The Secret Lover (40 page)

"
Get away from him
!" he shouted over Caleb's shoulder as Sophie ran into the room and quickly went to Madame Fortier's side. "Do you see what she has done?" he breathed hotly. "Father has been without his medicine for days now!
This
is what
she
did to him!"

Madame Fortier lifted her head; her blue eyes narrowed hatefully. "
Bête

!" she cried. "You take my Will from me!"

"
Shut up
," Trevor said harshly. "You've no right to come here! Any of you! But it's rather fortuitous, all in all—the sheriff can take the lot of you!" he said, and shoved away from Caleb, stepping backward, making no attempt to pass him. "Obviously, you have conspired to take advantage of my father. I should have known, two whores—"

That slur cut deeply through Caleb—he grabbed Trevor's neckcloth, wrenched it tightly. "One more vile remark, sir, and I will twist until your head comes off," he muttered through clenched teeth.

His face turned red; Trevor struggled from Caleb's grasp, slapped childishly at his hand until Caleb let go, then staggered backward, coughing. "Bloody bastard!" he said hoarsely. "He is none of your concern!"

"The
shérif
, he will not come!" Honorine said hotly.

A sneer of contempt spread across Trevor's mouth. "Do you really think this
bastard
will save you?" he snarled. "Believe me, he will not. He is an imposter and will rot in prison alongside you,
Madame Fornicate
!"

That earned him a string of profane French, which seemed to set Trevor back on his heels. Alarmed by how frail his father looked, Caleb strode across the room to him. Just days ago, the viscount was beginning to resemble what he had once been—strong, invincible. His hand shaking, Caleb smoothed his palm over his father's crown and glanced hopelessly at Sophie, on her knees beside him, studying his face carefully. "I think he can hear me," she said.

"Sir!"

The sound of Darby's distraught voice caught all their attention—the man stood in the doorway of the salon, his neckcloth undone, his hair mussed, his eyes wide. "The sheriff is approaching Longman's Gate…"

Sheriff
. The word rang loudly in Caleb's consciousness; if he was at Longman's Gate, it was only a matter of minutes before he would be here, at Hamilton House. They had to leave, had to get out of there straightaway.

Trevor knew it, too. "Aha, at last!" he cried victoriously, and rushed out of the room.

Caleb looked down at his father. As worried as he was for him, he had no doubt that whatever had happened to the viscount would be blamed on Madame Fortier and himself. The sheriff would have them all locked away before nightfall, Sophie too, if only for her association with the two of them. He could not help his father if he were locked away in some gaol, that was certain.

They had to leave.
Now
. Caleb reached for Sophie and pulled her away.

"Go.
Run
," he told her. But Madame Fortier refused to go. She broke free of his grasp when he tried to raise her up and clung to his father. Caleb knelt beside her, put his hands on her shoulders. "We must go," he said in French. "We will return again, I promise, but now we must flee, for they will certainly put you away, Madame Fortier. And you will not want to be locked away in an English gaol, I assure you."

"But look at him! How can I leave him? He knows I am here!" She leaned forward. "Will! Will, you tell them,
non
? You remember what to tell the
shérif
! You know this truth! You know of this medicine!" she pleaded with him. "
Remember
! Remember
la médecine
!"

Caleb pulled her up and pushed her toward Sophie, who grabbed her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she struggled to lead her sobbing friend away. Caleb paused, grabbed his father's hand and squeezed it hard, choking back the myriad emotions that threatened to drown him. He felt helpless, incapable of saving any of them, but particularly his father. "I love you," he whispered. "I'll come back, Father, I promise you that. Believe me.
Trust
me!"

The viscount lifted his head, fixed his gaze on Caleb. It seemed as if he were trying to speak, trying to tell him something with his eyes, and, much to Caleb's surprise and horror, a tear slipped from the corner of one eye, landed perfectly on Caleb's hand.

"Caleb! You must come now!"

The urgency in Sophie's voice spurred him to move. "I promise," he said again, and let go of his father's hand, feeling the tear burn his hand as he hurried to join the women.

They dragged Madame Fortier between them and moved quickly down the corridor, into the foyer where Trevor stood waiting for the sheriff.

Darby stood off to one side looking quite miserable. There were also two footmen standing nervously behind Trevor.

Two footmen with guns.

Trevor laughed coldly, pointed a finger directly at Madame Fortier.

"Why, you can't leave now," he drawled sarcastically. "You haven't met our sheriff!"

"Tell your men to step aside, Trevor," Caleb warned.

He laughed at that, then gestured at Sophie. "And you, madam," he said, "I am rather certain the good Earl Kettering would want his wicked sister returned safely from her latest little foray into the English countryside. How indecorous of you—twice journeyed, twice a whore."

The rage passed through Caleb so quickly that he scarcely knew what he was doing. Trevor did not see him coming until his fist connected with his jaw. He went down hard on the marble tile; the blow of his head made a sickening sound. Legs apart, fists curled, Caleb waited, waited for him to say one more word against Sophie, but Trevor did not move.

Caleb glanced up at the two footmen. They looked to Darby.

"Let them go," Darby said quietly.

Caleb did not waste a moment; he hurried the women out the door to where the horses were still tethered. He helped Sophie up first, then a despondent Madame Fortier behind her and, pausing to retrieve his gun from the saddlebag, swung up onto his mount. With a final look at Darby, they rode in the opposite direction of Longman's Gate, Madame Fortier's mournful cries drifting in their wake.

From the veil of his lashes, Will watched the two men watching him, knew they spoke of him as if he were dead for all intents and purposes. He probably would have been dead, had it not been for Honorine. But his love had saved him again, had put the words into his muddled brain that he could not seem to remember on his own.

Remember.

Yes, that was what she had said. Remember the medicine. It had come to him then, clear as a cold winter day. The medicine made him like this; the medicine his son gave him made him a virtual prisoner in his own body. It was horribly frightening; after only a day of it, he could feel the pieces of his mind starting to slip away again, like so many leaves scattered by an autumn wind. And it was maddening—he had come so very close to making all the pieces fit, to solving the little puzzle that had plagued him for weeks now.

The sheriff approached him, leaned down, and eyed him warily. "You're quite certain he cannot understand what is being said to him?"

"No," Trevor said with a sad sigh, and gingerly touched his split lip again. "There are moments of lucidity, but for the most part, he cannot distinguish the things around him."

No, that is not so!
Will knew very well what was going on around him; he just couldn't remember the words! It was the
medicine
that made him seem so senseless, not his mind!

"Pity, that," the sheriff said, and straightened, walked back to where Trevor was sitting. "Nasty bump on the back of your head, sir. Would you like me to send for a physician?"

Trevor quickly shook his head. "Please don't bother yourself. I'll be quite all right, I assure you. I am infinitely more concerned about the swine who would do this to my family."

The sheriff nodded solemnly. "You can rest assured that when they are apprehended, they will be brought swiftly to justice."

"Thank you. I cannot ask for more."

Will groaned at that; the two men turned and looked at him, the sheriff's expression curious, Trevor's more of a panic—so much so that he stood, pressed a hand to his forehead.

The sheriff immediately started for the door. "You should rest, Mr.

Hamilton. I'll see myself out," he said, and paused. "You mustn't fret over this ugliness. We'll be quite diligent in our search, you may depend on it.

You need only concern yourself with your father's care. And your head, of course."

"Of course," Trevor nodded feebly, and sank into the settee again.

"Thank you kindly," he muttered, and lifted his hand as the sheriff slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him.

Only then did he lift his head and glare at his father. "Darby let them escape, you know," he said hotly, and came immediately to his feet, striding toward the drink cart. "He should not have done that!" He poured a whiskey, tossed it down his throat, then turned to stare at his father.

"You mustn't worry, Papa. That whore will not bother you again." He poured another drink. "Or that bloody bastard. He
is
a bastard, Papa.

There is nothing you can do to change that."

That remark knifed deeply into Will's thoughts—there was something there, something standing at the periphery of his memory again, begging entry.
Bastard
. . .

Trevor sighed. "I will confess, I am
quite
exhausted. This has been a rather trying day all in all. And I haven't even decided what to do with Darby." He drank, contemplated the wall. "He's been in your employ for years, I know… but he did not help me today when I needed him most, and frankly, I am a little curious why it took the sheriff so long to arrive."

Not Darby.

"I should dismiss him. He won't have it from me, I suppose, but he'd have it from you," he continued, sipping his whiskey. "Yes, I rather imagine he'd have it from you. The question is merely
how
..."

Will tried to speak; he managed nothing more than to move his head and his hand, but it was enough to gain Trevor's attention. His head snapped around; slowly, he lowered the drink glass. "Restless are you?" he said quietly, and strolled away from the drink cart, to the hearth. "It is time for your medicine, Papa."

He retrieved a small vial from the mantel, then turned, walking back to the drink cart, where he poured a finger of whiskey into a glass. He then emptied the contents of the vial into the drink and turned toward Will again, walking slowly toward him.

"I should call on old Dr. Sibley on the morrow. We're a bit low on your medicine." He paused, brushed his hand against Will's cheek. "Yes, we must fetch you more medicine," he muttered, and with his hand, lifted Will's chin, then put the glass to his lips, forcing the whiskey into his mouth. When he had it in, he stood back, watching Will closely.

Will closed his eyes.

It seemed minutes—too long—before he heard Trevor mutter something beneath his breath and quit the room. Slowly, he opened his eyes, looked around the room as far as he could turn his head.

He was alone, he was certain.

Quick
now! Moving as best he could, he shifted in his seat until his head was lolling uncomfortably to one side.

Will parted his lips, let the whiskey burning his mouth fall to the carpet.

They rode hard for the first hour, putting as much distance between them and Hamilton House as they could before the horses were exhausted. When they were at last convinced that no one was following them, they stopped in a small glen to rest and water the horses and to discuss where they would go.

"We return to
Maison de Hamilton
," Honorine insisted.

"No," said Caleb firmly. "We're no good to him in a parish gaol."

"Kettering Hall," Sophie suggested.

Caleb looked at her as if he thought she had lost her mind.

"No one is there," she said quickly, before he could object. "Julian despises Kettering Hall and Ann never comes, particularly during the Season."

"It sits empty?" he asked skeptically.

"Not entirely," she admitted. "There is Miss Brillhart, the housekeeper—

she resides there year-round. And of course the groundskeeper. And Cook, perhaps." Her voice trailed off; she looked off into the distance, struggling to remember who lived at Kettering Hall, her mind inevitably turning to the last time she had been there.

Miss Brillhart.

Sophie had not thought of her in a few years, as her memory of those last days at Kettering Hall was not a pleasant one. It had been the stalwart housekeeper who had watched over her imprisonment after Julian had banished her there. It had been Miss Brillhart who tried to stop her from running away with William Stanwood. Sophie would go to her grave remembering the look of sheer horror on the woman's face as she and Sir William had ridden away, bound for Gretna Green.

The memory of it made her shiver.

"Sophie?"

Caleb's voice instantly warmed her, shook her from the past. She looked at him. "Kettering Hall. We've nothing to fear and we've certainly nothing to lose."

At least she sincerely hoped not.

He sighed, looked again at Honorine, who was leaning against Sophie's back, staring morosely at the ground. "I'm not sure we've much choice, given Madame Fortier's current disposition."

Honorine sniffed, used Sophie's collar to wipe a tear from one eye.

"Leave me," she said on a sob. "I would walk to my Will."

"Rather a long walk, that," Caleb said, and in a slight show of frustration, shook his head. "I suppose we ought to continue on before you actually attempt it."

"To Kettering Hall, then," Sophie responded, and spurred her horse on.

They arrived around noon the following day, having been forced by nightfall and sheer fatigue to take a room at a rather shabby inn. Sophie and Honorine shared a very narrow cot; Caleb slept propped up against the wall.

Exhausted and ravenous, they walked the horses down the tree-lined drive leading to the seat of the Kettering earldom, watching the mammoth Georgian mansion rise into view.