Lady Wild (6 page)

“Yes.” The word came out sounding far more relieved than he would have liked. That relief drove home just how much tension he’d felt in this encounter. What the hell was wrong with Vane?

His friend’s strong face suddenly seemed worn with exhaustion. “You shouldn’t be here, old man.”
It was so odd to find himself in this position. Andrew didn’t usually take an interest in the lives of others and in one day, he’d taken an interest in the lives of
three
people. Whatever was becoming of his sense of
ennui
?

“I shouldn’t look in on a friend?” he asked.

Vane crossed to the carved mahogany sideboard, lifted the sparkling, crystal decanter and poured out too very large brandies. “This house is not a place for friends.” He hesitated over the snifters. “Not anymore.”

“My, how dramatic,” Andrew said, tempted to cross the green and white intricately woven rug and drop himself in one of the terribly uncomfortable medieval carved benches by the fire. He refrained. “Have you been reading one of the Bells’ novels?
Wuthering Heights
, or was it
Jane Eyre
?”

Vane whipped around, his eyes flashing. “Do be serious.”

“You’re serious enough for the both of us, I think. Verging on the dramatic, in fact.” Andrew made an exaggerated wave of his hand. “Brooding and all that.”

Crossing the room and pushing one of the glasses into Andrew’s hand, Vane gave a tight nod. “I’ve left off happier days.”

Andrew lifted the snifter, the scent of twenty-year brandy suddenly spicing the air. Once, Vane had been the most mischievous, the most boisterous, and the first to laugh of their school set. Now? The man looked as if he might be suited for the position of undertaker. No. Not undertaker. . .
executioner
. There was a dangerous edge to his old friend that had never been there before. “Vane, I came here—”

“You’re going to leave here as quickly as you came,” Vane cut in. Any softening he’d shown vanished. His shoulders straightened, and he lifted his squared jaw.

“Now?” Andrew demanded, incredulous.

Vane gave a shrug. “As soon as you finish your drink. I’d hate to be a complete ass.”

So Vane
knew
he was being a bastard. And that wasn’t changing his behavior.

Andrew narrowed his gaze, unamused. “You’re my friend.”

Vane cocked his head, one black brow arching. “And if you wish to remain my friend, you’ll respect my wishes and return to London. We can meet there in a few days’ time.”

Andrew could hardly believe it. He’d traveled halfway across England to be summarily told to get out. And more, Vane clearly meant what he said. “I—”

“That is all I will say on the subject. Accept it or leave now and don’t expect to see me again.”

Andrew bit back a harsh retort. If Vane was indeed so determined that he should leave, what else could he do? He didn’t wish to drive the man off when Vane so clearly needed support. It was a cursed situation. If only he hadn’t grown so close to Vane all those years ago in school. If not for that, he could leave the damn bastard to his own self-destructive devices. “I will go only if you keep your promise and come to London and see me.”

Vane nodded, capitulating faster than Andrew had expected. In fact, Andrew hadn’t expected Vane to capitulate at all.

“I need the change of scene, in any case,” Vane said. “I’ve already been down here too long.”

“You’re acting strangely,” Andrew ventured. “More strangely than some of your tenants, Lady Ophelia and her mother, Lady Darlington.”

“Ah.” Vane’s face softened for a brief moment. “You’ve met our unfortunate ladies, then.”

“Yes. After meeting them, I’d been under the belief my day couldn’t grow any more curious.”

A faint hint of amusement tugged at Vane’s lips. “You were mistaken. And they’re not my tenants. They live on the neighboring estate. If they were on my land, their cottage would be in a damn sight better repair.”

Thank God. At least Andrew didn’t have to worry that Vane had become a neglectful landlord. It had crossed his mind, and he hadn’t been certain what he was going to say to his friend.

Andrew glanced again at the uncomfortable benches before the towering fire. “Am I allowed to sit?” Andrew asked.

It was damned awkward standing in the middle of the massive hall, drink in hand.

“No,” Vane countered. “You were saying?”

Andrew ground his teeth, then took a stiff swallow of brandy to relieve his irritation. “Do you know anything of the ladies?”

“Of Lady Darlington and her daughter?”

Andrew nodded, trying to check his considerable interest.

Vane frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. “My mother offered Lady Darlington a house on the estate. She refused but accepted my neighbor’s offer of a cottage. The proud lady insisted on paying a proper rent. Sadly, I had nothing that was quite right. And she refused my mother’s offer to subsidize their rents.”

Clearing his throat, Andrew asked casually, “What else do you know?”

Vane shook his head. “Only that they have been forsaken by the relatively new Earl of Darlington. I’ve never met the ladies. They largely keep to the other side of the river and neighboring estate.”

Lifting his snifter to his lips, Vane pounded back half the contents. “Ashamed of their circumstances, I think.”

Andrew stared at his brandy, wishing it was gin. He needed the harshness of that liquor over the rich sweetness of his present beverage. “I agree. I want to help them.”

“You can try, of course. But do be careful involving yourself with a beautiful young woman. Lady Ophelia has the reputation of a red-haired beauty.” Vane sighed as if saddened by the ladies out of his domain. “Given their seclusion, how did you meet them?”

“This morning, after depositing my luggage and finding you were out, I went for a long walk.”

“A very long walk, apparently, to the edge of the estate.” Vane crossed to the fire and propped a boot on the brass grate.
“I had no idea what foul storm of a mood you might be in and wished to fortify myself with fresh air and a bottle of gin.”

Vane grabbed the poker and thrust it at the burning wood. “Understandable.”

Andrew gave a tight smile. It was hard to imagine now why he’d set out from London three days ago in search of Vane. Rumors were being tossed about like wicked words at the docks. Rumors that the marquis was involved with a dangerous gambling set. The kind of set that might extract a limb if payment wasn’t received.

It was true he seldom saw Vane anymore, but once, they’d spent the better part of the late-night hours in each other’s company. There had been more than a few nights on the town, absinthe at hand and a few light-skirts with whom to drink it. They’d shared a common goal. Escape from the demands of disapproving and barely present parents. That long ago closeness made it impossible for Andrew to simply shake his head regretfully at those rumors.

Fighting back the desire to cut to the quick and ask what the devil Vane was up to, he said, “In any case, I met the daughter wading in your river.”

Vane snorted. “What in God’s name possessed you to wade—”

“Not I,” Andrew corrected.

“The daughter?” Vane was silent, then a dry laugh cracked from his throat.

Andrew grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. Something about Lady Ophelia made one feel as if the world was full of promise again. She’d even made Vane laugh.

“Yes,” Andrew acknowledged.

Vane abandoned the fire, strode back to the sideboard, paused, then glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. “How long is it going to take you to finish that drink?”

“As long as it takes.” He still had a quarter of a glass.

Vane gave a tight nod. “And what did you think of Lady Ophelia, then?”

Andrew took a deep breath, thinking how intimate he’d been with her. Christ, he’d asked her if she’d wished him to ride her. He wanted it, that was for damn certain, and from the flare of interest he’d seen in her gaze, he was fair certain that she did, too. Only a lifetime of propriety had kept her in check. “Why do you ask?”
Shrugging, Vane kept his attention on the decanter. “Because at the mention of her name, your entire demeanor changes.”

“Bollocks.” He refused to accept such a ridiculous idea.

Vane poured himself more brandy, then turned, bracing himself against the sideboard with the drink cradled in his palm.

Andrew held out his nearly empty glass, which Vane pointedly ignored.

Keeping the glass outstretched, Andrew challenged, “You don’t actually think I’m leaving when my glass is empty.”

“I do,” Vane said firmly.

“But surely I should pay my respects to your sister.”

Vane tensed. For one brief moment, he looked as if he might shatter. But then those dark eyes of his grew cold. “She’s not here.”

Andrew frowned. This morning, as he’d started his walk, he’d seen a young woman walking the high battlements of the castle. “I could have sworn I saw—”

“She’s not here.”

Andrew balked at the abrupt harshness of Vane’s tone. “But—”

“Go home, Stark. I’ll see you in London.” And with that, Vane tossed back the contents of his brandy and stalked from the room.

“I haven’t finished my drink,” Andrew hollered in angry protest.

The echoes of Vane’s booted footsteps were the marquis’ only reply.

Staring at the doorway, he couldn’t stop the growing sense that his friend had indeed involved himself in something very dangerous. And somehow, it involved his sister.

He could only pray that Vane would hold to his word, come to London, and divulge some of the mystery. Perhaps he could help. Perhaps he couldn’t. But at least then Vane would not face whatever was distressing him alone.

Contemplating the trace of amber liquid in his snifter, he let out a sigh. It was a wasted trip.

Ophelia’s fiery hair came to mind.

No. Not wasted. Nothing that involved Lady Ophelia and her mother could ever be a waste. Of that, he was certain.

Despite the aggravating meeting with Vane, a smile pulled at his lips. Soon, Ophelia would be in London. In his home. After he’d spent so much time uninspired by the events of life, it was a wonderfully intriguing thing to anticipate.

One Week Later

London

Would she come? When his coach returned, would Ophelia and her mother be on it?

Andrew closed his eyes and cursed. He shouldn’t wish her to come.

What he
should
wish was that she found contentment in her small thatched hovel and that he should then be able to find an arrangement with his solicitor where he sent a few hundred pounds or so a year to keep Ophelia and her mother in comfort.

Under such an arrangement, he’d never have to give Ophelia a thought. He’d never need to contemplate her fiery hair sliding through his fingers or her pale flesh and slim back as he slipped off her garments and corset.

The steely gray sky hung over the house, pressing on his mood. It wasn’t right, because Ophelia wasn’t some bloody cloud ready to turn the world inky with its deluge. She was the fiery sun, and to his consternation, he longed for her warmth.

He shook his head, ready to turn away, ready to find some vice that would turn his thoughts from the whole thing. But then, somewhere in the distance, in the din of the London rabble, he heard it. The clatter of first-grade, steel-plated, lacquered wheels making their way over slick cobbles.

To his horror, he found himself holding his breath. His fingers clenched into fists, and he stood stock still, as still as a man blindfolded, waiting for the firing squad.

The green coach with its gold coat of arms dashed around the corner of Latimer Street into the main square. The rampant bear of his crest flashed gold, even in the grim light. He stood his post, finally breathing shallow breaths until the murmurs of his staff drifted up from the foyer.

The soft glow of a female voice drifted toward him. Not hers, but that of her mother’s. He waited and waited for her to speak, half-afraid she wasn’t there. Then—