Amy Lake (27 page)

* * * *

One couldn’t accuse Lady Hansfort of being coy, thought Edward. She had spent the waltz whispering encouragements into his ear and then–at its end–had insisted on stepping out into the garden. Danilla had found a convenient bench and was now clinging to him, leechlike, her hands attempting to explore places that Edward would prefer left untouched.

It was having its effect. After his last experience with the widow, Edward had thought himself immune to her charms, but a man would have to be dead not to respond to a woman as eager as Danilla. She had somehow found her way into Edward’s lap, and was pressing against him, murmuring into his ear.

“Mmm, Edward,” moaned Danilla. “I can’t wait.”  She began pulling up her skirts.

Even as his body threatened to respond to Lady Hansfort, Edward began wondering about Claire and the Marquis of Leddsfield.  Was his wife still in the company of the marquis?  Was she dancing with him again?  Or were Radleigh and Claire perhaps even now sitting on a bench such as this, the marquis’s hand attempting . . .

Anger raced through his veins. How dare she? the earl raged to himself. How dare she encourage that puppy?  Well, he would have a thing or two to tell the marquis, and as for his wife–   He started to stand, and Danilla uttered a little shriek, the hem of her gown caught on his heel. Sitting back down, the earl began d to disentangle himself.

“What are you doing?” Lady Hansfort hissed, but Edward didn’t bother to reply. It was time to find his wife, to have his waltz with her, and go home.

There was the sound of footsteps on gravel. Edward looked up to see Claire, her face blank with shock. He heard Danilla’s laughter, and before he could say anything his wife had turned and walked away.

“Blast and damn!” said Edward, burying his head in his hands.

Lady Hansfort continued to laugh.

* * * *

Harry watched the raven-haired figure as she took her leave. The earl wasn’t in the company of his wife, he noticed–perhaps this was an opportunity he should exploit. He was in hurry now that he knew where she lived, but it would be enjoyable, all the same, to see his cousin Claire again..

Chapter Sixteen

Claire didn’t even try to sleep that night. She spent her few remaining hours at Tremayne House packing, pacing the floor, and listening–despite herself–for sounds coming from her husband’s bedroom.

Nothing. She supposed that Lady Hansfort was the earl’s mistress and that he was spending the night with her. You knew he had a mistress, Claire kept reminding herself. You
knew
. It was just the reality of seeing them together that has shaken you.

She tried to cling to that reasoning, but even as she did Claire knew that one aspect of the situation gnawed at her more than any other. It wasn’t only the memory of her husband embracing Lady Hansfort that hurt so much, it was the feeling of–

–of disappointment.

She’s
your mistress? Claire had wanted to shout at Edward, as she stood frozen in the Lincolnshire gardens. You came back to London for
her
?

In her mind’s eye she had always seen Edward with someone much like Lady Pamela. Someone she wouldn’t mind sharing him with . . . or at least, not mind so much. But the thought that Lord Tremayne preferred the woman Claire had seen tonight, that he could well withstand his wife’s charms but found that blowzy, half-dressed female irresistible–

Well, it was mortifying. Claire dragged a last walking dress from the wardrobe and threw it into her trunk, then sat down at a window to wait for dawn.

* * * *

Edward settled deep into one of White’s armchairs and ordered another brandy. None of Frederick’s old chums were at the club tonight, a circumstance for which he was profoundly grateful. He was in no mood for cheerful company.

Damn Danilla Hansfort!  Claire hadn’t said a word to him in the Lincolnshire’s garden, just stood there for several endless seconds, her face expressionless, before turning and walking away. Lord Tremayne had jumped up to go after her, but Danilla–of course–picked that moment to fall into strong hysterics. He was tempted to leave the widow on that cursed bench, screeching, but in the end he couldn’t take the chance that a vindictive Lady Hansfort might seek out Claire to make a scene. He spent several minutes calming Danilla, and by the time he returned to the ballroom, Claire had already left.

Go home. Talk to her
, said the little voice.

The earl groaned. The little voice had been saying this all night, and he was growing heartily sick of its advice. It was nonsense to even consider apologizing for his behavior when he had nothing to reproach himself for, nothing. A mistress was a normal perquisite of a gentleman’s life. His fortune was more than adequate to support one of these creatures and as he had informed Claire from the very beginning–

Don’t be such a bore, the voice told Edward. How many times have you given this speech, and just whom do you think you’re fooling?

Edward sighed and took a long swig of brandy. How galling that Claire had seen him with Danilla Hansfort!  His wife probably thought the woman was his mistress, and if he told her that no, Lady Hansfort wasn’t his mistress, then she would want to know who
was
his mistress–

He could see no satisfactory end to that particular conversation, and there was also the matter of the arrangements he’d been about to make with Gaston’s. He certainly wasn’t going to mention
that
to Claire.

Go talk to her.

She shouldn’t have even been in town, he told himself again. She knew I would have a mistress–I have nothing to apologize for. An incident like this is precisely the reason I wanted Claire to live at Wrensmoor in the first place. It’s not my fault!

Around and around it went, and eventually Edward dozed off, waking sometime in the early morning with a single thought in mind. He needed to talk to Pamela Sinclair.

* * * *

Harry crept through the alleyway to the back of the Tremayne stables. It was a perfect plan, he thought happily. Lord and Lady Clarence rarely left their beds before noon. He had hours before they would miss him, and that would be more than enough time for what Harry was planning. It would be short work to discover Claire’s London schedule, and he was confident that she still went walking in the parks–

A light female voice caught his attention, and Harry ducked back into the alleyway. He peered cautiously around the corner and could hardly believe his luck. Lady Tremayne was talking to one of the stablehands. Harry held his breath and listened intently to what his cousin was saying.

* * * *

The Tremayne stablehands were up and about almost as early as the cooks. Claire found a boy to bring down her trunk, and went in search of one of the younger groomsmen. She had no doubt that Lord Tremayne would allow her to use a carriage–if he was asked–but right now she wasn’t in the mood to wait for his return. One of the earl’s more experienced men, however, might want to delay until his lordship was informed of her plans.

As it turned out, she had no problem in arranging for someone to take her to Wrensmoor. The head groomsman was off on an errand, and  her small trunk was quickly packed in one of the traveling coaches while earnest, red-faced Darby Jones hitched up a team.

* * * *

Darby had seen no reason to question the request from his lordship’s beautiful countess, who had smiled so nicely at him, and said that she knew she could rely on Darby to get them out of the city before the chaotic traffic of a London mid-morning.

It was true!  All true!  thought Darby happily. He could get ’er ladyship to the castle safe and sound, he could, and wouldn’t the boys be snortin’ jealous when they found out the countess’d wanted Darby Jones! 

Humming softly, he secured the final ties of the hitch, careful each strap was as perfect as ever could be, and then he had a few choice words to the team about behavin’ themselves. The beautiful lady was inside, he was ready to jump up–

Darby hardly felt the swift blow to the back of his head, and he dropped without a word. He lay dreamlessly on the packed dirt of the stables as–a few moments later–the carriage rattled away into the early morning fog.

* * * *

Edward didn’t remember when he had left White’s, or how long he had been walking the streets of London, but he could tell–from the smell of coal fires starting up for the day–that a semblance of morning had finally arrived.

Pam would strangle him if he showed up this early, thought the earl, heading in that direction anyway. The street peddlers were setting up, and he caught their looks of surprise as he walked past. The quality were seldom about at this time of the morning. Hawkers tried to catch his eye with wares of one sort or another, but Lord Tremayne barely noticed. He walked faster and smiled to himself, feeling–despite the disaster of the night past–a sense of anticipation.

He needed to talk to Lady Pamela. The earl wasn’t at the point of acknowledging, as he strode along, just what it was that he needed to talk to Lady Pamela
about
.

* * * *

Good heavens. Claire held her breath as the carriage lurched around another corner, and she wondered if she had made a serious mistake in choosing her driver. She would have thought any of the Earl of Ketrick’s men would be competent, and she certainly didn’t want to get Darby Jones into trouble, but–

Oh!  Good grief, they almost hit that poor woman!  Claire thought about signaling to have the coach turned around, but they would still need to travel several busy streets to return to Tremayne House, and what if banging on the roof startled the young coachman?  Surely once they were out of the city, he would have an easier time of it, and–she reminded herself–it wasn’t as if Darby Jones was the only bad driver in London.

* * * *

Edward hopped over Pamela’s back garden gate and made his way to the side door. A few servants would be up at this hour, but he doubted any of them would even blink to see the Earl of Ketrick en route to Lady Sinclair’s bedchamber.

He stopped in front of her door and listened quietly for sounds of activity within. Nothing. He pushed open the door and was surprised to see Pam already sitting up in bed.

She  brushed a few tendrils of hair back from her face and sighed. “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” was her only comment.

Edward sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.  “I think I need some advice,” he muttered reluctantly, from between his fingers.

“I dare say you do,” remarked Lady Pamela.

* * * *

To Claire’s relief, Darby Jones managed to get them out of central London without running over anyone or overturning the coach. Once he made the turn onto the Great Dover road, the traffic quieted down and she was able to relax, the fatigue that had accumulated with each day in London taking her over. She looked at the low chalk hills rolling by in the distance, feeling her eyelids grow heavier and heavier, until she finally stretched out on the plump cushions of the earl’s coach and fell asleep.

She didn’t know what woke her up. The carriage seemed to be rattling along much as before, but as she pushed herself upright she had the memory . . .

Why was her heart pounding?  Stop being such a ninnyhammer, she told herself. You’re in the earl’s coach, on your way back to Wrensmoor. What could possibly be wrong?

. . . the memory of the carriage making a turn.

* * * *

“I don’t want to live apart from her any longer,” Edward was saying. “Even if we do have a marriage of convenience, it just seems more . . . convenient . . . to live together.”

“Ah,” said Lady Pamela. “Have you told Claire this?”

“Well, no.”

“Edward, I don’t see the problem. You like her. She seems to like you. So what if it wasn’t what you planned?  Be happy. Make babies. ”

“I didn’t think I’d end up . . . caring about her as much as I do.”

“Heaven help that you should care about your own wife!”  Pam was exasperated.

“You don’t understand. Melissa died because of her baby. It was horrible, Pam, all that blood–”

“Women die in childbirth, Edward, it
does
happen, but Claire is strong and healthy. Just because Melissa had problems is no reason to think–”

“I saw her face, she looked up at me as she was dying. Melissa was such a child, such an innocent. And to die like that–”

Pamela rolled her eyes, but Edward didn’t notice. He was remembering the whiteness of Melissa’s skin against the sheets, the sound that a man’s boots made walking across the wooden floor, each step sticky with blood–      

Such an innocent.

Pamela had started to pace the room in agitation. Edward looked up at her. “What is it?” he asked. “I know it doesn’t make sense. And I know you were never fond of Melissa, but–”

Pamela stopped him with a annoyed wave of her hand. Years ago she had made a promise to herself, but she had had enough of this, and to think Claire was suffering because–

“Pam?”

“Melissa Tremayne was a
slut
!” she told him, seeing shock flood Edward’s face, feeling something break free inside. “Oh, a darling, sprigged-muslin little slut to be sure, but– ” 

Edward raised a hand, about to hit her, to slap a woman for the first time in his life. All movement stopped as Pamela looked up at him, in anger and in love, refusing to turn away, to raise a hand to ward off the blow.

He lowered his hand.

“How . . . how could you say that?” he breathed. “Frederick’s wife was hardly more than a child.”

“A child?  You cannot possibly have been that blind!” Pam cried. “She slept with everyone, Edward,
everyone
!  Chedley, Lord Drere  - ”

“That can’t be true!”

 “–
both
the Alnwick brothers–”

“Stop!” said Edward. He was breathing hard.

“–and probably a footman or two if nobody else was around. No, I won’t stop!  And it is true!  She would have slept with
you
if you’d given her half an opportunity!  You must have seen what she was doing!” 

Edward looked stunned and Pam was almost crying, her voice hoarse with the effort to make him understand. Who had she been trying to protect all these years, Melissa or Frederick?  Or Edward?  But the dam was breached now, and the words tumbled out.