You don't really think that. He isn't as reckless as you pretend.
Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn't matter— he couldn't marry her even if he wanted to. Any association with her scandalous family would make it impossible for him to gain guardianship of Tessa.
A tiny part of her wished he would choose her over his niece, given the chance. But that was selfish. Besides, he didn't even completely trust her. And she was so far beneath him…
No, marriage was impossible. He would decide that for himself the minute he learned of her background.
Which she wasn't going to tell him. Now, more than ever, she had to be cautious. His mention of a doctor treating him worried her. It
had
to be Papa.
But what had he meant when he'd said the doctor had abandoned him? That didn't sound like Papa. Still, when she calculated the last possible year Anthony could have stayed with the Bickhams before going to Eton, it was the year she'd turned six. And given what she remembered, that alarmed her indeed. She had to know the whole story before she could even think about involving Anthony further.
"You're up early," said her father's voice from the end of the parlor.
Finally,
he was awake. "I couldn't sleep."
When she faced him he stared at her oddly, and a fleeting fear seized her that he could tell she was unchaste, that it was somehow branded on her forehead. Then he shuffled over to his usual seat before the fire and lapsed into his brooding.
Thank heaven. Although now came the difficult part. "Papa, I need to ask you something important."
He didn't respond.
She hated to press him, but only he could tell her what she needed to know. "Do you recall when you took me to Chertsey years ago?"
"Chertsey! You remember that?"
"A little, yes. We went to a very grand house, and the housekeeper let me play with her pug while I waited for you to finish your business."
A shadow passed over his features. "I would have left you with your mother, but she was recovering from scarlet fever, and the servant had her hands full caring for her."
It must have been a very important matter indeed if he'd left Mama still ill to travel to Chertsey. Which only reinforced the suspicion that had been growing in her ever since last night. "What sort of business was it?"
He cast her a perplexed look. "Why on earth are you thinking about Chertsey?"
"I just need to know what sent you there. I can't explain why."
It was a tribute to how much her father had changed of late that he didn't demand an explanation. "I don't know if I should say. The old viscount swore me to secrecy— didn't want the scandal and all."
"But he's dead now, Papa, so what does it matter?"
"Aye. I suppose that dunce Wallace is the new viscount."
"Wallace is dead, too," she said impatiently. When he gazed at her oddly, she added, "Or so I hear. His brother Anthony is now the viscount."
"Ah, yes, poor Master Anthony." Papa grew pensive. "That's what started the troubles between Sir Randolph and me. I couldn't stomach being his physician after what happened. The lad's father promised he wouldn't tell anyone that I'd brought the tale to him, but Sir Randolph was no fool. He knew someone had spoken to the viscount. He's been suspicious of me ever since."
"What tale?"
Her father blinked. "Why, about what they were doing to poor Master Anthony, of course."
Her heart leaped into her throat. "And what was that?"
"Don't know as if I should say."
Madeline held her breath.
"But I don't suppose it matters anymore." He stared into the fire. "Lady Bickham made the boy kneel for hours at prayer and gave him cold baths to curb his 'licentious' behavior. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst was them tying him to the bed at night, hand and foot, without even a fire to give him light."
Horror filled her at the thought of poor Anthony being kept tied up in the dark like some dangerous creature.
His voice grew distant. "The night they called me in, he'd been desperate enough to hide a penknife behind the bedpost before they tied him down. Later, in the dark, he nearly killed himself trying to cut the rope while still bound. By the time I reached him, he was faint from loss of blood. He told me he wanted to go home, that they hated him. He told me everything they'd been doing."
A chill swept her. "How long had it been going on?"
"From what I gathered, for nigh on to four years. He didn't say why, but Sir Randolph said it was to keep him from running off. He missed his dead mother so much that he kept trying to run back home."
Who wouldn't? she thought, furious on his behalf. How dared they treat him like that? What sort of monster did such a thing?
And if they were so horrible, why hadn't Anthony simply told the courts about it in order to gain his niece? Or
her
, for that matter, to emphasize why she should help Tessa? He must have thought it would hurt his chances— but why?
"So you went to Chertsey to tell his father what was going on," she said.
"Aye, as soon as your mother was on the mend. Couldn't leave her until then. I wrote a letter at first, but when no answer came, I decided to go myself. Turned out his lordship hadn't been at home for a month, and no one had sent it on to wherever he was. It was still sitting there when I showed up to speak to him."
That's why Anthony had thought Papa abandoned him. Because it had taken a month for Papa to talk to his father.
Madeline turned her face to hide her tears. Her poor darling Anthony. The thought of him suffering like that broke her heart. No wonder he hated the Bickhams. No wonder he wanted to save his niece.
Though surely they wouldn't be so cruel to a girl, would they? She thought of Jane, and reconsidered that. Who knew what might have been going on in that house all those years? What might still be going on?
I must get Tessa out of that unspeakable place. Neither of those two are fit to raise a child, especially my aunt.
This changed everything— and not necessarily for the better. She couldn't in good conscience risk that poor young girl's future. She would have to find another way to save Papa.
But what?
Chapter Twenty
Dear Cousin,
I find your persistent dislike of Lord Norcourt strange, given that you claim not to know him personally. I have observed him with my girls this week, often without his knowledge, and he always behaved like a gentleman. His lessons have truly helped the girls. Which makes me wonder if your dislike of him might stem from something other than a mere concern for the school's reputation.
Your perplexed relation,
Charlotte
A
nthony pushed the team of his traveling chariot to its limits, determined to arrive at the school in time to catch Madeline alone. Because he'd learned one thing in Chertsey yesterday. There was no physician named Prescott. There'd never been a physician named Prescott anywhere in the vicinity. Nor had anyone heard of any scandal involving nitrous oxide in the county.
Before Saturday night, he might have assumed that Madeline's tale about her father was a lie, just another scheme.
But after what had happened between them, he couldn't believe it. For one thing, he'd reexamined her comments about Chertsey enough to realize she'd never claimed to be from there. As with her lack of experience in the bedchamber, she'd let him believe what he wanted but had taken great pains not to lie to him.
There was her virginity, too. She'd given up her innocence to protect her secrets, and then she'd fled. Those weren't the acts of a scheming woman. Those were the acts of the desperate.
The very thought of her being that desperate sent fear spiraling through him. She'd been trying to protect him by keeping the truth to herself— he was almost sure of it. That meant that she and her father must be in very dire trouble indeed, trouble so dire that she'd relinquished all hope of his helping her.
Were her father's enemies friends of his? That would explain how she knew of his boyhood antics and why she didn't want to confide in him. He had to know— he had to make her see he could help her without making either of their situations worse.
He stopped just short of the school so he could sneak in unnoticed. Slipping inside the back entrance, he took the servant's stairs to the next floor. Now he could only pray she showed up early again.
Unsure of her response, he strode into the classroom swiftly so she couldn't avoid him. To his relief, she was there. But so was Mrs. Harris.
His heart dropped into his stomach. Good God, what was
she
doing here?
"Good morning, Lord Norcourt," the headmistress said with a stern expression. "You're here rather early, aren't you?"
"So are you." He glanced to Madeline, but her face wore a panic that mirrored his. Apparently, she'd been caught by surprise, too. What the bloody devil was going on?
Mrs. Harris regarded the two of them with interest, her expression unreadable. "I suppose you were hoping to speak with Miss Prescott alone."
"Of course," he said, going on the offensive. "She and I need to review my lessons for this week. We can hardly do that with the girls underfoot." Mimicking his father's supercilious viscount manner, he cast Mrs. Harris a withering glance. "I assume that's allowed."
Mrs. Harris ignored his remark. "I have a serious private matter I need to discuss with both of you. If you will follow me, we'll adjourn to my office."
God save them both, she knew something. That became more evident when she ushered them out with Madeline ahead of her, so that he had to follow behind, separated from Madeline.
By the time they reached her office, his frustration knew no bounds. He needed to speak to Madeline, not be corralled like an errant schoolboy.
"Please." Mrs. Harris gestured to two chairs before her desk. "Take a seat."
As they did so, Madeline cast him a speaking look, but he couldn't read her mind, damn it. What was she trying to warn him of?
"What's this about?" he demanded, tired of the headmistress's mysterious manner.
"Forthright as always." As Mrs. Harris sat down behind her desk, she surveyed him with cool aplomb. "Except in certain matters. You might as well admit the truth, Lord Norcourt. Your early arrival has nothing to do with lessons and everything to do with the nitrous oxide party your friend threw on Saturday night. The one Madeline attended."
As his blood rose to a roar in his ears, Madeline leaned forward. "Mrs. Harris, I told you I did not— "
"Be quiet, Madeline," Mrs. Harris ordered. "I want to hear his side without your interference. If necessary, I'll banish you from this discussion entirely."
Fortunately, Madeline had said enough to warn him that she hadn't been the one to reveal the secret.
He schooled his features into the expression of someone hearing shocking news for the first time. Years of wicked living had taught him how to cover for himself very well, and no mere headmistress would trick him into confessing all.
But how had she learned about the party? What had she heard?
It couldn't be much, because if she actually knew anything, she would already have dismissed Madeline, and a footman would be escorting him from the property.
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said, in a voice of astonishing calm.
"Don't you?"
"No. Which friend of mine threw a nitrous oxide party? Why on earth would Miss Prescott have attended? It's hardly appropriate for a lady of her situation."
"Exactly." She searched his face. "So you know nothing of it."
"Nothing." He hated lying to a woman he'd come to respect, but what choice did he have? He couldn't risk Tessa's enrollment. Or Madeline's reputation.
She tapped a sheet of paper on the desk. "So I should discount this letter that came by special messenger last night from my best source of gossip?"
Bloody hell, her mysterious "source." After a week at the school, he knew exactly who she meant— Cousin Michael, her anonymous benefactor, whose identity the girls speculated about endlessly. "I don't know if you should discount it or not. What does it say?"
"That the Marquess of Stoneville, your intimate friend, hosted a nitrous oxide party this weekend at his estate." She glanced at Madeline. "That he escorted a young lady who went by the name Mrs. Brayham, but who, from her description, sounds remarkably like Miss Prescott. What have you to say to that?"
He ignored the twisting in his gut. "I'd say you should ask your source for more details since he was obviously a guest himself."
She flushed. "He wasn't a guest— he made that quite clear. But he did hear other guests talking about it."