Kathryn Smith (20 page)

Rachel shook her head. “Only by sight. I saw you talking to him when he arrived. Reynolds told me who he was. Is he a friend of the family?”

Her mother-in-law nodded. “Yes. My husband often suffered from megrims. Dr. Phelps treated him.”

Rachel frowned. Surely megrims wouldn’t be reason enough for Brave to get so upset? Regardless, she’d had enough of skirting the issue. “And is he treating Brave for something as well?”

Annabelle lifted shoulders in a delicate shrug, making the tassels on her epaulets wave back and forth. “To the best of my knowledge, my son is in excellent health.”

There was something much like relief in her voice that made Rachel wonder if she shouldn’t have phrased the question differently, but she was too relieved to question her further. A mother couldn’t lie so easily about such a thing. There was no doubt that Annabelle was hiding something, but Rachel didn’t think it was that Brave was dying.

“But you are right,” the older woman remarked, rising to her feet. “Dr. Phelps’s departure would be an excellent time to corner my son. Would you care to ride back with me?”

Rachel also stood. “I would love to accompany you. It will give us more time to get to know one another better.”

“Wonderful. I should like to find out how you and Balthazar met.”

And I should like to find out more about Balthazar.
Returning Annabelle’s sunny smile, Rachel untied her mare and led her over by a rock so she could mount. Returning to Wyck’s End with Brave’s mother was the best course of action for her to take, especially if she managed to catch Dr. Phelps as he was leaving. Perhaps he would tell her what the devil was going on. After all, she was a countess now, and that title ought to be good for something, shouldn’t it?

“So, how did the two of you meet?” Annabelle asked as they picked their way side by side through the forest.

“He pulled me from the Wyck and saved my life.” Rachel smiled at the memory. “I thought for sure we were both going to drown.”

The older woman looked aghast, and again Rachel wondered what she was missing. “That must have been very traumatic for both of you.”

Rachel glanced at the path. “It was very frightening at the time, yes.”

“And was it love at first sight?” The lightness of her tone didn’t quite ring true.

With a sigh, Rachel realized that instead of solving the mystery of Brave’s welfare, she just seemed to be falling deeper into more intrigue. Not only was she now curious as to what was wrong with Brave, but she wondered why his mother was acting so strangely over the fact that Brave had saved her life.

“He was like a knight in silver armor,” Rachel replied
truthfully, avoiding a more direct answer. She’d always found Brave attractive—the pain on his face had broken her heart at his father’s funeral. But love? The only example of that she had to draw upon was her parents and their sweetly affectionate relationship. She and Brave were nothing like that.

The rest of the ride back to the house was quiet except for the sound of the horses’ breathing and their hooves striking the soft earth.

When they rode up to the stables, Dr. Phelps’s horse was still there.

“They must have a lot to talk about,” Rachel remarked, as a groom helped her dismount.

Annabelle smiled. “I’m certain they do.”

Rachel tried not to scowl as she dismounted. “But Brave isn’t sick.”

Slipping gracefully to the ground, her mother-in-law sighed. “Rachel, as I’ve already told you, to the best of my knowledge my son is in perfect health. The only person who can tell you otherwise is Balthazar. If you’re so concerned, perhaps you should talk to him.”

“I did. He told me not to concern myself.”

Annabelle’s mouth tightened slightly before smoothing into a wide smile. “Then I’d say you have nothing to worry about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to freshen up before tea.”

Rachel watched her walk away with a growing sense of determination. Didn’t concern her? Did Brave and his mother think that just because she wasn’t truly his wife, his welfare didn’t concern her? She’d confided her fear of Sir Henry to him. She’d even started to talk about her father with him—something she rarely discussed with anyone, not even her mother or Belinda—and he was just going to cut her out of his life like a stranger?

Not bloody likely. Brave had gone above and beyond her expectations by offering her his help. The least she could do
was offer hers in return. But first she had to find out what his problem was.

And find out she would.

“So why haven’t you told your wife about what happened to you after Miranda’s death?”

Brave lifted his head, the fingers of his right hand twirling the white queen from the chessboard by the window where he stood. “Because it’s none of her business.” He was very tempted to tell Phelps it was none of his either.

Dr. Phelps’s smile said he had expected that answer. “But she is your wife.”

Brave stopped twirling the queen and studied her cool ivory features.

“She is my wife in name only.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “There is no reason to tell her anything.” He set the queen and her assessing gaze upon the chessboard, and turned her so he couldn’t see her face.

“You don’t think she’d understand?” The physician’s voice drifted over his shoulder. Brave didn’t have to see the man’s face to know that Phelps already knew the answer.

He didn’t turn. Instead, Brave clasped his hands behind his back and fixed his attention out the window. Staring at the village roofs in the distance, he replied, “No.”

Rachel would understand all too well his desire to save Miranda. It had been much like her own desire to save her mother. She would probably even understand how that affected his desire to help her. What she might not understand was his failure. A woman as determined as she might have trouble understanding how Brave had let Miranda slip through his fingers.

And he did not want her to know that he’d refused Miranda his help when she did ask for it. He would rather almost anything than that.

“Tell me again how you think helping her get her mother away from this abusive husband will make you feel better about your own life.”

Behind him, Brave heard Phelps scratch his quill on a sheet of paper. He must have a whole book of notes on him now.

“Balance.” A cloud of smoke rose from one of the distant chimneys, reaching for Heaven even though it would fade into nothingness long before it made it that high.

The scratching stopped. “Balance?”

Brave glanced over his shoulder. All he could see were the other man’s boots. “I couldn’t save Miranda, but if I save Rachel, then maybe I’ll be even.”

More scratching. “And what happens if you are not able to help your wife?”

Yes, what then? Staring out at darkening sky, Brave shrugged. “I don’t know. The scales might tip farther, or perhaps just the fact that I tried will be enough.”

“But you don’t want her to know?”

“No.” His shoulders were tensing again.

“And you don’t think she’ll make any further attempts to discover the nature of our relationship?”

Remembering the hurt expression on Rachel’s face when he told her not to waste her concern on him, Brave shook his head. The image would not leave him.

“No. I don’t think she’ll ask any more questions.” Lord knew he was good at putting distance between himself and others.

“Let’s talk about something we haven’t discussed in a while.”

Brave turned. Phelps sat in an armchair, his legs crossed, ink on the table beside him. He’d been humoring the physician when he’d agreed to sit and talk to him. In fact, he’d been too preoccupied with Rachel to turn the older man away. He’d wanted the company to keep from thinking of his wife. Now, he’d wished he’d gotten drunk instead.

“What’s that?”

Phelps’s lips curved on one side. “Miranda.”

Brave frowned. “We’ve discussed little else in the last year.”

“We’ve discussed her death and how it affected you, but we haven’t discussed her as a person in quite some time. Why don’t you start by telling me how you felt about her.”

“I don’t understand what difference this is going to make.” It was hard to hide his frustration. What good did it do to discuss a girl who had been dead for almost two years? “Talking about her won’t change a thing.”

“Things may have changed themselves,” Phelps replied cryptically. “What I’m trying to gauge here, Brave is how your feelings and perceptions have changed since we last discussed Miranda. I’ll be able to see what kind of progress you’ve made when I check these notes against the last time we spoke of her.”

It still seemed like a waste of time. Brave didn’t see how his “perception” of Miranda could have changed when she was dead, but if it made Phelps feel as though they were getting somewhere, what could it hurt?

“What do you want to know?”

Quill poised above his paper, Phelps didn’t raise his head. “When you think of Miranda now, how do you see her?”

Brave thought for a moment, picturing Julian’s younger sister in his mind. He smiled. “Willful, a little spoiled. Pretty.”

“Describe your feelings for her at that time.”

“I suppose I fancied myself in love with her. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, and we’d known each other for years. Marrying her would have linked our families permanently. She was the perfect choice.”

“How does it make you feel now when you think about her falling in love with her father’s employee?”

Shaking his head in sorrow, Brave replied, “I feel sorry for her. She fell in love with a man who didn’t love her in return, and she believed all his lies because of it.”

“And how do you feel about the fact that she killed herself?”

“I feel guilt,” he confessed. “She asked for my help, and I refused her. I didn’t know she’d take her own life, and it makes me mad as hell to think that she preferred death over the scandal. I don’t think she even thought of her family—or of me for that matter. She was just so scared.”

Phelps gazed at him. “And yet, you still carry a large amount of guilt for a situation that was beyond your control.”

“I should have done something.”

“You tried.”

Brave looked away. “Not enough.”

“What could you have possibly done?”

Shrugging, Brave glanced away. “I should have married her.”

Expressionless, Phelps stared at him. “And whom would that have served? Miranda or yourself?”

Brave didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Sighing, Phelps put aside his quill and lifted his satchel from the floor by his feet. “I think that’s enough for today. I don’t know about you, but it comes to a point where I can’t stand the sound of my own voice anymore. Once I’ve compared today’s notes with our last discussion of Miranda I’ll send you a copy of my findings.” He paused. “I don’t know why you’re holding on to this.”

Brave’s lips twitched. “Next thing you’re going tell me is that it’s all in my head.”

The doctor chuckled as he hoisted his bag. “Might I offer some advice?”

“Certainly.”

“Talk to your wife. I’ve a feeling she won’t be as condemning as you suspect.”

Opening the door, Brave fought the urge to close it on the doctor as he walked through it. “I’ll think about it,” he replied. Think about it and forget it.

Phelps shook his head. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

After saying farewell, Brave shut the door and threw himself into a nearby chair. Phelps’s visits often left him feeling as though he’d been fed through a clothespress.

Maybe the physician was right. Maybe he should confess all to Rachel and let her draw whatever conclusions she would about him, but she had enough on her plate without adding his problems to it. And even if he could be certain she wouldn’t look at him with pity or think him a failure, it probably wasn’t a good idea to tell someone you were trying to help how you’d failed someone else.

Marrying Rachel had been a huge mistake. It made him want what he couldn’t have. He wanted a real marriage. He wanted her to give him as much of herself as she gave everything else she did, but he couldn’t have it, not when he was incapable of giving anything in return.

He knew all this already, so why did he insist on dwelling upon it? He never used to feel this sorry for himself all the time. Before Miranda’s death, he dreamed of the future, of someday being the kind of man his father would be proud of. Now it seemed he spent all his time lamenting what he couldn’t have rather than concentrating on finding something he could.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. It was his mother and Rachel wanting him to join them for tea. He was amazed Rachel would want to join him for anything, but when he looked into her lovely face, all he saw was concern. No condemnation, no anger.

How would she feel if he told her he’d refused the woman he loved because she’d hurt his feelings, and that she’d killed herself because of his rejection? Would she grant him the forgiveness he sought, or would she see him as a monster like Sir Henry? And why did it matter so damn much what she thought of him. Why did he so desperately want her approval?

Because for the first time since Miranda’s death, he felt as though he had a chance to set things right.

Helping Rachel was still the best way of regaining something of his old self. Surely he would begin to feel that balance he told Phelps about. Yes, that was it. And once he had achieved that, he would be better able to put his feelings for her in the right perspective. This tenderness he felt for her was nothing more than his own cursed vulnerability—something else he had to conquer. His father had never been a weak man; Brave was determined not to be one either.

Not anymore.

A
fter a surprisingly comfortable dinner with Brave and his mother, Rachel retired early to her room. She had hoped to speak to Brave privately to let him know that he could depend on her, trust her—no matter what the problem was. She couldn’t do that in front of his mother, however.

Upon reaching her room, she changed into her nightgown and wrapper and spent the remainder of the evening at her desk, outlining as much of Sir Henry’s cruelty toward her mother over the years as she could remember. It was an emotionally painful task, but would be well worth it if it persuaded the crown to grant her mother a divorce.

And it took her mind off Brave, which was a blessing in itself. Lately, it seemed she was incapable of thinking of anything else.

She went to bed early and rose the next morning refreshed and with a purpose. She bathed and dressed, and while sipping a cup of chocolate, penned a note to her mother inviting her to tea that afternoon. She didn’t trust this newfound ami
ability of Sir Henry’s and wanted to keep as close an eye on her mother as she could. If that meant making up excuses to see her every other day so be it.

She went down to the dining room prepared to meet her husband for breakfast and was both disappointed and relieved to discover he had already eaten.

“Lord Braven had business to attend to in town, my lady,” Reynolds informed her. “But he asked me to give you this.” He offered her a sealed letter.

Intrigued and more than a little anxious, Rachel took the letter. “Thank you, Reynolds. You may go now.”

The diminutive butler bowed and departed, leaving Rachel all alone in the large room.

She broke the seal before her backside hit the chair. Was it an apology, or did he want her out of his house?

You were missed at breakfast. I would like to speak with you. I will await you in my study later this morning. Brave.

Well, it wasn’t exactly an apology, but it wasn’t an eviction notice either. And the fact that he’d missed her that morning was a good sign. If he was still upset, he wouldn’t have mentioned her absence.

After a leisurely breakfast of buttered eggs, toast, and sausage, Rachel had her note sent off to her mother and had a carriage brought ’round to take her to Belinda’s. She hadn’t seen her friend since the wedding, and since Belinda would soon be marrying herself, Rachel wanted to see her as often as she could.

Plus, Belinda had an ear for gossip. If anyone in the village was going to know anything about Brave and his secrets, it was she, and as Rachel’s friend she would divulge all that she had heard.

The carriage rolled and thumped along the worn country road. It hadn’t rained in a few days, but the damage was done. The road was little more than a series of ruts and bumps in some places.

Staring out the window at the passing landscape, Rachel realized just how much her life had changed over the last month. When was the last time she’d actually had the luxury of having a carriage at her disposal? Never. They’d had one when she was a child, but she’d never been allowed to go anywhere alone. Now here she was in a fine, well-padded carriage, driven by a coachman in the Wycherley livery. She wore a fine new gown with her rose cape and the bonnet Belinda had given her.

All of her shabbiest gowns were gone, replaced by ones so exquisite and lovely that Rachel’s eyes had watered when Mrs. Ford delivered them. Courtesy of Brave, she had an entire new wardrobe. Of course he couldn’t have his countess dressing like a ragamuffin, but Rachel was touched by the gesture all the same. Such generosity was overwhelming.

She was in a position of power now, socially and politically. Her rank placed her above Sir Henry. Marriage to Brave had taken her out of the humiliation of her former life and made her someone of importance. Not only was her stepfather forced to defer to her, but the whole town was as well. Any whispering the other young women wanted to do about her would have to be done behind her back now. No one would dare cut her.

Rachel almost laughed aloud at the irony of it. She had everything she’d ever wanted, and none of it would matter if her husband didn’t let her into his life, or she couldn’t use this new power to help her mother.

As it was, her mother could very well choose to stay with the apparently reformed Sir Henry. And what then?

No. She refused even to entertain the idea. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

That just left Brave. When she’d first accepted his proposal, she’d allowed herself to believe it was solely to help her mother. True, she’d had few other options—marriage to Charlton was
not
one of them—but Brave’s noble offer hadn’t been the only reason to marry him, it had simply been the best.

Obviously, she would have been an idiot to refuse him. He was a dream come true. She hadn’t lied when she told his mother she’d believed him to be a knight. His daring rescue of her had proven that.

He was handsome and rich, and for the most part he’d been nothing but kind, his reaction to her questions about Dr. Phelps the one exception. He was the most-sought-after gentleman in Yorkshire, but his looks and fortune—even his kindness—were superficial compared to the real reason Rachel had committed the rest of her life to him.

It was the way he made her feel. He looked at her in a way no one else ever had, as though he were truly seeing her. He looked at her as though she was the one who had saved him and not the other way around. And then there was the way that sad smile of his tugged at her heart, or the way the slightest touch of his hand could turn her knees to jelly…

She had the awful feeling that she was falling in love with him. Normally, falling in love with one’s husband would be a good thing, but not if he didn’t return that love, and not if there was something wrong with him that might make a life together impossible.

As the carriage rolled past the lane leading to Tullywood, Rachel peered through the glass toward the house. Her thoughts turned from anxiety over Brave to other concerns.

A steady cloud of smoke rose from the chimneys, adding yet more gray to an already dark sky. There was something almost picturesque about Tullywood’s redbrick Tudor style set amongst the gentle hills. Horses grazed in the field, and the lane that led to the house was smooth and free of ruts.

For a house of nightmares, it looked damn near inviting.

Was her mother up yet? Was she giggling at something Sir Henry said over breakfast? Or was she lying in her bed, battered and broken and unable even to get up for a glass of water?

Rachel leaned back against the squabs so she couldn’t see
the house any longer. Upsetting herself would not do her mother any good. Until she heard from either her mother or Potts, she would have to trust that Sir Henry was still behaving himself. Her mother might not tell her if he hit her or not, depending on how sincere Sir Henry sounded when he apologized—and he always apologized—but Potts would send word to her. This she knew.

She sat like that until they reached the village, then pulled herself up straight so no one would see her slouching as if she had no backbone.

The blacksmith was at his forge, a coach prepared to leave the inn, its passengers practically sitting on top of each other it was so full. The dour look on one lady’s face as she was crushed between a portly old man and a woman with a small dog was enough to make Rachel laugh out loud, and she was again very thankful for the Earl of Braven’s roomy carriage.

People turned to stare as they drove by. The coat of arms on the door told everyone to whom the coach belonged, and they were no doubt curious for a glimpse at the quiet earl or his new countess—probably to see how she cleaned up. Rachel smiled and waved to those she knew and ignored those she didn’t.

A few moments later, the carriage rolled up the drive to Belinda’s father’s house. Mr. Mayhew had often voiced his concern about Rachel’s unfortunate connection to Sir Henry and the scandalous way her mother had married before going through a proper mourning period. It was easy for people in better circumstances to pass judgment on others.

But Belinda’s father had continued to allow the girls to be friends because it meant so much to Belinda. Rachel wondered if Mr. Mayhew would find her a more suitable friend for his daughter now that she had married a peer of the realm.

But that wasn’t something she was destined to find out during her visit. Belinda’s father was nowhere to be found,
and as Belinda herself had just barely woken up, Rachel went directly to her friend’s bedroom rather than one of the parlors.

Belinda was in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows when Rachel entered the room. Her dark hair and pale skin were complemented perfectly by the simple pink-and-white color scheme of the chamber. She looked like a little doll.

“What are you doing still in bed?” Rachel demanded with a smile as she untied her bonnet. Absently, she realized she matched the flowers in the wallpaper.

Belinda raised a delicate china cup to her lips and sipped. “Rachel, it’s only ten o’clock.”

She tossed her bonnet on the chest at the foot of the bed and unfastened her cloak. “I’ve been up since seven.”

“Yes, well you’re unnatural.” Belinda grinned. “If I had a husband like yours, I’d stay in bed all day—provided he was with me.”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed hotly as she laid her cloak beside her bonnet. “You know our marriage isn’t like that.” And it never would be, because she’d never find the courage to tell Brave she wanted him!

“Hmm. Pity.” She took another drink and patted the bed beside her. “Well, come on.”

Careful not to put her shoes on the bedclothes, Rachel climbed up on the bed beside her friend. It was as though they were girls again.

Belinda yawned. “Forgive me. We were out late last night—a card party at the Coles’s.”

“I’m sorry. If I’d known, I never would have called on you this morning.”

Her friend shot her a look of disbelief. “If you’d known, you would have come at nine!”

Laughing, Rachel leaned back against the pillows. “You know me too well.”

“Indeed.” Setting her cup on the beside table, Belinda turned her torso to face Rachel. As she propped herself up on her elbow, her expression turned serious. “And since I know you so well, I know that this is not merely a social call. What’s the matter?”

How did she ask without sounding like an idiot? “I need some information.”

Now Belinda looked curious. A tiny pucker appeared between her arched brows. “About what?”

“About Braven.”

Those brows shot up. “I take it you’re not looking for details such as height, hair color, et cetera?”

Rachel ignored her glib remark. “I need something much more specific, things I can’t come right out and ask him—not if I want an answer.”

Blowing out a deep breath, Belinda scratched her head. “I’m not sure I can be of much help. You’re married to him; I’m sure you know more about him than I would.”

She shifted position, turning so that they faced each other. “Not about his past, I don’t. After my father’s death I rarely saw him, except at his father’s funeral. You traveled in the same circles as he did, attended the same parties. Weren’t your mothers acquainted?”

Belinda’s expression was shrewd. “So you want gossip.”

Rachel blushed. Belinda made it sound so tawdry.

“I want to know what changed him from a rakish young man to someone who can’t seem to remember how to smile. I want to know if he’s ever been ill or had an accident. Anything.”
Is it something I can fix or do I have to lose yet another person I care about?

“Why?”

Sighing, Rachel thumped her head against the headboard. She’d lost her father. She was in danger of losing her mother. She would not lose Brave as well.

“Because I want to help him remember how to smile if I
can.” What was she saying? How could she admit that out loud, even to Belinda?

“And I’m nosy,” she added lamely.

Belinda nodded, a smug little smile curving her cupid’s bow lips. “I understand. Well, let me see. What can I remember hearing about Braven…Oh! I remember overhearing Lady Easterly tell Lady Pembroke that he was equipped like a stallion. Does that count?”

Rachel’s entire face burned as her friend burst into gales of laughter. “No,” she growled. “It does not count!” Lord, she wouldn’t even be able to look at Brave without wondering…
it
had certainly felt rather large in the library that night, but then she had nothing to compare him to.

Belinda was watching her closely. “Hmm. Something in your expression wants me to ask you if Lady Easterly was correct, but you wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her tone was unconvincing.

“Of course you don’t.” Her friend gave her hand a patronizing pat. “I do remember that he was rather taken with the Earl of Wolfram’s younger sister, Miranda. I remember hearing that he’d proposed to her and she refused. Idiot.”

Rachel had to agree. She couldn’t imagine any woman refusing Brave.

“Whatever became of her?” The only sister Julian had spoken of during any of the brief time Rachel had spent in his presence was Letitia. Surely Miranda’s family hadn’t deserted her?

Belinda’s expression softened. “Poor thing took her own life.”

Gasping, Rachel pressed a hand her mouth. “Why?”

“No one’s quite certain. There was all manner of speculation, of course. Rumor was that Braven found the body. He grieved over her like a husband.”

Rachel wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. “And then what?”

Belinda shrugged. “He seemed hell-bent on joining her. He started building quite a reputation for himself, drinking and fighting.” Her gazed locked with Rachel’s. “With women. Then he just disappeared.”

She definitely didn’t want to hear about the women. “Where did he disappear to?”

“I believe he just locked himself up in that great big house of his. Although some of the more romantic types like to believe he murdered the man who seduced Miranda and fled to the continent to escape persecution.”

Brave, a murderer? “I don’t believe that for a moment.”