Cheryl Holt (38 page)

James wouldn’t bat an eye over his antics, but there was very little he could speak about to Lady Abigail, and any explication would lead to the end and Pamela’s party. How could he describe what had transpired? He would have to relate the details about Sarah. About loving her and hating her.

He couldn’t think about her; he couldn’t talk about her. He simply could
not
. Not now. Perhaps not ever. He could only carry on.

“No, but I thank you.” At his rejection of their hospitality, they deflated. Doubtless, James hoped he’d befriend Lady Abigail, and he would eventually. But at present, he couldn’t stand viewing James’s palpable bliss, not when his own life was such a mess. “I have a thousand errands to run.”

“Will you at least visit the club?” James inquired hesitantly.

“Yes.” He nodded, deciding as he went along. “In fact, for the time being, I’ll take a room there.”

“No!” Abigail announced. “We insist that you stay with us. Don’t we, James?”

“Absolutely.” James laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “This is still your home, Michael. Nothing’s different.”

Did James really believe as much? Probably. His older sibling could be horribly oblivious.

“It’s best if I go.” He forced cordiality into his tone as he politely bowed over Lady Abigail’s hand. “It was a pleasure, Abigail.” But the informal mode of address seemed foreign on his tongue. Then, before James could detain him, he spun and walked outside.

Needing to be away, but not sure of his destination, he hurried off. Though he felt he was wandering aimlessly, he gradually perceived that his feet were reflexively leading him to their gambling hall.

He’d perpetually enjoyed his position there; the crowds, the pace, the action, the money. Employment had kept him out of mischief and off the streets and, in his prevailing disordered state, he definitely required the steady diversion and stabilizing influence. Increasing his stride, he realized that he’d forgotten how attached he was to their business, and now more than ever, his job would keep him occupied so that he’d have no chance for reflection or deliberation.

Work . . . that’s what he craved. He would immerse himself so thoroughly that there wouldn’t be a single, idle moment when Sarah might cross his mind.

Rebecca scowled down at Hugh Compton, unable to conceal her contempt. He was unconscious on his bed, his breathing ragged, his odor foul. Liquor bottles were scattered about, his pipe tipped over. Like a helpless infant, he’d wet himself but, in his intoxicated condition, he wasn’t cognizant of anything.

“Some fancy
lord
you are now, my Hugh.” She glanced around at the disgusting chamber, part of the three-room flat she’d located after Michael Stevens had foreclosed on the town house. She’d convinced Hugh to vacate before the embarrassing date, declining to grant Stevens the satisfaction of tossing them into the street like a couple of beggars so, as his men had carted away the last of the furniture, she hadn’t had to watch.

What a low level she’d reached by allying herself with Hugh!

When her parents had died four years earlier, and she’d accepted Sarah’s invitation to live at Scarborough, she hadn’t expected much. A roof over her head, food, companionship. But after she’d ingratiated herself, the possibilities for more had seemed so distinct and so easy to achieve. Especially after her initial excursion to London with Hugh.

Rebecca had been captivated by the gay parties, the jovial people, and she’d quickly determined that she belonged in the city, at the center of the merriment. She’d analyzed and plotted, then she’d promptly set her cap for Hugh.

In the beginning, she’d liked him well enough and had been content hosting his entertainments, supervising his household and social calendar. If he wasn’t drinking and carousing, he could be pleasant, but his addiction to his precious Chinese herbs had weakened him until he’d grown surly, impetuous, and, at times, downright dangerous.

Rubbing her side, she felt the bruising from where he’d punched her the prior evening. How had her circumstances been reduced to this? To surviving in a hovel, with a cruel, vicious man who’d double-crossed her at every juncture?

She deserved so much more.

Of course, Hugh charged her with the entire debacle. He never thought anything was his own fault. Having failed in their attempt to bring down Michael Stevens, Hugh had incessantly railed over how she’d misread the outcome.

Sarah had scurried back to Yorkshire—how she’d accomplished the feat was still a mystery—before they could
parlay with her. Michael Stevens had returned to town, bold as brass, and proceeded about his business as though he’d done nothing improper.

Rebecca and Hugh had been left standing with their hats in their hands, like witless fools, and Rebecca was compelled to confirm a lone mistake in her careful planning: Only she and Hugh had witnessed Sarah’s disgrace; they hadn’t brought along any spectators. With Hugh’s word against Stevens’s, and considering their history, who would believe Hugh?

Stevens had deftly rebuffed Hugh’s financial stipulations, leaving Hugh with a duel as his sole means of redress, but Hugh would never have challenged Michael Stevens. Stevens was a master at pistols and swords. Fists, too. Cowardly Hugh, with his shaky, meager physique, couldn’t have acquired an agreeable result through threat of violence.

They’d been so assured that Stevens would capitulate, but they hadn’t comprehended that he had no sense of honor, so he had successfully outmaneuvered them both. Nary a whiff of scandal had affixed to himself or to Sarah who was, once again, ensconced as the mistress of Scarborough, persevering as if naught untoward had occurred.

At Rebecca’s insistence, Hugh had made a single trip to the estate, demanding information and assistance, and the scene between brother and sister had been appalling. Sarah was furious over Hugh’s machinations, and she’d rejected every proposal and ultimatum, firmly declaring that she never intended to set eyes upon Michael Stevens again.

The actual particulars as to what had happened between the two lovers was unclear. Sarah wouldn’t say, so Rebecca didn’t know how her cousin had readily moved from a romantic, naked bath frolic to a heightened case of loathing. Sarah wasn’t about to confess that Michael Stevens had compromised her, and she’d vociferously avowed that if Hugh so much as hinted of the scandal to others, she would deny it to her dying breath.

Hugh blamed Sarah for all—when he wasn’t blaming
Rebecca. In the wake of the fiasco, he’d selected his usual route for tackling a catastrophe: over-imbibing, smoking herbs, and decrying his fate. When she’d wearied of his diatribe, and had pointed out his specific liability, she’d procured a few hard punches to her rib cage.

“Well, dear Hugh,” she murmured, “nobody hits Rebecca and gets away with it.”

And nobody breaks a promise, either
.

She frowned at the message that had just been delivered. It was from the father of a rich girl he’d been secretly courting. The wealthy merchant had politely and wisely spurned Hugh’s offer of marriage, and if Rebecca hadn’t been so enraged over Hugh’s duplicity, she might have laughed aloud.

The precious heiresses wouldn’t have him! Not even to buy the title of countess!

Walking over to him, she held her fingers over his face. The special concoction she’d mixed in his brandy was rapidly taking its toll. He was barely respiring, and it would likely be just a matter of minutes before he ceased altogether, so time was of the essence.

He didn’t eat much anymore, so he’d lost weight, and his last ring slid off smoothly. She pocketed it, along with the gold buttons from his coat.

While she’d pinned many hopes on Hugh, and the largess he might eventually supply, she was no fool, either. Her mother’s daughter, she’d covertly squirreled away a nest egg, so she’d get by. Not in the lavish mode to which Hugh was accustomed, or in any manner he would have deemed acceptable. But she had enough to buy a small house, and she’d have an income, though insignificant, that would keep her from the poorhouse.

Her only other option was to hie herself off to Scarborough, to dawdle about in the empty mansion with Sarah while her cousin tried to salvage the remnants, which Rebecca wouldn’t do. She abhorred the country and thrived in the city, and without Hugh to ruin her prospects, she imagined she’d find ample serenity.

Through her contacts with Hugh, she’d met many gentlemen who delighted in her company. If she calculated correctly, she might still make an advantageous marriage. In the meantime, she’d become friends with a widow who needed lodging. They were compatible and sharing a domicile would decrease expenses. Rebecca would have her own home, where she would look after herself, and she wouldn’t have to rely on a lush like Hugh Compton for her daily security.

In the wardrobe, she rifled through in a final search, ferreting out several pound notes, an ivory cigar case, his silver flask. She critically surveyed the rest of the apartment, stumbling on other incidentals that, in her initial haste, she’d omitted. Stuffing all in a drawer, she retired to her cot and snuggled down under the single blanket.

The night passed with agonizing slowness, and she steeled her emotions so that she could manage to appear shocked and overwrought when the serving woman arrived in the morning and found Hugh dead in his bed.

Sarah stood in the silent mansion, peeking out the window as a small, black carriage plodded up the drive. The instant it had turned off the main road, she’d noticed it, and the sight filled her with unease, because she couldn’t fathom who it might be.

No one visited Scarborough anymore. Between Michael Stevens’s despicable avarice, and Hugh’s untimely death after a squalid episode in town, she’d become a pariah. Neighbors had been rabid to gossip, chewing over her wretched plight like dogs over a bone, and they’d abandoned her to her fate. She was the talk of the countryside, so she never ventured out, because she couldn’t abide the pitying looks, subtle remarks, or false sympathies of those acrimonious people whose welfare she’d valiantly fought to sustain.

In the village, they blamed her for what had transpired at the estate, for the foiled commerce and trade that had unmercifully affected their connected livelihoods, so she stayed at home with the elderly retainers who’d kept working for her merely because they had nowhere else to go.

With Hugh’s demise, merchants now made no pretense of denying assistance. Without monetary resources to back up her petitions for coal or edibles, she’d had to survive on what she could scrounge from the gardens, or the pittance of animals that had escaped Michael’s notice.

“Wait until we hear from the new earl. We’ll decide then,” was the standard response to her entreaties.

The sentiment had been expressed on copious occasions, until she’d ultimately realized that it was fruitless to reason with any of them. They were aware that she was at the end
of her financial rope. No money would be forthcoming in payment, and if they offered her items on account, they’d never collect.

They were irrationally optimistic, presuming that the unknown earl would fix what she’d broken, and she shook her head at the ludicrousness of their misguided expectations of rescue.

Hugh had died without an heir, and his successor was a distant cousin whom she’d never met and who supposedly resided in Virginia. She’d sent a letter, but with the impeded speed of ocean crossings, it wouldn’t reach its destination for weeks, and then several months would pass before she received a reply. And that was
if
she had the correct address and
if
the man was still alive.

She knew nothing of his fiscal assets. If he was a gentleman of modest capital, and he took over the reins of Scarborough, how could he succeed? Very little land came with the inheritance—the unentailed acreage had been sold off long ago—so he couldn’t revive the estate through farming, yet the villagers absurdly hoped for an impossible miracle.

Clearly, however, they were no more foolish than she, sitting as she was in the cold, bleak mansion, cursing her fate, and waiting for something—anything—to happen.

What was she going to do? The American earl might not wish to support her, or if a wife accompanied him, the other woman might not care to have Sarah hovering about and interfering. Sarah would have to make her own way, but how and where?

She’d never resided anywhere but Scarborough, had never imagined any other life. With no skills, or the funds with which to alter her fortunes, she had no choices. She was too independent and proud to hire herself out as a maid or governess to an affluent family. The only other option that presented itself was to head for London, to demand her rightful place by her husband’s side, but she couldn’t debase herself so completely.

Whenever she recalled how he’d exploited her, how he’d
lured her into the mess with Hugh, how he’d swindled Hugh then refused to back down, she saw red.

A gambler! After all she’d endured, she’d cast her lot with a capricious bounder, and she passed her days—when she wasn’t fretting about where she’d find food for supper—worrying that he’d publicize their marriage, that he’d forfeit his last farthing in a card game, and then
his
creditors would start pounding on her door.

If that moment ever arrived, she’d journey to town and shoot him right in the middle of his black heart. She didn’t own a gun anymore—his henchmen had snared her remaining pistol—but she’d obtain another somehow, and she derived incredible satisfaction from reflecting upon how loud the bang would be, how shocked he’d appear when he fell dead at her feet.

Ooh, she could conceive of it so vividly!

The dark conveyance approached, stark against the white snow that littered the yard and sparkled like brilliant diamonds in the winter sunshine. Eventually, it halted out front. The coachman was bundled in a greatcoat, a cap pulled low. His skin was ruddy, and his breath swirled about his head in a cloud.

“Who could it be?” she pondered aloud, her voice jarring in the empty salon. But for a writing desk and two dilapidated chairs, the furniture was gone, her husband having carried out his threat to call in his markers.