Return of the Viscount (23 page)

“And you drink to forget.” Her brother's past behavior began to fall into place.

“It doesn't help,” he said bitterly. “When you told me what Rowlandson had done to the tavern maid—I'd done so much worse. I let you have my responsibilities so I wouldn't have to think. When Father died . . . oh God, there was a part of me that was glad he would never have to know what I'd done, how I'd betrayed our family name.” He covered his face with hands that trembled.

At last, Cecilia looked at her husband. Michael's expression was grim, but he said nothing, only nodded toward her brother. Trusting her.

Oliver gave another shudder and looked up. His eyes were dry, his face haunted by a grief that suddenly made him look ten years older. “I can't go on like this. I know I've relied on you too much, Cecilia, but . . . tell me what to do to make this right again, to find some way to live with myself.”

“I think we need to find Jennette,” she said in a firm voice. “She's out there alone with your child. Illegitimate or not, this child needs you to provide more than whatever money you gave her. You need to support them both.”

He nodded. “Yes, you're right, I know, but . . . how?”

“Let me talk with Mrs. Ellison and see if she knows where the girl went. Servants often leave forwarding addresses to have things sent.”

Oliver nodded. “I can talk to her if you'd like.”

“No, I—” But she stopped herself. “You're right; you should talk to her.”

Oliver slapped his thighs as he stood up. “I'll do it before dinner.”

He marched toward the door, and she stared after him, feeling bewildered and heartsick.

At the last moment, he turned back. “Cecilia”—he reluctantly turned his gaze upon Michael—“Blackthorne, thank you for listening, and not judging me too harshly.”

“I think you've judged yourself,” Michael said impassively. “Now follow through.”

The words took on the tone of mild command, but Oliver only nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Cecilia stared at the door for a long moment, then everything she'd been repressing seemed to choke up her throat. She turned into Michael's arms and buried her face in his chest, weeping. He held her for a long moment, rocking her gently.

When the storm of her emotions had calmed at last, she stared up at him with wet eyes. “I—I don't know what to say. He—he
raped
a girl when he was, what, seventeen?”

“Do you realize how often such things happen among the nobility, Cecilia? At least he's found his conscience at last. So many powerful men believe they can do whatever they want.”

“Obviously, he believed it,” she said bitterly. “To think he . . . he . . .” She couldn't even find the words, only stared at her husband in confusion.

“He wants to make things right.” Michael gripped both her hands in his. “That's a good sign.”

“Do you think with all the guilt he's been feeling, he was the one behind what's been happening to me?” She'd thought her brother incapable of harming her, but he'd had no problem hurting Jennette.

“I don't think so,” Michael said at last. “I think his treatment of the maid has been tearing him up inside, not something he might have done to you. Going to court, hearing about the man who'd abandoned his wife and babe, it must have been too much for him at last.”

“I don't know what to think of him anymore,” she whispered bleakly.

“We can be appalled at his lack of forethought and morals, but certainly, I am not one to judge him, after all the mistakes I made.”

“Those were honest mistakes, Michael,” she said earnestly. “But what Oliver did . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Yet he's my brother, and I can only hope, by making amends, he becomes a better man.”

And then a new thought occurred to her, and she felt a rush of cold clarity. “I remember Jennette, but not well. She was only here for a year, so I don't know the kind of woman she is. But bitterness and hatred can do terrible things to a person. Could she want revenge?”

Michael nodded slowly. “It seems plausible. She might believe you didn't try to help her—or she might think she could ruin Appertan's life by making him look guilty of your murder.”

Cecilia sank back against the sofa and closed her eyes. “Oh, but she has a child, Michael, my niece or nephew. I would hate to think she was that kind of woman, for then she might not be a very good mother.”

“We can't make judgments until we talk to her.”

“You don't think we should let Oliver handle this alone?” she asked in surprise.

“This woman has a reason to hate our family. If Appertan confronts her poorly, it might make everything worse. It seems to me that he would welcome our support.”

She sighed with relief. “Thank you. I don't think I could wait around to find out what happens. But then again, we don't even know how long it might take to find her.”

“We'll hire an investigator if we have to, my sweet.”

As they waited for Talbot's announcement of dinner, Cecilia studied Michael, imagining that as a soldier, he must have had to investigate any intelligence that reached his regiment. He immersed himself daily in a world where good tried to defeat evil, and evil fought back with guile. She saw the nobility and honor of such a life and felt a pang of sorrow, knowing she could never ask him to give it up.

She thought again about Jennette's situation, and the fact that she, too, could be pregnant. “Michael . . . I feel so sorry for Jennette. I can only imagine how alone she felt, how vulnerable. And then to discover that she was with child. She must have desperately wanted to protect that baby, to give it a home. If I'm pregnant . . .” She trailed off, seeing him watch her intently. “Will our child be pulled between two worlds, just as I was?”

“Your mother made you feel like that, Cecilia,” he said with quiet resolve. “And you're not your mother. Our child will know how much he's loved by both of us, regardless of our unorthodox marriage.”

Unorthodox marriage,
she thought sadly. She wasn't even certain what that meant.

And then Talbot announced dinner, and they followed him down the corridor to the private family dining room. Cecilia kept glancing at Michael, limping at her side, and she knew that “unorthodox marriage” meant that he would leave her. She might not be as fearful and obsessive as her mother, but, for the first time, she had an inkling of her mother's desperation not to be separated from the husband she loved. With Michael gone, her life would become as if black and white. She wouldn't have his wit, his calm strength, or the way he made her feel like the only woman in the world.

She loved him, the honor that made him regret honest mistakes, the loyalty he showed to her father and to his men. But she would never use her love to bind him to her.

The door opened, and Oliver entered the dining room, wearing a puzzled frown. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it.

“What is it?” she asked as she rose to her feet.

She turned to help Michael, but he'd already followed her, and put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Mrs. Ellison knows where Jennette is,” Oliver said slowly, wiping his hand down his mouth.

“That's good, isn't it?” she asked.

“Penelope's family hired her.”

Cecilia blinked in confusion, feeling a distant sense of unreality, a prickling of unease. “Excuse me? How could we have heard nothing of this, not seen her in Enfield?”

Oliver shrugged. “Could she have been hiding, for fear I'd send her away from the only people she knows? I might have, too,” he added grimly. “I was certainly frightened enough. Mrs. Ellison says she thought nothing of Jennette's being hired by the Websters because the girl said she felt overwhelmed here and needed to work in a smaller household.”

“This would have been three years ago, am I correct?” Michael asked Oliver. “And both of you have visited?”

“Numerous times,” Cecilia insisted.

“And never saw Jennette or heard about a baby in the servants' hall?”

“Three years ago . . .” Cecilia suddenly murmured. “Hannah was still alive! She would have told me if she'd known anything about it.”

“Why would she have told you about hiring your servant?” Michael asked. “Perhaps she was even embarrassed, as if they'd lured the girl away.”

“But . . . none of this makes sense,” she insisted.

“It seems we have a mystery,” Michael said in his most impassive voice.

Her unease wouldn't go away. “Do you think Jennette stayed nearby to wait for the right time for revenge?”

“What?” Oliver demanded, stepping closer. “You think Jennette—” He broke off as the color drained from his face. “You think she came after you because of me?”

“Perhaps to implicate you,” Michael said. “There are not many ways to punish an earl after all, unless the crime is murder.”

Chapter 21

F
irst thing in the morning, the three of them set off on horseback for the Websters' manor, barely a mile away. Michael still felt angry that Cecilia refused to remain at home, but he trusted himself to defend her more than any of the servants, so he'd relented at last. She'd been determined to reunite with Jennette, needing to look into her face for herself and see the truth. And perhaps Jennette would speak more freely to another woman.

Michael didn't bother telling her that sometimes evil could mask itself as good and get away with it. Either way, they were probably going to have to involve the constable eventually.

The sky was overcast, and a breeze chilled them. He watched his wife, who, although wearing a cloak, seemed unaffected by the weather, her expression set with determination, ready to fight the world in defense of her brother, as she'd been doing her whole life. Appertan alternated between looking pale with mortification and grim with the knowledge that his behavior could have cost Cecilia her life. Revelation of his deeds would either improve him or ruin him. Michael vowed to make sure it was the former, for the sake of both Mallory descendants—and for their father.

The manor itself was a two-story stone building, surrounded by a white fence with climbing vines that had begun to brown with the encroaching autumn. Trees swayed in the wind near the house, and a gardener could be seen working in the side garden.

After they'd been admitted to a small entrance hall, a maid went to fetch Mrs. Webster, since Mr. Webster wasn't at home. Michael surreptitiously glanced past three doors that opened off the small hall, seeing a library, a sitting room of some sort, and a corridor to the back of the house. He tried to imagine the layout in his mind, wondering where the maid Jennette would be working at the moment—and where she kept her child.

Mrs. Webster hurried from the back of the house, flustered in her plain brown day dress and crooked lace cap. She peered at them above the spectacles perched on her nose. “Oh, dear, my lord Appertan, Lady Blackthorne, Lord Blackthorne, I cannot believe you weren't shown to the parlor! Please, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Michael followed his wife and her brother into a small parlor, decorated with family stitchery and amateur watercolors between traditional paintings. He remembered meeting Mrs. Webster at the dinner party, but the woman had left little impression on him except for her obvious devotion to Miss Webster, and the glowing pride she'd evidenced at how well married her daughter would soon be. But, of course, Miss Webster was the only child they had left. He couldn't imagine how it must have felt to lose their oldest daughter in such a tragic drowning.

When they were all seated in the cozy room, Mrs. Webster smiled overly brightly at Appertan. “My lord, it is good of you to call upon Penelope. Luckily, she is at home.”

The young earl cleared his throat. “Mrs. Webster, although I would be pleased to see your daughter, we have come on another matter. I understand that you have a maid working for you who once worked at Appertan Hall.”

“Why, yes, we do,” she said without embarrassment. “Jennette. A quiet girl, who has suffered terribly. We felt it right to hire her, when she was too embarrassed to remain at Appertan Hall.”

Mrs. Webster didn't seem to suspect that Appertan was involved in the maid's abrupt departure.

Appertan swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. “We need to speak to Jennette, Mrs. Webster. Would you bring her to us?”

Mrs. Webster pulled a bell cord that summoned a plump, older woman, obviously the housekeeper, then sent her off with the request. Michael could only imagine the maid's reaction after how Appertan had treated her. If she was innocent of the plot against Cecilia, she'd be frightened that Appertan might send her away permanently—or take her child. If Jennette was guilty . . .

Casually, while Mrs. Webster poured tea, Michael stood, ignoring the shot of pain in his leg as he leaned on his cane and limped to the window. He'd noticed the rear exit was on that side of the house, and he kept watch as if admiring the grounds. No one ran out. Mrs. Webster saw his interest and began to talk about the roses she tended all summer.

Cecilia could barely swallow, she was so nervous. Her spoon rattled against the fragile china cup as she stirred her tea. She'd almost jumped when her husband had stood up, but seeing him at the window, she understood his purpose. Her brother's knee jiggled with nervousness, and she longed to grip it, if only to stop him.

They heard two sets of footsteps in the corridor, and a shot of tension like lightning moved among the three of them. Oliver stood up so fast, he almost tipped over the cup Mrs. Webster was offering him. Baffled, she leaned back to look up, then saw visitors blocking the doorway.

Cecilia held her breath as Jennette stood beside the housekeeper. It was obvious the girl had been crying, for her face was stained with tears, and the housekeeper's blouse was covered in wet spots at the shoulder. Jennette took one look at Oliver and shuddered, averting her eyes. But that shudder wasn't one of anger, but fear.

Cecilia glanced at Mrs. Webster, wondering how she could ask the woman to leave her own parlor.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Oliver told Jennette urgently, as if he didn't care who overheard him.

Jennette trembled and held a handkerchief to her eyes and wouldn't look at him.

“Lord Appertan,” Mrs. Webster began, coming awkwardly to her feet, “I don't understand what is going on. Jennette has been an exemplary servant. If you wish to hire her back, the proper etiquette suggests . . .” Her words died away as she looked from person to person. “I don't understand.”

“Jennette,” Oliver began, stepping forward.

The maid shrank back against the housekeeper, who put a bracing arm around the girl and glared at Oliver, all rigid disdain and disapproval. Cecilia had thought the woman simply overweight, but now she guessed she had the physique of one who'd worked hard all her life, and now she meant to protect the maid under her authority.

“Jennette, please,” Cecilia began, “we don't mean to hurt you. We simply need answers.”

As if she'd somehow gathered her strength, Jennette gazed at Oliver tearfully. “I knew you'd find me, but I couldn't leave. I had nowhere else to go. You must want the baby, but you can't have her!”

Mrs. Webster's mouth fell open in growing understanding, and it was hard to look at her, knowing what she now thought of Oliver—knowing what everyone would soon think. When Michael came to Cecilia's side and put an arm around her waist, she was grateful for the support.

“I haven't come to take the baby from you,” Oliver insisted. “This is about my sister.”

“This isn't about Lady Cecilia,” Jennette said, her voice rising with hysteria. “She was good to me—but not you!”

Cecilia exchanged a glance with Michael. That didn't sound like someone who wanted to harm her.

Jennette hiccoughed on a sob, then whispered, “I should have gone farther away. But I was tired and sick, and Miss Hannah saw me on the road and insisted I come with her.”

“Hannah,” Cecilia breathed, feeling an ache of loss, even as she remembered her friend's compassion. Michael gently squeezed her waist.

At the mention of her daughter, Mrs. Webster put her trembling fingers against her lips and bowed her head.

“Miss Hannah said I should stay.” Tears fell down Jennette's cheeks. “I—I told her about the babe, but she didn't care, God bless her. When she died, I d-didn't know if I could trust that strange Miss Penelope, but Miss Hannah had told her everything. What choice did I have?”

Cecilia stiffened, even as she saw Oliver's look of shock. Penelope knew about his bastard? Cecilia felt a tingling down her back, an awareness of something crucial and important. Penelope had known the truth, and she'd still agreed to marry Oliver. That wasn't surprising—she would become a countess, and there were many girls who would wish for that. It wasn't just power and wealth—Penelope loved Oliver.

But . . . wouldn't she have given Jennette money to go away once she was engaged? Instead, Penelope had kept her nearby, under her control. Cecilia almost swayed, knowing how much her own need to be in control had gotten her into trouble. One couldn't control life easily; one had to learn the grace to go along with whatever happened—to trust in God, oneself, and those one loves.

But Penelope . . . Penelope must have thought she might need to use the baby to control Oliver someday.

“Where is your child?” Michael suddenly boomed out.

Jennette shot him a startled look, as if she'd only just realized he was in the room. “Who are you? You're not taking Darlene!”

“I am Blackthorne, Lady Cecilia's husband,” Michael said shortly, using Cecilia's previous title as if to make Jennette understand. “Is the child with Miss Webster?”

Cecilia gasped in horror. “You don't think—”

Oliver was gaping like a fish. “No. I don't believe it.”

Jennette's blotchy face paled to the color of dough. “What's wrong? Why do you all look like that?” She pushed herself away from the housekeeper and ran out into the entrance hall.

In the sudden commotion of people trying to flee the room, Mrs. Webster fell back in a chair. “What is happening?” she screamed.

“Stay with her!” Cecilia told the housekeeper, who nodded, eyes wide with fear.

Cecilia followed Jennette, Oliver, and Michael up the stairs, running as fast as she could to keep up with them. She remembered the house well, and knew they were headed for the small rooms at the back that constituted the servants' quarters.

“Penelope!” Oliver shouted.

Cecilia shuddered at the fear in his voice, even as a child screamed. Oliver must already be inside the room, while Michael held back a sobbing Jennette. Cecilia ducked beneath Michael's arm before he could stop her.

Penelope stood in the far corner of the bedroom, a chubby blond toddler pressed to her chest. The little girl cried pitiful tears and reached toward her mother.

Penelope ignored her. “Oliver, you need to go home. This doesn't concern you.”

She spoke in so calm and rational a tone that Cecilia felt gooseflesh rise along her arms. But her eyes looked wide and wild.

“She is my daughter, Penelope,” Oliver said, a tremor in his voice. “And you knew. Why didn't you talk to me about it?”

“There's nothing to talk about. I'll take her away from here. She doesn't need to disturb us. Jennette was a fool to get with child—I won't be anything like her.”

“Of course not,” Oliver said reasonably. “You'll be my countess.”

“I deserve to be a countess.” Penelope nodded. “I've proven I can control you, after all. I know everything that's been happening because I'm very good with servants.”

Her eyes slanted toward Cecilia, and the momentary glimmer of hate made Cecilia feel nauseous. She'd trusted Penelope—how had she not seen the truth?

“It was so easy to know everything going on at Appertan Hall,” Penelope said conversationally. “Cecilia, you thought you were in charge, but it was really me, as it will always be, once I'm Lady Appertan. Oliver was so easy to handle when he wanted to kiss me. I played Francis, the page, the same way, and he did whatever I wanted, told me all your secrets, until I knew so many bad things about him he couldn't stop doing what I wanted. He's very good at digging—did you notice that? But the bust falling, that was all me. So easy to hide behind those potted ferns you keep everywhere. After you screamed and everyone looked over the balustrade, off I went.”

The child cried out again, and Penelope gave her the sweetest smile. “Don't worry, little Darlene. I'll take care of everything. I know just how to do it.” She shot Oliver a sudden look of triumph. “I persuaded you to propose, didn't I?”

“You did.”

“You didn't love me, but what does love matter in a marriage? A marriage is about power, and
you
were keeping it from me!” She suddenly pointed her finger at Cecilia.

“I didn't know,” Cecilia said, spreading her hands wide to show she meant no harm. She felt Michael holding a fistful of her skirt, as if to keep her near him. She had no intention of rushing forward and risking her niece, not when Penelope was so near the open window.

“You were the reason he wouldn't set a date and make me a countess.” Penelope's voice rose slowly with each word. “I love him—I'll make him a good wife and a better man. But not with
you
there.” Her green eyes narrowed in rage. “You kept interfering, doing everything for him. I was supposed to be his inspiration, his guide. Why didn't you just leave with your
husband
?” She pointed at Michael, and her whole arm vibrated with her passion. “But no, you had to interfere. Hannah tried to interfere, too. She wanted to tell you about the baby, but I couldn't let her.”

Cecilia covered her mouth, afraid she'd scream at the images that now flashed through her mind. Had Penelope killed her own sister?

“What did you do?” Oliver cried, advancing toward her.

Michael pushed Jennette into Cecilia's arms, and Cecilia staggered into the wall to keep the crying maid from rushing toward her daughter. Michael caught up with Oliver.

“Stay away!” Penelope screamed, leaning her hip on the window ledge, Darlene dangling outside, shrieking. “I'll come find you, Oliver, don't worry. We'll be together!”

And then she swept her arm across the nearby table, upsetting a dimmed lamp. The oil spilled across the floor, and a fire started with a “whoosh” of sudden sound.

Cecilia and Jennette screamed; Oliver and Michael launched themselves forward, Michael diving for the nearest carpet to use against the flames. Flinging her leg over the sill, Penelope reached for a branch in the tree that the sisters used to play in as children. But the little girl gave a wild kick, which caught Penelope in the stomach, throwing her off balance. She teetered on the ledge, Darlene squalling and squirming. Oliver caught his daughter just as Penelope lost her grip. She started to fall backward out the window, her expression one of shocked disbelief.