The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty
L
orelei stood outside the study, hand on her chest, her heart heavy, her bones chilled. How was she supposed to tell Irene her mother was “out of danger, but it was a near thing”? What did that mean? Fear and anger twisted her stomach into a coil of knots. How had Ginny managed to urge those girls to pretend sleep, as hurt as she was?
The suffocating sensation clogged Lorelei’s throat, knowing she must fulfill her promise to Irene. She made her way to the morning room. The papered walls, with birds that flitted through various shades of painted green leaves, normally cheered her. Now the small, cozy room seemed to mock her. Lorelei tugged on the bellpull, and the housekeeper poked her head around the door.
“You rang, my lady?”
“Tea for two, please. And send for Lady Irene. I wish to speak to her. Alone.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Lorelei waited, her stomach dipping with every minute creak, pass, and rustle that ventured beyond the chamber, bracing herself.
All too soon, Irene crossed the threshold, hands clasped tightly before her, in her starched poplin dress of soft pink, her small, pert features solemn. It was unnatural for a child her age to be so perfect and well-behaved. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Lorelei patted the empty space on the settee beside her. “Come sit.”
Irene followed Lorelei’s instructions to the letter. She sat, her gaze on her hands clasped in her lap. “My mother is dead, isn’t she?”
“No. She is not dead. But—” Lorelei swallowed. “I fear she is in a bad way. I don’t know how bad. But that is the report straight from Lord Brockway’s own lips.”
Not a hiccup, sniffle, or peep escaped. Irene’s shoulders did not shudder with sobs. The only sign she cried was the growing damp spot on her dress, where her tears splashed on her hands then landed on her pretty frock.
Lorelei laid her hands over Irene’s. “I’m sorry I don’t have more news for you, but I told you I would tell you what I learned when I learned it.”
“Thank you,” Irene whispered.
Lorelei’s heart shattered, and she pulled the girl into her arms. She seemed so fragile, so breakable. “Lord Brockway will keep us informed, Irene. He believes she is out of danger. That is most encouraging, isn’t it?”
A brisk nod against Lorelei’s chest was Irene’s only response. It would have to suffice.
Brock made his way from the Kimptons’, his rage barely suppressed. He had one or two quick appearances required before it would be safe to check on Ginny. He always chose the most crowded balls, flirted with some simpering debutante or merry widow. Theatrics carefully scripted to throw off the patronesses before sneaking away through a side door and over a garden wall.
He’d prefer Kimpton and Lorelei to attend Ginny, but leaving the house vulnerable with their presence was not an option. Brock had every intention of killing Maudsley, but timing was key. He flexed, then clenched his fist. If he had his way, the man would end up in the gutter, gutted.
He guided his horse toward the Gristons’ for the small dinner the man’s mother had orchestrated. The man set him on edge. Two hours, he told himself.
Brock slid from his horse, tossing the reins to a waiting groom. He plastered a smile on his face and knocked on the door. He was ushered to a large parlor filled with many of his peers. Notably missing were Kimpton and his wife.
Griston waved him over. “Brockway, welcome. What will you have?”
“Whiskey.”
Griston handed over a tumbler. “Haven’t seen much of you of late, have we?”
His gut tightened. He sipped his drink, overriding the desire to swallow the contents in a single gulp. “Huh. I’ve been about.” Brock needed a subject change. “Heard Welton’s tying the knot.”
The man stilled. Nothing overt, but Brock noted his reaction with interest. “Yes. I had heard.” Griston hid his aggravation almost well. He tipped his head in the direction of a group of women. “If you’ll excuse me, Brockway. My mother is angling for my attention.”
Brock stepped aside. “Of course,” he murmured. Griston made his way across the room. He leaned in and spoke to the aging countess. She nodded and slipped from the room.
Ten minutes later, supper was announced.
Brock edged his way to the terrace doors, ready to leap the terrace wall in a single bound but halted. Maudsley had the young widow, Lady Alymer, cornered. Grimacing, Brock changed directions and headed for them. “There you are, Lady Alymer. You promised your supper to me.”
Relief emanated from her. “Yes, Lord Brockway. I’m most vexed with you. You are late.”
He swallowed a bark of laughter and placed her hand on his arm. “Sorry, Maudsley. I’m famished.” He winked at her. “Shall we?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Welton sauntered past, waylaying Maudsley.
Brock escorted Lady Alymer from the parlor, following the crowd to the ballroom of all places. The layout was not a normal one, with tables sprinkled about, leaving an open area for dancing. “Thank you, Lord Brockway,” she whispered.
He hadn’t placed any credence on Welton’s marriage announcement, but now he wondered about Welton’s interest in Maudsley. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Alymer.”
Freckles stood out across her pale complexion. “I’ll be fine now.” She didn’t look fine. She looked as if she might swoon at the slightest sound.
“It would be remiss of me to desert you now, my lady.” He guided her to a table farthest from the door and pulled out a chair. “Please sit. I’ll bring you a plate.”
She nodded, and he strolled to the buffet.
Keeping an eye on her, he filled two plates, then sauntered back. He had questions. “I hope you like salmon, asparagus, and fresh berries, Lady Alymer.”
“Er, yes. Thank you, my lord.” Her eyes darted about.
“Don’t worry about Maudsley. He won’t come near you with me present.” He bit into a blackberry.
Dark red infused her cheeks; it clashed horrifically with her hair. “I-it’s not that, sir.” She inhaled, and her hands steadied. She looked about, then turned a bold gaze on him. “Where is Lady Maudsley these days? No one has seen her since the Martindales’ masquerade.” She took a dainty bite of her salmon.
He frowned.
She huffed her exasperation, then leaned in. “Everyone knows your heart is not free, my lord.”
His fork paused midair. “I don’t know what you are implying.” He shook his head and slipped a forkful of asparagus into his mouth. That was not a subject on which he wished to converse. “I understand Lord Welton is to marry. Who’s the lucky young woman?”
A pronounced shudder rippled through her. “Not me, thank heavens,” she muttered. “Despite my mother’s machinations.”
He bit back his laughter. “Pardon?”
“Forgive me. I speak out of turn. Welton’s bride is quite the mystery. No one seems to have any idea who she is. In fact, it’s being bandied about the whole thing is a ruse.”
“Interesting.” They ate in silence. Minutes later Maudsley strolled in, and his eyes narrowed on Brock. He was free to depart.
“What is truly odd is how closed-mouth the man is.” Lady Alymer set her fork down and pierced Brock with grave eyes. “Welton is not known for his lack of chatter.”
The woman was shrewd. “Yes. I see what you mean.” He pulled a card from his pocket, laid it on the table, and pushed it toward her. “Lady Alymer, if anything regarding this mystery woman reaches you, I would appreciate hearing from you.”
Her gaze fell on the card. Nodding slowly, she slipped the card into her reticule. A long moment passed. She raised her eyes to him. “Is she alive, my lord?”
Brock stilled. Answering was too risky. His glance fell to the half-eaten food on his plate. “I don’t know—”
She cut him off. “Take good care of her. She deserves much better than she’s received.” She tapped her lips with her serviette. “Now, I must not be seen with you, lest Lady Ingleby garner ideas. I must be on my way, my lord. Thank you for… everything.” She slipped from the ballroom through another door.
Brock didn’t waste any time stealing through the terrace doors and over the garden gate. He needed to see Ginny. Too impatient for the longer ride through Somers Town, he saddled his own mount and took off at a gallop.
The ride took all of ten minutes. Punkle met him at the door. “How is she?”
“She’s asking for her daughters.”
He tore off his hat and pitched it to his butler. “She’s awake?”
“Last I looked.”
“Bring me brandy.” He took the stairs two at a time. “And tea. Bring her tea.”
Brock stopped at the guest room door, his hand on the knob. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood. Would her words still slur as they had the day before when she’d finally spoken after four days of agonizing silence? Would her eyes go blank, with no recognition of him? He could not imagine a worse form of torture—Ginny never remembering him.
He turned the handle.
The room was stuffy and dark but for a low-lit lantern on the bedside table. Brock moved to the drapes and pulled them aside. Street lanterns gave off an eerie glow that matched his mood. Here at least she was safe, he decided, unlatching the window. He pushed out the glass, and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair.
“Much better.” Her croak sounded hardly above a whisper, and the bed creaked.
He hurried over. “Don’t move. I’ll help you. Fool woman, you’ve been out for days.”
Brock braced his hand on her back and assisted her up. He leaned her forward and arranged the pillows, then gently set her back.
He eased down beside her and brushed the hair from her face, revealing a shaved patch. Dark stitches at her hairline gave her a slightly monstrous appearance. Joy soared through him. She was indeed alive.
His relief left him feeling as helpless as a newborn kitten and, at the same time, furious enough to take on Napoleon and his army single-handedly.
Her eyes remained closed, partly due to their swelling. The bruising was turning from black to purple and, in some places, yellow. A good sign. Her lips, slightly parted, looked cracked and parched. Punkle pushed through the door, loaded tray in hand. Brock remained silent while his valet, manservant, steward, confidant, and now nurse set the tray on a table and backed from the room. He trusted no other with Ginny’s location. A snick from the door sounded. They were alone.
“Punkle says you’ve been awake much longer today.” Brock poured out a half cup and added a lump of sugar and stirred. He set the cup to her lips. “Drink, my dear.” To his relief, she managed a small one.
“He’ll kill you when he finds out you’ve sheltered me. And I’m just as good as dead.”
“He won’t find you. No one knows where you are. I realize the danger.”
“What of my girls?”
“They are as well as can be expected.” He put the cup to her lips again. “More, sweets, you need sustenance. Irene is concerned.”
“Irene is much too serious.” She frowned. “And Cecilia?”
“At the risk of hurting your feelings, I hear she was frolicking through the flowers in the garden all afternoon.”
Her lips curved in a simulated smile. It warmed his chilled fingers. “When can I see them? I miss them terribly.”
Brock set the cup aside, then carefully took her bandaged hand. It was broken at the wrist. Clearly, she’d defended herself. He was proud of her. He thanked the Almighty that she’d remained unconscious when he and Punkle set it. “Soon, darling, very soon,” he vowed. Once I kill the bastard.
Her other hand clutched his sleeve. “You must promise me you’ll look after them if something should happen to me.”
“Nothing will happen to you,” he growled.
“Promise me,” she demanded. “Especially Irene.” Panic reeled against the dark walls.
“Yes. Yes. I promise, darling. You must stay calm.”
Air deflated her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Brock dropped his forehead to the back of her hand. How had he let this woman slip from his grasp? He loved her so much it hurt. He raised his head and gazed at her closed eyes. The swelling would dissipate; the bruises would fade. She might have a scar, but her hair would grow back to hide it. Yet she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Will you read to me?”
“Always,” he said.
