The Outcast Earl (35 page)

“Absolutely not! He’s not even
welcome
in the ballrooms, and when I’ve seen him in Hyde Park, every matron gives him the cut direct!” Abigail’s eyes were wide.

“A fitting revenge, no? Do you know why he’s not welcome?” Fiona’s voice was savage. “Because he likes young girls. Very young girls. And he likes them helpless, scared and fighting to the last minute. Genevieve is
exactly
what he wanted.”

Abigail shuddered.

“Devon told me this part—he apparently served under Malone during part of the war and was undone by the man’s behaviour even then. Malone had been bragging on Thursday night that he was going to have the plum of London in his hand, and helpless. Devon got him to admit who it was, and was apparently appalled. At least, he says he was appalled. He knew who Genevieve was, and had seen us at his mother’s. He couldn’t imagine what our father was thinking…” Fiona broke off, swallowed. “Anyway, I had to tell him it was about the money, and about Genevieve’s father being Mother’s long-time lover instead of Winchester. He said he knew every woman in London would be horrified but he was a better option than Malone, and he got it in his head to do something to redeem himself to his mother and stepfather, so he got Malone to play him at hazard.”

“Sir Peter is known to be a master at the gaming tables.”

“Yes, and when Malone realised—hours later—how much he had lost, he was anxious to come to terms. Apparently, he couldn’t meet his vowels and pay Winchester to get Genevieve.” Fiona flopped herself down in the chair. “So Devon took on the engagement to Genevieve in payment for the debt.”

Abigail gasped. “That’s…” She stopped and considered.

“Almost noble.” Fiona grimaced. “Of course, it’s not public knowledge. Winchester was taken aback when Devon tracked him down on Friday and insisted. But it’s not as though Devon has a fabulous reputation. In the end, Winchester got his revenge, though Devon is rich as Midas and seems to make more every time he touches a deck of cards.”

“She’s still only sixteen,” Abigail whispered.

“Devon didn’t want to tell me—he said he’s afraid Winchester will break the agreement if Winchester suspects his intentions—but he promised me that, as soon as the wedding is over, his mother will take Genevieve into her house and keep her there, present her, watch over her as carefully as a guardian dragon and they will revisit the arrangement when she turns nineteen. He’s already arranged it with his mother—who was repulsed by the notion that the child might have ended as Malone’s bride—and while Winchester made no financial arrangements for Genevieve either, Devon promised me he would provide for her handsomely. Aunt Edith’s estate will continue in its trust, to be turned over to her according to the initial will. In the meantime, he will continue to reside in his bachelor rooms. Lady Theresa is on her second marriage. It’s not as if Devon considers that house his childhood home, nor does he expect to inherit it.”

Abigail swallowed. “You got him to promise that? What did you do? Point a gun at him?”

“No, he honestly seemed horrified by the thought of Genevieve being married off to Malone.” Fiona tipped back her head. “After that, I went back to Winchester House. Frenchie already had our things packed into the carriage, and we left immediately.” She sat up and looked at Abigail firmly. “I was serious. I will never spend another night under his roof. You are my sisters, I don’t care—”

Abigail’s lower lip trembled. “Fiona.” She shook her head. “I need to think about everything. And you need to sleep. I’ll take you upstairs and we can talk in the morning.” She swallowed a sob and added pathetically, “Aunt Betsy will have to be told, even though she’s likely to have a heart attack and disown me. And I must tell Charles, before the wedding.”

“Winchester won’t disown you or make his opinion of your parentage public,” Fiona said gently. “His revenge is to ruin Mother’s credibility and status among society by forcing his girls into socially inappropriate and possibly unhappy marriages. You don’t need to tell Meriden.”

“I could never hide it. He’d know something was wrong,” Abigail whispered. “And it’s not fair to him. He thinks he’s getting an earl’s daughter—not a natural-born daughter of a woman who apparently couldn’t grasp the concept of fidelity.”

Fiona shook her head, but drew Abigail to her feet. “Sleep on it,” she advised. “It’s not as though the
haut ton
makes a habit of fidelity. Mother did nothing more than any number of other women have done over the years.”

Abigail sniffed, and shuddered. What was she going to do? The earls of Meriden had a long, noble lineage, despite any popular dislike of the current titleholder. Pondering the possibilities, she showed Fiona to her room. Frenchie was waiting, so Abigail excused herself and stood stupidly in the hall. She couldn’t go to the boudoir. Not yet. She would be sobbing at any moment, and Charles would hear her.

Of course, writing a letter to Genevieve offering her a refuge was now impossible. Abigail wondered where she would go if Meriden rejected her. If he would believe her when she said she hadn’t known. If he would marry her reluctantly because they had gone too far in public to call it off, but resent it deeply. She didn’t think she could bear it if their relationship turned coldly bitter—then again, she didn’t want him marrying her out of pity either. That would be Genevieve’s fate now, and although an improvement over being terrorised, Abigail had wanted much more.

She wanted—she’d thought she’d have—a marriage of passion and tender caring.
Love and cherish
, she remembered hopelessly, almost laughing at the hollowness of the words. She could make that promise, if Meriden gave her the chance.

Tears streamed down her face, and she pushed open the first familiar door she reached. It was the room where she’d first stayed, before Meriden’s insistence that she sleep in his bed. It was cold and dark. Clearly no one had actually expected her to use the room, but she welcomed the chill.

She sat in the armchair, drawing her feet up inside her gown, hugging her knees. Life as Fiona’s companion—if it had been proposed a week ago—wouldn’t have been so bad. But now, after being surrounded by Meriden’s unfailing generosity and care, it seemed a lonely, frightening future.

Abigail put her forehead on her knees and sobbed.

* * * *

A log breaking in the grate woke Charles. He opened his eyes and sighed, setting aside the book he’d attempted to read as a distraction. Rising with a sigh, he tended the fire, then looked around.

It was far too late for him to believe Abigail and Fiona were cosily ensconced somewhere having a girlish chat. Indeed, it was just past two, and Fiona hadn’t slept in more than a day. Frowning, he debated, but there was nothing else to be done. He shoved his feet back into his boots.

It was his house, after all. If he was wandering the halls in the dead of night, who was going to send him off to bed like a recalcitrant child?

He glanced around. Abigail hadn’t been there, he was sure. Her rooms were a natural first stop. She was going to write a letter. There was every chance she’d fallen asleep in the process. It was late, and they’d ridden in the afternoon.

But no. He walked in, glancing at the single lamp lit by the daybed. Annie had fallen asleep in the chair, waiting. He shook his head, but the door had woken her.

“Go on to bed. I’ll take care of Lady Abigail,” he whispered, opening the hall door. The girl nodded sleepily and departed, as Charles increased the wick in the lamp and looked around. She hadn’t been there. The writing supplies on her desk were undisturbed, the leather-covered book she’d been reading still precisely as it had been earlier. He glanced at it curiously, and lifted it in his hands. With a start, he realised it was from his own library, then he smiled. He remembered it well, and it explained Abigail’s quiet confidence the night before. Carefully he replaced it—he found it both amusing and endearing that she’d been curious enough to prepare herself for what would come.

So why wasn’t she there, and where could she be?

A nagging suspicion hit him. Surely she wasn’t still fuming over their afternoon spat? Not that it mattered. He’d find her and retrieve her if she was hiding.

He blew out the lamp and let his eyes adjust to the darkness before moving into the corridor. At the top of the stairs he listened carefully, but the lamps had all been extinguished in the hall below, then in the upper corridors. Grady had believed everyone to be in bed.

Charles headed into the opposite wing, where Fiona and Betsy were quartered. He knew very well that all of Abigail’s belongings had been removed from her room the day before—she had no nightclothes and no fire there. Instead, he went directly to Fiona’s door, listening carefully.

It was silent and still.

Betsy had been with them. He turned to her door, listening carefully. And he did hear the older woman snoring.

There was something else, though, and it wasn’t coming through the door.

Turning, he narrowly eyed the closed panel across the hall. He stepped to the door, and heard it again.

Something inside him shattered and he moved forward, pushing the door open without a thought. She hadn’t locked him out, at least. She wasn’t on the bed.

It was a wrenching sound, from deep in her chest. He rounded the chair and stared at her. Even in the dark room, he could see she was huddled up in a state of abject grief.

All thoughts of scolding her for hiding herself from him fled. Charles knelt down at her feet and slid his hands up to cup her face.

In the darkness, he couldn’t see much, but her eyes were wide with something that looked like terror.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promised. “Whatever it is, whatever you need, we’ll face it together and you will end up safe in my arms at the end.”

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “You don’t kn-know wh-what Fiona told me.”

Charles shook his head and stood, then scooped her up in his arms. “Right now, my Abby, the only thing that matters is that I will hold you until you feel safe enough to tell me, all right?”

Abigail trembled, but she curled her arms around his neck and rested her forehead on his shoulder. “All right,” she whispered. “I-I meant to come. Later. I mean, after I cried about it. And I have to tell you…” She whimpered, then stopped, silent sobs racking her frame.

Concerned, Charles carried her briskly through the corridor, hardly pausing except to kick open the door. Without a thought otherwise, he deposited her very gently in his armchair, then went and locked the door. She’d drawn her feet up again in that pathetic, grieving position, but there wasn’t enough light to judge anything revealed by her expression.

He needed to see her face clearly. Briskly, he built up the fire, then brought a lamp and set it on the side table, turning it high. She stared at him, but he shrugged, then went and methodically removed his boots before returning to her side in his shirt and breeches.

Abby had watched him. Now, he could see the puffiness in her eyes, the bleak exhaustion in her face, and even the path her tears had taken down her cheeks and onto her gown. The fabric was wet and cold—she’d wept for far too long. She had suffered alone, grieved alone, and Charles ached. For a moment he raged at Fiona, but he pushed it aside. Fiona couldn’t have destroyed her sister’s peace of mind with some inconsequential bit of news.

Bending down, he lifted her and settled into the chair with her on his lap. Without speaking, he gently began unlacing her gown. To his surprise, Abby didn’t object. Indeed, she even helped him a bit, until he pushed it down around her waist. Standing her between his knees, he loosed the skirts and petticoats, and pulled her free by picking her out of them and settling her, in her chemise and stockings, on his lap.

Abby sank into his chest as though he had rescued her from a drowning. She clung to him, and impatiently he kicked the gown away from his feet so that he could position her more comfortably.

“I’ve got you, Abby-heart. Just let me hold you, and you can talk whenever you’re ready,” he murmured, brushing his hands over her hair. Almost instinctively his fingers curled into the vibrant locks, and he slowly withdrew the pins and ribbons that seemed to be wound into her curls.

His chest ached with the need to demand she speak, to roar the words, to find out why she was so broken so he could go out and fix it, or at least condemn whoever had caused her agony to a slow painful death. Charles struggled, his arms trembling even as her hair fell around her in a burnished sorrel curtain. He knew that frightening her in this state would only make her cower. She needed to trust him.

He needed to trust her. She’d said she had to tell him, and Charles mentally hung onto those words. Even more, he kept faith with the small hands fisted tightly in his shirt, with her desolate words that she would have come to him, almost as if she was begging him to understand. How could she have known he would comfort her through whatever difficulties faced her? He hadn’t even known that he would, or that he could. But now that he’d seen her, he knew there was nothing more important to him than being right where she was.

On his lap, Abby seemed quieter. Shaking, clenched and tense, yes. But the gut-wrenching sobbing had stopped, though he could feel her tears still leaking through his shirt. Smoothing one hand up her knee, he murmured, “I’m going to roll your stockings down, Abby-heart. You can’t spend all night in those garters.”

She nodded, and he kept one arm around her while with the other he rolled the silk down her legs, letting it fall to the floor. When she was garbed in nothing more than the chemise, he slid his arm beneath her knees and drew her up to lie against his chest. There was a wrap over the back of the chair, and he nudged it down with his elbow and drew it over them, rocking her gently.

He sighed tiredly, pressing his lips to the top of her head, and stared at the fire. Charles could feel her relaxing, her muscles loosening, but it was not the sated, blissful rest she deserved. She was drifting off in sheer exhaustion. Suppressing a frustrated growl, he forced himself to let her sleep. He’d have the problem out of her soon enough. Rested, she’d be able to think more clearly.