The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirteen

S

ix hours. He hadn’t spent six hours in a carriage since his honeymoon, and that was by choice. Naturally, when he’d tried handing little Cecilia over to her nurse, she wailed as if she’d lost her best friend. Nine-year-old Irene only covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide and filled with mirth.

“Lady Irene, you find my predicament amusing?”

Refined young woman that she was, Irene managed to nod, her dark curls bobbing. And to her credit, she fought to hide a smile.

Inside, his grin was wide, but he kept his expression bland. “I say, does Lady Cecilia scream every time someone attempts to relinquish her?” His voice light, he followed Irene’s glance to the maid. Irene lowered her eyes without speaking.

The maid’s lips held a tight grimace.

Resigned to the weight in his arms, he studied the maid through a hooded gaze. She was scarcely older than Irene. Well, that wasn’t quite true, but she couldn’t have been more than sixteen, striking with an upturned nose and full lips. He shuddered to think of her in Maudsley’s employ.

Silence grew heavy in the confined space. As heavy as the sleeping child on his shoulder, the other pressed firmly to his side. They smelled sweet and innocent, raising every protective instinct he’d ever thought to possess. He let the quiet grow, and as predicted, the young governess shifted as her comfort level lessened.

“Are we almost there?” They were the first words Irene had uttered since having left the Kimpton townhouse in London. Granted, she’d slept a good portion of the journey, which had him wondering what they’d seen—heard.

A sharp gasp sounded from the maid. Irene pressed closer to his side.

“Indeed we are.” Thorne pointed to a large oak from the window. “That’s the oldest tree in Kimpton.” He smiled at her. “It signifies our arrival. We’ve reached the estate grounds.”

By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in the drive, the sun was on the descending side to the west, though not so far gone in the afternoon. He estimated the time as close to four.

The carriage jounced before Bons swept the door back. Thorne indicated to the maid to precede him. Odd, he hadn’t even asked her name. Tiny arms tightened about his neck, and the concern for the girl’s name evaporated. Lady Cecilia had wakened. He had a feeling she would not be letting go easily.

Quince met him halfway to the door. “My lord, it’s good to see you.”

“Lady Kimpton?”

Quince opened his mouth but his gaze moved to the two girls crowding Thorne. He cleared his throat. “Lady Kimpton is resting, my lord.”

Alarm prickled his skin. “Resting? She’s not ill, is she?”

“She was out rather late, assisting… ahem… the neighbors,” he returned.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed on him. “Fetch Mrs. Metzger at once. Come with me, ladies. Let’s see you settled, shall we?” As he started for the stairs, Mrs. Metzger approached them, her eyes full of questions. “Ah, Mrs. Metzger, please see to the feeding of… of…” He flung a helpless gaze after the children’s chaperone.

Lady Cecilia lifted her head from his shoulder and tugged her thumb from her mouth. “Miss Elbins,” she whispered.

“Elvins,” Irene corrected. “Miss Elvins.” Her voice was barely above that of her sister’s.

“Feed Miss Elvins and have a tray sent up to the nursery, please. Send a maid as well. I’m sure the rooms will need a good airing.”

“Of course, my lord. This way, Miss Elbins.”

“Elvins,” the girl snapped.

Grinning, Thorne took Lady Irene’s hand and proceeded up the stairs. He stepped over the threshold and attempted to set Lady Cecilia on her feet, which she steadfastly refused, clinging to his neck with a deathlike grip. Not that she could hurt a flea.

Bright yellow dominated the chamber in the wall’s paper, the books, and the lined curtains. It was a bit like too much sun after a brazen night with a bottle of whiskey. With Cecilia still ensconced in one arm, he let go of Irene and pulled back the curtain, allowing the late afternoon sun in to compete with the glaring decor.

After a moment, he faced Irene. “Is there something you wish to confide regarding Miss… Miss…”

“Elbins,” Lady Cecilia supplied.

“Elvins,” Lady Irene said.

“Miss Elvins,” he said. Thorne moved to the one chair large enough to accommodate an adult, shifted Cecilia onto his lap, and sat down.

Lady Cecilia’s thumb had found its place firmly secured in her mouth once more. Two sets of wide blue eyes watched him with caution.

“Come now, you are safe here. What is amiss?” he asked gently.

Tears glistened in Lady Irene’s eyes, but remained unshed pools.

Cecilia plucked her thumb from her mouth with a pop. “Papa hit Mama,” she whispered. “A lot.”

Thorne’s jaw set, and he had to breathe through his nose. “And what does that have to do with Miss Elvins?”

“Papa went into Miss Elbins’s chamber after he hurted Mama.”

Thorne inhaled deeply. “Did you see your mama?”

Cecilia lay her head back on his shoulder. He felt her nod. Irene’s tears spilled down her cheeks in silence.

“Irene?”

“Yes, it’s true. We heard a crash and ran to Mama’s chamber. Papa was yelling at her. Calling her…” She hiccupped. “A trollop. There was another crash after that one. I had just enough time to pull Celia into the chamber across before he… he stormed out.”

Cecilia’s small body shook with sharp sobs. He tightened his hold.

Irene looked at her sister, then back at him. “We ran into Mama’s chamber. She was lying on the floor. There was”—she stopped and swallowed—“b-blood on her h-head. She made us promise to go back to our rooms and pretend to sleep.”

Thorne fished out his handkerchief and handed it to Irene. “Go on, my lady.”

“We did as she bade, but Celia stayed in my bed with me.” Irene took a shaky breath, perusing the room. “But we heard Papa in Miss Elvins’s room. It’s connected, you see. They made these awful grunting noises. Like dogs, growling. Then Papa left, and Miss Elvins came into my room. We kept pretending to be asleep just as Mama told us, but she—Miss Elvins—jerked my arm. Said she knew I was trying to deceive her. She said that if-if we ever said a word to anyone, she would… s-sell us.” Irene dropped her eyes. The tears streamed in a river down her cheeks though her voice remained soft and steady.

Thorne cleared his throat in an effort to stave off his fury. It didn’t belong here with these two. “I see.” And he was afraid he did. “Did you see your mama again before Lord Brockway came for you?”

Irene lowered her gaze and shook her head.

“Has Miss Elvins disciplined you? Physically, I mean.”

Irene lifted her eyes to his. He didn’t need an answer; it was there in the depths of her frightened gaze. The rage of his anger shook him.

“What is a trollop?” Cecilia asked.

Thorne froze, unsure how to answer. “It’s… it’s—”

“A tart,” Irene said. Her matter-of-fact response shocked Thorne speechless.

Cecilia pulled her thumb from her mouth, then nodded knowingly. “Yes, Mama can be very tart, but not so sweet to make one sick.”

Irene looked as if she was about to contradict her sister, but Thorne cut her off. “Your mama is a grand lady and, indeed, somewhat tart. Many strive to follow her lead. Now…” he said, before the waters grew any more treacherous. He lifted Lady Cecilia from his shoulder and caught her chin. “Do you think you can stay here with your sister whilst I see to Miss…”

“Elbins?” Cecilia whispered.

“Yes.”

After a considerable pause, Cecilia nodded. He set her on her feet as a knock sounded, and Peg appeared with tray in hand.

He dropped down to one knee before Irene. “Will you trust me, Lady Irene? Will you believe me when I tell you that you’re safe here? I shall set matters right—at least in this particular area.” There was not much Thorne could do for Lady Maudsley, for she was married to a monster. But he didn’t have to let their bullying governess run roughshod over her charges. Let Maudsley do what he would. “While I am gone, you shall entertain yourselves with Peg, and eat something, for God’s sake.” His tone came out a bit gruff at the end.

He was met with somber nods. “Brave girls.”

Mollified for the moment, Thorne made his way back the way he’d come with every intention of seeing Miss Elvins straight back to London. At the crux of a turn in the corridor, he paused. Miss Elvins was safe enough for five more minutes. His steps were silent on the thick runner.

Past the door of his own chamber, he tapped lightly on Lorelei’s. No answer. He turned the knob and glanced in. The room was dark but for a sliver of light stealing through a crease in the drapes. Only embers remained in the grate of the hearth. He couldn’t see her but was reassured by her soft, steady breaths. He crossed the threshold and walked to the bed.

His wife lay on her back, lips slightly parted, one arm flung out in the cool air, flaxen curls escaping their plait and strung over the pillow. The counterpane and sheets had slipped to her waist. The light allowed a tantalizing peek of her shadowed breasts beneath the sheer chemise.

Moving closer, he was drank in the detail of her puckered nipples. A rush of desire surged from deep within his belly straight down to his groin. His reaction was typical to her nearness. But he would not take advantage of her vulnerability again. That method had sent her running to the country in the first place.

Still, unable to resist completely, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles before tucking her arm in next to her body and pulling the covers up to her chin. He stirred the coals in the grate and tossed on more kindling.

Miss Elvins. He hurried down the stairs as his steward crossed through the foyer, dropping a missive atop others for posting. “A moment, Quince? My study, if you please.”

Quince followed him into the study, ignoring a knock on the front door. Thorne moved behind his desk, planted both hands flatted on top of it, and leaned forward. “There is a young lady in the kitchens. See her on the next mail coach to London, posthaste. And we shall need to look into the matter of a temporary governess or nursemaid.”

“A young lady?”

“Yes, yes. Send her back to London.”

“Ah, Miss Elvins, I presume. Mrs. Metzger mentioned her. Of course, I shall handle the matter.” Quince inclined his head.

“About the other situation?” Thorne said. “Is Lady Kimpton aware of…”

“I fear so, my lord. Miss Hollerfield went into an early labor just as Lady Kimpton’s carriage pulled into the drive in the wee hours of the morning.”

Thorne scrubbed a palm over his face. “Good God, man, you didn’t allow her to—” He broke off at the wince on his steward’s face.

“I had no choice, sir. I tried to stop her, but, well, she was quite insistent.”

“Dear God. Are you saying she went to the hunter’s cottage?”

“The mother is still in danger. Lady Kimpton’s maid stayed behind to monitor the situation.”

“Danger.” Thorne dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Was the doctor summoned?”

“He was unavailable, sir. Lady Kimpton’s maid does not hold out much hope… for either mother or child, I’m afraid.”

Thorne shook his head. Strange, Rowena hadn’t looked that close to delivery to him. But then his knowledge of those matters was slim at best.

“When did Lady Kimpton return?”

“Well after ten this morning.”

That explained the depth of her sleep, he supposed. His marriage was doomed.

Edward Ninnis, most recent Earl of Maudsley, stood just outside the Earl of Kimpton’s study in the entry hall at Kimpton’s estate in the godforsaken wilds of Kent. He sucked in sharp, short breaths to calm his fury. His wife had deliberately defied him. Apparently, he hadn’t pounded strong enough into that feeble brain of hers the message that she belonged at his house, not traipsing about the countryside with Kimpton’s Countess.

While the butler disappeared with his hat and cloak, Maudsley took advantage of his momentary seclusion and moved closer to a door that was slightly ajar. What softly spoken words he could ascertain didn’t make sense, nor did they matter. Someone was at the hunter’s cottage. Almost dead. He put the words from his mind and concentrated his efforts on how to extricate his disobedient wife without losing his temper.

Her refusal to give him a son gnawed at him like a flesh-ridden disease. He squeezed his hand into a fist, vowing to finish her off at the first opportunity. Teaching her another lesson at the end of his fist had certain appeal, but he meant to make it his last. In a concerted effort, he forced himself to calm, loosened his fingers, and felt for the lucky coin in his watch pocket. There were enough willing women about, able to sire an heir for an earl. Virginia would not have the last word in this.

Shuffled steps sounded, and Edward moved casually in front of a painting on the entryway wall. Its stark colors startled him. Sweeping strokes brought to life the scene of roaring storm clouds in shades from midnight blue to gray. Splotches of creamy yellow lightened the darkness and highlighted the water to another interesting shade of blue. A strip of orange stretched from one side of the canvas and tapered off at a slope on the other side. The effect was of a stream of brilliant sunset that burst through black clouds.

The scene looked remarkably similar to his Brighton sea cottage across England on the southeast coast. Edward tossed the coin up and caught it on its flipside. The motion never failed in soothing his frayed temper.

The butler stepped around him and tapped on the door. “Lord Maudsley, my lord.”

A long, telling silence followed the announcement, bringing a bitter smirk to Edward’s lips. He had his answer then. Kimpton was harboring his wife.

“Of course, Metzger, send him in.”

Edward pocketed the coin and pushed past the butler, stepping into a sparsely furnished study. The effect presented was one of space. Surprisingly, it was no less opulent than those with clutter and knickknacks scattered about. After he took care of the more pressing matter of Virginia, perhaps he’d consider redecorating his own study in a similar fashion. “Kimpton.”

The earl turned a cool gaze on him. “Maudsley, what brings you to the rustics?”

“My wife, sir. She’s not well, and I understand she traveled here with Lady Kimpton.”

The crease between Kimpton’s brows deepened with his frown. He cleared his throat. A clear sign his next words would not be true. “Er, no. Lorelei arrived late last night with her maid, as I understand it. I myself arrived just this afternoon.” Kimpton turned to a taller man who stood at one end of the desk. “Quince, may I present Lord Maudsley? My steward, Mr. Quince.”

“My lord,” Quince acknowledged. “Lord Kimpton is quite right. Lady Kimpton arrived with her maid and her footman just after midnight.”

Edward lifted his brow. “No outriders?”

Kimpton’s jaw tightened. So, his wife was disobedient as well. Edward contemplated that for a moment, wondering how Kimpton disciplined the lack of respect. It was a man’s duty.

“No. Though she may have instructed them to remain at the inn. There was an outpouring of rain, and confusion upon her arrival.”

“Confusion?” Edward pulled out his coin and tossed it in the air.

Quince looked toward Thorne, who gave a curt nod. “One of the, er… local tenants had a slight emergency.”

Edward bit back a smirk, shoving the coin in his pocket. “I hope all fared well.”

“We as well,” Kimpton said under his breath. “Maudsley, perhaps you’d care to join me for a brandy.”

Edward inclined his head. “That I would.”

“Quince, perhaps you should check on that tenant.” The man bowed slightly and slipped from the room.

Edward admired Kimpton’s sharp manner, but there was something about the exchange that left him uneasy. Kimpton rose from his chair behind the massive oak desk and moved to the brandy decanter on a shelf in the corner. Edward could almost taste the burn of the gold liquid as it splashed in the balloon glass.

Kimpton sauntered over, brandy glass held out, and the realization hit like a punch in the face. Kimpton was shielding Virginia. With shaking fingers, Edward reached for the glass and swallowed the contents in a solid swig. How dare the man interfere in Edward’s marriage? Keep his own wife from him.

Edward dipped his fingers into his pocket and fingered the coin. Blinked in an attempt to clear the sudden rage blinding him. He tossed up his lucky coin and caught it.

Toss, catch.

Toss, catch.

“Another brandy, Maudsley?” Kimpton’s voice jarred him back.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he murmured, handing over the empty glass. He struggled to push back his seething fury. A million things cluttered his head. He’d find that damned cottage and repossess his rebellious wife with a vengeance.

“Cheers, old man.”

Edward squeezed his fist around the coin and took the glass, biting back another surge of anger. He meandered to windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and gazed out over the expansive lawns. A lone rider cantered past, disappearing into a copse of trees toward the north. Mr. Quince. A slow grin tugged from deep within. He finished off his brandy, set the glass on a nearby table, and flexed his fingers.

Lorelei stretched, groaned, then forced her eyes open. Someone had graciously stirred the fire and ungraciously let in the afternoon sun. She squinted against the parted curtains. A second later, events from the night before crashed over her with the force of a cracking earth. Miss Hollerfield’s bloodcurdling screams. Stark, undisguised fear.

The women would need help. Even having left Bethie behind, Lorelei knew they needed more. Much more. She threw back the coverlets and bounded from the bed. She rang for Liza and sorted through her dresses, quickly selecting a brown day dress.

“My lady?”

“Oh, good, Liza. I must return to the cottage. Have some hot water sent in and inform Andrews to ready the carriage. Then help me with these fasteners, if you will.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Any word from Bethie?”

“I fear not, ma’am.”

“Very good. Hurry now.”

Thirty minutes later, Lorelei hurried down the stairs, her hair not so stable, but she couldn’t worry about that. Before her booted foot touched the bottom step, she spotted Mrs. Metzger. “My cloak, if you please—”

She stopped, catching sight of Mrs. Metzger standing just to off the side, wringing her hands, her expression anxious. “Is something amiss, Mrs. Metzger?”

The door to Thorne’s study swung wide. “Might I have a word, Lady Kimpton?”

Lorelei started at her husband’s deep voice. A voice that should be miles from her less than stout reserve where he was concerned. In London. She swallowed back an irritated reply. “It shall have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way out.” From the side pane window at the front door, she noted Andrews next to the waiting carriage. She turned to her husband, her lips compressed.

“And just where are you off to?”

“As if you don’t know.” Curse her aggravation.

“Mrs. Metzger,” he said. “Peg is upstairs. If you would see to assisting her? All shall work out. I’ll see to it personally.” He gave the housekeeper a pointed look.

Mrs. Metzger nodded curtly and retreated. He picked up Lorelei’s cloak and held it out. “I believe I shall accompany you.”

A more strategic tactic was required to retain control of this situation. “Perhaps that’s just as well, my lord. It appears we’ve reached a misunderstanding regarding said guests.” His pained expression gave her a small measure of satisfaction.