Chapter FOURTEEN

“I know who you are, Mrs. Blake.”

Britannia stared at the notorious woman. She was very beautiful, but in a deadly way—as three prior husbands had discovered to their peril.

With her lush red hair and her piercing blue eyes, she was very striking, and Britannia thought that men would lust after her like dogs in a barnyard. She was too attractive, and for someone so young, she exuded a sensual air that was disturbing.

Britannia hated her on sight.

“Shall we sit?” Mrs. Blake rudely asked, since Britannia hadn’t had the courtesy to suggest it.

“No. I have no idea why I stooped to granting you an audience—curiosity, I suppose—but I intend for your appointment to be extremely short.”

As if she hadn’t just been insulted to high heaven, the annoying child chuckled. “I guess the gossip is accurate.”

“And what gossip would that be?”

“You, Lady Derby, are an irrepressible shrew.”

Britannia couldn’t remember when she’d ever previously been so offended.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’ll go in a minute. As you said, this won’t take very long.”

Blake sauntered to the sideboard and, without invitation, poured herself a drink.

Britannia sputtered with indignation, huffed to the hall, and bellowed, “Jenkins! Come at once! I need you.”

As usual, the slothful butler didn’t appear, so she stormed over to Mrs. Blake, ready to pick her up bodily and toss her out on the lawn.

“Speak your piece,” Britannia seethed. “Then be on your way.”

“Won’t you join me in a whiskey? You’re going to require fortification.”

“Jenkins!” Britannia shouted again.

“Very well.” Blake sighed. “Do you know where your daughter was last night?”

“My … daughter?” The remark caught Britannia off guard. “You mean Lady Caroline?”

“Have you another daughter of which I’m unaware?”

“She was in her bed, fast asleep.”

“Was she?”

Blake raised a brow with such aggravating confidence that Britannia could only surmise that whatever the harlot was about to impart would be the truth. There wasn’t a person alive who could barge in with such cool poise unless they held all the cards. Not that Britannia would ever let on that she believed any stories.

“I hear that you’re set on her marriage to Mr. Shelton,” Mrs. Blake mentioned. “In fact, it’s rumored that you’re so determined it’s almost an obsession with you.”

“You hear many things, Mrs. Blake. I would recommend that you consider the source of your information. When you roll in the gutter, it’s common for rubbish to stick.”

Jenkins took that moment to haul himself into the parlor.

“You called, Lady Derby?” he inquired.

“Show Mrs. Blake to the door, and if she ever returns, summon the law and have her dragged off as a vagrant.”

Blake didn’t move. Neither did Jenkins. Then Blake flashed such a wicked grin that Britannia blanched. Whatever would next spew from Blake’s mouth was nothing that should be voiced in front of a servant.

“I’ll just be off,” Blake said. “I merely stopped by to advise that you have Lady Caroline checked by a midwife before the wedding. You ought to be positive that she’s … well…” She halted and giggled, looking so innocent, so lethal. “Mr. Shelton would probably like to know for sure.”

Britannia gaped at her, thinking it would be so easy to commit murder, to simply reach over, wrap her large hands around Blake’s slender throat, then squeeze and squeeze until the woman collapsed dead on the floor.

“Leave us, Jenkins,” Britannia commanded, and the retainer scurried out. Once he’d departed, she demanded, “What are you trying to say?”

“Lady Caroline is having a sexual affair with Ian Clayton.”

In her entire life, Britannia had never been more shocked. “Ian … Clayton? Douglas Clayton’s Scottish spawn?”

“Yes. She’s been sneaking to his house, in the afternoons and evenings, when no one is watching where she’s gone.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’ve seen them with my own two eyes.”

Britannia’s mind whirled. Why would Caroline do it? Why would she risk so much for an ordinary peasant? But more important, why would Blake tattle? What had she to gain?

“Are you hoping to blackmail me, Mrs. Blake? Is that your game? For if it is, I must tell you that you’ll find a very dry well. I won’t pay you a penny. You may shout your falsehoods hither and yon, and the Earl and I shall ruin you.”

“I’m not after any money,” Blake claimed.

“Then what is it? Why have you come? If you’re not plotting to spread your filth, what is your purpose?”

“Their liaison must end. Immediately.”

“Really? And am I to assume that your motives are purely benevolent?”

“No, I’m being completely selfish.”

“In what fashion?”

“Ian is mine,” she stated, “and I want her to leave him alone. That’s all I want. I’d appreciate it if she’s not allowed to meet with him again. Can you handle the situation, Lady Derby? Or will you force me to confer directly with your husband?”

Without another word, Blake spun and left, and Britannia’s quaking knees gave out. She sank down onto the nearest chair, wondering what her next step should be.

She’d waited twenty-five agonizing years to orchestrate Edward’s marriage to Caroline. The prospect had sustained her through every social engagement where she’d had to observe Edward flirting with others, where she’d had to smile at him and pretend they were cordial.

If she couldn’t have her revenge, if it was suddenly snatched from her at the very last second, how would she survive it?

Desperate measures were required. The only question was: What should they be?

*   *   *

“There you are,” Bernard grumbled. “I’ve been searching everywhere.”

“What are you doing home at this hour?” Britannia asked.

“I must speak with you.”

“Well, after the morning I’ve had, I have no desire to speak with you.”

He ignored her and crossed over to where she was slumped in a chair. She was very glum, but he wouldn’t try to ascertain why. She was an impediment to his plans, and he would soon be shed of her.

Britannia was the past. Georgie was the future.

“I must get my affairs arranged,” he said. “I’m tired of your delays and arguments, so I’m proceeding with the divorce—whether you’re amenable or not.”

She scoffed and shot him such a malevolent glare that a frisson of fear slithered down his spine, but he pushed away the absurd reaction. He disliked her, was constantly aggravated by her, but he wasn’t—and never had been—afraid of her.

What could she do to him? She was a woman, and a very stupid one at that.

“How typical of you, Bernard, to think only of yourself at a time such as this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve just had the most interesting visitor.”

“Why would you bother me with the details of your petty life, Britannia?”

“Tell me what you know about Ian Clayton.”

“Ian Clayton? Wakefield’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“You know him as well as I. Form your own opinion, and don’t pester me. Now about the divorce—”

She rose, and she looked menacing in a manner he’d never noted prior. She was big boned and obese, and though he was taller, she seemed to tower over him.

“Tell me about him!” she insisted.

“He’s quiet and driven, reputed to be honorable, but I’m told that he quarreled with John and it changed him. His Scottish heritage gives him a dashing air that the ladies consider attractive.”

“Would that include your own daughter?”

“She’d never stoop that low.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Britannia laughed in an eerie way. “She’s fucking him.”

The crude remark was so abruptly voiced, and so out of character, that he couldn’t decide what to make of it. For a brief instant, she appeared quite mad.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. What should we do?”

“If you expect me to believe she’s been having sex with him, you are out of your bloody mind.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we call her down and interrogate her?”

“About Ian Clayton? Don’t be ridiculous.”

He assessed her, worried that she’d tipped off her rocker, which would be just his luck. It was sufficiently difficult to cope with her when she was merely hysterical and boring. It would be total hell to put up with her if she was crazy.

“But what if Edward learns of the rumors?” she nagged.

“What rumors? If your snippy companions are spreading gossip, I’ll sue to shut them up.”

“Fine then, I will deal with it myself, but if you don’t like the steps I take, I won’t listen to any complaints.”

“Be my guest,” he magnanimously stated. “You have my permission to make a fool of yourself in any fashion you desire.”

He started out, when she snapped, “Where are you going?”

“Where would you suppose? Georgie and her mother have invited me for supper. Then I’m escorting Georgie to the theater.”

She gasped. “Will you sit with her in our box? Where all the world can see?”

“It’s not our box. It’s my box, and yes, I will.”

“If you do, you’ll be sorry,” she threatened.

“Sticks and stones, Britannia. Sticks and stones. Georgie is your destiny, approaching like a bad carriage accident. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

“What about Caroline?” she hissed.

“What about her? She’s scheduled to marry Edward next week, and she will marry Edward next week.”

Despite how Britannia whined, she couldn’t make him feel guilty, couldn’t make him stay. He was weary of her, weary of his two tedious children, and he was moving on to a new and better life.

He whirled away and stomped out, curious as to why he still bothered stopping at home.

*   *   *

“There’s really only one choice,” Caroline murmured.

“Did you say something, milady?”

Caroline jumped, having forgotten there was a maid in the dining parlor with her.

“No, nothing,” she lied. She glanced at her breakfast plate, her fork blindly pushing the eggs round and round in a circle.

She could elope with Ian, the enigmatic, captivating man she loved. Or she could remain in London and marry Mr. Shelton. She could keep what she had or throw it all away. She felt as if she was perched on a high cliff and about to leap over the edge, when she had no idea how far it was to the bottom.

If she refused Ian, she’d never see him again, and though she’d been groomed to be tough and stoic, she didn’t imagine she could survive the loss. Not now. Not when she’d finally realized how important he was to her.

She stood, causing the maid to frown as she stared at Caroline’s uneaten food.

“Wasn’t the meal to your liking, milady? Shall I have Cook make you something else?”

“No, it was wonderful. I’m so distracted this morning that I’m not hungry.”

She raced out and up the stairs to her room. Her first order of business was to escape the house and never return. If she packed a bag, the staff would be suspicious, so she couldn’t take anything, and she gazed about, studying her bedchamber.

They were so wealthy it was almost obscene, yet she was leaving with only the clothes on her back. She was abandoning it all for the man of her dreams, like a heroine in a romantic theatrical. When she was ready to give up everything for him, could there be a more striking example of how much she cared?

After donning her cloak and hat, she’d spun to go when panic seized her. What if she was delayed? What if she couldn’t get away immediately?

She wanted Ian to know that her answer was yes, wanted him to be excited and watching for her, and she grabbed a pen and jotted him a quick note; then she folded it and hid it in her reticule.

Feigning calm, she walked down to the foyer and casually requested that the carriage be brought round. Now that she’d made up her mind, she was anxious to be away, and she loitered in the drive, impatient for it to arrive.

By the time she heard the horse’s hooves, she was frantic. The longer she dawdled, the more convinced she became that she would never get away. There seemed to be talons curling around her ankles and trying to drag her inside.

Just as the carriage pulled up, a maid bounded out to announce that her mother needed Caroline to attend her at once.

Caroline gaped at the carriage, at the maid, as she considered climbing in and trotting off, but when so many servants were observing, she couldn’t disobey the summons. There was no greater way to draw notice to herself.

She smiled and agreed, even though a strange terror was gnawing at her. With her plans so near to fruition, she was in a wild state. Her note to Ian was like a lead weight in her purse, and she was desperate to have it sent.

She slipped it to a footman, claiming that it was a message from her brother to Mr. Clayton, and that she’d offered to deliver it for him. The servants transported dozens of letters every day, so he would convey it to Ian’s home without a second thought.

She went in and proceeded to the front parlor, surprised—but not overly so—when she was advised that her mother was sequestered in her private suite and asking that Caroline meet her there.

Determined to conclude the appointment as rapidly as possible, she rushed up, anticipating that her mother would be prone and suffering from some ludicrous complaint. Instead, Britannia was over by the window and scowling down on the driveway where Caroline had been about to depart in the carriage.

They both froze, and Caroline was positive she looked guilty as sin. Instantly, she reverted to form, masking her expression, slowing the violent beating of her heart.

“Mother, I’m told you wanted me.”

“Were you going somewhere, Caroline?”

“I’m off on some errands.”

“What errands are those precisely?”

Caroline had never been adept at prevarication, so it was difficult to lie with any aplomb. “I have a dress fitting, and the hats I ordered are finished.”

“I wasn’t informed that you’d purchased any clothes.”

“You weren’t? So sorry. I’m off to fetch them. May I help you with something before I go?”

She stepped toward the hall, as if to indicate that she was in a hurry. Britannia was silent, but she approached and circled Caroline, providing her with the distinct impression that Britannia was blocking her in. Caroline tamped down her annoyance, recognizing that any display of exasperation would only extend the encounter.

Britannia shut the door, and there was an odd finality to the motion, as if it had been closed for good and would never open again. She glared at Britannia, irked to realize that her mother was very angry, and for once, Caroline was in no mood for any dramatic posturing.

She’d spent her whole life politely listening to her mother’s diatribes, and her tolerance for a lecture had vanished.

“What is it, Mother? I can see you’re upset.”

“To whom did you write?”

Caroline was confused by the query. “What?”

“I was watching you. You gave a letter to the footman. To whom was it composed?”

“I wrote no letter,” she fibbed. “It was Adam’s correspondence. I was merely delivering it for him.”

“So if I question your brother, he will verify your story?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Britannia advanced until they were toe-to-toe, and she towered over Caroline, making her feel small and exposed.

“Tell me about Ian Clayton,” Britannia snarled.

It was the last comment Caroline had expected, and her astonishment registered before she was able to conceal it.

“Ian … Clayton?” She pretended to be puzzled. “Wakefield’s natural brother? Why would you inquire about him?”

“I had a visitor who’s relayed the most intriguing tale.”

“Really?” Caroline’s pulse thudded with dread. “About what?”

“Confess your treachery, Caroline Foster. I would hear it from your own perfidious lips.”

“My … my … treachery? Honestly, Mother. What are you saying?”

“Are you still a virgin? Or have you squandered your most prized asset on that Scottish vagabond?”

“Mother!”

Half-mad with fury, Britannia loomed nearer.

“Were you aware,” she seethed, “that I can tie you down and have a midwife examine you to learn for sure?”

“How could you insult me so horridly?” She tried to seize the offensive, but her indignation was too tepid to be believed. “I scarcely know Mr. Clayton. How could you accuse me of dastardly behavior?”

“So … it’s your ploy to deny culpability?”

“As I’ve done nothing wrong, of course I’ll deny it.”

“Liar!” Britannia hissed, and she drew her hand from the fold of her skirt.

Caroline was stunned to see that Britannia clutched a riding whip, and she lurched away as Britannia struck her across the face. She was off balance, and she stumbled to the side, as Britannia hit her again and again, the blows raining down on her head and shoulders, the force driving her to the floor.

She was on her knees, trying to crawl away, but Britannia was in a frenzy, and there was no escaping her wrath.

“Your base blood has gained control of you,” her mother raged. “I knew it would eventually! I knew it!”

“Mother, stop!” Caroline begged, but it did no good.

Britannia was practically foaming at the mouth, spewing nonsense and hurling invectives.

“You will marry your father!” she shouted. “You will be forever joined to the devil that spawned you. I’ve been waiting all these years for it to happen, and happen it shall! My shame must be avenged!”

“I’m not marrying Father,” Caroline said, hoping to inject some sanity into her mother’s rant. “I’m marrying Mr. Shelton. I’m marrying Edward.”

“Yes, yes, you’re marrying your father!”