My Lord Wicked (Historical Regency Romance) Page 22

  Drawing Marmalade to her bosom, she began to cry. She had nothing when she came here. Now she had Marmalade. Thomas had said the tiny kitten was her very own. She would take him when she left Marshbanks Abbey. As much as she loved the animal, he was small consolation.

  The following morning, she allowed Maggie to help her dress. "It's good that you're getting up again, Miss Lambeth. You need to get the blush back in your cheeks." She stood back a step and peered at Freddie. "I can tell by your eyes you didn't sleep well."

  She not only had not slept well, she had not slept at all. She could not get away from the abbey too soon. Being so close to Thomas was entirely too painful. Freddie saw that Edgekirth had been right. The sun did shine again. "Has the rain gone?"

  "Oh yes, miss, and the Lambeths, too, thank goodness."

  Freddie spun away from her looking glass. "All of them?"

  Maggie nodded. "And good riddance to them. I suppose Sir Harold was nice enough, but his two ladies were positive witches, I do declare."

  "I won't argue with that," Freddie said as she stood and left the room.

  She looked into Thomas's library as she walked by, but he was not in it. She hoped he would not be in the dining room. She wished to avoid conversation with him.

  To her satisfaction, he was not. She took a seat and poured herself a cup of tea while a footman placed toast and other breakfast foods she did not feel like eating on the table. She looked up at him. "Has Lord Stacks eaten yet?"

  "Yes, miss, he ate before he left for Morton."

  "He's gone into Morton?"

  The young man nodded. "About an hour after Sir Harold's family left."

  She told herself she should be pleased she would not have to see him, but she was mildly disappointed. On the other hand, she was elated over the departure of Uncle Harold's family.

  After breakfast, she resisted the temptation to work in the quadrangle. Thomas had expressed a strong dislike of her working there after a heavy rain. He disliked to see mud on her hands and on the hems of the dresses he had paid for. She went back to her chamber and got her sketch book and Marmalade and relocated to the upstairs drawing room where the light was better than in her room.

  With Marmalade on her lap, she attempted to sketch, but he was particularly frisky, wanting to plop himself on the pad. She put the sketch pad down and played with her cat. With a heavy heart, she wondered what would become of Thomas' book. There really would be no need for her to sketch any more of her botanical drawings, for she refused to work with him after they married.

  Eason knocked on the door and entered. "I'm in a bit of a quandary, miss," he said. "I've shown Mr. Binghampton, who is the brother of the late Lady Stacks, into the great hall, but I don't know when his lordship plans to return. Mr. Binghampton is but passing through and wanted to look in on his lordship for a few hours."

  "Would you like for me to entertain him until Lord Stacks returns?"

  "Yes, Miss Lambeth," he said gratefully, an unusual smile sweeping across his face.

  "Why don't you ask him to come up here where it's more cozy? And please bring some tea." She had started to send for Maggie to provide chaperonage, but she really did not care a tuppence about her reputation any more. Malcolm would still marry her.

  She looked up when the well dressed Mr. Binghampton entered. He was blond and bronzy and small boned, and she guessed him to be thirty. "Please sit down, Mr. Binghampton," she said, indicating a chair near her. "I am Lord Stacks' ward. My father, Frederick Lambeth, was best friends with Lord Stacks at Oxford."

  "It's very good to see there is some one here for old Thomas," the man said. "The last time I saw him--five years ago--he was entirely too solitary."

  Freddie had no desire to discuss Thomas and his loneliness. He seemed to have taken care of that matter. "Tell me, Mr. Binghampton, where are you from?"

  "The Midlands. I'm on my way to inspect a hunting lodge that I'm thinking about buying in Scotland."

  Eason brought the tea and set up the tea table. When he left, Freddie poured it into two delicate porcelain cups and handed one to the visitor.

  "I suppose you were utterly devastated to lose your sister at so young an age," Freddie said.

  He frowned. "It was, indeed, devastating, but not altogether unexpected."

  Freddie's heart hammered. Had Elizabeth's family learned of her accidents, too? Did they suspect Thomas of murder? She tried to still her racing heart and speak without her voice trembling. "Indeed?"

  He nodded simply.

  But, Freddie reasoned, if Elizabeth's family held Thomas responsible for her death, Mr. Binghampton would hardly be sitting here telling her how glad he was that Thomas was not as lonely as he had been five years earlier. She had to probe further. "Was Elizabeth sickly?"

  He laughed a bitter laugh and met her gaze. His eyes were blue like Elizabeth's. "How much do you know about her death?"

  "A good bit, I suppose."

  "And had you heard about her accidents?"

  Now her pulse beat drummed. She nodded, her eyes wide.

  He bit at his lip and looked down into his cup. "Thomas is a good man. A noble man. I know he has blamed himself for Elizabeth's death."

  Freddie felt her breath growing short.

  "He has never uttered a bad word against Elizabeth," he continued. "Terrible rumors about him have reached as far away as London."

  She could barely get her breath as she watched Mr. Binghampton set his cup on the table and gaze up at her. "I wanted to talk to Thomas, to put his mind at ease, but it seems I may have to leave before he returns. I'll tell him what he needs to know in a letter."

  Freddie's own cup began to rattle against her saucer.

  He gazed at her. "As his ward, I think you have a right to know the truth. It's not something our family wishes known, but it is something my father should have informed Thomas of when drawing up the marriage contracts, and I've always been ashamed that he did not."

  What was the man trying to say?

  "Elizabeth--from the time she was a small girl--had a rare disorder," he said.

  Freddie's brows arched.

  He refused to look at her as he spoke. "She had a bent for self mutilation. She was forever purposely injuring herself."

  Her mouth dropped open. "So all the those accidents Lord Stacks was accused of--"

  "He was innocent of."

  "Do you know how this man has suffered for ten years?" she said angrily. "Why did you not tell him sooner?"

  "While my father lived, I couldn't. He died last month."

  Freddie picked up her cup and saucer as an excuse to gather her thoughts before she spoke again. She took a sip of tea, looking at him over the rim of her cup. At least he had finally spoken. "It was good of you to come," she said softly.

  He stood up. "I will write that letter to Thomas. Tell him I came, won't you?"

  "Yes, of course," Freddie said, watching him leave the room.

  ***

  While she and Marmalade were still sharing the sofa in the drawing room, Eason announced that Dr. Edgekirth was calling.

  Her pulse accelerated with dread. "Send him up," she said gloomily.

  Edgekirth rushed to Freddie's side on the damask sofa, took her hand, pressing it with soft lips.

  It sickened her, and the fact that it sickened her angered her even more. Malcolm Edgekirth was a perfectly handsome, very fine man. Why couldn't she fall in love with him? Why did it have to be Thomas?

  "I didn't sleep all night," he told her. "I cannot believe such happiness has been bestowed upon me."

  "How can you be happy, under the circumstances?"

  "Because I will have the joy of knowing you're mine, of seeing you every day of my life. I have dispatched a request for a special license."

  "And how long will that take?"

  He shrugged. "It's my goal we be wed by the end of next week."

  "Good," she said, her lips tight.

  "Eason tells me Stacks is in Morton. A very r
are outing for him, to be sure."

  "I think he wants to see me no more than I wish to see him." She stroked Marmalade, who slept curled in her lap. "You will never guess who left just moments before you arrived."

  He took her hand in his. "Who?"

  "Elizabeth's brother. I think you owe Lord Stacks an apology."

  He eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"

  "Because he never injured Elizabeth, and he didn't kill her." But why, Freddie wondered, had he told her he had killed his wife?

  "How could her brother possibly know that? He wasn't here. I was."

  "He confessed that the family had always hidden the fact she had a rare disorder which caused her to inflict pain upon herself."

  "No!"

  "Yes," Freddie countered. "From the time she was a small girl she injured herself. Her brother said he was not a bit surprised when she killed herself. I think he'd rather been expecting it."

  Edgekirth's eyes widened. "I never---Oh, yes, I actually remember reading something when I was at university about the disorder. . ." His voice trailed off. "I never would have expected it of Elizabeth."

  "Do you not agree that you owe Lord Stacks an apology?"

  It was a full minute before he nodded.

  Chapter 28

  All these years Thomas had lived with the shame of Elizabeth's death. Never had he sullied the memory of the lovely blond with the dancing the blue eyes. And for as many years he had endured the whispered innuendos even from his own servants. He had, indeed, been noble, Freddie thought. How could that man be the same one who had toyed with her heart while offering his name to another?

  Never mind her own hurt. She could at least remove some of the stain that had soiled his life. She pulled the bell rope in the drawing room. When Eason answered, she instructed, "Please tell Mrs. Greenwood I beg a word with her."

  When Mrs. Greenwood entered the drawing room Freddie asked her to close the door and have a seat beside her.

  The woman did as she was instructed, her eyes fixed on Freddie's as she crossed the room and sat down. She looked nervous.

  "When I first came here," Freddie began, "you seemed very displeased, but since Mrs. Taylor came your resentment vanished, which led me to believe that you had at first feared for my safety. Am I correct, Mrs. Greenwood?"

  She nodded. "I never meant to offend you, miss."

  Freddie gently patted the woman's solid arm. "It's all right. I think you suspected Lord Stacks was responsible for his wife's death."

  The two women's eyes locked, but the housekeeper refused comment.

  "That's why I called you here for this little talk. Do you know who visited here today beside Dr. Edgekirth?"

  "I heard it was Lady Stacks's brother."

  "Yes. He came to make a confession about his sister. According to Mr. Binghampton, Elizabeth had a life-long disorder which caused her to inflict pain on herself."

  Mrs. Greenwood's eyes widened. "You mean like the sex maniacs that kill women in London?"

  Freddie nodded. "Probably. Although I don't think Elizabeth ever meant to harm anyone but herself. Unfortunately, Lord Stacks has been paying for his wife's misdeeds for the last ten years."

  "I'm truly sorry," Mrs. Greenwood whispered, looking into the bony hands folded in her lap. "I should have known his lordship was too kind. It was just that I was very fond of Lady Stacks. I still can't believe she. . ."

  "I know. It is an extremely rare disorder, one that most of us have never heard of. Lord Stacks does not even know his wife suffered from it."

  "That's not right for him not to know."

  Freddie looked kindly at her. "I will tell him. I wanted you to know the truth, to no longer blame your employer for something he did not do. He has protected a dead woman for far too many years."

  The housekeeper's face was grim. "He certainly has. The Lord bless him."

  ***

  The sun was low, shading the twilight sky with pinks and oranges as Stacks rode back to the abbey from Morton. He had stayed away as long as he could. He had paid a long overdue visit to the vicarage. He had gone to see Mrs. Rountree at Thistledowne and offered belated condolences over the death of her husband the previous year. He had visited some of his cottagers.

  And now he had to go back to the abbey where he hoped to avoid Freddie's presence. Eason greeted him at the door, informing Stacks he had missed a visit from Mr. Binghampton. Stacks raised his brows and handed the butler his hat and coat. "Any other visitors?"

  "Only Dr. Edgekirth."

  That was a given, Stacks thought bitterly. "And where is Miss Lambeth?" he asked as he strode from the vestibule and into the great room.

  "She is in the dining room. You're just in time to join her for dinner."

  "Actually," Stacks said hesitantly, walking in the other direction from the dining room, "I don't feel like dressing, and I have work to catch up on. Have a tray sent to the library for me, won't you?"

  He sat at the desk in his library, only picking at his dinner, his gloomy thoughts on Freddie and her marriage. He remembered when he had planned to make a settlement on Freddie at her marriage. Not any longer. Edgekirth would get nothing from him. Besides, he had wanted to make a settlement on the old Freddie, the one who was honest and loving. Not the lying creature she had turned into.

  He pushed aside the unfinished dinner and poured himself a glass of brandy, noticing that the servants had already replaced the two shattered snifters. He had been drinking entirely too much the past several days, but he didn't care. The fact was, he didn't care what happened to him any more. It had been the same when Elizabeth died.

  He laughed a bitter laugh. It was as if his vibrant Freddie was dead.

  A pity he had missed Timmy Binghampton. He had always liked the lad.

  If Freddie had thought it ridiculous for just the two of them to sit at the magnificent table with two footmen in attendance, it was far more ridiculous tonight.

  She sat completely alone, except, of course, for the footman. At least there was only one. Though she had little appetite, she tried to stretch out the dinner in hopes of getting a chance to talk to Thomas.

  He needed to know about Elizabeth. Freddie was still puzzled over how he could blame himself for Elizabeth's suicide.

  Had he felt she had been driven to it by something he had done? Or not done, she thought, remembering that he had stayed from her bed for months at a time.

  Eason walked through the dining room, and she heard him tell someone in the kitchen that Lord Stacks desired a tray in the library. She watched sadly as Eason walked back through the dining room, carrying his master's tray. Was her presence so repugnant to Thomas that he couldn't eat with her?

  She pushed aside her plate and left the room, intending to go to the shelter of her room and the comfort of sweet Marmalade. She crossed the darkened great room, so different now than it was the last time she saw it at night, the night of wretched ball. She looked at the pianoforte, turned to a footman, and asked him to light candles in the candelabra on top the pianoforte.

  She hadn't played since Uncle Harold had come. Concentrating on so many different things as the music demanded would keep away thoughts of Thomas.

  She sat down at the instrument and began to play. She played for over two hours just to get back the level of skill she had acquired when her uncle came.

  ***

  She kept playing the same song. Terribly at first, then better and better until she finally got it right. He had listened from his dimly lit library as he drank too much brandy once again.

  Finally, he got up to go to bed. But he chose not to cross the great room as he usually did to reach his chamber on the other side of the abbey. This time he went through the cloisters, across the soggy quadrangle, into the refectory and up a servants' stairway to his room.

  The waiting Roberts assisted him in removing the same clothing he had helped him don that morning.

  "Don't say it," Stacks told his valet.

  Roberts looked
offended. "Say what, my lord?"

  "Chide me for not changing my clothes when I returned from Morton."

  Roberts took a whiff of his master's brandy-scented breath and pulled back ever so slightly. "I'm far more likely to chide you for overdrinking."

  Stacks laughed and plopped on his stuffed chair while Roberts removed his boots. "You certainly aren't subtle, my man."

  "Eason said you did not eat with Miss Freddie. I have deduced that your trouble lies with the young woman."

  Stacks focused his black eyes on his valet and sneered. "Who says I'm troubled?"

  "I do, my lord."

  "You know that Miss Lambeth is to wed the wretched Edgekirth?"

  Roberts' brows lifted. "I am shocked, indeed. Have you not told her how you feel about her?"

  Stacks kicked his boot across the dressing room. "She knows, damn it!"

  "Have you told her since the beautiful Miss Roxanne Lambeth left?"

  Stacks angrily kicked off the other boot. "I haven't spoken to her."

  "May I suggest you do so?"

  "I cannot beg her. Besides, I cannot offer marriage as Edgekirth can."

  "I fail to see why the doctor can propose and you cannot."

  "Because of Elizabeth."

  "Oh, I had almost forgotten!" Roberts said, his eyes alight. "Mrs. Greenwood has informed several members of the staff that you did not harm the late Lady Stacks. She said Miss Lambeth told her that Mr. Binghampton confessed that his sister had always suffered from some peculiar mental disease that caused her to inflict pain on herself. Mrs. Greenwood compared it to those sex killers we hear about from time to time in London. Anyway, Mrs. Greenwood has at long last been able to exonerate you from any blame in Lady Stacks' death. Of course, I reminded her that I always knew you couldn't have hurt your wife."

  Stacks closed his eyes, and the room tended to spin around him. Would that he could be exonerated from actually killing Elizabeth. "Help me to my bed, my good man."

  "Very well, my lord," Roberts said, giving Stacks a helping hand as he got to his feet. He held onto Stacks as they walked into the huge chamber where Stacks slept. The forest green velvet bed covering had already been pulled back to form a triangle against the white linen sheets.