The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-One

B

rock saw Ginny and the girls into their carriage as rain sluiced from the gray sky in droves, muck covering his usually highly-shined hessians.

“You should come with us, Brock,” Ginny said. “You cannot possibly ride in this mess.”

Brock swiped the rain from his face, attempting to pull his thoughts together. “Do you mind if we stop by my townhome?”

“Of course not,” Irene answered for her mother.

Smiling softly and rolling her eyes, Ginny said, “I concur with my eldest daughter.”

“I don’t relish riding in this downpour. We’ll drop my horse.” He stepped inside and took Ginny’s hand in his. His emotions were a riot of chaos. He was touched by her faith in him, presenting a united front to her father and Griston. It was a great honor she’d lauded him. More than anyone, he knew how crucial she deemed her independence. Giving her children safeguarding lessons was the perfect proof. And stunning him by other benefits he hadn’t unexpected: deeper insight to Ginny’s heart; shock at the joy of knowing Cecilia and Irene on a whole other level. Revelations that solidified his feelings that he belonged within the intimate family circle Ginny had masterfully created.

It also brought to the forefront just how desperately he missed his father.

After his sister Rachel’s death, Brocks’ father, the duke had sunk into a secluded desolation, where he remained to this day. Remotely alone. Brock’s guilt over the tragedy had kept him away. Unnecessarily possibly. Perhaps it was time to face his past. His entire past. Face his father’s condemnation. He deserved no less.

At Brockway House, he said, “I’ll just be a moment.” He untied his horse from the back of the carriage and tossed the reins to the stable boy. Once inside the house, he shook the rain from his body like a pooch who’d just endured an unwanted bath. Punkle met him at the door. “There’s a message from Kimpton, my lord.”

He accepted a proffered towel, took the missive, and broke the seal. It was just as he’d thought.

No word on Harlowe. Tragically, however, his wife appears to have swallowed a massive amount of laudanum. She still lives but remains unconscious at this writing. Lorelei has sent for Lady Maudsley and her daughters. Though why she’s insisted on including the children is beyond my simple male brain. Any words of wisdom would be appreciated.

Yours, Kimpton

Corinne was a quiet girl. Her mother, Maudsley’s first wife, had perished birthing her. The previous Lady Maudsley’s lady’s maid had been one of Maudsley’s victims of sexual assault, later becoming one of the most sought-after courtesans in London, Rowena Hollerfield. The truth of whatever had transpired in that household had evaporated with Miss Hollerfield’s death last year. From what Brock and Kimpton had discerned at the time, Rowena had absconded with the baby Corinne and disappeared, raising her as her own sister. He suspected a story of epic proportions.

Brock dashed up the stairs. “Punkle, forget the bath.”

“Trouble, my lord?”

“You could say that. I need a fresh shirt.” At the porcelain bowl, he dipped his head then ran his fingers through his hair. The cold water helped in clearing his muddled mind. He stripped off his cravat and waistcoat then pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and donned a clean one. “Harlowe’s wife is on her death bed.”

Punkle’s eyes flashed, but he refrained from commenting. He’d been with Brock for years. Through the search for Brock’s sister, Rachel, on the continent. Through assisting him in nursing Ginny from Maudsley’s beating that had very nearly killed her. The man was savvy enough to keep his questions to himself, for which Brock was grateful as he had no answers.

He slipped into the waistcoat Punkle held out, then yanked the cravat out of his hand and tied it himself in a less than perfect yet simple knot. “I don’t know when I shall return.”

Before Ginny reached Kimpton Manor’s portico, the door swung wide. “Lady Maudsley, Lady Irene, Lady Cecilia. Come in out of the rain.” The Kimptons’ old and very proper butler, Oswald, stood just inside. “Lady Kimpton awaits you in the parlor.”

“Thank you, Oswald.”

They handed off their cloaks and umbrellas, and Ginny led the girls in. “Lorelei?”

Lorelei rushed over. “Oh, Ginny.” Her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her flaxen hair disheveled and out of sorts.

Ginny hugged her. “What’s happened?” She followed Lorelei’s eyes to Irene and Celia. They were so young. For all Irene’s ever worldly-wise manner, she was still a child. And there she stood with her wide gray gaze as unsure as Ginny had ever seen her. Celia’s pose was more comforting with her thumb tucked securely in her mouth.

Lorelei dabbed her eyes. “Please forgive me, ladies. It’s been a trying day. Lady Irene, perhaps you’d care to take Lady Celia to the nursery. Nathan is crying, and there’s no one about to get him to stop except the two of you.”

Irene took Celia’s hand. “Of course,” she said without the slightest inflection in her voice. She did try a small smile, however, and Ginny couldn’t have been more proud. Spontaneously smiling was not in Irene’s repertoire.

After the door closed softly behind them, Ginny led a shaken Lorelei to the settee. “Tell me, dear. What is all this about?” She held her hand in a tight squeeze.

“When we returned from the theater last night, it was quite late. I-I looked in on Nathan, then Corinne as I always do. Then this morning she didn’t come down for breakfast, I thought nothing of it. But as the morning grew later—” Lorelei’s face fell in her palms, her body wracked with her sobs. “I should have tried to wake her last night. I should have stayed home.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around her friend. “You couldn’t have known, Lorelei.”

“She swallowed almost an entire bottle of laudanum.”

“I’m so sorry, Lorelei.” Ginny was at a loss; she owed Lorelei so much. She could only hug her friend, be glad that she could be there for her.

The door opened, and Kimpton walked in with Brock. Another older man followed. His whiskers, streaked with gray, twitched but not with a smile. The somber expression in his eyes had Ginny rising with a trembling Lorelei, each clinging to the other.

Kimpton came over and took Lorelei’s hand from Ginny. “Lorelei, Dr. Pogue has news.”

Ginny’s stomach coiled into a million knots, and suddenly Brock was at her side, his arm around her waist. A large protective barrier. He tangled his fingers with hers. Still, nausea threatened enough that she feared casting up her accounts.

Dr. Pogue leaned forward and clasped his hands at his lower back. “My sincerest condolences, Lady Kimpton. I did everything I could.”

The air in Ginny’s lungs refused to expel. A white-hot light flashed behind her eyes, and her head felt close to exploding with the force of a musket. Her knees gave way, but Brock caught her, lowering her to the sofa behind them.

This could have been her girls the year before. Abandoned by their mother, if not for the marquis risking all to save her. He was the sole reason her children still had a mother. Silent tears rolled down her face. Had Corinne intentionally taken so large an amount? If so, how could she have left her beautiful baby boy behind? Such an action seemed unfathomable to Ginny. If it turned out to be suicide, how on earth could they keep it quiet? This would taint Nathan for the rest of his life.

Lorelei’s soft sobs were the only sound in the large parlor. “Why?” she whispered, echoing Ginny’s own mantra. Why? Why? Why?

Kimpton shot Brock a speaking glance. Brock squeezed her hand. She read his mind as clearly as if he’d spoken. He rose and moved swiftly across the room to usher the elderly man from the room. Kimpton led Lorelei to the settee, situating her next to Ginny. He looked at Ginny, his gaze reflecting the depths of his anguish for Lorelei. “Please, stay here, darling,” he said softly. “I’ll return shortly.”

Ginny took hold of Lorelei and nodded. She couldn’t have spoken had a gun been held to her head.

The tears streaming down Lorelei’s cheeks broke Ginny’s heart. “Why would she do such a thing? She had a home here. I did my best to welcome her. I don’t know what else I could have done.” All remaining resolve, if any, collapsed. “What of… of Nathan?”

“This was not your fault, Lorelei.” Ginny gripped her hands. “You said it yourself. You gave her a home.”

“She’s my brother’s wife. I couldn’t just toss her to the streets like so much rubbish.”

“Who knows why someone chooses death over life,” Ginny whispered. “As you said, she was not well.”

Lorelei calmed somewhat and agreed. “No. No, she wasn’t. This is absolute proof. The depths of her pain must have been”—she shook her head—“immeasurable.”

“Yes.” Ginny pulled her handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it into Lorelei’s hand. “You have a child to raise now. Your brother’s child, and he’ll need you more than ever.”

Lorelei swiped the tears from her face, blew her nose, and straightened her spine. “You’re right, of course. Thorne and I are his parents now.” Kimpton and Brock reentered the room.

Kimpton strolled over to a tray and poured out four glasses of brandy. He handed off one to each of them. “For medicinal purposes,” he said. He leaned over and kissed his wife. “You are correct, my dear. Until we locate Harlowe, Nathan will indeed be raised as our son. He is forever welcome here.”

Ginny looked away, blinking hard. How true and sure their love for one another was. She wondered if they realized how precious and rare their gift was. Could this have been her and Brock? Could it now, if she grabbed her courage with both hands and trusted him?

“I feel a need to see the children. Assure myself of their well-being,” Lorelei said.

Ginny swallowed past a suffocating lump. “Yes. I feel the same for such a bracing antidote,” she said.

Brock’s chest hurt. He poured a second round of brandies and passed them about. Lorelei had sent word for the maid to bring the children. From the corner of his eye, he observed Ginny. She was strong. She’d survived a horrendous marriage, forced by equally horrendous parents. He couldn’t imagine her ever volunteering to leave Irene and Celia. In the deepest reaches of his soul, he knew if something happened to Cecilia or Irene, it would take every ounce of wit and strength to save her from despair. Or, depending on the circumstances, murder.

Sometime in the past week, he’d begun to think of her children as his. He rubbed a hand over his chest to alleviate the load crushing his insides. His gaze met Ginny’s red-rimmed eyes, and he shifted in his chair, resisting the urge to pull her into the protection of his hold. It swamped him with an obsession that refused to dissipate.

The tap at the door came as a relief. Irene walked in holding a fat baby Nathan who looked too big for the thinness of her arms. His head lay on her shoulder, and his arms clasped her neck, his eyes swollen but closed. Cecilia followed but broke into a run when she sighted her mother. “Nathan would only quit crying when Irene picked him up,” she mumbled in Ginny’s shoulder. “We may have to stay the night, Mama, or no one shall get any rest.”

Ginny tugged her onto her lap.

“I can take him now, Lady Irene,” the maid said. But Brock didn’t think she sounded so sure.

“Not yet, Peg,” Irene told her. “He’s only just stopped his blubbering. Has he eaten?”

Peg’s fingers twisted. A blush tinged her cheeks. “Very little. Not that we didn’t try, mind.”

Brock hid a smile behind his brandy as Irene issued another round of orders, her confidence sure and true. “Bring bread and cheese. And milk.”

Brock rose, indicating she take his chair. He didn’t make the mistake of offering his assistance. It was clear to all present that Irene knew how to handle a babe. She’d been the one to teach Lady Kimpton how to change the child’s nappies, after all.

She sat. “I fear Celia has the right of it, Mama. What ails Lady Harlowe, if I may ask?”

Her straightforward question caught Ginny and Lady Kimpton unawares. Both women’s eyes misted.

Sensing the levity of the situation, Brock crouched down and met Irene’s direct gaze with his own. Irene was too intelligent for mincing words. “I’m afraid Lady Harlowe’s ills proved too much for her and have… turned permanent,” he said gently.

Though not a sound penetrated the silence that abounded, the atmosphere grew fraught with underlying tension. He could feel Ginny’s stare knifing him between the blades of his shoulders. He also knew she would realize this was the only possible way to show Irene the respect she deserved.

Irene’s face paled, but her tone remained even. “She’s expired?”

“I fear so, my lady.”

“Mama?” Cecilia’s voice came out tinny and small.

Brock’s heart ached for an easier way to explain. He came up empty. Still crouched, he swiveled, facing Ginny and a scared Cecilia. How small she appeared compared to their safeguarding lessons earlier that day when she’d set her small mouth and squared her tiny shoulders, begging for the chance to fight the fiercest pirate. He pinned Ginny with a leveled gaze.

After her initial fear, Ginny’s hostility faded, and her eyes softened on him as she hugged Cecilia to her body. She turned Celia’s face to hers. “Lord Brockway is correct, darling. Lady Harlowe was unwell. But she has left Nathan in Lord and Lady Kimpton’s excellent and capable hands. Such is the way of life sometimes.”

Cecilia took her mother’s words with a thoughtfulness that rivaled Irene’s maturity. “Like when you almost died last year?”

Ginny’s eyes shut tight, but she wasn’t able to keep the single tear from escaping. “Yes. Like that. We were most fortunate, darling,” she whispered. “Most, most fortunate.”

Peg entered with the small tray laden with bread, cheese, and milk, and set it on a barren tea table, stepping back.

“He’s asleep,” Irene said softly.

“Are you certain you don’t mind staying, Lady Irene?” Lady Kimpton had risen and glided over. With a gentle pat on Nathan’s back, she didn’t attempt to take him from Irene, but Ginny saw the yearning in her eyes.

“Of course not, my lady. I believe he will need all of us.” At times, Irene’s practicality was the perfect balm. Oh, her wonderful, self-possessed, unflappable Irene. She wanted to wrap her up and never let her go.

Instead, Ginny addressed Celia. “What of you, my love. Do you wish to stay?”

“I should be here to help Irene with baby Nathan, Mama. Irene cannot stay up by herself all night.” Celia slid from Ginny’s lap to her feet, then kissed Ginny’s cheek. She looked at Lorelei. “If that is all right with you, Lady Kimpton.”

“It is indeed. Peg, would you accompany the ladies back to the nursery?” Smiling tenderly, Lorelei looked both girls over. “I believe we still have a few items left over from their stay last year that will still fit.”

Peg stepped forward and took Nathan from Irene. Ginny smothered a smile at Irene’s subtle move of getting the blood moving through her limp arms, and she hugged both girls good night.

“Irene’s demeanor sort of puts things in perspective, does it not?” Lorelei said, watching the door latch softly behind their departure. She shifted her gaze to Ginny. “What of you, my friend? Do you wish to stay as well?”

“Thank you. At the risk of being an inconvenience, I would greatly appreciate staying. I could use the reprieve from the baron and baroness.”

Lorelei glanced over at Thorne where he and Brock were softly conversing, being careful to hide her elation. Despite the horrendousness of the current situation, her machinations for bringing Ginny and Brock together were coming along nicely.