That Scandalous Summer (42 page)

Michael closed his eyes.
Elizabeth, you idiot.
She hadn’t needed to do this. He’d had it well in hand. Damn it, she
should
have demanded money for herself. She—

He stood and threw open the door.

Alastair looked up from the letters. Elizabeth, turning on her heel, went pale.

“Eavesdropping?” Alastair said. “How charming.”

“Give her the money,” Michael said. “Eighty, ninety thousand pounds. Do it, or the letters go public.”

“No.” She stepped toward him. “No, that isn’t the right way. Michael—”

“I don’t need his support,” he said. “God damn it, I
don’t need it.
But you need the money.”

Her face changed. She stopped in her tracks, her hand at her throat. “And you think I would take it? From
him
? You thought better of me yesterday!”

He’d offended her. His idiocy appalled him. “No,” he said, striding forward and catching her hands. “No, you misunderstand me. All I want is that you—” He tightened his grip when she tried to break free. “Listen to me, Elizabeth! You cannot marry another man. I won’t
allow
you to do it. You will take the goddamned money!”

A scraping sound came to their left. Alastair had cast the letters into the fire, and was stabbing them with a poker.

“There are more,” Michael said to him. “And by God, I’ll print them myself, I’ll distribute them in the streets—”

Elizabeth’s hands turned in his, her nails against his wrists calling him back to the moment. “You will not,” she said sharply. “You’ve no business in this. He is your
brother,
Michael.” Releasing him, she faced Alastair. “But my own threat holds good. I will have that promise from you, sir, ensuring that the Lady Marwick Hospital reopens—and remains open—from next week onward. Or you
will
regret it.”

She turned back to Michael, lifting her hand to touch his cheek very lightly. But when he would have caught it in her own, she shook her head and stepped away.

“I must go,” she said softly, and walked toward the door.

“No.” The hell with
that
. He moved without thinking, catching her by the arm and hauling her around. “You will not walk away from me. Did you not hear? I have found a solution for the hospital. And—”

“And no solution for me,” she said gently. “Michael,
if it were only my future at stake—I would so gladly put it in your care. But . . .”

“I
love
you,” he said. “I will find a way. I will find a solution. You cannot walk away.”

She stared at him, her lips parting. They trembled visibly, and the sight hurt him. He reached up, very gently, to still them with his thumb.

“Trust me,” he whispered. “As I trust you. We will find a way.”

A strange whimper broke from her. “But . . . I . . . if it were up to me alone . . . but so many people are depending on me . . .”

“And we will find a way.” He nearly had her now. Victory was leaping in his blood. “Only say you trust me, and I vow to you, I will never disappoint you.”

She blinked up at him, and a single tear slipped from her magnificent eyes. Green as jade. He could not bear to see her cry. Slowly he leaned down and captured that tear with his lips.

“I am going to forbid you to weep,” he said. “I’ll make the parson put it into our vows.”

Her shuddering breath singed his ear. “Oh,” she said. “All right, then . . . if you . . . promise.”

“I promise you everything,” he said, very low.

With a broken noise, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled his mouth to hers.

It was a hot, deep kiss, and it tasted of—
relief,
by God, she was his, he had her. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled him to her. “You’re not leaving me,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I—can’t, I think.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

Elizabeth flinched in his arms. He’d forgotten his brother, too. He ignored Liza’s attempt to step away, but
he loosened his embrace just enough to let her turn toward his brother as he did.

Disgust lent more animation to Alastair’s features than Michael had seen in months. “This is a pathetic display,” Alastair snapped.

“I hope his charm does not run in the family,” Elizabeth said flatly.

Michael was startled by his own snort of laughter. “Come,” he said, and urged Elizabeth toward the door.

“I will have those letters!” came the panicked call behind them.

“Ignore him,” Michael advised. “No time like the present to begin to develop the habit.”

“You can have your money!”

At that, Michael stopped dead. When Elizabeth frowned up at him, he arched a brow.

She shook her head. “I don’t want it. Not like this.”

“Your money, and funding for the hospital to boot.” Alastair sounded truly desperate now. “Enough money to see you both comfortable.”

“Dirty funds,” said Elizabeth, but now she was worrying her lip between her teeth.

“Cleaner than marrying for it,” Michael pointed out. “And you were willing to do that—or briefly consider it,” he added quickly, for she’d begun to scowl.

“God curse you! I’ll pay off your debts as well! And that is my
final
offer!”

Elizabeth spun back toward his brother. “Accepted!” she said brightly.

And Michael laughed in astonishment. By God, he’d thought she’d had a tell—but she didn’t. She’d been bluffing these last few moments, waiting for the stakes to be raised.

“Very well, then,” Alastair said. “I will have my solicitors draw up a binding contract. And
you
will deliver the letters. But I have one more condition.”

“No,” said Michael instantly.

Elizabeth touched his arm. “Wait. Let’s hear it first.”

Alastair, bracing himself by one hand against the mantel, took a visible breath. “And . . . as to the matter of your wedding . . .”

“Goodness, how fast he runs,” Elizabeth murmured.

“Only logical,” said Michael. “For I do intend to marry you.”

“Won’t you ask first?”

“In a minute, yes. I’d rather we have some privacy.”

“It must be a public wedding,” Alastair growled. “And I must be included, lest there be talk about my absence.”

Elizabeth looked to Michael. “That must be your decision,” she said softly.

Michael bit his cheek. It seemed possible to him that Alastair’s condition was, in fact, a veiled gesture at an apology. But perhaps that was only wishful thinking. He no longer knew his brother well enough to say.

“Our wedding will not be held in this house,” he said. “So the choice is yours: you will be welcome to come, but only you can say if you’ll be able.”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be able,” he said. “Dear God—do you think I would miss your wedding?”

And Michael felt something in him relax that, unbeknownst to him, had been constricting his lungs for months.

It was a poor start at recovery on Alastair’s part . . . but it was a start all the same.

There was no question but that Michael would come home with her tonight. The novelty of a happy ending was too new, and felt too fragile, to risk with a single moment’s separation. As soon as they entered her carriage, her hands were on him, and his mouth was on her, and she somehow got onto his lap, and they were kissing feverishly. But the drive was too short—frustratingly short; they exited the vehicle breathless and disheveled. And then, once in the house, up the stairs, en route to her bedroom, Liza encountered a very unpleasant surprise:

The box in which she’d stored the late duchess’s letters—the box she’d shut away in her wardrobe—stood on her dressing table.

In a panic, she opened the lid. “No,” she said. “The letters are still there.”

No, wait—there weren’t
enough
of them.

Pulling them out, she counted quickly.

“
Half
of them are gone,” she cried. “There should be twelve!”

“How can that be?” Michael took them, counting again. “Seven. Are you certain there were twelve?”

“Positively certain! But who would have taken them?” She turned a tight circle, as though the cozy confines of her boudoir might contain a thief. But nobody save Hankins and herself ever ventured here.

A cold finger touched her spine.

“Mather,” she whispered. Mather had entered just as she’d been shutting the wardrobe.

No. It couldn’t be.

“What about Mather?” Michael demanded.

She shook her head and raced into the hallway, where her haste caused two startled maids to stop in their tracks. No, they had not seen Miss Mather this afternoon. Nor, it transpired, had the housekeeper—nor Ronson, who had only just arrived from Bosbrea.

But one of the footmen had spotted her leaving the house an hour ago, with a valise under one arm and a portfolio beneath the other.

“She can’t have done this,” Liza said to him as they climbed back up the stairs. “
Why
would she have done this? And what will your brother do when I can’t give him all the letters?”

“There are enough there to satisfy him,” Michael said. “You didn’t tell him how many you had left.” They went back into her boudoir, where he rifled through the remaining sheets. “Enough details to satisfy him,” he said. “He’ll never know that some are missing, and perhaps she—”

He went still.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously.

His face grave, he reached over to her dressing table
and plucked up a single sheet of paper that she had not noticed in her panic.

Mather’s script unfurled in tidy, angular rows.

Madam,

You are indeed a better woman than I. But perhaps my sins might prove of use to you. I have taken certain of the duke’s letters for safekeeping—a careful selection, to ensure his honorable treatment of you. Should his grace continue to stand in your way, you may tell him that I will ensure his deepest regret.

You will wonder why I have done this. For separate reasons I cannot divulge, I am forced to conclude my tenure with you. But you have been very good to me, and whether or not you agree, I do owe a debt to you. This is how I repay it. I am sorry to do so in such an underhanded manner, but I beg you, if you are able, to consider this not a betrayal, but my parting gift.

Sincerely,

Olivia Mather

P.S. It may interest you to know that I caught Mrs.
Hussy
Hull closeted with Weston in her boudoir on the morning of our departure, speaking of marriage and . . . other things. I predict that the bride will need to loosen her corset considerably before the wedding.

“Where on earth has she gone?” Liza whispered.

Michael was reading over her shoulder. “Does she have any family?”

She shook her head. “Her mother is dead. She never spoke of anybody else.”

“A former employer?”

“I found her at a typist’s school,” she said. “I’ve not the first idea where to look for her!”

His hands closed on her shoulders, a comforting grip. “It seems she doesn’t mean you any harm,” he said.

“What? No, of course she doesn’t! This is
Mather
! But why has she run off?” She reread the note very quickly. “I do not like the sound of this. It almost sounds as though she was
forced
to go. But by what? She showed no sign of any plan to leave me—”

“Shh.” Michael began to massage her, his fingers digging deeply. Despite herself, she felt her muscles unwind. “Wherever she’s gone, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down a redhead the height of a man. The police will make quick work of it.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t understand. I’m not . . .
angry
with her so much as concerned. That is—yes, this was quite wrong of her . . . and I’d
never
have expected—that is, she gave absolutely
no
sign—” But that wasn’t quite true, was it? Now that she thought on it, Mather
had
hinted at her plan during that last conversation they’d had at Bosbrea. She’d asked,
What if somebody else were to employ the letters for your sake?

“No police,” Liza said decisively. Something was awry with Mather. These mysterious circumstances that compelled her to flee—they suggested she required help. “We’ll find her ourselves.”

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll find her.”

“If we can,” she fretted.

He turned her to face him, dipping his head to look into her eyes. “We’ll find her,” he said. “That is a promise.”

She took a great breath, and then felt a smile come
over her. “Why is it,” she said, “that you can make me believe anything?”

“Because I would give you anything.” His manner had suddenly grown serious.

She started to lean into him—and the letter, forgotten in her hand, crumpled between them. Michael blinked down at it. “Is that writing on the other side of the page?” he asked.

She turned over the note—and frowned in befuddlement. “It’s a copy of the rules! The ones we concocted for suitors.” A little laugh slipped from her. “She kept this? But—how absurd; she
edited
it!”

He was studying it upside down. “What did she strike out, there?”