The Book Of Scandal (31 page)

My dearest Evelyn…I had hoped to find another way to tell you my good fortune rather than in this letter. We have come home from Bath on the advice of a physician. I cannot come to you, even though I am only eight hours by coach, as I am with child. You will understand that travel is not advised…

The news stunned Evelyn. She sank onto her chaise and read the sentence over again. A baby. She was happy for her sister, she was, but…but how would it feel to hold her niece or nephew in her arms?

How would it feel to bear another child?

Her belly clenched at the mere thought, and she closed her eyes. It was certainly a possibility now that she had resumed her marriage, but she’d ignored the little voice in her head telling her to take precautions. It had been so difficult to conceive Robert; it had taken years. The times she’d been with Nathan in the last few days, she’d been so caught up in the moment and the wonder and the intense desire, that she’d allowed herself to tuck her fear away.

Now, without him here, she could scarcely bear to think of it. She could not bring another sick child into this world. She could not lose another child, or she would lose herself, and this time, forever. She was certain of it.

What had she begun?

She worked in the green salon in the first days of Nathan’s absence. On the morning that someone from the village was due to help her determine the sort of drapery the room required, a footman met her at the salon and announced Mr. Williams. “He’s come with the orange trees.”

“Pardon?” she asked, confused.

“Orange trees, mu’um.”

In the foyer, Evelyn extended her hand to the man, which he took nervously, bobbing over it. “Lady Lindsey, it is a true pleasure to see you again,” he said, balling up his hat. “I had heard you’d returned to the abbey.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said, peering at him curiously.

“I had a bit of good news for his lordship,” he said brightly. “I rather suspect he believed it would be a month or two before the orange trees arrived, but as luck would have it, I’ve just returned from Devonshire, where I found some in a hothouse, the exact variety he’d requested.”

“Orange trees?”

Mr. Williams nodded. “Two dozen of them.”

Evelyn frowned.

“He said something about the orangery?” Mr. Williams said.

Evelyn gasped with surprise. “When did he do so?”

Mr. Williams blinked. “It has been a week or so. Is…is there an issue?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “I, ah…” He’d ordered the trees for the orangery. He’d meant to restore it for her. Her heart was swelling; she couldn’t think for a moment. “Well!” she said brightly. “I suppose we should do something with them.”

“I could put them in the orangery, if you’d like.”

“Yes, well, that poses a bit of a problem, Mr. Williams. Unfortunately, the orangery has burned.”

“Burned!”

“To the ground,” she said with a firm nod. “But we shall rebuild it! Until then, we must find a place for the trees.”

“The morning room, mu’um?” the footman suggested.

Evelyn shook her head. The pots were heavy and the floors in the morning room were made of cherry. She did not want them marked. Besides, furniture filled most of that room.

“Is there a room below stairs we might use until Mr. Gibbs might find a place for them?”

The footman thought about it a moment, then nodded. “There is a room at the end of the corridor with the stores, mu’um. It’s been empty for some time.”

She smiled at Mr. Williams. “If you’d be so kind as to wait in the salon,” she said, gesturing in that direction, “I’ll have a look to ensure it is suitable for a time.” To the footman, she said, “Please send Benton to me once you’ve seen Mr. Williams to the salon.”

He nodded and gestured for Mr. Williams to come with him. Mr. Williams followed slowly, his head craning to take in the grandeur of her home.

Evelyn slipped down the servants’ stairs to the ground floor and made her way to the stores. It had been many years since she’d been down in this dark, musty corridor. She walked to the end. There were two doors on either side. She opened the first and found crates—of what, she couldn’t guess.

She shut that door and opened the one across from it. It was empty.

The room was illuminated by the bright sunlight streaming through a small, single window. She stepped inside and looked at the floor. The room would do for now, she thought, and turned to go, but something on the wall caught her eye.

It was a stone wall, but it looked as if it had been gouged and scored. It was stained, too, and as Evelyn moved closer she gasped—the stains looked like blood.

The sound of someone behind her scared her out of her wits; with a cry of alarm, she whirled around.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” Benton said. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Her heart pounding, Evelyn nodded and looked at the wall again. “Benton, what happened to this wall?” she asked, peering closely at it. “This looks like blood. Did they hang meat here?”

Benton cleared his throat. “No, madam.”

When he did not elaborate, Evelyn turned to look at him.

For once, Benton looked positively flustered—she’d never seen him look so disconcerted. “Benton?”

He glanced at the wall and swallowed hard. “The room has sat empty for several years, madam. It is…” He was having difficulty speaking.

“It is what?” she prompted him.

Benton looked her directly in the eye. “This is where his lordship comes to…to release his grief, so to speak.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After we lost Master Robert, his lordship would come here and release his grief…physically.”

“Physically?”

Benton clasped his arms behind his back and stood stiffly. “There are times, madam, when circumstances are so far beyond a man’s control that he can do nothing but strike out.”

Understanding began to dawn. Evelyn slowly turned and looked at the wall again. “How do you know?”

“I…I inadvertently discovered him here a week after Master Robert’s passing. He’d broken his hand.”

She vaguely remembered seeing a bandaged hand. At the time, she’d assumed some sort of drunken brawl. She’d been too incapacitated to even care. She reached out, running her finger along one scar. “Dear Lord, what did you do?”

“He refused to see a doctor, as he is wont to do, so I set the broken bones. My father was a surgeon, and I knew a little about it.”

“And then?”

“Then?” Benton gave a hint of a fond smile. “He dismissed me from service.”

“He did all this to the wall with his hand?” Evelyn asked incredulously.

“Hands. Feet. I can hardly say what all. He…he has come many times.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I never knew.”

“No, my lady, he prefers that no one knows. He believes it is a weakness in him. I don’t believe anyone has ever known the depth of his grief.”

“No one but you,” she said softly. “Not even me.”

“No, madam. I have only guessed at it.”

It was more than she’d done. She knew Nathan grieved, but she’d been so consumed with her own grief. She’d assumed, given his absences, that he had done what their parents had suggested and prepared himself for Robbie’s death. But this sort of grief, the pain behind these marks made her knees weak. She could feel the pain of each and every scar.

She’d never known. She wasn’t there to help him. She was guilty of the very thing she accused him of.

“We need a place to put the orange trees until the orangery is rebuilt, Benton,” she said absently as she stared at the wall. “I will leave that in your capable hands. I should…” Apologize. Forgive. Forget. “I should see about…things.”

“Of course, madam,” he said.

Evelyn touched her hand to the wall again. “That will be all for now. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, and quietly went out, leaving Evelyn at the wall, her mind completely consumed with the image of her husband striking out at his grief in this barren room, all alone, because she could not comfort him.

Nathan’s inquiries about a man named Rhys Sinclair were not yielding any information. Donnelly and Wilkes had departed for places unknown, and none of Nathan’s friends or acquaintances had heard of this Sinclair.

Nathan remained convinced that the person who wanted him dead was a lord or a lord’s man—fifty pounds for his head was not an insignificant sum.

If anyone would know where he might begin to look, it was Grayson Christopher, the Duke of Darlington. Unfortunately, Christy was away and not expected to return to London for a day or two. Nathan chafed at having to wait, and spent his idle time in the gentlemen’s clubs he’d not frequented in years.

He intended only to drink enough to keep himself company, but as it happened, more than one vague acquaintance was eager to speak of the growing scandal invoked by the Delicate Investigation.

Since his last visit, even more rumors circulated as to who was involved in the debauchery in the royal couple’s separate households. Rumors were rife that the Prince of Wales, angry with his father for favoring the Princess of Wales in their dispute and not agreeing to seek the parliamentary divorce the prince craved, conspired to have his father removed from the throne on the basis of his bouts of madness. If he succeeded, the Whigs would be in power—in direct opposition to the king.

Everyone knew that “the book” the princess threatened to make public would broaden the scandal. Speculation as to who would be accused of high treason and other nefarious acts was rampant. It seemed to Nathan that the entire aristocracy was on tenterhooks, waiting for the scandal to bring the monarchy crashing down around their ears.

He could not help but imagine Evelyn in that mêlée.

On his third day in London—God, but he’d never meant to be away so long, and how he worried about Evelyn, longed for Evelyn and what they’d begun again—Darlington returned.

The man had hardly settled in when Nathan called.

“Lindsey,” Darlington drawled when the butler showed him into the study. “I see time has put you upright again.”

“Very amusing,” Nathan said. “Welcome home, Christy—I was beginning to despair you’d ever return.”

“Heavens, that sounds so maidenly. Have you come alone, or have the cohorts come with you?” Darlington asked pleasantly.

“No. Lambourne has fled to Scotland to save his hide from prosecution. Donnelly and Wilkes were to London, but neither of them are about now.”

“A hunting party somewhere, no doubt,” Darlington said with a smile. “I confess there are times I miss it.” He was referring to the days he’d been one of them. But his responsibilities to his family and duties in London had put some distance between him and the rest of them over the years. “Whiskey?” he offered Nathan.

“No, thank you,” Nathan said, missing the look of surprise from his old friend. “Tell me, Christy,” he said as his friend poured a tot of whiskey for himself, “who would want to see me dead?”

Darlington laughed as he handed him the glass. “I’d wager any number of fathers, husbands, or gamblers.”

“I am quite serious,” Nathan said. “Someone tried to shoot me at the abbey.”

The statement obviously startled Darlington; Nathan indicated his arm, where the outline of the bandages was evident in the sleeve of his coat.

“When?” Darlington asked, frowning at his arm.

“A few days ago. Evelyn and I had ridden to the ruins, and were starting back when someone fired a musket at me. It narrowly missed Evelyn and struck me in the arm.”

Darlington put his glass down.

“I caught the bastard,” Nathan continued. “The only thing he would tell me was that his name is John and a man in London named Rhys Sinclair had given him fifty pounds to shoot.”

“Why?” Darlington demanded.

Nathan chuckled derisively. “That is what I’d like to know. The sheriff has him now. Perhaps when I return he will have inspired John to say more, but I could not sit idly by knowing someone desires to see me dead. For fifty pounds, I assume a lord…yet no one seems to recognize the name. I was hoping you might.”

“Good Lord,” Darlington said. He folded his arms and stared at the floor a moment.

“What is it?” Nathan pressed him. “Do you know something?”

“No, nothing,” Darlington said quickly, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard the name. Nor do I know anyone who would want to see you dead, Nathan. But there is something that occurs to me…” He paused, obviously thinking.

“What?”

“I am a fool to suggest the two are linked, but…” He looked at Nathan.

“For God’s sake, speak!”

Darlington sighed. “I beg you forgive me for what I will say. I’d no more say a word against your wife than I would my own sisters, but I must tell you this.”

Nathan’s heart skipped. “Tell me what?”

“As you know, she…she was widely believed to be engaged in an affair with Lord Dunhill.”

Nathan’s heart began to pound. It was all he could do to stand while Darlington reminded him of what all London believed—he was a cuckold. “I am aware,” he snapped. “What of it?”

“Dunhill is openly a Whig sympathizer and a confidant of the Prince of Wales. That makes her, in essence, a confidant by way of talk between the sheets.”

“Yes?” Nathan demanded angrily. “Several of my friends are confidants of the prince.”

“Yes…but not all of your friends take the political cause to heart quite as deeply as perhaps a few of them do. Look here, the king has suffered from bouts of madness, and the prince chafes to sit on the throne and control his own purse strings. There are some very powerful men around him who would stand to gain if that should happen.”

“I don’t understand,” Nathan said. “What might that possibly have to do with me?”

“Someone wants Dunhill dead. An attempt was made on his life about a week ago,” Darlington continued. “A mysterious shot fired, the same as happened to you.”

“A bloody shame it didn’t find its mark,” Nathan snapped, “yet I still do not see what that possibly has to do with me.”

“Good Lord, you are obtuse,” Darlington said. “What I am trying to suggest, Nathan, is that perhaps the shot was not intended for you at all.”

“Then…” Something exploded in Nathan’s chest as he understood what Darlington was saying. He stood abruptly and began striding across the carpet.