An Inconvenient Wife (36 page)

Several miles later,
Westcott slowed his horse to a trot, and then to a walk. The ground rose here
to a fair-sized hill and reaching the top, he dismounted and let Max nibble at
the spring grass. The mist had cleared and the view over the fields—
Westhorp’s
fields—flushed with the pale green of the newly planted crops, provided a
deep sense of satisfaction.
You can
always count on the land, unlike
people, who intrude in your life and make you feel things you believed buried
forever.

“What in hell am I to do
about Anne, Max?” Westcott muttered. Hearing his name, Maximus raised his head
and looked his master in the eye. “All right, I know you like her. So do I. Too
much. It just won’t do. I failed one wife and
my own
child.”
Gad,
now he was talking to his horse.
Max is just as apt to answer as those
trees, you blockhead. No one is going to tell you what the solution is. You
know. Keep your cock in your pants and tell Anne you mean to do so. The fact
that you find her appealing—and if you are honest, have from the beginning—is
not cause for intimacy. No reason you cannot have a comfortable relationship
without getting too close.

Ignoring the thought that it
was easier to make the resolution than keep it, Westcott tugged on the reins to
warn Max it was time to go, and mounted. No more of this annoying
introspection. He glanced at the sun to determine whether he had time to go on,
although he could bloody well stay out all day if he pleased. Which he did not,
but he
was
going to look around the area where he was shot.

Approaching from this
direction, one arrived at a winding, seldom-used trail before coming to the
road running through the copse, and Westcott urged Max onto the narrow path. He
rode slowly, his gaze sweeping the woods, but saw nothing to indicate someone
was camping here. This was a waste of his time. He halted where the trail
crossed the road and turned for home. Max stepped into a brisk walk, head up
and ears pointed forward.

“Looking for more of
Fenton’s attention, are you?” Westcott leaned over to rub the top of the
horse’s head just as Max reared and staggered sideways, dumping his unprepared
rider into a thorn bush.

Stunned, the sound of a shot
echoing in his ears, Westcott sucked in a shuddering gasp and lurched to his
feet. Damned if someone hadn’t taken another shot at him! The urge to run
through the woods in hope of apprehending the culprit was strong, but would no
doubt be a fruitless task and Max was prancing around, blood running down his
foreleg. The wound was just a graze, Westcott was relieved to see; a long
furrow, though not deep.

“Easy there, fellow.”
Wishing he had one of Anne’s petticoats, he dabbed at the sluggish flow of
blood with his handkerchief as he soothed the stallion. Nothing else could be
done out here. He pulled the reins over Max’s head and they started the long
walk home.

~* * *~

If he was not quite as relieved
as Anne had been to see Bill Fenton approach some time later, it was close.
Westcott hailed the man as soon as he was within shouting distance. “I don’t
know why you are here, Fenton, but I’m damn glad to see you. Max has been
shot,” Westcott said. “It’s not serious,” he added quickly, seeing Fenton’s
alarm. “The bleeding has almost stopped, but he needs attention as soon as
possible.”

Fenton dismounted, looped
the reins around his arm, and studied the wound. “Not so bad, my lord. We’ll
have him fit in no time.” He looked Westcott over, eyes narrowed with concern.
“What happened? You look like you’ve had a bit of a tumble. Are you hurt?”

“No, Max took the bullet
meant for me,” Westcott said in a hard voice. “This has got to stop, Fenton.”
He jerked up his chin. “Let’s walk. The sooner we get back the better. What
are
you doing out here, anyway?”

Fenton paced beside him,
leading his horse, and stared straight ahead. “Looking for you, sir,” he said
in a wooden voice. “Been more than a couple of hours since you been gone.”

“I should be angry, but in
this instance I am too pleased to see you to take umbrage.” He glanced at the
sun. “Is Lady Westcott home yet?”

“No sir, but she may be by
now. Why not take my horse and go on? Max and I can walk until someone can
bring out another horse.”

His thoughts interrupted by
Fenton’s suggestion, Westcott shook his head. “I will in a few minutes. I’ve
been meaning to talk to you about the officer who assaulted Lady Westcott. She
told me,” Westcott added, when Fenton started with surprise. “A bad experience
and not one any woman should have to endure. I think it has been in her mind
the man is responsible for these attacks. I want your opinion.”

“Oh, the Major is capable of
it. No doubt about it, and he isn’t one to take being thwarted of his prey too
well,” Fenton said, his expression hard. “But officers can’t go thither and yon
on a whim, so for all our worry that he followed us to Portugal, chances are he
is still on his post.”

“Is that what you think?”
Westcott asked, slanting a look at his companion.

Fenton hesitated. “No. He is
obsessed with Miss Anne…Lady Westcott. Nor does he look on me or Mrs. Fenton
too kindly, and men like the Major don’t let go of a grudge easily. If he was
able to put in for leave or use some other excuse to leave Gibraltar, he had
only to ask around the docks to find out whence we sailed. Is he behind these
attacks? Hard to say, but the man is not stupid, and your marriage public
record if he goes to the consulate in Portugal. If he
is
here, where in
hell is he hiding? Excuse my language, sir. Just thinking about the devil gets
my goat.”

“A good question and one I
can’t answer right now, but I will,” Westcott said tersely. “Someone has to
have seen a stranger. We simply have not asked the right person. Lord Lynton
has sent to the War Office for information about this Major’s whereabouts. I
don’t need to tell you to keep a good eye on your mistress, Fenton. If you hear
anything, or see anything at all suspicious, come right to me. Now, I’m going to
take you up on that offer. I’ll send someone out to get you.” He took the reins
of Fenton’s horse, adjusted the stirrups to accommodate his longer legs, and
mounted, feeling every one of the bruises he seemed to have acquired when he
fell.

“Appreciate it, Fenton. Your
vigilance was well placed this time. I don’t require a keeper, however.
Something to keep in mind.”

He touched the hack’s flank
with his heel and settled him into a steady trot. He was tired of being a
victim of some senseless vendetta. Past time to put an end to it and he would,
blast it, if it killed him. A choked laugh escaped him.
Not a wise choice of
words, Nick. Not a wise choice at all.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Learning of Westcott’s early
morning departure—from her maid, no less—shook Anne’s confidence sorely. She
tried to convince herself it was a good sign; she had dented the barrier he had
wrapped around him like a shield.
Maybe you did, but sending the man fleeing
was not the plan.
Face it, he does not want you.
Last night….
was
an act of nature. If a half-naked woman climbs in bed with a healthy, virile
man, there can only be one outcome.

Anne stayed abed, drinking
her morning chocolate, while Clara laid out her clothes. She was expected
downstairs, but was tempted to avoid the other guests and take breakfast in her
bedchamber. Blast the man. What in heaven’s name did Camille do to make him
a….a turtle—that’s what he acted like—hiding in his shell and poking his head
out now and again.
Turtles bite, remember, and this one’s teeth are sharp.
You’ve felt them several times.
This time he’d drawn blood, however. Anne
was positive he’d enjoyed their lovemaking just as much as she had.
How can
he act like it was meaningless?

“Bah.” Crossly, Anne put
down her cup and tossed the bedcovers aside. Who could blame her for feeling
out of sorts when she had a husband as contrary as hers? Besides, turtles
didn’t have teeth. At least she didn’t think they did.
You are holding an
inane conversation with yourself, Anne, which shows just how far gone you are.
You love the man, difficult as he is, and that may not be the smartest of
things you’ve ever done.

Nonsense. Nicholas was worth
every bit of it. Now was not the time to give up. She
was
getting under
his skin.

With little assistance from
Anne, Clara saw to it that she was dressed and her hair becomingly arranged.
“Have the trunks brought down as soon as you’ve packed everything. We are
leaving directly after breakfast.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Anne walked along the
passageway with little regard to her surroundings, almost colliding with St.
Clair.

“Oh, excuse me! I was not
paying attention.”

“I noticed,” he said,
looking amused and curious. “What has you so deeply engrossed?”

“Nicholas,” she said with a
huff, and looked up at him with a resigned smile. “You must know he left early
this morning, without so much as a word beforehand.”

“Yes, I knew. I am usually
informed when one of my horses is appropriated.” St. Clair took Anne’s arm and
led her to a window embrasure that held a bench. “Sit for a few minutes and
tell me what burr is under Nick’s saddle today. Did you have a disagreement?”

The understanding expression
that replaced his smile almost threatened her composure, and Anne took a
steadying breath. If anyone knew her husband it was St. Clair. Perhaps he had
the answer to some of her questions.

“Not a disagreement exactly.
I was…,” she hesitated, felt heat rise in her face, and stumbled on. “A…a
little too forward, I’m afraid.” Anne lifted her eyes to meet St. Clair’s
steady regard and took a deep breath. “What did Camille do to make him like
this, Devlin?” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not prying, truly I’m not, but
it’s obvious he has been deeply hurt, and I know so little.”

St. Clair covered her hand
with his. “I can’t tell you much, Anne.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both. For one, I do not
have the entire story. I can say this. Camille was seriously addicted to
laudanum, and I suspect other, more dangerous drugs. It made her behavior
volatile, and I think she was not the most stable of women to begin with.” He
paused, seeming unsure of how much to tell her, but whatever he read in her
expression, continued. “According to the servants, Camille was in a wild state
the day of the accident. She had just arrived back at Westhorp after a long
stay in London. Nick had left for the city only that morning. He hoped to
persuade Camille to come home. In fact, they crossed unknowingly on the road.
To give them their due, Martin and Mrs. Lawson tried to stop Camille from
taking Sarah out in the gig, feeling rightly she was in no condition to drive,
but she was their mistress and employer. And Camille was a competent driver and
never went off Westhorp land. They did send a groom after her, with
instructions to keep her in sight without her knowing, and that probably saved Sarah’s
life.”

The earl’s expression was so
hard and so grim Anne felt she could hardly draw air into her lungs. She opened
her mouth to halt this painful narrative, a thought quickly subdued. No, it was
important she know of this, however hurtful.

“They were on their way back
to the house, driving much too fast, and took the turn onto the drive at a
furious speed, slamming the gig into one of the stone pillars. Camille was
thrown with enough force to break her neck. They said she died instantly. Sarah
fell as well, hitting her head on the stone, and her foot caught under a wheel.
The horse went mad, of course, dragging the gig, and even though the groom
arrived only minutes later, the damage was done. And in fact, her head injury
was of more immediate concern. For almost a week her survival was uncertain.”

St. Clair seemed to return
from the distant memories, and he lifted a shoulder with weary resignation.
“Nick only left her side to attend Camille’s funeral, whilst I stayed with
Sarah. He never spoke of Camille—of their marriage—and I never asked, although
I think there was more to it.” He smiled faintly. “It’s up to Nick to tell you
anything else.”

Anne blinked back tears and
patted his hand. “You are a good friend, Devlin. I’m glad Nick had you to
support him.” She summoned a smile and rose. “Juliette will think us lost.”

“If we did not have guests,
she would have searched us out long since,” St. Clair said lightly as they
walked toward the stairs. “More curious than a cat, my wife.”

Breakfast was less of an
ordeal than Anne had anticipated. Few guests remained, and those who did were
too polite to comment on Westcott’s absence. She was not inclined to linger and
had little appetite in any case. After a quiet word with Juliette, promising to
visit again soon, Anne accepted St. Clair’s escort to her carriage, where Clara
and Harman awaited.

“Have patience, Anne. Nick
is coming around. You are the best thing to happen to him in years. He simply
won’t acknowledge it yet,” the earl said as he handed her into the carriage.