What a Lady Demands (21 page)

Actually, she did, but she couldn’t take out her excess energy on Lind, no matter how pleasurable the encounter might turn out. To do so would send the wrong message—that she really could make a marriage out of their relationship when he wasn’t through with his last. If he believed she’d accept him on those terms, he’d never have reason to move on.

So she tromped up the stairs, collected her charge, and proposed they take a walk. She led him out through the back entrance that gave out by the stables. The morning air was cool and crisp, a precursor of the impending autumn, and a sudden chill crept up her spine.

What if Lind told her he wasn’t ready to give up his plans for revenge? What if he forced her back to her brother’s in spite of everything? She wrapped her arms about her waist and hugged herself, but the feeling did not go away.

Right, and if he told her as much, she’d face a life alone—truly alone, for she wouldn’t be able to seek another husband. But she couldn’t accept him on any lesser terms. She hadn’t lied when she told him Eversham had taught her to value herself.

Jeremy tugged at her skirts. “Can we go see my pony?”

She reached down and ruffled his hair. “Of course we can, dear. And perhaps we ought to decide on what to call him while we’re at it.”

He bounced on the balls of his feet. “I want to call him Well- Wellington.”

It could be worse. He could have asked the name of Wellington’s horse, but Copenhagen would have been a mouthful for Jeremy. “That sounds like an excellent name.”

Jeremy smiled. “Do you think Regan might give me a riding lesson?”

“We can ask him, but if he says he has other duties, we’ll have to listen to him and wait until he’s free.”

She took his hand, and they entered the darkness of the row of stalls. The clean scents of hay and straw vied with the underlying cut of manure, just enough to remind her this was a working stable. A very quiet working stable. While everything was in order, the place seemed deserted.

“Where do you suppose everyone’s gone?” she asked conversationally. “It can’t be their half-day, can it?” It could, she supposed, but it wasn’t even past noon. On the other hand, Lind might well let the stable boys and grooms leave the moment they were finished their regular duties. No, that didn’t sound at all like the regimented man she knew.

Jeremy only shrugged, but she hadn’t really been expecting a reply.

A quick glance about showed a line of empty boxes—all but two. Lind’s big gelding pawed at its bedding, while Wellington poked his nose over the stall door and whickered, seeking a lump of sugar, without doubt. Only a few days here, and the beast was already well on his way to becoming fat and lazy and spoiled.

“They must have taken the other horses down to Powell’s to be reshod,” she muttered to herself.

Jeremy patted his pony’s velvet nose, while Cecelia scratched the animal’s poll, the thick hairs of its forelock coarse beneath her fingers.

“My lady, might you have a moment?”

At the question, she jumped. The voice was at once familiar and foreign. Not one of the grooms, but she’d heard it recently. Turning, she realized why. Battencliffe had entered the stables behind her.

And his gaze was pinned on the boy rather than her.

“My goodness, did no one ever warn you not to steal up on a body?”

“Your pardon.” He put a hand on his chest and gave a little half bow. “I was only hoping you might spare a moment.” Again his glance drifted to Jeremy, the movement telling. A prickle of unease raised the fine hairs on her arms.

“I’m not certain this is a good idea,” she said carefully. “Should anyone catch us…”

He took a step back. “I understand completely. Lindenhurst isn’t the sort to give the benefit of the doubt where I am concerned. Only…Well, I hoped you might be a little understanding.”

His words weighed heavy with implication. He didn’t see his son often, if ever, but now he was going to take that chance and to hell with the consequences. Worse, his presence had drawn Jeremy’s attention away from his pony.

He eyed Battencliffe with interest. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you a new groom?”

“No, I am not in your father’s employ,” he replied easily. Too easily. The word
father
had slipped straight out of his mouth without the slightest hitch.

“Are you a friend of his, then? Were you in the army with him?”

“No, nothing like that.” Oh dear. Battencliffe had tinged that reply with a shade of regret, but Cecelia could not afford to let her heart turn over. Jeremy knew nothing of this man, and it was best he remained in ignorance.

“I am fairly certain that Lord Lindenhurst will not be happy if he finds you still on his property,” Cecelia said pointedly.

Battencliffe acknowledged the admonishment with a brief nod, but his attention remained riveted on Jeremy. “Is this your pony? What’s his name?”

“Well-Wellington.”

Battencliffe didn’t even blink at the hitch in Jeremy’s speech. “And do you enjoy riding him?”

“I’ve only had a few lessons.”

“Ah, so he’s a new acquisition.”

“Yes, but Father has promised to take me about the estate with him once I can ride well enough.”

Cecelia watched Battencliffe’s reaction closely. At
Father,
he barely wavered, but goodness, that had to have hurt. Especially given Lind’s reception earlier. “If you don’t mind, we really ought to be off on our constitutional.”

“My lady, I’d just like a moment more of your time before I go on my way.” He tilted his head in the direction of the tack room. “Alone, perhaps?”

“I have responsibilities…”

“Please?”

Blast it all, she could not resist the pleading note in his voice. “Jeremy, you wait for me here. I’ll only be a moment.”

The air in the tack room smelled of leather and saddle soap. The dusty space was dark, except for one small window that let in a shaft of weak sunlight. Motes of straw filtered through the beam.

Now that they were alone, Cecelia could express herself freely. “Please, you must go. You know what Lind will make of this if he finds you here.”

He stepped closer to her, one hand extended in supplication. Too close. “You would keep a father from his son?”

“A son you can never acknowledge.”

“But I can. Gossip already made a cuckold of Lind five years ago.”

“And yet, legally, that child is Lind’s heir.”

“Knowing Lind, an heir he most likely does not want. And I’ve heard things. The boy isn’t quite right.”

Righteous anger for Jeremy’s sake boiled through her. “I’ve seen nothing that cannot be overcome,” she grated. “And at his age, he is too young to understand why one man is suddenly his papa when he thought his father was another. Why should you wish to make the situation worse by confusing him?”

“If Lind follows the family tradition and sends him to public school, the boy will learn of his situation soon enough, even if no one here informs him of his parentage.” He took another step—to the side, this time. Between her and the door. “That’s the nature of boys at Eton. They can be cruel like that. They enjoy discovering others’ vulnerable spots and pecking at them until the fragile ones crumble. Rather like flocks of chickens will weed out the weak from their midst.”

“You are talking about a little boy. Your son. Not some bird that’s just as likely to end up in a stew once it’s old enough to stop laying eggs. It’s not the same.” Besides, Jeremy would be better served here at home, learning how to run Lind’s estate. Latin would serve him nothing, while becoming well acquainted with his tenants would.
If Lind fully accepts you as his wife, you can ensure that outcome.
“And Lind has never once mentioned sending him away when he’s older.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. Perhaps he sees it as an easy means to rid himself of an unwanted problem.”

A set of ghostly fingers ran a cold march down her spine, and she resisted the urge to hug herself. Lind
had
said something about hiring a tutor eventually. He
did
hold the boy at arm’s length. An entire army of doubts besieged her, but she couldn’t let that show. “He wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“Do you think so? You seem well enough acquainted with what he’s done to me.”

“He’s punishing you so he doesn’t have to punish himself. I have never once witnessed him being deliberately cruel to Jeremy.” Cold, yes. Cruel, no. “He’s bought the child a pony, and he’s arranged for riding lessons. He’s taken him on his rounds of the estate. He’s hired an entire string of governesses, because none suited his exacting standards.”

“Because he means to send him off to school when he’s old enough.”

“Because he means to ensure the child gets a proper education,” she insisted. “He will have a position to take up in society when he’s older.”

“Ah, yes, society, which can be just as cruel as Eton, come to think of it, with any perception of weakness. Do you think the
ton
will treat him any better?”

Must he bring up polite society? Well, she knew what its members were like. “Then we must ensure that he’s prepared when the time comes, and I cannot see how allowing you to have access to him will help in that respect. If word gets out, it will only fuel gossip. It’s in the boy’s best interest for you to stay far away.”

“A pity I disagree with you on that score. No, the best course of action is for me to disappear with the child. Since Lind is remarried, I’m certain you can get down to the business of providing him with an heir in due course. A proper heir of his own blood.”

“And how do you propose to simply disappear and see to a young child’s needs? You’re practically penniless. How will you keep yourself up, let alone a child?”

“That will not be your problem, now, will it? And perhaps I don’t believe Lind is properly equipped to see to the boy’s needs. For all his wealth, he does not care.”

“That’s not true.” Deep down, she knew she spoke the truth. Lind cared in his way, if only because Jeremy was his last connection to Lydia. “You don’t understand how he beats himself up on a regular basis because of the accident. He’d have saved the boy if he could have. He feels a terrible amount of guilt because he was unable to arrive in time.”

“Only because it meant he lost Lydia.”

Blast him for his perception. “You and he were friends once. Close friends.”

“What has that got to do with anything? That is in the past.”

“My point is, you knew him. You knew the sort of man he was. He knew the sort of man you were. Enough that you might each concede a bit of ground to each other.”

Battencliffe’s laughter filled the small space. “You may have married the man, but I see you do not know him at all, if you think Lind is the sort who can make concessions, especially where Lydia was concerned.”

“I think it’s you who doesn’t understand him, then.” He
would
concede to her. Or not, but then she’d know exactly where she stood with him. “And we’ve talked around this topic long enough. I need to return to my charge.”

She made to step around him to the door, but he moved to block her path again. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

A fist twisted in her gut. Had he kept her here talking for a reason? Had any of what he’d just said been sincere? “What have you done with Jeremy?”

“Nothing, I assure you. It isn’t Jeremy I want, although he might well turn out to be a bonus. It’s you.”

“Me?” Her glance darted to either side of him. If she could manage to dodge, she might stand a chance. But he was too big, and she’d let him get too close. The fist twisted and burrowed in deeper. “What could you possibly want with me? Until this morning, you didn’t even know I was here, let alone that Lind had married me.”

“I know more than you think. When a man hounds you into the poorhouse, you tend to pay attention, and you make what allies you can.”

“Allies?” Her mind whirled with the possibilities, but no. She couldn’t worry about who his allies were. She needed to think about how she was going to get herself out of this.

“It so happens I ran into a Mr. Eversham, and he is willing to help me out with my debts. As long as I can deliver you to him.”

A scream gathered in her throat, and she drew in a great lungful of air. Someone would hear her. Someone must.

“I shouldn’t do that if I were you.” The solid line of Battencliffe’s shoulders blocked the newcomer from her view, but she recognized the voice well enough. The chill fingers along her spine turned to solid ice.

His grip merciless and unbreakable, Battencliffe clapped his hand over her mouth and turned her about.

Outlined by the faint light filtering in through the stables, Eversham stood in the doorway. He held a knife in his fist. His other arm was wrapped about Jeremy’s chest.

“Not one sound,” Eversham went on. “It would be a shame if I had to cut this boy’s throat.”

In his study, Lind fingered a glass of brandy. Though it was rather early to begin imbibing, he’d already made a good start. His bottle was half-empty—not that drink was helping to clear his head by any means.

Damn it all, he shouldn’t even have to think about this. He’d put Battencliffe’s ruin into motion, and he needed to allow events to play out. Yes, he might stop the process. All he had to do was forgive the debts he’d already collected from Battencliffe’s other creditors. He could afford the loss, but why should he take it?

It wasn’t right that Battencliffe should simply waltz away after impregnating Lind’s wife and leaving him in a situation where he had no choice but to pass the child off as his own. His heir, for that matter.

He drummed his fingers along the side of the bottle. No, he shouldn’t even consider stopping now.

So why did Cecelia’s last words to him keep running through his head?
If you want me to be your wife in truth, you will drop this scheme to ruin that man.
Wife in truth. And what did that mean? That she’d warm his bed? She’d certainly brought him pleasure—a great deal of it—in the past few days. Pleasure, passion, fulfillment, all of it. But he’d done without those things in the past. Done without and survived well enough.

Survived.
That thought remained behind as an annoying echo in his mind. Was mere survival enough? During the war, he’d thought so. He’d counted himself lucky to have come out of Belgium with his body intact when so many others had lost limbs, if not their lives.

But the discovery of Lydia’s pregnancy so soon after his return had cut short his joy. Even once he’d got over his shock and anger with her, the nature of their marriage had changed. He’d tried. God only knew he’d tried; still, their life together had never been the same.

He hadn’t let it show, naturally, but the niggling doubt constantly ate at him. Lydia was simply going through the motions of their marriage because she had no choice. She would have preferred he’d died on that road to Waterloo. Then she could have observed a proper mourning and married the man she really wanted.

Battencliffe.

Oh, she’d assured him otherwise on any number of occasions, but the thought remained at the back of his mind, like a festering wound that ate at his happiness. So he’d survived the war, yes, but that was all he’d done for the past six years.

Until Cecelia came along.

He had to admit that he felt more alive with her than he had in all the lonely years since Lydia’s death. Hell, he hadn’t felt this alive since before the war, when he first married Lydia and he was young and full of hope and most especially drunk on the wine of victory. For he’d won Lydia’s affections just as surely as Wellington had won the war against Napoleon.

Only, in the end, Lind had lost.

Except now he had a second chance. He simply had to reach out and take it. But to do so meant letting go of the old grudge. It meant letting go of the past. All he had to do was uncurl his fingers and release it into the ether. Then he could claim Cecelia, and she would do her level best to make him happy.

And she could, he realized. She might make him happier than Lydia ever had.

A knock sounded on the door to his study. He looked up to find Boff hovering on the threshold. Smiling in his oily, triumphant way.

Damn it.

“It is done, my lord.” His man of affairs proffered a wad of papers. Battencliffe’s debts. “I’ve acquired all the remaining debts for you.”

Done. The word plummeted to his gut like a rock sinking in water. Or brandy, in his case. Apparently, rocks and brandy made for a poor mixture if the churning in his stomach was any indication.

Hang it, he ought to rejoice. He ought to pour Boff a glass and toast the occasion. He ought to call for champagne. But all he could think of, all he could see was Cecelia, begging him to let go. The choice was upon him—revenge or Cecelia. The alcohol ought to have fogged his brain by now, but somehow everything came into sharp focus.

He took the vowels from his man of affairs and stuffed them into his topcoat.

“My lord?” Head cocked, Boff eyed Lind.

“What is it?” Lind snapped.

“Forgive me, my lord. After all the time you’ve put into this, all the resources…I rather expected more of an enthusiastic response now that victory is at hand.”

He thrust his glass of brandy away, and, leaning his weight against the desk, pushed himself to his feet. “Some victories come at too great a cost. I’ve yet to decide whether this is one of them.”

Boff’s already pale cheeks turned the color of sun-bleached parchment, and he backed up a pace. “Your pardon. I believe…I may have overstepped myself.”

Lind planted his palms and leaned over his desk. The brandy in his belly seemed to turn into a nest of snakes. “Explain.”

Boff made a raspy sound at the back of his throat. “I already took the liberty of hiring a Bow Street runner. Battencliffe will be arrested the moment they lay hands on him.”

“In London,” Lind verified.

“Yes.”

“That won’t do us a lick of good.”

Boff tilted his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my lord.”

“Battencliffe’s here. He paid me a visit earlier.” Lind drummed his fingers on his desk. “He saw you in London, by the way, which means you were careless, but we’ll ignore that for now. He came to ask me to call off the hounds. We can catch him before he goes back to Town.”

“How do you propose to do that? He could be miles away by now.”

Lind was in no condition for a search of his property, let alone the closest village. “No, I don’t think so. When I saw him, he looked like he’d been sleeping in his clothes. He hasn’t got funds for a carriage or inns. He’ll be traveling by the cheapest means possible.”

“The mail coach.”

Lind nodded. “Exactly. And there isn’t another mail coach for a day or two yet. He’s still in the area.” He’d already sent the stable boys out on another search for Eversham, but he still had staff to spare. “Order the footmen to search the grounds. Meanwhile, you can comb the nearby villages for news. Perhaps he’s convinced a farmwife to let him sleep in the barn. For that matter, tell the servants to check the empty tenant cottages.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I want a report by tonight.”

Lind waited until Boff had bowed himself out, before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. Soon, yes, soon he would finish with this entire affair.

He picked up his walking stick and crossed the room. Damn it all, he couldn’t stay cooped up in the manor. He wasn’t made for inaction. Moving as fast as his injured leg would allow, he headed for the back of the house. He’d get a horse saddled and check out the tenant dwellings himself. And pray Battencliffe would listen rather than return the uppercut to the jaw Lind had dealt him earlier.

If only Lind could work out what to do with Battencliffe when he caught him. The vowels seemed to weigh down his topcoat, more like an anchor than something so insubstantial as a wad of paper.

He would simply have to take his chances, so he continued out to the stable yard. Several grooms were riding in, grim-faced, their mounts’ heads drooping.

“Have you found anything?” Lind asked Regan.

“No, my lord.”

“Have Judas saddled for me, immediately. I plan on joining the search.”

“On my way, sir.”

Lind scanned the assembly of unshaven faces. Circles ringed their eyes. They’d already been hard at work. “Find yourselves a bit of refreshment and take a rest. With luck, the remainder of the staff will find what we’re looking for without your help.”

Presently, Regan led Judas out of the stable, saddled and ready to go. At the mounting block, Lind heaved himself into the saddle and set out across his land, retracing the familiar route he took when he made his rounds with Boff.

Soon Jeremy would be a strong enough rider to accompany them on his own pony, provided the boy could keep his seat. Lind had suspected he just might, since the day Cecelia insisted they do the rounds together.
Not a cripple.
The phrase echoed through his mind. At least, not such a cripple he couldn’t fulfill his eventual duties any less than Lind. With practice, he might grow up to be only slightly hampered at times. He might never perform a smooth waltz at a ball, but neither would Lind. And Jeremy could learn to manage the estate.

It had taken Cecelia to show him that, to make him believe. To prove to him his guilt after the accident was perhaps not quite so grounded in reality. That much had been all in his mind, the same as the extent of Jeremy’s affliction.

Now to track down Battencliffe and find a way to ensure Cecelia stayed with him. Both. He wanted both. He spurred Judas into a canter. A chilly breeze slapped him in the face and cleared away the last cobwebs left by the brandy.

Before long, the Powells’ cottage appeared beyond the hedgerow. Unlike the last time, the place seemed deserted. Powell was no doubt in his smithy, but where was the passel of children who normally chased the chickens about the yard?

He rode up to the door and tapped it with the end of his crop. After a moment or two, a red-faced Mrs. Powell poked her head out. “My lord. Is anything amiss? It’s not yer day to come round.”

“No, I realize that. I was just curious if you’d noticed any strangers hanging about the property.”

“Only th’ one I saw t’ other day, as I’ve told ever’one else come through here.”

“The other day?” He waved that response away. “Yes, yes, you told me yesterday.”

“Weren’t sure ye remembered, beggin’ yer pardon. Did ye find him? Seemed like a no-account, if ye want my opinion.” She nodded for good measure. “That’s just what I said to myself, too.
Polly,
I says
, if ever a man looked like he was up to mischief, that man has the look about him.
”

“We didn’t find him, no.” Lind reined in his growing impatience. “I’m speaking of more recently and a different man.” Could Battencliffe have been hanging about his lands for that long? Or had she seen Eversham? “Remind me again. What did he look like?”

“Like someone who wanted to pass himself off for better than he ought ter be. Nice enough clothes, but rumpled, like he didn’t have any others, and like he’d been sleeping in the stables.”

“You wouldn’t have seen him since, would you?” Her answer might well mean the difference between Battencliffe and Eversham.

“Matter o’ fact, I have. Just this morning, as it happens. And he weren’t alone this time.”

“Where? And who was he with?” Good God, if he’d laid so much as a finger on Cecelia…But that was a ridiculous notion. Cecelia was still up at the manor with Jeremy. She’d been there all morning, since Battencliffe’s visit.

But you haven’t seen her for yourself.
Damned annoying voice in the back of his mind. It had been his constant companion since his army days. Unfortunately, as irritating as it was, it was also right more often than not.

Damn, damn, and damn.

“I couldn’t rightly tell. I only saw them at a distance. Him and another.”

“Was the other a man or a woman? Please, it could be important.” And his sense of urgency was growing with every vague answer she dealt him.

“No, it were another man. I saw them over yonder.” She swept her arm off to the left. Nothing that way. Nothing beyond two abandoned cottages that stood separate from the rest. “They looked as if they was headed up the path toward the manor, though. Yer pardon, I didn’t stand and watch ’em. I’ve got all I can do for keeping an eye on my own.”

“My thanks.” He took the hint well enough. “I won’t take any more of your time.”

Toward the manor. That implied Battencliffe, but he’d arrived alone. If he’d somehow teamed up with Eversham, that little worm had been nowhere in sight. And were they still on the grounds? Mrs. Powell hadn’t seen them come back, but then she hadn’t been watching for them, either.

And now what should he do? Turn the hunt closer to home or see if any clues lay behind at the abandoned cottage? If Battencliffe was at the house, though, his servants were already aware of the search. That left the abandoned cottages. He’d ordered them checked yesterday to no avail. They may have been checked today, as well—but not by him.

He rode on, past fields and into the trees. The empty cottages stood forlorn and forgotten, with not even a curl of smoke to indicate anyone might be squatting there. And perhaps they weren’t, but he had to make certain.

Wincing at the stiffness in his leg, he dismounted, and tied the reins around a low-hanging branch. Then he shuffled to the door. It swung open at the slightest pressure. Hmm. Had someone been here recently? His servants, certainly, but who else?

To judge by the smell, no. The air inside was heavy with humidity and the scent of mildew. A thick layer of dust covered the floor and the few pieces of rough-hewn furniture the previous tenant had left behind. Not even footsteps marred the layer of dirt on the floor.

Empty, then, blast it, just as reported. An inspection of the second cottage proved to be in the same condition. Now he had to figure out how to get back on Judas with no mounting block and no one to give him a leg up. A ramshackle barn stood across from the house, and it crossed his mind that he really ought to put Boff to the task of overseeing repairs to these buildings. If the barn wasn’t inhabited, he might at least find something useful to boost himself into the saddle.

He limped his way into the barn. The dirt floor was scattered with stray bits of old straw, but a ladder led up to the hayloft. An ideal hiding spot if it could be made comfortable, but the utter silence about the place told him it was deserted even before he climbed the ladder to check. But he also couldn’t chance it. Rung by painful rung, he dragged his injured leg upward, until he could see into the upper level.

Hay spread over the planked floor—more than one ought to find in an unused building. Enough to form a bed of sorts. The shadows made it difficult to see, but once his eyes had adjusted, he could just make out an indentation in that pile of hay, easy enough to miss if one were only making a cursory inspection. It looked very much as if someone had bedded down here recently. If his leg were hale and whole, he would have climbed the rest of the way to test the makeshift bed for traces of body heat, but he’d take it on faith that Eversham had made himself a lair in here.