A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (20 page)

“I took a small misstep. I am in agreement with you about the opera, but perhaps it would prove more tolerable if we suffered through together?”

Henry could spend his evening being as roguish as he liked, Diana decided savagely. She was determined to enjoy herself without him. She looked at Sir Samuel, trying not to notice that she didn’t have to tilt her head up as far as she did with Henry. No matter. Height clearly had no influence on moral rectitude.

“Will you think me forward, Sir Samuel, if I say that I hope to see you tonight?”

“On the contrary, I am glad to hear it. I won’t disappoint you, my dear.”

His eyes were kind, thought Diana. Comfortable. He wouldn’t disappoint her, and that was what mattered.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Pray forgive me if I presume too much, but I thought you would wish this news. Of late, our daughter has formed an attachment to Henry Weston, eldest son of Viscount Weston, a young man given to all sorts of roguery. I believe his interest in Diana is suspect as he intends to start a stud. If you wish to protect your daughter, seek out this man and ascertain his true motives…

—FROM LADY LINNET MERRIWETHER TO HER HUSBAND THOMAS

T
HOMAS
M
ERRIWETHER SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY IN
his seat at the dining room at Tattersall’s. He couldn’t blame his chair since the room boasted very elegant accommodations. The wealthy aristocrats who idled away their days here must feel at home, what with the decorated ceilings and fine paintings on the walls. As he was not, nor had he ever aspired to be, one of them, the rich trappings left him ill at ease.

Also, he admitted to himself, his body no longer considered a visit to the capital—a ride of sixty miles from Newmarket—an easy jaunt. This was the third Monday in a row that he’d come to the weekly sale, and if he didn’t run his quarry to ground today, he might just stay in the city until he found the scoundrel.

That might appease his joints, but a week here would do nothing for his bad humor. It was breeding season, there were upcoming races and horses to train, and the Marquess of Cheston’s mare would foal any day now. He hated being away, even though Bar was perfectly capable of managing the place. Very few things could have brought him to London.

He ran his fingers over the folded piece of paper in his coat pocket. He’d been shocked to receive his wife’s letter. Shocked was an understatement. He gave in to temptation and pulled out the letter, his eyes drinking in the graceful script of Linnet’s hand. He lifted the paper to his face, certain that he could detect a whiff of lavender. The scent raked talons across his heart, but he would bear the pain, gladly, for that little taste of her.

For his children, Thomas would do anything. He’d given his daughter up so she could have a life where viscounts’ sons courted her. He didn’t know if she’d ever understood his motives. She’d not forgiven him, not for that or the rest. He didn’t blame her. He would never forgive himself for what he’d done.

The moments, the times one wished to remember least, were often those that remained in perfect clarity. The happiest moments in his life—the births of his children, making love with his wife—those memories were blurred at the edges. He only wished he had some relief from
that
day. He didn’t deserve to forget what had happened, but everything remained in such damned sharp, horrifying detail…

Linnet had fled to her parents, taking both children, since Diana had refused to leave without her brother. He’d lost his mind about three minutes after they’d left. He drank until he was numb. Bar could run the stud without his direction, but the place could go to rack and ruin for all Thomas cared. His butler, Ingham, ran the household and, as long as he provided copious amounts of liquor, Thomas found no complaint.

After about three months, Bar had had enough of his wallowing and drunken outbursts. He’d taken the key to the wine cellar from Ingham, and then informed Thomas that there would be no more spirits forthcoming. Infuriated, Thomas had fired both him and Ingham, along with everyone else he’d encountered on his way to the public house in Newmarket.

Once he got there… He’d been so damned angry. With Bar. With Ingham. With Peckford. With the duke and duchess. With Linnet. And with each drink, his sense of outrage and betrayal grew. They had all conspired against him. They had made a fool of him.

The main room began to empty. The men here had to wake up and work come sunrise. He couldn’t face going to sleep, knowing that nothing would have changed tomorrow. He’d wake in his too empty bed in his too empty house. He drained his glass and waved the serving girl, Marjorie, over for more.

Walt Crofter had been a good trainer, but his recklessness had killed him, and he’d left his widow with nothing. Marjorie appeared to do well enough without him. She always had a smile on her face whenever Thomas took a meal here. She wasn’t smiling as she came to him now.

“Do you intend to drink yourself into a stupor, sir?”

“That is none of your business, Mrs. Crofter.” The words emerged slightly slurred.

“Marjorie, please. Mrs. Crofter will always be my mother-in-law.”

He inclined his head. “Bring me another drink, Marjorie.”

“I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Merriwether.” She leaned in close and pried the glass from his hand. She smelled fresh and sweet, like the first hint of spring after a harsh winter. “Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep this off? I’ll ask for a key to one of the rooms.”

As he watched her lips move, he remembered the other sure way to oblivion. He realized Marjorie hadn’t stepped away. He met her gaze and found a combination of desire, loneliness, and need.

He had a brief recollection of kissing her on the staircase and stumbling into a room with her, and then nothing else until the morning when he woke to find himself alone in bed. He put all the money he had on his person on the table, and then hastily dressed and left. Whether it was the drink, the knowledge of what he suspected he’d done, or some combination of the two, as soon as he reached the street, he cast up his accounts.

His head throbbed to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves as he rode home, stopping every mile or so to be ill. The physical discomfort mattered little compared to the agony tearing through his heart. He prayed he’d been too inebriated to do anything the previous night, but, whether or not he’d slept with the woman, he’d betrayed Linnet. He’d committed—or intended to commit—the very crime he’d accused her of, and now he wondered if he hadn’t made a terrible mistake in accusing her at all.

If Linnet had gone to another man’s bed, she must feel at least some of the wretchedness clawing at him, but she hadn’t acted the slightest bit guilty when he’d confronted her. Oh, God, what had he done? He’d allowed his fear of being unworthy of Linnet to transform him into a man who
was
unworthy of her.

He didn’t know how he would go on without her and the children. He certainly couldn’t go on the way he had been. If Linnet could see him now, she would be disgusted. He didn’t imagine Linnet could ever forgive him—hell, he would never forgive himself—but perhaps if he threw himself at her feet and begged…

He lost count of how many times he fired Bar and Ingham over the next fortnight, as he fought off the craving for drink. The early days were the hardest, especially since he refused to take laudanum to dull his senses. As he paced the grounds on sleepless night after sleepless night, he told himself that this was but a small part of his penance. He would pay any price to have his wife and children—Diana, Alex, and the tiny one he’d yet to meet—back home with him.

At last, the day came, and Thomas arrived at Lansdowne House prepared to reclaim his family. He elbowed aside Snellings, who looked as sour and scrawny as ever, and stood in the marble entrance hall bellowing Linnet’s name. The duchess arrived first.

“Go home to your horses, Thomas,” she commanded. “You have no business here.”

“My wife and children are here. I will not leave without them.”

“They do not wish to go with you.” The duchess’s voice was like ice.

“Bring them here and ask them,” he challenged her with more bravado than he actually felt. “This won’t be the first time Linnet has been forced to choose between us. Given the choice to stay here—”

“Stay here?” The duchess’s barked laughter chilled his blood. “After she allowed to you ruin her? His Grace and I cast her out.”

Thomas’s head spun as he tried to make some sense of the duchess’s words. “Linnet told you I ruined her?”

“Oh, yes, she came to see us after it happened. Very contrite, she was, weeping and begging our forgiveness. She assured us the two of you meant to marry. I tried to persuade His Grace to send Linnet away for a time while we waited to see if any lasting misfortunes would result, but Lansdowne would not hear of it. You say you were Linnet’s choice; in truth, she had no choice once you ruined her.”

“No,” he whispered, and then louder, “I didn’t ruin her.”

“Come, there is no need to shout. The past is in the past. His Grace and I have forgiven Linnet.”

“She lied! I swear to you she was untouched on our wedding night. Linnet!” he yelled again.

She appeared at the landing at top of the stairs but made no move to come any closer. She was too thin and too pale, and she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

“Why have you come, Thomas?” Her voice was exhausted, pained almost. She gripped the banister with one hand; the other rubbed at her lower back.

“I came here for my family,” he told her. “I convinced myself you were telling the truth. I told myself there were no lies between us—” His voice cracked. “Why? Why would you tell your parents I ruined you?”

She moved slowly down the stairs toward him, tears streaming down her face. “I was afraid they would come after us. If they believed me ruined, they wouldn’t have bothered. I chose you,” she yelled, then swayed and clutched the banister as if the act of raising her voice had sapped her strength. “I chose you. I gave up everything to love you, be with you, bear your children, and—”

“You never gave them up,” he spat out, striding to the base of the stairs. “You told them lies so they would give
you
up. When they came back into our lives after Alex was born, you welcomed them without a word of reproach. Whenever they send word, you run off for weeks at a time to dance attendance.”

“I do it for the—”

“Don’t tell me you do it for the children because they don’t give a damn about any of this. You are the one who misses this life.”

“No!” she insisted.

“Then come away with me right now.” He started up the stairs. “Prove to me once more that you love me as I love you. We’ll take the children, go home, and put them out of our lives forev—”

“They are my parents,” she sobbed.

“I am your husband!”

Movement above Linnet caught his eye. A frantic maid reached for— Christ, Diana and Alex sat on the upper landing, their arms around each other. He only caught a glimpse of their terrified faces before the woman began hurrying them away. He had to get to his children and ease the fear in their eyes.

“Not any—” An anguished cry broke from her lips as she doubled over, clutching her abdomen.

“Linnet!” He lunged for her, catching her just as she collapsed. Thomas cradled her against him as she moaned and writhed in pain, and then her body went limp. He looked around helplessly, his eye catching on the duchess. She stood utterly still and as white as the marble statues decorating the entrance hall.

“Do something!” he demanded.

With a tiny shake, the duchess moved into action. “You, fetch the doctor. You, bring linens to Lady Linnet’s room.” She doled out orders to the group of servants who had gathered at Linnet’s scream. Then, imperious as ever, she marched up the stairs and gestured to him. “You, follow me.”

Thomas shifted his wife into his arms and followed the duchess up another flight of stairs to a bedchamber, which he supposed belonged to Linnet. The counterpane lay on the floor beside the bed where maids spread clean white linens over the mattress.

“Lay her on the bed,” the duchess instructed.

Thomas hesitated, not wanting to let his wife out of his arms. He had the terrifying notion that if he let her go, he would never get her back. Linnet twisted in his arms as a spasm wracked her frail body. A rush of wetness soaked through his coat on the arm that hooked under her legs.

Thomas’s heart turned over in his chest. “She’s losing the babe, isn’t she?” He looked to the duchess for confirmation.

“I believe so.” Her voice was eerily flat, emotionless.

Thomas gently eased his wife onto the bed. Her face had little more color than the snowy sheets upon which she lay. He knelt beside the bed and clutched her hand, but it was cold and limp in his grasp.

Two maids removed her shoes and stockings. Another untied the wide ribbon sash at her waist.

“You can go now, Mr. Merriwether,” the duchess informed him.

Thomas shook his head, never taking his eyes from Linnet. “If you try to make me leave, you’ll live to regret it.” He released Linnet’s hand only long enough for the maids to draw her arm through the sleeve of a clean shift.