Read His Wicked Embrace Online
Authors: Adrienne Basso
His Wicked Embrace (23 page)
He brightened visibly when she reentered the room and rushed forward to greet her. Isabella felt the coldness in his hand when he touched her fingertips.
Still clutching her hand, he stepped back and studied her closely, his eyes narrowed. “You look charming, Isabella, yet something is not quite right.” Lord Poole dropped Isabella's hand and circled her slowly, stroking his chin. “It's your hair. Emmeline always wore her hair down.”
Without asking permission, Lord Poole yanked a pin from Isabella's tightly bound chignon. She was startled by the action, but when he reached for a second pin, Isabella threw her arm up in defense and grasped his wrist firmly.
“I am not Emmeline,” she whispered softly.
Lord Poole stared at her long and hard. His pleasant features tightened in annoyance and his blue eyes darkened, deep and fathomless. Isabella shivered.
“Forgive me,” he said finally.
“Miss Browning! Miss Browning! Where are you?”
Catherine appeared unexpectedly in the open doorway. “Ah-ha, I have found you. Ian and I are having a contest, and now I have won.”
Isabella released her grip on Lord Poole's arm and backed away from him. His expression was once again kind and pleasant, but Isabella could not easily dismiss his former anger.
“If you have found me, Catherine, then Ian is still searching. We must go and tell him that the game is over,” Isabella said, trying to keep her voice from giving away her confused emotions.
“May Uncle Thomas come also?” Catherine asked.
“He will join us in the schoolroom this afternoon,” Isabella said. Composing her face into an expressionless mask, she addressed Lord Poole, “We all look forward to seeing you later, Thomas.”
Lord Poole's eyes clashed with Isabella's, but he said nothing as she and Catherine escaped into the hall.
Lord Poole remained standing in the center of the empty room. His head felt light and he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension. He tried to focus on the events of the last few minutes, but random images of Emmeline flittered in and out of his mind.
A deep, terrible yearning filled his body. His chest hurt and his lungs burned. Slowly he released the breath he'd been holding. A ghost of a smile lit his mouth.
He was making progress, of that he felt certain. Yet he must be more careful in the future. Isabella had clearly been frightened when he tried to arrange her hair. He was sorry for that, but the excitement of seeing her dressed in a gown made for Emmeline had overwhelmed him.
How very much alike the two women were! The softness of their skin, the sparkle of their eyes, even the lilt of their voices were the same. Thomas closed his eyes, savoring the memory.
The images in his head were jumbled and confused, and they meshed and merged before a clear picture of Emmeline floated into his mind. He clung to it. It was a miracle, truly a gift from God. The fates had smiled upon him and he was grateful. He had found his beloved Emmeline. And he vowed never again to lose her.
Chapter Nineteen
“His lordship has consented to a brief audience.”
Damien glanced up at the stone-faced butler and scowled darkly. After riding hard for two days, he had been kept waiting for nearly three hours in the Earl of Barton's great hall, with its painted and gilded dome, wide, sweeping staircase and richly appointed, uncomfortable furniture. His temper was stretched taut, yet he had managed to hold it in check by sheer force of will and alternatively pacing in front of the huge fireplace and sitting straight-backed on the edge of a wooden chair.
Damien now drew himself up to his full height and glowered at the butler, releasing some of his inner tension. The servant never flinched, but pivoted on his heel and silently led the way from the hall. Good Lord, Damien thought, the man's face would surely shatter if he ever did anything so frivolous as smile.
Eyes pinned firmly on the thinning patch of hair on the crown of the butler's head, Damien followed the servant from the room, his booted feet echoing on the black-and-white marble tiles.
He was ushered into a formal salon, vast in size, and furnished with impressive and expensive antiques. The Earl of Barton was seated on a large sofa near an open window, but he rose expectantly to his feet when Damien entered the room.
“Damien St. Lawrence, the Earl of Saunders,” the butler announced, closing the door soundlessly as he left.
“Now that I've set eyes on you,” Barton greeted him, “I'm certain I don't know you. What do you want?”
“Good afternoon.” Though he was far too acquainted with adversity, even Damien was surprised by the openly hostile greeting. Deciding to counter the attack with overt politeness, he executed an exaggerated bow and said, “Thank you for seeing me so promptly, sir.”
The older man stiffened. “State your business. And be quick about it.” He resumed his seat on the sofa and airily waved his hand in the direction of a chair.
Damien surmised that half-hearted gesture constituted an invitation to be seated. He remained standing.
“I've come about your granddaughter, Isabella Browning.”
“Gotten herself into trouble again, has she? She always was a high-spirited miss. Well, out with it boy. What's she done this time?”
“She hasn't
done
anything, sir. Isabella is currently employed as governess to my children and doing an excellent job.”
done
anything, sir. Isabella is currently employed as governess to my children and doing an excellent job.”
“An excellent job, you say?” The earl lifted his gray eyebrows. “You arrive at my home uninvited and unannounced and wait three hours to see me. Judging by the mud spattered on your boots, you've traveled a fair distance. Do you mean to say you went to all that bother just to tell me that Isabella is a competent employee? I think not. I may be old, but I've still got my wits about me. What's she done? Has she gone and ruined herself like her witless mother?”
Damien felt his face flush. He took a deep breath and moved slowly toward the edge of the room, determined not to be bested by his own temper or this disagreeable old man. Stalling for time, Damien set himself near the fireplace and casually perched an elbow upon the mantel.
“I want to know who Isabella's natural father was.”
The earl made no reply. Damien caught a glimpse of the older man's reflection in the gilt-edged mirror at the opposite side of the room. His stoic facade had not cracked, but his face had become a hollow shade of ash.
“I cannot see how this is any business of yours, Saunders. Unless you object to having my bastard granddaughter caring for your children.”
“You are a reprehensible old fool,” Damien said, unable to dispel the flash of pure fury that sprang up within him. He leaned forward and stared steadfastly into the earl's eyes, exuding an aura of determination and power that momentarily stunned his adversary. “Tell me what you know about Isabella's father.”
“Nothing. I know nothing.” Damien watched the earl's face turn dark. “Marianne was my youngest daughter. Most folks said she was the prettiest. She was a shy, quiet girl who kept mostly to herself. Then one day she came to me and tearfully confessed she was going to have a child. She told me some nonsense about being in love with the babe's father, but she couldn't marry him. Blast it, she wouldn't even tell me the bounder's name. I was so furious, I refused to listen to her pathetic explanations and locked her in her bedchamber.
“After a week of isolation, I thought she'd crumble and tell me everything, but the stubborn chit wouldn't say a word. I knew I had to do something, so I took Marianne down to Kent, hoping to get Charles Browning, a local doctor I knew, to fix everything. But somehow she convinced the buffoon not to abort her child. I told her she could come home with me if she would reveal her lover's name, but the obstinate girl refused. I left her with Browning and never set eyes on her again. Eventually Browning married her. She wrote me once, when her child was born, but I saw no need to reply.”
Damien felt his stomach turn. How could a parent be so harsh with his own child as to reject her during the greatest crisis of her life? Damien's heart filled with empathy for the frightened young Marianne, finding herself in such a dire predicament, having no one to turn to but this hard, unfeeling monster of a parent.
“And the child's true father?” Damien asked.
“I never found out. Browning sent Isabella here when the girl reached seventeen. My sister Agnes questioned her, but the girl didn't know anything. She had always thought Browning was her father. I guess her mother never spoke of it. Marianne protected her lover to the end.”
The bitterness in the old earl's voice echoed through the vast room. Damien heard it, but failed to be moved. Clearly Isabella's grandfather was an unnatural parent. He had willfully abandoned his daughter and deliberately shunned his granddaughter. As far as Damien was concerned, these bleak memories were precisely what the earl deserved.
A odd combination of anger and pity swept through Damien when he thought of Isabella living in this household with her cold, unforgiving grandfather. How isolated and lonely she must have been. Feeling the need to get away, Damien bowed curtly in the earl's direction.
“Good day, sir.”
Damien left quickly, not bothering to wait for a servant to escort him out. He had taken no more than three steps outside the room, however, before being ambushed by a woman with light gray hair and a deeply lined face.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” the woman demanded. She stood directly in front of Damien, boldly blocking his path while leaning heavily on her gold-tipped cane. “I heard your discussion with my brother. Not all of it, mind you, but enough to understand the gist of it.”
“You must be Isabella's Great-aunt Agnes,” Damien decided. He remembered the cruel treatment Isabella had received from this woman and favored her with a stare that usually sent warning chills down a recipient's spine. “Good-bye, madam.”
Damien made a motion to go around the woman, but Aunt Agnes thrust up her cane, laying it sharply against Damien's arm in a forestalling manner. “It will take more than a brooding stare to chase me off, young man. Of course, if you aren't interesting in finding out the truth, you'd best be on your way.”
“You know who Isabella's father was?”
“Ah, so now I've caught your attention.” Agnes lowered the cane slowly, her eyes darting about the empty hall. “Who are you?”
“Damien St. Lawrence, Earl of Saunders.”
“No, no. I heard all that already. I want to know
who
you are.”
who
you are.”
“I am a friend of Isabella's.”
“A friend, heh?” Agnes grunted her opinion of his answer. “No matter. Come along, I've got something to show you.”
She marched away from the drawing room, leaning on her cane yet keeping her spine stiff. She never once glanced over her shoulder to see if he followed. Damien ignored the doubts that crept into the back of his mind and accompanied Agnes. She led him through several grandly furnished rooms toward the private apartments at the back of the mansion. Eventually they entered a bedchamber decorated in shades of blue. The delicate furniture boasted a high polish, but the room had a closed, unused smell to it.
Agnes stared about the chamber vacantly for a moment, then advanced with great purpose toward a small trunk tucked away in the corner of the room.
“ 'Tis over here, young man. Come along now, you can't expect an old woman like me to manage such a heavy burden.”
“What is this?” Damien asked as he dragged the trunk into the center of the room, surprised by its weight.
“These were Marianne's thingsâat least, what is left of them. My brother had her room stripped and ordered all her belongings burned after he left her in Kent. But I bribed a footman to let me take what I wanted before they lit the fire. I stuffed this trunk full of anything I thought might yield me a pertinent clue. I've spent many an afternoon looking through these things, trying to determine who planted that seed in Marianne's belly.”
Damien's mouth twisted. “You didn't send the trunk to your niece? Did it never cross your mind, madam, that Marianne, frightened and living among strangers, might have found comfort in having a few of her belongings?”
“Seeing the remnants of her former life would have reminded the foolish girl of everything she threw away with her impetuous and immoral behavior.”
“What was Isabella's reaction when she viewed the contents of this trunk?” Damien asked.
“I never showed it to her.”
That cold answer, coupled with the sharp tone of Agnes's voice, was all the justification Damien needed. Bending at the knees, he squatted down and hoisted the trunk on his left shoulder. Grunting loudly, he stood up, rocking back on his heels slightly until he regained his balance. Using his right hand to steady the burden on his shoulder, he headed for the open door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going with my trunk? I want you to open it here and tell me if you see anything of significance.” Agnes pounded her cane on the floor. “Put down that trunk, young man! I will not allow you to take it from this room.”
“Try and stop me,” Damien said, glancing down at Agnes's horrified face. He stomped out the door, kicking it shut with his booted foot. Turning around, he leaned against the wall, a look of triumph on his handsome face. Fingers fumbling, he located the brass key and gleefully turned the lock.
Deliberately ignoring the sharp noises and indelicate language emanating from the other side of the door, Damien carried his booty through the house. He reached the main landing and smiled broadly, experiencing a sense of profound pleasure when he remembered the astonished expression on Agnes's face.
He entered the great hall and encountered several footmen, but no one questioned him. Damien was grateful the earl ran such a rigid household; these properly trained servants would never think to interfere with the behavior of any member of the nobility, even if he was a stranger to them.
An expressionless flunky obligingly opened the front door, and as Damien exited he took great delight in dropping Agnes's door key into the large potted plant by the entrance.
Damien found his horse tethered in the stables, and upon his command a young groom willingly saddled the animal. Damien mounted his stead and with the lad's assistance positioned the heavy trunk in front of him, resting it awkwardly on the saddle. He would need to hire a carriage for the journey back to Whatley Grange, but Damien felt it prudent to put himself a fair distance away first.
Fishing into his pocket, he retrieved a coin. He flipped the crown in a high arc, and the groom caught the glittering silver piece in midair.
“By the way, Lady Agnes is locked in a second-story bedchamber. Please be sure to inform the household of her unfortunate predicament.” After a slight hesitation, Damien added with a sly wink, “In about three hours.”
Precariously balancing the heavy trunk in front of him, Damien rode down the sweeping drive, feeling an enormous sense of relief at leaving the mansion and its occupants behind him.
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Damien leaned out the carriage window and smiled. After four days of traveling in a hired coach, Whatley Grange at last loomed in the foreground, a towering fortress of gray stone. It was a marvelous sight.
When the coach drew nearer, however, Damien was struck by the unmistakable air of dignified neglect. Conditions that had existed for years without drawing his attention were suddenly brought to the forefront. The formal flower beds were choked with weeds, the waters of the lily pond murky and gray, the arbors and shrubberies wild and overgrown.
Yet in Damien's mind nothing could detract from the splendor of The Grange. He remembered the strict, expensive elegance of Isabella's grandfather's estate and realized he much preferred the reckless disorder of his own lands.
At least they still were his lands. Damien's mouth curled grimly. He did not regret his trip to York, but concentrating on Isabella's dilemma had relegated his own considerable problems to the background. Damien had no doubt that Lord Poole would make good on his threats and take control of The Grange if Damien was unable to secure the necessary funds to reclaim the mortgages.
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