Passions of a Wicked Earl (32 page)

She pushed herself up. “You don’t understand. I love you!”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe you know what love is. God knows until recently I didn’t. Stay away from Claire. She owns my heart. She always will.”

He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“No!” she cried after him. “Westcliffe, you can’t leave me. You’re mine.”

He stopped in the doorway. “It’s over between us.”

He disappeared into the doorway. Uncontrollably weeping tears that for the first time in years did not appear on command, she collapsed on the floor.

He didn’t understand how very much she loved him. She loved him far more than
Claire
ever could. Anne would do anything. Absolutely anything for him.

“I adore your hair,” Beth said.

Claire laughed. It had been a little over a month since her fever had broken, and she still wasn’t accustomed to not having long tresses.

She was sitting on a chaise in the garden. Beth was in a chair beside her, holding her hand as though she thought if she let it go, Claire would disappear.

She and Westcliffe were having a small family gathering at the country estate. They all knew what had happened and wanted to visit. She was feeling stronger. She’d even had a couple of days when she hadn’t thought about the child she’d lost. Westcliffe had yet to make love to her. He held her every night as though she were the delicate shell of an egg. She wanted so much more. She supposed it was time to let him know.

After their company left perhaps. His mother and both brothers were here. There was not the easy camaraderie between the brothers that she would have liked to see, but nor was there the strain that had characterized their relationships until recently. She thought that, with a bit more time, they might all become the best of friends.

Leo was also in attendance. He’d decided that the portrait should be completed here. He’d found a salon he thought had the perfect lighting. Since things had improved between her and Westcliffe, Leo no longer thought that a bedchamber was necessary to accomplish his goal of playing matchmaker.

Westcliffe walked over and knelt beside her. Beth, exhibiting a bit more maturity, excused herself to give them a moment alone.

“You don’t want to overdo it with the company,” Westcliffe said.

“I was thinking of withdrawing in order to take a short nap. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”

She saw the doubts in his eyes as he kissed her hand.

“I’m fully recovered. The doctor said so.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this—I’d like to spend a bit more time visiting with Stephen. He’ll be leaving England as soon as he gets his orders. He’s warned Mother not to interfere. Maybe after your rest, he could walk you about the garden.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Just the two of you.”

Leaning over, she kissed him. He trusted her at long last, he trusted her completely. “Thank you. Tell him I’ll meet him at the pond in twenty minutes.”

He helped her to stand, and she felt his gaze on her as she made her way into the manor.

In her bedchamber, she saw the black skirt of one of the maids peeking out from behind the open door of the wardrobe. She was no doubt putting away some things.

“Please see to those matters later,” she said. “I’m going to lie down for a rest now.”

She walked toward her bed so she could yank on the bellpull. Suddenly, a cloth was covering her mouth—

And the world went black.

When she awoke, she was lying spread-eagled on the bed, her arms and feet secured to the posts. She was gagged, and, to her horror, Lady Anne Cavill was standing over her.

“You’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Lady Anne said, smiling benignly. “It’s simple really. I love Westcliffe. He doesn’t understand how much. I would do absolutely anything for him. Presently, you are in the way. So, you are distraught over the loss of the child and are going to kill yourself.”

Claire’s stomach roiled. Dear God, the woman was mad.

“Hemlock,” she said softly, lifting a vial. “It will be relatively quick. Unlike what my husband went through. I used arsenic with him. Took forever because I wanted people to think it was an illness.”

Claire shook her head.

“Yes,” Lady Anne said. “I had no choice. Westcliffe

had standards of a sort. He’d not take as his lover a woman who was married. Which was your fault of course. He knew what it was to find his wife in another man’s arms. So I had to eliminate my husband. Then you came to London. Rather convenient, really, because I knew sooner or later that you’d have to go as well. Pity he moved in front of you at Cremorne. The gent I hired was not as good a shot as he claimed.”

Good Lord! I was the target.

“Then Westcliffe fell in love with you. I didn’t want him mourning your death, and so I needed him to be angry with you again. That was where Stephen and the ball came in. But you figured it out. So here he is, once again at your side and upset with me. So I need you to kill yourself. He can mourn, then I shall be there for him.”

Struggling against the bonds, Claire fought to think of some way to get out of this situation. She tried to scream, but the gag made her feel as though she were choking.

“Now, the sticky part,” Lady Anne continued as though they were discussing a new flavor of tea, “is that when I remove the gag to give you the poison, you’re going to want to scream. Please don’t. Ready?”

Claire stared at the vial. The woman was going to force its contents down her throat.

“And don’t worry,” Lady Anne whispered. “I shall arrange you very nicely.”

She reached for the cloth.

The door opened. “I’ve had as much of Stephen—”

Claire tried to scream through the gag as Westcliffe came to a sudden halt. “My God. What the hell? Anne?”

Suddenly, a small pistol was in Lady Anne’s hand. “This is not what I wanted. But if I cannot have you in life, I shall have you in eternity.”

She fired.

Westcliffe had never in his life hit a woman. But he darted to the right, the bullet went past him, and his fist caught Anne beneath the chin, snapping her head back. She went down like a sack of potatoes, unconscious.

After snatching up the gun, he removed the gag from Claire’s mouth and began untying the rest of the bindings.

“She killed her husband,” Claire began, and the story began spilling out of her.

Stephen was the first through the door. “What the bloody hell?”

Ainsley and Leo quickly followed. And, of course, his mother wouldn’t be deterred by danger. Even Beth peered around the doorjamb.

“Tie Anne up,” Westcliffe ordered as he removed the last of the bindings, sat on the bed, and pulled Claire into his arms. He didn’t know who was trembling more: she or he.

“I heard a gunshot,” Stephen said. “Was she trying to shoot you?”

“Apparently, yes, but she’d come for Claire.”

Beth released a small squeal, darted across the room, and sat on the bed, taking her sister’s hand.

“It’s all right,” Claire said. “I’m all right.”

“What are we to do with her?” Ainsley asked.

“Take her to London, turn her in to that chap at Scotland Yard,” Westcliffe said. “She murdered her husband.”

“What do you think will become of her?” Claire asked.

It was late afternoon, and they were lying together in bed in London. Sir James Swindler had officially arrested Anne when they’d delivered her to Scotland Yard.

“How did I miss that she was insane?” Westcliffe had asked.

“Because she was good at hiding what she was,” Sir James had said. Then he’d given Westcliffe a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, my lord. You’re not the first to be fooled by a pretty face.”

And Westcliffe wondered if he spoke from experience.

“I suspect Sir James will see that she goes to prison,” Westcliffe said now.

“She wanted you badly enough to kill her husband.”

“Apparently. And to kill you.”

“I never liked her.”

He rubbed Claire’s arm. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore. Or any other woman for that matter. You have my undying devotion.”

She rolled over onto him, straddling his hips. She gave him a saucy smile. “Prove it.” And he did.

Lyons Place
Christmas Eve, 1854

W
estcliffe had long yearned to hear the halls of his estate manor filled to overflowing with laughter, tittering, and music.

It was the first time his family had spent Christmas at Lyons Place since his father had died. He could barely countenance the joy he felt as he stood in the large parlor and listened while Beth played the pianoforte, with Lord Greenwood looking on. They had married in June.

The tree in the corner was magnificently decorated, with an abundance of presents waiting below it. Westcliffe was particularly pleased with his gift for Claire. He did hope she would like it. He had found the cradle in the attic and refurbished it himself: sanding and painting and imagining all the Lyonses who had lain within it—just as he and Stephen had.

His mother was sitting on the settee, her hand on Leo’s thigh. He wondered how much longer she would keep the young artist in her life. She’d certainly held on to him longer than any of the lovers who’d come before him.

Lynnford had brought his family. His three daughters were singing carols while his two sons sat idly by and listened. He was particularly solicitous of his wife as she lounged in a corner, two shawls draped over her narrow shoulders.

Holding a snifter of brandy, Ainsley ambled over and nodded toward the Countess of Lynnford. “I don’t think she’s well.”

“I thought she looked rather diminished.”

“Mother is planning to take her for the mineral waters after the holidays. They share such a close bond of friendship that I’m not sure what Mother will do if she loses her.”

“Lynnford either. He’s been a good example of how a man should treat his wife.” If only he’d reflected sooner on what their guardian had taught them.

“Your wife certainly seems to be blossoming,” Ainsley murmured.

Westcliffe couldn’t prevent the pride and joy from bubbling up within him. “She’s with child.”

And this time, nothing on God’s earth would take the babe from them.

Ainsley clinked his glass against Westcliffe’s. “Jolly good for you. Mother will be beside herself with happiness.”

“Yes, I think the news will be good for her.”

Ainsley shifted his stance. “I received confirmation from the War Office. Stephen is in the thick of things in the Crimea. Mother doesn’t say anything, but I think she knows.”

“I’m certain she does. She has an amazing circle of influence.”

“This war in the Crimea, I’m not certain I like having it served to me at breakfast every morning. The reporters telegraphing their news each day—as I understand it we’ve never had this immediacy of reporting before. Brings the war closer to home, doesn’t it?”

“Which is where it should be, if you ask me. Our lads are off fighting for Queen and country. They should not be forgotten.”

“We picked a bloody bad time to purchase him a commission.”

Westcliffe nodded in agreement. “Knowing Stephen, he’ll use the opportunity to experience Russian women.”

“But dear God, I hear it’s cold over there.”

“Then he’ll definitely be in some woman’s bed, for warmth if nothing else.”

“I bloody well hope so.”

Wearing a mischievous smile, Claire strolled over, Fen trotting along at her hem. “What are you two talking about so solemnly?”

Not wishing to spoil the joy of the occasion, Westcliffe said, “That it’s time for Ainsley to begin looking for a wife.”

“The hell you say,” Ainsley muttered, and stalked off.

With a laugh, Claire slipped beneath Westcliffe’s arm, and whispered, “I know exactly whom you were talking about. Will it upset you to know that I miss him?”

There was a time when it would have but no longer. He was confident in her loyalty to him. “I do as well,” he said quietly.

The song Beth was playing came to an end. She banged two deep keys to gain attention. “May we unwrap the gifts now?”

The gathering gave their enthusiastic support for the notion and turned to their host and hostess.

“By all means,” Claire said.

Before she could move away, Westcliffe tightened his hold on her and lifted his glass. “I wish to make a toast first.”

A hush fell over the room as other glasses were lifted.

“I shall start by saying that no matter what gifts await me beneath the tree, Claire has already given me the best of all: her love.” Leaning over, seeing the tears in her eyes, he gave her a quick kiss and the promise for a lengthier one later.

“Hear! Hear!” those surrounding them cheered.

Westcliffe nodded and raised his glass again. “I also want to thank you all for coming. I have long wanted this manor to echo the sounds of joy and family. This night it does, and I cannot express my gratitude.”

He lifted his glass higher. “And last, a toast to Stephen. May God be with our brother and may he return home by next Christmas.”