"I'm simply nipping scandal in the bud."
"Silence is golden?"
"Quite. You'll cash the draft?"
"I'd be a fool not to."
"You certainly would." "There's just one catch."
She sighed. "Why am I not surprised? What is it?" "You must tell me why she changed her mind." "Does it matter why?" "To me it does."
She chuckled, her disdain oozing through. "She was never going to run off with you, Mr. Clayton. You're aware of the type of person she is. She could no more shirk her duty than she could sprout wings and fly."
"So it was all a lark for her?"
She considered, then shook her head. "No, she had genuine feelings for you, but she wouldn't have acted on them. It was humorous for her to ponder another sort of life, but it was naught but a romantic fantasy."
It was just as he'd suspected. Caro was who she was: the beautiful, spoiled daughter of an earl. She was like an angel in heaven, whom he could adore and worship from afar, but could never have for his own.
He knew better than to have made plans, but still, he was a contrary individual. The more a snob such as Lady Derby put him in his place, the harder he fought to stay where he didn't belong.
"If Caroline is so happy over choosing Mr. Shelton, why didn't she come with you and inform me herself?"
"She has no desire to see you ever again. She'd be embarrassed."
"Embarrassed?"
"Yes. She was fond of you, and she feels terrible about trifling with your affections."
He tried to picture Caro conversing with her mother, saying the words the Countess attributed to her, but he couldn't get the vision to gel.
What if she hadn't said them, at all? What if the
Countess had bullied or punished her? What if Caro hadn't arrived because her mother had prevented her?
As the prospect arose, he suffered the silliest spurt of gladness. He was so thrilled to hope that she hadn't forsaken him, and the obvious conclusion finally became apparent: He loved her. He'd always loved her. How could he not have known?
"Guess what, Lady Derby?"
"What?"
"I have another condition."
"Oh, for pity's sake. What is it?"
"I will take your money and go on my merry way, provided I'm allowed to speak to Caroline myself. I want to hear from her own lips that she'd rather have Edward Shelton than me."
She hadn't counted on him demanding anything so rash, and she turned beet red, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. The temper for which she was renowned began to exert itself.
"You may not see her."
"How will you stop me? London—for all its size— is a very small town."
"The wedding is in three days, Mr. Clayton. I think we can keep you away from her for three days."
"Maybe so, but how will you quell my vicious tongue? If you won't let me talk to her, I'll spread gossip hither and yon. The minute you walk out my door, I'll commence tattling."
"You dare to threaten me, Mr. Clayton?"
She approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she was a formidable sight. A lesser mortal might have been alarmed to witness all that pent-up wrath.
"I'm not afraid of you," he boasted, "so there's no need to bluster."
"Your courage is impressive, but your posturing is a waste of energy." "Is it?"
"Let me be more clear: You will not see Caroline. You will whisper no rumors. You will do nothing but take the windfall I've offered and slink away to some obscure location where we will never again be bothered by your despicable self."
"As I previously stated, how will you stop me?"
"Even if you wreck her chance with Mr. Shelton, she will never be permitted to marry you."
"Why would you presume you'll have a say in the matter? She's of age. All she need do is escape your clutches and come to me. I'll whisk her off to Scotland and be married to her before you realize she's gone."
"But it will never happen, Mr. Clayton. That's what you fail to understand."
"How have I miscalculated?"
"If she does not wed Edward, we will commit her to an insane asylum."
The possibility was so shocking and so casually delivered that he sucked in a stunned breath before he could mask it. His reaction supplied her with evidence of his most vulnerable spot—which was Caro—and she would use the weakness to his detriment.
"You wouldn't," he tried to claim.
"Wouldn't we? We've already picked out the facility. She will remain there, sequestered in the common rooms with the other lunatics for the rest of her days— which will be short in number when you consider the filth, disease, and criminal activity in those places."
"An asylum!" he muttered, and he shivered.
"Should a child result from her fornication with you, it will be drowned at birth, the corpse tossed in the pauper's grave behind the building. I will see to it myself."
"Why?" was all he could ask.
"She will do as I say. She will not disobey me."
He was struggling to regroup and have the last word. He couldn't bear to acknowledge that she'd gotten the better of him—even though she had.
"You're quite good with your threats."
"I'm not a woman to be crossed."
"I've never supposed you were."
"Caroline has a fine life stretching ahead of her. It guarantees an excellent marriage to one of her own kind, and an ideal—if somewhat subdued—existence as the wife of an important gentleman."
"You don't make it sound like much of a blessing."
"For most females, it's more than enough."
"Not for her."
"Who are you to judge what she needs?"
"I'm the man who loves her," he boldly asserted, amazed that he'd finally declared himself, and to her of all people.
"If you actually love her—and I must admit I'm dubious—then you should do right by her. You should disappear without creating a fuss, and let her quietly and privately wed Mr. Shelton."
"But that's not what's best for her! You haven't a clue what would be best!"
"And you do? Why? Because you crawled between her thighs a few times?"
He was staggered by her crudity, by her cold, hard demeanor, and he thought of Caro and what it must have been like to be raised by such a brutal, heartless witch. He was astounded that the Countess hadn't drummed out every spark of compassion and decency.
"I know what Edward Shelton is like," he pressed, "and I suspect you do, too. If you would bind her to him—in spite of his proclivities—you're a monster."
"A monster?" She laughed in an unnatural way that sent chills down his spine. "I've been called much worse."
"I'll just bet you have," he agreed. "Why would you do this to her?"
"Mr. Clayton, you are a baseborn, poverty-stricken nobody. Why I decide to do anything is none of your business."
She started out, and he was so angry that he seriously contemplated rushing over and beating her to a bloody pulp. The urge was so intense that he could practically see her collapsed on the floor.
"I won't let you get away with this," he insisted. "I'll talk to the Earl."
"Will you? You seem to have forgotten our devil's bargain: You can be silent and she'll have a husband, children to mother, and the other niceties that all women crave. Or you can stir up trouble, and give her the asylum and the drowned, dead baby, instead. The choice is yours. Will you be responsible for killing your own child? I doubt it, so I suggest you think carefully about what it is you wish to do."
She left, and Ian went to the window and watched as her servants hefted her into her coach. He tarried, observing, till the team of horses pulled her away, and he lingered long after she'd vanished down the street.
His mind whirred with all the things he should have said, all the things he should have done, and he felt like a fool.
Why had he stood in his own parlor, in his own home, and permitted the old shrew to hurl insult after insult? When had he turned into such a milksop?
He trudged to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, sipping it as he reviewed his options.
He refused to believe the Countess, and he had to confront Caro directly. If she told him to go away, that she hadn't been earnest, so be it. But he had to know for sure. If she was in danger, or if they'd locked her away, and she was hoping he'd come for her, he had to arrive. He couldn't abandon her to the fate her mother had engineered.
He had to see her, but how should he proceed? If he politely knocked on the Earl's door, he couldn't expect to be welcome, so there wasn't any reason to be courteous. So... he'd begin by knocking—like a civilized human being—but if courtesy didn't work, he'd be a bit uncivilized. After all, he was half-Scot, his full name Ian MacDonald Clayton. The blood of centuries of warriors flowed in his veins.
Maybe it was time to remember the MacDonald clan's war cry.
He rose and hurried to the hall, shouting for his horse to be saddled.
Chapter
Seventeen
F
ather, wait!" Bernard ignored Caroline's mournful summons and kept walking. He was heartsick and drained, fearful over what Britannia might have done, and fretting over what his next act should be.
Should he go to the authorities? Should he speak out regarding his suspicions and implicate his wife in murder? He was too distraught to think clearly or make rational decisions. His family was more detested than ever, their tiresome demands like a buzzing gnat he yearned to swat away.
He wasn't concerned about Caroline's petty troubles and wouldn't listen to her trivial complaints. The bloody girl had been given everything—everything!— but she constantly whined about her plight.
He reached his library, his sanctuary, and had almost shut the door, when she caught up to him. "Father!"
He whipped around. "What is it, Caroline? Must you hound me in the halls like an annoying beggar?"
His virulent look brought her up short, and as they came face-to-face, he saw that she had a bruise under her eye, as if she'd been punched. Though he was disturbed by the prospect, he wasn't worried enough to inquire as to how she'd received it.
He was dying inside! Dying! He hadn't the energy for her silly chatter, and he wished he could utter a magic spell and make her vanish.
"I need your help," she tediously claimed.
"Well, I don't choose to give it."
"Please?"
She placed her hand on his arm, and he promptly removed it.
"You're trying my patience," he snapped.
"Why? Merely because I've asked for an audience with your eminent self?"
"Yes. Merely because of that."
"It's Mother," she persisted.
"Isn't it always?"
"She says I must marry Mr. Shelton, and she—"
"Of course you shall marry Mr. Shelton. I won't hear otherwise."
At his gruff treatment, she appeared so young, so hurt, and he suffered a small twinge of conscience, but it was a small twinge. Did she suppose she was the only person in the world who was unhappy? Did she suppose she was the only person in the world who had problems?
She was an ungrateful, spoiled child.
"Don't you care," she pressed, "that I'll be miserable for the rest of my days?"
"No, I don't. You're my daughter, and you will do as I bid you. Stop pestering me!"
"Mother is insane."
"Yes, she is. Have you only just now noticed?" "She beat me!"
"Well, if you were behaving as you are currently, you deserved it. Someone should have pounded some sense into you years ago."
"But she actually contends that she kill—"
"How many times must I explain the situation?" he hissed, cutting her off. "I arranged the best match that was available. Why continue with your quibbling?"
"Is it quibbling when I inform you that I am terrified of the man and what he will do to me once I'm his wife?"
"It is Mr. Shelton, or no one," he tersely said. "Why can't you understand?"
"If those are my two options—Mr. Shelton or no one—then I would rather have no one."
"Would you? What about what I want? Which is to have you out of my hair at the earliest possible moment."
He'd finally been sufficiently brutal that her banter ceased. She gaped at him, stunned, incredibly sad, her big blue eyes filling with tears. She was such a beautiful, tragic figure, and for a fleeting instant, he was ashamed.
She was a daughter any father should have loved unconditionally, a daughter to make any father proud, but he'd never felt a connection to her. The fact that she had Britannia's blood flowing in her veins was repellent. They'd never been close, and to his surprise, he suddenly and vehemently regretted the distance that separated them.
Yet as quickly as the absurd sentiment occurred to him, he shook it away. She was nothing to him! Nothing!