What a Wicked Earl Wants (5 page)

“I’m sorry to inform you, but I feel certain they were lying,” Montclief said. “They said it was a secret engagement.”

Virginia’s thoughts raced. Why would Bellingham do such a thing? He was known for acting in a logical and methodical manner. She concluded there were missing pieces to the puzzle. “Did they indicate why they wished to keep their engagement a secret?”

Montclief mopped his forehead again. “Some foolishness about gradually introducing my nephew to Bellingham. They must have cooked this goose at the spur of the moment to hide their licentious behavior.” His nostrils flared. “I never suspected she was a shameless hussy beneath her veneer of respectability.”

Virginia knew differently. “Her father is a vicar, you know.”

“But what do we really know about her? Of course, my dearly departed brother was smitten when he met her, even though she was far beneath him. Now I fear she came to London with the express purpose of finding a lover.”

Virginia was tempted to ask if his knowledge came from firsthand experience, but she would not lower herself. “Of course, you’re concerned about your nephew. Are you planning to stay in London for the remainder of the season?”

“I can’t,” Montclief said. “You know I have a large family, and the expense would beggar me. That is why I need your assistance.”

Virginia frowned. Surely he wasn’t begging for money. “What precisely are you asking of me?”

“Keep an eye on Laura. I dislike deception, but I believe in this instance we must fight fire with fire.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gain her confidence. Encourage her to talk and pretend to sympathize with her. Then send me a letter with a report of her actions.”

Virginia touched her high collar and shrank back from him.

“Lady Atherton, please forgive me, but I am concerned about my nephew. I would take him to my home, but he wasn’t even present when I arrived. I doubt Laura knows or even cares what he is doing. If I am right, and I fear I am, I want proof that she is having a liaison with that rake while my innocent nephew resides with her.”

Virginia reached for her silver vinaigrette, flicked it open, and sniffed the restorative. He really was an odious man. “She has cared for the boy these past four years,” Virginia said as she set the silver case aside.

“Of course, I hope that I am wrong, but I fear she has pulled the wool over our eyes,” he said.

Virginia drew her brows together, wondering why he felt it necessary to gather evidence. “If you are so certain that the engagement is false, why are you seeking proof?”

He sighed. “The last thing I want is to separate her from Justin. She has always said she cares for him, but now I fear she has changed for the worse.” He blinked rapidly and took out a handkerchief. “I am glad my poor brother is not here to witness her fall from grace.”

Good heavens, he really believed every word he’d spoken. Virginia was tempted to defend Laura, but she reconsidered. Instead, she would warn Laura to be wary of Montclief.

“I must be on my way,” Montclief said, shoving his bulk out of the chair. “I trust you will keep me posted.”

Virginia rose as Montclief lumbered out of the drawing room. He didn’t even realize that she’d not agreed to his disgusting plan.

After the footman closed the door, Virginia slowly lowered herself to the settee. Over the years, she’d dealt with scandalmongers, roués, and scoundrels, but this situation warranted a great deal of thought.

Until Justin gained his majority, his uncle had power over the boy and subsequently Laura. Montclief’s deceit was clear. But why after four years of ignoring the boy had he suddenly professed concern about him?

Something odd had happened in Laura’s drawing room. Why had Bellingham, a self-proclaimed lifelong bachelor, gone along with the scheme? Granted, she’d seen him openly gazing at Laura’s body at the ball last night.

The notorious rake would have to work very hard to win prim-and-proper Laura. But they would make a fiery couple. With a smile, Virginia poured another thimbleful of sherry in her glass and raised it. When the opportunity arose, she would play the matchmaker.

Well into the evening, Bell sat in his study, looking over the last of the journal entries in the estate books. His estate manager, Wilson, had traveled to London to give him an account of all that had transpired in the last quarter.

Wilson leaned forward in his chair. “I commissioned workers to replace rotting boards on the bridge. Otherwise, all else is in good working order at the estate.”

“No complaints from the tenants or servants?”

“All went relatively well on rent day,” Wilson said. “Mr. Faraday was a bit short but promised to make it up next quarter.”

“He came up to scratch last quarter,” Bell said. “Forgive the shortage. I don’t want his family to suffer, but make sure he’s not spending all of his coin at the tavern again. If you find that’s the case, inform Mr. Bullock to refuse him on my orders.”

“Yes, my lord. I will speak to the tavern owner if necessary.”

Bell massaged his aching neck. He’d been bent over the books for hours. “Is there anything else?”

“No, my lord.”

He rose. “Well done, Wilson. I’ve taken care of your hotel accommodations at the Dorset for this evening. Griffith will send you in my carriage.” Tomorrow, Wilson would make the long journey back to Devonshire.

Wilson stood. “My lord, I appreciate your confidence in my work.” He swallowed. “I am grateful to you. I daresay not many would overlook my prior poor performance.”

“You have worked hard and exceeded my expectations.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Wilson bowed and left.

Bell rolled his stiff shoulders and snuffed out all the candles, save the ones in the candle branch. He carried it to the drawing room, poured a brandy, and sat in his favorite chair. The fire was burning low, and the
tick-tick
of the clock made him feel peaceful.

He thought about Wilson’s candid words. Five years ago, Bell had left the estate all behind for his estate manager to run. Bell hadn’t allowed himself to think about Thornhill Park while journeying on the Continent, but there was no denying he’d abdicated his responsibilities. Upon his return, he’d found Wilson had allowed repairs and letters to pile up. Many of the tenants were in arrears. Bell had seen the barely concealed terror on Wilson’s face, but he’d not blamed him.

How could he sack Wilson when the man had done his best with no direction at all?

Wilson worked harder than necessary and always expressed his gratitude. Ultimately, Bell knew the estate and everyone who worked for him was his responsibility.

His father had taught him that.

He tried to push the thought of his father away, but it had shattered his peace. With a long sigh, he collected the candle branch and went upstairs to bed.

His heart pounded like a thousand hooves on cobblestones. The carriage hurtled on. Every stop to change the horses felt like an eternity. He kept trying to shout for them to hurry, hurry, hurry, but his voice was lost. God in heaven, let them live. Let them live. He would do anything, give up everything, if only they would recover.

Bile rose up in his throat. He grasped the strap and prayed. Fear raced through him like a wildfire as the carriage careened into the square. As soon as the carriage jangled to a halt, he vaulted out, running, running, running. Oh, God, there was straw at the door.

He was too late. Too late.

“No!”

He reared up in bed, breathing like a racehorse. His heart drummed in his chest. He drew his knees up and laid his head on his forearms. Cold beads of perspiration dampened his temples. He gritted his teeth, trying to will away the dream, but the remnants persisted. The tension in his arms and legs was slow to dissipate.

He shoved the covers back and got out of bed. The coals were smoldering, and his skin prickled from the cold. He donned a banyan and lit a candle. Then he added coals to the fire. He poured himself a finger of brandy and downed it in one fiery swallow. The burning sensation helped clear his head. He drew back the drapery and saw that it was still dark. He gritted his teeth. Was he condemned to relive that horrific day for the rest of his life?

After releasing the heavy brocade material, he held the candle up to see the mantel clock. It was a quarter past three. The worst part was he never knew when the nightmare would strike, but tonight he ought to have been prepared.

One stray thought about his father had brought it on.

The cause wasn’t always so clear. Most of the time, he couldn’t attribute it to anything, and he never knew when the nightmare would strike. Sometimes weeks and even months would pass. He’d tried to keep a journal of it in hopes of making sense of the nightmare and perhaps taking control, but it hadn’t worked.

Something hot sizzled inside him. He was frustrated and furious at his inability to control his own mind while sleeping. He hated it, because there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.

The chill in the room drove him back to bed. He lay there staring up at the canopy, trying his best to forget the awful events that had altered his life forever. It was bad enough to have lost his family once, but to relive it again and again was pure hell.

The chill woke Laura. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the drawing room. The fire had died down and the candles she’d lit had guttered. She took a candle to the hearth, moved the screen, and lit the taper. Afterward she found a branch of candles and lit those. A quick check of the mantel clock showed it was four o’clock. She found her shawl and hurried out of the dark drawing room.

She held on to the rail and took the steps with care in the darkness. When she reached the landing, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she proceeded down the corridor past her own bedchamber to Justin’s room. When she knocked, there was no response. With a sigh, Laura opened the door. The empty bed infuriated her. She’d lied to Montclief to protect Justin, and he didn’t even know how much trouble he’d caused.

He didn’t care that she’d sat up late worried about him. The only thing he cared about was sowing wild oats with his rakish friends. She’d had quite enough of his rebellion. The minute he came home, he would find his trunks packed. She’d brought him to London so that he could be with his friends, and all he’d done was abuse the privilege. Well, he’d pay for his actions, and he’d better appreciate it, because the alternative—staying with his uncle—would be far, far worse.

Laura walked back to her room. Her maid Fran met her at the door. “My lady, did he return?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry to keep you from your bed, Fran. If you can help me undress quickly, we might as well try to rest. Losing sleep will not help matters.”

But after donning her night rail and climbing into bed, Laura stared up at the canopy. Justin was out there in this enormous city, and there was nothing more she could do except wait for him to return home. If something bad happened to him, she would never forgive herself for bringing him to London.

Someone shook her arm. With a gasp, Laura sat up in bed to find Fran hovering over her and sunlight streaming through the window.

“My lady, your son has arrived home,” Fran said. “I thought you would wish to know straightaway.”

“Yes, of course,” Laura said. “I should dress as quickly as possible.” Afterward, Fran pinned up her hair in a simple style. Laura drew in her breath and reminded herself to stay composed no matter what transpired.

When Laura walked to Justin’s room, she lifted her hand and heard a guttural sound. She opened the door to find her son heaving over a chamber pot his valet held. “My lady,” Hinton said, “you do not wish to witness this.”

She swept inside. “I’ve seen worse.” Over the course of four years nursing her ill husband, she’d learned to stay unruffled for his sake. Nothing she’d done had spared him the indignities of his wasting disease, but she believed her calm manner had helped to some degree.

Justin rolled over on the mattress, putting his back to her, and Hinton took the pot away.

Laura walked around the other side of the bed. “Justin, you’ve been out all night and are obviously suffering from the effects of drinking spirits.”

“Go away,” he muttered, and pulled a pillow over his head.

She yanked the pillow away. “No. You will not hide from me.”

“Sick,” he said.

She walked over to the drapes and pulled them open.

He shielded his eyes. “Stop.”

“No. You are the one who will stop.” She clenched her hands. “You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused.”

“I’m sick. Go away,” he said, rolling in the other direction.

Laura couldn’t reason with him when he was in this condition. She walked over to the china bowl and poured water into it. Then she dipped a cloth into the water, rung it out, and attempted to press it to Justin’s forehead, but he batted it away.

“Rest now, but when you’re better, we must talk,” she said.

After he turned his back to her once more, Laura took the cloth over to the stand. She walked out the door, closed it quietly, and leaned against it. Four short years ago, he’d been thirteen and anxious to play backgammon or cards with her. She’d taught him to dance, but now she needed to teach him something far more difficult to learn—to act responsibly. If she failed, Montclief would take him, and Laura could not bear the thought of losing him. She must take charge, and this time she would not be ignored.

Two hours later, Laura took a deep breath, opened Justin’s door, and directed two footmen bearing empty trunks to proceed into her son’s room. Behind them, Justin’s valet, Hinton, stood stoically until Laura motioned him to enter as well.

Justin bolted upright with the sheet clutched to his chest. “What are you doing?” he croaked.

Laura ignored him and dismissed the footmen. She would ring for them later. “Hinton, please pack all of his belongings with the exception of a change of clothing.”

“No,” Justin shouted.

“Keep your voice down. I warned you more than once,” Laura said, “but you did not take me seriously. You have continued to rebel, so we are returning to Hampshire as soon as the trunks are packed and loaded on the carriage.”