Cheryl Holt (39 page)

Three weeks after she’d returned from her disastrous visit to Pamela Blair’s party, several dozen men had shown up with large freight wagons and pages of lists that enumerated the household items. They’d seized the lot, down to the inkwells and stirring spoons, all those insignificant belongings that her father and Hugh hadn’t previously squandered simply because they were so trifling that their value was negligible to any gambler of means.

Apparently, her absent spouse wasn’t included in that group. No trinket was too minor to escape Michael Stevens’s penurious revenge.

They’d loaded their carts, then departed, weighted down with the scraps of what had been her world.

How could Michael have done this to her? How could he shame her so terribly? She couldn’t begin to theorize as to what he wanted with the last of her things, or why he would care about them so vehemently and, when she was extremely vexed, she’d wonder where he had taken them.

Infrequently, she’d foresee packed boxes, covered with cloths in a sterile warehouse, drawing dust and mice. Other times, she’d envision him selling everything at a fair, and some other faceless, impoverished woman buying all, then relaxing on what had been her sofa, or seating herself at the table that had once filled the breakfast parlor.

Given the rundown condition of most of it, perhaps he’d just dumped it in a pile and burned it. Those ancient beds and chests of drawers would have burst into a ball of flames, quickly devouring the evidence of how hard she’d tried to preserve a heritage that the men of her family had never respected.

“Bastard . . .” she muttered crudely, though she wasn’t sure to which man she referred.

Unquestionably, her spouse—with his irascible will and irrational disposition—fit the bill, but the epithet could also apply to her irresponsible brother who’d had the audacity to die prematurely at age thirty-two without a cent to his name.

Sarah’s only link to the event had been her receipt of a disconcerting message from Rebecca, informing her of the sordid details. Another had come from Hugh’s solicitor, with a polite request as to when Hugh’s account might be squared. The third was from the undertaker, outlining miscellaneous burial costs, but she hadn’t had the money for his London funeral, let alone the quantity required to transport his body to the estate for interment.

Between the two of them, Michael Stevens and Hugh Compton, and the despicable level to which they’d reduced her state of affairs, her mind was so disordered, so disjointed and rambling, that she couldn’t adequately grasp
what had occurred, nor could she forge a plan for the future. She was bogged down, powerless to advance out of her current doldrums, because she couldn’t move beyond her ruminations over their mutual duplicity.

Michael had known Hugh long before she’d ever crossed his path. Their tainted history had crashed into her, running her over like a runaway coach. She’d had the misfortune to be swept up in the catastrophe the pair had instituted, and she wasn’t even sure why she’d been at the center.

What had they both been trying to accomplish? Michael, especially. Why had he corrupted her?

On her end, she’d desired him with an uncontrollable, stubborn passion and, because of it, she’d been determined to instigate a liaison and damn the consequences.

But what was his excuse? How did he justify his misdeeds? Was her seduction simply a cruel attempt to further
take
something from Hugh? Was she just one more chattel of Hugh’s that Michael wanted to confiscate in order to prove whatever point he’d been so adamant about making?

If she was naught but a pawn in his machinations, then he’d not been fond of her in the slightest. The idea hurt unbearably, for though she was loath to admit it, she’d tossed and turned many a long night, reliving those glorious assignations where they’d learned to love fully, thoroughly, and without reservation.

The loss of that closeness, of the joy and passion they’d shared, was too painful to acknowledge, so she didn’t. She declined to ponder why he’d married her, why he’d sent her away immediately after, why she hadn’t heard from him since. She wouldn’t torture herself with what-ifs and whatmight-have-beens, or chastise herself over how she might have handled that final, dreadful day any differently.

Despite the awful factors that had brought them together, she’d been deliriously ecstatic at their wedding, elated over her destiny, only to discover that he considered marriage to her an embarrassment or worse.

Shuddering, she recoiled from the opportunity to wander farther down the road of personal recrimination. She absolutely
would not mourn Michael Stevens another second!

The driver hopped down and lowered the step for her visitor, and Sarah was stunned to see Rebecca descending. She was snug in a plush, black cloak, with a matching fur muff and hat. Her china-blue eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy. She looked pretty and flourishing and, by comparison, Sarah felt dowdy in her brown wool gown and heavy boots, her knitted mittens with the fingertips cut out so that she could work on her correspondence, her thick shawl wrapped tight against the chilly temperature.

She hadn’t seen Rebecca since that hideous encounter when Hugh had traveled to Yorkshire for the sole purpose of convincing Sarah to seek reparation from Michael. Rebecca had joined with Hugh in spewing outrage over Michael’s behavior, but their concern for her welfare had rung false, and she’d ignored their interrogation as to Michael and what had transpired in Bedford. Something—arrogance? stupidity?—had prevented her from confessing that she’d married the blighter, though she couldn’t have explained why.

Perhaps it was Hugh’s firm resolve to compel Michael to pay for sins that Sarah believed were her own. Or perhaps it was the way Rebecca had gleamed as she’d cajoled over what they could
get
from Michael Stevens.

Sarah wasn’t about to help them wheedle their way into Michael Stevens’s pocketbook, because she wouldn’t humiliate herself by confronting him again when he so obviously despised her. His disregard would have killed her, so she’d denied all and, as far as she knew, no one had a clue that she was wed to the notorious London gambler, the man who’d broken her heart by spurning her on her wedding day. And if she had anything to say about it, no one would, either. She’d cut out her tongue before she’d ever confirm their union.

Rebecca entered on a rush of frigid air, definitely fine, in spite of her ordeals in the large metropolis. She was plump and healthy, plainly not worried about where her next meal was coming from. Her black mourning outfit was
beautifully tailored and sewn in a quality fabric.

Sarah had no black attire to wear in order to grieve for her unlamented brother. She’d outgrown the garments she’d donned at her father’s passing, and she couldn’t employ a seamstress for any excessive alterations. As her cousin walked into the foyer, cocky as a rooster on a summer morning, the very image of perfectly coifed English gentility, Sarah caught herself jealously staring, speculating as to how Rebecca had managed so well.

This isn’t fair!
she thought irritably, and she didn’t even try to quash the petty opinion. Too much had happened in the past six months for her to be feeling charitable.

Since Hugh’s death, she and Rebecca had exchanged intermittent letters. Rebecca had purchased a modest residence, had a roommate, and sufficient funds to engage a cook. While she didn’t move among the highest echelons of society, she wasn’t lacking for entertainment. She attended the theater, various musicales and poetry readings, balls and soirees. Where she’d gotten the money for her new lifestyle was a mystery Sarah didn’t prefer to explore.

In her missives, she always urged Sarah to forsake Scarborough and come to town. Sarah regularly declined, and she had the sneaking suspicion that Rebecca tendered the recurrent invitation simply because she was so positive that Sarah would never accept.

Rebecca huddled in her fancy cloak as she scrutinized the vacant space, the bare walls and floors. Sarah had been explicit in her written descriptions, but still, she supposed the changes were difficult to visualize. Rebecca evinced such pity for Sarah’s diminished circumstances that Sarah was overcome by a strong desire to slap her.

She didn’t want or need this woman’s sympathy. She needed cash and time and alternatives, but—heaven forbid—not empathy and certainly not compassion.

“Hello, Rebecca.”

They embraced halfheartedly, and her cousin brushed at a few flakes of snow, and Sarah could only peevishly note
that the hat, by itself, had probably cost more than she had spent on food in a year.

“My, my, Sarah”—Rebecca disdainfully assessed her surroundings—“you endeavored to elucidate, but I didn’t appreciate your desperate predicament until now.”

“It could have been worse.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Well, Stevens’s men could have set a torch to the house on their way out.”

Sarah led her to the parlor, the only room that had a fire going and two chairs to drag next to it. Luckily, the adjoining salon was closed off so Rebecca wouldn’t detect that Sarah had made a bedchamber out of it. There wasn’t fuel for the elevated floors, so she slept downstairs, heating just the two rooms. Not that the discontinued use of the upper chambers mattered; they contained no furnishings.

“What are you doing such a distance from London?” Her pitiful situation precluded chitchat, and she was glad. She couldn’t comprehend why Rebecca had come to call, and she wanted her gone.

“I’m off to a Christmas house party near Middlesbrough, but I couldn’t pass so close without stopping.”

She then regaled Sarah with boring anecdotes about her fashionable friends, and about her roommate who was awaiting her at the coaching inn in the village, and Sarah was relieved that Rebecca hadn’t brought her associate along to witness how far Sarah had fallen.

Sarah was polite and commented where it seemed appropriate, but she couldn’t quite enjoy their odd conversation. Rebecca appeared so happy and contented, while Sarah viewed herself as doomed and devastated. The contrasts in their personalities had never been more glaring, and Sarah resentfully discerned that she envied her cousin for her freedom and adaptability.

“I’ve been thinking about Hugh’s body,” Rebecca said.

Her bizarre pronouncement terminated Sarah’s shallow reverie. “What about it?”

“He needs a proper burial.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Sarah responded sarcastically. “How could I afford it?”

“Well, I understand that you don’t like to talk about Mr. Stevens”—her mention of Michael had Sarah fuming—“but he was overly fond of you once, and I was simply curious as to whether you might prevail upon him to have Hugh shipped home. Hugh would have liked to be entombed with some fuss and pomp in the crypt here at Scarborough, and it’s a tragedy about his grave in London. Why . . . there isn’t even a stone.”

“I couldn’t pay for one,” Sarah testily replied.

“That’s just my point, dear.” Rebecca leaned over and condescendingly patted Sarah’s arm. “My roommate slipped on some ice and injured herself, so we’ve had unanticipated expenses. I went to Mr. Stevens, myself, just two weeks ago, and appealed for a few pounds to tide us over.”

Sarah was murderously calm; her ears must be deceiving her. Battling to maintain an unaffected smile, she blandly declared, “You asked Michael Stevens for money?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He was exceptionally generous, and he donated much more than I’d solicited.”

“How did you dare?”

“I felt he owed us some recompense. After all”—she shifted, her plush skirt swishing at her legs—“you and I weren’t involved in his quarrel with Hugh, but look where it left us.”

Where it left us, indeed
, Sarah thought acridly, gazing around the barren chamber and adjusting her bulky clothes against the cold.

Rebecca preened as though her contacting Michael Stevens was eminently suitable, and Sarah resisted the impulse to scream with frustration.

How could Rebecca communicate with Michael! How could she degrade herself like a common beggar! Didn’t
she have any pride? Didn’t she recognize Michael Stevens for the scoundrel he was?

“I’m surprised he had any blunt to bestow,” Sarah stated with more bitterness than she’d intended to show.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, with his being a gambler, I can’t believe he has two pennies to rub together.”

“Michael Stevens?” Rebecca laughed gaily. “Oh, Sarah, the man is richer than Croesus.”

“From gambling?”

“No, silly, from the club he owns with his brother. It’s the most popular spot in the city for a gentleman to pass his leisure time.”

“But I thought he survived from game to game.”

“That he gambled to earn his income? No,” Rebecca clarified. “And when he plays for any kind of stakes, it’s only with fools.”

Like Hugh
, was the unuttered reproach.

“But if he’s so wealthy . . .” Sarah couldn’t say the rest: Why did he do this to me? Why did he leave me like this?

“Why did he take everything?” Rebecca finished for
her
. “Sarah, his and Hugh’s dispute was protracted and bitter. You don’t know what Hugh was like in town.”

“No, I don’t.” But she had a fairly good notion. She’d observed Hugh at his worst many, many times. He’d been insufferable.

“While I’m not definite on the particulars of his game with Mr. Stevens, there have been stories. I hate to tell you this, but Hugh probably deserved what he got; he was a total ass, and you must remember that Mr. Stevens’s animosity was provoked over a lengthy period of numerous insults.”

“Possibly,” Sarah mused.

Her mind was reeling, but she could only focus on one, novel fragment of what Rebecca had imparted: Her husband was wealthy. He was economically settled, so much so that he would graciously lavish several pounds on a woman
with whom he wasn’t acquainted simply because she had the gall to inquire.

Slowly, her temper ignited. For months, she’d been struggling to recover from being captured in the whirlwind that had enveloped Michael. She’d been languishing from terrible bouts of melancholia, incapable of dealing with how Michael had burst into her life, then vanished like a magician in a puff of smoke.