Cheryl Holt (35 page)

Realizing that his welcome had been a tad cool, Farrow gazed beyond Rose and flashed a tentative smile. His scar was disfiguring, gruesome to view, and Emily
kept her focus firmly fixed on his eyes and not his cheek.

“I understand that this is rather sudden,” he commenced, “but I care about Mary, and I . . . I . . . love her very much.” He blushed, the admission difficult to voice aloud. “I have an income, not like my brother’s, of course, but enough to provide for her and Rose. I hope I can have your blessing, Mrs. Barnett.”

Emily was awhirl with comments, and she murmured the first that seemed relevant. “I’m not a
Mrs.
Not yet anyway.”

As if it were the strangest remark ever, he gaped at her. “You’re not married to your cousin?”

“I’m about to be. The wedding starts in a few minutes.”

“Are you positive?”

“Believe me, Mr. Farrow, I’m often confused, but I
do
know when my own wedding is scheduled to begin.”

“You’re not married,” he mused; then he frowned at her. “Michael thinks you are.”

“He does?”

Upon hearing him refer to Michael, she was so disturbed that she leapt to her feet, not able to decide if she should flee or stay and chat. She’d been so grievously wounded, and she was still so raw, that she couldn’t cope with the mere mention of his name.

Farrow said, “He sent you several thousand pounds so you wouldn’t have to.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I swear it, Miss Barnett. But when you never cashed the draft, he grew concerned, and he visited Hailsham to guarantee that you were all right.”

“Michael traveled to Hailsham?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“He talked with your cousin.”

“When?”

“Many weeks ago. Michael had stopped for directions at the coaching inn, and they bumped into each other. Your cousin insisted you’d married him, as the two of you had planned, so Michael returned to London.”

“He came for me?”

She collapsed into the chair again. The world seemed to have tipped off its axis. The floor was crooked, the walls askew, and she couldn’t find her balance.

He came for me . . . he came for me
.. . . The fantastic reality rang through her head.

“Tell me that you’re not joking,” she demanded, scarcely able to breathe.

“I’m not. They exchanged harsh words, and Michael hit him so hard that he wondered if your cousin’s nose was broken.”

“Michael hit him?”

“Yes.”

Emily vividly recollected the odd afternoon when Reginald had arrived home bruised and battered. He’d contended that he’d had a freak accident, that he’d tripped and fallen. At the memory, she smiled. “I can’t say if Michael broke his nose, but it took forever for his black eyes to heal.”

Farrow studied Emily, then asked, “You haven’t been notified about what transpired in London, have you?”

“You mean with Pamela Martin?”

“That and the rest of it.” He looked at Rose and inquired, “Rose, would you excuse us? I need to speak with your aunt.”

“Must I go?” she begged, but Mary shooed her out, and once they were alone, Farrow stated, “You’re aware of his compromising Pamela.”

Emily thought about acting as if she had no special connection to Michael, but she was too disconcerted to lie. “It’s why we left London in such a hurry. After what I witnessed, I couldn’t bear to remain.”

“He did nothing to Pamela,” Farrow claimed.

“I was there!” Emily advised. “I saw them!”

“It was all a hoax. Amanda Lambert and Pamela drugged him and undressed him, so it would appear as if Pamela had been ruined.”

“To what end?”

“Pamela was eager to marry him, but he would never have agreed, so she trapped him.”

Emily was reeling. He hadn’t lain with Pamela! He’d journeyed to Hailsham to . . . to . . . what?

“Why?” she probed. “Why was he here?”

“He loves you, Miss Barnett. He always loved you.”

Emily glanced at Mary. “Did you know about my affair with him?”

“Yes.”

“How could you have?”

“I could smell him on your skin and clothes.”

It was Emily’s turn to blush. She’d presumed herself discreet, shrewd. Had everyone in Michael’s house been cognizant of how thoroughly she’d debased herself?

“You never said anything.”

“I figured you’d confide in me when you were ready.”

Emily shifted her attention to Farrow. “If Michael
loved
me, he had a funny way of showing it.”

“Apparently, my brother hid a few details about our
past. Did he tell you about our parents? Did he explain what our life has been like?”

“Very little.” The bulk of her information had been gleaned from servants’ whisperings.

“He’s a very private person, Miss Barnett, and he needs you. Would you go to him? Would you give him another chance?”

“He doesn’t need me,” she asserted. “He doesn’t need anyone. He was very clear about that fact.”

“He does need you!” Farrow countered. “Listen: Michael offered for Pamela—in spite of her duplicity—but then, she and Amanda got in a fight, and Pamela was killed.”

Emily gasped. “How?”

“Amanda pushed her off a balcony. Michael wasn’t involved, but no one believes him. All of London is convinced that he murdered Pamela just like . . . just like . . . our father murdered our mother.”

“They think Michael killed Pamela?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . but . . . that’s absurd.”

“The gossip is outrageous,” he said. “It’s been terrible.”

“How is Michael coping?”

“He pretends to ignore it, but he’s devastated. He’s carrying on as if nothing happened, as if nothing matters. Why, this weekend, he’s interviewing for a new mistress, and he’s—”

“He’s what?”

“He’s interviewing for a . . . well . . . for a . . .”

Emily stood and went to the window. The incident in London had been a sham, concocted by Pamela and Amanda, and Emily had fallen for it.

Michael had sent her money, so that she’d be free of Reginald. He’d visited to check on her welfare. Mr. Farrow maintained that Michael loved her.

She pictured him in town, isolated and surrounded by his enemies, and she cringed. She knew Michael. He was a good man, a generous and kind man. The short summer she’d spent with him had been the sole occasion she’d ever felt truly cherished, truly alive.

What if she’d trusted him? What if she’d stayed? Could they have been happy?

With a ruthless certainty, she recognized that she had to learn the answer.

She walked to the writing desk, grabbed a sheet of paper, and penned a note. Then she handed it to Farrow.

“What’s this?” he questioned.

“It’s a letter for Reginald,” she explained. “He’s at the church. Would you deliver it to him? Mary can direct you.”

“Of course.”

“And please, take my sister and my niece to Scotland. Immediately. You have my most sincere blessing.”

“Really?” he and Mary inquired in unison.

“Yes.” She moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked.

“I find that I must make a quick trip to London. In case Reginald fusses about his gig, tell him I borrowed it.”

She halted, then rushed over and hugged Mary. “I’m so glad for you.” She hugged Farrow, too. “I’m delighted that you love my sister. Watch over her for me.”

“I will,” he vowed.

She started out again, but at the last second, she stopped. “By the way, Mr. Farrow—”

“As I’m about to be your brother, you should probably call me Alex.”

She grinned. “Alex, once I arrive in the city, have you any idea where I might purchase a red dress?”

“A red dress?”

“I’ve heard that red is Michael’s favorite color.”

“So it is, Emily.” Alex laughed. “So it is.”

Reginald dawdled at the altar, staring out at the assembled crowd, and he shifted uneasily. It wasn’t a large number of people, but those who’d been graced with invitations were the important members of their local society. After waiting his entire life to assume his proper role at Barnett Manor, this was his stellar moment, his shining achievement, and only the richest, most influential neighbors were in attendance.

He scowled at his timepiece, trying to be furtive, but stealth was difficult when so many pairs of eyes were focused on him. It was twenty minutes after eleven. Where was the blasted woman?

The guests were fidgeting, murmuring, and several were peeking at their timepieces, too.

Noise erupted in the vestibule, and everyone stretched and strained to see if she’d entered, but she hadn’t. It was a tall, dark-haired gentleman, attired in traveling clothes, and for the briefest instant, Reginald’s heart skipped a beat, as he thought the man was the Earl of Winchester. The fellow talked to an usher, then departed, and Reginald discerned that there was a strong resemblance, but it wasn’t Winchester.

Reginald snickered. Hah! As if Winchester would dare return to Hailsham!

Winchester had been bested, and Reginald’s elation over inflicting such anguish on the exalted snob had almost been worth the pain of being assaulted. Emily would pay for that humiliation, as she would pay for all the others. In a few hours, his wedding night would commence, and he had it planned out. She was about to discover who was her lord and master, who would be her lord and master from now on. She would never escape his clutches.

The usher approached and slipped something to the vicar as the congregation tittered with anticipation.

“What’s this?” the vicar queried.

“Evidently, it’s a note for Mr. Barnett,” the usher replied. “From the bride.” Brows shot up as he leaned closer and added, “I’m to inform him that she has the gig, and she’ll send it back in a few days.”

The vicar was calm, acting as if such interruptions were common. He passed the message to Reginald, then courteously stepped away so as not to read over Reginald’s shoulder. Reginald yearned to appear unruffled, but he couldn’t manage the vicar’s aplomb. Frantically, he ripped at the wax seal.

Reginald,
the tidy handwriting began,
did you really think you could keep Michael’s visit a secret from me? I’m off to London, to beg his forgiveness. When he hit you, I wish he’d done much more than break your nose. A good thrashing is the least of what you deserve. My apologies to your guests.
She’d signed it with the initial
E.

Thunderstruck, Reginald scanned the words over and over. He couldn’t believe it! The immoral strumpet! How had she found out about Winchester?

Well, in the future, when Winchester tired of her and she came crawling home, Reginald had learned his lesson. He wouldn’t let her in! She was an ungrateful wretch! When she huddled on his stoop, when she pleaded for refuge, it would be a cold day in hell before she garnered any sympathy. For all he cared, she could starve in the gutter.

His money, gone! His legacy, gone! Barnett Manor, gone! His jaunty carriage, gone. Because of her and her fickle ways, he’d lost it all.

Blinded by rage and embarrassment, he crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. Head high, shoulders straight, he marched down the center aisle and out of the church, wondering how he would ever show his face in public again.

His shame would be avenged! When he next crossed paths with her, he would grab her by the throat, and he would squeeze and squeeze until she couldn’t breathe. He would hold her down, would press until he choked her to death!

He’d move. That’s what he’d do! He’d move far away, where no one knew who he was or what indignities he’d suffered. He’d keep going, to the ends of the earth and beyond. . . .

Grumbling, livid, mortified to his very core, he continued walking.

Amanda sipped on a brandy and gazed out the window of her bedchamber. A chilly autumn wind was blowing, and she shivered. She hadn’t dressed yet. Her ruminations were so scattered, her affairs in such
disarray, that she rarely went out, so why bother with clothes?

A coach rumbled by, and her pulse thudded with dread. Every sound made her jump as she worried that some thug from Bow Street was about to burst in and arrest her.

Michael hadn’t tattled as to what had actually occurred that evening on the balcony, and the silence was driving her mad. Why hadn’t he said anything? From the gossip she’d heard, people were positive that he’d shoved Pamela in a fit of temper, and they were gleeful over his plight and salivating over the prospect of a hanging.

She wanted to come forward and offer him a defense, but what was she supposed to say? She wasn’t about to tell the truth and implicate herself, and her fury at Pamela surged anew.

The stupid girl! How dare she die! How dare she cause all this trouble!

A rider swiftly approached, the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobbles, and she glanced out, stunned to ascertain that it was Michael, strutting up in the middle of the afternoon. He was always welcome—after all, it was his bloody house—but he stopped by at night, when his passions were inflamed, so something bad must have happened.

She studied him from behind the curtains. He was grim, determined, and he briskly dismounted and hastened in without knocking, which propelled her into a dizzying bout of hysterics.

How could such a perfect scheme have gone so awry? All she’d sought was a means to secure her position. Was that too much to ask?

If Pamela was still alive, Amanda would kill her all over again for bringing about so much misery!

As he stomped in, as he climbed the stairs, she braced. Momentarily, he entered her room.

They hadn’t communicated since the horrid debacle. After Pamela had fallen, he’d paused, giving Amanda a chance to redeem herself, to step forward and take the blame, but what purpose would have been served by involving herself in the sordid situation?

“Michael, darling, how marvelous. Would you like a brandy, or have you a more tasty treat in mind?” Forcing a smile, she gestured to the bed, trying to look flirtatious but failing. She was a mess. Her hair was loose and uncombed, none of her facial paints had been applied, and she was wearing naught but a comfortable, tattered robe.

“This isn’t a social call.”