Autumn Rain (34 page)

What he'd not wanted to admit, what stung his pride, was that he'd been unable to heal inside. Despite all the pain, he still wanted her.

"Ahem."

It was Beatty. Lucien straightened up and gestured to the port, but the doctor shook his head. For a moment, the earl was afraid to ask, and yet he had to.

"How is she? You were up there a long time."

"You want it delicately—or would you have the truth?" Beatty asked, dropping tiredly into a chair.

"The truth."

"For all his reputation, Moreston's a butcher." For a moment, Lucien's blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

"Woman's all torn up—the babe was coming wrong, and he had to turn it. Damned near let her bleed to death."

But she will recover?"

He nodded. "Had to stitch a bit—daresay it'll be awhile before she wants to have another. Weak," he added, "damned weak—and the beating did not help matters." His eyes met Lucien's. "Healthy babe, though."

"She's mine," Lucien admitted baldly.

"Not hard to tell it."

"No."

"Thing is, don't see why he had to beat her—must've known long before now."

"He didn't want a daughter."

"A man as would beat a female in her condition ought not to live," the doctor declared, rising. "Best go before Mrs. Beatty calls out the constable to look for me—didn't have time to tell her where I was going." Momentarily, he clasped Lucien's shoulder, then released it. "Aye— she'll recover."

A long time after the physician left, Lucien sat there, wanting to go up, to see for himself. His drink sat un- touched on the table beside him. Finally, he heaved himself up from the chair and went up, not to see her, but to dress. And when he came down, he was ready to ride, armed with his dragoon pistols and his rifle. Beatty was right—even if Elinor survived, Kingsley did not deserve to live.

CHAPTER 33

Dawn was breaking through the fog, making the morning mist almost rose. Beads of water condensed on his face like perspiration, and even his cloak, his breeches, and his boots were damp. He spread his cloak, exposing his coat to cover his saddle holsters, to keep his pistols dry. In front of him, slung over his military saddle, lay his rifle, its bayonet gleaming wetly in the early light.

Not even the coolness of the mist on his brow could ease the heat of his anger as he thought of Kingsley. And it did not matter that he would probably swing on the Nubbing Cheat for what he meant to do. He should have done it long ago—he should have done it when the old man had first offered Nell to him. For he'd known then that her life was little better than a hell. But instead, no matter how it happened, he'd done what Kingsley asked, and he and Nell had paid bitterly for it.

The house loomed ahead, rising out of the mists, a monolith of stone like something in a Gothic novel. There was almost an eerie silence to it, as though it awaited him.

He dismounted some distance from the house, drew his pistols, checked his load, the single ball and powder cap in each of them, then walked purposefully to the door to bang the knocker. When no one answered, he tried the door, surprised when it swung inward. It was as though the place were deserted, empty of all but the trappings of the old man's wealth. His bootsteps echoed as he crossed the marble floor of the foyer, and still no one came to stop him.

With his elbow, he pushed open the door to the front saloon, unprepared for the devastation that greeted him. There was glass everywhere, from shattered windows to the shards of stemware, the elegant window hangings had been pulled from their tilted fixtures, and the walls bore holes as though there had been a siege of sorts. Then he saw Kingsley.

His first thought was that he'd been cheated, that the old man had committed suicide. The baron lay facedown, his arm outstretched, his own pistol a few inches from his hand. And a dark red stain had spread across the thick, expensive carpet, seemingly coming from beneath him. An ammunition box and an old-fashioned powder horn lay empty beside him.

Lucien walked closer to stand over him, then turned him over contemptuously with the toe of his boot. There was no hole, and pieces of a crystal decanter betrayed that it was port rather than blood on the rug. Although his eyes were closed, Kingsley's chest rose and fell.

"Get up—damn you—get up!" Lucien shouted at him. "Get up! I'd have you know when I put a ball into you!"

"I'm afraid he cannot."

He swung around, seeing Peake, who shrank at the sight of his pistols. "Get him up," he ordered. "I want him sobered."

The butler, who considered that he had perhaps passed the worst night of his life, did not move. "I cannot—we have tried to rouse him to no avail." His gaze went from the pistols to Lucien's face. "It would appear he has suffered a fit of apoplexy, my lord. Indeed, but Dr. Beatty has been sent for."

"I don't believe you!"

Peake shrugged. "Well, he can see, but he is unable to speak." His eyes dropped to Kingsley. "One of the footmen discovered him thus less than an hour ago." He walked past Lucien and bent to retrieve his employer's flintlock pistol, then held it out. "We've had rather a bad time of it, I'm afraid. We had to wait until it was thought he'd exhausted his powder, and thus he had spent the better part of the night shooting up the place. Twice Jeremy attempted to disarm him, but was fired upon."

"He's drunk," Lucien muttered.

But even as he said it, he knew better. The old man's eyes had opened and there was a terror in them, and it had nothing to do with him. It was as though Kingsley's face were frozen, as all that moved were the eyes. Spit drooled from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm afraid you have come to kill a dying man," Peake said tiredly, sitting down. "But you are welcome to await Dr. Beatty that it can be confirmed." He looked up at Lucien. "How fares Lady Kingsley?"

"I don't know—Beatty says she will live."

"Dreadful business—I am sorry for it."

Lucien walked to a broken window and peered out from a drapery that hung askew. "Beatty's been up all night."

"So have we all. Poor Mrs. Peake is in a taking, for we had to seek shelter in the stable. And the maid Agnes is engaging in a fit of hysteria. Dreadful night, sir— dreadful." The butler shuddered visibly. "At least we were more fortunate than the others, who were forced to hide in the cellar with the rats. It's apparently what ails Agnes—I am told she was bitten as she tried to sleep against a sack of flour."

He rambled on, trying to describe the horrors of the night, but Lucien was beyond listening. He had to wait for Beatty. He had to know if Kingsley would survive.

It was a long wait, for the doctor had grumbled over being rousted from his bed twice, but in the end he'd come. As the household came to life, many gathered outside in the hall to hear. Beatty knelt beside the old man, moving a candle above his eyes, then attempted to flex Kingsley's limbs. "No doubt about it," he declared when he rose, "the brain is involved." He looked to Peake. "You can move him upstairs."

"How long will he live?" Lucien asked grimly.

"Well"—Beatty attempted to wipe wine stains from his breeches before he answered—"as to that, I cannot say, my lord. If he has another equally severe episode, I'd say that would end it. But I have seen cases where the patient regains a portion of his powers and continues on for years. Given his age, I'd not like to make a prognosis yet." His eyes met Lucien's. "In any event, he is not likely to offer violence to anyone again. You may reassure Lady Kingsley on that head."

Lucien gestured to the pistols. "I came to kill him."

"You won't have to. How old is he—sixty-six? I should think it highly unlikely he will survive overlong. Perhaps not the night, perhaps not the year."

"It's not good enough. He ought to be dead for what he has done to her."

Beatty shrugged, then shook his head. "Sometimes, my lord, this is worse than death."

As Daggett directed footmen in carrying the baron upstairs, Peake recalled his duties. "A glass of sherry, sirs? I am afraid we are out of port at the moment. Unless, of course, you would wish me to send to the cellars—"

The doctor nodded. "After the night I have passed, I could use it. My lord?"

Lucien shook his head. "No. I am for home."

As Peake discreetly withdrew to search for a whole glass, Beatty stopped Lucien. "Were I you," he advised, "I should bring her back as soon as she can travel."

"No."

"Scandal can be a dreadful thing, my lord—and there is a child to consider."

"After what he has done—" Lucien choked, unable to finish for his anger. Exhaling to control it, he said, "You saw her—how the devil—?"

"He is in no case to harm her," Beatty repeated. "But you of all people have witnessed what wagging tongues can do, have you not?"

"I won't even be at the Park—I have orders to leave day after tomorrow. With Cotton still ill, I have to go."

Beatty's eyebrows lifted. "Back to the Peninsula? My dear Longford—"

"We are invading France."

For a moment, the doctor appeared startled by the news, then his mouth formed a silent "Oh."

"Yes. Do you think I could go and leave her at his mercy? What if he should recover enough to do this again?"

"I hardly think it likely, my lord."

"I don't want to deal with 'likely,' sir!" Lucien snapped. "I want to know she is safe!"

"If you leave her at the Park, you brand her—aye, and you tell the world your daughter is a bastard. Perhaps if her father were to come—"

"Her father!" Lucien snorted contemptuously. "You've seen him, and you would suggest it?"

"Then perhaps Lord Leighton? I collect he knows. Let him deal with Kingsley for you," Beatty suggested reasonably. "Surely she could flee to him if—"

"And compound the scandal?"

"No. No, you mistake my meaning. Should Kingsley recover sufficiently to understand it, perhaps Leighton could negotiate the terms for her remaining here. Kingsley is, after all is said, a proud man. When his disappointment is over, he will wish to acknowledge the child, I'd think."

"Still—"

"For him it must surely be better than having the world know he has been cuckolded, than having it said he's naught but an old fool," Beatty argued reasonably.

"And until then—until he comes to see the sanity of that?" Lucien demanded harshly.

"You've got to send her back—for her sake and for the child's."

"No. Look around you—you have seen what he has done."

"My lord, he cannot even hold the pistol."

As he rode back to Langston Park, Lucien felt as though his cup of gall overflowed. It seemed as though all his life he had been embittered by one thing or another—his mother, Mad Jack, Diana. The only respite had been Elinor, and it had been a brief one. And now, when he might have the chance to redeem himself with her, to win her love, he was going back to Spain, perhaps never to come home again.

Cold reason told him Beatty was right—he'd have to send her back to Stoneleigh. And Arthur still lived. Damn him—he still lived.

He struggled within himself, arguing that he could resign his commission and take her away—but where? Although Wellington had won at Vittoria, the war still raged on. And it was laughable to think they'd be welcomed in America. And even if there was some place, even if she would go, which he doubted, she would be branded before society as his mistress.

If Kingsley recovered at all, he would be within his rights to repudiate the child. The world would know her for a bastard. The irony of it was not lost on him—as long as Kingsley could be made complacent in the matter, everything was all right, and Elinor's behavior was if not entirely condoned, certainly not condemned. As long as Kingsley did not kick up a dust, Elinor would be considered no worse than Sally Jersey or Lady Holland, both of whom were received everywhere.

By the time he reached home, he was not only bone-weary but heartsick. And as bitter as he'd ever been. Never in his life had he been given a decent choice. He still had no hope of happiness.

Putting his pistols and rifle away, he trudged the stairs like a man going to the gallows. He hesitated outside her bedchamber door, then pushed it open. Mary rose when she saw him and placed a finger over her lips, indicating the sleeping figures on the bed. "Beatty gave her ladyship opium," she whispered, "but it's just now as we got the babe ter sleep." Nodding, he gestured silently for her to leave.

He waited until the maid was gone, then he pulled a chair close to the bed. Sitting, he leaned forward to brush the tangled copper hair back from Elinor's swollen, bruised face. In contrast, her hand, where it clutched the covers, was white and bloodless. Despite all the bitter, angry words she'd flung at him, he felt a great tenderness for her. And he cursed himself for failing her.

His gaze rested on the tiny babe that lay sleeping in the crook of her arm, its black-thatched head barely visible above its swaddlings. His daughter. He had a daughter born of the greatest passion of his life. He wanted to touch the dark hair, to look into his child's face, but he dared not waken her. He dared not even claim her. She'd been born a Kingsley, and if he loved either of them, he'd have to leave it at that.

Still, he could not help the acute longing that tore at his soul when he looked on them. If anything were right in this world, Elinor would have been his wife, the babe the firstborn of his name. Instead, he would have to send them back to Kingsley.

His eyes returned to Elinor, remembering how she'd scarce let him help her up the stairs. God, how she must hate him, what it must have cost her pride to come to

Langston Park. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of touching her again, of tracing the fine profile, of feeling the softness of her breath against his hand. There had been a time when that breath had come in great gasps, when those amber eyes of hers had been almost dark with an answering passion, when shed drawn him to her, when she'd wanted him as much as he'd wanted her. When she'd conceived his daughter.

The aching loneliness inside him was almost too great to bear. For a long time, he sat there, staring at the copper-framed marble face, wanting to waken her, to tell her that Arthur had lied, that it had been love as much as desire that made their child. But he was going away, and she was going back to Arthur. And even if she believed him, even if by some miracle she could love him also, he could not do it. He'd seen her agony when Charles Kingsley had died, and if he did not come back— no, he could not do that to her again. If he perished, it was better that she thought she hated him.

Finally, he leaned down to steal a kiss from Nell's cold lips, then brushed his daughter's black hair with his hand, marveling at how small she was. If—when he came back, she would not look like this, and he knew it.

He looked again at Elinor and whispered softly, "I tried to kill him for you, Nell, but I was too late. I tried to free you from his prison, but I couldn't shoot a helpless man. I was willing to hang for you, Nell."

He rose wearily and passed his hand over his eyes. She couldn't hear him, and even if she could, there were no words he could give her now, not while she still belonged to Arthur, not while he was going back to battle. Someday—if he lived—he'd tell her Kingsley lied, that what had been between them had nothing to do with Arthur. That he'd wanted her for a long time before he'd gone to Stoneleigh.

Resolutely, he straightened aching shoulders and went to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned back for one last look, then he wrenched the door open. Today he was going to bed. Later, he'd see Leighton. And tomorrow he would leave again for hell.