Prelude for a Lord (40 page)

There was a grim, taut line at the edges of Dommick’s mouth as he heard this.

“I refused,” Alethea said. “So my brother sought to . . . coerce me.” She swallowed, and her left hand began to throb, faster with her increasing heartbeat. “He broke two fingers of my left hand.”

Dommick jerked in surprise, then he looked down and touched her hand. His fingertips gently massaged the two knuckles obviously more swollen than the others.

“He locked me in my room until he could procure a special license and force me to marry his friend, but I ran away. I don’t know what I thought it would accomplish, for I had no funds. My brother chased after me, but he had always been a reckless driver. His high-perch phaeton tipped over and he was thrown. He broke his neck and died instantly.”

Dommick looked astounded. “I heard about his carriage accident.”

“I had managed to get to Bath and Lucy, and then discovered my brother was dead. Two weeks later Wilfred forced me to leave my home and move to Bath, and the nightmares followed me.”

“Your Aunt Ebena knows about them?”

“Oh, yes. She ignored them and let me be, gave me time and space. And . . . she rented a pianoforte for me.” At the time, Alethea had not truly appreciated her aunt’s gesture, but a year later, with a broader perspective, she saw her aunt’s wisdom. “Then she began taking me out into society, forcing me to exert control over myself. She did not give me opportunity to be afraid.”

“And they went away?”

“Mostly. My last nightmare was this summer.”

He shook his head again, and frustration grated in his voice. “It’s been over a
year
. . .”

“You have friends and family around you. My family, your family, your friends and neighbors—they have changed me. They have made me stronger and brought me closer to God. They will help you heal.”

She released one of his hands to stroke his hair, his cheek, his jaw. It felt comforting to touch him, to press her fingertip to the pulse at his throat and feel the life coursing through him.

Then his hand was touching her hair, her cheek, her jaw. But his palm against her neck was far from comforting—his touch was strong and sure, different from hers, and his skin felt hot and rough against hers. Her breathing became shallow gasps, her heartbeat throbbed harder in her chest. She became acutely aware of the darkness broken only by the firelight, the unfamiliar intimacy of his bedchamber, the feel of his dressing gown around her, and the sight of his own pulse rapidly beating at the base of his exposed throat.

When he leaned forward to kiss her, she felt complete and then filled to overflowing. There was a roaring in her ears. Her hand on his throat felt the vibrations as he murmured her name. She tasted the remnants of his fear and doubt, and she sought to wash them away with the strength of her promise to never allow anyone to harm him. She would keep him safe, even from his fears of himself. She sought to convey that to him as his lips softly pressed against hers, gentle movements that at once revealed his strength and his vulnerability.

He drew back far enough to rest his forehead against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks. “Alethea, you have made a bad bargain.”

“I was about to say the same for you.”

When he laughed, she felt the rounding of his cheeks, the warmth of his breath, the shaking of his shoulders. Then he said, so softly it was almost like a thought, “I am still afraid.”

“I will protect you, Dommick.”

“Stay with me.”

Without hesitation, she let the heavy dressing gown fall to the floor and climbed under his covers beside her husband. She wrapped her arms around him.

“I want you to call me Bayard.” His voice rumbled next to her cheek.

The way they had addressed each other had been a topsy-turvy business, a mix of embarrassment and deception. But this request was more intimate than anything else that had passed between them. “Bayard,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her.

“Bayard, I will keep the nightmares away.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

F
or the first time since returning from Corunna, he had slept without fear. He had felt protected and cherished. He had been vulnerable, but he had been held like a precious treasure. And when he had awoken, the anxiety of his madness that had been like a millstone around his neck seemed a lighter burden.

He awoke alone, but the knowledge that she was close, that she was in his house, that she was his wife, was an assurance like a salve over his raw soul. She had done more than she realized in listening to him, in her sympathy and empathy, her lack of fear. His mother had been afraid, his friends had been wary. Alethea had been beside him, supporting him, accepting him. He knew that even were he to be mad the rest of his life, she would be there with him.

However, the reality of Lady Trittonstone’s threat reared its head the very next day. Bayard had just finished with his steward, and the man was leaving his study when his mother burst in, handkerchief aflutter, followed closely by Clare.

Bayard stood. “What is amiss? Is Alethea well?”

Clare paused and gave him a speculative look. “Alethea is well.”

“I am here.” Alethea entered the study carrying a full tea tray.

“You should not be doing that,” Lady Morrish said, scandalized. “You are Lady Dommick now.”

“I have been Lady Alethea all my life. June has a sore wrist and nearly dropped it, so I told her I would bring it to Bayard.” She looked at him as she said it, and he noted the change in her voice as she said his name.

“Mama, do stop being so high in the instep,” Clare said. “Since when is it a crime to be kind to the maids?”

“Since our reputation is in shreds!” Lady Morrish dropped into a chair before the desk, and her face crumpled like her handkerchief.

“It is not so bad as all that,” Clare said, but Bayard heard the note of uncertainty in her voice.

“Yes, it is,” she moaned.

“Which is the reason I asked cook to prepare tea.” Alethea set it on a clear corner of his desk and began pouring. She handed Lady Morrish her teacup first.

“Will someone please tell me what has happened?” Bayard asked.

“You have been with your steward, so you are unaware Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt called?” Clare said.

“I sent the announcement to the papers only this morning,” Bayard said.

“They did not call about our marriage, although they offer their sincere congratulations,” Alethea said.

“They met at the rectory this morning with Mrs. Amsden,” Clare said. “The three of them are organizing the church bazaar this year. Mrs. Amsden’s good friend, Lady Trittonstone, arrived last night with the most scandalous stories about me.”

Bayard slammed his hand down on his desk, rattling the china. “That poisonous woman.”

“First of all is the story that my lady’s maid is the Earl of
Trittonstone’s natural daughter and a . . . er, prostitute.” Clare coloured at the scandalous word. “She has apparently corrupted my moral character.”

“You will recall, when I first came into the neighborhood, people noted that Lucy and I look alike, and we both resemble our father,” Alethea said.

“I’m sure I don’t know how she would assume an illegitimate daughter would be a . . . that sort of woman,” Lady Morrish said.

Unfortunately, since many illegitimate children were born in poverty, Bayard could easily see the connection. “What else?”

“Under the influence of my maid, I have been engaging in scandalous evening activities and have often been seen returning in the wee hours of morning with my gown mussed. Obviously a liberal retelling of my kidnapping.”

“How did she know about it?” Lady Morrish wailed.

“If Lady Whittlesby’s groom saw Clare returning with Lucy that evening, another servant might have also spied them,” Bayard said grimly.

“If that were the case, the story would have been widely spread long before this, for Mona would not have been the first to whom the servant told it,” Alethea said.

“I think that Lady Trittonstone heard the rumours regarding my maid and simply embellished them,” Clare said. “She couldn’t know she would touch upon a thread of truth.”

“Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt were quick to show their disapprobation,” Lady Morrish said, “and they assure me they will do all they can to show that the rumours are unfounded. But to whom else will Lady Trittonstone speak?”

“Mama, the rumours are patently ridiculous,” Clare said.

“It matters not how ridiculous they are. It will be ruinous for your season. Especially after . . .” She stopped with a conscious look at Bayard.

Alethea quickly turned the conversation. “More than ever, we must uncover the truth about the violin and win Lady Whittlesby’s concert.”

Now it was Bayard’s turn to feel self-conscious. He had done the right thing in refusing the concert, but with the specter of Lady Trittonstone’s malicious influence already hovering over the coming spring, Bayard felt squeezed, as though a heavy rock lay over him, holding him down. “I have sent out inquiries to Mr. Kinnier. I cannot think that his betrothal was anything but an attempt at the violin.”

“Was it he who arranged Clare’s kidnapping?” Lady Morrish pressed her handkerchief to her throat.

“Clare is in no danger, my lady,” Alethea said. “The kidnapping targeted me, and they will not make the same mistake again.”

“They will simply ruin Clare’s season.” Lady Morrish gave a great sob.

“Mama, your tears are distressing Bayard.” Clare removed her teacup from her hand and took her by the shoulders. “Let us go upstairs and I shall put some lavender water on your temples.” Behind her mother’s back, Clare shot Bayard a look that clearly said,
Do something
. His sister walked their mother out of the room.

Bayard slumped in his chair. “I cannot do this to her again.”

“Your mother?” Alethea sat down. “Until now I had not fully understood how the rumours would hurt your mother’s feelings.”

“Miss Church-Pratton broke our engagement when I was recovering in the hospital after Corunna. Thinking to be clever, she spread stories of the Mad Baron this past spring. My mother lost a great many friends because they feared associating with a woman with a mad son.”

“Why would your former betrothed do that?” The colour had risen in Alethea’s cheeks.

“Our betrothal had been arranged by our fathers. I knew she
had wanted a man of higher rank, and then my nightmares only heightened her disgust of me. It pleased her to slander me.”

She sipped her lukewarm tea. “I had been coming to speak to you when Aunt Ebena drew me into the ladies’ visit in the drawing room. Earlier this morning I was going over Margaret’s geography lesson—”

“You are Lady Dommick now. You can hire a governess for that, you know.”

She tilted her head. “By jove, you are correct. I had not thought of that. Thank goodness.” She smiled at him, and his world tilted for a moment. “But you will be glad I was her tutor today. She is obsessed with Count Sondrono, and since lessons with her have been a chore, I have been indulging her. I had her look up the flora and fauna of the Alps, and today she gave me this.” Alethea passed him a slip of paper with a small flower drawn upon it. “This is a ‘cat’s paw’ or ‘wool-flower,’ which grows in the area of the Alps where the count’s estate is. She immediately recognized it as a flower carved upon my jewelry box.”

“How did she know that?”

“She ransacked my room once—I shall tell you the story another time. Calandra gave the jewelry box to me when Sir William made her a new, larger one. She only mentioned it was from Italy, nothing more. After Margaret pointed out the flower, I looked more closely at my jewelry box, and I believe it is made from the same wood as the back plate of my violin.”

“Are you certain?”

“I was going to fetch my violin to be sure.”

Bayard and Alethea removed the violin from its chest in the music room and headed upstairs to her bedchamber. It was an unfamiliar but comforting feeling to be allowed in her private quarters, to know that as his wife, she shared herself with him in this way.

Except that she would share in his disgrace as well, especially
if Lady Trittonstone’s rumours found their targets in London. The thought depressed his spirits.

The jewelry box was of a narrow-grained wood that appeared to be similar to the violin, although it was difficult to be certain even in the light from the window.

“If this is the same wood as the violin, then this box also belonged to the count,” Alethea said.

“And if Lady Arkright bought this box from the peddler with the violin, then perhaps the peddler received all his wares from the count’s home directly, not from some deceased merchant as we have been supposing. It would explain why Mr. Manco had no records of selling this particular violin, for the count never sold it.”

“Calandra said that the peddler’s wares were cheap things, and so perhaps the count’s heirs sold his violin with other objects, thinking it to be worthless.”

“But why did the count not sell this violin if he was so in debt?”

“I would not sell my violin to Mr. Golding because of my emotional attachment to it,” Alethea said. “Perhaps the count had a strong sentimental attachment to it.”