In Love With a Wicked Man (27 page)

“The village? Why go through the village to reach Exeter?”

The housekeeper shrugged. “I couldn’t say, Miss Kate, but turn toward it they did, for Hetty was up t’ tower shaking out rugs and saw as much.”

“Oh, well.” Kate turned back to the stairs. “Half past it is, then. Aurélie and Nancy will have to eat something cold if they are late.”

On the next landing, however, she bumped squarely into Edward, who was coming down from his newly situated room one floor above. Nerves already on edge, Kate felt her heartbeat ratchet up, and that familiar longing twist through her.

And then she remembered Annie Granger.

“Kate!” He jerked to a halt, eyes widening, and moved as if to catch her by the shoulder. “Kate, my God. Are you all right?”

She glanced down at her stained habit, but kept moving. “Quite all right,” she said calmly. “The perils of being a lady farmer, I fear. Shall I see you tonight at dinner?”

He stood stock-still on the landing. “Yes, of course,” he said after her. “But Kate, I wanted to tell you—”

“Can it wait until after dinner?” she said matter-of-factly, striding down the passageway. “I shall have more time then.”

“Well. Certainly.”

She didn’t turn around again, but set a businesslike pace all the way to her room. Once inside, however, she slammed the door and bit her lip.

Then, on muttered imprecation, she went to the sideboard and extracted not the cordial, but a bottle of Anstruther’s good Scotch whisky she kept hidden for just such a purpose. Pouring out two fingers’ worth, she slung half of it back and let it burn, blinking her eyes rapidly—a response not entirely attributable to the whisky.

Good heavens, she hurt all over, and it wasn’t just her heart. Her right arm felt as if it had been yanked from its socket, and the left not much better. Moreover she was filthy. No, she
smelled
. Of mud and blood and manure, and of the sweat of the day, too.

She certainly didn’t want to think of Edward or Annie on top of all else.

She threw back the rest of the whisky, then hastened through to her dressing room to strip herself bare. Soon she could hear the clatter of the tub being carried in—the big, copper contraption, too; the one ordinarily reserved only for Aurélie’s two-hour champagne-and-buttermilk soaks, the preparation of which drove the poor dairymaid half mad.

Beyond the door, bless her, Peppie was exhorting the footman to carry up the cans faster, and in short order Kate was floating in water up to her chin, the temperature so hot her skin was turning red.

To her shock, Tillie, her mother’s maid, came in—ordered to do so, no doubt, by Peppie. The maid washed Kate’s hair in Aurélie’s best
savon de Marseille
and rinsed it out in vinegar, then scrubbed Kate’s arms, legs, and back in Mediterranean sea salt. By the time she was finished, Kate felt clean again—and regrettably spoiled.

Afterward, the maid combed her hair dry by the fire, then curled and pinned it up in a fashion that was far too elaborate for Kate. But she was too tired to argue, and with her muscles no longer aching, her thoughts once again fixated on her heart.

She could not get Annie Granger out of her mind. And yet, for the life of her, Kate could not remember what the child looked like. Like Edward, perhaps?

And what would Edward’s children look like? Golden-haired and green-eyed? Handsome, almost certainly.

On a wave of sadness, Kate went to the wardrobe and took out a shawl. She had to shake these blue devils off; she had duties to attend. With Aurélie and Nancy away, it fell to Kate to entertain Julia, de Macey, and Sir Francis. They were likely trickling downstairs already.

But in her oddly peevish mood, Kate suddenly decided the color of her shawl was wrong, and flung it on the bed. The cashmere sailed onto her pillow like a cloud and landed with a soft rattle. She was halfway back to the dressing room when she realized that made no sense.

Curious, she turned around and marched back again. Lifting the shawl, she flicked back her covers. A fold of thick, cream-colored letter paper lay in the center of her pillow. With a strange sense of unease, Kate picked it up.

L
ADY
J
ULIA HAD
just stepped from her room and paused in the passageway to fondle her earbobs, as if wondering whether she’d made the best choice, when Kate burst from her room, the letter still in hand.

“Heavens, Katherine, you look frightful!” said Lady Julia.

“Julia,” she rasped. “My God. Do you know anything about this?”

She shoved the letter into Julia’s face. The lady took it, skimmed it, then burst into peals of laughter. “Oh,
Aurélie
!” she declared. “What next?”

“
What next?
” screeched Kate, snatching it back. “I shall tell you, Julia, what’s next. Uncle Upshaw will have her head on a pike over Temple Bar, that’s what’s next!”

Julia had drawn back as if hysteria might be contagious. “To be sure, you’re likely right,” she said more soothingly. “Poor Kate. I’m so sorry for laughing. This is terrible. What can I do?”

Kate didn’t even stop to think through her next words. “Go upstairs,” she demanded, starting down the corridor, “and tell Mr. Quartermaine I need him. I’m going downstairs to find Peppie.”

The latter was easily done; letter in hand, Kate flew down the stairs, almost plowing the poor housekeeper down.

“Lawks, miss, such hurry-scurry!” said the housekeeper. “Have ye seen a ghost?”

But reality was settling in, and Kate was beginning to feel more sick than angry. “No, but I fear, Peppie, that I soon shall,” she rasped, “and that ghost will be Mamma’s. Uncle Upshaw is going to throttle her!”

Mrs. Peppin took the letter. “Well, burn my wigs and feathers!” she cried after a moment. “Getting
married
—?”

Just then Edward came dashing down the stairs. “Kate?” His boot heels rang hard on the marble as he strode through the hall. “Kate, what’s happened?”

“Oh, Edward.” Kate looked up at him with desperation in her eyes. “It is beyond comprehension! Aurélie has persuaded Richard and Nancy to elope!”

“Good God!” he said. “
Elope?
But . . . how?”

Mrs. Peppin thrust the letter at him. “And that, sir, is the very question,” she said. “We know not how, but only who’s behind it. Lawks, what’s to be done, Miss Kate?”

Kate set a hand to her forehead.

Edward was reading the letter.

Think, think
, she told herself.

“We must stop them somehow,” she said determinedly. “Or—wait, perhaps Anstruther will stop them? He drove them. He has good sense.”

“Someone had better stop them,” warned Mrs. Peppin.

“It may be too late to stop anyone,” said Edward, his handsome brow deeply furrowed.

“Oh, dear,” said Kate. “Uncle Upshaw will be here tomorrow at latest. Truth be told, I expected him today.”

Edward folded the letter, sliding it pensively through his fingers. “So Mrs. Wentworth means to get a special license from the Bishop of Exeter,” he said, “so that Richard and Nancy can marry.”

“Again, I can’t think how!” declared Kate. “Without Upshaw’s signature, she cannot do such a thing.”

“It is quite true that a mother may not grant permission,” said Edward. “Only a guardian—or a father.”

“Well, Papa is long in his grave, and Upshaw is either in London, or on his way here. And I can assure you he didn’t give permission. Aurélie must have forged something.”

“My dear Kate.” Edward set a wide, warm hand at the small of her back. “Shall I go after them? You’ve only to say the word.”

“I don’t know!” Kate heaved a slow sigh, realizing she shouldn’t have sent for Edward in her panic. Already she yearned to lean upon his shoulder—and his good judgment.

“Perhaps Peppie and I are overreacting?” she added. “Surely Anstruther will not let Aurélie hang herself. Or ruin Nancy. They will get to Exeter, he’ll catch wind of her mad scheme, and turn the carriage home, won’t he?”

“Kate,” said Edward quietly, “I would not be too sure of that.”

“What?” she said sharply. “Why not? Anstruther is a very sharp character.”

Edward hesitated oddly. “How far is the drive to Exeter?” he said. “Forty miles?”

“A little less.” Kate licked her lips nervously. “Why? What is your point?”

“Four people in Mrs. Wentworth’s barouche?” he said. “It’s too far, Kate. I’m sure they took the train, however much your mother may loathe it. They had to have done. Likely they were in Exeter before noon.”

Kate quelled her anxiety and considered it. “Yes, of course you’re right. But the Bishop of Exeter is as stiff as they come. He’s not likely to be swayed by one of Aurélie’s tearful tales, or her feminine wiles.”

“Kate, my dear, it is possible they didn’t go to Exeter at all.” His hand made a slow, soothing circle at the curve of her spine, and she did not even glance about to ensure they were alone save for Peppie. “Your mother is very clever. They might possibly have gone north to Scotland.”

“To
Scotland
?” Kate’s breath seized. “To marry over the anvil? Richard would never agree to such a shameful thing.”

“Then let’s assume Exeter,” said Edward. “But at all accounts, I think it best I go after them.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly grateful. “But I ought not have involved you. I should go, too, at the very least.”

“No.” His eyes were tender, but his voice was firm. “Have the horses put to. There is a fast-looking gig in the carriage house. I saw it yesterday.”

“With the curricle bar? It was Stephen’s.”

“Yes, it will be light and quick, and I shall move faster alone.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Kate was nodding. “There is some chance Mamma might actually listen to you.”

“But you must stay here, Kate, in case your uncle turns up,” he pressed. “You will have to tell him . . .
something
, but I know not what.”

“I should tell him Aurélie has kidnapped Nancy,” declared Kate. “For that’s very nearly the case. Nancy was resigned to waiting Uncle out. Aurélie means well, I know, but she does not
think
.”

But Edward was already starting back up the stairs. “I’ll fetch my greatcoat,” he said. “Where is the most likely train station? I’ll go there first, and see if anyone answering their description has passed through today.”

“I’ll see to Motte and the gig,” said Mrs. Peppin, turning toward the front door.

“Edward.” Kate rushed to the staircase after him.

He stopped and turned on the step, looking down at her. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, clinging to the newel post. “About earlier. I was brusque.”

“You were tired,” he said. “Good God, you
are
tired.”

Then, to her shock, he tipped up her chin on one finger, almost as if he might lean down and kiss her—and fool that she was, she would have let him.

“Don’t worry, Kate,” he said softly. “I will find your mother. I
will
. But it’s likely too late, and what’s done is done.”

“Oh, Edward!” she said. “I want Nancy to marry Richard. I do. But Mamma is just going to cause a big uproar, alienate Uncle Upshaw, and possibly taint Nancy’s reputation in the bargain.”

“My dear, your mother won’t run the latter risk; she’s not the fool you think her.” Then he cupped Kate’s cheek in his palm. “She’s finagled a way to make this marriage, depend upon it. And Upshaw will be angry, certainly. And there may be a
little
uproar—but only if it starts here. In this house. Do you understand me?”

“I—yes, I think so.”

“I will find your mother,” he promised, “and you will stop the uproar. And in the end, all will come aright.”

“I wish I had your certainty.” She restored his hand with a pat and a little shove. “Go. Go before Uncle turns up on our front step.”

“Right, then.” Edward shot her a swift smile as he turned. “I’m off.”

“And Edward,” she called after him, “
thank
you.”

CHAPTER 14

In Which the Parson

Takes a Wife

I
t is always darkest before the storm, and by the time Edward returned to the castle with Aurélie Wentworth in tow, the night was black save for a waxing moon, and the storm had begun to rumble ominously in Bellecombe’s great hall.

It had taken no great effort to find her; the lady had been standing on the platform at Wellington Station, attempting to hire someone to drive her to the castle. During their swift journey, he had not asked Mrs. Wentworth what had happened; it wasn’t his business, and she offered up nothing save an explanation that she had quarreled with Anstruther, and left the others in Exeter.

The lady sat now beside him, uncharacteristically quiet as she held fast to the carriage; a wise precaution given his considerable speed. But he did not want Kate to worry any more than was necessary. At least Aurélie Wentworth had sense enough to be silent when a man was driving to an inch, and pushing his team to its limits.

When they turned onto the bridge across what had once been Bellecombe’s moat, however, she made a sound of dismay.

“
Mon Dieu!
” she said as he cut his team beneath the portcullis, “I am to be hung for a sheep this time.”

He looked up, the tight stone passage having been successfully navigated, to see her staring straight ahead. In the inner bailey beyond, he could see servants hastening about, torches aloft, and a large traveling coach being unloaded.

His heart sank a little. “Lord Upshaw, I presume?”

“I expect so,” said Aurélie in a resigned voice. “Ill timing indeed! But then, I knew I had to make haste.
Ma foi
, Mr. Quartermaine, this may not be pretty.”

It would not. Already he could hear a booming, authoritative male voice demanding something of someone. Kate, he feared. Swiftly, he leapt down to hand Mrs. Wentworth from the carriage.

“Upshaw is about to slice someone to ribbons, it sounds,” he said grimly. “It is not fair that it should be Kate.”

“I know my duty, sir,” she said, bowing her head almost regally. “I thank you for the swift journey.”

He caught her arm as he turned to go. “Mrs. Wentworth, I think I have some notion what you’re up to,” he said, “and if you hope to pull it off, I suggest you hush Upshaw before the gossip gets out.”

“Excellent advice, Mr. Quartermaine,” she said, flashing one of her bemused smiles. “You have saved me much time, and Katherine much awkwardness.”

After exchanging a quick word with Motte, Edward hastened after her. Aurélie Wentworth was walking stoically through the bailey, an overly large reticule swinging from one elbow, and her ostentatious hat hanging limply from her other hand, dwarfing her slight figure.

He caught up with her on the steps and entered on her heels. A tall, portly man was pacing the hall, still in his greatcoat, and clutching at his forehead with his hand.

Edward touched Mrs. Peppin on the arm. “Has word got round the servants?” he whispered.

The housekeeper shook her head. “No, and you may trust it will not.”

Her expression resolute, Kate stood opposite the man. “Mamma!” she declared, relief sketching over her face. “Oh, Edward, thank you!”

“
Aurélie!
” said the portly man, whirling about with surprising speed. “Perhaps you can explain what in all blazes is going on here? Where have you been?”

“
Mon Dieu
, Archie, am I accountable to you now?” said Aurélie, rising onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “No one told me.”

“Where Nancy is concerned, indeed you are!” he declared.

“Uncle, please!” said Kate. “Let us go into the library and sit down like rational people.”

“Rational?” boomed Lord Upshaw. “A rash assumption, I fear!”

Kate turned and looked at Mrs. Peppin. “Peppie, may we have some tea brought in?”

“Certainly, my lady.”

Kate gestured down the passageway. “Uncle Upshaw, I’m sure all your questions will be answered in due course.”

“They will indeed, my girl!” he said grimly. Then he glanced back at Edward as if noticing him for the first time. “And just who, sir, are you?”

“This is my friend, Mr. Quartermaine.” Aurélie Wentworth slipped her arm through his. “You will come with us, Edward,” she commanded. “I fancy I may require an impartial witness.”

What the devil he was supposed to attest to, Edward had no clue. He was far more concerned about Kate not bearing any blame for her mother’s antics. He glanced at Kate, and crooked one eyebrow enquiringly.

Her face unsmiling, she jerked her head, indicating he should follow.

He knew, even then, that he should not. That he should step aside and go slinking off to his bedchamber with a bottle of brandy, and keep himself well out of the fray. But Mrs. Wentworth had an iron grip on his arm, and Kate looked as if she might need moral support. They trailed after Lord Upshaw, who looked rather like an oversized version of Mrs. Wentworth’s pug.

Though he’d been careful not to ask any questions, Edward had a pretty good notion of what the lady had done, but the mechanics of it escaped him. Women like Aurélie Wentworth had secrets aplenty, and men wrapped around their little fingers.

When the library door was shut, Mrs. Wentworth didn’t join them in sitting down around the table by the fire, but tossed aside her elaborate hat and began to move about the room with a restless energy.

“Well, madam?” demanded Upshaw.

Mrs. Wentworth swallowed hard. “
Alors
, Archie, you suspect the worst,” she finally said, “and you’re right. Nancy is not here. Indeed, she is wed. I have gone against your wishes and seen it done; you may rail at me as you will.”

Her brother-in-law leapt from his chair. “How dare you!” he said, stabbing an accusing finger at her. “What is more,
how
can you hope to get away with it?”

“Oh, Mamma!” said Kate softly. “Please tell me this is a joke!”

“It’s every inch a joke, for it simply is not legal,” said Lord Upshaw, pacing the room. “So whatever Aurélie may think she’s done, rest assured I shall have it
undone
by week’s end!”

Aurélie shrugged her slight shoulders. “
Bien sûr
, Archie, you may try,” she said. “But not, I hope, too soon? Nancy and Richard are enjoying a wedding night at Exeter’s finest hotel. I should hate it to be interrupted.”

Upshaw’s eyes flared, black with temper. “By God, madam, this goes beyond the pale!” he said, slamming a fist down on a nearby table. “A wedding night! The chit is ruined!”

“
Zut alors!
” said Aurélie, eyes widening ingenuously. “Is she?” Then her pretty face fell. “
Oui
, you are likely right, now I think on it. Poor Nancy! No other man will want her now.”

Edward was compelled to pinch himself to keep from laughing at the innocence on Mrs. Wentworth’s face, but Upshaw was not amused.

“Yes, she’s ruined!” Upshaw bore down upon her, Aurélie standing her ground. “Which is just as you intended, you scheming female! My God, Aurélie, have you any idea what you have done?”

“
Mais oui
, I think so,” said Aurélie, suddenly serious. “I have made a mother’s choice for my daughter which—if the law of the land were equitable—I would have every right
to
do. She has convinced me that she loves Richard Burnham, and that she is mature enough to make this choice. And so I have allowed her to make it.”

“But you have no legal authority!” Upshaw repeated, in the tone of one speaking to a child. “You are a mere woman without—and I think both circumstance and law bear me out here—a brain in your pretty little head.”

“
Oui, oui!
” Aurélie threw up both hands, as if in surrender. “It has ever been a failing of mine! No brains whatever! Alas, one muddles on.”

“Oh, do not be impertinent with me, madam!” said Upshaw. “I will see this undone by every means that is legal. And she shan’t have a penny of her inheritance so long as I can stop it.”

Suddenly, Kate shoved back her chair. “Uncle Upshaw, I think that is quite enough,” she said, rising.

The big man turned on her like a charging bull. Edward braced his hands to spring, but Kate threw up a hand, and Upshaw stopped cold.

“Sir, I fear you must accept Mamma’s choice,” said Kate firmly. “However it has come about, Nancy is married—and to a good and decent man of whom I earnestly approve—and she is spending the night with him. Even if we were foolish enough, we could not get to Exeter fast enough to undo this. So, as Mamma would say,
c’est fini
.”

“So, Katherine,
you
were in on this little conspiracy?” roared Upshaw. “With your mother? The woman’s amoral as an alley cat, and two-thirds mad in the bargain!”

At that, Edward did jerk to his feet. “I beg your pardon, Upshaw, but I would speak to you outside.”

“Outside?” The man jerked, blinking as if trying to recall who Edward was. “I do not even know you, sir. And I certainly have no interest in discussing this business with you.”

“Nonetheless, you will.” Edward leveled a cold, hard look at Upshaw; one that had persuaded many a recalcitrant gentleman to full cooperation. “I account Lady d’Allenay and her mother as friends. No authority, legal or otherwise, gives you the right to speak to them in such a disrespectful tone. Temper it, sir. Or, as I say, we may go outside and finish this conversation.”

“I have every right!” said Upshaw, but there was a whine in his tone now. “That child is my responsibility. I’m her guardian and her trustee.”

“Then by all means, sir, explore your legal options to undo the marriage if you’re willing to sacrifice Miss Wentworth’s good name on the altar of your own pride,” said Edward calmly, “but you will kindly keep a respectful voice in this house.”

“Aren’t you the fellow who didn’t know his own name last week?” Upshaw grumbled. “You seem mighty sure of yourself now.”

“Kindly sit down, sir,” said Edward. “Lady d’Allenay had nothing to do with this.”

Kate cut Edward a grateful glance. “I did not,” she agreed, “but I do not scruple to tell you, Uncle, that I’ve come to believe you wrong about Nancy. She is old enough to know what she’s doing.”

“Old enough!” complained Upshaw, falling at last into a chair. “She knows nothing of life. She has scarcely been to London, or gone about in society.”

“She has no interest in London or society; she’s in love with Richard and wishes to help him do God’s work,” Kate countered, more bravely now. “Moreover, she’s almost nineteen. Mamma was wed at barely seventeen, and bore two children by twenty. Louisa married you on her eighteenth birthday if memory serves. So if you wish to rail at Mamma, then yes, you may rail at me. I’m glad it is done. There, I have said it.”

“It is not legal,” Upshaw grumbled.

“On the contrary, Archie, I believe it is.” Aurélie gave a Gallic shrug. “Or near enough as makes no difference.”

“Madam, we shall see,” declared Upshaw, a little more civilly. “I mean to call upon our family solicitors as soon as I can get back to London.”

“I beg you, sir, not to call upon anyone,” said Kate. “I think we must consider Nancy’s best interests. Far better she should live a simple life than to have her good name tarnished by . . . by what? An annulment? Is that what you contemplate?”

“I do not yet know,” said Upshaw, his lip curling in Aurélie’s direction. “Perhaps, madam, you will be so obliging as to confess how you did it? Clearly, you persuaded someone to violate the law.”

Aurélie shot an assessing, almost furtive, look at Kate.

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” said Kate darkly.

“Perhaps I should,” said Edward, planting a hand on his chair arm. “I will be just outside the door, Kate.”

“
Non!
” said Aurélie sharply. “I think perhaps you, my dear Edward, already know?”

He hesitated. “I have some notion, ma’am,” he admitted. “But it is none of my business.”

Aurélie smiled and dropped her reticule on the table before him. “In the end, it might be,” she said, sitting down opposite in him in a crush of silk, “and you are a man who is infamous for his ironclad discretion, I believe?”

Edward cut an uneasy glance at Upshaw. “I am.”

Aurélie gave a swift shrug. “Keep your seat, then,” she said, opening the reticule and extracting a thick pile of what looked like letters tied with a red ribbon.

“What is that?” asked Upshaw suspiciously.

“
Billets-doux
, Archie,” said Aurélie in a low, sultry voice. “I’ve made, you see, rather a habit of collecting them—
many
of them—over the years. And alas, being, as I am, amoral as a cat—not all of them are from my husband.”

“Your
affaires
, Aurélie, are of no interest to me,” said Upshaw tightly, “nor were your husband’s.”

“
Oui
, but perhaps you might like to read one or two?” suggested Aurélie, smiling prettily as she pushed three across the table. “These are from a gentleman currently serving His Grace the Bishop of Exeter—serving, I might add, in a position with much power to act on behalf of His Grace.”

“Then he has repented his sins, it is to be hoped!” said Upshaw.

“I am sure,” said Aurélie, drawing them back again, “that he has. And I am sure we can all agree it would be best if his wife knew nothing of his brief moral failings, however well documented they might be?”

“You blackmailed a man with his own love letters!” exclaimed Upshaw. “I knew it! That is just the sort of thing, madam, you would do! Bed the poor fool, then bludgeon him with the evidence.”

“Archie, you wound me!” declared Aurélie. “And in front of my daughter, no less. How am I to stop men from writing me letters pledging their eternal love—and their burning desire—and in such creative terms, too!
Vraiment
, I did not bed the poor fool; I did not need to. Men can be fools with no encouragement whatever.”

“B-but you kept the letters!” sputtered Upshaw.

“
Oui
, a terrible vanity!” said Aurélie with a little half shrug. “But now, in the twilight of my life, as my looks fade and my figure falls, these letters, Archie, they comfort me. In fact, I think I shall be buried with them.”