Cheryl Holt (40 page)

She was enraged. About how he’d failed to trust her. About how he’d manipulated and abused her. About how he’d abandoned her to flounder and wallow in the poverty he’d inflicted.

While Rebecca was smartly dressed and on her way to Christmas festivities, Sarah was scrounging for the barest necessities, grappling with debt collectors, searching for pen and foolscap so that she could draft her daily rationales as to why they must continue to wait for compensation.

Fury burst upon her in a wave of unrelenting ire. How could he treat her so shabbily? And why had she allowed it?

He’d sent her to Yorkshire like a naughty child, and she’d scurried home, with nary a complaint or thought as to whether his decision was correct.

His conflict had been with Hugh, not her, and she was tired of being painted the villain. Hugh was dead, interred in a pauper’s grave, and Sarah was Michael’s wife. The man had responsibilities to her. No one had forced him into marriage; he’d done so freely, albeit reluctantly, and it was past time he honored his vows.

Suddenly sensing that she’d overstayed her welcome, Rebecca rose and prepared to depart, prattling on as to how her companion would be getting anxious.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Sarah advised, sounding horridly uncivil.

“I wish you’d come to London.” Rebecca repeated her overture. “I hate to see your dire straits, so please say yes. We’ve an extra room that could be yours. Would you like
me to stop by on the return trip? You could ride with us. We’d have space for a bag or two.”

“No, Rebecca, but thank you.”

Then and there, she decided she’d make her way to town, but not for any of the reasons Rebecca might conjure up. She had words—a few nasty, indelicate, rude words—that she planned to speak to her
husband
. And by God, he was going to listen to every one of them, if she had to tie him down while she said her piece!

“At least, let me give you this.” Rebecca held out a bag of coins, and Sarah didn’t hesitate to grab it. “It’s some of what Mr. Stevens dispensed.”

“How wonderful!” She derived perverse pleasure from knowing that she would pay for her excursion with the cad’s very own money.

Rebecca strolled out, and the carriage whisked her away. Sarah watched until it was just a dot on the horizon, then she marched to her lonely, desolate parlor, delighted that Rebecca had visited, relieved that the woman’s disclosures had spurred her to action.

“Well, Mr. Stevens,” she announced to the dying fire, “I’m off to London. What do you think of that?”

Pitching the bag from hand to hand, she relished the coins clinking together as she pictured how astonished he’d be when he opened his door to discover her on his stoop.

Was he in for it! Very likely, his ears were already ringing.

Abigail Weston Stevens was walking down the stairs when she heard a knock on the front door. Previously, she might have ignored it, anticipating that the butler would take on the mundane chore that she would have deemed beneath her station but, in the past year, her life had been transformed. For the better.

She wasn’t in her brother’s grand mansion, filled with dozens of servants, but in James’s small house that was truly a home. Fondly, she tended to, and oversaw, the cheery abode in her recurrent efforts to instill the sense of serenity and closeness that James had missed out on while growing up.

Marriage had definitely generated changes! By allying herself with the nefarious rake, she’d been altered in more ways than she could count. Lovingly, she traced a hand along the swelling in her abdomen, the babe he’d so lustily planted just beginning to show.

As always happened when she thought of her robust, vital husband, butterflies swarmed through her stomach. She was so appallingly happy! Each day was superior to the last, just as she’d surmised they would be when she’d begged him to make her his bride.

Since they’d been together, James had calmed and matured, delighting in the simple pleasures. They were a family, and with the approach of summer, their number would increase by one more when she gifted him with a beautiful son or daughter. A wave of tender sentiment brought tears that moistened her eyes. With her pregnancy in full bloom, she cried about everything and nothing, and she tried to quell the surge of emotion but, as she sauntered over to
greet her visitor, she could barely contain her joy.

She turned the knob, and she wasn’t really thinking about who she might encounter—perhaps one of James’s business associates or one of his employees—but the pretty woman lingering on the stoop had her snapping to attention. Her comely face and unique auburn hair were mostly shielded from view by her dark cloak, and Abigail suffered a moment of uncanny compassion as she recalled her own furtive trip the prior spring to see James’s mother, Angela Ford, and her beseeching Angela to aid in convincing James to wed.

“May I help you?” Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued.

“I hope so. I realize this is terribly forward of me.” The woman blushed becomingly, and nervously glanced about, checking that she had the correct address, then she braced herself. “I was advised that this is the residence of Michael Stevens, and I must speak with him.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Sarah . . .” Nodding authoritatively, she added, “Sarah Compton . . . Stevens.” She pronounced
Stevens
as though it didn’t fit on her tongue.

“I’m Abigail Stevens. I’m married to James. Are we related?”

“Yes.” The woman studied her carefully. “Michael is my husband.”

“Your what?”

“My husband,” she repeated, daring Abigail to dispute her allegation.

“Oh, my . . .” Abigail was totally flustered. Could it be true? With Michael and his bizarre mode of carrying on, she supposed anything was conceivable. Even an unknown wife! “When . . . ?” she managed.

“In June.”

“But that was six months ago!”

Just about the time his excursion to the country had ended, and he’d stumbled into London, so lost and forlorn. Little had varied since then. He was reclusive, morose, incomprehensible in his conduct and methods. Abigail had
struggled to befriend him, but he was an elusive thorn in her side, rebuffing her and James’s attempts at reconciliation—when she wasn’t positive what they needed to
reconcile
.

“Forgive me,” she said, as she recalled her manners and gestured. “Come in, come in.”

“Thank you.”

Abigail ushered Sarah into the foyer and, as the butler retrieved her cloak, Abigail quietly counseled a footman to dismiss Sarah’s rented hack. Their pending discussion would last more than a few minutes, so the driver needn’t tarry.

They entered the parlor, and Abigail noticed that Sarah was chilled to the bone and, as Abigail ordered snacks and tea, she wondered how far the woman had traveled—and how dreadful had been her journey!

She was brave to show up unannounced, but Abigail was tickled that she had. Whatever hideous misery was gnawing at Michael, perhaps the basis was about to be revealed, which was an immense relief. There was a mystery here, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Michael had undergone numerous modifications in his personality that had reshaped his relationship with James, and James was bewildered by the loss of their friendship. He couldn’t mend the rift that had developed, and it was tormenting him.

Introspective, pensive, covert, Michael had always been somewhat reserved, but now, he was taciturn to the point of absurdity. James swore that something was terribly wrong, that an egregious incident had occurred while he’d been away. Michael wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk about it, and James couldn’t break through Michael’s melancholy.

His younger brother lived by himself, in a house James owned a few blocks down the street. Michael worked, he ate, he slept, but he was like a person who was dead inside. There was no enjoyment or satisfaction as he went about his responsibilities. The contentment James assured her had once been there was gone.

Had this woman been the root of his affliction? If so, would she be the cure?

Optimistic, she sat forward. “We’re sisters-in-law.”

“You believe me, then?”

Sarah was so clearly relieved that Abigail could only smile. “Of course I believe you.” Who would lie about being married to Michael? While the man was as good-looking and intriguing as her husband, he was so enigmatic that he frightened her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, my impromptu visit is rather odd.”

No more
odd
than when Abigail had confronted Angela Ford, but she didn’t mention it. “What shall I call you? Since we’re both
Mrs
. Stevens, the formality is a bit ridiculous.”

“Sarah.”

“And I’m Abigail.”

From Sarah’s comportment and demeanor, Abigail discerned her to be of the Quality. “Who is your family, Sarah? Did you say Compton?”

“Yes.”

“Are you, by chance, related to the recently deceased Hugh Compton, Earl of Scarborough?”

“He was my brother.”

An earl’s daughter! An earl’s sister! Abigail was stunned. Michael had privately and clandestinely married into the aristocracy, and he’d kept it a grand secret. Why?

The shocking gossip about Hugh Compton rushed back. While he’d been alive and provoking mischief, it had been impossible to avoid the sordid stories. James, who was a constant fount of discourse on the rich and infamous, had imparted his portion of them, but no one had ever hinted at this information.

Michael had surreptitiously married Scarborough’s sister, and neither Hugh nor Michael had ever whispered a word about it. Had Hugh Compton even known? What did it all mean?

Abigail relaxed on the sofa, the preposterous revelation sinking in. She almost couldn’t credit the woman’s statement,
yet she did. A deep wound had been haunting Michael, plaguing him heart and soul, but in their ruminating over the probable cause of his injury, they’d never conjured up an explanation like this!

“Sarah, I imagine you have a very fascinating tale to relate. Would you mind waiting for my husband? He’ll be interested in your comments.” At the reference to James, Sarah appeared ready to bolt, and Abigail laid a consoling hand on her arm. “Whatever it is, he’ll be an incredible help to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“He has an extraordinary knack for sorting out problems and devising solutions.”

Abigail walked to the hall and conferred with their majordomo Arthur, who efficiently hovered nearby. His brows flew up in amazement as he learned of their guest’s identity and, with no further urging, he hurried off to roust James out of bed.

A maid brought refreshments, and Abigail was offered a reprieve from conversation while Sarah wrapped her fingers around a hot cup of tea and absorbed its warmth. From how she gobbled down the slices of meat, cheese, and bread, it was obvious that she was famished.

When did you last have a decent meal?

Abigail was saved from posing the indelicate question aloud because, just then, James hustled in.

Considering how rapidly he’d been awakened, he was flawlessly dressed, and intent on beholding Sarah Compton Stevens with his own two eyes.

“James”—Abigail rose placidly and went to him, silently begging for calm—“I’m so glad you’re here. The most marvelous guest has stopped by.”

“Yes, Arthur informed me.” He stomped across the floor until he was directly in front of Sarah. “Excuse my abruptness. I’m James, Michael’s brother.”

“No apology is necessary,” Sarah graciously indicated. “My arrival was unforeseen, but I was so eager to meet with Michael. I came here straightaway.”

Abigail conceded, “And we’re delighted that you did.” James made no signal of agreement, so Abigail poked him in the ribs. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he then replied emphatically, “we certainly are.”

Sarah stood, and they scrutinized one another like predators circling before combat. Seeming astonished that two such attractive, potent men could exist simultaneously, she eventually noted, “You look just like him.”

“No”—James’s smile heated the room—“you’re mistaken. I’m
much
more handsome.”

“Oh, James,” Abigail chastised, but his stab at humor was successful. Sarah’s tension eased as she finally comprehended that she was safe and wouldn’t be sent packing. “Let’s sit, shall we? I gather we’re in for a lengthy and engaging narration.”

“And I for one,” James retorted, “can’t wait to hear the details.”

They adjusted themselves on the furniture, facing one another, and Abigail discreetly pressed food on Sarah while the woman regaled them about her adversity with Michael. Although she omitted the juiciest parts, they concluded that Michael had compromised her and married her because of it.

But as her recital continued, as she depicted how he’d sent her home to fend for herself, as she described the autumn and the seizure Michael had accomplished of all Hugh’s belongings, as she itemized the poverty and hardship she’d been constrained to endure, they stiffened with outrage. James, especially, was disturbed by how badly Michael had behaved.

As she reached her summation, explicating how she’d decided to head for London, Sarah’s ire equaled their own, her temper rekindled by her accounting.

James was irate, unable to be still, pacing behind the couch, and Abigail received the distinct impression that Michael was lucky he was absent. Her husband and sister-in-law had allied against him, and they were dangerously bent on getting answers from the unsuspecting man. Abigail
would have felt sorry for him had he not acted the categorical bounder toward Sarah.

“What now?” she asked into the deafening silence that ensued once Sarah finished her chronicle.

James summoned Arthur to fetch his coat. “It’s high time my brother and I had a chat.”

“Do you know where he is?” Sarah queried.

“I might.” His response was intentionally ambiguous.

“I’ll go with you.” Sarah crossed the room, prepared to join in the search.

“Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here with Abigail.” He stared at Abigail, seeking her intervention. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ve planned this moment for six months,” Sarah asserted, “and I won’t delay another second. I’m going!”