In Love With a Wicked Man (34 page)

Then Kate snared her lip an instant. “And about that little dust-up last night—”

“No need,” he said, waving her off. “Heard all aboot it already. And fair pleased with herself, she was, too.”

“Oh,” said Kate. “But Mamma is still abed and no one else has—”

Anstruther lifted his head from his ledger to smile thinly.

“Ah.” Kate slapped her hat on. “Well. I see. I shall just be off, then.”

Then, for a third time, she turned back. “Anstruther?”

“Aye?” He slapped his pencil down.

Kate hesitated, carefully considering her words. “Did you ever wonder if . . . well, if when a person wants what they cannot have, do they ever . . .”

He crooked one grizzled eyebrow. “Aye?”

Kate just shook her head, the explanation failing her. “Mamma, I mean,” she managed. “Her capriciousness. Her willfulness. Could it be all of a piece?”

“All of a piece of what?” he said.

“Her
unhappiness
,” said Kate.

His massive muttonchops twitched as if his jaw muscle was jerking.

Kate sighed. “There, Anstruther, I’ve said it,” she went on. “I fear Mamma is unhappy—unhappy in her way, I mean. And though it certainly does not fall to you to
make
her happy, consider if perhaps what you want isn’t so far removed from what she wants, and—”

“It is,” he tightly interjected.

“Fine.” Kate nodded, and seized the doorknob.

“That’s to say, Kate, it must be.” Then he hesitated a long moment. “But I shall think on it. Aye, lass. I shall think on it a time.”

Stunned into near silence, Kate went around into the outer bailey and helped Motte saddle her horse. Athena was tossing her head in the cool, autumn air, but the stall beside her looked empty, and oddly forlorn.

Motte slicked a hand down Athena’s withers. “Aye, the big fellow’s gone orf ter ’is new home,” he said soothingly. “More apples for you, me fine girl.”

It was a cold comfort, those extra apples, thought Kate, thanking Motte for flinging her up into the saddle, and then setting off across the bridge.

All the way down the hill, in fact, and up the next, Kate’s mind was in a tumult with thoughts of Edward. The certainty that she’d made a grievous error was growing within her, and a sense of desperation was building.

She kept telling herself—as she had for some time now—that even setting aside his treatment of poor Annabelle Granger, Edward was entirely wrong for her; that his past and his business dealings made him unfit even to know. That his being at Bellecombe, even as Aurélie’s guest, had constituted a risk to her good name.

But it was almost as if she no longer cared. As if the weakness in her knees had sapped all power of logic.

Kate reminded herself of Nancy, and of the sweet promise that her marriage to Richard held. Of Aunt Louisa’s three daughters yet to be married. Already they struggled with all the titters and gossip surrounding Aurélie’s racy, headstrong behavior. They didn’t need Kate to become the subject of wagging tongues. Aurélie, at least, was a widow, and permitted a measure of latitude.

But Kate, as always, was stuck somewhere in the middle—and a little tired, to be honest, of worrying about everyone else.

Her self-pity, however, was at once severed when she topped the last hill, and looked down toward the intersection at Edward’s fateful milestone. There, by the more modern signpost that pointed toward the village, was a late lamb—one far too young to have been separated from its mother.

The poor thing was bleating so plaintively, Kate could hear it all the way down the hill, and even when she had nearly reached it, the lamb struggled, but didn’t shy away as one might expect.

“Poor mite!” Kate murmured, curious. “I will set you back over the fence.”

Dismounting, she draped Athena’s reins in the hedge, and stepped onto the verge to examine it, and still the lamb did nothing but cry, its pink tongue trembling pitifully.

“Now, however did you get out, little lamb?” she asked, reaching down to scoop it up.

Only then did she realize the poor thing had got caught in a rope.

Kneeling, she realized it was not caught, but, horrifyingly, it had been
tied
. A thin rope had been wrapped around its pastern, and tied to the bottom of the signpost.

“Those bloody village lads!” she said to the creature, now yanking a little dangerously at the rope. “We shall have their heads, little lamb. Be still, and let me get this loose.”

In a trice, Kate had the knot untied around its leg and turned quickly to scoop it up, drawing it to her chest. But Kate never made it back onto her feet. Suddenly, the lamb began to flail. And then there was a flash of white before her eyes, and Kate could not breathe.

She dropped the lamb, scrabbling backward with her bootheels, clawing at the hand clapped over her face, fighting to rip away the great wad of cloth that covered her mouth and nose. But Kate could see nothing; nothing but the distant hedgerow, and the little lamb skittering toward it.

And then Kate saw nothing at all.

CHAPTER 18

In Which Anstruther

Delivers a Swift Kick

T
he kitchen chimney at Heatherfields smoked. Ashy, acrid clouds roiled from its grimy maw, then drifted languidly to the bare, black-beamed ceiling—but not before scorching out Edward’s nose hair and sending him reeling back with a cough that sounded of consumption and impending death.

Where was Vesta
, he thought sourly,
when you needed her?

There was no home here. Hell, there wasn’t even a hearth. There was just a filthy, entirely antiquated kitchen with a massive black hole belching ash and ruin.

“Told ’ee it smoked,” said the wizened old man behind him.

“You said, sir—and I quote—
it be
ter’ble smeetchy
,” Edward snapped, “though I begin at last to grasp your meaning.” On a spate of sudden anger, he seized the poker and thrashed violently at the fire.

“Here now, mind ’ee the chimley-crook, sir, do!” cried the man. “The missus must hang the pot thereon.”

“A pot of what?” Edward stood and turned, still grasping the poker.

Mr. Cutler threw up his arms as if to ward off a blow.

On a curse, Edward flung the poker aside. “A pot of what, sir?” he asked a little more gently.

“Supper,” said the old man, “and d’ee wish a chimmer made up, sir?”

“A
chimmer
?” Good God, did these people not speak the Queen’s English? “No, but I now need a hot bath. And what in blazes is a chimmer?”

Mr. Cutler looked wounded. “Upstairs, sir.” He stabbed a finger at the filthy ceiling. “A
bed
-chimmer. Missus zaid I was vor ax o’ ’ee d’ee mean to stay past supper? Or do ’ee go back to the gurt house?”

“Ah, a bedchamber,” said Edward, his wrath collapsing in on him, only to become something like grief. “No, Cutler. I will not be going back to Bellecombe. I’m at Heatherfields to stay.”

“Aye. Well a’ fine then.”

The old man nodded, but he might as well have been shaking his head, so doubtful of Edward’s sanity did he seem.

And Cutler was right, Edward realized. He was a little mad.

Moreover, his arrival here had thrown the elderly caretaker into a muddle, and left his not-so-elderly “missus” less than pleased. She was out, so far as Edward could grasp from the Somerset accent, attempting to kill a chicken for his dinner.

Hands set stubbornly on his hips, Edward turned in a slow circle, taking in the miserable room with its scarred wooden worktable, and its massive Welsh dresser racked with dusty platters and plates, some of which still looked encrusted with only God knew what.

Then the stubbornness, too, fell into grief. Why was he forcing these poor, ill-prepared servants to bear the brunt of his self-loathing?

“I beg your pardon, Cutler,” he said, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose. “This won’t do, will it? Send to the White Lion and bespeak me a bed and some dinner, please.”

The old man bobbed his head like an eager bird. “Aye, I can do it vor ’ee,” he said more agreeably. “Will ’ee bide here?”

“Yes, for a time,” said Edward, raking a hand through his now-sooty hair. “I’m going to begin hauling out some of this furniture so we can chop it into kindling.”

The old man bobbed again, so amiable he likely would have nodded just the same if Edward had said he meant to set the house afire, strip naked, and dance in circles while it burnt. Which was, now he thought on it, a tempting notion.

Stooping beneath the low lintel, the old man hobbled out through the door that gave on to a series of weedy kitchen gardens that must once have been quite splendid. Edward watched him go, then dragged out the filthy kitchen table, its legs shuddering and scraping over the flagstone. After it went a battered churn and an ancient meat safe, its tin front rusting away, followed by a dozen rickety chairs, the bottoms all split out.

But when he reached the last chair, his rage half burnt away by his exertions, he instead fell into it, and considered his situation.

He should have told Kate about Annie, he realized, his heart sinking deeper still.

As soon as he’d remembered her existence, he should have told Kate. And told her everything, too. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust her. But the story was so vile and his own guilt so heavy, he kept it inside. A part of him had also feared ruining the beauty of their burgeoning friendship, though it shocked him he might have—much less so deeply value—a friendship with a lady of such decency and character.

But it was not just a friendship, was it? It had become far more the moment he’d kissed her that afternoon by her parlor window. He hadn’t even known who the hell he was, but the moment Kate had opened beneath him, sighing so sweetly into his mouth, he had known that he was lost.

He had claimed her in that moment—in his heart if not his head—and she had been his ever after. Except that he had never told her so. He had never told her that he loved her. Never confessed to her that something inside him had altered; had torn from its moorings and flown to her, and that she now held his heart, bitter and scarred as it was, in her slender but capable hands.

And now Kate was convinced that he was hiding something from her—which he was. He was hiding Annie as he had always hidden her; behind a curtain of anger and hurt and, yes, guilt. Guilt that he had not flown fast enough to her mother’s side. Guilt that, truth be told, a part of him had rued his promise to Maria.

But he would have kept it, of that he had no doubt, had fate given him the chance. He would have married her, claimed the child as his own, and made up whatever vile pack of lies was required to ensure the story was believable.

Anything to save her suffering. Anything to save Annie from a fate that might have crushed her.

He propped his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands, the scent of ash thick in his nostrils, his eyes stinging. He told himself it was the soot that made them burn, and even then he halfway believed it.

But he believed, too, that his life was in ruins, and there was nothing to be done.

Nothing but go back to Kate and beg her pardon and declare himself a changed man. Which he was, indeed.

Profiting upon the frailty of human nature held no satisfaction, but gave only a disgust. In small, destructive increments, Edward had allowed himself to become no better than that foul piece of humanity Alfred Hedge, and he knew it. He was merely better bred—by some small measure—and, if anything, far more ruthless.

How was he to impose that on Kate?

He could not. Not even if Peters turned up on his doorstep this instant with a portmanteau stuffed with cash in hand.

But what would Kate say of that? She was neither young nor foolish. She was an intelligent woman who managed a complicated life with skill and grace. Was he so caught up in regret and despair, he was unilaterally choosing a path without so much as considering her wishes?
Should
he tell her how he felt?

Perhaps she was so disgusted with him now it didn’t matter. But for a man who had lived his entire life utterly confident in his ability to bludgeon his way through life’s every challenge, Edward suddenly could not think straight.

But he could go to Kate and apologize for being a prideful ass.

And he would, by God, stop sitting here on the verge of tears. He would quit this pathetic mewling and remember what he did have, could he but set things right with Kate: a bond of quiet friendship that only a fool would fail to salvage.

It was a good thing he’d chosen that moment in which to decide this course of action, too, for he’d just got up from the wobbling chair and sent it flying toward the door with a swift, hard kick when a large shadow fell over the threshold.

“Quartermaine!” barked a harsh, familiar voice. “That you?”

“Come in, man!” Edward ordered, but Anstruther was already edging his way inside. “The place isn’t trip-wired, for God’s sake.”

Anstruther’s hard gaze swept the kitchen, his face falling. “Afternoon to ye,” said the Scotsman, handing him a letter. “I was hoping to find Miss Kate aboot.”

“To find Kate?” Incredulous, Edward flicked a glance at the letter, then shoved it away. “
Here?
”

“No’ here, then?” Anstruther frowned. “And you’d be sure?”

“What?” Edward strode across the room. “Why should you think to find her here? Where the devil is she?”

Hesitance turned to something darker, and Anstruther shook his head. “No’ at the castle,” he said uneasily. “I’ve just come from there. This morning she bade me bring you that letter, then I was to head over to the new rectory to meet her. But she didna turn up.”

Edward shook his head. “That isn’t like Kate,” he said quietly. “She’s not with Nancy?”

“She was niver seen at the rectory, though it was there she was last going.” Anstruther was twisting anxiously at the strap of his crop. “Something’s amiss, Quartermaine. I feel it keenly.”

“God
damn it
!” Edward kicked the chair back across the room. “It’s Hoke, the scurvy bastard!”

“Aye, he was none too pleased to be thwarted last night, I hear,” said the big Scot, narrowing one eye.

“Oh, he blustered a few vague threats.” Edward dropped his tone, an ugly chill settling over him. “Or perhaps not so vague, after all?”

“I’ve sent Burnham all through the village, and Jasper across the home farm. Tom Shearn’s calling on all the tenants—but quiet-like—and Upshaw’s gone back to tear the house apart. But naught’s been seen of her.”

Edward was already shrugging into his coat. “That man is a rabid dog,” he said, snatching his crop, “and needs to be put down. Where can he have taken her?”

“He had nae carriage,” said Anstruther as they strode out of the house, both bending low beneath the door. “He would not dare take her by train. There’s no inn or such place hereabouts as he might hide her; she’s too well-known. No, I think she’s here. On Heatherfields. It’s what Reggie knows best.”

“Good God, would he harm her?” Having already untied Aragon, Edward flung himself into the saddle and forced his temper down. If ever there had been a time for his cold, emotionless logic, the time was now.

Anstruther, however, didn’t mount up. “I’ve been puzzling it out,” he said scratching at one of his massive muttonchops. “I think he’d no’ harm her. But Upshaw’s dinner party is tonight.”

“Dear God,” said Edward. “Does he think to embarrass her before the whole village?”

“Aye, at the very least,” said Anstruther, “for he’s desperate—and desperate men, e’en the fickle and stupid ones, are dangerous.”

“Yes, and what he’s desperate for is to marry her,” said Edward. “His debts are crushing him.”

Anstruther gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Aye, weel, Kate canna help him there, even should she wish,” he said. “Bellecombe’s valuable but cash poor, and she’s not such a fool as to risk borrowing money over him. Reggie just came back thinking she’d be easily charmed.”

“Then he seriously underestimated Kate.”

“Aye, he did. But you”—here Anstruther paused and gave his familiar, assessing squint—“now, you, I think, would not be such a fool, would ye? I think perhaps you grasp the lady’s good sense, and her worth?”

Edward wasn’t sure what Anstruther was asking, but he was sure of his answer. “I never met a woman more sensible or more worthy,” he replied. “And she damned sure won’t be wasted on the likes of Lord Reginald Hoke.”

Anstruther gave a tight nod, as if granting Edward some sort of permission. “Gude, then how well d’ye remember the lay of the land?” he asked. “The empty cottages, the barns, the byres?”

Edward considered it but a moment. “I’ve pretty well memorized it,” he said. “I’ll search the northeasterly half, along Bellecombe’s border.”

“I’ll go round the far side o’ the village, then, to the old tithe barn,” said Anstruther, “and work toward you. If we find naught, we’ll meet up along the stream by the lower pasture.”

Anstruther shoved a foot in his stirrup and hefted himself onto the great, gray beast. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he reached behind him for a worn saddlebag, and extracted a pistol.

“I shouldn’t need that,” said Edward, “to deal with the likes of Reggie.”

“Expediency,” said Anstruther. “I’ve got the mate. Should ye find that conniving fiend, fire it. I’ll find you. Then we’ll take the devil doon a hack.”

K
ATE CAME AWAKE
on a lurch of nausea. The air was damp, thick with earthy scents. Above her face, vaulting rafters swam, faded away, then straightened themselves entirely. They were black with age and rough-hewn.

A shed
, she thought dimly.
Or a cottage?

She lay upon something hard and cold. Gingerly rolling onto her right elbow, she clasped her hand to her mouth and tried not to retch. But the frightful, dank smell of the place struck full force then, and she staggered up.

Reeling across what had once been a flagstone floor, she made her way to the planked door. It wouldn’t budge. Kate pounded on it with both hands, and there came a scraping, metallic sound. Flinging the door wide, she ran into the bracken beyond and heaved up her breakfast in the blinding light.

Behind her, someone cleared his throat. “Frightfully sorry, old thing. A wicked side effect, nausea.”

Kate rose an inch, trying to think whose voice it was. Why it made her skin crawl.

Reggie
.

Damn and blast, it was Reggie. What had he done?
Poisoned
her? Hands braced on her thighs, Kate tried to think. She had been on her way to the village. Someone had clapped something vile and sickening-sweet over her face.

Kate straightened and fumbled for her handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Drawing a deep breath, she felt the world coming back into focus. She stood in a landscape of bracken and heather. Far beyond it, the Exmoor rose up to meet the sky, the afternoon sun sending cloud-shaped shadows scuttling over it.

It was a familiar view. She had been drugged, she thought, and carted off somewhere—somewhere not far from home. Shoving the handkerchief away, she turned and marched back down the muddy, overgrown path, righteous indignation swelling in her breast.