Autumn Rain (33 page)

He watched her go, thinking that Longford had been a fool. Had it been he, he would have fled with her, and he was not even a particularly romantic sort. As it was, they were both condemned to misery. He set aside his empty glass and rose also, murmuring apologetically, "Got to run myself, I'm afraid. Merely promised Mrs. Thurstan to convey her regards to Lady Kingsley."

Arthur waited until he'd retrieved his beaver hat from Peake at the door, then he spoke up, his voice quite cold. "Do not think I mean to make the same mistake twice, George."

Leighton turned around. "You know, Arthur, there are times when you remind me of one of the French Louis."

"The Fourteenth?" the old man inquired, somewhat pleased.

"No—the Eleventh."

For a moment, Kingsley's brow furrowed.

"The Spider King," George said. "Good day, my lord."

Lucien sat alone, brooding with naught but a bottle of brandy for company, in the cottage where he'd spent so many hours with her. Damn her! Why had she not listened to him? Leighton's report of her words rang in his ears.
You can tell him I will see him in hell... in hell... in hell
... As if he were not there already.
And if he would know, let him ask for himself... let him ask for himself
... What the devil had she meant by that? Was that some sort of invitation?

He lurched to his feet, beyond caring for appearances anymore. Whether she wanted to hear it or not, he wanted her to know that Arthur had lied. He wanted to tell her that if she would go with him, he'd take her anywhere, that he would wed her when the old man died. He wanted to tell her that she'd given him the only happiness in his life, and that he wanted her back, whatever the cost. For her, he'd even face another scandal.

It was not until he was nearly to Stoneleigh that he sobered slightly, that he began to realize he rode on a fool's errand, for even if she would go, could she do that to the child? He reined in, torn between want and right, and sat there, staring at the huge country house in the distance. And want won.

He nudged the bay forward, telling himself he might never have another chance to put it to the touch, to ever see her again. It would be like Arthur to take her somewhere else if he even thought she might come to Lucien again.

He rode straight for the portico and dismounted, tossing his reins to a silent ostler, then mounted the steps unsteadily to pound the heavy brass knocker. The door opened, but the butler blocked the entrance, inquiring stiffly if he could be of any assistance to his lordship.

"I am come to see Lady Kingsley."

"She is not receiving, I'm afraid."

"But she is at home?"

"As to that, I'm sure I cannot say, my lord."

Lucien pushed past him into the foyer, and started up the stairs. Two footmen caught him from behind, holding his arms, and as he tried to shake them off, he nearly lost his balance.

"Got to tell her—I've got to tell her! Damn you—let me go!"

"Here now—ye got ter leave," one of them insisted, pulling him back. "Jem—bring up his lordship's horse!" he shouted, trying to turn the earl around.

"Nell! I know damned well you are up there! Nell! Cannot go until—" He swung around, breaking one footman's hold, and started dragging the other up the stairs. "Nell!"

She'd heard him when he confronted Peake, and for a moment, it was as though her heart stood still, as though her blood had turned to ice. And yet there was that within her traitorous mind that wanted to see him again, as though that somehow might end it once and for all. She forced herself to open her bedchamber door and step into the hall.

"Come out, Nell!" he shouted. "Want to tell you—"

"You want to tell me what?" she asked coldly, standing at the top of the stairs. "That you are too sotted to stand?"

"Got to listen! I want the babe—d'you hear me? I want it, Nell! Take you—" He took another step up, then stopped, swaying.

Jeremy lunged for him, and this time he and the other footman managed to pull both of the earl's arms behind him. "Come on, my lord—you are in no case—"

Lucien looked up, seeing her face for the first time since the day Arthur had taken her away. His gaze dropped to her swollen body. "Still beautiful, Nell—even with the babe."

His black hair was rumpled as though it had not been combed, and his black eyes were bleary as though he'd not slept. And despite the scar that crossed his nose and cheek, he was still the handsomest man of her memory. Others could admire Lord Ponsonby, but he would pale against Longford. She had to hold the banister and draw from the well of pain within her to keep from going down. She had to remember how much she hated him.

"You are disgustingly disguised, Luce," she told him.

"Want you—never wanted—"

"Get out of my house, Longford, else I shall fire." Arthur had come into the hall behind the earl, and he held a pistol leveled at the center of Lucien's back. He looked up at Elinor. "Well, my dear?"

"Come on, Nell—tell him which of us you want," Lucien mumbled. "Tell him—"

If she went down, she had not the least doubt that Arthur would shoot him. She closed her eyes, remembering how Longford had betrayed her, and she shook her head.

"Perhaps you'd best answer him, Elinor," Arthur prompted, cocking the piece.

"I don't care if you kill him." As she turned back to her bedchamber, she could feel her babe kick beneath her ribs, convincing her she did the right thing. Even if she had still loved Longford, which she did not, she owed her child Arthur's name. Even if later she had to fight for its soul.

"Nell!" Longford shouted as they dragged him away.

She closed the door and stood with her head against the wall for a moment, then she went to the window to look as it took three men to force Lucien outside. Had he not been drunk, he'd not have come at all, she told herself, and yet she could not help staring down as he somehow managed to swing up into his saddle, nor could she help watching him until he was out of sight.

Utterly dispirited, she sat down at her small writing desk and began a letter to her mother, begging her to come, telling her that she'd try to intervene with Arthur on her father's behalf if only she could be supported through the last of her pregnancy. "Please, Mama," she wrote, "I have greater need of you now than in any time since my own birth."

CHAPTER 32

Stoneleigh: July 6, 1813

The pain came in waves, tightening her distended abdomen, gaining in intensity until Elinor thought she was being ripped apart, and still the babe did not present itself. She was tired, so tired that all she wanted was for it to be over, and her lips were bloodied from being bitten. Her mother sat beside her, wiping her sweaty brow with a cool, wet cloth, while Dr. Moreston prepared yet another dose of laudanum. Somewhere below Arthur waited, ready to toast the birth of the Kingsley heir.

Through the mist of pain and drug, Elinor could hear the physician tell her mother, "The position is wrong, I am afraid."

"Is it breech?"

"No—it's on its side and will have to be turned."

"She's bleeding."

She was dying, and she knew it. Elinor strained still, trying to relieve herself of her burden before she took the babe with her, dimly wondering if she did it any service at all in leaving it to Arthur. Mary lifted her head, forcing her to drink more of the hated laudanum. She gagged, then managed to swallow. The voices around her grew more distant, and her mother's hand left her forehead to clasp her fingers.

Something was pushing upward at the same time an intense cramp pushed downward, and somewhere in the distance she could hear herself scream. She couldn't be dying—she could still feel it. Pain after pain after pain.

"Luce! Luce!
Lucien!"
she cried, wanting him to hear her.

Someone thrust something between her teeth, and she bit down hard as there was one last searing tear, then a brief respite before it began again, this time with far less intensity. She could feel the kneading on her stomach, the wet mass coming forth, and then it was over. She floated, hearing nothing.

Leaning over her, her mother soothed her wet hair, murmuring soothingly that it was done. Finally, there was the thin, thready cry of an infant, and then a more insistent squalling. She tried to open her eyes to see her son and could not.

"Is he—is he all right?" she whispered through swollen, cracked lips.

There was an awkward, momentary silence, then her mother told her, "It's a girl, Nell—you have a beautiful black-haired daughter."

"I don't know how to tell him," she heard Moreston say.

It came home to her then. She had a daughter. A
daughter.
As Mary swaddled the babe and brought it to lay in the crook of her arm, she managed to look down, and then she began to laugh hysterically. The jest was on Arthur—
she had a daughter!

Thinking the laudanum had affected her mind, the physician tried to calm her, reassuring her that she could have a son the next time. She shook her head, unable to control the high-pitched laughter.

"There cannot be a next time!" she gasped finally.

There was another silence, and it was obvious that none wished to go below to tell Lord Kingsley the babe was a girl, that everyone had been mistaken. Finally, after downing a large glass of medicinal brandy from his bag, Moreston faced the task with great reluctance, saying that he hoped the unfortunate circumstances would not affect his lordship's willingness to pay the agreed-upon sum.

"Nell, you must get hold of yourself," her mother told her severely. "What was Moreston to think?"

To which her daughter dissolved into whoops once more. "Don't—don't you see, Mama? I have finally done it!"

"Dearest, if you do not stop this, it will be said you have lost your mind."

"No—no—he will not wish to rule her! It's a girl, Mama!"

Her mother moved the cover from the infant's head and peered more closely at it. "Well, under the circumstances, it would have been ever so much better were she possessed of your hair. There is bound to be talk—"

"No." Elinor caught her breath finally, then exhaled to calm the elation she felt. "He has made so much over preparing for the babe, he cannot deny it."

Arthur did not come up, nor did the physician return, and the whole household seemed to be plunged into silence as the whispered word spread that Lady Kingsley had borne a daughter. For a time, Elinor slept, content to feel the small bundle against her, and when she wakened to its wail, she marveled at the tiny, screwed-up face, the little rounded mouth, the red, shaking fists.

Her mother uncovered one of her breasts, set the child to it, then tickled the babe's cheek until it tried to suck. "There's no milk yet, but it will come," she reassured her.

That too gave her a measure of satisfaction. No doubt now Arthur would not care whether she had a wet nurse or not. Indeed, but he was probably too angered with her to look at the babe he would have to claim.

When it calmed, Mary laid the babe in the expensive cradle, and began rocking her. Elinor slept again, this time the sleep of the exhausted, and did not hear her husband come into the room, nor did she see the fury in his face as he raised his cane. She came awake screaming as he beat her unmercifully, striking her head and shoulders again and again, calling her a whore, shouting that she'd cheated him. Her mother, roused from her bed, tried to intervene, only to be struck also.

The footman Jeremy, wakened by the shouting, ran half-clothed into the bedchamber to stop Kingsley, at first trying to calm him, then wresting his cane from him. Even Peake and Mrs. Peake came to stare. Convinced that the old man was better, Jeremy made the mistake of releasing him, and Kingsley turned his anger to the cradle. Screaming that he'd be hanged before he acknowledged Longford's bastard, he turned it over, dumping the babe onto the floor, startling it, and it squalled loudly.

"My lord," Peake remonstrated with him, "it's but an infant!"

"I'll kill it—I swear I'll kill it!" With that, the old man limped painfully from the room, leaving a stunned staff to stare at each other.

Bruises were already visible and one eye was closing as Elinor took her daughter from Mary's arms and began crooning softly to stop her crying. Downstairs, there was the sound of crashing as though in his fury Arthur was bent on destroying everything.

It was the young footman who dared to speak first. "Her ladyship's got to get out of here."

"Where—?" Elinor's mother hesitated. "It's the middle of the night, and she cannot simply—"

"Got ter go ter Longford," Mary declared.

"Longford! The scandal—" Lady Ashton caught herself and shut her mouth quickly, thinking perhaps they did not know.

"I daresay it will be a scandal anyway," Peake pointed out reasonably. There was another crash from below, then an outraged bellow. "Under the circumstances—"

"No," Elinor said hollowly, "I could not."

They heard a pistol report, and there was a sudden silence as each thought the worst. Then Arthur shouted again, his voice carrying up the stairs, "I'll kill the little bastard before I acknowledge it!"

"My lady, you've got to go," Mrs. Peake insisted.
"Now. "

"An inn—perhaps an inn."

The butler shook his head. "It will be a more public scandal than Longford. At least the earl might hold his tongue, which is more than I can say for—"

"No."

There was another pistol shot, indicating that Arthur had reloaded. Not waiting to argue, Mary threw a clean blanket over her mistress, then took the babe from her. "The back stairs—he don't come up 'em," she whispered urgently.

For once, neither the butler nor his wife appeared stiff and unconcerned. The housekeeper grasped Elinor's arm and pushed her into the hall, while Peake directed Lady Ashton behind them. Outside, at the back of the house, the lantern was nearly obscured by fog.

"We cannot go," Elinor protested.

"Ye got to. Fer the babe's sake, if not fer yer own," Mary insisted.

Convinced now that her elderly son-in-law was indeed a madman, Lady Ashton pulled her wrapper closer and demanded that someone procure the carriage. From time to time, as they stood in the swirling, cloudy darkness, another shot could be heard coming from within the house. Finally, the Kingsley coach rolled out of the carriage house, with the sleepy driver complaining of the hour, only to be told that the old man meant to kill them all.

It was not until Elinor, the infant, Lady Ashton, and Mary were safely bundled into the carriage, that Jeremy turned back to the house.

"Ain't ye going?" Mary called out in alarm.

"Got to disarm him before he hurts himself!" he shouted back.

"Nay—ye cannot!" Then, "I pray ye be careful!"

Peake and his wife hesitated, then decided not to go, saying that they would hide until it was safe to return, that they thought once Elinor and her babe were removed, his lordship could be soothed.

As the driver's whip cracked and the coach began to move, Elinor swallowed hard. "Mama, I cannot go to Longford—I cannot—I cannot."

"Ye got to," Mary pointed out practically. "He ain't like ter turn his own flesh and blood away." As she spoke, she settled the babe into Elinor's arms.

"Well, I cannot like it, of course," Lady Ashton murmured, "but I cannot see as there is a great deal of choice, Nell."

Elinor turned her face to the carriage wall and whispered low, "You don't understand—I'd not face him."

"It would have been very much better for us all had you decided that last year," her mother retorted, then relented enough to clasp her hand. "But we shall contrive, dearest—we shall contrive."

Elinor huddled miserably against the side and pulled the blanket around her infant daughter and herself. They did not understand that she hated him, that she'd almost rather die than ask him for anything.

It had taken the driver's persistent knocking to rouse the house, and even then the lights within were slow to come on. Mary held one of Elinor's elbows, her mother the other, while she herself warmed her babe within the blanket.

The bleary-eyed butler stared for a moment, as though he could scarce believe what he saw, then he managed to utter, "'Pon my word—get his lordship, will you, Will?" He stepped back, allowing them to enter. "Has there been some sort of accident?"

Wakened by the noise, Lucien himself came out upstairs and looked over the polished rail, seeing the three women, all in their nightgowns. "Good God—what happened?" he demanded, coming down, taking the steps two or more at a time. He stopped when he got closer, stunned by the sight of Elinor's battered face, and his jaw worked as he fought rising anger.

"Did Kingsley do this?" he demanded.

Before her mistress could refuse his assistance, Mary burst out with, "Oh, yer lordship—it was terrible! And my lady was but delivered of the babe! Why, it was a hard birthin', and she can scarce stand, and he—"

Elinor closed her eyes and swayed between her maid and her mother. "I did not want to come," she whispered. "I did not want to come."

It was then that he saw the blood on her nightgown and on his foyer floor, and he thought she was going to faint. He reached for her, but she kept her arms clasped around her babe. The blanket fell open, revealing the red, wrinkled little face—and the shock of black hair.

"It's a daughter," Lady Ashton said simply.

With an effort, Elinor forced herself to look up at him. "Please, Luce—perhaps the cottage rather than here."

"No."

"Lord Kingsley's gone mad," Mary reported. "He was shootin' his pistol when we left."

"Then you are safer here," he muttered tersely. "Here-"

He would have lifted her, but Elinor twisted her body, struggling. "Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't touch me!"

"Don't be a fool, Nell!" he snapped. "You are bleeding like a stuck pig—you've got to have a doctor." This time, instead of picking her up, he caught her beneath her shoulder, telling Mary, "I've got her—you get the babe." She was shivering, and he could not tell whether it was from cold or his touch. "Come on. Between your mother and me, we'll get you to bed."

She felt weak, dizzy, and as they took her up the stairs, she stumbled several times, but each time when he would have picked her up, she shook her head, mumbling, "I am all right."

"Get Beatty," he ordered over his shoulder. 'Wow. "

Her hands were like ice and her teeth were chattering by the time they got her to a bedchamber. "It's the loss of blood," he muttered, "I've seen it before."

"She'll ruin the bed," Mary said. By now, the babe had wakened and was squalling indignantly. To still her, the maid stuck her little finger in its mouth. "And her ladyship's in no case ter nurse."

It was as though the entire household had come to life. Lucien's housekeeper rolled sheets to place beneath Elinor, while his valet produced one of his nightshirts, apologizing to Lady Ashton that "As there are no females in residence, it's all we have." One of the chambermaids came forward, remembering that "Molly Fairchild's boy is near to weanin,' " whereupon a footman was dispatched to fetch the woman and urged to make haste.

As the women cleaned Elinor and changed her gown, Lucien made his way down to await Beatty. It was not until he sank into a chair in his saloon that it came home to him that he had a daughter, that he and Elinor had a daughter—a red, screaming, black-haired daughter.

As tired as he was—he'd been asleep but a quarter hour before—there was a certain exhilaration that accompanied the realization. But it was tempered by fear. And anger. If anything happened to Elinor, he would take Arthur Kingsley's cane from him and beat him senseless—before he killed him.

Beatty came and went upstairs for what seemed an age. The floor above creaked with the footsteps of people moving about in the bedchamber. The Fairchild woman arrived and was promptly dispatched up also, and then there was a respite of silence. Lucien sat slumped in his chair before the empty fireplace, waiting and listening to the steady ticking of a mantel clock. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he reached for a decanter and poured himself a glass of port, then stared into the dark red liquid for a time.

She'd not wanted to come. If she'd had anywhere else to run, she'd have gone there. She could not even stand for him to touch her anywhere. His hand brushed over his face wearily, and he felt the thin, fine scars on his cheek and nose. She'd damned near cut his face open, and the whip marks had taken a long time to heal.