Cheryl Holt (27 page)

“Come in,” she said, and Rose entered.

“Hello, Mother.” As usual, Rose was pleasant and merry. Though the lives of the adults in the residence swirled with misery, Rose had never been more contented. She loved the large mansion, the nursery, the servants, and especially her friend, Margaret.

“Are you ready for your trip?” Mary queried, though she could discern from the scent of Rose’s clothes that she had on her coat and bonnet. Emily was escorting the girls to a fancy house party, with Rose invited as Margaret’s companion.

“Yes,” Rose answered, “and I can’t wait to be off. We’re to ride in the earl’s coach-and-four!” She crossed over and sat next to Mary. “Are you ill, Mother?” Rose was very astute, and having a blind mother had made her too attentive, too sensitive to Mary’s moods.

“No. Why would you ask?”

“You seem very sad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you going out?”

Rose was assessing Mary’s cloak, her gloves. “I was about to walk in the garden,” Mary fibbed, “but I guess I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be going anywhere, after all.”

“Are you lonely? Would you like me to stay home with you? I could, you know. It’s no bother.”

“No, no,” Mary hastily replied. She couldn’t have Rose hovering. Mary would need the next few days to
regroup, to make decisions and hide her enormous broken heart so that no one would ever discover how desperately she’d been wounded. “You go with your aunt Emily and have fun.”

“Are you positive?”

“Absolutely.”

Mary kissed her on the cheek, and Rose hesitated, torn between assisting her mother and enjoying her adventure, but ultimately, she stood.

“I’ll miss you every second,” Rose proclaimed.

“As will I you.” Mary smiled, though it was tremulous and difficult to hold. “You’re a good girl, Rose. You always were.”

“Thank you.” Rose knelt and hugged Mary tightly as she whispered, “Whatever it is, Mother, it will be all right. I’m sure of it. Nothing bad can happen to us here. Lord Winchester has been so kind, and Aunt Emily is so happy. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. Now, when Emily summons you, you must be prepared.”

“I’ve been packed for hours!”

Mary chuckled. “Farewell, darling. Have a grand holiday.”

“I will.”

Rose hesitated again, then left, apparently recognizing that she couldn’t fix what was wrong. Mary listened to her go, and she murmured a short prayer for Rose’s safety.

When Rose returned, how perilous would their situation be?

Mary was a smart, experienced widow, a middle-aged parent. How could she have been so imprudent?

Abhorring the silence, the ambiguity, she went to the
window and gazed outside. She could smell the flowers in the yard, could hear the bees buzzing.

He wasn’t coming.

With a lethal certainty, she knew it, and she had to face the facts. He’d never intended to marry her. He was the son of an earl, the brother of an earl, an army veteran, a war hero. He was a man of means and wealth, of status and station, but what was she?

She was a disabled invalid, who was indebted to others for the food she ate, the clothes she wore, the roof over her head. She was naught but a burden. Why would he assume such an obligation?

She’d been pathetic in her need to believe that he cared about her, but he hadn’t. She’d merely been a method by which he could slake his lust. No matter how she tried to shine a better light on his conduct, no matter how she rationalized or justified, his interest had been no more simple or complex than that.

She yearned to hate him, to blame him, but she was an adult, and she’d raced to ruin of her own accord.

Oh, how she wanted to go home, to her modest, humble life in Hailsham. She would give anything—anything at all—to flee London and the despicable people she’d met, but how could she arrange it?

She hadn’t a penny in her purse. She was powerless, dependent, alone.

Devastated, she sank into a chair. She closed her eyes and wept for all that was lost.

Emily rushed toward the dining parlor. She and Michael had loved till dawn, and she was exhausted
and had overslept. Much too soon, it would be time to depart.

She wasn’t anywhere near ready, and she hurried into the room, expecting it to be empty, expecting to grab a scone to nibble while she finished her preparations, but she skidded to a halt.

To her shock, horror, and fury, Amanda was at the table, attired in a revealing negligee and matching robe. Her blond hair was down, brushed out, and it fell around her shoulders in casual disarray.

She looked sexy, wanton, and desirable, in a fashion Emily never could have managed. She glanced up, and they studied each other, their mutual loathing blatant, and Emily was so stunned that she couldn’t think of what to say.

If Amanda had owned the accursed mansion, she couldn’t have been more at ease, and it was obvious that this was not her first meal in the spot. She was too comfortable, too relaxed.

Amanda frowned and inquired, “Are you still here? I thought you’d gone.”

Emily sputtered for a reply and finally countered with, “What are you doing in this house? Go at once.”

Amanda ignored her edict and continued eating. “I’d have you join me, but I don’t dine with the hired help. I suggest you retire to the kitchen where you belong.”

Emily couldn’t decide what to do. What was her authority?

She stomped to the hall and shouted, “Mr. Fitch, I need you.”

Fitch eventually appeared. “Yes, Miss Barnett? What is it?”

Emily pointed to Amanda. “Amanda is on the premises.”

“I see that.” He was calm, unperturbed by the tidings. “Good morning, Miss Amanda.”

“Good morning, Fitch.” Amanda shrugged as if she couldn’t comprehend why Emily was creating an uproar, and Fitch glared at Emily as if she were mad.

“I hate to be blunt, Miss Barnett,” he counseled, “but you’re relatively new to your position, so it seems you’re confused. Amanda often
visits
. She has her own room upstairs. It’s connected to the earl’s. I must remind you that we’re servants, and it’s not my place—or yours—to worry about how they carry on.”

Emily was appalled to learn that Amanda utilized the chamber next to Michael’s. She hadn’t realized how ensconced Amanda was in Michael’s life, hadn’t grasped the full ramifications of their relationship.

He’d left Emily’s bed a few hours earlier. Since then, what had he been doing? She’d considered their romantic interlude to have quelled her doubts as to his affection, but suddenly, she was more perplexed than ever.

She ventured to Fitch, “Has Lord Winchester advised you that it’s all right?”

“Why would any instruction from him be necessary?”

“Would you ask him for me?”

“I wouldn’t presume to wake him with such a frivolous question.”

“Frivolous? But his . . . his mistress is here, and so am I.” Without further clarification, the statement sounded idiotic. She couldn’t blurt out that she and Michael were involved in a torrid affair, that she loved him and was crushed over this horrid turn of events.

Fitch was untroubled by Amanda’s abrupt arrival, and a niggling suspicion occurred to Emily: Perhaps this wasn’t
abrupt
. Perhaps Amanda had been sneaking in all along.

Unless Michael had given Amanda permission to enter, she would never have risked so much, would she? Oh, what was the truth? There were so many ways Emily felt betrayed, but she couldn’t announce that Michael was hers.

“As I explained, Miss Barnett,” Fitch was saying, “Amanda’s presence is none of our concern.”

“But . . . but—”

Amanda interrupted. “Fitch, I awoke so late. Would you see if Cook has a minute to whip up some of those special eggs I enjoy?”

“She’ll be more than happy to fix them for you. I’ll talk to her immediately.”

He exited, leaving them alone, and a dangerous silence festered. Emily knew that Amanda was trying to rattle her, but she stood her ground.

“Begone,” Emily demanded, “or I swear to God, I will march upstairs and notify Michael, myself.”

“I dare you.”

“You can’t be parading around so scantily dressed! The girls are about to come down. We’re off to a party, and they’ll be in any second.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Amanda retorted. “Not Pamela anyway.”

Emily’s ears began to ring, her pulse to pound. “What do you mean?”

“I warned you. It was for your own good. You should have listened.”

“You
warned
me about what?”

“About Michael and his budding interest in Pamela. Have you spoken with her this morning?”

Emily had been to Pamela’s room, but Pamela hadn’t been there, and her bed was neat and tidy as if it hadn’t been used, but Emily lied. “Yes, and I expect she’ll be down at any moment.”

“There’s no hope for it.” Amanda sighed. “I guess I’ll have to show you.” She threw her napkin on her plate and rose. “Shall we go up together?”

Without waiting for Emily’s response, Amanda swept by and proceeded into the hall, her perfume wafting behind like a poisonous cloud. As if mesmerized, Emily followed. For some reason, she couldn’t stand up to Amanda, couldn’t protest or wrest control of the situation from her. She could only tag after her like a puppet on a string.

What were they about to find? With every fiber of her being, Emily recognized that she didn’t want to be apprised of the answer. They swiftly climbed the stairs to Michael’s door.

“Shall we knock?” Amanda queried. “Or shall we walk in and surprise them?”

Emily started to tremble, and she backed away, too distraught to witness whatever was transpiring.

“No . . . no . . . I don’t wish to . . . I can’t bear it. . ..”

“You won’t be convinced until you see for yourself.” Amanda seized Emily’s wrist and dragged her inside and over to the bed.

Michael was blissfully asleep. His clothes were off, except for his trousers, which were around his flanks, as if he’d been in too much of a hurry to remove them.
Emily recollected the numerous occasions Michael had done the same with her, when he’d been too impatient to bother with disrobing.

A wanton, rumpled—naked!—Pamela was snuggled to him, her blond hair down, her young, lithe body draped across his. She rubbed his chest, as if she was intimately familiar with it, as if she’d touched him thus many times previous.

“Look, Emily,” Amanda commanded, clutching Emily’s arm so she couldn’t wrestle free. “Look at your dear Lord Winchester.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Emily murmured over and over. It was the sole remark she could utter.

“Miss Barnett!” Pamela barked. “We’re
involved
here. Do you mind?”

There were a thousand replies Emily could have made, but what was the point? Mr. Fitch had elucidated what Emily had forgotten: She was a servant in the house. It was a truth she hadn’t been able to face, a reality she’d declined to accept.

Michael Farrow was the lord of the manor, a sort of powerful, autonomous god, who could do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted. Emily had intrigued him, had fascinated him, and he’d trifled with her, but it had never been more than that.

Had she amused him? Had he been entertained?

How could she have been so blind? So stupid?

“I brought Pamela to him,” Amanda was whispering. “I helped him arouse her. I held her down while he took her virginity.”

“Be silent!” Emily pleaded.

“After we finished, he complimented me on how erotic
it had been, and he promised me a bonus for pleasing him.” She paused to heighten the impact of her words. “It was the three of us, Emily. Together. Can you picture it?”

Emily lurched away, so off balance that she nearly fell, and she gripped the mattress to right herself. He’d been her world, her sun, her moon, and she was aghast, wounded to her very core. If he’d pulled out a pistol and shot her, the damage couldn’t have been any more painful.

“Michael, oh, Michael,” she keened, but he didn’t stir. “How could you? I loved you,” she shamed herself by admitting. “I would have done anything for you.”

“Would you have?” Amanda prodded. “What if, for his next romp, he decides on a threesome with you and Pamela? Could you oblige him? Or what if he insists you do it with me? Could you refuse? He is
Earl
of Winchester, after all, and he’s not terribly gracious when rebuffed.”

Emily heard an odd cracking noise, and it had to be her heart breaking. “No, I never could. I’m not one of you. I don’t belong here.”

“No, you don’t,” Amanda concurred. “Go home, Emily. There must be someone who misses you, someone who will take you in.”

Pamela stretched like a lazy cat. “He’s mine, Miss Barnett. He wanted
me
. Not you. How could you not have known?”

Pamela began to cackle, then laugh, until she was quaking with mirth. Amanda joined in, the timbre of their voices jarring, how a gaggle of demons might sound.

Emily spun away and raced for the door. A crowd of servants had gathered in the corridor, and they were craning their necks and muttering in disgust. Even though
they’d observed many ignominies under Winchester’s roof, the sight was beyond deplorable. No doubt, the scandal would spread across London, from kitchen to kitchen, before the hour was through.

The Earl of Winchester was about to wed, but his countess wouldn’t be Emily Barnett. She’d been such a fool, such a dreamer.

She shoved through the surly group, ignoring their snide comments, their condemning glances. She didn’t care about any of them, and she was desperate to be away. Away from them and London and Michael Farrow.

She was from a small village and didn’t understand the ways of people in the city, hadn’t the strength to endure what was required. She didn’t comprehend the members of the Quality, shouldn’t have immersed herself in their society, shouldn’t have reached so far above her station. She wanted her quiet life back, wanted to return to her simple existence, where she’d grasped the rules by which to conduct herself.

She’d been a good person once, had been virtuous and respectable, decent and principled. She hoped to be that woman again.

Eager to pack her bags, she ran to the stairs and dashed to her room.