The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (34 page)

He had wounded her. His wife. The one he
should have protected from all harm.

He had been wrong. So very wrong.

Blackmore, who had been silent and remote,
now stood before his brother, firing questions crisply and coldly.
“When did you first meet Miss Wyatt?”

Lacey ran a finger between his cravat and his
throat, wincing as he tried to loosen the cloth. “Last year. Early
spring, just after we arrived in London.”

“Where?”

Lacey frowned mutinously and crossed his arms
over his chest. “What does it matter?”

Blackmore inched forward until he stood
intimidatingly close. “Because, dear brother, you have disguised
the truth for long enough. Explain what happened,” he snapped. “It
is the least you owe Atherbourne. And me.”

For a full minute, Lacey glanced at each of
them, his expression shuttered. At first, Lucien was certain the
man would refuse. Then his eyes met Victoria’s for a long while.
Shame slowly crept over his face like a shadow. All resolve seemed
to leave him, and his back slid down the wall until he sat on the
floor, his arms propped limply on his knees, his head bowed in
defeat.

“Hyde Park. We met in Hyde Park.”

His voice was subdued, almost expressionless,
as he told the story of his relationship with Marissa. How she had
been strolling with the sister of Lacey’s friend, how he had been
enchanted by her beauty, and she had been charmed and flattered by
his attentions. Soon, they’d begun writing to one another,
arranging secretive assignations, and sneaking her into and out of
his rooms at Clyde-Lacey House.

“At first, we were both simply enjoying
ourselves. Nothing serious. I liked her very much. So pretty and
fey, like a woodland sprite.”

Lucien ran a hand down his face then threaded
it through his hair. Marissa had always been rather fairy-like,
with her delicate features and enormous brown eyes framed by
ink-black curls. Her smile had beamed with innocent wonder, her
rare heart open and exposed. She had been so vulnerable. It was one
of the things that drove him, his failure to protect her.

“But then she began talking of marriage,
assuming we would be wed at the end of the season. I didn’t know
what to say.” Lacey glanced up at Blackmore, his expression as
tortured and confused as a little boy’s. “I could not marry her. I
was too young to marry anyone. So I lied. I told her you would
never approve of the match.”

“Oh, Colin,” Victoria whispered.

Both of Lacey’s hands gripped his head as it
dropped forward again. “Her letters kept arriving,” he mumbled
hoarsely. “She begged to see me. Said over and over that she loved
me and did not care if Harrison cut me off. I—I stopped responding.
Stopped reading her letters. They had become unbearable. She wanted
me to love her, and the simple truth was I did not.”

Before Lucien could interject, Blackmore
responded, his voice cutting like an ice-encrusted whip. “Your
feelings
for the girl were entirely irrelevant. You should
have offered for her the moment your relationship moved beyond
propriety.”

Lacey eyed his brother resentfully. “Is that
what you would have done,
your grace?”

“Yes,” Blackmore hissed. “It is the only
honorable course.”

Lacey snarled bitterly, “Well, I leave honor
to you, brother. I was not about to toss away my remaining youth
for the sake of a girl who, I daresay, would have been fine had she
merely accepted our parting gracefully and waited for her first
season to trap another poor sod in her leg shackles.”

Nausea churned in Lucien’s stomach, his
throat clenching hard in an effort to contain it. “You bloody
whoreson,” he growled, his voice rising quickly to a roar. “Was she
to bear your bastard before or after this phantom suitor offered
for her?”

Lacey paled until he resembled a fish’s
belly, his mouth gaping wide as he stared up at Lucien. Dead
silence fell over the room, the only sound the faint patter of rain
outside the front door. Finally, Lacey whispered, “She was with
child?”

Lucien’s dark glare was the only answer he
was willing to offer.

The other man looked sickened, shaking his
head absently. “I never knew. If she wrote to tell me, I did not
read the letter.” He glanced at Blackmore, whose face had hardened
in disgust. “I would have offered for her, Harrison. I swear I
would have done, had I known.”

Saying nothing, Blackmore simply shook his
head, then turned away from his brother, his nostrils flaring in
obvious revulsion. “Atherbourne, may I presume you intend to demand
satisfaction?”

The remnants of Lucien’s rage shouted,
Yes! I will annihilate him. He must be punished.
But the
greater part of him slumped in exhaustion, wrung out and spent
after everything that had been revealed. He was tired. Too bloody
tired.

Without thinking, he sought Victoria. Her
face was streaked with tears, her little nose reddened, her arms
hugging herself for comfort. It was painful to see.
He
should be the warm, safe place for his wife. But, as their earlier
argument played again through his mind, he was forced to
acknowledge how profoundly he had erred.

She had trusted him. Had, for all intents and
purposes, offered him her heart. And he had chosen vengeance
instead. He had not intended to do so, had wanted both. Expected
both.

How could she ever forgive me?
he
wondered.

At last, he gave Blackmore the only answer he
could summon. “Right now, my intention is to leave here and return
home. The rest will keep.” Turning to Victoria, he asked, “Will you
come with me?”

The raw agony he felt as he awaited her
answer nearly brought him to his knees. Her eyes searched his face,
briefly visited Blackmore and Lacey, then returned to him. She
opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. Finally, she looked
down at her hands and nodded silently. She moved toward the front
door.

He followed helplessly, knowing it might well
be the last time she agreed to accompany him anywhere, the last
time she thought of his house as her home.

Over the past two years, he had faced French
cannon fire, the deaths of his sister and brother. He had taken on
one of the most powerful peers in England in a bid for vengeance.
He’d thought fear had been burned out of him. So foolish.

Losing Victoria was an abyss from which his
soul would never return. He presently stood reeling at its edge.
And nothing had ever terrified him more.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“
How dare you, sir! One may only be considered an
‘interfering busybody’ if one does not possess judgment superior to
all others. Which I, of course, do.”
—The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to the Duke of Blackmore, upon being accused of
overstepping her bounds most egregiously.

Four days later, Wyatt House felt like a
funeral—Mrs. Garner’s staff went about their duties as usual, but
they were slow, hushed, morose. “Haven’t seen such a pall since
Master Gregory’s passing, God rest his soul,” the housekeeper
commented to Cook as they broke their fast.

“Eh?” Billings shouted from his end of the
table in the servants’ hall. “There’s to be a ball, you say? Why
was I not informed?”

Mrs. Garner sighed in exasperation. “A
pall,
Billings,” she bellowed. “Been quiet as a tomb ’round
here of late.”

The butler nodded somberly and resumed
buttering his roll.

Cook leaned toward Mrs. Garner and muttered,
“It’s to be salmon again tonight. Her ladyship came to the kitchen
to inform me herself. Looked like a cat poked with a stick, all
bristles and outrage.”

Mrs. Garner tsked. “Men. Did ye know he ran
off to White’s yesterday? She was tryin’ to speak to the man, and
he gets this panicked look in ’is eyes, turns tail and bolts fer
the door.” She sniffed. “Poor thing was left standin’ there,
fightin’ back tears. Such a shame.”

“Seems to me the boy’s got the wrong end of
this thing. Why does he not just tell her he regrets what he’s
done?”

Mrs. Garner gave the other woman a wry
glance.

Cook’s mouth quirked. “You’re right, o’
course. Some men would sooner be parted from their heads than their
pride.”

Taking a sip of tea, Mrs. Garner tidied the
crumbs on her plate into a small pile in the center. “This is the
fourth mornin’ I had to clean the yellow chamber. I tell ye, such
is not a sign of a marriage on the mend.”

“Still sleeping apart, are they?”

The housekeeper nodded. Just then, Emily
entered the room, her usual sunny smile nowhere in sight. “Beg
pardon,” she said, her voice muted and solemn as she took her
seat.

“See?” said Mrs. Garner. “Gloomy as a rain
cloud, it is. Fixin’ to send Ol’ Mrs. Garner to purchase a few
yards of black bombazine.”

Emily sent her an apologetic glance. “Her
ladyship awoke early so she could see Lord Atherbourne at
breakfast. When she discovered he did not intend to partake, she
was gravely disappointed. She dressed for visiting and said she was
headed to Clyde-Lacey House.”

A trill of alarm struck along the back of
Mrs. Garner’s neck. “Did she ask ye to pack ’er trunks?” Relief
filled her as the girl shook her head.

“But she is most unhappy, Mrs. Garner. What
shall we do if …?”

Silence fell over the table. Emily had just
asked the question none of them wished to contemplate, but all of
them feared the answer to. What if Lady Atherbourne left him? Could
the master survive it? Would he revert to the tormented man who had
arrived in London six months ago?

Billings cleared his throat. “I find one
makes the best decisions when one has all the facts at one’s
disposal.”

Everyone blinked at the aged butler.

“Perhaps her ladyship could be assisted in
that endeavor.” With that, Billings calmly sipped his tea and
retreated into his customary deaf bubble.

Cook nudged Mrs. Garner’s arm. “He’s right,
you know.”

Eyebrows raised, she looked askance at her
friend.

“She should know the truth.”

“She does,” Mrs. Garner retorted. “Tha’s
what’s got ’er so torn up.”

“Not all of it.”

Cook was right. Lady Atherbourne knew the
bare bones of the tragedy that had struck the Atherbourne family
last year, but not the depth of it. And she seemed wholly unaware
of the difference her presence had wrought in Lord Atherbourne and,
indeed, in Wyatt House.

“It wouldn’t be proper to hear such tales
from Mrs. Garner,” said Mrs. Garner.

Cook strummed her fingers on the table. “No,”
she mused. “But from somebody of her station. Someone who knows the
master, knows what happened.”

Mrs. Garner blinked, her eyes widening as
they met Cook’s. At the same moment, they both said, “I have an
idea.” Then they grinned at one another.

Two hours later, Mrs. Garner waited for her
ladyship to arrive home. Her key ring jingled as she shifted
restlessly, her eyes peering through the front window of the parlor
yet again. At last, she saw the Atherbourne carriage pull up in
front of the house, Connell’s ginger hair gleaming from beneath his
cap.

Geoffrey, the footman, opened the door and
assisted the lady down onto the cobblestones. Beautifully dressed
in a dark blue spencer and lighter blue walking gown, Lady
Atherbourne carried herself with dignity and grace, almost floating
as she ascended the steps. But Mrs. Garner could see the strain of
sadness around her eyes, the dark circles and pale complexion signs
of sleepless nights. It was like looking upon a room that needed
cleaning—as far as Mrs. Garner was concerned, it was her mission to
see the thing set to rights. No housekeeper worth her salt would do
less.

“Ah, Billings,” she heard the mistress say
upon entering the house and removing her bonnet. “Would you be so
kind as to ask Donald to assist Geoffrey? I retrieved a trunk from
my former residence, and it is quite cumbersome, I’m afraid.”

“Of course, my lady,” Billings said, his
voice soft and gentle. He was ever so solicitous with her these
days. Old, deaf, and sometimes forgetful, the butler had
nevertheless fallen under her spell, the same as the rest of
them.

Mrs. Garner breathed deeply and took this
moment as her cue. She entered the foyer to see the mistress
absently removing her gloves. Her expression was forlorn, her eyes
distant. “My lady, shall I fetch ye some tea? Nothin’ soothes the
spirit like a nice cup or two.”

Lady Atherbourne stared at her for a moment
as though trying to determine who she was and what language she
spoke.

“Tea, my lady?”

Finally, she smiled, but it did not reach her
eyes. Those remained hollow. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs.
Garner. I shall be in my sitting room.”

Donald entered, bowing as he passed through
the foyer on his way outside. Lady Atherbourne nodded to him and
moved up the stairs, her gait diffident and slow.

Frowning in concern, Mrs. Garner watched her
mistress ascend, thinking what a shame it was that matters had come
to this—depending on a housekeeper to mend what was broken.
“Hmmph,” she muttered. “Harebrained, it is. But it must be done.”
With that, she bustled to the kitchen, where Cook had already
prepared the tea.

“How did she seem?”

Mrs. Garner shook her head. “Like one o’ them
ghosties what haunt the graveyards.”

Cook handed her the tray. “Best get to it,
then.”

Five minutes later, Mrs. Garner stood before
Lady Atherbourne, watching the lady pen a note to some swell or
other. She tidied the tray she had placed on the long table beside
the desk, pretending busy-ness until her ladyship paused in
composing her correspondence. At last, the quill stopped.

“Billings asked Geoffrey and Donald to put
yer trunk in the blue room, my lady. That Donald is a fine one. Not
too many things ’e can’t lift, one way or t’other. Yes,
indeed.”