His flashing eyes settled on Caulfield with deadly intent. For a man of seventy years who had spent almost every one of them behind a pulpit, he was amazingly spry. Before anyone could react, he launched himself against Caulfield’s chest. Meredith heard a faint popping and hoped it was her father’s creaking joints and not Caulfield’s ribs.
“Swine,” he cried, grabbing Caulfield by the cravat. “Papist swine!”
Then pandemonium broke out.
Chapter 4
Aunt Eleanor screamed. Someone turned over the tea service. China shattered on the carpet and Meredith gave the broken pieces a brief, mournful cringe. Grimley hollered for help. Servants poured into the drawing room like a small invading army, adding to the chaos by pure presence if not volume. And throughout it all Caulfield remained calm, an amazing feat considering her father strangled him with his cravat.
“Please, don’t hurt him!” Meredith beseeched above the din.
“He’s got a bad back!” Aunt Eleanor screeched, her hands fluttering helplessly in the air. “Watch his back!”
“He’s trying to bloody choke me.” Caulfield shot her a look of pure incredulity as he worked to carefully disengage himself from her father. It all happened in the span of a few moments, but time seemed to stretch endlessly before her father was restrained. Nels held her father tightly, yet gently, in his great bear of a frame.
“Daughter, do not be beguiled by that one!” Her father wagged a gnarly, arthritic finger at Caulfield as Nels escorted him from the drawing room. “He’s a Papist, I tell you! They’re all about the place. He’ll kill the Queen.” The rest of her father’s deprecations faded as he was led upstairs.
“My sincerest apologies. My father is not himself these days.” Meredith was helpless to suppress her embarrassment, which only angered her. Her father had once been a great man—pious, quick-witted, admired by many. True, he had been stern and not the most affectionate of fathers, but he was the only one she would ever have, and his condition was no fault of his.
“No need to apologize, my lady,” Caulfield said as he straightened his cravat, his lips twisting with a wry smile. “I don’t expect your father really meant to kill me.”
“Oh, my lord,” Aunt Eleanor gushed, clapping her hands. “You are all that is kind and good. Not everyone possesses such patience and understanding.” She nudged Meredith sharply. “Is he not kind, Meredith?”
“Yes, most kind,” Meredith echoed, shocked by her aunt’s sudden change of sentiment. Only hours ago she was cursing Caulfield as the lowest sort of scoundrel.
“I say, my lady, I am concerned. I had not realized your father had succumbed to such a low state.” The solicitor’s appalled tones rang out in the drawing room. “I am most grievously concerned for your ladies’ safety. And you must think to your child now. Having one given to violence under your very roof is an unnecessary risk. Perhaps you should consider an asylum—”
Anger spiked through Meredith at the suggestion. “Have you any idea the deplorable conditions of asylums? It is worse than Newgate prison, I am told. Besides, my father is not a threat. Age and disease have made a victim of him. God willing, should such a fate befall you, I hope your relations are compassionate enough not to lock you away.”
Caulfield’s eyes raked her with something akin to approval. Grimley opened his mouth, no doubt to put forth further unwanted opinions, but Caulfield smoothly intervened, his voice matter-of-fact as he said, “This is a family matter, Grimley. Trust that I’ll see to the safety of those under my protection.”
Seemingly mollified, the solicitor nodded and made no further comment. Meredith bristled indignantly at such high-handedness, even if it did appease Grimley and put an end to his badgering. When exactly had she become subject to Nicholas Caulfield? Especially when her sole goal had been independence?
A flicker of apprehension coursed through her…and something else, something she could not put her finger on. It had been years since she relied on anyone. Not since she was a little girl and her father had been hearty and whole. Nicholas Caulfield’s words echoed in her mind. Under my protection. What would it feel like for a man to protect her, look out for her, claim her as his own—
Meredith veered sharply from such unsettling thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. She’d had thoughts like those before. When she married Edmund. And what a colossal mistake that had been. No, better she maintain control of her own life than be cast to the whim of another Brookshire. Glancing at a maid cleaning the broken china, she asked with forced lightness, “Shall I send for more tea?”
He couldn’t sleep. Not in this house. Funny that he had not considered what it would feel like to be back here again. He had not anticipated the resurgence of memories—memories that still occupied the nether regions of his mind. Apparently, the past wasn’t dead. Not as he’d told himself all these years.
He paced his room still dressed, tempted to march downstairs, saddle his horse, and depart from this place. Nick sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. That would be too easy…and too cowardly. He had to see this through. If luck was on his side, Lady Brookshire would deliver a healthy son and he could return to his own life.
On the surface, the house appeared unchanged. But there were small changes. Subtle differences. It seemed cleaner, the air fresher, and the rooms brimmed with light. He suspected these were Lady Brookshire’s efforts. No doubt such an ice princess would demand order and cleanliness. Not like his mother, who had been content to while away her time in leisurely pursuits and neglect the running of the household.
As a boy, he had enjoyed his life here, not suspecting that it could be snatched away. His memories were fond…until that long ago day. Another lifetime. Another boy. That pampered child had died a thousand deaths since he last stood in this house. His father had been a distant figure, but in no way had he viewed him as an enemy. Yet what else would one call a man who tossed away both wife and child? Nick did not know if his mother had been the adulterer his father accused. He would never know that particular truth. More than likely his father had grown tired of his foreign wife, embarrassed at the public life she had led as an opera singer, and wanted to break all ties once his desire for her had been slaked. His father was a gentleman, rich and titled. A divorce would hardly ruin him. But his mother? A female? A common performer? Not only was she incapable of showing her face in Society, but she had been unable to make her living on the stage as before. No, only one profession had been left to her.
Nick left his room and walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor, the muffled fall of his feet on the carpet merging with the whispers of yesterday. He stopped before the nursery. The door stood ajar. The darkened room suddenly became alive with the past. He could still hear his nurse, Connie, pleading with his father, begging him to keep Nick. He could see his father’s face so clearly, could feel that wintry blue gaze looking right through him as he pronounced those fateful words. He goes too.
Edmund had been there, leaning nonchalantly on the doorjamb, unaffected, indifferent to the impending exile of his stepmother and half brother.
Stepping back from the threshold of his old nursery, Nick detached himself from the memories, hating to consider what others might surface during his stay.
“My lord?” a voice queried softly, conveniently shattering his troubling reveries.
Nick turned to face Lady Brookshire, prim in a heavy cotton robe that doubtlessly hid an equally prim nightgown. Hugging a book to her chest like a makeshift shield, she bore no resemblance to the pale-faced, black-clad widow from earlier. Gone was the severity of hairstyle and dress. A long plait of auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulder. She looked young, like a virgin schoolgirl, yet he knew her to be a widow, past the first blush of youth.
“Are you lost?” Her wide, intelligent brow furrowed in concern.
Lost? No, unfortunately he knew exactly where he stood. Nodding toward the room, he stepped away from the door. “My old nursery.”
“Oh,” she replie
d, her expression uncertain. She ceased hugging the book so tightly and lowered it in her hands.
“I had a nurse. Connie. Does she by chance still work here?”
“I have never heard of her. Perhaps you could ask in the village. She may still be in the area.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, shaking off his strange mood. “I suppose it’s time the room sees some use again.”
She gave a slight nod, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Your father would be pleased. He did not live very long after I came here, but he desperately wished to have this nursery full of children again.”
How ironic that his father had craved a nursery full of children when he banished his own son from its confines. “Yes, a shame he did not live to see this,” Nick said dryly. “I am certain his view does not extend this far from hell.”
He waited for her shock, her denunciation, perhaps even a fainting spell—the hallmark of all women of breeding, especially from such a starchy little package like herself.
Instead, she angled her head and studied him curiously. “I take it you and your father parted on bad terms?”
Nick eyed her closely. She blinked back at him, eyes wide and guileless. She posed the question sincerely, without the faintest amount of censure in her voice.
“No gossip has reached your ears?” Nick lifted a brow. “How surprising. I thought you would surely be apprised of all the sordid details. Edmund never spoke of me, then?”
Her gaze dropped and she plucked at the spine of her book, making him feel as though he’d asked a tactless question.
“No, he never mentioned you.”
Was she so grieved by her loss that the mention of Edmund gave her such discomfort? Had she loved him that much? A sour taste filled his mouth. He looked her over again. The flyaway tendrils of hair haloing her face made her look young, fresh. Undeniably pretty. His blood stirred with both desire and envy. What had Edmund done to deserve her devotion? The brother he remembered hardly seemed the type to evoke loyalty.
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose I mattered overmuch to him. But you’ve heard nothing of me from others?”
“No, and I certainly made my inquiries, my lord.” She lifted her eyes, as if daring him to disapprove. “I learned that your mother was a performer of some kind before she married your father—that she took you and left years ago.”
Nick smiled at her intrepid mien, so at odds with the solemn little girl she appeared in her prim robe. “There’s a little more to it than that. The truth is my father cast both of us aside. Divorce. That ugly little word that is only whispered about in drawing rooms. I was eight years old, but he divorced himself from me just as much as from my mother.” Bitterness washed over him, belying the calm tone of his voice.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she pursed her lips, evidently considering his words. The lighted sconces on the wall lent shadows that obscured the exact emotion of her eyes, but he sensed her reproach—or perhaps expected it.
“I suppose you’re wondering what we did to deserve it?”
“Not at all. I don’t think a father is ever justified in banishing his own child. It is reprehensible.”
“Is it only reprehensible to banish one’s child? What of wives?” Nick challenged.
At this, she stammered, “I—I cannot presume to know the circumstances—”
“Very politic of you. However, I wonder if you would say the same thing had my mother not been an opera singer. Tell me, do you really think that my mother was on equal footing with my father? Did he not possess the wealth and status? Does the law not grant a man more rights than a woman? Are you not right now beholden to me just as you were to Edmund?”
Her body noticeably stiffened, and he knew he had made his point. A point she clearly did not like but nonetheless recognized.
“What’s wrong? Do you find it difficult to hear the truth, my lady?”
“I don’t like it,” she admitted. “I don’t like to think of myself as subject to anyone.”
“Your circumstances are not so different from my mother’s. You’ve both been left with nothing.” Nick shrugged and injected a measure of calm he didn’t feel. “He accused my mother of infidelity. If the allegation was true, perhaps she deserved the miserable end she suffered.”
“But what of you?” she asked. “You could not have done anything to deserve such treatment. You were a helpless child. It must have been frightening to lose everything safe and familiar. I can understand that.” Her last words were uttered with such feeling, as if she truly knew how it felt to lose one’s sense of security. Perhaps she experienced a bit of that right now, with her future still so much unsettled. That her future rested on the outcome of her child’s gender was indeed a vagary of fate. A vicar’s daughter would more than likely subscribe it to God’s will, he thought wryly. Not him. If God existed, He had abandoned him long ago. Whether she gave birth to a boy or girl, it was just a roll of the die.
“I survived.”
“Your father lost too, even if he did not realize it. He died a lonely man. I’m sure he regretted—”
“No,” Nick interrupted harshly, slicing a hand through the air. “That bastard doesn’t deserve your pity, and you’ll rouse none from me. If you must pity, pity my mother who had to whore herself just to put food in our mouths and died coughing her guts up in a rat-infested hellhole.”
Her face blanched. Now he had shocked her. And it felt good. Rage—that old familiar friend that got him through the hardest of times—resurfaced. It felt gratifying to lash out at someone. Everyone else he could blame was dead. She was the closest substitute. The chit had married Edmund, after all, sharing her bed and life with the very brother who had stood silent as he was banished. Edmund had been fifteen, old enough to possess a voice, to have at least spoken out on their behalf. The woman before him had married that gutless man, even mourned him. He would feel no softness for her. No matter how sweetly she listened as he bared his soul.
She dropped her gaze to the carpet, reminding him of a mouse trying to go unseen in the face of its predator. “My apologies. I spoke unthinkingly.”
“Now you know.”
“I’m sorry for all you suffered. I only wish others had known, so they could have helped you.”
Nick felt a flash of irritation. Did she honestly think no one knew? Just because no one had stepped forward to tell her his family’s sordid history did not mean no one knew.
“People knew, don’t doubt it. If the same thing were to happen today, Good Society would not deign to lift a finger.”
“I think you will find a good many people in Attingham that would not stand idle for such an injustice today.”
Her total naiveté maddened him. “If your child is female and I decided to cast you to the wolves, the good Christians of Attingham would look the other way, of that you may be certain.”
She shook her head slowly, murmuring in a voice that lacked conviction, “No.”
He studied her closely, hypnotized by the way the candlelight brought out the red highlights in her auburn hair. “What an innocent you are. I can say with absolute faith that my former neighbors did not grow a conscience in the last twenty years. But have no fear, I’ll keep my word. You’ll not have to test the extent of their charity.”
“I can only say that the good Christians I sit beside in church—”
His scornful laugh cut short her stalwart defense.
“What is so amusing, my lord?” Disapproval rang high in her voice.
Nick sobered and answered mildly, “I’m not much for church or God.” God had been his mother’s crutch. Not his.
Her sharp intake of breath indicated he had either offended or surprised her. That stubborn little chin of hers went up, and he knew she was not going to let his declaration slide past unrefuted. “I don’t believe that.”
“What exactly don’t you believe?”
“That you are faithless. I don’t believe it.”
He could tell her any number o
f stories to prove just how blackhearted he was. He could regale her with how he grew into a predator on the streets of London: stealing, assaulting, and even killing a man at the tender age of thirteen when the man insisted on becoming his special friend. How scandalized would she be to learn that he had broken into the mansions of Mayfair’s most eminent? Perhaps then she would believe him.
“You don’t believe it because you don’t wish to. It’s more comfortable for you to believe that everyone is like you.” He waved his hand at her. “That I am like you.”
“But you must believe in God.” The quaver of hesitation in her voice made him smile. She feared for his soul. Charming. She probably feared he was going to be swallowed in flames right in front of her.
Nick answered with a vague, “I believe God exists.” For her sake, because she was so obviously perturbed, he would leave it at that and refrain from telling her of the years he had prayed for his mother’s precious God to intervene as he endured the beatings and deprivations of the streets. The boy that had whispered desperate prayers over his mother’s corpse was dead.
“But you reject Him,” she finished for him.
Nick clenched his jaw, her judgment angering him. Or was it disappointment he heard in her voice? Either way, it bothered him more than it should. He didn’t need her good opinion. In fact, he would much rather have her disgust. It would keep things in perspective.
“How did Edmund ever end up with such a sweet innocent like you?” he mocked, stepping closer to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Shocking that such a prim little thing let him into your life, much less your bed.”
Gasping, she tried to step back, but his hand slid behind her neck, holding her fast. The nape of her neck felt soft as silk. He inhaled the scent of her. Mint and honey. Delicious. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she gazed up at him. A primal growl welled up in him and he inched closer, his eyes fixed on her lush mouth. Then the thought came, unbidden, unwanted. This woman could have been his. She could be his now. Nick stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. Had he sunk so low he craved the woman carrying his brother’s child? Could he be that perverse?