Georgie Lee Read online

  “No, I’m longing for some activity. It’s terrible being cooped up during the Season, and the midwife is quite certain I’m weeks away from giving birth. Let’s walk in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day and I’m tired of being indoors.”

  Devon escorted Elizabeth outside. In the garden, the warm sunshine spread over her petite face and made her blond hair shine. “Thank you again for coming. At present, I don’t wish to involve anyone outside the immediate family.”

  “Why?”

  He kicked a small pebble out of his way. “I’ve been the subject of public interest once before. I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

  “Liar.” Her blue eyes, so like their father’s, studied him. “There’s something more to all this, isn’t there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve showed no interest in any woman since selling your commission. Now you’re ready to ride to Scotland for this lady. Why?”

  “Don’t be silly. We are not riding to Scotland.”

  Elizabeth stopped, crossing her arms over her stomach. “You know what I mean.”

  Devon hesitated, debating how much to tell her. She knew more about his experience at Hougoumont Manor than anyone else, but even she didn’t know the full extent of what he’d witnessed. “Mrs. Selton is the wife of the man who saved my life in France.”

  Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth. “But your commander said the captain had no family.”

  “Obviously, he was wrong. I discovered Mrs. Selton by accident the other day. Since her husband’s death, she’s been living in strained circumstances. Had I known of her existence, I’d have sought her out, seen to her welfare.”

  “I agree, you must help her, but you can’t marry a woman out of pity.”

  “It’s not pity. It’s duty.”

  “What of love?”

  “What man of my standing marries for love?”

  “My Ronald did.”

  “You and your husband are the very fortunate exception.”

  “But for duty alone? Will it be enough to keep you both happy?”

  “In time, I am confident affection will grow between us.”

  “How utterly romantic.” Elizabeth swooned sarcastically.

  “Other men have married for much less.” He couldn’t explain, he barely understood himself, the sense of peace and hope he experienced in Cathleen’s presence. Elizabeth knew little about his nightmares, and how they seemed to grow stronger every night. Without the steady presence of someone like Cathleen in his life, he feared one day they might overwhelm him.

  Movement near the house caught his attention and Devon turned to see Cathleen standing on the patio, watching them. The late afternoon sun glittered in her eyes and caressed the sweep of pink across her cheeks, highlighting a simple beauty not even her shabby dress could hide. Without thinking he took a step, ready to rush forward and cover her half-open lips with a kiss, but he caught himself, startled by the strange desire pulsing through him.

  “Come and meet my fiancée.”

  He led Elizabeth back to the house, then left her on the walk and climbed the stairs to meet Cathleen. He held out his hand and she hesitantly took it, eyeing Elizabeth over his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” Devon whispered. “She’s not like my mother.”

  Cathleen nodded, her hesitation disappearing as Devon led her down the stairs. “Mrs. Selton, may I introduce my sister, Lady Elizabeth Woodridge.”

  Cathleen started to curtsey but Elizabeth threw her arms around her. “I’m so happy to meet you. Devon speaks highly of you.”

  Cathleen stepped out of Elizabeth’s welcoming hug. “Does he?”

  “Indeed.” Elizabeth hooked her arm in Cathleen’s and led her back up the stairs, Devon following closely behind. “Devon said your clothes were ruined by your brother’s clumsy maid, so I’ve brought some of my gowns to tide you over until we’re able to replace your wardrobe.”

  “No, please, I don’t want to trouble you,” Cathleen protested, but Elizabeth dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

  “It’s impossible for any of the regular modistes to make your clothes but thankfully, I know a wonderful Frenchwoman who is newly arrived in London and eager to display her talents. I’ve taken the liberty of summoning her. And while my lady’s maid is altering the dresses, you and I can talk about Devon. I’ll tell you all his secrets.”

  “All of them?” Cathleen tossed an amused look over her shoulder and Devon scowled good-naturedly at his sister.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here after all.”

  * * *

  “The whore,” Lucien muttered, wincing at the sharp taste of cheap port before reaching for the decanter and sloshing more into the glass. “What did she do to make him propose?”

  “What does it matter what she did?” Martha slid the decanter across the dining room table and refilled her glass.

  “Because it won’t be long before the creditors come to turn us out, while the hussy lives the life of luxury. And what’ll happen when Lord Rothdale comes to collect his debt? No one blames a man for cheating the butcher, but to renege on a debt of honor—we’ll be driven out of society and then what’ll happen to us?”

  “You should’ve stopped when you realized luck wasn’t with you,” Martha chided.

  He glared at her, the rush light in the center of the table highlighting the slight circles beneath her eyes. “I thought we’d have Malton’s money by now. Who knew Cathleen would steal it from us.”

  She took a long sip then lowered the glass. “Maybe we can steal it back.”

  “What do you mean?” He was in no mood for her cryptic humor. Money from Lord Malton had been his last hope, and with it and Cathleen gone, he felt the cold cell of Giltspur Street Compter about to engulf him.

  “Once they’re married, any number of accidents could befall Malton. Then Cathleen would be entitled to her widow’s portion of his estate, a nice tidy income for life.”

  “How would that help us?”

  “A grieving widow will need the support of her family, people she can trust to look after her interests.”

  “She isn’t likely to trust us, even if we are lucky enough for them to meet with such misfortune.”

  “The streets of London are full of thieves and cutthroats. A gentleman walking home from his club could find himself in all sorts of danger, perhaps dead. It could easily be arranged.”

  Her eyes pinned his with a suggestive look and a chill shot through him.

  “Are you suggesting we—” he glanced behind him, making sure none of the thieving servants had entered the room, “—dispatch Lord Malton? Do you know what would happen if we were caught?”

  “There’s nothing to fear if we plan carefully.”

  “But an earl?”

  “He deserves it.” Martha slammed the glass down on the table, the liquor splashing over the side and spreading a dark stain on the white tablecloth. “They all do. Tempting innocent girls with promises they never intend to keep, or riches they never had.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and he looked down at the tablecloth, pulling at a loose thread. She’d never been innocent, not when he’d tumbled her in the mews or stood with her before the vicar. “What about Cathleen? If she found out, she’d happily see us swing.”

  “Who’d believe the rants of a crazy woman in Bedlam?”

  “She’s not crazy.”

  “Might not the death of another husband drive her insane?”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “There’s plenty of physicians in St. Giles willing to take a few quid to claim she is. And who’s to say otherwise? She has no friends, and old Lady Malton will only be too glad to be rid of her. Once she’s with the lunatics, we’ll control her widow’s portion.”

  Lucien sat back, a sickening hope filling him as he stared at his wife, waiting for her to laugh. She didn’t. “But we can’t. Can we?”

  “We could.” Martha rose and sat on his lap, her ful
l buttocks pressing against his member. Wiggling slightly, she laced her fingers in his hair, and his manhood began to stir. “And if we’re lucky, she may even be with child. Then Lord Malton’s entire fortune will be fully in our control.”

  “I wouldn’t gamble on it,” Lucien snorted, sliding his hand up under Martha’s skirt and stroking her thigh. “She was with the captain for five years and nothing came of it. For all his money, Malton won’t get a child on her.”

  “Then what’s stopping us?” Her fingers worked their way down his shirt to the bulge in his breeches, deftly undoing the buttons before sliding inside to grasp his thickness. He groaned, struggling through the port and his rising lust to clear his mind. He’d done a number of things over the last few years, but not murder. However, the image of him as lord of the manor in everything but name, a large portion of the Malton fortune at his disposal and Cathleen forgotten in some asylum, made his cock stiffen more than Martha’s finger play.

  “I’ll make all the arrangements,” she breathed into his ear.

  He freed her breasts from the bodice with practiced hands and greedily licked and kissed the soft skin. “What would I ever do without you?”

  She yanked back his head, pinning him with a deadly serious look. “You’d better never think of finding out or I’ll ruin you.”

  She laughed, but Lucien felt the edge of a warning.

  “I could never part with you.” He stood, pushing the chair back so violently it crashed to the floor. Hiking her up on to the table, he freed himself from his breeches then plunged in to her, his thoughts as much on his pleasure as the promise of Malton’s fortune. Perhaps, once he had the money, he’d get rid of Martha and marry a respectable heiress. For now, Martha would serve him quite nicely.

  Chapter Five

  Cathleen startled awake, surprised to find herself on top of the coverlet and still dressed in the white cotton gown Mary had altered to replace her brown one. Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked out the window at the faint light just beginning to fill the sky. After the excitement of yesterday, she’d been too tired to join the earl for dinner and instead had eaten something light in her room before lying down for a brief rest. The last thing she remembered was the sharp evening sun cutting across the white plaster ceiling.

  Had she really slept all night?

  Slipping under the covers, Cathleen lay down, the events of yesterday afternoon filling her mind. The time had passed in a blur of fittings with the French modiste and Elizabeth’s bright chatter, leaving no time to speak to Devon alone about the engagement or her shop. Pulling the thick coverlet up under her chin, she wondered again if she were a fool to refuse him. No, without love, once his strange interest in her faded, all the fine trappings of a countess’s life would mean nothing. Better to be a lonely widow than an ignored and lonely wife.

  Rolling over, she thought about the shop, trilling through the list of herbs she needed to keep from thinking about Devon’s proposal. Calculating the amounts soon lulled her into a light sleep that was interrupted when a sad wail tore through the room.

  She sat up, her heart racing in startled fear. “Devon.”

  Throwing back the coverlet, she slid her feet into her slippers and rushed out into the empty hallway.

  Large windows lining one wall glowed with the pale orange of the coming dawn, the soft light barely illuminating the trio of doors at the far end. Hurrying toward them, her slippers whispering over the carpet, Cathleen struggled to remember which one Mrs. Smith had pointed out as his.

  “No!” Devon’s anguished voice carried through the farthest one and Cathleen reached for the cold knob, then paused. From somewhere deep in the house the chimes of a clock sounded five times.

  She’d seen the shame in his eyes when she’d revealed the truth behind their night together. Going to him now might deepen it, or draw her further into the circle of his life. If all went well with her plans, this engagement would end in a few days and they’d only be united by a formal business agreement. To make things more personal would cause trouble.

  “No!” he cried again.

  I can’t let him suffer.

  She turned the knob and stepped inside.

  Tall furniture dominated the room, creating large crevices of shadows along the walls. The heavy window drapes stood open, but the pale light from outside barely pierced the deep recess of the massive curtained bed in the far corner as she made her way to the side of it.

  He lay in a tangle of bed linen, still dressed in his breeches and white shirt. The cravat lay crumpled on the bedside table next to a porcelain figurine of a horse, and his coat tossed over a nearby chair. The excitement of yesterday must have caused him to fall asleep half-dressed, or like she’d done so many nights, he hadn’t bothered to undress knowing sleep would never come.

  “Bloody hell.” He threw back his head, his neck muscles taught.

  “Devon, wake up.” She leaned over and pushed against his solid chest, trying to free him from the nightmare’s grip. “Wake up.”

  “Bastard!” He bolted upright, shoving her away. Her hip hit the side table, sending it and the porcelain figurine crashing to the floor. She struggled to stand and he pulled her up by one wrist then slammed her against the wall, pressing his free arm against her chest. “You killed him.” The entire weight of his body bore down on her and made her lungs scream with the effort to breathe.

  “No, it’s me, stop,” she wheezed. “Please, wake up.”

  “Maintenant—au diable!” His angry eyes looked past her to the old enemy now trapping them both.

  “Devon, wake up.” She ran her hand up the side of his damp face, caressing the soft skin beneath his hairline, her fingers disturbing the wisps of hair falling over his forehead. “Devon, please, wake up.”

  She repeated the phrase, over and over, continuing to caress him until the weight on her chest began to ease. Slowly, his eyes focused on hers, the rage burning in their blue depths softening as the nightmare lost its grip.

  “Cathleen?” His fingers loosened on her wrist and he staggered back, his face twisted with confusion. He took in the overturned table and broken figurine, his shoulders sagging under the realization of what he’d done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He reached for her and she stepped aside, her slippers crunching broken bits of porcelain.

  “I must go.” She stumbled over the fallen table before steadying herself and bolting for the door. “I can’t stay here.”

  “Cathleen, wait.”

  She didn’t stop but fled back down the hall to her room, locking the door behind her. Leaning against the cold wood, she struggled through panic and fear to clear her mind and think. She couldn’t stay here, but she couldn’t go back to Lucien. She had no money and no one else to turn to for help.

  Then it came to her. Mother’s ring.

  Hurrying into the dressing room attached to the bedroom, she found her old trunk lying next to the wardrobe. Dropping down in front of it, she pushed open the lid and felt along the bottom for the hidden compartment in the wooden floor, ignoring the guilt nipping at the heels of her worry.

  She could almost hear Madame Rochard’s words, the same ones she’d used the first time Cathleen accompanied her to treat a farmer who’d been gored by a bull. Cathleen had nearly fled at the sight of the bleeding and broken man, but Madame Rochard’s bony hand had snatched her by the wrist, her gray eyes pinning Cathleen’s.

  “He’s suffering and needs you. You can’t turn coward now.”

  Cathleen pulled up the sleeve of her dress, tracing the five dark bruises forming under the skin and feeling the old woman’s grip in the slight pain encircling her wrist.

  It wasn’t Devon’s fault, but knowing that didn’t temper her anxiety. She’d awakened him tonight, freed him from the nightmare...but what about next time?

  She wouldn’t be here to find out.

  “Coward.” Madame Rochard’s voice seemed to ring out but Cathleen shook her he
ad.

  No, he doesn’t need me.

  Sliding aside a small panel in the bottom of the empty trunk, she reached in and pulled out a velvet box. Opening it, her mother’s ring with its square emerald sat dark in the gold setting. After Thomas’s death, when there was little left of value to sell, she hadn’t been able to part with it. Tracing the smooth facets along the edge of the cold surface, she knew it was time.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” She closed the box and wiped the stinging tears from her eyes. The last two years had torn everything from her and she was tired of struggling and losing the things she loved. Yes, she could stay, continue to put her trust in Devon and the hope he might help her, but at what cost? She’d foolishly turned to Lucien for help and he’d nearly ruined her. She wouldn’t make such a mistake again.

  Rising, she removed her faded cloak from the wardrobe and pulled it over her shoulders. Taking out an old reticule, she stuffed the velvet box inside then pulled the strings closed, noting their frayed and worn edges. The last time she’d used this reticule, she’d gone to Gin Lane in search of the maid Martha had thrown out, and had been horrified by the wasting poverty she’d seen.

  The loneliness and vulnerability she’d felt after Thomas’s death gripped her, along with the old fear. If the ring didn’t bring enough and she walked away from Devon, how long until she shared the maid’s fate?

  No, I won’t end up like her. I can’t. Once she had the money, she’d find a way to survive on her own. She had no choice.

  * * *

  Devon sat on the edge of the bed, the image of Cathleen clawing at his arm like a snared rabbit haunting him more than the nightmare. The dream had never been this powerful before. He felt sick, his body shaking with images of what might have happened if she hadn’t awakened him. He dropped his head in his hands, his fingertips digging into his skull. What must she think of me?

  He stood, sucking in a quick breath as a bolt of pain shot down his leg. He had to apologize, and explain what happened before more damage was done, before his chance of winning her vanished completely.

  He snatched the rumpled coat off the back of the chair, pulled it on and then tugged on his boots. Limping to the door, he stepped out into the dark hallway and heard the squeak of the front door hinges echoing through the house. Struggling against the stiffness in his leg, he hurried to the top of the staircase in time to see Cathleen’s slender figure concealed by a plain cloak slip out into the gray morning.