Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (31 page)

Christ, this was what Gareth tried to warn him about in the
garden last week. “Every time you cross paths, her heart cries out for a kind
word from you, for love and acceptance—for forgiveness for what she perceives
as her failing in your eyes.”

Gareth saw what he couldn’t see. While he remained distant,
Lizzie convinced herself it was because he despised her for having been abused
by her captors.

“I don’t deserve your kindness. Please, don’t hate me.” Lizzie
pleaded last night.

 And Jack had sized up the situation quickly; “I’ll not look
the other way when a woman I care for is being subjected to intolerable
cruelty.”

There it was, the true reason his longtime friend turned
against him. The reason his uncle reproached him. They saw what he couldn’t
see. His wife was staggering beneath a load of guilt and shame that should
never have been her portion.

His eyes burned. His throat closed up. Donovan turned away
and held his head in his hands, unable to think or breathe as the full weight
of his carelessness settled upon him.

“Why do I feel as if I’m being punished?” He bit into his
knuckles as Lizzie’s words yesterday flayed his conscience with fresh meaning. “All
you ever do is snarl at me . . . You act as if you can’t stand me—as if you
regret marrying me!”

Christ, and in her state of mind, she would believe it was
her own fault for it all.

He turned back to her, determined to remove the cruel barb
lodged in her heart.

Lizzie was asleep. The Laudanum. She was out cold and would
be for hours, as he’d given her a strong dose.

********

Donovan paced the room aimlessly. He moved out onto the
veranda as the afternoon stretched on without mercy. He stood at the balcony,
his eye on turquoise seas beyond the estate.

The soft trill of delight caught his attention. He shifted
his gaze to the gardens below. A woman’s laughter was answered by a resonant
baritone he knew well. He couldn’t see the couple but it was apparent Gareth
was entertaining some female in the secluded gardens. He watched, hoping for a
glimpse of his uncle’s mysterious companion.

A woman darted out from behind a marble statue, giggling as
her lover gave pursuit. It was Chloe Ramirez, Elizabeth’s maid. That explained
her mysterious absences in the afternoon.

Gareth caught Chloe in his arms, although she didn’t make it
hard for him. Quite the opposite, she wanted to be caught. They engaged in an
earthy kiss. Donovan hunched over the rail, his forearms crossed as he studied
the pair below. Chloe was a servant, not just any servant, but Elizabeth’s
favorite. Perhaps he’d better have a talk with Gareth. Lizzie would never
forgive him if her maid were taken advantage of by his uncle and he did nothing
to dissuade the man.

Then again, a little romance could be just what his uncle
needed. A woman to provide for and the promise of a family could be the making
of Gareth. It might stir him a little and make him take an interest in the
estate he himself garnered a living from.

Yes, Donovan thought, Chloe could be just the tonic Gareth
needed.

How could he encourage the relationship without overtly
appearing to be doing so? He could raise Chloe’s status. As a paid companion
instead of a maid, Chloe would be on a little more equal footing with Gareth,
clearing the way for a proper courtship to blossom. Chloe’s father, the
youngest son of a noble Spanish family, had been the steward here some years
ago. Her mother had been the man’s slave mistress who died giving birth to
Chloe. Juan Ramirez fairly doted on his child by all accounts. When the
Spaniard died, Donovan’s grandfather callously sent the girl to the slave
compound to live with her maternal grandmother instead of taking her in as his
ward and notifying Ramirez’ relatives in Spain of the child’s existence, which
would have been the honorable thing to do.

Alas, his grandfather was remembered for his peccadilloes,
not for decency and kindness.

Turning away from the clandestine lovers, he went inside.

The sun moved lower in the sky. Lizzie slept. Donovan
brooded.

Desperate for some task lest he go mad with waiting, he
summoned the butler for a private interview. He began by informing the man of
his decision regarding Chloe, and directed him to attend the necessary details.
He asked Giles’ advice on a suitable replacement for a lady’s maid. Upon
receiving it, he told the butler he must assume responsibility to train the new
maid in the absence of a competent housekeeper. The butler struggled to hide
his shock at such a bald assessment, obviously not accustomed to plain speaking
from his American employer.

Donovan paused to rein in his anger. It had been a mistake
trying to pass Tabby off as a housekeeper with his wife. She’d been his
grandfather’s live in mistress for twenty years. He allowed Tabby to remain
after his grandfather’s death as she was old with no family or means of
support. She looked after the stable lads, did laundry, kept the old cook
company, and ordered supplies from Basseterre. The arrangement worked for both;
an old tart and a bachelor. He assumed the woman would treat his new wife with
respect. Such had not been the case.

He shared his concerns regarding the ‘housekeeper’ with
Giles, with the admonition that he expected the man to be his eyes and ears in
that quarter and report any indiscretion on Tabby’s part immediately.

The butler stood with hands clasped behind his back. He
groaned like an old bulldog and then said, “I discovered something disturbing,
sir, but as her ladyship is ill and you are distracted with her care, I thought
it prudent to postpone my report until a more opportune time.” He glanced at
the form on the bed, and back at Donovan, his face a study in sorrow.

Seated next to the bed with his booted calf balanced across
his knee, Donovan gave an exasperated hiss. “She’s sedated. She can’t hear a
word. Out with it, man!”

“My lord, you are being slowly and efficiently robbed by
that wretched woman.”

“What!” Donovan thundered, dropping his foot to the floor.
“Explain yourself.”

Giles started. His gaze darted to the bed. Seeing the mistress
was unmoved by the master’s loud outburst, he ventured further in a low voice.
“I thought it prudent to acquaint myself with the cost of maintaining the
household, given my new position. I discovered the sums in the household
expense ledgers have been fixed. It appears you have been feeding a full staff
of servants here for the past four years, sir. I believe Miss Wilkes pocketed
the difference and has managed to put away a tidy sum at your expense.”

 Half an hour later, Donovan sat at his desk in his
laboratory. Giles stood to his right, directing him to the suspicious entries
in the ledger. There it was, in Tabby’s hand, the inflated supply bill from
Basseterre for each month, the dry goods exaggerated beyond what was needed to
feed the two gentleman, three servants and three stable boys residing on the
estate before Donovan’s marriage. He summoned Tabby and asked her to explain.

Her reply was fraught with a rancid bitterness she’d kept
hidden over the years. “I played his twisted games of dominance and submission.
He promised to make me his wife. I gave that man twenty years of my life. He
didn’t leave me a damned shilling—“

“Whatever promises my grandfather made to you in the throes
of passion is of no concern to me. I repeat, why have you stolen money from me,
Madame?”

“You’re his heir. It’s all the same to me.” She responded
tartly. “I should be mistress here, not that pathetic twit upstairs. She needs
a keeper and a locked room if you ask me.”

Donovan had never hit a woman in his life. He was
dangerously close to it now. With Giles and Pearl beside him, he struggled to
contain his fury with the shameless, ungrateful tart. “Giles, have Duchamp and
O’Leary escort Miss Wilkes to her room to pack her things and then take her to
Basseterre. And you, Miss Wilkes, had best hope some pox ridden sailor will
take you in, because you are no longer welcome under this roof.”

Donovan returned to his suite. He resumed his vigil near the
bed. The silence was maddening. He cursed himself for his eagerness in giving
Lizzie Laudanum.

Drumming his fingers on his upraised knee, he went over the
bizarre conversation with Lizzie before she fell asleep. Why was she desperate
to make him believe she was untouched?

Why now? Her abuse was a long established fact between them.

There was one way to determine the truth, by examining her,
as she suggested. Doing so when she was unconscious would prevent further upset
when his findings countered her outlandish claim about being a virgin.

A short time later, Donovan sank into the chair again,
greatly troubled.

Lizzie was telling him the truth. Her maidenhead was still
intact.

“Oh, I shagged the wench!” Captain Sully had insisted.

Elizabeth claimed her menstrual flow repulsed her attacker.

Her story could be true. The difficulty came as he
considered her profound fear of intimacy. Her terror was not contrived. She had
merely to look at his groin and a paralyzing fear claimed her features. That
reaction was too severe for a maid unacquainted with male passion.

He gazed at his sleeping angel, dread gnawing at his insides
as he tried to resolve her fear of intimacy with the physical evidence of her
inexperience. He could not reconcile the two facts. Not without coming to a
disturbing conclusion: something happened to this girl on that ship. Something
that left no visible damage, yet something so perverse she felt guilt over it
and feared the discovery of said act would damn her in his eyes forever.

Donovan sat forward in the chair and held his head in his
hands, disturbed the cruel workings of his own mind as he considered the ways a
man might pleasure himself with a maid and leave no evidence of his intrusion.
“Oh, you sick son-of-a-bitch!”

Impulsively, he stood and was bending over his wife.
“Elizabeth, wake up. I need to ask you something.” His tone was brusque. He
regretted it instantly.

She stirred at his insistence. Lethargic from the opiates,
she gazed up at him with confusion. That was good, he reasoned. She’d never be
able to confess the truth without its influence. And it might prevent her from
remembering this conversation come morning.

“Captain Sully didn’t interfere with you in the usual way,
did he?” Donovan was careful to keep his tone light, and coaxing.

“N-n-no . . .”

 “But he did hurt you. In a perverse, wretched manner,
didn’t he?” The slight dilation of her pupils confirmed his suspicions. “Tell
me what he did to you.”

“I can’t. He said you’d despise me if you knew. He said
you’d cast me aside in disgust.”

“He lied to you.” Donovan insisted. “I love you, Elizabeth.
Nothing will change that. I promise. Tell me what that man did to you so I can
help you through the pain.”

Elizabeth’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. She let out a
tortured whimper.

He went cold with fury as she gazed up at him with unshed tears,
the implication clear; the perverted swine had defiled her sweet mouth.

“My poor little girl!” Donovan embraced her as that whimper
became a wail of anguish.

Chapter
Twenty Seven

“Kieran, my boy! Still so glum? I have something to cheer
you.” Barnaby glided into the shop, wielding a newspaper triumphantly. He
seemed pleased after the weekly guild meeting of shopkeepers and merchants. The
meetings usually left the man in a sour mood.

Kieran set down the pestle. “What is it, a potential client
for the Midnight Bell?”

“Something better.” Barnaby danced a little jig around the
shop, waving the folded paper in the air like wizard’s wand. “It’s a miracle,
my boy.”

Barnaby routinely scanned the obituaries for the best
customers, the rich who would pay dearly to keep an angry relative from coming
back to bother them with unfinished business. He read the death notices just as
fastidiously as the society pages, as the old man liked to speculate on the
scandals inferred in the bland reports of domestic occurrences.

“Someone died and left you his plantation?” Kieran was
amused at the old man’s antics.

“Not me. This concerns you. Look.” He placed the paper on
the counter. Sure enough, it was opened to the society page. “Read it aloud.”
The old man tapped the paper insistently. “Third one down, in the marriage
column.”

“Dr. Donovan O’Rourke Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, owner of
Ravencrest Plantation recently returned from England with a bride. The new
Countess du Rochembeau, formerly Miss Elizabeth O’Flaherty,” Kieran paused,
giving Barnaby a significant look.

“Read on!” Barnaby insisted. “It gets better.”

“Formerly Miss Elizabeth O’Flaherty, is the daughter of the
late Viscount Shawn O’Flaherty of County Galway, Ireland and Angela
Wentworth-O’Flaherty-Fletcher of England, also deceased. The new Mrs. Beaumont
is the maternal grand-daughter of James R. Wentworth, the ninth Earl of
Greystowe. Master Michael Fletcher, Lady Beaumont’s younger brother, heir to
the Wentworth title and fortune, resides with their grandfather, Lord Greystowe
in England.”

“Sit, lad.” The old man coaxed, pulling him toward the
stool.

“Fletcher said mama died in childbirth.”

“He was hardly telling the truth, was he?” Barnaby shrugged
out of his coat and crossed his arms about himself. “Apparently your mother
lived long enough to have two children after you were sold on the docks.”

Kieran stared at the paper while Barnaby paced about him
with distraction.

Pausing in his pacing, the grey eyes fixed on him with
excitement. “Kieran, my boy, do you realize what this means? You are the eldest
grandson of Lord Greystowe. By the laws of primogeniture, you should be the
next Earl of Greystowe, not Michael Fletcher.”