The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (35 page)

The lady sighed quietly. “Thank you, Mrs.
Garner.”

“Oh, ye’re most welcome. Why, I recall the
week we hired the lad. Must’ve been the very same week his lordship
arrived. Those were dark days, I reckon. Lord Atherbourne hadn’t
visited Wyatt House in some time. Staff had dwindled by half. Then,
one day he shows up. I can tell ye, both Billings and Mrs. Garner
had a tall order getting this place running proper. But we was
happy to do it.”

Mrs. Garner watched Lady Atherbourne’s
reactions carefully, noting a sudden perk of interest in the tilt
of her head. “He arrived without notice?” the lady asked
softly.

“Oh, aye. All rags and bones, lookin’ like
he’d ridden through death’s own valley. A pitiful sight to behold,
he was. Lord Tannenbrook had to help him off his horse, sad to
say.”

Blue-green eyes met her own, a spark of
curiosity mixing with sudden sympathy in their depths. “Lord
Tannenbrook came to London with my hus—with Lord Atherbourne?”

The housekeeper gave an exaggerated nod, then
remembered what Cook had said: Don’t appear too eager or give the
information too easily, lest her ladyship become suspicious. She
pointed to the tray. “Would ye like me to pour, my lady?”

Lady Atherbourne followed her gaze briefly,
then shook her head, clearly impatient to learn more. “How—how long
have they been friends, do you know?”

Deliberately tightening her mouth so as to
appear reluctant, Mrs. Garner pursed her lips, then said, “I
couldn’t say, my lady.” She glanced surreptitiously toward the
door, then continued in a whisper, “But iffen anyone would
understand the sad business from that time, it would be his
lordship. Tannenbrook, I mean. Known the family fer years, if I’m
not mistaken. He was there through the whole of it. No one else
Lord Atherbourne’s like to confide in, so they been thick as
thieves these past months.”

Watching her ladyship spark to life in that
moment, seeing her make the connection Mrs. Garner had so artfully
proffered—well, it was satisfying, to say the least. “Will there be
anything else, my lady?”

Still clearly lost in thought, Lady
Atherbourne shook her head. Mrs. Garner turned to leave, but
stopped when her mistress suddenly reached out and clasped her
hand. The contrast between a refined lady’s soft, white hand and
her own callused, work-worn one was stark and slightly
embarrassing. “Thank you, Mrs. Garner. You are the finest of
housekeepers.” With that rather startling declaration, she let go
and returned to her correspondence, pulling out a fresh sheet of
paper with, apparently, renewed vigor.

As Mrs. Garner exited the sitting room,
closing the door quietly to give her mistress plenty of time to
think, she smiled to herself. Among the many duties a housekeeper
must perform, first and foremost was maintaining a pristine and
orderly residence. And like a filthy chamber, this particular mess
was about to be cleaned up proper, or her name wasn’t Mrs.
Garner.

*~*~*

Chapter Thirty

“
Yes, I suppose London is delightful, providing
one prefers breathing noxious air and being surrounded by filth.
And that is merely its residents.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham to Lady Rumstoke during a ride along Rotten Row.

London’s light was always somewhat weak, but
today it was positively dim. Fog blanketed the streets, causing
late morning to feel more like dusk. Victoria sighed as she
squinted at the portrait of Lucien. Despite the low light, she
noted with satisfaction that his waistcoat was now a vivid,
eye-catching blue, thanks to her ultramarine pigment.

In the week since the confrontation at
Clyde-Lacey House, she had visited her former home twice, once to
retrieve her art supplies and once to speak with Harrison.
Fortunately, Lucien had lost interest in preventing her seeing her
brothers.

Unfortunately,
he also had lost
interest in her. After they’d arrived back at Wyatt House, she had
retreated to her sitting room, needing a few hours of solitude to
digest what had occurred. Lucien had not attempted to touch or
speak to her. In fact, he had closed himself up in the library
until well past midnight.

She had fallen asleep without him. He still
had not returned to their bed.

Hugging herself against a chill, she wandered
to the windows of her studio, staring vacantly at the gray. The
muffled clacking of carriage wheels could be heard through the
glass, but all she could see was fog. It was eerie, really; knowing
something was so close, yet being unable to see it. Breathing
against a faint sense of despair, she stiffened her spine. Lucien
had studiously avoided her for the past week, spending most days
away from the house, his nights in one of the guest chambers.

On two occasions, she had caught him on his
way out, had tried to speak to him about Colin and Harrison, to
discuss what should happen with their marriage. Both times, he
behaved as a stranger—remote, polite, even dull—brushing her off as
he would an overly aggressive fruit seller. At first, it was
understandable. Then, it was vexing. Now, she was angry. If he
thought he could ignore her forever, he was the greatest of
fools.

Last night was the fifth evening Cook had
served fish for dinner. He had said nothing, although her intent
had been to solicit some sort of reaction. She swallowed against a
roll of nausea. Even she was growing weary of the stuff.

A change of tactics was required, that was
all. He
would
speak to her, blast it. They
would
resolve this one way or another. They must. Otherwise, she was
terribly afraid their marriage would continue to deteriorate until
only dust remained. Perhaps that was his intention, she thought. It
was still possible he felt nothing for her, that revenge had been
his sole reason for being with her, and she was no longer useful to
him. After all, now that Colin had confessed his part in Marissa’s
death, everything had changed.

Or, had it? Lucien might, at this moment,
still intend to deliver justice upon Colin. A part of her would
understand if he did. What Colin had done was contemptible, and as
his sister, she was both ashamed and furious with him. Not only had
he badly mistreated Marissa, he had remained silent while Harrison
fought a duel over the consequences of his actions.

Looking back, it was clear Colin had felt
guilt over the incident. His drinking had increased dramatically
during that time, and had been a curse ever since. Truly, her
brother’s recklessness and lack of honor had set a series of
disasters in motion. And that would be difficult to forgive, even
for those closest to him.

But was he the only one at fault? Marissa
herself bore some responsibility, surely. Victoria tried to imagine
herself in the same situation—deeply in love with a man who
abandoned her. Disgraced. Unmarried. With child.

Her hand drifted to her belly.

Would she, Victoria, choose to take her own
life, and that of her unborn child?

No, she decided instantly. Not in a thousand
lifetimes would she willingly deliver such grief and suffering upon
those who loved her, or deprive her child of the chance to be born.
As heartsick as she would be if Lucien treated her in such a way,
she would always choose life over death.

Marissa had made a different choice, and it
had been devastating.

Her hand fisted around the cloth at her
midsection. She imagined a babe growing inside her body. Lucien’s
child. Perhaps with his dark hair and strong features. A wave of
love and longing rushed through her in a warm tingle. Steadying
herself, she gritted her teeth and raised her chin. Perhaps her
marriage was a sham. Perhaps he did not give a fig about her. But
at some point between deciding to defy Lucien’s mandate and
deciding to accompany him back to Wyatt House, she had realized he
was likely the only husband she would have, the only one who could
give her children. He might not love her, but he had married her,
and he would not escape his responsibilities so easily. He would
not escape
her
so easily.

She gave a startled jerk as Billings bellowed
from the doorway, “My lady, Lord Tannenbrook has arrived. Shall I
show him up?”

“Please do, Billings. Thank you.”

He nodded and disappeared. Victoria quickly
covered the portrait and gathered her sketchbook from the work
table. She ran a hand over its soft leather cover, a half smile
emerging. If Lucien would not speak to her, she would do what she
must.

Moments later, Lord Tannenbrook filled the
doorway of her studio—quite literally. His shoulders brushed the
jam on either side. The man was as big as a mountain. Dressed
simply in a dark brown woolen coat, green waistcoat, and tan riding
breeches, she fancied he wore the colors of one, as well. James
Kilbrenner reminded her of the Scottish Highlands she had visited
as a child—stalwart, intimidating, and inscrutable.

She smiled brightly in welcome, thanking him
for coming.

But for the mildly awkward way he hovered in
the doorway, he was as unreadable as ever. “Your note said Lucien
required my help.” He glanced pointedly around the room. “Is he
late arriving, Lady Atherbourne?”

The flat question implied she had done
something improper. Perhaps she had, inviting a man who was not her
husband to meet with her privately. But, dash it all, she must have
answers—answers Lucien was unwilling to provide.

There was a time when she had simply accepted
the rules of society, playing the role assigned to her by birth and
station and expectation. But after the scandal, she had begun to
realize how arbitrary those rules sometimes were, particularly for
women.

Strangely, it was her marriage to Lucien that
had given her the courage to fight for what she wanted, rather than
allowing others to choose her fate. And if the past few days of
cold civility had served any purpose at all, it had forced her to
acknowledge what she wanted most: Lucien himself.

The infuriating, manipulative, disgustingly
handsome, intelligent, romantic, dashing devil.

She shook her head, annoyed at herself. She
could not even sustain a good rant against the man in her own
head.

Tannenbrook took her gesture as an answer to
his question about whether Lucien would be joining them, and
shifted as though preparing to leave. “I’m not certain I
understand, then. Perhaps we should wait to discuss this until
Lucien is available.”

She walked toward Lucien’s friend, hugging
her sketchbook to her breast with one hand and gesturing toward a
pair of chairs with the other. “Please, Lord Tannenbrook. Won’t you
sit and talk with me? I promise my intentions are exactly as my
note described—to help Lucien.”

Sharp green eyes met her own, studied her for
several seconds. Then, slowly, Tannenbrook stepped into the room,
the knock of his boot heels against the wooden floor echoing in the
largely empty chamber. He came to a stop near the corner adjacent
to the fireplace and stood beside one of the chairs she had
indicated.

Victoria smiled gratefully and seated
herself, waiting for the dark-blond giant to do the same. As he
lowered into the chair, he asked, “My lady, forgive me, but are you
not concerned what your husband might say should he discover we
have met privately?”

She patted the cover of her sketchbook, then
opened it cheerfully and pulled a pencil from the pocket of her
apron. “Not a bit,” she replied. “You are here so that I may sketch
you. While I do so, we shall simply pass the time in conversation.”
Giving him a conspiratorial grin, she smoothed an empty page and
immediately began long, sweeping strokes of her pencil, her eyes
moving quickly between him and the emerging image.

While at first he appeared surprised, then
skeptical, she glimpsed what appeared to be the faintest
half-smile. Well, well. The stone-faced earl seemed agreeable, at
least enough to remain in place. That was good, because she had
questions that must be addressed.

“How long have you known my husband?” she
began casually.

The chair creaked as he repositioned himself,
the faint light from the windows doing intriguing things with the
furrow on his heavy brow. “Since I inherited the title. Fourteen
years or so. Tannenbrook lands border Thornbridge to the
north.”

“You knew his brother, Gregory, as well, I
presume? And … Marissa.”

The strokes of pencil over paper whispered in
the long silence before his deep, rumbling voice finally answered,
“Yes.”

“What were they like?”

He tilted his head subtly, considering her
question. “Marissa was guileless. A bit wild, perhaps, but in the
way of a bramble rose. Delicate.”

“And Gregory?”

“Good.”

Her brows arched in inquiry. “Good?”

Tannenbrook grunted affirmatively. “A good
man. Good brother. Good friend.”

She nodded, perceiving the earl’s emotion
surrounding Gregory’s death. To most, his face would appear
expressionless. But as she drew his features, she could see the
nearly imperceptible changes in the cast of his eyes, the tic of
muscles tugging down the corners of his mouth. The grief was there,
just well hidden.

“And how would you describe Lucien?” she
continued.

“That is more complicated.”

Victoria struggled for a moment with the
shading of Tannenbrook’s temple, focusing on the sketch. He was a
difficult subject to capture well, as his face changed radically
depending on the light, from sinister to calm, craggy and blunt to
surprisingly elegant. It was disconcerting, as though his identity
changed moment by moment.

Returning to their conversation, she asked
absently, “How so?”

The man’s chair creaked again as he shifted.
“Death has changed him a great deal.”