Still Wicked Page 3

  Breathe, Elizabeth.

  “And he wishes to have you examined.” Mother reached out and patted Elizabeth’s knee. “I don’t doubt you, Elizabeth, but Langford wants proof. Even though I’ve assured him you’ve been living in this desolate place surrounded by nothing but farm animals and nuns for years, Langford wishes to be assured of your innocence.” Her mother’s jaw suddenly hardened. “You haven’t allowed any of those filthy farmhands to touch you, have you? No cretins have lifted your skirts? I would hate for my confidence in you to be misplaced.”

  “No.” Elizabeth’s voice cracked. “Please take me back to St. Albans, Mother. I wish to be a nun.”

  Maniacal laughter filled the coach as it began to move forward. Mother dabbed at her eyes. “That’s rich. A nun? Oh, I shall have to tell Langford. He’ll find such information as ridiculous as I do. Or possibly titillating.”

  Breathe, Elizabeth. Breathe.

  She had to remain calm. The last thing Elizabeth needed was to collapse in despair or panic. Focusing on her breathing, she told herself she must think. Plan. Mother was devious and Elizabeth must be more so. The journey to London would require, at the bare minimum, several stops in order to change horses.

  “I really am quite pleased to see you.” False affection gleamed from Mother’s eyes. “Even though your appearance is reminiscent of a laundress, or perhaps a chambermaid. I do hope you haven’t cut your hair.” She peered at Elizabeth’s headdress as if attempting to ascertain what lay beneath. “Take it off.”

  “No.”

  Mother’s gloved hand snaked out, smacking her soundly across the cheek for her brief insubordination.

  Elizabeth fell back, eyes watering as the sting of her mother’s hand spread across her cheek.

  “Do not test me, Elizabeth. I will not tolerate your disrespect. I am you mother.” A tic appeared near Jeanette’s left eye. “I had to endure the pathetic grappling of your father in an attempt to produce an heir, but all I received was you.”

  “And Miranda,” Elizabeth whispered, rubbing her cheek.

  The slap this time snapped Elizabeth’s head back. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

  “Had your worthless sister married Langford when she was meant to, I wouldn’t have needed to come all this way to fetch you. Murderous piglet that your sister is, she is far too long in the tooth now to attract the attention of Langford. Miranda has likely become an ancient spinster by now, so far back on the shelf no one ever thinks of her anymore.”

  Elizabeth had been a child at the time of Miranda’s debut, but even so, she didn’t remember her sister ever being courted by a duke. “Miranda,” she said quietly, lest Mother strike her again, “married some time ago. She is now the Countess of Kilmaire.”

  Mother’s entire body convulsed violently before her eyes narrowed with such utter loathing, Elizabeth pulled herself even farther away, afraid her mother meant to attack her for mentioning Miranda’s marriage.

  “Hartley?” Mother’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Despite all my best efforts, she still married the Irish pauper?”

  An old memory resurfaced from Elizabeth’s childhood. Mother had often referred to Colin Hartley in such a way. “Colin is now the Earl of Kilmaire.” Elizabeth knew something had kept Miranda and Colin from marrying after her sister’s debut, but Miranda had never shared the details with her. Looking at her mother’s face, Elizabeth surmised the something had actually been someone.

  Mother’s nostrils flared at the mention of Colin’s name. One gloved hand curled into a fist which she proceeded to slam against the coach door. The color of her cheeks turned an alarming shade of red and her lips pulled back from her teeth giving her a feral look. She screwed her eyes tightly shut. “So, the Irish pauper is now an impoverished earl. Well, I wish her all the best.” Mother’s words snapped and crackled with hostility as her eyes popped open. “Your sister had a tendency toward stoutness even at your age. Langford would have lost interest in her immediately, I’m sure. Thankfully I still have time to groom you to become his duchess.”

  Mother took another breath, the exquisite features once more smoothing out. “I’ve endured much since we saw each other last, my darling. But now, I can return to society triumphant. I’ll be the mother of a duchess, and with Langford’s assistance, shall right the wrongs done to me.”

  The idea of how Mother would ‘right wrongs’ chilled Elizabeth to the core.

  “Mother, has something happened to Herbert? Your husband?” She moved out of reach of her mother’s hand, worried she’d receive another slap for daring to ask.

  “Poor Herbert,” Mother cooed. “It was so sudden. So unexpected.” A gloved hand fell dramatically against her heart. “I had just regained full use of my faculties and dear Herbert became ill. He loved to read me poetry while we took tea together.” Her voice grew wistful. “Herbert was reading to me and suddenly stopped mid-sentence.” She gave a sigh. “He often paused, to tell me of his love and adoration. The dear man took my hand, kissing my fingertips, then he collapsed. A fit of apoplexy, much like your father.” Blinking back tears, her mother gave a small sob. “It was all so tragic, for Herbert to fall ill just as I was finally healed.”

  Elizabeth found Herbert’s death and Mother’s sudden improved health more calculated than coincidence. Her mother had always been capable of terrible things; was murder really such a stretch?

  “You see, don’t you? With Herbert gone, I’ve nothing left but you.” She took Elizabeth’s hands in hers. “Miranda was her father’s daughter, but you, Elizabeth, were mine. We have such fun ahead of us. Langford has leased a house for our use. Balls, parties, dancing. Oh, Elizabeth, the dancing! How I’ve missed such things. You’ll be wed immediately, as soon as Langford deems you appropriate. He’s already secured a special license.”

  Elizabeth pressed her palms into the cool leather of the seat. At least she was breathing normally now, though she was significantly more terrified than she’d been an hour ago.

  “Just be a good obedient girl and after a few years, once you’ve provided an heir and a spare, Langford has agreed to allow you to do as you please. Within reason.” Mother nodded. “I’m looking out for you, darling.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth turned to look out the window at the passing scenery as she listened to her mother’s vision of the future. “I can’t be married without my guardian’s permission. How do you expect to receive Sutton’s approval?”

  “I don’t need his approval.” The twitch returned. “Once you are with child, your brother will have no choice but to accept your marriage. If I have to retrieve you again from St. Albans, I will burn the entire place to the ground. I’ll light the match myself.”

  Elizabeth had assumed as much. The only place she’d ever felt safe, and Mother had taken it from her forever. Elizabeth would never forgive herself if something happened to Mother Hildegard or the others. Even Abigail.

  “I want my life back, the life Sutton, Miranda and that hideous dragon you call Grandmother took from me. Speaking of your grandmother, has Donata died yet?”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head. Her hands had become icy and she clasped them in her lap. She wouldn’t cry. Mother would seize on her weakness in a moment.

  “Oh, good. Had she died, I would have missed the opportunity to torment her. I’m sure Sutton has a passel of brats by now with the little country mouse he married.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from speaking, though she longed to defend her brother and Alex. But any information she relayed to her mother could be used to hurt those Elizabeth loved.

  Mother huffed at her silence. “So very stubborn. Langford will enjoy breaking you of such a habit. I’ll have no trouble finding out everything I need to know about your brother. Now, let me see what I have to work with.” Her eyes roved over Elizabeth’s form, plainly disgusted by the gray novice’s habit. “Even in the gray sack you’re wearing, I can see your breasts are overlarge. Much too generous for your frame, which is,
thankfully, still slender. Fortunately, Langford appreciates a show of bosom, though not too generous a form. I will implement a restrictive diet.” She wagged a gloved finger. “No biscuits or scones with tea. Certainly, no raisin cakes. You must learn to pick at your meals, as a lady must.”

  Elizabeth pushed her cold fingers farther inside her skirts to warm them, knowing it would do no good. She was chilled all over, like a block of ice. Her anxiety would cripple her if she didn’t control her fear. If such happened, Elizabeth would be married to Langford and at his and her mother’s mercy. Escape would require her outwitting the woman across from her.

  But how? Mother was mad, but never stupid.

  * * *

  Several hours later, the coach stopped to change horses. Elizabeth was permitted a moment to refresh herself and nothing more, all under the calculated regard of Gustave. She consoled herself with the thought she would have another opportunity. Panic and despair would not help her situation. She must glean as much information from her mother as possible. Anything she found out could help her escape. Or protect her family.

  Elizabeth decided to start with her mother’s friendship with Langford. Once the coach began to roll forward, she asked her mother several questions about Langford, as if accepting her mother’s plans. None of what she learned was particularly useful, only frightening. Langford was much older, several years her mother’s senior. His previous wives had been young, and both had died. When Elizabeth inquired how, Mother didn’t answer.

  “How did you happen to…renew your acquaintance with Langford, Mother? You were in Yorkshire and quite ill, after all.”

  Mother waved a hand. “I was quite ill. But last summer I started to feel more like myself. I credit the new nurse Herbert hired for me.”

  “Abigail’s sister?” Elizabeth had noticed her mother never mentioned the nurse by name.

  “My dear nurse was in the little village next to Herbert’s estate one day, visiting the apothecary. She stopped to admire a coach with the ducal coat of arms. Can you believe it was Langford? I hadn’t thought of him in years, but I immediately dashed off a note and had her return to the village and hand it to one of his footmen. Langford eventually came to tea. Herbert thought the visit from an old friend would do me good. We were once very close, Langford and me. In retrospect I should have married him myself, but at the time he was only a viscount and not expected to inherit the duchy.” She shrugged. “And your father was a marquess. You must always aim high, Elizabeth. Thankfully, I have done so for you.”

  Elizabeth shot her a weak smile. If she were to guess, her mother and Langford had once been lovers. Fear and disgust mingled together to settle deep in her bones.

  “Langford’s previous wife…Bertha? Betina? I’m afraid I can’t recall. Langford barely remembers her. A piddling nobody with a large dowry.” She made a sound of dismissal. “One of two ridiculous girls in a row. Neither produced an heir despite Langford’s robustness. I feel certain you will not disappoint him. You must ensure that you do not.”

  Langford sounded charming. Elizabeth toyed with the idea of throwing herself from the coach, if given no other choice. Trampled by horses seemed preferable to marrying such a man. She returned her attention to the woman seated across from her, watching as Mother idly toyed with the ends of her veil. How had Jeanette regained the threads of her sanity without anyone noticing?

  She was pretending. And someone had noticed. The nurse. And when she did so, Mother must have enlisted her aid and waited like a large spider in a web for the chance to strike.

  A feeling of hopelessness washed over Elizabeth.

  And I am the fly neatly caught.

  3

  Henry Spencer Hammond, Baron Kelso, surveyed the courtyard of the coaching inn, sighing in disgust at the multitude of coaches. He did so detest crowds. But if one suspected they were being followed, it was far better to hide in plain sight.

  The common room would be full, making it easy for him to blend in. He’d already changed into his own clothing: leather riding breeches, black boots and a custom-tailored coat the color of nutmeg. The bloodied clothing worn last night, something Spence had purchased from a laborer on the docks in France, had been discarded along with the horse he’d used. A private coach, more suitable for a gentleman traveler, had been waiting for Spence on the English side of the border. The coach had been hired prior to the little ‘errand’ to pick Spence up, along with the small valise left at the docks in Edinburgh. The rest of his trunks had been sent directly to London.

  No one here would recognize him as the man who’d left the magistrate’s office in the dead of night on the north side of Edinburgh. Spence took a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his bruised ribs. At least he was fairly certain no one could identify him.

  The driver of his hired coach, a painfully thin man by the name of Porter, slowed the coach to a crawl as they neared the inn, moving the vehicle to the far side of the courtyard as Spence had requested.

  Spence threw open the door and stepped out, adopting the manner of arrogance and privilege in accordance with his station. The casual observer would assume him to be nothing less than a titled lord on his way to London. Certainly no one would suspect the injury beneath the fine lawn of his shirt. The Honorable Jacob McDonnell had objected strongly to being murdered in his office the night before. As had the magistrate’s secretary.

  “My lord?” Porter showed a flicker of concern, likely worrying he wouldn’t be paid properly if his fare arrived in London in poor health or worse.

  “I’m fine. Leg fell asleep,” he assured the driver, reluctant to show the slightest weakness to anyone. You never knew who was watching or who could be trusted.

  If you got sloppy, as Spence had last night when visiting McDonnell, you could very well end up dead. Or worse, create a mess for the Crown.

  Spence didn’t particularly care if he embarrassed his employer. He’d done his duty for ten long years, with a large portion of that time spent in India. He was quite tired of subterfuge and assassination. Lately, he’d only been going through the motions and had become careless.

  ‘Did you know my father? I miss him dreadfully.’

  Resolutely he pushed the image of the young lad out of his mind, knowing the gesture was futile. He’d see the boy again as soon as he closed his eyes. Self-loathing would nearly choke him, and he couldn’t afford to drink himself senseless tonight to avoid his own guilt.

  Nodding to Porter, Spence paused in the courtyard as one of the coaches opened abruptly, sending a tumbling stream of people who’d been cramped for hours falling out. A mass of arms, legs, skirts and boots seemed to pile against each other as the occupants hurried to exit the overcrowded vehicle and breathe in fresh air. En masse, they headed into the common room, doubtless drawn by the smell of cooked meat filling the air.

  His own stomach grumbled. “Like a bloody horde of ants all determined to settle on a cube of sugar. I can’t wait to immerse myself in humanity.” As a rule, Spence was a solitary creature. Attachments, when one lived in the shadows, were frowned upon, and he kept what little emotion he had left tightly bottled. Spence regarded the inn and pasted a charming smile on his lips, adopting the rakish mask he usually wore. It was far easier than allowing the emptiness to show.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?” Porter looked askance at him, the red whiskers of his mustache quivering. Porter reminded Spence of a nervous fox terrified the hunt had started and there was nowhere to hide.

  “Just commenting on the delight of seeing so many of my fellow travelers in close quarters. See to the horses, Porter. And go find yourself something to eat.”

  Porter bowed and strode off in the direction of the stables, his long skinny legs eating up the distance easily. The man had little meat on his bones, though Spence had seen him ingest nearly an entire chicken at their last stop, complete with potatoes and bread.

  A plump woman and two doe-eyed young ladies passed before Spence, a mother and her daughters, as
evidenced by the fact that all three ladies had identical overbites. He nodded politely, gratified to see their faces blush as they swept by him to enter the common room.

  As he’d thought, the place was nearly bursting with travelers. His eyes scanned the tables until he spied a small, empty space which suited his purposes. A spot where he could sit with his back against the wall but facing the door. Just in case. Spence detested surprises, especially if those surprises were intent on killing him. He had every intention of enjoying his food since there was no telling when he’d have a proper, hot meal again before reaching London. The muscles of his torso throbbed as he settled himself. McDonnell’s secretary had been wielding a pipe.

  Christ, he wanted to be finished with this business and get home to London.

  Usually if Spence appeared at someone’s door, it was because they weren’t a decent sort to begin with, or because they had crossed someone powerful. McDonnell, as far as Spence could tell, belonged to the second category. The magistrate was mired in corruption up to his nearly strangled neck, all of it sanctioned by the local government to the immense displeasure of the Crown. He’d no regret about disposing of McDonnell, or the man’s secretary.

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  A bitter taste filled his mouth. He rarely thought of the men he’d dispatched, and he certainly never thought of any family those men left behind. If only he hadn’t walked into the park that day and met the Belgian’s young son, sitting by himself, a kite dangling from his hand. Sobbing for his dead father.

  Damn it.

  After the chance meeting, Spence had written his superiors. Two hundred years of service, Spence reasoned in his letter, was certainly more than enough time to repay the Crown for creating the duchy of Dunbar. He wished to leave his current role and unpleasant duties. Besides, his mother wished him home for Christmas.