The Viscount and the Virgin (20 page)

Nobody who cared one way or the other…

Except… She went very still.

Stephen had followed her down here.
He
wanted to see her. And he
was
her brother. She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. If there was a chance, no matter how slim, that this last communication from Stephen might lead to some form of reconciliation, then she had to take it. She
needed
to take it. She had only avoided meeting him up till now out of respect for Monty's wishes. But what did his good opinion matter to her now?

He had deceived her and abandoned her…oh, very well, not deceived her. Not on purpose. It was her own fault if she had assumed his kindness and forbearance meant anything.

But in the long run, she sniffed, it might have been better for her if he had not tried to be kind to her. At least then she might not have fallen in love with him. And then his haste to leave her to find a pretty mistress
as compensation for doing his repulsive duty with her might not hurt so much that she no longer cared if Stephen did plan to harm her!

Wiping her nose on the long sleeve of her dress, she cast a quick glance about the coppice, then set off in the direction she believed Shevington village lay.

M
idge was breath less by the time she emerged from the belt of woodland that bordered the road, but pleased with herself for coming out not a quarter of a mile from Shevington Village. Even if she was a failure at everything else, there was no denying she had a good sense of direction!

It did not take long to find the inn, either, since Shevington was barely more than a handful of buildings clustered around the cross roads.

She grimaced at the inn sign, depicting a woman in Tudor dress, her severed head laying at her feet, then walked through an archway broad enough to admit mail coaches, into its bustling stable yard. From the crowd standing outside the office, and the two floors suggesting an abundance of rooms for hire, she deduced it held a strategic position on the routes between Dover and London.

She side stepped the queue, and went directly
to the man presiding behind the bar in the public coffee room.

‘Excuse me, but I believe you have a man staying here by the name of Stephen Hebden?'

The landlord gave her a withering look, which reminded her she was not wearing either a coat or bonnet. Her long-sleeved, high-necked gown had looked perfectly respectable when she had put it on that morning. But since then, she had torn open the top buttons, wiped her nose on the sleeve, soaked the hem dashing through long grass, and scooped up a considerable amount of foliage on her headlong flight through dense woodland.

‘Nobody by that name here,' he said. ‘Perhaps I'll do instead, darling.' He leered, leaning over the bar, his beery breath gusting into her face.

Midge drew herself up to her full height, knowing her only defence would be her attitude.

‘How dare you speak to me like that,' she snapped, imitating her aunt at her most frosty. ‘The man I am looking for is my brother. He sent word that he needed to see me urgently.' She made a brief movement to indicate that very urgency ac counted for the state of her clothes.

The landlord's eyes narrowed. ‘Don't s'pose by any chance this brother of yours has long, black hair and wears an earring? Looks like he could be a Gypsy?'

‘Yes! That's him!' she cried. All that mud and leaves stuck to her skirts had done some good after all. She obviously looked like the kind of person who lived outdoors.

‘Room four,' the barman said, ‘up them stairs—' he jerked his head to a narrow stair case that rose from a corner of the bar ‘—and along the corridor to the end.
And I hope you're going to be able to settle his shot,' he added sourly, ‘if he sticks his spoon in the wall.'

She had not imagined Stephen could be that ill! Thank heaven she had come to him so soon after the twins had alerted her to his distress. Not, she admitted to herself guiltily, as she scurried across the bar and up the stairs, that it had been concern for him that had driven her here. But for whatever reason, she was here now, and she would do whatever she could to help.

She knocked gently on the last door at the end of the corridor, and when she got no reply, lifted the latch and tiptoed inside.

The curtains were drawn, making the chamber gloomy, but from the glimmer of light that spilled in over her shoulder from the passage, she could make out the form of a man sprawled out on top of the bed.

He was only wearing his breeches. And holding his crumpled shirt over his face.

‘Stephen,' she whispered, shutting the door softly behind her and making her way across to the bed. From a new tension that seized his body, she could tell he knew she was there, but he made no sound. She reached out her hand to check for fever. But before she could touch him, his hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist.

‘What do you want with me?' he snarled through clenched teeth, as though even the act of speaking caused him pain.

‘To help you if I can,' she replied. He moaned, and let her go, pressing the shirt more firmly over his eyes. ‘I know you probably only came here to cause me trouble…'

A ragged laugh escaped his pale lips. ‘I am already
paying for what I planned to do to you. You can leave now.'

Instead of leaving, Midge went to the bell pull and tugged hard. She did not care what he thought of her. She would not abandon a chance acquaintance in an inn where nobody cared for anything but how his bill was to be paid, let alone her only true blood brother.

‘Tell me what you need,' she insisted, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed.

‘Nothing,' he spat, his eyes still fast shut. ‘Nobody.'

Tentatively, she laid her hand on his shoulder. His body was warm, but not burning as though he had a fever.

‘I can tell your head hurts,' she said. He could not bear to open his eyes, though he had deliberately darkened the room, nor speak above a hoarse whisper. ‘I am going to order some coffee,' she said briskly. She did not usually have much sympathy for men who drank them selves into such a state. But he had nobody else to take care of him.

And there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Nobody else who needed her.

When the chamber maid arrived, she ordered coffee and some oil of lavender so that she could bathe Stephen's temples with it. The maid looked past her at Stephen's prone body.

‘How you plan paying for it?'

Midge took a breath, and counted to three before answering. ‘I am Viscountess Mildenhall. I am certain that, should my brother not have the money on his person, a bill presented to the estate will be settled without question!'

The maid pursed her lips. ‘Starting up again is it? Only 'twas the countess herself used to meet her fancy
men here before.' She smirked, then lowered her voice, leaning in as though sharing a confidence. ‘If'n you don't want this getting about, dearie, you need to bring the readies next time.' She sauntered off down the corridor, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

Midge shut the door, appalled by the chambermaid's assumption she was here to embark on a clan des tine affair,
and
to learn that the twins' mother had, indeed, taken lovers. In this very inn! When it was so close to Shevington Court. And so very busy. She must have been determined to inflict as much pain and humiliation upon the earl as she possibly could.

Though, having endured that un warranted attack this morning, Midge grudgingly admitted she could actually understand what had driven her to take such a drastic form of revenge.

‘You have ruined your reputation in this locale by coming to me,' grated Stephen from the bed. She turned round, to see him staring at her, an unfathomable expression on his face.

She shrugged. The locals would have seen Monty's carriage passing by this inn on his way to London. They might very well assume she had taken the first opportunity after her husband's departure to fly to the bed of her lover.

The earl, she grimaced, most certainly would!

‘I do not care,' she said defiantly. The earl had already decided she was wanton, without a shred of evidence. Accused her of crimes she would never have dreamed of committing, judging her on hearsay about her parents and condemning her to solitary confinement in her room.

What was one more crime, to add to all the other charges?
She
knew she was completely innocent!

‘You are my brother. And that is all that matters to me.'

He stared up at her, his eyes dark with suspicion and hostility. But presently, he shut them, and said, ‘Sometimes, I get some relief if my sister runs her fingers through my hair.'

Midge crept back to the bed, her heart bounding with hope. She stood quite still for a few seconds, gazing down at the proud, shuttered face, and then, taking all her courage in her hands, set her fingers to his temples, and swept them firmly across his scalp to the crown of his head. He heaved a sigh that was almost a groan. But he did not push her hands away this time. Again and again she ran her fingers through his dark, luxuriant hair, until she saw his great scarred shoulders sag into the pillows, as though he was letting go of some oppressive weight. It was only then that the import of his words struck her. He had another sister. One with whom he was on intimate terms. One that he went to, when he was ill.

‘My sister,' he had said. Not ‘my other sister.'

She stopped working on his scalp, imagining a girl who looked just like him. For somehow, she knew this other sister of whom he spoke came from his mother's people. The people he felt he belonged to. Else why would he take such pains to emphasize his origins? He could easily have cut his hair fashionably short. Nor was there any need to sport such a large, showy gold hoop in his left ear. Or wear clothes that were so colourful and cut in such an exotic style.

Stephen carried on breathing steadily, and she saw that the furrow between his brows was gone. He was
asleep. She pulled his shirt from his slackened grasp, shook it out and draped it over the back of a chair, wondering if there had been anyone to do as much for Gerry in his last days.

The thought of Gerry sent an immense wave of grief crashing over her. And now that there was nothing more for her to do and nowhere else to run, she found the urge to break down and weep impossible to with stand any longer. She clenched her fists, and went over to the window which had a broad sill, upon which several frayed and rather greasy cushions were scattered. She took one and sat down, drew up her knees and buried her face in it. If she could no longer contain herself, the least she could do was muffle the sound of her sobs, so that she did not disturb Stephen. From time to time, she raised her head long enough to glance across at him. But nothing roused him. Not even the return of the chamber maid with the coffee, though not the lavender oil. Midge shrugged fatalistically. Sleep was probably the best remedy for whatever ailed him anyway.

She gulped down the coffee herself, between sobs, then drooped her way back to the window seat. She meant to keep watch over Stephen, but she could hardly keep her eyes open. Though that was not surprising considering she had hardly slept a wink the night before. And today, instead of taking her customary nap to make up for it, she had spent the afternoon smashing pottery, hiking across country and providing land lords and chamber maids food for gossip. And the bout of weeping had drained her of what little energy she'd had left.

She rearranged one or two of the cushions to pillow her head, and settled into a more com fort able position,
feeling like a dish rag wrung out and hung limply over a line.

And woke with a start when Stephen reached over her, to yank the curtains open.

‘Good morning,' he said dryly.

Midge rubbed her eyes, then winced at the pain that shot down her neck when she tried to move her head. The cushions she had so care fully arranged the night before were scattered all over the floor, and she had woken with her face wedged against the window sill.

‘Morning?' she repeated groggily. It seemed impossible, yet the sluggish grey light of a new day was definitely oozing through the grimy windows.

Stephen stalked to the wash stand, poured water into a basin, and nonchalantly began to wash himself. Her shocked eyes roamed his naked torso, her heart welling up with pity. She had seen battle scars on her husband's body, so she recognized the suffering that all those crisscrossed silvery lines represented. If she had not known better, she would have thought he had been a soldier. A bullet had most definitely caused the ragged wound on his shoulder. It was so very like the one that Monty bore.

‘Why did you come?' said Stephen, his back still towards her as he reached for a silver-handled razor.

Midge did not pause to think about her answer. She had been bereft and alone, and he had sent for her. ‘I have nobody else.'

‘What of your wealthy husband?' Stephen sneered, wielding the razor with frighteningly lethal speed.

‘Gone to London.'

He dipped the razor in the water, rinsing away the soap.

‘And what now?'

‘I suppose,' she said hesitantly, ‘you wish me to leave now you are well again. Though…' she pushed at one of the cushions with her toes ‘…you came down here to see me. Did you not? You must have had some reason for seeking me out.'

Oh, how she wished he would say he had regretted causing trouble for her at the wedding. And that, because he was her brother, he wanted them to be on good terms again!

But his face, as he turned to her, was harsh, not repentant.

‘I wanted to know about what was said at the wedding.' When she frowned in confusion, he said impatiently, ‘About your mother. That she told your step father to search for me. That when she heard I had died in the fire…' He turned abruptly, snatched up his shirt and dragged it over his head.

‘She made me think she cared for me,' he snarled, jerkily doing up his shirt. ‘That she thought of me as her son. And then she tossed me out like a piece of rubbish as soon as my father died!'

Midge leapt to her feet. ‘She did not! When our father was murdered, she became very ill. Her father, my Grandpapa Herriard, came and took her back to his house to look after her.
He
was the one who sent you away. By the time she was well enough to come to the nursery to see us all, it was too late. You weren't there any more.'

She sat back down abruptly, her head spinning alarmingly.

‘She begged him to tell her where you were,' she said quietly, leaning back and drawing in deep breaths to try to stave off the faint ness. ‘But he would not!'

‘You remember all that, do you?' He sneered. ‘What were you, about four years old?'

She shook her head, closing her eyes. ‘I only re member flashes of things from back then. Being lifted out of my bed in the middle of the night, mother weeping, and then the misery of the nursery at Mount Street. Missing my mother, and—' she opened her eyes and looked straight at him ‘—you.' Stephen's absence had left a great gap in her life. A gap that nobody else had really ever been able to fill ever since.