CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Westleigh! So glad you could make it. Very, very glad! We haven’t officially met before, but I’m Kimbolton. Third baron of. Nowhere near your lofty heights, but one step at a time to world domination, eh?”
Stephen smiled politely and shook the black-haired man’s hand. He was perhaps five or six years older, expensively if sedately dressed in gray trousers, white shirt and black waistcoat, and vaguely familiar. Suddenly the memory crashed through his brain and his grip firmed, as to a friend.
“You were there,” he said haltingly. “At Nexham’s. You stayed with Gregory and loaned me your horse.”
Kimbolton flinched, but his blue gaze remained almost disconcertingly direct. “Yes. It is a day etched in my mind as it is no doubt etched in yours. I was, and continue to be distraught at what happened, wondering if he might have survived if I’d done more—”
“No. They told me even the best doctors couldn’t have saved him.”
“Perhaps. But we always hoped beyond words you would join us so we could grieve together. Only those who truly loved your brother, and your father for that matter, will ever understand the wrench of such a loss.”
Anger rose. Something else his mother had taken away with her meddling. “I apologize for my lack of response. There was a communication issue within my household which has since been rectified. It won’t happen again.”
“I understand. Annoyances are inflicted on the best of us, are they not? But come up and meet everyone. We’re not a large group, prefer to keep things exclusive, but we achieve great, great things.”
Nodding, Stephen followed Kimbolton down a long, furnished hallway and up a polished wood staircase. “Do you meet often?”
The baron waved a dismissive hand. “Only when needed. We have excellent staff who take care of the tedious day to day details of our various business interests.”
“Oh? What kind of business interests? I have a fondness for investigating new ventures and investing capital in them if the books and figures add up.”
“Indeed, you are a man of many talents, Westleigh. We have been impressed with your significant advancement of an already profitable earldom.”
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Keeping an eye on me?”
Kimbolton didn’t so much as blink. “Naturally. Brother Hallmere, Gregory I mean, was such an integral part of our group. We felt it our duty to step in should assistance ever be required. But really, we should have remembered Gregory’s praises of your talents. A cool and clever head, he said, just needing something to be engaged by. My word he was eager to work with you. Nearly drove us all lunatic with his ‘my brother’ this and ‘my brother’ that.”
Pain surged, taking Stephen’s breath away like a vicious jab to the solar plexus. This conversation would have him bawling like a baby soon.
He coughed. “Yes. Well. I like to believe he’d approve of what I have done.”
“Of course! A splendid effort, unlike so many second sons who unexpectedly inherit, then proceed to drive their properties into the ground or mortgage them to the hilt to pay off frightful gambling debts.”
“I abhor gambling,” said Stephen with distaste. “Far too many variables at play.”
“How right you are.”
Another hallway, wider this time, then into a lavishly appointed drawing room where three men lounged on high-backed chairs and long cushioned chaises. The room was an ode to creature comforts; pale green silk-hung walls, oversized velvet cushions, silver trays of sweet and savory food and dozens of painted landscapes, but the overall effect was rather too feminine for his liking.
“Gentlemen!” Kimbolton announced to the room. “Look who has finally come to join us. Introduce yourselves, if you please.”
“Sir John Smythe, at your service,” drawled the first man, a blond-haired, blue-eyed dandy in green trousers and pale yellow shirt with lacy sleeves. His movements were languid, his tone that lazy, condescending one Prinny and Brummell had made so annoyingly popular.
Stephen loathed him at once.
In stark contrast, next to Smythe sat a young man with copper hair, green eyes and wearing an old fashioned set of black breeches and waistcoat.
“Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne,” the man said briskly with a short but polite nod.
Stephen inclined his head. Ah. Heir to the Scottish Marquess of Dunbraedy.
“Can we hurry this along?” interrupted a broad shouldered, brown-haired man with rather cold gray eyes, his full scarlet regimentals jarring amongst the rest. “I have somewhere to be.”
Wynn-Thorne sighed loudly. “Forgive our resident grumpy bastard, Westleigh. His name is Major Lionel Rochland, of the Northamptonshire Rochlands and he’s most honored to finally make your acquaintance. Unlike him I at least have some social graces. How is your dear mother?”
“Mama is quite well, thank you,” Stephen replied, remembering to keep his voice even. “Props up the merchant economy in true patriotic fashion.”
Kimbolton smiled. “Mothers also happen to the best of us. If I didn’t have so many younger brothers I know mine wouldn’t cease haranguing me about finding a wife…talking about marriage, I heard a dreadful whisper this morning that you have fallen victim to the parson’s mousetrap. Say it isn’t so!”
“For once the gossips are correct. I wed the former Miss Caroline Edwards.”
“George Edwards’ sister?” said Major Rochland, frowning fiercely. “I thought you were courting—”
“Obviously you’re wrong, Rock, which never surprises us,” interrupted Sir John. “Perhaps you should be off to your appointment? I’m sure someone will send you a note if need be.”
Major Rochland stood and bowed crisply. “’Til later then, gentlemen.”
After the soldier marched from the room, Kimbolton gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive him, Westleigh, he’s…”
“A backward Neanderthal like his nickname suggests,” said Sir John. “But we tolerate him because he really does have the most splendid hunting box. Do you hunt, Westleigh?”
Agony pummeled his body. “Not if I can help it.”
“Understandable,” said Wynn-Thorne, glaring at the tactless dandy as he helped himself to a thick slice of fruitcake. “Especially in light of what happened…and of the shocking incident at the Bruce Estate. I hope those poachers have been caught and put to death as they deserve.”
Stephen tilted his head. “You are well informed.”
“An event like that would hardly stay quiet. Especially when it included a woman like Nora Bruce. The woman could talk the hind leg off a donkey, much like those awful daughters of hers.”
“Hush your mouth, Wynny,” drawled Sir John. “We all adored young Hermia Bruce. So generous and obliging with her favors.”
“Hermia?” said Stephen, surprised. “You mean the eldest who had the accident?”
“Indeed, m’boy. Hallmere liked her especially.”
“He did? Gregory never mentioned her to me in his letters. Then again I was immersed in Cambridge life at the time so perhaps missed a few.”
“Oh yes,” smiled Kimbolton. “The two of them were always escaping off to this dreadful little cottage in the middle of nowhere, I guess Hallmere didn’t mind a few bedbugs. He was so devastated after the accident, even partially blamed himself for the chit’s death, but it certainly wasn’t his fault she threw herself off a cliff.”
Jesus.
Shocked, Stephen leaned over and poured himself a cup of tea. No wonder the Bruces were so damned odd. “I thought she slipped and fell.”
Wynn-Thorne shook his head. “That was the official story. To protect the family, you ken, and ensure a Christian burial. But if you want the truth of the matter, Hermia was a little…unbalanced. Highly strung and prone to fits of terrible jealousy. She even struck your brother a few times. The day she died—”
“Stop there, Wynny,” muttered Kimbolton, leaning sideways to clasp his friend’s shoulder. “Telling this tale only upsets you.”
“No. Westleigh has a right to know. The day she died, Hermia sent an awful note to Hallmere, threatening suicide if he didn’t marry her. He was so upset. As a gentleman, what could he do other than rush to her side? But he begged and begged her to come away from the cliff edge. Told her he would always love her but couldn’t marry her because his father insisted he court the daughter of some duke.”
“You don’t need to explain,” said Stephen harshly. “Father could be very autocratic sometimes.”
“Yes. It pained us greatly to see the increasingly strained relationship between Hallmere and your father. I fear Hermia’s death only increased the rift, they were barely speaking by that terrible, terrible day at Nexham’s estate.”
Stephen flinched and gripped the arms of his chair, the words like a physical blow. “If only…”
“No. The past is the past,” said Kimbolton gently. “You cannot change it. However, what you can influence is the future. Join us. Help us carry on Hallmere’s noble work.”
“Gregory mentioned the odd story in his letters, but what exactly did he do?”
“Saved wretched females, dear boy,” said Sir John, smoothing his lace collar. “Most of them didn’t deserve his charity, London whores, bastard street urchins and criminals they were, but Hallmere made it his personal crusade to rescue them from their unfortunate situations. From his own pocket he fed, clothed and had them taught letters and numbers, then shipped them abroad to Brussels or the colonies where they found gainful employment and a fresh start as maids and seamstresses. It’s a frightful money drain, but none of us have the heart to cease it.”
Stephen cleared his dry-as-desert throat. “I never…I never knew he cared like that. Actually I can’t believe my parents held this group and its activities in such low regard.”
Wynn-Thorne shrugged. “Tis often the case when you try to help others, you are accused of all sorts of ulterior motives. But I must warn you, Westleigh, we aren’t all work. We like to let our hair down so to speak, especially with the ladies. Brother Smythe hosts the most wonderful parties.”
“Don’t tempt him, he’s a newly married man,” chuckled Kimbolton. “But I have a better idea. One of our mercy ships is sailing later this week. Why don’t you come down to our offices and have a look around? Meet some of the fallen angels being given a second chance?”
“I’d like that,” Stephen replied, nodding slowly.
“Capital. I’ll send a note with directions. We all look forward to seeing you again.”
“Even Rochland!” added Wynn-Thorne, as all three men stood to shake his hand.
Five minutes later Stephen paused at the bottom of the wide front steps, inhaling deep breaths of slightly putrid central city air and in desperate need of a drink. Make that several. He’d always thought his mother to be a reasonably sane woman, but she was so wrong in regards to Gregory and this group it was ridiculous. Perhaps he needed to organize a physician to visit Westleigh Park once she was resettled there. If grief had again risen and begun to twist her mind, he would ensure she received specialist care. Hopefully before other people noticed her erratic beliefs and behaviors.
Strolling down the semi-crowded footpath, he dodged elderly couples, a group of laughing young bucks, two young children playing with a stick and hoop and a pie seller’s stall as he made his way toward his waiting carriage.
He grinned to himself. Gregory, an unsung hero with a soft heart. Who’d have thought? Instead of all those stupid practical jokes—God, the terrible stunts he’d pulled, the yappy lapdog, the starred recommendations of London’s best courtesans, the exploding tobacco pipe and feather slippers—all he needed to do to make his reserved older brother smile was join his beloved society and help with charitable works. What a fool he had been, wasting so many years.
These gentlemen were offering a chance to honor his brother. Make up for being off gallivanting around the continent, drinking himself into a stupor and immersing himself in the charms of faceless, nameless, women when he’d been needed so badly back in England. Well, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He had the connections, the resources and the drive to take up Gregory’s crusade, to do it even better. And by God, he would—
“My Lord! Look out!”
Startled, he jerked his head up at the sound of his coachman’s voice. Just in time to see a heavily-laden produce cart lurch onto two wheels and speed straight for him.
“Damn,” he snarled, leaping backwards. Except instead of empty footpath, he felt two hands press into his back. And instead of assistance, they shoved him firmly forward onto his knees.
Straight back into the cart’s path.
“Git out the way!” the cart driver barked, yanking hard on the reins to stop the deadly momentum, his curses even louder than the horses’ screams and general pandemonium as crates and barrels flew off and smashed onto the unforgiving cobblestone street.
But it was too late. Even as Stephen frantically tried to roll sideways, something hard and heavy landed on his left shoulder, pinning him to the ground and sending a wave of vicious pain through his body.
Then everything went black.
~ * ~
“My lady! My lady!”
At the excessively loud hail, Caroline dashed to the top of the staircase and peered downwards. The distraction was a relief, surely there couldn’t be anything more dull than inspecting a walk-in linen closet with the pleasant but particular Westleigh housekeeper Mrs. Conroy. Yet the footman sprinting up the stairs wore an expression far too bleak for a small, everyday issue.
What on earth could it be? George finally receiving his comeuppance, coated in honey and staked on a giant anthill? Sir Malcolm slumped over a soup bowl with one of Mama’s high heeled slippers protruding from the back of his skull?
“Yes?” she called quickly. “What is the problem?”
The footman bowed clumsily, panting as he came to a sharp halt three steps below her. “It’s the earl, my lady. He’s been run down by a cart!”
Caroline’s heart stopped. Her vision swam, and blindly she reached out for the polished wooden banister to hold herself upright.
“Lord have mercy,” cried Mrs. Conroy, dashing over to slip a sturdy arm around her waist. “Where’s his lordship now? Has a physician been summoned?”
“They’re bringing him in the carriage, Mrs. Conroy. Real slow like. I ran ahead to sound the alarm, don’t know if any of the other lads got sent to fetch Dr Murray.”
“Does Jane know?” whispered Caroline through bloodless lips.
The young man gave her a blank look. “Jane, ma’am?”
“The dowager.”
“Oh. Probably not. The girls in the kitchen said she’d gone out visiting on account of her leaving for the country tomorrow.”
Mrs. Conroy frowned darkly. “The girls in the kitchen should mind their business. What should I prepare, Lady Westleigh? Lady Westleigh?”
Caroline blinked as she realized the question was directed at her. Yes. She was the lady of the house, she must make a decision. Her husband could be completely incapacitated. Missing limbs. Bleeding from all kinds of horrific wounds. Dying…
She choked on a sob. “B-boil water. Lots of it. And b-bandages. We’ll need linen bandages. And, um…”
“Wood for splints,” Mrs. Conroy said, nodding. “Sharp scissors. Needle and thread. No doubt Dr Murray will give me a list of any extras he needs, but I’ll fetch my herb basket for poultices too.”
“Yes. Yes, do. At once, Mrs. Conroy. I’ll wait downstairs for my husband.”
The housekeeper curtsied, then she and the footman hurried away.
Oh God.
Her hands still gripping the banister, Caroline inched her way down the staircase. A bride and a widow in less than two days? Could fate really be so cruel? Terror turned her legs to syllabub and she collapsed onto a step. No. Stephen couldn’t die. She would not permit it. They had places to go and children to create. Day and night she would haunt his bedside and nurse him until he recovered enough to growl he was absolutely sick of the sight of her. And even then she’d probably only give him an hour’s respite before commencing the most thunderous lecture he’d ever experienced for worrying twenty years from her life.
What if he has lost a limb?
He’ll still be more man than most of those in London.
What if he can no longer walk?
I’ll commission several of those wheeled chairs. We’ll redecorate the whole house. Install ramps and turn one of the drawing rooms into a bedchamber so everything he needs is on the ground floor.
What if he dies?
Caroline shuddered and clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened.
“Lady Westleigh!” called a parlor maid. “The carriage has pulled up!”
Hauling herself to her feet, Caroline stumbled down the rest of the stairs and half ran-half skidded into the marble-floored foyer, just in time to see Innes yank open the heavy front door.
Her breath caught as she braced herself for the worst.
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead…
Seconds later Stephen stalked through the door, his jacket badly torn, several bloodstains decorating the sleeve of his white linen shirt, but wonderfully, perfectly whole.
She stared uncomprehendingly, her mouth open. “You’re alive,” Caroline mumbled stupidly. “They said…I thought…”
“My apologies, madam, for only suffering a blow to the head and a crushed shoulder that will no doubt shortly closely resemble Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room rather than conveniently perishing,” he snarled in return, pushing past her.
“Stephen…”
“My lord?” called Innes, after he’d practically sprinted across the foyer behind his employer. “Is there anything I can fetch you? Do you need a physician?”
“No,” said Stephen over his shoulder as he opened his library door. “I’ll be fine. But I don’t want to be disturbed. By anyone.”
“Of course. I’ll see to…” the butler replied smartly, but the sound of the door slamming shut cut off any other words he might have added.
Instead, new countess and old butler assessed each other for a long moment.
Caroline lifted her chin, preparing for a war. “I’m going to check on him.”
“I don’t know whether that’s a wise idea, my lady.”
“Probably not. But if you try and stop me I’ll crush your feet to oatmeal and knee you where it will really hurt.”
Innes’ lips puckered then twitched violently. “I shall forever keep that in mind, Lady Westleigh. Tea?”
“I believe he’ll want something stronger with his privacy. But thank you.”
He bowed low. “Good luck, madam.”
Turning, Caroline hurried down the portrait-lined hallway until she stood outside the library. Two deep breaths for courage, then in one quick movement she opened the door, leapt inside and banged it shut behind her.
“What the hell are you doing in here? I thought I made it quite clear I wasn’t to be disturbed. Get out.”
“Barked orders don’t apply to wives. It’s written somewhere. The Magna Carta perhaps.”
Stephen made a growling sound from where he sat slumped behind his desk. “God, you are one stubborn, unruly, annoying female. Well, if you won’t leave, make yourself useful and pour me a drink.”
“Joyfully,” she trilled, pleased at how relatively normal her voice sounded, considering it felt like she’d just gone a few rounds with Gentleman Jackson.
“Don’t use that tone, either. It’s grating my last nerve.”
With a haughty sniff, she went to the sideboard and filled a crystal glass to the brim with whisky. After setting it in front of him, she sauntered around the edge of the desk and perched on top.
“There are plenty of chairs in the room, Caroline.”
“So there are,” she said, leaning forward to smooth his hair. Inwardly rejoicing when her strong, tough as teak husband actually closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. “Where does it hurt?”
Stephen blinked and snatched up the glass. “My left shoulder took the brunt of it, aches like the devil. And the back of my head,” he muttered, but surprisingly still not pulling away.
Fortunately he couldn’t see her wobbly smile as she eased his head forward until it rested on her cleavage.
“Here?” she asked, running the pads of her fingers against his skull. “Or here?”
“Actually, the discomfort’s moved south now.”
“How south?”
“Significantly south,” he replied, his lips brushing the top of her right breast.
Caroline shivered. “Don’t even think about it. There are things we need to discuss.”
“Really? I can’t think of a single topic just now, other than the fastest way to get you undressed.”
“Be serious. You could have died today. When that footman came sprinting up the stairs—”
“If he’d waited a minute longer he would’ve seen that apart from a few seconds’ unconsciousness and some nasty cuts and bruises, I’m fine. My pride suffered the harshest blow, I wasn’t hit by the cart; I was felled by a flying chicken coop.”
A snort of startled laughter escaped. “A chicken coop? Oh dear.”
Slowly, deliberately, he got to his feet, one hard thigh nudging her legs apart until he stood between them.
“Making fun of me, wife?” he murmured, one finger tracing the length of her collarbone.
Her nipples hardened. “N-no.”
“Good. Because that would get you into a world of trouble,” he added, cupping her breasts and sliding both thumbs into her bodice to torment the sensitive peaks.
Caroline moaned, suddenly more than ready to discuss swift undressing. “Trouble?”
“Mmmm. Serious trouble.”
“Ah, you know trouble and I are the best of friends,” she said, shivering as one strong hand dropped from her breast to steal under her gown and caress the underside of her knee. How did he find these ridiculously sensitive spots?
Well, two could play at that game.
Leaning forward she rubbed the back of her knuckles against his already tenting trousers, eagerly cupping and stroking him through the fabric. He sucked in a harsh breath and she smiled inwardly, loving the feeling of power as his hips jerked. But soon his fingers had her equally helpless as they skated along her inner thigh and brushed her dampening curls.
A bit harder. A bit higher…oh please…
“Soon, sweet,” he said, making her flush. Oh no. Had she really said that out loud? “But first I’m going to…”
A loud knock sounded and they jolted apart.
“What?” Stephen barked.
“Forgive me, my lord,” came Innes’ disembodied voice. “Mr. Taff is here. He says he needs to speak to you without delay.”
~ * ~
It figured that just when his day threatened to improve, they would be interrupted.
Gritting his teeth, Stephen stepped back from his wife and resisted the urge to reach down and adjust himself. How bloody brilliant, a stone-hard cock as well as a stinging head and aching shoulder.
Hopefully Innes enjoyed his last five minutes of employment.
Another brisk knock sounded. “My lord?”
“Send him away,” whispered Caroline, one thumb rubbing across his knuckles. “Send them all away for the rest of the day. And the night, too.”
His cock surged again, in complete agreement with her very tempting plan. For some reason she’d been remarkably sweet since his arrival home, no war of words or quiver of caustic arrows approaching from all directions. One might say rather wife-like, with her gentle and then delightfully not-so-gentle hands. Caroline’s touch had been award-worthy through his trousers, he could only imagine what it would feel like to have her soft fingers teasing and stroking him directly. Or her mouth.
Stephen grimaced. Full chamber pots. Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room. Prinny without a shirt. Thankfully his wayward cock subsided at such gruesome thoughts and he sighed in relief. “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? You are the earl, are you not? The man in charge? Emperor of all you survey?”
“All that and more. But Innes would have suspected exactly what was going on in here, and wouldn’t dare interrupt unless it was vitally important.”
Her lips twisted. “Captain Martin already saved your life, I can’t think of anything further. Perhaps he wants to play cards. Compare boots. Or tell you about his latest purchase with your money.”
Annoyance simmered as his shoulder’s dull ache morphed into a steady throb. “Don’t start such nonsense. After the day I’ve had, I’m absolutely not in the mood.”
Caroline sucked in a harsh breath, clearly about to launch into a full-blown attack. But something in his gaze must have warned her how close to the edge he was, because she tightened her lips and nodded instead. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” he muttered, gently lifting her off the desk and smoothing her gown. Yet another mistake. As if he needed reminding exactly how soft and lush her backside was. How easy it would be to push aside piles of correspondence, bend her over the desk and plunge inside her scalding wetness again and again…
Oh hell.
Full chamber pots. Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room. Prinny without a shirt.
Stephen collapsed into his chair. Damned form-fitting trousers. “Tell him to come in, Innes,” he called.
Seconds later Taff limped into the room, an anxious expression on his damaged face.
“My apologies, Westleigh, and to you, Lady Westleigh for disturbing your private time, but I wanted—needed—to see that you were all right. Such a commotion with the cart.”
“What?” said Caroline sharply, one hand coming to rest on his uninjured shoulder. “You were there, Taff?”
“No, ma’am. But, Westleigh, the coachman told me what that stranger did to you and I hope you are going to press charges. Have him transported or some such thing. Even though the reprobate failed, he must be punished.”
The hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck lifted. “What exactly were you told?”
“After you came out of that building, a well-dressed man followed you. That when you jumped back to get out of the way of the runaway cart he pushed you back in its path.”
“No!” Caroline gasped, her grip turning painful. “Somebody pushed you? You never mentioned that most relevant detail!”
Stephen drummed his fingers on the desk and sent Taff an irritated look. For this exact reason he hadn’t mentioned his lucky escape, there were some things wives just didn’t need to know. “I was jostled in the melee, yes.”
Instead of following his lead, Taff scoffed. “Jostled? Hardly. Who were you visiting in Piccadilly? Why would someone there want to hurt you?”
“The group,” cried Caroline. “That terrible society. The one your mother tried to warn you ab—”
“That’s quite enough!” Stephen said furiously, all his anger from the morning returning with a vengeance. “Mama is one hundred percent mistaken about them. They do charity work for Christ’s sake! Not one of them has a single reason to harm me. In fact, they invited me down to see their offices on the Thames in a few days’ time. Why would they do such a thing then attempt to have me killed minutes later?”
“I don’t know! But you leave a meeting with them and nearly die. What a coincidence!”
He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. Either that or he would shake his wife and throw Taff from the window. Yes, at first it felt like he’d been pushed, but there was no mysterious man. He’d definitely have known if someone followed him from the Piccadilly address, the street had been crowded but not overly so. Besides, the facade of the buildings provided plenty of sheltered and shadowy spots for someone to crouch in and leap out at the best time.
Reaching up, Stephen patted his wife’s hand. “No, my dear. I’m certain it was an accident, someone overcome with the chaos of the moment and only trying to save themselves. Wouldn’t you say that was more likely, Taff?”
His houseguest blinked at the frigid tone, one hand shoving awkwardly into a pocket. “Er…I seem to be making things worse. Perhaps I should leave.”
“Perhaps permanently,” Caroline muttered under her breath.
“Excuse me, Lady Westleigh?”
“Nothing at all, Taff. But my husband has had a very trying day and I think he needs to rest and recuperate from his, ah, accidental injuries.”
Taff inclined his head. “Certainly. My apologies again. I didn’t mean to distress you, Lady Westleigh, only to converse about the situation.”
“Thank you, Taff,” Stephen ground out. “We’ll see you at dinner, shall we?”
“Yes. Yes of course,” Taff replied, his limp even more pronounced as he tried to hurry from the room.
Damnation. What the bloody hell was wrong with everyone?