Chapter SIXTEEN
“I tried to explain to your father about your whoring, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Caroline stared at her mother, wondering how someone so obviously crazed could appear so sane. A hint of madness glowed in her eyes, but other than that abnormal glimmer, she seemed as fussy and straitlaced as she’d always been.
Caroline was sitting in a chair, pretending to be very meek, when, in fact, she was terrified and confused and angrier than she’d ever been.
She wanted to scream for help, to bring the servants running, but as she’d discovered from her long night of pounding on the door, they wouldn’t cross Britannia. She’d trained the staff well. If she locked Caroline in a closet, if she beat and starved Caroline, nary a one would intervene.
Caroline couldn’t count on anyone but herself, so she was alert for the slightest inattention by her mother. The minute Britannia’s back was turned, Caroline would sneak out and race to Ian. He would protect her.
After he’d received her letter but she hadn’t arrived, what must he have thought? Was he panicked and fretting? At any moment, would he rush to her aid?
Or what if the footman hadn’t delivered the note? What if Ian didn’t know she’d been intending to come? If she never had another chance to speak with him, if he went on assuming she’d chosen Mr. Shelton, she’d never forgive herself.
She had to get away!
“Your father couldn’t focus on business,” her mother was saying, “so he told me to handle everything.”
“He wouldn’t want you to be so cruel, Mother.”
“Wouldn’t he? Do you really suppose he cares? He’s been so preoccupied, sticking his rod in that harlot’s hole—”
“Mother!”
“—that he won’t notice how I treat you.”
“Perhaps we should ask Father to come upstairs,” Caroline coaxed, anxious for him to see what had happened.
Britannia gave a sinister laugh. “We don’t need your father to solve our problem with Ian Clayton.”
“We have no problem with Mr. Clayton. I scarcely know him.”
“I understand your attraction, Caroline. He’s a rugged, handsome sort, and after the Wakefield debacle, you were humiliated. It was only natural that you would seek inappropriate comfort.”
“I didn’t misbehave with Mr. Clayton,” she insisted.
As if she hadn’t commented, her mother continued, “I, myself, sought physical consolation in the arms of another man when I had my own pathetic fling.”
Her mother had had an amour? How very peculiar!
“Did you love him?” Caroline probed, trying to find common ground, trying to lower Britannia’s guard.
“Love, bah!” she sneered. “He never came for me, even though he swore he would. I was increasing and frightened and alone.”
Britannia talked as if she’d been pregnant with her paramour’s child. Had Britannia met him before marrying the Earl? Was she claiming that the Earl wasn’t Adam’s father? Or had there been no child? Was Britannia so deranged she simply imagined there was?
“It must have been awful,” Caroline soothed. “I’m sorry for you.”
“Why would you be sorry? I learned a valuable lesson—as you have not—that there is nothing but treachery in the world. Now as to how we’ll proceed…”
She walked to the window and peered outside, studying something only she could see. She held up her hand, and she was wearing a ruby ring on her smallest finger. Grinning, she looked at it like the cat that had eaten the canary; then she whipped around, her expression cold and stony, once more.
“The wedding will go forward, and your indiscretion will remain our little secret.”
“I can’t do it for you, Mother.”
“Your opinion is completely irrelevant.”
“But I—”
“Be silent, Caroline. I’m weary of your protests. I selected Edward for you, and there’s no use quarreling.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’ll murder your beloved Mr. Clayton.”
“What?”
“You heard me: I shall kill Mr. Clayton. I would rather see him dead than let you defy me.”
“What an absurd threat.” Caroline scoffed. “I’ve known you all my life. As if I’d believe you’d … you’d … kill someone.”
“You presume I wouldn’t?”
“I’m positive you wouldn’t. You seem to be experiencing some type of noxious spell, and so far, I’ve humored you, but I won’t listen to any more of your ranting. It can’t be healthy. I have to advise Father that you’re ill.”
Britannia chuckled. “You won’t have to notify Bernard. He’ll be apprised soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I killed his mistress.”
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Last night, while you were locked in my dressing room. I went to her home and murdered her.”
“With what?”
“With poison—the spurned woman’s weapon. What would you expect? It was extremely satisfying, too.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. He’ll stop haranguing about a divorce, and when the next pretty girl catches his eye, he’ll think twice about becoming involved with her.” She gazed at the ruby ring, twirling it round and round on her finger. “If I’d been aware of how easy it was to accomplish, I’d have started doing it years ago. It would have saved me so many headaches.”
Caroline’s mind reeled with questions: Could her mother actually have done such a terrible thing? Could she have stooped to homicide? Did Caroline know her, at all? From where had this bloodthirsty stranger sprung?
“You’re stark-raving mad,” Caroline murmured.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Britannia agreed, which made it so much worse. “Now then, let’s go down to dinner. After, I’ll lock you in again, which is where you will spend every minute until the ceremony.”
“I have to tell, Mother,” she declared. “I have to tell everyone what you did.”
“Who will you tell, Caroline? Who would believe that I—the Countess of Derby—would bother with murdering a strumpet? Your father’s had dozens. And don’t forget: If you whisper a word of this, I will kill Mr. Clayton. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on it. So … you can marry Edward, as I’ve requested, and your precious Ian will be safe forever. Or you can tattle, and he will be dead shortly. The choice is yours. What will it be?”
She opened the door, gesturing into the hall as if it were an ordinary day, as if they’d been having a pleasant mother-daughter chat.
“Let’s go down, shall we? I’m starving.”
She strolled out, fully anticipating that Caroline would tag along without argument.
Shaken, stunned, Caroline rose and trailed after her.
* * *
“Bernard, this came for you. The messenger said it was urgent.”
Britannia was holding a sealed note, and Bernard scowled.
“Who is it from?”
“Your latest trollop. Or perhaps her mother. I’m told something has happened and the girl was incapable of writing herself. Isn’t she a drunkard? She was probably too intoxicated to pick up a pen.”
His heart skipped several beats. “Give it to me.”
He snatched it away and tore at the seal. The sentences seemed to swim on the page, and he had to read it over and over before they made any sense.
“Georgie!” he gasped, and he collapsed onto the nearest chair.
“Are you all right, Bernard? Is it bad news? Oh, how I hope it is!”
He skimmed the note again, the import sinking in. “You were there! You were the last to see her alive.”
“Was I? How intriguing.”
“What were you doing?”
“I tried bribing her to stay away from you—as any rich, sane wife would do. I offered her a fortune, too, but the stupid child refused it. It must have been true love, after all.”
She giggled and fluttered her hand over her enormous bosom, and he was shocked to find that she was wearing Georgie’s ring. He was sure it was hers!
Could Britannia have…? Oh, he couldn’t finish the thought!
“Where did you get that ring?” he asked, aghast but struggling to remain calm.
“This old thing?” She waved it about as if she’d forgotten she had it on. “You gave it to me ages ago. Don’t you remember?”
Speculating, horrified, inconsolable, he gawked at her.
His dear Georgie! She’d brought him such joy! Had Britannia been so jealous that she’d been driven to homicide? Was it possible?
“If I ever learn that you were responsible for this atrocity, I’ll … I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
It was a valid question. What could he do to her? Who would believe that his countess, his spouse of thirty years, would suddenly commit murder?
“If I discover that it was you,” he warned, “I’ll strangle you with my own two hands.”
“You haven’t the nerve.”
She spun and left him to stew and grieve all alone.
* * *
Ian paced across his parlor, his anxiety rising, his worry extreme.
Caroline’s letter was clutched in his fist, and he’d read it a thousand times. She’d sworn she was coming so that they could elope to Scotland.
Where was she?
He’d waited all night. He’d waited all morning, but she hadn’t arrived, and he didn’t know what her nonappearance indicated or what he should do about it.
Should he continue to wait? Should he storm to her father’s house and demand to speak with her? Or should he face reality and admit that she hadn’t been serious?
Just then, carriage wheels sounded on the street. He raced to the window and peered out, delighted to see the Earl’s coach pulling up.
She’d come! She’d come at last!
On pins and needles, he tarried, much too eager for his first glimpse of her, but as the footman lowered the step, it wasn’t Caro who emerged.
The Countess lumbered out, and as she approached, his dread spiraled.
What did the visit portend? He steeled himself against disappointment, against the mortification and regret that he was certain the Countess would make him feel.
He stood, gaping and frozen, curious as to how their liaison had been exposed. Had Caro confessed it? Had someone else? Did it matter how the Countess had been apprised? Probably not. The damage was done, and he could only move through the aftermath.
“Hello, Mr. Clayton,” she said as the butler showed her in.
“Lady Derby.” He tipped his head. “Shall we sit?”
“There’s no need. This isn’t a social call, and I intend to be brief.”
She glanced at Caro’s note that he still held.
“Since you obviously know why I am here,” she began, “I’ll be blunt.”
“By all means,” he mocked.
“Lady Caroline isn’t coming.”
He’d already surmised as much, but it hurt to have her voice the truth aloud.
“I’ve been wondering what happened, so thank you for stopping by.”
He gestured to the door, wanting her to grasp that their meeting was ended, but he should have known it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of her.
She jeered, “I’m not sure why you had the gall to initiate this affair.”
He shrugged, loathing her tone, and determined to aggravate her as much as he was able. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“I understand how your connection to Lord Wakefield has skewed your view of your place in relation to an exalted family such as ours.”
“My brother definitely let me run amok. Because of him, I’m always putting on airs.”
He was being sarcastic, but she nodded in agreement, deeming him sincere.
“I imagine you thought you’d become rich if you married her. I imagine you thought her father would eventually pardon you and give you some of her dowry.”
“It was at the top of my list of reasons,” he lied.
“I hate to have you thwarted financially.”
“Do you?”
“Money difficulties can make a fellow behave in desperate ways.”
“Yes, they can.”
“This development could leave you in a fiscal crunch, so I’m prepared to remunerate you for your troubles.” She passed over an envelope. “It’s a bank draft. Cash it, and the full amount is yours.”
He peeked inside, his eyes widening at the large sum. “Why, Lady Derby, this is too much. What am I to assume? You must want something in exchange.”
“Of course I do. I’m buying your discretion.”
“Well, this should purchase an enormous quantity of it.”
“Don’t be smart with me. I won’t have stories circulating about some ridiculous amour between the two of you. Nor will I have you slithering out of the woodwork to ruin her wedding. I’m told you’re a pragmatic man, Mr. Clayton.”
“I am.”
“So you can see how I might worry over your future comments.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“I’m simply nipping scandal in the bud.”
“Silence is golden?”
“Quite. You’ll cash the draft?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
“You certainly would.”
“There’s just one catch.”
She sighed. “Why am I not surprised? What is it?”
“You must tell me why she changed her mind.”
“Does it matter why?”
“To me it does.”
She chuckled, her disdain oozing through. “She was never going to run off with you, Mr. Clayton. You’re aware of the type of person she is. She could no more shirk her duty than she could sprout wings and fly.”
“So it was all a lark for her?”
She considered, then shook her head. “No, she had genuine feelings for you, but she wouldn’t have acted on them. It was humorous for her to ponder another sort of life, but it was naught but a romantic fantasy.”
It was just as he’d suspected. Caro was who she was: the beautiful, spoiled daughter of an earl. She was like an angel in heaven, whom he could adore and worship from afar, but could never have for his own.
He knew better than to have made plans, but still, he was a contrary individual. The more a snob such as Lady Derby put him in his place, the harder he fought to stay where he didn’t belong.
“If Caroline is so happy over choosing Mr. Shelton, why didn’t she come with you and inform me herself?”
“She has no desire to see you ever again. She’d be embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Yes. She was fond of you, and she feels terrible about trifling with your affections.”
He tried to picture Caro conversing with her mother, saying the words the Countess attributed to her, but he couldn’t get the vision to gel.
What if she hadn’t said them, at all? What if the Countess had bullied or punished her? What if Caro hadn’t arrived because her mother had prevented her?
As the prospect arose, he suffered the silliest spurt of gladness. He was so thrilled to hope that she hadn’t forsaken him, and the obvious conclusion finally became apparent: He loved her. He’d always loved her. How could he not have known?
“Guess what, Lady Derby?”
“What?”
“I have another condition.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. What is it?”
“I will take your money and go on my merry way, provided I’m allowed to speak to Caroline myself. I want to hear from her own lips that she’d rather have Edward Shelton than me.”
She hadn’t counted on him demanding anything so rash, and she turned beet red, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. The temper for which she was renowned began to exert itself.
“You may not see her.”
“How will you stop me? London—for all its size—is a very small town.”
“The wedding is in three days, Mr. Clayton. I think we can keep you away from her for three days.”
“Maybe so, but how will you quell my vicious tongue? If you won’t let me talk to her, I’ll spread gossip hither and yon. The minute you walk out my door, I’ll commence tattling.”
“You dare to threaten me, Mr. Clayton?”
She approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she was a formidable sight. A lesser mortal might have been alarmed to witness all that pent-up wrath.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he boasted, “so there’s no need to bluster.”
“Your courage is impressive, but your posturing is a waste of energy.”
“Is it?”
“Let me be more clear: You will not see Caroline. You will whisper no rumors. You will do nothing but take the windfall I’ve offered and slink away to some obscure location where we will never again be bothered by your despicable self.”
“As I previously stated, how will you stop me?”
“Even if you wreck her chance with Mr. Shelton, she will never be permitted to marry you.”
“Why would you presume you’ll have a say in the matter? She’s of age. All she need do is escape your clutches and come to me. I’ll whisk her off to Scotland and be married to her before you realize she’s gone.”
“But it will never happen, Mr. Clayton. That’s what you fail to understand.”
“How have I miscalculated?”
“If she does not wed Edward, we will commit her to an insane asylum.”
The possibility was so shocking and so casually delivered that he sucked in a stunned breath before he could mask it. His reaction supplied her with evidence of his most vulnerable spot—which was Caro—and she would use the weakness to his detriment.
“You wouldn’t,” he tried to claim.
“Wouldn’t we? We’ve already picked out the facility. She will remain there, sequestered in the common rooms with the other lunatics for the rest of her days—which will be short in number when you consider the filth, disease, and criminal activity in those places.”
“An asylum!” he muttered, and he shivered.
“Should a child result from her fornication with you, it will be drowned at birth, the corpse tossed in the pauper’s grave behind the building. I will see to it myself.”
“Why?” was all he could ask.
“She will do as I say. She will not disobey me.”
He was struggling to regroup and have the last word. He couldn’t bear to acknowledge that she’d gotten the better of him—even though she had.
“You’re quite good with your threats.”
“I’m not a woman to be crossed.”
“I’ve never supposed you were.”
“Caroline has a fine life stretching ahead of her. It guarantees an excellent marriage to one of her own kind, and an ideal—if somewhat subdued—existence as the wife of an important gentleman.”
“You don’t make it sound like much of a blessing.”
“For most females, it’s more than enough.”
“Not for her.”
“Who are you to judge what she needs?”
“I’m the man who loves her,” he boldly asserted, amazed that he’d finally declared himself, and to her of all people.
“If you actually love her—and I must admit I’m dubious—then you should do right by her. You should disappear without creating a fuss, and let her quietly and privately wed Mr. Shelton.”
“But that’s not what’s best for her! You haven’t a clue what would be best!”
“And you do? Why? Because you crawled between her thighs a few times?”
He was staggered by her crudity, by her cold, hard demeanor, and he thought of Caro and what it must have been like to be raised by such a brutal, heartless witch. He was astounded that the Countess hadn’t drummed out every spark of compassion and decency.
“I know what Edward Shelton is like,” he pressed, “and I suspect you do, too. If you would bind her to him—in spite of his proclivities—you’re a monster.”
“A monster?” She laughed in an unnatural way that sent chills down his spine. “I’ve been called much worse.”
“I’ll just bet you have,” he agreed. “Why would you do this to her?”
“Mr. Clayton, you are a baseborn, poverty-stricken nobody. Why I decide to do anything is none of your business.”
She started out, and he was so angry that he seriously contemplated rushing over and beating her to a bloody pulp. The urge was so intense that he could practically see her collapsed on the floor.
“I won’t let you get away with this,” he insisted. “I’ll talk to the Earl.”
“Will you? You seem to have forgotten our devil’s bargain: You can be silent and she’ll have a husband, children to mother, and the other niceties that all women crave. Or you can stir up trouble, and give her the asylum and the drowned, dead baby, instead. The choice is yours. Will you be responsible for killing your own child? I doubt it, so I suggest you think carefully about what it is you wish to do.”
She left, and Ian went to the window and watched as her servants hefted her into her coach. He tarried, observing, till the team of horses pulled her away, and he lingered long after she’d vanished down the street.
His mind whirred with all the things he should have said, all the things he should have done, and he felt like a fool.
Why had he stood in his own parlor, in his own home, and permitted the old shrew to hurl insult after insult? When had he turned into such a milksop?
He trudged to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, sipping it as he reviewed his options.
He refused to believe the Countess, and he had to confront Caro directly. If she told him to go away, that she hadn’t been earnest, so be it. But he had to know for sure. If she was in danger, or if they’d locked her away, and she was hoping he’d come for her, he had to arrive. He couldn’t abandon her to the fate her mother had engineered.
He had to see her, but how should he proceed? If he politely knocked on the Earl’s door, he couldn’t expect to be welcome, so there wasn’t any reason to be courteous. So … he’d begin by knocking—like a civilized human being—but if courtesy didn’t work, he’d be a bit uncivilized. After all, he was half-Scot, his full name Ian MacDonald Clayton. The blood of centuries of warriors flowed in his veins.
Maybe it was time to remember the MacDonald clan’s war cry.
He rose and hurried to the hall, shouting for his horse to be saddled.