The butler led him to the rose-colored parlor. Martin did not sit but waited by the enormous fireplace, inspecting the brass figurines and crystal vases.
Ashworth would have married Catherine had he not decided to visit Mary that night. Bloody fool. He lost his bride, place in society and disappeared into hiding. All for a sample of Mary’s talents.
The sound of rustling skirts drew Martin’s attention. He looked over his shoulder to see Catherine, still exquisite these many years later. Her golden hair shimmered, her skin pure and unblemished. She was one of the marble statues in the main foyer come to life.
Her sharp hazel eyes and amused grin made the hair on his neck rise. “You do not seem surprised to see me.”
“I’m not.”
Martin moved closer, the scent of lavender filling his senses, arousing his groin. “Then perhaps you can tell me why I am here.”
Catherine pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Fine then.” She lowered herself to the sofa. “You could only be here to ask me information about Lord Ashworth. You must assume I know of his whereabouts.”
Martin curled his lip. “Perceptive, Lady Wainscott. I’m impressed. Now tell me why it is that I seek him.”
“It has something to do with that whore, of course. Weren’t you the one who introduced them?”
Martin clenched his hands into fists, his pulse quickening. He detested when Mary was called a whore. Yes, she earned her coins that way, but what other way was there on those streets? And, yes, he’d introduced Ashworth to her, but he never expected them to betray him. Or to have a child, by devil! The child that should have been his!
“Her
name
was Mary Yeardley.”
She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “But of course.”
“So tell me, Lady Wainscott, do you know where Ashworth resides now?”
“I do.”
Relief buzzed through him. “You can provide me a location?”
“I can. In fact, I could take you there myself should I care to return. But I don’t.”
“Return?”
She nodded, bitterness in her eyes. “I was there not so long ago, you see. Spent several weeks in that awful disaster of a manor. I’ve never been happier to be home.”
Martin sat. This was even better than he expected. “Tell me then, who was there with him? Or does he live alone?”
“Charles wants the world to think he is there alone, but others are there, hidden behind walls and secrets.”
“Who? Who else is there?”
“Well, there is someone there you know. John Hughes.”
So that’s where John disappeared to. He left London, his family, his chance at his inheritance to be with Ashworth in the far countryside? What the hell for? Perhaps Ashworth had a fascination for his own gender like Lord Whistlebury.
Catherine chuckled. “I see you are confused. I was too, believe me. But he is actually in Charles’s employ.”
“As what?”
Her eyes lit up. She was clearly enjoying this conversation, as if she had nothing better to do than divulge all of Ashworth’s dirty secrets. Luckily, he was just the right person to hear them.
“John is there as a tutor.”
A flood of viciousness rushed through his system. So, he’d been right. The baby had been Ashworth’s. Their treachery had gone on longer than he realized, long enough to give them a child.
Betrayal of the worst kind.
He swallowed to keep his fury in check. “A tutor, did you say?”
Catherine shifted in her seat, smoothed out her dress. “Unfortunately, I know nothing more than there is a boy there by the name of Harry. I know not his age, nor what he looks like.”
“Harry, eh?”
“So, Mr. Crawford…Martin. I have given you the information I know. Now you can tell me what it is you seek from Charles.”
This time he was the one who laughed. “I seek exactly what you told me.”
“About the child?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you care about this boy?”
Revenge. The boy was proof of Ashworth’s ongoing affair with Mary. He’d pay for his reckless act.
What better way to destroy the man than to take his child away? That child would be Martin’s in the end.
The energy of regaining control filled him with a sense of power.
Martin inhaled a deep breath, tasting Catherine’s lavender scent. He licked his lips, briefly perusing her buttermilk skin. Ah, the bright and beautiful marks he could make upon it. “Tell me, Lady Wainscott, why did
you
go out there to see your former love?”
Her nostrils flared. “I’d rather not discuss that.”
“Because he refused you?” He snorted. “You rejected him first.”
She eyed him coldly. “I had good reason. He did not.”
Martin shrugged, stood. He didn’t care of their relationship, of their pathetic inability to repair the past. He only cared about getting to Ashworth’s lair.
“Thank you for your information. Perhaps I could be of service to you.”
“Yes, actually.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll give you directions to his manor. Are you headed there directly then?”
“Yes. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Catherine smirked. “Well, then, perhaps there is something you could do for me after all.”
He stared at her neck, her bosom, his heart racing again. “What could that be, my lady?”
“Not me.” She lifted her pretty chin. “Set your paws on the woman Ashworth claims is his betrothed.”
“Ah, so there was a reason he snubbed you.”
“I have found myself someone much more worthy. The Earl of Middleborough has asked for my hand. I am much more blessed with this match.”
Martin led the way to the foyer, where the butler retrieved his hat. “Why have me bother with this girl then? Is it that if he won’t have you than he can have no one?”
She scribbled notes on a scented sheet of paper and handed it to him. “The reasons are mine. Just cause him misery. Get rid of her, I don’t care how.”
He chuckled, excited at the possibility of retribution on Ashworth by taking away two of his loves.
“I’ll see to it that the lowly chit is no longer good enough for your beloved Charles.”
Catherine laughed. “That lowly chit claimed to be a baron’s daughter. But she behaved and dressed no better than a shop worker.”
Martin paused, his nerves suddenly taut. Could it be…? “Did you say ‘baron’s daughter’?”
“Yes, so she claimed.”
He held his breath. “Her name?”
“Miss Suttley. Why? Do you know her?”
He should have experienced relief. Finally, he knew where Vivian was. Instead a squall of violence gathered in his bloodstream. That bloody bastard had taken both Mary and Vivian from him. While Martin wasted all this time in London, chasing lies and vile memories, Vivian was in his enemy’s manor.
Ashworth had probably soiled her by now.
He stormed out of the house, down the steps into a downpour. Rage consumed every piece of his soul as he climbed back into the carriage.
Vivian didn’t end up at that remote manor by accident. No, she overheard Martin say how much he despised the viscount, how he’d hoped he never saw the bastard again. It was the perfect place for her to run from him.
He forced a smirk upon his lips. He’d be there soon. And then there would be hell to pay.
For everyone.
“She’s here, milord.”
Ashworth ran over to Pinkley, who stood guard, like an impenetrable sentinel, over the slumped figure of Vivian.
Heart hammering, Ashworth sank to his knees next to her. “Vivian. Please, what’s happened?”
She whimpered. “So tired.”
He scooped her into his arms, pressing her close to his chest. Pinkley scurried ahead and opened her bedchamber door. “Bring up some tea.”
“Aye, milord.”
Ashworth nudged aside the bed curtains and laid her on the bed. Her face was pale, eyes somewhat sunken. “Was it the wine?”
She blinked haunted eyes at him. “I-I should tell you something.”
He brushed his fingers across her lips. “Shh, tell me later, after you have rested.”
“No, you must understand. I have to tell you now.”
Wind gusted against the walls, quickening drafts through the room. Vivian’s lips trembled.
“You are cold.” He stood, removed her shoes, and pulled the blankets over her. “You must get well soon. We have a wedding to plan.”
Her frigid fingers gripped his hand. “I…I am not so certain there will be a wedding.”
His breath lodged in his throat. Dear Lord, she didn’t think she would die, did she? “You will recover from this. It will pass.”
She managed a smile. “Yes. I am already feeling improved.”
There was a light knock on the door. “The tea, milord.”
Ashworth retrieved the tray. His rapid pulse belied his calm exterior. How could she not want to marry him now? It was her lone reason for remaining here, for driving him mad with chaos and pleasure.
She refused to leave, refused his peace. And now that he’d offered it to her, she refused to accept it?
Concern transformed into ire.
He turned to see her up on an elbow, a slight color returning to her cheeks.
“I have offered you what you sought those weeks ago. Now you do not want it?”
“I came to you in a panic, desperate for a solution.”
He crossed his arms, clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
“But things have changed. I have changed. I want more than just this isolated manor and your name.”
“Those were the reasons you stated. Now what do you desire? A fancy house? Trips abroad? Servants to attend you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. I want to feel fulfilled, have my heart filled with joy.”
“You are saying I cannot give that to you?”
“You will give nothing more than your body.”
Ashworth bristled, then dared to ask the very thing he feared. “You want love?”
Vivian sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, fervor returning her strength. “It isn’t only love. I want trust, devotion, courage. You won’t give me those either.”
Bloody hell, she was rejecting him. Just as Catherine had done. She couldn’t accept him as who he was, she insisted he become something else. Why couldn’t she understand that some secrets were better left unsaid?
He was tempted to walk out, drown himself in brandy and sleep until the next sunset. But he would not let her pity him. Instead, he walked over to where she sat upon the bed and stood above her.
“Do you want adoration along with my desire and lust?”
She lifted her chin, her seductive eyes melting his indignation. “I know that you bring me desire. I cannot be near you without my blood humming for your touch.”
He traced a finger down her throat, across her shoulder. “I need you, Vivian. Like your garden needs the rain. Like the flowers need the bees.”
She rested her head against him. “I know that, my lord. But you don’t realize you need more, not only—”
Ashworth would not let her say more. He captured her lips in a kiss. She tasted of the wine, of sweet apples, of intoxicating honeysuckle.
She leaned back, pulling him down with her.
Liquid heat erupted in his veins. He nibbled on her mouth, licked the curve of her ears, cupped her breasts. By God, she would make him whole. He could not rest until she made him complete.
Vivian smoothed her finger down his scar. “Cherish me. Make me believe you cannot live without me.”
Ashworth lifted his face, grinning. “I can easily show you—”
No!
The blood had returned! Bile rose up his throat, choked him.
He leapt back, scrambled from the bed.
“What is it?” She came after him. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it? Tell me what you see.”
He spun away from her, overcome by anguish and misery. He thought she’d cured him of the curse.
But it wasn’t gone. Would he never be free from it?
Without looking at her, he headed straight for his adjoining door.
“Don’t you leave me!”
He didn’t stop, but as he went to slam the door behind him, Vivian pushed her way into his room. “I won’t let you run this time.”
He glared at her, bracing himself for the visions, but only determined beauty stared back at him.
“Don’t you see? I am not healed. I am still the monster I’ve always been, haunted by memories too painful to speak of.”
“Speak of them and they will be less painful.”
His fingers closed into fists. “If it is that easy, then you do it. Tell me your secrets.”
She gazed at him, her eyes narrowing. Finally, she sighed. “All right then. I will, but you must promise to tell me what you dread. I will not let you rest until you’ve done so.”
He could scarcely breathe for the fear of the memories, the fear of Vivian’s reaction, the fear that he was, in fact, a murderer.
“Promise me. Please.”
Unable to resist the tenderness in her gaze, he nodded.
She lifted her chin. “My secret that I’ve not wanted to tell you is that ever since I’ve been in this house I have felt in danger.”
“Danger?” The Monster? Had the rumors actually come to pass on her?
“One night I was assaulted in the hallway—”
“Assaulted?”
“I don’t know who it was but a man stopped me, frightened me. And then the other night, while in the cellar, he was there again.”
The Monster only came out during the lost hours of the night when Ashworth drank his potion, not at other times. “What happened then?”
She crossed her arms, leaned against the wall. “I was looking at the toys down there and the light went out. He came up behind me in the blackness and…”
“And?”
“He terrified me. Told me to leave this house or he would kill me.”
It could not have been him. He’d not been near the cellar room that day until he’d found her in the dark. But why would she invent a story like this? “No one here wants to kill you.”
Her icy glare suggested otherwise. “And just now, after dinner, it wasn’t the wine that made me ill. I was poisoned.”
Even if he wandered the halls at night, Ashworth certainly did not accost Vivian in the cellar or poison her food. “Vivian, no one in this manor would want to hurt you. They’ve all been told to keep away from you.”
She pressed her lips together, inhaling a deep breath. “You don’t believe me.”