened?” She was rapidly growing frantic.

“Your brother will explain.”

Edward patted her shoulder in commiseration, then he and James departed as a pall of doom descended on the house.

Jerald righted himself, then stood. “Return to your room, Caroline.”

“I won’t!” she asserted. “Not until—”

“I will not tell you again!” he screamed. As he’d never raised his voice to her before, the decree had the desired effect. With a final, sympathetic glance at Abigail, she hustled away, her skirts swishing as she stomped up the stairs.

The butler closed the door, and Abigail was perilously secluded with Jerald once more.

“Do you now understand what kind of man you have delivered into our lives?” Jerald seethed. “Do you see?”

“He’s not like that,” she persisted, remembering the warm chats they’d had, the tranquil moments, the stirring confessions, the ardent arguments. “He’s truly not—”

Jerald cut her off. “You will proceed directly to your room, where you will be locked in for the night.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“You will go of your own accord, or I will beat you senseless, then drag you there.” He was just outraged enough to carry through on his threat, and evidently he’d worry later about any possible retaliation from James. “You will never speak to Caroline again.”

“You can’t stop me!”

“Can’t I?” he asked gravely. “She will be taken from this house immediately so that she will have no further contact with you. In the morning, you will leave for the country. During the coming month, I will contract a husband for you. To avoid any scandal, you will marry as expediently as the ceremony can be arranged.”

In all her ponderings of the viable consequences, she’d never conceived of such a drastic resolution. To be married to another! While her spirit was still aching for James! After what they’d shared, she could never wed anyone else.
The very idea seemed like an atrocious sin. “I won’t do it, I tell you! You’ll never get my consent!”

“I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you.” He nodded toward the door. “Be gone! I’m sickened by the sight of you.”

James’s carriage rattled to a halt several blocks from the club. Pulling back the curtain, he peered outside. The surrounding establishments were doing a brisk evening business on the busy thoroughfare, so the area was well lit, and it was easy to see that traffic was stalled for quite a stretch. The cool night air beckoned, and he decided to walk the rest of the way. He rapped to signal his driver, and momentarily his coachman released the door and lowered the step.

There were scores of people out, mostly wealthy gentlemen in Town for the Season, so the short stroll was safe enough, but he almost wished the street had been dark and deserted. In his current state, he’d have loved to encounter a ruffian or two. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than the chance to administer a sincere thrashing to some despicable character who thoroughly deserved it.

Two weeks had passed since the hideous confrontation with Jerald Weston, and his heart continued to bleed from the grievous wounds he’d sustained. His level of outrage was so acute that he could barely function. After suffering through Abby’s stinging admission that marrying him would be a “terrible mistake,” he’d stoically tried to carry on, but her bitter words rang in his ears. Considering the manner in which he’d treated her, what had he anticipated? Love and kisses? Professions of devotion? By her denouncement, he’d gotten just what he deserved.

Still, he couldn’t get past the feeling that he should have compelled her to marry him, whether she wanted to or no. At least then she’d have been under his protection and beyond Jerald’s wrath. Whenever he recalled the swelling on her face, he saw red. Why he hadn’t beaten Jerald to a pulp for laying his filthy hands on her was a mystery, but he’d
already convinced himself that he’d caused enough anguish for all concerned, so he hadn’t dared go further with Jerald, lest he wind up committing murder. For without a doubt, if he’d thrown one punch, he wouldn’t have been able to stop.

Up ahead, there was a break in traffic, and his heart skipped a beat as he thought he spied his father’s coach. How he yearned for Edward to relent, to show up at the club, ready to mend fences, to have a late-night drink in James’s office as he was wont to do on many previous occasions, but the black conveyance turned the corner, and he realized that it hadn’t been his father’s, after all.

He missed his father; he’d not seen Edward since he’d exited his carriage in front of his grand Town house after their abominable visit to the Westons’. Edward’s disappointment had been so prodigious that he’d asked James not to call upon him for a time—until circumstances were more settled. He’d left without a wave or a backward glance, and James had felt abandoned all over again, as though he were still that six-year-old boy at the flat in Paris, listening for Edward’s footstep on the stair.

His relationship with his father had always been tenuous, and he didn’t know how they’d ever surmount this latest adversity.

Edward was now thick as thieves with Angela, so he missed his mother, too, since he never saw her anymore, either. In all this, she’d become Abigail’s silent ally. Furious that he had refused to ask for Abigail’s hand, she wouldn’t speak with him or receive him at the hotel. In all his years, he’d never endured any type of ongoing upset with his mother, and he had absolutely no idea how to repair their rift.

He couldn’t convince his parents that he’d acted appropriately, that he’d done what was best for Abby. The bottom line was that she could have married him, but she hadn’t wanted to, so he didn’t care how often or how loudly Edward and Angela screamed their opinions. Abby had chosen the only workable option.

She was tough, a survivor. The humiliation and disgrace would eventually fade, and she’d move on with her life. In the not-too-distant future, he’d be but a bothersome memory, a foolish indiscretion from her past. If that notion was disturbing, so be it. He had no claims on Abigail Weston, or her affection, and never had.

A female voice hailed him from one of the immobile carriages, and he instantly recognized it as belonging to Barbara Ritter. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock created by Jerald Weston’s discovery, he’d agonized plenty over how he’d brought such shame down upon Abby. It hadn’t taken long to conclude that Barbara had been the one to report their indiscretions. Abby had hinted at a conversation with Lady Newton that made no sense unless Barbara was already aware of their liaison.

While he was acquainted with many women who were sufficiently vicious to effect the damage Barbara had wrought, she was the only one with sufficient gall to carry on afterward as though she’d done nothing. Since that fateful day, she’d been unsuccessfully trying to arrange a tryst, which would have provided him with the perfect opportunity for a showdown, but his fury over her duplicity was so enormous that he’d been uncertain he could control his formidable temper if they’d crossed paths. He’d hoped the passage of time would cool him down adequately so that he could break off their association with some semblance of civility. However, upon hearing her coo and prattle, he realized that courtesy was not a possibility.

Why was she sitting outside his club, waiting for him to arrive? Perhaps this was how she’d learned of his
amour
with Abby. How often had she followed him about? Surely she understood that he was not a man to be trifled with in such a fashion.

“James,” she gushed through the window as he neared, and she held the door to the carriage, obviously expecting him to climb in, “how nice that we’ve run into one another.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by.”

“Really? On your way to what destination?”

The question stymied her, but only for an instant. “You’ve caught me out, I’m afraid.” She blushed appropriately. “I wasn’t ‘passing by.’ I’m attending Lady Carrington’s house party. Would you like to join me?”

“Is there some reason I might wish to accompany you?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Just then, two drunkards stumbled out of the tavern next to them, and lamplight flooded the vicinity, clearly illuminating his face. She was finally able to distinctly read his disposition, and she hesitated. “I wondered . . . ah . . . if you might . . .”

“Might what?” he asked disdainfully, tilting into the doorway, granting her a close-up view of his mood, letting his ire fill the small space in which she was enclosed.

“Darling . . . what is it? What’s happened?”

“It appears, madam, that you have involved yourself in my personal affairs.”

“What? Who told you such a lie?” She shifted uncomfortably. “Despite what anyone has said to you . . . it’s entirely false! I swear it!”

“No one had to
tell
me anything. Your deeds were quite easy to deduce on my own.” Intending to frighten, he seized her by the front of the neck, pressing slightly, though not enough to cut off her air.

“James . . . please . . .”

She squirmed, her eyes wide with dread, and he could feel her alarmed swallow against his palm. “I’ve warned you before, Barbara,” he threatened quietly, “but you have a terrible habit of failing to listen. I am not yours to command about.” He gave her a shake, then released her, and she shrunk against the squab, massaging her throat. “Never accost me in the street. I don’t like being propositioned as though you are some sort of Covent Garden harlot.”

“There’s no need to be crude.” She pretended offense.

“On the contrary, Barbara,
crudity
seems to be the only commodity you understand. So understand this: Do not solicit my company on any subsequent occasion.”

“James . . . what are you saying?”

“ ’Tis over between us. Don’t bother me. I won’t stand for it.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Oh, but I am,” he assured her, “but I doubt you believe me, so I’ve purchased a bit of insurance to guarantee your future conduct.” He searched his pocket, retrieved a notebook, and waved it under her nose. “I’ve been a busy boy the past two weeks. I’ve gone ‘round Town and bought up all your markers.”

Startled, she bluffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”