The Devil's Love (39 page)

adamant the estate be settled. Mr. Strait was quite clear that the goal was to

have it done before he expired.”

Galen’s eyes flickered at the mention of Mr. Strait, and he shifted his weight

unconsciously.

“How did you come across Carrington’s personal articles?”

Galen’s eyes slid to the mound of gowns. “They were delivered to me, with the

second will.”

“Who delivered them?” Michael asked quickly.

“A courier,” Galen lied.

“And the doll?”

“The doll belonged to Abbey when she was a child. It was the captain’s hope she

would give it to her children,” Galen patiently explained.

Michael slowly pushed himself to his feet. He walked to his desk and perched a

hip on one corner, folded his arms across his chest, and brazenly considered

Carrey. “Do you really expect me to believe that Carrington would have pressed

this marriage if he intended to leave his estate to you? What possible motive

would I have to marry his daughter without a dowry?”

Galen tossed his head indifferently. “Her dowry, my lord, was the elimination of

your rather sizable debts. Did you think he would also compensate you?”

He

snorted sarcastically.

Michael bristled; a vein in his neck began to beat with the steady rise of his

rage. “I’ll tell you what I think, Carrey,” he said in a dangerously low voice,

“I think you and your little one concocted this scheme. I think the two of you

determined you would have Carrington’s wealth for your own. I think the two of

you—with the help of a fraud of a solicitor—forged a will designed to force my

hand and banked on the assumption that once we were wed, I would not divorce her

in the face of scandal, and she would continue to live in the lap of luxury when

you made your claim. Assuming, of course, you could not successfully kill me.”

A cloud of bewilderment glanced Galen’s features before he pressed his lips

tightly together. “You may interpret it how you will, Darfield. But know that I

will drag this through the courts if I must. Before you dismiss me out of hand,

my suggestion is that you return what is mine. It is simpler for everyone and

will invite far less talk for you and the marchioness than a lengthy court case!”

Michael laughed impertinently. “You sorely underestimate me, Carrey. I am not

the least bit afraid of scandal, nor am I the least bit reluctant to divorce Carrington’s daughter. And I will bloody well keep the Carrington fortune for my

time and trouble.”

Galen’s face turned crimson. “This can ruin you,” he hissed, slapping his gloves

against his thigh for emphasis.

“I seriously doubt that,” Michael said in return. “And I would think twice before threatening me, sir. You are a charlatan who deserves to be hanged, and

believe me, I will see it done.”

Galen paled. “Consider carefully what I am telling you, Darfield. The will has

not been fully executed, and if I were to tie it up in the courts, Carrington’s creditors will not be paid, and that, my friend, will fall on your head,” he shot back.

“Get out of my house.” Michael growled.

“You are a fool, Darfield!” Galen turned-abruptly on his heel, almost colliding

with a chair. He stormed to the door and jerked it open, then paused to look

over his shoulder. “Your name will be dragged through the mud. Again.‘’

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Michael said calmly. “I’m quite certain I’ll see you dead first.

Galen’s lips pursed; he looked as if he would say more, but on second thought,

he stalked from the room. Michael walked calmly to the door, shut it, and turned

back to the pile of gowns. He lifted a blue one to his face and inhaled her scent, then dropped it and walked to the sideboard and the dozen decanters

there.

Galen cursed lightly under his breath as he strode down the hall. Routier was an

absolute fool to think Darfield would roll over. That devil would not give into anyone’s demands, Galen was quite sure of it. As he walked swiftly toward the

foyer, he was startled by the opening of the library door. Abbey stood at the

threshold, staring blankly at him.

She looked like death. Dark circles shadowed her dull, lifeless eyes. Her intrinsic sparkle was gone, doused. Her hair hung limply down her back, fastened

at the nape of her neck with a leather tie. She wore a shapeless, plain brown

gown and hugged a leather-bound book to her chest.

“My God,” he breathed helplessly.

Abbey’s stoic expression did not change. “I am forbidden to see you,” she said

flatly.

Glancing over his shoulder, Galen quickly stepped inside the library.

Abbey made

no effort to move, and he had to step around her to enter. The library was oppressively dark, and he went immediately to the windows and drew the drapes

and blinds, then opened both windows. Abbey squinted painfully and

turned away

from the bright sunlight that poured into the room.

“Michael will be very angry if he finds you here,” she said quietly.

“Dear God, Abbey, look at you!” he exclaimed.

Abbey shrugged and moved slowly toward an overstuffed armchair as if she carried

some enormous weight. She dropped her book carelessly onto a table, then fell

listlessly into the chair like a rag doll.

Alarm rifling through him, Galen demanded, “What has he done to you?”

Abbey did

not look at him, nor did she move a fraction of an inch. Suddenly frantic, Galen

crossed the room in two angry strides and grabbed her by the elbow, jerking her

upright with a force that surprised him. Abbey made no sound; her eyes were

blank as they turned to him.

“What has he done? Does he starve you?” he barked, appalled by her complete

apathy.

Abbey’s gaze dropped to her lap. “What does it matter?”

Galen leaned over her. He gripped her chin and forced her drawn face upward so

he could peer closely into her eyes. “It matters.‘’

Abbey’s lifeless violet eyes flickered briefly, then slid away. Touched and disturbed by the devastation he saw there, Galen straightened slowly and pushed

a hand through his hair. Darfield was a monster to have broken her spirit this

way. But worse, far worse, was the realization that her devastation was of his

own doing. Guilt soared in him, guilt he would do anything to quash.

“Bloody hell, I don’t know what he’s done, but you cannot go on like this!”

She

did not respond, did not acknowledge him. Galen inhaled sharply. “I never thought you a coward, Abbey.”

Abbey’s dull gaze flicked to her lap. “I am not a coward.”

“You are acting like one,” he interrupted. With his hands on his hips, he looked

disdainfully down the length of his nose. “He accuses you of unspeakable crimes

you did not commit. And you respond like this?”

She grimaced and pushed herself off the chair, moving sluggishly toward the bank

of windows. “Pray tell, how should I deport myself? Should I pretend that everything is the same as it was four days ago?” she asked with her back to him.

“You should act like the innocent you are, an innocent wronged,” he snapped.

Abbey’s spine stiffened. “What would you suggest? That I put on my finest and

gad about town as if everything is quite ordinary?” she asked angrily.

“I suggest precisely that,” Galen said emphatically, his anger with Darfield spiraling out of control.

At the window, Abbey glanced skeptically over her shoulder. “You must be out of

your mind.”

Her profile against the bright sunlight was a poignant as any work of art he had

ever seen. Her pale skin, shadowed by the light, made her torment clearly visible, a torment borne of a broken heart. He winced at the deep, painful stab

of guilt.

“Has he touched you?” he asked quietly, angrily.

Abbey choked on a bitter laugh. “No.‘’

“I will not allow this. I will not allow him to intimidate you like this!” Galen said hoarsely, moving to close the gap between them. She was fighting valiantly

to keep the tears at bay, and her whole body quivered from the effort. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Choking on a sob, Abbey lost her control. A torrent of tears burst from her, and

she doubled over. Galen caught her and wrapped his arms around her.

Cupping the

back of her head, he eased her face into his chest as sobs racked her thin frame. Abbey clutched forlornly at the lapels of his coat and cried as if her heart would break. He held her protectively in his arms, swallowing bitter lumps

of emotion until her tears at last began to subside and her grip on him began to

ease.

“Abbey, little one,” he whispered, “I am so very sorry. I never meant to cause

you any harm, you must believe me.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she swallowed hard. “You did not

cause

me harm, Galen, Papa did. But do not be sorry—I am glad I know what Michael is,”

she muttered unconvincingly. “No more. I will not cry one more tear for him.”

She hiccuped.

“Good,” Galen said soothingly.

“No, I mean it, Galen! He did not even attempt to believe me! He doesn’t even

know you, yet he instantly assumed you are evil! And dear God, you would not

believe the incredible speed with which he concluded that I had lied! I deserve

some consideration, don’t I?” she demanded against his neckcloth.

“Indeed you do,” he readily agreed.

“I should be insulted! I have never given him any reason to doubt me!”

“I know you have not, little one,” Galen said, heartened by the spirit beginning

to emerge.

Abbey suddenly pushed back from him and wiped her nose with the back of her

hand. “Why should I stay holed up in this godforsaken house? I’ve done nothing

wrong!”

“If you stay holed up like this, pining away, he will think you do have something to hide,” Galen encouraged her.

Abbey’s brows snapped together. “I have nothing to hide,” she said vehemently,

but her angry frown quickly turned to helpless wonder. “But what am I to do?”

she asked forlornly.

Galen guided her to a chair. “You did nothing wrong, regardless of what he believes. It would seem to me that you should carry on. Let him bear the burden

of his faithlessness,” he suggested confidently.

“What do you mean?”

“You should go out into society as you have every right to do.”

Abbey’s brows knitted together as she considered that. “Go out?” she asked

hesitantly. “But I cannot go out alone, can I?”

“I will escort you,” Galen said, lifting his chin.

Abbey looked frightened by the mere suggestion and hesitantly shook her head. “I

do not think that’s a good idea… I mean, I am not allowed to see you.”

“Lord, Abbey, will you allow him to control you so completely? Will you allow

him to forbid contact with your own kin? Does he tell you when you may eat and

sleep? Are you a prisoner here?” Galen demanded.

Abbey’s eyes narrowed, flashing a brilliant shade of violet. “No, I am not his

prisoner!” She leaned back against the cushions, considering the pattern on the

arm very thoughtfully.

Galen looked nervously at the door. Darfield would kill him if he found him in

there. He turned back to his cousin, going down on his haunches next to her

chair. “Abbey, I must go before he discovers us. Harrison Green is having one of

his infamous routs this evening,” he suggested impetuously. “Meet me at the

park, eight o’clock. Will you meet me there?”

Abbey did not lift her gaze from the arm of the chair for a long moment, but

slowly, uncertainly, nodded her head. “I will,” she murmured. “I will meet you.

He cannot keep me prisoner—the king’s army cannot stop me!” With that less than

hearty avowal, she glanced up, smiling tremulously at her cousin.

Harrison Green was the untitled nephew of an influential duke who had gained a

reputation among the ton for throwing the bawdiest of routs. The number of people in attendance that night attested to the immense popularity of his affairs. Abbey was acutely aware of the stares in her direction as she and Galen

pushed through the throng. Tension began to knot in her stomach as her eyes

swept the crush. She shuddered to think what Michael would do if her found her

here with Galen. Even though they lived in the same house—at least she thought

they did—she had not seen him since their altercation in the drawing room, but

she knew the Black Plague went out every night.

“Lady Darfield!” The cheerful voice belonged to Lady Delacorte, who was pushing

unceremoniously through the crowd, dragging her husband behind.

“Madam, what a pleasure to see you! Oh, I had so hoped you’d be able to attend

our little gathering last evening,” she said as she reached Abbey.

Abbey’s eyes flew wide upon realizing she had forgotten the invitation.

“Lady

Delacorte, I am so sorry! You must forgive me for being so rude!” Abbey cried in

genuine horror at her faux pas. Lady Delacorte arched a penciled brow.

“Please, my dear, there is no need for an apology! Lord Darfield explained the

entire situation quite clearly,” the woman smiled. Abbey froze. Surely Michael

had not publicly derided her, surely not.

“The entire situation?” she asked weakly.

“What my wife means is that Lord Darfield explained you had unfortunately discovered a previously unknown allergy to shellfish, madam,” Lord Delacorte

said, politely lifting her hand to his mouth. Her relief was great; Michael had