Truth Within Dreams (4 page)

Henry’s mouth twitched downward. “You
must
marry me, Claudia. After this …” He gestured to the mess. A shiver shook his shoulders. “I’ll leave for London at once and procure a special license. As soon as I’m back, we’ll marry.”

“The hell you will!” cut in a new voice.

Claudia’s gaze jerked to the door, where her parents shuffled aside to make room for Sir Saint Tuggle. Behind him, Ferguson, the butler, wrung his hands and issued abject apologies to Sir John, which were ignored.

“What are you doing here?” Claudia blurted. This fiasco just kept picking up momentum. “You’re not supposed to be here until this afternoon!”

Her fiancé’s prodigious nose sniffed. His ample lower lip drooped in a wet moue of distaste. One plump hand smoothed the blue fabric of his coat, while the other gripped the ivory handle of a walking stick. He tottered into the room on swollen, stockinged feet stuffed into black slippers. At the other end, a curled white wig perched atop his head.

“Can you blame a fellow for being eager to see his bride, what? I was settling into my guest chamber, heard shouting, and came to see what all the commotion was about.” Sir Saint lifted his walking stick and jabbed it threateningly at Henry. “I don’t know what you’re up to, you jackanapes, but you will desist at once. Miss Baxter is marrying me.”

As Sir John led away a fuming Sir Saint, soon followed by Lady Baxter shepherding out her daughter, a single thought lay heavy on Henry’s mind:

Perhaps I did it
.

Claude still tramped about the room, chest heaving like a bellows. “Damn it, Henry! Why? Why Claudia? Of all the sisters in the world, why did you do this to
mine
? Why not Schneiderman’s sister? He deserves it, after pissing on your cat that time.”

Henry’s gaze slid to the linens-cum-murder scene. “I don’t remember doing this, Claude, I swear.”

His friend dragged a hand through his brown hair and scoffed. “Don’t remember? If you think that’s going to stop me from putting one right between your eyes, you’re—oh.
Oh
.” His startled gray eyes widened. “In your sleep? But you haven’t done anything funny in a long time.”

Henry groaned. “I know. But what else could it have been?”

As a child, Henry was a terrible sleepwalker. Every night, he rose from his bed and wandered. Sometimes he remained within the confines of the nursery. Other times, he awoke elsewhere in the house. Once, he woke up as Cook snatched a handful of cookies away from him. He’d already eaten a dozen, and was plowing his way through a dozen more when she’d found him. In another incident, he’d come to in the garden, shivering on frosty grass.

A doctor summoned from London had diagnosed Henry with somnambulism, and assured his parents he’d eventually outgrow the condition. For years, this was not the case. When he stayed the night with the Baxters, he walked in his sleep. When he went to Harrow, he walked in his sleep. Thankfully, he’d shared a dormitory room with Claude, who was long-used to his condition. Every night, Claude locked the door and hid the key, so Henry couldn’t wander the grounds. He’d sometimes pull books from shelves or scribble nonsense on foolscap, but the other boys had never learned his secret, and Claude had never teased him for it.

University presented another challenge. Once, Henry had gained consciousness outside The Hog’s Teeth, half a mile from his lodging. Thankfully, Harrison had found him before he actually entered the establishment in his nightshirt. A moment later, the other Honorables arrived on the scene. The four men had shielded Henry from prying eyes as they escorted him home. The truth then came out, but none of the men had mocked him—not even Sheri, whose native tongue was derision. That night, Harrison stayed with Henry, and the two lodged together for the remainder of their time at Oxford.

Over time, Henry’s nocturnal activities occurred with less frequency, until finally, about four years ago, they stopped.

Or so he thought.

“If this happened in my sleep,” Henry said, gesturing to the brownish-red sheet that had become the most important scrap of fabric ever to feature in his life, “why would Claudia be here, in my room, instead of I in hers?”

Claude thumped his fists against his temples. “Ugh! Stop making me think about my sister like this. I don’t know! During your noctambulation, you must have absconded with her, brought her back here, and raped her.”

There it was, the knife to his gut. The word no one had been willing to say, even though they were all thinking it. It was the only explanation for the sheer quantity of blood. Someone had hurt Claudia, badly.

It must have been him.

“No,” he protested. “No. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

The thought of anyone hurting Claudia—sweet, funny, harebrained Claudia—made him feel homicidal. The notion that
he
was the villain … It just wasn’t possible. He would die before harming her. Even asleep, he wouldn’t do it.

Henry’s elbows dug into his sheet-covered thighs; he shook his head against his clasped hands, as though pleading for deliverance. “Something about this isn’t right.”

His friend’s head cocked to the side. “Really? And what was your first clue? Was it my ravished sister in your bed, or the pint of blood on the linens?”

Snapping his head up, Henry scowled. “Not that, arse-for-brains. But Claudia didn’t seem as upset as you’d think, given the circumstances, did she?”

“She was deranged from blood loss, most like.”

Henry made a rude gesture. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore Claude’s knuckle rapping against the window. Maybe Claudia had been in shock, he allowed, but she hadn’t protested when she’d awoken with a naked man atop her body, kissing her. Henry pushed aside the fleeting memory of soft lips and satin skin. And then she’d matter-of-factly told her brother what was what when it came to the loss of one’s virginity. Claudia hadn’t really reacted adversely to anything, until Henry declared they would marry.

“I suppose I’ve made trouble for Claudia and Sir Saint,” he said, sparing a thought for the man. “I hope he doesn’t treat her badly for this.”

Claude snorted. “He just found his fiancée in bed with another man. Of course he’s going to treat her badly. Not
too
badly, I hope,” Claude said, raising a finger. “I’ve already got you to kill tomorrow. I don’t want to overtax my schedule.”

“Maybe he’ll cry off,” Henry said with a wisp of hope. “He must.”

He recalled the acid burning its way up his throat when Claudia had given him the news of her betrothal yesterday evening. Henry’s brother, Duncan, had shared the news with him in a letter dated a week ago, but Henry couldn’t believe it. Surely, his brother had the wrong of it. Sir Saint Tuggle was a miserable old lech, and Henry couldn’t imagine the girl he’d secretly carried a torch for all these years allowing herself to be forced into such a distasteful match.

There was plenty of work at De Vere and Sons’s London offices to keep him busy, but Henry’d had to come home and hear it from Claudia herself. Even when she’d said the words, he didn’t want to believe it. The sadness in her soft blue eyes was what had finally convinced him she was telling the truth. Claudia had never been able to lie to him with a straight face.

No one else had offered for her, and she couldn’t go on living at Rudley Court forever, he realized. Sir John was every bit of seventy, and Lady Baxter was sixty-and-some. They had to make sure their youngest daughter was provided for while they were still here to do so. She needed a husband. And so he had grasped her hands and kissed her soft cheek, the way a dutiful friend should, all the while selfishly wanting to beg her not to go through with it.

“You do see that she and I must marry,” Henry blurted.

His friend shot him an incredulous look. “Is that why you did this? So you could have Claudia for yourself?”

“Christ, no!” he evaded. There was no socially acceptable way to inform one’s friend you had lusted after his sister for some number of years. Besides, when he’d vowed never to slumber beside another woman, he had sworn off any possibility of marriage, as well. He’d accepted that he and Claudia could never be more than friends, because he couldn’t bear that she might some day look upon him with the kind of disgust Kitty Newman had that long-ago night.

Henry slapped his open hand against his chest. “You know I never meant to marry. It wouldn’t be fair to subject a woman to … this.” He gestured down the length of his body, coughing a bitter laugh. “But now there’s no choice. Claudia could be—” His throat seized.

“Could be breeding,” Claude finished. He planted his hands on his hips and exhaled a heavy sigh. “That might be a problem, me killing you, if it turns out Claudia’s in the family way. Although, I suppose she could still marry Tuggle, and he can raise your by-blow.”

As if Henry would ever allow that to happen! He remembered how she’d looked and felt this morning, delectably rumpled, and imagined her in bed with Sir Saint, instead of him. The homicidal rage he’d felt earlier narrowed in focus. The additional possibility of his own child landing in the clutches of another man brought out instincts Henry didn’t know he possessed. Some primordial urge to defend and protect his own tightened his chest. His nostrils flared.

“She might not have been mine yesterday, but Claudia is damned well mine today,” he snapped. “And you will not mention a duel again, Claude, do you understand? Duels are for bored aristocrats who call each other out over who owns more game birds.” He rose and faced the other man across the bed. Sweeping his arms wide, Henry declared, “I’m prepared to take full responsibility for something I don’t even remember doing, so kindly desist with that line of talk.” He jabbed a finger toward Claude. “We are going to be brothers, so you may as well make your peace with it now.”

Claude’s lip curled. “For God’s sake, man, put on some clothes.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving Henry alone with his fired-up emotions.

If Sir Saint thought he was going to steal Claudia back, he was destined for bitter disappointment. The sooner Henry sent Tuggle packing, the sooner he could get on with marrying the girl he’d had no thought of marrying until half an hour ago.

Claudia was bundled into her room and left to dress while her mother and Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, carried out a hushed conversation in the corridor. Like so much of her wardrobe, the ecru morning dress Claudia pulled on had belonged to an older sister—Jillian, probably, although it might have been Maggie. She fingered a darned spot at the waist. Given the condition of the fabric, it very well may have gone through both of the next-oldest girls.

All things considered, the morning hadn’t gone
too
badly, Claudia decided. The Plan had been a success in execution and immediate outcome: She was ruined. It was the unforeseen effects that had her worried, namely Sir Saint appearing on the scene and declaring he was still marrying her. Didn’t the foolish man realize what had happened? Claudia was incensed that her fiancé didn’t seem to be taking her status as a fallen woman very seriously.

Her parents were anxious and angry and hurt. She’d known they would be, but witnessing her mother’s white-lipped dismay had made Claudia feel like the lowliest worm. If there was a way to put Mama’s mind at ease, she’d do so in a heartbeat. But successfully avoiding marriage to Sir Saint meant keeping up the appearance of ruination.
Poor Claude
, she mused, recalling her twin’s fury. She hoped he’d calmed down by now. It certainly wouldn’t do to have him bring on an apoplexy through his overdeveloped sense of fraternal duty. What the rest of the Baxter clan would think of Claudia, once this scandal worked its way through the familial vines of communication, didn’t bear contemplating.

Her shoulders tensed as a feeling of dread swept through her. Perhaps this hadn’t been the wisest course of action. But there simply hadn’t been time to think of anything better, and now that she’d done it, she had to see this thing through.

And as for Henry … Now that she’d had a little time to think about it, his “proposal” was probably the best idea he could come up with on the spur, given they’d not had a chance to plan what he would say when they were discovered. It was very clever of him to catch on to the situation so quickly and devise a script, even if it was a touch too far. Now, she’d have to try to think of a reason to tell her parents why she wouldn't be marrying either Henry or Sir Saint.

Recalling Henry’s statement that they would marry, pronounced in such a calm, factual manner, made her heart give a funny little hop. There was a time when she’d dreamed of receiving a declaration from him. In all the years she’d known him, though, he’d never shown anything but friendly interest in Claudia. And so she must content herself with hearing a faux proposal and remaining his friend.

Just a friend?
said some little devil inside her head.
Remember when you woke up with a very naked Henry atop you and you did nothing to encourage his relocation? Quite the friend you are.

Mrs. Baxter let herself back into the room. “My dear,” she started, “you should be in bed! I’ve sent for the surgeon.” Her hands crossed her middle and gripped her waist. “Do you think Mr. Whombleby will suffice? I can send for the midwife, if you’d prefer.”

It was on the tip of Claudia’s tongue to ask why the village surgeon had been summoned, but she stopped herself. Perhaps it was usual to undergo an examination after losing one’s virginity. The incident did seem to inspire a great deal of concern over her welfare. She supposed one’s husband would be the person to request the surgeon’s attendance, in the customary way of things. Still, it seemed an awful lot of fuss.

And what if Mr. Whombleby discovered her fraud? The idea that she might somehow be un-ruined sent a thrill of dread down her back. “Is that necessary? I’m quite well.”

Her mother’s chin quivered; tears welled in her gray eyes. She brought her hands to Claudia’s cheeks. “My darling girl. I know it’s difficult, but you must be brave. I shall be right here with you. I won’t leave you for a moment. He might …” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Whombleby might have to perform an examination, to ascertain what’s happened.”