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Authors: Emma Wildes

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BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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“Why would he have given her money? Can you ven ture a guess?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Though if she needed it, I would guess he would have helped her. That was his generous nature.”
In light of that declaration, and to spare her, he didn’t want to suggest the possibility of murder. All loss was difficult, but he knew firsthand that dealing with the va garies of fate was one matter, and human viciousness quite another. If Lord Brewer had succumbed to a swift but deadly illness, it had not been preventable. If he had been killed to keep him silent, that was a different kind of grief.
What could he have known? What could he have written in his journal?
Michael had looked him in the eye.
She’s dangerous
.
At all costs, Luke needed to protect Madeline.
 
“You are coming home with me.”
She wasn’t sure what made her catch her breath more, that he’d issued an ultimatum as if he had the slightest control over her life or that he’d said
home
.
“You and Trevor both,” Luke elaborated, looking grim and shaken, his hair damp and wavy. “Have your maid pack enough for several days at least. We can send for more clothing if you need it.”
“Luke.” Madeline couldn’t think of anything else to say, the protest coming out as a mere shocked whisper of his name. His expression spoke volumes.
“I am uninterested in discovering later I didn’t take the proper precautions. Some mistakes should not be repeated.”
Mistakes? Did he blame himself for what happened to the woman in Spain, the one his sister said he’d loved?
“You aren’t making a great deal of sense,” she man aged to say coherently. “What can possibly be so alarm ing?”
“I’ll explain later. If I even
can
explain.” He swal lowed, his throat working. “Lord, Madge, please. Don’t argue with me. Suffice it to say I don’t feel comfort able with you here alone. Come with me and stay with my family for a few days—or at least until I think it is safe.”
“I’m hardly alone.” Not with a houseful of servants.
“You aren’t with
me
. I want you in my home. In my arms.”
Held in the moment, Madeline looked at him and knew that while it was not precisely a declaration of love, it was very, very close, and her heart soared. She still didn’t quite understand what any of this current drama had to do with Colin’s journal and Alice, but the man she loved wanted to keep her close to him. No—he demanded her presence in his house, no less.
A less autocratic order would have been better, but then again, his vehemence was moving.
He’d said
please
. Lord Altea, the jaded sophisticate who moved so casually among the exalted circles of the
ton
, had looked at her and said
please
.
“Do you really think this is that urgent?”
“If I didn’t, would I be here?”
No, of course not. If she knew anything at all, it was he would never ask this of her easily. She nodded and stood, reaching over to the bellpull. Hubert appeared moments later and she gave instructions to have her maid ready the necessities for a short trip for both she and Trevor, and to have his governess pack also to accompany them.
“Is your family prepared for you to move in your mistress and her child?” she asked, half joking, but also half serious.
Maybe more than half.
“You aren’t my mistress.” A muscle in his jaw tightened.
“What am I, then?”
“Don’t make me look at it too closely right now.” If he’d made an effort at his usual easy charm, it failed, for his smile did not reach his eyes. “All I know is if I walk out of here without you, I will worry all night. This isn’t a game. I understand games. I understand lies, deceptions, even reckless wagers. But there are parts of my life I am not willing to risk.”
She was one of them? Madeline declined to ask. He’d said more than he intended already, if she was to judge.
“I trust you this is important.” She stood with her arms at her sides, resolute and hopeful, and wondered if she should trust either emotion.
“So you should,” he said softly. “If anything happened to you . . .” He stopped, his voice dropping low.
The moment flared between them, poignant, meaningful, and yet Madeline wasn’t certain just what meaning it held. She was not the one who had declared marriage an impossibility—he had.
She loved him and she wanted to be his wife, bear his children, and sleep in his arms for the rest of her life. Was she greedy, yearning for a second chance at a happy life with a man she adored? Maybe, but fate had cruelly robbed her the first time, and now she’d been given love again. Surely she should be able to keep it.
Whatever she might have said next was interrupted by the return of Hubert, his face creased in the usual anxious frown, but the lines perhaps a bit deeper. “Madam, I have given the instructions you requested, but I am afraid it appears Lord Brewer is not at home.”
She hadn’t quite gotten used to Trevor being referred to in that way yet, but he had inherited the title despite his young age. “I wasn’t told Miss Chaucer was taking him to the park. The weather is hardly suitable.”
“Miss Chaucer is here, my lady. The young master left with Mrs. Stewart several hours ago when you were out.”
Madeline knew the blood left her face, for she went cold all over.
“What?”
“Mrs. Stewart is family, madam. I am sure that—”
It was Luke who interrupted in a staccato delivery of questions. “When? How did they leave? Did Alice Stewart say where they were going? Was she alone?”
“I’m not—not sure I know, my lord.” Hubert stammered, his fleshy face betraying dismay.
“Please get the governess down here at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
A moment later, Madeline’s shaking body was pulled into a comforting embrace. Even without Luke’s disturbing visit she would have been unhappy over Alice taking her son out without her permission. It had certainly never happened before. The most Colin’s cousin had ever done was politely ask about Trevor’s health.
Which meant, a terrified part of her realized, this was not a logical event. A small sob escaped her throat.
Luke’s mouth was against her hair, his arms strong and supportive. “It will be fine. Don’t look so stricken, my love. Michael has someone watching her house. We’ll find her and Trevor and bring him back.”
Michael Hepburn, the Marquess of Longhaven? What did he have to do with all this? He was watching Alice? “Why would she take Trevor?” Her voice was merely a wisp. Madeline was surprised Luke could hear it at all.
“I don’t know.” His arms tightened. “But I promise you, I will find out.”
There might be two puzzles, both with many parts.
Michael listened to the rain against the glass of the long windows and contemplated what he knew.
He knew, for instance, that Roget had an English ac complice that was female. Decoded communiqués had mentioned her, and Mrs. Stewart fit the profile. She was young, pretty, and on the fringes of society but not actu ally a prominent figure, with connections but not enough prestige or wealth she couldn’t be tempted into betrayal. Lord Brewer had given her money; Michael had become convinced now that she was the recipient, for she’d paid all her debts and booked passage for the Continent the day after Colin May’s funeral.
It was quite likely the woman had killed her generous cousin. The timing was suspicious, at the least.
And then she’d been gone for the worst of the war, those grueling last four years, and not returned to Eng land until all the dust had settled. Not only had she come back, but she’d come back wealthy enough to rent a town house in a fashionable neighborhood and begin to edge back into society. Right after she’d stolen the journal.
That too, seemed likely. If Michael had to speculate, she’d not known it existed before she left, but discov ered it was a danger upon her return, and so she’d easily enough gotten the information of its whereabouts and taken it, checked for the damning evidence that appar ently wasn’t there, and left it to be found.
Only she couldn’t have left it in the club, as women were not allowed. There was an accomplice somewhere.
Messy, that. An accomplice could talk.
Unless he was dead, of course. Michael’s inquiries had unearthed that a young waiter had been stricken only three months ago with a mysterious illness that sounded remarkably like what killed Lord Brewer.
Supposition, all of it, but as it collected, a bit damn ing.
Puzzle one: was Alice Stewart a traitor? If so, why did she kill her cousin? He’d given her money, so it wasn’t for gain. Obviously he knew something she was afraid he’d written down. Why she’d come back to England wasn’t as much of a mystery. The war was over, her mission was accomplished, and France was not such a desirable place to be in the aftermath of defeat.
Puzzle two: if she stole the journal and it was harmless, why not quietly put it back? It rang true that it resonated of female vindictiveness to try to expose the intimate secrets of Madeline May’s marriage in such an oblique way . . . most males would not think of it, in Michael’s opinion. The gift of the stockings was also particularly disturbing and malicious.
So, if he was going to come to conclusions, he knew two things: Alice Stewart was capable of treachery and murder and she hated Lady Brewer.
It was not a good combination.
“We have an interesting development.”
Michael glanced over at the doorway, unsurprised. “I
almost
didn’t hear you come in.”
Lawrence leaned against the doorjamb, his expression bland. “Don’t be too smug. I wasn’t being particularly careful. We have a problem. A new game is afoot.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
 
 
 
T
he governess, a young, thin woman with curly red hair, knew nothing, her expression going from bewildered to frightened as Luke questioned her.
Hours. Alice Stewart had kidnapped the boy hours ago. Luke knelt by Madeline’s chair and took her shaking hand.
He needed to do something
now.
“I think the next logical step is to go visit your husband’s cousin before we panic. I’ll be back or send word right away.” His mind raced forward. . . . Was this about blackmail? More money? Revenge of some sort?
Madeline lifted an ashen face and spoke the words he wasn’t surprised to hear. “I’m coming with you.”
“Darling, someone needs to be here in case we are alarmed for no reason and Alice brings him back.”
Neither of them thought it a possibility, though. The words didn’t have to be said.
“I’ll send for my mother.” She’d begun to cry when he was talking to her son’s governess, but silently, a glistening trail of tears streaking down the porcelain curves of her cheeks, her eyes huge. “She can wait here. I can’t, Luke. I cannot sit here and merely wait.”
Luke debated lifting her in his arms, carrying her out to his carriage, and taking her to the sprawling May fair mansion that was a tribute to the Daudet fortune, upstairs to his suite of rooms and ordering her to stay there under the threat of several burly footmen keeping guard. He wanted her safe, but also declined being so high handed. The guards would be for him—to keep her protected for his peace of mind and sanity—and that wasn’t fair.
“Whatever makes you feel better.” He reached for her and gently tipped her chin up, so their eyes met. Hers were wet, and he didn’t in the least blame her for crying. It was rather hard to believe, but she looked even more beautiful to him with a reddened nose and damp cheeks.
“I’ll write the note.” She nodded, the movement me chanical.
“Fine,” he said, and bent his head to lightly kiss her, regardless of Hubert hovering in the doorway. It was a dispassionate contact of comfort and reassurance, her trembling lips cool against his. When he lifted his head all he said was, “Tell your maid you’d like a light cloak. It’s damp this evening.”
BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
3.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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